Too proud to go on welfare

It's hard to believe, but there was once a time when people refused to take charity, public or private. Despite Mitt Romney's belief that 47 percent of Americans are on the public tit, there once were people like that, too proud to go on welfare.

My mother-in-law was one of them.  She was a proofreader, working in the printing trade, but she was not allowed to join the union, which at the time did not accept women.  So when the Depression hit, she lost her job, and was unable to get another.  She was a single mother of three children at the time and the sole support of her widowed mother.  She scrubbed floors.  She took in laundry.  But she would not go on welfare, then known in New York City as "home relief."

Don't think the family did not suffer.  My husband, who was born in 1931, was the baby.  Too young to understand what was going on,  he cried because he was hungry.  His older brother stole bread in the early morning hours, when bakeries delivered bread and pastries to retail stores.  When he could get any.

Eventually, she married a man who had several children of his own.  Her family was fed, but the marriage was a disaster.  I don't know the details of either the marriage or the split-up; but eventually the marriage ended.  She was supporting  herself, her mother, and her youngest child by freelance proofreading.  The older two grew up and married and moved away.  She died of a heart attack at 54.

I by no means support her views; if my kids had ever missed  a meal I would have been first in line at  welfare headquarters at the opening of business.  But I admire her integrity and the steadfastness with which she lived her beliefs.

Enjoying authentic Cuba

Disturbing:

 I have spent about a year of my life in Cuba, so have seen a great deal of its ‘authentic’ side. Aside from the police repression and intellectual wasteland (there is one newspaper and state television brooks no dissent) the Cuba I have experienced is one of dirt, scarcity and rampant prostitution.

It is the last of these which is the most galling. Cuba’s command economy is unable to provide a basic standard of living for its people, so in order to survive, most Cubans must find an income source to top up their state salary. For those fortunate enough to have relatives in the United States or Europe, help comes in the form of dollar remittances. For those less fortunate, the only way to make some extra cash or eat a decent meal can often be to sell their body to a – usually much older – European or Canadian tourist.
This reality hits you as soon as you step inside a restaurant or hotel in Havana. In every direction are girls who look no more than 16 accompanied by sagging and pale tourists approaching pension age....

Arthur Koestler once referred to pro-Soviet communists in the rich world as voyeurs, peeping through a hole in the wall at history while not having to experience it themselves. The Stalin Society is a lot smaller today (though you can still find the Cuba Solidarity stall at Labour party conference) but the mindset persists: Cubans are the unwilling participants in a communist experiment, there mainly for affluent westerners to gawk at and, when the ‘chemistry’ is right (i.e. when you’ve paid for everything) to take back to the hotel room.
Of course, the resorts in Varadero that most tourists visit are about as ‘authentically’ Cuban as a Soho restaurant’s ‘authentically Chinese’ sweet-and-sour chicken. Step outside of the official tourist route and one soon sees the real Cuba. It is here, amidst the prostitutes and the elderly people rummaging through bins in central Havana, that one starts to understand why many Cubans might like a few branches of McDonalds in their country. Cheap plastic food is, after all, a good deal better than no food at all.

These visitors are of the same ilk as those who see a little African child poking at the dirt with a stick--his only toy--and pointing out that he is happier than American children who don't value their many possessions.


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Beggars on the streets of Philadelphia

When I was a small child I saw grown men begging on the streets of Columbus, OH, during the Depression.  It was a sad sight, even to a little girl like me.  I felt sorry for them and sorry that our country had let them down.  No-one should have to beg to stay alive. Not here.  Not in this country.


Today, as I exited the Ben Franklin Parkway, there were little boys approaching cars stopped at a traffic light with blue buckets in their hands.  They were begging from the motorists.   I have seen children begging on the streets of Dublin, but never thought I would see such a thing here.

Where were all the social workers, the interfering busybodies who punish parents who allow their children to walk alone to a public park? None were in attendance.  I guess the lives of little black children don't matter quite as much.  It's okay to let them run around on busy streets, dodging cars and putting themselves in danger.  Their lives don't matter until the Rev Al Sharpton shows up with his followers and makes an issue of it.  I guess the Rev has weighed his options and decided there was no profit for him in exploiting these kids.

I certainly don't dismiss the possibility that these kids are little hustlers, like the squegee men who used to infest New York City.  But they are kids.  They shouldn't have the freedom to put themselves in dangerous situations.  Grown-ups should be in charge of kids.  Grown-ups such as parents, teachers, cops.

But there seems to be a serious shortage of grown-ups in Obama's America. 

Art in the basement, or on display?

Something to think about.

Home decor update

I recently needed to replace one if my toilet seats, so I went on the Internet to review my options.  Wow!  The world of toilet seats has really expanded since I last bought one.  In the old days, back in the  twentieth century, you could choose either round or oblong toilet seats, depending on the shape of the One-eyed Riley.

