Here There and Anywhere
It’s not like “Here, There and Everywhere” is something I made up and trademarked. No. It was an old Beatles song I liked a lot:
And when I started blogging, I couldn’t think of one area I wanted to specialize in, like news commenting, or recipes, and my life isn’t so fascinating that I can just spin tales and keep you dazzled, so Here There and Everywhere just sort of expressed the serendipity that I wanted, and gave me the space that I needed to tackle lots of subjects – and, more important, to me anyway, to get feedback and input from others who might know a whole lot more than I do about things. I was always ready for things to take a wild jag, and, to my utter delight, they sometimes do. 🙂
It’s worked for me. It keeps life interesting.
But I have to admit I sometimes get a twinge of proprietary feeling about the name. One time BitJockey sent me a reference to a blog – a Kuwait blog! and the author had a name so similar that if it was a coincidence, it was a very eerie coincidence. It sort of totally annoyed me, but I didn’t want to give the blog any attention or thought at all, and actually, so far ignoring it has pretty much worked for me, too.
But today, in my very own home town, I saw this big orange van:
“Oh!” I said! “Oh, Look at that van! It says ‘Here, There and Everywhere’ on it!” and my Mom said “Oh, that’s the Here and There and Anywhere Grill” and we order things from them all the time. They are only here on Wednesdays. After two or three weeks,” she added, “I get a little tired of the food and then stop for a while and start again later. They have really good food.”
I love it that Mom is stepping out, taking college seminars, ordering from the Here and There and Anywhere Grill, doing her physical therapy, keeping active.
“How can I help you, Mom?” I asked, and she had a good list ready. At the end was “Buy a new chair” so today we went searching for the perfect chair. In one store, we were the only customers so the saleslady suggested we push Mom around the huge, cavernous store in a dining room chair with wheels. Only problem is Mom has to hold her feet up off the floor, it’s not like a wheelchair with a base you can rest your feet on, but she was a really good sport, except for the one time maybe I was moving too fast and I hit an edge of carpet and almost dumped her by stopping too abruptly.
She found a totally great chair, one I don’t think my Dad would have approved of at all. I love it that she made the decision herself, and bought the chair and it is going to be delivered tomorrow – a gorgeous cherry RED leather chair. Wooo HOOOO on you, Mom! 😀
(You are going to have to imagine the cherry red part; the only photo I could find online is black.)
Beautiful Flower’s Crab Cakes
Sometimes, the absolute best day happens and you had no idea it was going to happen – you didn’t plan for it to happen, it just sort of came about.
One of my two very good friends in Seattle is Beautiful Flower. We don’t call her that, but that is what her legal name means. After having lunch together in Ivar’s, a place we have haunted for years, we visited with my Mom and then she said she wanted us to go back to her house and make crab cakes. She and her husband had the good fortune to have caught their limit in nice fat crabs this last weekend.
I knew she was having guests from out-of-town, and I am a pretty good crab picker, so I said yes, besides, she has a new recipe from her daughter for crab cakes, and she says it is almost entirely crab, and it is a really good recipe, you can really taste the crab. Oh YUM.
So we put our aprons on and she put down a huge black plastic bag (if you’ve ever cleaned crabs, you know it is very messy work) and got out the hammer and the crab-crackers and the crab picks and away we went. She had four good sized crab – and it didn’t even take us half an hour to clean those beauties, giving us more than a pound of sweet, delicious fresh crab meat. We were talking so much we didn’t even notice how hard we were working!
Her daughter arrived, and they started putting together the crab cakes – just wrapping the crab mixture in panko, the Japanese break crumb coating.
We had a lengthy discussion about the right way to fry crab cakes – Beautiful Flower uses olive oil, but her daughter prefers straight butter. I love the taste of butter, but use mostly olive oil with just a pat of butter for the flavor. I think she used a mix, but we were all talking so fast I didn’t really pay attention as I should.
As my friend was frying up the crab cakes, she was telling us that she and her next two sisters all had names that started with “beautiful” but that when the fourth sister came along, her mother named her “too many girls!” Fortunately, the nurse at the hospital writing down the name wrote down “Proud girl” instead of “Too many girls” (they sound sort of alike if you aren’t listening too carefully).
