” SPINACH AND BACON QUICHE” This week’s “FRENCH FRIDAYS WITH DORIE” selection. FFWD is an online cooking group dedicated to Dorie Greenspan’s “Around My French Table”, her latest cookbook. http://www.doriegreenspan.com/ This quiche is a savory tart where flavors (smoky-bacon, sweet-onion and garlic, mineral – spinach, creamy-custard) converge, providing a tasty punch to your palate. An innovative twist to ingredients that works well. (If you substitute turkey bacon (I like Trader Joe’s uncured), use canola or grapeseed oil for your fat for the veggies.)
Two weeks ago I discovered I can still be awe-struck and rendered speechless. Really, I’m a bit embarrassed about this. While driving down to the Las Vegas Strip, at the worst possible time on a Friday afternoon, my initial thoughts waggled between, “I’m so excited! I’m so excited!” and “Mary, act your age.” I gave into the excited-waggle because I was going to meet one of my American heroes. I’d had a crush on this guy for more than 40 years.
To be truthful, his credentials are not sterling. He’s been arrested more than 40 times. His parents were poor, struggling to raise 10 children, but scrambled to put together his college money. How did he show his graditude? As a freshman, he ditched classes and let assignments slide, to focus on extra-curricular activities.
He’s had his skull fractured, been beaten silly, physically attacked numerous times and never even defended himself. No wonder that, as a kid, he was refused a card at his county library.
Yeah, he’s quite a man. HIs name is John Lewis and I was finally going to shake his hand.
In his book, “Why Courage Matters”, Arizona Senator John McCain (who I also still consider an American hero), wrote, “I’ve seen courage in action on many occasions. I can’t say I’ve seen anyone possess more of it, and use it for any better purpose and to any greater effect, than John Lewis.”
On that Friday afternoon, I was one of 500 guests invited to the Mirage by Vegas PBS/MGM Resorts to preview Freedom Riders, an award-winning “American Experience” documentary which premiers May 16 on your local PBS station. And, one of those original Riders, John Lewis, was joining us.
The Mirage, a casino-resort recognized more for its erupting volcano, white tigers and slot machines, seemed a surreal setting. We were there to see a film about a 6-month journey of non-violent activism that arguably was the impetus that finally galvanized this country into civll rights legislation. What is even more surreal is that many young Americans, it seems, have not heard of these Riders nor understand their contribution. That’s a shame.
Lewis, now a Congressman representing Georgia, was one of those 13 original Freedom Riders. At the time, a 21-year-old freshman at a Nashville theological seminary, he volunteered, along with others, to buy a ticket, board a Greyhound and ride from Washington D.C. to New Orleans. Easy enough, a bunch of young college kids, on a joyride, taking a break, sitting, eating and laughing together. Not so extraordinary by today’s standards, but remember, this was 1961 and some of Congressman Lewis’ friends were white. They were headed for the Deep South and those tickets reeked of Trouble.
Trouble first surfaced in Rock Hill, South Carolina, where the Congressman was the first Rider assaulted. Although their activism was non-violent, their reception in southern cities was not. In a six-month period more than 400 Americans, black and white, risked life and limb to deliberately violate the laws of Jim Crow. Some were killed. The documentary relates this story, better than I.
When Lewis was boarding that bus, I was still in high school, more concerned about a prom date than who drank at my water fountain. That all changed when, following graduation, I left my rural Iowa community, all white, to attend Florida State University, all white, in Tallahassee. (To FSU’s credit, a sculpture,”Integration”, was dedicated in 2004, paying tribute to the first African American students who integrated the university in the late-Sixties.)
Those were turbulent times at universities and FSU was no exception. What is most seared to my soul, however, are visions of Bloody Sunday, March 7,1965, 600 people crossing the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, enroute to Montgomery. That attempt and the accompanying widely-televised brutality to stop it, packed a wallop to this nation’s innards. (Remember, we were not yet accustomed to brutality televised into our living rooms.) Lewis, who got his skull fractured and still has the scars to prove it, gently asked this country how President Johnson could send troops to Vietnam and the Congo but not to Selma to protect people who “just want to vote.”
We heard him. Two weeks later, 300 marchers successfully crossed that same Selma bridge, with the crowd swelling to 25,000 by the time they ended their 50-mile walk to Montgomery. The Voting Rights Act was debated, passed and signed by President Lyndon Johnson on August 6, 1965.
John Lewis, who was just getting started, was already, to my mind, a brave man of heroic proportions.
After graduating from college and securing a good job with the Florida Department of Education, I had a front-row seat to integrating Florida public schools. Although I wish I could tell you I was effective, I was not. The task was difficult, hurtful, and frustrating. During this time, my husband was earning a doctorate in Black History, the Reconstruction Period, so I was always at the movement’s periphery, wide-eyed, supportive, but cautious. Although he and I later went our separate ways, we remained committed to raising our two daughters to be color-blind. I like to hope that was a worthwhile contribution to the Movement.
