If David inherited his father's talent for promoting events and a dedication to hard work ... 

our eldest son, Bob's, legacy appears to have been the artist's side of his mother's.  His passion for expressing himself through music and teaching have been with him since childhood.  Fortunately, he has been able to pursue his love of the arts throughout life by a dogged determination to define life on his own terms, and along the way was able to meet and work with his idol, Pete Seeger, who modeled that same lifestyle magnificently.  Bob had the opportunity to participate in the Clearwater Hudson River Cruises on several occasions.  To have known the Seegers over the years on numerous visits, provided  a grounding in his youth that probably could not have happened any other way, and helped to shape the wonderful way he moves in the world. 



Pete's life will be memorialized by a Bob Reid solo concert at the Kuumbwa Jazz  Center in Santa Cruz, 320-2 Cedar Street, and I wouldn't miss it for the world.


My sons have grown up to be men whom I greatly admire.  In these later years each has grown to be friends I cannot imagine not having had in my life.


If you're not busy, let's meet in Santa Cruz and pay homage to the universally-loved Pete Seeger with his greatest fan, my Bob.

Sunday, March 9th, at Kuumbwa Jazz Center,  at three (doors open at 2:30). $10 in advance, http://brownpapertickets.com/events

This article appeared in the East Bay Express in 1988 ...

It provides some background to the history of Reids Records.

You'll need to double click on it to enlarge print, or use the Zoom feature from the menu.  

Some years ago our youngest son, David, stepped up and assumed ownership of the dream that his Dad and I worked so hard to sustain against overwhelming odds ...

Mel lived until 1987, and passed on after a valiant battle with diabetes, but in sequence, I, then David continued the little business into the present after some unbelievable hardships at times.  David has doggedly pursued the brass ring through years of child-rearing as a single parent of four children while refusing to give in to changes in the economics of the day; the flight of our customer base caused by gentrification of South Berkeley; and a radically changing marketplace.  It's been touch-and-go for decades, and I'd love to free him from the need to carry on, but I think any attempt at shutting the shop down at this point would be futile.


I'm caught between seeing the challenge as hopeless and the continuing hope that those years of relative financial success that allowed Mel and me to build that dream home in the suburbs in which to raise him and his siblings for many years can be repeated in his time.  I find myself wishing to free him to pursue some other avenue to personal success.

After watching this video below created by filmmaker Pam Uzzell, and hearing the passion in his quiet voice, I suspect that the dream has taken firm root and will have to die of natural causes.  Whatever comes next may be determined by just how successfully he is able to make the dream his own.  His older brother, Bob, and I share great pride in his refusal to give in to short term setbacks and persistence in the face of some pretty tough sledding along the way.

What comes next will grow out of that passion which he surely comes by honestly.

Maybe it's our version of the American Dream -- albeit a modest one.

Fortunately, I've been able to hold onto personal ownership of the building which provides a foundation upon which to build.  How that property is used will be determined over the next few years by David's continuing effort to sustain the business through continued sacrifice and dedication to the preservation of Black culture.

Maybe that's the way it has always been, and the foundation upon which this nation was built.

The Dream that is America dies hard, and the Reids may be living proof of that.
 

Reid's Records

It was a busy week at the Visitors Education Center ...

The production team from the Naval Media Center at Ft. Meade, Maryland, arrived for a week of shooting for the profile they're developing as content for the Armed Forces.  The team is led by a wonderful young African American woman, Ms. Princess Hester, Senior Producer/Project Director,  who was certainly on top of her subject, and so easy to relate to.  Her competence and mastery of her craft were clearly evident, and in addition she was warm and comfortable to be with. 

We met at the Visitors Center on Tuesday for the filming of "B Roll" footage (I haven't the least idea of what that means), to fill in gaps in the material they'd gathered earlier in December on their first trip to Richmond when we'd done an hour-long interview.

