Category Archives: Food for Thought

Mr. Sanders Goes to Maine

IMG_9847On Monday, Clif and I went to Portland—the Babylon of Maine—to hear Bernie Sanders speak. (Sanders, although an Independent, is running for the Democratic nomination in the upcoming presidential primaries.) Both my husband and I are liberal Democrats, and we were keen to hear what this very liberal candidate would have to say.

The night was lovely and warm, and the lines were long. As we waited to get in to the Civic Center, the atmosphere had an almost carnival quality to it.  A group of men and women, with banjos and guitars, went by playing bluegrass. There were young people with petitions for fair wages and to legalize pot. The crowd was happy and laughing.

A young man selling Bernie Sanders buttons walked by. Clif, who has a collection of political buttons, just had to buy one.

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Many people outside meant many people inside, and the event had to start ten minutes late to accommodate the crowd. The official estimate was that between 7,500 to 8,000 people came to hear Sanders speak. This can only be considered an extraordinary turnout in a small state such as Maine.

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The crowd consisted mainly of Baby Boomers—the gray hairs—and Millennials—the young ‘uns.

Getting to the Civic Center early, Shannon and Mike had saved seats for us, and after I sat down, I said to Mike, “I really have a soft spot for the Millennials. With their love of tiny houses and concern about food and the environment, I think they’re a pretty cool bunch.”

Mike laughed. “I’m not surprised. There has been a lot written about how the Boomers and the Millennials have a connection with each other. So much so that Generation X feels left out.”

Mike, I might add, is a Millennial. He slid in just under the wire. Shannon, a couple of years older, belongs to Generation X, that middle group ranging in age from thirty-four to forty-nine.

Perhaps it’s no accident that at the Sanders rally, Mike was interviewed by the AP and had his picture taken. I have to say, with his beard and his dark-rimmed glasses, Mike looks pretty cool. (Shannon, of course, is always lovely. I don’t want to slight one of my own special Generation Xers.)

Therefore, if they already haven’t, pollsters and pundits should take note: Sanders is popular with both Millennials and Boomers, two of the largest generations in this country.  If Hillary Clinton isn’t worried, then she should be.

And what did Sanders say that frequently fired up the crowd to wild cheering and chanting?

Sanders speaking before the crowd
Sanders speaking before the crowd

Basically, Sanders spoke about how today, despite the fact that America is the wealthiest country in the world, it’s not apparent because most of the money is in the hands of the few. It is the great economical and political issue of our time. In addition, this “grotesque level of inequality is immoral and an economic disaster.”

His message to the billionaires: “You can’t have it all. You can’t have huge tax breaks when children in the America go hungry. Your greed is going to end, and we are going to end it for you.”

Naturally, there was loud cheering after this statement.

Sanders also said something that few politicians say. That is, “if we want real change, then it’s not just electing someone. No one can do it alone. We need a grassroots movement for progress and change.”

He went on to give examples of progressive change brought about by grassroots movements—workers’ rights, civil rights, women’s rights, and gay rights.

Sanders spoke of the need for affordable higher education; the need for millions of decent-paying jobs if the middle class is to thrive; paid family and maternity leave; and single-payer health care. Then he said something that warmed my green-bean heart: “Brothers and sisters, the debate is over. Climate change is real, and it’s caused by human activity.” (This drew wild, wild cheering.)

He concluded, “We are in a difficult moment in American history. Despite progress in some issues—women’s rights, civil rights, gay rights—we are falling behind in economic fairness. Don’t think small. The debate should revolve around that we are the wealthiest country in the world. There is nothing we can’t accomplish if we don’t allow ourselves to be divided by race, gender, and nationality.”

My final thoughts: Sanders has what might called fire in his belly. Despite his “rumpled appearance,” he is a passionate, eloquent speaker who can stir large crowds, and he speaks frankly about the great issues of our time.

Hillary Clinton isn’t the only one who should be worried.

The press
The press

 

Please note: Next week Wordless Wednesday will return to its regularly scheduled time.

