DrawingTogetherGM 14: Listening and Hearing

I thought I was maybe a bit too excited to return to the Graphic Medicine drawing group after a whole month without prompts and exercises and sharing - it was good to see that I was not the only one who felt glad to be together again.

And then ... disaster struck. Our task was to draw a comic, in 10 minutes, about a conversation where somebody hadn't been listened to. Or maybe had been heard. I wasn't sure. I thought I was listening to Shelley, but somehow I couldn't understand what she wanted us to do. My thoughts were made of molasses.

We only had 10 minutes. I didn't know what to draw. I needed a story, and had bubkes. And that made me crazy. When do I never have a story? I can think of a story for any occasion. Or adapt something so it just about fits the occasion. My head hurt.

But I really do want to draw. So I came up with a compromise and, in the time that I had left, drew what I've just taken 134 words to tell you all:

Sigh. But I drew something. And very much enjoyed seeing all the other interpretations that people shared at the meeting. 

At the end, as people were leaving, someone asked if there might be any chance that we could go back to the weekly meetings. There wasn't a complete refusal. Hurrah! 

PS  we do not share other people's drawing without permission, but I think it is ok to mention a thought shared by one of the artists present. In preparation for the warm-up exercise, we were talking about listening to the soundscape around us in the room. Someone alerted us to the sounds of everyday that we do not notice, giving examples such as breathing, clocks, one's stomach and our hearts. When we listen, what do we hear? 

I do remember that Shelley began the session by talking about the speech bubbles (and thought bubbles) traditionally used in cartoons, and suggested that all the space outside them was listening space. Often, my problem is that I am so busy working on what I will say in response to the current speaker that I do not listen properly. I really should be quiet in the listening space. (I need to work on this). 

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Drawing Withdrawal

My Drawing Together group switched from weekly to monthly. I am missing it a lot. I decided to keep that same weekly hour for drawing, but it's so easy to be distracted when you have to be self-motivating. 

Thank goodness for Snoopygrams on Insta! Every now and then, they are offering a 5-minute tutorial on how to draw a Peanuts character. This week was Peppermint Patty (one of L's favourites):

Before I found these videos, I had only ever tried to draw Charlie Brown and Snoopy, and not since I was about 12. It's a bit scary to try to draw new characters (new for drawing), and afterwards the mistakes seem so glaring (fingers & toes, always. proportions. & half of PP's freckles are upside-down). But I'd like to improve, so I have to have a go.

Next up? Sally Brown and Schroeder. The piano should be fun! And, don't worry, I am also working on some things that are less copying and more my own ideas.

Remembrance of Things Past

Piglet fans, rejoice! Here he is again, in all his glory. Sadly it is not a recent photo, as he has been sheltering in place for some time now.  This was taken in 2014 when we climbed to the top of the Duomo in Milan. It feels particularly poignant considering the current situation we all are facing.

Looking forward to a time when we may hold each other's hand once more. 

A Lesson in Jamming

Apologies to any musicians inadvertently directed to this page. As the photograph shows, we are going to talk about how my plum preserves went pear-shaped, rather than spontaneous melodic interactions.

I am terribly disappointed to find some of my first attempts with plums ready to explode. It was arrogant, I suppose, to think that I'd smashed it first time up. 

Googling possible causes, I think I can eliminate not skimming the bubbles as the plums were cooking, because I did do that. I don't think it was a hygiene issue as I washed the jars in boiling hot water and dried them in the oven. This should have sterilised them properly. That leaves me with the possibility that I did not seal the jar completely and/or I let a bad plum or two through the prepping process. 

A second jar fizzed today. It was from the same batch. And both jars were ones that were not boiled after filling. So maybe the absence of a bain-marie is key?

Meanwhile, we wait and check and hope. The last unboiled jar is by the kitchen sink so if anything untoward takes place while we are busy living our lives, the mess shouldn't be too difficult to clean up.

Apropos of nothing, when googling bain-marie (or bagno-maria here), it was named after a person called Mary the Jewess or Mary the Prophetess. According to Wiki she is considered to be the first true alchemist of the Western world. 

