9:37 p.m.

Some of the most wild and crazy days are the ordinary ones. Today, for instance. This morning I woke up and remembered to say, “Good morning.” Which is unusual for me. Usually, I begin with a complaint. A bad dream or an ache from sleeping in the wrong position. Today, I had my customary breakfast, bran cereal with blueberries. I broke a few pecans over the bowl. I vary the fruit or the nuts, but the regular weekday thing is bran. That is unusual, to have anything customary. Having grown up in a severely dysfunctional home, the only thing that could be counted on was the fact that I did not know whether or not my mother would be home that night or the next day. It has only been the last three or four years, at the age of fifty, I have really noticed “customary”. Routines have slipped into my life, and for the most part, I welcome them. It is my custom to wake up and eat breakfast. It is my custom to follow with coffee, if I am lucky—deep, savory, French vanilla. It is my custom to sit in the parlor, read bits of the paper, end with Dagwood or Zits and glance out my bay window at the summer-high grass or the trees that fill out the frame. I dental floss now fairly regularly, something I previously thought myself incapable of doing. My socks always match. Despite all this, my husband reflects that I am never boring. His tone makes me wonder if he is being entirely complimentary. Nevertheless, I have learned how lovely boring, or at least run of the mill, can be. No cracked dishes. Routines. Emptying the dishwasher, setting the table. The important thing, not to forget. Not to forget the beauty of a bowl brimming with breakfast, the luxury of cream, or the cardinal at the bird feeder. Also, not to forget my brothers and sisters waking up, just hoping the new day will not hurt so much.

En dash

A dash one en long.
Random House Dictionary

Amy Genova (1958–)

I always thought compound words cozied up
friendly: armchair, brotherhood or cowslips,
but then--other words prison. Like en dash,
a small wall compounding adjectives or granting

equal muscle to words: the Israeli–Palestinian
fracas, this hour to the next red–blue state
contenders & the Bush–Cheney axis. En dashes
in encyclopedias are as patient as open graves--

ready for the end of every genius. Except Jesus--
unless like an atheists or en dash fans, you accept
nails for periods. Even if you find faith in Good
Friday’s benevolence or are at home with infinity,

there is no doubt

an en dash--scrawnier than a minus-exes through
all our a.m–p.m.'s: going to school, getting married
... owning dogs. Succinct as a noose, an en dash
has less hold than a hyphen,

much less than a hymen--a line that bleeds
when crossed. The atheist’s only hope--extend
the life-line--if not, find World War II gratitude
in crackers or the odor of milkweed, rank & pungent.

Unlike clerics, en dashes yield only clarity
or ashes. Think 1958–

New Harmony, Disrupted

New Harmony is located in the southern most part of Indiana on the Wabash River. It is a town that was originated by two utopian societies, the New Harmonists and the Owenists. To be brief, an understatement, the Harmonist was your typical Puritan-like sect, in my mind, who were bought out, perhaps in more ways than one, by secular humanists and suffragists, among others.
Today, the retreat town bears the fruit of both heritages.

The town radiates a kind of justice to the eye in its beauty. Everywhere one looks there is either a piece of sculpture, a beautiful quote to read, a sanctuary garden, a fountain, or a bench to sit on. Not to mention the town's period buildings, such as the Granary; or the Roofless Church, the Labyrinths, the Workmen's Institute and the modern architectural prize, the Antheneum. And yet there is something "Steppherd Wivesy" about the place. There are only 700 or so denizens, who get around in gold carts, and wave and smile like the inhabitants of the village in the 1960s TV series The Prisoner.

Some of the writer's wondered where all the children were. The absence of laughter or the sound of dogs, made it seem as all the boys and girls and pets were secreted away, only allowed out at night. After poking around, I did locate a child friendly street. I walked to the very southernmost block in the town, before the cornrows begin. In a town the size of New Harmony, it isn't hard to do. However, I did notice the gardens in the front yards were not so nearly as meticulous as in the blocks before. Three bikes were tossed carelessly on the ground in front of a trailer house. Furthermore, two middle school boys, one pudgy specimen with a falsetto voice, walked up the street towards me. Obvious nerds, I longed to join in their smart sounding conversation that belied their John Deer hats and wife beater t-shirts (don't blame me for the sobriquet). Continuing up the street, one young girl about 11 in a flurry of pink shorts passed me. As I turned to head back to the Red Geranium for supper with several adults, I spied a blue, plastic, swimming pool with fishes on the side, tucked reassuringly on the lawn of a backyard.

