Tulips & Peonies

Years ago, in another life, I watched the late floral designer Bobb Wirfel, deconstruct a tulip.

Bobb brought beauty and clarity and grace to everything he did. He was a gentleman with one of the most sincere smiles I have ever been privileged to receive. A lovely soul with a kind heart and mesmerizing wit.

A bride wanted peonies for her bridal bouquet and peonies were out of season.

Bobb stood at his station, telling me a witty story, and with his artist’s hands, gently peeled back the petals of a pale pink tulip. Wiring & taping each individual petal, never crushing its beauty.

He did this for what seemed like forever with what seemed like hundreds of tulips.

Then, still talking but never faltering in his movements, he began to assemble the wired tulip petals, weaving from them a peony.

Still tulip petals but transformed into a different form, something richer, fuller, fragrant with meaning.

All for a young woman who wanted to carry peonies down the aisle on her wedding day.

In still another life, when I studied Roland Barthes and his theory of text as a braid, I thought of Bobb and that bouquet.

Barthes posited that all text comes from previous texts, that writers and readers pull strands from the braid and reweave them into a new, but connected text.

Like Bobb creating peonies out of tulips.

Thinking about the Canon

A dear friend of mine, with whom I just recently connected, posted this article which appalled, but did not surprise me.

New Edition Of Bible Specifically Mentions Second Amendment

August 14, 2010 | ISSUE 46•32
CHICAGO—

A new translation of the Bible released this week directly mentions the Second Amendment on eight occasions, and includes a version of Psalm 23 that begins, "The Lord is my shepherd, and the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed." Positive early feedback praised the new edition for its clean design, readability, and beautiful rendering of proverbs that condemn the foolish ban on semiautomatic weapons for personal use. "For the Lord your God walks in the midst of your camp, to deliver you and give your enemies over to you," Deuteronomy 23:14 reads. "Your camp shall be holy, and if that means exercising your constitutional right to purchase a firearm, then that's your own damn business." The leather-bound book also comes with a handsomely crafted carrying case and a fully loaded, nickel-plated Glock 17 8mm.


Having been raised in the Church, I spent a lot of time reading & memorizing & studying the Bible. I read translations other than the King James Version - a former employer gave me a copy of the Torah. I read it. I compared.

All the versions of the Bible were created based on translations by others, monks & priests with their own agenda, basing their translations on what came before, on what was available.

One thing I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is that there are ancient texts in obscure monasteries in Greece & Turkey & Rome & Israel that have never been seen, much less given to the public.

The other thing I know is as disgusting as this translation introducing material that did not exist at any evolution of the sacred texts, it does not matter.

Because God is God. With or without the Bible or the Koran or the Torah or the Talmud or any ancient Buddhist or Hindu texts.

I learned this on a retreat, where the leaders confiscated all our copies of the Bible (I had three) under the pretext of seeing what age group brought the most. Then we spent a week reconstructing what we remembered from all that memorization in Sunday School.

What I learned during that week, without access to what is ultimately The Canon, is that God does not require the presence of a text to make Her presence & love known.

God was there, on that retreat. On & in the river, on & in the air, with us during every song, every discussion, every prayer. Surrounding us, engulfing us, loving us.

Make no mistake: I love the Bible. But I am realistic about its origins & evolution.

For me, it doesn't matter. God is here.

Thinking about that Community Center / Mosque Near Ground Zero

Like all Americans, I remember exactly where I was on 9-11.

And I remember thinking, This is not the world I wanted to leave my sons.

This debate about the Islamic community center located several blocks from Ground Zero is insane.

We are a nation evolved from a melting pot of ethnicities & experience.

In spite of the propaganda we teach our children, this country was founded by Dutch merchants seeking a fortune. Our founding fathers (bless their souls) never believed that the average white man (let's not even discuss men of color or women of any race) could govern themselves.

I love this nation. I love what we stand for, what we strive to be. But it would not exist without its people.

