Category Archives: Living Well

Making Tea

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In its simplest form, tea is an infusion in hot water of dried leaves from  a bush originating in Asia whose formal name is Camellia Sinensis,GF Almond Scones 2 tea to closer friends. Technically. tea is only a beverage made from this plant, but other herbal infusions are referred to as tea by analogy.

The simplest way is to oil a kettle of cold water, add to a mug, and add a tea bag. You allow this to brew or steep for 3-5 minutes, take the bag out and enjoy.

A more thorough preparation isn’t difficult, but is more time-consuming. Each step is simple and easy, but there are steps, and that makes it more of a ritual than a recipe.

Don’t make tea in advance. Have all the ingredients ready, but make it when you are to serve it. It should be fresh.

firePut fresh, cold water in the kettle, the wait for the boil. It can come to a boil, but is better if it is only just there.
Take the teapot you intend to use, and pour hot water into it to warm it up. Swish it around a bit and pour it into the sink; this can either be as a cleansing votive offering, or just a way of stinging the trolls who live in your U-joint.
Measure the loose-leaf tea you have chosen into the now warm teapot. The standard is a teaspoon for each guest and an extra one. I prefer strong tea, so I add a heaping teaspoon of tea leaves for each guest, and an extra one in case Mousey or Wode Toad come to visit.
Add in the hot water (it should have boiled, but should not be boiling), cover, and allow the tea to steep at least 3 minutes, since I like strong tea I would say longer, but you should experiment: too soon is too weak, too late becomes bitter, or acquires a tinny, unpleasant edge.Classroom Tea strainer
Pour for your guests first, and then for yourself, laying a tea strainer over each cup as you pour.

Tea can be served a variety of ways.
There are choices of sweeteners, such as sugar, sugar cubes, rock sugar–either dissolved in the tea or in the mouth as you drink, honey, or even a little bit of jam.
There are choices of add-ins, including the standard milk of the British Isles and former colonies. This can be cold or warmed. It really does taste different if you put the milk in first. Americans tend to like a little lemon. Another interesting add in from Germany is a Tablespoon (or more) of rum.

Most of all, take your time, enjoy the tea, and enjoy your company.

Tea.

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I used to teach two philosophy courses, a course on Ancient philosophy titled “How to live well,” and a course on Modern philosophy I called “How to be human.” Because each of them only met once a week, they were 3 hours long. I can certainly talk for 3 hours, but classes are much better as a conversation, and their energy would begin to flag part way through.

At this point we would break for tea.

Classroom Tea (3)Sometimes, I had cookies, but generally I would just buy a variety of apples at the local farm stand–they go quite well with tea. After the tea, they would have more energy (though often less concentration), and the conversation would assume a more relaxed, mellow character of give and take and exploration.
Many of my students have made tea a regular part of their lives, which I find gratifying. A higher proportion of boys in their 20s own teapots thanks to me, which means they have learned something important about being human and living well.

Why tea?

There are many rituals that involve meeting around a table and sharing food. Some are more time consuming, but sharing a pot of tea can be done fairly simply, and instantly involves sitting together and interacting. It is something that is made, so it involves a little bit of an individual touch, and Tea and Scones for my classa personal touch. The host has a position of control, but also must assume a servant role as he or she serves the tea, asking about milk, sugar, cookies, etc. One already has some small talk asking and answering these questions. Tea is a caffeinated beverage, but generally doesn’t signal the need for intense stimulation that coffee does, leaving instead a more gentle, thoughtful visit (don’t’ get me wrong; I love coffee, too).

It is civilized, and civilizing.

Asian Teapot (6)There is also the ritual of preparing the tea, which, like most rituals, can be relaxing and meditative itself. Cold water in the kettle, the wait for the boil, pouring hot water in the tea pot to warm it up, and then offering it up as a cleansing votive offering. Measuring out a teaspoon of tea leaves for each guest, and an extra one in case Mousey or Wode Toad come to visit. Adding in the hot water (it should have boiled, but should not be boiling), and allowing the tea to steep–I would say at least 3 minutes, since I like strong tea, but you should experiment: too soon is too weak, too late becomes bitter, or acquires a tinny, unpleasant edge.

