I was gonna send roses to all you moms or children of moms. But, alas, this little video holds up better over the long haul.
Mavis never gave birth to children of her own, but it's clear she understands the strength of the bond between a parent and a child. I hope her song warms you, inspires you and thanks you for all you do and have done to raise a child, anyone's child.
My brother, Bruce Hartman, has a new book out, for all you fans of psychological thrillers with a tie in to art and music. For those who don't know him, Bruce is an accomplished musician, composer, writer, avid reader and raconteur who probably would have been just as happy as a piano bar musician, if he had not gone to Harvard Law. Now that he's retired, Bruce is back polishing up all those novels he wrote along the way.
The Rules of Dreaming, published by Swallow Tail Press, is featured today on The Next Big Thing Blog Hop (http://bit.ly/ZWeSl0).
Bruce describes the book as having "three main themes: madness, music, and murder. It takes place in and around a mental hospital where some of the characters are patients and some are physicians."
What inspired him to write this particular book? He says"
Years ago I imagined a story about a patient in a mental hospital who sits down at the piano in the patient lounge and flawlessly plays a difficult piece of classical music. Although this usually requires years of instruction and practice, the patient’s psychiatrist discovers that he has no musical training or experience. So the question I started with is: Where did this music come from? Where does any music come from? Does music come to you as a kind of inspired madness, or does it come from outside the human mind?
The Rules of Dreaming is available May 23, online at the all usual places, or on order at your local bookstore.
We all do strange things at 19. At that age, our physical reflexes and strengths have far outstripped our brains. Something about that lack of equilibrium allows us to crave risk and excitement, perhaps to prove to ourselves and everyone around us that our newly matured flesh can handle most of the bumps or poisons we subject it to.
Unfortunately, our frontal lobes are another story. They are only partially baked.
It is no wonder military organizations like to recruit young men at 19. When they're nearly ripe, guys are strong and fearless. Not quite able to make the connection between the real (adult) world and childhood fantasy, 19 year olds don’t hesitate to start fights with hulking drunken louts in bars, or take hairpin turns at 70 mph in the rain. They have just enough eye-hand coordination to throw a good punch, but not enough brains to get out of the situation that led them there in the first place. Hence, a 19-year-old male is at his peak, physically and sexually, but he also is at the age when he is at highest risk for killing or being murdered, dying in a car accident or by suicide or poison, usually from drugs or alcohol.
Of course, such a death would be simply the most obvious act of stupidity. Perhaps not lethal, less noticeable acts still wreak havoc on our lives, even though they occur in living rooms and restaurants, on phones or computers, in correspondence or as responses in conversations.
We join cults at that age. We marry people we hardly know. We have sex without precautions and produce babies, unintentionally. We insult people over superficial differences. We alienate our parents or friends, often thoughtlessly. We waste time and money on fads, and succumb to peer pressure as we set our adult lives' priorities, even though we may truly believe we are making our own, unique decisions.
At 19, appearance counts, big time.
How do I know these things? I was 19, once. In fact, like most people who of have traversed that dangerous milestone and lived to tell about it, I spent close to 30 years recovering from choices I made during that milestone year.
Luckily for me, I had the benefit of a strong foundation, in the form of an intact family and a good education. Both helped me -- directly or indirectly -- through the hard times that came later.
At 17, I was out saving the world as a Freedom Rider. I wanted to be a concert pianist but --fortunately or unfortunately -- mononucleosis got in the way. (I wasn't really good enough, anyway.) So at 18, I switched to a major in foreign language with a plan to work for the UN as an interpreter. Or maybe be a war correspondent. By 19, I was into poetry and art, certain I would someday make my mark in the literary world!
Halfway through my 20th year, I married a guy I never should have married, after knowing him for four whole months. Seemed like an eternity to me. Within weeks, I was scrambling just to stay alive, let alone produce art. A full-time job as a waitress in a French restaurant looked mighty good to me at the time!
