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Community-supported agriculture has been working well for some years now. A person who likes local produce and wants to support local agriculture will buy a “share” that can help support a farmer (recently, even a fisherman) while giving the “investor” a guaranteed amount of food. The “dividend” could be a dozen eggs a week, a basket of produce, a partial catch of fish. Often a group of friends will band together on a share, especially if they don’t think they can use all the zucchini they expect come midsummer.

Now some artists are trying this approach. A $300 share in “Community Supported Art will get [a person] three monthly assortments of locally created artworks — nine pieces in all. … CSArt, a new project of the Cambridge [MA] Center for Adult Education, is modeled on a wildly popular Minnesota art CSA, which has inspired groups in Chicago and Frederick, Maryland, to create their versions. And some glassmakers in Burlington, Vermont., independently adopted the CSA form last year.

” ‘The success of the Minnesota program is due in part to the fact that it’s based on something people understand,’ said Laura Zabel, executive director. … CSArt aims to nurture artists as small business owners and to tap into the burgeoning enthusiasm for the local and the handmade.” Read the Boston Globe article.

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My son mentioned this Jane Scott obit the other day. He knows how much I like stories about older people who stay in the fray because they love their work. Writes the NY Times:

“In four happy decades as a rock writer for The Cleveland Plain Dealer, Ms. Scott, who died on Monday at 92, braved mud and mosh pits, foul weather and fouler language, ‘a drop of bleached blond and pink polyester in a roiling sea of blue denim and black leather,’ as The Philadelphia Inquirer once described her. …

“Ms. Scott, who took up her beat in 1964 at 45 and retired nine years ago at nearly 83, was often called the world’s oldest teenager, a description she hastened to correct. ‘Second-oldest,’ she would say. ‘After Dick Clark.’ …

“But what troubled Ms. Scott … was her inability to share her passion with her peers.

“ ‘I finally convinced a friend to come see Deep Purple with me,’ she told The Washington Post …. ‘I called her before the show to confirm, and she said, “Oh, Jane, I can still remember dancing with Ben at Beta Theta Pi fraternity, and we danced ‘When the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls.’ ” ’

“ ‘I thought: “Oh dear. I hate to tell you …” ‘ Ms. Scott continued. ‘I ended up taking her grandson.’ ”

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When I told my husband that playwriting teacher Peter Littlefield wanted class members to base a scene on an early moment when we first looked objectively at the adult world, he volunteered memories of his own.

Last weekend, Suzanne, John, and their spouses got to hear about a Philadelphia childhood and the horse that delivered milk, going reliably to the next house while the deliveryman placed bottles at the last one. They learned about an elementary school visit to a dairy company, and how it hit my husband so young that some men spend their whole lives lifting bottles into crates. He also remembered catching the tail end of the street lamplighter age. He has since mentioned ice delivery at the Jersey Shore and how you would put a special sign in the window indicating how many pounds of ice you wanted for that week.

There was also coal delivery in large canvas bags. Believe it or not, my husband is not that old.

Even Suzanne and John should remember that coal was delivered next door for several years after we moved to town. And clearly coal is still being delivered somewhere, as in this video a guy put on YouTube. I especially like the speech balloons he added.

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Today I was at a conference in Hartford, and I just want to say that I had the best box lunch I have ever had at a conference, maybe the best box lunch ever. The story that goes with it makes it seem even more delightful.

The lunches were catered by The Kitchen, an urban workforce-training effort by Billings Forge Community Works. We had four lunch choices, and I chose the curried chicken-and-grape salad on fruit-and-nut bread, with sides of potato salad, orzo and olive salad, and a just-baked cookie. (There were also local beverages like birch beer and Dangerous Ginger Beer, “hot mon!”)

