Politics

I am breaking one of my sacred rules. Talking politics. I avoid politics, I think my grandfather, Opa, had the same temperament. There was no talk of his political life before immigrating to America and I don’t know anything about his views. The only memory I have of his political views was seeing him on the verge of tears when President Kennedy died.

Politics and environmentalism have had a long affiliation. I am an environmentalist. You wouldn’t want your home, that sat on the bottom of a hill for over eighty years undisturbed, washed into the river because a developer bent the rules and built a development on a slope above it that caused a collapse of the entire hillside when heavier rains than usual arrived. Those that chain themselves to trees and protest the bulldozing of entire tracts of land bring attention to the problem, but no solution. Those that harvest trees and denude the area of natural vegetation have those chained to the trees arrested, but offer no solution. It is a vicious cycle. Both sides lose.

In the environmental community and the development community, there are now some looking for a middle ground. They are communicating, sitting down together, and working on solutions. It is not about winning and both sides now realize that working together is a benefit. If you follow the rules, I believe that there is always a political middle ground that meets the needs of both sides.

I have been receiving messages from friends in the South about Obama and his politics that border on hate mail. These anti-Obama messages are unbelievable. Unbelievable to me that, in this day and age, that there are those who never will see the forest because of the trees. There is a naïve, almost childlike tone to these messages. I am concerned, these messages seem to try and divide us. We don’t need less government and we don’t need more government. We need a government that is for the people, by the people, and of the people. Yes, it is a cliché. But government has forgotten that the people and the government were formed as a partnership. Obama does have the skills to be a good president. Obama was not my first choice, however he will be a good president, as good as we make him. In this day and age, our presidents don’t preside, they are project managers. It is up to us to make sure that our representatives in Congress carry our message to Washington. It is up to all of us to stop taking sides and to sit down and look for common ground and work on solutions.

Solutions must have eluded Opa. My brother has always puzzled about why Opa and Oma left Europe late, just before the WW II implosion, and lost most of their wealth. They left Eger,Czech in October of 1938. Relatives and friends immigrated much earlier and seemed, monetarily, to be in a much better position than Opa and Oma. I can only speculate. Staying until it was almost impossible to leave may have been fueled by the political climate in Sudetenland.

Sudetenland was a historical region of the northern Czech Republic along the Polish border. Long inhabited by ethnic Germans, it was seized by the Nazis in September 1938 and was restored to Czechoslovakia in 1945, after which the German population was expelled. Formerly part of Austria, the predominantly German-speaking area was incorporated into Czechoslovakia after World War I. Discontent among the Sudeten Germans was exploited in the mid-1930s by the Nazi Party and its local leader Konrad Henlein. The inflammatory situation convinced Britain and France that, to avoid war, Czechoslovakia must be persuaded to give the region autonomy. Adolf Hitler's demand that the region be ceded to Germany was initially rejected, but the cession was later accomplished by the Munich agreement. After World War II the region was restored to Czechoslovakia, which expelled its German inhabitants and repopulated the area with Czechs. Just politics?

We have political opportunities given to us by enlightened men who founded this nation. As a “closet” German Jew, I can only imagine what Opa thought while watching, from America, his Sudeten homeland disintegrate. In 1940, the family made it to America and were safe with relatives, and after the war, there were no longer any political solutions and no chance to ever return home.

Immigrants made America a melting pot of cultures and races. George Washington's financial advisor and assistant was a Jewish man named Hayim Solomon. Hayim loaned a lot of his own funds to the cause. He is considered the financial hero of the Revolution. In 1783, after the war, a fraction of the money was actually repaid. Practicing Episcopalian Alexander Hamilton has at least half-Jewish in his ancestry. If we count Deism (and Unitarianism), there were some big names among the non-Christians -- Tom Paine, Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. The anti-Obama messages being sent to me hint of the man not being suitable for office because of his familiarity with Muslim culture, because he isn’t Christian enough to lead this nation. I could quote some scripture here, but I am on a political quest.

Our founding fathers gave us the political tools to develop solutions. How do we get our government back to the fundamentals? How do we make people see how far away from the principles that defined the beginning of this democracy we have come and to sit down together to look for solutions?

