Quantifying Happiness

To be released June 7, 2016

March 20 was World Happiness Day, so I'm reporting on this a little late...but I feel happy today. I received notice this morning that my story about wanting to get home to my husband from Haiti after 9/11 will appear soon in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of America. This makes 27 stories in this acclaimed series since I  submitted my first back in 2007 about saving my family from disgrace on a long ago Easter. I still recall how thrilled I was to have a story in an actual book. Though I'd been used to seeing my byline in newspapers and magazines, a book was different. It was something that could be placed on a shelf between bookends, or be located in a library or a bookstore.

Somebody asked me today how many stories I've had published in books so far, and the truth is I have lost count. I know there's close to 110 books in the special bookcase where I store my author's copies, but many of them contain two or three of my stories, so I don't know the actual total...and some stories have been published in more than one book. But on evenings when I'm feeling a little less happy...perhaps I'd received a rejection or had failed to finish a particularly challenging tale, I look at the accumulation of books...and smile. When I find an email in my inbox from Denmark or Australia or Bangladesh from somebody who has read one of my stories and enjoyed it, then I smile again.

Is smiling an indication of happiness? The Washington Post in its Worldview section printed a piece today, "The complicated emotional state of the world, in 13 maps and charts." Here's the link:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/worldviews/wp/2016/03/25/the-complicated-emotional-state-of-the-world-in-13-maps-and-charts/?wpmm=1&wpisrc=nl_wv

One of the indicators indeed is smiling. "Thailand is all smiles. In most countries, at least two-thirds of people said they smiled or laughed a lot the previous day. But the range in such reports was wide: The distribution ranged from as low as 39 percent in Turkey to as high as 91 percent in Thailand."

Hey, though, it's not just receiving an acceptance letter that makes me smile today. I've other reasons to be content. And to smile. There's a weekend coming up that will be filled with movies, dinner with friends, deviled eggs, and possibly a little chocolate. That combination should make even the most glum person from the most unhappy country glimmer a little with joy.

So, yes I'll continue to do my happy dance.

 

 

"Volunteering No Longer a Fringe Activity"

Last month my AAUW Book Discussion Group read Little Princes, since it was the Huntington Beach Reads 2016 selection.

On Saint Patrick's Day evening I dropped by the Huntington Beach library theater to hear Conor Grennar, the founder of Next Generation Nepal discuss how he came to write about his work in Little Princes Orphanage.

The cover of his book is misleading, he claimed. It implies that he had long held this noble goal, when actually he started out on this adventure in order to impress people and pick up girls.

Appropriately, Conor is Irish...so if he's kissed the Blarney Stone, I wouldn't be surprised. Sure, he may have thought that volunteering his time might elevate his status in the eyes of potential dates, but I suspect he always had a bit of altruism in his blood.

Conor witnessed firsthand how most of the world really lives. On his website he details why he wrote this book:

 I am desperate for readers, especially younger readers, to see what getting involved can do. How it can change your life so completely, and in ways you could never imagine. How volunteering, whether it is in an impoverished third world nation or in your hometown, requires only that you show up. Don’t worry how little of your time or resources you may have to offer—just offer it, and see what happens. 


The fact is, volunteering is no longer a fringe activity—the world gets smaller every day and we have a responsibility to understand what it looks like. It’s not how the other half lives, it’s how the other 90 percent live. And I believe that each of us has a responsibility to know what those lives look like, even if we only give one single day of our life to discovering it. Because it could have been us.

The Little Princes kids in 2015

It's been a dozen years since he first set foot in Nepal, but Conor returns regularly. This photo is from an October 2015 visit. On his blog he writes, "An amazing first day in Kathmandu with all the Little Princes boys (and girls!), Liz and some friends that came with us! The kids (teenagers!!) organized a whole program for our visit to entertain us, with food and dancing and singing - totally wild and super fun. It was like we never left."