The story begins with the Melville Charitable Trust, dedicated to “finding and fighting the causes of homelessness.” After its success renovating a building to house nonprofit offices in Frog Hollow, an impoverished section of Hartford, the city asked the Trust to take on a big housing project nearby. The initiative grew into an inspiring example of holistic community development, involving gardens, youth activities, a gourmet restaurant that attracted suburbanites from Day One, and a successful catering facility that has the added benefit of training neighborhood residents in professional food service. We got to see much of this on a tour we took after our meeting and after the box lunch.

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I make an annual carrot cake. I have an old, tattered newsprint recipe living in a Ziploc bag, but this year the recipe was on a shelf several hours away from where I needed to buy the ingredients (long story), so I’m putting them here for future Internet access.

2 cp flour, 1 tsp baking soda, ½  tsp salt, 1-1/2 cp sugar, 2 tsps cinnamon, 3 eggs, ¾ cp buttermilk, ½ cp oil, 2 tsps vanilla, 1 8-1/2 oz can crushed pineapple, 2 cps grated raw carrots (no liquid), 1 cp chopped nuts, 1 cp flaked coconut

I will print the recipe, too, if you ask.

The question is always what to do with the extra buttermilk. I have used it for cornbread in the past. You can also put it in your blueberry pancakes the next morning. I don’t know anyone who likes to drink it.

Except Amelia Earhart.

I’ve been reading a 2010 self-published book called by Allene G. “Squeaky” Hatch, Real Pearls and Darned Stockings: Tales of the Hudson Valley, which includes a memorable visit that Amelia Earhart paid to Squeaky’s family when Squeaky was little.

Squeaky’s Uncle Clint was stowing away his biplane at the Hudson Airport one night when he saw storm clouds threatening. A woman approached him from her own plane, and he recognized the famous aviatrix. Writes Squeaky:

“ ‘Could you recommend a good hotel nearby for my co-pilot and me?’ Earhart asked.

“Clint’s answer was that the best place to stay was his farm.” He phoned the house, and Squeaky’s mother rushed madly around to get ready. Having heard that Earhart liked buttermilk, and having none in the house, Squeaky’s mom improvised, mixing viengar with fresh milk! At dinner Amelia Earhart took a polite sip of the “buttermilk.” She didn’t take a second, says Squeaky.

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In Worcester attending a conference last Wednesday, I worried. Maybe I shouldn’t park my car in the shady part of the lot where there are no lines for parking. I took a chance. When I put the key in the lock at the end of the day, a voice started shouting over and over, “Hey!” I hoped the voice wasn’t addressing me.

“Hey! Hey! Open the window. You parked in front of my gate. I live here. That’s my house. I drive my car in that gate. See that gate? I had to park my car in the street because you’re in front of my gate. All my things were stolen. I had a thousand dollars of stuff. It was all stolen.”

Me: Oh, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry. I saw the fence in front. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see your gate.

“I had a thousand dollars of stuff. They broke in. They took everything. Electronic equipment. Everything. I have the police report. You want to see the police report? I didn’t have you towed.  I had to park in the street.  I live here. See that house. That’s my house. I swing my wife in the hammock. Look. Back up a little. Back up a little more. See that? That’s my hammock. I swing my wife in the hammock.”

Me: It’s very nice. Very colorful. Where’s it from?

“It’s from El Salvador. My wife and I are from Puerto Rico. It’s from the guy who had the house. I live here. I pay all my bills on time. I’m an alcoholic. But I’m responsible. I pay all my bills on time. Look, I have this dollar. I just want to buy a beer, but I don’t have any money. You can give me anything.”

Me: Here’s a dollar. But it’s not good to be an alcoholic. You should go to AA.

“That’s a good idea! Where is it?”

Me: I don’t live in Worcester. You should ask someone in Worcester where there’s an AA.

“Where do you live? I’ll write it down. I’m gonna call you.”

Me: Oh, I live east. Near Boston.

“In Salem? In Salem where the witches are?

Me: Yes. With the witches.

“You should come back. You can park your car any time. I’ll watch it for you.”