It was disheartening to find my lovely jar full of fermentation. But I won't give up. The next fruit to be preserved according to locality and season will be, we hope, the fig. They should be at their best later in August. That should give me time to learn more about jamming.

The Blessing of Sara the Cat

Have I mentioned that Sara is the first cat, or animal of any kind, with which I have shared a home? Our family parrot-sat a few times in the 1970's, but Mervyn was my father's friend. 

This is a picture of Sara the Cat putting up with my relentless photographing of her every position. Today it is the crossed paws that entice me.

She hides and she chases imaginary demons and she stinks out the place with her poo just after everyone is happily in bed and she scratches furniture and doors and cardboard boxes and humans who are careless when they play with her and she gives me the heebie jeebies when she leans quite far out of our 3rd-floor window and she complains if you won't throw her ball but then she won't chase it if she doesn't approve of the trajectory ... and she lets me pick her up and kiss her for at least 5 seconds now before she jumps down, and curls up behind my knees when I nap and runs to the door when we come home and, to be honest, we would never have come through this past lockdown so well without Sara to play with and to care for. Thank you my pussycat friend.

Missing Wimbledon (but not the Pimms)

In no way what whatsoever do I advocate any kind of sporting competition taking place under the present circumstances. The world of tennis is still dealing with the fallout from the unofficial charity tournament organised by Novak Djokovic last month (see here), and it is clear that public health and safety must come first.

Yet it is Wimbledon time, and I miss it. If I still lived in London, I might consider queuing for tickets one day, as I did all those years ago. In those olden golden days, there was a standing area on Centre Court just behind the press photographers, and if I could get to the front there, I would take a few pictures, stay up all night developing the film and printing some b&w shots, and then flog them to people in the queue the next day. It would just about cover the cost of the materials. The rest of the time it was lazy afternoons in front of the tv, and just about the only sporting occasion for which my mother willingly joined us.

In those days we loved Billie Jean King and Chris Evert and Evonne Goolagong. We didn't like Martina Navratilova (she won us over in the end. Mostly.) or Ilie Nastase. Jimmy Connors was a good player, but too brash for the Brits. Virginia Wade won in the Silver Jubilee year, and the Fred Perry shirts we had to wear for games lessons at school were the nearest we got to a British man winning the singles.

Once I was old enough to cast off the influence of my parents' likes and dislikes, I enjoyed the tantrums of John McEnroe (and the Not the 9 O'Clock News parody), he was much more exciting than Bjorn Borg. I loved Gigi Fernandez, and didn't dislike Martina so much any more. I cried when Hana Mandlikova lost to Chris Evert, and was sad when Chris lost to Martina. Above all, I loved Steffi Graf. So calm. So powerful. That forehand. 

My memory skips a few generations, and ends up with the giants of today. The excitement of Andy Murray, a Brit, actually winning. The Federer-Nadal-Djokovic axis (my mother was Federer all the way. Elegance in person and playing style. If only Nadal could keep his hands away from his nether regions, he would be my outright favourite) and the Williams sisters. Hope is fading, but I would love for Serena to get the all-time Grand Slam record. Where are the new personalities and heroes? The real ones, not the media darlings. I don't know. Hopefully they will emerge at the next Wimbledon tournament. Meanwhile, I close my eyes and remember past loves.

Thinking of Helga

Going through old papers, I came across diary notes from a trip to NYC for Helga's ordination in 2000, and wanted to write something about her. We became friends on the day that we met, in a classroom in Jerusalem. Helga was born in Essen, as was my grandmother, and that's where our conversation began. It was a dialogue that continued for 21 years, in person and on the telephone (that quaint old way of communicating). I miss the sound of her voice: the touch of a German accent, the hint of a lisp with s's and z's, and especially the mischievous chuckle that she had. Here are a couple of memories that come to mind.

