Author Archives: gretchenwing

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About gretchenwing

A high school English and History teacher for 20 years, Gretchen now lives, writes, and bakes on Lopez Island, Washington.

Can’t Teal You How it Grebes Me Not to Duck My Latest Resolution

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Don’t get me started on water-bird puns. At first they might be coot, but pretty soon they turn fowl.

Enough!

Let me just admit, then, to being enough of a nerd wannabe that, for a New Year’s resolution (one of ’em), I set the goal of identifying all our local winter waterfowl by the end of February.

Why, you ask? I wish I had an answer.

Um, I like knowing stuff? True, but who doesn’t? You don’t see too many people out for walks with their Mac’s Field Guide, even around here.

Studying the field guide is fun? Also true. (Fun fact: when Son One was, well, one, we used to delight ourselves by asking him to point out the blue jay, the junco, the cardinal, etc, on one of those Mac’s Field Guides. He was great at it, and the fact that his nickname was Mac–icing on the cake.)

I can’t say it’s the thrill of the chase of truth, because I haven’t gone Full Bird Nerd and started toting binoculars around, so 75% of the time I’m just guessing. But I do like thinking that, thanks to Mac (the field guide, not the son), it’s now EDUCATED guessing.

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“Western Grebe? I dunno, is the neck long enough? Maybe a loon, but they’re REALLY big–how far away is that guy?”

“Common Murre or Pigeon Guillamot? Winter plumage, so they look pretty much the same, but…aha…the back of the head is grey, not black–gonna go with Guillamot!”

“Look at those adorable little Buffleheads!” (Gotta love Buffleheads–they don’t look like anything else, and it’s a really fun word to say.)

[A disclaimer: all these babblings are (at least until now) inflicted on no one but myself. I do still have enough perspective to realize that my current mini-obsession is not widely shared.]

Western Grebe (courtesy Wikimedia)

Western Grebe (courtesy Wikimedia)

By my own very low standards, I’ve improved quite a bit in my past week. But a grebe is just as lovely even when I don’t know it’s a grebe. So I still haven’t answered the question: why do some of us like to be able to name things?

Anyone got a theory? Or a good bird-nerd story to share?

Memories of Martin–and Coretta Too

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One of my earliest memories is holding hands and swaying with a bunch of strangers, singing “We Shall Overcome.” I was probably five, and, from later figuring, that was probably at a 1967 demonstration by Duke University faculty (which my Dad was) and students and local activists in support of the Duke maintenance workers.

From that age on, I knew Dr. King as a man to listen to. When he was murdered (I remember my mother crying), I knew he was a man to revere. Only more recently have I started thinking more about the woman beside the man–Coretta Scott King.

Coretta in 1964 (Courtesy Wikimedia)

Coretta in 1964 (Courtesy Wikimedia)

I haven’t yet seen the movie “Selma,” but I will, and I’m grateful to its makers for reminding a new generation that The Movement was–and is–a long, long, LONG series of struggles. And it wasn’t only about one man.

In honor of the Martin Luther King holiday, I’d like to share this song I wrote about his wife, two years ago. I haven’t gotten around to recording it yet, so you’ll just have to imagine the tune…but I hope the lyrics speak for themselves. 

Coretta

 

Every city in this land got a street named for your man;

We celebrate his birthday, we sing and hold hands.

But sometimes I wonder if we’d ever be here

If you hadn’t stood beside him for all of those years.

All of those years…imagine the tears.

Coretta Scott King, your name hardly appears.

 

Lovely young soprano, Alabama to Ohio:

Your music could’ve carried you even further, you know.

But Martin sweeps you off your feet, or you sweep him,

And you’re swept into the movement, sink or swim.

Sink or swim…opposition is grim.

Montgomery Bus Boycott is the first big win.

 

Martin’s filling up the jails, says that love will never fail

And you’re right there with him, center of the gale.

