Thoughts Over Matzo Balls

We wrapped the eight day observance of Passover on Easter Sunday - once again the monotheistic lunar calendars aligning. But the thoughts of the season continue to live on.

When one is in the process of prepping for Passover, one finds herself with time to reflect on a few of the core themes of the holiday - both slavery and freedom. If you take the requirements or rules of the holiday even moderately seriously, then there’s some hefty cleaning that takes place, along with significant food preparation to greet the holiday. It’s the OG of Spring cleaning with a range of customs or traditions surrounding food.

There are the matzo balls of my father in law - the dense type from Hungary. There are the assorted Moroccan spiced dishes of my mother-in-law’s family from Tangier. And in addition to the 4000 year tradition of telling the story of the Exodus, we use a seder plate from cousins Allegria and Ghimol, made by Moroccan brass craftsmen in 1936. Lots of history - many eras - and that makes my mind wander while I’m cleaning or cooking.

This year, my mind was wrapped around concepts of Freedom - what did it mean to the ancient Hebrews? What did it mean to our cousins who grew up and lived in Tangier from the 1930s through the 1990s, and who commissioned the Seder plate? And what does it mean to us today?

OK - stay with me on this one. 

Those who study ancient history posit that not all of the Hebrews living in slavery in Egypt had the gumption to stand up and leave when Pharaoh finally relented following the final plague wrought by the hand of God through the staff of Moses. I think Charlton Heston’s version in the 1956 film, The Ten Commandments, is still my favorite. 

Most assume that all who got a pass to leave slavery would have quickly packed to go, but historians believe nearly eighty percent of the enslaved Hebrews remained in Egypt. Why is that? 

Perhaps it was preferring the known to the unknown. Sure it’s bad to be a slave, but what’s “out there”? What dangers await us as we walk away from all that’s familiar? 

The twenty percent who sought freedom and were brave enough to leave their homes fueled the stories within the Bible’s Book of Exodus, and we celebrate that bravery even today with songs and stories about tables. Of course, the question for us is would we have been brave enough to leave? To become migrants wandering the desert with little clarity of where we were going and how we would be received once we arrived? 

Is the desire for self-determination, the freedom to live without the literal and perceptual shackles of laws and rules over which one has no input or control enough to push any of us away from the known and comfortable? 

Our cousins in Tangier chose to remain when the city lost its international status and became part of Morocco in 1956. That meant the departure of many of the Europeans who had enjoyed the free port status of the city and a shift to the rule of the King and his ministers. Although the sisters were of Portuguese heritage, they were accustomed to life in this North African city overlooking the Straits of Gibraltar. It was comfortable and familiar and they chose to remain rather than migrate with other family and friends. 

Sitting around our table in 2025, the questions arise again. What is important to us about our freedom today? Which of the freedoms we now take for granted are most important? 

Is it the freedom to speak out and disagree on important issues? Is it the freedom to own a gun? Is it the freedom to gather with whomever we wish and worship as we are called to worship? Is it the freedom to protect our privacy? What type of enslavement today would push us to leave this country? Is it the same circumstances that drove nearly all of our ancestors to migrate to this country in the first place? 

My family arrived on this continent in the 1700s seeking financial opportunities from England, and as mercenaries from Germany. My husband’s family arrived in the 1950s, seeking sanctuary from the European theater of war that had torn apart the world they knew. Both pursuits brought our children’s ancestors to what was known as the land of opportunity for immigrants who were willing to work hard. 

For my ancestors, there were no laws governing an immigrant's process to becoming a citizen until 1790. And by then, all had passed the two year threshold of living in this country - and they were white - so they automatically qualified to become citizens. For my husband’s family, the rules required five years of residency - not even continuous - just a total of five years in order to apply to become a citizen. Done and done.

Today we watch immigration becoming a lucrative business. Whether running from or running to, America has been a beacon for immigrants seeking opportunities. And depending how our culture feels in any one era, we’re either welcoming or contemptuous of newcomers. It may go without saying that we’re in one of our contemptuous phases. 

