Sometimes it just be's like that ... .

Over the past weeks there was the second installment on property taxes to meet; another round of surgery for Dorian, the much-needed replacement of my washing machine which suddenly died; auto insurance installment due; Triple-A needing renewal; annual auto registration and smog check needing attention or else; then my car was struck from the front by an unknown driver in a mall parking lot causing severe damage to the motor that allowed me to drive for a couple of weeks then it, too, died and is parked in my carport awaiting a mechanic who was suppose to pick it up last Monday and now it's Friday and still no action.

I've been driving a $40/day Kia from a car rental agency for the past five days in a jam-packed week that included guiding three 2-and-a-half-hour tours involving a busload of teachers from UCLA on Tuesday, two classes (45-50?) from Dominican University from Marin County last Friday, and 17 Board members and friends of the Eugene O'Neill Foundation in Danville.  These tours, plus a reception in San Francisco on Tuesday evening at the Girls Source Center made it an unusually heavy work week that called on whatever power I have to compartmentalize since the negative script was running on background right through the "interpretation" of the stories of the Home Front sites we visit.  In many ways, though, even the woes tend to diminish in the face of the telling of the stories, and provide escape when much-needed.

Phew!

If that paragraph is run-on, it's the "run-on" life that I've been living over the past few weeks, leaving little room for blogging.

Included in that list of mounting pressures is a drive to Berkeley to visit with Dorian every day to pick up and deliver her laundry and provide an unwavering center for her troubled universe until times get better.

Life does have a way of keeping a balance between the ups and downs, doesn't it?

I guess on May 7th when I'm being (again) honored along with two other "Women of Achievement" by Girls Source at the trendy Hotel Nikko in San Francisco, my morale will be well able to use the ego boost.  At first it felt awkward to submit a list of ten guests for my table at the luncheon -- how does one do that -- ask friends to come to pay homage to oneself?  But in light of happenings, I bravely turned in my list at the reception on Tuesday evening, firmly believing that by May 7th I'll be needing an infusion of love and affection to make up for this deadly run of negative karma that's been in force since Dorian's accident in late November.

For a few months there I felt in need of a humility transplant, but now that's hardly necessary.  I've been quite properly taken down a few pegs by the natural process called daily life; the Great Equalizer.

Photo:  Backstage at the recent production of Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues.  Photo by Ellen Gailing.

This is one of those times when it's hard to distinguish between ...

... when it is that I'm relaxing in my big chair, a loving representative of the human species generously sharing the evening with one of Dorian's two felines (now my housemates) and when it is that I'm simply sitting under a cat.

... but I've finally exhaled.

Final rehearsal for The Vagina Monologues, and it's lucky because I'm about at the end of my extended string ...


I'm finally beginning to experience symptoms of stress.  Can't hold a thought long enough to express it -- not only in the script -- but even in conversation.  I'm not sure that I've ever experienced this before, and it's frightening.

Now that Dorian is beginning to crumble and the tears flow at the sight of me on each visit, my objectivity is crumbling right along with her.  After 5 months of living in a nursing home environment, the signs of depression are undeniable.  My feelings of having failed her after a lifetime of carefully preparing her for living without me are now being fully realized.  I'm finding it was all in vain.  We're here in a time when we're most vulnerable, and all the training in the world could not have protected us from the inevitable gamble that even the best-intentioned cannot escape; random awfulness.

Last night we had the final rehearsal for tonight's staging of Eve Ensler's marvelous play, and I'm no more ready than I was at the first.

I slept most of yesterday (instead of rehearsing my lines) and only rose because the clock said it was time to go to the Craneway to zombie-walk my way through the final reading (the other women have memorized their lines and I'm so ashamed!).

The best part of this adventure is that I've met some of the most exciting women of my long lifetime.  Such an array of wonderful women -- from teens to elders -- and all warmed up and ready to roll!

As the evening wore on -- it was a strange experience in that they became my contemporaries; as if recognizable in each of them is a part of what has accumulated in me over the decades. What should have made me feel old and irrelevant actually served to allow me to tap into those parts of myself already lived and that they are on the threshold of; strange, but meaningful and utterly fascinating.  There is one other octogenarian in the cast, and several mid-lifers, but I'm the oldest member of the cast.  Wonder why it doesn't feel that way?  Denial?  Probably not; just that I'm becoming aware of one of the features of aging; an increasing ability to see oneself in all of humanity, both the good and the bad.  I suspect that the  concept of empathy was discovered by someone in their eighties; and probably a female at that.

