Cooking the NYTimes and Other Assorted Retirement Activities

  Day One—The Bus Yep, it's 6 a.m.  We'll disembark this baby at 10:45 p.m. I’m currently with a group of Pilgrims and Shepherds—13 early adolescents, 14 adults—from St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church in West Des Moines, on our way to Birmingham, Alabama to begin a week long pilgrimage into the heart of civil rights memorial sites.   The 16 th Street Baptist Church.   Edmund Pettus Bridge.   Rosa Parks Museum.   The Lorraine Motel/National Civil Rights Museum, among others in Birmingham, Montgomery, Selma, Memphis. If you grew up in the sixties, those places might strike a chord or resonate with you, perhaps even viscerally.   I think about the angry, bitter, loud arguments I had at the kitchen table with my parents about civil rights, in particular about how it was morally wrong for whites to oppress Negroes simply based on the color of their skin.   The violence of the civil rights movement happened hundreds of miles and multiple states away, u...

A friend recently remarked that my blog has been uncharacteristically silent and wondered if I didn't have something to say about what's going on in our world of madness. Hmm... Truth be told, I am finding it difficult bordering on impossible to wrap my feeble brain, where thoughts and emotions run rampant, around the current state of affairs.   As readers know, we spent the winter (including April, the cruelest month of all) in Florida.  Daily we were subjected to the rantings of Governor Power Ranger Ron DeSantis, enough to make anyone's head spin.  He took on Disney, for heaven's sake, which was nowhere as low as Mr. I Think I'm Headed for the White House stooped to go.  Calling back the legislature, that had passed a bi-partisan redistricting map, to pass his re-drawn version--which, I'll add, the spineless legislative lemmings (guess which political party) passed.  The inane "Don't Say Gay" bill.  Restrictions on voting, targeting communities ...

Told in the fashion of the NPR Program, This American Life I am not Ira Glass.   Act 1. "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."  John Lennon Friday, February 11th: a quintessential Florida beach day.  I had parked my chair (and butt) on the beach to take advantage of the warmth and sunshine.  Dan was taking our beagle puppy, Benny, for a walk.  We have adopted the mantra, "A tired dog is a good dog" and Dan, daily, did his best to wear out the energy filled Benny with multiple walks, often including a stint at one of the local dog parks. When my phone rang and the display indicated it was Dan, I wondered if he was going to describe his walk with the dog.  Maybe tell me he would be joining me on the beach. The voice responding to my hello was not Dan's. I think this is how the conversation transpired: Male voice: "Is this Dan's wife?" Me: "Yes?" Male voice: "Are you Mary?" Me: (anxiety increasing) "Ye...

  Do you read the obituaries? I do. The bulk of the obituaries placed in the Minneapolis Star and Tribune appear on Sunday, so I set aside some time to filter through them.  First, I scan the pages, my eyes falling on the photographs, drawn especially to the notices displaying photographs of the deceased in their younger, then later years.  I focus on the smiles, considering the moment when the picture captured the person enjoying their life, regardless of how trying, or difficult, or challenging it may had been at other times.  I note the length of the obituary; in recent times, certain notices fill a column of newsprint.  Next, I check the ages of the deceased, tsking at how the younger ones (in my frame of reference, anyone under 80) were taken too soon.  Then I settle in to read, in alphabetical order as they are published. Some of the deceased, of course, were movers and shakers of the first magnitude. Their accomplishments are lauded in the obituary. ...

  Last New Year's Eve, I wrote 2020 in black marker on one of the grandkid's plastic balls.  At midnight, I attempted to kick it out the front door.  Instead, the ball bounced off the door frame, back into the house. We laughed, saying that's what kind of year it was. We should have taken it as an omen. When the year turns, I usually 'take stock' as opposed to making resolutions (although last year, the Spousal Unit and I had the same resolution: to kiss each other goodnight, a habit, sadly, we had fallen out of.  Pleased to report we kept said resolution pretty well and it has produced, at least for me, a most satisfying way to end the day).  I try to spend time in quiet contemplation or prayer, asking myself what I should do to improve my actions, heart and soul in the future.  This Advent, I was struck with the phrase, "...when we are brave enough to be who you (God) call us to be."  This has become part of my prayers and I'll admit to pulling it ou...

  Hastings, Minnesota: Candidate's child became target in school board election - CNN Sadly, oh so so so sadly, not in Hastings? I retired as Director of Community Education for the Hastings Public Schools almost five years ago.  When I first took the job, my dear friend Jackie, also a Director of Community Education, told me that I would be better for them than they would be for me. Yes and no. First, an aside: my Minnesota readers are familiar with Community Education.  To those of you who reside elsewhere-- Community Education is an integral component of every Minnesota school district, providing education and school-community linkages.  Programs are funded primarily through user fees.  In a school district organization chart, the Community Education Director is a member of the Superintendent's Cabinet and s/he is the Community Education Director's direct report. Back to that yes and no.  Yes, Jackie was right.  The administrative structure in the ...

  with thanks and appreciation to Rusty Douglas, who reminded me that I am an author and that maybe I should write a little more often Every once in a while, the planets align and Mercury is not in retrograde and the stars shine brightly, meaning the best of energies filter into your systems and those you love and you experience a couple days of exquisiteness. That was this past Thanksgiving weekend.  It was nothing short of exquisite.  And since the universe is full of what all too often to me feels like apocalyptic times, I'm gratefully seizing the opportunity to share what filled my heart and soul. Thanksgiving Day, I cuddled in bed,  jammies clad, with my youngest daughter, Bridget, and granddaughter Sloane while we watched the Macy's Day parade.  Sloane was entranced by the Broadway snippets; her little brother marched along with the bands; both thought the balloons were magical.  While we lounged under the covers, my youngest granddaughter, Georgia, F...