A baby speaks...

A dear friend passed this on to me shortly after the birth of my first child... and today I share it with all of you. (If it doesn't bring tears to your eyes...)

A BABY SPEAKS

In Silence I lie and watch thy face, Sweet Mother mine.

And think how full thou art of grace, And, oh how kind!
And I almost laugh as I hear you say
“I think the baby has noticed today.”

To Thee I am “baby” – thou dost not know

How often I’ve lived – how long ago
A chieftain I was, and once a King –
Though now I appear such a little thing!

I’ve had my share of earthly joy;

Of woman’s love I’ve made a toy,
And once in martyrdom I died –
(To atone for my other sins I tried!)

But God, a seal upon my lips has set,

And twill not be lifted ‘till I forget,
For God is much wiser than thou or I -
I must not remember how it feels to die!

Dear little mother, with eyes so brown,

When I wanted rebirth I sought around
‘Till I found thee, with thy face divine,
And then I knew that thou wert mine –

That thou my mother in truth would be.
Sweetheart, I was wise in choosing thee!
So day by day into thy face
I’ll look until I lose all trace
Of other lives, and only know
That I am here and love thee so.

(Author Unknown)

(From Magazine “Woman’s Life”, March 7^th, 1896)

 

 

 

 

November 22, 1963

50 years ago today, when John F. Kennedy was shot and killed, I was 6 years old, a first grader at Marble Elementary School in East Lansing, Michigan, and everyone called me Meg. I didn’t really understand what that event meant, except that all the teachers were visibly upset and my teacher had been crying.  But my dad had travelled to London on his way back to Africa once again, something he did on a fairly regular basis during my early years. And, as he did every day, he wrote a letter to my Mom a few days later…
Dear Nance,
     The “tellie” in my hotel room is showing the funeral of President Kennedy live by telestar. It is a grim and somber moment. I think of the words of Lincoln – “it is for us, the living, to be here dedicated… that these honored dead shall not have died in vain… that government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from this earth.” And perhaps this is some explanation of why you and I are today separated by an ocean - - and the dedication to service and the dignity of man comes again between my family and me.

I have come to understand that part of the reason that the grown-ups were so upset was the uncertainty that event brought to their lives. It was the end of optimism, and the beginning of doubt and insecurity. That single event led to so many changes in society and I have wondered more than once what might have been had Kennedy not been killed that November day. Would we have been so involved in Viet Nam? Would the protests demanding social change for African Americans and for women and for others have happened? There is, of course, no way to know… but I wonder.

For me personally, Kennedy’s funeral marks the day that I broke my left arm, severing the radial nerve and setting my own life on an unexpected path. Would my life have turned out much differently if I hadn’t been so restless and not decided to bother my sister and her boyfriend, falling and breaking my arm? Perhaps. But I do know that every experience we have is a vital part of who we are, and I would not be who I am today if those experiences hadn’t happened. And neither would we as a nation.

And so, in my own small ways, I strive for “the dedication to service and the dignity of man”, thinking every day, “if I can just make one person have a better day today, if I can serve (in the truest sense of the word) mankind in some way today, the world will be a better place tomorrow”.

How to Cook Fresh Pumpkin

It is almost Halloween so I went to our local pumpkin patch earlier this week and picked up some pumpkins for carving and one for pies. There is a HUGE difference between varieties of pumpkins and I thought perhaps it might be handy for you to have directions on how to roast one – fresh pumpkin is SO much better than canned. So here is the step by step.

1.       Find a pie pumpkin. The main differences are that usually a pie pumpkin has freckles on it and they are always much more dense than a carving pumpkin. You will be able to easily find them at your local market or pumpkin patch this time of year.

2.      Tools for the task: A sharp knife, rimmed baking pan, ice cream scoop, colander, spoon, mashing device (potato masher, food processer or blender)

3.      Turn your oven on to pre-heat. I use 375, but this process is very forgiving, so anywhere from 350 to 425 will do the trick, you will just need to adjust the time needed depending on how much heat.

4.      Using your sharp knife and some muscle, cut the pumpkin in half leaving the stem intact on one side.

5.      Then use your ice cream scoop to scrape the stringy center and seeds out of each half. Put the seeds and gooey parts into a colander.

