Kin Aesthetic

Our little house on the prairie was the scene of quite a family gathering this week. Despite my extreme familiarity with some of this cast of characters, I'm still amazed, sometimes delighted and occasionally chagrined, at their quirks, their tastes, and their humor. Three generations of Gollys and a few of their friends gathered at Om Shanty for Thanksgiving, and they all got along reasonably well, or at least survived the encounter by adapting and being good sports.

The kitchen is a key element in this most kitchen-centric of holidays, and our kitchen had an important upgrade this week. My student-friend Ja and his handyman-friend Rick swooped in with the suitable materials, tools, and skills just in time to install our new dishwasher two days before Thanksgiving. For considerably less than what professional plumbers, electricians, and carpenters would have charged, they connected the waterline and drainpipe, ran a power line from the breaker box, moved a cabinet, and placed a new countertop. Nice work, guys, and that's enough drama for one week.

Jessi's plane came in that night from Providence, and he looked like he had stepped right out of the cranberry bog, which he had. Alas he did not come bearing copious quantities of cranberries like last year. They had a bumper crop at the Mann family farm in Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, and they worked right up to the last day, so I guess he was so preoccupied with harvesting, screening, packaging, and shipping berries - and making on-again, off-again travel arrangements with his sweetie - that he didn't box another year's worth of berries for the folks in the heartland. I think we'll live.

The good news is that Jessi's sweetheart Alexandra joined us for the holiday. I was so happy when Jessi initially told us she was coming, then afraid she would have second thoughts when our plans expanded to include a raft of additional out-of-town relatives, and then crushed when it looked like she wouldn't make it. But they worked it out, and she bravely flew into Port Columbus International from LaGuardia on Wednesday, forsaking the safety of New York to risk all in a houseful of rough, holiday-reveling Midwesterners. Her timing couldn't have been better, as the four of us had a quiet evening to settle in before the rest of the rowdy clan arrived.

That handsome dude on the far left (wearing a tie) is my Dad, with a few close friends at the C & D, the year Jo Jo was born.

And arrive they did, all three of them, late Wednesday evening, bearing pies and other good things to eat and drink, as well as the whole kit and kaboodle for making lefse, which, as everyone knows, is a tender Norwegian flat bread made with potatoes, traditionally eaten at the winter holidays, and a kind of sacrament not to be missed. So when sister Jo Jo Golly and parents Chas and Helen Golly arrived, armed with ingredients, equipment, and a small traveling bar, the wild rumpus could officially begin.

Grandma Helen had an agenda. Besides making lefse, she was determined to settle the matter of preserving some old photos and newspaper clippings she had recently unearthed from her personal records. She was pleased and relieved when we were able to photocopy and scan them into our computer for posterity. Passing the photos around also gave Grandpa Chas an opening to tell stories about life in Spring Grove just after the War, working in the C & D Cafe with my Uncle Chuck, running the grocery store for Helen's Uncle Freddie Anderson, and related tales that spin off from one another like sparks from the fire.

That's Great-Grandpa Anderson on the far left, next to Fjelstad (?) in full regalia, including wooden shoes.

Our den Thursday evening looked like an arts and crafts convention. Most of the females clustered in our den had knitting or some other handwork to do while talking about this and that. A few had a crossword puzzle or sudoku to occupy their eyes, hands, and left brain. The age range spanned those in their 80s who were born in the 20s and those in their 20s who were born in the 80s. The floor was dark green tile, the ceiling was cedar. The soundtrack included Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grapelli, Bela Fleck, and Joe Cocker, but it was strictly background to the fiber art, word play, conversation, and storytelling around the woodstove. The dog claimed a warm piece of floor with her belly toward the stove. The cat favored the rocking chair to the side of the stove, and woe to any human who usurps Isabel's chair.

But the ultimate art form, let's be honest, is food. At Thanksgiving, the meal is the thing, and ours was abundant if not elaborate. The bird itself was a beauty, and around it were assembled a mountain of Zelda's garlic mashed potatoes, gravy whipped up at the last minute, Gven's rendition of our friend Gorm's Irish-Italian upstate sausage stuffing, Zelda's friend Bernard's Belgian cranberry sauce, Jo Jo's green bean casserole, spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing, and sourdough rolls, oh ya.