Back and Forth (2008)

By Ann Lee

Back and forth, up and down; this summer I am painting a long-neglected outbuilding. Brush stroke by brush stroke, I watch the carefully chosen color cover the white primer. Neither the small electric paint sprayer nor the roller gave me the result I was looking for, so brush stroke by brush stroke I work to curb my irritation with the slow pace and to appreciate the process. Little sound bites invade my thoughts.

Primitive.

Up and down, with each stroke of the small 2” wide brush I imagine a homeowner living in a time when houses were built in seven months not seven days. A time when they only way to paint was brush stroke by brush stroke. As a society we expect, no we demand, that things are done quickly. I wonder what we have lost.

Brush stroke by brush stroke, I recall school required reading that included literature of times long past. I recall literature that spoke of summer vacations spent white washing miles of fence. What child of today would have that patience, that focus? My own patience and focus is tested with the couple of hours a day I have reserved for this task.

Back and forth, up and down; the brush moves across the building as I climb up and down the ladder on an elastic bandaged knee that would have faired better if the building had been blasted with a spray gun. Dragging a bucket up a ladder is testing more than my fortitude, perhaps my sanity.

Brush stroke by brush stroke, I am reminded that half of my friends expect communication by personalized snail mail that takes days to arrive while the other half embraces the Internet and technology, confused when queries are not responded to instantly. Those in the snail mail genre would probably be fascinated by the painting of this building. I was born in a complex era. Stroke by stroke, I try to rationalize why a slow pace may be better. This building was long-neglected and my excuse was of a lack of time. Things to do, people to contact, work to do, the Internet to surf, I embrace technology, irritated with snail mail.

However, I now have time to paint, sip tea, and not worry about the pace that I have chosen for this project. I had always expected to leave Corporate America on my own terms. A reduction in force is what they called it. Corporate restructuring they tell shareholders. Increasing shareholder value is what my brother calls it. Two jobs and a three hour daily commute left no time for outbuildings. One job I left for personal reasons, the other soon after that because of “a reduction in force.”

To get my severance pay, I signed a waiver that I was not let go because of age. I received a federally mandated spreadsheet of the ages of those let go in my department and those remaining. Let go were a 38 year old first time mother who went to human resources and begged to be on the list, a 45 year old, the rest were in their 50s and 60s. Age discrimination had never entered my thoughts before the required waiver. Brush stroke by brush stroke, I focus on the paint filled bristles of the brush.

Up and down, side to side, the brush moves in a controlled rhythm as I try to control my impatience. I contemplate the irony of choosing to paint my building this way. As someone who kept their e-mail always open; expecting and giving immediate, instant responses, the method of painting this structure is the antithesis of my corporate life. And as a single woman in her fifties, I wait for the panic attacks that plagued me in my youth, but they show no signs of appearing.

A time out from the brush to visit my friend. Another displaced employee who is normally frugal, we went downtown to an uptown shoe store. With severance pay and confidence that a new position would easily be obtained, she picked out two pairs of shoes and left the equivalent of one month’s rent on a counter that would have only held the fingerprints of a daydreamer the day before. I think about coping strategies and return to my building.

Up and down, back and forth, for a couple of hours a day, my brush continues to travel across the building as the summer wanes. I am not checking my e-mail as frequently as I had at the beginning of the summer. Roommates suggest that a roller would be more efficient, I tell them this is therapy. Brush stroke by brush stroke, I think about the job boards I have resisted signing up for, the corporate sponsored classes that I am entitled to but have avoided, but mainly I think about former colleagues who are also disenfranchised. I worry about those that are challenged by technology, who have been left behind through their choices. Choices define us and the narrow 2” brush moves effortlessly across the building.
Brush stroke by brush stroke, I now know that the lattes that I buy on impulse when I am driving around will now be purchased only on special occasions. Up and down, back and forth, the brush layers Whispering Pine green over the white primer. I also realize that the primer is not being covered by the green, but is an important part of the process, a silent partner. Life is like the paint on this building, layered. What is underneath is important because the top layer is molded and shaped by the layer underneath it. I am still bothered by the waiver I signed, that I would not claim age discrimination as the reason that I was chosen to be part of the corporate restructuring.

My grandmother was old when she was in her fifties. I do not feel old. Choices. In the waning days of summer, with the building almost complete, I will make sure that there is wood for the winter. I will search for books collected over the years to befriend me over the winter. The next layer will not look the layer it covers, of that I am sure.

