Pitchin' and tossin' and discoverin' papers and photos long forgotten ... .


Fortunately, one of the benefits of moving  ( this time it's for Dorian; requiring empty boxes)  comes with the need to finally rid myself of all of those stashes of items that needed further examination before tossing; things that have withstood a cursory examination through several previous moves but by the time we've lived as long as I have -- that collection has become gigantic!  Now's the time to stop procrastinating and either seriously save for posterity or toss!  Unfortunately, the "save" pile is disappointingly generous still.  The only way I can guarantee riddance is to put everything else through the shredder! 


Today was the day to dive in before the closet police stake out my apartment for a raid!


Such memories were waiting there ... and so many emotions ... .


For instance, I don't recall this photo at all, but I do remember the event.  That Sunday I was in the pulpit (at my request) at the Mt. Diablo Unitarian Universalist Church in Walnut Creek.  The portrait behind the lectern is of my mentor, and great friend, the late Rev. Aron Gilmartin.  (The subject of the sermon and description of the event is in the archives under June 8, 2004.)


I believe that there is a biography online about this true scholar, social activist, and humanitarian.  I could never do that history justice, but author Arliss Ungar has done so in a published paper that is available online. 


I so wish he was still present in my life ... but I know that his influence is still being felt through those of us whom he taught so well.

Wondering (at the first light of dawn this day) whether I've now lived out the crest of my personal life's journey? 

Was it January 20, 2009, sitting on that frigid metal folding chair in front of the Capitol witnessing the inauguration of our new president with two million other dreamers?  That surely seemed so at the time -- and often since; on the good days.  Was it the unanticipated rise to the highest office in the land that made it so?  Was there enough of a crescendo building toward that auspicious day to even begin to prepare us for this miracle? Was there sufficient cause to exult (as we surely did) in the rare experience of wandering up and down the Capitol Mall that day with a sea of ecstatic Americans who were as astounded as I at the course our nation had taken before the entire known world -- at long last? Had the promises of our fledgling nation finally been fulfilled? Should we not have foreseen the blow-back that was certain to follow in the succeeding months and years? Were we naive in supposing that -- this time -- the pendulum that has marked this nation's progress since 1776 would suddenly be stilled?

Have we forgotten that true democracy is formed and exists in the balances between opposing political forces, and that the greatest one can hope for is to weigh in on the direction perceived best for the majority at any stage in its dynamism; and hope to prevail in those efforts for measured periods only as the great pendulum resumes it's rhythmic dance into whatever unknown future awaits us?

A definition of Freedom?  (Nah, maybe it's just a Betty-ism.)

In watching the drama of today's political scenes unfold it is hard to escape the notion that the greatest problem we face may be the steady dismantling of our previously enviable system of public education.  It is hard to imagine that a democracy can long exist without an informed electorate.

How else does one explain the Beck phenomenon; the growing resistance to immigration or even immigration reform, or, the stories coming out of the great Southwest that are so disturbing in that they may indicate just how far we've strayed from the intent of our founding documents?

Nor is there any particular comfort to be found in the potential for restoration of regulations in the world of high finance, or, in support for the sciences, agriculture, and environmental protections.

Maybe I need to give up the Sunday morning television seminars and get out my PPG (Personal Prognostication Gear),  and maybe if I adjust the antenna on my space beanie and call up some audacity - the future won't seem so formidable.

After watching the on-camera freeze of the governor of Arizona this morning, it wouldn't surprise me one iota to learn that I've now lived out the crescendo in the up-cycle of my allotted time on the planet and that it's all downhill from here.

Y'all better stand ready to catch the next up-draft!

Is there anyone else who doubts that neither John Adams nor Thomas Jefferson, himself, could get the Bill of Rights passed by today's Congress?  And just how many of our States would be willing to ratify the Constitution were it to make the rounds today?

... and what do you suppose that means?

Writing that last entry brought musings on mortality and new inevitabilities to ponder... and every indication that I'm still processing Lottie's death ... .


Yesterday I found myself jotting the first requests in my calendar for public appearances for next year; for January and March.  I'm certainly aware of commencement ceremonies at California College of the Arts the week of May 14th; and that my term with the National Park Service is due to end in July of 2011, unless extended.  It will all pass so quickly -- with little sense of control -- unless care is taken now to gain some sense of order over what time is remaining.  (That's time as in a years, decades, and nearly a century of a lifetime.)


Which brings me to the need to begin to plan -- and I'd love to include visits to other park sites in that planning.  There is so much still that I'd love to experience before too much more precious time has passed.  In the course of my work I can still do that, I believe, even in my role in the NPS, maybe as an extension of that work.  


With my sister's death a few weeks ago, I'm reminded that I was so grateful -- even in grief -- that she didn't have a long period of lingering half alive and suffering in unmitigated agony.  Though I have no idea how long she knew that the end was near or what fears she endured; the family had little warning before she slipped into eternity. 


I remember in 1987 while lying at the foot of my father's hospital bed as we shared his last hours (at the age of 93) -- during a blinding flash of insight -- that it may be just an illusion that medical science has extended human life.  To me it seems more likely that what has been extended is death. His death process claimed the last ten years of his previously productive life.  My proud father spent his final decade blind and bedridden and totally dependent upon those around him.


Since I have another birthday in 3 weeks (yes!).  After 70 they come every 6 weeks.  Time is becoming more of a constant presence in my life.  I'm considering giving it a name, and issuing it a serial number!  How that which remains is spent is critically important if only to me; not to be squandered.


... and .. after due consideration (of at least the last ten minutes) ... I see little reason to not proceed on the trajectory that has brought me thus far into the 21st Century!


How's that for a simple declaration of intentions?

Strangest thoughts keep rising to the top ... as I push back as if to confine them to some "crazy" corner of my mind ... still ...