I started with a look at what is out there. If you google "Rabbi Helga Newmark" there are a few links, but very few photographs. Most of the articles refer to her being the first female Shoah survivor to be ordained a rabbi. Of all the articles to read, start with Betsy Morais in the Tablet. It makes a big deal out of Helga not liking Anne Frank, but I don't remember that at all. I was excited to learn that Helga's family lived on the same Amsterdam street as the Frank family, and of course I asked what she remembered. Helga told me that Anne was a couple of years older, and played with the older girls, and the main thing she remembered was that Anne was very bossy. I don't doubt that Helga said, more than once, that "Anne Frank was a brat." But I suspect she said it with a twinkle in her eye, if not with mischief in her voice. If you have read Anne's diary, especially the unexpurgated version, you will know how human Anne was. So she probably could be a brat sometimes, just like any of us.*

It was a struggle for Helga to get accepted into rabbinical school. Although she was well-known as an educator throughout New Jersey, she was initially rejected for not having the appropriate academic qualifications for graduate school. Nevertheless, she persisted. She went away, got the necessary certifications, and reapplied. She was warned that her age would make it extremely difficult to find employment in the field. This did not deter her. In fact, the five year programme took her eight years - she took time out to support family members in difficulty, returned, and then had to take more time off for health reasons. Nevertheless she persisted, and in May 2000 I travelled from my pulpit in the Shenandoah Valley up to Temple Emanu-El to attend her ordination ceremony.

Things had changed since my own ceremony four years earlier, and there was a new custom that when the ordinand went up for their smicha, their family stood up in the pews and applauded. I was rather dismissive of this:  "you're not supposed to applaud in the sanctuary during a ritual!" I said to my neighbour, indignantly. And then it was Helga's turn. I wrote in my diary:

"Instead of being led right up to the ark, Rabbi Zimmerman took her to the podium to tell us all about her. Hypocrite that I am, I had turned to Michael (Mandel) and said, well if everyone is applauding their guys then I am jolly well going to stand up for Helga!  Well, as she went up on the bima, the entire class and the entire congregation all of Temple Emanu-El rose and gave her an ovation. Yes I cried again. And then Helga was ordained."

That was an incredible moment. I remember that as she ascended to the bima, she was blowing kisses to the congregation. After she had received her smicha, I had to dash off back to Virginia to make the annual congregational meeting that evening. According to the diary:

"I had to leave early ... so I got the security lady to let me round the back and entered the other side of the sanctuary and snuck into the pew next to Helga. "Hey, rabbi," I say. "I have to go, and wanted to say goodbye." "Is it really true?" says Helga, "Am I really a rabbi?" "You bet!" I say, "and I am so proud of you!"

The community celebrated Helga's achievement as the first female Shoah survivor to become a rabbi, but was not so supportive when it came to offering her the opportunity to share her knowledge and experience in pulpit positions. Her life continued to be challenging. Nevertheless, she persisted. A few years later, I moved back to Europe, and by then Helga was dealing with several health problems. Even when she no longer remembered who I was, we still spoke regularly, and I might hear that mischievous chuckle as she told me about an incident with her carer or her meds.

After Helga died, many people shared their fond memories of her. She had been lonely and depressed for a long time, and I was rather angry and judgmental for a while, wishing more of them had spent more time with her when she was alive. Of course I was wishing that I had done better by Helga. This was pre-Internet and WhatsApp etc, and I was thousands of miles away, but I still felt guilty. But I also know that she knew I loved her, and vice versa. 

Although, as chronicled by herself and others, Helga had a dark and disturbing past, I will always remember her laugh and her love. May she rest in peace.

* after writing this, I came across this article by Rachel Kadish, who tells us more about Helga and Anne Frank.

Caught on Camera - the Cat that got the Cream

Thanks to my friend Martin for sharing a humorous video from Canterbury Cathedral. The minister is trying to share his biblical wisdom, but his audience, including the cameraperson, who zooms in on the table, is distracted by a feline visitor who decides to slake its thirst. You may see the whole minute here.

Sara the (Rabbi's) Cat, however, is not a dairy fan. She loves water, preferably from the bidet tap, but she's not averse to a cheeky dip into my glass if she can get away with it.

Remembering Friend & Teacher Rabbi Dr A Stanley Dreyfus Z"L

Remembering that today is not only yahrzeit for my father, but also for his friend and my teacher Rabbi Dr A Stanley Dreyfus. For those who were not lucky enough to meet him, you may read a little about his life here.