Happy Fourth of July: Celebrate with a Maine Mule Cocktail

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Red, white, and blue ice cream pie

Even though it’s only July 3, this morning I woke up listening to the various folks at National Public Radio read the Declaration of Independence. They have been doing this for many years, and somehow hearing the Declaration of Independence always gives me a thrill. I love the beautiful language of the piece, and while I am mindful about the many deficiencies at the time of the founding of our new country—slavery, women’s rights, voting rights in general—I am also mindful that the Declaration of Independence was a start, the beginning of a journey toward freedom that is continuing still. It has been a fitful journey with many setbacks and with roads that shouldn’t have been taken. Even today, it seems that we slide back and forth between progress and regression. Still, there has been progress, and I have seen it over my lifetime.  When I was in my twenties, I never would have imagined that a black man would be president, but there he is, and I am so happy I have lived long enough to see this happen.

At the little house in the big woods, we will be celebrating the Fourth the way we usually do—with food, friends, and family. It looks as though the weather is going to allow us to have our celebrations on the patio, where Clif will make his legendary grilled bread. This Fourth, he will be making it with Alice’s homemade sour dough. We’ll also have, among other things, hot dogs, a “baked bean” lentil dish, and red, white, and blue ice cream pie.

In addition, we’ll be serving Moscow mules, a historic cocktail made from vodka, ginger beer, and limes. We are even going to branch out and make a cocktail of our own devising—a “Maine” mule, with vodka, seltzer water, maple syrup, and lime. And, yes, Clif and I are quite proud of coming up with this simple but delicious cocktail. It is slightly sweet with a maple flavor but dry and refreshing. The lime gives it just a touch of zing and finishes the drink.

In the meantime, for American readers, a very happy Fourth. And for readers everywhere, a very happy Saturday.

Our very own cocktail---a Maine mule
Our very own cocktail—a Maine mule

 

Maine Mule

Ingredients

  • 1 ounce of vodka
  • 1 tablespoon of pure maple syrup, the darker, the better.
  • 6 ounces of seltzer water
  • A lime wedge

Directions

  1. In a Collins glass—or a glass similar in size—add the maple syrup.
  2. Add the vodka.
  3. Next comes the seltzer water.
  4. Squeeze in lime juice from lime wedge.
  5. Stir gently with a swizzle stick.
  6. Add ice.

 

Happy, Happy Day! The Supreme Court Allows Nationwide Health Care Subsidies

By a wonderful coincidence, the evening primroses opened on this happy day.
By a wonderful coincidence, the evening primroses opened on this happy day.

Today, I was going to post another greens’ recipe—my refrigerator is bulging with them—but instead I am going to celebrate the Supreme Court’s decision to allow nationwide health care subsidies.

The New York Times can explain it better than I can. “The question in the case, King v. Burwell…was what to make of a phrase in the law that seems to say the subsidies are available only to people buying insurance on ‘an exchange established by the state.’

“Four plaintiffs, all from Virginia, sued the Obama administration, saying the phrase meant that the law forbids the federal government to provide subsidies in states that do not have their own exchanges. Congress made the distinction, they said, to encourage states to create their own exchanges.”

This morning, “the Supreme Court ruled…that President Obama’s health care law may provide nationwide tax subsidies to help poor and middle-class people buy health insurance.”

To say that I am relieved doesn’t begin to describe how I feel about the Supreme Court’s decision. This October, Clif will be retiring. He is sixty-four, and I am fifty-seven. This means he is one year away from Medicare, and I am eight years away.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but Clif and I live on a very modest budget that will be even more modest when he retires. We have some sidelines planned—Clif will be doing compter consulting work, and I will be selling photo cards and calendars online—but until those sidelines get going, our income will be quite small.

All of June, I have been worrying about what we would do if the Supreme Court ruled against the Affordable Care Act. How in the world would we afford health insurance? We know from experience how expensive it is to buy private insurance without subsidies. We did so ten years ago when Clif worked solely  as a consultant. It was $600 a month with very high deductables. Yearly physicals weren’t covered. Mammograms weren’t covered. It was catastrophic healh insurance only.