And that leads to the last pesky questions that remain a distraction - when did this land of immigrants become so angry at immigrants? And why don’t we fix the laws to make immigration a rational and reasonable process once again?  

Choosing Joy

Curly the Cat. Photo courtesy of Tim Schacker.

A week ago, the brain tumor came out. Home by the weekend, our friend was calling, texting, and FaceTiming with all of us to share stories of her experience. She generated a lot of laughter with the tales.

“Check it out,” she said to one of us, as she pulled back her hair. “The surgeon did a great job keeping the scar behind my hairline.” She was right. 

This week, she went to her hairdresser with the admonition that she could “baste the surgery site, just not marinate” - meaning she could wash her hair but not soak. She was sporting a lovely new haircut on our weekly zoom call with a new side part showing no evidence that a surgeon had been at work just a week ago. 

Also this week, there are wildfires raging not too far from her place.

“It’s OK,” she says. “We have good insurance.” 

Our friend is the perfect model of choosing to attract joy to her one wonderful life. What a gift she is giving to all of us in this all too chaotic and disturbing era we’re experiencing. 

Joy is indeed a choice. I’ve been accused for years of seeing the glass as half full. 

“You always see the upside in things.” a friend accused me recently. She went on to say that there are problems and issues taking place in this world that need serious attention. That’s absolutely true and I’m committing to doing what I can to tackle those I can influence.

And at the same time, I truly believe we need to grab hold of all the joy we can.

I grew up in a home filled with music, and now I choose my favorite stations so that each floor of the house has tunes eliciting memory as only music can. 

I find joy in preparing meals to share around a table with friends and family. 

I’m plowing through boxes and boxes of my father’s remarkable photographs, and finding joy in sending prints to friends and family far and wide. At this point, I can imagine a few cousins greeting the telltale photo envelope with a shudder. “Not more pictures!” Still sending them.

As we launch into a classic few days of a Minnesota spring, with historic warmth one day followed by snow the next, I’ll seek joy with friends and family around tables with food and games. It’s a choice that’s good for the soul.

An Unexpected Pause

Photo by Steven Mosborg, Mpls

I had been working on a blog about the unraveling of shared values in our country. It was about how we boomers grew up saying the Pledge of Allegiance every morning in grade school, and how the meaning of those words pose a struggle today. 

And then - all of those thoughts were blown away when a dear friend got a tough diagnosis last week. 

I’ve known this friend since my late teens and she has always been one of those souls that remain deeply connected despite the distance of miles and the heavy-lifting  years of early career building and child rearing. So when a persistent headache was found not to be the result of a sinus infection but of a brain tumor, well, all other thought was pushed aside. 

As I’ve learned in the past two years, most diagnoses come after enough friends tell you that what you’re experiencing just isn’t normal or OK. 

She didn’t listen to her husband. We never do, do we? But after her third friend told her she just wasn’t OK, she finally agreed to have a scan just to rule out anything serious. The scan failed to do that, leading to an MRI for more definition. 

And there it was. A brain tumor that had the potential to be a glioblastoma. 
Suddenly - perspectives change. And for her friends, the job was clear.  

Rather than worry with her, we dug deep for the powers of hope and of appealing to higher powers all along the spectrum of belief. This world of ours does deliver miracles, and that’s where we focused. We stopped thinking about what was happening nationally or globally - and focused on what we could anticipate would be helpful for her journey. 

She, on the other hand, tapped into her consistently organized skill set to plan for what she knew and didn’t know was in her future. First things first, she scheduled a manicure and eyebrow wax - it’s important to look good before surgery. She has friends on tab if she needs in-home help. She has her children lined up to be there when she needs them, and made plans for as much as could be known for life post surgery. 

And this week, she had her surgery while her friends around the country experienced a sort of virtual waiting room for updates about outcomes and prognosis. As we waited, we shared stories of memories of exploits with her that were nourishing in their own way. 

