Diamond Anniversary: Romance & Reality

Today, my parents celebrate their diamond anniversary (that's 60 years, folks). That is a very long time. They have been married through eleven presidents, seven popes, and far more important to them: two kids, five grandkids and nineteen homes.

They are very much of The Greatest Generation. They were born & raised in Minnesota and grew up during the Depression. Dad joined the Marines in September of 1941, finishing Boot Camp in time for Pearl Harbor. He spent most of the war in California and North Carolina ~ the year-and-a-half in Samoa he downplays. He wanted to be a fighter pilot, instead he maintained runways. He says he's not really war vet because he never saw combat. I disagree, he was in easy roundtrip distance of the Japanese base in Kiribati and it is a reasonable assumption that American pilots (and their postwar progeny) consider him a vet and appreciate his service. Mom spent the war in a small farm town and probably suffered as much privation as Dad. She didn't have to worry about being bombed, but she had no luxuries like indoor plumbing.

Ruth & Frank's wedding day.

Mom graduated on D-Day and promptly moved to Minneapolis. Dad was discharged and went to LA to drive streetcars. A few years later, Dad moved back to Minneapolis and attended the University of Minnesota. About the same time, Mom moved to San Francisco. Towards the end of the Korean War, Dad joined the Navy. Home on leave, he met a girl at a party who suggested he look her up if was ever in Frisco. Then the Navy sent him around the world.

Come spring, his ship returned to the US and stopped for a week in San Francisco. Finally, they were in the same city at the same time. Frank called the girl, who had started dating someone in the meantime. The girl convinced her roommate to show the sailor around town. At last, Frank met Ruth. They began dating. Ruth moved back to Minneapolis and the Navy sent Frank to DC. Romance progressed quickly, they met in late spring and by September, Frank called Ruth to propose. They married in December and headed to Washington and their first home together.

In time, they lived in Virginia, Florida, Maine, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Arizona, Illinois & Minnesota. They drove up and down the Eastern Seaboard more times than they could count. Their first child was born while Dad was thousands of miles away. Mom battled cancer. Dad finished his stint in the Navy and enlisted in the Coast Guard. Suddenly, they were living together more than they were apart. Dad kept getting transferred; Mom kept packing & unpacking the household. But now, for the first time, they could be together for extended periods.

In Hawaii, after their twentieth anniversary.

They moved. And moved. Adopted a child. Bought a house. Got transferred. Moved again. Then Dad retired from the Coast Guard and they moved to Minnesota. And never moved again. (Kidding ~ eight homes after the military.) They bought a house and settled down. They got jobs and raised their kids. They joined the American Legion and the VFW. They studied ballroom dancing. We travelled on vacations. None of my friends did that. But the peripatetic years had left their mark, my parents wouldn't settle for the same four walls day after day.

In Canada, about twenty years ago.

They've never stood still. In their fifties, they joined a hiking club, an RV club and ~ to the extreme horror of their adolescent daughter ~ took up square dancing. They took vacations without the kids (also something no one else did in the early eighties). For over twenty years they wintered in Arizona.  And they kept traveling. A year-and-a-half ago, we went to South Carolina for my uncle's birthday. This past summer, it was the South Dakota border for a 70th high school reunion. They don't travel alone anymore, but they still get out and do things.

Between them, there have been four cancers, a pacemaker, a permanent catheter and several other medical delights. The morning Mom got her pacemaker, Dad poured her a cup of coffee before remembering she was in the hospital. Mom gets him to all his doctor's appointments. Every time he is hospitalized with another infection, she worries that this is the last time.

Some days, they just plug along ~ others, they revel in. This year, Dad saved his Bingo winnings so Mom wouldn't know he was buying anything and had me pick up a bracelet for her birthday. He's 93 and still sweet on her. She's 88 and still happy to be his wife.

