June 26, 2019--Aunt Tanna

I've been thinking this week about my Aunt Tanna, my mother's second oldest sister who became our extended family's matriarch after my grandmother died.

This meant that all ritual occasions such as Passover and Rosh Hashanah dinners were under her auspices and occurred around her always-ladened dining room table. 

In my life I do not recall any warmer times.

Aunt Tanna was also the even-more-extended family's guardian angel. 

My earliest childhood memories were of distant cousins, who had survived Nazi concentration camps, who she somehow, at the end of the war, managed to bring to the safety of America. That "safety of America" was the security and love she provided to those who had literally been through Hell.

When they were liberated those emaciated skeletons were placed in DP camps, often tent camps, displaced persons camps, which were much less than ideal facilities, where they needed to wait, often for more than a year, before there was a place of refuge to which to send them. 

Much of Europe was in ruins and there were few places to locate freed prisoners. The United States, which sustained no direct damage, was only reluctantly welcoming. 

In America there was a long tradition of official antisemitism and our State Department, which was charged with managing the quotas that severely restricted the number of those who could be admitted to the country as refugees, was notoriously known to be unfriendly to anything Jewish. 

For example, before World War II erupted the Secretary of State ordered that ships packed with asylum seekers not be permitted to disembark them. The ships and their passengers were turned back and as a consequence many thousands were then sent to concentration camps where they were slaughtered by the Nazis. 

Aunt Tanna somehow found ways to locate scattered family members and one-by-one, occasionally in small family groups when more than one cousin miraculously survived, she managed to bring them to her apartment in Brooklyn where she arranged places for them to sleep, frequently for months, frequently three to a bed, while she searched for more permanent places for them to live and jobs so they could support themselves.

They spoke no English and I no Yiddish, the lingua franca, and so we communicated mainly though shrugs and gestures. As might be imagined I was especially drawn to the occasional young cousin survivors, who my father said, looked like "little old men." What they had been through, I came to understand, had literally left its mark on them.

And of course I could not take my eyes off the blue numbers they all had tattooed on their forearms.

I have been thinking about this recently because Portland Maine continues to be in the news as it struggles to welcome a few hundred Congolese refugees who have been granted asylum in America. There was another article in the New York Times Monday about how welcoming Portland is attempting to be. And how Portland and the State of Maine continue to be the only places in the U.S. where public money in combination with privately raised funds are being used to help defray the cost of their relocation and transition.

This, as I have written, has unleashed a storm of protest from some Mainers who feel that while citizens are struggling we should not be using taxpayer money to defray the costs associated with admitting refugees. That it is better to require that family members "sponsor" anyone seeking to live in America. The Aunt Tanna approach.

This seems to me to be worth considering.

June 20, 2019--Asylum In Maine

While waiting for our septic system to be pumped out (living by the bay in Maine has its moments), we had a long talk with our septic guy, Donny. We've known him for ten years. He's very bright and full of opinions. The other day many were about asylum seekers. From West Africa, Congo mainly, who he claimed are being welcomed by the political leaders of Portland.

"Can you believe they're getting $1,500 a month for rent and other expenses? My daughter who works two jobs makes about half that. And still lives with us. She could sure use some of that money. Not that I'm in favor of the government giving anyone that kind of money. To be consistent, including my daughter. But refugees when there are Americans who have needs?"

He slapped his thighs in frustration. "And people wonder why Trump was elected. It may surprise you that I didn't vote for him and don't intend to next year. But I share some of his feelings about the asylum system."

"I've been reading about this," I said, "There was a long article about Portland earlier this week in the New York Times."

"So you agree with me."

"Not so fast," Rona said, "The Times didn't say refugees are getting that much money and didn't say that whatever they might be getting in city or state money will go on indefinitely. And there was no mention of the federal government providing money unless someone is admitted to the country as an officially designated refugee. Then, as I understand it, they're entitled to the same services and benefits as U.S. citizens. But that's a relatively small number."

"And that makes sense to you?" Donny said, "That a judge finds they are in danger back in the own country, grants them asylum, and then they get Medicaid and food stamps? Again, while my working daughter, who's an American citizen, has to wait on a very long line to get housing subsides. Again, that makes sense to you?"