Back and Forth, Up and Down (2009)

I am approaching the one-year anniversary of my release from a corporate empire. It is interesting that, at this junction in my life, I am once again painting. My daughter and her tribe are packing and after living with me for two years, they are moving into their own home. I am painting the bathroom for her. Back and forth, up and down, the paintbrush goes just as it did a year ago. I wrote an essay about my adventures last summer and shared it in my New Year’s message to some of my friends. I am repeating it for those who are interested.

The house that I am painting has been around for more than eighty years. My thoughts frequently wander as I brush paint over cracked molding that has more paint layers than I care to count. I have let my imagination wander with each brush stroke, who put this first layer on in this tiny little cottage? Perhaps the “man” of the house, or the builder. I am sure it was not the “lady” of the house. From the books that I have read about home life in the 1920s, she would not done this work herself. If her husband was unable to do it, then she would have found a handyman to do it.

The 1920s and 1930s are a fascinating period. The British television versions of “Hercule Poirot” and “Miss Marple” by Agatha Christie on PBS showcase the best of the eras. I love old movies like “The Thin Man”. The style of the houses, the clothing, and the cars always captivate me. It seems like a simpler time with an invisible, hidden current of excitement and exploration underneath that facade. I wonder if I could have lived in a time that restricted women, but I do know that there were many women that worked around those restrictions.

Even now, we place restrictions on ourselves. It doesn’t matter if the influences come from outside pressures or from our own minds, how we restrict ourselves defines us and the result is the same. One of the many books I have enjoyed reading is “Women in the Field: America's Pioneering Women Naturalists” by Marcia M. Bonta. These women defied restrictions placed on them, but many didn’t receive the credit due to them. We have come a long way. I use the word we because I am sure that “I” have not come as far as I should have come.

Thanks to the Gregoire – Obama stimulus package, I do not have to worry about the overhead lights and the gas for my car at this time. However, there will be an end to that benefit and the day will soon be here when I will need to look at how and why I restrict myself. I need to appreciate that walking into a hardware store is something I probably wouldn’t have done in the 1920’s, but, thanks to women who rose above society’s expectations, I have the privilege to do it now and not to be embarrassed. There are many other opportunities that I should take advantage of. In an era when men explored the world and women stayed home and kept the home fires burning, one of the women naturalists I read about bought a huge Dodge truck, sixteen gears, loaded her lady friend and gear up and headed for Baja to do research. SHOCKING BEHAVIOUR by all accounts!!

The House

Our houses are large, with our consumption of natural resources paralleling the super sizing of our existence. Closets the size of 1920 bedrooms filled with clothes and master bedrooms that dwarf 1920 living rooms are typical. How much is too much? When is enough, enough?

My second daughter and her husband have bought their first home. They have been waiting to move in until it is painted. It is a mid 1920 bungalow that has had only a handful of owners and very little updating. A 1950 remodel left the bathroom with linoleum floors and grey blue plastic tile over the walls. There is an original back bedroom that has a narrow staircase leading to two bedrooms carved out of the attic. These attic bedrooms look like something out of a 1930 ski lodge, floor to ceiling dark, tongue and groove planks. The homes original front bedroom’s interior wall was removed to become part of the living room. The remodel was complete with popcorn ceilings in the expanded living room.

The previous owner had not lived in the house for years. She is her mother’s caregiver and the house viewable from the backyard is the mother’s place. Not needing to sell, but pushed by relatives to do something with the bungalow, there was no effort to even clean the house for sale.

The front bedroom will be reclaimed. The wall paper removal in the pass through bedroom revealed the imprint of a plate railing that had been removed. My daughter’s popping off of the bathroom tile created off gases and revealed thick globs of adhesive that quickly dried out. Under doctor’s orders to stay away from the house until the remodel is done because of her pregnancy, my project is to make the bathroom look nice.

For weeks, I chiseled dry globs of adhesive off the walls. We speculate that the layout in the small bathroom is not original. I wonder about the 1950 tub along the interior wall. Maybe there was a period tub under the window with an outhouse outback?

As I patch cracks in the old walls and tear out the metal 1950 medicine cabinet that the new owners do not want, the old type construction of lath and plaster reveals itself. There must be stories in the walls. This blue collar house in a blue collar neighborhood must have seemed like a castle to the original owner. Closets were just being included in new housing in the mid 1920’s. These closets are the size of broom closets. The entire wardrobes of the working class probably fit into a large suitcase. These small, functional bedrooms are the size of walk-in closets in McMansions.