At the Mirage, I sat next to a young woman whose Grandfather, she proudly related “had marched with John Lewis in Jackson, Mississippi.” Throughout the film, during each incident or encounter, she kept repeating softly, “That’s right. That’s right.” She knew her history. I urge you and your friends to remember it also and watch this important documentary on your local PBS station next week.
While this is not a perfect nation by any means, we have made tremendous and commendable strides in being better. Columnist George Will just wrote a fine Birthday column entitled, “Considering what it means to be 70 years old” in which he writes,
“To be 70 is to have seen the nation put away the almost casual cruelty of racial segregation. And to have seen, in the emancipation — not too strong a term — of women, and in many other improvements, how this uniquely self-transforming nation decided to declare unthinkable many practices that not long ago were performed unthinkingly.”
Previewing “Freedom Riders” in the presence of John Lewis, is one of the great moments of my Life. I shook his hand. And, yes, I saw those Selma scars.
Don’t be misled by the title of this Post. It’s not about Me. A “girl”, I am not. As for the “iron”, I may just plead half-guilty. Just like our menfolk, it’s okay, really okay, for women to be tough, if need be. But, today, my posting is about something far more important and interesting.
Just seven years ago, in 2004, Iron Girl athletic competitions were created “to empower women toward a healthy lifestyle”.
Today, with Athleta acting as the primary sponsor of thirteen nationwide events, it’s been named by Triathlete Magazine as one of the top five women’s only events in the country.
The competition consists of a 800 Meter Swim, a 22.5K Bike Ride, and a 5K Run, stark evidence that this Post is not about Me. I cannot swim. Sad but true. Currently I am bike-less and awaiting the arrival of my new two-wheeler. Lastly, you don’t have the time to hear about my left knee injuries. Let’s just say that my left knee talks to me daily and, if I step out-of-line, there is shouting. I hike but do not run.
Thankfully, there are women who are Iron Girls, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Eight-hundred of those women gathered together last Saturday morning at 6:30 a.m. at Lake Las Vegas to compete in the Athleta Iron Girl Triathlon. You thought Vegas was all about casinos and desert, didn’t you?
While there are many activities I can no longer participate or compete in, I love being an enthusiastic supporter and cheerleader. Let’s not ever forget the importance of that role.
Last Saturday morning my neighbor, also a supporter, picked me up at 5:30 am. Were we crazy? Little credit, please. After stopping at our closest Starbuck’s for Double-Espressos, we headed west to Lake Las Vegas, a luxurious resort community located 20 miles from The Strip but close to our homes in Henderson. (Just so you know, Celine Dion lives in Lake Las Vegas. Betting that she decided to sleep-in.) Our friend, Susan, was competing in the Triathlon and we wanted to watch her swim, bike and run, or Die, whichever came first.
When we arrived at the shore of the 320-acre lake, it was all wet-suits and pink caps, 800-strong. The temperature of the Lake on Race morning was a chilly 63 degrees which didn’t seem to bother the Canadian athletes at all. Music was blasting. Dads, with kids in tow, were frantically looking for the coffee shop. There was excitement in the air and camaraderie on the ground.
We, of course, could not find our friend, Susan. But, we did find her husband Warren (he was one of those guys looking for coffee) and her two darling (and, sleepy) daughters, Lindsay and Cassidy, who knew exactly where their Mom was located.
When the starting gun went off, I was expecting bedlam and mayhem, but the women just calmly remained in their orderly queue, diving into that frigid water in turn. Why no frenzy? Each athlete was wearing a Chip timing device on an ankle bracelet which started when they began and later identified each one as she crossed electronic mats after the final run. The Lake was rough with noticeable waves. It was windy. No one turned back.
As each woman completed her swim and waded to shore, this is where I might throw in the bedlam and mayhem moment. Picture this. While running to her bike area about a block away, in wet, bare feet, each athlete was ripping off her wet suit, tossing goggles, hopping on one foot, then the other, finally grabbing the dry gear lying near her bike, dressing and rolling quickly out of the parking site. No makeup-repair moment. Can you actually train for these things?
By the time we spotted Susan, emerging from the water, and snapped our photo, we had to high-tail it ourselves to the biking area and got there just as she was rolling out her bike to hit the course. After she biked, returning to the same parking spot, and changing shoes, she set off running. We elbowed into position, along with everyone else, at the finish line. Honestly, this was not an easy race to watch. It was somewhat exhausting for us, too.