They might be accounted for by the weird life of contrasts I've lived over the past 10 months since Dorian's accident.  On the one hand I'm embraced by a world of the young by day in the service of the national parks system, with exciting challenges, always.  But that world comes sharply to a close at four each day on my return home with senses tuned down to Dorian's intellectual capacity by some magical process that is activated between the gathering of the mail and the turning of the key in the lock -- as I trade my place in the world of a park ranger for my place in the scaled-down dimension that her mental deficits confine her to.  After sharing supper, the choice is either to sit at my desk and commune with my MAC, or, lie down beside her on the bed and watch the Disney Channel through our feet -- all in the interest of not having to hold a conversation.  Mind-numbing describes life over the past traumatic year of daily hospital visits, wheel chairs, endless paperwork, unanticipated changes; a way of life that is now coming to an end.


Lately -- in order to minimize the need for mindless chat, and the effort to better understand a developing phenomenon -- I've been watching the oral history tapes received from the Bancroft Library.   I'm trying to learn more about what it is that "the World" is seeing in me that brings such attention and recognition so late in life and is so far beyond the way I see myself.


It happened last week when I was the keynote speaker for the employees of the Regional Office of the Social Security Administration.  It was the kick-off day of the agency's annual Diversity Week-long observance, and perhaps 200-plus of the 1400 who work in that huge facility gathered in the state of the art auditorium for the talk.  As always, when introduced I rose to the lectern and - without notes -- gave my now-familiar account of the great home front mobilization story as it unfolded during the WWII years from 1941-1945. The story is never the same, since different parts of it rise to the surface as I look out over any audience.  Were that not so I don't believe I could give these talks, since the words and thoughts need to hold at least some semblance of freshness in order for them to continue to excite me in the telling.


It is certainly immodest to admit that I know that I'm an effective speaker.  I could hardly be unaware of that while looking out over the audience from the dais and seeing heads nod, faces looking as though each is in a private conversation with me.  I've even imagined that I can hear them exhaling in unison at the end of expressed thoughts.  Strange and powerful. The experience is still so new that I've not had the luxury of comparing notes with others who experience this regularly.  But then I'm not sure that I know anyone like that, anyway; anyone whose life in any way compares with the one I'm living.


At the end of my  talk the audience rose as one in a standing ovation!  That, I was not prepared for.


As always, I tucked the experience away on return to our offices -- and then delicately drew it out of its "crazy corner" (to savor) last night just before falling asleep.


It may be outrageous to type these words; but do you suppose -- due to living with (mentally retarded) Dorian which places my intellect on stand-by for half my days and all of my weekends --  meaning that -- when I am out of Dorrie range I'm compelled to speak only words of meaning and power as though to compensate for that half when my intellect is set on hold? Is this the power that is there on tap until called upon? 


I watch myself on tape and am struck by the fact that I am an effective storyteller.   It's when I become self-conscious about being taken for an historian or a public speaker in a formal sense that confusion reigns.  As long as the goal is to share my personal experiences of life as I can recall -- in context -- then I believe that I'm capable of making a truly valuable contribution to those seeking to better understand what has gone before and its effects upon those years of unprecedented and enduring social change that followed.


Perhaps it is this compensatory asset that is Dorian's gift to me.


Weird?


Maybe not so weird at that ... . 


This will end soon. After almost a year she's ready to move into a great studio apartment within ten minutes of my condo.  She will have services that will maximize her ability to survive on her own now.  Her fractured legs have healed sufficiently so that even her dependence on a walker is becoming less and less essential, though her sense of balance is seriously compromised.  There is a significant permanent glitch in her mobility, but now that she's back in the arts programs at NIAD 3 days-a-week -- she's ready for launching back into her now more limited independent living program.

Wonder if I'll see a diminishing of my public speaking effectiveness in a few weeks of not having to dumb down for 12 hours of each 24?  Will that reservoir of creative oratory power disappear when she's no longer with me?


Now that's ridiculous!


... an illusion?

We'll see.

Illusions?  Recurring madness ... ?

I'm beginning to suspect that a break in my everyday life  might be in order just about now.  I keep reminding myself that I haven't visited Mendocino since that fateful day after Thanksgiving last year.  I do miss those idylls at the ocean; endlessly watching the rhythmic breakers pounding relentlessly against the great rocks... gulls soaring against the approaching fog bank of a soon-to-be night sky ... .  Either I'll escape soon, or a break in my sanity may be just around the corner! I've been under extraordinary stress over the past 10 months -- since Dorian's accident -- and the distraction provided by a very interesting work life may be losing its power to offset the surreal aspects of my daily life. 

There is some slippage occurring in my reality, but just when I think I'm losing touch -- the insanity presented on the small screen makes me think that my personal take on the national scene pales in comparison to the unbelievable madness and distortions that are actually reflected there.  Beck-o-mania? 

For instance, we'll take Thursday's schedule:

At about ten thirty, by prearrangement, I met a group of about 20 Japanese tourists (students, instructors, elders) and their hosts and translator at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial for a guided tour.  It would be my first experience conducting one with non-English speaking visitors.  Not only that, but dealing with the sensitivity of having visitors who were "the enemy" at the time those home front stories were lived added a new dimension to interpretation.  I've worked that site with Japanese/Americans in the past, but this would be far different.

I found it interesting that an English-speaking Japanese college professor who was traveling with the group whispered as we stood at the plaque of the memorial that described the shameful internment of 120,000 Japanese during WWII -- 70,000 of whom were American citizens -- "there is little about the Japanese American experience taught in our schools. This is new information for us."  It was then that I remembered that the anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima had been observed only recently at the sites of the utter destruction by the dropping of the atom bomb, and that, this year, for the first time in history we had sent emissaries to attend those ceremonies.

It was at that moment that I chose to identify myself as an African American, and to speak of then and now in terms of social change.  Chose to say to them that I had been a 20 year-old clerk in a segregated union hall during the years of the infamous relocation, and compared that with a brief description of sitting in awe at the inauguration of the first Black president in January of 2009, therefore subtly indicating how far our nation had come since that ill-conceived relocation edict had been ordered and executed.  It was then that the translator -- in an aside to me -- said, "... we're minorities, too."  It was a moment of reconciliation, a bridge between us.  She was an older woman, too,  an American of Japanese descent and, as such, was perhaps closer to me than to those for whom she was translating.  It was a strange and poignant moment of insight.  Our eyes met in a flash of recognition -- she felt it too; I'm sure of it.

