Judy Sunde Hanawalt

Things I'm Thinking About

Author: Judy Hanawalt (Page 21 of 23)

Living and writing in Berkeley gives me lots of inspiration. I am passionate about community, justice, kids and families. I love cooking and eating, laughing and sharing life with friends and family, especially over a glass of wine.

Two Very Different Men

January 22, 2015 / / 3 Comments

As I go about my daily business around town, I recognize people who are regulars, selling Street Spirit newspapers or asking for money or food. I often chat with them, buy a paper, sometimes bring them a cup of coffee or a roll from the bakery.

For a while, there was a sweet African-American woman who sat by the curb on an upturned bucket in front of my bank. I talked with her several times, hearing about her children and grandchildren. I knew her life had been difficult. She was positive and funny, though, keeping a good attitude despite the uncertainties, and trying to make a better life for her family.

One day several years ago, after dropping the kids off at school, I went to the bank on my way home. As I walked in, I greeted her and noticed a man, unshaven and wearing khakis and a wind-breaker, sitting in the open door of a car parked in the street behind where she was sitting. He was talking to her.

When I came out, he was still there. I overheard bits of what he was saying as I walked by. He kept up a steady stream of disparaging words, calling her names–lazy, worthless, stupid. I paused and listened, hoping it would stop. It didn’t, and impulsively, I turned around, walked back and said, “Why don’t you leave her alone?” I started to go to my car, but the man’s angry words continued to pour out. He turned them on me, calling me back.

I can’t remember exactly what he said–it was a barrage of violent, hateful, ugly insults and threats that came crashing down on me and my friend. I stood next to her, put my arm around her as if to shield her from the words, and spoke close to her ear. “Don’t listen to him. It’s not true.” She just nodded.

As the onslaught continued, I appealed to the security guard outside the bank for help. He refused, saying it wasn’t bank business. At some point, the man said he had a gun in his trunk. I took the threat seriously and went inside the bank for help. A bank employee called the police and handed me the phone.

When I went back out, the man had moved to the middle of the sidewalk, and the homeless woman was trying to get back to selling her papers. The man focused on me, attacking me in every conceivable way. I have never heard such words–the hate and ugliness that poured out of his mouth was astonishing and numbing. I could not leave, though. I was determined to keep this verbally abusive man there until the police arrived.

Another man, who had been sitting at the cafe next to the bank, got up and walked over to stand with me as I took the verbal blows. I was responding as little as possible, engaging just enough to keep the angry man from getting in his car and driving away. His breath smelled like coffee as he leaned in to hiss his arrogant, denigrating account of me and my life. My supporter said nothing to me or to my assailant. Simply standing next to me, listening to everything, seeing it all, he was my witness.

The man from the cafe is the one I remember the most and the least from the day. I can’t remember what he looked like, only that he was holding a clipboard. His presence, though, was like an anchor in a storm. This was really happening. I wasn’t crazy. I needed to stand and do this. Just by staying next to me he gave me strength. I can’t believe I withstood the encounter, looking back. I cry just thinking about it. Adrenaline and anger pulled me into the fray, but having someone stand with me kept me from losing my head or my courage.

Two Berkeley police officers finally arrived on bikes. One of them took the man a short distance away, hand-cuffed him and questioned him. The other policeman stayed with us, getting the story from each person separately. He asked me if the hand-cuffed man had ever touched me–or if he had only talked to me. No, he had not touched me, I told him, only hammered me with words and sprayed me with spit and rancor.

We have to let him go, the officer told me. Freedom of speech, no matter how offensive, is protected by law. The threat of a gun in the trunk was not true. There was officially nothing they could charge him with, not even illegal parking. I was shocked and disappointed. No one should be allowed to do that.

The police officer agreed and told me, as a fellow citizen, he appreciated that I had stepped in to stop the tirade. Most people just walk by, he told me, afraid to get involved. It makes a difference, he said. The woman from the nearby flower stand told me she was glad I stopped him, too–he had been going for a long time before I got there. My friend on the upturned bucket didn’t really say anything. Maybe she was used to this kind of thing. I don’t know.

The man who stood by me talked to the police, said good-bye and disappeared. I didn’t get his name, and I don’t think I’d recognize him if I saw him again; he was beside me, but my face was turned away from him, engaged with the ugly man.

When I don’t know how to help someone in their battle, or how to engage with the pain others are experiencing, I think about that good man. He didn’t jump in or take over, he didn’t give me advice. He just stood by me.

I can do that.

A Long Walk

January 17, 2015 / / 2 Comments

I took a long walk with the dog today. We are staying at a friend’s cabin in the Sierra foothills near a mountain lake, woodsy and quiet. There is a trail behind their house that follows an old rail line for three miles. My feet are still complaining, and I think there’s a blister on the bottom of one of them.