The interesting thing about the workshop--it seemed to be a proving ground for student writers to fawn on established luminaries. Children after all. (Perhaps a misplaced modifier.) Even so, three different young people said to me that I reminded them of their mothers. I remain deeply touched. One lent me three of his own poetry books for three years. I am not kidding about the three's. Inside one of the books was a typed, but personal letter of encouraging words. No one has ever favored me in this way. Again, I felt moved.

Ironically, I left the retreat a day and a half early. My own daughter needed me. And as always there is so much more to tell.

Sharp

by Amy K. Genova

Thirteen hawks fly
with their hawk hearts
over the crepuscular river
where dormouse is all
breast & shivers like
Mahler’s woodwinds

Their hawk eyes say much
while ragweed rags
& maples hum—
the dormouse should
be feldspar
should be wings

should be civility

But dormouse is dormouse
and hawks are hawks
all eye & muscle,
with hearts in their beaks

Even if there were pencils
and thirteen hawks idled
over musical arguments
or notes of clouds,
dormice are syllables

& hawks have so much to sing

Past Past

Past the clinks of the metal bat, the high school boys running bases—fielding something, past the flirty girl in pink, still. Past the fat mother and her baby on her lap, swinging together, stretching the strip of rubber suspended by chains. Past the river that’s lost it’s sway, bent straight by men and edged with concrete, broken concrete. Past the curiosity of the concrete, past the young man smiling at his woman, her lids half lowered. Past her face, smooth as a nickel. Past sheets and skin and the jelly roll. Past the usual line of five o’clock cars snagging the walking-bridge joy. Past the White River. Past loneliness and lolling on a log by the river, past eyeing a knob. Smooth, beneath the fallen tree. A shell or a snail. Past leaning forward for it’s touch, the bump’s touch, the unexpected polish. Past not caring. Past dying—not past here. In thoughts and ant hills. Feeling spring in the nose, the weariness of bones. Half in dreams. Half in memory. Wondering what it means. How to get it back.

Shadows

Hillary outlined a plan. Mentioned standing up to China, not holding hands with the Saudis. Mourned magnets we manufactured in Muncie for guided missile systems, out-sourced along with the factory to another country. Her blazer was smart. Gold. My new haircut slopes to the right. Trendy. I peer through the small hoops of my Walgreens glasses. The left side of my body hurts. And my heels. On the way home from the hairdresser, yellow sprigs of forsythia bouqueted the sides of chipped houses. Magnolia trees dropped wax-like leaves here and there and deep red branches of roadside bushes opened up with pink or white blossom. Winter so tight with gray, made me forget. Indiana can be beautiful. The potholes hurt my self-esteem. Maybe forever. Now, the sun streams in from the kitchen window. Over my kitchen sink. Over my left shoulder. Winks back at me from my computer screen along with my wavering shadow. Strange things shadows, like mute mountains. Witnesses without tongues. I almost believe they are spirit, like I did at eleven. My daughter is eighteen. Same age as my husband, when I met him. How odd. I may never get to Europe. Hillary may beat me to it. One way or another.

Before the gods were invented

Before golden rains or swans sullied maidenheads—
earlier than Mary’s Mother-of-God-swansong
or Woden’s bartering an eyeball for wisdom,
Before the golden calf, Loki, or Abraham’s covenant
with God—prior to Jesus, Joseph Smith
or Durga’s ride on a white tiger
Before Siddhartha’s footprints dimpled the earth
from India to China under the trunk
of an elephant-headed god, whose broken tusk
still waxes over a thousand Hindu thresholds
from the Malay Archipelago to Brooklyn,

Before the Renaissance’s Amida Buddha’s bronzed
hands poised in a mudra of contemplation,
or his eyes bent on a dogma of devotees
chanting: Amida, Amida, Amida—open
the pure land’s gates,
Before Dante’s hell yowled for the wailing whirlpool
of weeping sinners, before the invention of gods,

Maybe, they fished. Caught spotted catfish or silver trout.
Watched the birds. Sure, there were divisions—
but nobody divvied up heaven’s devotion of the earthy world.
Before the gods were invented, maybe they listened
to the wet, soily days of spring
and accepted death—dying like animals do.

