Legacy!

A few days ago, my son, Bob, stopped by on his way home from a trip north and found me feeling a little down. I was just arriving home from a full workday when he turned up. I was tired, and quietly kvetching about how much public attention I was attracting so late in life, and of how little confidence I was feeling in what my life may be like in another year. He laughed -- and reminded me about his grandmother and my remarkable mother, Lottie Allen Charbonnet, who held her place on the planet from 1894-1995 -- and with such gusto -- until the last few years of that life.

When my father died in his mid-nineties, we sent her off to Hawaii with my niece, Victoria, for her first time off the continent and onto (for her) "foreign" soil. She'd spent untold years care-taking and some recognition of her sacrifices was due.

Mother, at 95, still wore 3 inch heels and took public transportation to downtown Oakland for her weekly ritual of Saturday afternoon window-shopping. She lived an active social life, though limited to a degree by my Dad's late-in-life blindness. She'd never learned to drive but didn't appear to feel the loss. She took classes making awful jewelry (it was her sister, Vivian, who made the awful ceramics) at the senior center, and enjoyed times with her friends immensely.

Victoria tells the story of their evening at one of Oahu's grand hotels; a memory that popped into mind last night just before falling asleep:

They were to join other tourists at a traditional Luau but when they reached the beautiful outdoor theater site, the line was extremely long. Victoria tells of motioning Mom to a chair near the entrance then walking to the desk where she informed the host that she was with her 95 year-old grandmother and that -- considering her advanced age -- it would be really helpful if they would give some consideration to her years, and ... then she walked the long line back to Mom.

"Now Gram, they're going to move us up to the front of the line, but you need to walk very slow-ly, you hear?" And she did, dutifully. However, a bit later in the evening (as this photo shows), there was Mom up on the stage with the dancers taking hula lessons and tearing the place up with her as yet undiscovered talent as a member of the chorus line!

...and as far as I can tell, her grandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen, ran her household and saw to the spring planting of her garden in St. James Parish, Louisiana, until her death in 1948 at the age of 102 ... and she'd spent her first 19 years enslaved (freed by the Emancipation Proclamation in 1865).

Guess I'll see y'all next spring!

(Thanks for the reminder, Bob.)

... and maybe I can still get those tango lessons in, if José is still around and willing.

Strange and disturbing thoughts at awakening this morning ... .

There are hints that I may have arrived at one of those transition places; a place for slowing down and peering tentatively around corners ... .

Maybe the pace of life is simply too fast right now ... too fast for what isn't clear.

It started when it occurred to me that I may be cramming more life into my days than my days can hold without an implosion.

Maybe it was the fact that I'm living so much "in the moment" that I rarely look ahead even a few months lest some once-in-a-lifetime experience be overlooked, and I wake one morning only half-alive ... what a frightening thought.

Maybe it comes from knowing that the great honor being bestowed by the California College of the Arts at next spring's Commencement fixes a future time that I'm not used to having to think about. At this age projecting more than a year ahead is a luxury I can ill afford. I'm only now realizing the extent to which I'm able to accept each day as a gift because each day is an end in itself -- dependent upon no other (an attitude I seem to have aged into at some point). I really do go to bed each night feeling relatively fulfilled -- and maybe because I'm living so much in "overtime," that if I don't wake up tomorrow morning, I still have won the game.

Reading back over the past few posts I became aware that were anyone to ask if there's anything that I've not done during my lifetime and that I regret having missed (except for those tango lessons), I'd have a very difficult time finding an answer. On the other hand, I have no sense of living at a frenetic pace or seeking experiences just to satisfy some crushing personal need. To the contrary, I tend to live life in a constant state of surprise; as one grand improvisation!

Maybe those brief paragraphs I read from Bruce Frankel's book forced a look at my life from a third set of eyes. It was a strange experience; not at all like reading back my own words, but from some other perspective; an unfamiliar picture of myself -- not "through the glass darkly," but from a new lens; a view previously unexplored. Makes me wonder just how much distortion is present in my self-image ... .

Besides all that, by next year's Commencement I might not remember how to tie my own shoes, or, just where in the world I left my car keys -- or my car?


Photo: One of Dorian's wall sculptures created with Mardi Gras beads. It's quite lovely as you can see, and may illustrate an example of her mother's orderly confusion.

http://www.brucefrankel.net/ -- then click on excerpts ...

More magic. This is a link to author Bruce Frankel's new book entitled,

It can be purchased at Amazon.com.  It's currently receiving enthusiastic reviews and is being highly recommended by AARP as a "good read".

My story is among those told.

After reading about the others featured in those pages, I fnd myself hoping there will be time to meet them all at some point while we're still alive and kickin'. Now here's a party lookin' for some place to happen, right? What an interesting bunch to hang out with ... I'll bring the wine! Mine story is told in the last chapter.

Though I've lived long enough to BE black history, life continues to offer up more surprises and novelty than one might ever hope to see ...

Learned from an email a few days ago that the California College of the Arts (honorary doctorate bestower) did not expect me to arrive on May 14th of this year, but a year hence -- in 2011! It was a good thing the good president caught it in time. I might have shown up in the middle of this spring's commencement and caused a real ruckus! Truth is that I don't think that I ever got to the second paragraph of that astounding letter announcing my being named before "whatever were they thinking" clicked in, and total disbelief took over. It was only after this second letter arrived that I sat quietly with the first and allowed myself to take it all in -- the honor, the wonder, and the fact that I must wait another year and write -- not 6,000 but 12,000 speeches in order to get the one to toss!

But before we arrive there, this spring I will be following in the footsteps of countless enlightened women from the stage and screen (and maybe even the local PTA) as a member of the cast of Eve Ensler's prize-winning and much-heralded "Vagina Monologues", directed by Kathy McCarty. How 'bout them apples? This production will be held in the historic and magnificent Craneway Pavilion of Ford Point in Richmond; a benefit for violence prevention programs here in the city.


Dorian is taking the news of her setback well, supported by a remarkable staff of social workers and physiotherapists at Elmwood Nursing Home in Berkeley. They have been phenomenal in a world that can be so frightening. She is being allowed to have a couple of weeks of feeling triumphant in that she's using a walker and has managed to cover 300 feet in one session, and to walk up four steps at a time with close supervision. At least she will go into this new round of surgery understanding that she will walk again because now she has, and that my second floor apartment is no longer unreachable. She speaks now of when she will undergo the surgical corrections, and not if that will happen. I credit a sensitive and empathetic staff for this. Her mother was all sympathy with more tears of disappointment than she, herself, was experiencing. Her resilience leaves me in awe.

Now I'm off to visit with my remarkable daughter -- bringing fresh laundry to replace the items picked up yesterday at Elmwood -- and a Valentine's Day remembrance. Tomorrow family members will share dinner with her on the lovely patio at the nursing home. We'll bring gifts and chocolates and love enough to get us all through the ensuing several months and on into whatever comes next.