That was ten years ago, and premiums go up as you age. Since then, I have had breast cancer, which certainly qualifies as a prexisting condition. I worried that without the Affordable Health Care Act, we would we have to pay $800 a month or even more. How would we have managed?

Now, we don’t have to worry. We know that we can get good coverage at a price we can afford.

I feel as though I can breathe. Without good, affordable health care, especially as you age, you can’t be free.

Tonight there will be celebratory drinks on the patio. The weather is sunny and warm, and it will a perfect night to be outside.

What a happy, happy day at the little house in the big woods.

And tomorrow, I will post the recipe for a Summer Greens Quiche with a Cracker Crust.

The Era of Me, Me, Me

IMG_6692Recently in the The Guardian, David Simon, creator of the television show The Wire, wrote an eloquent piece outlining how selfish we as a society have become. “People are saying I don’t need anything but my own ability to earn a profit. I’m not connected to society. I don’t care how the road got built, I don’t care where the firefighter comes from, I don’t care who educates the kids other than my kids. I am me. It’s the triumph of the self. I am me, hear me roar.”

I fear he is right, and we baby boomers are, for the most part, responsible for this. After all, we’re the ones in charge now. Are we funding health care and education so that it is available for everyone? Are we making affordable housing, public transportation, and child care a priority so that low-wage earners don’t have to struggle so much? No, no, and no.

I don’t even know what to call this fever of selfishness that has swept through our country. (And we thought Ebola was dangerous!) Conservatism doesn’t begin to describe what is happening. Libertarianism? That, too, seems inadequate. Perhaps we should just call it rampant selfishness and leave it at that. There’s a whole class of people whose philosophy is “I’ve got mine, now to heck with you.” And their vision seems to be prevailing.

I see it in Maine as our governor proposes cutting taxes on the rich while reducing revenue sharing to Maine towns and cities. A few of the more affluent communities can weather the cuts, but most towns scramble frantically to cope with reduced revenues. Either services must be cut or property taxes must be raised. Usually it’s a combination of the the two.

In the little town of Winthrop—population 6,000—the town council  is struggling with a budget shortfall that is a direct result of the governor’s policies. I am sympathetic. I understand what a difficult job it is to provide services when there is not much of a tax base. There are few big businesses in town, and much of our revenue comes from property taxes on homes.

When it comes to cutting the budget, our library is a tempting target, and this year it is in the crosshairs of the town council. The library’s budget might be small—less than $300,00 out of a total town budget of 17 million—but to some the library can seem like a totally discretionary expense. After all, the feeling goes, nothing very bad will happen if the library’s budget is cut. Oh, sure. Hours might have to be reduced. So what? As long as the library is opened a few days a week, what does it matter? Author talks might be eliminated. Who needs them anyway? Fewer books will be purchased. Didn’t the library buy new books last year?

To me, a library, however small, is priceless. It brings so much good into a community that it seems almost impossible to place a dollar value on it.  Everyone in town is welcome to check out books and DVDs, and it doesn’t matter who your family is or how much money you make. As long as your hands are clean and you return the books and DVDs, you are welcome. Thanks to the library, the world of stories and ideas is at your fingertips. You can go anywhere, even if you don’t have much money.

But, as it turns out, a dollar value can indeed be placed on our library’s services. According to Richard Fortin, our library’s director, about 52,000 items—books and DVDs—were checked out last year. If Winthrop library patrons had had to collectively buy this many books and DVDs, then they would have spent over a million dollars.

That, dear readers, is a lot of money for a small town. Nevertheless in the me, me, me atmosphere of today, our library is not valued as it should be.  Too many think “If I can buy my own books, then why should I care if you can’t?”

It is beyond the scope of this post, indeed this blog, to prescribe a cure for the fever of selfishness in our society. I can only voice my opposition and hope that a cure comes soon.

An Old Story that Never Gets Old

IMG_8531Last night, Clif and I went to Waterville for a Cinema Explorations meeting. (Cinema Explorations is a community-curated film series that runs from January through March at Railroad Square Cinema. Clif and I are on the planning committee.) As we sat at the long table in Buen Apetito and drank margaritas and ate chips with salsa, we talked about the 2015 film series. Overall, it was a success, and there will be a 2016 Cinema Exploration film series.