We spent about 45 minutes together, and a warmer more special time I've rarely spent with a tour.  I measured the success of the morning by the fact that several of our younger guests made direct attempts at communicating in halting English; daring to break through the language barrier.  The number of cameras that came out of their cases in a barrage of picture-taking as I was getting into my car was pretty impressive.  Unfortunately, mine proved to have a dead battery so there are no photos to include, though one of the hosts has promised to send copies of her photos and I will add them to this post when they arrive.

.... then I drove away for lunch at the Boilerhouse restaurant in the Ford Building  that would serve as my re-introduction to California College of the Arts President Stephen Beal and to visit with Sanjit Sethi to talk of next spring's commencement and my role in their adventure; maybe to get a better idea of just what it all means;  over the coming months -- what will precede the spring ceremonies?  When will I get to visit their S.F. campus? And how on earth did they come to select me as honoree?

Speaking of madness; would you believe that -- along with about 9 other "Rosies" -- on the evening of September 16th I will be a guest of the management of AT&T baseball park for the Dodgers/Giants game?

I'm considering -- upon the calling out of my name --  running around the bases and maybe sliding into home plate!

See what I mean?

Photo:  At the peace memorial completed in Horishima, Japan, in 2005.  Click to enlarge for detail.

An evening at the San Leandro Library ...


... and what a evening it was, too.

Not sure why I remained seated throughout the program, but upon arrival the librarian in charge of the event pointed to that chair and I remained glued to it for the rest of the evening.  My colleague,  Elizabeth, opened the program on stage at the lectern and presented her introduction -- standing quite properly before it.  Moi?  I seemed to not have gotten the memo, and never moved toward stage center or to the lectern.  It was all the way across the stage, and seemed to put more emphasis on my talk than I felt it warranted.  I think that I much prefer to be in conversation with an audience, but I suppose that's not always appropriate.  Being a "special person" is not yet natural to me, and always suggests that I'm going to say something worth standing before a lectern -- when in fact, I'm always speaking extemporaneously, and always from memory of events.  There's a disadvantage to not working from an acquired body of knowledge, though in a way, I'm guessing that -- if there is any power in my words (and there surely seems to be) -- it comes from the fact that my thoughts originate with me, and only I can be credited or blamed for what gets expressed.  I guess that's what comes with being one's own authority.


I've been known to say on occasion, "... now that I've outlived all those whose recollections of that era differs from mine, I have the last say -- and the bull horn!"  And there's some truth in that absurdity.

It was also my first experience with having someone walk out in the middle of my talk, though I was told that she may have only been going to the restroom, but I did find myself watching for her to return to her seat -- and it never happened that I recall.  It was discomforting, but then my candor may be off-putting, and I shouldn't be surprised.  Expanding the Rosie story beyond the generic may not always work.   It is, after all, a white woman's story, and my insistence upon bringing in the variants on that story diminishes the myth as some would wish to remember it.

The ages of those gathered in that audience was probably in the range that would make them my contemporaries.  This was evidenced by the fact that several "Rosies" rose during the Q&A to reach for the hand mike, and when the opportunity presented itself, each took it eagerly to share her story of her experience in the work force on the home front; and my words had been simply something to wait through until the chance came to share hers.  And that's quite alright with me.  We try to leave plenty of room for those experiences.  Women have waited a long time to tell these stories and there are ears now ready to receive them, thanks to the establishing of the Rosie Memorial and to the park now dedicated in their name and for which I'm an interpretive ranger.

So maybe my talk wasn't nearly as earth-shattering as indicated by my "walk-out".  Perhaps she just didn't wait long enough for us to bring it into the present -- which is the point of it all, actually.

NIAD Fashion Show

Dorian's recovery has been dramatic -- at least the physical aspects, and for that I'm most grateful ... .

She has returned to NIAD 3 days-a-week, and is being productive and showing signs of making, if not a full recovery, at least enough so that I feel confident that life will return to whatever the new "normal" will be.

She has been practicing her solo performance of "O Happy Day" as done by the Edwin Hawkins Singers for days on end, and last week was a part of the annual show shared with the rest of the artists of NIAD (National Institute for Artists and  Disabilities).  It was quite a production that I regretted having to miss due to work that couldn't be put off for another day.  We had staff visitors from Harpers Ferry who had requested a bus tour that would emulate the visitor's experience.  These are folks charged with the creation of the park brochure that will be in process over the next two years -- and their two days of preliminary information gathering couldn't be postponed.

I knew that the NIAD show would be videotaped, so today I checked into YouTube.com to see if it had been uploaded yet.  It hasn't been.  But I discovered this video of the fashion show of two years ago, and thought you might like to share this infectious happy amazing event with me.

One simply can't watch these gleeful faces of these very special artists and remain glum.

Together with this photograph of my mother on a Hawaiian vacation at 95, these two pieces make a powerful statement about resilience and longevity.

Note:  On the video I can be seen in the audience on the left side of the room taking photos, if you look carefully.  Also, Dorian is identified on the runway -- this was a year before the accident that fractured her legs.  It may interest you to learn that she performed in last week's show without her walker.

Okay, so who mentioned the word depression?  Who, me?

Nah.

Sorry to have been so long between entries ... didn't realize I would be missed ... .


(Thank you, Mona.)


So much is happening -- it's almost dizzying.  Maybe I'm slowing down without realizing it ... maybe not.  But since Lottie's death and the subsequent period of introspection and regret at those unfinished conversations, I seem to be living with a bit more effort somehow.  I'm painfully aware of the passage of time ... maybe that's natural, just something that's developed over years, and that I'd failed to notice.  Time is tangible -- a kind of graffiti in Braille on the walls of my condo that rush through my body like an electric shock when accidentally brushed against ... ticking away audibly from my little bedside clock.  Hadn't noticed that.  Silences now have weight and a presence of their own, and remain suspended inexplicably in the air as thoughts take longer to arrange themselves before being spoken; strange... .


Then I remember my mother and her quick walk and sassy grin, even at 95 (she would live to celebrate her 101st birthday), and realize that this movie may not be over quite yet.  Long ago I decided that the rest of my life would be lived in vignettes, and that there may be a few chapters in this saga left.