They caught me at a point where I was still coming down from Saturday's personal encounter at Daly City, and (unfortunately) I didn't really feel up to the task at hand.  I lost control in the middle of the interview, and stopped long enough to explain tearfully the "why" of it, and the work ended rather abruptly.  I have no idea whether or not the camera people were still filming or whether the cameras were turned off, but having not spoken of the incident until that moment; having only written about it here as a way of processing what had happened -- this was the first time I'd given voice to those feelings.  It left me with a feeling of having failed to fulfill expectations, and they'd come so far ... .

The team was going to be filming at the WWII Naval Refueling Station at Point Molate on Wednesday, and I had planned to join them there but had forgotten that I had a 2 and a half-hour bus tour scheduled until noon, so couldn't do so.

I was aware that one of their goals was to research the naval presence connected with our national park, and had tried to support that work by searching out that history behind the scenes.  I remained in touch with the producer by phone, but due to a full work schedule, I was unable to rejoin them.

I'm curious to learn how their visit to the site of the tragic explosion at Port Chicago on July 17, 1944 went.  They were accompanied by another ranger from our staff, and he and I have not been in contact (that was on Friday) since then, so I'm out of the loop at this point.

Meanwhile, the article from reporter Jan Sluizer of the Voice of America was published on the Internet and aired on radio worldwide midweek.  The interview turned out well.  Can't figure out how to move it into my blog, but will do so as soon as that mystery is solved.

I learned a lot about the Naval presence during WWII while they were here, and am looking forward to incorporating the new information into my presentations.  That history is still unfolding -- and being in a position to help to enrich our interpretations through blending the new information into the old is exciting.

Now I'm needing to dig into Liberty Village, a nearby 100-unit housing development built by the Navy in 1942 -- and Admiral Emory S. Land, the person who enabled Henry Kaiser's historic shipbuilding under an emergency contract, is a new character -- and one who played a major role in what occurred here in Richmond.

From October 1, 1932 until April 1, 1937, Land was Chief of the Bureau of Construction and Repair. In this position, he played a major role in submarine development leading to the highly successful fleet boats of World War II.
Land retired in 1937, but on February 18, 1938 he became Chairman of the U.S. Maritime Commission, overseeing the design and construction of the more than 4,000 Liberty ships and Victory ships that flew the U.S. flag during World War II. Land concurrently served as Administrator of the War Shipping Administration (WSA), established by Executive Order 9054 on February 7, 1942.^[2] Thus Admiral Land exercised authority over both construction and allocation of non-combatant maritime assets to Army, Navy and commerce.
Admiral Land was also instrumental in overseeing the establishment of the United States Merchant Marine Academy, located in Kings Point, New York as a commissioning source for officers entering the Merchant Marine and Naval Reserve in World War II.

This history is still in the process of being revealed, and I'm positioned to help to shape its interpretation.

What a time to be alive and still able to contribute meaningfully ... by remaining engaged.

Yesterday, February 1st, we launched into Black History Month with gusto ...

Found myself the keynoter for Daly City's celebration -- and what an honor it was!  This was their 22nd annual Black History Month celebration, and included on the platform city officials and an introduction by Mayor David Canepa.  What an honor, one that I've never managed to feel worthy of, but  that I've learned to accept in the name of the ancestors who preceded me on the planet well before the nation was ready to acknowledge their gifts.

On the drive across the Bay from Richmond I'd learned that Condoleeza Rice had been considered for the invitation, "but she was too young; you bring more history."  How's that for encountering the unexpected?  Who knew that one day being old would give one an advantage?

Arrived just before noon to the gymnasium nestled in redwoods -- where the vendors were setting up, and the drummers were tuning up, and was told that I wasn't the only "veteran" in the room, but that there was a Tuskegee Airman here as well.  I felt excited at the news since it was someone from my youth; someone I'd dated in my teens -- someone colorful and larger than life from a summer of joy when I was about 17, and that I remembered fondly.

On hearing his name, I eagerly followed my self-appointed guide to a table on the edge of the waiting rows of empty seats -- and there he was; but there was no sign of recognition in his eyes as I rushed to embrace him in a warm welcome.  How could this be?