The good news is that her brain surgeon is sure he got 99% of the tumor out, and she has all her neurological function in place, including her sense of humor.  She was so engaging with the nurses and staff in the recovery room, she’s sorry she didn’t have her business cards to secure a couple decorating jobs before she was discharged. And she’s already working on new trendy hair styles for whatever follow up treatments will be needed.

I think I’ll exhale for the weekend. The issues of the day can wait while we relish a good medical outcome thanks to science and research that delivers progress for healthcare. 

Feisty Women

My mom’s trusty typewriter got a lot of use - albeit a tad dusty now.

I come from a long line of feisty women. My mom was known for her persistence in writing opinion pieces to the Mansfield News Journal in the 1960s and 70s. When she felt strongly about an issue - and there were many - out came her old Royal typewriter, the onion skin paper, and the carbon paper, as she always kept a copy. 

Her mother was feisty in a different manner. She came to live with us when my mother gave up rescuing her from repeated falls in her hometown a hundred miles away from us. Grandma just wouldn’t give up gardening her large back lot despite those falls. 

And then she persisted in getting on ladders to wash light fixtures in our house, driving Mom to distraction and ultimately, Grandma Blue ended up in the Mansfield Memorial Home where she could be watched full time. Mom was feistier than Grandma.

Turns out my birth mother was feisty as well. She ran away from home to give birth to me rather than marry as her only option in the mid-1950s. Apparently, she’d watched her older sisters marry young and was determined not to remain in the Appalachian coal mining town of her childhood. 

That means both nature and nurture have provided a strong blueprint of action for me.

That feistiness can cause trouble. 

I worked for our Republican congressman in the late 1970s, answering phones and greeting guests who came to his D.C. office. John Ashbrook represented the right wing of the times, running against Richard Nixon in the 1972 Presidential primaries because Nixon wasn’t conservative enough.  

While there, Phyllis Schlafly frequently visited, using the couch across from my desk between meetings where she tested out her advocacy messaging. During one visit, she was promoting the idea that a woman’s role was best served as a wife and mother at home in support of her husband’s ambitions. That women should not aspire to be in the workplace at all.

I just couldn’t help it. 

“Mrs. Schlafly?” I said. 

“Yes, dear,” she politely responded. 

“Aren’t you a wife and mother, m’am?” 

“Why yes, I am,” she smiled. 
“Then why are you out here in D.C. working rather than at home with your children taking care of your household?” 

The smile left her face and I didn’t last long in Ashbrook’s office. 

I did learn a lot, though. I watched smart grown men leave Congressman Ashbrook’s  inner chambers quaking at his screaming and railing at whatever mistake he had found in their reasoning, And that taught me that feisty is one thing. Aggressive bullying behavior is something else. 

And it needs to be called out and condemned always. It’s how this country will ensure that we will retain the core freedom to have all voices heard in public. Even Phyllis Schlafly’s. 

Fairness & Civility

Front entrance of WRC-TV

In the early 1980s, I was a TV producer with the NBC owned and operated station in Washington, DC. I was only there a few years before a job change moved us to Philadelphia, but it was a heady time to be in DC with the advent of the Reagan administration. 

I worked with consumer investigative reporter Lea Thompson and was accountable for up to two minutes of air time a day. We covered topics like food safety, product alerts, and sometimes testing of commercial product claims. One memorable product test was set up to answer the pressing question of which battery truly lasted the longest. We bought novelty eyeglasses with wipers, each powered by a major battery brand, lined them up in a row, and turned them on at the same time to record how long each battery lasted. Important information for consumers, no? Today I have no idea which battery lasted the longest, but I do still buy Duracell. 

It was a very different era for TV news and among the differences was an adherence to the Fairness Doctrine in all of our reporting. The Fairness Doctrine was an FCC rule introduced in 1949 that required any entity holding a broadcast license to present controversial issues of public importance and to do so in a way that fairly reflected differing viewpoints. 