At this point, the variety begins: with milk? poured in before the tea? (try it, it tastes different) sugar? one lump or two? rock sugar? honey? a bit of jelly in the tea to sweeten it? lemon?
Would you like something with that?

Tea is part of what we want to be. Yes, we want to be classy, like the British upper-crust of the 19th century, but sharing tea makes us–or allows us–to do things that make us better. We automatically become more polite–in part because of the atmosphere it creates, but also because of all the interaction:
Tea with Mousy (5)“Would you like sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
“Milk?”
“No, thank you.”
“Here you go…”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
More than that, it is shared. It involves the gentle gift of hospitality, and the gracious gift of appreciation. It involves a sensual pleasure that is shared–although it is one which is appropriate and can be talked about in public. Most of all, it moves at a slower pace than doing shots of Jägermeister. It is tea time; it is taken at its own speed, sitting and relaxing.

Sensual joy, physical sustenance, engaging in little comforting rituals, giving, receiving, and sharing hospitality, slowing down in order to have a conversation, listening, being polite–perhaps even witty–most of all, taking the time to sit down and engage with another human being–these and more are the elements that go into tea.

Isn’t that really what being human and living well are about?
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France has wine, we have wifi.

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GordesOn these dreary winter days, I find myself day-dreaming of the mellow sunshine of Provence, in Southern France.
The air is different there. It is infused with a light that cannot be captured in photographs; the most realistic, literal, depictions of it are the paintings of Van Gogh or Cezanne. The air is almost a living being of light and warmth wrapped close around you, lying with you skin on skin. It has its own fragrance, one like nothing else in the world, but if I smelled it anywhere, I would know it. It is a mixture of baked grass and dry5 Avignon (56), ochre dirt, warm fennel, the spicy scent of olive leaves, the sharp, tangy sweetness of lavender, and the warm scent of waking in the early morning after a dream.
This is the part of France where Northern Europe meets the Mediterranean, so the markets are vibrant and full of color–a symphony of fresh produce. You can fill–and lose–your senses in the melons of Cavaillon. They are the size of a young breast and as sweet as the promise of new love.

There is a stereotype that the French are haughty and rude–especially the waiters. I never found this to be true. The French (and their wait-staff) are proud, and–like most 5 Avignon (11)Europeans–they do not share the compulsive or compulsory cheeriness that Americans think of as “being nice.” They are to the point and professional, but, like us, they have things to do and places to be, and their patience can be taxed. Some, of course, are rude, but some are sympathetic, just like people everywhere. The folks at the tourism desk in Cavaillon who helped us find bicycles to get to Gordes were patient and went above and beyond. Paris is, for the most part, less patient with tourists–having lived in Nashville (“Music City, USA!”), I remember just how annoying those pasty, indecisive, lumbering road-blocks could be, and I understand how easy it is to lose patience with out-of-towners. Outside of Paris, however, many of the French are very kind, hospitable and helpful. In southern France, they are also more laid back.

There are 2 things that I found hard to get in French restaurants: wifi and the bill. Europe in general is less attached to smart phones & pads than we are–you mostly see Asian tourists using them. Although there is good, high-speed internet, it is usually in specific places–homes, offices, schools, and Irish Pubs, not showered about as free wifi. There is “fast food” in France, but most French restaurants and Cafés are not fast. Waiters are really quick to seat you, and to get your drink order (and give you bread), but then leave you time to order, bring your meals as they are made, and then disappear.
I believe the two are related.
The reason that there is no rush on the final bill is because there should be no rush to finish the meal. Imagine this: you are sitting in Avignon, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The neighborhood is beautiful. The restaurant is beautiful. The food is amazing, and the company you are lucky enough to share your food with are both beautiful and amazing. Why should you rush? If people must rush in life, they should be rushing in order to eat amazing food in beautiful places with beautiful and amazing people, not rushing that in order to go sightsee. Have some more wine! 5 Avignon (28)Try a bottle of Pastis. Enjoy the conversation. Smell the beautiful air that is Provence. Live.
So, why, if you are in the most perfect place in the world, do you need to check your iPad, your kindle, your iPhone, your Android, your nook, or any other albatross binding you to another place? How could you not be completely and totally in the moment? How could there be more interesting people than the ones you are with?