Girl in Tub.

All right. True story. I am leaving out half of it. But, when I was nineteen, I came into the means of being able to have a big party. You know the kind with a keg and all. My first keg. I remember we had a fancy spread of hors d’oeuvres just like at my mother’s outlandish parties. I might have hired a band, but I cannot for the life of me recall that part. At any rate someone came and got me and said there was a problem in the bathroom. I went upstairs and there was a group of boys crowding into it. I edged a path through the middle and looked down in horror at a naked girl passed out in the bathtub. Her own vomit floated in about the two inches of water that surrounded her. It didn’t seem like enough to drown her, but if she had rolled over without the audience…. A large bruise eddied up on her forehead. It was an image, I never forgot.

“All right,” I cried, “Everybody out, except Steven.”

Someone said, “We’re just trying to sober her up.”

“Yeah right,” I thought, “by taking off her clothes?” But I didn’t have time to deal with them. Everybody obeyed in part because I had honored Steven by asking him to stay, which he did. Now, I shudder when I think of him, but then he garnered some respect with us neighborhood kids. Let me paint you a picture. Steven was a skinny, straight haired goon that hung around the clubhouse and played pool all day, after he decided not to go to school anymore. A Camel cigarette forever hung out of his mouth and we all knew he carried around a Zippo lighter in his front pocket along with a small pipe for marijuana. If Steven had been a cartoon, he would have resembled a big beaked bird with a turkey gullet sprouting from a Levi shirt. His loose blue jeans would be cinched above his skinny butt with a wide leather belt. And even though he was neat as a pin, except for his oily hair, I sometimes imagine him with a red rag in the back pocket of his pants because the only job I could ever imagine him getting is in a garage, if he didn’t end up in something shadier. We, kids, attributed too much intelligence and power to him simply because he smoked marijuana and didn’t say much.

At any rate, at that moment in the bathroom, I was in charge. I told Steven to get a sheet from one of the beds. I drained the water and cleaned the girl up; it seems like I turned the shower on at one point to rinse the vomit from her. She didn’t wake up, but I could see she was breathing. I probably checked her eyes to see if they were dilated. I am sure I checked her eyes. In those days, there was no 911, but one could call the operator, although I am not sure what she would have done for us, called an ambulance, given us the number of a hospital? I made the decision that the girl would be all right. Steven and I wrapped her in a dry sheet and carried her to a bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms. I have some memory of having checked on her off and on until I felt satisfied. In fact, I was rather pleased with myself, I felt like a mother.

As a backward looking adult, I know that the girl should have had immediate medical attention. She might have had a concussion or worse. Half a dozen boys should have been charged with sexual assault. At the very least, I should have been charged with under-aged drinking. My boyfriend’s sister, the owner of the house, could have been held responsible for all of the above and more. But none of these things happened. The next day, the girl woke up. She didn’t ask about the bruise on her forehead or waking up naked in a sheet, and she seemed surprisingly cheery. I’m sure she wondered though. Or maybe she didn’t and this incident was just the beginning of a long slide. I’ve always wondered what she thought. I know I feel lucky. This, as I said, was only half of the story.

New Science

Last Friday, I went the basement planetarium’s free show. Beats Bingo at the VFW or the Charity Knitting Circle, the natural lineups in The Star Press’s community calendar. The program boasted about the birth of the planets: Jupiter, Mars, and of course Uranus, which roots out a ruckus no matter how it’s pronounced. A small thrill flapped in the crowd too when it came to Pluto, having fallen from grace and all, not being a planet. Reminds me about all those sinners who ate meat on Fridays. What happened to’em? The pope just taps that ring on his finger, pretty as you please, and the schools dish up fish sticks on Thursdays or Tuesdays or any other blessed day. No disrespect intended. Anyway as the dome lights dimmed, this machine sittin’ in the middle, big as Paul Bunyan’s barbell—or maybe Orion’s, just to keep in the spirit of things—started rotating. Pin-pricks cast a close up of stars on the ceiling, near as the face of God as Ronald Reagan used to say. I don’t mean to be rude, but then they showed this pink, gaseous cloud slidin’ along in front of the constellations. It looked just like an upside down uterus! Sorta like a cornucopia with the skinny end at the top. The bottom end big enough to swallow oranges and apples of planets, like we used to use in science class. As I was sayin’, this whoppin’ pink scoop was mindin’ its own business, when it picked something up. I can’t remember what it gulped down, but it made sense—this gassy nebula hovering out so large and wide like some love-thirsty, old lady--then bang! Our sun came into bein’, ugly as a swaddling, but turnin’ out just fine. Sounds like some man’s dream alright, a giant floating vagina, but I like how they didn’t apologize to the Bible or anything. They just came right out and said it, In the beginning…

Birthday Party-o-rama!