6.      If you want easy clean-up, spray your baking pan with a thin coating of Pam.

7.      Place each half cut side down on the baking sheet.

8.     Roast for 45 minutes to an hour, until a fork slides in and out of the pumpkin easily.

9.      While the pumpkin is roasting, place your colander in the sink. Fill the sink with water just until the seeds start to float to the top.  It is really easy to then skim the seeds out of the colander and into a bowl, picking out any orange bits as you go. The stringy parts will hang on to the seeds, so squish them out, rinse them a little and put them in the bowl with their friends.

10.  DO NOT put the orange goo down your garbage disposal – unless you have a crush on your repairman and want to invite him over. Throw the goo in the trash or your compost pile.

11.   Put the seeds back in the colander and rinse them one more time, then pat dry with paper towels. They probably won’t get all the way dry, but that’s okay. Put them back in the bowl and toss them with a little bit of olive oil.

12.  Spread them out on a cookie sheet and sprinkle with kosher salt. Here is where you get to be adventurous. Some people like to use garlic, pepper, cayenne pepper, pretty much any spice you really like. I am a purist about these things and only use salt.

13.  As soon as your pumpkins are fork-tender, put them on a rack to cool. As soon as you can, flip them over this hastens the cooling process.

14.  Make your oven 400 degrees and pop those seasoned seeds in for about 15 minutes total, flipping them over as best you can about half way through.

15.   Once the pumpkin halves are cool enough to handle, you can often just peel the skins right off. Use a spoon to scrape any of the meat which is stubbornly holding on and put the meat into a large bowl.

16.  Then use a mashing tool to mash the meat into a uniform consistency.

17.   Viola! Now you can proceed to make your favorite pumpkin, bread, pumpkin cookies or pumpkin pie!

18.  NOTE: I put two cup portions into quart-sized freezer bags, mush them flat, and pop them into the freezer. The trick with this is to get the pumpkin out of the bag before thawing it in a bowl. (Otherwise it is a pretty messy process.)

Mini-break Part 2

We got a late start on Saturday since our adventures in the park on Friday night got us to bed later than usual. We set out to find the colors of Northern Michigan with a brief stop for breakfast on the way. The plan was to drive along the Lake Michigan shoreline to the city of Charlevoix where they were having an Apple Festival, stopping for Kodak moments as they came up along the way.

            It was a perfect autumn day with bright sunshine and deep blue skies, the kind of sky you only see where trees outnumber people. Driving through the valleys, like you do, we spotted a dirt road that had a sign posted saying that this road would not be plowed in the winter. This looked like a promising opportunity for the photogs in the truck, so we ventured up the hill and in to the deep forest. We were instantly plunged into the shadows created by towering pines, ancient oaks, and bright maple trees. I could wax poetic about the beauty of virgin forests, but I will spare you – let it suffice to say that it was lovely.

            The “road”, really a one-lane wide track through the forest, was very sandy and, at times, very steep. I was glad we had the four-wheel-drive truck for this adventure as I doubted there was much traffic to lend a hand if we were to have gotten stuck. Eventually we came to a clearing atop one of the hills where we decided to stop and let the shutterbugs fly free. With dense forest on the west side of the hill, there were pasture lands on the east side with a clear view of the surrounding hillsides, ablaze in all their autumnal glory.

            My boyfriend jumped right out of the truck and headed over to the vantage point near the barbed-wire fence where he could capture the scene. Joe and I had a brief discussion, and when I looked over to see where Larry was, he was rising up from the ground. “You didn’t just cross that fence!” I hollered over to him. “No,” he replied, “I fell.” “You okay?” I questioned. “Yeah, I’m fine.” So I wandered over to the gate in the fence and surveyed the beauty before me.

            A few minutes later Larry emerged from the tree line and much to my dismay, blood was streaming down his face. To make a long story short, he had tripped on some fallen branches buried beneath the fallen leaves, hit his head, scraped up his arm and had landed on his camera, protecting it during his fall. I doctored him up, and ignored the jibes about having band-aids in my purse. He was okay and went right back to snapping away.

            Three of the bovine inhabitants of the pasture came lumbering up the hill to check us out. A very large bull and, what I would assume were, two of his male progeny took long drinks from the water trough as they had their pictures taken. Once they were assured that we did not have any special treats for them, they headed back down into their lush valley. After the shutterbugs had taken a little hike down the trails in the forest we headed down to the road that runs along the coast.

