Memories and elevators

Strange how a little thing can trigger an old memory. There was one of those rather silly questions on Facebook: “Who remembers when elevators had operators?” And boom! I was ten years old again and riding in an elevator to my dad’s office. A woman wearing a uniform and white gloves operated the elevator—I so remember those white gloves.

During the morning, my dad was the president/hospital administrator at the Chicago College of Osteopathic Medicine, but in the afternoon he was  in private practice as a manipulative osteopathic physician, with an office on the seventeenth floor of the Marshall Field Annex in downtown Chicago.

A trip to Field’s, as we called it, was a special treat for me. I can’t remember if Mom and I drove or took the Illinois Central—probably a bit of both. But I know I lived in anticipation for days beforehand. I knew, of course, about the “other” store, Carson Pirie Scott & Company, but Field’s was “our” store.

We started on the first floor, with its wide aisles and glass-and-dark wood cases showing everything from nylon hose and stationery to jewelry. At Christmas, it was a fairyland, with Santa driving his reindeer high above our heads, greenery and red bows everywhere, and Christmas music playing.

On an ordinary day we worked our way up, floor by floor. My memory is not clear, but I think housewares were on two or three, and girls clothing, which of course interested me, on four or five. The top floor—was it six or seven?—held restaurants. I particularly remember the Verandah, decorated to look like a southern front porch (or someone’s idea of that) and the more staid Walnut Room. Years later, on a return to Chicago, a friend and I ate in the Walnut Room and found it disappointingly shabby.

I think Mom had a map of Field’s imprinted in her brain, but she knew all the nooks and crannies. My favorite was in the basement were the sale items were—bargain basement had real meaning in those days! Tucked into one corner was a small counter that served hot dogs and chocolate frosted malts. I thought that was the best treat in the world.

Then if you knew where you were going you wound through dry goods to an obscure doorway, went up a flight of stairs, and into a hallway—you had gone under the street and were in the Annex building. Into the elevator and up to the 17^th floor, then around a corner, down a long hall with marble wainscoting (I suppose it was real), and there was the office Dad shared with three colleagues. Spoiled child that I was, I loved going there because the two women who ran the office always fussed over me. Mrs. O’Donnell always wore a starched white uniform and her stiff RN cap. She was a happy, outgoing, but very efficient woman who assisted the doctors who had a more general practice involving office procedures.

Dad’s office was simply two treatment rooms adjacent to the desk where Rose the receptionist sat. Rose was a gentle soul, a spinster I believe, quiet and retiring but most concerned about those around her. She once asked Dad so often if he felt well because, she said, he didn’t look well that he went home a sick man and asked Mom how he looked. But I remember treats from Rose and fine conversations with her.

Then it would be time for all of us to go home for the day. Dad, a proper gentleman in the British style, would put on his Brooks Brothers overcoat and don his fedora, and we headed for the elevators. No matter which operator we got, he or she always said, “Evening, Doc.” It made me think my dad was a really important man. And, of course, he was.

Good food and bad service

Ceviche on a tostada

We had some good food experiences over the weekend. Christian went yesterday morning to the Hot Box Biscuit Club downtown and brought home biscuits with sausage gravy. Heated again, it was super, rich and creamy gravy, the biscuit fluffy and soft, the sausage just spicy enough,

Breakfast was quickly followed by lunch—homemade scallop ceviche from a neighbor, tangy with lots of lime. We were told to serve it on a tostada shell, which we need. Jordan ate two helpings and got herself the recipe, said she could eat it once a week. It was a treat for me because so often ceviche has shrimp in it, and I am allergic to shrimp—sob!

Pot roast ready to simmer dall day

And last night Christian served us roast and potatoes. He had started the meat in the crock pot early in the day and let in simmer in a rich sauce. Tonight, Jordan is off to spend the night with a girlfriend at her lake house, leaving with the assurance that “the boys” will take care of me. They did indeed, both Christian and Jacob coming out for happy hour on the patio. Christian and I lingered until seven-thirty, when he brought me another hot biscuit and sausage gravy for supper. Tomorrow, enough leftover roast for a sandwich. Jordan meantime is enjoying happy hour in an idyllic setting.