Was reminded by running into an artist friend (and a member of the faculty of the California School for the Arts), the evening that we viewed "The Man From Frisco" on the SS Red Oak Victory. He reminded me that President Beal wanted to meet over lunch soon to begin plans for next spring's commencement at the college where I'm to give the address and also receive an honorary doctorate.  Would you believe that I'd almost forgotten?  At the time of the announcement last spring, there was such a scene at our office that it was as though the honor had already been awarded.  In fact, I remember that I'd felt some confusion when someone pointed out that it was commencement of 2011 that this was all going to happen, and not in the few weeks in May of 2010.  For a time there I was in danger of showing up in the middle of this year's ceremonies with great expectations!  Wouldn't that have been wild?  How was I to know that these things are planned at least one year ahead since the recipients need that kind of lead time to clear their busy schedules (you should see the list of former eminent honorees, and you'd understand).  


There is something surreal about all this, but when I wasn't blogging over the past couple of weeks, I've been taking the time to try to get re-oriented in the light of all of the changes that need to be incorporated.


The Bancroft Library has taken many hours of my oral history at different times over the past decade.  They recently videotaped one of my bus tours and updated the work done earlier.  I'd never watched the footage, figuring that I knew me fairly well -- after all, I've been blogging for a very long time now -- and much of this serves as oral history, right?  


After being reminded of the upcoming spring event it occurred to me that -- since I'm still not quite sure why this is happening at all -- maybe I could find the clues in watching myself on tape.  Maybe I'd find something out of which I could begin to form that commencement speech ... .


... it was quite an experience.  I'm not sure what I learned from watching myself for several hours -- until ego dropped away and she appeared as a third person.  I'm not sure where it took me, but I experienced a vulnerability that was unfamiliar, and the awareness that she merged with the Betty who writes -- and suddenly it felt as if I'd dropped my towel in the public square!  In the days over the past 2 weeks I'd sit at my computer ... fingers motionless ... words refusing to flow from the tips with ease as before.  The strange paralysis must have arrived with the messenger who'd brought news of endings ... and grief. 


... kept telling myself that the weird feelings would disappear tomorrow ... and tomorrow... 


That's today, isn't it? 


Photo:  One Sunday morning at breakfast in midlife; bare-faced and caught by a friend just as Bill leaned over to present a fresh-picked lemon from our tree in the garden.  Hated the photo then.  Love it now.
  

Change of plans ... and just in the nick of time, too ...

Thinking about whether to try to drive to Southern California for the memorial service for Lottie next week -- and about how to fill in the time between now and then. 

There was the AYUSA young people whose program I was prepared to participate in by conducting a walking tour of the historic Nystrom District of Richmond, but that seems to have disappeared from the matrix I received today, and now I can choose between attending a commemorative event at Mare Island in Vallejo (the site of the Port Chicago mutiny trials during WWII) -- a follow-up to our Port Chicago Day of Remembrance last week -- and the annual Kite Festival on the Berkeley Marina with Dorrie on Saturday.  And just maybe I've had enough of remembrances and memorials and am hungry for a day of simply lying on my back in the tall grass watching the antics of a thousand kites of every shape and size against the blue sky.  Actually, I'd like to be alone in that crowd -- not having to speak a word ... maybe I need to admit that I'm feeling emotionally spent and soul weary ... .

Except for the fact that there was an email yesterday from a 19 year-old cousin who found me on the internet through a family search, and Taylor Charbonnet Brown, a philosophy major at St. Marys College in Moraga, California, is anxious to meet soon. She's lived within a few miles of my apartment without my being aware of her for all of her life.  What a time to be alive -- when the Internet brings such magic without warning.

Then there was another email from Jason Allen (maternal line), another young cousin whom I've never met, but with whom I've been corresponding for a couple of years.  I saw him through his enlistment in the armed forces; a tour of duty in Kandahar, Afghanistan; and now his safe return home to Florida.

Life does have a way of pressing us into the future whether we're ready or not.  And maybe -- after a few hours of lazy kite-watching ...  the future won't appear so threatening.

The truth is that tomorrow and tomorrow are the "future," and no one on earth can make any promises about how, if, or what they will hold.  My tomorrows will surely be as surprising as my yesterdays.

Today is all there really is, anyway, and that, my friends is more than enough, especially if there is even the hint of kites over the next horizon.

Funny how the lens keeps narrowing when I'm striving so hard to see life through  a panoramic view that takes me away from this closeup of the inevitable ... .

Last night during the early evening I drove out to Kaiser Shipyard 3 to the old SS Red Oak Victory where my fellow ranger, Craig, and historian Steve Gilford were showing a vintage film, "The Man from Frisco."  This would be a special screening of a rare movie that fictionalizes the story of the great WWII industrialist, Henry J. Kaiser, whose exploits in shipbuilding at that time are so much a part of the narration in my role as a NPS interpreter.  It was a way to escape the gloom that had descended since Saturday morning.

This morning I've been trying to concentrate on the upcoming week when, starting Monday, I'll be involved in the planning for a fall series of arts projects (photographic exhibit, lectures, films, etc.) around the subject of the Japanese American story for which I'm planning two bus tours to be co-led with Toru Saito -- tours of related sites including a visit to those abandoned greenhouses with the roses still cascading out of time-shattered roofs in defiance of the destructive actions of the unknowing.  The NPS, the Richmond Museum of History, the Richmond Arts Center, and the Japanese/American Historical Society are partnering in this exciting venture.

Before that happens, I'll be working with a group of 90 high school students who are coming from all parts of the country and the world in a program called AYUSA.  They're international ambassadors for their countries and are being hosted by the Richmond Community Foundation.  They will be based at the University of California during their stay.  They're arriving on Saturday, July 31st, where -- among other activities will be a Betty-led walking-tour of the Nystrom Historic District wherein lies the Maritime Child Development Center, the Nystrom Village -- worker housing, and MLK park  (all a part of the scattered sites that form the park), which are being restored to enable the telling of the stories that are so vital to the reclamation of that era.

Unfortunately, the disembodied presence of death has narrowed my lenses so much that I'm struggling to keep some breadth to my thinking and am failing miserably.