My friend also told us she went to visit her mother in the hospital with her grandmother, her father’s father. When her grandmother discovered that her mother had another daughter, she was so mad she left my friend – 6 years old – and didn’t even visit her mother!
My friend, 6 years old, had to try to find her mother in the hospital and give her the food they had brought. But it was the middle of winter, and the nurses had covered up all the new mothers, from head to toe, so my friend couldn’t find her mother! Finally, somehow she found her and fed her, and then – at 6 years old – she had to walk 5 miles back to her house alone, because her grandmother had left her there! She said she didn’t talk to her grandmother for a long time.
Her daughter had never heard that story, had heard her mother’s sisters call the one sister “Lo Moi”, but didn’t know that it meant “too many girls!” The family still call the youngest sister “Too Many Girls” even though her legal name was Proud Girl.
See what I would have missed if we weren’t making crab cakes?!
Beautiful Flower’s Daughter’s Recipe for Really Good Crab Cakes
1 lb crab meat
2 Tablespoons + 2 Teaspoons chopped fresh chives (or green onions)
2 Tablespoons + 2 Teaspoons chopped fresh dill
2 Tablespoons finely grated lemon zest
salt pepper (we left it out because crab is naturally salty)
1/2 cup panko
Shape crab into patty, roll in panko, place on cookie sheet until ready to fry. Fry in lightly oiled/buttered pan until golden brown. Eat!
Crab cakes served with Beautiful Flower’s Daughter’s Homemade Plum Sauce:
(When I called my friend this morning to thank her for the wonderful time, I told her that I had a crab cake for breakfast, and they are as good cold as they are hot and she laughed and said she was having a crab cake for breakfast, too. What sheer luxury! Crabcake for breakfast! 🙂 )
Irrelevant Clothing, Shoes and Scissors
It doesn’t matter how long I have been living in the Middle East, it doesn’t matter how many times I have made the trip back and forth, I never seem to get it quite right.
I knew it was going to be less hot in Seattle. I knew it. And still, I didn’t pack a single pair of closed toe shoes, a single pair of nylon stockings, and only a couple long sleeved things. It doesn’t matter that I have lived in Seattle, that I know Seattle, when I am in the middle of the heat and humidity of August in Doha, I lack the imagination to think clearly about the coolness of August in Seattle. I have a lot of lightweight cotton dresses . . . hmmm, so irrelevant in Seattle.
I keep a storage locker here. It started when we moved our parents from their big house to a 2 BR condo (with a water view 🙂 ) and Mom had separated out some of her treasures to divide among us movers. The problem was, I didn’t really want to take them with me (bulky and I would have to bring them back) and I have already imposed on the sister who lives here with a bunch of my stuff, so I finally decided to rent a storage locker. I discovered as a landlord, it actually comes off my taxes. I still have to pay for it, but it isn’t a total loss. I keep Seattle supplies in the locker, too.
When I went to the locker yesterday to pick up some more long sleeved stuff, and my Seattle hairdryer, and my Seattle make-up and living supplies (dishwashing soap, coffee filters, paper towels, laundry soap, etc.) yesterday, with my Mom in the car, nothing went right. My code didn’t work. I had to go inside, leaving my Mom sitting in the car, and it took them a while to work out what was wrong.
(“We don’t have seven number codes! . . . .Hmmm, , mmm, , , yeh, it says you have a seven number code all right, . . .. so here is your new code . . . )
And the new code didn’t work either.
They opened the gate for me, I went to my locker, and with my Mom sitting in the car, discovered my laundry soap had leaked during the time between visits, and with my Mom sitting in the car, I had to clean it all up AND dig out some relevant clothing, and some wrapping paper for gifts I need to send, and scotch tape and scissors (yes, I keep all the things that I frequently use in the locker so I don’t have to buy them again and again and again.) I also grabbed the bag of cosmetic items – like shampoo, toothpaste, my Seattle toothbrush, etc.)
My poor Mom! Remember her? She is still out there sitting in the car!
(The code didn’t work on the way out, either.)