But, here’s the best part. As each of the 800 women began crossing the finish line, an exhilarating moment for them and their rambunctious supporters who were, by now, on caffeine-overload, the announcer would shout out their name….. and, their age. The older the woman, the louder the roar of the crowd. How did the announcer know? On the back of each woman’s left leg, in large indelible black magic marker, was written her age. Only in America, huh?
The big winners were the Canadians while Colorado women held their own. But, everyone took home a medal. That’s how the Triathlon competitors seemed to behave, not one winner, 800 winners, even the lone biker who was still on the race course as we left, with a run ahead of her. Odds are, she made it, and, she probably had some sisters, joining her, running right by her side, to be sure she did.
Since moving to Nevada six years ago, I roll out of bed at 5 am daily to exercise for an hour at my local athletic club. Those first few years and still totally responsible for my husband’s care, I could sweat, breathe heavily, and send my heart racing, before he ever opened his eyes. Not my choice, this work-out regime, but my physician told me to handle my stress or die. She got my full attention, as does my alarm clock, which gets abusively throttled each morning.
Later, after acquiring care-assistance as well as being a glutton for punishment, I continued, enjoying the social structure created around this daily regiment. These early risers, still in their 30s, 40s, and early 50s, have become my friends. I like them.
Three of these mornings, I attend a Spinning Class. For those of you who are not familiar with this maniacal activity, an explanation is necessary. Spinning is indoor cycling, with strings attached. You control resistance on a stationary bike to make the pedaling as easy or as difficult as you choose. I, of course, would choose “easy” but here’s the catch, there is also a leader, an instructor-of-sorts, who is a masochist and controls the ride. He makes Lance Armstrong look like the Dalai Lama. Besides guiding you through the workout phases, warm-up, steady uptempo cadences, sprints, climbs, and cool-downs, he’s yelling things like “Challenge Yourself”, “Breathe” and “Finish Strong.”
Oh, yes, there is also a mix of music blasting at high volume which, supposedly, energizes the atmosphere. “Lady Gaga”. “50 Cent”. “Death Cab for Cutie”. Who ever heard of these people? The lights are always low-to-completely-off, and, of course, it’s still pitch-black outside. Do you have the picture? There are usually ten to fifteen riders, in a circle, pedaling like hell to ear-splitting tunes. Whew. It gets pretty stinky. At the end of the “Ride”, Linda, riding next to me and the Chief Deputy Attorney General for Nevada, yells “Great Ride, Dom, Thanks”. I glare at her but say nothing. I’m no dummy.
To be fair, I admit to being in love with Dominick, my instructor, and I am positive that he loves me back. While he is clearly heading to the base camp of Mt. Everest during each class, I take a detour and contentedly pedal to Pahrump. And, when he bellows out, “It’s Your Ride,” I know he’s talking directly to me.
The Spinning Class this morning brought forth the topic of this essay: EGOS. I believe our egos, meaning those of women of my generation, need some buffing up. Although questioning whether many of us in our late 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, even have egos, I’ve been told that we do. What I know for sure is that the young women who did make it to base camp this morning, then rushing home to feed kids, shoving a husband out-the-door before showering and dashing off to work themselves, have very healthy ones.
Linda’s ego is totally intact and strong as she not only juggles her personal and family life but handles Nevada’s legal entanglements as well. While Adriana’s ego may have been bruised and battered as she and her husband have built a blockbuster of a business over the past decade, I’ve heard her husband, Bobby, say numerous times that without her running the numbers, there would be no business. (I’ve always loved him for knowing – and, saying – that.) The same for Susan, a wife, mother and Comptroller for Enterprise-Rent-a-Car in Nevada. Joelle, her ponytail flying as she ramps up the resistance on her flywheel, is a young banker, a mortgage lender for Wells Fargo, who exudes self-confidence and poise.
What I see in these young women and many like them, and, I could be their Mother, is a little something extra special, being so solid within themselves, that I arguably don’t see in me nor many of the women of my generation.
Bravo to our men, our counterparts and peers in age, who have pedaled into their later and for some, retirement, years, with their egos intact and healthy. Some of those egos, amazingly, have even grown larger. Would those guys want to share or give up an ounce or two?
First, just because this Blog is focused on women in their 50’s and 60’s who are single by choice, divorce or death, does not mean there will ever be male-bashing. Absolutely not. I like men. I adored my Father, still brag about my Brother, married more than one, love my son-in-law and was mentored by another. Some of my best friends are male. During the past seven years, several have selflessly joined my unpaid Board of Directors, providing good advice and counsel. One, in particular, helped me steady my sinking financial ship. (Thanks, Lloyd.) And, in every single Presidential election, I have always voted for the man!
All I’m saying here is that perhaps a portion of our generation of males’ egos could rub off on us.