We have our wifi, they have their wines. We may have one some big wars, but we have lost a very important one.

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Waltzing (3 Beets)

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One of the things my mom taught me about food was to plan the plate so that there were a variety of colors. This is visually interesting, but also works nutritionally: Carbs tend to be white or tan, whereas healthy, fresh vegetables come in an amazing array of beet salad 1colors. Tans, browns, and greens are fairly easy–even yellows–but brighter oranges, reds, purples, are more rare.
This is a basic broiled beet recipe that can be served 3 ways. As my friend the beet expert points out, raw beets have most nutritional benefit, but these are a good dish. Also, you can just broil beets with a little olive oil and salt, and eat them like that.

First possibility: Broiled Beets

Ingredients:

  • 4 beets
  • 3 sweet potatoes
  • !/3 red cabbage
  • 1/2 red onion
  • olive oil
  • soy sauce or salt
  • red wine
  • other spices as desired
  • 3 cloves garlic

Step 1, Prepare ye the way: Scrub the skins of the beets & the sweets potatoes, and slice them about 1/8 to 1/4 of an inch (you could peel them, but lots of nutrients are in the skin; texture, too).slice the cabbage and onion.

Step 2, Shake it up, Baby:Toss the vegetables together, with some olive oil and a bit of soy sauce & red wine. Oil a large iron skillet and put in the vegetables.

Step 3. Turn on the heat: Broil on high, taking out and tossing every 6 minutes, until the edges of the sweet potatoes and beet start to caramelize (“brown” if you aren’t familiar with kitchen lingo, “caramelise” if you prefer English, if you are a real geek, “Maillardize”–however the browning of the onions is pyrolysis because it is non-enzymatic).

Step 4, Watch out! It can burn: Repeat this 4 or 5 (or more) times, beet salad 2until the roots are cooked, but still firm, browned, but not burnt. When you are almost there, add the garlic., and put it back in (warmed garlic is aromatic, burnt garlic is nasty).

Step 5, to table: Serve as a delicious, nutritious and colorful side dish, either in the hot skillet (oh, the drama) or in a dish (oh, I can pass it).

Second possibility: Broiled Beet Salad

beet salad 3Only Step, Salad: Add a bit of vinegar, perhaps some more spices like rosemary to the broiled beets, perhaps some sliced carrots, allow it to cool, and serve it as a salad, or pack it (warm) in a big Mason Jar, and then let it cool and take it on a picnic.

Third possibility: Broiled Beet Soup

If you do this, I recommend undercooking the vegetables.

Step 1, Out of the skillet, into the soup pan: Transfer the vegetables into a soup pot, deglaze with wine, and add vegetable broth.

Step 2, A few extra things: Add a can of drained and rinsed kidney beans for texture and protein, cover and let simmer.Beets & Bialys jan 21 (2)

Step 3, Serve: Spice as desired, and serve with either Bialys or dark bread, and the option of sour cream. Another option is to mix the soup before serving with sour cream or crème fraise, which makes it a garish pepto-bismol pink.

Alea Iacta Est

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Thanks to Wode Toad for his help with the classical Wode_on_sidewalk_after_closehistory & the Latin. This is one of those times when his work in the classical department at St Andrews comes in handy.

He seems to be restless and pre-occupied, though, of late, and talks of travelling).

In the winter of 49 BC, the Roman General Gaius Julius Caesar had decisions to make. He was camped on the edge of the icy Alps, looking south, across the river.
He had established a strong political base in Rome, then had become governor of the vercingetorix-jules-cesarvarious Roman provinces bordering the tribes in Gaul. The Gauls were the various Celtic Tribes who lived in what is now France, as well as parts of Switzerland and Germany (the Gauls in Galatia–in the Balkans–had been subdued by the Romans earlier). He countered a move by one tribe–the Helvetii–and through a series of quick and effective military maneuvers established control over all of Gaul (Omnia Gallia). The crown of this military campaign was the surrender of the Chieftain Vercingetorix on October 3rd in 51 BC.
Caesar, aware of the importance of media, wrote dispatches back to Rome detailing his campaign and his soldiers’ achievements. The work is in a simple andjules-cesar clear Latin prose, yet reads well–Gaius Julius Caesar is a vivid Storyteller, and his History of the Gallic Wars was popular at the time and made him a popular hero (It is still read; Wode remembers scrumping his uncle’s copy as a tad and following the military campaigns). As an encore, Caesar invaded Britain.
However, back in the senate–the body that ruled the Roman Republic–Caesar’s political power had begun to erode. Although Caesar had power (and troops) on the frontier in Gaul, Rome was controlled by supporters of his main rival–Pompey (Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus).
Julius Caesar was commanded by the Roman Senate to vacate his post and return to Rome.