You can tell the trail used to be train tracks; it’s narrow and flat, with blasted out rock on one side and ancient posts holding rusty barbed wire on the other. I wonder if it was a line from Gold Rush days.  A stream meanders along the barbed-wire side, slow and shallow, iced over in places this January day.

Tie runs ahead of me the whole way, stopping to wait for me if he gets too far ahead, running back sometimes to see what is taking me so long, getting interested in a bush or deer sign for a moment, then galloping ahead of me again, ears flying. I’m glad to have him with me. It feels a little creepy in the woods alone when you’re not used to it. I almost expect to see some crusty old miner emerge from the woods, pick-ax over his shoulder, looking for the train to take him to the assay office in town. I’m a little nervous that a mountain lion may be watching me from the rocks above, but assure myself that my brave hound will scare any cats away.

After walking for a while, I forget to watch for unwanted visitors and start to notice the woods. The tiny cedar and pine trees, bright green beneath their giant elders. The smooth, dark red manzanita bushes with silvery coin leaves next to  the  low, spreading limbs of live oaks. Pine needles cover the trail and hang like tinsel from the leafless bushes growing under them. Towering Valley oaks mix their elegant, shapely leaves with the pine needles underfoot and look like upside-down puzzle pieces. The path opens up to shady slopes dotted with tall pines, sunshine streaking in where it can find an opening. Bright green grass pushes up through brown leaves, taking the opportunity a recent rain gave it, taking the chance that snow may yet come and freeze it out.

The trail winds on. It’s supposed to be three miles. It’s starting to feel too far. I still have to go back, too. I check my watch and keep walking. I think about Cheryl in Wild with new respect, walking on a narrow trail like this for months, a huge pack on her back.  I decide that if I haven’t reached some sort of end in 15 minutes, I’ll turn around. Just when I get to that time mark, the landscape changes–there’s a road, houses, and power lines–so I commit to going around one more bend. There it is. A gate across the path. The end. I reach it and turn around to trudge home.

Watching for markers that I remember–a big tree, a black rock by the side of the trail, a hole blocked off by metal poles and wire and covered with rocks (could the miner be in there?)–I walk back the way we came, slower, tired, thirsty. Not nervous, though–except when I notice new animal scat on the trail, not deer, could it be mountain lion? Not noticing the beauty I swooned over on the way, either. Tie’s tongue hangs and he plops down to wait for me when he gets ahead too far.

I start to think. My mind isn’t wandering, preparing to fight or flee, or exploring the landscape. It settles on an idea and turns it over as I walk and walk. Finally, the gate at the start of the trail comes in view. We’re back. It feels like an accomplishment. Not just the effort of the walk, but the taming of my fluttering thoughts. I feel ready to sit and write some of those persistent thoughts down.

Thanksgiving

November 14, 2014 / / 3 Comments

Thanksgiving does not sparkle with magic and mystery, or glow with the promise of gifts and wishes come true like it’s holiday partner, Christmas. It is instead a day to be content, to appreciate what is already seen and known. Somewhere between the giddiness of childhood and the practicality of adulthood, I began to enjoy Thanksgiving instead of rushing past it as just another hurdle to clear before Christmas. It was a calm before the frenzy of holiday activity; a day to enjoy for it’s own sake, not for what would be given or gotten.

I was still living at home, and Thanksgiving meant traditional foods, grandparents and cousins, sitting and talking and playing games. I watched my grandmother, mother and aunt cook, sneaking tastes, disappearing when work was needed. When my grandfather began to carve the turkey, I would be at his elbow, ready for any small bits he would offer as he worked. The anticipation and satisfaction revolved  around the meal and the foods eaten only on that day. The gifts of Thanksgiving were received around the table.

My childhood Thanksgivings were spent as a happy recipient of the feast, almost as a guest. Whether by my choice or by design, the work was behind the scenes. I had little appreciation for how it happened that the lavish meal appeared on the carefully decorated table.

My perspective changed again when I had children and began hosting the day at my house. No more gazing into the kitchen in anticipation of delicacies to fill the holiday table.  I became the cook, with splattered apron, pumpkin in my hair, and the scent of stuffing as my perfume. I was up early to finish the pies, make the stuffing and get the bird in the oven. The day flew by as I was making messes and cleaning them up, rotating side dishes in and out of the oven, calling for helping hands and later chasing out sticky-fingered tasters, and then, with a sigh of relief, sitting down, everything done, to give thanks.