We felt the need to do some research.

Yes, it's true Portland has one of the most welcoming of policies. Recently, this city of 66,000 admitted about 200 Africans who were granted asylum by a judge in San Antonio. It took most more than a month to get there but they made the trek because San Antonio is considered to be the easiest place in America to be granted asylum.

Once granted asylum, attempts are made to settle refugees with family members--Maine has a relatively large Congolese community, but it is not large enough to absorb all who are likely to need help with resettlement. And Maine, it is true, is one of only two states where there is taxpayer money available to help with housing. The Portland Community Support Fund uses local government money to provide rental assistance but that Fund is already depleted. So, Donny was misinformed when he said refugees are receiving $1,500 a month in government subsidies. He was right, though, that Portland is welcoming. They, for example, have converted their basketball arena into emergency housing.

"This is really complicated," Rona said, "It is important to admit refugees who are escaping from oppression and violence, but how many is the right number? To relocate and house 200 as in Portland is a generous thing to do but we know there are hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions more worldwide who we cannot accommodate."

"Considering the numbers this feels like a gesture," I said, "But still the right thing to do. Isn't it?"

"Maybe the government should not be in this business altogether, leaving the welcoming and resettlement to refuge organizations and family members. I remember that in the past anyone seeking asylum or refugee status needed to be sponsored by an organization or family member. Didn't that work?"

I said, "I'm not proud to bring this up but there is also the political cost. Trump is mocking Portland's efforts. It continues to be an effective wedge issue for him. I wouldn't be surprised to hear him tell Donny's daughter's story."

"The good news is that in spite of continuing to have this red-meat issue to rile his base, the poll numbers for Trump are not looking good."

"We can continue to talk about this with Donny," I said, "We won't need to be pumped out again this year, but I'm sure we'll see him at the Nobleboro Village Store when we're making a donut run. They still make the best ones in Maine."

June 5, 2019--Micucci's Pizza

Not much writing time today. 

After a memorable three-hour breakfast with John and Bernie, we spent additional hours haunting the garden shops near Portland and then, in Portland, at Micucci's, we inhaled a few slices of their America's-best pizza-by-the-slice.

If you haven't had any, put it on your list. 45 India Street. It's been there for almost as long I've been wandering around looking for pizza and donuts and BBQ. Not all at once, of course. Though why I say "of course" escapes me. I have been known to . . .

Enough about that.

June 15, 2016--Midcoast: Headscarf

The woman ahead of me in the checkout line at Kohl's in South Portland seemed distracted. While the rest of us were organizing purchases in our shopping carts, she was looking around as if under scrutiny.

Perhaps it's because of her headscarf, I thought. With the massacre in Orlando still dominating the news, and with the killer from an Islamic background, it wouldn't be surprising for an identifiable Muslim out in public to be nervous about what non-Mulsims might be thinking.

As her eyes swept the store, when she caught me looking at her, she quickly lowered her head and began to fidget with the clothing she was in the process of buying.

I said, not knowing exactly why, "It's still so windy."

With that she turned fully around, now with her back emphatically to me.

Not deterred, I said, "The forecast, though, is for it to subside later today. The wind." Still no reaction, "I'm worried about the plants we bought recently," I chattered on, "The wind dries them out and it's blowing too hard to water. Oh well."

By then she was first in line and one-by-one gently handed the pants, T shirts, and blouses to the cashier. They didn't exchange even a word but I could read the cashier's body language. She was decidedly not happy dealing with the woman and after ringing them all up, without folding them, stuffed the garments, as if they were garbage, into a large plastic bag.

When it was my turn, the cashier sighed audibly. "Not my favorite morning," she muttered to herself, but intentionally loud enough for me to hear.

"Sorry about that," I said, "It's the wind."

"Couldn't care less about that."

"Then what . . . ," I began to say knowing I should probably pay and get back in the car and head home.

"Come here to go on welfare and get us to pay for their health care and then the next thing you know . . ."

I knew she was referring to Orlando.

"Here I am working three jobs, none of them with benefits, and they just show up and have nothing better to do than go shopping." I tried to suggest without saying that I didn't want to hear this and was eager to be on my way.