Conor's story resonated with me, and I'm certain it would with many of the Returned Peace Corps Volunteers I continue to interact with, nearly thirty years after I first joined that United States agency. Many of us continue to keep in contact with the people we grew to love in our years overseas. And we continue to proselytize about the benefits of volunteering. It's an old but true story that Volunteers usually claim that they gained much more than they gave.  Living and working in a developing country changes your worldview forever. It's an experience that can't be duplicated by merely traveling through a faraway land.

During the Q&A session that followed Conor's talk, one woman asked how college students could find opportunities to volunteer with such groups as Next Generation Nepal, and have a chance to work overseas. Conor suggested that often volunteers cannot afford the airfare and related expenses of such work, but could find opportunities locally.

I knew the session was drawing to a close so that Conor could autograph his books and have his picture taken with the attendees. So I resisted raising my hand. But as a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer,  I would have liked to have reminded the crowd that for well over 50 years Peace Corps has given Americans such a chance, and at no personal expense other than a commitment of 27 months of service. The Peace Corps continues to provide technical assistance at the invitation of developing countries, and does not drain other countries' limited resources. Rather, it furthers sustainable development through its transfer of skills to host country nationals. 

I probably would not have picked this book up at the library had it not been a book group choice. But I'm glad I did...and it's a reason I belong to book groups. They lead me to books I otherwise would have overlooked. I'm delighted to learn that the Huntington Beach Reads partnership ensures that high school students have access to such books that will expand vistas for young readers.

HB Reads is a joint program of the City of Huntington Beach Human Relations Task Force and Huntington Beach Library Board of Trustees. http://www.hbreads.org/

For more about Conor Grennan and Next Generation Nepal:  http://conorgrennan.com/

And for more about Peace Corps activities in Orange County: http://www.ocpca.net/

There are Places I Remember...

The Beatles Story, Liverpool

Dr. Johnson famously said that to tire of London is to tire of life...but I love more of England than just the city. Here are some places I'll remember from my recent whirlwind tour:

1. The comfortable location of the Comfort Inn Buckingham Palace Road, just across the street from the Colonnade office of Golden Tours, which whisked Linda and me to all of these places in two days: Warwick Castle, Stratford-upon-Avon, Oxford with a tour of Bracenose College, Windsor Castle, Stonehenge, Bath.
2. The Newport Quay Hotel in Newport, Isle of Wight, a brief stroll down the High Street to The Castle, Newport's oldest pub. Unfortunately, it doesn't carry Old Rosie anymore, so settled for Stowford Press, Weston's milder brand, but I missed that "scrumpy" tang. I loved chatting once again with Mike Winter, who is a "caulkhead," born and raised on the Isle of Wight, and full of tales about its history.

   

   With peppery Mike Winter, The Castle, Newport, IOW

   I'd brought him some pepper seeds from California for his garden, and he told me about Carolina Reaper, rated as the world's hottest chili pepper by Guinness World Records since August 7, 2013. "Put some on cocktail sticks and torture your friends," he advised. I can barely tolerate chipotles.
3. Finally going on The Magical Mystery Tour, with a guide, Jay, the brother of Holly Johnson, of "Frankie Goes to Hollywood", and a driver who allegedly played with the Beatles first drummer, Pete Best, at a concert in  Brazil last year. Everybody of a certain age in Liverpool has a Beatles connection, Jay told us. Sir Paul appears annually to hand out diplomas to grads of the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts. We stopped at Penny Lane, Strawberry Field (John added the final "s"), Princes Park which is Ringo's birthplace, Mendips where John lived with Aunt Mimi, and the homes of Paul and George, the latter still occupied by a family.

   

   Linda, Liverpool

   We saw St. Barnabas church, where Paul was a choir boy, and the street called Arnold Grove, the name George used to check into hotel, as well as St. Peter's Church, where Paul and George met, with its adjacent graveyard where an Eleanor Rigby is buried. We rocked out to John Lennon songs at The Cavern with new English friends who had come for the day from their home between Nottingham and Sheffield.

   

   At The Cavern,with John Wallace, Glenda Griffith

4. The Victoria and Albert, "Curtain Up: Celebrating 40 Years of Theatre in London and New York" where Linda and I got to don costumes. The V&A will have an exhibit this coming fall and winter, "You Say You Want a Revolution: Records & Rebels, 1966-1970."