Let it flood. January, I turned fifty, but I’ve been celebrating for six months. Why not? Fifty, after all, means that one, in all probability, has less life to live than life already lived. Last July when my family visited relatives in Seattle, our troop met up at a Mexican restaurant for dinner. "It has to be one of your birthdays," our waitress urged. I stepped up to the platter. I raised my chicken taco. “It’s my birthday,” I said. If there is Christmas in July, why shouldn’t my birthday middle into Julius Caesar’s month? My mother-in-law insisted it could not be my birthday. Maybe it could be her son’s or her granddaughter’s but not mine. True, their birthdays were closer, but no deal. In determined five year old fashion, I got my birthday-way. The waitress delivered a goblet of deep-fried ice cream smothered in hot fudge, and whipped cream. I devoured a spoonful, including the cherry, and sent my free sundae to make the rounds of the rest of the table. The staff and my family sang “Happy Birthday”. I not sure if my defeated mother-in-law joined in the singing, but she did acquiesce. Then, Amy Winehouse crooned over the noisy clatter of enchilada and chalupa-ensconced dishes and too-noisy patrons getting drunk on margaritas. My husband and I jumped up and danced to “Rehab” to the admiring smiles of the Chico Villa’s patrons. There would be three more celebrations.

My daughters made me a gourmet vegan dinner which included, among other culinary delights, glazed tempeh cutlets, fennel and hazel nut salad, and some sort of doubly fudgy cake, and on the real occasion, my husband took me to the best restaurant in town. The gala party would be a month afterward. I reasoned, from years of experience that nobody wants to celebrate right after Christmas and New Years. If I could squeeze in before St. Valentine’s Day, I could be guaranteed a good crowd. My first notion was to have a big bash, fifty people for my fiftieth. Then, I considered a smaller intimate group of ten. Perhaps, the attendees could bring some sage advice like they do for graduates on the threshold of adult life. For me, at this liminal moment, the advice might be how to engage thoughtfully with the rest of my life. But, no. Finally, I decided on a compromise: twenty-five guests at 7:35 PM, wearing red. Why 7:35? Fifty, unlike eighteen which is a time for breaking rules, is a time to make up one’s own rules. Why red? Because green is my favorite color, but they have a holiday for that in March. Having decided on the number of guests, I wrote the invitations, except for the last few. I thought someone besides me should be asking people to celebrate me. My husband was the logical candidate. However, he penned the wrong date on the invitations. He wrote February 7th instead of February 9th, probably due to the fact that my real birthday was January 7th. I had chosen February 9th because it was on a Saturday. Who could blame the poor guy for being mixed up? On the Thursday before my big celebration, the doorbell rang. I ended up having an impromptu pre-party to the post-party. There was beer and popcorn and presents, a nice preview to the pseudo-real thing. All in all, there were five parties to be had.

Some may think me self indulgent and excessive. Perhaps. Yet after fifty years celebrating the miracle of being alive for five days, out of three hundred and sixty-five, doesn’t seem like so very much. It was fun, reminded me of being eighteen, but not my eighteenth birthday party. My birthdays were forgettable or non-existent. Maybe, I'm making up for a lifetime of lost childhood birthdays. Bring on the pinata. The last party—the post, post-party. My elder daughter spent the night. She, my husband and I walked outside the door of our house and ceremoniously released the two week old, red and white helium balloons. We watched the small, merry crowd rise and break the taciturn, February morning with color. Now, I think I ready to let go of “fifty” and get on with the everyday celebration of life.

