Jaki Jean & Jean & Grandma Luna & Burning Books

This evening, as Jean & I watched Charlie Rose interview Marley Davis, the amazing 11 year old who collected over 1,000 books in which black girls were the main characters, I told Jean a story.

I told her how my high school friend Rachel Halperin introduced me to Andres & Amy Dominquez & how Andres introduced me to the writer, Angela Cervantes.

As I told Jean what I knew about Angela’s story, how a young Angela read books under the covers at night using a flashlight, I confessed that I did the same.

After I explained that Angela writes books designed for middle school readers, featuring Latina characters who were so absent from the books available to her in her childhood, I told Jean about “Gaby, Lost & Found,” & Angela’s new book, “Allie, First at Last.”

Jean asked Why didn’t you tell us?  About reading under the blanket?

As I tried to remember why, I faltered.  What did a young Jaki Jean think my parents Jack & Jean were going to do if they caught me?

In retrospect, Jack & Jean never would have caught me reading under the covers with a flashlight.  They never caught me leaving my bedroom at midnight to watch “Dr. Who” & they never caught me leaving the house before daylight, climb the stone fence, cross the desert & climb a hill to watch the sun rise over the mountains.

So I told Jean what I thought a younger Jaki Jean felt.

Because it was after my bedtime.  And there were rules about bedtime.  Because I did not want to stop reading under the covers.  Because I imagined it was forbidden & sometimes the forbidden is enticing. 

Looking back, I understand that a  younger Jaki Jean did not know how to tell Jack & Jean that she required more reading time.

Jean listened & then replied:

My mother once burned a book.

For a moment, I was stunned.  Not the same mother who read Jean “Pollyanna” or took her to the library.  I wondered what triggered this memory.  Had Jean been caught reading under the covers?

Was this memory triggered by watching The Book Thief (a fine book, a poor film adaptation) about a little girl who stole books from the piles burned by the Nazis?

So I asked Jean to tell me the story.

Jean told me that her brother Mansel & his first wife Pearl came to visit from their home in Australia.  Pearl left a book in the house on the farm when she & Mansel departed.

My grandmother Luna Sims burned that book.  Because, Jean tells me, Luna said it was unfit for Jean or anyone to read.

At eighty, Jean no longer remembers the title of the book.

But I went to the school library & checked it out & read it. Without my mother knowing.

Naturally, I asked Jean what she thought Luna found so offensive, and she said:

There were married characters having affairs.  Very mild in comparison to what we read today.

My mother Jean never forbid or burned a book.  She did censor me from watching certain horror movies until she came to realize that what I imagined from listening to my uncensored friends who watched the movies was worse that the reality.

Jean did, however, keep certain books on a high shelf in the bedroom closet she shared with my father Jack.  It was there that I discovered Harold Robbins novels & David R. Reuben M.D.’s “Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex: But Were Afraid to Ask.”

I told Jean, after she relayed the story of how she kept reading the book Luna burned from her mother, that it is no wonder I am a bit of a rebel.  

And she smiled.

Which is about as fine as it gets, when your eighty year old mother smiles at the rebel she helped create.

Jaki Jean and the 63° Egg

On the 14^th of February, my Omega Son Sam & his girlfriend, the lovely Veronica, took Veronica’s grandmother Carolyn & myself to brunch for Valentine’s Day. 

Sam & Veronica are regular inner looper brunchers.  To understand what that means, you have to know Houston or have lived here.  There is a contingency of people who insist on living “inside the loop” or inside Highway 610 in the inner city areas surrounding downtown.  This has been true as long as I have lived here & no doubt much longer.

Even as a teenager, I gravitated toward those areas – Montrose, the Heights, the Museum District, the Binz, West University, the East End.  My friends & I used to assess our peers strength of character & coolness by whether or not they liked eating at The Hobbit Hole at its original location on Shepherd.  In the day when the kitchen was vegetarian & dominated by yogis from a local community.  I learned to drink Shiner beer at the Hobbit Hole.  Shiner, dark & light, & wine were the only cocktails served back in that day.

When I was divorced, I spent one year in an efficiency apartment outside the loop until  my friend Marguerite Pulley rescued me & introduced me to her friend John Chambless, who owned several rental properties in Montrose

.

My life as a single, childless adult was spent inside the loop, loving the ambiance & activity of Montrose & the inner city.   Although all of the inner city areas I loved in my youth have succumbed to gentrification & trends, & favorite pockets of neighborhoods have lost much of the charm of structures built to endure time, the ambiance & activity remain. 