We have changed, grown & are stronger for the change & growth. I have witnessed Houston grow in the last forty years - I first had Indian food in London, Vietnamese & Cous-Cous in Paris, pizza over a fire in Rome.

Now I can travel anywhere in this town & enter another culture, another world. I love that.

Amazing, this melting pot.

Father’s Day: Remembering Jack

My father, Jacky Roberts Ettinger, died when I was 29, in July of 1983.

I was pregnant with my son Nicholas. Jack and Nicholas and my son Sam never went out on the boat skiing, never watched a movie together, never discussed politics and women.

And yet Jack is, and always has been, there with us.

My sons both bear a middle name with a J – in honor of Jack and my mother Jean’s obsession with naming their offspring Jaki, Janet, John, Jason.

Jack taught me to add, subtract, multiple & divide before I could read.

Given that my education was as an English major & I earn my living as an accountant, that is fierce.

When I married, Jack took my arm at the end of the aisle & said, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

I should have listened.

Five years later, when I needed to leave my marriage, I sat in my parent’s house at their kitchen table & my mother told Jack I needed help, he asked why.


My mother answered: He hit her.


And that was that.

I moved out, stayed with my parents for a while, searched for apartments with my sister Janet, found one, moved in & started over.

Jack made that new beginning possible, just as he & my mother made my arrival into this world possible.

When I found myself pregnant, unmarried at 29, I wondered how I would tell my father. I told my youngest brother Jason first, wondering how I would tell my mother & Jack.

Tell them. Jason said. It will be okay.

I did not tell them together.

I took a trip with my mother to Dallas to spend time with her sisters & somewhere on Highway 45, I told her I was pregnant & that the father was married & I had no idea if he would participate in this child’s life.

I don’t know what my mother said to my father, since I was too chicken shit to talk to him myself.

I only know that Jack & my mother took me to lunch & told me that they were there for me, that my baby was welcome & that we would all be fine. I would keep working for Jack’s company & keep my place in Montrose & when the baby came, Jean would come & help.

And then one day early in July, Jack & Jean went to Half-Price Books in West U, drove by my place on Harold Street, & finding me absent, went home to read.

Sitting in his recliner, no doubt puffing on a pipe, Jack went into cardiac arrest.

My brother Jason & his friend Leslie, both lifeguards, arrived. Leslie gave Jack CPR – the paramedics who arrived later declared her a wonder. She brought him back.

I was cooking raspberry chicken, waiting for an old friend to arrive. He arrived as Jason called me.

The paramedics lost Jack somewhere between Meadows Place & the hospital.

When I got to the hospital, the waiting room was full of neighbors, Jason, Leslie, & others who were there for their own tragedies.

I went with my mother when the doctor called us in to tell us that Jack was dead.

I watched as she threw herself across his body & begged him not to leave her.

When they took her away, I asked for a moment.

I looked at him, this man, son, friend, husband, father.

Afraid, I touched him, so cold. I talked to him. I know he could hear.

Jack never knew the joy of his grandchildren with Jean: Nicholas or Sam or Felicia or Emily or Alex or Sarah.

Something tells me that he watches them & is pleased.

I miss you, Daddy.

Hanging out in Jack & Jean's Backyard

Sitting out here in the backyard of Jack & Jean’s place on Dorrance Lane.

Underneath the two great trees they planted.

Remembering the trampoline of my youth & the swing set & fort I bought for Nick & how Sam & the sons & daughters of my siblings enjoyed both.

Missing the hammock & reading to the boys.

And suddenly, I feel the need to climb a tree.

This is an insane idea at my age & state. But if I bring out a step ladder, I can get there.

Getting down will be a bitch.

But how much fun to linger there.

I am going to find my way to that limb.

The Greatest Thing since Coca-Cola

My friend Sue Ann McLauchlan Faulkner posted this on Facebook today:

Did you know that 124 years ago today on May 8, 1886, the first Coca-Cola was served? So let's celebrate by opening an ice-cold Coca-Cola and sharing some happiness with others today.