On Tuesday I'll meet Ann Notarangelo, weekend news anchor for CBS's KPIX-TV of San Francisco, at Port Chicago for another video interview. This story is finally being given full prominence in the lore of the nation. Though it comes too late for some, it changed history for the many by bringing about the end of racial segregation of our armed forces in 1948. Helping to raise awareness as a part of the observation of Black History this way is a privilege to be held sacred.

Then I'll get to work reading Eve Ensler's work in preparation for a budding stage career!

Having difficulty dealing with the contrasts in life right now ... the highs and lows are so extreme.

On the one hand, David's concerts were an example. Of the 8 in the series, one had to be canceled due to low ticket sales -- but two were standing-room only (both in San Francisco and in Oakland). What an experience it was to be there to watch him standing in his late father's big shoes. He was commanding. He had been honest and clear in his dealings with people, and the respect he deserved was forthcoming. Not sure where it will go from here, but David has gone a long way toward re-introducing black gospel music as an art form back into the local culture. It had gone mainstream to a large extent by becoming "integrated" into some of the racially-integrated mega-churches, and was hard to distinguish from pure entertainment. I've maintained for years that -- if one were looking for a true black experience with black gospel music -- the audience has to be at least 51 percent black. Otherwise, the experience is hopelessly altered since so much of it rises from the traditional call-and-response of the congregation. Without that, it comes off as pure entertainment, and the magic -- the "religion" has been lost.

In white churches music is only one of many elements in the liturgy. In the black church (the venue for this concert series) the music, itself, is the act of worship. On Saturday evening at Star Bethel Baptist Church in Oakland, even we non- and barely-believers were quite visibly moved by the 3-hour experience of exuberance and blessedness -- the pure exaltation, the spontaneous dancing in the aisles; the arms waving heavenward in praise; I'd almost forgotten how powerful ... .

So much of American music has grown out of these roots. Found myself wondering while listening to dignified and humble Lee Williams and his Spiritual Q.C.'s -- four handsome black men conservatively dressed in beautifully tailored dark brown suits (appropriate for church), delivering their traditional songs in the ages-old manner of Lou Rawls and the Soul Stirrers; the Mighty Clouds of Joy; the Blind Boys of Alabama, etc., who preceded them in the genre -- watching them stir the congregation to heights of emotion that exceeded the energy of the mosh-pits and dramatic light shows of the Rock era. No staging here or electronic gamesmanship -- just the sheer power of the music. No shattered guitars or ear-shattering decibels or drug-induced ecstasy. No wild makeup a la Kiss or stage-stalking a la Mick Jagger and the Stones. No bare chests or dropped jeans, or crotch-grabbing. Just music. Pure unadulterated rhythmic and God-inspired music delivered in the equally unadulterated faith in the power and goodness of a Supreme Being whom everybody knew was in the house! I found myself wondering if all of that wasn't a vain attempt on the part of mainstream (white) culture attempting to reproduce the kind of raw emotion that we were witness to on Saturday evening in that sold-out standing-room only audience of believers?

I was awed by the experience, and aware of being in the presence of an art form that must be preserved. This -- was/is the very essence of the black experience; an authentic American experience that Mel and I (and now David) are lucky enough to have helped to preserve -- though with less awareness at the time than I now am able to appreciate in these years of summation.


... And, on the other hand, after 10 weeks of slow and painful recovery for her shattered legs, Dorian's x-rays show that, though healing well, the femurs are out of alignment and the entire process must now be re-started and the screws and metal plates surgically removed and the bones reset. This, after stays in 4 nursing homes and 3 times-a-day visits (with Mom) wedged between the increasing commitments for work brought on by Black History Month and additional public exposure that is beginning to bring more attention to my work than before.

Now -- having taken the day off to try to adjust to all this -- I'm off to visit with Dorrie -- who received the news yesterday on the very day that she was graduating from the wheelchair to a walker for the first time. I need to pick up more yarn for the creation of more colorful and mind-diverting afghans and scarves; and make a stop at my office to check on my in-box for updates ... .

Contrasts ... .

Feels much like the National Women's History Project ceremony in Washington -- the sense of inadequacy ... I was awestruck then, too.


But I think I've worked it through ... .

The problem seemed to arise from the fact that, except for President Stephen Beal (whom I met only briefly when appearing on a panel at the Oakland campus), I have no sense of who these "faculty, alumnae, and students" are who selected me for this great honor. Therefore there is no way of my being able to know which Betty they're honoring? Is it really me or is it this developing persona that I'm not always in control of?

Here's how I worked it out:

Forwarded the letter with the attachments (including a list of stunningly impressive earlier recipients -- people like Duke Ellington, Lawrence Halprin, Toni Morrison, Charles Eames, etc.) to about a dozen of my friends; those who've known me for many years and through all of the trials and tribulations over time. They'd know whether I was worthy. I'd wait their response, and then I'd know whether this should be seriously considered, or, if I should send a letter of regrets and a thanks for even being considered. Yes, I know. Tacky.

Almost before I could turn around the responses began to come into my inbox; a universal WOW! No one questioned the wisdom of the choice, and each only wanted to know if they could come, too! It was then that I felt confirmed, and, that this might be fitting after all, and that I'd find a way to fulfill the expectations of these lovely strangers who were involving me in this historic ceremony. And maybe (as Martha suggests) I should be out of uniform and fully into "Betty," which means black crepe suit, pearls, and maybe my lovely antique ivory bracelet Bill brought back from Dharmsala so many years ago; and maybe the beautiful garnet necklace (from Tom 2 years ago) with my burgundy dress ... .

These are my friends who would know. Permission to accept this honor must come from those who know me best, and it has been granted.

Thank you, Dr. Beal from California College of the Arts, Martha from the National Park Service, dear friends Art and Arliss, Barbara and Dion, Tom and Pam and Peter and Tony, and Bob and Margaret, and Steve, Bruce, and Jean and Roger, et al. I even mentioned it on Facebook, testing its reality -- but the most provocative response came from David who said it best in a phone conversation while on the road:

When I protested, "who do you suppose they think I am, David". "They know who you are Mom. You're the only one who doesn't."

Now I need to get back to work and -- at some point -- begin to write a commencement speech. That should take at least until May 12th. I'll write 6,000 drafts -- then at the last minute toss 'em and ad lib the whole thing. Truth requires very little rehearsal, I think. But I suppose every good speaker needs a carefully written speech to throw away.

Oh my!

Photo: Click to enlarge print.

I've gotta crow... !

It's been days (weeks?) since I've been able to sit down and make an entry here -- not because there was nothing to say. No! Not at all. It had to do with how fast life was moving and of how breathless I became trying to keep up with the incoming ... !

