It is early April and the nest’s builders, a pair of magpies, have returned. They are refurbishing it after the long winter’s assaults upon it. The temperatures are still mostly below freezing, but the birds are not deterred from their resolute occupation.

Their tree and others like it were planted a few decades ago by the builders of this neighborhood of well maintained apartments. The trees and buildings surround the Minneberg bus station, the gathering point for travel to and from nearby Stockholm City and beyond. This morning’s early travelers are the workday commuters. I am on my way to exercise at a club.

The bus will arrive in five minutes. I am captivated by the furious activity of the skata. They dash between the nest and nearby trees where they collect twigs and branches which suit their plan. Branches, some twice as long as the bird, are inspected, poked and prodded until one is selected and taken from the tree, snapped neatly by a twist of the head.

It is difficult to navigate, with a long branch in her beak, from the middle of a tree into the space between the trees and thence to the center of the nesting tree. One was forced by interfering branches to drop hers to the ground. Since she had so carefully chosen it, I thought she might retrieve it from the ground. She doesn’t, and I speculate on the reasons why Nature may have dictated that she shouldn’t.

Sometimes both birds are in the nest, each with branches they have captured, interweaving them collaboratively with those already laid in.

The bus arrives and I reluctantly enter it, regretting that I can’t interrupt my routine to continue watching the construction project.

It seems nature’s plan
that I should travel away
from the nesting birds

We spilled the potting soil
All around the kitchen
Not giving thought to the work
Of having later to restore order
After the excitement of this earthy enterprise

The rough and sinewy feeling
Of the pungent soil around my fingers
Induced a vision of the digging and planting
We’ll perform next month
In the communal garden near the lake

The vision buoyed my spirit
Giving me sudden release from the
Dark mood of Winter
Which never forgets to envelope us
In its long and icy embrace

Today’s the day to be foolish,
And it’s easy to do.
Just be yourself,
If you can find who is you.

One might quickly assert, having accepted this differentiation for the sake of discussion, that promises from the heart are to be more trusted and desired. This, especially, since we don’t yet know where the other promises come from.

I will argue the opposite.

It’s an easy rebuttal to note that the most solemn of public promises are those contained in the traditional marriage ceremonies, and yet in the USA around 50% of new marriages will eventually end in divorce. I have promised, three times now, “for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.”

To promise to love. Can one really make this promise? Is the heart the most constant of guides in our lives? Will the loved one, or oneself, be eternally lovable?

We don’t promise to love our children, yet we will love them through times more trying than we would endure in a marriage. How often have you heard phrases like “we stayed, or are staying, together for the sake of the children”?

Take another solemn, public promise: that made by all members of Congress and employees of the federal government upon taking office:

I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.

For the year 2010, the Gallup Poll found that only 19 percent of respondents thought they could “trust government in Washington to do what is right… just about always, or most of the time”. Of course there may be no correlation between an individual’s oath of office and the public’s general perception of government performance. But then, why not? I think it fair to say that this public oath has no value except where the oath-taker might be charged with gross dereliction of duty, or of treason.

Using these two examples, I assert that public promises are suspect in value.

What about private promises?

The most important glue between humans is that of trust. Will we show up on time? Will we return that book when promised? Will we complete our assignment? Will we keep a confidence?

If questions like these can be answered in the positive, then we are bound ever closer together. If not, we drift apart.

Do these promises come from the heart? Or do they come from a deeper place, one that involves us as members of a clan, or tribe, or species—the collective “mind”?

Promises build expectations. Disappointments build distrust and bitterness.

Be careful what you promise.

Likewise, be careful of what you expect from others.

First, one must survey the damage, slowly and with love; this is a worthy task that deserves full attention and respect. Let us enter the kitchen the morning after a tumultuous evening, and view the task at hand.

The smell of garlic, of course, pervades all. This is not at all unpleasant to the lover of the stinking rose, despite its lack of freshness. It’s a reminder of the delicious aroma and taste of the garlic butter one has, the evening before, spread like a golden glaze over the thick beef steak, cooked rare and bloody, the juices flowing over the helpless plate.

The acidic tang of red wine dregs rising from many glasses complements the garlic, offering a stimulating olfactory duo to accompany the task.

Before organizing all the things in like groupings, one must have a clear and clean working area. The counter surrounding the sink must be rid of condiment bottles, salt shakers, clean instruments and implements, and stale food not put away the evening before as it should have been; all surface detritus should be wiped clean for the next step. One cannot think and plan clearly with a cluttered work space.