As my children have gotten older, they have ventured into the cook’s domain and wanted to help, even taking over a favorite dish. Their joy of eating was enhanced by the preparation, the camaraderie in the kitchen, and the pride of serving something that tasted good. One daughter would work on the pies, another on the green bean casserole, and others on the rolls, jello salad and stuffing.  Some would collaborate on the decorating and setting of the table, pulling the good china and silverware out of the cupboard, arranging the flowers and candles, and creating a centerpiece from fall leaves and persimmons from our tree.

The commotion in the kitchen tends to draw others in, and the jostling, the stepping over the dog and the ducking around sparring siblings–the happy confusion of so many in a small space–tempts me to shoo everyone out. When I stop, take a breath and look around, though, I love the busyness and the laughter.

Another change is upon me now. With only one child still living at home, my house feels quiet and a little empty, and when they all come home for Thanksgiving, I welcome the busy, loud explosion of activity. They come like waves, tumbling in with their bags and the food they are going to prepare and their excitement at seeing each other, dancing around with the dog, flooding the house with life. They come in with the cold, fresh scent of their journey  on their coats and wraps, but they take them off, leave them by the door and settle into being home.

They come hungry for all their favorite traditional foods, but also with new ideas. The sugary yam casserole topped with marshmallows was the first to get a make-over, becoming more about the vegetable and less about the topping. A couple of years ago, my practice of using a roasting bag for the turkey ended when a more ambitious cook found a better way, involving lots of butter and fresh herbs.  Another Thanksgiving, my dry, bagged stuffing went unused in favor of a delicious, from-scratch recipe. Last year, new side dishes free of processed foods were introduced, so the jello and the green bean casserole were replaced by seasonal fruits and greens. I think it is only the butterhorn rolls that remain unchanged.

With so much competence in the kitchen, I find time to sneak off to the living room to sit down and rest, leaving the meal to my opinionated, energetic children, and basking in the happy chatter and laughter. I’m still involved in the process,  but I can see a new era just around the corner. I will find myself again the recipient of the feast, and I will be content to savor these gifts of a life full of love and family.

Knitting Socks

November 11, 2014 / / 0 Comments

Sticks and yarn, twisting and looping and wrapping into stitches and rows, transform the linear into the three dimensional–a thin stand of wool into a thick pair of socks. The instructions for a sock are cryptic: knit, pearl, slip, turn, make, drop, join.  Reading through the steps, the process doesn’t seem to make sense.

I had wanted to make socks for a long time. I learned the basic knitting stitch when I was a little girl. My mother gave me two fat plastic knitting needles and some yarn, put a dozen or so loops on the first needle for me and showed me how to slip the point of the other needle through a loop, wrap the yarn around the point and pull it back through to create a knit stitch.

Clumsy at first, soon I was knitting back and forth, turning out long lacy folds of fabric, an intricate pattern of dropped-stitch holes and uneven, added-stitch edges. When I was tired of it, or out of yarn, she would knit my creation off the needles and I would have a scarf, a doll blanket, or a cape. I marveled at what I could create, something from nothing.

In a cold climate and on a tight budget many years later, the idea of creating something out of almost nothing appealed to me. I took a class to learn how to knit mittens. I learned how to cast on stitches, knit around in circles to create the cylinder of the mitten, and bind off. Everyone on my Christmas list received mittens that year. I loved each pair, the yarn, the colors, and the different sizes, from toddler to adult. I was a happy, confident knitter.

Looking around the yarn shop, though, I began to long for more. A sweater? Too big of a commitment. Socks? Perfect. But the heel! Fearful, I stuck with scarves and the occasional replacement mitten. I thought about making tube socks, basically a long mitten with no thumb,  to warm the feet instead of the hands. That would be easier, but the call of real, shaped-heel socks lingered in my mind.

Occasionally, I asked other knitters about the heel experience. Most agreed they were too timid to attempt the turning of the heel. Then, I got an answer that bolstered my courage. Just follow the directions, she said. They don’t make sense when you read them, but if you just do it, row by row, the heel, mysteriously, almost miraculously, turns into that cup shape that makes it a real sock. This new courage, combined with abandoning my attempts to seem like a savvy knitter to the yarn shop employees, took me into my local knit shop with one bold question: Do you have a really easy sock pattern?

She did, and her own experience confirmed the wisdom of giving up trying to visualize how it would work. I was a woman obsessed. Most of the next day I was knitting around in circles toward the heel. Then, it was time. Checking and re-checking the pattern, I knit each row carefully, doing what it said even though it felt wrong. Turn and start knitting in the other direction before I get to the end of the row? I was almost holding my breath, knitting, turning, pearling, knitting two together, slip-slip-knitting, turning some more.