So after all that sitting in the car, I treated Mom to a trip to Trader Joe’s, a place we both love. I picked up sugar snap peas; I just eat them like candy, instead of candy, they are SO good, and some sushi for later on, and Mom picked up things that were really bad, like triple gingersnaps and a wonderfully fragrant new Rosemary Tree.
On the way home, she said “you know you have some stuff in the guest bathroom” and I assured her that I did not, that it was all my middle sister’s stuff, and she said “No, Little Diamond looked at it while she was staying here and said it was yours, that it was stuff you use.” Hmmm. Little Diamond said that?
So when we got back to Mom’s house, I checked the cupboard, and there was one of those zipper bags like (ahem) I always use, and inside was . . . yep. Another hairbrush. Another Seattle toothbrush. Scotch tape. Scissors. My particular make-up back-ups. Shampoo. I brought it with me, and I had two almost identical zipper bags full of Seattle supplies. I can only imagine that sometimes when I get here after all those hours of traveling that my mind is just so addled I am not thinking.
It also makes me feel a little weird that Little Diamond knows me so well that she can identify MY things with just a glance at the contents of the plastic bag, LLOOLLLL! I am that predictable?
On my way over to my Mom’s, I had stopped at the local Fred Meyer’s, a Target-like local store I just love. Now that I am in Seattle, I see things differently. I see things I can hardly resist, like something in me feels like getting ready for the winter, but then, Thank God, my sterner self jerks me back just as I am reaching for:
Look at those socks! Look at those colors! I can barely resist, they are such a hoot! but then . . . where would I wear them? Even if I were abaya’d, people could see my bright polka-dot chartreused ankles and it would draw unwanted attention . . . . maybe just around the house . . .
But no . . . around the house – look at these!
Thick, fuzzy sleepers, only $16.99, like we wore when we were kids, only these are for grownups, and oh! look at that zebra print! The cheetah! They are almost irresistable!
And so irrelevant in Doha!
Sunrise in Amsterdam (for my Kuwait friends)
OK, OK, now I have to tell you the truth.
I am not celebrating Ramadan in Doha this year.
When we moved to Doha, we didn’t know how long we would be there. It could have been just months. I know, I know, those who knew us and knew the situation just gasped and said “Why would you do this?”
We don’t know.
This is our life. This is the life of expat contractors. You always get a choice, but sometimes you do what will help out the company. The packing and unpacking part, the leaving friends part – all that is bad. Really really bad. The moving to a place you have lived before, where you know the roads, you know the grocery stores and gas stations and don’t have to learn everything all over again, and best of all – where you still have good friends – all that is really really good.
So once we learned that we will be in Doha for longer than three months, I quickly booked a trip to Seattle. If we were moving again soon, I wouldn’t have bothered, because these long trips get harder and harder on us.
As we were about to land in Amsterdam, I just happened to look outside the window – and there was the sun. Thinking of all my friends in Kuwait who got sick and tired of the sun rising over the Gulf (hee hee hee, it’s MY blog, and I never get tired of the sunrise! 🙂 ) I thought you might like to see the sun rising over a bunch of nice cool clouds and an airplane wing in Amsterdam.
Another Layer of Glitz for the LuLu in Doha
Here is one thing to LOVE about Ramadan (for non-Muslims). If you wait until all those who are fasting have finished rushing home to break bread (actually water and some dates are the traditional and best way to break the fast and raise the blood sugar levels gently), while they are enjoying Ftoor – the breaking of the fast – the roads are OURS! We are KING OF THE ROAD!
And the restaurants, and the Malls are empty! You can get anywhere in Doha in minutes! And, really, minutes, maybe even an hour, is all you have before the night roads start to get really really busy with people making Ramadan calls on one another, heading to the mosque for evening prayers, taking Mom and sisters to the Malls to check out the Ramadan sales, etc.
As we were heading down D-ring, AdventureMan – and you have to know, this is why we have been married for 36 years, we share the same sense of what is important – AdventureMan says “Look at the LULU!” and I look, and I am instantly busy digging out my camera while AdventureMan is saying “You’ll have to be quick, you’ll have to be QUICK! I don’t know if I can find a parking spot and I can’t slow down too much without getting hit in the rear!!”
