President Obama, addressing the Atlanta, Georgia- based Morehouse College, a historically all-black male school founded after the Civil War, invoked Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, Morehouse,’48.

  “…he taught a nation to be unafraid.  And over the last 50 years, thanks to the moral force of Dr. King and a Moses generation that overcame their fear and their cynicism and their despair, barriers have come tumbling down, and new doors of opportunity have swung open, and laws and hearts and minds have been changed to the point where someone who looks just like you can somehow come to serve as President of these United States of America…”

Reading his speech this morning,  I thought of the film, 42, the biographical sports film about baseball player Jackie Robinson, the first African American to break the baseball color barrier win 1946 when he joined the Montreal Royals and later played for the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Had Robinson opted to stay in the Negro Baseball League, his life might have been a lot easier. Subjected to humiliating racial taunts from opponents, teammates, and baseball fans, he refused to become angry or fight back. He won people over by his athletic prowess, by winning for his team.

As President Obama reminded the Morehouse men, “…Every one of you have a grandma or an uncle or a parent who’s told you that at some point in life, as an African American, you have to work twice as hard as anyone else if you want to get by…”   The President urged the graduates to set an example, help others, and work for justice.  He praised the school’s legacy of “Men who refuse to be afraid…”

Courage.   And that’s what New York City Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg, asked the 410 graduates at Kenyon College, in Gambier, Ohio, Saturday, to show. He advocated that they continue to learn, to work hard, and to exhibit courage.  “…Have the courage to act on your hopes; don’t be paralyzed by your fears. Have the courage to think for yourself and to believe in your ideas. That kind of courage lies at the heart of human invention and progress – and the lack of it lies at the heart of our political problems today…” 

Courage, he said, is needed to fight for gun control, to fight for gay marriage rights, to affect climate change, and to close the academic achievement gap.

Ruminating on these speeches, I thought of two recent incidents.

A gorgeous Sunday a couple weeks ago,  I joined my cycling friends on rural roads in New Jersey. I had to leave the ride early for an afternoon commitment, so missed this event, captured here.  I’m not sure I’d have been as composed as my friends, when they were told by a passerby to get off “his” road.  I admire how they, mostly African Americans, don’t let someone’s moronic attitudes ruin their day.

And ironically, the evening after Mayor Bloomberg gave his speech about courage, a gay man, Mark Carson, was murdered at gunpoint in NYC’s Greenwich Village, target of a hate crime. Attacks against gays have increased in recent months in NYC; a suspect has been charged.   One can only wonder if a background check for this obviously troubled man, who had a criminal record, could have prevented this murder.

Courage, indeed. Our graduates need lots of it.

Here’s the last story by my mother about one of their friends.

Where’s Warren?
By Barbara W. Klein

One was never alone when Warren was around. He was there if you were homesick, lonely, or just had a bad day. A fellow volunteer and in his 50’s, Warren had served in the Air Force and the ministry, Warren could make us chuckle when we’d least expect it.

For example, the directors of our “Stage” training program, Patty and Bill, were often challenging to cope with. They were aptly, though politely, renamed by Warren, “Batty and Pill”. When I was having a dinner party, Warren was right there with his own shopping basket, to help me carry the provisions to my house. He organized volley ball games and emceed the talent show.

Warren roomed with seven other volunteers and organized spaghetti dinners for about 40 people- 30 or so volunteers, staff members, and a few of the residents of the town. It was customary for guests to bring something when visiting. Every “hanut”, or grocery store, was stripped of melons, bottles of soda and loaves of bread. People brought salads, home made relishes, and desserts. We all provided our own dinnerware, issued by the Peace Corps.

When he completed his Peace Corp service, Warren visited us in Connecticut.  We hiked through the woods of Killingworth and then had dinner at home, cooking together. I still use his recipe for sweet potato pie with cognac and pecans.

We contacted each other for a while, and as things go, lost touch. Marty and I tried to locate Warren with no success.

Warren B. Skinner, where are you hiding?

###

My parents completed their training in September and were sworn in as Peace Corps volunteers. However, there wasn’t an assignment available for them. In many ways it was a mixed blessing. In each of my mother’s letters, she wrote about how much they missed everyone. She’d close her letters, “kiss the monkeys,” referring to my sons. Rereading them, I could tell how homesick they were. Yet I knew how committed they were to helping others. They truly believe the proverb: “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” With them it was chickens and eggs. They continued volunteering: as Vista volunteers in Hartford, CT, (they could live at home), and many trips abroad with private foundations that organized service projects, usually for a month at a time. They’ve been to more than 50 countries.

