Tis the Season

A friend shared this photo of a ham that's on sale at Walmart for the Jewish holiday of Chanukah. For Jews, eating ham or pork any time of the year isn't kosher. Linking ham to the the upcoming Jewish holiday is totally inappropriate, even offensive.

Was this a gag, a major faux pas on the part of some ignorant store employee -- or is there a tinge of anti-semitism in the corporate culture of Walmart? Trouble is, we don't and won't know -- for sure. 

This morning, I had to move a Christmas tree lamp out of sight of my teachers and students. It had been placed on a desk in our synagogue's main office. Most Jews don't celebrate Christmas, unless they are in a family of mixed religious observance or they shirt-tail in on the holiday of extended family or friends. 

To see a Christmas tree decoration in my synagogue -- the one place we, especially our children, should be free from or shielded from the bombardment of the major Christian holiday of Christmas -- is totally inappropriate and offensive.  

Once again the same questions apply: Was this a gag, a major faux pas on the part of an ignorant employee -- or passive-aggressive anti-semitism coming out in a Jewish workplace. No matter how this is resolved, I and others who are subjected to the lamp won't know -- for sure.

Community

I just returned from walking to the end of the block with my son as he headed out to his middle school bus stop this morning. When I sat down at my computer, I found this in my file of blog posts I never posted. I wrote it in June of 2015. And I wish I could share it with Dara and Bryan, but I seem to have lost them as Facebook friends. 

With the end of the school year, I’ve been particularly reflective on the evolving and transient nature of “community.” 

For the past five years, we’ve enjoyed the company of a wonderful family at my son’s bus stop. The location of the stop has changed three times. (One year we were even at a different stop but could wave to each other when we headed downhill for home and they headed uphill for home.) Other children came and went for various reasons – moved from the neighborhood, changed schools, used a different mode of transportation. But this family with three girls and my family with one boy remained.

Although a year apart, Sam regularly sits with Stella, or instigates a chase with Ruby or Elsa by swiping their backpacks, or plays whatever game evolves during the wait for the bus each morning.

I knew the dynamic would change next year. Stella would head off to middle school on a different bus. Sam will be getting rides to school for safety patrol. But we’d all still see each other in the neighborhood. 

I learned yesterday, we won’t. Stella’s Dad got a job in Pennsylvania, actually a couple of hours from my mother’s home. They’re moving this summer. And our bus stop community will be no more. I’m happy for the family – better job, better opportunities. But I’m sad. We will miss them.

Karma on the race course

Sam wasn't quite tall enough to drive a go-cart at the Minnesota State Fair last year. Which is why it was first on his list of things to do this year. He had a great time and drove quite well despite the "accident."

An adult apparently didn't comprehend -- despite the signs on the track and list of rules at the entrance -- that the go-carts are not bumper cars. The man rear-ended Sam, causing his cart to spin around and crash onto the guardrail. The man drove off laughing and shouting, "got you."

Karmic justice was swift. Two ride workers ran out onto the course, stopping traffic right in front of the man as he completed a lap around the oval. They pulled Sam's car off the guard rail, turned it around and got Sam back on course right in front of him.

Still Letting Go

It’s a beautiful hand-painted box, given by my mother-in-law’s friend, a tole artist, as a wedding day gift. I had planned to keep family photos in it. Instead it holds the mementos of our son Cameron’s life.

I reached in for the white baby blanket embroidered with his name and date of birth -- the standard baby gift from my workplace at the time. Our son Sam received one like it a couple of years later.

I never used either blanket. As a baby, Sam couldn’t tolerate polar fleece. I’d slip him into a fleece sleeper and even in the middle of a northern Minnesota winter he’d wake up an hour later, crying, his face and hands beet red, his body soaked in sweat. Cameron never had use for a blanket.

I’d been meaning to do this for a long time.

“If I ever get a sewing machine,” I’d tell myself, “I’ll sew the embroidered corners, cut them off as keepsakes and donate these perfectly good blankets to Goodwill.” Then, it was, “If I ever get that sewing machine up and running…”

Today was the day. I took the blanket downstairs to the machine. I sewed off the corner, then cut it off the blanket. I went upstairs to my closet for Sam’s blanket and repeated the actions.