So, why did I do such a stupid thing? I'm sure it was mostly to rebel against my parents. I had been SUCH a good kid (if only they had known!). And, at 19, I was physically and emotionally ready for sex but too tied to the social mores of the day to venture very far in that direction, especially if it took me outside acceptable or legal limits.
I also was stupid enough to think I could handle marriage, work and college at the same time, without giving much thought to who would pay for it all. I knew where babies came from, but must have thought money fell from the sky.
So, if I were 19 today, is it possible my very stupid choice might be something violent or illegal -- like setting off a bomb -- rather than something noble and non-violent, or self-destructive and poorly conceived -- like tilting at windmills or trying to save the world, one loser at a time?
Maybe. Probably not, but I would not rule out the possibility.
Could I have been enticed into joining a religious cult -- say, Hari Krishna or a radical Muslim group -- at 19? Maybe. Probably not, but I did get involved in civil rights through beliefs cultivated by faith, without understanding that most of the members of the church I belonged to never offered anything but lip service to such noble causes. I, on the other hand, took rights and wrongs very seriously and was quite willing to put my very young life on the line, as long as it was for a good cause.
What if extenuating circumstances had greased the wheels? What if someone I admired had encouraged me to do something outrageous or horrible? What if that person had enticed me with drugs or sex? What if I had fallen more and more under the spell of substance abuse or another addiction and had flunked out of school, disappointing myself as well as my family? I think I might have considered suicide. Oddly, at the time, what they thought of me was extremely important.
But, what if my parents had deserted me, moving 9,000 miles away to be part of a completely different culture? What if I had found myself alone in a world where I believed I could never fit in? I do remember that, at 19, fitting in -- somewhere! -- was everything.
I’ve been thinking about all these things in light of the Boston bombing and subsequent investigation, and have to say, I believe these guys—especially the young one – could have been any number of us at that age, or any number of our children.
I proved my worth as an adult at 19 by defying racial bigots, yet staying within the letter of the law, but the brothers Tsarnaev chose to maim and kill. The results may have been more heinous, but were we that different under the skin?
It's an understatement to say this, I know, but we live in a much more violent world today than the one I knew at their age. Violence isn’t just expected today, it’s demanded.
Look around. Action always wins over talk. Watch or read Hunger Games, for instance, which shows us that winning is all and the only way to be a hero is to be the last one standing.
I don’t know. I don’t feel so innocent about this attack against society, or feel so superior over these guys. It could have been me on either end of one of those bombs. Or, it could have been you, or one of our kids. Even kids who were well liked and smart enough to win awards.
I have no doubt the two brothers committed these horrible acts. I just don’t see them as monsters, but rather as misguided, angry, stupid kids who watched too much television, were encouraged by their parents to yearn for all the wrong things, probably found solace in drugs, then discovered they were actors in a very bad movie they had created themselves. I suspect they knew how it would all turn out, or they would have taken off long before they tried to.
I'm not saying they shouldn't pay for their crimes. One already has, big time. The other is sure to be found guilty, but I won’t be surprised if he begs for mercy and shows remorse. That’s gotta count for something. In a way, admitting guilt and asking forgiveness takes more guts than shooting one’s way out of a fight with cops, especially when you see yourself as the victim of circumstance.
The most important thing I can get out of this crazy story is that, for every Tsarnaev brother, there are about a million other young people caught in similarly lousy movie plots. Many have far less structure in their lives and more reason to go astray than the brothers Tsarnaev. If we are serious about doing something to prevent more carnage, there's a lot we must do to help young people make it through those treacherous years. But, think of the lives that could be saved!
We had a big family reunion to go to, and that was our excuse to hightail out of New England around April 1 and head south. We stopped along the way to visit family, down and back, but spent four delightful days in Pompano Beach at a huge gathering of my husband’s family. All in all, we got to visit with all of our siblings, spend a little time with our children and their children, see several nieces, nephews and cousins, as well as celebrate the long lives of one of my husband's aunts and uncles, and do all of this over a short two weeks.