They've cleaned dirty diapers & dog poo. They've danced & seen the country. They go to church together every week. They still like to go out to dinner together. They (usually) have tremendous patience with each other and the curve balls life throws. They don't dance anymore, but they still enjoy music. They are adorable together. They have fun and laugh with each other, sometimes at each other. Through them, I've learned the importance of taking marriage seriously, but not taking myself too seriously.

Last year, at brunch. My flash was too slow, I missed the kiss.

Happy Anniversary Mom & Dad!

Rape Is Rape. And It's Always Wrong. Always.

The Vancouver police have a great series of
 Don't Be That Guy posters. Click
 to see more.

Is it that hard to understand?
No means no.
Too drunk to say "no" is too drunk to say "yes."
"Uh" is not "yes."
"Don't. Stop." is not the same as, "Don't stop."

Too many people with power ~ politicians, DA's, police and the media, cannot seem to grasp the concept that rape is assault. Rape is a crime of power. It is violent (usually physically, always emotionally). It is a violation. Rape is always, always, always wrong. Repeat after me: Rape is wrong. Keep saying it until you get it drilled into your skull. No one asks for it. No one deserves it.

Recently, I learned about the Red Zone. Not the football term, exactly, but there is a frightening correlation. In football the Red Zone is the twenty yards before the end zone, it's where the offense asserts its will over the defense so they can score. On college campuses, Freshmen Orientation to Thanksgiving break is known as the Red Zone because of the frequency of campus rapes, particularly against freshmen.

A freshman at Hobart William Smith made it two weeks before she was raped by football players. And then the school violated her all over again. She is a brave, strong woman who is speaking out against the culture of rape. I read her story in the New York Times and alternated between nausea and fury when I read how the college handled her case. Rape is a violent crime. It should never be handled by campus disciplinary boards ~ violent crimes should always be handled by the police.

Wesleyan University had a fraternity so bad it was known as the Rape Factory. In March of 2010, school officials warned students to avoid the building because they could not guarantee students' safety. In the fall of 2010, incoming freshmen were not told of the warning and attended a party. A freshman who was raped that October got no help from the school ~ she reported the Saturday night rape but was not taken to the hospital, nor was she provided a counselor. In fact, she was told to wait for her exam until the student clinic reopened on Monday.

In 2013 another freshman at Wesleyan attended a party at a different fraternity. Pledges at that party were required to strip. Hazing is a form of torture perpetrated by coercion, and sometimes violence. Hmmm. . . can we guess where this is going? One girl wanted to leave (who can be comfortable watching people be publicly humiliated?) Instead of being allowed to leave, she was thrown over the arm of a couch and raped while a crowd watched.

Parents, do not send your children to Wesleyan. I don't care how good the academic education may be, the social education is horrific.

The connection between sexual assault & fraternities is nothing new. My freshman year at Wells College (way back when Reagan was president) we were all invited to a ball for freshwomen held at a fraternity at Cornell. The ball was an annual event ~ the fraternity drove to Wells College, picked up the girls who wanted to attend and drove us to Ithaca. The greeted us with champagne. It was a formal dance. It seemed so very grown-up. And that year, unlike past years, they assured everyone there would be rides home. Some girls took the precaution of signing up for the last campus van of the night anyway. I had a friend with a car. I knew to go to the bar and order my own drinks and never let anyone else hold my drink. I was a drinker in high school, I knew my limits. Nonetheless, I ended the evening on the patio, puking in the corner.

I was very lucky.

Months later, a friend shared the information she'd heard ~ there were two sets of bottles. One for the frat boys & their dates, another for the "guests". Ours contained Quaaludes. Apparently, I have a sensitivity to 'ludes, and I'm very happy about that. Another friend then explained how she had been molested, two others ended up having sex with guys they didn't know and didn't really remember consenting to. Of the seven girls I had known at that party, at least three were sexually assaulted.  No one told either of the colleges, or the police, or even their friends for a long time. They were so ashamed. They'd been drinking. They were at a fraternity.

