Is Capitalism Dead? ...And memories of graduation

Back home from across the country; my daughter now a college graduate. Work to be done.

I'm looking for sources, new or old, asserting that capitalism is dead. With this economic crisis now affecting other countries (China, Japan) far worse than the US, will fledgling efforts instituting free markets sink? Is capitalism dead or, as I maintain, is it flogged down by governments layering on new socialistic band-aids (Obama) that could forever cripple free enterprise? Wouldn't capitalism, if allowed, come to its own correction?

In the meantime, I'm collecting my memories...

Graduation: Mix of Emotions

On Thursday I watched my first-born child graduate college. It was like a time warp.


My son and I flew into New York on a red-eye from Seattle, cabbed to a friend's apartment, and scuttled over to Madison Square Garden for the ceremony. the fact that a sick 20-month-old spent the entire flight screaming in the seat in front of me--and our exit-row chairs didn't budge--gave the whole thing a surreal aura. When my husband met us there, just arrived from Chicago, and finally, in the crush of black gowns, squealing graduates and camera flashes, our daughter emerged from the crowd, my emotions collided, and I could barely control the tears.


This was the little girl who happily let me put the most colorful and playful ribbons in her hair for school, the one for whom I wrote adoring notes to tuck into her lunchboxes. The brilliant student who barely had to study yet succeeded academically as a matter of internal principle. It was like that great scene in "Father of the Bride" when Steve Martin watches the young woman across the table from him morph back into the pig-tailed five-year-old she ought to be.


The other weirdness of it all is the reminder that now I'm on the wrong side of the generation gap. In my own time-stalled mind, I'm the 22-year-old; who is this competent, accomplished young woman with the long burnished hair and sparkling smile? "Pomp and Circumstance," performed fitfully by an invisible college band, paced the procession of perfect-toothed pairs of young ladies, sky-blue tassels swaying off their mortar-boards. As my own child--my baby, my "bachorah," (first born) stepped down the aisle, posing momentarily as I pressed the shutter, I was overcome with the parade of generations, and the transitiion from mine to hers, a segue I resist as well as celebrate.


The ceremony included the usual sweet speeches, an endearing valedictorian, a jocular college president and administrators bestowing honors, before the graduates crowded forward, not in any order, handing in cards from which their names were read. I tried to guage when my daughter would mount the stage to start my video, but all of the young women had identical long brown tresses; we were too far away to see much more. My camera mis-focused at the crucial moment; I captured a blurred form walking to receive the fake diploma and receive a hug from her college dean--an embrace offered few of her peers. Finally the tassles were moved, the recessional finished. A blur of flying satin, grandmothers and nephews and siblings lined with group grins, echoes of "smile!" and hugs and squeals. One by one, the flat caps moved from heads to hands, gowns wadded and stuffed in bags. Girls disbursed with their families; another milestone accomplished.

I couldn't take enough photos. The moment refused to linger. She's irritated that I keep taking images, for me so significant. I just don't want her to grow up; I want to be her protector and Mommy and put ribbons in her hair. I'm glad and proud she's a fabulous writer, a Torah scholar, a competent young woman. But when I think about it, I cry; I just don't want these magical years to end.

Marriage as Man & Woman: Beauty Queen Reveals it's a Lost Cause

In the midst of a glorious springtime, as I get ready to fly across the country to celebrate the college graduation of my daughter, I was was listening to my fave talk radio host...spend an hour on the pathetic topic of Miss California.

Yes, I'd read that Carrie Prejean had gotten in trouble answering Perez Hilton's question about whether every state should follow Vermont's legalization of gay marriage. I was irked that her insipid answer that "...in my family, I believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman, no offense to anybody out there, but that's the way I was raised" should get a blink, much less the pained smirk Perez Hilton gave her and the ridiculous verbiage explosion by commentators of every stripe. Hers was hardly an iconoclastic, gasp-worthy notion that required fortitude to express, especially given it's the majority view of her fellow Californians, affirmed in Proposition 8.

In fact, the little hamsters in Carrie Prejean's lovely head were sprinting on their exercise wheel as she first fumbled to answer the question: "I think it's great that Americans can choose one or the other; Americans can choose same sex marriage or opposite marriage." She thinks it's great that gays can get married! Perez should have been nodding like a bobble head at that point. But the hamsters stumbled, and she backtracked, "But you know what? In my country, in my family, I think that marriage should be between a man and a woman..." Not the most articulate reversal.