"Did you see her nails? Pretty fancy don't you think?" In fact I had noticed them. "Check these out." She held her hands close enough to me so I could see them without my glasses. "Haven't had the time or money to get them done. It's been ages. Last time was when my daughter got married." She took a deep breath, "What a world."

The wind had indeed subsided as I made my way to the parking lot. As usual, frustrated with myself, I couldn't remember were I parked and so I wandered first to the left and then to the right. And saw standing there, between two towering SUVs, the woman in the headscarf.

To avoid agitating her further, I turned around and began to head back toward the store, for the moment not thinking about where I had parked. I just wanted to get out of her presence and leave her in as much peace as possible.

"Mister, mister," she called to me. I kept walking. But she continued to call out to me and so I stopped and looked back toward her. I couldn't determine what was best for me to do. It was clear she was distraught. Should I wait for her to come closer--it was evident she wanted to as she walked rapidly toward me--or should I pretend I couldn't hear her and head back into the store, feeling certain she wouldn't follow me there. It was unusual enough, from what I knew about Islamic women, that she was trying to engage me unobserved but in public.

Following my instincts, I stopped slinking away and waited for her to get closer.

"You seem nice," she said when she caught up with me. Carefully standing at least six feet from me she again avoided eye contact. "I din't mean to ignore you in the store."

"That's OK," I said.

"I knew what that woman was thinking. The cashier. What she felt about me. Especially right now with the news."

"I didn't pick anything up from her," I lied.

"That's nice of you to say. But I know it's not true. We came here from Somalia two years ago. My husband is a doctor and works now in the hospital in Portland." She gestured toward downtown. "I have two young children at home and I stay with them to take care of them. My sister's with them now. I'm studying to become a real estate agent so I can work when they're both old enough to be in school."

"I wish you well with that," I said. Still not feeling comfortable. And not entirely understanding why.

"I heard what she said. The cashier. We're not on welfare. We pay taxes. We're becoming Americans. Studying for our citizenship. More than anyone, we hate what happened in Orlando and before that in San Bernardino. I don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe I want Americans to know who we are and how we feel."

"I can only imagine," I said, not lying.

"I know what people think. That we're all terrorists. I see the way people look at me and my husband. But with this . . ." She touched and adjusted her headscarf.

"I hope that's not true," I said, "Making it more difficult is what politicians and candidates are saying."

"I follow the news. I understand what you are saying. But can I tell you something I'm ashamed to admit?"

"Only if you . . ."

"I don't blame them. It was the same in Somalia. We came from educated people and then there were the militias. All the kidnappings and killings. They too called themselves Muslims, but they were animals. And so in Mogadishu, where we lived, if I saw a young man who made me think he was from Al-Shabaab, I wanted him to be captured and even killed. Just from the way he looked."

"I can understand."

"What I am saying is that in that way I was no different than the cashier. I even understand wanting to build walls and not let any Muslims into America." She began softly to cry. "I hate myself for saying that. But that's what being afraid does to you. So I understand."

And with that, she turned away and headed back up the aisle of parked cars.

October 16, 2103--Midcoast: That Abdul Fella

We had a few hours to kill. It was later in the morning of the day we drove at dawn to Frosty's in Brunswick for our donut orgy.

We were waiting for the Bowdoin College Museum to open. It was the next to last day of the Maurice Prendergast show. I especially like his work on paper--watercolors, pastels, gouaches, mono prints--and didn't want to miss it.

Thinking about what to do, Rona remembered that our friend Al Trescot was planning to berth his boat in a nearby marina at the end of Mere Point. He plans a book of photographs of the waters of Casco Bay. "Let's drive down to Paul's Marina," she suggested, "From our GPS it looks as if it's only five miles."

We took our time as the historic town of Bowdoin gave way to clusters of suburban-looking ranch houses before quickly turning into the more familiar look of rural Maine. The turn off to Paul's came up quickly and I had to brake hard not to glide past the dirt road that lead down to the marina.