(Honestly, when they put up an extra layer of glitz on the already neon-tarted LuLu, they owe it to their neighborhood to put in a photography lane for all the gawkers like us!)
The LuLu is one of our favorite places. When our guests come – especially from Europe – they love that the LuLu has all these exotic soaps from India, fresh fresh pistacio nuts, fresh walnuts, spices and spice mixtures they have never heard of (of which they have never heard, 1001 🙂 ), and upstairs, Arabic school notebooks, and a fabulous sari shop, and . . . well you just never know what. Our European friends also like the prices at the LuLu. When we take them at night, it is all lit up in Red, Green and Gold NEON, it shines so bright you can see it from the sky when you take off, if you take off in the right direction and if you are seated on the right side of the plane. 😉
But ANOTHER layer or neon? The LuLu has really gone to town!
I clicked away as AdventureMan shouted “Hurry! Hurry!” No time to focus, just click, click, click and hope that one or two will show up.
A LuLu, for our non-Arabic speaking friends, is a beautiful perfect pearl, and some of our friends call their daughter LuLu, a nickname, not her real name.
(With special thanks to AdventureMan, who made this post possible. 🙂 )
“Follow Me Everywhere and Watch Me Have Fun!”
Today, as AdventureMan and I were talking about the Qatteri Cat, AdventureMan said that the Qatteri Cat’s idea of fun is “follow me everywhere and watch me have fun!” Like “Dad, throw the Applebee apple, or the ping-pong balls”, or “Dad, chase me around the house!” I knew what AM was talking about – QC’s a cat. Cats are infinitely self-absorbed. I know he has some “feelings” for me, but they are pretty simple, like “I feel cold – hey! there’s the warm one!” “I feel hungry, and that one has a strong history of feeding me when I meow a certain way” or “You never know, that one might let me out if I meow long enough” (it never does). Mostly his feelings for me are need based.
But when AdventureMan said that about the Qatteri Cat, I just had to laugh. AdventureMan looked at me oddly, maybe it was something in the laugh. “I’m married to the Qatteri Cat!” I laughed. “What has our life been, but me following you around the world, watching you have fun?”
He laughed too.
Ramadan For Non Muslims
This is becoming a tradition. I wrote the first Ramadan for Non Muslims post in 207, and repeated it last year. As Ramadan moves inexorably into the hottest months of the year, the sacrifice only increases. Ramadan is slated to start this year on August 22, but that will be determined by the moonsighting committee; those who watch for the very first glimmer of the thinnest crescent moon of the lunar month of Ramadan.
Already, stores are increasing their supplies of specialty foods, which includes, to my amusement, oatmeal, which I must eat, and I detest. There are also increased supplies of nuts and candied fruits, eggs and creams and fabulous desserts and exotic fruits. Little lambies are not long for this earth, and cows and grown sheep are not far behind. This is not the season for killing the fatted fig.
My first Ramadan ever, in Tunisia in 1979, I remember they had bananas – it was the only time all year we saw bananas, real Chiquita bananas, a boat brought them in. On the other hand, the night I had a dinner party, eggs totally disappeared, and cream, all bought up by what my friends call “the Ramadaners.”
Imagine, if you can, an entire month of Advent and Christmas. Observant Moslems fast every day, from dawn to sunset, and gather with family and friends to celebrate and feast every night. Some women have a new dress for every day of Ramadan. The tailors are crazy; this and the Eid al Kebir provide them with guaranteed income and their busiest time of the year.
Most Westerners don’t understand Ramadan. I wrote the original article to try to explain Ramadan to them, that the season is as holy to them as our Lent and Easter are to us. Ramadan was the month when The Qur’an was transmitted to Mohammed by the angel Gabriel. Most Moslems try to read through the entire Qur’an at least one time during each Ramadan, and then many go to Mekka on the Hajj at the end of Ramadan. I have given you references to both of the original articles, because as is my great joy on this blog, my readers filled in a lot of blanks, and gave us a lot of information that I didn’t have. The comments at the end of the two articles are better than the original article, thanks to my readers.
Please, if you have anything to add, ahlen wa sahlen, you are welcome. It is a joy to learn from you.