My rant for the day is aimed at ATT, notorious for poor customer service. I spent at least an hour on the phone today, talked to four “service representatives,” made a payment, and still ended with a balance due, which means I have to go through it all again to sort out the balance due.

Jordan had tried twice to pay my cell phone bill,  sone of the chores she took over when I had surgery and was in rehab and has just kept doing. But ATT declined the card. Turns out that part was our fault—I had to get a new card, and she forgot to change the online stored information. It took two representatives to sort that out. The online screen showed a $346 balance; the automated voice that answers the phone and two reps assured me it was $207. I wanted to pay over the phone since the card had been rejected, I didn’t want to go through the automated system. That recorded voice warned me there would be a $5 charge. I protested that and the second rep processed the payment—up to a point. Then something happened to the phone—I could hear the rep, but he couldn’t hear me. No choice, I hit end.

So I had to start all over again, but with a hitch. I had to make sure that first payment hadn’t gone through. Finally I was assured that it had not, but once again it took two reps to make the payment.

And after all that, I still had a balance with the alarming word: overdue. So tonight, I’ll get a class of wine and try one more time. ATT apparently doesn’t have a chat service, which I guess is okay because that is often a frustrating experience too.

Part of my frustration is dealing with representatives in faraway places with heavily accented English. I grow weary of saying, “Slow down. I’m 81 years old and hard of hearing.” They slow down momentarily and then pick up speed again. I admit to impatience—and a bit of rudeness creeps in. I was apologetic, and twice today the reps assured me there was no problem, they understood. Since I am usually Pollyanna-polite, it upsets me that my manners slip.

And a final gratitude for the day—to the Supreme Court, which passed a landmark decision protecting the work life of gay and transgender people and let stand California’s sanctuary laws, despite claims from the trump administration. Some days things just seem to be working out for the good guys.

Jordan's happy hour at the lake

Putting good memories into fiction

Palmer House loobby

In the fall of 2016, my four adult children and I went to Chicago. It was a pilgrimage for me—I wanted them to see where I grew up. We stayed at the Drake Hotel, epitome of luxury when I was a Chicago kid, we toured my Hyde Park/Kenwood neighborhood, they gawked at my childhood home (a sort of red-brick brownstone built in 1893—I had always stressed the modest means of my family, and I guess they thought I grew up in a shack), and we ate at fantastic restaurants, mostly on the near North Side. It was a trip that made memories I will treasure forever.

One highlight though, for me, was lunch and a tour of the famed Palmer House Hotel, now a Hilton property. I had researched the hotel for my “big” Chicago novel, The Gilded Cage, which is fiction loosely based on the life of Bertha Honoré (Cissy) Palmer, one of the first women to combine wealth with philanthropy. Cissy’s husband, entrepreneur and robber baron Potter Palmer, built the hotel as a wedding present for his bride in 1871. Within weeks, the city of Chicago burned, taking with it the hotel. Potter Palmer rebuilt, and for a few years the Palmers and their two sons lived on the top floor.

In the 1920, the original structure was rebuilt into a 25-floor hotel. For well over a century, the Palmer House has provided luxurious splendor in its public areas, oversized private rooms, and sumptuous meals. It has hosted the rich and famous – Mark Twain spoke at a reception for General Ulysses S. Grant (related by marriage to the Palmers) and Frank Sinatra and Judy Garland were among the entertainers who performed in the Grand Ballroom.

museum

The Palmer House is the only hotel I know of with a museum and an on-staff historian who gives daily tours. Historian Ken Price presides over a tiny, glass-walled museum tucked away in the mezzanine and overflowing with memorabilia—menus, hotel bills, signed celebrity photos, newspaper clippings, portraits, books, even ashtrays and a teapot. On his daily tour of the hotel’s public spaces, Price takes visitors to the Grand Ballroom, the Red Lacquer Room, and, of course, the lobby where he is quick to point out the Tiffany chandeliers. Afterward, there is an informal discussion in the museum.

I loved every minute of it, and this week I’ve been able to weave that experience into my work-in-progress, a culinary mystery set in Chicago. The Palmer House fit into my plot as though I had planned it all along, and I’ve had fun mentally replaying that tour, sitting again in awe in the lobby, ogling like a teenager just off the farm.

Is it a stretch to put the hotel in the mystery? I hope not, but you’ll have to tell me when Saving Irene is released, probably in September or October. Meantime I have memories to savor.