Once business matters were settled, we moved on to other topics. I sat across from Sam and Alan, who manage Railroad Square, and we talked about the glorious spring we are having. Perhaps it’s no nicer than any other spring, but after the hard, cold winter we had, this spring seems especially sweet.

Sam said, “Alan and I love to go to a swamp not far from where we live and listen to the peepers this time of year. We went the other night, and the peepers’ song was so loud. I am always moved by it.”

I knew what she meant. “It is the oldest story in the world,” I replied, “but somehow it never gets old.”

Each spring, after the quiet of winter, life bursts out in every direction: leaves and blossoms on the trees, flowers in the garden, unfurling ferns, and the green flush that spreads across the lawns and fields. Insects emerge—some welcome, others not so much—and the small frogs sing their loud, ardent songs.

At the little house in the big woods, I wait for the return of certain birds that have come to seem like old friends. The loons, with their wild, lonesome call, have returned to the Narrows, and we live close enough so that we hear them almost every day. Yesterday, when I was hanging laundry, I heard a hermit thrush, a modest brown bird with the most piping, ethereal voice. Soon the humming birds, with whir of wings and flash of color, will return, and I will hang out their feeder filled with sugar and water.

For thirty years, I have been rejoicing when the loons, hermit thrush, and hummingbirds return. This familiar cycle never gets old or stale. It never loses its charm. I suppose you might even call this rejoicing  beginner’s mind, a Zen Buddhist concept “where everything is fresh and new,” even when it isn’t.

My friend Barbara Johnson, who has been dead for ten years, was the perfect example of someone who had beginner’s mind. Barbara was a keen observer of the natural world, and she studied it with the zeal of a true naturalist. One time, when we were driving somewhere—I can’t remember where—Barbara suddenly cried out, “Oh, stop, stop!”

She startled me so that it’s a wonder I didn’t drive into the ditch. Somehow, I managed to safely park the car on the side of the road. On the other side of the road was a snapping turtle laying eggs. The car had barely stopped when Barbara jumped out, racing across the road to observe the turtle.

How many times had Barbara observed a snapping turtle laying eggs? Many, many times, but with Barbara this event was as fresh as the first time she saw it. Truly, Barbara had a beginner’s mind that a Zen master would envy.

When it comes to spring, it seems to me that most people have a beginner’s mind. With sheer delight they greet the return of leaf, flower, and bird, even though they may have seen this return many, many times.

As William Wordsworth wrote, “Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.”

 

 

Cooking and Eating Together As a Family

On his blog Practicing Resurrection, Bill recently wrote “Too Busy to Cook,” a good piece that included suggestions for harried households where people feel too exhausted to cook after a long day at work. This is no small matter, and I know this from personal experience. Once upon time, both Clif and I worked outside the house, and we had two active teenagers who were involved with music, band, and other school activities.

Our lives were busy, busy, busy. Somehow, though, we always found time to cook and eat dinner together. The meals were not fancy—there was a lot of roasted chicken and baked potatoes and pasta and salads—but they were hearty and nutritious. For me—and I know each family is different—the key was to involve everyone in the prep work, the setting of the table, and the clean-up.

My daughters learned to chop and peel and dice at an early age. My mother-in-law, who lived with us, also helped. Not only did she peel and chop, but she washed lots and lots of dishes, and usually one of my daughters would help by drying them.

As I wrote in the comment section of Bill’s blog post, many hands make the task light. It was true in the good old days, and it is still true now. When cooking is a team effort, everybody wins. The chief cook—in this case me, but sometimes it is the husband—doesn’t feel resentful and overwhelmed. Let’s just say mealtimes are ever so much more pleasant if the cook doesn’t feel put upon. In addition, the meal comes together quicker when everyone is helping.