Here's the deal: they made have made themselves more vulnerable ~ but they did not deserve to be raped. No one ever deserves to be raped. Nobody. Deserves. Rape. EVER!

When headed off to college, one should worry about making friends, doing well in their classes, making sound financial decisions. One should not have to worry about rape. Longwood University gets it, as you can see by their page on sexual assault at their student health webpage. They are very clear about consent ~ they even have good info for victims. They specify that the police will take you to the hospital and the state will pay for the rape exam. Some victims refuse the rape exam because they worry about the bill.

So what can we do? How do we destroy the Red Zone? We destroy the myth that rape is about sex ~ rape uses sex as a weapon, it is about power ~ rape may be the ultimate bully act. We stop blaming the victims. We start blaming the rapists. No one should be shamed into leaving school for reporting an assault; the perpetrator should be shamed into leaving school. They should be tried by the courts, not the school's disciplinary board.

We can watch out for everyone. There are no limitations to who can be a rapist, or a victim. If you see someone who looks too far gone and get a bad feeling about the person helping, speak up. If you're getting nowhere (or you're afraid for your own safety) ask for help. Call 911. Don't ignore that sick feeling in your stomach.

Think of sex like a contract, anyone who can't validly sign a contract cannot consent to sex. Talk about rape; make it clear what rape is and that you are so not okay with it. Create positive peer pressure. If party-goers at the above linked stories had spoken out, maybe those girls wouldn't have been raped. And wouldn't you rather be the person who stopped a violent crime, than the one who stood around watching?

I Love My City, But. . . .

I love my city. I really do. Minneapolis is an amazing, vibrant, cosmopolitan, beautiful city. Four-hundred-thousand people call Minneapolis home, that's big enough to be a full-fledged city, small enough to still feel welcoming. There is an image of Minneapolis as a lily-white expanse of bo-ring. That is the image carried by people who don't know us.

In fact, more than one out of three residents is not white, one in eight is LGBT, and a surprisingly large percentage are not Scandinavian Lutherans. We have scads of immigrants from around the world and we embrace that diversity.

We have an extraordinary cultural life. Only New York City offers more live theatre per capita. Everyone knows Prince, but did you know we also have an orchestra? And we've more polka bands than you can shake a stick at. Oh, that one just feeds the stereotype, doesn't it?

We are the third most literate city in America (although, I'm not sure that's saying much) based on things like bookstores, newspaper circulation, education. We have produced some writers. We have   scads of museums and boatloads of artists. Seriously, everyone in Minneapolis who isn't a writer or an artist, knows one. It's like actors in LA.

There're plenty of sports here. Minneapolis is home to the NFL, MLB & NBA along with the U of M Golden Gophers. We having bowling, golf, tennis, even free public bocci ball courts. Foodies are truly blessed. There is a steakhouse from the 1930's that has a trout stream in the patio so you can catch your own fish, a tiki bar on the river with a double-decker patio, a lobster shack and fifteen places that have been featured on Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives. You even have the option of wood- or coal-fired pizza. We have ethnic restaurants like crazy: Greek, German, Indian, Ethiopian, Polish, Japanese, Swedish, Lebanese, Vietnamese ~ and they're good!

And the parks. Oh the parks. We have so many parks (197, to be precise). Big parks & little parks and they're always free (although parking'll cost a buck or two). There are more than a dozen lakes within the city limits, oodles of playgrounds, ballfields and nature sites. There are miles of parkways looping around the lakes and along the river (both sides). Even with all that water, we still have pools in the parks, swimming pools in some and wading pools in most. We have a rose garden, a wildflower garden and a tamarack bog. Don't forget Minnehaha Park ~ with the famous falls and paths along the creek all the way to the Mighty Mississippi.


But, she has her flaws. Her flaws are not small.