To be truthful, all women have egos, it’s part of being human. But, as Paige, my psychologist friend, explained, “I think what you’re talking about is that we are more socialized and conditioned to speak in a manner of the deficit model, otherwise you’re not accepted or, at the very least, are marginalized. Women are more aware and introspective. Also,” she continues, “the cultural socialization of females as being seen through relationships is highly exaggerated in Western culture, whereas men are socialized to recognition, validation through their actions, outward successes, jobs, possessions, and accomplishments.”
So, as Paige suggests, it’s not that men received the Ego-Gene and we did not, it’s just that men don’t have the cultural resistance built in that women do. Ahhhhhhhhh. The truth may be, to some extent, that our generation of women, in roles as mothers, teachers, mentors, and bosses, were less inclined to raise, socialize, and condition our girls to be anything other than themselves. No boundaries. No restrictions. No Stop Signs.
If that premise has validity, and, I’m going with it, then hooray for us and three cheers for the generations following us. With just ten days until Mother’s Day, I may just pop the cork and start celebrating early.
We all have a Yin & Yang about us, don’t we? So it goes, in my family, with this essay devoted to the two Y-genes of my daughter, Melissa, who is still maneuvering through her 40’s, and is a writer, wife, and mother. Melissa’s Yang is that she says Yes to everything she’s asked to do. Her Yin is that she cannot say No.
She seems, however, to have successfully stretched 24 hours into 28-1/2. How do I know this? In a recent four-day period, counting up all her commitments and deadlines, plus 7-hours for sleep each night, I calculated she needed at least 114 hours from lift-off to completion rather than the Sun-to-Moon’s four-day expectation of 96.
And, while I hear that sometimes, just occasionally, this makes her a little grouchy, her family thrives and she’s the Princess, if not always the Queen. Never one to mettle, knowing that it’s not my business, and having tossed out “running yourself ragged” and “too much on your plate” much too often, I’ve learned to just hold on tight, allowing some of her energy, creativity, and passion to filter into my life.
Her latest over-commitment was substitute teaching for several days at her girls’ school. Besides the regular course of study, she also helped direct a school-wide talent show and baked bread. Yes, her class actually baked bread for the entire school. That exercise whirled somewhere around the curriculum of mathematics, following orders, patience, and butter.
Quite honestly, her forté, writing, is what her students is not. She miraculously has them scribbling down everything from poems to newspaper articles, which were actually published with bylines in the school newspaper. (Don’t even ask if she helped with its launching.)
One day she pulled down a map of the United States, told her kids to write down five places they would like to visit, and, then, a paragraph each, explaining, Why. Their answers were varied, their reasons, interesting, New York City/Statue of Liberty; Washington D.C./Lincoln’s Memorial, of course. But their overwhelming desires were to visit our “outdoors”, from the Badlands and Four Corners to Mt. McKinley and the Grand Canyon.
Which got me to thinking about the wanderlust of my generation……. this is dream-fulfillment time, folks, time to drag out that folder brimming with foreign travel clippings, and, make reservations. If not now, when? Already tucked away in my drawer, carefully considered, are my 7 for-sures and my 2 probably-nots.
1.the Galapagos;
2.the Concentration Camps of central Europe;
3.any unexplored areas of France;
4.an African Safari;
5.Berlin;
6.Petra, located in Jordan, south of the Dead Sea;
7.a cruise through the Panama Canal Lock System; and, the probably nots,
8.the Roman Antiquities in Libya;
9.Easter Island’s Moai.
But, Melissa’s class enticed me to come back home, to think locally. At this point in our lives, have we forgotten there’s no place like home, isn’t it where the heart is? Are there still some gems here for me to discover and enjoy. Think about it. Haven’t I already got this country covered?
In a word, No.
With a nod to those students, now tucked away in my drawer, carefully considered, are my see-America-first 6 for-sures, no probably-nots, with more to follow:
1.the Presidential Libraries – These are one of our country’s underrated, uncrowned glories. Beginning with Herbert Hoover’s library in West Branch, Iowa (which I have visited along with Eisenhower’s in Abilene, Kansas), there are now 12.
2.Glacier National Park
3.the Everglades
4.Civil War battlefields trip/tour
5.Birding the Great Texas Coastal Birding Trail
6.San Antonio
God Bless America.
“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
– Innocents Abroad, Mark Twain
Photo: I recently enjoyed late afternoon at the magnificent South Rim of the Grand Canyon, arguably this country’s greatest natural wonder. Flying overhead, at the time, were nine California Condors, each one a wonder of the feather variety.
Since moving to Nevada six years ago, I roll out of bed at 5 am daily to exercise for an hour at my local athletic club. Those first few years and still totally responsible for my husband’s care, I could sweat, breathe heavily, and send my heart racing, before he ever opened his eyes. Not my choice, this work-out regime, but my physician told me to handle my stress or die. She got my full attention, as does my alarm clock, which gets abusively throttled each morning.