Florida was perfect. The natives said it was cold, but you could have fooled us. Naturally, we sat under the palms and watched the waves. Saw the sun set behind the trees. Held babies. Kissed little cheeks. Played with dolls and coloring books. Threw balls and splashed water at each other in the pool. And, got to watch the DC kids running around the park, giggling and laughing.
While we were gone, our area had (what we hope was) its last snow. We came back last week to several nights of hard frost (and a bombing), but today the grass is greening up, the bulbs are out and spring is in the air.
While spring plays footsie with us in the Northeast, here are some amazing photos to remind us what's ahead. Keith Carver, retired UMass professor and world-class photographer, shares his favorite bird photos. Enjoy them, share them, buy copies, buy framed copies, whatever. Just be sure to credit him. A comment on his blog would be nice. Be sure to mention you heard about his work on Birds on a Wire Blog.
For the entire collection of 100 bird photos, go to http://kcarver.zenfolio.com
If you enjoy this blog, let me share my day-to-day findings in the news, on Twitter and from various blogs. I've put up a front page on Rebel Mouse, an aggregator, and would love to hear what you think of it. Drop a line, or leave a comment on this blog!
They say it's spring, but I don't believe it. We had a foot of snow fall earlier this week, before the old stuff was even cleaned up and off the ground. Still, it's been a nice winter. No terrible storms, just "decent snows," as old timers call anything short of a three-footer around here.
Here's a look at some of the beautiful and not-so-beautiful sights in and around western Massachusetts and southern Vermont over the course of this winter. Bundle up and enjoy!
It's hard to believe, but today marks the third anniversary of the passage of the Affordable Care Act, better known as health care reform. Thank you, Barack Obama! Thank you, US Congress! Thank you, Nancy Pelosi! Thank you, Harry Reid! Thank you, Supreme Court!
Here's hoping we have many, many more years to watch this fledgling law grow. As it evolves, we expect the ACA to greatly improve the lives and overall health of everyone in the US.
 James Reeb, 1927-1965 Halfway through college, I got married. (Who knows why? Don’t ask.) Len and I would have been quite happy with a civil ceremony and raucous party, but Maryland law required the blessing of clergy. So, we found a Unitarian minister who agreed to do a small, very informal wedding in July, 1963. I was 19, he was 20. I assumed we would be together forever but it didn't turn out that way, as some of you already know. We got off to a bad start. Our first six months together were hardly a honeymoon. We rented a small furnished basement in a poor neighborhood, and lived from hand to mouth by waiting tables, sorting mail, taking classified ads and washing cars. Even worse, we found ourselves under an avalanche of misery after being blindsided in a 7-car pile-up on a highway near Baltimore. Both injured and uninsured, we lost our jobs, our driver’s licenses and, tragically, our only valuable possession, a “new” 10-year-old Chevy. It had cost us the equivalent of a month’s rent. I was still trying to finish school, so this was a major setback. Overwhelmed by the situation, my young husband fell into a deep depression and probably suffered a nervous breakdown. He was immobilized, sleepless and hallucinating. Worst of all, he made a half-serious attempt at suicide. Looking back, I see how foolish I was to not contact our parents but, at the time, didn't think it was a good idea. None of them had forgiven us for marrying one another, especially while we were so young. They knew about our accident but didn't offer any help, and made it clear we were completely on our own. Instead, I sought help from the kind man who married us, and he referred me to a minister at All Souls Church, just a few blocks from our apartment in the Mount Pleasant neighborhood of DC. Jim Reeb was a godsend. As assistant minister of a large, inner-city church, he served as chief social worker for an active neighborhood outreach program. Several times a week, I went to his office for counseling on how to help Len through his breakdown. As things improved at home, he gave advice on how we could get out of the pit we had dug for ourselves. Jim Reeb never pretended to be a therapist but knew a lot. And, it didn't hurt that he had God on his side! I felt at the time -- and still believe -- that without his help, Len would have succeeded in doing away with himself. Terrified of being locked up, he refused help for himself, but didn't stand in my way when I said I needed to see Rev. Reeb for my own spiritual needs. It was silly, he said, but he put up with it. Not only did Jim Reeb