Reflecting Upon the Assassination of JFK, 50 Years Later: Intermountain Jewish News

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Then, it was time for the World War II generation to take its place as leader--not only of the free world, but of the entire globe.  He was paradigmatic of the American Dream.  He tried his best, grew as he learned, was gracious and witty, intelligent and cosmopolitan.  His breeding and eloquence never lessened his sense of the people.

No matter his failings, he personified the new and greatest generation.  When the War was over, the old men stood aside; he stepped up to bat.  America was the top of the heap; he was proof that we had arrived.  In the years that proceeded him, his generation remained the best of the best; what this nation was all about.  "Ask not what your country can do for you;" he counseled.  "Ask what you can do for your country."

She, on the other hand, was beyond compare:  Strikingly handsome, bright, at once unafraid to lead and be feminine, she was all that he was and more.  I saw her at the theatre: Radiant--an aura.  Dressed in white in the darkened audience, she was a lovely golden glow.  She savored being a woman, a bon vivant, a certain kind of unspoken ethereal power.

Yet, uppermost were her efforts and joys as a mother, safeguarding her children's wellbeing and independence.  Never mind her reigning duties, her peccadilloes; her children were her focus.  She understood that as her personal legacy, they were her responsibility.  "If you bungle raising your children," she said, "I don't think whatever else you do, matters very much."

In the shadows, an underside of the flourishing Dream was the insistence of entitlement that came with a realization of success.  Signaled by his demise, that darker visage continually expanded itself, extinguishing those ideals of integrity, determination, achievement, gratitude.

It took almost 200 years for him to epitomize whom we were inspired to become.  It took less than a generation for us to implode upon ourselves.  He is dead, his generation almost gone, the United States as it was intended to be, is done.

Of this, I am always aware: He was but a symbol; what might have been.

The Unhemmed Skirt: Fashionable Young Women of the 21st Century

Yesterday, we had a showing re: the sale of the building: The Wesleyans (Methodists, as you no doubt know). A group called Mosaic, which I think is their outreach program for downtrodden urban centers... seem like nice folks.

Toward the end of the showing, one gal is talking with Tom, my broker, in my office, and they're reviewing codes, etc. I'm sitting there, working. The girl is a slender tall, black woman with perfectly matched everything and fun black braided, woven hair. Jewelry, etc. all pinks and wines and puces... Little bowed Pappagallo ballerina flats with bugle beads and sequins. Again, exactingly attired.

Except for one thing: She was wearing a tea-length, tiered, cotton/gauze/muslin dyed skirt (remember those?) in the softest shade of burgundy--how nice. It went beautifully. However, each tier had tons of loose threads hanging from it. Tons. The hem was missing altogether: It simply wasn't. Just raw cloth that looked as though a heel had gotten caught in the stitching, pulled out the entire thing. It was hanging jaggedly, with more threads, all the way around.

Ghastly.

Here was this absolutely lovely girl, dressed to the nine's, with threads hanging everywhere... I couldn't take it. I simply couldn't.

Thus: While she was talking with Tom about the codes, laws, remodeling the bathrooms for the handicapped, etc., regarding moving an outreach church into my building, I quietly took out my shears and clipped the threads on her skirt. Not the tiers because there were too many threads on every layer around the skirt; I worried i might be sued for sexual harassment if I felt my way up from mid-calf to hips. But I did take the wad of muslin that was the large, gathered long skirt hem,, and I continued clipping away. Tons of burgundy shavings fell to the floor.

Interestingly, neither Tom nor the young woman missed a beat in their conversation. I just went on trimming. I can't tell you how happy it made me to see that Mess disappear.

When I was finished, the girl said to me, "You know my mother can't stand this skirt. She doesn't think it should have these threads, either. But this is the way I bought it."

I said to her, "Your mother is right. It's terrible. You're a pretty girl, delightfully dressed, and the skirt looks like it got caught around the center post in the washing machine." I went on, "I bet you paid extra for the manufacturer not to hem the skirt, or finish off the edges."

She confessed it was indeed costly.

I told her that now, she looked 100% better, she still had all the hanging mess on the tiers of the skirt, but that at least the hem wasn't in shreds any more; it was still raw unfinished cloth, so that she could feel as Bohemian as she wished without the stragglers, dripping down. She looked at me.

I said, "You'll thank me later."

Tom, who has been on oxygen since he met me, and has to keep slapping himself to reassure that I'm for real, rather fainted after this. Being raised with the sisters in Ohio Catholic schools, he is not used to my wanton flagrancy...

When he left, he said they would never buy the building...
***

Today, we got an offer from said church, for the highest amount, yet. Higher than any of the previously interested folks. Tom was in a swoon. He said he'd never in 30 years had three simultaneous offers on a single building. He couldn't believe it. Thing is, they want me out in three weeks and I have orders to finish.

Oy.

Tom says I can pay them rent. I said, "Listen, Tom. I'll pay the taxes, the utilities, the bills, for as long as I'm there; I will be out by the 4th of August or sooner. But I have to have time for my customers."

He said, "You'll have to pay rent."

I said, "Tell the gal that instead of rent, I'll finish clipping the threads on the skirt. No charge. That that alone should take care of it."

He said, "No, really. What can you pay in rent?"

I said, "Yes, really. I'll pay all the bills for as long as I'm there, and I'll fix her skirt. Start there. Then, we'll see if we need to negotiate." And that.was.that.

I'll let you know what ensues.
***

That's also why I guess I can't work at Macy's, should I want to go back to retailing. My time has come and gone... If a customer were to come in hideously attired in my opinion, or if new merchandise were to arrive that wasn't right, I would just take a scissor and cut away, or throw away. The store and the customer would be much better off for my assistance. I have no doubt. The thing is, I'm not sure management or the customer would agree. Even though I know they would "thank me later..."

Irish Dessert: A Reflection of the Irish People

I'm standing here, or rather sitting at this moment, in a bib apron and my house shoes. Nothing else. It's too hot.

I just rouued my first lade.  I hope it works.

I think for desserts, it's called a roll.  Meat is for the other.

In an Irish cookbook, whipped cream, raspberries, and chocolate in a powder sugared towel is a roulade.

It's cooling as we speak.

We'll hope for the best.

I hope I don't have a bent broken brownie.

I have no idea how this works.

I went to Joy of Cooking which has pictures and instructions, thank Heaven.

The Irish cookbook assumes that if one is Irish, one already knows how to cook.

It reminds me of the time it said to put noodles in a casserole dish with tuna and mushroom soup, and bake. Never said a thing about boiling the noodles in water, first.

Or the time it said to put two tomatoes in a pan of water and heat, for sauce.  Never said a thing about cutting them up, first.

Or the time it said to put a chicken in the oven at 425 for 2 hours until brown.   Never said to turn on the oven, first.  I even put it in the oven at 4:15.

Soon, I'll go and whip the whipping cream.  Boing.  Peaks.  What I'm supposed to look like in this apron. but don't, and never did.

Probably, I could have used Cool Whip and gotten the same effect.

I mean, Ready Whip.  In the can.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

I figure it will either be charming, or a small heap of stuff.

It should taste the same either way.

I wonder if they're hiring in the kitchen at the School For The Blind...