Although I’m not certain how controversial an issue battery life is or was, we were careful and diligent in reaching out to the public relations officers of all those brands we tested for comment to report on their responses in the interest of fairness. 

The Fairness Doctrine also encouraged WRC-TV’s radio station to host a talk program with Tom Braden and Pat Buchanan at our studios. I would frequently encounter Pat Buchanan as he was dropped at the station by his lovely wife, walking in to greet his friend Tom Braden for their radio show. Some of you probably remember Pat Buchanan as one of Nixon’s top aides and a staunch conservative while Tom Braden was a former CIA agent, author of “Eight is Enough”, and an equally staunch liberal. 

Their articulate commitment to opposing viewpoints was balanced by a respectful friendship that allowed them to argue thoughtfully and retain the ability to engage on core shared values. I always learned something by listening to those two men discuss issues of public importance without vitriolic name calling. They were never mean or nasty in their comments. Civil, actually.

I miss that today. The Fairness Doctrine was eliminated in the late 1980s and along with it the idea of fairness on the nation’s airwaves. In its place are stations that preach partisan viewpoints with little balance. 

Once upon a time, people were able to disagree and still engage in civil discourse, to listen carefully to differing viewpoints, and to seek to understand where those differences came from rather than merely deliver canned messaging designed to diminish The Other. I wonder whether that will ever be possible again. 

Treasures Amongst The Boxes

Leaving Deshler for their honeymoon in July, 1950.

We’ve made a pact this year. Those boxes we have schlepped from our home in DC to Philadelphia and on to Harrisburg and finally here to Minneapolis will be sorted, discarded, or recognized for the treasures they are. 

Meant to do this during the pandemic - what a perfect opportunity, no? But we found ourselves distracted by such essential pastimes as the Tiger King series, BBC’s Ghosts, and Schitt’s Creek.

So we’re on it five years later. 

We began with what should have been easy - pulling the boxes out of the closet with baby clothes and items from my 30-something year old children. We thought Grandbaby #1 might just benefit from something useful or meaningful within them.

In short - less useful than one would have hoped. Some items were downright dangerous - it’s remarkable my kids survived the stuff we hung in their cribs. But we made it through six plastic boxes of clothing, toys, dolls, and scrapbooks of cards sent on the occasion of each child’s arrival.
And then we found a mystery box. No baby clothes. No toys. Just a box of small journals and papers that included letters.

There are diaries and musings by my Grandma Blue from the late 1930s through the mid 1950s. I’ve only begun rolling through the journey of her days. They’re filled with the cares and worries of her daily life. Did she prepare the chicken well? Were her neighbors concerned with the way she kept her garden? These will be a source for more thought and discovery.

Wedged in the box, I found a set of ten letters written by my father to my mother the spring and summer before their wedding in July of 1950. If my parents were alive today, they would be 116 and 106, so these are a snapshot of 1950 from the 40 year old Art to his 30 year old fiancee. 

He writes to Miss Mercedes Blue Deshler, Ohio from his drafting desk at Humphryes Manufacturing Company on blue lined graph paper.  

“After seeing that beautiful stationery you use I feel like a tramp using this stuff. I have better stationery at home, but I’m at the plant now and want to mail this on the way home to be sure you receive it tomorrow.”

Can you imagine? Mail out one day that’s received across Ohio the next? Of course, my parents couldn’t have imagined instantaneous email, either. 

Amid updates on his efforts to find a suitable apartment for rent after their wedding, he regaled Mom with news of his engineering and drafting work for Humphryes.

“We are going to bring all three of our mold conveyors up-to-date…and…today, I hired the concrete busting labor and equipment from Mr. Purdy, and the new foundations to be built by Jacob Wolf Co. I am now writing orders for steel work. Luckily the drawings were all made.” 

And he follows that with a line drawing, complete with dimensions in the midst of the page.