It turned out to be more basic than the yard where Al had been mooring his boat the past two years as he worked on a soon-to-be-published book about the Sheepscot and Kennebec Rivers. But I agreed with Rona who felt it had much more charm huddled among cabins and cottages that lined the shore facing the bay and Merepoint Neck.

We parked next to one of the cottages, maybe a bit too close; but we thought that would be all right since we intended to take a quick look around to get a visual fix on where Al would be early next spring before we could join him for a trip or two.

"Let's get a quick cup of coffee," I proposed, "Just as Al said, there's a general store, over there, Judy's," I pointed toward the dock, "And maybe something to . . ."

"After what you ate at Frosty's an hour ago you want more . . ."

"Maybe some lobster?" Rona glared at me. "See what that other sign says."

"The Lobster You Buy Here Today,'" Rona read, "'Slept Last Night in Casco Bay.'"

"This is a perfect place for Al," I said. "It even rhymes." We both laughed. "Let's just get a cup of coffee. More to see Judy's than for the coffee or . . ."

"Good idea."

The coffee was hot and full flavored. We took it outside to a small deck and sat on a bench, passing it back and forth, looking into the half-risen sun and staring languidly out to the first of the more than 300 islands of Casco. More than enough for Al to find subject matter.

"Time to head out," I said, "By now the museum's open and I don't feel comfortable leaving the car so close to that house."

And with that, the door to it eased open and an elderly but seemingly physically vital man with a severe Amish-style beard began slowly to lumber down the four or five steps, heading toward our car.

I whispered to Rona as we trotted toward where we had parked, "I don't like the way he's looking at it or us. In fact, I don't like the way he looks. Let's just get into the car and not say to much. I'm in too good a mood to get yelled out for where we parked. Maybe just signal a brief apology and move on."

"I see you're . . ."  I couldn't make out what he was saying but from the tone he seemed friendly. I also noticed that our car was not really encroaching on access to his garage.

I relaxed. He sensed I didn't hear him and repeated, "I see you're from New York." I nodded, by then half seated in the car. "What parts?"

"Manhattan," Rona said. "Downtown."

"Not my kind of place," he said. "All these islands right here are enough action for me." With his hand he swept the horizon.

"Where you there on 9/11?" He didn't turn to look at us.

"Yes, we were," Rona said. "The first plane flew right over our terrace. I went out there to check the weather. To determine what to wear when it flew by just above the roof, going full speed. I thought it was in some sort of trouble. Not of course what was really happening."

"Terrible day. Terrible. Terrible time. Then and since."

"I agree with that," I said, "Things haven't been the same."

"We've lost our way," he said. "That's why I hardly ever leave this place. What more do I need? I got all my wants taken care of. I don't need any of that other nonsense."

"I understand," Rona said. "When we're here we feel the same way."

"From then on things have been different," he said, still looking into the sun. "They'll never be the same."

"I agree with that," I said. "It's awful, just awful."

"Do you know what happened the day before?"

"You don't mean yesterday?"

"No, September 10th. That day before."

"Your asking about that reminds me that two of the hijackers started that day near here in Portland."

"That's right, they came to Portland on the 10th, stayed overnight, and then flew from Portland to Boston the morning of the 11th when they got onto the plane that they hijacked and crashed into the first building."

"The one I saw," Rona sighed.

"No one seems to know why they came to Portland on the 10th," I said. "Do you have any idea why?"

"I have my theories," he said. "Before I retired I used to be in law enforcement."

"Your theories?"

"That's for another day." He waved the thought away. "But I'll tell you something I bet you don't know about."

"What's that? I've tried to read a lot about the hijackers."

"In your reading did you see that they came to this here marina?"

"Really?" I exclaimed. "Here? Why would that be?"

"Don't know about why, but I do know they came right here the day before. Was a beautiful day just like today."

"To do . . .?"

"As I said, I don't know. But I do know it was them. Atta, the leader, and that Abdul fella."

"I think it was Mohammed Atta and Abdulaziz al-Omari. For some reason I seem to know the names of all 19 of them."

"They sat down right there on that dock." He pointed to a small float directly behind me. "For more than an hour."

"My God," Rona said.

"As I told you I was in law enforcement and they didn't look right to me. They didn't look like they were from here."