I wonder what it would have been like these past weeks had I not been carrying the fears (now realized) that  Dorian has suffered irreparable and permanent injuries and will be physically disabled as well as mentally-retarded for the rest of her life? 

Wonder what those other women are carrying around in the back of their minds and why it doesn't show in their work as I'm certain it does in mine?  Is the difference that when we're young there is always hope that time will lend a hand; and that time is a luxury that elders can no longer afford?

Is this the difference?  Am I, predictably, losing resilience?

Am I finally and undeniably growing old?

But it's  now Monday morning and the show is tonight.  I need to arrive at six o'clock for a seven o'clock performance.  I will now take my script and go into the bathroom and memorize my lines before the mirror.  Maybe I'll get my friend and neighbor, Jennifer,  to give me the cues.  I'm almost there so it won't be difficult with a little effort.  Only a lack of confidence kept me from tossing the script away at last night's rehearsal.  I don't really have that many lines, and I've done "performances" for years while guiding bus tours,  so what's the hang-up?

I will make my daily visit to Elmwood and try to not be dissuaded by tears and those unanswerable questions, "...when can I come home, Mom?", and then I'll come back and shower and don my black and red "classy" finery and be ready to trod the boards with those other Vaginas!

Photo:  The lighting didn't allow for a decent image, but here are a few of the cast (that's Martha Lee, Park Superintendent (and my boss) standing in the back row on the left side.  When I hesitantly told her while we shared lunch one day, "...I'm in the cast of The Vagina Monlogues." Rather than gasp in shock, her response was, "I'd LOVE to do that!"  "I'll inform the director," says I, and the rest is history.   She's terrific!  If you'll click on the photo it will enlarge and become clearer.  Left to right, Carolyn whose 80th birthday is today, Martha Lee, Shirley Butt, moi, and Michelle Itagaki.

Miracle at Elmwood Rehab Facility ...

While visiting Dorian at Kaiser Permanente post-surgery,  she mentioned that back at the nursing home where she'd been living for the past several months recovering from fractures of both legs -- there was a plastic bag containing soiled laundry which needed picking up.  Since I pass through Berkeley on my way to my home in Richmond, it was convenient to stop by and relieve her concerns.


Dorian shares a room with another patient who has only been under treatment for a few weeks, and who had never been communicative -- always with the curtain drawn when I visit with Dorrie -- and, though my gregarious daughter knows the names of every C&A, physiotherapist, RN, and social worker in the facility, she did not know that of the woman who shares her room.  Very odd.  Dorian, who is developmentally disabled, has the personality of the Great Dane puppy and romps in her wheelchair about the halls and visits constantly throughout the building. 

I probably should tell you that our roommate is taken by ambulance 6 days a week for dialysis, and is rarely out of bed, but I have no idea what her ailment is, though she is obviously in pain much of the time, and her legs are visibly swollen ... .

When I went in to pick up the laundry I was surprised and delighted to see the room filled with sunlight (curtain between the beds was drawn back) and the patient was busily crocheting on a beautiful bed coverlet.

"Oh, so you're an artist, too," says I.  How lovely that you and Dorrie have this to share."

She smiled and said, "Oh, no.  I didn't know how to crochet, your daughter taught me to do this.  I never made nothin' so beautiful.  It's for my daughter."

Dorian is not only brightening up the home with her handmade presents to staff, visitors, and patients, but she's teaching!  I may go broke buying skeins and skeins of yarn, but I'll go happy.  She gets such pleasure from keeping her little book of "commissions" and taking orders for these lovely colorful gifts of love. 

Photo 1:  Happy roomie!
Photo 2:  Dorian and one of her latest projects.  This was taken 3 days after her second surgery and one day after her return from Kaiser Hospital to Elmwood Rehabilitation Facility. I'm heading out to see her in a few minutes -- and she's progressed to the point where she's again cruising the halls in her wheelchair and no longer bedridden.  It's been less than two weeks (3/31) since the corrective surgery was performed.

Life has been fraught with activity -- rehearsing for Vagina Monologues plus the usual workload plus driving to Berkeley to visit with Dorian each day ... 


This last sentence in that paragraph from the Golden Gate National Cemetery has continued to haunt my days ...

"...  Additionally, 24 African Americans who perished while loading Liberty Ships in the Port Chicago incident on July 17, 1944, and whose remains were unidentifiable, are buried as unknowns in Section P."