When I was a junior at El Paso’s Coronado High School, General Electric transferred my father to Houston. A place he once vowed he would never live. Too damned hot & humid.

I was seventeen, beginning to feel comfortable in my own skin. Totally entrenched in the drama of high school in the seventies. I was a finalist for class favorite – quite an accomplishment for a skinny nerd attempting to traverse all the levels of society that make up high school. I was on student council (the House, not the Senate). One of my best friends was on the football team.

At the time, unknown to anyone, I was suffering from a severe thyroid disease. I lost weight, I lost my prowess as a math whiz, I seldom slept, I forgot my class schedule. I thought I was going mad, that I was losing my mind.

Keep in mind, this was the late sixties & early seventies. Many of my friends were experimenting with drugs. But they all put the word out that no one was to introduce anything to me: She is already flying.

My friends compensated for me. The two Susies in my life, Aronson & Borschow, moved into my locker. They helped keep track of my schedule. I remember so many times, feeling lost & someone leading me, whispering: It is time for English. This period is World History. Jaki, you are supposed to be in Chemistry in the next building.

I remember the times when no one was near & I was forced to go to the office & say: My name is Jaki Ettinger & I need a copy of my schedule. Looking back, no one in the office found it strange that I came time after time for my schedule. But it was the late sixties & early seventies.

Many mornings, I would awake long before dawn, climb over our rock fence and make my way across the desert, climb a hill, and watch the sun rise.

There is nothing as beautiful or as serene as sunrise or sunset in the mountains.

So, I was not happy about moving to a place I only remembered from vacations: hot, humid, flat, unprotected. Not to mention attending a high school named after a man I personally held responsible for the onset of the Vietnam War.

Or about moving to a school where no one was aware that I might be a bit off-balance.

My friends gave me a surprise going away party at Betsey Kerr’s house. My last day at school, I had a party in every class. That evening, I attended a dress rehearsal of Brigadoon. And my dearest nearest friends took me to Grigg’s – one of my favorite Mexican restaurants.

The next day, fortified by sandwiches provided by my friend Susie Aronson, I walked through our garage, looking at the moving boxes.

On every box marked for my room, I wrote: Jaki is Great.

When we finally moved into our house in what is now Meadows Place, Texas, Fort Bend County, bordering Houston, I found a note underneath one of my proclamations that I was great:

This is a declaration of a childish, immature, unimaginative mind.
The correct declaration should be:

Jaki is the greatest thing since Coca-Cola.
T

About Douglas the Purple Mouse

When we were still living on Morningstar Lane, and I was attending Cabell Elementary, and Sue Ann McLauchlan was my best friend, at some point in some year, Sue gave me a set of pins.

Two purple mice with crystal eyes and gold toned tails.

Sue moved away first, then my family & I moved from Dallas to El Paso.

But I always kept those mice with me.

Most people who know me well understand that, at heart, I am a bit shy. Others find the concept out of sync with the Jaki Jean they know.

But, in high school, I was shy & eager to meet new & interesting people. And a bit demented.

So I retrieved one of those mice, pinned it to the inner lapel of my orange corduroy coat, & started introducing Douglas.

Whenever there was someone I thought I wanted to know, I would approach them & say:
Excuse me, my friend Douglas would like to meet you. He is a bit shy.

Then they would ask to meet Douglas & I would open my coat & say This is Douglas.

Douglas took me a long way at Coronado High School. I met a lot of people. It was the late sixties & early seventies & sometimes people sought me out to meet Douglas.

When one of his eyes fell out & his tail broke, we had a funeral & buried Douglas in one of the beds in the patio, somewhere outside the English department.

And when my father was transferred to Houston & we had to leave, my friends & I dug up Douglas.
He is with me still.

As is Sue Ann McLauchlan Faulkner.