Home cooking is usually more nutritious than meals eaten out. Long before Michael Pollan came on the scene, we were eating real food and cooking with basic ingredients. My girls were not overweight and neither was my husband. (Alas, I’ve always struggled with my weight. My body is just so efficient at storing calories, and I am what might called a good eater. On the other hand, my husband loses weight when I diet. Do I feel bitter about this? You bet I do. But I digress.)

Then there is  gathering together around the table each night for dinner. To me, this is priceless.  When the girls lived at home, over dinner we talked about our day and what we did. We discussed politics and current events. Sometimes we argued, but I am convinced that time at the dinner table not only bonded us as a family but also set a tone  that has rippled forward many years latter. Even today, we still like to cook together and gather around the table and talk and sometimes argue. Now that our daughters have moved out and my mother-in-law has passed away, my husband helps with cooking for family gatherings. Truly, with my creaky knees, I couldn’t do it without him.

But perhaps the best thing of all was that my daughters learned to cook without knowing they were being taught. As my daughter Shannon has pointed out, helping me in the kitchen taught her the basics, and this put her at a real advantage when she and Mike got together. While Shannon had never planned meals, she knew how to chop, peel, and dice, how to get food ready.  A little advice from me along with a few good cookbooks, and she was ready to go.

The moral of this story? Teach those children to chop as soon as they can safely wield a knife.  Get the husband to help, too.  There is no reason why one person should do it all and thus feel even more harried at the end of a busy day.

 

 

Those From Away

IMG_8026In Maine there are two classes of people—natives and those from away. As is the case with many rural states, in Maine there is a tension between these two groups. The natives sometimes resent those from away, who are often more affluent and bring new and outlandish ideas to the state. The latter was especially true in the 1970s, when hordes of young people came here to go “back to the land.” It has also happened more recently with the foodie movement, where so many chefs and cooks have flocked to Maine that many places—especially Portland—have developed quite the foodie reputation.

Those from away often feel as though they will never truly belong, no matter how long they live here, no matter how hard they might work for their communities. A friend of mine once asked in frustration, “How long do I have to live here before I’m accepted as a native?” I wisely refrained from answering. To qualify as a Maine native, you have to go back at least two generations. As Mainers like to say, just because the cat had kittens in the oven don’t make them biscuits.

My husband and I are natives, and we both go back at least five generations. Maine is in our blood and in our bones. We have a history with the state, and this is reflected in the way we speak, think, and even dress. (Oh, yeah! We dress like a couple of Mainers, that’s for sure.)

As natives, Clif and I believe that those from away bring a much-needed vitality to Maine. Any state, any country that is closed becomes inbred, both literally and figuratively. Nevertheless, we understand why there is resentment. To someone who has sold a house in, say, Massachusetts or New York or even New Hampshire, houses in Maine are quite the bargain. For Mainers, not so much, and in some coastal communities, people can barely afford to pay taxes on property that has been in their family for several generations.

Several years ago, I was at a gathering where those from away commented gleefully about how unsophisticated the Maine food scene was when they first moved here.  One woman observed, “Mainers didn’t even know there was such a thing as square plates.”

This might be true, but I winced a little when I heard her say that. Did she really have to speak so condescendingly and unkindly? Of course not.

Fortunately, at least with the people I know, this attitude is rare. Most people from away come here because they love Maine and its unpretentious ways. They rejoice in not having to keep up with the Joneses or anybody else. Often those from away become very involved with their communities, donating time, energy, and money  to various organizations.

Recently, I read a book called The Hollow Land by Jane Gardam. It’s set in Yorkshire, England, and the interconnected short stories revolve around natives and those from away. Over a span of twenty years, a Yorkshire family forms a tight bond with a family from London. The London family rents a house called Light Trees from the Yorkshire family, and while there are tensions at first, they are soon smoothed over by the children, Bell and Harry. Bell grows up to have a child of his own, and at the end of the book there is a conversation between, Anne, Bell’s daughter, and Harry, who is considerably younger than Bell. They are discussing the possible sale of Light Trees and whether people should stay put.

Harry states, “We always knew we didn’t own it [Light Trees]…. Maybe people should stay where they were first put.”