•  Why are those men not identified as Navy men, only as African Americans, who may well have been civilian stevedores?  We know they were sailors.  Does that mean that the Navy didn't claim them as real servicemen and therefore not entitled to full military protocols in these final rites?
• ... but that could hardly be true since they were tried for mutiny in trials conducted by the Navy.
• And, why is the word "ammunition" not used before the words "Liberty Ships" which would have given the sentence more relevance, and
• in describing the deadly Port Chicago explosion that vaporized two ships and 302 lives as an "incident," did it not dramatically understate both the magnitude of the tragic event and the loss of life? 
• When there were 302 lives lost in all (220 of whom were black), why was the number reduced to "24 African Americans," though I'm sure the intent was to use the 24 as proxy for the many who died on that day.  The sentence as stated fails to account for 196 young black men as never having lived at all.
• Of the 302 who perished, 82 were white servicemen (Maritime and Navy). Where are they buried since the graveside rites in the Joseph photo are being held in the Negro Section P.  Were the others given full honors, including flag-draped caskets?
• Since the memorial has the names of all those who died on that fateful day etched in the marble monument at Port Chicago, one would suppose that there would have been an updating of the information in the annals of the national cemetery that might answer these questions.
• And, finally, after six lines of description of the burials of German and Italian Prisoners of War, almost as an afterthought, "additionally, 24 African Americans ... "

You can see by my questions that little has been resolved, though I've posed them to a military expert who is a specialist in all things WWII, and -- though I'm not sure when -- I should hear soon and will pass what I learn along to you.  There must be a story here that needs telling.  And in the telling, we are describing circumstances in which a fair trial was impossible.  As the nation's history has continued to evolve toward enlightenment, it is time to support those working to remove the stain of what many sincerely believed to have been unjust convictions.  Finding answers to questions long buried with the victims may be critical. One would hope that exoneration is still possible before any more die in shame.

Three responses to my last entry about the absence of flags on the caskets of those lost in the explosion at Port Chicago ...

"You could be right, Betty.  Maybe there were not enough flags during the war for all of those lost but I imagine the flags were given to the European Americans first." 

"Perhaps the burial was over or the draping had not been done yet.  Hate to think the worst."

"... another reason could be that the flags were removed before lowering into the ground."  (all of them at once?)


Would it help to know that this burial was taking place in the Negro Section of the National Cemetery at San Bruno?  I hadn't known that there was such a thing in California until two years ago when several of the living survivors were invited to participate in the Day of Remembrance.  I was to meet them at the Rosie Memorial for a guided tour of that site.  They were late and explained upon arrival that they'd been caught in traffic on the S.F. Bay bridge.  Prior to joining me they'd been taken to San Bruno to visit the graves of those African Americans who perished in the explosion.  It was then that I learned for the first time that racial segregation had followed those black navy men into the grave -- and not in the South -- but here in California.  It is a National cemetery and therefore subject to the times and political environment in which the greatest home front tragedy occurred.  It would be 3 years before President Truman would order the desegregation of the Armed Forces; full compliance would be achieved by 1954. 


I suppose it was from the back of my mind where things too disturbing to process get stored, that suddenly the information surfaced with that "sharp involuntary intake of breath" on Tuesday.  As much as I'd prefer to think we're better than that -- history has proven that it wasn't always so.

 I continue to be persuaded by my original premise that the withholding of the flags was deliberate and that, symbolically, it is in keeping with the fact that the graveside where this burial service was held was in the Negro Section of the National Cemetery.

From the cemetery's website:

One of America's most valiant naval officers -- Admiral Chester W. Nimitz -- is buried at Golden Gate National Cemetery.  A number of distinguished officers who served are also buried there.   The 44 German and Italian Prisoners of War are interred here were captured in North Africa after the collapse of the German Afrika Corp under the command of Lt. General Erwin Rommel in 1943.  The P.O.W's were housed at Camp Beale and Camp Cook in California and Camp Rupert in Idaho, where they were originally buried at the respective post cemeteries.  When the posts closed, the P.O.W.'s were re-interred at Golden Gate.  Additionally, 24 African Americans who perished while loading Liberty Ships in the Port Chicago incident on July 17, 1944, and whose remains were unidentifiable, are buried as unknowns in Section P.

It would be wonderful if more of you would enter the conversation.  I'm open to discovering another possible answer than the one I'm left with.

Why is this important?  I am truly convinced that unless we re-visit those unfinished and untold stories and excise the toxins from that history, and measure that against where we are today (with a long way to go still), we'll have no idea how far we've come in comparison to where we've been -- or how powerful is our system of governance to have accommodated such monumental changes without more civil unrest.  Those of us who've lived long enough to have experienced those changes first hand know how much cause there is for hope for eventual freedom from the bigotry, brutality, and for continued heroism in the face of unspeakable shame.  Our Democracy continues to be a dynamic uncompleted story of courage and valor.   We know there is cause for hope because we've witnessed a past strewn with the ashes of hatred and degradation, and lived to see the possibility of fulfillment of the promise of America, and to participate in the nation's atonement and redemption.