But your four little children can’t be left alone

And Martin says their mama needs to stay at home.

Stay at home, keep the children calm.

Thank the Lord you are out when your house gets bombed.

 

Klan don’t need to wait for dark; Selma’s like their personal park.

Cross the Pettus Bridge to face Sheriff Clark.

On that Bloody Sunday you can hear the cries

With your hands in the laundry and your eyes on the prize.

Eyes on the prize…when a martyr dies

Best step aside, feel the power rise.

 

Martin goes to Memphis town; hand of hate cuts him down.

Now they’re looking to you to lead ’em to high ground.

You’re still in shock, you don’t know what to feel

But just like Martin, you’re made of steel.

Made of steel…Lord, this is real:

41 year-old widow of a slain ideal.

 

So you take up Martin’s cross, learn to be a movement boss

And you march and you rally and you pay the cost.

You tell your fellow women to embrace their role:

“If you want to save the nation, you must become its soul.”

Become its soul…it took its toll.

But Coretta, look around, we’re approaching the goal.

 

 For over thirteen thousand days, you walked those weary ways

Speaking out against the war, supporting the gays.

For the poor and persecuted you carried the flame

And never got a monument. Ain’t it a shame?

Ain’t it a shame? No one’s to blame.

But Coretta Scott King, we remember your name.

Ain’t it a shame? No one’s to blame.

But Coretta Scott King, we remember your name.

G. Wing, March 2013

The Selma March (Courtesy Wikimedia)

The Selma March (Courtesy Wikimedia)

Have you seen “Selma”? Care to share your impressions? Or your own memories of Martin, or Coretta? Let’s take time to remember.

 

Sometimes You Just Need a Little Panda

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It’s been a hard week on the planet, international news-wise. I suppose one might ask, “When has it not been?” Maybe I watched a little too much this week. Maybe it’s just January. But I feel the need for a little panda video, and I thought you might too.

AccuWeather posted this last week, from when a snowstorm hit the National Zoo. Can there be anything more heart-warming than a baby panda playing in the snow? Of course not. Enjoy.

I don’t usually play the share-a-cute-video game, but since I started it, go ahead–hit me. Thanks. I’ll try to be a little more thoughtful next post.

 

“Dyslam”? When Good Faith is Hijacked by Bad People

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We need a word. I’ve been struggling to describe the awfulness of when a belief which is pure of spirit and ennobling to the world is claimed as motivation by evildoers.

If it pains me to hear “Islamic terrorist,” how much worse must it feel to a good-hearted Muslim? Well, I can quote the long version, from Omid Safi, weekly columnist of Onbeing.org, as he discusses 9 responses to the attacks in France:

8) Muhammad’s honor.
The shooters are reported to have shouted that they were doing this to revenge the honor of the Prophet. Let me put objectivity and pretense towards scholarly distance aside. The Prophet is my life. In my heart, Muhammad’s very being is the embodied light of God in this world, and my hope for intercession in the next. And for those who think they are here to avenge the honor of the Prophet, all I can say is that he is beyond the need for revenge. Your actions do not reach him, neither did the profoundly offensive cartoons of Charlie Hebdo. That pornographic, violent, humiliated and humiliated figure depicted in Charlie Hebdo’s cartoons is not and was not ever my prophet. As for the real Muhammad, neither the cartoonists nor the shooters ever knew him. You can’t touch him. You never knew Muhammad like we know Muhammad.

And as for the shooters, they have done more to demean people’s impression of the religion of the Prophet than the cartoonists in Charlie Hebdo ever did. If the shooters wanted to do something to bring honor to the Prophet, they could begin by actually embodying the manners and ethics of the Prophet. They could start by studying his life and teachings, where they would see that Muhammad actually responded to those who had persecuted him through forgiveness and mercy.

 Those shooters were, in my eyes, “dyslamic.” Just like those “Christians” who harrass gays at military funerals, or who fought in the Crusades, are “Dystians.” It’s a stretch, I know. But I don’t want to cede the name of a real, peaceful faith to people who use it to justify evil.