Anne replies, “You great daft thing…What sort of a world would this be if people had stayed where they was born? What sort of a country this? There’d have been no Vikings bringing bees and honey…and no Celts with bronze and jewels and no Romans fixing up roads and laws and no Saxons with books and paintings…”

What sort of country, indeed? And what sort of state would Maine be if people had stayed put? As a native Mainer whose long-ago ancestors didn’t stay put, I can emphatically agree with Anne’s sentiment. Maine would be a much poorer state without the influx of those from away.

 

A Stand-off in Winthrop and the Blessings of an Ordinary Life

IMG_8009Yesterday, when I went to the Credit Union, I met a friend who asked, “Did you hear there is a police stand-off in Winthrop today? The schools are in lockout.”

“No kidding!” I said. To put it mildly, I was surprised. Winthrop, population 6,000, is normally a safe, placid town, and it’s one of the things I love about living here.

The tellers at the Credit Union joined the discussion.

“It’s on Spruce Street,” said one of them said.

“There was a gunshot,” another said.

Spruce Street is only about a couple of miles from the Credit Union. “Is Main Street closed?” I asked. I had planned to go to the library after I was done at the Credit Union.

“No,” my friend answered. “Just High Street and Spruce Street.”

At the library, I discussed the stand-off with Richard and Nancy, and we all agreed it was a shocking incident for little Winthrop.

But shocking incidents can happen anywhere, even in a town of 6,000. No matter where they live, people can snap and do terrible things. As it turned out, this was a case of extreme domestic violence, but fortunately the wife and child escaped without harm. Unfortunately, the husband killed himself, and this was the gunshot that was heard.

After going to the library, I headed to Augusta, to a place I have been going for nearly five years—the Harold Alfond Center for Cancer Care. In 2010, just before my fifty-third birthday, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. At first, I went to the Cancer Center every four months. Now it’s every six months. In September, on the fifth anniversary, I will start going once a year.

I was lucky. My cancer was “lazy,” slow-growing and not aggressive. My prognosis has always been good. Nevertheless, when I go to the Cancer Center, I am nervous. Will the blood work reveal something terrible? Will the oncologist find a lump?

Yesterday, the answer was no and no. Everything was good, and I could carry on with my ordinary life, which, since breast cancer, has become very dear to me. I could continue my volunteer work with the library, which means so much to me. I could check on an acquaintance who is going through hard times and offer to make soup for her. I could plan an Easter Brunch. A summer of bike riding. Nights on the patio. My ordinary list goes on and on, and how grateful I am to be able to enjoy that list.

Today I have been thinking about the people involved in that stand-off—a man who is dead; a woman without a husband; a child without a father. For the man, of course, his ordinary life is over, and I can only assume there was too much pain for him to bear. For the wife and child, I expect it will be quite a while before they can enjoy an ordinary life, and there might be scars that never quite heal.

An ordinary life, like being useful, sounds flat and boring. But for those of us who have had our ordinary lives tipped upside down, it is anything but dull. For me, at least, my ordinary life is rich and fulfilling, and I hope I have many more years of this life.

 

After Thirty-Eight Years: Thoughts on Marriage

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Two goof-balls, after thirty-eight years

On this day, thirty-eight years ago, Clif and I were married. Who plans a wedding in March, Maine’s most unlovely month? We did. We were both students, and we decided to get married during spring break.

To be honest, I don’t remember much about the wedding except that it was unconventional—I wore a red velvet dress made by a friend, and Clif wore a gold velvet tunic that he sewed himself. My father and brother also wore gold tunics, and my mom dubbed them the “Star Trek” crew. (She had a point. Those tunics did have a Captain Kirk look.) I was also very nervous, as most brides are, and I was glad when the whole thing was over.

Every year on this date, I muse about marriage and divorce. How in the world have Clif and I managed to stay married for so long? I don’t think it can simply be chalked up to love because I believe most couples really do love each other when they get married. But for some people, over time, love fades. The reasons can be varied, but I suspect a prime reason is that when the heat dims, as it must, many couples realize that they really don’t have much in common, that they are no longer a team.