He'd been a dancer, one who operated a dance studio in San Mateo for many years, along with his brother with whom he appeared on stage professionally at the time.  We'd dated over one summer, and I'd enjoyed his company and remember him as handsome, personable, fun to be with, and with enough smarts for any 3 boys of that time.  We'd last met only a few years ago at a memorial service for a mutual friend where I'd learned that -- after WWII, as Captain Les Williams -- he'd returned to the area and studied for the bar, becoming an attorney in mid-life.  It was jarring to see him now, and I was immediately reminded just how far out of context my own life has taken me.  Would this be my fate a few years from now?

I guessed that he is about  2 years older than I am now.  I inched about the huge room absently browsing the vendor tables and trying to ignore the rising panic that caused my breathing to become shallow and irregular.  It gradually began to seize my entire being.  I'd left him abruptly -- looking confused and being reminded gently by one of his companions (when I'd asked about his wife) and his answer had been -- "she's over there."  "No, Elsie's not here, Les, she's at home."  It was then that I knew and felt the chill of a creeping reality of what may lie ahead ... and it was no longer about Les.  It was suddenly about me...  .

I must not look too far into the unknown lest I find myself entering into a similar dimension prematurely.  I don't suppose it will matter, or that I will be aware that I've transitioned, but from this plane of relative sanity it is frightening to anticipate ... .

... and not even applause can drown out the fears when one's present combines with one's past to strip bare one's future in these poignant late-in-life brief encounters.

(Stay engaged in Life, Betty.  Stay engaged!)

After years, decades really, of elaborately ignoring the D.W. Griffiths epic silent film, Birth of a Nation ...

... last night I found it among the offerings on NetFlix under classic films, and finally sat myself down to view it in its entirety; and what an experience it was!  I cannot imagine how the country survived the Woodrow Wilson administration.  And if you've never read Ann Hagedorn's Savage Peace, you've missed a most harrowing description of the era just after WWI which was 1919.

When D.W. Griffith's ambitious film The Birth of a Nation came out in 1915, Wilson not only agreed to have a private showing at the White House but afterward expressed how fascinated he was by it.  "The White men were roused by a mere instinct of self-preservation ... until at last there had sprung into existence a great Ku Klux Klan, a veritable empire of the South to protect the Southern country." (a direct quote by Wilson.)

Some years ago I attended an event at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco where Paul Miller, aka DJ Spooky, presented his Rebirth of a Nation, an alternative version of what is considered by some to be among 100 of the greatest films ever produced.  Using the techniques of cutting and pasting together then projecting this new montage from a large screen, he created a present-day edition that made a very different statement out of the material Griffith had produced long ago.  It was an interesting and in some instances an arresting use of the controversial footage, but was not very revealing of the boldness -- and the distortions of reality of the original piece.

Had I taken the time to view the original prior to seeing Miller's adaptation, I might have come away with more than I did at the time.  I was puzzled by much of it, but attributed it to being of another generation with little to bring to a Hip Hop treatment of the material.  After seeing Griffith's wildly provocative work, it seems unlikely that anyone could successfully satirize it in any way.  The black-faced (white) grinning, jigging, "negroes", alone, should have barred the film from serious consideration for the acclaim it enjoyed at the time.

Find myself wondering if Birth of a Nation shouldn't be required viewing by every high school student -- along with the reading of The Warmth of Many Suns, by Isabel Wilkerson?   Together, the two works provide powerful contrasting lessons in our nation's great narrative, and a foundation against which to measure just how much progress we've made over the past century; and perhaps a way forward into a more compassionate future.

Recently -- while sitting at my computer -- the phone rang and the familiar voice of our park superintendent came on ...

"Betty?"  I answered, "yes?"  Tom answered in a strangely tentative voice, "I just received a call that you had died."  This explained the tone.  He was in shock -- both at the news, and at my unexpected voice on the other end of the line.  I suppose he was expecting my "next of kin" to be answering.

The call was a short one.  I immediately hung up.  My first thought being the need to call my family before the rumor reached them and needlessly caused havoc!

I was able to toss the incident off swiftly and return to my work, but over the next few days the thought would return both to me -- and I'm sure, to Tom.