Today I'm simply giving in to the need to bring everything to an immediate halt -- just so that I don't collapse under the strain of all the public attention that has become totally overwhelming. I'm taking the day off to try to make sense of it all.

The pieces are unrelated -- on the surface -- but not really. Around 5 o'clock this morning I got it all sorted out. I've not slept well since last Thursday when the letter arrived that completely rocked my world.

Maybe I need to do this in two separate entries; let's see:

A few weeks ago my son, Bob, and his Margaret spent the better part of a weekend with me. What marks my relationship with Bob is generally that we match, intellectually, which makes for long evenings of good talk -- and music has always been a shared passion. Margaret is a really fine singer and composer, so their visits bring guitars and songs and childhood memories, and -- always animated conversations. Bob's daughter, Rosie, also carries the "singing/composing" gene, though we haven't exercised it a lot yet. On this last visit we somehow got into singing the entire score of the Broadway show of Peter Pan starring Mary Martin. We sang and mugged and I went off to bed late with "I've gotta crow" ringing in my ears late into the night. I lost a line somewhere along the way so couldn't rid myself of the tune that woke me early the next morning to prepare for my work day. I hummed it in the shower but that single line eluded me.

Finally dressed formally in full ranger uniform - properly hatted and ready to leave -- I remember standing near the front door as Bob, still wrapped in a blanket on the futon, and Margaret, standing while drinking a cup of herbal tea held me back for an encore. I jokingly stood there trying to fit that final forgotten line into the piece when they joined me and we all belted out the entire lyric from beginning to end without missing one word. I left the house laughing and crowing!

On Thursday of last week, a letter arrived from the president of California College of the Arts in San Francisco announcing that I had been chosen to receive this year's honorary doctorate at commencement ceremonies on May 14th! I was stunned. Disbelieving. Was this some dreadful mistake? What on earth were they thinking? Who in the world do they think I am? It was an email that arrived as I sat at my desk. I gasped an "O God!" that was overheard by Martha and my cubby-mates who came to see what in the world ... ?

I can't do that! No amount of assurance from those around me could handle the awful feeling of having been caught in some deceitful charade that had managed to put out a false impression of me. I felt teary. I was aware that this year had brought a great deal of publicity to my work, and that seemed alright since I really do understand the unique role I play in the National Park Service and in this particular park. After all, I am legitimately a holdover of the WWII era home front -- and am lucky enough to be still capable of doing the work assigned. I feel comfortable in my role, and have worked hard to be deserving as a representative of the women of my time. In some of the filmed pieces, I've felt so proud and deserving ... so why not this time?

I've been becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the persona that was beginning to take on a life of its own, and though the stories that are appearing in the press are true, almost always they contained one or two tiny glitches that might misrepresent (as is inevitably a given in the re- telling of the stories through the words of a third person).

This morning as I was slowly waking from deep sleep -- I began to recognize what happened.

The song returned. The image of Peter Pan entering as the curtain rose -- searching for his shadow in the bureau drawer of the children:

"....I taught a trick to my shadow to stick to the tip of my toe,"

That was my persona! It had come unstuck! The Betty of the park ranger role and the Rosie the Riveter (read that lowly file clerk) in the small black auxiliary union hall had developed a life of its own and I had the sense of having lost control of my image! And, if this were true, just who was being honored by being presented with a celebratory dinner on the eve of commencement; the making of the commencement speech; and the presentation of an honorary doctorate? How on earth would I ever find out -- and would I do so in time to respond to this unbelievable letter?

That was on Thursday morning.

In the interim (over the past 3 days) I've had a long session being filmed out at Port Chicago Weapons Station with Congressman George Miller, Rev. Diana MacDaniel and Spencer Sykes of the Friends of Port Chicago for Sacramento's Channel 10 (News 10) by photojournalist, Rodney Speed, on Friday. The story is their big Black History feature sometime this month; transferring Dorian from one nursing home to another on Saturday so that she can be evaluated for physiotherapy for two broken legs ... and no time to respond to the letter. Besides that -- the first 2 of David's 6 concerts were held Friday and Saturday nights in Stockton and San Francisco, with the third happening in Sacramento last night. And -- the Sunday Chronicle Pink Section carried another story about David and me as its Black History Month kickoff feature. Then there was Pam's Sunday afternoon chamber music concert ... and ... I'd just learned that Bob has been ill ... miles away in San Juan Bautista. Motherhood looms larger than rangerhood any day, (right?), and besides all that -- I'd accidentally smashed my cell phone in slamming the car door and Bob's cell phone number was in it and now I couldn't remember it!

So how in the world does all this get figured out? Where is the time for working it through? But I found a way ... .

Next entry ... .

There is no voice better informed or trusted on the full story of Haiti than that of Randall Robinson, author and foreign policy activist ... .

I've always had such profound respect for his devoted and persistent attempts at taking the plight of Haiti to the world. His caring for its people and of their century's-old history of unbroken misery is well-documented in this interview with Amy Goodman of "Democracy Now." This is a good time to watch this relatively short video in the wake of the grim news now coming out of that beleaguered country. He is clearly using great restraint during this interview, but I heard just a glimmer of hope that his expectation of positive change in the fate of Haiti may be rewarded -- at last.

Here's hoping that our leaders will see the wisdom in bringing President Jean Bertrand Aristide back to lead his people in this time of such desperation.

"Bush Was Responsible for Destroying Haitian Democracy" - Randall Robinson on Obama Tapping Bush to Co-Chair US Relief Efforts

"Bush Was Responsible for Destroying Haitian Democracy" - Randall Robinson on Obama Tapping Bush to Co-Chair US Relief Efforts

"Oh no! This story could hardly have come at a worse time, Mom. I'm dancin' as fast as I can, and I want everyone to know that we're still viable and going forward!" ... .

That was David calling from a promotional trip to Fresno where he is putting on the first of a series of Black Gospel concerts soon -- as a part of the celebration of this, our 65th anniversary year. He hated being described as one of "the Bay Areas' imperiled small black businesses." David is a long way from giving up, and is carrying the Reid family banner into the next decade with great pride and undaunted enthusiasm. I could hardly be prouder of him than I am right now. After all, struggle is a part of the legacy -- and he's seen plenty of that since he was a teenager watching his father, his older brother, and his mom each in turn -- doin' the hard but rewarding work demanded for survival in the marketplace.

David has 6 Bay Area concerts coming up featuring Lee Williams out of Tupelo, Mississippi, and his popular male quartet, the Spiritual QC's. He's putting all of his resources (read that maxed out credit cards) into an attempt at reviving interest in black gospel music in the valley communities where many of our former African American customers have moved since leaving the urban centers. These concerts are a great contribution to the culture, and returns Reid Records to the forefront of this work that had its roots in the 50's under the banner of his dad, Mel, and uncle, Paul Reid; both long deceased. Those were the glory days of the store, and David is determined to instill new life into that rich world of roots music.