Red Lacquer Room

Those pesky masks—or the pesky people who won’t wear them

I wish I could say I am so done with people who won’t wear masks, but the truth is I can’t say that. They walk among us in alarming numbers. Just today I have been accused of living in fear and told to go back to hiding under my bed because I advocate masks in public. And I have seen pictures of crowds where maybe half the people were masked.

My funniest story is about a friend—not an evangelical Christian—who wore a mask to the grocery store. In one aisle she saw a woman coming toward her without a mask, and she commented on it. My friend said, “My mask protects you, and your mask would protect me.” The other woman answered, “Oh, honey, Jesus loves you!” Make me laugh, but it is so serious.

The anti-mask people have a role model in the orange man who squats in the White House. The reason he refuses to wear a mask hasn’t been definitively stated, but the general assumption is that he considers it a sign of weakness, and he, coward that he is at heart, is all about appearing strong. The result is catastrophic. On a recent visit to a plant manufacturing test swabs, he refused to wear a mask, and the company had to throw out all the swabs, desperately needed for corona testing, that they had made that day. He had contaminated them. It doesn’t seem to occur to him that the mask is not to protect him but to protect others. Somehow, he considers himself immune to the virus.

Now, this man, charged with protecting the public good, is threatening to schedule new election rallies and a giant Republican campaign, and he has explicitly said, no masks allowed.

I have decided those who won’t wear masks fall into two categories (they may overlap): those who won’t let the “guv’mint” tell them what to do, by God, and those who are too stupid to understand. Either way, it’s an awful decision.

If everyone in this entire country wore a mask every time they were in public, the spread of the nuevo corona virus would be virtually stopped within three weeks. But no, we see people, even sick people, on beaches, and in protests, and even in restaurants and other places of business, going happily about their business, breathing their germs onto everyone else. I noticed today at the TV showing of George Floyd’s funeral, about half the people were masked.

The people who refuse government suggestions and cavalierly say, “If I get it, I get it,” are so blind to the consequences. If you get the virus, you are in danger of dying, no matter your age or pre-existing condition. A lot of perfectly healthy people in their thirties and forties have unexpectedly died. And it is not a peaceful, easy death with your loved ones surrounding your bedside. You die alone, with nurses, desperately gasping for breath. And if you survive? Maybe you’ll be healthy in a week, but maybe you’ll be like actor Nick Cordero who has been in ICU forever, had a leg amputated, and is just now starting on stem cell therapy.

If you say, “If I get it, I get it” you are not just putting yourself at risk—which is, of course, your right. But you are risking your family and friends. And you are adding one more desperate patient to a health care system already so overburdened that 600 health care workers have died, countless more are overworked and exhausted. I can add a personal note to this: I have a niece who is an RN on a COVID unit in Manhattan. She definitely does not want you as a patient. The statistics on how many people can be infected by one sick person are mind-blowing.

As for those too stupid to wear a mask, we need to find a way to make them understand that the great risk to themselves and their loved ones. Too many are saying, “It’s just like the flu,” or “There’s always illness.” Wrong folks, this is a menace like none known to history. Doctors don’t understand it, can’t predict it s course, haven’t yet develop an effective treatment therapy or preventive vaccine. It is not like any other disease, so get over that.

A confession: I don’t wear a mask much, because I rarely leave my home. But I would if I went out in public, and I have worn one when people came to my cottage. I know they’re uncomfortable and hot in the summer and maybe even an affront to your dignity but get over it. The public health is more important.

I have nothing but contempt for the millions of Americans who refuse to follow the guidelines. They are the reason the United States infection rates are so high, and the disease keeps spiking. Think about it: are you helping your neighbors and just being self-centered?

Escaping into Helen Corbitt’s life

Helen Corbitt

Sometimes writing is a great way to escape. I had nary a thought about pandemics or protests today as I wrote a short piece about Helen Corbitt. She is known as the doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus. You have to be of a certain age to remember her. She was at Neiman’s when I moved to Texas in the early 1960s, but I was young and green, and Neiman’s was way beyond my budget. Besides I hadn’t yet developed my fascination with all things culinary. Today she is one of my heroes.