A week or two later he called to ask if I could be free to meet with him and several others to discuss the making of a film that would capture my park history -- since it also would serve as the history of this national park's earliest days.  In effect, most of that history has been embedded in this blog since I became associated with the National Park Service as a consultant during the first years of this journal's creation (September of 2003).

By now it's far too lengthy to serve in its present form, but with major editing, there are enough relevant posts to at least get the flavor of the early days through the subjective eyes and ears of at least this ranger.

But this is something quite different:

Over the next several months, much of my work (bus tours, theater presentations, outside speaking events, etc.) will be filmed for the purpose of archiving my experiences over the past decade as related to Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park.

The first of those filmings occurred last Wednesday when Producer Doug McConnell (Bay Area Backroads) and cameraman, Carl Bidleman, arrived with their cameras and documented my two-and-a-half hour bus tour of the scattered sites throughout the city which defines this park.  Once "wired up," about a dozen visitors boarded and we were off to Kaiser shipyard 3 and the SS Red Oak Victory -- to end up at the Rosie the Riveter Memorial before returning to the Visitors Center for a showing of the 15-minute orientation film, "Home Front Heroes," and my usual talk which completes the experience by filling in any gaps in the story that might have been missed by my improvised interpretation.  Those bus tours occur twice-monthly, and are generally booked at least two months in advance.  Right now we're booking April.  They're by reservation, only (510.232.5050).

Later in the day, as I felt the onset of those familiar feelings of emotional fatigue that come in the first few hours after a bus tour, I found myself becoming quietly aware that we're really all preparing for the inevitable; the day in the not to distant future when Tom's awesomely disturbing telephone call will become a reality, and I won't be here to answer.

It will be some loving "next of kin."

... a sobering thought ... .  

Betty Reid Soskin "We're All in the Fight: African Americans at Work"

Life is moving so swiftly at this point that -- with so much to report on I'm losing sight of just what to say ... .

Yesterday I found myself in our little theater making 3 presentations to 3 different audiences, all in rooms filled to overflowing.  We've reached the point where the recent national  publicity is bringing visitors from far and near to hear me speak.  If this sounds almost beyond my capacity for humility -- it is fast becoming so, and there are times when it feels unreal -- at others, not so much.  I hear myself speaking logically; unscripted but coherent; and with confidence.  Where was all this expertise until this most recent decade?  Is this really the culmination of a life -- and what is regarded as "wisdom"?

Last week the Voice of America (global radio) interviewed me to provide content for overseas programming, and I was interviewed by a team of two emcees (women) from NPR-AARP out of Washington, D.C.   to be aired in the next few days.  The interview was by telephone and lasted for about ten minutes. As is usual -- no notes nor preparation -- just answering their prepared questions. 

After months of resisting the temptation to actually watch myself speaking before audiences (I'd much prefer not to risk having self-consciousness effect my ability to "do the work"); and after installing Apple TV on my new digital television -- I finally got into bed one evening recently -- tuned into YouTube, went to the search feature in the menu where I entered my full name, and up popped enough Betty Reid Soskin speeches to fill an evening!

Lying back on a stack of pillows with a blanket pulled up to my chin (to protect me in case I needed to cringe!), I watched myself speaking before about 600 (all white and in the Deep South) members of the World War II Museum at their annual convention in New Orleans.  It only took a few minutes of watching before I (magically) found it possible to separate myself from that uniformed woman on the giant screen and listen to her words from a distance of time and space.  She was obviously nervous but she made sense; was lucid even while speaking extemporaneously, and few words needed editing.  Could have used a couple of dabs of strategically-placed PolyGrip, but she was expressing her truth unconditionally, as always, which tended to overcome whatever misses were present in her delivery.

I then (finally) gained the courage to click on another of the links -- this time of the appearance on the Arsenio Hall show now months ago -- and by now my blanket had worked its way down to my knees as I watched "Betty, the 92 year-old national park ranger" bounce from behind the curtains and onto the stage to stand beside the star, and the experience of being there was refreshed -- and the heady feelings of being the only grownup in the room returned.  It felt unreal and wonderful!

