After my talk ended tonight, a lovely young women slid into the chair beside me and slipped this photo into my hand ... .

It was taken during the Sixties (not sure what that "70" means at the bottom of the snapshot). It surely was taken at the annual weeklong Stebbins Institute at Asilomar on the Monterey Peninsula during my Coffee House/Bob Dylan/Joan Baez period which was preceded by my "Little Brown Barbie in the Burbs" period of the Fifties. If it does come from the year 1970, that's close enough to trigger these memories:

This was the year that the keynoters were Rev. Paul Sawyer, Dr. Robert Kimball, and Author Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters; the week Tom Wolfe wrote about in his book, "The Electric Acid Kool Aid Test". I recall feeling as if the entire week should have been off-the-record! A group of UU ministers packed up midweek in a huff and went home -- outraged! It was a week of seeing free spirits publicly skinny-dipping and the persistent rumored use of LSD. It was also the summer of the Trips Festival in San Francisco. The Summer of Love, the Diggers, and the birth of unprecedented social change. What a time it was!

We actually rode with Mountain Girl, Ken Babbs, the Hermit, and the rest of the colorful Pranksters into picturesque Carmel-by-the-Sea on a brilliantly-painted bus named "Fur-thur" with a loudspeaker blaring "Revolution!" from the roof of the bus causing well-dressed and -coifed tourists and shoppers to stop dead in their tracks and gape in slack-jawed disbelief! And, yes, my children were included in the journey as well. I recall telling Bob to watch everything closely since this may be important. How prescient was his Mom? I can still remember the combined feelings of pure joy, excitement, and fear -- delicious!

I remember one evening just before dark -- sitting on the dunes singing my songs to Kesey as he lay sprawled upon the sand on his back; hands clasped behind his head -- with a piece of adhesive tape covering his mouth. Printed in crayon on the tape in a childlike hand was the word, "Hello!" He'd said not a word, but plopped down beside me silently pointing to my guitar -- motioning me to play. As I sang the last notes he jumped up and continued toward the ocean with tear-stained cheeks. He'd been on his way to the painted bus parked near the breakers when he saw me sitting alone. Such a moment it was. I watched as he resumed his walk along the path when he suddenly stopped to pick a small bouquet of wildflowers and returned briefly to where I was sitting to present them with a deep bow to the unheard sound of trumpets! Ken Kesey, the Pied Piper of the era. On the bookshelf in my bedroom -- between the pages of my copy of Sometimes a Great Notion -- that fragile little gift remains. I last took it out the day I learned of his death. Romance? No. Just a lovely vignette; one of the many that have enriched my life; an exquisitely tender stand-alone moment in time.

How little we know about what may or may not lie ahead in this Grand Improvisation called Life -- and how little it matters as the days, week, months, years, and decades unfold with little rhyme or reason. Looking back now, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Living life in a constant state of surprise has added to this phantasmagorical miracle of existence.

Not been mentioning Dorian in recent posts ... still trying to come to terms with our new reality ...

In the quiet of my days -- just every now and then -- I allow myself to stop the hurrying; turn off my cell phone; try hard to shrink into anonymity (to the extent that this is possible these days), and try to wrap my brain around what the coming days will bring ... .

Had confirmed by our visit to the orthopedist on Friday that -- despite the scheduled corrective surgery that will take place some time over the next few weeks, the damage to Dorian's shattered legs is permanent. Though healing is taking place, and she is now using both a wheelchair and a walker, "significant rotation has occurred in both femurs, and that they are out of alignment" -- requiring the upcoming 4-5 hour surgery that will not correct the damage caused by the accident, but without it, her knees will become the problem over time. The surgery won't correct the damage from the impact, but will lessen her pain and may slow the onset of arthritis. (Then came the usual chilling recitation of possible risks following surgery.)

That's a lot to deal with for us both. She's handling it well, probably blessed by her mental deficits, but there are subtle signs that reality is beginning to seep through the fog and she's being affected by the more-than-3-months spent in nursing homes (4). I visit daily (a drive from Richmond to Berkeley) during my lunch hour, and signed her out and brought her home once to visit with her beloved cats who are now my housemates. She's learned to make it up the 16 steps to my condo with little help (the learned techniques are miraculous). Her walk has always had a forward thrust, but now she's stooped as well, "...I need to see my feet so that my dropped foot doesn't turn in too much." According to the doctor, the problem foot is due to nerve damage -- either from the impact or from the first surgery -- and will not recover.