We are still the best hope for the entire world, but it will take all of us to remain so.

Photo:  Day of Remembrance, July 2009, visiting survivors of the Mutiny Trials.

I thought it an ordinary request to participate in their Womens' History Month[Black History Month observance ...

It turned out to be far more.

After an eventful Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) trip across the bay (there had been a fire at the Montgomery Street station earlier that morning) that took what is normally a 20 minute ride -- over an hour and ten minutes of stop and start lurching to reach the Embarcadero Street terminal.  Here by arrangement a driver was to meet me for the short drive to the beautiful and historic Old Custom House on Battery Street in San Francisco where I was to give my presentation.

I was the guest (and honoree, as it turned out) of the US Customs & Immigration Field Office of the US Department of Homeland Security. 

Upon arrival (20 minutes late!) I was taken to a gathering place where the program was already in progress with an African drumming combo performing.  They were to bracket my talk at the beginning and end -- and by their presence it was obvious that this was no ordinary "Betty Talk on Rosie the Riveter Home Front Era of WWII." 

I was glad that I'd worn my dress uniform and gold earrings for this event, and that I'd arranged in advance to share the DVD, "Of Lost Conversations," as a part of my talk, something that I don't ordinarily include except during the orientations before a guided tour.

After a few introductory words the lights were dimmed and the familiar music with the image of the launching of the SS Robert S. Abbott (publisher of the Chicago Defender) came up.  I watched in the dark with the audience, looking at faces for signs of the ever-present surprise and power at the unfamiliar content.  For some reason when the photo appeared of those gathered at the burial of the Port Chicago victims I felt an involuntary sharp intake of breath.  It was a case of hiding in plain sight.  I'd never noticed it before but its impact was almost painful.  Though this was a solemn military burial rite -- the likes of which we've seen over the centuries -- something was missing.  There is a glaring omission in this photo, and I'd failed to pick it up before now.

The caskets are not flag draped. 

Four minutes and 21 seconds later the lights were turned up and -- as if the insight had not occurred -- I went on with my talk to an appreciative audience.  We had a round of questions and answers and shared two kinds of cake, and then it happened.  There was the presentation of a beautiful plaque with my name etched below the great Seal of the Department of Homeland Security in honor of the day.  It wasn't until then that I noticed that much planning had gone into the event.  The programs left at each seat had a reprint of the S.F. Chronicle's recent article on Port Chicago featuring my photo in full color.  Why hadn't I been aware of the importance of this assignment?  (I squirreled away several programs into my bag to impress my grandkids.)

Until the ride home with the commute traffic I wouldn't allow myself to think about that flash of whatever it was to rise to consciousness -- at least until there was time to figure out what it all meant.  For the time being there was the excruciatingly loud and dissonant noises of the train as it traveled through the tunnel under the Bay. There would be time when I'd gotten back to my cubicle at our administrative offices in Richmond to let it gnaw at my brain until some understanding was possible.

Was this significant?  The burial rites certainly preceded the mutiny trials, right?  Could it be that the absence of the ages-old traditional flag draping of the caskets of the fallen evidence of the Navy's refusal to accept these men as real Americans at the time?  Given the political climate in which those 302 men (220 of whom were African American) were lost in the tragic explosion --there was total segregation of the armed forces -- was this needed evidence that those men could never have been deemed worthy of a fair trial based on their being seen as lesser than ...?

Might this photograph form the basis of an appeal for exoneration for all those unfairly charged with mutiny for refusing to return to loading that ammunition until they could do so with relative safety?

After studying this photo for several days, I'm still wondering whether I'm reading more into this than is warranted ... or if that flash of insight after all these years is meaningful?

I'll ask those who are researching the events at Port Chicago on July 17, 1944 for guidance.  I wonder if anyone else had noticed the anomaly?

Early morning surprise and the remarkable day that followed ...

It was just another Monday morning until the moment that I walked into our offices to learn that we were to have a surprise visit from the (snare drums here!) Secretary Ken Salazar of the Department of Interior! The call had come in at about seven and the race was on.

Ric announced while leaning into my cubicle, "Martha would like for you to accompany Tom to Buchanan Field in Concord to meet the Secretary for a tour of Port Chicago."