I must say the table looked fabulous. Candles were lit, wine glasses were filled, and Grandpa said grace. According to our tradition, we went around the table and each person made note of something they were thankful for, some heavy and some light. We took our time getting around to the coffee and pie - pumpkin, apple, cherry, and a deep-dish Dutch apple that was to die for. Everybody contributed to the meal, and everybody helped clean up.

Friday afternoon we piled into three cars for an outing at Franklin Park Conservatory, where there's a surprise around every corner. Every time I go there I'm reminded of what a gem it is to have in our town. The toucans in the rain forest room get your attention right away. The overstuffed chair upholstered in cacti, appropriately titled "Sticky Buns," and the warm, dry air in the desert room is refreshing in a way unlike central swingstate. David Byrne's magnetic poetry in the shape of a tree was fun, and the architecture of the palm house was as riveting as the trees.

We wandered upstairs to an exhibit by Dorothy Gill Barnes, an artist from Worthington who does wild things with wood that is already marked by natural forces. We also ran into Gwen, the horticulturist and former taiji student, who poured out information about orchids, and Mark, our former minister.

About this time Jessi and Alex took off to meet up with Andy, Jessi's friend from high school. The older generations needed to restore our strength, so we repaired to La Chatelaine for a light supper. It's right across the street from Half-Price Books, so we perused the shelves until Zelda, Jessi, Alex, and Andy returned from their dinner-break together, then we proceeded to disturb the bookish customers briefly by congregating in the friendly confines of Zelda's store, which was kind of special for the older folks to see one of the younger folks in her work milieu.

It's getting to be a long day, but we still hadn't made lefse. The folks had brought along their special rolling board and board cover, rolling pin and pin cover, lefse grill and magic turning stick, dontchaknow. It takes a trained team of three experienced Norwegians to roll out dough until thin, heat briefly at 450, turn and cool slowly (under a towel) so they stay nice and soft. That mission accomplished, we could relax in the den again and watch Isabel and Helen compete for the rocking chair.

By Saturday morning, I think everybody agreed it was time to go home. Jo Jo, Helen, and Chas left for Tennessee after breakfast. Jessi and Alex had a plane to catch at one. Gven and I were ready for a normal weekend of doing laundry, baking bread, and reading the paper, reassured that we are so very related.

But is it art?

The yard has so many things wrong with it, I never know where to start, because I'll never finish anything in the allotted time frame of a weekend. Two maple trees in the back and one in the front are way overdue for radical cutbacks, especially now that the leaves have fallen, but that can only be done in certain kinds of weather, not too cold and not too windy. All the windfall wood from Hurricane Ike has been cut up, split, and stacked to dry, so a certain sense of order prevails with about two cords in the shed. I found time to edge a section of walkway with a couple of hefty 8-foot 4x6 timbers, which should keep the brick pavers in place for a while. I still need to nail the remaining cedar shakes to the back of the house, and I only have enough shakes for one more row. Then what? It's a challenging process working with found materials.

The house presents a different set of problems. My lack of skill and resourcefulness turns any small task into a minifiasco of time-consuming, labor-intensive futility. After several tries, I succeeded in securing with long (4-inch) screws the footboard of a badly designed Ikea bed frame that has been pulling apart for years where the pegs and glue refused to hold weak joints together. Don't ask how many drill bits it took to predrill the hole and how many tries it took to screw up this simple project. Onward to the dining room trim, which isn't straight, nailed to the door frame, which isn't square, next to the ancient plaster wall, which isn't flush. After that it will be something else. With any luck, the tentative good news is that maybe it looks perhaps like we might have a working dishwasher, possibly in time for Thanksgiving, Lord willing and the creek don't rise. But don't bet the farm on it.

The conversation began as a benign inquiry like "How are you?" and developed into a species of negotiation qua information over some undefined exchange of time or money or property. Zelda is all too familiar with how my mind works (either a or b; if a, then c; if b, then d; in short, e) in a linear fashion, so she structures her communication thusly, and after a certain amount of pointed questioning, leaving no stone unturned and most contingencies covered, I have some information I can work with. In this case, there's no need to switch bed frames because all our out-of-town guests have a place to sleep.