I know. This sounds about as romantic as a pair of walking shoes. Nevertheless, I believe common interests, common goals, and the sense of being a team can form the basis for an enduring relationship that leads to friendship, another unromantic concept. To all of this, a very liberal dose of devotion should be added.

My recipe for a long marriage is not the only recipe—there is no one way to do anything, especially marriage—but I do believe it is a good one. It has worked for Clif and me, and it has worked for a lot of our friends, who have also been married for many years.

Do we get on each other’s nerves, from time to time? Of course we do. We have even been known to bicker. But we get over it and usually fairly quickly. Then, we move on to the things we like to do—bike, read, watch movies, get together with family and friends, and cook. (Clif makes the best pancakes and waffles. Ever. And his grilled bread is legendary.)

Tonight, I’m going to cook a homely but special meal of baked chicken, potatoes, and some kind of vegetable. (Because we infrequently eat chicken, it falls under the heading of a treat for us.) For dessert, Haaggen-Dazs ice cream and cookies with Belgian chocolate. I’ll light candles on the table, and we might even have a glass or two of wine.

It will be a cozy and very happy anniversary meal.

Louise Dickinson Rich: The Virtue of Being Useful

IMG_7289Lately, thanks to my friend Mary Jane, I have been on a binge of reading Louise Dickinson Rich, whose We Took to the Woods was a back-to- the-land anthem well before the 1970s, when the movement became a trend in Maine. (And what a welcome trend it was. Thanks to all the young people who moved here in the 1970s, we have a flourishing organic gardening community that nurtures young farmers.)

In We Took to the Woods, Louise Dickinson Rich wrote a meandering but lively account of living in the backwoods of Maine with her husband Ralph Rich. Conditions were basic—no running water, no electricity—and money was often tight as Rich and her husband scrambled to earn a living through writing and various jobs associated with the backwoods. What comes through in We Took to the Woods is not only a zest for life but also a great desire to be useful.  Living as she did, with her husband and children, Rich felt that she was essential to the well being of her family, that her work and effort, along with that of husband’s, kept the little family afloat.

After reading We Took to the Woods, I wanted to learn more about Louise Dickinson Rich. Therefore, I turned to Alice Arlen’s biography of Rich—She Took to the Woods—where Arlen not only writes about Rich’s life but also includes some of the author’s essays and letters.

Louise Dickinson Rich lived a long life—she died when she was eighty-seven—and in a letter to her friend Hortense, she writes movingly about one of the greatest losses that comes with old age. That is, of not being useful anymore. “Growing old is not easy, I have found. I, too, have twinges of regret when Dinah [Rich’s daughter] and her family take off on an expedition leaving me home alone….Alice [Rich’s sister] and I were talking the other day and both agreed that one of the hardest things about being old is that one feels so useless, with nothing to offer. But I guess that nothing can be done about that except to try to learn to adjust and accept gracefully. Which—for me at least—is damned difficult.”

Being useful, much like the freedom to be weird, sounds like faint praise. There are so many other things we could be: beautiful, kind, rich, athletic, artistic, good with our hands, a good cook. If someone said, “Laurie, you are so useful,” I might first wonder if the speaker was being ironic and then wonder if that was the nicest thing that could be said about me.

But if we think about it a little more, it doesn’t take long to realize that while being useful might be a modest, homely virtue, it is indeed a  virtue. When a person is useful it means she is contributing something essential to home, work, or community. She is needed. Her usefulness means the work gets done and because of this there is less chaos, less stress. Being useful often means you can work as part of a team, where even more can be accomplished, especially if others on the team are also useful. (Unfortunately, I have had the misfortune of working on committees with people who, to put it mildly, were not useful. It was a real misery.)

Being useful also brings meaning to a life. I am convinced that one of the reasons why teenagers in this country have such a hard time is that they are not useful, and they know it. They are stuck in a sort of limbo—no longer a child, not yet an adult—with no sense of purpose to order their days. The very rich can have this problem, too, with day after boring day stretching ahead of them.  Is it any wonder that drugs and alcohol are often used to relieve the tedium?

So lets hear it for being useful, and may we be useful for as long as we can.

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