First Ramadan for Non Muslims + comments
Second Ramadan for Non Muslims + comments
Ramadan started last night; it means that the very thinnest of crescent moons was sighted by official astronomers, and the lunar month of Ramadan might begin. You might think it odd that people wait, with eager anticipation, for a month of daytime fasting, but the Muslims do – they wait for it eagerly.
A friend explained to me that it is a time of purification, when your prayers and supplications are doubly powerful, and when God takes extra consideration of the good that you do and the intentions of your heart. It is also a time when the devil cannot be present, so if you are tempted, it is coming from your own heart, and you battle against the temptations of your own heart. Forgiveness flows in this month, and blessings, too.
We have similar beliefs – think about it. Our holy people fast when asking a particular boon of God. We try to keep ourselves particularly holy at certain times of the year.
In Muslim countries, the state supports Ramadan, so things are a little different. Schools start later. Offices are open fewer hours. The two most dangerous times of the day are the times when schools dismiss and parents are picking up kids, and just before sunset, as everyone rushes to be home for the breaking of the fast, which occurs as the sun goes down. In olden days, there was a cannon that everyone in the town could hear, that signalled the end of the fast. There may still be a cannon today – in Doha there was, and we could hear it, but if there is a cannon in Kuwait, we are too far away, and can’t hear it.
When the fast is broken, traditionally after the evening prayer, you take two or three dates, and water or special milk drink, a meal which helps restore normal blood sugar levels and takes the edge off the fast. Shortly, you will eat a larger meal, full of special dishes eaten only during Ramadan. Families visit one another, and you will see maids carrying covered dishes to sisters houses and friends houses – everyone makes a lot of food, and shares it with one another. When we lived in Tunisia, we would get a food delivery maybe once a week – it is a holy thing to share, especially with the poor and we always wondered if we were being shared with as neighbors, or shared with as poor people! I always tried to watch what they particularly liked when they would visit me, so I could sent plates to their houses during Ramadan.
Just before the sun comes up, there is another meal, Suhoor, and for that meal, people usually eat something that will stick to your ribs, and drink extra water, because you will not eat again until the sun goes down. People who can, usually go back to bed after the Suhoor meal and morning prayers. People who can, sleep a lot during the day, during Ramadan. Especially as Ramadan moves into the hotter months, the fasting, especially from water, becomes a heavier responsibility.
And because it is a Muslim state, and to avoid burdening our brothers and sisters who are fasting, even non-Muslims refrain from eating, drinking, touching someone of the opposite sex in public, even your own husband (not having sex in the daytime is also a part of fasting), smoking is forbidden, and if you are in a car accident and you might be at fault, the person might say “I am fasting, I am fasting” which means they cannot argue with you because they are trying to maintain a purity of soul. Even chewing gum is an offense. And these offenses are punishable by a heavy fine – nearly $400 – or a stay in the local jail.
Because I am not Muslim, there may be other things of which I am not aware, and my local readers are welcome to help fill in here. As for me, I find it not such a burden; I like that there is a whole month with a focus on God. You get used to NOT drinking or eating in public during the day, it’s not that difficult. The traffic just before (sunset) Ftoor can be deadly, but during Ftoor, traffic lightens dramatically (as all the Muslims are breaking their fast) and you can get places very quickly! Stores have special foods, restaurants have special offerings, and the feeling in the air is a lot like Christmas. People are joyful!
Maggie O’Farrell and The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox
Maggie O’Farrel’s The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox is also a book club pick, but oh, what a pick! I remember somewhere reading a review; I might never have picked this book up if I hadn’t needed to read it for the club. And oh, what I might have missed!
It’s like the scariest book ever written, scary in a Margaret Atwood kind of way, a reminder that women have not had rights for very long, and that those rights are still very fragile. When economies go bottoms-up, when unemployment begins rising, women are often the first to suffer, and women’s rights the first to go. In hard times, men will be preferred hirings, because they have families to support, laws to “protect” women are passed, especially laws which “protect” her finances, meaning gives the power of the money management to some man to do for her, or “protect” her person by requiring that some man accompany her to keep her from dangers. Protection = control. It keeps some smart, thinking women submissive to men who are in every way their inferior.
