Past Blogs

Labor Day has become the psychological end of summer in America. The original impetus for the holiday is largely  unknown or forgotten. Perhaps Labor Day needs to be revitalized with thoughts on the value of work and workers.

The height of America’s Industrial Revolution occurred in the late 1800’s when factories started to replace farms as the basis of the U.S. economy. Twelve hour days, seven day work weeks, child labor and unsafe working conditions were the norm. In response to the egregious conditions, workers began to organize and march.

The notorious Pullman Strike in the summer of 1894 saw workers protesting severely cut wages and high rents for company owned houses. Starting in the company town of Pullman, Illinois, the protests quickly spread to railroad centers across America. President Grover Cleveland declared the violent strike a federal crime and sent in 12,000 troops. Thirty strikers were killed and fifty-seven were wounded, the union leader, Eugene Debs, was jailed and the union was broken. To appease outraged workers all across the nation, President Cleveland signed the law creating Labor Day as a federal holiday six days after the strike ended.

As a young man, my father worked a six day week in a foundry to save money to get married. He lost it all in the depression when the banks failed. Starting over at a steel company, he joined a union and was roughed up by company thugs when he advocated for a five day work week. But the unions gained strength and the checks and benefits from that steel job enabled my parents to solidly join the middle class. Thanks to a childhood without want, I was able to enter and spend my life as a member of the middle class as well.

But times are changing rapidly, and the future for young Americans is not as rosy as mine. I recently ran across an interview with the gifted writer Walter Mosley, the author of the Easy Rawlins novels. These words from that interview struck me as prescient:

“The change of the century is a challenging moment for the world….The waters are rising while we are dreaming of the stars. We call ourselves social creatures when indeed we are pack animals. We, many of us, say that  we are middle class when in reality we are salt-of -the-earth working-class drones existing at the whim of systems that distribute our life’s blood as so much spare change. These subjects can be addressed in fiction or plays, even in poetry, but now and again the plain talk of nonfiction is preferred.”

Sometimes you just get lucky. We had finished eating a late dinner at a restaurant in Albuquerque on Central Avenue, the old Route 66. It was 11:00 P.M. on a Sunday night. “Let’s take Route 66 through downtown back to our hotel,” I suggested.

As we approached downtown, the traffic suddenly became thick and then stopped. My husband began to look for an exit from the tie up, but I said, “Wait a minute, I think we may have just joined a parade of cruisers.”

A minute later this was confirmed when we spotted a lowrider parked at the curb but dancing up and down for an appreciative audience.

New Mexico is an epicenter for fabulously customized cars. These vehicles are truly rolling pieces of Hispanic American folk art which have been recognized by the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. In 1992 the Smithsonian acquired “Dave’s Dream”, a legendary lowrider from Chimayo, New Mexico.

Lowriders are outfitted with hydraulics activated by switches. The driver can change the height of the car, drive on 3 wheels, hop the front wheels off the ground or dip the sides of the car.

Paint jobs on these cars are eye popping with multiple thin layers of colors, metallic paints, airbrushed murals, pinstripes, flames or combinations of the above. Interiors are lavishly upholstered as well.

Toward the end of the cruise we saw a series of cars at the curb with wings: their doors opened upward making the cars resemble giant birds in flight. Checking that custom feature out on the computer later, we learned that vertical opening doors are called “Lambo Doors”. And, better yet, a customizing kit is available for our little Fiat 500. This is very tempting.

Foodies and gourmets be warned: exit now, you won’t enjoy this post. But if you can handle or even occasionally crave comfort food, please stick around.

Summertime and that classic sandwich, the bacon, lettuce and tomato are perfectly paired. The gardens and farmers’ markets are bursting with “real” tomatoes and tender leaf lettuce.

The locavores are with me to this point, but here’s my heresy. I am usually making a homemade meal after getting home from work at a late hour. Assembling B.L.T.’s on toast takes time. So I speed up the prep time by making the B.L.T.’s on rolls toasted en masse in the oven, and I buy the cheapest most Wonder Bread kind of hamburger or hot dog rolls. I wouldn’t dream of using these rolls for any purpose other than a B.L.T.