The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoise

I just saw the acclaimed movie, The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoise and was about as entertained as when I watch kids swim. The comedy, about a sextet that never get to finish a meal, is over thirty years old (1972). I think Luis Buñuel's brand of humor, over the top then, is common place now: the couple who can't get enough of each other and slip out the window while their dinner guests are waiting, the rifle shot at a mechanical dog, a priest shooting the murderer of his parents after forgiving him, the parody of soldiers telling their sad stories of ghosts and murders and of course the body of a restaurant owner laid out in the back room--the guests are assured they will still get a good meal. None of the characters really seemed to care when their dinner plans went awry, even when they were interrupted by uprisings and arrests. They were never fed, I suppose, because they were essentially soul-less. The main characters are all corrupt. We have drug dealers, friends cheating on friends, a murderous priest and a Neo-Nazi, and a dippy sister, the unkindest cut of all. Thinking it over, The Discrete Charm of the Bourgeoise is a well done, understated look at the banal middle class after all.

Swear Words

@#$%*
OK, so I promised swear words, and there haven't been any. Truth is I rarely use 'em. Swear words are verbal pin pricks, even from what I call "secondary" swear words such as shut up, stupid, idiot or moron. My children weren't allowed to use these words, not even the word crap. Furthermore, hostile words were not allowed in my classroom. For many years, I used a quarter jar. If a student said shut up or stupid, s/he paid a quarter or brought a can of food for the food bank. I always offered an alternative punishment to the quarter rule, such as some writing. The students almost always chose the quarter. Quarters went for class supplies or for treats, for which I paid the bulk. When parents became more litigious, I kept receipts. At first the students balked, and then they began self disciplining. "Quarter!" they shouted, whenever an offending words was uttered.

When I worked at an inner city school, it was very difficult for my students not to say shut up. It was a central word to their everyday lives and in our halls, not to mention the word, fuck. I had to provide them with new words, say, “Please, be quiet!” in place of shut-up, etc. Students grabbed hold of these phrases once they were given them. Some cute kids would cover their mouths whenever they let slip the "S" word, as it became known. A tangible difference swept the classroom atmosphere. When our class received new students, the mean words slipped into the air like gaudy darts, until the new students became acclimated.

I had to end the quarter jar, when an administrator told me I could not assign any consequences to students for their actions. All I could do was to have them acknowledge the classroom rule or refer students to her. Of course, the number of referrals figured in negatively to evaluations, *@#$. To everything there is a season.

There is a place for bad language. The trick is to pinpoint the right time and right place. In other words, learn self control. As the only female working at a hardware store, I broke into the group of men by learning and telling the most colorful jokes imaginable, but they learned something from me too. A carousel of postcards sat in front of the store next to the cash register. When we were bored, they let me teach and quiz them on how to recognize the earmarks of Picasso, Degas, Gauguin and Van Gogh.

Another time I thought swear words were called for, was when a female friend wrote a story about a fight between two men in a prison cell. No swear words were used, and the story just did not ring true to me. Nothing makes a person more common than the use of swear words. I once overheard a young lady yield a slew of invectives on a playground. Her speech made her common and unsightly. I learned from Shakespeare insults can have far more pluck: Thou artless, clay-brained codpiece. Look up the word cod, if you are not familiar with it. I told her every time she opened her mouth a little cockroach crawled out. She got quiet after that statement. Looking back, I wish I had instructed with kindness and said something like, You are far too pretty or intelligent or lovely to use such ugly words. Odysseus cut of the cods off of one of the errant, fat-kidneyed malt-worms that invaded his home. I suggest turning out the swear word invaders out of our homes and work places. Instead, invite in some tranquil, high-noted, pictorial pleasures or some reasoned high-ranking (not rank) critique.

Atonement -- A Review

Atonement, nominated for a slew of awards, falls short of the far superior, 1965, Dr. Zhivago. There are two independent segments in Atonement, the love story and the war story. The love story is the more compelling. A jealous twelve year old, Briony Tallis (Romola Garai), wrongly accuses her older sister’s lover, Robbie Turner (James McAvoy), of a molestation. If the unreliable Briony is to be believed, the older sister, Cecilia Tallis (Keira Knightley), turns to nursing, while Robby goes to prison. Four years later, Robby enlists in the army to escape prison. This movie, which moves both forwards and backwards time, both surprises and exasperates viewers, ultimately being inconsistent in its attempts to do both.