step in and support me emotionally, but he suggested I use one of the church’s many pianos for music lessons. He knew a few parishioners who might be interested in piano lessons. Hmmm. I loved that idea! Until my teaching business got off the ground, Jim gave us one month’s rent and enough money to buy a few groceries. I think that came to about $65. As he predicted, three or four students signed up the first week and, before I knew it, I had almost more work than I could handle. Those piano lessons brought in enough money to pay our basic bills, and even bus fare to school, once in a while. When it didn't, I collected bottles for refunds. In a few months, Len improved enough that he wanted to go back out into the world, and maybe even work. (Obviously, he wasn’t fine, but I didn’t know much about mental illness at the time.) Once Len was ready, Jim got him an interview for a sales job at a stationery store on 14th Street, about three blocks from home. Jim also gave him a tweed wool jacket he could wear to the interview, and a few dollars for a haircut. Without Jim Reeb’s help, I don’t know what would have happened to us, but it could have been catastrophic. Later that year (1964), as were getting on our feet, Jim Reeb moved his wife and four young children to Boston so he could take a job with the American Friends Service Committee. I sent him a note through All Souls, thanking him for saving at least one of our lives. On Sunday, March 7, 1965, Jim Reeb answered a telegram Martin Luther Kind sent to clergy across the country, asking them to join him in Selma, Alabama, and march with him to the state capital. Several hundred protestors had already run into intensive police resistance trying to reach Montgomery that weekend, and had been ordered to stop at the Edmond Pettus Bridge in Selma. According to one account, “When ordered to end the march by state troopers, the marchers were given three minutes, but within one and half minutes they were attacked by dogs, beaten with Billy clubs, tear gas, and chased by posses.” (http://library.thinkquest.org/CR0214523/selmamarch.htm#second.) Jim and two colleagues flew south the next day and, at the end of their first full day in Selma, they were beaten by a group of white men with clubs and pipes. For some reason, Jim didn't reach a hospital for several hours. He died there from his injuries three days later. He was 38. To read a portion of the eulogy Martin Luther King gave at Jim Reeb’s memorial service, click Read More. … [On Tuesday, March 9, after that day’s leg of the march] Reeb and two friends got some dinner in a local restaurant -- not one of the "whites only" restaurants, but one run by local black citizens. When they had eaten and left, they were walking to the church where marchers were meeting again to plan for the next day. James Reeb never made it to that meeting. Four white men attacked him on the street. His two friends recovered from being kicked and beaten, but James was struck from behind by a heavy piece of wood. It crushed the left side of his head. At his memorial service, held in Selma on the day that President Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act, Martin Luther King concluded his eulogy with these remarks: Naturally, we are compelled to ask the question, Who killed James Reeb? The answer is simple and rather limited when we think of the who. He was murdered by a few sick, demented, and misguided men who have the strange notion that you express dissent through murder. There is another haunting, poignant, desperate question we are forced to ask this afternoon. It is the question, 'What killed James Reeb? When we move from the who to the what, the blame is wide and responsibility grows… James Reeb was murdered by the indifference of every minister of the gospel who has remained silent behind the safe security of stained glass windows. He was murdered by the irrelevancy of a church that will stand amid social evil and serve as a taillight rather than a headlight, an echo rather than a voice. He was murdered by the irresponsibility of every politician who has moved down the path of demagoguery, who has fed his constituents the stale bread of hatred and the spoiled meat of racism. From http://www.stolaf.edu/news/speeches/benson.htmlFor some recollections of Reeb’s two daughters, see http://www.hmbreview.com/articles/2008/11/12/news/doc491b50f509276949150920.txtAccording to a Ju;y 17, 2011 story in the Boston Globe, the FBI had reopened the investigation of his murder. http://bo.st/ZADEmA
Looking for something different to serve at your Super Bowl Party this Sunday? Here's an idea: Order a party platter with a sauce of your choice, from one of our local country stores. Um-um, good! And, you can save the leftovers for ice fishing! A twofer!
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