Book Review: A Promised Land by Barack Obama

A Promised Land was a pleasant surprise to me. I had purchased this autobiography just as another book to read. Not politically astute, I have been interested in the surface politics that our journalists, debates and TV cameras show us. However, Barack Obama takes us past those glossy images and scripted sound bites. He shows himself as not only a politician but a solid and compassionate man. He doesn’t just describe people, he describes the scenes around them. His mother, his grandmother, and through his life the many people that surrounded him. As he rose in government circles from community organizer to senator to the presidency, the surround became closer and more restrictive. His job was to choose and to lead the many teams of staffers throughout his rise. From election campaigns all the way to the Oval Office. 

Michelle Obama made certain he was still participated in their family life as much as possible in the White House and on extended trips, whether political or their limited personal vacations. Michelle’s mother Marion Lois Robinson, lived with them in the White House and provided Michelle with a steadying influence as they raised their girls, Malia and Sasha.

He describes his basketball games with close team members in down times that relieved the tension of the day; card games on Air Force One as they travelled the globe to or from International meetings; explicit management of the SEAl team that captured and killed Osama bin Ladin; dinners with global leaders and respecting but not bowing to the many cultures in attendance. At the same time, recognizing each man or woman as human being subject to his or her culture and experience. He is blunt about who Mitch McConnell is, or Vladimir Putin is, or any his detractors.

This blog post is a poor representation of A Promised Land by Barack Obama. Suffice it to say, that I will never listen to any news reports, debates or see TV representations again without recalling the depth of the politics of one man and his family. He does discuss racism, but it is not the premise of his book, nor is this a flag waving book. It is an honest book. 

“The idea that our common humanity mattered more 

than our differences was stitched into my DNA.”

~ Barack Obama, A Promised Land

Title:  A Promised Land

Author: Barack Obama

Copyright: 2020 

Publisher: Crown, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

Type: Presidential Memoir

Format: Hardcover

ISBN - 978-1-5247-6316-9 (hardcover)

ISBN - 978-0-593-23904-9 (Deluxe Edition)

ISBN - 978-1-6347-3 (ebook)

Photograph credits appear on pages 707-712.

Book design by Elizabeth Rendffeisch

Chapter One, Episode 51 - A Man of Few Words - Situationally Theirs

June 26, 2020

Review, Edit and Update

I thought that this short passage would be just fine. Not so. There was one - and a big one. My first line: Samuel didn't have a last name.' was wrong. Now maybe Samuel had me convinced that this was so. Maybe he just didn't read Episode 30 when Emmie said: 'I'm meeting Samuel Forrester, the gardener and yardman........" So how do I fix this and keep the intent of this short passage? Because it is short, I will keep the original and add the edited one. I'll let you, my readers, be the judges.

A Man of Few Words - Original version

Samuel didn’t have a last name. According to him: “Never needed one.” No one knew where he lived or whether he had any family. Digby kept a supply of cheques just for Samuel. For everyone else he sent out the payroll by direct deposit. “Don’t have one o’them computer things. Never needed one. Bank just gives me my money when I hand them this here cheque.” 

There had always been a Samuel on the land of the estate. No one takes pictures of the hired help. If they had it would have shown the same ‘Samuel’ for decades. Never aging. Always wearing the same rough blue denim coveralls over a light blue short sleeved shirt. Always open at the neck. Always the same scruffy straw hat that looked as old as Samuel himself. A dusty, red kerchief flagged from his right back pocket. He didn’t smoke but kept an old corncob pipe in his breast pocket, taking it out to chew on once in a while. 

Samuel saw Giles and Brigitte move the old red picnic table. He straightened up from opening a new row. He stabbed his well used spade into the dirt. With the red kerchief he wiped the dirt from his face and his hands. Keeping an eye fixed on the red table, he clamped his jaw down on his corncob pipe. “Guess there’ll be a weddin’ before long.” Pipe back in its pocket, he went back to digging.

“To be of few words is natural.”

~ Lao Tzu

A Man of Few Words - Edited version

Samuel didn’t want a last name. According to him: “Never needed one.” No one knew where he lived or whether he had any family. Digby kept a supply of cheques just for Samuel. For everyone else he sent out the payroll by direct deposit. “Don’t have one o’them computer things. Never needed one. Bank just gives me my money when I hand them this here cheque.” 

There had always been a Samuel on the land of the estate. No one takes pictures of the hired help. If they had it would have shown the same 'Samuel' for decades. Never aging. Always wearing the same rough blue denim coveralls over a light blue short sleeved shirt. Always open at the neck. Always the same scruffy straw hat that looked as old as Samuel himself. A dusty, red kerchief flagged from his right back pocket. He didn’t smoke but kept an old corncob pipe in his breast pocket, taking it out to chew on once in a while. 