In Vanishing, Maggie O’Farrel writes of such a woman, Esme Lennox, who is a fey spirit, born in India, with the eyes of an artist. While her “good” sister Kitty obeys the rules, walks the straight and narrow path, Esme is messier. As she grows to adolescence, her eccentricity and her rebellion against the constricts of the life in turn-of-the-century Scotland chafe, she yearns for more room to breathe, intellectually, socially, as her family, her community and her society continues to pressure her to conform.
One of the key events in the book is the death of Esme’s baby brother, of typhoid fever. Abandoned, Esme sits holding her dead brother’s body for three days until her family returns (the baby-keeper also died and the other employees deserted while Esme’s family was away). Esme is devastated, but the focus is on her mother, who is wrought with guilt and isolates herself, and Esme, only a little girl, is forbidden to even say her beloved baby brother’s name. Part of what plays a huge role in this book is society, expectations, and all that is hidden and unspoken – as Esme becomes, a family secret, locked away for sixty years.
Their grandmother swept into the room ‘Kitty,’ there was an unaccustomed smile on her face, ‘stir yourself. You have a visitor.’
Kitty put down her needle. ‘Who?’
Their mother appeared behind the grandmother. ‘Kitty,’ she said ‘quickly put that away. He’s here, he’s downstairs . . . ‘
. . . .
Esme watched from the window-seat as her mother started fiddling with Kitty’s hari, tucking it behind her ears, then releasing it. . . . . Ishbel turned and, catching sight of Esme at the window, said ‘You, too. Quickly now.’
Esme took the stairs slowly. She had no desire to meet one of Kitty’s suitors. They all seemed the same to her – nervous men with over-combed hair, scrubbed hands and pressed shirts. They came and drank tea, and she and Kitty were expected to talk to them while their mother sat like an umpire in a chair across the room. The whole thing made Esme want to burst into honesty, to say, let’s forget this charade, do you want to marry her or not?
She dawdled on the landing, looking at a grim, grey-skied watercolour of the Fife coast. But her grandmother appeared in the hall below. ‘Esme!’ she hissed, and Esme clattered down the stairs.
In the drawing room, she plumped down in a chair with high arms in the corner. She wound her ankles round its polished legs and eyed the suitor. The same as ever. Perhaps a little more good-looking than some of the others. Blond hair, an arrogant forehead, fastidious cuffs. He was asking Ishbel something about the roses in a bowl on the table. Esme had to repress the urge to roll her eyes. Kitty was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, pouring tea into a cup, a blush creeping up her neck.
Esme began playing the game she often played with herself at times like this, looking over the room and working out how she might get round it without touching the floor. She could climb from the sofa to the low table and, from there, to the fender stool. Along that, and then –
She realized her mother was loooking at her, saying something.
‘What was that?” Esme said.
‘James was addressing you.’ her mother said, and the slight flare of her nostrils meant, Esme knew, that she’d better behave or there would be trouble later.
As with many inconvenient women, Esme ends up committed at a loony-bin, and sixty years later, is released into the custody of a grand-niece who never even knew Esme existed.
The thoughts, trials and escapades of three women, Esme, her sister Kitty, and Iris, the grand-niece, intertwine through out the book, and the picture is cloudy at first, blurry, shifting, fragmented The pattern becomes more and more clear as the three threads of thought are woven – ever more tightly – together.
I could not put this book down. Finding out how the picture came together became more important than checking my messages, my blog, or fixing dinner. It was compelling, and resulted in a quick and unforgettable read.
Obama and Dreams From My Father
It took me 20 days, but I finished Barack Obama’s Dreams From My Father. I didn’t read it because he is President of the United States, although that would be a good reason, but I read it because our book club is reading it, and I know how busy the next few months are going to be, so I read ahead during the slower times of summer.
And the trick to finishing it was not allowing myself to read anything else until I had finished – I had a stack of really intriguing books to urge me on. “As soon as I finish, I can read . . . ” Even with all that incentive, Obama’s book is a slog.