Born in upper New York and educated at Skidmore College, Corbitt worked as a hospital dietitian in Newark and New York in the late 1920s. But she was bored. A job hunt was unfruitful until she got an offer from the University of Texas at Austin. Her initial response was, “Who the hell wants to go to Texas?”

She went, taught quantity cooking and restaurant management and ran the University Tea Room, a laboratory school for her students and probably where she developed some of her signature recipes, such as chicken bouillon and popovers with strawberry butter. Eat lunch at Neiman’s today, and you will be served a complimentary demitasse of bouillon and the popover with butter.

The Houston Country Club hired her away from UT, but she didn’t unpack her bags. Homesick, she only wanted to earn enough to go back east. But six months later, she unpacked. She loved cooking fine food for appreciative members of the club. When the club met financial difficulties in wartime, she moved to Joske’s department store—only job she was ever fired from. She and management disagreed.

Back to Austin, where she managed food service at the Driskell, but in 1955 she finally accepted Stanley Marcus’ offer—he’d been calling her for eight years. Like Marcus, she believed in pleasing the most discriminating customer. But she was a spitfire. Marcus liked to wander unannounced into various departments in his store. When he entered the kitchen, she demanded, “Stanley, did I invite you here? No? Please leave and come back when I do.” She once fired her entire crew, only to desperately retrieve them when she realized she had customers to feed. And  when Maria Callas was late for a reservation for thirty people, she made them all stand at the back of the line.

Corbitt retired from Neiman’s in 1955 and went on to a career teaching, lecturing, and writing. She was the author of several cookbooks. The first, Helen Corbitt’s Cookbook, was an enormous success. If you can find a vintage copy today, it’s a treasure—full of sixties food and things we miss today, like jellied salads. Helen Corbitt Cooks for Looks came about because her doctor advised her to lose weight. One of her most interesting projects was to teach a class for select Dallas businessmen. They met in her apartment, kept notebooks, and relished the class. She always said she proved that Texas men wanted more than steak and potatoes.

Corbitt had several signature dishes. Among them, chicken salad with white grapes and Texas caviar. She invented the latter when she had only been in Texas two weeks and was told to prepare a convention banquet using only Texas products. After uttering a profanity, she produced a superb meal. Texas caviar is black-eyed peas in a dressing of garlic, onion, oil, and vinegar. You’ve probably eaten it. Ladybird Johnson particularly loved her flower pot cakes.

Helen Corbitt transformed the way Texans looked at food. Her complaints when she got here were that salads were dull and over-dressed and vegetables where overcooked. She waged what she called the al dente wars, fighting for crisp, fresh vegetables. Her influence is long-lasting, and yet she is unfortunately overlooked in the long list of American chefs. Search out her books, read about this sassy woman, and try to have as much fun as I did today.

Sunday, oh Sunday!

Went to church (euphemism for watching an online service) by myself this morning, since the family had gone to celebrate with friends who joined our church today—a momentous occasion for them, and Jordan made sure that it was well celebrated. I stayed home, made chicken salad for supper, and did a bit of writing. Leftovers for lunch.

This evening our neighbors down the block, Greg and Jaimie Smith, came for happy hour, and the man behind the screen (Jay) and his wife (Susan) joined us. Greg used to do my lawn, and Sophie adores him, so she was in heaven—and he paid her lots of attention. We were all sorry they didn’t bring Levon, their new English shepherd/doodle pup. It was good to see these neighbors we simply don’t see enough of.

Sophie has a sad story. After her morning of joyous and carefree abandon, she began to limp in the evening—Friday, this was. By Saturday morning, she was moving tentatively, like an old lady. Quite a contrast to the happy abandonment twenty-four hours earlier. I called the vet in a panic, but they were totally booked for the morning. I was distraught because I thought perhaps she got a sliver of glass from a broken wine glass, though we worked hard to clean up ever little bit, and also because she was clearly in such misery. I couldn’t bear the thought of her in pain all weekend. To my relief, the vet on duty volunteered to stay late to see her, and Jordan and Jacob whisked her up to the clinic.

Seems Sophie has been tearing up the pads on her paws for some time—she had old, healed cuts, and fresh new ones. Hearing this, I realized that ground cover is probably really hard on her paws, something I’d never thought of. She had a shot and came home with two kinds of medicine. Tonight she is almost back to her old self but sticking close to me, staying in the cottage, and not interested at all in running outside.

