Jaki Jean on Jean

This evening, watching the early news, I told my mother that I wanted to go on record. That the last thing I wanted to see was a musical of Little House on the Prairie.

A bit later, she rolled into the kitchen & said:

I just want to go on record. I do not want to watch a rendition of Romeo & Juliet with Ellen & Rosie.

We laughed & I said, of course, Juliet was played by a man.

So what a gender bender it could be, Rosie & Ellen, playing those roles.

A woman as a woman, a woman as a man.

And my mother smiled.

It's the surface Navy's worst loss of life during peace time operations.

I remember the call I received twenty-one years ago.

I was sitting at my desk in the Washington Hilton, contemplating the wording in a corporate brochure or a bride’s choice of flowers and colors and I answered the phone.

It was Leslie, a friend of my youngest brother.

Leslie, who arrived as my father was in the midst of a massive heart attack and performed CPR and brought him back. Only for the paramedics to lose him on the way to the hospital.

I still see her in the Emergency waiting room, and I hear her saying I never lost anyone before.

And then I hear her say over the phone, Are you watching CNN? There has been an explosion on the Iowa.

Of course I was not watching CNN – I was contemplating the magnificent and the mundane of floral choices. My youngest brother was on the Iowa.

I made a call to a woman I worked with on an Inaugural Ball for George I, a woman whose son worked with Naval Intelligence. And I tell her that my baby brother is on the Iowa and that I need to tell our mother something.

She made a call.

Her son the Naval Intelligence Officer called me.

His name is not on the list of the dead or the wounded or the missing. This is all I can tell you.

So I had that to tell our mother. He was alive.

My brother does not talk about the turret explosion. Except that some of the sailors he brought to crash in my apartment on Virginia Avenue in D.C. died that day. And that there was not a lot left in the turret.

With all due respect to that kind Intelligence Officer who tried so to give my mother comfort.

My brother was not dead or missing.

But he, like so many others, was wounded.

In peace time.

So what has left our men & women wounded in these war times>

T & I

I wonder when it was that I started crossing my Ts and dotting my I s as I write, instead of waiting until the end of the sentence, or at least until the end of the word, to take care of that penmanship housekeeping.

I looked up the whole concept of crossing t and dotting i.

Generally, it means being careful, thorough and precise: including all the required elements of detail.

It comes, I believe, from the days of manuscript copying where the letters i and t were carelessly left unadorned by their dots and cross-strokes because they required a break from the continuous flow of the writing.

So, if I read these definitions correctly, my obsession with crossing t and dotting i as I write is a sign of precision & a willingness to break the continuous flow of my thoughts.

Fractal instead of linear.

Excellent.

About that Thanksgiving

There was no carrot souffle.

But there was baby Ailee, my sister's grandchild. Beautiful & bubbly & intense.

Like her parents.

I missed the souffle.

About giving thanks & sharing food. . .

When I gave up controlling our family Thanksgiving, I cannot say.

When I took control of Thanksgiving (and other holidays) from my mother is another story.

It began many years before circumstances limited her participation. Whether it was watching public television or collecting cookbooks or sharing time and space with women and men who enjoyed cooking, I started out planning menus.

My mother followed those plans. We had crackling duck one year. We made individual Cornish Game Hens stuffed with grapes for 28 another year. I tried stuffings versus her cornbread dressing and the dressing always won.

We were a good team, my mother and I.

Something happened and taking care of Thanksgiving came too expensive or too stressful or I could not do it without my mother or without complete control and I asked (or told) my sister to host the holiday. That first year, I think I gave her a menu and a shopping list.

To her credit, she did not kill me. She followed the menu.

Convinced that the holiday could not possibly be a success without me, I arrived with too many supplemental dishes.

As I say, she did not kill me and this says volumes about my sister.

My sister Janet choreographs a lovely family Thanksgiving for us.

Without a menu or shopping list from me.

This year, it will be on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Due to the UT / Aggie game, which is going to be on Thanksgiving Day and my sister, an Aggie, has tickets.

So tomorrow, I will choreograph a small Thanksgiving for our mother and brother and my son Nick and his Lady Jane. I like the menu

* Turkey with Lemon Thyme Butter (& gravy)
* Cornbread Dressing
* Yam Casserole with Oranges & Pecans
* Brussel Sprouts
* Cranberry Sauce (my recipe)
* Home Made Yeast Rolls
* Cherry Pie
* Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Bread

On Friday, I hope that my sister’s menu will include her incredible carrot soufflé. I know that the day will include family and friends and laughter.

The rest is just dressing. Cornbread, of course.

Something Important I Learned from Debbie Wizig

In this, the second century of my life, I find my mind and curiosity wandering to spaces I have inhabited and the people who shared those spaces.

This evening my thoughts turned to the Wizigs. David and Debbie who shared time and space with me before they shared a last name and came to me via Steven Michael Epstein.

I once brushed my teeth side by side with David Wizig and my friend Carol Lindsey and I believed him to be the very best life had to offer in the category of the male species. One of his best qualities was his praise of Debbie, not then Wizig, and her intelligence.

Debbie was not just intelligent. She was, as is (if her Facebook picture has not been altered) lovely. And, at a young age, wise.

Much of what I know about David and Debbie after our lives no longer converged in the same time and space came to me from Steven Michael Epstein. They graduated from the University of Texas, they emigrated to Israel, they created a daughter named Amira and they came back to Houston.

The last time I saw the Wizigs was with Steven Michael Epstein (who deserves a blog of his own). We went for lunch at the Wizig's home. David was teaching, Debbie's mother was at the house,and Amira had a marvelous collection of Barbie dolls, organized in an old dresser that reminded me of the dresser in my grandmother's room.

I remember that Amira did not want what her mother had fixed to feed the rest of us. I cannot remember if we had tuna fish and Amira wanted macaroni and cheese or if we had something else and Amira wanted tuna fish. I do remember that at some time in our shared time and space, David was a vegetarian.

What I remember about that day is that Debbie fixed Amira something entirely different. Something simple. And when I asked her about it (I was either pregnant or a new mother and curious about all things maternal and nurturing), she replied (something like):

It is just not a big deal. She's happy, she's eating.

I took that lesson with me. Food should never be an issue of power or control. There is always something that is just not a big deal to offer as alternative.

Peace and contentment. A bit more work, but not a big deal.

As an aside, I have always admired the organization of Amira's Barbies and their accessories. . .

Sheets & Other Lasting Relationships

This morning, as I was folding a basket of linens, I came across a pillow case in a faded blue and gold pattern.

I remember exactly when I purchased the set of double sized sheets from Foley’s (aka Macy’s) downtown.

It was when I left my husband, thirty years ago. I remember, because it was then that I began my ritual of changing bed linens when relationships ended.

In spite of its faded condition, the pillow case is quite usable – the fabric is still strong, the stitches still taut and holding the pieces of the case together.

Wondercale No Iron Percale by Springmaid, 65% Polyester, 35% Cotton.

Thirty years, enduring neglect, obsession, casual caretaking, abandonment, years spent in a pile of other linens, forgotten, waiting to be retrieved, recovered, restored.

Like the fabric of strong relationships, the threads of shared spaces and shared experiences still taut and holding people together.

Waiting to be rediscovered, reclaimed and restored.