He and his staff (deputy secretary, press secretary, staff photographer, executive assistant, various aides - about ten in all) were in San Diego (at the southwest corner of the state) for meetings on water issues and was due to arrive in Redding (in the northern area) for related matters concerning a groundbreaking for salmon runs and more water issues about the Delta that evening and the next day -- when he decided that, since Port Chicago was somewhere in the middle between these locations,  he might as well touch down for an hour or so to see the newest unit of the National Park Service.

Had I known that any more was expected of me, I'd probably have been begged off. Tom admits that they decided not to give me anything to be nervous about so willfully neglected to tell me that after meeting his executive jet at the airport, the party would board our NPS bus for the 20-minute drive to the Concord Weapons Station and the Port Chicago Monument where I would climb out of my passenger seat next to the driver, and into the back of the bus with the Secretary and his staff, so that I could do an en route interpretation of the Port Chicago Story.

It might have been a disaster, but Secretary Salazar is about the kindest least stuffy man one might ever expect to meet. By the time it dawned on me that I'd been set up, I was already into my stories and it was just fine. He was wonderful, so easy to relate to that it was painless. He asked questions and I provided answers -- the best that I could. The fact that I was speaking from memory of the times rather then reciting something learned by rote from the literature, probably is what makes my thin little Port Chicago story so powerful. I've decided after expressing some reluctance to continue to act as an informal interpreter for this site, that Martha may be right. This is her claim, "Betty, you were there." He and I hit it off like old friends, and he's planning to return for this year's Day of Remembrance on July 17th.

Every VIP our staff could reach was at the base to meet us when we arrived. It was a magnificent day to remember always.

And I'm happy that no one told me in advance of the role I was expected to play. I would have been so nervous! As it was, I didn't expect so much of myself that I would have experienced disappointment in my "performance." Tom and Martha allowed me to simply be myself -- something that I'm discovering in these later years -- may be quite enough.

I loved the play. It was Maxwell Anderson's Winterset and I read for the role of Miriamne ... .

It was my junior year at Castlemont High School and I'd fallen in love with the movies. I must have been all of 17 and subject to dreams that soared! Being a movie star was the secret wish of every little girl I knew, no matter how far-fetched the idea might be. If all else failed, there was always Aladdin's genie to appeal to, right? And I had the kind of imagination that knew no boundaries.

Equally unlikely would be dreams of college for one with so few family role models to try to emulate . The assumption was that I would be Mel Reid's bride shortly after graduation. After all that was what pretty girls did, and when I look at photographs of myself taken in those years now, pretty was what I was. Successful girls were those who followed the traditional path -- and going to college usually was intended as a means of gaining access to potentially successful men. Independence for women was only important if one failed to attract a husband, preferably by your 21st birthday. I would be married by my 19th.

WWII had not yet exploded into a hot war and remnants of the Great Depression were still evident.

She must have been what today would be called a Progressive since this gritty Maxwell Anderson play was based on the Sacco-Vanzetti trials; controversial material for a high school class, surely. However, what happened would suggest that the politics of my drama teacher lacked the power to carry her to the place that would encourage acting on principle. I must have caused her great pain that day.

I was reading the part of the love interest, Miriamne, (I believe she was played by Sylvia Sidney in the screen version that I remember -- or was that "Street Scene"?) in a play with limited characters, almost all male. I loved the part and I'll always remember how quiet the room became as Eddie and I read from the second act of the script. I knew that we'd nailed it. It felt wonderful, and at some later time in history might have served to build momentum toward theater as a major. It was just too early in the struggles of the times.

When the period ended, the teacher passed my desk and dropped a note asking that I come back after the break. She needed to speak with me. I was convinced that she was going to praise me for my reading and (possibly) offer me the role in an upcoming production.

The bell rang and I approached her desk smiling; confident; feeling smug; maybe even cocky.

A red-faced obviously uncomfortable young teacher speaks: "Betty your reading today was truly wonderful. You and I both know that you would make a great Miriamne, but we also know, don't we, that there are parents who would be offended to see you paired with Eddie; because you're colored, you know ..." (her voice trailed off in embarrassment). I was not prepared for this, though once uttered, the obvious truth of her words was sobering; and devastating! How could I have ever dreamed of such a thing? Of course she was right. For those few days I'd gotten lost in the play. I'd simply forgotten.

Deeply hurt, I left the drama class and never spoke of the incident again. I registered the next day in public speaking. Ironic choice, though, since there was about as much chance of my becoming a community leader needing such skills as there would have been in theater.