The crime rate is frightening, particularly on the Northside ~ known as NoMi. Thirteen (of a citywide fifteen) shootings in the first two weeks of July occurred in NoMi. There have been seventeen murders in Minneapolis between January 1 and July 14. That would be an annual rate of less than ten per hundred thousand ~ not too bad, unless it's you or someone you care about. But twelve of those homicides have been in NoMi, population about 60,000, which puts my neck of the woods at a homicide rate of forty per one hundred thousand, third worst among cities in the US (based on 2012).

After a while, you feel ignored by City Hall. We can't even get rid of the damn mattresses. That is not a non-sequiter. Inexplicably, mattresses are drawn to the streets of NoMi. Mattresses waiting by the alley ~ next to the garbage can, especially around the first of the month, when renters move ~ are understandable. But we get them everywhere. There was one on dumped on a boulevard garden on Dowling Ave (very high-traffic street) that took days for the sanitation department to pick up.  Another was floating in a flooded street last week. There are so many mattresses that many residents have decided St Mattress must be our patron saint.  We just haven't figured out whether the mattresses are gifts from, or offerings to, St. Mattress.

What do the mattresses have to do with murder rate? Everything & nothing. Weird litter does not cause crime. But the number of calls to the city asking to have these frighteningly stained health hazards removed is often absurd. We all know that a dirty futon lying in a vacant lot in South Minneapolis would be promptly removed. Betcha they don't get put on hold by 911 as often as the NoMi folks either. And Betsy "I'm the Mayor" Hodges Tweets quotes from Thoreau while the police chief wants us all to get along.

We're tired of feeling like the forgotten stepchild. Most of the residents of NoMi are good people who care about our neighborhood. We want action. When we call about an upholstered public health issue, we want it gone. No more drive-by policing, if someone calls, the cops need to get out of their cars. Hollering, "everything okay here?" from the driver's seat is not policing. Slumlords need to be held accountable for the condition of their rental property.

It's time to stop ignoring the Northside. We need help from City Hall. We deserve it.

What If I'm Not Interesting?

Tomorrow morning, I audition for Jeopardy! This is cool, thrilling, even. When I asked for the day off, my manager approved, saying, "It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." Um, not exactly, I've done it before. Three years ago I failed to impress the interviewers and was, therefore, not on TV. My ego really, really wants to be on Jeopardy! Okay, to be totally honest, my ego really wants to destroy Ken Jennings' record.

The first step was an online test in January. Everyone who scores above a predetermined score qualifies for auditions. From that group, a set number of people are randomly selected to audition. At the end of my previous audition, they announced that we were all in the contestant pool. As I understand it, that means we all answered enough questions correctly. After the audition, you wait up to eighteen months to be called. If they don't invite you to be on the show after eighteen months, you can retake the online the next time it is offered. In other words, there is a lot of luck involved.

They sent an application form to fill out and bring along to the audition. They ask for tidbits about your job, hobbies, embarrassing moments, etc. They specifically state that these facts will IN NO WAY influence whether you appear on the show. Then why do they ask?

They're looking for the kind of thing Alex Trebek asks about after the first commercial break. If this has no effect on selection, why not wait until you get to LA? Or at least, ask when they invite you to be on the show? Aaaack! I'm getting paranoid!

I can't help thinking that funny or fascinating answers will improve my odds. Trouble is, I'm ordinary, superlatives do not apply to me. So, I find myself thinking about what makes me interesting ~ my daughter is transgender, but that makes her interesting; I wrote my father's biography, because he is interesting; my mother is a cyborg, which is an interesting fact about her. The most interesting thing I can think of is that I am only six degrees of separation from Adolf Hitler, it takes several degrees of removal to make that interesting. I was once a foot away from Prince ~ which might be exciting if he had been even vaguely aware I was there. I walked in a Gay Pride Parade (accidentally) thirty years before I was ever in a gay bar.

Well, it's better than mentioning my incomplete collection of Nancy Drew books, but it's still pretty gosh-darned ho-hum. When it comes down to it, most of us are rather ho-hum. Imagine you were about to be interviewed for TV, what would you say to keep viewers awake?