An excerpt is from my father’s letter:
… The other day we had a sandstorm. It was 130° F and the winds came off the desert; it was like a blast furnace… We went on a drive through the mountains to Siliana, a small farming community. We were in this small bus and the driver was crazy. We were all scared except your mother. She was perfectly relaxed. Can you believe she was knitting?…

…Before we left I knew I would miss you all but never realized how much. The pictures of J & N were adorable and I really think about them a lot which makes it very, very difficult. I just wish some mornings that they would come into the room and jump on me…

Warren Skinner’s SWEET POTATO PIE

Boil or bake sweet potatoes until barely soft. Peel. Mash with 1/2  cup brown sugar and a few chips of butter. Add a fistful of raisins, chopped nuts, and 1Tbs cognac.   Pour into pan and swirl the top of the potatoes. Decorate with whole or half nuts. Pecans are good.  Drizzle honey into the swirls. Bake at 300 degrees, F. for 20 to 25 minutes.

PEACE CORPS YOGURT CAKE  

4 eggs, 3 oz. butter, 1 & 1/2 C plain or vanilla yogurt, 2 tsp. vanilla, 4 & 1/2 c. flour. Chopped figs, or raisins, prunes, dates, apricots, 1 and 1/2 c. sugar                                                      2 tsp. baking powder   Mix. Pour into greased and floured baking pan. Bake medium heat for one hour. (350)   Variations: Add juice from 2 oranges, and grated rind of one. Or use lemon yogurt, juice and grated rind.

My mother sent me photos of Warren and of my father and her at the swearing –in. Unfortunately,  they seem to have gotten lost in the mail. If they resurface, I’ll post them.

I thought about my daughter this week while attending two cultural events.

Seeing Ann, the biographical play about the late Ann Richards, considered how this woman, Texas’ 45^th governor and only the second woman to hold the office in the state, set an example for others to enter politics and seek higher office throughout the country.  

In US history, there have only been 35 women governors; five women hold the office at present.

I remember a slogan from the 1970’s when I worked as a news intern  in Washington, DC. “A woman’s place is in the House… and the Senate.” To date, 44 women have served in the US Senate; 20 of the 100 senators serving today are women.  In the House of Representatives of the 435 members, 78 are women. More than 200 women have been elected in US history.

It doesn’t take advanced math to recognize there’s still an enormous gender gap in US politics.  There’s room for current graduates to enter the race.

I also visited Judy Chicago’s  The Dinner Party now housed at the Brooklyn Museum. I  saw the exhibit when it first appeared in 1979.   Its 39 ceramic plates displayed atop elaborate embroidered tapestries honor mythological and historical women, beginning with the Greek Primordial Goddess and ending with American artist Georgia O’Keefe.  Additionally, 999 women’s names are inscribed on the white, triangular-tiled floor, ranging from 14th century medical educator Abella of Salerno to American writer Zora Neale Hurston. At the time, it was hailed as a breakthrough in feminist art and inspired the advent of women’s studies at many colleges and universities. 

I joined a corporate event organized to bring men and women to the exhibit. Most had never heard of or seen the show before.  The group works to increase the visibility of women in the company; it encourages women to take “a place at the table,” echoing Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg in her book, Lean In. (I haven’t read it but heard her speak about it at Davos. She spoke at my daughter in-law Karen’s Barnard College graduation, where she emphasized  the themes in her book.)

As my daughter packs up her things, sorts what she’s keeping, donating, selling or tossing, I know she, and countless other college graduates nationwide, will be wondering what’s next. I hope they have choices, can follow their passions, and will find their places. There’s lots of room at the table, in the House, the Senate, the Governor’s Mansion, and beyond.

Cultural Exchange Weekend
by Barbara W. Klein

It was the weekend for Cultural Exchange, also known as the “Kick Out. We and  Beth, another volunteer, would be spending the weekend with a second -year volunteer, Colleen from Minnesota, at her site in  Sidi Thabet, a suburb of Tunis, the capitol.

We had to first get to Sousse, a half hour away from Hergla, to then catch the train, which was about a two-hour trip to Tunis. Though some of the volunteers hitchhiked, we opted to take a taxi.

Since Colleen wasn’t expecting us until late in the afternoon we had time to browse around Tunis. Marty and I gravitated to the venders with bright carts laden with every flavor of halavah imaginable. I chose pistachio and Marty, vanilla.  Beth was longing for a glass of beer, and the only place to get alcoholic beverages in a Muslim country was at an international hotel. We enjoyed a beer with olives and other tidbits at the Hotel Internationale.

Before getting a cab to Sidi Thabet we bought a kilo of peaches at a fruit stand for our hostess, which the vender wrapped in a cone made from rolled newspaper. The fruit was quite ripe and didn’t travel too well, but was delicious anyway.  We passed a tile factory and a grove of almond trees and then came to a  villa ( one story house) where Colleen waited for us on the porch.