There are some bright places in all this: Her mental retardation is less of a factor in the nursing/rehab facilities where she's lived the past several months. There is so much dementia in that environment, that she is less unlike those around her than in the general population. In fact, she is exuberant and hard-working and is rewarded for every achievement by the really fine physiotherapy staff. Her natural warmth and productivity (she's crocheting like a madwoman!) lights up the place. She knows the names of almost everyone on staff, and her gregarious nature opens doors and creates goodwill. She's assertive enough to be able to get her needs met quite well. For that I am eternally grateful (and I allow myself -- and the good nuns at St. Vincent's Academy in Santa Barbara -- credit for that).

Because the pedestrian/auto accident that brought the injuries involved a city-owned vehicle, there are no insurance problems. The police report also contains an account by a responsible witness. Responsibility has been accepted by the agency and we have a compassionate and trusted attorney handling the case; the cousin of a good friend. Her medical claims are being handled by MediCal/MediCare -- an amount now soaring into the stratosphere, though I've tried to not focus on any of that. As a true child of the Great Depression, when financial considerations get above about $5,000 I tend to get a nosebleed!

On the down side: While Dorian is adapting to this new reality incredibly well, I've regressed to Super Mom to a distressing degree. After a lifetime of teaching her independence and the ability to survive in the world beyond my lifetime, I've now become a hovering nose-wiping forehead-kissing "Mommy" who will soon reduce her to a 6 year-old if I don't learn to back off and stop undoing all that painful hard work. Even as I watch myself making an infant of my daughter, the will to stop the behavior is sadly missing.

Maybe it comes from not having been at hand when this all happened. I was in Mendocino (and out of cell phone range) for that weekend and only learned of her fate three days after the fact.

Guilt?

But common sense would certainly suggest that the risk was always "out there" and that awfulness happens randomly ... .

Maybe the fact that we've escaped all these years is something to be appreciated ... .

But then that's too rational. I'm not into rational today. Maybe I need to use up more of the irrational -- then peace may come.

Meanwhile, it's Saturday morning and I have these socks to match and accumulated papers to toss ... and a talk to give tonight at Mt. Diablo Unitarian Universalist Church in Walnut Creek at around five ... .

Photos: Dorian in Special Olympics athletics programs; before.

Betty on Channel 10 about Port Chicago

This is a link to the unedited raw footage of my interview that was used in the making of a segment of the evening news produced by Channel 10 out of Sacramento, California. It is the work of photojournalist, Rodney Speed, in recognition of Black History Month.

Once at the website, look over to the right hand side of the screen to "related videos" and you'll find the complete segment as it was aired on the evening news. Its title is "Port Chicago Remembered." Scroll down the list to bring it up. Only about two sentences were used in the final product (which is the way these things work).

However, in addition to mine, there are two others worth viewing; the complete interview of Rep. George Miller, whose hard work and dedication both created then moved Port Chicago from designation as a monument to full status as the 392nd unit of the National Park System; and that of Dr. Robert L. Allen of the University of California at Berkeley and the author of "The Port Chicago Mutiny." He tells the human story of the event in his own words. Though unplanned, my interview provides context for the others. Together these give a fairly complete story of those 320 young lives lost, and of all that followed in the wake of that great tragedy. Ranger Thaddeus Shay and Historian John Keibel are also featured on camera.

(Fine work, Mr. Speed!)

Well, that didn't last long ...

Fell asleep last night with my radio on and went through the process of wakening so slowly that it was difficult to distinguish dream from reality.

My little clock radio was tuned to NPR and in the transition between sleep and wakefulness came a story about Winchester College in Salt Lake City, Utah. The college has a large contingent of athletes in the Olympics this year, largely in snowboarding competitions.

Narrator: "Winchester recruits from all over the country with
scholarships -- $23,000/yr -- for those who can maintain high
academic grades while pursuing excellence in the sport."

This year 41 such students were accepted into this small school's ice sports programs.

The next story was about today being the anniversary of the shameful internment of 120,000 Japanese during WWII, 70,000 of whom were American citizens.

Narrator: "Apologies have since been extended to those
unfairly incarcerated over the years of the war --
and reparations amounting to over 1 billion
dollars has been paid to those families effected."