The meal consisted of a simple split pea soup heavily laced with carrots, onions, turnips (or were they parsnips?), and a few cayenne peppers, mixed with brown rice for balance, and a slice of freshly baked sourdough bread. Highly adequate!

The workout begins as a simple stretch to relieve the overuse of something, often the lower back, and underuse of something else, probably the abs. Usually I'm taking a break from sitting at my desk, or moving stuff around in the yard, sweeping the leaves off the sidewalk, bringing in wood or giving the fire a poke, and my lumbar spine is talking to me in an insistent tone of voice that I know enough to heed. Finally I put on a hat and gloves and retreat to a sacred space outside to tune the instrument. Feet touching earth, head touching sky, it seems to achieve the desired effect, and now I'll sleep soundly.

Cards on the table

Let us be thankful for those family dramas that make bad TV morality tales unnecessary. Who needs the Disney channel when you've got the Golly household? As Thanksgiving, arguably my favorite holiday, approaches, a number of conflicting forces are converging on my pself-absorbed psyche (psic), and I'm going to need all the healing qi I can find, and maybe a little healing Bacardi and tonic.

There are the usual logistical preparations to be made for a houseful of beloved guests: places to sleep for Grandma and Grandpa Golly, Aunt Jo Jo, Jessi and Alex; getting the kitchen and dining room in working order to feed a small throng, which will also include Zelda and her friend Bernard. There is the small matter of a large turkey, choosing and executing the right stuffing recipe, the all-important garlic mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, perhaps a batch of sourdough rolls, the indispensable green bean casserole, and, of course, pies, pies, and more pies.

That would be challenging enough. It's the other anxieties, which are just as real even though they exist primarily in my head, as three generations come together in the seasonal warmth and glow of well-learned Nordic dysfunctionality. And there's also the very old cat who likes to pee on the floor. But it's the humans misbehaving that worries me.

Although everyone, of course, will do their level best to be polite and say the right thing, there is something about family holidays that expose the issues you would (meaning I would) most like to forget, ignore, or deny. Somewhere between "I'm so happy to meet you" and "Have a safe trip back" will come an inevitable moment of truth when the things I least want to know about myself and my family - to myself and my family - will be revealed in the full light of Thanksgiving day.

My enlightened daughter Zelda tells me not to worry. Everything will be fine, and obsessing over the Transgressions of Christmas Past will only make things worse. Be part of the solution, not part of the problem, this 24-year-old voice of reason intones, and don't bring about your own worst-case scenario. Her mother agrees with her; it's a conspiracy.

[Later that week]

I always function better if I have an itinerary, even a loose one, and that false sense of security is coming together nicely. I ordered a turkey today from the Coop, and I'll pick it up Sunday, which will give it a couple of days to thaw. I'll do some baking on Monday. My friend Ja and his friend Rick are coming over Tuesday to hook up the new/used dishwasher Gven and I bought this week. When those tasks are done, I will be better able to relax and allow things to take their natural course (takes a deep breath), remembering that this will be a group effort, and there will be plenty of good food, and it's only a couple of days. We have plenty of firewood and enough chairs to go around, and we all (meaning I) might live through this.

Jessi is set to arrive from Providence, the nearest airport to the cranberry farm, Tuesday evening by himself; Alex is coming from New York on Wednesday, having accepted an invitation to a little family holiday that quickly grew into the Norwegian Inquisition. Jo Jo and the folks are due to arrive Wednesday afternoon from Tennessee. Zelda will be working late most days, which means there might be a very strange entourage visiting her store when she least expects it.

This should be interesting.

RE: The deck chairs on the Titanic

It has come to my attention that the deck chairs are in a serious state of disarray and in need of rearranging. I intend to make it a high priority in the coming weeks and months to ensure that this unacceptable situation is rectified. Ahem. Yours truly, the captain.

That's it, take the bull by the horns, size up the situation, and take corrective action. If you saw my house, you would agree, yep, something should be done. New floors, for starters. Geez, people, do something with those floors! How about fixing the flashing on the roof and replacing those ancient gutters. The heating is ridiculous in here - new furnace, anyone? And how about that second bathroom, you know, the nonfunctioning one?