5. 

   I'm ready for my closeup, at the V&A "Curtain Up" exhibit

   The marvelous actor at Shakespeare's birthplace who, as Rumour, recited the prologue of Henry IV, and sang "Hey nonny, nonny, lovers love the spring."
6. A sign I spotted on London's Cromwell Road, for a restaurant named "Scoff and Banter." Reminded me of a name Dickens could have chosen for a law firm in Bleak House.
7. The great wait staff at our new "local" in Pimlico, St. George's Tavern, where Linda and I had fish and chips, a Sunday roast supper, and a full English breakfast, getting to know Veraya from Spain, Agnes from France, and Martin from Poland.
8. Traveling with tour guide Antonio on Golden Tours, who made history come alive, though a rainbow flag at Bracenose College, Oxford, caused him to make a couple of odd remarks about "Gay Day."
9. Discovering the French cafe at Victoria Train Station, Cafe Rouge, where I enjoyed a Bloody Mary and eggs Benedict, a nice change from the usual "full English," with grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread, poached eggs, sausage, bacon and baked beans. How is it that I ate these breakfasts, plus fish and chips, plus swilling cider, and managed to lose three pounds in the 12-day trip?
10. Seeing friends from Seychelle's Hash House Harriers days in the 1990s, nurse Mimi from Seychelles, who now lives on the outskirts of London, and Heather and Nigel Bird of Weston-Super-Mare. Already looking forward to seeing them again
    
    
    

Breakfast with old friends, Cowes, Isle of Wight

With English friends, Heather and Nigel Bird, Southampton

Birthday Bonanza

Steve Elders, who wasn't born on Valentine's Day, but on 2/22/58

Happy  birthday today to Stephen Paul Elders, who showed up a little late for the birthday party I had planned all those years ago.

Birthday Bonanza

“I like very much people telling me about their childhood, but they’ll have to be quick or else I’ll be telling them about mine.”  --Dylan Thomas

We both expected our daughter to be born on Valentine’s Day. The obstetrician always had pinpointed the due date in mid-February, so we had no reason not to believe that our little girl would grow up celebrating her birthday on the most romantic of all holidays.

In 1958, long before ultrasound and amniocentesis, my husband, Bob, and I had no guaranteed way to determine our child’s sex. Nonetheless, we blissfully absorbed all the Old Wives’ Tales. At my shower, the wedding ring suspended over my bump swung back and forth rather than in circles, a surefire indication, my girlfriends swore, that we could expect a girl. And because I carried high, Grandma Simmons already had knitted two pairs of pink booties. So though we didn’t entirely rule out spending future Saturdays trudging to Little League games, privately we believed we’d be traipsing instead to ballet recitals and doll exhibitions.

As the big day approached, we settled on a name, Wendy, but just in case, chose Stephen as a backup.

“When Wendy’s five, she can have her kindergarten friends over after school for Valentine games and treats,” Bob offered. My eyes lit up, envisioning heart-shaped balloons and cakes.

Then another picture entered my mind. “Uh, but what if we’re wrong? What if it’s Stephen? Won’t he be embarrassed about a Valentine’s birthday?”

Bob and I gawked at each other. In our cozy fantasy land, we hadn’t even considered that possibility.

He frowned. “Hmmm. Well, at least we’re in Long Beach, California. We could always celebrate at Marineland or Knott’s Berry Farm.” I sighed. My heart was set on tea parties, lace doilies and red

balloons. And chocolate.

By early February my hospital bag was packed and ready to go, including a paperback copy of Dylan Thomas’ Quite Early One Morning. I’d planned to read those essays and stories during my three-day stay at St. Mary’s.

On February 14 I lolled in the maple rocking chair near the front window, waiting for the labor pains to commence. When Bob came home from work he handed me a pair of cuddly teddies. “One for you and one for Wendy,” he said.

But by midnight I finally accepted that Wendy wouldn’t be blowing out her birthday candles on a heart-shaped cake.