As does the omniscient problem of too many cars with too little available parking.

Joining my son Sam & Veronica & Veronica’s grandmother for brunch was a return to what I feel are my Houston roots.  It pleases me in a way I don’t quite understand that Sam is firmly embedded in the inner city I love.  Sam’s apartment is in a quadraplex across from the Menil Museum & Rothko Chapel.  A location I envy.

Sam & Veronica took us to Common Bond Café & Bakery for brunch.  These two inner looper brunchers have explored every brunch in the inner city & have very informed ideas about what works & what does not work.  Since I have experienced brunch with them before, I felt confident in their choice of Common Bond.

We stood in line just long enough to peruse the menu & make our choices.  An interesting menu that left me nervous.  Except for a decadent French toast dish, most of the major main dishes were dominated by meat.

Before you give your order, you pass an amazing collection of breads & rolls & the largest, most decadent croissants & pastries you have ever encountered.    Then you walk past the desserts.

I am not a major carnivore – although two of my favorite food memories involve beef tender & filet mignon.  When Sam asked me what I wanted, I told him I was leaning toward the yogurt & berry & homemade jam parfait.  I did not mention that I really wanted one of those giant chocolate croissants.

As we discussed the menu & viewed the pastries, Veronica’s grandmother Carolyn asked about the 63° egg.

Apparently, Veronica explained, a 63° egg is supposed to be the perfect temperature at which to cook a perfect egg.

Sam insisted that I order something more substantial, that I not worry about the price because it was his treat.  I wasn’t worried about the price – I had that covered.  

But I ordered a brunch item with a 63° egg.  I had to know if it was the perfect egg.

Beef & grits:  hereford beef, burgundy wine, cheesy gristmill grits, pearl onions, mushrooms, 63° egg. 

We did order one of those giant chocolate croissants & a hazelnut chocolate croissant to share.  Those, & the selection of daily breads – were divine.

All of our entrees arrived in oversized bowls – Sam & Carolyn ordered the decadent French toast & both Veronica & I had the beef & grits.

In my bowl were grits seeping with the beef broth, tender beef, pearl onions & mushrooms & the most beautiful poached egg I have ever seen.

I remarked that I was not sure I wanted to eat it – it was just too lovely.

I did eat it – after sampling the best grits I have ever encountered, tender beef, fragrant mushrooms & sweet little onions.  I ate the 63° egg & it was magnificent.

Since my return from this experience, I have spent too many hours researching & learning about the 63° egg.  And planning how to replicate it.

I have a feeling that the 63° egg is not the last gift my son Sam & Veronica will give me.

PS:  There are fabulous macaroons!

About last night on Dorrance Lane in Meadows Place

Last night, there was a disruption in the force on our block of Dorrance Lane in Meadows Place, Texas.

A major disruption.  Not music played too loud too late or cars driving too fast between two stop signs distanced by .02 miles, firecrackers for days at New Year’s, or mailed delivered to the wrong house or kids acting out up the bus stop.

Last night, my dear friend Muriel (who checks in on my mother Jean & me every day) called after our usual “Muriel on the way home” from work call to tell me that there were three people dead in a house on our block of Dorrance Lane.  And while on the phone, my brother interrupted to tell me the police & media were outside. 

The media presence was overwhelming.  People were gathered in the streets.  Bits & pieces of information trickled out from bystanders who moved closer to the crime scene tape, bits & pieces posted on social media, bits & pieces from local media outlets.

One young man, two women, all apparently related, dead.  Two small children, unharmed.

My closest neighbors, many of whom I have known since I was seventeen, gathered, along with what I call the “young kids on our block of Dorrance Lane” in my next door neighbor’s driveway. 

Gathered in our collective grief & horror & sympathy for the family facing this tragedy.

The media fiasco continued for what seemed like forever.  I wondered about what those sweet young new residents on our block of Dorrance Lane were explaining to their little ones.

This morning, the day after, local media reports were sporadic & varied.  Almost all repeats of what they had filmed last night. 

I did not know this particular family personally.  I have seen different family members coming & going, hanging out in the front yard, picking up the mail.

So I have no clue as to their individual & collective stories or what each of them was facing or why murder & suicide seemed an option for one of the family members.

But recent reports today indicate that murder / suicide is what happened.  A mother apparently killed her daughter-in-law & teenage son & then shot herself.