“You will see the discharge hole at the bottom is off center in both directions, which means each of the four corner seams is at a different angle…I will lay them out Saturday and Sunday so that Mansfield Structural can get the plates ready next week.”

Heady romantic material, no? That was my pragmatic practical father believing the structural engineering details of his work should be shared with the woman he was preparing to marry

But at least he signed this letter  with a - Love, Arthur -  instead of the earlier - Sincerely, Arthur. 

I really need to find the box that has the letters mom must have sent in reply. Was she equally detailed in her descriptions of picking out china patterns and wedding arrangements? 

And the Games Begin...

It was seventeen below zero when I got up this morning on the North Coast of this country. That’s not totally unusual in Minnesota - although it does feel oddly appropriate that the whole country seems to be shivering today.

The two realities of our nation will be observed as we commemorate the life and impact of Martin Luther King, Jr. and inaugurate Donald John Trump as President.

Bizarre, eh?

One man championed social justice and civil rights for all and the other plans to revoke birthright citizenship today. 

I’ve spent the last couple months trying to avoid news to focus instead on healing this body of mine. Stress is never a healthy addition to life. But the enforced sedentariness made it hard to miss all of the shenanigans - and now, it feels like time to pay attention again.

This weekend, for example, provided puzzling theater. The man who declared TikTok a threat to the country in 2020 and pushed for a ban was credited with restoring the platform for its 170 million American users. 

Makes one wonder, doesn’t it? Which Donald Trump do we believe? The one who declared TikTok a threat to national security as it provides user data to China? The one who pushed his cronies in Congress, including his Secretary of State appointee Marco Rubio, to pass the Averting the National Threat of Internet Surveillance, Oppressive Censorship and Influence, and Algorithmic Learning by the Chinese Community Party Act, or the ANTI-SOCIAL- CCP Act. Or the one who has invited the head of TikTok to sit on his inauguration dais with him? 

This flip flop could provide a road map for the future, though. It appears million dollar contributions to the Trump White House will shift policy positions.  

Those of us interested in autonomy for women’s health decisions, for the principles of diversity and equity, and who believe all people regardless of religion or practice have an equal right to pursue a life of freedom and dignity just need to fundraise to make contributions to Trump, Inc. 

Grieving LA...

We didn’t live there very long. A fleeting four years or the expected span of a college degree. But in that time, I fell in love with LA.

It’s the place. The history and thriving neighborhoods of the place. It’s the arts and creative community of the place. And, for me, it was the people I met and worked with in that place.

And for all of them - all of that - the heart that I left behind is breaking. 

We moved to LA - actually Pasadena - in late 2011. So I was there when the last major Santa Ana winds did significant damage to old growth trees all along the San Gabriel Valley. They were punishingly harsh, but of limited duration. And there was no fire involved in those.

But this destruction - this devastation - this is beyond understanding. And it’s not done yet. The winds keep blowing and fires seem to start spontaneously in canyons and parks. And the loss and grief mounts.

I find myself wandering around our 120-year-old home in Minneapolis, looking at our stuff and trying to decide what would be in my go bag. And I’ve realized this week that it’s not the stuff itself I would miss, but the loss of this comfortable haven we’ve created for ourselves full of the warm memories of life events with family and friends over the years. It would be the loss of the neighborhood and the familiar faces that smile, before a friendly wave as they walk by on the way to the stores and restaurants down the block.  

I can only imagine the pain of that loss for the thousands in the Palisades and Altadena - and it is heartbreaking. 

LA has such a unique impact on the culture of this country. It  is a place built on the dreams and imaginations of storytellers, many of them immigrants who landed on the west coast more than a hundred years ago. As a storyteller myself, that may be why I love it so. The pioneers were people with chutzpah and grit who went west with big ambitions to launch what is now the entertainment industry built on film, TV, and music studios.

It’s that legacy of those with grit, big dreams, and vibrant imaginations that gives me strands of hope now. I know LA will come back from all this - somehow, someday. For now, I’ll look for ways to be helpful from here. Ways to contribute that will help.