Wishing a long life to Marianne and all the family. 

When thinking about him today I remembered what he would say to me at moments of departure, both in person and on the phone:

"Be good."

I'm trying! 

(and now I can hear my dad responding, "yes, very!")

Rabbi Stanley Dreyfus. Still loved and missed by so many. May his memory continue to be a blessing.

How Many Rabbis Do You See in this Photo?

In March 1965, Dr Martin Luther King Jr and other US Civil Rights leaders marched in protest from Selma to Montgomery. On this particular march, they wore Hawaiian leis (for the story behind that, have a look here). I'm sharing this photo today to mark the yahrzeit of my darling father, Rabbi Albert H Friedlander.

I've mentioned elsewhere that we grew up with the story that when he brought his students from Columbia University to join the march, he spent some time with Dr King. We kind of found that part, that they had a chat and shared a sandwich during a lunch break, a bit hard to swallow. Some years after our father died, my sister found a photo from the march that appeared to show the top part of his head within arm's length of Dr King. Anyone who knew him knew it was him, but only half of his face was visible. I recently found this second photo that definitively proves he was up at the front of the march (4th row, in the middle, wearing a kippah, under the red X I added to help you find him). We were wrong to doubt him, and I am very sorry. 

As we remember him today, considering what is going on in the world at the moment, I am proud that he was part of this fight during his life. But that was then, and this is now. According to our tradition, we wish that someone's memory will be a blessing. 16 years after my father's death, he continues to remind us of what we ourselves should be doing. I do wish he were here now to help us continue the work that must be done. However, he isn't, and it is my turn. 

(btw, I can see two)

Sunflowers

Our lovely friends W&S have an allotment outside town. They've gone on a mini-break (my opposing heritages tend to struggle over this weekend - Happy Fourth of July! O yeah, right, happy goodbye to the English oppressors, sure! etc.) and suggested we stop by their patch and pick up some salad for the weekend. So we did. Well, L did most of the picking, because she wore wellies. I went in my tough Teva sandals, which immediately turned into mud clogs. So I took some photos of the sunflowers instead.

Did you know that every sunflower is actually thousands of tiny flowers? This sunflower fact and more may be found here. Have a great weekend!

Carl Reiner, z"l

Sometime yesterday the news began to filter through that Carl Reiner had died. Having reached the age of 98, this actor, comedian, director, screenwriter, author, parent and source of joy to myriad people was blessed with a fruitful life. The multiple tributes I've seen on social and other internet media so far focus mainly on Carl Reiner's work with Mel Brooks, especially the 2000 Year Old Man sketches, and the Dick van Dyke TV show from the early 1960's. Strangely enough, I just started watching the Dick van Dyke Show last weekend. I have loved the sketches for a while longer. For me, there is nothing more healing than laughter, and Carl Reiner brought so much of that into my life, for which I will always be grateful.

Here is a selection of links that may be of interest at this time:

New York magazine on how the 2000-year-old Man was born.

Two hour old baby sketch (suggested by Cary Grant)

First appearance on Late Night with Conan

2000-year-old-man in the year 2000 on Jay Leno

and again on Charlie Rose

tributes on the BBC website

Mel Brooks' tribute as reported in Rolling Stone

a few words from Max Brooks in the Forward

Obituaries from

The Guardian

Corriere della Sera (headline:  Carl Reiner is dead - friend of Mel Brooks & winner of 9 Emmys)

NY Times (paywall)

Variety

The Times (paywall)

and the last word for today is from Max Brooks:

"It's expected, but it's unbelievable," Brooks said of his father's reaction to Reiner's death. "No more Carl? How do you reconcile no more Carl? It's like you wake up in the morning and the sun never comes up."

Bittersweet

It's finally up! For my whole life, this poster was on a wall in my parents' home, first in Wembley and then at Kent House. My father always had a thing about owls, and we kind of thought that he was one (for those of you that knew him - wise, blind in the daylight, slightly ruffled feathers). There were many owl-connected gifts and purchases through the years. This has always been my favourite. Now it is on a wall in my own home. We received it several months ago, but I kept putting off the moment of hanging. My parents are gone. Their home of 49 years is gone. And giving the owl a new place to roost is a confirmation of how final those facts are. But we are very lucky and happy to have our home, and delighted (as you can see from my goofy grin in the selfie) to welcome this owl to our wall.