After our company left, we had chicken salad for supper, disguised for Christian’s benefit as a chicken casserole. It’s a cold salad that you top with cheese and crushed potato chips and run under the broiler briefly at the last moment. To my relief, he went back for a second helping. So I start the week with plentiful leftovers—a bit of tuna salad, some salmon, a small serving of potato casserole, and a generous helping of chicken salad. So good to have such delicious things to look forward to. I’m told chicken piccata is on the menu for supper one night, at Jacob’s request.

So, high ho, here we go—into what for us is the thirteenth week of quarantine. Yes, we’ve relaxed a bit but not much, and each little bit of relaxation, each new face we introduce makes me a bit nervous. I am still content, though watching the protests and the government response with tenacious—and sometimes indignant interest. For me, the week holds more writing—a short project, which wrote itself in my mind today and I must get on paper, and the novel, which is nearing the end and is more of a puzzle to me. I look forward to all of it. Sometimes I pinch myself about how blessed I am.

The sermon this morning was about hope, and I admit I have abundant hope for the future—for my family, for Texas, and for the country. For the long slow slog out of racial discrimination to begin finally, truly. The protestors will not be ignored—and good for them. As someone else said, “Hold on, folks. It’s gonna’ be a rough ride.” But a good one. I have faith in the American form of government and in the American people (most of them).

Have a good week, everyone. Stay well and stay safe.

Letter to a young man who won’t read it

Last night a friend told me her son, eligible to vote for the first time, wasn’t enthusiastic about Joe Biden, so he thought he’d just sit this one out. I was appalled. There is so much I want to say to him and can’t, so I’m saying it here: Voting is a privilege and an obligation if you live in America and enjoy the dwindling benefits of that residency. Even more of an obligation if you’d like to return America to the standards and values we were raised with and have held on to all our lives.

We vote not just for the president, but for an entire new government—from cabinet ministers on down a long list of presidential appointees, including right now attorney general.. And we vote, in 2020, for a totally difference concept of government, one that starts with the “little people.” If you don’t vote, you also miss the opportunity to voice your choice on a long-list of down-ballot state and local officials.

Somewhere I saw a meme that pointed out that voting is not like marriage. You don’t have to fall in love with a candidate—you simply have to make a reasonable choice about who would bring about a better way of life for all Americans. To make that conscientious choice requires some research, study of the platforms, familiarizing yourself with the issues and the positions of various candidates. It should not be a decision based on who appeals to you—that’s falling in love, not politics.

In the upcoming election, the economic issue raises its head. People believe that the economy will do better under trump, though history consistently demonstrates that the economy does better under Democratic administrations than Republican. Right now, the economy is doing great for the one percent, but failing the middle class and the poor miserably—especially people of color.

People claim that we have to open up after quarantine, that the economy is what matters most. I would suggest that human life  matters more. A sick and dying people cannot rebuild a shattered economy like ours. Opening up too soon will eventually leave the economy in worse shape—more deaths, more illness, more fear that will keep people at home, more overuse of health facilties, more cost to the government from unemployment and health care. Germany stands out as a country where workers survived pandemic unemployment almost unscathed, a contrast to America where 40 million are unemployed. (Sorry, you’ll have to research that one, but you will find our government could have used bailout for average workers, hourly employees out of work, instead of bailing out the wealthy and corporations who were not desperate, just greedy.)

A huge part of the problem in our country is the percent of the population that is noncompliant, from ridiculous “virus parties” to the guy next door who won’t wear a mask. Setting the tone for that is the man who calls himself president and refuses to wear a mask, wants mass gatherings of people at rallies and political conventions without disregard to the health concerns. Florida, whose governor is an ally of trump, recently experienced the highest ever one-day spike of new virus cases, after opening up.

It’s almost a circular argument that brings you around to the beginning—vote Blue. No, getting rid of trump will not make everything roses and sunshine immediately. It will take time to rebuild our country, but it is a task we must begin. And it starts with voting out trump and his enablers, including much of the Senate.

A long lecture the young man in question won’t listen to, but I needed to say it. Thanks for listening.