Over the years, families have gotten smaller and houses have gotten larger. A rural Southern anti-bellium plantation in MS I visited survived abandonment and even became a shelter for hobos for years. It was lovingly restored and miraculously handcrafted plaster wall ornaments survived, but size wise, we would not think of this as the home of a wealthy business owner. On a business trip in the south years ago, I toured The Palace, Tryon, in New Bern. It was an exact reproduction of the British governor’s residence before we became The United States. The Palace is dwarfed by McMansions.

What drives us? Why do we need more than is required to exist? Why can’t we enjoy what we have? I am not suggesting a return to the outhouse, I am suggesting that we should be able to live simpler. Bedrooms for sleeping and bathrooms for bathing. Modern master bedrooms boast sitting rooms the size of living rooms. Bathrooms with oversized whirlpool tubs and a fireplace. With natural resources being consumed at an alarming pace, with environmental issues facing us, what impact does over consumption have our future?

Potato Pancakes

Food can define who we are. Many of my memories of my grandmothers, especially Oma, my mother’s mother, are related to food. My dad’s Midwest mother, transplanted to Southern California, cooked big old-fashioned family farm meals. Our time together was limited and I don’t remember much, however, I do have memories of sweet corn boiling on the stove. I am not sure if it was harvested from Grandpa’s garden. Oma’s cooking was European and dinner was an affair.

Oma and Opa lived in a small bungalow, maybe 1000 square feet, but she ran the kitchen like it was part of a manor. In a very small kitchen, with a horseshoe layout, sat a kitchen table. The table took up a lot of floor space. With no one seated at the table, you had to walk sideways to go around the kitchen. Opening lower cupboards and drawers was a challenge. Opa would sit with his back to the opening to the dining room, Oma would sit opposite with her back to the sink, and those that were seated on the side had to inhale to slide in-between the chair and the table. In the dining room area was a beautiful wood dining room table. Breakfast and lunch were typically served at the kitchen table. The dining room table was for a more formal dinner. And most evening meals were formal. The table was set with dishes, silverware and napkins at each place, Opa’s dining room chair had arms like a throne with Oma always sitting at the opposite end.

Prague postcard from Opa and Oma's pictures.

I now know that before my grandparents relocated to the United States, Oma managed a household that had two cooks. This makes some of her choices clearer. I am sure that she was traumatized because of the loss of everything her family had and could not let go of a lifestyle that she once had. I remember disagreements over breakfast. When I would visit, I would tumble out of bed first thing in the morning and stagger to the table. Mortified, Oma would insist that I dress and brush my teeth. I would argue that my teeth would get dirty eating breakfast, so I could brush after. However, I would not tumble out of bed and go to breakfast “as is” while staying at bed and breakfast inns I can imagine that living in a household with staff could be very comparable. Knowing some history could have steered us away from disagreements and misunderstandings.

There were no disagreements over Oma’s cooking, especially her desserts. I still remember the huge old Kitchen Aid mixer sitting on the counter. I remember watching liquid cream being drizzled in slowly and magically changing to whipped cream. My mother says that Oma didn’t learn to cook until she came to the United States. I find that hard to believe, she probably didn’t have a need to cook in Europe. A novice couldn’t make delicate, large white cakes no thicker than half an inch, smear it with whipped cream, and roll it up like a jelly roll with nary a crack.

Mother says that Opa was the baker and was known for oblaten, a crisp, subtly flavored dessert wafer. She says that Opa’s press to make oblaten was shipped under her uncle’s name, a Dutchman not bound in the late 1930’s to the confiscation of his assets by Germany. However, on its arrival in the United States, Opa sold it for much less than its worth. I will never understand why I never saw him bake or why he abandoned this business opportunity. Mother said that a company in Vermont still uses the press to this day.

My mother’s culinary skills were minimal. Perhaps this was part of her rebellion against her mother. She was content with TV dinners thrown in the oven and with letting us sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV. Mom could, however, make potato pancakes, one of the few things that gave away her heritage.