That having been settled by necessity, there were wood, plastic, and soft.  In various colors.  Nothing else had changed since my father's outdoor privy.

What boring lives we led!  Now you have a choice of round or oblong, of course.  There are toilet seats that close  noiselessly.  Toilet seats that remove from their hinges for cleaning; others that contain a potty option in case you are toilet training a toddler.  Seats that light up at night (Batteries not included.).  All sorts of plastic, with designs or flowers or seahorses embedded.  Wooden seats with veneers to match your dining room table.  And of course, customized seats such as the one pictured above and others that cannot be described in polite company.

For less than $600 you can buy a heated toilet seat which washes the relevant body parts and even blow dries them.  Of course, you need the services of a plumber and electrician if you want them to work..

The Pope takes a stand

The Pope has come out against materialism.  I so agree!  All these rich people have big houses, private planes, world travel.  And they don't have to make their beds in the morning or wash dishes.  Someone else does their laundry! I truly resent them.  The only thing that could mollify me is for me to have all these things  myself. And I'd still probably resent them anyway.  Such is envy.

There is much to be said for materialism.  I remember the cartoon Blondie from my childhood.  Back in the day when women wore hats. Whenever Blondie got blue she went out and bought a new hat!  And she immediately felt better.  A new bathmat does it for me.  Retail therapy usually is safe and effective. And if you find out later you don't like the hat, or bathmat, chances are you can return it or exchange it for something else.

My family has done well with materialism.  My father grew up in a house with dirt floors and an outhouse in the back yard.  He was bowlegged due to rickets.  By the time he died, in 2011, he had two bathrooms, central heating, and a brand new car. And plenty to eat.

Contrast that with spirituality.  Let's talk about Muslims here, leaving aside Christians and Jews, who I am sure have their faults.  But they are usually quietists and want to be left alone to worship, or not, in their own way.Deeply devout Muslims, on the other hand,  cure their blue feelings by going out and beheading a few Christians and raping defenseless women and children.  No doubt they feel better after committing these atrocities in honor of Allah.  But the rest of the world feels measurably worse.

The only saving grace about these deeply religious people is that they can be bought.  If you offer them enough money they will probably betray their fellows.  The Muslim world is full or traitors and spies.  How do you think the Israelis get the better of them?

The Kreutzer Sonata

This afternoon I heard the "Kreutzer Sonata," by Janacek, based on the "Kreutzer Sonata" by Tolstoy, which in turn was based on"the Kreutzer Sonata" by Beethoven.  According to Wikipedia,

The sonata was originally dedicated to the violinist George Bridgetower (1778–1860), who performed it with Beethoven at the premiere on 24 May 1803 at the Augarten Theatre at a concert that started at the unusually early hour of 8:00 am. Bridgetower sight-read the sonata; he had never seen the work before, and there had been no time for any rehearsal. However, research indicates that after the performance, while the two were drinking, Bridgetower insulted the morals of a woman whom Beethoven cherished. Enraged, Beethoven removed the dedication of the piece, dedicating it instead to Rodolphe Kreutzer, who was considered the finest violinist of the day.^[1] However, Kreutzer never performed it, considering it "outrageously unintelligible". He did not particularly care for any of Beethoven's music, and they only ever met once, briefly.^[2]

Could this be true?  Anyway, the story is too good to check, and I'm only a humble blogger so no-one cares much what I say.

To get back to Tolstoy, his story is the account of a man finding his wife, a pianist, conversing intimately with her accompanist and friend, a violinist. The two have been practicing the Kreutzer Sonata.  It requires a lot of practice because it is a quite difficult piece of music.   He then kills his wife out of jealousy, but the violinist gets away.   I have not read the story, because I no longer am attempting to improve my mind through literature and would rather curl up with Daniel Silva's latest.  If my mind accidentally gets improved, okay, but I'm no longer working on it.

I was interested enough in the story  to go to YouTube and play a couple of versions of the Beethoven original.  It is quite beautiful but appears to be very demanding technically; however, to me all violin music seems demanding because I could no more play the violin than I could invent electricity. 

This Tolstoy story has apparently been made into a play, then adapted into a play for the Yiddish theater, then made into a movie of the Yiddish theater version, and for all I know is being made into a Pixar or Claymation version as we speak. 

The moral of the story might be, "Don't try to play music which is too technically difficult or emotionally arousing,"  Or maybe not.

Everybody hates everybody else and always has

I've been reading "The Mask of Command," by John Keegan.  Keegan discusses four commanders, Alexander, Wellington, Grant, and Hitler.  I was particularly keen to learn something about Alexander, about whom I knew nothing, except that he was the son of Philip of Macedon.