As I walked up the unsteady see-through whatever-it's-called (hanging-on-the-side-of-the-ship stairs?) to board, I realized that I'd completely forgotten until that moment that it was from this deck of the SS Red Oak Victory that I'd scattered my eldest son's ashes about ten years ago; evidence that this, too, shall pass.  I almost turned around in the gathering dusk to drive home, feeling that there was just no hope of this fog of despair lifting, but I plodded on my unsteady climb to the top deck; made my way through the narrow passageway past the galley; down the steep ladder-like stairs to the Hold where suddenly life returned in full color as I caught sight of Steve and Craig and Lois preparing the projector and smelled the buttery aroma of popcorn in the popper -- and finally those 124 movie buffs who were entering the Hold with grins of anticipation turned up, and life began to return again.

Today Dorian's persistent and nonsensical talk is a welcome change from the gloom that has claimed me over the past week, and her innocent absence from that which has so drained the life from these past hours serves to lift the spirits and change the conversation.  I'm experiencing a re-directing, despite the need to incorporate this new reality of loss -- and by my daughter -- who is spared much of the pain by her childlike existence.

...an unseen and unexpected blessing, I think, but evidence that perspective and balance will return in time.

Photo:  Japanese Greenhouses by Richmond photographer, Ellen Gailing.

Sobering times ... unfathomable sadness  ... resignation?

I remember a dear poet friend, Benedict's, words on the death of my mother in 1995.  The words were of little comfort then, but were so resoundingly true that I found a strange kind of peace in them despite their finality.   He said, "Betty, we must remember that no life is complete without a death."  At the time they didn't make sense to me, but in the days that followed; after the flowers were wilted and the mourning clothes put away -- they were strangely comforting, and right.


I would never have been ready for this death since I could hardly imagine Lottie's life ending before mine.  It just isn't fair, in the scheme of things.  There was so much left unspoken ... but maybe that's inevitably the way that fate has of keeping a 'presence' alive -- the essence of those who've passed on -- a way to sustain life even in death.  I suppose I'll be in silent and sometimes troubling conversation with my sister for as long as I'm alive.


Photo:  by E.F. Joseph of Lottie as a vibrant teenager. 

A Day of Remembrance at Port Chicago with Ranger Shelton Johnson of Yosemite ... .

... it was a day of chill winds and patriotism -- of the best kind.

Among the hundreds of those who gathered at the monument for this 66th anniversary of the tragic explosion that vaporized 2 ships and 320 young Americans were dignitaries like Rep. George Miller who carried the legislation to turn this monument into the 392nd unit of the National Park System; from Washington, Deputy Director Micky Fearne of the NPS; the mayor of the City of Concord, reps from Senators Boxer and Feinstein; survivors of the no longer existent small town of Port Chicago; park rangers from surrounding NPS sites; Sea Scouts who provided the honor guard for the proceedings; friends, families of the lost as well as the survivors.

In his poetic fashion, Ranger Shelton Johnson embraced the cutting wind and by so doing, removed the chill and gave it personality; made it into the central character in his moving address.

Someone in the audience used his/her cell phone and created this video and had it online within 24 hours.  Of course the professional DVD that was produced of the entire event will be available within a reasonable length of time, but in the interim ... enjoy!

Photo:  all that's left except for memories.

Port Chicago Great Explosion - A Belated Thank You

... and then there was one ...

My youngest sister, Lottie Charbonnet Balugo Fields (on the right facing us), passed away this day -- July 17, 2010 at around noon -- on the 66th anniversary of the explosion at Port Chicago.  We were attending the annual Day of Remembrance when word of her death came only moments after arriving at home.  

My eldest sister, Marjorie Charbonnet Brooms (seen here on my left), left us many years ago in mid-life on the day that President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, or during those few chaotic days before his burial.  I remember traveling by train to attend her funeral and the radio broadcast of the moving of the cortege down Pennsylvania Avenue being aired on the train as the miles slid by ... all those silent stunned faces.  I'm not sure that I ever properly grieved over Marjorie's loss -- somewhere it all blended into some horrific nightmare.  So many thoughts, both beautiful and troubling -- as it is always with those of us left behind ... how awful it is when time runs out on things unsaid ... .

I remember that when Uncle Louis, my father's younger brother died -- how my dad was distressed that "God has sent his messenger's to take away Louie out of sequence.  I should have died first!"  

Is that what I'm feeling; survivor's guilt?

Photo from the E.F. Joseph collection

Looks like Boys Day at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial ... .

I do so enjoy interacting with youngsters -- especially those who are from other cultures.  We always seem to be able to surmount whatever generational differences that may lie between us in short order.  

These were middle school Latino boys who are enrolled in the PAL (Police Athletic League) summer program which includes sleeping on board the SS Red Oak Victory, the last ship built in the Kaiser shipyards during World War II.  

That was yesterday.  Today I met with a group of about 8 young African American men (18-22) and one young woman who  are members of the Student Conservation Association (SCA), and who are doing a remarkable job painting and cleaning up the old ship and the dock against which she's moored.  This is a paid summer job sponsored by a city program called Youth Works.  They are proud to be engaged in such meaningful work on this iconic ship.  They're doing such a fine job that praise is being heaped upon them by everyone who is observing their work and the purposeful way they're going about it. 

I went aboard at their invitation today, and shared a brief history of World War II Richmond, making the assumption that these would be the stories of their grandparents who may have arrived in the West as migrant workers to help to build these 747 ships.  Since I'm a contemporary of those grandparents; I can make those stories live for these grandchildren.  Maybe in the telling I'm adding a layer of dignity to those lives.  It is such a privilege to be able to spend even these short periods with the young -- you can see the lights turn on behind their eyes as they listen!  I share my own stories as well over brown bag lunches.

Summertime is going to be rich and exciting for us all, I think.  This park-in-the-making has come such a long way in its development since it was legislated into being in the year 2000, and the community is gradually awakening to the importance of its history in the context of the national stories.  The National Park Service is "America's best idea," and being a part of bringing that to life in this place is magical -- and such a privilege ... .

Photos by Ellen Gailing

Think I mentioned some posts back that there is nothing more satisfying to me than to become incorporated in someone else's art ... .