My younger sister shared a book she found at the library, “At Oma’s Table.” This cookbook, by top New York restaurateur Doris Schechter, is not only a cookbook, but a history book of a family’s flight from Vienna in World War II. Many of the recipes have a familiar ring to me. I am the oldest grandchild on my mother’s side, the first in the family born in the United States. My children and grandchildren have never understood the pleasure I get eating potato pancakes. For my youngest sister, who lives with and is the caregiver of our mother, I hauled over the ingredients to make Doris’ pancakes. I later shared it with my daughter and grandson. He enjoyed it, she didn’t want to try. Mother says that she only used potatoes in hers, but she certainly seemed to enjoy Doris’.

• 2 lbs. peeled russet potatoes
• 2 medium onions
• 2 peeled medium carrots
• 2 peeled and trimmed zucchini
• 5 minced garlic cloves
• 1 extra large beaten egg
• 1 cup flour
• coarse kosher salt and fresh pepper to taste
• vegetable oil, flavorless
• sour cream (applesauce can also be a topping)
• grate vegetables on the large holes of a box grater
• combine vegetables with garlic, flour, and egg and stir
• add salt and pepper to taste
• place oil in a frying pan
• while oil is heating, shape enough batter to fill the palm of the hand, press the batter to make silver dollar size pancakes
• place pancakes in the frying pan for 2-3 minutes on each side
• remove pancakes with a slotted spoon and place on a towel lined baking sheet to drain
• serve as soon as possible with sour cream on each pancake

Disfunction

My mother and her family had a great impact and influence on me, I identify closely with them. If I was being a pessimist, I would say that impact and influence gave me a lack of confidence, lack of optimism and no entrepreneurial skills. However, I am surprised at where this latest journey is taking me.

When I began this blog I called it "alostbohemian" and set up an e-mail account for this blog at bohemian@fairpoint.net. The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines a Bohemian as a person with artistic or literary interests who disregards conventional standards of behavior. I have spent my life trying to adhere to conventional standards of behavior. A Bohemian lifestyle could be closer to who I imagine I would have been if I had made more enlightened decisions over the years. A sense of family and of family history would have given me skills to make better choices. However, looking back is not the way to look forward. Or is it.

I am a Bohemian. The other definition of Bohemian is a native or inhabitant of Bohemia. Isn't it interesting that in searching for a path forward, I have found myself looking back? My mother was born in Eger, Czech., now called Cheb, located in the far northwest corner of Bohemia. I knew where my mother was born and when she immigrated to the United States, but I know little of how they lived before they came to the United States. I could surmise why they came here from lessons learned in history classes. For my mother's family, their lives began when they came here, they even changed their names. There are Jewish people that were Jewish by birth and there are those that were by not only Jewish by birth, but who actively practiced their faith. I don't know which my grandparents were. From reading published biographies of Jewish World War II immigrants, I am impressed by their sense of family and history. My grandparents relocated to a community where there were other family members, but the sense of history and family didn't seem to be there. There was little sharing, little explanation.

Opa, the gardener, had had a shop. There were times that he would show me a jar of buttons that seemed important. I wish I had paid more attention. From recent discussions with my mother, Opa's shop sold tailored suits. Opa wasn't a tailor. Mother thinks that he helped his clients pick out the fabric and accessories for their suits, then had the suit sewn for them. He may have even manufactured the material for the suit. The buttons must have been an important part of the look. From what I have been reading in biographies, many Jewish people were shopkeepers, providing necessary goods and services. After the war, there must have been an incredible void in the fabric of European society.

The cousin who was tracing his family tree shared information with my mother from the granddaughter of Dr. Paul Löwy, Anat . Dr. Paul Löwy was an attorney and a successful puppeteer who immigrated to Israel in 1939. He was Opa's brother. I frequently read her letter and I am a little jealous that she has more family history than I do. However, I do have one piece of the puzzle that she doesn't have.

My mother had mentioned, once, that the family was planning on going to England if they needed to. There was a nephew in England who had a manufacturing business having to do with clothing. Anat's letter quotes , ""It is September 15, 1938. We are all in Prague. We heard that in Carlsbad, windows of Jews and Czechs were smashed, in Eger and the German provinces were bloody riots, it seems that the removal of the recognition of the German Sudeten area will happen soon. It seems that the marionettes have to find another place to live." Paul and Opa did not believe that something would happen to them because they were officers in the previous war. Anat says, "Until this day I wonder what was the logic behind learning waterproofing of raincoats and glove making, ending up in a hot place like Palestine." Paul was an attorney and his brother, my Opa, was a successful clothing store owner, it was the 1930's. Maybe they were thinking that if that had to leave for a while they would go to England and work with the nephew, then go back home. Shopkeepers and business owners are always looking for new opportunities.