After dinner we were visited by the neighbors and we sat on the roof,  though there was plenty of land near the house. Tunisians like to gather on the roof at night. Mosquitos are plentiful in Tunisia but we were only bothered by them indoors. We were told that they hide in the mattresses and bedding during the day. You could sit outside all night and not get bitten. We spent a lovely weekend sightseeing and eating.

On Sunday morning, we bid our hostess good-bye and looked for a taxi to take us to the train station in Tunis. The taxis were small and were meant for only two passengers. We pleaded with the driver that we were only three people and didn’t want to split up, and that we had to catch the train from Tunis. He let us in the cab and shortly after, stopped at a store. We were nervous because we had to make the train. The driver came back with four sodas. He took the taxi sign off the cab’s roof and turned off the meter.  He asked us our names and what we were doing.

Then he headed toward the highway and not the train station. He told us that his name was Yusiff and gave us a spiel to say if we were stopped by the police, since we had three passengers in the car.  He told us to say that we were big shots from Washington and were on our way to visit friends in Sousse. He taught us French and Arabic and pointed out interesting things. We assumed that he was going to Sousse anyway and explained that we were going to Hergla and asked him to drop us off on the highway when we reached Hergla. He drove us to the center of Hergla. We gave him what we thought the fare from Sidi Thabet should have been.  He promptly returned all but about the equivalent of $2.50, the amount that was already on the meter when we first got in. This didn’t even cover the fare from Sidi Thabet to Tunis. We wanted to give him more but he insisted that we had paid enough. Marty asked him where he was going and he said “Oh, back to Tunis.” He got in the cab and left.

We had plenty of experiences with other cab drivers, but none as pleasant as this one.

In Hergla, I noticed this woman spinning yarn. As a knitter myself, I’m always interested in handicrafts.   She explained she was  spindle weaving. There are very few people who do this craft in Hergla.  Most work as housekeepers or weave straw. She carded the wool and got a long strand of yarn from a small coil, stretching the yarn as she worked, spinning a tightly spun skein in a short time. It’s a matter of balancing the spindle against your leg and twirling it. I tried it; I think I’ll stick to buying yarn at the store.  

On some of my recent visits to my parents, I’ve been reading some of the letters my mother (and a few my father) wrote that I saved.  They took Arabic lessons and my mother, always a quick language learner, still sprinkles her conversations with Arabic expressions, that she says, have no English equivalents.

Just a couple years older than I am now, my parents joined an organization mostly associated with younger people. Before the Internet, Skype, and inexpensive telephone plans, the world seemed much larger and they seemed so far away. My own sons – the only grandchildren they had at the time—were 4 and 2.

Intrigued by the letters, I asked my mother to write about some of their experiences that I’ll share in a couple of posts. I’ll also include some excerpts from a few letters.  Welcome, guest writer, Barbara W. Klein.

On the way to the market.

Making Coffee

I make coffee using old -fashioned top of the stove percolators.

In Tunisia, we shared a villa, (a single story house) with two Tunisian teachers and two other Peace Corps volunteers. Since I’m an early riser, I usually put up the coffee. Our coffee maker looked like my four -cup percolator but it didn’t have a stem.  The basket fit closer to the bottom of the pot. Lattifa, one of the teachers, told me that the coffee should be steamed. I put the ground coffee in the basket, the water in the bottom of the pot, and brought the water to a boil. Much to my surprise, the water remained clear. I experimented by pouring the hot water through the grounds and “Voila!”; I had perfect drip style coffee. That is probably the way the pot was supposed to work, or maybe I should have poured cold water over the coffee grounds. Since our only cups were about the size of a three ounce juice glass, and since the coffee was the strong Tunisian style, there was enough to serve six. During our entire training “Stage”, pronounced “stahge”, I used the drip method for coffee. It worked, but still wasn’t as good as the percolator.

One morning, at class, our young language teacher, Kais, remarked that he heard that I make great coffee.  To be appreciated by a local, made my day!

From letters:

…”Everyday living is a new adventure. I’m learning to improvise. There’s a three -burner range that sits on the counter and no oven. I inverted a baking pan over the burner and baked a cake….We’re living without phones, cars, cornflakes, Chinese food, rye bread, washing machines and hot water. What your father misses most is a newspaper. If people are coming from Tunis they bring him a day old International Herald Tribune.  We wash our clothes by stamping on them in a bucket and hang everything on the porch to dry. The toilets are a hole in the ground; we have to squat.”

63 turned into 77 when we didn’t trust the cue sheet and backtracked a bit to check directions, but that’s usually expected when we’re plotting our own course.  

On Sunday, we caught up with our cycling club friends who were doing a fast-paced 40 -plus miler towards Gladstone, NJ.