            There is a place along M-119 which has been dubbed the “Tunnel of Trees” due to the very narrow road which is completely covered by the forest. It was incredibly busy on that Saturday afternoon, with a steady stream of traffic going in both directions – and no place to pull over and enjoy it. It was lovely, though, and we all enjoyed the experience.

            The Apple Festival was pretty cool – many of the local apple producers had stands along the main drag and there was also an art fair, face painting, and pony rides, by the harbor. We wandered about, looked at some of the art, and bought some apples before heading back to Mackinaw City for the night.

            We each went to our rooms to relax before going out to dinner. I went out on our balcony to watch the sun setting behind the bridge.

Someone set off a firework near the bridge, and Larry joined me on the balcony. Soon it became apparent that this wasn’t just, “someone setting off fireworks”, but an actual show. Larry went in to the room to get his camera so that hopefully he could capture some of the beauty of fireworks with the bridge, all reflected in the bay. There were some tiny bugs attracted to the light in our room, so Larry pulled the sliding glass door closed behind him as he came out. It was a pretty impressive display, and we really enjoyed it. However, when it was over and I headed back in to the room to make arrangements for dinner, I found that somehow, the door had locked.  

            Eventually, Larry called out to some of the occupants of a neighboring room to please call the desk and apprise them of the situation. The manager of the hotel came pretty quickly and let us back in, and we all had a good laugh. I decided that it was fortunate timing as 1) the weather was nice – no rain or snow, 2) we were fully clothed when this happened, and 3) I didn’t have to pee.

            On Sunday we took a drive across the Might Mac and the Upper Peninsula to see the Locks in Sault Ste. Marie. (For those of you non-Michiganders, that is pronounced “Sue Saint Marie”.) We didn’t get to see a ship going through the locks, but it was pretty cool anyway. (And I mean that – the wind was biting cold.) It was a pretty easy drive home after all that, and traffic was not at all bad. It was a wonderful way to spend a weekend.

Note: photos are from a google search - don't have any from the trip yet.

A mini-adventure, Part 1

This past weekend we went up to Northern Michigan for a mini-break. I booked us rooms at a hotel in Mackinaw City, at the northern tip of the Lower Peninsula.  This is the point where the Mackinaw Bridge connects the Lower Peninsula to the Northern Peninsula (known as the U.P. to us locals). If you research it online, you will find the Mackinaw Bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the Western hemisphere – or the third longest, depending on which way they measure it. It is five miles across the point where Lake Michigan meets Lake Huron.

It was a beautiful day for our drive up, which took around four hours. Bright blue skies hung over the deep greens of the pines, burgundy maple leaves and soft yellows of the birch trees. Dusk was approaching as we neared the top of the mitten and as we came over the rise near the coast we could saw a wall of fog hanging over the water obscuring our view of the lakes and bridge. We descended into the fog and town and made our way to the hotel. Our balcony afforded us the perfect view of the straits and the bridge which eventually appeared as the winds blew the bank of fog to the east.

After dinner we drove out to the International Dark Sky Park. It was a beautiful night and the stars were almost close enough to touch. It is weird how just sitting in a car when you travel can be so exhausting, and even though the bed was a slab of concrete, I slept deeply.

When I awoke in the morning I sat out on the balcony drinking my coffee and, watching the ferry boats carry tourists back and forth to Mackinaw Island, I was reminded of Istanbul. The parallels between these two places are almost surreal. Both have huge beautiful bridges over busy bodies of water and dozens of ferry boats which take people to islands where motorized vehicles are prohibited, where tourists get around on bikes or in horse-drawn carriages. In one place minarets pierce the sky, in the other it is steeples, lighthouses and wind turbines. In one place there are millions of people using the ferries to get to work each day, while in the other they carry mostly tourists. In one place the centuries of history of the spice trade waft through the light breezes, in the other, a wooden fort stands against the harsh Chinook winds. Both places have huge ships passing beneath their bridges on their journeys to supply the world, but in Mackinaw the ferries are quiet and modern and don’t puff out black smoke which then settles as soot on the window sills. The relatively new and the relatively old… so many similarities and differences, on opposite sides of the world.