The Holy Spirit Is a Woman

Yeah, yeah, I know, the Holy Spirit has no gender. Malarky! Remember in Catechism, learning about God the Father (clearly male) God the Son (clearly male) and God the Spirit (genderless)? Does this make sense? Why does only one leaf on the shamrock have no gender?

It is Pentecost Sunday, the day the Spirit came to the Apostles and they became filled with it, so naturally, the Spirit was the topic of the homily. Throughout his sermon, Father Don kept referring to the Spirit with masculine pronouns ~ and I realized: he is wrong.

The Holy Spirit fills Christians with strength, courage, faith and joy. The Holy Spirit inspires, ennobles and encourages. The Holy Spirit pushes us in the right direction. It guides us. It comforts us. It helps us notice what we need to notice. The Spirit never demands, never forces us to accept it. The Spirit waits for our invitation. And the Spirit really doesn't get the credit it deserves. Sure, we all know about the Spirit, but it's always the third branch.

Who gets the praise? The Father & the Son. Who gets the glory? The Father & the Son. Who does all sorts of amazing things behind the scenes because they need doing? The Spirit.

See, the Holy Spirit is female. And it's not just any female. The Holy Spirit is a mother. All those who insist God is a woman, are not entirely wrong. So, on one of the special days where we recognize the greatness of the Holy Spirit, I hope you are all filled with her fire and inspired to go and share the joy.

D-Day

6 June, 1944 ~ At the time, back in the States, it wasn't obvious what had happened. I've asked my mother how she felt when she heard the news. She doesn't really remember. In 1944, there were no 24-hour news channels offering instant images and expert analysis of the war. You found out the next day, or even the next week. We invaded France and it appeared successful. Lots of Allies died, but that's what happens in war. It wasn't until later that people could look back and see how D-Day really was a turning point.

Crystal Lake Cemetery, Minneapolis

It was a brutal, bloody battle ~ the Allies lost 4,400 young men (2,499 from the US alone). An additional 8,000 were wounded. It took the world far too long to grasp just how evil Hitler and the Third Reich were, but once they realized it, they gave their all to stopping him.

Over a million (yep, one followed by six zeroes) Allied troops were involved, mostly British & American, but also Canadian, Polish & French. Over 150,000 men landed. Think about that. 150,000 people ~ that's half again as many people in battle (on just one side) as attend the Minnesota State Fair on any single day. And there was no food on a stick waiting on the other side of the beach ~ just more C rations, more violence, more time away from loved ones.

Getting all those troops into Europe, along with their equipment turned the war. They gave us a foothold. Despite the boldness (recklessness? insanity?) of mounting such a huge invasion when the weather was a little iffy and things weren't exactly as planned, they succeeded, mostly. Not as quickly as anticipated, but they took the coast of Normandy. They marched toward Paris. They won.

These people faced hell. They helped stop the Axis. They helped end the war. It was, in the end, a very big deal. Everyone who was involved is a hero in my book. It was a team effort. I applaud it.

I appreciate them all immensely. If you (or your father, or grandfather) was there, be very proud. They did an amazing, brave thing.

Grandma's Quasquicentennial

It is my favorite grandmother's quasquicentennial, which means she was born one-hundred twenty-five years ago today. She made it to ninety-six, so I actually had plenty of years to get to know her. Grandma was pretty amazing. Her grandmothers were Wilhelmina (Lutheran) and Margaret (Catholic). She was baptized Minnie Margaret in the Lutheran church. Her Irish Catholic grandmother offered to babysit one day and took Minnie to the Catholic church and (in order to save her soul) had her properly baptized, as Margaret Minnie.

At twelve, she contracted scarlet fever, which kept her out of school for several weeks. As a result, she was to be held back. There was a neighbor boy who was a year younger and had skipped a grade. If Minnie were held back, the younger boy would be a grade ahead of her. Minnie would have none of that and told her father as much. His response was that if she left school she would need to get a job and help support the family. And that is how Minnie dropped out of the sixth grade.