However, none of this prepares me for the young woman who  (I quickly pushed it over the edge of my mind as preposterous but she persisted), when after a recent talk in our little  theater asked quite seriously whether I'd spoken before Congress yet?

At the time this seemed to make a mockery of all that had gone before; but ... do you suppose ... ?

... it's all so strange and unlikely, but then ...  all that's happened over the past few years strains the imagination even of one as old as I.

Maybe this is what it's like on the other side of the looking glass ... .

Going through old file drawers in the hope of parting with more old records ...

... and there beneath the clutter lay a silver half-dollar.  It looked strange -- as if from some other nation and some other time, but as I held it in the palm of my hand... unexpected tears welled up and memories came flooding back to what the next hour would recognize as the very first political act of an impressionable young Betty on her first job.

I'd just graduated from Castlemont High in Oakland, and about to be launched out into the working world of domestics.  Marjorie, my elder sister (by 4 years) had been out there with her husband working as half a team of a live-in chauffer and housekeeper for a Piedmont family for some time now.  They worked for the first 5 years of their marriage in order to save up enough for a down payment on their first home on Ocean Avenue in North Oakland.   Her young husband would later become a successful insurance agent for a black firm as they started their family and Marge became a stay-at-home Mom.  It was the way of our world in those times.

A friend of my mother's had passed along a job referral for a (white) family who were moving into a home just off Seminary Avenue in the shadow of Mills College, and wanted to hire a "girl" for the weekend to help in that process.  This would be my first job, and I was ready, though I had no idea what it meant -- except that this was the very first step into my future (until I could marry, of course).

I appeared on the job early on Friday morning with the understanding that I would spend the next two days working with this mother as she prepared the house for occupancy.  It meant scouring the two bathrooms on my hands and knees with scrub brush, sponge, and bucket, as well as the kitchen; washing shelves and lining them with paper in preparation for unpacking endless cardboard cartons of dishes, pots and pans, glasses, etc., throughout Friday and all of Saturday.

At the end of the day I helped to prepare dinner for the woman and her husband plus 3 children before the parents took off for a movie.  I was expected to manage the kids and get them bathed and into bed by 8:30 before falling onto a cot in one of the children's rooms, exhausted, until morning.

On Sunday morning I helped with breakfast and washed and dried the dishes before helping to get the children dressed for church.  I then went back to the shared bedroom to listen to a radio until the family was scheduled to return at around noontime.

I heard the car drive into the garage and waited anxiously for my time to end and I could return home with my first earnings in hand.  There had been no agreement as to just what that might consist of, but I knew that my mother had mentioned something about, "50 cents an hour," and I'd envisioned this windfall and spent it on many things as I washed and dried dishes, wiped kid's noses, and anticipated wildly.

My employer came to me as I sat at the kitchen table, coat over my arm -- ready to leave.  Into my outstretched palm she slipped a half-dollar with the words, "I wish it could be more, dear, but you know you are really not an experienced helper ...", her voice trailed off as I remember, but maybe I'm just remembering my own inability to comprehend what this meant."

I said nothing.  Gathered up my things and left this house to catch the bus at the corner store -- all the while struggling to understand what had happened.  I held the silver coin in my palm tightly as the bus meandered its way through the familiar neighborhood.  When I rose to pull the cord that signaled my stop,

I left the half dollar on the seat, got off the bus and walked the half block to our home streaming tears of crushing disappointment!

Now the tears!

This was my only experience as a domestic.

I cannot recall whether or not my mother inquired about my experience; but if she did her words are long forgotten.

Something was already in place that  inspired my act of defiance and contempt, and it must have been accumulated over time from many people and places -- but it was there to be called out when needed.  The act did not create it; of that I'm certain.  It occurred somewhere in that childhood that others might have seen as impoverished.  That girl would show up on many occasions later in life, but the coin would be forgotten until now -- as maybe it should have been.

Within a year or so I'd taken the third choice open to young women of color --  (1) working in agriculture; (2) being a domestic servant, or,  (3) marrying well.