What I do know is a son & father of the two young children, came home to find his mother, wife, & brother dead.

What grief that poor soul must have felt.  And still feels.

A young reporter, by the name of Emily Foxhall, from the Houston Chronicle rang my doorbell this afternoon.

And asked if I was willing to talk about last night’s events.  I explained that I knew nothing other than what was in the media, that I did not know the family.

I told her I did not hear sirens, that I learned about the tragedy from a friend in North Houston & talking to me would not give her much information for an article.

Emily Foxhall tried a different track, & asked me about Meadows Place, the hidden little city nestled along the borders of Houston, Stafford & Sugar Land.  She reeled me in, pointing out that Meadows Place is rather unique.

I had to admire that kind of reeling.

So I told her what I know about this little square mile community – that neighbors watch out for one another & for neighbor’s children.   She asked me how long I had lived in MP & I told her that my parents Jack & Jean bought this house on Dorrance Lane in 1971. 

I told her that on our block of Dorrance, there are six or seven original families or their descendants that still live here.   I told her that there were many current residents, like me, who returned to this little square mile to raise our children.

And I explained that living in Meadows Place is very much like living in a 2016 version of Mayberry.  People may not know you by name, but they know your children & your vehicles & sometimes your routine. 

That we have an awesome police force, a fabulous elementary school & that when tragedy strikes, this community comes together.

What I did not explain to Emily Foxhall of the Houston Chronicle was how last night changed my perception of myself & my relationship with a neighborhood & home I too often take for granted.  

That is another blog.

On Roots & Treetops & Powers that Move

There is a power that moves 

in such submission through the world: 

groping in roots, and growing thick in trunks, 

and in treetops, like a rising of the dead.”

—Rainer Maria Rilke

(Image: Vincent van Gogh - Tree Roots and Trunks)

                  

When I saw this post from The Bloomsbury Review via Charter for Compassion (I really need to research them), one word of Rilke’s quote leaped out at me in conjunction with Van Gogh’s rendition Tree Roots and Trunks.

Submission.

Submission is not a word or concept I link with Vincent.

I do not see submission in Tree Roots and Trunks.  I see images of beings reaching with the support of green growth & hope reaching toward the light.

 

I see roots growing thick in trucks & treetops still reaching, fighting toward the light. 

I see a struggle to survive.  I hope that struggle has the power to move toward change.

I see hope.  I see a power in roots & trunks & treetops rising not from the dead, but from the hope & strength of reaching toward the light & maintaining position.

Which I pray fervently is still alive.  

A Christmas Lesson from my Sister, via Tulips

On Christmas Day this year my sister Janet & her husband David arrived with presents & tulips.  Without my niece Emily Kate or her fiancé Zach or the Douglas dog & my special friend, Ms. Zoe.

But my sister brought tulips.  Red tulip bulbs resting in water in a large cylinder vase.  The tulips were lovely, but the cylinder vase confused me.  I never put tulips, or blooming tulip bulbs in a cylinder vase.

Enthusiastically, my dear sister explained to me that the vase would prevent the tulips from bending to reach toward the sunlight.  

As I listened to her explain how to care for the bulbs (a tiny offshoot bulb caught her eye), I thought how she took time & care bringing them to me, knowing how much I love fresh flowers & color. 

It is what my sister does – giving me something that is so very Jaki Jean.

I did not have the heart or need to tell her that I have always loved how tulips bend & reach for the light, returning to home base when the light fades.

At first, I did not know what to think of the bending & reaching toward the light confined to a cylinder designed to keep them upright.

Day after day, I tended the tulip blooms bound in a cylinder, adding more water & turning the cylinder when the blossoms escaping the stems' confined space kept reaching toward the light.

I realized as I watched my red tulips that there is something to be said for standing tall, for working within boundaries & still managing to reach for the light. Without bending.

I am quite certain that no tulips I have purchased & placed in any vase have ever lasted as long as my sister’s gift.

As will my Christmas lesson – stand tall, bend & reach, but don’t get distracted from the goal by bending & reaching in too many directions.

That tiny offshoot & all the bulbs survived the cylinder.

A Lesson From Hanging out with Zoe

The scent of an excellent Italian red sauce wanders through the house.  Meatballs are simmering in the sauce.  Water for linguine is trying to boil.  And I am about to listen to The PBS News Hour.

I love when the scent of a good meal permeates the atmosphere of the house.  When people walk in & are either immediately hungry or ask what I am cooking.