More on our adventure will follow…

On Persistence

     I woke up this morning thinking about my mom. It has been three years this week since she left us so I have been thinking about her a lot in recent days. I miss her. But this morning I was thinking about how she would have reacted to my “breaking up” post. I think she would have shook her head at me and, after a rant about how the academy is an “old boys club”, she would have asked me if it was a good idea to close the door on any possibilities.
     Raised on a dairy farm in upstate New York, my mom followed in her mother’s footsteps, graduating from Cornell with a degree in Home Economics. She once told me that only “rich kids” got a liberal arts degree, and most of those girls were only there to find a husband. She would say this with great contempt, which I now find ironic as she did find a husband while getting her degree. She worked for a brief time for the extension service before she began to have children, but then, sometime after I was born, while my dad was working at MSU, she decided to get a masters degree.
     While I was in school she worked as an instructor in Family Ecology at MSU, I think she was an adjunct as she also taught classes at Eastern from time to time. She worked in a few different areas at the academy and eventually she moved into primarily doing development work. (Much to my chagrin, in the early 1970’s, she and my dad taught the first class on human sexuality at a public university – with a great deal of fanfare, so EVERYONE in my little high school knew about it.) I know that she always felt like a second class citizen in the academy, because she didn’t have a PhD – and only people with a PhD got any respect. I am paraphrasing here, but I know that the wounds ran deep. She did a presentation at a conference once and when she got home she was livid. Some man had commented to her that “it was nice that her husband let her present his work”. But it was HER work, HER research, findings and paper, not his.
     So what is my point? I guess that she found her own path within and outside of academia. She didn’t want to take the time to get a PhD because she was too busy helping the women of developing nations. She was out there doing the work; spending long hours getting to those who needed the help most, while others were getting their PhDs. She worked all over sub-Saharan Africa, Central and South America, and Asia helping women to become self-sufficient.  
     And when she wasn’t out of the country, she was sitting in her favorite chair, with sports on the television and someone’s dissertation draft in her lap, glasses perched in front of her sparkling blue eyes, red pen in hand, helping others to get their PhDs. Yes, she would have shook her head at me and told me not to give up. That I can do anything I set my mind to, despite what I might think right now. And that I have a roof over my head, shoes on my feet and food on the table. End of story. All of this despite her disappointment that I am not, nor have I ever been, a star singing on Broadway.

Pumpkin Cookies

A couple of weeks ago I bought 2 pie pumpkins at the grocery store. (They were on sale, buy one get one free.) I cleaned them, roasted them and pureed the flesh. I put two cups of the puree into freezer bags and froze two of them so we can have fresh pumpkin pies in November. (Like we do!) The trick to this technique is to cut the bags off the frozen pumpkin before thawing it, or it is just a big gloppy mess.

The other two cups I used to make cookies. I am trying to be healthier in my baking endeavors so I have been lowering the amount of sugars and adding more fiber. Anyway, these came out really yummy so I thought I would share the recipe here. Enjoy.

Pumpkin Cookies
An autumn favorite, these cookies are soft and chewy.These are fabulous with a glass of fresh apple cider.

3/4 cup butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg
1/2 tsp vanilla
8 oz solid pack pumpkin (or 1 Cup fresh pumpkin puree)
2 Cups flour
1 1/2 cup oats
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp salt
1 cup mini chocolate chips

Cream butter and sugars until well blended. Add egg and vanilla. Mix in pumpkin. Stir in dry ingredients. Add chocolate chips. Drop by rounded teaspoons onto cookie sheet. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 10—12 minutes. Cool on wire rack.

TIP: microwave for 15-20 seconds to re-melt chips!

 

On Guns

     I was thinking about writing about a variety of different things this morning. Then I ran across an article in the Sunday paper that struck a bit too close to home. The article itself isn’t available online yet, but it was written by one of my favorite Flint Journal writers, Andrew Heller. Over the years his articles have often made me laugh out loud as he has commented on the trials and tribulation of raising a family, living in the Flint area, and other social issues. 