I told Tom I’m going to save Sam’s corner for a memory quilt I plan to make. I’ve already planned themes for some of the squares: Thomas the Train, his three favorite super heroes, little league baseball, soccer, running, Cub Scouts.

But do we need to save Cameron’s? I asked. Not knowing the blankets existed, he didn’t think so.

I put the now plain white blankets in a bag and set them in the Goodwill pile. I stowed Sam’s corner in a box with his baby quilt. I gathered the remaining scraps to throw away.

I fingered the other corner: Cameron Lloyd, August 6, 2002. Fourteen years and a day, I noted ruefully. I returned it to the box. 

Reliving my childhood summers

Our annual visit to West Virginia resembled my childhood summers in many ways:

• Riding bikes in the early morning or late evening to the John Marshall High School tennis courts (freshly resurfaced with new nets and fence this year) to play a few sets.
• Swimming or just cooling off from the hot mid-day sun in Glen Dale's municipal swimming pool.
• Biking out Little Grave Creek Road or into town. (The bike trail along the Ohio River between Glen Dale and Moundsville didn't exist back then.)
• Checking out a big stack of books from the Moundsville Public Library. (They didn't have movies on DVD back then.)
• Gathering with the cousins to play cards at my Mom's house. (We played sports and games outdoors instead of Canasta at the dining room table.)
• Reconnecting with my brother Mike and my best friend from high school Letitia.

With my mother's pronouncement that she will be ready to sell the house in two years and move to Duluth to be near me, my opportunities to "go home again" are nearing an end. Mom may change her mind several times between now and then. At 86, we all know maintaining the house and acre of land with it has become "too much" for her.

 I'll be happy to have her nearby rather than 1,000 miles away. But I will miss recreating my childhood summers for my son. We have been blessed to be able to do that for 11 years and --  hopefully -- a couple more.

Schooling for life

During our visit to West Virginia, my brother Mike gave my 11-year-old son some tips on shooting pool. He also introduced him to two-handed euchre and "Shut the Box," a traditional English pub game of dice and numbers.

I must mention that after 10 rounds of Shut the Box, Sam wanted to modify the rules to include the use of subtraction in eliminating the numbers. By the following day, he was advocating the use of algebraic formulas. None of which his Uncle Mike would allow.

Obviously, my son doesn't yet understand the importance of keeping your drinking games simple.

Sliding into summer at Sweet Lake

We spent the first couple days of Sam's summer break at Sweet Lake -- paddle-boarding, kayaking, swimming, reading in the hammock, listening to the call of the loons, watching a great blue heron glide across the lake. I'd describe this trip to the cabin as a relaxing, gentle start to summer.

Happy I live in Minnesota

DFL caucus-goers search for their precinct rooms at Duluth East High School on Tuesday./ DNT photo

Looking at my state's caucus results today, I'm happy to say I live in Minnesota. That more voters in our state chose Bernie Sanders over Hilary Clinton, says to me our DFLers are aspiring. That they chose Marco Rubio over Donald Trump or Ted Cruz, says to me our Republicans are more rational.

Tom and I stopped in at our precinct's DFL caucus last night at East High School to cast ballots for a presidential candidate. Sam, 11, listened from the backseat while we discussed Hilary vs, Bernie on the drive there. Walking the few blocks away we had to park, we talked about him looking for campaign buttons and stickers. Entering the crowded lobby and hallways, the energy was palpable. It was a good energy, not angry.

We waited in line to get into the busy, crowded classroom where our precinct's caucus was being held. Our neighbor from across the street registered us. Another person I recognized loaned us her pen. As an election judge serving my precinct's voters for the last nine years, these actions represented an odd "turn of the tables" for me. I had never participated in a caucus before, although I covered them once as a newspaper reporter.

We chose to vote and leave rather than participate in the caucus discussion. Tom needed to get back to his work, it was a school night for Sam.