(Courtesy Wikimedia)

(Courtesy Wikimedia)

Now I’m wondering what you think of my word.

(Thanks to Iris Graville for sending me the link to “9 Points to Ponder”)

Je Suis Charlie; Nous Sommes Charlie

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In solidarity with those whose stand against fanaticism of any kind puts them in harm’s way…

(Courtesy The Daily Beast)

(Courtesy The Daily Beast)

And in love, and hope that peaceful hearts and minds will overcome those filled with hate...

Courtesy David Hayward, nakedpastor.com

Courtesy David Hayward, nakedpastor.com

Today, take a look at someone who is really, REALLY different from you. Look hard. Smile.

 

RIP, Stuart Scott–Sportscaster, Tarheel, Dad

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If you say “Boo-yah!” when you score points on somebody, if you say someone is “cool as the other side of the pillow,” you’re just one of the millions of us Americans who regularly quote Stuart Scott without realizing it.

Last Sunday, January 4, ESPN announcer Stuart Scott passed away from cancer at the far-too-young age of 49. The Tarheel basketball players I watched this week wore “Stu” patches on their jerseys. Along with all his other roles, Scott was a Tarheel through and through. And I am oddly proud to know that.

Courtesy Wikimedia

Courtesy Wikimedia

Of all the testimonials I’ve read, the two themes that stand out the most are “Stuart Scott, Trailblazer” and “Stuart Scott, Devoted Father.”   ESPN notes that it was Stuart who worked to make the national sports media more relevant to ALL Americans, not just the dominant culture:

ESPN knew enough to have sportscasters who represented 45 million Americans, not to mention 80 percent of the players in the NBA and 70 percent of those in the NFL. What we didn’t know, until Stuart got here, was how important it was to have someone who could relate to them.

“He was a trailblazer,” says ESPN anchor Stan Verrett, “not only because he was black — obviously black — but because of his style, his demeanor, his presentation. He did not shy away from the fact that he was a black man, and that allowed the rest of us who came along to just be ourselves.”

“Yes, he brought hip-hop into the conversation,” says Harris, “but I would go further than that. He brought in the barber shop, the church, R&B, soul music. Soul, period.”

Some of his best moments on the air came when he adopted the persona of a preacher: “Can I get a witness from the congregation?!” And one of his best moments off the air came when a producer suggested he change a reference on his NBA show from Omega Psi Phi, the fraternity of Michael Jordan and Shaquille O’Neal, to something more universal, like Animal House.

“I have friends who have no idea what that movie is about,” Stuart told him. “That movie was made two decades ago, and black fraternities have been around since 1906.”

Even more important, as this ESPN article and many others show, is how much Scott loved his daughters and made himself an unself-conscious role model for modern dads:

“His girls mean everything to him,” says Harris. “I mean his girls mean everything to him. He would easily take Stuart Scott, dad, over Stuart Scott, ‘SportsCenter’ anchor.”

“He’s a great, great dad,” says Ramsey. “He just takes so much pride in the girls, and you can’t see him without him taking out his phone and showing you a video of Taelor or Sydni singing or dancing or playing soccer.”

Occasionally, Stuart would give a shout-out to Sydni’s soccer team, but that was easy compared to another commitment he made to his daughters. “His daughters and my daughters danced at the same studio,” says Anderson. “One year we went to their performance of ‘The Nutcracker.’ And here comes Uncle Drosselmeyer, and I thought, ‘That man looks a lot like Stuart Scott,’ and it was — he was there for his girls. I’ll never forget him coming out in this big cape, swooping in with his nutcracker, and he was great. I’m not sure the dance steps were up to Baryshnikov, but certainly the intentions were.”

 

Then there’s Stuart Scott, cancer warrior, inspiration: “When you die, it does not mean that you lose to cancer. You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and the manner in which you live.”