Maybe our son has enough of the genetic attributes of his hardworking and dedicated father -- as well as some of whatever-it-is that Mom contributed to his make up to move him across the barriers into the new age. If so, I suspect that we haven't heard the last of

Reid's Records!

It appears that the rumor of the death of our small black business has been highly overstated. It never was about the money, after all. David suffers no illusions of acquiring great wealth any time in the foreseeable future, His daughter and next in line, Kokee, will one day inherit Reid's launching pad and will make of it what she will (maybe she'll design and sell lady's fancy church hats; "Crowns"!); meanwhile ...

... it was always about legacy, not only of a family, but of a valiant People.

Don't leave us hanging out there, folks ...

Y'all come!


Photo: Lee Williams, who is the star of this concert series. The artist I'm looking forward to with the greatest anticipation is Moses Tyson, the greatest jazz organist in the world! I keep tellin' y'all; the best jazz is coming out of the choir loft. Tyson will blow you away! Click poster to enlarge in order to read where tickets can be purchased.

Black-owned Businesses Struggle to Survive | KQED Public Media for Northern CA

Black-owned Businesses Struggle to Survive | KQED Public Media for Northern CA

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Is the question one of re-definition -- businesses or irreplaceable historically significant black institutions?

Whether we survive the times may be dependent upon how our community answers that question.

While watching KQED's "This Week in Northern California" last night, I was suddenly jarred out of my usual lethargic Friday night viewing by the words, "...when we come back we're going to examine the threatened demise of the Bay Area's small black businesses." Would you believe that there on the small screen were the Post Newspapers publisher, Paul Cobb, and another man sitting across from the show's host, Belva Davis, discussing the Marcus Books stores and -- ours, Reid's Records! No warning. Suddenly there we were as the topic of the day. It felt surreal.

My last post was written just as I'd learned of the Richardson's plight, and on the heels of David and I being interviewed by Lee Hildebran for the S.F. Chronicle's upcoming article. Amazing!

I thought then that there has to be something here that is far outside the range of two tiny struggling black businesses -- we're experiencing, after all, the fate of many small businesses in these changing times -- enterprises of every kind, both large and small, black and white, -- and due to the country's undergoing as violent a shift in its economy as that produced by the birth of the industrial revolution early in the last century; that which came with the change from an agrarian to an industrial society.

The coming of the Information Age was foreseen long ago, during the 90's when I sat in a great convention hall in Silicon Valley as a guest of Seniornet, an online program for elders. I watched in awe as speaker after speaker stood at the lectern with his (and they were all men) little pointer while showing on the giant screen projections of the technological changes already in production and many still to come (no, not yet touch screen, but close). I saw that my little record shop back in Berkeley was obsolete; an anachronism. That the record business as we'd known it was over. Kaput! I watched every presentation of "what shopping will look like in the coming decade" with dread, knowing that it was only a matter of time. I had no idea how to take that message home to my family for whom I'd worked so hard to save the shop.

We came full circle when recently I needed a particular book in order to complete some research for my work. I looked it up on Amazon.com. It was Ann Hagedorn's "Savage Peace; the Year 1919." It listed new at $35 but was also available (also new) at $1.17 in paperback. When it arrived I wondered how that could be? With freight it was still under five dollars. A week or so later, I wanted another copy to give to a colleague and went online again -- this time it was on sale for 87 cents! It is, after all, 543 pages long! It didn't occur to me to check out Marcus Books. This was the Brave New World I'd glimpsed in 1995 and resistance was not even in the script.

Listening and watching last night it occurred to me that what we've contributed to black culture over the decades has been so much more than just being a small business. We've been the purveyors of culture; the archivists, the Grios, and without us, much that is cherished -- that infuses into American culture -- would have been slowly integrated out of existence; diluted until it became meaningless, and recognizable only in the abstract. Without blackness in its purist forms protected in its often humble institutions, the well would soon run dry. Then where in the world would the Michael Bublés, Chris Bodes, and Diana Kralls of the future come from? There would be no Britney Spears without Janet Jackson, and surely no Kristina Aguilera without Whitney Houston. Could we have produced an Elvis, Eric Clapton, Janet Joplin, without Jimmy Hendrix, B.B. King, or Bessie Smith? And so many mainstream musicians owe their fame to James Brown, Billie Holiday, or Dizzy, or Charlie Parker, or Ray Charles. Could there have been a Fred Astaire or Bob Fosse without Bunny Briggs and Honey Coles?

It is not only Marcus Books and Reids Records that serves this critical need, but the many isolated and often marginal small black enterprises that have been the carriers of the legacy without portfolio. Whether by intent or not, collectively, we've been the keepers of the culture, and for that reason if for no other, Marcus Books must be saved -- not as a business -- but as an irreplaceable black institution.

It seems to me that we need to recognize this aspect of our identity, and to try as hard as we can to keep the very essence of who we are alive and thriving by creating arts and entertainment districts in our communities. Places where we can go for replenishment, and where the rest of the world can come to continue to learn from our masters and help us to celebrate ourselves and our incomparable gifts.

It is a tragedy when we have to see and hear ourselves filtered through those we've influenced and trained to the culture simply because of the lack of opportunities and resources to stay alive into the new economy.

I'm still waiting for some feedback, or, at least some idea of where we might have this conversation before it's too late.

Lay awake most of the night concerned yet excited. It was an epiphany ... .

I was aroused by a disturbing email. The message brought up a response from somewhere deep inside -- a place that I seldom visit these days -- that place where I'm creating life rather than simply reacting to it. Maybe it had something to do with having read, Bill Strickland's, Make the Impossible Possible, (a must read). (And how it pains me to have to admit publicly that I purchased it through Amazon.com.) I, of all people, whose historic small black business is being slowly and painfully overwhelmed into obscurity by the WalMart, ITunes, and BestBuy.

I had only the day before spent the afternoon in our Berkeley store, Reid's Records, at the request of my son, David. He has stepped into his late father's shoes and is a budding promoter of black gospel concerts. Mel Reid and his uncle, Paul Reid (also long deceased), were the pioneers in the field during the 50's-60's.

I rarely visit the store since turning it over to David years ago. One can't do that part-way. It had meant far too much to me, and I couldn't have resisted looking over his shoulder and interfering with his operations. I needed to sever completely from that story, and to begin to create a new one for myself.

The reason for the visit on Wednesday was to share in an interview with David for the San Francisco Chronicle. We will be featured on the cover of the Pink Section for this special edition that will feature 3 related stories on the fate of small black businesses as the lead-in for Black History Month. The occasion is that 2010 is the anniversary of our 65th year in business; probably some kind of record as one of the oldest small black businesses in the country, precarious and struggling still.