It was so with the Shotgun Players when the opportunity arose to assist young playwright, Marcus Gardley, in the development of a new play, "This World in a Woman's Hands" ...  and I got to piggyback on the artistic achievement of an important young playwright of an exciting theater experience.  It was so when the Richmond Art Center's program of community arts made possible a multimedia-event that allowed me to work with a young high school male student; or with author Summer Brenner's presentation of "Where I'm From", a visual arts exhibit that placed elders with teens in a show that is still traveling about after two years.  It was so when I was invited to participate as one of the subjects for 4 young women from Richmond High who produced a wonderful video while learning their craft and -- in some cases -- forging a potential career path. And it was so when Director Kathy McCarty cast Eve Ensler's Vagina Monologues with those remarkable local actors and moi earlier in this year of surprising adventures in the Arts.


There have been other times; but none more rewarding than a leisurely Sunday morning spent with muralist, UCLA Professor Judy Baca, who has been commissioned to create an important work for the City of Richmond.  


The video below is an example of her work which is boldly exciting with an appeal that transcends boundaries and enters some realm that unites us all in her experience.
 

Professor Baca was in town meeting with community people in order to find some direction from which to create what promises to be a work of national import.  She invited me to the Richmond Arts Center one morning last October to talk about what that focus might be.  We talked for what turned out to be 4 videotaped parts of a conversation that is now available online in several places.  During that talk the concept emerged of "extraordinary ordinary people" (my description of that heroic generation of Richmond's migrant workers of WWII) -- has been adopted as the theme of the work.  I've not yet figured out how to add the link so that it is accessible here.  Meanwhile, you might try Judy Baca Betty Reid Soskin Vimeo which may bring it up if you're interested.  Maybe www.richmondmuralproject will work as well.


I learned only a day or so ago that the conversation had been posted online; though it has been many months since it occurred.


Meanwhile, I'm going to run this Danza de la Tierra video again just to bask in reflected glory!

It was Dorian's attorney on the other end of the line ... "Just wanted you to know that I'm hereby nominating you for sainthood!  (His grin was audible.) ... .


I laughed long after he'd hung up -- it had only taken a minute or two for him to tell me that he'd just gotten off the phone with Dorrie who had called with an 11 minute uninterrupted litany of complaints about her mother's acting out (I figured he was regretting having handed her his business card in that first meeting!) and, Wow!  But with all the nonsense about client's rights and all -- it's what we do -- even when said client's best interests can rarely be served by such edicts.  (And with that statement I just eliminated all chance of my ascension to sainthood.)

I was at my desk  when the call came, and when I stopped laughing it occurred to me that -- where this diatribe must certainly be a mystery to any outsider who was wondering how caretakers of the mentally-disabled can maintain their sanity? There really are strategies that develop that allows us to not only withstand the verbal abuse, but to actually get beyond it into areas of mutual enjoyment. Dorrie and I have an honest loving relationship most of the time; the exceptions prove the rule since we rarely end the day in anger. 


I've become a master manipulator; and am unapologetic and as unrelenting in the exercise of those techniques as Dorian is at pushing buttons.  And the important thing he didn't know was how easily she is redirected.  Often it takes no more than, "....did I leave my glasses on the nightstand?" and we're off into a new conversation, or, "did we remember to write kitty litter on the shopping list?"  But how could he possibly know that?


I learned early-on to limit her choices.  That's basic.  When she was a little girl I would never ask if she wanted to go to bed.  It was always, "do you want to wear the blue or the pink pajamas tonight?"   That sets the pattern for much that has followed in our relationship.  It's also what didn't follow her into "The World" where social workers and case managers -- adhering to the strict rules (justifiably) about "patients rights" and "client's rights," added complexity to what I consider common sense. 


It was clear that my daughter would never have the capacity to use judgment in matters critical to her survival in the general population.  The professionals who would guide her life would or could not pre-screen her options the way that I had been free to.  They were at a disadvantage of what I saw as some pretty weird regulations -- all in the interest of fairness.  Maybe it's all in the interpretation of those regulations; interpretation that requires less rigidity from those with the power to express it.  How else does one allow someone with my daughters mental limitations -- who has the physical ability to bear a child but who is without the capacity to parent -- to be denied her right not to bear children? The legal reason being because she lacks the ability to give informed consent.  Hogwash!


I fully understand the rationale behind that state ruling.  It came onto the books in order to protect poor and minority women from being sterilized unknowingly; a practice shamefully performed in an earlier time in order to save the state welfare funds.  It's like those cuts placed in the sidewalks at the curb to enable those in wheelchairs a way to cross the street -- but that thoroughly confused the blind who rely on that curb to tap their way through traffic.  Interpretation is essential almost without exception.


Right now, I'm needing Dorian to be apart from me; for both our sakes.  Our long range campaign for life beyond her mother requires that.  The past 8 months have served to regress us both, and I've become "Mommy" with a vengeance!  She is settling into being treated as a protected child when that is terribly destructive to her future.  


Perhaps her attorney and her case manager (both men of good intent) needed to be exposed to her wrath and inconsistencies in order to get some measure of her deficits.  They're both new in her life.  I have faith in them both, but they may not understand that the subject of her rage (mostly around control of her finances), and her mother's insistent dominance over her check book, are intentional parts of the next steps in her future.


Instead of "shall we wear the pink or the blue pajamas," what this situation requires is enough expressed love and support from me to continue her recovery to the extent that is possible, but with enough abrasiveness in our relationship so that she will soon be ready to move out into her own apartment (with an attendant) of her own volition, and not have the feeling of having been rejected by her mother.  I need to reestablish myself in her life as "Mother as best friend."  She needs to feel that it was she who made the choice to move on.


There is a lovely apartment available for her to move into -- about ten minutes from mine -- and soon those of us charged with her welfare should be showing her the variety of options open to her (a residential institution for the disabled; another group home with other mentally-challenged clients; or a great apartment in a development with 3 swimming pools and a small gym for her continuing physical therapy), but among the choices will not be the option to remain in a living arrangement with her mother.  See what I mean?  


Limited choices is the strategy that is missing from the rule book that social scientists live by, and the practice might well improve the lives of both clients and families caught up trying to get from day to day in a world filled with contradictions and hardships that often defy logic.