DrawingTogetherGM 13: A Conversation Between Your Selves

Our drawing prompt this week was to develop a conversation with a part of our self that perhaps is not heard as much as she should be. First of all we were asked to fold the page in half, and then on the left, in one minute, draw a figure representing ourselves, but not necessarily a traditionally accurate drawing. It could represent that self in any way we wanted. Then, on the other side of the page, in a different colour, possibly using a non-dominant hand to draw, a figure representing the unheard or unseen self, also done in a minute. Finally, one of the characters had to ask the other one a question.

I seem to be a bit wound up, rather tense. Everything is coiled. And it's been quite hard to take pictures during lockdown. For the past couple of years at this time I have been in parks and gardens shooting bees and flowers. Not now. 

The final instruction was to do 3 panels, each in 3 minutes, of a conversation between the characters:

I thought of an ending, but not sure how to get there. Maybe if I knew, I could fix the world, eh?

Thanks to all those at Drawing Together/Graphic Medicine for creating the group and taking time out of their lives to lead us through the warm-ups and prompts. Hope we get together again soon.

So Long Danielle Carter, & Thanks For All The Goals

News in football today is reporting that Danielle Carter has come to the end of her Arsenal Women's contract, and will be leaving the club. I first started watching women's football after the England Lionesses had a great World Cup in 2015. The Arsenal Women's team was the nearest to where I lived, and had several international players, so I went up to Borehamwood to have a look. I loved it - it cost a fiver, you could wander around the ground depending on where you wanted to sit or stand, the standard of play was excellent, and they let me take pictures! 

Dan Carter was just beginning to make her name, scoring a worldie (at 1.47 in the link) to win the 2016 Cup Final against the team from Stamford Bridge (well, Kingsmeadow in fact) and breaking into the England Lionesses team as well. However, in 2018 & 2019 she suffered two ACL injuries, and whilst she was recovering, Vivianne Miedema took over as the star striker for the team.

It is the brutal nature of the economics of football, especially when post-pandemic plans call for cuts in all kinds of organisations, that just as Danielle Carter is coming back to full fitness, her contract is ending, and the club has decided not to renew it. I'm so sad for her. I hope that she will find a new team soon, and will get back to scoring goals when it is safe to play football again. Meanwhile, thank you for 11 years of contributing to the Arsenal Women's community.

All photos © AJ Friedlander

Update: Danielle Carter's response as posted on Twitter today

La Regina delle Ciliegie (The Queen of Cherries)

Our friend Wilde, who knows about growing fruit & veg, and likes to preserve them, told us of a wonderful place near Spilamberto where we could get some great cherries at a good price. I don't remember whose suggestion it was that I have a go at making some jam, but the next thing I knew we were all in the Pandina and racing the stormy skies to get to this farm. I saw a view from a bridge as we crossed, and asked if we could go back so I could take a picture (FYI it's the Panaro river).

The cherries in my box are Moretta cherries, a local variety. We bought seconds, specifically for making jam, and paid a very reasonable price. They also had Duroni cherries, at less than half the price you'd pay for a carton in the city, so we bought enough to feast all week!

I shall try to keep these chronicles of a cherry cooker as brief as possible. The first task was to take out all the cherry stones. This takes a very long time, particularly if the only tool you have is a small knife. Luckily for me, after a few hours, L had the brilliant idea of converting the olive-pitter I'd given her many Chanukahs ago that sits pristine in the kitchen drawer to a cherry-pitter. I was watching the Italian Cup Final, and the excitement of using this little tool far outshone the football on the tv. Warning:  Moretta cherry juice is dark, and difficult to remove, even with a pumice stone.

Nu, cherries without stones now needed to be cooked. I looked for recipes online, and found several. I chose the one that suggested the best way to eat the finished product was on a piece of challah. Cherries went into the biggest pot we have, with 1/3 the amount of sugar recommended by the recipe, and half a cup of lemon juice. The recipe said cook for 20 minutes. 1 hour 45 minutes later I thought the cherries were as jammy as they would ever get and called my personal taster over for her expert opinion.