Further, the war movie fails to resolve the problem of this intriguing threesome. Atonement makes an obvious nod to the Dr. Zhivago, when its leading victim, Robbie Turner, stumbles into a forest glade of executed school girls, all seemingly shot in the head. We do not know how or why the girls were shot. Turner has no hand in the business, except to shed a tear. Director Joe Wright seems to be simply pointing out the brutality and pointlessness of war. Robbie steps into the main problem with this overrated film, aimlessness. In Dr. Zhivago, the hero and namesake of the film is forcibly drafted into the Red Army. When his company mows down a group of boys in school uniforms, mistaking them for White soldiers, Zhivago is horrified and tries to help one of them. Unlike the girls slaughtered in Atonement, viewers know why the boys were killed and get the futility and ugliness of war. At the same time, the lead character is advanced. Atonement’s war dwarfs the story of the threesome.

To his credit director, Joe Wright, paints a magnificent, surreal portrait of the beach at Dunkirk. A ferris wheel looms in the background, packs of dogs scramble off the foreground from bursts of explosions, a platoon of war ragged soldiers sing songs, while a ghost-like ship teeters on the sand. The love triangle is replaced by a threesome of soldiers, and even one of these gets lost.

Then, we are zipped decades into the future and the aged Briony (Vanessa Redgrave) give us the real scoop and too neatly summarizes the story. An irritating feature of the film is that the three actresses playing the three ages of Briony all maintain the thirteen year old’s hairstyle. The identifying mole should be enough. It is unclear, whether or not Briony atones for her actions. A successful author of twenty-one books and dying of cancer, Briony concedes the unhappy reality of Cecelia and Robby’s story, but then she indicates that she has constructed a fictionalized, happy ending for the two characters, gag, who hold hands and stroll down a beach on screen. Everything comes into question, including her romantic portrayal of her younger self nursing a dying French soldier. The viewer is left with more questions than answers. Atonement is a movie worth seeing, but not Oscar worthy of best picture.

Some Soldiers Are Heroes (Inspired by Jack Gilbert's "The Abnormal Is Not Courage"

Amy K. Genova

The boys roll out to Iraq. Most anxious, ready to get it over.
They wear their dress uniforms and white gloves to church,
inspire awe, admiration, and say goodbye. Little girls in pink
Sunday dresses and patent leather shoes, cross their hearts
and promise to grow-up by the time they come home. Old
women with the same helmets of hair commit to memory
grandsons' faces with their worn fingers. Veterans of all the
antecedent wars sit in pews, uniformly silent, wearing
the same invisible hats. The boys’ beauty stuns, like
March roses with imprudent blossoms. Blooms to pour
from planes in Baghdad’s bunkered streets. Red against
black. Say they are not heroes. Say they are falling stars.
Soldiers weep. Soldiers laugh. Some are heroes, some are
cowards, and others simply die under the white sky. Heroism
is not enlisting or the number of kills from Audie Murphy’s
gun. Heroism in not a Hiroshima bomb, that swaps a million
deaths for a million lives. Heroism resides in individuals, but
rarely nations. Heroism is the genius of saving lives, without
spilling blood. Heroism lies between the skinny ribs of doctors,
diplomats, teachers, mothers, and wise young girls who know
death, yet fast for others. Sip watery tea, instead of gorging on
the ends of soldier boys.

Movies and Abortion?

What better way to start an upstart blog, than by not being an upstart. I have found that a great conversation starter is to ask people about their favorite movies. If I listen and am truly interested, I gain some friendly ground with almost anyone. Sometimes, I will rent a movie based on these conversations. While I’m not always thrilled about these movies, for example: Black Snake Moan, Requiem for a Dream, and Weatherman, if I go back to the person who recommended that particular film, they are usually flattered, quite animated and eager for conversation. If the relationship is new, I probably will veer away from criticism and focus on the good elements of the film. Even though I thought Black Snake Moan contradicted its attempt to proselytize against sexual exploitation of women by sexually exploiting the female main character as well as the actress, I praised the film for the strong performances by Samuel L. Jackson, Christina Ricci, and even Justin Timberlake. Usually if someone really likes a film, there is something of value in it. As the bonds of relationships grow in stability and mutual respect, a deeper more honest exchange of ideas and respectful disagreement can take place. I reminded of a story I heard once about some pro-choice and pro-life women who came together on neutral ground on an issue both groups cared deeply about, children. Instead of first entering a debate where the lines were clearly drawn, they cooperated on a project each side could endorse. I cannot recall if it was a community playground or funding for a daycare center for unwed mothers, but it was something along those lines. The point is the two sides came together for children first, instead of against each other. Then, a dialogue was opened on the more difficult issues.