Mr. and Mrs. Thomas

I saw Mr. and Mrs. Thomas today. They didn't see me. I was in my car, and they were at their van, loading and unloading Mr. Thomas's scooter and wheelchair, then getting in and driving away. I knew it was her because I had crossed paths with her a few years ago at the YMCA pool and we spoke briefly. Mrs. Thomas was my 10th grade math teacher. Mr. Thomas had been the school sports team photographer who remembered the name of everyone he'd ever met even once, including mine. As I watched them from a distance, they were all smiles and ease with eachother, just like I remembered them from high school.

Mr. and Mrs. Thomas were the first black/white interracial couple I knew. I met them individually before realizing that they were married. (The photo of their teenage son on Mrs. Thomas's desk led to the ah-ha moment.) I knew nothing of the state of their marriage, of course, but they seemed happy when I saw them at school, and once when I ran into them at the mall when I was still in high school. In college, I thought of them when I started to date Firmin, and then later when a fellow student informed me (with that smug tone that girls half in love with their professors adopt) that Professor So-and-So didn't believe interracial marriages could work in the United States. Of course Professor So-and-So was a black man divorced from a white woman who apparently found it easier to be a psudo-victim than simply a failure at marriage. But I was only 20 then, and his pronouncement gave me pause. The memory of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas gave me hope.

When I met Mrs. Thomas at the pool a couple years ago, I wondered about her husband. It had been so many years -- enough for even a once-happy marriage to have bottomed out or for death to change everything. For fear of causing pain or embarrassment, I didn't ask. So today, when I saw her with the man on the scooter, I leaned forward and squinted. He was in shadow that made his skin color hard to discern and I didn't have a good view of his face. Plus, I saw Mr. Thomas less frequently than his wife when I was a teenager. She stood in front of me daily for a year, while he took my cheer leading photos a few times and said "Hi, Stephanie!" like he was really, truly glad to see me on the rare occasions we crossed paths. I couldn't swear in a courtroom that the man I saw today was Mr. Thomas, but when the spring sunlight caught his brown skin, his salt and pepper hair, and his warm smile, I was as sure as I needed to be. Most of all, the two of them together just looked like Mr. and Mrs. Thomas. They exuded the same easy camaraderie and affection, the same friendliness and sense of stability. I was so happy to see them. They still give me hope.

The Cream Rises to the Top

Oh how I love skimming fresh cream off the top of the jar of milk! Unless we're on our last jar, cream is always ready to hand when we need it. Most of it goes into the cream whipper to top our mochas and hot cocoas. Sometimes a little goes into mashed potatoes, or a desert recipe. Occasionally I make sour cream or butter with it.

Did our parents' and grandparents' generation really give up this little luxury just to avoid having to shake the jug a couple of times before pouring the milk? Surely not. Probably homogenization* was was an industry convenience. Whatever the reason, it's a loss. A small one, sure, but a loss none the less.



*Homogenization is the process of pulverizing the milk fat so that it stays suspended in the more watery portion of the milk, rather than rising to the top as it does naturally. It is not related to pasteurization, which is the process of heating the milk to kill any potentially harmful pathogens. Most milk at the grocery store is both pasteurized and homogenized.

Looking to the Future

Getting one child alone with you in the car can result in some rare and wonderful conversations that just don't otherwise happen in the middle of bustling family life. Eight-year-old Alexander and I had one of those conversations the other day as we made the short drive to MSU. The topic was global warming and the future of humanity. We covered a lot of ground in 15 minutes! It should have been 10 minutes, but I got so engrossed in our dialog that I turned the wrong way a couple of times out of habit, thus lengthening our journey a little. :o)

Alexander started things off by casually observing that all our efforts to reduce pollution only seem to result in more pollution. We explored that a bit. He had a couple of mis-conceptions, but over all, his feeling that not enough change is happening is certainly valid. He very candidly said that he doesn't think we are going to stop global warming. He doesn't think we are doing enough, and he doesn't see people and businesses willing to do more. With all the happy talk directed at kids about "going green" and "saving the planet", this surprised me a little. It also impressed me as an astute observation for an 8 year old.

"So what do you think will happen?" I asked. He didn't know. We talked about pessimistic predictions, optimistic predictions, best- and worst-case scenarios, winners and losers, and points in between. I told him a little about peak oil theory and confessed my reluctant suspicion that maybe we should be listening more to the folks warning us to get ready for a very different way of life. He worried about being hot, but thought that the weather changes could be a boon to farmers in places that are colder now. While he expressed pessimism about our ability to curb global warming at this time, he is somewhat optimistic that humankind will adapt to the major changes that are coming, both through our behavior and with new technology. He is not very worried.

The situation may, perhaps, warrant more worry, but his outlook warms my heart. We need our young people to retain their optimism, even as they try to grasp the enormity of the problems. Whatever adaptations and technology come to our aid, it will be my son's generation (and those that follow) that will implement them and most benefit from them. They will begin -- whether out of intelligent foresight or desperate necessity -- to deal with the problems that their great-great grandparents started, and that their grandparents and parents refused to do much about.