The rule was that general could only lead troops–or even carry his own weapons–outside of the boundaries of the state of Rome itself, the northern boundary of which was the Rubicon river. To come armed beyond this point was an act of treason against the Republic of Rome, and a capital offense.
However, approaching Rome unarmed and alone left Caesar at the mercy of his accusers.
As the Roman historian Plutarch puts it:
“Caesar vaticanWhen he came to the river Rubicon, which parts Gaul within the Alps from the rest of Italy, his thoughts began to work, now he was just entering upon the danger, and he wavered much in his mind, when he considered the greatness of the enterprise into which he was throwing himself. He checked his course, and ordered a halt, while he revolved with himself, and often changed his opinion one way and the other, without speaking a word. This was when his purposes fluctuated most; presently he also discussed the matter with his friends who were about him, (of which number Asinius Pollio was one,) computing how many calamities his passing that river would bring upon mankind, and what a relation of it would be transmitted to posterity.”

So there he is.
At the edge of a river, just out of the Alps, in the ice of January, he is hesitating. 400 horsemen and 5000 legionnaires are waiting for his choice, all of Rome is waiting for his choice. A life of forced retirement is facing him if he goes on unarmed, and either death and humiliation or survival rises before him if he takes his army across the river.
He waits, wavering, hesitating, shivering, trying to decide.

Suddenly, he makes up his mind.
He stands up.
He looks south, across the river, and says:
“alea iacta est“–“the die is cast.”
He leads his troops across the river, into Rome, and into history.

Decisions are unavoidable.
Usually, the choices are all a mixed bag, but to not make them is the worst of all.
Julius Caesar was victorious, but his victory would lead to his death 2 years later (and the end of the Republic). To decide is to cast the dice irrevocably, to take a step into the icy waters of the Rubicon.
To live heroically is to accept the responsibility, to embrace the possibility of defeat, but to march on.
Life is uncertain

Creativity

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As a child, I lived in a great big gray apartment building.
Ulmenweg 4It wasn’t one of those terribly drab Warsaw-Pact Blocks, or one of the horrifying projects in North America, but it was a 1972 apartment building–16 floors, 6 apartment a floor, and the outside mostly slate concrete and river pebble accents.
Inside, the walls were a chalky white paint with a matte finish.
The floors were mostly industrial gray linoleum tile, except for the parquet floor in the living room and the white tile in the bathroom.

My mother found it oppressive.
The unbroken gray floors and brilliant white walls glared at us all cold and sterile. Die erde dreht sichWall after wall, down the hall, the same chalky white.
My mother complained about it–not a lot, but we were in no doubt how she felt about it.
In the living room and bedrooms, she covered the floors with throw-rugs, and hung pictures and posters, but down the hall, the chalky cold white walls resisted any warm color and stubbornly refused to make the place a home.

With some mothers, there would have just been a lot of complaining; my mother bought 4 cans of paint: brown, green, red, and a little black.
As I watched on in disbelief, she walked up to the front hallway, and painted the brown trunk, green leaves, and red apples of an apple tree–outlining and shading a bit with the black.
I stared.
Mom's Apple TreeShe would have hung hooks in the branches for our coats, but the concrete under the white paint proved too hard to drill.

This whole thing

blew       my        mind.

It had never occurred to me that a grown-up would solve a problem by just going out and doing something crazy like this. Splashing paint on the wall! It amazed me–facing a problem down and responding by drawing a mural!
Kids my age were pretty whiney, and unimaginative, and pretty much accepted the world as it was, but here was an adult, facing something that drove her nuts head on, and attacking it with craziness and creativity.