Or we could spend the weekend reorganizing the top of the desk, changing the spacing between the plants and pottery in the den, switching the coffee table and the footstool so the room has a more balanced look, and some nice new accessories for the living room would be nice. Yes, that's better. At least I feel better, now that at least one room has the proper feng-shui, and by touching up the surfaces, eventually we'll work our way in to the big structural changes, right?

This is my weekly dilemma at Om Shanty: whether to attack one of several major projects, which require a major investment of time, effort, planning, and money, or to nibble around the edges, clean up last week's debris, straighten the books on the shelves, maybe move some things around, and call it a day. Kind of like arranging the deck chairs for maximum comfort and an optimum view of the rapidly sinking ship.

Mr. Obama seems to face nationally much the same dilemma I face on the home front. He could take his cue from FDR and focus the electoral mandate on an economy that is rapidly taking on water, or he could try to satisfy every other need, some more pressing than others, and meet every other desire on the political horizon where needs and desires are without end.

Pardon me, I have this penchant for framing public issues in terms of private ones, and vice versa; sometimes the shoe fits, and we've got a nice Shakespearean moment in which the gardener explains everything to Richard II in Act Two, Scene Whatever, but it’s too late for him to do anything about it but lose his horse and offer his kingdom (too late) for another one, and John of Gaunt saw it coming long ago anyway. And sometimes it doesn't.

I’m just the gardener, what do I know, except the roof leaks when the wind blow from the south, one of the bathrooms is torn apart, and two rooms need new floors. All these projects require skills and materials that I don’t have, but they are not going away. It's easier to bend into accomplishing smaller tasks that I can satisfactorily do myself with available materials – paint the garage, cut firewood, maybe even build a pergola. The king archetype doesn't fit, so I can't tell Barack what to do first and what to put on the back burner.

The argument for an aggressive approach in the mold of Franklin D. Roosevelt or Lyndon B. Johnson is that health care, energy and education are all part of systemic economic problems and should be addressed comprehensively. But Democrats are discussing a hybrid strategy that would push for a bold economic program and also encompass other elements of Mr. Obama’s campaign platform, even if larger goals are put off. (NYT, Nov. 9))

According to the Times reporter, the New Hope Great Deal Society We Can Believe In can either focus singlemindedly on economic recovery or try to satisfy a raft of campaign promises for a slew of different constituencies – not both. If he chooses the former approach, like FDR, the ship remains afloat, if in some disarray, and maybe there is time left in a second term to work on other problems, given a stabilized economy. The premise is that improvements in health care, energy policy, and education - though seriously needed - aren’t terribly helpful or even possible if half the people who elected you are losing their jobs and their homes.

The risk, of course, is that by spending all his political capital on saving banks and bankrupt corporations, we arrive in 2012 with the same crises in health care, infrastructure, environment, and education, and large numbers of people still lose their jobs and their homes, because the freely enterprising banks and corporations took care of themselves, as is their way. Maybe the deck chairs do need attention. Don't ask me, I'm just the gardener.

The New New Deal Deal

What this country needs is a good $700 billion acronym. So far, we have to make do with Troubled Asset Relief Program (TARP), which, it turns out, will attempt to do many things but will not buy troubled assets. Herewith some helpful suggestions to our wise government officials in Washington for additional programs to go along with TARP:

Troubled Economy Normalization Team (TENT)
Tarnished Rubble Assembly Project (TRAP)
Bailout Under Government Supervision (BUGS)
Creditor Rescue After Pillaging (CRAP)
World Investment Salvage Program (WISP)
Public Underwriting of Kapital Excesses (PUKE)
Systemic Credit Unraveling Mechanism (SCUM)
Collective Relief for Orderly Collapse of the Kingdom (CROCK)
Banking and Investment Leverage Gain Escape (BILGE)
Financial Implosion Legal and Technical Help (FILTH)
Parachutes (Golden) for Investment Security (PIGS)
Domestic Recovery Office Promoting Confidence in Leveraged Outlaws, Thieves, & Hoodlums (DROPCLOTH)

I invite you, I implore you - okay, I dare you - to exercise your rights and duties as a citizen to come up with your own creative ideas for mopping up the mess. Make up your own solutions. They don't necessarily have to be grounded in reality. Because frankly the rich white guys in charge have no idea what to do.