So why does it matter that Scott was a true-Carolina-blue Tarheel till the end? It doesn’t, not really. Except that who wouldn’t want to claim any kind of allegiance with a human being like this?

Thanks, Stuart. Go Heels. Rest in peace.

“Dear Friends and Family”: A Love Letter to Annual Letters

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Dear Folks Who Send Annual Letters,

Keep it up. You may get ragged by friends who think they have less time than you, or who have allowed electronic media to take the place of the good ol’ USPS in sending yearly greetings and updates. (Note to those  who’ve gone all-electronic: good for you too! You’re using fewer resources, and I do love hearing from you.) Your cards may not grace all your friends’ mantelpieces, even if they have mantelpieces, nor your photos their fridges, at all any more. But they’re on mine.

Keep sending photos, and if you have kids, please send pictures of yourselves WITH your kids, rather than just the kids. (Remember, I’m YOUR friend even more than theirs, and I want to see YOU grow along with them.)

Keep sending updates. Want to go long, detailed, month-by-month? I’ll read. Want to go pithy, one paragraph per family member? That’s my own method; I’m all over that. How about a poem? I LOVE annual poems. Get your kid to write the family letter? Even better.

Some of you may be wondering right now, “Is she being sarcastic?” So let me assure you otherwise. Here’s what’s left of my own pile of 120 letters:

...almost...there!!

…almost…there!!

I always sent cards, even before I had kids, but when I decided to write an annual letter, some 10 years ago, I set some rules.

1. Limit one page

2. These are NEW YEAR letters, not Christmas, so as long as they’re out by, say, Martin Luther King’s birthday, they’re not late

3. If it stops being fun, or if my friends start hinting they hate it, I quit.

10 years later–no complaints.Except that I would say the experience is more than fun; it’s an exercise in love.

 Each time I look up an address, each time I add a personalized note at the bottom of each letter, I’m “holding that person in the light,” as the Quakers say. I’m focused on them. How are they? When did I last see them or hear from them? What are the ongoing burdens or joys in their life? When might I see them again? What can I say that would bring them joy to read?

120 letters and two weeks later, I feel as though I’ve been through a long, happy, slo-mo receiving line.

I can’t post the picture I’m enclosing in this year’s letter, ’cause I’ve promised The Fam that I wouldn’t violate their privacy via photos. But if you don’t know me well enough to get one in your mailbox, here’s the cropped version:

081

So, annual letter-writers? More power to ya. Send ’em in July, include paw prints from your cat. I don’t care. Just stay in touch, and give your friends the gift of holding you in the light.

Are you an annual letter-writer, or do they annoy or overwhelm you? Do you have particular likes or dislikes or recommendations of your own to share with those of us who are? Please share.

Happy New Year! Share That Resolution Here

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The secret to success is having really low standards.

Joke. Kind of. What I really mean is making sure your goals are achievable, not pie-in-the-sky. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go all S.M.A.R.T. goal-y on you. I’m just going to share mine for 2015. And since I know what a difference it makes in motivation to SHARE your goals, I invite you to do just that…as soon as I’ve shared mine.

By the end of 2015, I will have…

  • finished the first draft of Altitude (Book Three of the Flying Burgowski trilogy) and be actively re-revising the first half
  • ridden my bike in to work at least as often, if not more often, than I’ve driven
  • invited at least three people I would like to know better for a walk or a cup of tea
  • developed a fitness regimen that includes daily strength and stretching exercises
  • either fixed my Stairmaster machine or gotten rid of it 🙂

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Your turn. What are some of yours?

 

To Become a White Ally

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Unlike my friend Iris, I have lived pretty recently in a very racially diverse town, Tacoma…and I miss that more than I can say. Now that I live on such a white island, though, she speaks my mind very closely in this post. Please, read on.