Samuel saw Giles and Brigitte move the old red picnic table. He straightened up from opening a new row. He stabbed his well used spade into the dirt. With the red kerchief he wiped the dirt from his face and his hands. Keeping an eye fixed on the red table, he clamped his jaw down on his corncob pipe. “Guess there’ll be a weddin’ before long.” Pipe back in its pocket, he went back to digging.

“To be of few words is natural.”
~ Lao Tzu

Chapter One, Episode 45 - Cook's Letter to Lily - Situationally Theirs

June 20, 2020

Review, Edit and Update:

Letter writing is a dying art. I pen a lot of words, and once upon a time did write letters. Birthday cards, the kind you take to a party or dinner. So I enjoy writing Cook’s letters to Lily. Editing, while it may not a dying art, is dependent on time, commitment and too often, budgets. For this review, I went to my personal files as usual where I found so many problems in wording, spelling, punctuation that I had to read my actual posting from May 07, 2020. I breathed a sigh on relief to see that all those mistakes had not made it to my readers. Despite that, I did find three tiny little missteps in the posted episode that have been fixed.

Cook's Letter to Lily

The heart of any home and especially the kitchen is the Cook. Not the gleaming silver or dated avocado appliances. Not a kitchen decorated professionally or cobbled together with thrift store finds. It is the Cook. When a kitchen empties out, as it had been with Covid19 restrictions, the beat and rhythm settles into silence. Dez and Emmie had inhabited it for two weeks when they were in isolation. Anyone coming from a jail cell, and the person rescuing them, were to be isolated for the standard two week period. While the two women were in the empty kitchen, they only used the appliances as tools. Dez did make some delicious breakfasts, but a cook makes meals and snacks of all types and for any number of people. The maestro of a symphony of deliciousness.

Yes, in the Beaufort household, there is a paycheque attached to this very creative work. But Mary Elizabeth Saunders cooked because she loved cooking. She loved the chopping and peeling and arranging. She loved the aromas of the sizzling bacon, steamy bubbling of stew or soup and the yeasty breath work of bread rising, bread baking and fresh bread welcoming butter on the first slice. Mary Elizabeth Saunders loved cooking. At the Beaufort estate she had earned the title Cook.

There is one other thing that Cook loves, though. It’s a dying art that sputters along quite sporadically for many, but for Cook is as regular as clock work. She keeps pen and paper in her desk in the kitchen, just as the whisks and spoons in the kitchen drawer. When the roast is roasting or the bread is baking, when the soup is brewing or the stew was stewing, Cook would go to the desk for her other set of tools ~ pen and paper. Today, there was nothing on the big stove but the tea kettle for Cook's pot of tea. She brought it, her tea mug, a cookie and her writing tools to the long kitchen table and settled to write to Lily, her sister who lived 'across the pond' as Cook was fond of saying.

Dearest Lily,

I got your last letter telling me about your new grandson. Thank you for the photograph. He is the spitting image of his grandpa Charley. I’ll bet Charley is proud as punch! That dear little one’s hair is just like yours was when you were a baby. I loved the pictures mom always had of our baby pictures that she kept on the side table. You with your shock of black, black hair, and two years later, me with just a thin cap of barely brown hair. My hair didn’t grow in as thick as yours until I was three months old. Now it seems I’m starting to shed that hair! I suppose when you're pushing on through your sixties that kind of thing should be expected.

Do you remember me telling you about the two people that were hired here about the same time as I was? They started a bit earlier. Well, I do have some news about the two of them and neither of them know that I know that they’ve been making eyes at each other for years. In the last while, since we’ve all been isolated, it seems things have gotten a bit….how can I say this…..hotter. Well, they have been simmering long enough, Lily. But that’s not all that’s happened with the two of them. And at their age. I just shake my head. Now here’s the really interesting part. James - that’s Digby the butler.....his father had been the butler before him. Martha Haverstock, is the Housekeeper. The three of us have been here for, I don’t know 25 or 30 years.We’ve watched young Michael Beaufort grow up and watched him get married. There have been other family weddings on the lawn, pictures taken under the big redwood tree (did I send you a picture of that tree?) and all kinds of entertaining. I’ve been the cook for all of the gatherings. But I was telling you about James and Martha.