Occupation: Cabinetmaker

Obama's first order of business: make a few key appointments. He's named Rahm Emanuel, a hardball player, his chief of staff, check. He's picked a few veterans of the Clinton years to serve on the transition team, check. There's the inevitable, uncomfortable meeting with the Bushes at the House, he and Michelle can handle that, check.

Although, inexplicably, Barack hasn't asked for my input on these decisions, I have a few ideas to offer on the crucial upcoming matter of cabinet appointments. In no particular order:

Secretary of State: Colin Powell (That's a gimme.)

Secretary of Defense: John McCain (Give the old guy something to do where he can rattle his saber a little, be the maverick in the opposition camp, spend some time with the brass at the Pentagon, and keep him out of trouble with the Senate.)

UN Ambassador: Condoleezza Rice (She knows the territory, they all know her, and she has credibility on five continents, especially the ones that care about the UN.)

Homeland Security: Bill Ayres (He's familiar with the use of explosives.)

Treasury: Dennis Kucinich (It will take someone who is not one of the boys at Goldman Sachs to navigate this minefield; the economic center of gravity will shift an inch or two in the direction of Cleveland, which needs the business; rename the IRS the Income Redistribution Service; nationalize the banking industry.)

Housing and Urban Development: Jimmy Carter (One big Habitat for Humanity project.)

Health and Human Services: Hillary Clinton (A second go at what didn't fly in 1993 - a national health care system, aka single-payer coverage, aka Medicare for everyone, and keep her out of trouble with the Senate.)

Energy Secretary: Al Gore (Think wind.)

Transportation Secretary: Ralph Nader (Give the old guy something to do where he can shakes up Detroit a little, be the maverick in the opposition camp, nationalize the auto industry and retool it to build a network of urban light rail systems.)

Commerce Secretary: Tom Hayden (One big worker-controlled, community-oriented, consumer-friendly cooperative.)

Education Secretary: Gordon Gee (GO BUCKS!)

Interior Secretary: Gary Snyder (Honor wild places.)

Agriculture Secretary: Michael Pollan (Homegrown/locally grown, seasonal, poison-free food, anyone?)

Attorney General: Bernadine Dohrn (Prosecute Cheney for war crimes.)

Director of National Intelligence: It's a secret.

Bicongregational

It's time I came out of the closet.

I was taking part in a neopagan celebration at the big UU church on All Souls Day when, out of the blue, my existential dilemma du jour was made easier to bear. I ran into an acquaintance I got to know when we were both on a committee at the Old North Church whom I hadn't seen for a couple of years, so we caught up and I met her friend. She was out of the country, then she was sick, now she's fine but hasn't been back at church. For my part, I told her I'm still on that committee, but I also meet with a group every week at the big church, to which she responded -

"Oh, you're bicongregational!"

I've been outed. I knew it would happen sooner or later. Now I'll have to break the news to my parents, my co-workers, my wife and kids.

Actually, it's kind of a relief to openly acknowledge the fact after all these years of living a double life, slipping surrepticiously in and out of pews, arriving late and leaving early, dreading being seen by someone from the country church while in the company of someone from the city church.

No more hiding my congregational orientation. I can hold my head high on any street in central swingstate without shame or fear, that is, until the constitutional amendment banning my kind. I'm not G, L, or T. I'm neither fish nor fowl. I'm proudly bicongregational.

All Souls Day

The best of times or the worst of times, and maybe it's the time of year or maybe it's the time of man, but sometimes it's just a challenge to make sense of anytime at all. But the alternative, to not make sense of things, to just let them go, doesn't seem to work so well either, or I simply haven't learned how. As a middle path, I could just unpack some of the raw material I've been trying for two weeks to chronicle, and see if it makes sense.