This sort of thing is actually pretty typical of my mom.
She faces a problem, complains about it a little (sometimes a lot), then she tries to come up with a solution that is creative and constructive. Although she is occasionally let down, my mom believes that most problems can be solved with prayer, kindness, hard work, and creativity.

That may be naïve, but I still find it amazing.
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The Old Year’s Books

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I met an interesting man over New Years—it’s one of my hobbies, collecting interesting people.
BooksBen & I were discussing our love of books, how wonderful it is to read and how hard it is to write, and he said something that struck me. He is having trouble with wearing out books—the books he uses a lot, especially the reference books. I thought about how I can wear out books—actually, I can wear out just about anything, but there are books I have read so much that they did begin to wear.

There are books I have worn out, and there are also books that I will eventually wear out.
I have a friend who is quite nice and very kind, but who never reads a book Cheese & Poetry 2more than once. I feel that this is like choosing to never see a sunset twice, or never listening to Beethoven’s 7th or Jump, Jive & Wail again, or never returning to New York City, or never eating a chocolate torte with a rich ganache because you have already had one.

My favorite book of this past year, one that I even bought trade-cloth, new, and retail, because I wanted to own it, was The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wicker.

The premise is slightly fantastical, perhaps even slightly magic realist: a golem and a jinni meet up in the tenements of New York at the tail end of the 19th century.
For those of you who are not immersed in Eastern European Jewish Folk-lore, or students of Kabbala, or fans of the 1915 silent film, the Golem is a creature made of clay who can be brought to life by rabbis who practice Kabbalist rites by using one of the sacred names of God. The Golem is bound to serve a master, and is usually created in a time of great need to destroy the enemies of God’s people.
Most of you should know that a Jinni or a Djin (الجني) is a Middle-Eastern fire spirit, generally with magical powers, and often mercurial and chaotic.

A rather disagreeable man pays a mysterious and dangerous hermit a great deal of money to create a golem who is a perfect wife, then tries to emigrate to the United States. She, as yet un-awakened, is packed in a shipping crate. One night, suffering from a bad fever and from curiosity, he awakens her, but dies shortly after that. She has been created to serve a master—in fact, she can sense the desires of others and feels a strong, even painful, need to help them—but she is now on her own. In the harbor, she jumps out of the ship and walks ashore, into the Jewish section of Manhattan.
Before she gets into too much trouble—she steals a doughnut a young boy desires and gives it to him, but begins to feel a great rage when she is attacked—she is found by a kindly old rabbi who takes her in and tries to teach her how to be human (as well as keep the law).

Meanwhile, a tinsmith in the Little Syria section of New York is repairing a lamp and sets a Jinni free—mostly free; he is free from the lamp, but still captured in human form. To help him hide, the smith tries to teach him how to blend in as a human being. It is difficult, because he is proud and selfish and not used to caring what others think.

GolemJinni

Eventually, of course, they will meet.

The characters are vividly drawn, and the plot is well carried out. It is a great story beautifully told, and that is the strength of the book. The time period is evoked in a way that is powerful—the grit and smell of the end of the century in a city that contained worlds of people all speaking in their native tongues.
However, it is also a fascinating meditation on what it means to be human—something each of them has to try to learn. They are also a wonderful study in contrast: she is a servant, and sensitive to the needs of others, solid, a creature of the earth, but underneath, also by nature a killing machine. He is self-centered and proud, living for himself with no thought of helping others, mercurial, a spirit of fire.
Yet learning to appear human changes each of them, and then meeting each other changes each of them forever. In some of the best moments, they meet at night (neither requires sleep, yet neither can move about freely during the day), and find themselves arguing about humans, and especially about her need to connect with and help others, which he finds baffling.

Shakespeare & Co stairsIt is an incredible book, so much so that I paid for it.
If you wish, you can borrow mine—beautiful print on creamy paper edged in indigo—or it came out in paperback this past Tuesday.

For the New Year, eat well, read well, talk well and love well,
and do each as often as you can–
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Exuberance

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Christmas was one of those times it was wonderful to be growing up in Germany.
Everywhere, there was Christmas. I would walk home in the snow, and pausing to look up and see a sky full of stars as the church bells all rang the hour. We would sled down the half mile of the Osterberg. I would walk downtown to the Christmas market at the town square, with all the merchants with brightly colored umbrellas over their stalls and tables, picking my way through the apples and oranges and nuts, through the tables of hand-carved wooden toys, though the beautiful ornaments, and all the while, the air was filled with the smell of gingerbread, and of crepes, but most of all, the smell of candied almonds being made in a big barrel.

