Clara's Golden Door

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breath free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, 

I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

  

- from The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus

My grandmother was seventy-five when my grandfather died and in many ways, that is when her life began.

Grandpa was a good man, though certainly a product of his times. He preferred for his wife to spend her days at home, working the garden, baking rye bread, canning peaches, and wearing a red dress - his favorite color - if at all possible. For fifty years, Clara played that role to a T and quietly bided her time.

Here is my grandmother, quietly biding her time with me. 

It was just a few months after her husband passed that Clara wiped away her tears, grabbed her pocketbook and drove down to the local Grange headquarters where she applied to become an English tutor. In short order, she nailed down the basics of the Laubach method of literacy learning and hung out her shingle as a volunteer.

In her fair city of Three Rivers, Michigan, this offer attracted a steady stream of immigrants.

Cambodians
Laotians
Vietnamese
Koreans
Chinese

Quiet, hard-working, hopeful people came and went from her tidy white home, growing not only from Clara's weekly lessons but also from her casual conversation and genuine friendship.

My grandmother, for all her sweetness and cultural sensitivity (in the days before we talked about such things), had a firm mind about learning English as a second language. A daughter of English-embracing German immigrants herself,  Clara preached that in order to take full advantage of all that the United States can offer, newcomers must leave their old languages behind, and speak exclusively English. "After all," she would insist, "they are Americans now and they should act like it."

Clara also insisted that her brood of newcomers should become United States citizens, and she tutored them fiercely to help them pass their citizenship tests. In addition to speaking, reading and writing in English, the test covered a wealth of civics topics: American history, the Declaration of Independence and Constitution, geography, landmarks, holidays and the flag. Drilling her students on the practice list of one hundred possible questions, Clara never gave up or gave in until each and every one of her students became a naturalized citizen. That was a fact of which she was most proud.

Though her own finances were lean, Clara never took a penny from her students. Gracefully, she came to accept their gifts which usually reflected their home culture and her own home took on an international flavor. This bed covering was from Cambodia, that paper lantern was handmade in the Vietnamese style. One of Clara's most dedicated students, Mr. Tang, owned the Chinese restaurant in town and often came to her doorstep with a bag full of fresh egg rolls. They were delicious.

It's no stretch to say that my grandmother's new calling transformed her life. She still ran a neat and tidy farm home but now the kitchen chores and garden duty took a back seat to her students. I always remember my grandmother as happy and content but now I saw her as truly fulfilled.

For two decades - yes, she tutored well into her nineties - my grandmother continued on her mission. And while teenage-me took her work in stride as just the sort of thing ordinary grandmothers do, I soon came to see things differently. Clara's calling was nothing less than holding high the lamp of American citizenship, and ushering her students into our culture through the golden door of her teaching.

My grandmother, Clara Minnie Marie Belz Lewis, was a real-life Statue of Liberty, and for her foresight, determination, generosity and profound patriotism, I am grateful and proud.

* * * * * 

As I prepare to vote in this hotly contested presidential election, I find myself reflecting on the moments and milestones of my life that have shaped me as an American citizen and contributed to my worldview today. 

For more stories on this topic, read:

Cold War Kid

Speak Out
Tiny Habits Of Patriotism
The Watergate Years
My Political Posse
My Thoughts On Election Day

Speak Out

As I prepare to vote in this hotly contested presidential election, I find myself reflecting on the moments and milestones of my life that have shaped me as an American citizen and contributed to my worldview today. 

* * * * *

Growing up, my inner circle of adults rarely discussed politics. Occasionally,  I would catch snippets of opinions in passing conversations - George Wallace was a raging racist and LBJ was running the country into the ground. But even at family gatherings and holiday meal tables, that was as far as it went.

By contrast, the larger world around me was full of  political voices. One of the key takeaways of my childhood and adolescent years was on the importance of speaking out.

Speak out.  The Vietnam War deeply affected the first fifteen years of my life. On our weekly trips to Ann Arbor, we often drove in and around the University of Michigan campus and my child's eyes saw firsthand the passion of college students protesting the war. Groups gathered around granite porticoes, handmade placards waving in the air, a young man with a bullhorn leading chants. I saw these protests not as special events but a regular part of university life and I was struck by the commitment of the students who made their voices heard. I wanted to be like them when I grew up.

Speak out. Good men were killed during my childhood. JFK, Martin Luther King Jr., Bobby Kennedy: all were shot down in cold blood for their political vision, their ideals, their words. But as confused and upset as I was by their assassinations, I understood that they would have never backed down. Good leaders speak out for justice and truth, no matter what they cost. That was these heroes' legacy to me.

These were not the pajamas I was wearing at my windows in 1967. But they were much the same, hand sewn by my mom.

Speak out. During the 1967 race riots in Detroit, I was barely tall enough to see out my bedroom windows. But on those nights, after I had been tucked into bed, I would slip to my window where I could see on the distant horizon, some forty miles away, the golden glow of inner city flames. I knew that black people had set those fires because they were frustrated by unfair treatment, but I also understood the difference between speaking out and acting out. Even my childish mind knew that no good could come from anger-fueled destruction, and the lesson learned as I stood in my yellow seersucker baby doll pajamas made a deep and lasting impression.

Speak out. I was too young for the Woodstock generation but my youth was colored by musicians expressing political opinions through their art. Most impressionable for me was the band Chicago whose early albums burst with passions regarding the war, the environment, and the scandalous presidency of Richard Nixon. My mind was transformed not just by their opinions but the boldness and clarity with which they expressed themselves. For my high school government class, I wrote an essay about how Chicago's critical messages had awakened and informed my own political thinking, and my teacher was impressed. He gave me top marks and encouraged me to keep speaking out.