The next few days I dragged around the house, curiously downhearted. I’d slip into the nursery and try to admire how I’d decorated it with Disney cutouts arranged on pale lemon walls. Now, though, when I stared at the crib, I no longer could picture my rosy-cheeked little girl grabbing for the wooly farm animals on the mobile sent by Grandpa Crawford.

Then one midnight, shortly after Bob and I had retired, a pain cut through my lower back and I knew my time finally had arrived. We hustled to the hospital where I remained in labor for the next ten hours before delivering our son, Stephen.

That was the first surprise. The second came when a nurse carried in my lunch tray. Bob, who was seated by my bed, smiled approvingly at a slab of cherry pie topped by an American flag.

“Look,” he said, holding it up for my benefit. I eyed the pie blearily, and then redirected my gaze to the pillow-case-wrapped baby asleep in my arms.

“You go ahead and eat it, honey,” I said. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Don’t you get it?” he asked, plucking up a paper napkin and dangling it in front of my face. It carried a red, white and blue drawing of George Washington. “Stephen’s going to share his birthday with the father of our country. A real manly day to celebrate.”

For the next couple of days I dozed, fed the baby, and read Thomas’ lyrical praises of his childhood in Wales. I gave Grandma’s pink booties to my hospital roommate who had given birth to a girl, just as she’d anticipated. When we got home, I tucked the napkin and flag from the lunch tray into Steve’s baby book.

For the next several years, from Kindergarten to fifth grade, when Congress passed the Monday Holiday Law which switched George Washington’s birthday to the third Monday in February, Steve always had his birthday off from school. And Bob and I always took him and his best buddy, Kevin, to Disneyland to celebrate. Even after the holiday was changed, Steve got his trip to Disneyland on the closest Saturday.

A few years ago, at a memorial service for Bob, I reconnected with Kevin, Steve’s lucky pal. We stood and chatted a bit about the gang of kids who grew up together at Circle Gardens apartments.

“How fortunate that Steve had February 22 for his birthday,” Kevin remarked. “When we get together these days we reminisce a lot about all those wonderful trips to Disneyland back in the ‘60s. We’d liked the old World of Tomorrow and the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, and we used to get a kick out of riding the monorail.”

I smiled, charmed that at least two men I know, besides Dylan Thomas, have childhood memories worth sharing.

Now as his birthday nears once again, I wonder if Steve really prefers cherry pie to the Valentine-shaped chocolate birthday cakes I’d conjured up in my pre-natal days. I’ll have to ask him. I know that in honor of the man who shares his birthdate, I’ll get an honest answer…since he cannot tell a lie.

As for my mythical daughter, Wendy, she sometimes shows up in my dreams. In the words of another Dylan, she remains forever young…with rosy cheeks smeared with chocolate frosting.

Posies, Pubs and Poets...and Aerobics

Winchester Cathedral

'Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.'--Dr. Samuel Johnson


Thirty-six years ago I made my first visit to England, Shakespeare's scepter isle. I'd longed since childhood to stroll the same London streets as the Bard of Avon, Dr. Samuel Johnson and Charles Dickens. I written about my impressions of  London and southern England for Uncle Jam, an arts magazine then based in Long Beach, CA. I'd titled it "Posies, Pubs and Poets." I recall recounting how I'd encountered Johnson's ghost in his writing room in his London home, and how I'd visited the Bristol pub where Daniel Defoe encountered Alexander Selkirk, the Scottish castaway who gave him his idea for Robinson Crusoe.  I'll be writing about this trip, as well, for the same magazine, still published by Phil Yeh.

Sue Burchfiel, Amazing Grays instructor

I'd gone in 1980 in late February, the same time of the year as I'm heading there next week for what will be my 15th or 20th trip...I've lost count. This morning, I got a sneak preview of my upcoming visit to the country that I'm still so enamored with, thanks to a simulation conducted by Sue Burchfiel. Sue, who calls us The Amazing Grays, provides fitness classes here at my H-W Senior Living apartment complex. 