Last night, the email arrived announcing that Marcus Books, a 50 year-old Bay Area institution, is closing. I felt a chill. The Richardson family I've known about as vital contributors to black culture for as long as I can remember. They've been critical as Grios, Archivists, centers of communication for Black intellectuals who have used their two small stores as gathering places for 5 decades; where nationally-known black authors and poets have gathered to share their work with local audiences, and the place that college students and political activists have claimed as a center for inspiration and leadership for as many years as I can recall. (Do visit the Marcus Books website -- will provide the URL when I have a moment -- but now I need to get ready to visit Dorian.)

I learned during Wednesday's interview that Marcus Books would be one of the black businesses featured in the upcoming story. I'd known that it had struggled for years from the same kind of fate that befell us years ago as our clientele began to leave the inner city for the suburbs and beyond, and for reasons I still can't fathom, small isolated black businesses had never "clustered" in the ways that would have created the kind of ethnically-specific cultural and entertainment and retail districts as other minority groups had done (think Chinatown).

But the problem may lie in the nuances; the places where we've not looked beyond the fact that we'd been (theoretically) "freed" to "integrate" into places where formerly we were not welcomed. We lost something extremely important in that process, and it may be time now to re-visit the "why" of that -- and pick up on some of the lessons left unlearned.


Marcus Books was/is so much more than bricks and mortar. The Richardson family that created it gave us something that cannot be contained under a roof. They, as we, created institutions that have taken on lives of their own. Like other small black institutions, they now live communal lives with as much coming from the influences we sent out into the world as from ourselves. Success or failure cannot be described by a bottom line. Were that true it would mean that neither of us would have realized that we'd never get into the Fortune 500 or a seat on Wall Street were we to depend upon that. No. We and other little black family businesses like ours everywhere surely knew that. We all wanted something far more precious. We wanted independence, autonomy, but mostly it was about legacy -- the ability to provide a launching pad for our children. In that place we/they succeeded if only for brief periods and with varying degrees of success, often by the simple fact of not having had enough generations in the marketplace, and while fighting the personal demons that we all have to struggle with. How else would we explain why I'd never even heard of a "Line of Credit" until after I'd left the store and turned it over to David?

That email told of the imminent demise of Marcus Books with the poignant, "what can we do?"

• I say, we use this next couple of months of designated black awareness to examine where we are in the care and feeding of the culture.
  
• That we use the Internet for examining just what it is that Marcus represents to us beyond the bricks and mortar (which is all replaceable, after all; and there may still be the way for the family to continue its unfinished work with some strong community support).
• That we begin to examine just why it is that we haven't "clustered" in order to share patrons, pool our resources, and centralize the cultural enterprises that speak to us in order to give visibility to all aspects of the entire Diaspora for the sake of the next generation. Children's views of their identity can be greatly expanded by a new vision of just who we are;
• We must realize that black culture is so much more than barbecue, collard greens, red soda, the NBA, and Sunday Night Football, and
• 
  that we've seeded the cultures of every corner of the planet with pieces of ourselves -- of Africa, but also Brazil, and Cuba, and the Caribbean, and the Bahamas, in the movement into the American West after slavery; at the sites of the Underground Railroad; in the Orient, and Haiti, and in Maroon cultures scattered throughout the areas of slave escapes, and anywhere that armed forces have been deployed throughout our world's history, and
• 
  That we begin to think in terms of today's models in the new technologies as our laboratories for learning. We have people of color widely represented in this new world and it may be time now to call them home, if only to feed into the blank spaces we're only now discovering. We've learned Facebook, Twitter, and My Space; but the racial-cultural divide is still vast and many of our folks have not yet been "wired" into the new world. A lot of our customers for black gospel music and church supplies have not yet made it across the digital-divide, and the computer age is dependent upon literacy; still a problem given the state of public education.
  

It's time now that we inventory what's "out there" in our communities, nationwide, and set up panels consisting of marketers, research and development people, inventors, graphic designers, and fine artists, financial analysts (come on J.Z, and Beyonce, and Michael Jordan, Oprah and Tiger, Spike Lee, and our other filmmakers and documentarians, etc.) and (meeting through online software resources) begin to save ourselves and enrich our shared legacy. Let's zap into what's already happening and in embryonic stages of development and there waiting for our support and enthusiasm.

I suspect that -- if there is anyone out there who understands what I'm saying here, it would be the Hip Hop crowd. That's our cutting edge, and they know it. When the schools gave up their music and fine arts curricula that allowed our young to learn and create in an area where natural ability reigns -- leaving them with nothing but their mouths and a beat; they turned that into world-changing Hip Hop culture through introducing Rap into the world as an art form!

We must stop complaining about how others tell our stories and take on the responsibility for telling them ourselves, through our powerful cultural resources. It is this gift that the Richardson family so generously gave to us all -- they gave voice to the great black stories through those they presented over the years with their in-store readings.

And, my thoughts upon waking this morning were, "just why it is that -- when we attempt to 'cluster' into districts, we either are branded as 'blight' or need to be 'integrated' out of existence? Why do we tend to believe that gentrification is okay so long as they allow us a piece of it once improved? And much of that thinking emanates from our own communities as much as from outside its edges. We've learned those negative lessons well, and are still strongly effected by the kind of thinking that destroys all attempts at in-gathering for the sake of our own cultural preservation.

We are a wondrous people, with unexplored potential with much yet to be discovered in and among ourselves.

Let's get this conversation started, folks. Suggest a venue then let the rest of us know just where we can organize online. Contact me at "...email me ..." (the link's up there above the archives and under my photo), but don't wait too long. At my age I have little time to waste!

"Contemporary Black gospel is Jazz come home!"

(slogan from an old Reid's Records newsletter.)

Been developing whistlin' in the dark to a high art ... .

Climbing back into my own life is becoming more than a notion. The process lasts about as long as it takes to push the new reality of life with Dorian out of mind -- lasting only a few minutes at a time.

The feature article on the newly-designated national park at the Port Chicago Naval Weapons Station in USA Today which appeared in the December 26th edition -- brought added attention to me and to my work. It rustled up old acquaintances from the past back into consciousness; a good thing. Many from across the country who sent emails of good wishes were from Seniornet, an online cyber-community that came into my life with discovery of the Internet during the early Nineties. I was again reminded of the magic of the online experience -- where we developed such deep friendships which had absolutely no basis in reality. We'd actually never met in most cases, and yet we'd touched lives more meaningfully than one might ever imagine. I'd almost forgotten that, and of how much I learned to rely on those friendships at the time. I'm sure that it was out of that experience that this blog evolved. I can't imagine how it could have happened otherwise.