A week of moments

Junie Bug amidst the flowers

Sophie woke up this morning—early, sigh!--full of the joy of life and energy, itching to go after the squirrels. She went out, did her business, came back in, and did a dance by my bed, clicking her nails on the wood floor. I watched for signs my neighbor was up before I let her out, but finally I couldn’t contain her. I gave her a stern and strict talking to that had to do with no barking. She stared at me, tail wagging, impatient. And so began her morning outdoors. She ran, top speed, from one end of the yard to the other, from one side to the other. Occasionally I’d see her tail, raised in joy, swing by my patio door so I knew she was all right. But she didn’t bark. Ever. She squeaked occasionally in excitement. But no barking. Finally I called her in about two o’clock, and she voluntarily went into her crate and slept soundly all afternoon. She is such good company—except early in the morning.

It has been a week of moments—we began to stretch the limits of our quarantine, ever so tentatively. A big moment for me—I got my hair cut. The wonderful stylist/friend who cuts it came to the house, masked and armed with all kinds of sanitizers. I told Jordan she looks careless next to the precautions Rosa took.

Then that same night, I left my own property for the second time since March 12. We went to friends for a distanced happy hour on their patio. As one said, it’s a whole new way of entertainment—everyone brings their own wine, glasses, ice, and snacks. The friends we visited, Phil and Green, have a large and beautiful yard. Highlight for me was a tree I’d never heard of—the Vitek. Two of them in fact. Also known as Abraham’s balm or a chaste tree, it is a bushy tree similar in shape to crape myrtles. But the Vitek has lush and plentiful lavender or white blooms with a slight fragrance.

One day my memorable moment was that I took a holiday from the novel I’m writing. I wrote a cooking blog, cleaned my desk and organized a pile of papers that had accumulated, indulged in the luxury of lingering over recipe magazines—Food & Wine and Southern Living. I’m a compulsive recipe clipper, but these days I am trying to be sensible about. With steely resolve, I pass by a lot of things that sound wonderful to me—things I know my family won’t eat (like wonderful summer fruit desserts), things that in another life I would have served to dinner guests. When the pandemic quiets down, if ever, I hope I can get back to entertaining.

In site of all this activity, I added 6400 words to the novel. It’s coming close to an end—I’ve got to tie up all the ends and figure out who did what.

The weekend looms and with it cooking, good meals, patio time, some company. Hard times but good times. I am grateful.

Where are the good guys today?

This was one of those days that it was hard to clear your mind and go about business. For me, the most pleasant moment was happy hour. Five-thirty is Sophie’s  favorite time of the day. When she senses that we are about to go out to the patio, she runs in and out excitedly. If I am slow—getting my sunglasses or phone, for instance—she runs back in and looks at me as if to say, “Well, are you coming or not?” Tonight she seemed to know that neighbor Mary was coming, and she sat expectantly watching the driveway. I thought it made a cute picture.

My sisters and brothers in Sisters in Crime consider it gospel that you should never talk about religion or politics on social media. You might alienate readers, and heaven knows, we all want each possible sale. I’ve been thinking a lot about that today. I rarely if ever talk about religion, certainly never to suggest what someone should or should not believe. I may occasionally allude to the way my faith governs my beliefs and actions, but that’s it. On politics, I am more outspoken, compelled by my conscience to speak out. If you truly believe that the nation—or a particular person—is leading us to disaster and you can express that in calm and reasonable terms, I think you are morally obligated to speak out. Otherwise, we become a nation of sheep.

But the two—politics and religion—collided last night when the White House ordered Lafayette Square in DC cleared of peaceful protestors so that the squatting president could have a photo op in front of St. John’s Church. It was wrong on so many levels, all of which have been thoroughly explored on social media today—the unbelievable violence against peaceful protestors, the arrogance of a man who defies Christian principles holding a Bible (upside down and backwards), the hubris of trespassing on church property—and forcing church personnel to flee for their lives.

Did it gain him any votes? Not from anyone I heard. All I have heard and read today is scornful. Except from trump himself, who apparently tweeted, “Thank you, Mr. President” for clearing “violent” protestors.

Across the country, we are witnessing a terrible irony: some cops are using brutal methods to quell peaceful protests—against police brutality. They are making the people’s argument for them, their actions demonstrating the need for drastic and thorough reform of police departments, their education, government oversight. I haven’t yet heard much call for training in compassion, but surely that too is needed.