Me: You really should have me towed.

“No, no, no. I’ll watch it for you!”

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The young lady mechanical doll on the soap box stands like a statue.

 

 

 

 

 

If someone offers a bill, she flutters her eyelashes, blows a kiss, waves her fan, bows, and turns back into a statue. She is usually in the same spot when I walk to the playwriting class on Thursdays.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I am a huge fan of Tyne Daly, the actress. I enjoyed her on the TV series “Cagney and Lacy,” was blown away by her Mama Rose in the musical “Gypsy,” and am not at all surprised by Ben Brantley’s July 8, 2011, glowing review of her portrayal of Maria Callas in “Master Class.”

He writes, “Ms. Daly transforms that script into one of the most haunting portraits I’ve seen of life after stardom.”

But I was not always a fan. No way. Not when Tyne was taking all the ingenue roles at the Jr. Antrim Players in Suffern and a cute guy I knew was always drooling about “Time for Tyne.”

Nope. Starting with Gilbert & Sullivan’s “HMS Pinafore,” in which I was crummy ol’ Cousin Hebe, Tyne snared all the lead roles. We girls in wallflower parts would hiss to one another with resentful envy, “Of course, she comes from a theater family,” and  “Her father is James Daly,” and “The whole family does summer stock.” We didn’t like to admit that Tyne was also very comfortable and capable on the stage, had a sweet voice, and was pretty.

Fortunately we grew up and learned to give credit where credit is due.

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I went to school with the daughter of the consul general from Taiwan. One time she told me that the people of mainland China looked physically different because of communism.

I thought I already knew a bit about China. After all, my mother had traveled there in the 1930s as an assistant to Owen Lattimore (cowering later under the dark cloud manufactured by Joe McCarthy and his ilk, who saw Reds under every teacup). She was always talking about China. so although I realized my high school friend probably knew more about China than I did, I had doubts about her statement. How could living under communism make a Chinese person look different from family members on Taiwan?

Nowadays, a rapprochement between the two Chinas is in the air. At first I was surprised that so many people living in Taiwan — and accustomed to views like my friend’s — seemed to have no trouble talking about reunification with the mainland. But family does reach out to family.

Now I see that two sections of an ancient scroll are also being reunited. An article in the NY Times last week describes a new Taipei exhibit and the reunification of “Dwelling in the Fuchun Mountains.” Writes the Times:

“Wu Hongyu, a wealthy Ming Dynasty art collector, was evidently not fond of sharing, given his deathbed command to burn his most beloved painting, ‘Dwelling in the Fuchun Mountains.’ Fortunately, a nephew snatched the scroll from the funeral pyre that day in 1650, but not before flames split the work in two.

“During the three and a half centuries since then, the two sections were kept apart by greed, civil war and the vicissitudes of geopolitical gamesmanship. The smaller piece, just 20 inches across, found its way to a provincial museum in Communist-ruled China. The more imposing 21-foot-long section ended up on Taiwan, the island where the retreating Chinese Nationalists — and boatloads of treasures from Beijing’s imperial palace — ended up after they lost the civil war in 1949.

“If the story of ‘Fuchun Mountains’ is richly symbolic of China’s tumultuous history and its six-decade estrangement from Taiwan, then the painting’s reunification last month at the National Palace Museum here in the Taiwanese capital is a made-to-order metaphor for the reconciliation that Communist Party leaders have long imagined for what they deem a breakaway province.”

Who would have thought?

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I’ve been reading Jason Elliot’s book Mirrors of the Unseen, which is about time he spent in Iran (not long before the green revolution of June 20, 2009, was trampled).

He’s a lovely writer if a bit overwhelming with his ability to compress centuries of history. I liked his earlier book, too, on Afghanistan, An Unexpected Light.

In the car on Sunday I read aloud a section of Mirrors that describes Elliot’s extended stay with Louise Firouz, an American who married an Iranian in the 1960s and has lived in Iran ever since — despite stints in prison and twice having all her family’s property confiscated.