What's a dreamer to do? 

I seem to be spending an awful lot of time continually building a back-log of unwritten stories ...

... all of which are both memorable and life-changing.

facebook has become almost too  intrusive to my online life, and I've all but decided to break away from the temptation to even visit the website -- which is only serving to illustrate just how difficult it is to avoid.  Facebook has all but become an unbreakable loop out of which escape is almost impossible.

Blogging (until about a year ago) was my primary way of processing life as experienced, and my posts have become ever more rare as this past year was being lived.  Instead, the Internet social programs began to reduce that process into bite-sized pieces that were merely "Twitters" of meaning, and robbed me of the periods of reflection that journaling at the end of my work days provided over the years.  It's not the word count that matters, it's the thinking ... .

It's disturbing to discover how ubiquitous is Facebook -- almost impossible to escape from -- and despite the promise of countless "friendship" contacts, in the end it leaves me as hungry as if I've been feeding on pure air.  Among my now accumulated hundreds of "friends" (the word has nearly lost all meaning since most are meaningless names in my address book) are the local people and family with whom I am in contact without Internet intervention anyway. 

So, 2014 will find me blogging resolutely -- hoping to return to my original goal of leaving a record of my life for my children and theirs.

Life is continuing to happen to me -- even in these later years -- and with even deeper meaning than before.  For instance, the freshening of my Port Chicago experience has been bubbling away in the back of my mind since the visit from Producer Hester of Naval Media two weeks ago.  Such thoughts ... . Then yesterday's interview for the Voice of America (global radio) that captured my Saturday presentation in our little theater for good or ill.

So much to ponder ... .

My friends will know where to find me ... and others will follow if interested.

... after all, most of the known media world appears to have done so during the past several months anyway, right?

1894-1987

A Christmas gift to remember ...

The email below was received one day after the New Year was rung in -- and just as Dorian and I were recovering from this year's version of the flu epidemic.  After hobbling to my computer after drinking the final dose of flax tea (ugh!) and after almost 35 hours of not checking my mailbox, this lovely little note from a total stranger turned up and righted my world which was disastrously listing on the Sea of Life.

This is about my dear now gone but still-loved Dad,  Dorson Louis Chabonnet, artist and craftsman supreme and the best maker of kites, and stilts, and "draw-er" of the most meticulously-measured hopscotches on the block!

... and this loving stranger remembered my mother's much-mended white lace table cloth -- and the lace-trimmed dining-room curtains.

Mr. Nett will never know how much his  tenderly-written note meant at a time when Christmas season had turned into such a nightmare.

I'll include my response tomorrow, but now I need to get out from under my hat and into something more appropriate to celebrate the eighteenth birthday of Alyana Reid, my college-bound granddaughter (next fall).

How I wish Dad had lived to see his younger grandchildren -- but he spent his last decade in darkness.  His eyesight failed totally, and (presumably) blindness was already descending when Stephen received his kite -- though I don't believe that I was aware of it at the time.  A truth that may have been shared with his male friend (Stephen's father) long before his family knew.  He was always the strong protector of family, and would have played his hand that way to the end.

So lovely!

May 2014 be all that you may wish for ...  .

I remember Dorson Charbonnet

---

From:S Nett

To:"cbreaux@earthlink.net"

Subject:I remember Dorson Charbonnet

Date:Jan 2, 2014 5:19 PM

---

Hello Betty, 

I've just visited the Charbonnet Family Tree page, which is where I found your email, and which compels me to drop a short note. 

I grew up on 83rd Avenue Oakland in the late fifties and early sixties. My father knew Dorson - I don't recall how - and on one occasion when I was a very young boy I had the pleasure of visiting at the Charbonnet home with him. 

I still have vivid memories (which is what brought me this afternoon to search for some record, and discover your website). Mind you, I was a child, but, I strongly recall lace on the tables and curtains, and Dorson as a tall, erect man, with proud bearing, and the most sonorous voice, with a flavor of Louisiana when he spoke. I remember being somewhat fearful in his presence. His hands were (to me) very large, and he had the longest fingers I had ever seen.  