Before opening my eyes I thought of my greatgrandmother, "Mammå," Leontine Breaux Allen, who was born into slavery in 1846 and served as the matriarch of our family until her death in 1948.

African Americans were brought in chains into the Americas during the 1600's and lived as less than human for the next 300 years; until the Emancipation Proclamation was signed by President Lincoln. During those years it was illegal to educate the enslaved. Leontine spoke only French, but could neither read nor write in any language. Her entire life was spent on a plantation in St. James Parish, Louisiana, then in a tiny cabin beside the Mississippi after her marriage to Civil War veteran, George Allen, who fought with the Louisiana Colored Troops on the side of the North. It was there that, mostly as a widow, she raised her large family, including my mother.

Nonetheless, one of her grandchildren (only two generations out of slavery), George Allen, served as president of Texas Southern University; one of her daughters, Aunt Alice, created the first school for black children in St. James Parish and served as its principal until her death during my lifetime. Generations of Breaux and Allen children and grandchildren have been major contributors to mainstream America in all areas of economic and cultural life.

African Americans have only been "free" (since 1865), for far less time than those years spent under the cruel system of slavery. And, freedom has only existed in theory. Since emancipation we've experienced; legal racial segregation, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, lynchings, "Separate but Equal", Dred Scott, Brown vs. the Board of Education; Sit-ins and bus burnings, church bombings, and a long succession of neglected and ignored legislated promises left unfulfilled.

But, unlike our nation's dealings with the ill-treated Japanese Americans of WWII, there has been no apology to those whose lives were so degraded over the course of the nation's past -- nor have reparations ever been offered for over 300 years of involuntary servitude; for existing as chattel; and for being bought and sold by others. And only in the recent past has there been recognition of the fact that the country was built on the backs of those enslaved and maltreated over centuries.

How are these stories related?

In those early morning musings before becoming fully awakened into my day it was all very clear. It would not take very long (judging from the speed with which George Allen reached his pinnacle of achievement) for many African Americans to escape the chains of poverty and despair if reparations in the form of a free education up to and including graduate schools were granted as entitlements to every qualified descendant of slavery.

If we can do it for snowboarders and the children of the nation's elite, why not for those to whom the country owes so much and for centuries of continuing hopelessness and today's abandonment into an underground economy fueled by illegal drugs? (As I recall, we named it Welfare Reform.)

But now it's almost eleven o'clock and I'm fully awake and these answers feel a bit less realistic -- but maybe worth thinking about as I watch the Olympics this afternoon at the nursing home with Dorian.

And, yes, the post that precedes this one was a spasm of temporary contentment, and was fleeting. But it did carry the promise of change -- and that may be enough to help me to continue to lean into the winds of positive change with unknown others who are doing the same -- on pure faith in our presumed humanity.

I have several speaking engagements upcoming this week for Black History Month. That fact is surely having an effect upon my thoughts today. Too bad we've accepted this month-long observance rather than continuing to struggle to have black history recognized as American history -- the narrative of an upstart young nation that has yet to come to terms with its beginnings, or, the unspeakable brutality of a Civil War whose mission of ending slavery has never been fully realized. A nation that has yet to process its troubled past, and must, before attempting to move into its place as the undisputed leader of the free world.

Our destiny may be all gnarled up in promises of democracy unfulfilled.

Finally free of the lifelong rage?

Drove to the Oakland Museum yesterday for that oral history interview which meant revisiting the awfulness of racism of the '50's, and noted on the way home that there was an element missing ... the long-simmering and highly-controlled fury that has played in the background of my life, throughout. Talking into a microphone about those years no longer reactivates the pain of rejection. Wonder when it was dissipated, and just how it happened? Is it over now, or will it return full-blown through some negative experience but get expressed in some new form?

Is this the effect of my day-to-day work with the National Park Service -- the ongoing research aspects of having to deal with my personal history objectively that has brought change?

There's a vague familiarity about the feeling -- like sitting in a frozen metal chair in 17 degree weather in front of the nation's Capitol watching the Inauguration ... yes! That's it.

Could it be that I'm finally feeling "heard," in the world because I've been handed a megaphone? It's as if the silence has broken around generations of injustice leaving space now for reconciliation. And -- why does this bring to mind the image of melting massive glaciers -- with the deafening cracking sounds and rising sea levels ...