The part I read aloud was about how she had researched, rediscovered, and bred a small horse thought to be extinct, one that turned out to have an ancestor going farther back than the Arabian horse. It’s the little Caspian, which was finally found, in pitiful shape, near the Caspian Sea and in Turkmenistan.

Nowadays you can find lots of videos of these horses on YouTube. I thought I would include this video, which is from a Caspian stud farm in Sweden.

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Before it got hot this morning, a yoga class was exercising at one end of the Greenway.

At the other end, carousel horses waited for riders.

Meanwhile in New York, an improv troupe approached a different carousel.

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Did you read in the NY Times about England’s chewing gum artist?

“Ben Wilson, 47, one of Britain’s best-known outsider artists, has for the last six years or so immersed himself in a peculiar passion all his own: he paints tiny pictures on flattened blobs of discarded chewing gum on the sidewalks of London.” The article is sweet, and it shows that an original concept can delight people in large and small ways.

After he “became friendly with the workers in the discount general store that replaced the Woolworth’s, [he] painted a message of love on behalf of Syed Miah, a cashier there who had had a fight with his girlfriend.

“ ‘She thought maybe I’d stuck a sticker on the ground,’ said Mr. Miah, 32. ‘Then I explained that I’d had an artist come and do it. It was brilliant.’ “

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A friend of mine has a new blog on economic education.  He’s a very good writer with a great sense of history and how history repeats itself. Here he notes that there have always been vested interests in America giving immigrants a hard time. Those immigrants become integral to the fabric of American life, but sometimes their descendants forget the struggle and turn against newer immigrants. We need to remind ourselves of how well things have worked out when newcomers have gotten education, started businesses, hired people, run for office, invested in communities.

Personally, I love to think of America as built by immigrants. Besides, Erik is from Sweden and my daughter-in-law’s parents came from Egypt.

If you sign up to make comments on my friend’s blog, I know he will be happy. I myself am happy when people make comments.

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Many of Suzanne’s college classmates went into careers that involve helping people. I think that for Liz, who works at the organization Facing History and Ourselves (helping classrooms and communities link the past to moral choices today), it just comes naturally. She has also been an energetically thoughtful friend, who noted a freshman Suzanne’s wistfulness over missing an Easter egg hunt and decided to create one for her. Every college year. Liz later managed the details and complexities of Suzanne’s American-Swedish wedding. (Liz said it was a piece of cake as she was used to Facing History and Ourselves events with zillions of participants.)

Now I am reading about the girls’ classmate Emily, who works for a group that assists people who are seeking asylum in the United States.

Emily weighed in at the Daily Beast last week, offering insight for Jesse Ellison in a column on an asylum seeker currently making headlines.

Writes Jesse of the hotel maid who lost DSK his job, “That she lied on her claim for asylum has been covered with partiuclar zeal. But experts and those familiar with such claims say that dishonesty is common when it comes to refugees—not because they’re intentionally trying to scam the system, but because the way such claims are processed and determined puts asylum-seekers in a position where they may feel they have no other choice.

“ ‘It’s hard for those of us who haven’t gone through those experiences to imagine what it would be like to continually relive something that caused you to flee your country,’ says Emily Arnold-Fernandez, of Asylum Access. ‘When the issue of potentially falsifying testimony comes up, it tends to paint all asylum claimants in black and white. Either you tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, 100 percent of the time, or you’re not telling the truth and you have some sort of nefarious purpose. I don’t think that the reality is that stark.’ ”

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I always like visiting the arts and crafts events on the lawn of the historical society.

Sometimes I come home and tackle my own crafts. The collage cards are generally for birthdays, anniversaries, and sympathy. If I remember, I make Xerox copies for future occasions. I’d be happy to post some readers’ photos of their art or their crafts. E-mail me your photos at suzannesmom@lunaandstella.com.

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