I have pondered why these atrocious rolls work so well in this situation. I believe it’s because you eat this particular sandwich to showcase the tomatoes, lettuce, bacon and Hellmann’s mayonnaise. The bread is only a vehicle to hold that combo together. Bad rolls are all air and squish down to about 1/4 inch allowing the star ingredients to take center stage.

More confessions…..since we don’t eat meat, we use soy bacon. I’m the first to admit that it will never take the place of real bacon. And we also butter the rolls. You butter everything but ice cream when you are from Wisconsin.

Mr. Tom doesn’t purr. We know that he is a happy cat. Every time we approach him, he flops down, rolls over and wants a tummy rub. He also kneads exuberantly when petted. Only happy cats do that.

But Tom doesn’t purr and we don’t know why. All of our other cats can turn on their motors with varying degrees of decibels. Neko’s purr is so loud that he can’t be a bed cat…we wouldn’t get any sleep.

Big and little wild cats and our little domestic cats share an amazing number of features and behaviors.  Purring is the exception. Big cats roar but can’t purr. Little cats (both wild and tame) can purr but not roar. The exact mechanics of the little cats’ purr are still a zoological mystery.

Perhaps Tom’s lack of a purr is related to his mysterious past. He used to be Miss Kitty. One day, over two years ago, a beautiful, long haired, well groomed cat showed up in our yard. We assumed that this glamour puss was a “she” but couldn’t get close enough to check. For months we saw her daily, but she would streak away if we came anywhere near her. When winter came, we concluded that she had no home and left a full food bowl for her in the garage every night. (Our garage has a cat door.)

When spring, a.k.a. kitten season arrived, we knew we would have to trap Miss Kitty and get her fixed. We didn’t want to find a garage full of kittens some morning.

Each night for two weeks we inched the food dish out of the garage and closer to our front door until Miss Kitty was finally eating on our door sill. And then one night we left the door open and the bowl inside the front hall. Miss Kitty came in and my husband went out via another door, snuck up behind her and closed the door trapping her inside. She panicked and climbed straight up the dining room wall to a second story windowsill where she remained for many hours.

When we got her to the vet, we were informed that neutering was in order. We had a lovely male cat.

Mr, Tom did not want to return to the feral life. He can live with us forever, even if he never finds his purr.

Summer is at its peak of ripeness. Despite the fact that every store is trumpeting back to school sales and merchandise, fall is not imminent.

For those of us who prefer to live in the moment, the signs of high summer are blazingly evident. Outside, the air is hot and muggy; inside, the fans and dehumidifier are running on overdrive. Our blacktop road steams after rain showers, and the cats vie for the coolest nap spot in the house, our marble topped table.

The roadsides all around us glow with masses of orange daylilies while the Queen Anne’s Lace  and cone flowers grace the open fields. Since we have been blessed by the rain goddesses, the field corn is over my head  and the alfalfa is ready for another cutting.

Each week the piles of just picked produce at the farmers’ markets are growing higher and more varied. The sweet corn has arrived. We’ll be husking and eating that delicacy out on the deck as we watch the sunset.

Our purple martins are still residing in the apartment houses we’ve provided them in our side yard. The martins spend their days swooping through the skies, scooping up insects and delivering the bugs to their chirping babies. These kids quickly need to get big and strong for the mid August migration to Central and South America.

Our other animal babies are thriving as well. The new raccoons look like furry beach balls, the chipmunk youngsters are almost as big as their parents and the male baby grosbeaks are losing their drab brown feathers for black and white outfits with brilliant red dickies.

We are eating with the gusto of our animal friends. The ice cream stands all beckon. While we haven’t indulged in “chilled champagne and potato chips”, the perfect heat wave menu, it does sound tempting.

The fresh notebooks, new crayons and fall clothes will have to wait. Summer is calling.