Twenty-year-old Minnie
with one of her charges.

She got a job helping a neighbor get ready for company. Minnie cleaned every inch of that house and eighty years later was still mortified about the wastefulness of washing the floors with milk just to make them shine. The neighbor's mother lived with them and was generally ignored by her family. She sat in the kitchen while Minnie worked and told stories to which Minnie (unlike the old lady's family) listened attentively. Once the company left and Minnie's services were no longer needed, the old lady gave Minnie her prize possession, a handkerchief of real China silk. Minnie hung on to that hankie for decades, before passing it on to the granddaughter who listened attentively to all her stories.

Minnie went on to work for several wealthy families as a nursemaid ~ once the kids were old enough for a governess, she needed a new family. She worked for at least two families in Minneapolis. When rich people travel, they don't want to take care of their children, so Minnie went with. She went to the White Mountains in the summer, Florida in the winter. She even got to see the pink sands of Bermuda. While living in Minneapolis, she met Winnie, who introduced Minnie to her kid brother. World War I got in the way, then for reasons I guess I'll never know, it took two-and-a-half years after returning from Europe for Winnie's brother August to finally marry Minnie. They were to be married on Friday until Minnie realized that was 13th and no way was Minnie going to get married on Friday the 13th. They got married on Sunday instead. They met before the war and she had to wait until 1922 for a ring. She must have really loved August.

Minnie with little Bud, on the
porch of a house with no
plumbing.

August had a friend with a vulcanizing business in Browns Valley (way out on the end of railroad line) who offered August a job. So they went west. They had a couple of kids, Mack and Ruth, their names needed to be short because Grandma didn't want nicknames. Then she called Mack "Bud."

They didn't travel. They didn't have luxuries. Grandma's dresses were homemade. She wore the same pair of glasses for at least the last twenty years of her life. Neighbors moved in down the block, Emma was a sixteen year old bride who hadn't a clue how to run a house or care for a baby. Minnie took Emma under her wing and taught her to be a housewife (their daughters became best friends). The depression hit. Money, never in great supply, was hard to find. Minnie took a job as the telephone operator and ended up getting the first Social Security number in Browns Valley.


Over the years, Minnie helped many woman with the babies, she was always ready to give advice or a helping hand. Bud left to fight World War II and ended up on the East Coast, wed to a local girl. Ruth moved to Minneapolis, then San Francisco, married a serviceman and lived all up and down the East Coast. In the fifties, Minnie & August were finally able to add a bathroom to their house. That's right, the woman who lived in mansions raising the children of the wealthy, married a pauper and spent thirty years without indoor plumbing.

She must have really loved August.

August & Minnie
~ this is how I think of them, white-haired, smiling, lovable.

They retired and began traveling. I don't think they ever went anywhere that didn't involve family. All the pictures taken outside Minnesota, are either at their children's homes, or nearby. The now grown kids, and their families, visited Browns Valley. When my father retired from the Coast Guard, we moved back to Minnesota, meaning we could visit more. Minnie was a quintessential grandma ~ she made awesome coffee cake, with raisins. My brother hated raisins, I loved them; so just about every visit there were two coffee cakes, one with and one without.

After 55 years of marriage, August died. The only time I ever saw her cry was when she threw herself on him in the casket and sobbed. Gut-wrenching sobs. It was awful, and beautiful. That night, she told my brother she could count on one hand the fights they'd had. She really loved August.

It amazes me to think of all she saw in her lifetime: 19 presidents, 8 popes, the invention of the automobile to the space shuttle, early days of the telephone to cable TV. Before she died, she even had air-conditioning. She travelled extensively. She knew everyone in her small town. She didn't finish sixth grade, but most of her grandchildren graduated college (and all attended). She was the heart and soul of a town, and a family. I am blessed to have known her. Happy Quasquicentennial, Grandma!