But then there was Mr. Bill McLaughlin who conducted that class with a colorful larger than life personality that inspired great things in his students. He became the wind beneath my wings for the rest of that semester and through my senior year. Never underestimate the power of an inspiring teacher to reclaim young lives.

Kathy McCarty, Producer/Director of the Vagina Monologues, is not aware that this will be my "return to theater" after a 60 year absence!

Come if you can to the Craneway Pavilion in the Ford Point building on April 12th. There will be only one performance, but that's enough to satisfy this almost-forgotten dream. I didn't realize that it was still alive after all these years, or that this long-dormant ambition could be reawakened after six decades of suppression.

But there you have it. There is enough character in my role and I have enough sentences to allow me to feel fulfilled, and I'll be onstage with other actors for the duration of the play making a statement for Violence Against Women. It's not enough of a part to be taxing, and I've been assured that I can read my part and not need to memorize lines. I'll look smashing. We will all be elegant in "black with a touch of red," (perhaps in the form of a silk scarlet flower pinned low in my hair?).

It will be such a time!

(Now -- I wonder where I left that belt that I keep for notching ... ?)

First rehearsal for the Vagina Monologues ...

...and what an emotional ride that was! I'd not had the time to read through the script before today, and though I thought I knew what it was about (having heard Eve Ensler being interviewed a number of times), the powerful words in the hands of a cast as capable of bringing them to life as the women on stage today I was simply not prepared for. It was the first read through, but the strength of the images evoked tears at several points even this early in the proceedings.

It just may be that I'm weary from the muchness of life right now; of the anticipation of next week's commitments; of Dorian's growing impatience with waiting for the next round of surgery and not knowing of what the future brings after her life-changing accident. Corrective surgery on both legs will happen on March 31st.

I've been using my work as a distraction from the incessant worry about how one deal's with life when it careens out of control from the barely predictable to the insane. With the complete breakdown of an aging washing machine without the time to shop for another; when there is the laundry to pick up and deliver each day to Elmwood Rehab Center (now washed and folded thoughtfully by a neighbor and left for me at my front door after she found me in total meltdown mode!) -- not because of incontinence, but because she's just not able to coordinate the urge to pee with the opening of the bathroom door while using the walker, the pulling down of the pants ... and with all that taking too long and the C&A too busy to come when you ring for her -- if you ring for her-- and if she's not busy ... .

Life is no respecter of status, even when one is featured in the national media; is the final chapter in a recently-published book by author Bruce Frankel, (and recommended by AARP); is chosen to receive an honorary doctorate next spring at California College of the Arts, and to give the commencement address; will be honored as one of 3 Women of Achievement by S.F.'s WAVE ceremonies in May; and when one is becoming recognizable in hospital waiting rooms and the supermarket checkout line. All that aside, today I would open another escape hatch. I would be an actor.

Having been the featured speaker at the monthly luncheon of the Historical Society in Martinez yesterday; after attending a retreat with the Friends of Port Chicago on Thursday night; I needed the distraction of something totally unrelated to my uniformed purposeful life. I wanted to play.
Eve Ensler's work is not something to play with. It is an emotional roller coaster.

I should have known.

Have I had acting experience? Not since eleventh grade at Castlemont High School -- and that would have been in the late 30's in the last century.

Another story that may explain why I agreed to do this -- and why it is important that I follow through with this uncompleted story line in the

"Book of Betty".

About Marleen; from a casual conversation while waiting in line for tamales and taquitos at the Women's Day of Solidarity ... .

We were strangers. She approached as we waited to snake our way to the food tables. I'd been one of the morning's speakers and -- as is always the case -- was silently wondering just what I'd said and whether it was appropriate to the gathering; improvising doesn't always work and there's little time for anything else at this point.

What started out as small talk ...

"I'm so impressed with you," were her first words.
Something about the way she spoke them invited me to ask,
"why is that?"
I never am quite sure and she didn't appear to be the kind of person who was given to small talk, She might just tell me.
She did, but it was not at all what I expected.

"It's your age and fitness."
It was then that I noticed her cane.
She appeared to be about the age of one of my sons; surely of their generation.
She continued,
"you're from the last generation before DDT and Strontium 90 entered into the environment."
"I'm from the first generation to have received those toxins en utero."
"I've now had 8 surgeries."
"I have no breasts."
"I feel so guilty that my daughter received the toxins through my breast feeding."
"I'm from the first generation that will not live as long as our parents' generation."

I could hardly speak. There was not the least hint of resentment in her voice; only resignation. The words were simple statements of fact.