Possessed with boundless energy and creativity, Sue delights in fashioning narratives to keep our low impact aerobic classes intriguing. There's not ever any boring routines. Sue invents imaginary adventures and selects songs to provide us with an appropriate musical backdrop to bounce and gyrate to.

For instance, last October we all became "Ghostbusters", doing "The Monster Mash," and chorusing, "We ain't afraid of no ghosts." When we'd tired of the December gloom and holiday hustle bustle, Sue decided we needed a timeout in Hawaii, so off we headed for the islands. Once there, we mimicked surfers, hula dancers and fishermen, before bidding a concluding "aloha." Recently one of the tenants in this complex got married...and we all paced through her wedding day, from the moment the bride awoke to prepare for her big moment, to heading for the courthouse, to struggling to catch the bridal bouquet to doing the chicken dance at her reception

This morning, it was my trip to England that we danced our way through. We started out showering, phoning Uber, and driving to the airport...imitating the Uber driver putting on the brakes on the crowded freeway. Yes, we were "Leaving on a Jet Plane." Sue detoured us through New York City, where we exercised to Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York" as we glimpsed the Statue of Liberty and rode in a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park. When we finally in London we were met with Beatles tunes, and decided to take a side trip to "Winchester Cathedral." (That was a seldom-heard-these-days hit by the New Vaudeville Band.) We finally made it to our cottage on the Isle of Wight, one of my actual destinations this trip, to "When I'm 64." 

Aldwych Theate, now playing "Beautiful."

Next we headed in Liverpool, where we embarked on a "Magical Mystery Tour," which, again, I'll really do. We even visited a pub or two, and attended a Carole King concert featuring, "You've Got a Friend." I'd mentioned to Sue that I'd snagged tickets for "Beautiful: the Carole King Musical," and she'd managed to work that into our morning routine.

Throughout the routine, Sue kept reminding us of how much we loved the beauty of England, the art, the music, the theater, the whole English experience. She captured the love and enthusiasm, the delight that I carry for the country. 

We'll be recapping the simulated adventure later this week, since Sue alternates our cardio and yoga classes. And then next Tuesday, I take off for real, via a shuttle bus, for LAX. Once again I'll enjoy my posies, pubs and poets. I hope to get enough walking in to offset the temporary vacation from my fitness classes. While I'm gone I'll be missing Sue and my fellow Amazing Grays.

Pasta Amore: A Pair of Merry Mollusks

Linguini with red clam sauce; aka, Pasta Amore 

“A man taking basil from a woman will love her always.” - Sir Thomas Moore

February 14 fell on a Tuesday in 1956, not a good news day for us. Bob and I had hoped to spend our first Valentine’s Day evening as a married couple at the Villa Nova, our favorite Italian restaurant. But I wouldn’t get a paycheck until Friday, and we’d already spent Bob’s GI Bill allowance on the rent and utilities for our tiny apartment.

“Don’t worry, honey,” Bob said that noon as we munched on our bologna sandwiches and apples on the shady patio of the cafeteria at Long Beach State College. “We’ll celebrate tonight somehow.”

An eternal optimist, Bob kept up the chatter as he drove me to the valve manufacturing firm atop Signal Hill. I’d been lucky in landing a part time job there, editing the company newspaper, a glossy monthly.

“I’ll pick you up at 5. We’ll have a cozy supper at home tonight. I think I’ll have enough left after I fill up this old Pontiac’s tank to buy a bottle of Chianti, and you can cook me up a Valentine’s surprise.”

It would be a surprise all right, I thought, trying to recall what remained in the pantry that I could make a meal of. Nonetheless, I forced a smile. At least we had each other, and we wouldn’t be paupers forever. Bob intended to take the local police department exam in a couple of months, with the goal of joining the force by summer. We were certain he’d be assigned a swing shift, which would enable him to continue his police science studies at the college. He still had another year to complete for his degree.

At the office I conferred with Alisa, who worked in accounting.

“What can I make for a special supper tonight when I don’t even have any meat?”

“Have you got any canned clams?”

“I think so, but that’s hardly festive. Besides Bob doesn’t like chowder.”