Now I have a smattering of information about Alexander, which is sufficient, because my interest is actually in American history.  But I did learn something I had long suspected, that the Greek city-states were constantly either at war with each other, just getting over a war with each other, or preparing for such a war.  This was their normal state, excepted when threatened by the Persians, whom they hated more than they hated one another.

Similarly, the peacable, nature loving Native Americans of whom Ellizabeth Warren is such a notable example, were  constantly fighting with each other.  They also had a habit of attacking villages full of settlers who were minding their own business.  I know we treated them unfairly, but there is a reason they were featured as bad guys in so many movies.

Anyway, we weren't nearly as mean to them as the British were to the Irish.

But my thesis is not to prove that we are the best country in the world.  Although we are.  My point is that armed struggle between groups has always existed and always will.  There can be no such thing as a War to End All Wars because wars will not end.   James Madison, in a different context, wrote:  If men were angels, no government would be necessary.  Neither would wars, because we would all be too busy with harp lessons and choir practice.

Obama seemed to believe that our disagreements with Russia were all one big misunderstanding which could be settled with a nice comfortable talk with his friend Vlad.  Clearly the lovefest did not work, and Putin is re-conquering the former Soviet satellites even though it might upset his friend Barack.  

Once we had removed American troops from Iraq, no doubt our government believed that Sunnis and Shi'ites would be having interfaith picnics to explore their common heritage and Kumbaya would be the new official government anthem.  Again, this did not happen.

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Worst customer service?

I heard on the radio somewhere that U S Cable had been chosen as the worst customer service provider in the country for 2014.  This made me angry, and I think the folks at United Airlines ought to demand a recount.  They certainly are a strong contender for the title.  It's hard to see how their customer service could be any worse.  Even with Wells Fargo Bank and Comcast in strong competition, I think United should be considered for next year's award.

I recently took a trip to San Francisco from Philadelphia which delayed leaving the ground for 4 hours.  Of course there was a grisly kind of domino effect, causing travelers to miss their connections from Africa to Zanzibar.  My plane to San Luis Obispo was long gone.  Customer service then re-routed me to Santa Barbara   by way of Los Angeles. 

My Los Angeles flight departure was then delayed so that the Santa Barbara flight would leave the ground before its arrival.  No-one informed me of this delay.  I just happened to glance at the departures board and did the math. 

Back to customer service.  They kept suggesting places I might like to fly besides Santa Barbara or San Luis Obispo.  Orange County, anyone?  I told them I was very weak on California geography but did not think Orange County would do.  I got my daughter on the phone when they suggested Bakerfield, which got a strong nolle prosequi from my daughter. We finally settled on a midnight flight to Santa Maria, which was only a half hour late in leaving. 

In recompense for their poor performance, they gave me two $7 vouchers for food at any of the airport vendors.

The return flight was much less annoying, arriving in Philadelphia only and hour and a half late, which passes for promptness at United.

By the way, on the return flight, one of the $7 vouchers was refused at the food court.

Back in the day

When my kids were little.  Clockwise, from upper  left:  Rose Sanzone, Kenny Sanzone, Susan Sanzone, Miriam Sawyer, Rachel Sawyer, Louisa Sawyer

20th century memories:what ladies wore

I've looked in vain for a photo of my mother wearing one of her hats,  but due to her policy of never having her picture taken until she had lost at least 20 lbs,--which never happened--I don't have one.

Nevertheless, she never left the house without one.  These hats were purely ceremonial, having no justification, either decorative or functional.  They neither enhanced her appearance or kept her head warm.  They were stiff little parabolas of some kind of cloth with a snatch of veiling attached.  The image above is an approximation.  Hers were uglier.

She had a bunch of them, which lived on the top of the sideboard in the dining room, and she would pick one at random when she had to leave the house.  If she were going somewhere related to her profession. she was in full lawyer array, including girdle and stockings.  As she entered the house, off came the girdle and hosiery.

Her normal indoor garb was something called a housedress.   I couldn't find a picture on the Internet of anything as dismal as those housedresses my mother--and Bubbe--wore. Department stores had whole departments of "Moderate Housedresses" as well as "Better Housedresses."  Although I never saw one that was better than any other; they were all pretty frightful.  They usually were made of tacky material in ugly but loud patterns which either buttoned or zipped up the front.  They often had two generous patch pockets on the front.  Bubbe used to keep her false teeth in one of the pockets, but I digress.

In this one respect America is a better place today: terrorists, riots, train derailments, yes, but a total lack of housedresses.