He is a gifted orator. He is a plodding writer. There is also a problem I find with autobiographies by anyone – we all fool ourselves, we all position ourselves in a better light, and we have no idea how transparent we are when we do so. Fellow bloggers, do you ever read anything you have written a couple years ago and squirm with embarrassment, or even delete? To be an author is a very very brave thing, when you have a book published, there is no going back, your transgressions are all right out there, and the public can be cruelly critical.
What I liked about the book is Obama-as-Third-Culture-Kid, a man of mixed identity. Most kids who have grown up moving or grown up in different countries from their own, or who have immigrated, can tell you, being an alien is no fun. Obama learns how to adapt, how to look for clues to fitting in, how to pass. It’s a common theme in Third-Culture-Kids.
My favorite part of the book was his return to Kenya, his openness to his African roots, the open-armed love with which his Kenyan half-brothers and sisters welcome him and his response. He had some truly extraordinary adventures, working out just who his father had been as a person. He was blessed to recognize the richness of his inheritance.
The book plods along, but it was worth the time. For all it’s flaws, I find I like that man, and I understand more about where he is coming from. (for grammarians, I understand more about from where the man is coming.) 🙂
Economic Turnaround Slow
Warren Buffet, one of the richest men in America, and one of the humblest, has written an Op-Ed piece for The New York Times (you can read the entire piece by clicking here) on the tiny signs of economic upturn and what they might forecast for the near and medium future. It makes fascinating reading – solutions come at a cost, and he spells out the costs.
One blogger jumps from this to forecast a turnaround in the real estate market. Not so fast, I think. There is a huge demographic factor, a huge bulge of the population stepping out of the productive work-force and into retirement, a population which has largely lived large – for today – with little thought to the retirement years.
Those who planned, and squirreled away their monies into investments, into businesses – have also been hit hard. Turnarounds take time, and even so, there is a cost. Not all will recover what they have lost.
Many of this aging bulge will be paring down their expectations and paring down their lifestyles. They will be paring down their spending, except for health care. I don’t think we have a clue what that is going to look like.
The Greenback Effect
By WARREN E. BUFFETT
Published: August 18, 2009
Omaha
IN nature, every action has consequences, a phenomenon called the butterfly effect. These consequences, moreover, are not necessarily proportional. For example, doubling the carbon dioxide we belch into the atmosphere may far more than double the subsequent problems for society. Realizing this, the world properly worries about greenhouse emissions.
The butterfly effect reaches into the financial world as well. Here, the United States is spewing a potentially damaging substance into our economy — greenback emissions.
To be sure, we’ve been doing this for a reason I resoundingly applaud. Last fall, our financial system stood on the brink of a collapse that threatened a depression. The crisis required our government to display wisdom, courage and decisiveness. Fortunately, the Federal Reserve and key economic officials in both the Bush and Obama administrations responded more than ably to the need.
They made mistakes, of course. How could it have been otherwise when supposedly indestructible pillars of our economic structure were tumbling all around them? A meltdown, though, was avoided, with a gusher of federal money playing an essential role in the rescue.
The United States economy is now out of the emergency room and appears to be on a slow path to recovery. But enormous dosages of monetary medicine continue to be administered and, before long, we will need to deal with their side effects. For now, most of those effects are invisible and could indeed remain latent for a long time. Still, their threat may be as ominous as that posed by the financial crisis itself.
To understand this threat, we need to look at where we stand historically. If we leave aside the war-impacted years of 1942 to 1946, the largest annual deficit the United States has incurred since 1920 was 6 percent of gross domestic product. This fiscal year, though, the deficit will rise to about 13 percent of G.D.P., more than twice the non-wartime record. In dollars, that equates to a staggering $1.8 trillion. Fiscally, we are in uncharted territory.
Because of this gigantic deficit, our country’s “net debt” (that is, the amount held publicly) is mushrooming. During this fiscal year, it will increase more than one percentage point per month, climbing to about 56 percent of G.D.P. from 41 percent. Admittedly, other countries, like Japan and Italy, have far higher ratios and no one can know the precise level of net debt to G.D.P. at which the United States will lose its reputation for financial integrity. But a few more years like this one and we will find out.
An increase in federal debt can be financed in three ways: borrowing from foreigners, borrowing from our own citizens or, through a roundabout process, printing money. Let’s look at the prospects for each individually — and in combination.
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