Under usual circumstances, the whole confusing answer might have gone the way of Miss South Carolina's in the 2007 Miss Teen America contest, when she responded hilariously to a question about students' geographic stupidity by suggesting some people, especially in underprivileged nations such as South Africa and "the Iraq" don't have maps. This entire flap is in our faces only because 21-year-old Miss Prejean is gorgeous, and because everyone's on the lookout for amusing muddles from beauty queens.

But I find this disturbing. The fact that those on both sides are so passionately defending or deriding Carrie Prejean suggests to me that the effort to keep marriage the way it's always been assumed is lost. Never again will man-woman marriage be the taken-for-granted norm, and anyone who supports it will be chastised and and assailed. Even the innocuous Carrie Prejean thought to post-script her "courageous" expression of opinion with "no offense to anybody out there."

How depressing. Marriage has already been re-defined, even though since 2004, 26 states passed constitutional amendments defining marriage as only a man and woman. Even though Barack Obama and Joe Biden repeated during their campaigns that they believe marriage should only be male-female. Even though the California court is likely to uphold the will of its constituents in Proposition 8.

Majorities of Americans can battle and argue, but even if you're a sparkly-lipped beauty queen in a rhinestone tiara, you've got to apologize if your bible, your tradition and your eyes all tell you that "marriage" combines opposite sexes. I'm so glad that after her gaffe and some glitzy photos, Donald Trump will let Miss California keep her crown. But it's not enough to offset the disheartening reality that proponents of traditional marriage have surrendered.

Roasted Vegetables

Shabbat will be coming in at 8:13 pm here in the upper latitudes of our nation, and at 6 pm I'm still in the throes of cooking for our crowd. Tonight, we welcome a family new to the Northwest, with their extended members who are visiting the region for a "simcha," the young son's First Communion.

The aunt and uncle of the honored youngster are good friends, and Jews. And so we can have a "mizumen," the group of three adult men that allows us to thank God after the meal as a "group." That the eight Catholics at the table will be experiencing their first traditional Jewish Shabbat meal is a source of happiness for me. After all, they, too, hold by the Commandment that mandates this day of togetherness, elevation, and casting off work-week worries.

Tomorrow we host a table of our closest friends, including our rabbi and wife, and neighbors who in their careers share with us a desire to communicate messages more significant than the usual media tripe.

As vegetarians, we won't be serving any tripe, (though I think if it's from a kosher cow, we could eat it). Fish is the staple of our Sabbath meals. I've got some nice local salmon broiled in fresh lime sauce, and some thick tuna steaks I've marinated and will soon sear. I've got honey'd parsley potatoes, a cauliflower soup; I've braided my fresh challah, and it's risen into long loaves puffy and ripe for the oven. But I've got to deal with those vegetables.

Which occasions this post. Several clumps of fresh broccoli, a tight white head of cauliflower, some green sticks of zucchini and a package of portobellos. I go to my cookbooks. I've collected two shelves of tomes that feature vegetables. But I'm tired of my usual steaming and stir-fry. I read my new-agey food mentors...What to do?

And the word emerges. There are few terms with a nicer sound than "roast." The round, long O that finishes with a crisp "st." Roast. I need to slice florets and chunks and leave the baby Bellows, sprinkle with oil, s+p (as my new Twitter Cookbook recipes say) garlic and Parmesan. Place all on a cookie sheet at, say 375 til the edges are lightly brown. Rohhst. mmmmm.

Shabbat Shalom.

Beyond "The Base:" Open Up the Republican Party

Driving to the gym today, my radio was set to the talk station. Rush Limbaugh was going on with disdain for voters in "the squishy middle," who he called "moderates who don't know what they believe." He kept insisting that Republicans accept only the positions of their "base" and not "pander" to moderates just to expand chances to win elections.

Now, I'm pretty conservative in my views, but on several issues, I'm one of those for whom Rush would refuse to compromise. For example, while I'm strict about the economy--feeling the "bailout," and even more so the "stimulus package" thwarted our robust system's ability to self-correct--I'm rather "squishy" on environmental issues. And, given that I know and love some of them, I have sympathy for immigrants who left beloved children behind and endured arduous travels and risky starts to come to our land in order to work hard. Because of these and a few other views, I suspect Rush would disqualify me from the Republican "base" he extols.

Hearing a talk host I respect bash a whole amorphous category of voters got me riled. But even worse, it clarified why Democrats and Obama are riding high with the slogan "we're gonna help you," while the party that more closely reflects my positions seems to be contracting. And it's going to keep diminishing if touted Republican spokesmen continue spurning rather than welcoming people who mostly agree.