Visits 3 times-a-day to the nursing home where Dorian is slowly recovering have become a part of my routine now. Both legs are now in full recovery but won't be ready for weight-bearing rehab work for another four weeks. The left foot has dropped and shows little sign of life at all (which is frightening). The surgeon assures me that 8 months to a year of work will take care of those fears and that she will walk again. Having her situated about halfway between our offices and my apartment makes our visits work out well. She is content with brief 30 minute drop-ins before she's ready to get back into her own routine, so I can't claim hardship.

It's the emotional effects that continue to be so wearing; the systemic difficulties encountered daily in dealing with planning for succeeding weeks of rehabilitation that shred the days into bites too small to claim hardship over yet too knotty to move through in any kind of order or resolution.

I'm sensing that all those years of training that we worked so hard to achieve for "Life after Mom" have caved in on themselves, and we've both regressed to her early years before that painful lifelong process was either realized or begun; we're back somewhere around age 4. I've slipped effortlessly out of a very adult "Mom as best friend" into "Mom as written by Neil Simon or painted as a Normal Rockwell cover for the old Saturday Evening Post." So much for objectivity. I'm not sure that there's enough life left in which to recover from this dramatic dive into maternal excess.

Maybe by next week we'll have both recovered enough to reclaim some maturity.

I'm just about as ready as one can be for the new decade to begin.

Happy New Year!

Now for the job of getting back into the rhythm of my own life ...

...and that must take place soon, or I'll begin to waste away into merely existing. There is every reason to dig my fingernails into the accumulating muck and work my way back onto the planet. We've done it before so I know that the brain can handle what it must. I'm certain of it. That's one of the great things about aging. There is the ring of familiarity to it all, and the proof of one's ability to cope is right there in the mirror. As the inimitable Elaine Stritch said it musically, "I'm still here!"

Sometime this week a story in USA Today written by journalist Bill Welch will be published reminding me that I've done meaningful work and that the work is not yet completed. We did an interview sometime back before Thanksgiving featuring the announcement of Port Chicago Naval Weapon Station becoming the 392nd national Park. "It will run sometime after the Christmas holiday," his recent email stated.

Then there is the possibility of a way to begin to think about the restoration of the jazz and blues part of the World War Home Front story. Just before the holidays an idea for just how that might happen surfaced through two dear friends with deep and strong connections in the music scene. Their capacity to bring that into being is awesome -- one is a MacArthur Fellow with a great new book out that I'm planning to pass along to the other interpreters. The other two are professional classical musicians both members of the San Francisco Opera orchestra and the S.F. Symphony. One is the artistic director of a chamber music group. The potential for something really meaningful to be launched over this next year in that area is extremely high. I will connect them both with Jordan Simmons, artistic director for the East Bay Center for the Performing Arts here in Richmond, and then the Bay Area Blues Society of the East Bay. Maybe drummer E.B. Wainwright and S.F Jazz Festival's Josh Redman? A move into this area of park development is a natural and I'm the common denominator here -- the one who can ignite the spark for this new edge by bringing these artists together to brainstorm ... .

Though it's hard to admit aloud -- there is an element of security in knowing where Dorian is and that she is safe. I've experienced little of that in my lifetime. It dawned on me last night as I lay awake listening to the rain against the windows, that I am finally sleeping again and no longer careening through the mountains toward Willits and Highway 101 in my 3-D nightmare. As regretful as it is, there is some comfort in knowing that she is making her peace with life as it unfolds; that she's building what joy she can from the sparse materials available to her; that she continues to find purpose and caring in her days despite the physical discomfort she's experiencing.

2010 will be a long year of recovery for us both. I'll have to work hard to not feel guilty about my own good fortune in the face of the slow road back for her. But I also am certain that some of her resilience is dependent upon the signals coming from me. If I can manage to keep enough balance in my own life so that there is enough positive energy to share with her, then we will both survive and prosper.

Now I'm off to deliver more skeins of colorful yarn to enable her work to go on. Of the 23 staff members at the nursing home, she has 17 projects to go. And -- she's undaunted by numbers, or is her mother.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Feliz Navidad, Kwirky Kwaanza ... !

... as for me and mine, we'll settle for a totally non-traditional holiday that -- for the first time does not include a Dorian-decorated tree in its place beside the hearth, a turkey in the oven, wrapping gifts, and everyone gathered 'roun' for the festivities.

And it's okay. Not only okay, but really quite wonderful.

I've always been the center of the universe on this day, as was my own mother for most of our lives. Grandma was always the central figure on December 25th, along with the turkey. This year -- given recent developments -- it will be my thoughtful niece, Gail, bringing a restaurant-prepared pan of lasagna and a home-baked cake to which I'll add a tossed green salad, a pumpkin pie, and assorted goodies -- all to be shared with Dorian at the nursing home at 3:30. The family will bring our gifts to exchange in a brand new and unanticipated format. It will be what it is, and what it is begins to look like a day as memorable as those of the past; something to be talked about in years to come.

Dorian is in good spirits (though sounding a bit low when she made her morning call at around seven) and her mother is elated at the progress she's made over the past several days. She has handed out her handmade gifts to staff members who are obviously delighted with them. She's been choosing those who've been tending to her round-the-clock needs; the rehab specialists, the dietician, head nurse, those who answer the bell when she rings -- and she's bringing the spirit of the season to a place where it's surely welcomed.

She is now in less physical pain or perhaps better medicated, and is learning the important bed-to-wheelchair transfers that allows her to be up part of each day now. She has learned the first names of those who are taking care of her, and (surprisingly) in some cases their relationships to one another. "Lani is Jack's mother."

My initial fears at the quality of care in skilled nursing facilities -- memories of my mother's final days in same -- have given way to new criteria for what's important. I've been watching her bond with those who are tending to her needs and find myself wondering whether I should be as concerned about the room temperature (sometimes over 80 degrees), and other trivia and more aware of the relationships she's building with her caretakers. The fact that she's paying attention to her environment enough to know the names of those around her may be far more valuable than any other factor.

I'd been worried that -- upon checking out the ratings of local skilled nursing homes on the Internet -- where they rate on a scale of 1 to 5 -- this one is pretty unimpressive (rated 2). But what if the compensating factor is something other than that which can be measured on a scale of 1 to 5? There may be some immeasurable intangibles unaccounted for in these ratings; some kind of human connectivity that our instruments just can't pick up, at least not yet.

I need to give this more thought before I start making decisions about what I see as best for her recovery. This may be one of those instances when watching how she deals with her immediate environment is the wisest course to take before wresting her away from this new world that she's shaping for herself and introducing her into a newer and stranger place where the room temperature is reasonable and the Tower of Babel of languages more understandable. She's making the translations, or, making the accents irrelevant somehow. This is one of the wonders of life with Dorian, and is what will survive our time together on earth. This is what I've learned to watch for and to nurture. How she moves through this awful test of her resilience may be that all important teaching moment -- for me.

Today will be a fine day. Different -- new and strangely off-tradition for our family -- but it will be what it must be, and we're doing just fine, thank you.