Next, open the dishwasher and examine it. Are there clean or dirty things in it? If clean, put them away. If dirty, make sure they are lodged in the proper places for maximum use of space. Most importantly, the bowls should occupy the tines that are more widely spaced than those to be occupied by the plates. The short utensils should be in the shallow compartment of the utensil basket, and the longer ones in the deeper slots.

Take the utensil basket out of the dishwasher! Yes, it’s all right to do this. With the basket in hand, walk around the kitchen to put all the utensils in the basket, in their appropriately-sized compartments. After rescuing all the visible utensils (there will always be laggards where you don’t expect them), and before putting the basket back into the empty dish washer, stand over the sink and run water over the most egregiously encrusted utensils to knock off the big chunks. This will help your dishwasher’s plumbing to last longer. Having done this, now put the utensil basket where it belongs.

One must think of this as an industrial process. For instance, don’t constantly open and shut and reopen the cabinet under the sink to put scraps and trash in the waste bucket. Pull the damn thing out and set it in the middle of the kitchen table! Now, put all the visible trash into it, including scraps from the plates and bowls. After scraping detritus from each plate and bowl, stack them in like grouping on the counter near the sink. Once you are reasonably certain all the major trash is in the bucket, put it back under the sink. Now put all the dishes and bowls in their proper places, always trying fit as much as possible into the machine.

This is no time to worry about keeping one’s hands clean, or worry about dropping scraps on the floor. The latter will be swept and probably mopped after everything is in the dishwasher and the pots and pans scrubbed and put away. (Attention women: never put a pot or a pan in the dishwasher. They need to be scrubbed by hand. I’m referring, of course, to pure metal pots and pans, not the ones coated with Teflon, or the like; we all know these must be done by hand.)

Glasses and cups that are sturdy enough for the dishwasher should be stacked as closely together as possible in the upper tray of the dishwasher. Water, especially under pressure, is very clever and can reach into the smallest spaces, and even force glasses apart to get at every square millimeter of them. If there is room, I will lay long utensils, ones that have holes for hanging in their ends, alongside the glasses with their holes placed over the tines of the tray to secure them firmly to the tray.

As the kitchen table and the counter become clear of plates and all other implements, place the pots and pans neatly on the counter next to the sink. (Leftover food in these will already have been put in the trash or, properly wrapped, in the refrigerator).

Before closing the dishwasher, look around for laggards, including in the dining areas and any empty bedrooms. Don’t disturb sleepers; they will just get in your way and want to talk with you as you are trying to do your sacred work.

Put all the laggards in the remaining available space in the dishwasher, put the soap pellet in its pocket and close the latter, then shut the door and turn the machine on. What satisfaction!

Now to the pots and pans.

This can be a joyful exercise, if one’s attitude is correct. In my household, none of the others cleans pots and pans; they just stack up in the sink, or on the stove, waiting for me to do something about them, which usually takes me five minutes.

The Teflon pans are the easiest. Never use detergent except in dire situations. Detergent is bad for you and the environment. I hate the smell of detergent. I Imagine my precious bodily fluids being snatched away by the clever detergent molecules to bind them with water that gets flushed away by my nose, out of which always runs mucous, copiously, when I use detergent. Just scrub the pans with a brush very diligently and completely while running hot water over them. Then wipe them vigorously with paper towels. Put them away.

Now, all you have are the pots. You should use detergent for these, but sparingly. The main ingredient in washing pots is elbow grease. Don’t be afraid to use a metal scouring pad while running hot water over the offending detritus in the pot.

Put the clean pots on the clean sink, upside down, to drain and dry.

Have a cup of coffee.

Wasn’t that easy?

I love jelly beans in all their wonderful varieties, especially the big ones with shells that crumble deliciously on my tongue. Chocolate was good, but not a top favorite. Soft, chewy sugar bunnies and chicks with a slight glaze on their surface were right up there, almost at jelly bean level. The same for sugar foam bananas.

I tried to get excited about coloring Easter eggs, but one was enough for me to eat. They took up too much room in my stomach, which room could otherwise be available for the sugary treats.

I thought searching for eggs and candies in backyard bushes or obscure places in the house was pretty stupid and a waste of time, but I went along with this too.

I was greedy with the jelly beans. I attempted to hoard them for later enjoyment, but I am addicted and just don’t have the discipline to keep them longer than 24 hours.