L survived the tasting, and claimed to enjoy it, so it was time to put the jam in the jars. This was maybe the hardest part as everything was so hot and sticky. At the end, there were 4 actual jars of a jam-like substance. I boiled two of them for a while to try and make them last until autumn, and when everything cooled down, I put labels on the jars (to help remember which ones were for now and which could be put away for a while).

Not quite the end of the story, my friends. Since all those cherries only made 4 little jars, we thought we'd go back and get some more! So yesterday, without Wilde (sorry) we went back to the cherry farm. Once we found the entrance (we were really sorry Wilde wasn't with us at that point), we drove up to the barn. Turns out that the cherry season is basically over. No more Morette, no more Duroni ... there were a few Amarene left on the table and that was it. So we bought 4 kg of Amarene cherries!

I'm not sure how many episodes of "Sherlock" I watched whilst getting rid of the cherry stones. I'm ashamed to say that whilst stirring the cherries when they were cooking, I found 17 stones. I do hope that was most of them. I was a little distracted because the Or 'Ammim weekly "Cup of Tea with Rav AJ" started before I'd finished cooking, and I was stirring with one hand and discussing Brit Milah on Zoom with the other. FYI, the same amount of sugar and lemon juice was added, and roughly the same amount of time was used for cooking. These cherries were a bit more pulverised by the cooking, and the result was runnier than the first batch. Definitely preserves rather than jam. But the official taster gave a seal of approval, and the jars are now cooling in the kitchen.

What's next? We were hoping for apricots, but a frost in March killed most of the flowers, so not this year. We are thinking about plums. Meanwhile, Wilde just sent us a message that the first cucumbers have been picked from the allotment. I think it may be time for some pickling!

#DrawingTogetherGM 12: Concerning a Ritual During the Lockdown

Yesterday evening, our warm-up exercise was to draw a page full of smiling faces. We were encouraged to draw different eyes, ears, hair, mouths and noses. It was harder than I thought in 15 minutes to come up with new faces ... I began with the ones I knew ... Pomme, myself, a cat ... and then I had a go at finding some other people ...

thinking about some of the rituals that we have had during lockdown, we were then invited to choose one and draw it.

I chose our evening ritual of watching the RAI1 TV programme Soliti Ignoti (literally, the "usual unknowns". It doesn't translate well. The contestant has 8 professions from which to choose, and 8 people to which they may be applied. If they guess correctly, they win money. At the moment, famous guests are playing for coronavirus charities). At the end of the show, there is a "Mysterious Relative" who appears centre stage. S/he is related to one of the professionals, and the contestant has to guess which one it is. All the money is bet on this final guess.

We have watched this show most evenings throughout lockdown, and get very involved in the final game. So I drew the Mysterious Relative. When we watch, we look at all the faces, and try to figure out if they look like each other, or if they have an "aria di famiglia". It's quite difficult, and we rarely get it right. So that was some context. Here is what I drew:

What do I seek? Perhaps it is just another expression of the desire to connect during a time when we've all been so solitary. On the other hand, we got a lot better at the game after listening to some advice given by a contestant who said that they would choose based on whether people looked like they would be happy to hug each other. Not on ears or eyes or noses. That makes more sense, and when we guess from that point of view, we seem to be a bit more successful!

This drawing group is about to shift from a weekly meeting to a monthly one. I'm sad to hear that, as I have really started to see it as part of my week, and feel that the group is starting to gel. At the same time, it is a wonderful gift from those who run it, and they do kind of deserve to get back to their own lives. It's not stopping, just spreading out a little. So, non vedo l'ora until the next one!

It's Not Father's Day Here.

It is Father's Day (Fathering Sunday?) in the UK and the USA today. Thank goodness, since it means that the endless "personalised" ads for great gifts for a great dad will now cease. He was a great dad in many ways, and I have missed him for 16 years now. In a few weeks we will mark the 16th yahrzeit, and I can talk about him then. Perhaps. Meanwhile, I'm delighted to hear that Father's Day in Italy was in March, so nothing to fear there. 