Wouldn’t you know it but James came to me the other day when I was in to inspect the kitchen and pantry. He looked real nervous and stood like a school boy over by our big table. We still have to keep our distances so I thought that’s what he was doing. He said we wanted to talk to me. So, I thought it was about the kitchen inspection I’d just done. But that wasn’t it. He was clasping and unclasping his hands, and James is always in control, he was so nervous. So I made a pot of tea and told him to sit down. I’ve never, ever told James to sit down. I may have invited him to but, no, this time I just told him. And he did! Just like he was afraid of me or something. I asked him if he would like some tea. Now I know James likes to have coffee, but it’s my kitchen and I had a pot of tea already. I thought he might like something a little stronger. You know that I’m not one for any alcohol, but I do use it when I’m cooking. I remembered our grandfather liked his cuppa, and once in a while he’d put just a tablespoon of rum in his tea. So I did the same for James. He didn't say anything one way or another. I've had rum in the back of the cupboard for the Christmas cakes I bake every year. I told Mrs. Beaufort if she wanted  something else for her parties she had to order it for herself. I thought she’d fire me when I dug in my heels. Lucky me, she didn’t. But I can’t abide having bottles of liquor cluttering up my kitchen.

Anyway, I was telling you about James. I’ve cooked a lot of lunches and dinners for a few or a lot. But I’ve never had a good looking man, looking real nervous, come to me and say - ‘Cook…Elizabeth….would you, please, make a picnic lunch for myself and one other person. A woman.” It’s a good thing he was sitting down. He might have fallen right over. So I said: “Why James Digby, are you asking me to go on a picnic with you and make the food for it?” Well, I was just teasing him because I knew who he was taking to this picnic. It's Martha - I’ve told you about Martha before. Well, he blushed and stuttered and stammered and said “No, I’m sorry Cook. It’s Martha.” Anyway, we had a good visit after that and he settled down. He didn’t know that food for this picnic would be no different than any other picnics, except that something chocolate would be for dessert. He said he wanted to have the picnic the same day as our Staff Meeting next week.  I'll let you know how everything goes.

Well, Lily, I guess I’ve talked your ear off again. Maybe some day you can come over here for a visit and meet everyone. I guess that would have to be when the pandemic is settled and all the restrictions are gone. Thanks for your letters, I love reading about what you are doing and I know you are all right.

You take care Lily and give my love to Charley,

Love you,

Mary Elizabeth

p.s. don’t forget to wash your hands

“Letters have to pass two tests before they can be classed a good: 

they must express the personality both of the writer and of the recipient.”

~ E.M.Forster

In Memory - Darryl Ward

Looking through old family photos for a picture of Darryl Ward was not completely futile. Ever the boy, teen and man that brought smiles and laughs to many faces, it was curious that he was not in family pictures in my collection. There was one family picture with Darryl sitting on the front row, but he was in shadow, much like his passing has brought to his family and his friends. I tried to clear it up, but an old picture and my limited technology didn’t allow it. Another photo was of a disgruntled teenage Darryl avoiding the camera. The clear photograph I did find is one that brought a smile to my face as I remember Darryl this day. Darryl’s smiling, clear-eyed, upside-down face ~ a soul that spread joy and fun just because....

“If there ever comes a day where we can’t be together 

keep me in your heart. I’ll stay there forever.”

~ Winnie the Pooh

A Good Flight

Riding back to Victoria this afternoon I had opportunity to reflect on this last four days. The plane was full. I had the questionable good fortune to have a center seat, when I usually prefer to sit by a window. My usual nap, leaning against the wall of the plane, was challenging. The young woman beside me in the aisle seat, while pleasant, was focussed on the story she was watching. The gentleman in the window seat, also pleasant, was likewise focussed. So I leaned back in my seat, arms folded, closed my eyes and drifted. I heard different languages spoken in low tones, moms crooning to calm their children and some children not being calmed. Airline attendants strolled the aisle answering calls, bringing us coffee and snacks and checking that seatbelts were buckled. Just before our descent to Victoria airport, the captain came over the loudspeaker to let us know that there would be a bumpy descent and that we should all fasten our seatbelts.  He wasn’t kidding! Within a few minutes, the plane dipped suddenly and rose again to level off. The response from passengers reminded me of cries from a roller coaster on a fair ground, with just a tinge of worry. In that same moment, from my seat, I watched the wings stabilize the plane, restoring balance - just as this weekend has restored my balance and rejuvenated my heart.

“Use the wings of the flying Universe, 

Dream with open eyes:

See in the darkness.”

~ Dejan Stojanovic

An Ordinary Man

He was just an ordinary man,

in khaki denims, tanned from the sun

coming down from the tractor

Told me a story

said he moved a kildeer’s nest

when he was plowing to keep it safe.

He was just an ordinary man

held me quietly while the summer storm passed

told me about thunder and lightning

Came to my piano recital when I was thirteen ~ or was that eleven

the year I got a 'Most Improved' medal

gave me a big hug and told me how proud he was.