And so I do. In my own way, in my own time, on issues that matter to me, I do my best to express my opinions thoughtfully, respectfully but with unapologetic boldness. And I encourage everyone around me to do the same. I believe all Americans should.

Speak out. 

* * * * *

For more stories on this topic, read:

Cold War Kid

Clara's Golden Door
Tiny Habits Of Patriotism
The Watergate Years
My Political Posse
My Thoughts On Election Day

Fall At The Mall

It might have been my fresh haircut that put the extra bounce in my step.

Or the soft breezes and sweet autumn sunshine, swirling the scent of unfamiliar conditioners and styling oils, that stirred my senses.

But for whatever reason, as I left the salon on the east side of Alderwood Mall on my way to the bus stop on the west, I impetuously decided to ditch the obvious shortcut through the building for a rambling outdoor route instead.

And I'm so glad I did, because every few steps brought me a fresh glimpse of autumn's unfolding glory.

Now I'm not exactly calling this a walk in the wilderness. But as I slipped into my seat on the bus and flipped through my camera roll, I was surprised and delighted to see these colorful little splashes of fall at the mall.

Cold War Kid

As I prepare to vote in this hotly contested presidential election, I find myself reflecting on the moments and milestones of my life that have shaped me as an American citizen and contributed to my worldview today. 

* * * * *

I grew up as a Cold War kid, and from a tender age, I carried in my mind a crisp image of what that meant.

A red telephone with no dial but a big round button in the middle.

One sat on the desk of my president in the White House.

The other on the desk of the president of a place called the Soviet Union.

What I gathered from my mother, my teachers and eventually, MAD magazine was that, given ample provocation, either man could hit that button, declare a war, and effectively end the other country's way of life. 

I didn't really grasp the parts about nuclear missiles, radioactive fall-out, and mutually assured destruction. Thank goodness.

Hey, even us Cold War kids couldn't worry about Armageddon all the time. I had stuff to do. 

But even as a very little girl, I saw pictures in LIFE magazine of Soviet mothers and children standing in snowy cold for hours just to buy a loaf of bread.

I knew about the Iron Curtain and the Berlin Wall, and I grasped the fact that these boundaries split children from their grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. 

And as my mother and I watched Olympic ice skaters and gymnasts compete, she explained to me how Soviet children with athletic promise were taken away from their families to live in training centers, far from their homes. 

Nyet, nyet, nyet. I wanted nothing to do with this Soviet way of life. 

And while I didn't yet understand ideals like freedom, liberty, unalienable rights and the pursuit of happiness, I knew that I had food and family and a sense of security that children in the USSR didn't have. 

The president, as I understood him, was a cross between 

my big, sturdy grandfather and my ever-patient and loving teddy bear. 

I associated all those advantages with the man who sat at the desk with the red telephone.

My president.

He knew which kind of life was best for me.

He would not let the Soviet Union hurt my country.

He kept me safe. 

* * * * *

Quite suddenly, the Cold War ended.

The walls were torn down.

The Soviet Union miraculously imploded.

Thought the Washington DC-Moscow hotline still exists, it was never quite what I imagined. Not a detonation device or even a telephone at all, it was more of a telegraph and sent only written messages.

But what remains - in my heart, in my mind, in my soul - is the conviction that the President of the United States is our defender, our protector, the preserver of our privileged way of life.

* * * * *

For more stories on this topic, read:

Speak Out
Clara's Golden Door
Tiny Habits Of Patriotism
The Watergate Years
My Political Posse
My Thoughts On Election Day

Cactus Come-On

"It was a woman's bedroom...and no man belonged in it except by invitation." -Kathleen Winsor

It's gotta be terrible feng shui.

My dreams are probably haunted by sharp objects.

And I've already warned my husband that if he ever needs to leap out of bed and collapse, he should make a point to fall backwards rather than forward onto the spikes

But despite all the obvious reasons not to keep a killer cactus in my bedroom, I do it anyway.

Because when the afternoon sun slants across the room and lights up this gentleman's handsome profile, I can't resist.

Hello, tall, dark and prickly. You are always welcome here.

Seattle Skies

Everyone knows that the Pacific Northwest is a gloomy, atmospheric, cloud-filled kinda place.

And I won't argue that. It's true.

But here's the thing. All clouds are not created equal.

Most of the time, our little corner of heaven is buried under blankets of flat, low, consistently grey cloud cover.

We call it the marine layer and try to pretend it's cute.

And while that monotonous cover of mist does conjure up lovely opportunities to wear cozy sweaters, sip warm cider and curl up on the couch for delicious afternoon naps, it is not by any means an interesting or attractive feature of our landscape.

And that is why days like this are worth a hundred dollars.

While I was out walking with Ranger, dark clouds tumbled and scattered across the stormy sky. Swept this way and that by high winds, the shifting shapes set forth an ever changing pattern of color and light overhead. 

I felt just like I was turning and twisting inside of a blue-grey kaleidoscope.

As we turned onto the last leg of our route, these brooding beasts burst open.

We dashed for home

cold
wet
breathless from the sudden change in weather

and oh, so thankful to live in this beautiful place.

October's Best

October's got one thing that makes all the other months jealous.

Pumpkins.

Round and ribbed.

Thumpably sturdy.

Earthy and true.

And orange. Yes, certainly orange.

But lately, some other colors have been added to the pumpkin spectrum.

Tomato red.

Scarlet.

Pale peach.

Pure, aesthetically refined white.  

I'm smitten.

And every time I see stacks and bins of these October beauties outside the grocery store, I can't help but smile.

Pumpkins are a masterpiece of nature. 

And truly, they are October's best.