     Earlier this week I heard about two men who, following some kind of road rage incident, pulled into a car wash in a small town in Michigan and shot each other to death. Both were legally carrying concealed weapons. What a couple of idiots, I thought. I hope it was worth it, to be right – to not only die in order to be right, but to kill another human being, in order to be right. And what a stupid legal system we have. And, shaking my head at the stupidity of it all, I set the whole story aside.

    Today, in reading the Sunday paper, I saw the names of the two men who lost their lives for no good reason. One of the names jumped off the page and punched me in the gut. I went to high school with Robert Taylor. He is one of my facebook friends. Yes, I have known that he owns guns, he is a Michigan boy who hunts deer – many of the people I went to school with participate in this tradition here in the mitten. Robert and I were never close friends, but he has often put kind words of encouragement on my posts. And he was one of those idiots. He took another man’s life, and lost his own, over some stupid bad behavior on the highway. What a waste.

    This incident was in the wake of the shootings at the Naval Yard near our Nation’s Capitol. Yes, another mass shooting. This time, thankfully, no children were involved. That incident was followed by a journalism professor at KU being suspended from his job because of a hateful response tweet.

    I try very hard not to be judgmental. I try to accept other people’s decisions about how to conduct their lives. But I simply do not understand how anyone feels it is necessary to own, much less carry, a handgun. Owning a riffle so one can go hunting, or protect themselves from wild animals is one thing. Owning and carrying a hand gun is something different.

    Having lived in West Africa as a child, having a gun pointed in my face at the age of 8, and having seen what life is like in countries where hand guns are forbidden, I do not understand what would make anyone think that a populace armed with hand guns is a good idea. This is beyond stupidity.  I really don’t know what to say. But I am pretty sure if Robert and the other driver hadn’t had hand guns, they might have knocked each other silly, they might be in the hospital, or in jail, but I am pretty sure they would both be alive today to read my post, and try to talk me out of my beliefs  and that “guns don’t kill people”.

Nesting

     It has cooled off in the Mitten and the urge to stock up yummy supplies for the winter has hit me hard. Last weekend we went to the Flint Farmer's Market and I bought some tomatoes which I cooked into spaghetti sauce and froze.  I also bought raspberries and blackberries, some of which somehow disappeared from my kitchen, but others made it into cobbler and others were cleaned and frozen. This weekend I bought pie pumpkins. I roasted them, mashed and pureed them, and put the pumpkin into freezer bags - 2 cups per bag, so that I can make pies this winter. There is also container with roasted pumpkin seeds, but I doubt those will last long. Next up, apples from the local orchard and then a freezer full of apple sauce for the winter.
     Doing all this reminded me that I owe a special someone in Kansas my recipe for Raspberry Razzle:

For those of us who love raspberries, this is the perfect side dish or dessert any time of the year.

1 Package Raspberry Jell-O

1 10 ounce package frozen raspberries or 1 cup fresh
1 cup sour cream
3/4 cups water

Combine all the ingredients in a medium saucepan over medium heat using a wire whisk. Bring to a boil. Pour into a pretty bowl or mold. Chill until set. For dessert, serve with a dollop of whipped cream. Yum.

About Time

     Across the back of my yard there is a row of a dozen blue spruce trees.  Since we moved in to this house, I have marked the passage of the seasons by watching the sun rise behind those trees. This morning I woke up before six “enjoying”, as my sons would say “a personal tropical vacation”. Seeking relief, I made my way down to the deck, stopping off to make a pot of coffee on my way. When my coffee and I stepped out onto the deck, it was cool, dark, still, and silent. Peaceful.
     As I sipped my coffee and watched the sun rise I was amazed, once again, by the world awakening all around me. Oscar bin Laden, terrorist kitty, joined me on his favorite perch atop the covered gas grill. The sky began to lighten directly behind the row of trees and I was reminded that the autumnal equinox is quickly approaching. The breeze picked up, birds began to chirp in the maple tree, and the sun breached the horizon, spilling gently through the center spruce tree. In the distance the rumble of the first school bus approached the neighborhood.
     Then the sadness washed over me. This is the first time in my adult life that I am not involved in the start of a new school year in some way. Weird. My children are grown and the one who is still in school is on the other side of the country. I am not working in academia so there is no significance to the beginning of the year for me. There is no excitement at meeting new teachers, or classmates, or students. There were no trips to buy school supplies or the “cool” clothes. There is no need for the family calendar marking the dates and times of practices, games, and concerts.  Nothing.  Just the sounds of the endless stream of school busses coming and going from the neighborhood.
     This year I will not mark the passage of time by midterms or school breaks, I will not watch the syllabus for the next assignment. I will mark the passage of time as the sunrise moves across the spruce trees to the south and then again to the north.