And then, there it was: the heel cup. It was true, it worked. And it didn’t take any advanced skills. I showed everyone and I posted it as my status on FaceBook. I was so proud of myself. Only a few people truly rejoiced with me. Many, who never cared about making a sock, were puzzled by my excitement, but I didn’t care. I had socks to knit.

There it was again, something from nothing. Something useful and beautiful had come from my fingers and some sticks and some yarn combined in their ancient dance. These socks, my little creations, didn’t actually come from nothing, though. The expense, it’s true, was minimal. I already had the wool and the needles, and the directions, copied on one sheet of paper, were cheap. Creativity wasn’t there in measurable amounts, either. I simply took my place in a long line of sock knitters and did what has been done countless times before.

I did use my time, my effort–the doing of it. I added some faith in the directions, and got the satisfaction of seeing the transformation of yarn to socks and the joy of my success. Still this effort doesn’t seem like art. Not the type to be observed, to be hung in a gallery and understood as message or a representation. It is just a useful item, a pair of socks to be worn and washed and worn out. But the joy of creating was there. In this broader definition, our whole lives can be art–the effort, the fear, the faith, the going in circles, the satisfaction and joy, and finally, the wearing and the wearing out is beautiful.

High School graduation

Did You Plan to Have Six Kids?

November 6, 2014 / / 2 Comments

People ask me all the time if I planned to have a large family. Just last week, four people asked me this nicer version of their real question: Why do you have so many kids? It’s taken me a while to be able to answer this honestly. No, I didn’t plan on having a large family. The reason I have six children is, to put it simply, I wanted to. They came one at a time, and six times, we eagerly anticipated a new member of the family.

I didn’t particularly love children as a young woman. I babysat only reluctantly as a teen, preferring my own activities to trying to entertain children. I did plan on having a family eventually, like I planned on owning a house and taking two weeks vacation every year. No plan, though, could have prepared me for the experience of having my own child.

I was excited to be pregnant with my first baby. I had been married for three years–a respectable amount of time, one friend recently assured me–when I started to long for a baby. I started having dreams about babies, and thinking about what it would be like to be a mother. Suddenly, I saw mothers and babies everywhere, and I imagined having my own cooing, adorable bundle of joy.

As my pregnancy progressed, I felt like an alien being had taken over my body. My hormones were bringing chaos to my moods, my skin, my hair and my brain. My growing belly threw me off balance in every way. My clothes didn’t fit, and eventually I didn’t fit. Forgetting my new shape, I tried to squeeze by a grocery cart in checkout line in one embarrassing moment late in pregnancy. I was clumsy and forgetful, frighteningly emotional and hungry all the time.

I felt out of control and unprepared. I volunteered to work in a nursery, hoping to get an idea of how to hold and care for an infant. I was not a natural; I was stiff and afraid of hurting this little person and making him cry. The idea of doing this myself was terrifying. To push back the fear, I took classes on childbirth and nursing, read and re-read books on what to expect, what to buy and what to do. I could not really prepare, I know now. This was not merely a lifestyle or scheduling change. It was a transformation.

If someone had been able to make me understand–really understand–what I was going to have to do to birth this baby, I would have said it was impossible. I’m not that strong. There was no choice, though, and the result of my Herculean effort was a tiny, red infant, crying in my arms. I was overwhelmed. I was in love. How could this perfect little person have come from my body? This was a sense of accomplishment and amazement unlike any I’d known. I was witness to a miracle.

A mother doesn’t give life to a child. A mother is host to creation far above her control, an intimate observer, a captive witness. I began to see other mothers as fellow witnesses to the miracle, and children not as miniature adults, but as someone’s baby. This was wild, messy and mysterious, a connection to the world at a deep, basic level. I was dipping my toes into the surging, primal deep, peering into the unfathomable rhythms of creation, and it was intoxicating.

I dove in. One at a time, we were blessed with five more unique and amazing gifts of new life, and fell in love each time. I loved the whole process: the pregnancy, the birth, the babies, the community of other mothers and babies. As our family grew, I loved the dynamic of older and younger siblings, the playing, teaching, helping; the happy busyness. We had so much fun exploring, camping, creating and being together.

There were times, of course, when I was tired and overwhelmed, but my memory of the days when I was consumed with nursing and diapers and school and birthday parties has taken on a gauzy glow of sweetness and kinship that I think is not too far from the reality.

Sometimes I feel like I was greedy to want to prolong my stay in that stage of life longer than most women do. Sometimes, when I’m completely spent, emotionally, physically, or financially, I think I was crazy. Most of the time, I feel grateful.

I’m amazed by the love I give and receive, the incredible, gifted women and men who call me Mom, and the deep satisfaction I experience in motherhood. I could not have planned for this. My imagination would not have been big enough.

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