Now I have some gift-wrapping to do and calls to return while I'm feeling this fragile sense of holiday spirit, and some new confidence in the future. My son, David, and grandchildren will be with us; with only Rosie, Bob, and Margaret among the missing this year. But this means that they're creating their own holiday observance. I remember how important it was for me to begin to establish my own nuclear family traditions long ago, and of how hard it was on my parents when that time came. It's all a part of letting go and allowing our own to grow into their own futures. And -- for the first time the holiday was not marked by the empty chair that our eldest son, Rick should have occupied. Perhaps it was because the peace plant that arrived the day of his funeral was not in this room. Maybe it's time now, to let him go, too.

Peace on earth may be a little hard too come by these days, but we're seeing an awful lot of goodwill toward men (and toward the rest of us, too).

Enjoy your day. There's every indication that we're in for an interesting day of our own. This is as it should be and often is -- if we keep faith in ourselves and in our ways of moving through the world.

All's well -- or at least relatively so -- given time and patience -- and ...

Monday's dreaded visit to Eden Medical Center turned out to be reassuring in every way. Dorian will eventually recover fully, if all goes as anticipated. There was some fear that her "dropped foot" was a permanent condition. Not so. It looks like two broken legs is no longer the life sentence it once was, and that with 8 weeks of bed time and wheelchair plus continuing physiotherapy to strengthen her upper body for the transfers she must now learn, she will eventually learn to walk again. It does mean life in a skilled nursing facility for many months, but we can handle that. She will be given a brace for the left leg and an expectation for "...8 months to a year before recovery." Then it will be months of learning to walk again when she's ready for weight-bearing exercises.

After two weeks of recurring nightmares during which I'm still careening through the mountains in unending terror, on Saturday I disintegrated into a madwoman with absolutely no sense of where to turn or whom to trust, and a depression the likes of which I've not experienced for decades. It had a familiar ring, but not enough to let me know that it, as before, would come to an end about the time that I allowed myself to go with it and simply scream it all away! I'd become too fearful to allow myself to sleep for fear of the dreams, so after two weeks of driving to and from the hospital and the nursing home in (apparent) complete self control -- "crazy" took over and now I'm making sense if only to myself. And through it all I'd continued to work as though life was normal. My co-workers were understanding -- giving me the space and the time to try to absorb this cruel reality. Over the past two weeks I've worked 3 hours each day with 3 hours to deal with the demands of this emergency. I needed to hold onto my work to the extent that I could, for some kind of balance. That much was certain.

Finally picked up the phone on Saturday and called Dion who hit the ground running with all of the know how required to bring some sanity into the situation. As promised, on Monday morning she and Barbara swept their appointment calendars clean and met me at their Berkeley office where we went to Eden Medical Center together for the news. Last week at her first followup exam, the surgeon had been completely candid about his concern for the condition of her left leg which had become infected since she was discharged from the hospital. I was prepared to demand that she be re-admitted had that not subsided. I could see the relief in his face as he removed the bandages and exposed the wounds. This is a professional that we could trust. I felt certain that -- had it been necessary -- he would have been truthful with me about her condition as well as her future. This has not always been true, unfortunately. I was learning in this crucible just how little faith I have in those in whom we must trust.

On Tuesday we had a visit from four young music students (violas and violins) who came to the nursing home at noontime to perform a short concert of Christmas music for Dorian and the other patients. It was her first lunch hour in the dining room and her first extended time up in a wheelchair. This was a gift from my friend, Pam, who is their teacher among other incredible things. Dorian was so pleased!

Progress!

...and she's still crocheting away such colorful afghans and scarves as presents for the staff of the nursing home. If ever there was the spirit of the season ... .

... should I be worrying about carpal tunnel syndrome?

Oh no!

A reality show I'd love to escape from ... but only if I can take Dorian with me ... .

We're still far from answers, and the grim reality is beginning to penetrate the recesses of Dorian's mind -- fears I believed she would be spared by her limited mental capacity. Not so. The words we're now dealing with are frightening to us both. I'm facing questions like "am I paralyzed, Mom?" And for the first time in this morning's wake up phone call at around seven, "the toes on my left foot are numb, Mom, and my foot is swollen -- will it be amputated?" The grim reality is beginning to set in, and I'm just not ready.

She has always had an unexpectedly varied vocabulary, and, given the nature of her brain damage, occasional signs of intelligence beyond her apparent intellectual capacity. These little bursts of "normalcy" have always been the source of pleasure for me, and enabled us to talk about abstractions in ways that demand complete honesty from me in order to continue to provide a dependable and logical base upon which she can grow. It has worked so far. We've maintained a close and loving relationship despite the difficulties we've encountered along the way in working in an often unsympathetic and unknowing professional medical/mental system.

I'm blogging now wearing blinders of a kind required in order to keep us out of an adversarial situation with others. I've retained an attorney since there are considerations beyond my capacity to deal. I'm calling in all of the markers possible, and my community of friends and neighbors and co-workers and associates are responding rigorously, and with the kinds of help needed in order for me to wade through all that must be lived out in the short term.

The police report is now ready but not yet released. We have a second follow-up appointment at the hospital on Monday morning. We'll be transported by ambulance, and I'll then know a bit more about her prognosis.

Her Kaiser Permanente coverage has been reinstated and will be re-activated on January 1st. It had been allowed to lapse as of August 1st by those responsible for the daily supervision of those who share life together in her group home; just one of the many glitches we've encountered since the accident. She's being covered as a handicapped person under Medical/Medicare -- and you can guess that I've been more than casually caught up in the Senate debates over the past week. Watching the idiocy played out on CSPAN day after day added to the nightmare that we're currently living. It is almost surreal.

Now I'm off to the nursing home to try to raise Dori's spirits a bit; just enough to get us to Monday morning's appointment at ten o'clock. I'll pick up a tiny Christmas tree along the way. Maybe that will buy us a few hours of joy and peace on earth, the moon, Venus or Mars, and most of all -- Vintage Estates Nursing Home, Richmond, California.

Now I'm off to see the Christmas Tree Wizard!

We're at a point where the unknowns are so threatening, and when fear outweighs all else ... .

I hesitate to put anything into words now since that old childish suspicion that giving voice to these awful thoughts will give them life ... so I'm carrying around fears that -- were I not so unsure of my ground, would easily be tossed off with the first breeze that wafts by. Reality is pretty stark right now, and all the bromides in the world won't make a dent in the gloom that lurks around every corner.