Really. 
I am aware that my dad was just an ordinary man.

"Old as she was she still missed her daddy sometimes."

~ Gloria Naylor

Look Both Ways

Walkers and wheelchairs
Canes and scooters
Walking aids of all sorts
There is no booklet 
That comes with each 
Reminding that traffic
Cars, buses and pickups
Are bigger and faster and stronger
Drivers responsible 
To watch for
Pedestrians on wheels
Responsible for watching both ways
These pedestrians on wheels bravely
Continue participating in life
While vehicles whiz by.

Today, I came to a stop
To allow them to cross the street
An elderly woman pushing an elderly man
In a wheelchair
Had hesitated to step out 
Watching for traffic
Pulling back suddenly
Just as a vehicle
Roared past me
Without warning
And noisily sped down the street.

“Who or what are you? Besides insufferably rude?”

~ Garth Nix, Lirael

Shadows

               Shadows

He was an urban legend. One of those legends that settle deep into the community, amidst all the technology and electronics, to become real but not real. He was an old man. Scruffy beard, long dirty tweed coat, boots that never laced up and hair that hung in a braid down the middle of his back. There was no colour to him, unless you were able to get close to him and see his blue, blue eyes.  Eyes that twinkled beneath his shaggy eyebrows, buried deep in his weathered face. But no one had ever really seen him. The stories about him could never be confirmed. He was like a shadow. Sometimes he was very, very old.  Sometimes he was only 60 something. There was never anyone with him. He didn’t seem to have a place, and yet his place was wherever he was - sleeping on a sidewalk, eating a meal in a diner or striding down the middle of a road. What made this man a legend is that his stories were told me when I was ten, when I was in my twenties and then I had my own stories in the decades that followed. After hearing all of the stories of his wives, his children, that he was really a millionare, that he was a spy or that he was really an alien ~ I began to see him myself and tell my stories to my children and my grandchildren.  He was not a mean man or a good man, just a man who was only a shadow of what he could be. This man, this shadow, never changed. Only the times and the stories that were told.

Stigma is like that. Painting long shadows over the men and women that are marginalized and lost. Never allowing anyone to see the twinkling blue or brown eyes. To see the legends that they have lived. To learn whether they are mean or good or just ordinary. Stigma does not allow a place but places the shadows in alleys and dark corners.

“What men call the shadow of the body is not 

the shadow of the body, but the body of the soul.”

~ Oscar Wilde,  A House of Pomegranates

Man's Best Friend

A big black dog
brown eyes alert and watchful 
walking steadily and slowly.

His companion tall and straight
grey eyes shifting and blank
walking steadily and slowly.

All around them on city streets
this beautiful day, any day, holds security
only because of the bonds of trust between man and dog.

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”

~ Roger Caras

Perception

I spoke with a man of thirty and five, he said he was getting old

I spoke with a woman of forty and six, she said she was aging too

I spoke with a man of fifty and three, he groaned when he said his age.

I spoke with a woman of sixty and six ~

she said she was as ancient as dust.

I spoke with a man of seventy-two,

He said “I’m busy, don’t have time to get old.”

I spoke with a woman of eighty and eight

she said "I'll talk later, I'm catching a plane."

I spoke with a man of ninety and seven

he said “I may be old, but I can still golf!”

“With time and experience comes a different 

perception of what’s going on around you.”

~ Chris Robinson, singer

Seeing Things.....

           Seeing Things.....

So-o-o hungry when I got up but just too tired to make my usual great breakfast of bacon and eggs, I had energy enough to get out my blender and ingredients for a smoothie. Carrot or strawberry smoothie? I decided to make both, which turned out to be more work than if I’d made my regular breakfast.  

Standing at my kitchen counter, I stared blankly out my window overlooking the ocean front. Squinting suddenly, I rubbed my eyes. I checked my glasses to see that they were clean. For once they were spotless. Stopping long enough to pour myself a smoothie, I took a big drink and looked again out the curving bay window that I loved so much. It really was - a man? – or else I’d been reading too many Harlequin Romances. A very handsome buccaneer, his shirt open to the waist revealing his bronzed gleaming chest, leaned on my windowsill grinning at me. Blonde curls spilled over his brow, long tresses graced his wide shoulders. I closed my eyes tightly, took ten deep breaths and thought of doing laundry. When I opened my eyes the buccaneer had vanished, and I was left with an empty blender.

 “In the world of words, the imagination is one of the forces of nature.”

~ Wallace Stevens

A Writers Group exercise to write a story from 'seeing things..'