Alisa grinned. “I’m talking pasta, baby. Pasta means amore…trust me, I’m Italian. Men love pasta. I’ll give you my mom’s recipe. And remember, if you don’t have one thing on hand, just substitute another.  Santo Valentino would approve!”

“Saint Valentine’s Italian?” I cocked my head and furrowed my forehead. Somehow I’d vaguely thought of him as English, but realized I might have been thinking of a photo I’d seen of the statue of Eros in Trafalgar Square.

“Of course he’s Italian! He’s buried just north of Rome, near where my mom grew up.”

Alisa scribbled down her recipe and I tucked the folded paper into my pocket.

That evening Bob dropped me off at our place.

“OK, honey. You see what you can conjure up, and I’ll go get gas and some wine.”

I opened the recipe as I checked its ingredients against the few cans and jars remaining on the kitchen shelf.

Canned tomatoes, canned clams, olive oil, parsley, oregano and my favorite basil. Si certo, I had them all. Plus a package of linguini. I always kept onions and garlic on hand, and still had half a loaf of sour dough in the breadbox.  I even had a shaker of grated Parmesan. We’d have a feast. I rummaged around and found a red and white checked tablecloth and a couple of candles to make our kitchen table even more festive.

We ate every bite, and Alisa was right. It indeed was the food of love. Bob sopped up the last of the sauce with the last of the bread and sighed.

“My compliments to the chef. But I can’t keep eating all this pasta if I want to get in shape for the police exam,” he said, with a rueful shake of his head. He’d been running on the beach several evenings a week to prepare for the upcoming physical. “But tonight’s special, so I think Saint Valentine will work his magic and make these calories not count.”

“Did you know he’s Italian?” I always liked to share my new knowledge with my amiable husband.

He looked at me as if I were demented. “What else would he be? What did you think?”

“Never mind.” I sipped the last of my wine and smiled. “I’m just happy as a clam that you liked our dinner.”

 

“And why are clams so happy?”

I was relieved he’d asked. I always enjoyed sharing such tidbits.

“People forget the second half of that saying. It’s really ‘happy as a clam at high tide.’ I guess at high tide they are out there swimming around and not floundering on the sand where people dig them up.”

“You’re so smart,” Bob said, laughing. “Wait right here while I get your Valentine’s present.”

He went into the bedroom and I heard him open a drawer. He came back with a homemade Valentine…a heart cut from the Sunday funnies, and a Hershey bar with almonds.

“Next year I promise a two-pound box of See’s and a real Valentine,” he said, giving me a hug.

“What do you mean? This is a real Valentine!” I opened it and read the verse he’d scribbled in crayon. Bob never had been noted for his poetic skill.

I read it aloud: “I will be your Valentine, if you will be my clementine.”

I gave my husband a puzzled glance. “Clementine?  Didn’t she drown?”

“Clementine’s the name for those little mandarin oranges we saw at the Piggly Wiggly last Christmas. Remember how juicy and sweet and squeezable they were?” He squashed my hand to make sure I got the picture.

“And it’s the only rhyme I could come up with at the moment for Valentine.”

“I can think of another,” I said, grinning.

“What’s that?”

I giggled. “Frankenstein.”

Bob hooted. “How about concubine? Or Palestine?”

We cleared away the supper dishes, merry as a pair of mollusks…at high tide.

Alisa’s Mom’s Pasta Amore

1 pound package linguini                                l tablespoon olive oil

½ cup chopped onion                                      l tablespoon minced garlic

½ teaspoon crushed red pepper                       2 tablespoons tomato paste

1 14.5 can tomatoes                                        2 6.5 ounce cans minced clams, undrained

1 tablespoon dried parsley                              1 tablespoon dried oregano

1 tablespoon dried basil                                  salt, pepper to taste

Parmesan cheese, grated

Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain

Heat olive oil in a large pot. Add onion, garlic, and crushed red pepper and sauté 3 minutes or until onion is browned. Stir in tomatoes and tomato paste. Cook until thick, stirring constantly. Stir in clams, parsley, oregano and basil. Stir until heated through. Serve atop drained pasta. Sprinkle with Parmesan cheese.