By now my mind was reeling -- remembering facts I'd learned while serving as a field rep in all of West County for Assemblywoman Dion Aroner -- words from Ma'at Youth Academy's executive director, Sharon Fuller, an environmental activist on whose board I'd once served. How could I have forgotten? (Recovered these sentences from one of Sharon's reports online a moment ago):

From current research findings:

A disproportionate number of toxic sites and polluting industries are located in communities of color and low income areas. More than 245 million pounds of industrial air pollutions were emitted near schools in California. The children attending schools in the heavily industrialized predominantly African American community of Richmond are within a one-mile radius of 355 toxic emitting facilities within the city's 56 square miles.

Marleen had grown up in Richmond. She is a white woman and an environmentalist working with APEN (Asian Pacific Environmental Network); one of the organizations that works hard to raise awareness of the issues and whose lives are passionately dedicated to the cause of environmental justice in West Contra Costa County.

This morning as I talked to the UU congregation in Walnut Creek (the upscale suburbs of East Contra Costa County are separated from working class West County by miles of water shed and scenic rolling hills). I heard myself saying, "...it occurred to me yesterday while participating in Women's Solidarity Day that those women gathered there were activists speaking to one another when those who should be hearing their message -- the policymakers, owners, and executives of those 355 toxic emitting facilities -- live here in the suburbs of the Diablo Valley and in Marin County just across the Bay." There are few if any industrial plant owners living in Richmond to my knowledge.

And it all made sense. As one of the bridges of connection between East and West County, I am in exactly the right place and at the right time to be able to amplify Marleen's voice by a few decibels and bring the message to precisely that population. This could be the message of meaning to the UU church as it is looking for the next directions in their social action planning for the coming year.

Marleen had brought the gift that made it all a coherent whole. The words were not new. The problem has been growing for a very long time, for at least two generations. But in those few minutes while waiting for my paper plate to fill, her story became a beacon. There should have been an aura of light surrounding her because of what I learned in those few moments. Perhaps the only thing new was that her few devastating words transmitted such powerful and disturbing truths with such quiet dignity. No polemics here. She signaled a pathway that allowed me to send them into places where they just might make a difference. Perhaps activist women in the Diablo Valley might be moved to assume the work of raising awareness among their friends and neighbors toward constructive change. She told me that she'd testified before industrial boards and commissions but that she did not feel heard. That, though she'd done many interviews over time, they were summarily edited into 10 second sound bytes and little more. Storming the gates of the refineries has its dramatic effects, I suppose, but human interactions of real meaning -- particularly between women -- may hold more.

By now our plates had been filled with rice, refried beans, and mixed fruit and the decision of just how to manage the grape punch and work our way back to our separate tables had to be made. We set them down long enough to exchange cards and I wished her well. It had all taken but a few moments in time. Her last words to me were, "...I'll not live long enough to see the effects of my work." O how I wish her more of a future than she expects to see.

And on the drive home, I thought of Dorian and her new status as a physically disabled person in addition to her mental deficits -- and despite all -- felt lucky that she is and will be alive into the days ahead. Then I remembered that she, too, is of Marleen's generation ... and that the cases of autism have risen over 600% since 1985.

The Marleen Mosaic is almost in place and order in my head is slowly being restored ... .

Note: This has been a private citizen Betty day, and it felt good to remember that there is life still even out of uniform. I often forget.

Her name was Marleen Quint, and she neatly pieced together all the disparate bits that I've been struggling with over the past days and made of them a mosaic of reason ...

One might well wonder what the traumatic and life-changing injuries that Dorian sustained have to do with that wild ride back into my Unitarian-Universalist past with Ken Kesey and the Pranksters, and well you might ask ... .

Over the past weeks I've been on a kaleidoscope of mind-bending dreams and images that -- when combined with a pretty exhaustive work schedule have been defying all attempts at making sense. Learned long ago that when confronted with this much stimulus that won't fit into any kind of order -- that I need to slip into neutral and coast for a while. It all tends to sort itself out at some point and patterns begin to come into evidence and sanity returns. A brilliant Jungian therapist once taught me that allowing my insanity is, at times, precisely the way to go. Since Dorian's accident I've been living my life an hour at a time, and sometimes in even shorter increments.

On Saturday I was one of the speakers at Richmond's all-day celebration for International Women's Day where several hundred of the community's women met for a day of singing, dancing, drumming, filmed presentations, and speeches. I noticed at the time that gathered in that auditorium were many nonprofits; activists working for women's rights, against rape, violence against women, rights for women in prisons, Solar Richmond, for sustainable food security, for Haiti, and "Free the Cuban Five!," etc., all communities of need, and that they were in dialogue with themselves. The greater community was not represented in that room, though it was our mayor who brought us together for this wonderful event. Beyond making the observation, I had no idea what to do with it. The thought followed me home, and would not be stilled.