A few words in praise of violence

We've seen lots of quotes on Facebook about the effectiveness of non-violence, most popularly those of Martin Luther King, Jr. These sentiments look very fine, especially on a poster decorated tastefully with flowers or adorable small animals. There are, however, those who dissent from the beloved civil rights leader:

We sleep safely at night because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.  Winston Churchill

Those who “abjure” violence can only do so because others are committing violence on their behalf.  Attributed to George Orwell.

  [M]akin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
Rudyard Kipling, "Tommy"

I could quote more, but you get the idea.

I am not advocating violence on the part of citizens in democratic countries like ours, where we have free speech, a Constitution that protects us, and the power to vote the rascals out (and elect new rascals). But in nations run by kleptocrats and religious fanatics, violence is the  alternative chosen by those who do not choose to be slaves.



The government of the United States tried asking the Southern states nicely not to secede, but somehow it didn't work, though tried over and over. The only thing that put the idea permanently out of their heads was the bloody work of Grant and Sherman.  Nearly a third of the young men who fought for the Confederacy were killed or wounded--a terrible price to pay for a terrible idea.

Hitler also did not respond to reason, and giving him a few countries to gobble up did not work either. 

The Jewish prisoners in the death camps would have been grateful to see Allied bombers raining death on these institutions but the powers that be didn't want to make the Germans mad at them.

There is such a thing as just war.  Violence works.  Violence settles things.  Slavery was ended.  Europe and the Far East were liberated.

The "I'm not in jail" club

Bloggers too numerous to mention have claimed that Hillary Clinton should be imprisoned for her tortious e-mail activities during her tenure as Secretary of State.  Not gonna happen.  She is merely joining the large and illustrious group of innocent until proven guilty non-felons who enjoy immunity from the laws that afflict the rest of us.  She can even park in the handicapped-designated parking spot with impunity.

Here are some  further examples:  her husband, of course.  Al Sharpton,  whose official job description should be, if it isn't, rabble rouser, who blithely declines to pay his back income tax.  Al is not in hiding, like Whitey Bulger.  He's right out there, leading flash mobs and sharing wisdom with his dear old buddy, the President of the United States, at the latter's taxpayer-funded residence.

And then there's Jon Corzine, former governor of New Jersey, incompetent and corrupt even by the lenient standards of the Garden State.  He  lost millions of other people's money and hasn't the slightest idea what happened to it.  It has slipped his mind, apparently permanently.  Bernie Madoff must be gnashing his teeth.

I don't understand where several former governors of Illinois went wrong, but at least three of them were actually sent to jail.  Pure carelessness?  Or did they make mistakes like Robert Menendez, Senator from New Jersey, who was doing just fine until he crossed the Democratic leadership by thinking for himself.

Delaware oil trains a menace

Remind me  why the government did not approve the Keystone Pipeline.

How do the Baltimore rioters differ from a lynch mob?

They don't.  Alan Dershowitz explains what's going on.

Oh dear.

When he finds his car, maybe my new glasses will be in it.

Thanks for the heads up

I knew some of my relatives were crazy.  This confirms it.

Poem by Robert Frost

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

This time of year always makes me think of this poem.

Used books

Can money be made selling used books?  You bet.

And who buys them?  I do.  I usually find something to read at the Good Will.  Among my recent finds: "The Piano Shop on the Left Bank," by Thad Carhart, full of interesting music about pianos, pianists, piano tuners, and music generally;  "The Devil to Play,"  by Jasper Rees, about playing the horn, with lots of gossip about music, musicians--Mozart in particularly--and everything else you might want to know about the horn.  I never would have looked for these books anywhere else because I didn't know they existed.

I bought a paperback copy of "An Officer and a Spy" by Robert Harris, which  only came out in January of this year, but found its way to the Good Will.  It's a well-researched re-creation of the Dreyfus Affair.   Harris, author of "Imperium" and "Conspirata," never disappoints.

Also "Dear Family," by Camilla Bittle-- an unpretentious, sympathetic portrait of the ordeals lived through by members of an ordinary family.---not a masterpiece for the ages, but if you want to know what families endured  in the Depression,you will find out here.  It's a nice change from the razzle dazzle pretentious fiction turned out nowadays.  Magical realism and all that rot.

Also, deTocqueville, "Treasure Island" by Robert Louis Stevenson, a collection of maps of ancient history, and more.

If I am in search of something published and forgotten long ago, I go to abebooks.com.  Amazon also has many forgotten but readable books, many in Kindle form. 

Many of the books I buy are not very good, and I read a little of them and then cast them aside.  They go back to the Good Will, or to the AAUW book sale, or to my daughter's college book sale.

 Daffodils


  I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

 

I actually wandered, not lonely as a cloud, but pushing a stroller with my oldest baby in it, in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.  These were the first flowers I had seen all year, and my feelings were much the same as Wordsworth's.  So this poem has a special meaning for me.