Bernie Sanders and Hilary Clinton laugh during CNN debate.

Once home, Sam put the Hilary sticker he had scored on his water bottle, and wished he'd gotten a Bernie sticker too. (A caucus worker fashioned one out campaign literature and masking tape, but it wasn't the same.)

On his way upstairs to bed, he quietly told me he voted for Bernie Sanders in his school election. I had heard him earlier in the week speaking against Donald Trump because of the things he had said about Muslims, building a wall around Mexico, and because "he lies." He showed me Bernie's "A President who will:" campaign literature in explaining why, pointing to "Act to Stop Climate Change" and "Make public colleges tuition-free" bullet points.

I have to admit I didn't vote for Bernie, choosing the DFL candidate I believed more "realistic" in her campaign goals and in winning the presidency. But I love that my son chose him. I hark back to Paul Wellstone. And I hope that some day, I again will choose the "idealistic."

A precious present

Our last family visit with my sister-in-law Cathy and brother Mike, Arlington National Cemetery, July 2015

It turned out to be a more important trip than any of us realized.

I wanted to show my son our nation's Capitol but I didn't want to short-change our annual summer visit to my Mom's in West Virginia. I called my brother to see if Mom could stay with him in Arlington -- IF we could convince her to accompany us to D.C. At 85, she had sworn off any more travel. But for some reason, she agreed to go.

Josh and Erin, National Zoo, July 2015

Tom, Sam and I spent four days in Washington, seeing the monuments on the National Mall, visiting the Smithsonian museums and Bureau of Engraving and Printing, getting time with extended family during meals and visits to the National Zoo and Arlington National Cemetery. Mom got to spend a lot of time visiting with my brother and his wife. I was glad we made the trip.

But now, even more so. My sister-in-law Cathy died last Monday from an illness not fully diagnosed. She was 62. Her passing came as a shock. Although she had been struggling with health the past few years, symptoms would be treated and activities resumed. On Saturday, we believed her latest struggle, with pneumonia, had turned for the better. On Sunday, it turned for the worst.

I'm grateful we made this trip. My family is too. We had four extra days with Cathy - a precious present.

More Waste Management Woes

Our garbage service woes continue. Our Waste Management hauler missed Friday's pickup. We left the can on the curb thinking maybe MLK day on Monday could have pushed back our scheduled service.

On Sunday, after checking that the can was still full, I called customer service. Closed, a recording referred me to the Waste Management website for service where I filled out a form about the missed pickup. This is the same site that it took four months for me to receive a response from last summer. (See Customer Service Lament post.)

So I called customer service again Monday during their "business hours." She scheduled a pickup and promised that a Waste Management hauler would be by before 6 p.m.yet today -- pause -- or by noon Tuesday.

The last time I had service scheduled because of a missed pickup, they never came until the very end of the week, on our regular service day. Want to place a bet on when my "scheduled pickup" will actually happen?

UPDATE: My scheduled pickup time came and went. I had to make a third call to customer service mid-afternoon on Tuesday. The rep learned they had "closed" my scheduled pickup as if it had already occurred, then doggedly pursued tracking down my actual route manager. After 20 minutes on the phone, she scheduled another pickup. They finally got it -- before the end of the day on Tuesday.

Pizza and Beer Night Out

My brother sent our son a Hanukkah card and some money, with the message, "Treat your Mom and Dad to a beer and pizza night. Use the rest of the money on something for you."

He first tried to fulfill his uncle's wish by handing us a beer out of the refrigerator and offering to bake us a Red Baron pizza from the freezer. Neither we, nor his uncle, would have any of that idea.

Finally, on the eve of returning to school after the Christmas/New Year's break, he treated us to a "Spanish Chicken" pizza at Pizza Luce, a downtown restaurant he'd never eaten at before.

Delighted with this variety of pizza and the idea that we can get pizza somewhere else besides VIP (onions and mushrooms) and Sammy's (white sauce), he has decided we need to try out a different pizza establishment every month -- until we find our most favorite.