One year, our youth sponsors took us on a hike the week before Christmas. It was a long hike, thorough the woods. As the afternoon wore on, it got darker and darker, and we walked closer and closer to each other. We were in a thick pine forest, and beyond our flashlights, there was almost no light—that is why they call it the Black Forest.
It began to snow, coming down quickly in huge white flakes, and coating the ground ahead of us. The line tightened even more, and the littler children walked in the footprints of the larger kids. The snow began coming down even harder, so that one could barely see the dark shadows of the trees before and behind us, and covering our footprints behind us. It was now pitch black, covered over with a flurry cloud of white.

Suddenly, we stumbled into a clearing.

In the middle of the clearing was a pine tree covered from top to bottom with burning candles. The dazzling light turned the dark world we were in into a blinding white sphere. As each heavy snowflake would drift into view, it would suddenly shine. It remains one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and one of the most extravagant. There was also a candle-lit table with hot cocoa and Christmas cookies, and we warmed up and ate and sang songs, all the while staring at the beautiful tree covered with dozens and dozens of burning candles. In the middle of the chaos and darkness of the forest, a wonderful, dazzling bit of light had been planted. It served no purpose, but it defied the cold dreariness of winter, and, by its exuberance, turned it dazzling white.

Care

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When I am not at the Bistro or my other two jobs, I live with a misanthropic dog.
It’s not entirely true that he doesn’t like people; he likes people, but is not very good at liking.
Mickey also growls at and bites people.Mickey on chair 001
There are folks who think that dogs are good judges of character; he is not. He has bitten some of the best people I know. People see him and say, “Oh! He’s so cute! Is he sweet?” No. He isn’t. It is just a matter of time before he snaps at you.
Vets insist he be muzzled and sometimes even drugged before they will examine him.

Mickey is a Cairn Terriorist.

He seems to hate most people, but he loves me.
He still bites me occasionally, but usually I bite him back, and I weigh 150 pounds more than he does.
I also growl and bark more loudly.

Because he is unpredictable and vicious, he is often called “Stupid Dog!” but he is not. He is quite smart–not wise, but clever.
Once, when we were taking care of a golden retriever, the two of them were completing for my attention. Biscuit won by sitting on me–all 200 pounds of him. Mickey stared at him a minute, then walked into another room, and came back carrying a tennis ball in his mouth. He looked at Biscuit for a moment, then he flicked his head, tossing the tennis ball into the next room. Biscuit bounded off after it, and Mickey quietly took his place.

Mickey was a stray when we got him.
He appears to have been on the road for quite a while–his claws were worn down, and he had at least 4 intestinal parasites. He has an odd kink in his tail, so I think it was broken at some point. He will never allow anyone to touch his tail, in fact, he will turn with a furious snarl if startled from the back, sometimes even if touched anywhere near his haunches.

I put up with him; in fact, I’m rather fond of him, but I accept that Mickey on Round Bald (2)his affection will not come when I choose, but rather when he chooses. I wonder what happened in the two or three years before I knew him. I wonder if he chose to run away from something, I wonder what broke his tail and stiffened that hip. I assume he has his reasons for his fear and anger; sometimes, they catch up to him in his nightmares, or during storms and loud noises.

I will never know; he is a dog and can never tell me his history.
Yet he does have one.

I don’t have to understand him to care for him.
I just have to care, and to be there with food, water, play, companionship, long walks on the AT. and a lap for naps.
It’s actually better if I know I don’t understand him, and I don’t make any assumptions or have expectations.
I just have to read his mood right now.

He doesn’t really understand me either, and he knows this.
Yet he is fond of me.

He doesn’t have to be sweet for me to care for him. His unpredictability and lack of insight don’t remove my responsibility to care for him, rather they make it stronger.
After all, we humans should be the understanding creatures.
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Courage

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Anybody who knows me knows that I have a tendency to lose things—notes, books, pens, spectacles, kidneys, my left hand, etc. Once I almost lost my brother.