On Writing Struggles

     When I was in school sometimes I had to write about something in order to understand it (think economic theory here). That has also been true in my relationships. Often if I have been upset about something, it doesn't matter if it is something important or something trivial, if I write about it, like in a letter, I can figure out why it is I am feeling the way I am feeling. It is easier to see the ideas which simply aren't true, and which ideas are really important. And then, once I have figured it out, I can face that problem head on and handle it.
     There is a story I have been struggling to tell since I was 9 years old. It is the story of how I came to be in the middle of a war in Nigeria, West Africa. Before my parents passed away they gave me all of their documents from that period. I have binders full of letters my father wrote to my mother, letters my mother wrote to her family, running notes from their research, essays they wrote years later, receipts, passports, and even my father's testimony before congress. There is plenty of fodder for this story, and yet I have continued to struggle with writing this story.
     One day I was driving to school on I-475 and the story flashed before me in movie form. I decided at that point that I should write it  as a screenplay and someone (God only knows who) would make it into the movie and the story would finally be told. The fact that I don't know anything about writing a screenplay, or getting someone to make it into a movie wasn't going to stop me. If I wrote it, somehow it would work itself out. So then I dove straight into the deep and murky waters of how to write a screenplay and from time to time, I work on it.
     A couple of weeks ago I happened across a post on my facebook feed about a movie which is to be released soon. "Half of a Yellow Sun" is based on a novel written by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. She is a wonderful author from Enugu, Nigeria. I am pretty sure her father was a student of my father. I suddenly felt as though all my years of work (albeit spotty work) was for naught. Here, someone has already made a movie about that conflict, so now what am I to do? My mother told me, "You are going to have to write this story", and I just didn't know what to do.
     Then last night the strangest thing happened. Again, I was looking at my facebook feed and I stumbled across a link to  Ted Talks with Chimamanda Adichie. At first I was hesitant to look at it at all, but then I decided I should see what this woman, who had done what I only "worked on", had to say. And what she said made me sure that I need to both finish the screenplay and write the book or books. "The danger of a single story" is why I need to write it.
     My father spent the better part of seven years, much of the time away from his family, to bring higher education to the Nigerians. Even as a 7 year old child, I felt guilt and shame at being white and privileged. Those feelings only grew over the years. But those feelings were unwarranted. He didn't dedicate those years to making the Nigerians "more like us" but to making the tools available so that the Nigerians could be more of who they were - a people for whom he had a great love and respect. His mistake was taking sides in a political struggle where the odds were stacked against those that he championed. And me, I was just a little girl doing her best to get through the 4th grade.

Adjustments

Once again it is time for adjustments, or maybe I should say re-adjustments. This time I find myself adjusting to living in my own house, in my own town, once again. Having been gone for two and a half years, I find I am feeling a bit discombobulated and in need of a routine. Last week was all about moving from Kansas, but this is the first week I have been home, with no job, and no real routine.

The move itself went pretty smoothly thanks to my wonderful sons and Nick's friend, Lindsay. They packed, hauled, moved and cleaned like pros. They got up early and piled into the truck and car, and the drive was fairly smooth. Even Oscar (terrorist kitty) was wonderful - didn't make any fuss at all during the long, long drive back to Michigan. Except for my poor choice in picnic area along the flooded Mississippi, the whole trip went off perfectly.

Actually, we have all been adjusting. I have been combining my household back into itself after dismantling it a few years ago - and yet, everything has changed. It isn't a bad thing, it is just different. And once again I am reminded, you can't go back. So I have returned, and I am adjusting. At least unlike Oscar, I am not afraid to come out from under the bed, go downstairs and reacquaint myself with my belongings, my yard, my street, my town, the general area, and adjust.

Flash fiction

The Phone Call

She reached for a towel to dry her hands before she picked up the ringing telephone.

“Hello,” she said as she reached over to turn off the hot water running into the sink. There was a lag and a crackle on the line and then,

“Mags, sweetheart?” asked a British man’s voice.