Frustration made me turn off the radio before I reached the gym, but an hour later, sticky and energized, I headed home and thought I'd give it another try. But it was as if no aerobics class had intervened--Rush was repeating exactly the same mantra: "We've got to stand on our core principles," he preached, "we can't move from our ideals just to include a wider group." Rush even said Jack Kemp, certainly a man of principle but also a man of magnanimity, emblemized not budging from his values.

I'm afraid we're in for some long-term Obama-izing of the system unless conservatives understand that inclusion is the name of the game. "The Base," whatever that means, will be there; it's us in "the squishy middle" who gravitate to the hospitable, the hopeful, the place flexible enough to offer both a "core" and some room for creativity and even indecision.

The other day I was talking to a friend who is a lifelong Democrat, but as she's gotten more comfortable with religion, has also moved in her values toward conservatism. She confided that while she now couldn't abide abortion personally, she didn't see why the government should prevent non-religious women in the early stages of pregnancy from having safe access. Government funding for them would be unacceptable to her; government neutrality in the first trimester seemed sensible. But the hard line against abortion by Republicans means she keeps voting contrary to her views on the economy, marriage and the war on terror--all much more urgent issues where conservatives could really use her support.

This friend agrees with Republicans on 80% of the issues, but can't jump parties because she feels shut out by hard lines. This does get depressing. Positions on social issues are shaped by all sorts of personal experiences and feelings, but the government, especially on a federal level, needs a "macro" role, and mostly, it needs to minimize any role at all. That should be what I hear on talk radio--characteristics to foster in government, not in members of a political party. We need to talk about positive ways to return government to its basics of protecting the country from harm and encouraging innovation and business prosperity.

This stuff about who's a "true conservative" versus who's intruding and polluting some kind of party purity turns me off. Sorry Rush, Ill turn my radio back on for the next host, the one who likes me just as I am.

May Day: Not Labor, but a Labor of Love

It's May Day and a warm breeze is lifting the fruit tree blossoms off their boughs and through the air like desert snow. The yellow-green of new leaves on our deciduous trees, and the auburn of our Japanese Maples contrast with the deep blue of Lake Washington and white wispy clouds that slide by majestic Mt. Rainer, still covered with snow.

May Day is traditionally Labor Day in Europe, but when I was growing up, I knew nothing of this. May Day meant picking some flowers from the yard, placing them in a construction paper cone, and leaving them on the front doorsteps of neighbors. It meant a performance in school for our parents, where each class did a different dance. Always floral and happy, May Day was also the day my parents married, at the chapel of Fort Lawton in Seattle, in 1943.

My dad was in the army, stationed at the time at Fort Lewis. As a major, he was entitled to use the small white wooden chapel. My mom flew up from her home in Los Angeles; only a few fellow officers, friends of my dad, and their wives, were present for the intimate ceremony.

It was the beginning of a love affair that lasted 60 years, until my mom passed away in 2002 at age 87. My dad, completely bereft at the loss of his true soul mate, followed her in death in 2004, at age 90. The way they related to each other taught me what mutual dependence of the best kind could be.

My shy and sweet mother, the consistent optimist, never raised her voice. When one of her children--i.e. ME--got insolent and demanding, which I could do with great success since she was so kindly and pliable, the worst she could muster was an exasperated, "some day, you'll see! You'll have children of your own!"

My father, also gentle, could sometimes be driven to the edge, however. At that point he'd explode, raising his voice (never raising his hand), and would scold us and send us to our rooms. But we knew that withing five minutes, he'd be back, softly knocking on the door in contrition, apologizing for his outburst, forgiving us and welcoming us out to freedom.

He spent his 35-year post-military work career as a public servant, the Veterans Employment Representative at the California state unemployment office's Hollywood branch. He sat at a desk in an open room, interviewing veterans and making calls to find them jobs. He also enjoyed brushes with movie stars he'd recruit to speak at annual luncheons he organized to drum up public support. Charlton Heston was a regular volunteer, happy to address the group, represent vets in the community and shake their hands at the luncheon affairs.

My mom was mainly a housewife, until the property taxes on our home escalated to where she had to take a job as a secretary. She'd honed those skills during the war working at Douglas Aircraft, and in their married decade before children came along. It pained my dad that his modest salary couldn't keep up with the taxes and forced his wife to work. Finally, in the days just before California's famous Proposition 13 was passed, the taxes surpassed even my mother's income, and they were forced to reluctantly sell the home of my childhood.

They never complained, but moved to a boxy little house in a lesser neighborhood. After my dad's retirement, they spent no time apart, traveling some and enjoying their grandchildren. They took pleasure in daily highlights--lunch at a chain coffee shop, watching old movies, but mostly each others' company. That's where I learned that a spouse is your best friend.