It happened like this:
James & I were out for a long walk in the woods a mile or so from the apartment we lived in. I admit, I was a little unhappy to have my brother tagging along, and was wishing I were with cooler friends, but there it was. We were late getting home (again, anybody who knows me knows that I am almost always late; I have a fairly good sense of time, but choose to ignore it). We were late, and I was worried about getting into trouble, so we took a short-cut.
There was a huge construction site near our house, and by cutting across it (I love a good steeple chase, always have) I felt we could make better time. It was probably to be a new apartment building—20 stories or so, so they had dug a good basement/foundation, and left a pile of dirt. The pile of dirt was about a story and a half tall, and maybe a block wide—in the Midwest, this would qualify as a mountain.  We began to climb,
…and climb,
…and climb.

At the top, there was a huge plateau of dirt, stretching as far as I could see; I couldn’t even see the 16 story building we lived in, just a world of dirt. It had been raining for a few days, so it was muddy, and we sunk in as we walked, but I had the confidence of an 11-year-old who lives life as a disinherited nobleman, so I wasn’t worried.
Maybe a little worried about what my Mom would say, but not terribly worried.

We started across the mud, two small explorers alone in a wasteland.

About half way through, we encountered a big patch of clay, and James began to sink. You sink a little bit in mud, but clay pulls you down like quicksand, and holds you tight.
He sank, and started to yell.
I told him to keep very, very still, otherwise he would sink deeper.
He kept still, but started to cry.
He was chest deep in vicious clay, still sinking, and I had no firm footing to pull him out.
These were some of the most terrifying minutes I have ever spent.

Talking to him, trying to calm him, I worked my way to where he was stuck. He looked at me with his watery pale blue eyes, panicked, but absolutely convinced that I would take care of him. I wish I had been as sure.

I only knew that the thought of losing him was more than I could bear.

Gradually—I am not entirely sure how—I worked him out of that hole he was sinking into. All of him except one shoe, which I couldn’t recover.
We slogged home in silence, and were in big trouble; we were late, we were covered head to toe in mud, and he was missing one shoe.

I have a retarded brother.
I realize that anyone who has a brother has thought that at some time, but my brother has Down Syndrome. It is a genetic disorder—one of those failed meiosis things—meaning he has an extra 21st chromosome. This leads to a variety of developmental delays and physical differences. He can communicate English, German and ASL, and, when he isn’t cranky and mule-headed, has an amazing level of empathy, but he does have cognitive and social limitations. As his younger brother (he loves to remind me he is the older one and the good-looking one; my sister is incredibly smart, that left me as the creative, eccentric one), this was generally difficult.

Let me make perfectly clear that I do not like the word retarded, and I hate hearing it used as a pejorative.

Until I started High School, we had never been in the same school. If any of you remember the High School Cafeteria, you will remember that there are rigid social divisions—who can sit with whom, who the cool or popular kids are, which are the pariahs. You might remember the nerdy or geek tables as being the outcasts—the freaks—but there was always one table that was even lower on the scale: The Special Education Table. In those days, the Special Education kids were kept far way—often in a trailer—but invisible, except in the cafeteria. Each day, I would see him there with his buddies, and each day, I would turn my face, afraid to be shamed by being associated with “them.”

This was terrible.
I was wracked with guilt for weeks.
Each day I resolved I would say Hi, and each day I would chicken out, and them kick myself for my cowardice. “He’s your brother! How can you disown him?!?” However, each time I walked by, I turned away, afraid of what my friends might say. I thought about it constantly,  lay awake at night brooding on it, prayed about it, worked it through, but I felt so awful.

Finally, after a month or so, I worked up the courage, and, as I walked by, in a little timid voice, I said: “Hi, Jimmy.”

He stared at me with those blue eyes.
Terror and shame played across them.
He turned away, and covered his face, hoping his friends hadn’t noticed that this “freshman,” this geeky kid with glasses and braces and a voice that cracked had talked to him.

I laughed.

After that, each day I made it a point to stop, and in as loud a voice as I could to yell: “Hey, Jim-bo!”

That’s what brothers do.

PS: He turns 52 next Saturday. If you want to send him a card, send a message, and I’ll send you his address. He loves to have a fuss made over him (who doesn’t?)

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