We didn’t have time to do the entire ride so circled back home; 22 total.  Nearly a century over two days, not bad at all.

Our son Jacob and family arrived in the afternoon to take the kids on their first hike. He’d bought backpacks to carry them, reminding us how we used to carry him and his siblings. Our grandson ran the entire trail- a flat walk around a lake-  until the end when he too opted for the backpack.  He  searched for dinosaurs, ghosts and other creatures. He became fascinated with tree holes and roots, and of course large boulders.  

Then dinner with friends.  

Donate? Recycle? Save?

Reading Dwight Garner‘s reflections about how he boxed up the picture books that his now teenagers  cherished, I thought about the titles that engaged my own children and those that now captivate my grandchildren.

Certainly one of the greatest thrills about being a grandparent is reading to the little ones. While there’s lots of new literature to select, the old classics remain.

My grandsons love anything trucks; the eldest, at 3, is “reading” Curious George on his own, having memorized the stories.  My granddaughter loves her board books and holds them in her lap, turning the pages and saying, “read.”  

My own kids went through stages in what they liked, choosing authors: Dr. Suess, Jane Yolen, William Steig, Cynthia Rylant and Patricia Polacco; or themes: fairy tales and dog books. And more dog books.  Enough dog books to convince us to get a dog.

Reading to the boys, circa 1988.

I’ve saved many of the books they loved, eagerly waiting for the grandkids to be old enough to enjoy these stories.

No recycling bin for us. No boxing up into the attic. I’ve donated duplicate copies received as gifts and keep most of the books on a low bookshelf, readily accessible for little readers.

Are there titles your children loved that you’ve kept?

And it’s my blog’s 2^nd birthday! Well maybe not yet as famous, I’m happy where the blog journey has taken me.  After my first blog b-day, I created an anthology of writers, mostly bloggers who I’d met via the blog world.  I’ve met a few blog friends in “real” life and have extensive email exchanges with many others.

What’s next for year 3?

I hope to get back to posting at least twice a week. April has been a busy month: lots of trips to Ohio for our daughter’s college academic and athletic events,  Grandparents Day,   polishing the first draft of my play that will be read by professional actors next week, and writing a study guide for Random House.

As I wrote in my first birthday post, all I want is more readers! I’d love to grow the conversations.  So no gift cards, candy, or flowers. Please pass this message along: Check out www.cyclingrandma.wordpress.com!

Long used to fast boil corned beef, soften lentils or steam rice, it’s reputation is now maligned as an appliance easily adapted into a homemade bomb.

This isn’t the chemistry sets of old when kids built volcanoes from clay and combined baking soda, food coloring, and vinegar to create bubbly eruptions.

The term pressure cooker is also used to describe stress.  One can live  or work in an environment that causes anxiety, pent up anger, and other negative feelings that when provoked could boil over.

Sadly, homegrown explosions aren’t hard to do. Apparently the Internet is full of instructions.

In yoga today, Dana began class saying how the YMCA wants teachers to begin all classes with a little chitchat, to help build community.  She felt that the class is already a community of practitioners; we’re non-competitive, open and accepting. In yoga, there’s no judging of either yourself or others.

I thought about community.  Some evil person or group of people decided to turn a couple of pressure cookers into bombs, timed to detonate near the end of the Boston Marathon.

Here’s a community, like Newton, CT and so many others, struggling to find meaning amid chaos.

As the facts are sieved through the rubble, as a perpetrator is discovered, as the injured begin to heal and encounter the many emotional and physical challenges they face, let’s remember community.   Most likely, for whatever reason, who ever commited this violent act against humanity, didn’t feel part of one. Perhaps they’re inhabiting pressure cookers, that don’t allow them to let off steam.

First, a standing -room -only assembly where surviving members of the Tuskegee Airmen and other veterans addressed students, sharing their experiences of prejudice against them at war and at home. This was Lydia’s senior project for her American Studies major. She had researched and interviewed many Airmen in Ohio and brought them to campus.

Yesterday, I attended the Honors Day Convocation; a true celebration of scholarship, complete with the brass band, college choir, and the parade of professors attired in full academic regalia. 

Listening to the announcements of graduate study fellowships and the awards, prizes and scholarships given by trustees, alumna, the academic departments and the college, I marveled at how college can inspire the passion for learning. I looked at the young people, embarking on new lives soon, and imagined where their experiences will take them.

Reading the program, I wondered about the people immortalized in these gifts that will perpetuate student scholarship  forever.   Take someone like Henry Dalton, (1862-1939). Not a Kenyon graduate, but a benefactor who donated funds for a new science building in 1924. The fellowship awarded to Lydia, was named in 1946 in his honor.

With advisor Peter Rutkoff