On Saturday evening of last week I'd spoken at the Mt. Diablo UU church in Walnut Creek. It was a strange evening in a room where I was more aware of those missing than of those present. This was a church I'd belonged to for about 20 years. It was in this UU community that I experienced the Civil Rights Revolution and the turbulent years that both preceded and followed it. Most with whom those years were shared are now gone, with many markers in the Memory Garden that lies beside the Gilmartin Building. This is where my middle years were spent as a young mother; as a full-fledged black American in a white world; and as an emerging emancipated woman. I returned to live in Berkeley about the time that my first marriage ended and my children left home.

I rarely return to the valley these days. The psychological, economic, and political distances between the suburbs and the inner city community where I've chosen to make my home are simply too great to transcend. Going back to Walnut Creek has some of the feeling of visiting Disneyland, only with mortgages. I've become far more at home with the grittiness, the reality of the inner city where life may be harder, but where it feels more real, and where there is so much to be done that it's easy to make a difference.

I'd been invited by the ministers to return this morning for another round of participating in a workshop created to sort out new directions for the congregation.

A dear friend forwarded an email the day after my talk, a message written by the adult leader of the church's youth program. It said that a few of the teens had been present when I spoke on Saturday and had returned to their group announcing that "Betty Soskin is one BadAss UU!" They then paraphrased my remarks for those who'd not attended (how I'd love to have been a fly-on-the-wall for that one). I printed out the message and posted it in my cubicle. Maybe this is what brought Kesey and the trip to Carmel to mind ...something about the generational divide ... ?

The paradox is dramatic in that my racial and political awareness and activism were developed in the white suburbs where -- for a time -- my entire everyday existence was marked by racism and bigotry, and where I'd found a community within that was accepting of me and my family unconditionally; were willing to learn from us; to bear the pain of my growth at a time when I could have been lost, or forced to alter myself to fit a "norm" of whiteness. My values were shaped by that living experience of being thrust by the times into deep blackness while living in the heart of whiteness. The dramatic contrasts defied logic, but I'm still out in the world spinning off lessons learned while in that community of seekers at a time of unprecedented social change. Friendships formed during those critical years have endured through time and were/are the closest in my experience.

But now let me tell you about Marleen ...

My son, Bob, stopped by on his drive back to the ranch from the mountains ... as he often does these days ...

and I showed him the photo below, taken at Stebbins Institute lo those many years ago -- his response was interesting. He recalled that trip into Carmel Valley on the Kesey bus, though he remembered it as an all-children's tour. I knew that it was for families because permission was not granted by the conference for the group to take the children along without their parents. There's a message in there somewhere -- maybe the parents were eclipsed by the colorful Pranksters so thoroughly that parents ceased to exist even in memory; not surprising. Everything that week was larger than life and remains so in looking in the rear view mirror.

Bob confirmed that the LSD "rumors" were well-founded. As a young teen at the time, he was probably more aware of the beginnings of the era of the drug culture than I, his abstinent non-adventurous mother, would ever have been. During that eventful week, it was my generation that was wide-eyed.

That summer was surely the threshold into an unbelievably wild and crazy decade or two; decades filled with wonder and awe and disappearing boundaries. We were witnesses to the advent of unimaginable disconnections between the generations, and between modern suburban and urban life. This would be the dawning of the sexual revolution and the emancipation of women; this time "for real," and not as in WWII when both were snatched back unceremoniously when the war ended and we were fed two decades of June Cleaver and Donna Reed in high heels and aprons. We witnessed (in my household and in the Academy) a coming-together of western physics and Tibetan Buddhism; with cults and communes replacing the family structure in many ways. We would begin to hear the word "alternative" used almost as often as today's "diversity" and "multiculturalism" are scattered throughout the most mundane of conversations.

Our family managed to survive pretty well intact over the next few dramatic years of revolutionary social change. Only our eldest, Rick, was a casualty of the times, but it was not from drug addiction but from alcohol which eventually took his life in a thinly-veiled suicide in the mid-Nineties; though his alcoholism was symptomatic of a complex combination of causal factors that were overwhelming; including sexual identity.


Yesterday, March 11th, would have been Rick's birthday. There is always some reason why he returns so sharply -- and always outlined boldly in black on each anniversary -- still.

This time it's a weird little snapshot of his mother with a star painted in the middle of her forehead ... .

Happy Birthday, Rick!

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.