Except for Dorian. If you'll look at the photo in that last entry where she is just starting to crochet an afghan -- and compare that to the work she's completed over the past ten days (her accident occurred on November 27th, the night after the Thanksgiving Holiday -- you'll have some idea of just how productive and engaged she is. She is working on Christmas gifts for the staff of the nursing home. They're absolutely staggered at her generosity and busyness in the face of the pain and anguish she must be feeling when the meds wear off and she finds herself in that strange setting where she knows no one and where English is everybody's second language. The confusion she must be experiencing has to be an additional complication for her. But you'd never know it. She's adjusting in her own way, and a fine way it is.

I visit with her on the way to and from my office, and try to stop in at lunch time. I've given up all attempts at holding to any kind of separation. Now is not the time to work on "independence." To hell with being "best friend." I'm back in my mother's role with a vengeance, and I figure "the World" will just have to back off and adjust!

She did ask yesterday, "...am I going to be crippled, Mom?" She knows what that means. Her NIAD world is peopled with friends who are seriously physically handicapped. Wheel chairs are a fact of life in her everyday existence. Such thoughts must fill her nights in this strange nursing home with these strangers who "talk weird" but tend to her needs with care.

And at this point, I have no way to reassure her.

I truly don't know... .

Life certainly has its way of keeping one humble ... .

Just in case I may have forgotten about whatever those governing forces might be, this week was a reminder of the tallest order.

After a particularly busy week which included the Thanksgiving family obligations, on Friday morning I climbed into my little red car and headed north to Mendocino for another serene weekend at the ocean's edge. All weekend, however, I felt depressed and foreboding, as though I'd never actually reached my destination; that I was left suspended in space somewhere along the way. It was strange. I was subject to long periods of silence; felt reluctant to leave the house for any reason; even resisting a walk with Tom down to the seal rocks. I read for long hours (Martha had given me a copy of Bliss Broyard's "One Drop" which turned out to be almost a word-by-word accounting of my own Creole family's history.

It was strange to be reading about names and places of those I'd known from childhood. There was her uncle by marriage, Franklin Williams, a noted activist Civil Rights attorney here in the Bay Area; mention of the Broyard family home in New Orleans on Lapyrouse Street in the Tremé -- the first home that I can remember where my paternal grandparents lived and where my own parents returned to from Detroit when I was about 3 years-old. The names and places could have been drawn from my own. Her story turned out to be a real page-turner for me.

I'd tried to place a call to Dorian several times each evening while there to reassure myself that she was okay (but hasn't she always been?) but failed to connect. Her cellphone (I thought) was on the charger and she'd neglected to turn it back on, or something equally as easily explained. I'd been out of cellphone range since Friday morning and planned to try to reach her again just as soon as there was evidence of a signal. She knew that I was out of reach, but knew also to call her brother, David, should anything turn up that she couldn't handle. This was not a new circumstance, but one we'd experienced many times over many years.

On Monday morning at about 7 o'clock I rose; did my toast and marmalade with tea and took to the road. Upon reaching Fort Bragg there was suddenly an insistent beeping from my cell. I pulled to the side of the road and searched frantically for my phone -- pressed the button and heard a male voice with the dreaded words, "...if you are related to Dorian Reid, would you please call Eden Medical Center in Castro Valley immediately!" He then gave his name, "Zack," with the date (last Friday) and said that he would be going off duty within the hour. It was now Monday morning.

I knew not whether she was dead or alive, nor would I know for another 4 hours.

After the nightmare swerving drive out of the mountains to reach Highway 101 -- I pulled over again to the roadside and called the hospital, identifying myself ... someone on the other end of the line sounding impatient (hurried?) -- told me that she was not free to give me any information until I reached the hospital. The reason being that while I was claiming to be Dorrie's mother, I could be anyone -- and the hospital could not give out her status without my being there before them with proper identification. That meant driving from Mendocino to Castro Valley California (almost 4 hours) in a state of shock and disbelief -- not to mention the guilt of having gone so far away -- leaving her at the mercy of "the World!" Never mind that she lives independently in a group home with a layer of case managers, social workers, counselors, between us in the vain attempt at creating the illusion of independence we've striven so hard to achieve all of her life. This was pay off time.

I did reach the hospital to learn that while she'd been visiting friends in Hayward on Friday (adjacent to Castro Valley) and, while there, decided to walk to the mall to begin her Christmas shopping. She'd received a small check for some of her art work a day or so earlier. In the process she was involved in an auto/pedestrian accident which resulted in two badly broken lower legs, bruised ribs, a fractured nose, a bad bump on the forehead which was an indication of a small brain bleed (since absorbed), and a black eye.

When I saw her for the first time she was overcome with guilt (having been cautioned frequently by her mom to never be on the street at night alone) and could hardly be consoled. We were a mess! We were both suffering from remorse, each at the thought of having failed the other. And isn't that always the way?

She'd been immediately brought into surgery and by the time I reached her the worst of it was over. Her mental deficits protect her from much of the trauma since she is at least spared the concerns about prognosis (will I walk again, and how impaired will I be?), but lives pretty much in the moment. Not so for her mother, however, and that's something I've been wrestling vainly with hour-by-hour since.

A few days ago she was transferred to a rehab facility which is nearby here in Richmond. She is relatively close to NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities) where her days are normally spent in a world she knows and is supported by. The drive to-and-fro through heavy traffic to the hospital each day is now over. When her physiotherapy has progressed enough to warrant it, she will be picked up by ParaTransit and delivered to and from her program where her life as an artist among the NIAD teachers and community that she loves will go on. She is also now physically close enough so that visiting is convenient for me. She is a mere 10 minutes away from the Civic Center where our offices are located, so that I can stop by to and from work each day for short visits.

I've been told that she will spend the next 8 weeks in the nursing home in a wheelchair, and that after that time she will begin weight-bearing therapy that should slowly bring her back to her normal activities. Meanwhile, what to do with Christmas when my apartment is on the second floor with no elevator?

It looks like Santa will have to visit Vintage Estates Nursing Home this year, but that's a whole lot better than it might have been, right?

The hardest part may be that I'll need to begin to teach myself all over again how to allow her out there to function in a world not designed to support her. The tendency is to draw her close and over-protect. My new mantra is, "... this could have happened to anyone". I must resist the temptation to undo years of building the separation that has enabled her to live with as much independence as she has achieved -- and quite successfully. I must not die and leave her in the world unprepared for making her own way. The State's ever-increasing budget cuts have decimated the safety net originally created to support her life outside any institution. Governor Ronald Reagan deconstructed California's mental health care system and sent this population back to communities without that system creating the services that would make life on the outside viable. We're still living in the aftermath of those decisions. Our streets are filled with the developmentally-challenged, returning wounded veterans of our many recent wars, the mentally-ill, and the psychotic -- living under bridges and overpasses in enclaves of homelessness. I shudder to think of that possibility for Dorian's future.

The hard part is knowing in my heart that the risks are very real, but that it is necessary for me to let her face them, even while knowing that she may not make it. This is the part that there's no way to prepare for ... .

There are times when love hurts ... .