But increasingly, we are seeing examples of police reaching out, walking with protestors, kneeling and praying with them. These are the men and women who set the example we need. God bless them. I was proud of Fort Worth last night where an eight o’clock curfew cleared the streets, and the chief of police, among others, took a knee and prayed with protestors. We need more of that and less rhetoric about dominating the battlefield. Trump seems to want a civil war; we need to show him peaceful cooperation.

Does anyone else have the feeling as I do that the trauma in this country is building toward some sort of a climax? I don’t sense that these protests will stop as those after Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination did or the riots after the beating of Rodney King. Tonight the marches seem more peaceful, but I think the public won’t soon be distracted. I hope I’m right. But I wish I had a magic lantern that would show me the future. I cannot begin to think how this unrest will end, how the national will ever get back to normal or to a new and better normal. Still, I remain hopeful.

Protests in America

This is who we are

Not a land of violence and hate

I don’t think any of us can tiptoe around the topic of the protests, what they are doing to disrupt America, and what they mean. So here are a few of my scattered thoughts.

This past week has been a dramatic and intense learning lesson for Jacob. Perhaps because he’s scared (he wouldn’t admit that but then, we all are), perhaps because he never imagined anything like this, he wants to talk about it, explore it. Last night, Fort Worth saw a peaceful protest on the Seventh Street bridge into downtown go violent, and police used tear gas for the first time in this city in decades. Christian and Jacob drove down there on the road safely under the bridge, but Jacob later came and showed me pictures they had taken—what I could principally see was clouds of tear gas floating in the air.

Tonight, Jacob and a buddy wanted to go to Old Neighborhood Grill, just down the street, for burgers. They left a few minutes after seven, with our warnings to be home by eight ringing in their ears. But the grill closed at seven, so that people would be sure to get home. These are the stories those kids will tell their grandkids, but what will their interpretation be? They have no precedent in their memory: I on the other hand remember the night Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot and the riots that followed, and the beating of Rodney King and the burning of Watts. My memory is too full of these things, and I am afraid to hope that this time will be different. Yet it seems different to me, the violence longer lasting and more widespread.

We talked about it last night, and when I said I thought the looting went beyond simple acquisitiveness by poor blacks and was an attempt to create social discord by organized groups, Jacob said tentatively, “I agree with Juju.” Perhaps he’ll see that it is a racial issue, one that’s been simmering too long, but it is also a civil issue, a statement on democracy.

The sitting president spoke briefly on TV tonight. If you know me, you know it’s hard for me to listen to him with an open mind and unbiased ear, but I tried. I really did. I agree with the need to restore order and protect individuals and small businesses, with the lip-service he paid to the genuine protestors and the slight sympathy he showed for George Floyd’s family—he got the name wrong and called him Floyd George. Ah, well.

But when he talks about activating military troops, my hackles go up. And when he blames it all an antifa, I can barely keep from shouting. It’s clearly accepted that outside organized groups are causing much of the continuing disruption, but he has no proof that it’s antifa, a generic name for anti-fascists. He announced he was declaring that a terrorist group—but antifa is the name for a general resistance, not an organized group, so good luck with that. And local leaders, with their feet on the ground and not hiding in a bunker, indicate that much of the trouble comes from white supremacists and from several highly organized groups within that movement. We may never know the truth, but my hunch is that there is some antifa action and a whole lot more neo-Nazi, and at the base, now overshadowed, are the peaceful protestors who simply want to march and chant for  equal justice for all—long overdue in this country.

Will this end racism in this country? Probably not, but perhaps, finally, it is the wake-up call we needed. There is a long road ahead, and true equality won’t happen in my lifetime, but perhaps in Jacob’s.

Is this the end of the trump presidency, as many have suggested. I can only hope. But if it is, it’s a terrible price to pay to free us from an incompetent man who would be a dictator, who fosters hate and incites violence, and to whom 100,000 deaths from COVID-19 apparently mean nothing.

America tonight is in shambles—a pandemic, millions out of work, the economy on the brink of faltering, and riots from coast to coast. No, I don’t believe trump’s prediction that we are on the road to greatness. If we are to move ahead, it will be a long and difficult journey. But I believe, with new leadership, we can do it. I am hopeful.