Sainthood?  Nah.  Manipulator?  Sure, and unabashed.  


Patience?  Not so much. 

Love?  Most definitely.  It's the balm that makes all else possible.

"Just posted my new website, Grandma!"

It was Rosie announcing in an email that her new venture (she designs elegant jewelry and is venturing into songwriting and singing a la grandmother and father, Bob), and,  being entrepreneurial as is her legacy -- has set herself up in the marketplace online.  Not only that, but with Grandma's  permission has generously included 6 single Betty Songs (from over 40 years ago) for sale along with hers.

Would it not be ironic if one of those songs caught on (despite the fact that I'm an octogenarian with very few years to go before I've left the "octo" and entered the "whatever is left" part of my life, and found myself selling DVD's alongside Taylor Swift, Lady GaGa, and Justin Bieber?  Would that not be wild?   Talk about eclectic!


Anyway, I immediately clicked myself onto her website (it's really colorful and lovely); enlarged her bee-yoo-ti-ful jewelry pieces with my mouse (featuring crystals and magnets in truly original designs); ordered a necklace for Alyana (a younger granddaughter who just graduated herself into high school in the fall; and then went to the music feature therefore becoming Rosie's virgin sale.  Saw the photo of myself beside one of Rosie and marveled, again, at having lived into such a time ... .

Visit Rosie Reid Funk and CreoleRox Jewelry (http://www.rosiereidfunk.com) and roam around, and tell her that Grandma sent you. 

Top Photo by Bob Reid 

His name is Dr. Trevor Stack, and, as a referral from Museum Director, Andrea Blachman of the Martinez History Museum, I was to meet him at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial on Thursday afternoon ... .


The only thing I'd learned from our brief phone conversation was that he was giving lectures on citizenship.  And just where do you suppose I fit into that topic?  I wasn't sure; and that his return to Europe is only a few days away (on Sunday, I believe) and this would be a first and last conversation, so there would be no time for re-thinking positions, or self-editing. 

Looked him up on the Internet after the call and learned that he holds a B.A. from Oxford University in Britain; a Masters and Ph.D. from the University of Pennsylvania; that his subject is Hispanic Studies and that he is on a sabbatical from the University of Aberdeen in Scotland. 

During his visit to Martinez on his speaking tour, he'd been given a copy of the cover article I'd written for the California Historian in the June, 2009 edition (online), and wanted to meet and speak with me.  Could it be that he had assumed me to be a credentialed legitimate "historian"?  Would he be disappointed upon discovering that this was not true?  Would I feel like a fraud passing myself off as a scholar?  The answer is "no," on all counts, and that this unassuming professor simply wanted to discuss the ideas I'd presented, and that his extensive travels and times spent in Mexico made him sensitive to racial issues and those of citizenship in relation to people of color, particularly relationships between Latinos and African Americans.  A legitimate interest, and my article had spoken to that, though not substantively.

Yet, just before our hour-long conversation while basking in the warm sun in Marina Bay Park ended -- I felt my toes curl up in my sensible brown government regulation oxfords as he told me that he will be using my lengthy article with his students at Aberdeen University upon his return to Scotland.

Can you ever imagine in your wildest dreams ... ?

Hoo Boy!  It's gettin' rough in here ... .

...sorry to be so long in entering anything, but life has not gone as smoothly in this makeshift housing arrangement as one might wish, and taking time out to make notes only added to the pressures.

Won't go into the problems we're having, that would not make any sense.  It suffices to say that coming home for Dorian has had some unintended glitches, and her mother's well-intentioned moves have not been particularly helpful.  Fortunately, the professionals have finally kicked in, and help is not only on the way, but the cavalry can now be viewed just outside our condo.

Meanwhile, I've had the distraction of doing a 2 and-a-half hour video for ROHO (Regional Oral History Office) from the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley today, and it served to focus me and my work a bit.  It was requested by ROHO as an updating of the oral history that is already online but was done in the 90's.  I'd never actually read that transcript through until this week in preparation for today's effort and noticed some errors that had occurred in the transcribing that needed correction.  These were mostly proper names or places that were mis-heard.  It seemed a worthy thing to do.  It was interesting to discover that there was nothing of substance that I would have wanted not to have said, or, that I didn't regret on any terms whatsoever.  I may watch the video of that interview one day soon.  I've never had the wish to do so before now.  It also allowed me to stay at home for the work since there was not adequate space at the office, nor much control of sound. 

Maybe having had the experience of being reintroduced to my artist self at the Hotel Nikko, has had the effect that I can now dare to retrace steps taken in the past.  I have watched video interviews of myself done in the recent past, and found them not embarrassing -- in fact I actually discovered that I could watch those done at Port Chicago and found them both interesting and relevant.

The existing oral history that was done in the nineties predates my position with the National Park Service, so ROHO would like to do another soon that deals with my experience with the NPS and life as a park ranger.  That may be meaningful since my work started so early in the development of Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historical National Park  (around 2002) that it coincides with that of the park's beginnings -- a valuable contribution, perhaps.

So, with the distraction of meaningful work I've been able to survive the mounting tensions of trying to combine lives with my recovering daughter; but I'll tell you ... we're just barely makin' it!

Tomorrow, we'll attend the 1st Annual Native American Festival at Lucretia Edwards Park together.  She now has an attendant from Nightingale Nursing Service, Kathy, a dynamic former cheerleader who is about to go off into the Army for training, and who is a gem who will go along with us to the Festival.  She drives a jeep so is ultra "cool" in Dorian's eyes.  I'll be in uniform and helping in whatever ways are required of me.  Having had today out of the office to work with ROHO means that I'm rested up for tomorrow -- but whether we'll be coming home in one piece is still to be determined!

... then there's the bus tour on Monday for 18 teachers from the Oakland Unified School District.  Dorian will return to NIAD.

...and we'll have survived another week of adjusting.

Photo:  This is Dorian's sculpture of  "Tsunami," which was created at the time of the Asian tragedy.  We're living our version of an emotional tsunami right now, so this seemed an appropriate choice.  This is all one piece but was impossible to photograph without using two shots in order to retain the detail.  Note that she included a way for people to escape the oncoming deluge.  Maybe we'll be so lucky!