I got some sad news via e-mail on a Tuesday that my friend Mike Henry had died late the night before. He had been very sick for several months, in and out of the hospital, and the prognosis had not been very hopeful. I saw him a few times as he underwent various treatments, and his physical condition appeared to deteriorate, but still it's different when the heart finally stops beating. I forwarded the information to a few mutual friends at work and more or less went about my business.

That night I spoke with Mike's friend Marcia, who said people from the Buddhist center had been coming over to their house all day to pray. Mike had been through an aggressive series of chemo treatments, and he came home very tired on Monday. Marcia said he took a nap, and when he woke up he immediately wrote a poem. His spirits were good, but his energy came and went. Later that night he became very sleepy again, took another nap and did not wake up. Visiting hours would be Thursday evening at a funeral home here in Methodistville, and a memorial service would follow.

Through force of will and following the directions, I managed to secure the new storm door that had been partially installed the week before. Now even though it doesn't hang straight or seal tightly, at least it opens and closes. Indian Summer made it unseasonably warm for late October, and I shot some baskets in the parking lot to get my ya-ya's out after work. The nice lady at the eye doctor replaced a missing screw in my glasses, so now the lens doesn't pop out.

My last class of the quarter met at the rec center on Wednesday, and I made some fliers advertising the new schedule for next quarter. Thursday morning's interdepartmental meeting was actually quite good. I finished editing the testing product I'd been working on for three weeks, and it felt good to clear that particular deck. I ran out of daylight, so there was no time to shoot hoops.

The scene at the funeral home was a bittersweet convergence of friends and family from all times and places in a person's interconnected life. Compared to most of those people, I knew Mike only fleetingly, but I also had some connection with many of them. Someone from the art department, someone from the design department, someone from production, and someone from social studies; a couple from his t'ai chi group, a few from his Buddhist circle, and mutual friends of mutual friends with not many degrees of separation.

Mike's cousin (from Iowa?) sang a salutation to the six directions in the Lakota language. His Carmelite brother (from Reynoldsberg) reminisced about their years at St. Patrick's church. Marcia and another teacher from the Taoist Tai Chi Society talked about Mike's intense desire to practice, his eagerness to teach, his enthusiasm in classes and workshops. He did like to push the envelope. He had gotten very excited about going to Wolf Park in Indiana just a few days ago to see the wolves in their own habitat.

Lama Kathy talked about Mike's acerbic wit and his journey to Buddhism, how he argued with her about John of the Cross while studying the Diamond Sutra, and how a couple of weeks ago, he was singing the blues, and he wrote a song that included the word Avalokitesvara, and it rhymed. There were pictures of him and pictures by him on display. Evidence was everywhere of his boundless creativity and twisted humor. The Buddhists stayed in the chapel afterward to chant.

The next day, Friday, was Halloween, and I had the day off, so I got a little work done in the yard, cutting firewood and putting borders around beds. Saturday was All Saints Day, or All Souls Day in some traditions, and the prolonged Indian Summer weather was glorious. I took advantage of the warmth to get up on the roof, sweep off leaves and pinestraw, clean out gutters, and tape over a crack next to a leaky skylight. That night a small group of Pagans celebrated Samhain at the big UU church with stories, songs, and drumming in honor of those who have died.

Sunday I had volunteered to help at the Old North Church in the morning, but I couldn't handle the noisy social gathering afterward, so I fled and came home. The perfect weather gave me time to transplant perennials, split and stack wood, and enjoy a fire with Gven in the pit on the patio. El Dia de los Muertos was also the first day after daylight saving time, so it seemed like a good time for a fire.

Monday wasn't an official holiday that I'm aware of, but it was the first Monday of the month, so the percussion store across from Graceland had its monthly drum circle, and the place was cooking. Just a few players, but they were all good, and the rhythms ebbed and flowed, layered and bounced with energy and respect.

Tuesday was election day, so I voted early and got to work just in time for a townhall meeting with the company president, who had plenty so say about the state of the economy and the company, not dire just realistic. A friend had a little gathering to watch election returns at his house, and spirits ran high as we saw more and more states turn blue. Later at home, Gven and I watched rather humble concession and victory speeches and wondered about the transition.

How could so much happen in just over a week? It seems like every day was momentous in some way yet ordinary in others. I just have a hard time letting go of it without remarking how it went.