Shopkeepers and business owners are envied by me. I have always worked for someone. In this latest downturn in our economy, having your own business may be the way to turn things around. Business owners must be fearless and optimistic. There must be an unshakable belief in themselves. While owning your own business seems to be scary, there must be a unique sense of accomplishment in having a successful enterprise.

There is a 1951 film "Out of Evil" at http://w3.castup.net/spielberg/index.aspx?lang=en&id=282 At the beginning of the film there is a donkey marionette, fast forward to about 41, 46 minutes and there is a campfire like scene with people sitting around on straw bales watching the puppet show. The man making the marionette's dance is my great uncle. Dr. Paul Löwy also carved the puppets. I look at his suit and it is very similar to the suits Opa wore and I wonder if that is a style that Opa had a hand in. I wonder about Opa's business skills, I wonder what he was like when he had hope and optimism. I wonder how he ran his shop and his business.

Immigration

Concerns about immigration and both legal and illegal immigrants are everyday news. There is a lot of anger toward immigrants. People that have been here for generations feel entitled to their life. When recessions and depressions threaten that life, they look for someone to blame. Immigrants are easy targets. My grandfathers were immigrants, legal immigrants because they were fortunate enough to have sponsors. My grandfather Opa was a gardener. Many hired gardeners are now Hispanic. They are like my grandfather, trying to take care of their families by working at a dirty, hard job few are willing to take. Not only is empathy is lacking in our society, but a lack of gratitude for the lives we have in this country. For many of us, our lives were made possible by immigrants who sacrificed to be here.

Ever since I posted my last blog, I have been thinking about my grandparent’s immigration to the United States. Scandinavian immigrants were welcome with open arms because of a need to populate the harsh Midwest with people who understood the climate and could work with it. Opa immigrated because the alternative was death. My mother was only eight when she left her home with her parents. Talking about their life in Europe was not permitted in their house. I have many questions that would help me understand what path I am on and where I am going.

A few years ago, a man named Walter Klein contacted my mother. He identified himself as a distant cousin who wanted to share his search for ancestors with her. My mother, he said, was his cousin. He was trying to understand their link to each other. He discovered, in his genealogy research, a line that ran to her. He shared his family tree and pictures of destroyed European synagogues.

I knew growing up that Opa and Oma, my grandmother, had something they wanted to keep very quiet. My mother has, in her later years, been joking about being Jewish. They were Jewish, but I don’t think that was the secret. Walter’s papers have made me believe that the missing piece of the puzzle may be that they might have been Sudeten. There is now a wealth of information on the net of Sudeten’s trying to create their own homeland. http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/GERsudetenland.htm Opa may have ignored the politics of the movement for independence because of his status in the community, only to realize that it was a Nazi supported movement that was not for Jewish Sudetens. They started their escape in 1938, going to Prague, then to Holland. This is just speculation on my part, pieced together from the small pieces of the puzzle I have. However, from their life in America you would not know it. Opa was a gardener, Oma worked in small sewing factories as a seamstress. My mother attended the Lutheran church.

My mother is now is beginning to talk about what she remembers about her other life. You have to weed through what you know is exaggeration and what is plausible. She harbors a lot of anger toward her parents even to this day. That shaped her youth. It also shaped her adult life and her relationship with her children (including me). I can make no excuses for her, but I can imagine what is was like for an eight year old girl of privilege, raised by a nanny, to go on an odyssey of running and hiding for more than eight months through Europe.

She related to me a story of standing at a table with her brother and parents with their papers in a folder to hand over to a German soldier that was checking them. She remembers tall, black, shiny boots. Another officer bumped their elbows, sending papers flying. Scrambling to gather them, the officer said for them to go. Mom said that there were good German soldiers. Then that little girl spent what seemed like an eternity on a ship trying to cross the Atlantic during the stormy season. She stills talks with anger about a mother who didn’t try to mother her until she was eight years old. A women who had two cooks and little time for her. For my mother, her mother was the nanny left behind. Clouded by spending her life trying to make her mother pay for that, my mother didn’t seem to have skills to mother her own children.