"What did you do?" I asked hesitantly, not wanting to probe too deeply into what might be a terrible memory.

"Well, I had my suspicions. Of course not about what happened. Who could have imagined that. Though I should have . . ." His voice trailed off.

"No one could have imagined what they were plotting," I said. "No one." And that was the truth, not something I said to make him feel better.

"But I did write down the license plate number of their car."

"And, if I may, what . . ."

To be concluded tomorrow . . .

October 2, 2013--It's My Party

"So what do you want to do for your birthday?"

It was Monday, two days before October 2nd and Rona wanted to be sure I wasn't being coy when I had said during the past few months that I'm not really into celebrating birthdays--mine--and that we should play it by ear.

"Maybe," I said, "closer to the time I'll come up with some place I'd like to go or do to make it a little special."

"Well, it is a special one considering the number."

"To tell you the truth, this one is feeling like any other. To quote my mother, 'Every day I wake up and feel good is my birthday.'"

"But your mother's more than 105 and it's easy to understand why she feels that way. On the other hand, I hope you're not into denial when you say you don't want to make a big fuss. Or a small fuss."

"I don't think I am."

"I know why you're saying that. In your case it's honest to admit you don't think you're in denial considering how you thought turning 60 was no big deal and then when that birthday came you had a version of a nervous breakdown."

"Fair enough. But we were in Beijing at the time and I believed I was more disoriented by that than by it being my 60th."

"So, what do you want to do? I can still arrange a dinner party for friends. We can go to Primo in Rockland. It's supposed to be the best restaurant in Maine. Or Solo Bistro in Bath. Friends say it's even better than Primo."

"I guess that's a possibility."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic."

"I'm really not. Enthusiastic. I mean, I'm thrilled to be alive and feel this good and to be married to you; but at the moment, I think I'd like to cook dinner for us and drink a whole bottle of a wonderful, very expensive Bordeaux. Then watch Mary Tyler Moore reruns."

"How about two-thirds of a bottle and also watch Bob Newhart?"

"It's a deal."

But then yesterday, the day before my birthday, we returned to the subject.

"You know," I said sheepishly, "I think maybe I would like to do something."

"Anything. Well, almost anything."

"Maybe let's see Blue Jasmine and then go out for a nice dinner."

"That sounds fine. Which theater and where do you want to have dinner?"

"In Rockland. I think they have an afternoon show and then we could go to Primo. We've been here five, six years and are sort of foodies but have never gone there."

"That sounds good. They say eating in the bar is the thing to do. But check the movie schedule because it changes so often."

I did and discovered that there was no show at all in Rockland. The film apparently played just on the weekend. "I suppose," I said, "there's not that much call for Woody Allen up here. But I think it's playing in our town, Damariscotta, at the Lincoln Theater. At 2:00 and 7:00. Depending on the show we go to, we can go to King Eider's for an early dinner either before or after the movie."

"You'd better check that too."

I did and, amazingly, the film appeared to be scheduled at both times.  "So, let's pencil it in. The 2:00 show."

"I think," Rona said, "let's also buy a Bordeaux. That will give us the option--if you change your mind--of having it if you decide you want to cook your own birthday dinner."

"No, I'm all set--movie in the afternoon and an early dinner at Eider's. Eating at that time will prepare us for early-bird dinners in Florida."

At that Rona rolled her eyes. "I know you by now and so let's get the wine. You say pencil in the 2:00 show, but it's at best 50-50 that we'll budge from the house."

"We can go to Portland if you'd like," I offered. "Or the Lake District. The leaves are changing and so it must be beautiful there."

"I'm sure it is, but since you're colorblind leaf-changing season frustrates you."

I shrugged and smiled. "You're right, let's get the wine. But what about Portland? I'm sure the film is playing there and there are so many good restaurants."

"That will mean staying overnight, which I doubt you'll want to do."

"True, true. So let's just stick to the plan."

"Which is?"


                                                     *    *    *

It is now 6:00 AM, October 2nd and I am officially another year older. Or, as I prefer, another day older. We have the movie penciled in but just in case also have a wonderful bottle on hand of 2005 Cos d'Estournal. It did cost a fortune. But how often do you get to be as old as I?