Nu, here is one of my favourite photos of young Albert (you may have seen it before!). It is from 1937, so he was around 12 years old. I think he is waiting for his letter from Hogwarts.

Evelyn's 80th Birthday

On Monday, it would have been Evelyn's 80th birthday. She told us several times that she absolutely did NOT wish to have a party or celebration of any kind. As with her 70th, she was hoping to slip away for a few days on some kind of lovely little trip (10 years ago she took me and Noam to a fantastic spa in North Wales, and we went to Portmeirion to see the Prisoner set as well).

I wanted to do something to mark the day, and so I'd like to invite you to do something fun on Monday, or soon, in honour of your friendship. Raise a glass of wine in a toast, or eat some Chinese food, or listen to a bit of Mahler/Bruckner; enjoy some asparagus, go to an exhibition, or bake a cranberry cheesecake. If none of those float your boat (she always did struggle to find people to accompany her to the Red Sun!), then please do something that gives you joy.

Meanwhile, I put together a slideshow  - 80 (ish) photos for Evelyn's 80th - some pictures from each decade of her life. There's no soundtrack, mainly because I wasn't sure if everyone could cope with "Pirate Jenny" from the Threepenny Opera. The link is here.

Hurrah for Marcus Rashford

It has been a week full of memorable news. We said goodbye to Dame Vera Lynn. She was 103, but somehow we thought she might be one of those who would always be with us. The US Supreme Court ruled in favour of allowing the DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals) programme to remain in place, so that immigrants who arrived as children may continue living and working in the USA, for now at least. An inexpensive drug - Dexamethosone - has been discovered to reduce deaths from Covid-19 by a third in the most severely ill patients. And a young footballer's campaign to support hungry children persuaded the UK government to make a U-turn in their current policy.

If you can get beyond the paywall, Marcus Rashford's open letter in the Times this week is here. He writes:

"I know what it feels like to be hungry. I'm well aware that at times my friends only invited me to eat at their houses for their parents' reassurance that I was eating that evening. That was my community, the community that made the Marcus Rashford you see before you today asking for your help:  an England international footballer. As I passed through Manchester city centre on the bus as a child and witnessed homelessness on every street corner, I swore that if one day I got in a position to help those people most in need then that is what I would do.

I recognise that I have a valuable platform that allows my voice to be heard and I'm asking you to listen to the stories of these vulnerable families. People are hurting and we continue to ignore their cries for help."

What impresses me so much is that Mr. Rashford is part of a group that has been highlighted during the lockdown for its lack of social responsibility, i.e., professional footballers. The media has reported those who have flouted the government's restrictions in order to party and get their hair cut. However, his behaviour this week, and as we now discover, throughout his career, knocks all the stereotypes on their heads, and presents us with the most admirable role model (I know he isn't the only one, q.v., Raheem Sterling and Harry Kane). This BBC article shows how he has always been willing to lend a hand:

"As a child at school Rashford had helped fill gift boxes to give to those in need. He remembered this. At Xmas 2018 he personally delivered items including thermal underwear, gloves, toothbrushes and toothpaste to homeless people in Manchester. Twelve months on he partnered with Selfridges for a similar campaign."

As a result of Marcus Rashford's campaign, the UK Government decided to continue the programme for meal vouchers during the summer for all children eligible for free school meals during term-time. Upon hearing this news, Rashford told the BBC:

"I don't want this to be the end of it because there are more steps that need to be taken. People are struggling all year round, so we need to learn more about the situation they are in and how we can help them best."

He is going back to work now, as the English Premier League starts up again, but I hope we will continue to be inspired by his teaching, as he wrote last Monday:

"It can be funny where your career takes you sometimes. If someone had said ten years ago that I would one day be writing for The Times I would have laughed, and yet here I am on Monday evening opening this with a question that has been playing on my mind all day:  have I done enough?"

I must keep asking myself, have I done enough? Have we done enough?

UPDATE:  In the most recent issue of the Guardian, David Squires devotes a whole cartoon to the continuing advocacy of Marcus Rashford. Have a look here.