Langer Loksh

Do The Right Thing: Parting the Waters

The same week that we saw Spike Lee at the pharmacy in Edgartown, he was all over the news mags for the 20th anniversary of Do The Right Thing. Then Henry Louis Gates Jr. got arrested breaking into his own house, and President Obama weighed in. (Click here to vote on what kind of beer Obama should serve when he hosts Gates and the police sergeant on Thursday.) But the race story that really got me going this summer was those camp kids in Pennsylvania who were told they could not swim at a private club because it would change the "complexion" of the pool.

So now would be the right time for me to tell you about a new documentary film: Parting the Waters, made by my friend Jenny. "Despite the fact that swimming pools have been racially integrated for over 50 years," Jenny says, "two thirds of African-America and Latino children still can't swim, and in fact drown at almost three times the rate of their white peers."

The movie follows Maritza Correia, the first black woman on the U.S. Olympic swim team, and world-record-holder Cullen Jones, as well as three young swimmers from inner-city Boston. (Jenny's mom, my friend the late great Ann Levison, used to teach kids from Roxbury how to swim.)

Jenny says:  "The reason I am making a documentary film about African-American and Latino swimmers is to demonstrate to young people across the country that their options are limitless, and their place in American society is every place."

Jenny and her partner Josh got a challenge donation from Perry Ellis International. Perry Ellis will give them $50,000 to finish the film--if they can raise another $50,000 by July 31. Go on--jump in and donate.

Who's The Boss?

Charlie is going to be a "builder" when he grows up. He wants us to know that he will NOT be a "boss." He will be a "worker" who is part of the job. Because the boss does not get to have any fun.

When Jeff was five he knew that he would be a boss. In fact, he believed himself capable even at that tender age of running a large corporation. (He was probably right.)

It Says So Right There on the Bag: ALL PURPOSE Potatoes

Unable to stand the hellatious eyeball itching for ONE MORE SECOND--and also, I had a sty--I made an appointment with the eye doctor.

The sty is from the blepharitis, but the itching is from allergies, he said. He gave me some drops that are supposed to offer miraculous relief but I'm on day three and, nothing. "What should I do about the sty?" I asked. He said, "It sounds crazy, but the best thing to do is boil a potato, wrap it in a wet cloth, and hold it against your eye for five minutes." I asked, "Can't I just use a wet cloth?" and he said, "Sure, but you'd have to reheat it 50 times."

I am telling you, it worked. I forked a potato, wrapped it in a wet paper towel, nuked it for one minute, held onto it with a dish cloth, and jammed it against my eye. It was toasty toasty warm for the whole five minutes and then some. I did this twice and the sty disappeared. I'm still doing it three times a day because it feels so good.

Bonus: I am totally using this on Charlie next time he gets the ear bubble.

Flower Power

If you live anywhere near Carlisle, Mass., run-don't-walk to Seawright's. Plant yourself in the middle of a huge field of daylilies in peak bloom. Gorgeous! We took home several different kinds, all less than $10.00 a plant. Even just the names are entertaining. The kids chose Tweedle Dum, a two-color job for $7.50. I loved Mean Mister Mustard, but he cost $30.00. The hosta gardens have their own charms as well. Would you believe they have 150 different kinds? (Charlie knows them as "pasta," which is how the deer treat them at our house.)

Secrets of Backyard Chickens Revealed

Last night, due to miscommunication and failure to follow proper poultry protocol, one of the nest box doors to the coop got left open. Today when I got home from work I noticed Rosie, as well as one of the Jersey Giants (Jim Burt or L.T.--I can't tell them apart) and one of the Silver Wyandottes (Polka Dot or Mayflower, same problem) casually pecking the grass in the back yard.

I knew that if I opened the door to the coop to let them wander back in, all the other chickens would come out. It was too early in the day for that; they'd be out for hours and hours before going back in to roost, and I'd have to keep an eye on them and not go to Starbucks for a Frappuccino like I planned.

So Charlie and I got some cracked corn, which is the secret special mojo of chicken-keeping, and sprinkled some in one corner of the coop. All the chickens in the coop went to that corner. Then we opened the door and sprinkled some more just inside. Rosie and Polka Dot/Mayflower hopped right in. We had to use a rake to flush Jim Burt/L.T. out from under the coop, where she was enjoying a cooling dirt bath, but she, too, quickly jumped in.

Then, with hours to go before dinner, Charlie said "Let's do woses and fohns." This is when we go around the dinner table and say one good thing--a rose--and one bad thing--a thorn--that happened that day. "My wose," Charlie said, "was getting the chickens back in. And... I don't really have a fohn."

And that is our official definition of a good day. When you can't even come up with a fohn.

"Breaking" News

O-Dog has a tooth! And another one that will be through the gum tomorrow for sure. It was Shaina who discovered the tooth after Oscar attempted to eat the giant plastic tray on his highchair. Teething much?

Why Didn't You Tell Me Billy Mays is Dead?

And do you know who else? Oscar Mayer III. My mom sent me the obit from the Times. You know, because my baby's name is Oscar? Or maybe it was because of her recent Weinermobile encounter. (Apologies to those of you who've already viewed this very special photo on Facebook.)

There Were Three in the Bed, and the Little One Said Roll Over!

A Happy 4th (and 38th, and 65th...)

Our friend Ann H. B., who has known me practically since birth, was kind enough to host us at her home on Martha's Vineyard over Fourth of July weekend. Shockingly, she is still speaking with us, despite Charlie's protracted meltdown over the Doritos I refused to buy him at the Alpaca farm. (Mortifying.)

Among other activities: Jeff caught two bluefish; Charlie grabbed the brass ring on the Flying Horses carousel not once but twice; Oscar dabbled his toes in the ocean; Summer got a handmade skirt at a craft fair; we ate very delicious fried clams at the Gay Head cliffs. We celebrated my mom's birthday (three cheers for Medicare!) and mine; we watched the Edgartown parade; and then, at night on the beach, we could see fireworks from about six towns including Nantucket, 30 miles out to sea.

We were too early for the first family, who are apparently going in August, but we did see Spike Lee at the pharmacy.