Joblessness

As someone else pointed out somewhere, it's no longer "morning in America" - it's late afternoon, and we're all a little tired and cranky. Reagan (Ronnie Ray-gun, as we used to call him) announced the morning, but since he and the Bushes led the country, it has gotten much later. Their efforts were hugely successful: the rich are richer than ever, the poor are quite deeply sunk in poverty and (with helpful bankers placing them in homes they can't afford with credit cards they can't resist), unlikely ever to rise out of it. The nation's debt is huge, and while the Chinese don't have a reputation for breaking knees, I'm sure they have some sort of collections program. And the unemployment rate is nearly 10%.

Again today, economists noted that it seems to be a jobless recovery - like the ones "that followed the last two recessions, in 1990-91 and in 2001." The article (http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.nytimes.com%2F2010%2F12%2F24%2Fbusiness%2Feconomy%2F24forecast.html&h=fc91f) goes on to say:

“Historically, unemployment rates come down slowly, so even with 4 percent growth, you would expect to see the unemployment rate come down maybe a percentage point a year, probably less,” said Alan B. Krueger, who was the Treasury Department’s top economist until last month when he returned to Princeton. “Given how high the unemployment rate is, that’s going to seem very slow.”

Well, sure. Now that businesses have learned they can get more work out of fewer people, and impel those people to be more productive through fear of joining the 9.8% unemployed, why on Earth would they hire more people?

So here's an idea: Why not revive the Civilian Conservation Corps (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civilian_Conservation_Corps) and the Works Progress Administration? These Roosevelt-era programs were successful in averting class warfare then; why wouldn't they help now? My granny worked a WPA job to feed her family. And out West, we certainly know the good works of these groups: Mt. Hood Lodge, beautiful murals and stonework on bridges, our elegant Union Station, many more.

There are CCCs in several, but not all states. At the height of the Depression it put 3 million young men to work, and only ended when WWII made it unnecessary, since they could sign up to be killed in Europe instead of improving public lands.

The WPA (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Works_Progress_Administration) included job training as part of its original plan, as well as adult education. Between 1935 and 1943 the WPA provided more than 8 million jobs.

I know these programs would need to be updated for today. I in no way support the "workfare" (no work, no welfare) concept, or any form of forced labor. But I believe that as an opt-in program, this would relieve some of the pressure on families now, allowing them to stay in their homes, feed their children and get job experience that would ultimately lift them out of the debilitating despair of uselessness that is unemployment.

Let's quit solving the wrong problems. The bankers and investors are okay, they don't need more government money; and whatever is going to trickle down isn't going to be enough. Remember that NYTimes piece: " ... see the unemployment rate come down maybe a percentage point a year, probably less.”

If we want to create jobs, let's do it by creating jobs.

My Pet

There's an extremely symbolic cat living at my house.

She is quite satisfactorily cat-like

and has formed herself to fit our spaces,

even the dog-shaped ones,

with greater or lesser grace.

She's tangible enough, especially when she

decides that a drink of sink water is far more important

than my teeth being brushed, my face washed.

Like all objects of love, though, she can be

elusive, and illustrative

of our need to hold and mold and control,

and the certainty of failing at it.

Skin

My Granny’s skin was so soft, I loved to stroke

The inside of her lower arm, feel the fragile silky flesh,

Touch the softly wrinkled powdery skin

With the backs of the fingers of

my coarse rough childhood hands.

“Crepey,” she called it, and

my childhood ear heard “crappy.”

I thought she hated it, a sign of age,

Of fragility, a whisper of a certain future decay.

My own children, twenty-five years later

Stroked with the same gentle strokes

The skin of my mother’s arms,

Loving the feel of the fragile human flesh.

She loved their touch, but

Disparaged her skin, the thinness, the slackness,

The fine, fine pattern of wrinkles, like

– I now understand – the cloth called crepe.

Like my own arm, my own skin,

This genetic blessing from generations unknown.

My grandchildren may not touch my skin

In quite the same way, but their touch

On my heart is no different.

To build a home

First you would dig the cellar and line it with stone.

There would be shelves for food, and the furnace of course in the place of honor.

Piping and ducting and the base of the chimney, with an ash cleanout.

The windward wall should be stone;

The sunward wall should be glass, as much as you can.

The other two wood, plank siding.

Across the back wall are two bedrooms, two bathrooms.

From the windows to those interior walls will be one large room,

Divided into sitting, snoozing, cooking, eating,

reading, talking, arguing, loving, living, hoping rooms

with the clever use of bookshelves and other territorial markers.

In only a few months it will be clear

Which chair belongs to whom.

Poem

Sometimes I write poetry. Here's one:

Mr President, it’s Autumn

The president is in town

But that’s less important to me

Than the sun ringing like a great bronze gong

As it sets in my rearview mirror. The president is back there, too,

Making thousands of enemies as traffic snarls

And cops snarl

And helicopters crawl overhead peering

It seems into every car. But that’s not what I am entranced by.

I’m unable to stop looking at the

Woods on fire with enthusiasm for the coming winter

Wearing every color a leaf can turn.

Cars turn onto the freeway (at last!)

And I pay just enough attention to avoid crashing

Because I can’t quit gazing, looking, staring

At the full moon high in the eastern sky,

A milky silver dollar surrounded by thin, brilliant blue.

Our tame city mountain sits there over the river;

It’s wearing brown and white. Framed by the same

Brilliant blue as the moon, it reflects that copper sun

In the west. Oh, the rest, the president, the entourage, the security –

How can I think of that when the sun and the moon and the trees

Have voted for joy?