Iris Graville's avatarIris Graville - Author

The sun was setting on the August night my husband and I tuned our television to an empty courtroom in Ferguson, Missouri. Along with thousands of other Americans, we awaited the verdict of the grand jury’s review of police officer Darren Wilson’s actions in the death of Michael Brown. Finally, Louis County prosecutor Bob McCulloch read for several minutes from a statement that acquitted Officer Wilson.

I found the jury’s decision hard to believe, despite McCulloch’s detailed account of the facts it considered.

Then, just three months later, another grand jury acquitted another police officer, this time Daniel Pantaleo, in the death of Eric Garner. I didn’t hear the jury’s verdict that time, but I read the words, and I watched the video of the scene the day that Garner was arrested. This acquittal was even more unbelievable.

I felt grief and anger that neither of these police officers were…

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Making Your Own Peace on Earth For Christmas

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 “Peace on Earth.” “Silent Night.” Given how Christmas is portrayed in our culture, these words would seem to be the last ones to apply to this wonderful holiday.

But that’s what I want for Christmas: Silence. Peace. Big gobs of it. I don’t know when, but I intend to give it to myself as a gift, and I’m wondering if you might want to do the same. Or perhaps you already do.

This past weekend, the Quaker Meeting I attend scheduled its annual Silent Retreat. I wrote about it last year–6 1/2 hours of group silence, spent separately and together, bookended by explanations for the new folks, and sharing at the end of the day. I was really looking forward to another Day of Silence this year…till I realized I wasn’t ready for it. Son One is visiting, and I’m in Mom mode, which means cooking, hiking, playing guitar, hanging out, doing work projects…and TALKING. This was not the right time for a silent retreat, however much I longed for it.

So I skipped it. For now. But I’ve promised myself, sometime before the end of January, a good, four-hour chunk of time to sit and think and write, maybe go for a walk without, for once, talking to myself out loud like I do. (Not even embarrassed about that!) Probably I’ll wait till The Mate is out of town, so’s not to feel like a slacker.

Keep in mind–I already lead a pretty damn peaceful life compared to most folks. I live on an island! I’m no longer a classroom teacher, I’m a writer! And yet even I feel the need for more quiet in my life. If that’s true for me–how much more so must it be for, well…maybe you?

Silence means different things to different people at different times. I thought I’d share one of my takes on silence that turned into a song. Here are the lyrics to “Sometimes Silence”:

Sometimes silence is a force

that generates inside;   

sometimes something sets a course

and all you have to do is glide, glide, glide…

 and sometimes nothing moves at all, 

no matter how you try.

 

Sat yourself down just to get something straight,

Mind racing like a horse from the gate.

Need to focus on something profound;

Concentration’s going down, down, down…

So you try, try, try, try…

Sit and listen to the breezes sigh,     

Giving it your best shot–like you have a choice–

Straining to hear that still, small voice.

 

Sometimes silence strikes itself

and lights you like a fuse;            

Sometimes it shows you all too well

how much you have to lose, lose, lose…

And sometimes you’re just sitting there, increasingly confused.

 

Sat yourself down just to get something straight,

Mind racing like a horse from the gate.

Need to focus on something profound;

Concentration’s going down, down, down…

So you try, try, try, try…

Sit and listen to the breezes sigh,     

Giving it your best shot–like you have a choice–

Straining to hear that still, small voice.

I want to hear that still, small voice.

 

 And here’s the live version. NOTE: FAST-FORWARD TO MINUTE 1.33 TO AVOID HAVING TO LISTEN TO THE AUDIENCE SINGING HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, AND ME THANKING PEOPLE…and yes, the film quality is terrible but it does get better, and the sound is pretty good.

Did any of this resonate with you? How do you get your silence? Will you be able to gift yourself with some, this crowded, busy holiday season? Please share.

PS–another gift I’m giving myself is a week off from blogging, so…merry Christmas! I’ll pop back in to celebrate the end of 2014 with y’all.