“Hey, Ronnie! Where are you guys?” responded the tall, lithe brunette.

“We’re in Osaka" he replied.

Her face broke into a smile as she leaned up against the kitchen wall in her apartment. They had been friends for about ten years, since she sang back-up on his debut album.  A few years later Ron had introduced her to his new drummer, Vic, and they had fallen madly in love.  Ron had been best man at their wedding almost five years ago.  They were the perfect couple for almost five years, but the stress of their careers had taken a toll on their relationship and she had moved into her own place about two months ago. The divorce would be final in another six weeks, and even though the marriage hadn’t worked out, they were all still very close friends.

“Are you taking good care of my soon to be ex-husband?” she asked.

“Well, luv,” he began, “that’s why I’m calling.”

There was a tone in his normally lilting voice she didn’t like.

“Pete is coming by with the limo to take you to the airport so you can come on over. You can pick up your tickets at the counter…”

She slid down the wall and could see herself sitting on the floor in the reflection of the sliding glass door. Something was terribly wrong.

“Ron,” she interrupted, “what’s happened to Vic?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this…Vic collapsed after we played your song last night and we had to bring him to hospital.” His voice was cracking with emotion. She was suddenly aware of noises in the background, hospital noises.

“Ronnie…?” she began, but couldn’t finish.

“I’m so sorry, luv, but Vic had a massive heart attack and…” she could hear him sobbing on the other end of a call from half way around the world. There were muffled voices, but no one was talking to her.  She was stunned. This couldn’t be right, he was only thirty five and in great shape.  She sat staring at her own reflection in the sliding glass door, unable to think, dazed.  Time stood still.

“Mags? It’s Lou.” Their road manager came on the line. “Sweetie, you’ve gotta come over here and handle the legal stuff so we can bring Vic home. Baby, are you there?”

“Yeah, Lou, I’m here…” she choked out.

“The consulate says you’ve gotta sign the release so we can bring the body home.”

“Oh my god….Okay.” was all she could say.

Tears were streaming down the face in the reflection in the sliding glass doors as the silver stretch limo pulled up outside. As she watched the driver get out she realized that her life had just completely changed. Suddenly she realized she was looking at the reflection of a widow.

Tears for Biafra

This is written by my father at a time when the word genocide was not well known. I found the origianl and several mimeographed copies along with a letter of rejection from the New Yorker. He wrote this shortly after he returned from a fact-finding mission to our old home, and his report on the situation there to the U.S. Congress. I post this again today in honor of Nigeria's most well read writer, a man for whom my father had great respect, Chinua Achebe.

Tears for Biafra

George H. Axinn

Beneath the palms the children played

With gentle laughter danced and swayed

While women fired the evening fires

And told each other of life’s desires.

They bore home water in earthen flasks,

And carried on their homespun tasks

Whilst at palaver the men did sit

And with palm oil, the lamps were lit.

Then like a curse the machete fell

From North and West they heard they yell

And refugees told of a living Hell

As they swarmed back home to break the spell;

With stories of horror there to tell

And hopes that the maimed might soon be well.

A people cried… depressed… forlorn –

And out of those tears, Biafra was born!

The lame, the beaten; the great and small

Brothers and sisters were welcomed all.
Cassava was planted where never before
And yams were gathered to fill the store.
Their plea was freedom to live alone
In Peace and safety; to throw no stone…
The Igbo, Ibibio, Effik and Ijaw
Ogoja and Annong, and so many more.
The leaders, in Ghana, their fears did allay
And on Aburi would they stand and pray.
But the Federals refused to let them away
Brought rifles and mortars to pave the way
To death for mothers and children at play.

A people cried… depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.

At first the battle went quite well

And both sides had their claims to tell
But then came guns and tanks and planes
To Lagos to enhance their gains
From London and Moscow and Cairo too
While poor Biafra had nothing new
As mortars fired and guns did blast
And no one lived as they swept past.
The world saw not how many died
Nor heard the sounds as children sighed,
Yet hungry dogs and vultures plied
The lanes alone – ‘twas genocide’.
All churches, schools, and markets wide
Were left in smoke, but not denied.

A people cried … depressed… forlorn –

And out of it all, Biafra was born.