Transition?

What do you suppose comes next?

Is this what it feels like to have "processed" one's history? This can't be a singular experience, but suggests that I'm not alone -- that my life may have fallen within the bounds of a change generation. I suspect that humankind has moved through the ages with pulsations like the one I seem to be experiencing; those occasional and unpredicted thrusts that moves humanity inevitably toward -- I know not what ... and that this feeling of social well-being will be short-lived, lasting only until the next outrage occurs ... .

Maybe I can blow it apart by turning on CSPAN for a few hours.

That should do it.

But in the meantime ... .

This afternoon I'm being interviewed at the Oakland Museum for an oral history series being produced this spring on past housing discrimination as experienced by African Americans ... .

So it's back to plain clothes and out of my "Oracle of Port Chicago" role (a growing feeling these days) and back into my own persona and therefore the little black suit that is supposed to guarantee anonymity, though I'm not sure that does the job anymore.

I'm now regularly stopped on the streets by perfect strangers who want to tell me that I've popped up on their televisions screens, and all that goes with that. I suppose that it's a function of aging, but I really do lose sight of what all this public exposure means and of how one begins to be pulled off one's base by outside expectations. Were I younger, I'm fairly certain that the human wish to please would play a powerful role in altering my self-image by creating an inflated ego. But it's too late for those pressures to have much effect at this point since I'm so strongly self-defined after so many years of testing by trial and error and tripping over the cow pies in the road of life!

I'd be less than honest if I didn't admit that it's all very flattering, but it also has a comic edge to it that helps me to remain focused. The entire idea of an 88 year-old park ranger sounds preposterous, doesn't it? Except, that I truly believe that my life experience, my continuing ability to provide the services required of my position; and my day-to-day productivity makes its own statement. That statement being that age may be totally irrelevant in determining the ability of the human animal to contribute to society even in these advanced years. If the belated media attention supports that, then it may be deserved -- not only for me but for my generation of extraordinary ordinary people.

The downside may be that I've lived long enough to be able to view my wrinkles in HD-TV; and what a jarring spectacle that is!

Photo: Top - working with the Careth Bomar Reid/E.F. Joseph photo collection at her home. Bottom- taken at the Mardi Gras celebration at Nevin Park in the Iron Triangle of Richmond, California. It's that time of year -- enjoy!

Today's interview went well, I think. Since I've learned not to watch the finished product ... the work has become easier... .

Those two hours will be edited down to 3 minutes for tomorrow's evening news on KPIX, Channel Five out of San Francisco.

Today's interview at Port Chicago with Ann Notarangelo was comfortable. She is a fine interviewer. When I'm telling the stories to someone who has never heard them, they are freshened for me. When anticipating a new assignment at this site, it feels as if I can never provide the words that address the magnitude of what happened here. Who on earth could? And for me, personally, it's as if all of the life has been talked out of the few words of my ordinary experience of entertaining those few young sailors whom I couldn't identify had I met them on the street the very next day -- had they lived -- words that have grown dull from overuse. But then it changes ... when I see eyes light up with interest ... and the words come alive again.

Each time I'm at the memorial site and re-positioned in that deceptively tranquil setting, I can feel the presence of the unseen, and the stories flow and -- it's almost as though we've brought the life with us to this monument ... to those lost in that unspeakable tragedy...

Strange.

Guiding the bus tours at the Rosie the Riveter scattered sites in Richmond (maybe 25 miles south), the experience is quite different. There's a feeling of awe and reverence here that's missing in the place where the narrative tells of the round-the-clock frenetic laboring force that morphed into continuing decades of social change and adjustments that re-shaped the nation in so many ways.

There's a feeling at Port Chicago that on July 17, 1944, Earth stopped orbiting the sun for an instant ... that the unspeakable occurred and that the horror remains suspended in the air here -- that thing that one can still sense in the stillness ... and, for me, something forever unresolved ... .

Ann asked a question that remained with me on the drive home. I can't even recall her exact words, but it started a line of thought that still clings ... I've not worked it through enough to try to express it -- at least not yet -- but it was an insight that for some reason feels terribly important; a breakthrough of some sort.

I wonder if it had anything to do with great blue herons -- another lingering fragment of a thought that slipped into mind for some reason ... ?

Maybe one day I will watch this one.

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!