rebeccakuder

Wishing the bubble were sturdier

Yellow Springs, a long time ago.
Yellow Springs, a long time ago.

(Caution: tired writer.  Mixed metaphors ahead…)

I grew up in a small town.  Though we had our quirks and craziness, and we were not immune to death and grief, the town felt safe when I was a kid.  It has felt safe to raise a kid here, too, and I am grateful to live in a true community, where people see each other, pay attention, and in the ways we can, take care of each other.  Having moved within walking distance to town, this summer, I was looking forward to echoing my own childhood: biking with my kid, hot afternoons at the swimming pool, soft serve ice cream, fun.  This sense of safety in my own town (yes, “my,” because I have a sense of investment and ownership in this place) is a cozy blanket I’ve enjoyed, and taken for granted, most of my life.

But since June, my security has been rocked by several situations that leave me feeling vulnerable.  I think back to the moment of Truman Capote’s “nonfiction novel,” In Cold Blood; I think back to the moment when people began locking their doors.

Earlier this year, there was a rash of burglaries that had many in Yellow Springs feeling vulnerable.  That situation ended in the arrest of a troubled man who grew up here.  Add the accumulation of things that is making me feel vulnerable this summer:

1. On June 12, someone sprayed undiluted herbicide on the grass at the pool, opening a controversy in our small town that is still going on;

2. On June 27, reportedly, someone with a gun was seen near the outdoor education center at Glen Helen where my daughter had been a camper earlier in the summer, which turned out to be a hoax reported by a camp counselor, who was then put on administrative leave;

3. On July 11, a local man attempted suicide, which resulted in a police search and brief lockdown of my workplace during the Antioch Writers’ Workshop;

4. Last week, another local man, allegedly pissed off about the potential for a farm lab at Antioch College, threatened to shoot the members of the Village Council and was arrested (sorry, I couldn’t find a link to this story);

5. Last night, there was a shoot-out resulting in a man dying, less than a block from a house where I used to live.

Notice: four of five of these summer situations involve guns, or the idea of guns.  Big deal, right?  This might not sound like much to people who live in larger cities, or dangerous parts of the world.  For a town with population under 4,000 people, however, these are big, and rattling.  I know people live (and even thrive) in war zones. But this summer’s accumulation of trauma in the village, the pile of things that shake our sense of safety, is palpable.  It takes brute effort not to pass my worry and fear to my five-year-old daughter.  (Oh, and, nothing to do with guns, but two  difficult events this summer: 1. Camille Willis, Yellow Springs resident and mother of my dear childhood friends–and a second mother to me–died very suddenly during the second week of June.  No gun involved, but the loss is central in wobbling my feeling of home, and safety.  2. Jimmy Chesire, beloved T-Ball coach, had a serious head injury.  Luckily, he is healing well, and so there’s some bright spot in that fact.)

When I think about where to focus efforts for controlling the proliferation of guns, I don’t even know where to start.  I know we also need deeper support for people who are afraid, for people who are in (mental, spiritual, emotional, physical) pain.  I know it’s more complicated than “guns kill people” but I also know that if it weren’t so damn easy to get guns, guns would kill fewer people.

I’ve been brewing a blog post about this soup of summer grief.  Today, after the latest event, I am sad and ragged.  Sad and ragged for all the people who’ve been hurt and affected by these situations.  I wish the bubble were sturdier.

rebeccakuder

Wishing for Wishbone Russian dressing

mmmm, childhood!
mmmm, childhood!

The other day, for some reason I remembered Wishbone Russian dressing, which was my favorite when I was a child.  Trying to recreate it, it occurred to me to use my friend Meui’s heavenly smoked paprika.  What resulted is not quite Wishbone Russian, but much better in some ways, and I’m still experimenting.

I used a regular teaspoon, not a teaspoon measure.  And you can make extra–it keeps well in the refrigerator.

(All measurements approximate.)
1 spoonful of smoked paprika from Pepper Forrest Spice Company
1/2 spoonful of honey
3 spoonfuls of rice vinegar
6 spoonfuls of olive oil
salt (to taste)
freshly ground black pepper (to taste)
With a fork, mix smoked paprika and honey and rice vinegar.  Add olive oil slowly, whirring with a fork until it emulsifies.  Add salt and pepper. Drizzle over salad greens and toss.

 (To go for the Wishbone Russian flavor, I keep thinking it might benefit from celery seed, which I do not have in my spice cupboard.  Or maybe I’ll use lemon juice instead of vinegar.  Or maybe add some fresh tomato juice.  Next time!)
rebeccakuder

A found poem (for Jim Krusoe)

Here’s a found poem, found in that I found this written in my Antioch Writers’ Workshop notebook from July 12, 2010 for my graduate school mentor, the novelist Jim Krusoe.  I wrote this almost-poem in a morning class three years ago, before I learned more about how people write poetry, but today something about it seems quaint, and worth reiterating, so I am posting it.  Bad poetry, admittedly, but its DNA is true.

Editing (for Jim Krusoe)

You said,
“Start here,”
lopping several pages
from the front of my story
like a severed limb
I had muscled
and exercised,
polished, toned.

The thing
(the now-partial body, I thought)
stood there.
I thought I saw blood–
not a Monty Python spurt,
but a trickle.

But I was wrong.
There was no blood.
It was a good cut, the right cut;
the story stood stronger
without those pages.

You were kind
and you were right.

rebeccakuder

No noose, please

tom-waits
Tom Waits hanging out with a cat!

Today I have a headache, so I’m indulging in a short, cranky post.  (I know my five true blog fans have missed me!  Mama’s back!)

Today I heard spoken two expressions that, if I never hear them again, I will never miss.  Both were uttered on my local NPR station, one in a national report, another by a local personality.  To wit:

1) “(Just about anything)…comes into play.”  As in, “That’s when the –whatever idea,  trend, or phenomenon, which has nothing to do with a ball or birdie or other piece of sports equipment– comes into play.”  I don’t mind sports metaphors per se, but this one is more tired than I am.  I never need to hear it again; and

2) “To hang.” This was used thusly: “Hang with your friends…”  Call me old school (another once-cool, now-tired label, surely!) but I’d prefer to “hang out” with my friends.  I don’t want to simply hang with my friends or my enemies–I would rather not hang at all.  I am tired, but I am not so tired that I don’t have the energy to add the short “out” at the end of “hang.”  Otherwise, all I can think of is a noose/coming into play, which even on this headachey day has little enough appeal as to be nonexistent.