Anniversaries, if you listen to advertisements, are occasions to buy jewelry, go on a trip, have an expensive dinner out. Not for my parents. My dad would make my mom a card on construction paper with markers, writing a cheesy poem saying she's the love of his life; he called her "Poogie." My mom, a bit less artsy, would buy him a card and write a sentimental message; she called him "Paddy." That was it. They really didn't need documentation of their affection--no gems or bouquets.

The flower gifts on May Day were tucked in paper cones and dropped on neighbors' doorsteps.

Swine Flu: Out to Get You

In just a few days, the world has become afraid to breathe.

All of a sudden, anyone coughing or feverish or imagining a scratchy throat is sure he's got Swine Flu. And all he had to do was inhale.

BTW, this malady will not be renamed, despite an MSNBC story reporting Jews offended at the term because pigs aren't kosher. (And flu is?)

In our northwesterly corner of the country, the Seattle Times blares in a headline much larger than the masthead, "Swine flu found here." I can see students perking up; they're talking about closing all the schools because three unconfirmed cases have surfaced. One of them, an 11-year-old boy who attends Madrona K-8, gave his fellow pupils there an unexpected vacation--the institution closed down for a week (the boy's doing just fine).

Meanwhile, 230,000 five-day courses of Tamiflu antidote are on their way to our area. When health officials announce such things, people think, "uh-oh, we're going to need it!" And so hospitals and clinics are filling up--with people who want to be tested, just in case. We're not going to get the "reagents" required to confirm that Swine Flu is here until next week, but the runaway publicity is enough to make you sick.

Even if you're not. Ubiquitous photos of people in blue face masks everywhere foster paranoia, but this is just the latest manifestation of the overkill of medical information. Remember SARS? That got the same publicity treatment a couple years ago. Not nice to endure, I'm sure, but certainly not the pandemic it was predicted to be. Avian flu got a lot of ink (nowadays, a lot of pixels) and is more deadly than its Swinely counterpart, but despite the scare, it fizzled out near where it began.

Cancer. It's everywhere and nobody knows when and who it will strike. But thousands of books, websites and blogs document its grisly course and the agonies of its treatment, mounting in our consciousness. Hospitals court clients with ads reminding, "It's your cancer..." Heart-rending stories of valiant children battling disease are the staples of grocery-store check-out line mags. Fundraisers for every illness increase awareness of maladies we can't spell, but now personally fear. Radio ads seek participants in clinical trials for diabetes, dementia, insomnia. As I write this, I hear a radio ad that assumes all men are desperate for "prostate support:" "So why wouldn't you try new Beta Prostate?"

In so (too) many words: you're a goner. You're in line for enlarged prostate, some kind of cancer, and now, Swine Flu, no matter what you do. Wash your hands. Take bee pollen. Avoid eating red meat. Wear a surgical mask. Better, don't read the newspaper (I know, nobody does anyway), or listen to the radio, or check online news. BTW, in every normal year, 35,000 Americans die from flu. Mexico, its 75,6066 square miles being ground zero for the porcine problem, has had 99 cases, total.

Okay, the World Health Organization yesterday gave Swine Flu a level five pandemic warning--meaning it's imminent, crouching at your door, seeping through the cracks. But I just don't know how much more paranoid we can get. We're already hyper-aware of disease risks; kindergartens require parents to provide bottles of anti-bacterial gel along with pencils and crayons for their kids.

Panic among the population may soon mean isolation--Mexico's President Philipe Calderon told all citizens to stay home, inside, and all non-essential services are suspended for five days. (Starbucks closed ten of its Mexico City stores, so you know this is serious, but it's got 249 others in the country.)

Why don't I hyperventillate over Swine Flu? Because unlike cancer, it can be prevented, has a relatively simple treatment, can be tackled with drugs, and is unlikely to be deadly any more than "normal" flu. But you can bet in the next month or so, we'll have a swine-specific vaccine for sale in every drugstore.

Each autumn we receive relentless urgings to get flu shots. I used to listen to them, but every year I got a flu shot, I lost two weeks to some bug, shivering, sweating and miserable (probably one not covered by the vaccine). Every year I did not get a flu shot, I stayed healthy.

Should we bolt when somebody sneezes? Twitch rather than scratch our noses? Refuse to shake hands? Should we avoid movie theaters, and wear rubber gloves for escalator handrails? Should we live our lives even more worried about infection than we already are?

Well, it's up to you. But the next time I see you when I dash into the supermarket, maybe we oughta just wave hi.

(Reuters photo above is couple saying goodbye at Cancun airport)