I liked having the relatives and other adults focused on me and my sister during the time the fairies were real for her.

It all faded when my sister had reached age nine and the family couldn’t maintain the fictions anymore.

I still look forward to those jelly beans at Easter time.

Much of this feeling stems from my perception that all is not quite right with the country I love: the United States of America. There are many articles in the press and opinion journals about the current or inevitable decline of the USA, and a lesser number of writings refuting this.

Certainly the press sells papers by the implicit motto “if it bleeds, it leads”, and this is only a reflection of ourselves. There seems to be a wretched excess of such “news” in recent months. Perhaps my years have accumulated too much of what the press presents and I have grown sour.

As an antidote I have spent part of this day celebrating the USA through listening to words and, mostly, music.

I have celebrated with Aaron Copland, Leonard Bernstein, George Gershwin, James Earl Jones, and Abraham Lincoln, among others. These are some of the many people who speak to me of the America I love.

I listened to James Earl Jones recite A Lincoln Portrait, accompanied by the music of Aaron Copland. I listened also, with tears streaming, Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man.

I read again Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, part of which is spoken in A Lincoln Portrait.

I reminisced on my many listenings to Bernstein’s West Side Story, about which I have written. Yesterday I viewed a film on the life and work of Bernstein which celebrated his loving investment in the musical education of Americans, especially the young.

I mentally reviewed the work of George Gershwin whose joyous music buoyed me in my youth, and even still: Porgy and Bess; his Piano Concerto; Rhapsody in Blue which I played inexpertly on the piano at age 15; and others.

I reminisced about Martin Luther King, Jr. and his famous speech, but even more so about his Letter From a Birmingham Jail, which I have also mentioned in my writing.

Other people and occasions travel through my mind as I continue to struggle to regain my balance under this cloud of weltschmerz.

These memories, and the music and words I listened to, did help, but I still am searching for what there is now in the USA that is similar in nature to what I have written about here. When the youth of today are my age, what will they remember to make them grateful to have spent their formative years in the USA? What memories of public figures and what music will bring tears to their eyes?

Perhaps some young people will respond to this, teaching me to see what they may see as a positive answer to this question.

Ron Pavellas
Stockholm
20 April 2012

Morning sun reflects
From objects of man’s desire
Illusions of power

I was eight years old, visiting, for the first time, the home of Mom’s oldest sister, my Aunt Bee, and her husband, Uncle Tommy. Mom had taken me and my sister Diane, age three, on the train from San Francisco south to Newport Beach for a summer vacation before the three of us were to move with Dad to Brooklyn at the end of the year, 1945.

Newport Beach was then a typical California beach town, except it had an important business: the fish cannery which Uncle Tommy managed. He and Aunt Bee lived in a house on the large lagoon, about a mile from the ocean beach.

Soon after we arrived Aunt Bee took Mom, Diane and me to the beach on a sunny day. I had been to the beach at San Francisco, but it is cold and uninviting, other than to run along the surf line almost fully clothed. Newport’s beach was different. It was warm, with lots of people sitting or playing, relaxed and happy in the sunlight.

I was wearing only a pair of swim trunks as I meandered away from the blanket where the rest of the family lay, at around 11 in the morning. I was fascinated with the play of the surf against the beach and walked in it toward the big pier some distance from where we were.

I was aware only of the warmth and brightness of the sun, the play of water against my ankles, the feel of fine sand shifting under my bare feet, and the pleasant sounds of people as I passed by them.

I met a boy, a few years older. We walked together toward the pier. I don’t remember what we talked about, but whatever was said, or not said, it fit completely with everything else.

We found a dead fish bouncing in the surf near the pier. It seemed fresh enough to eat, and I thought I’d bring it back with me as I said goodbye to the boy and turned back toward the place where I had left the family.

I wasn’t in a hurry as I strolled, again in the surf, feeling larger than I had ever felt before. I had never been so free and happy.

“Where have you been?”

This was Aunt Bee shouting at me. She was angry, but I wasn’t afraid. I showed her the fish, but she grabbed it and threw it in the surf. She took my arm and would have dragged me, if I hadn’t run to keep up with her.

There was Mom, tearful and looking worried. She grabbed me and hugged so tight I couldn’t breathe.

Aunt Bee angrily warned me about letting someone know where I was at all times. Mom just let me know she was worried about me. That was more important than anything to me.

It was the best day of my life.