... been a long time since the last entry ...


and it surely isn't because life has slowed down a whit.  I've just been too busy livin' it.  Little time to write about it.


Let's see:


I've guided tours -- strangely enough, my last tour consisted largely of other rangers though not in uniform.  Not sure what that was about, but it may have had to do with the fact that ROHO (Regional Oral History Office -- of the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley) --  was filming this tour and there was the need to show the seats on the bus filled with "tourists".  Not sure; but it was novel for me.  In a way it felt as if I might be being evaluated, but it didn't feel the least bit negative.  As always, I improvised my way through the 2 and-a-half hour tour and even found some newness in my interpretation.  Maybe that was because I was aware that many of them had heard my stories before and that I needed to dig deeper for some freshness.  And, as always, I stopped before I ran out of truth.


And -- an exciting thing has happened in that the Generations Project of Brigham Young University Media has invited me to be a subject for their nationally-viewed show (cable channels).   It means "maybe 2 and-a-half weeks of filming," and (the most exciting part of all -- an invitation to allow their genealogists to explore my family history with me -- around a question of import to the narrative.  


If you've used the links under my photo and have seen the work already completed on both my maternal and paternal lines, you may have noticed that -- prior to the Civil War -- there is much that is missing, except for the history of the white ancestors whose lines are traceable.  It is the difficulty of piercing the Slave Curtain that is so frustrating.  How I would love to know where my black ancestors originated; even to the region, if not the actual family lineage!  


I'd give almost anything to learn about the origin of the free woman of color "of high birth" (according to cousin Paul Charbonnet) who became the consort of the Charbonnet man with whom she bore 9 children, one being my gggrandfather, Dorson Charbonnet, for whom my dad was named.  And how about my mother's grandfather,  Corporal George Allen, about whom we've learned so little; except that he was a Louisianian who fought with the Colored Troops on the side of the North in the Civil War.  There is so much left unlearned and untold.  


It would be so wonderful if, through me, those doors on the past can be unlocked so that the current and next generations of family historians will have access to the material that will complete the narrative.  What a gift that would be to many yet unborn.


Needless to say, I will take the time off my work to make this adventure possible.  I'm guessing that this segment will go into production soon.  This is far too important to ignore, and I do have lots of vacation time available to draw upon.  

Not sure how this will be managed with Dorian now living with me, but we do have 24 hours-a-week of personal aide services granted by the Regional Center of the East Bay, and there are family members to enlist into service, so I'm going to proceed as if -- whatever problems there are -- will be worked out to make this once-in-a-lifetime experience possible.


Will keep y'all posted.  (By the way, have I told you that the plural of y'all is alla y'all?) 


Photos:  Dorian and I rode in the Juneteenth Day Parade in celebration of the day that word of the Emancipation Proclamation issued by President Lincoln reached Texas -- months after freedom came to the rest of the Old South. The National Park Service maintains a presence at all of the city's parades and festivals; a role I thoroughly enjoy.

When life begins to close in and becomes threatening to the psyche ... it's time to go line-dancing!

There was not only the close-up stuff, like Dorian's slow recovery and this-week's-move in to my small apartment, but then there was the Flotilla attack off Gaza that involved some local folks; continuing BP oil gushing uncontrollably in the Gulf;  up-coming California Primaries for which I've not yet studied the ballot; the sudden explosion of my supermarket checkout line celebrity with its unexpected never-quite-ready-for-it fame; all that stuff that makes up my days now ... so why not?

Dion's birthday party brought together old friends and acquaintances for an afternoon of noshing on great food -- a genuine caller who was the only male in the room at the Hillside Club -- and what fun!

Maybe ya gotta have whimsy to balance off what is often a far too purposeful life.

Except that I found that I'm hard-wired for the Electric Slide and never quite got the hang of the Texas two-step.  Maybe if they'd had some James Brown on the turntable, or a little Aretha or Marvin Gaye ...

As it turns out, there's really little to worry about.  We've already accomplished the goal of independence ... I just failed to notice.

It was clear when we were going through the discharge procedures at Elmwood yesterday, that Dorian has left a trail of expressed love that will follow her as she pursues her place in the world.  The staff was obviously sorry to see her leave and will welcome her back as she continues to visit those for whom she has incomplete projects.  She has a carefully drawn list of deliveries to make over the next few weeks -- after all she spent several months in their care, and will need to withdraw gradually from this world that she's created for herself these past weeks.

She and DotCom (and Elizabeth) will work out their schedule of occasional visits which will become her reason for being; in addition to her return to NIAD tomorrow on a 3 day-a-week schedule for a few weeks until the physicians give permission for a full schedule.

Now -- if I can only back off the mothering in favor of again becoming "mother as best friend," maybe we can consider this storm having been "weathered."

Her final project was this double-bed sized blanket for her niece, Rosie, who purchased the yarn and shipped it from Southern California to be made into a coverlet.  Dorian completed the task in about 3 weeks while whipping through the halls in her wheelchair; undergoing stretching exercises, learning to walk again (twice!),  practicing walking up and down stairs; helping to lead the exercise class; and teaching her roommate to crochet!

Dorian is ready to return to the world and is more than adequately prepared for the changes she must endure.  And, maybe her mother is, too.

Now for the learning to live together in my small apartment; finding places to stash her belongings; tripping over her two cats; at least temporarily while waiting for more permanent arrangements to be made ... still much to work our way through.

I feel confirmed in the belief that the secret to acceptance is to strive to be a giver.  Takes no effort, and establishes ones value in the world in many ways.  Takes little mental capacity and nothing more than a willingness to extend whatever is of value to you into the lives of others.  Her obvious effort in creating her gifts gains respect and affection that nothing else can achieve.  Both she and the receivers gain so much in the exchange; that's immeasurable, but it must be remembered that the growth is with the giver.

Photo:  Do click to enlarge so that you can see that each of these tiny loops that make up this completely hand crocheted blanket had to be caught in the crochet hook, twisted around, drawn into the knot that, when collected with others becomes a work of art -- what a wondrous thing is the heart.  And, no, selling them is not an option.  It's all in the giving.