It is the Wednesday after another weekend of hosting my sister Janet’s dog Zoe.

Zoe is a rescue dog, a female Cairn terrier.  She has proven herself a stress free & welcome guest.

We go on walks together & she always finds her way into a space next to me to sleep.

Zoe is not a talker like my beloved wire haired dachshund mix Eli.  She does not bark when she needs to go outside. 

In her defense, Zoe is accustomed to a doggie door.  Accustomed to wandering in her territory at will.  As are most of us.

On her first visit with us, I let Zoe have free reign in our back yard because Eli never got out.  I was convinced there were no exits from which Zoe could escape.

I was wrong.  She found an exit – I was in a panic.  Zoe was a guest for less than two hours & I lost her. 

I was an irresponsible dog sitter.  I failed my sister’s trust.

Fifteen minutes later, Zoe returned – traipsing up my neighbor Juta’s sidewalk as I asked if Juta had seen her. 

Looking as if she had just been out for a stroll, Zoe came to me when I called her name.  And I explained to her she no longer had free reign.

The very first time I knew I was missing Zoe’s signals on when she wanted to go outside to take care of business, she left a very small turd by the back door.  Not the mother lode, just a wee bit.

I knew I was still missing the signals when Zoe gave up subtle hints & left all her lode by the back door.

So I observed & finally understood that Zoe staring at the back door meant she needed to go outside.

I have been reminded by Zoe, a quiet little being, how essential it is to listen & observe.

Sometimes it is not enough or efficient to wait for verbal requests.

Unless you are willing to clean up the shitty aftermath.

Meanwhile, I have created the moistest, most tender meatballs of my forty years of cooking.  Thank you, Mario Batali.

Jaki Jean on Text & Making Muffins with Mimi

This morning, as I was creating Jean’s breakfast, I realized why I like to cook.  In cooking, as in writing, I create a text to be consumed & hopefully, savored.  Appreciated & discussed.  For Jean this morning, I created a mushroom omelet, a side of mango & a side of hash browns.

During our last soiree in the hospital, Jean informed me that there were only two good uses for white potatoes – French fries & hash browns.  She later amended that to include baked white potatoes.

My breakfast this morning consisted of muffins, inspired by my cousin Laura’s bright & articulate grandson, Thomas. 

During a recent visit with my cousin Laura & her sisters, I had the joy & wonder of meeting their children & grandchildren. 

Laura’s daughter Jennifer, who lives in Maryland with her Navy husband, was in town for an extended stay with her parents, who are called Mimi & Papa by their grand babies.

So, since I was camped out at Laura & her husband Al’s home, I spent time during my visit with Rachel, Thomas & Cecilia.

Thomas wanted muffins.  The first time he asked for Mimi to make muffins, she told him that they would make them tomorrow.  

When tomorrow came, Rachel & Thomas came downstairs in the morning & the first thing Thomas asked was:

Mimi, can we make muffins?

My cousin Laura gathered all the ingredients for muffins – sans the walnuts she usually uses.  She discussed sliced almonds & gave some to Thomas to taste.  With Thomas’ approval, almonds went into the muffins.

As I watched Laura make the muffins, Thomas on a stool to help, I realized she was creating more than food to nourish us.  She was creating a text, a memory.

Making muffins with Mimi.

When I returned to Houston, after a delay ( a whole Other story ), I decided to make Mimi’s muffins. 

But my Internet went down & was reduced to consult a cookbook.  I could have looked up the recipe Laura uses & tweaks on my phone, but I am always at my best returning to what I know & love & understand. 

I returned to a book.

So I made muffins, with walnuts & dried cranberries, tweaking the recipe, drawing threads from a braid of recipe texts & making it my own.

With Thomas’s voice echoing, “Mimi, can we make muffins?”

It was an amazing visit, seeing my favorite cousins – Laura & Vicki & Suzanne & Jenny.

But I think that one of the best parts was watching Mimi weave a text & create  a memory.  

That, & Laura’s four year old granddaughter Rachel addressing me as Jaki Jean.

Houston poet & Texas Poet Laureate Vassar Miller wrote about naming.  That we love what we name, we name what we love.

Rachel reminded me that Jack & Jean named me after each another, out of love for one another & for their first born.

Thomas & Mimi reminded me everything we do with & for one another is part of weaving a text & memory.  Part of being connected & sharing.

Baby Cecilia reminded of the wonder of a smile.

Fine reminders.