At the time, my father had told me, Dorson was losing his sight. So I was awestruck when he  
took me aside to show me his kites. He made marvelous kites by hand, of colored tissue and thin balsa, string, in different and unusual shapes and sizes.  He gifted me one, and it was the prized possession of my youth. I don't know what finally became of it, but I can still see it today. It was small, with six sides, white, with red tissue designs glued to its back. At its tail it had a small red flap strung loosely, just so, so that when the kite dove it 'buzzed', with two, long, red tissue tails that swooped after it.  It was like a bird, marvelous.

I know my father attended his funeral when he passed. 

I'm sorry I have nothing more to add, but hope this reaches you, just a small fond remembrance.

Best,

Stephen Nett

Mother of Jahi McGrath - child who died as the result of a tonsilectomy

Here 'tis only 3 days before Christmas and I'm no more ready than any caring adult should be admitting to ...

... I just may have o.d.'d on the Yuletide season.  Somewhere a line got crossed and the commercialism became hopelessly toxic.  Over the past several years I've started to feel abused by the demands of the marketplace to consume, and, in a world of such need by so many -- the entire Christmas charade began to eat into my conscience.  Last year,  in order to respond to some urgent compulsion from within, I actually gathered up my clean and well-folded but gently-used items and drove around distributing them directly to homeless folks standing at the entrance to the freeways and  underpasses holding up their handmade signs pleading for help.  For reasons beyond understanding there was little relief in doing so.   I only felt guilty for being more fortunate than those I encountered.  A kind of "Lady Bountiful"; ugh!

It reminded me of the discomfort experienced the last time I had a pedicure.  I suddenly looked down from my fancy elevated chair with the vibrating backrest at the pretty little Vietnamese woman seated below me busily trimming my toenails and I was overwhelmed by the irony of it all.  The implied social levels this seemed to be present in that moment gave me this same feeling of over-privilege -- even though I was aware that this was her livelihood. The feeling of luxury in the enjoyment of her service was suddenly out-weighed by the social implications of our relative positions in that moment.  I've never gone back.  Illogical? Maybe, but I left her a generous tip and walked away.

This year it seemed beyond that.  Individual acts of kindness are hopelessly inadequate and our collective support for those in need are being cruelly stifled by Congressional inaction that is seeking to reduce the food stamp programs to the most needy; deny raising the minimum wage so that families can survive these times; and refusal to reform Immigration policies.

Nonetheless, there is Dorian to consider; she, whose mental deficits will continue to need this annual return to this happy-ever-after break in our routine and to the innocence of the gift-giving season.  So in the interest of observing the season on her behalf -- I'm about to go on the annual hunt for a suitable tree for her to trim, and hope that the spirit will return to her mother in the process.

Maybe I'm just in a bah humbug mood ... .

Still playin' catch-up ... .

The past week not only introduced us to the upcoming Naval media project, but also I must acknowledge two "honorings" that marked this holiday season as more than just a time for being depressed over those missing in my life -- and finding myself at the top of the pyramid -- which is just another way of coming to terms with being the last survivor of my nuclear family.  Awareness of my mortality looms at the forefront of my life now, and never more so than over the past Thanksgiving weekend.  But I digress ... .

Richmond's Human Human Rights and Human Relations Commission honored me among a stellar group of hard-working activists with a Special Award that was presented in a beautiful ceremony in Council Chambers last Monday evening.  It felt somewhat awkward since the other honorees had many members of their friends, supporters, and families standing with them and -- except for Martha Lee, former superintendent of our park and Tom Leatherman, our current superintendent, my family was absent.  I'd failed (intentionally) to mention it to them, but there are times when I feel almost embarrassed by the amount of attention I'm receiving these days, and I'd already asked my son, David and my two youngest granddaughters, to escort me to the Channel 7 ceremony honoring those selected for their Profiles in Excellence programs two nights later.  Found myself overcome by an attack of modesty and just couldn't tell them of the HHRHUC event, too!

Which brings on something that's been looming in the back of my mind lately -- it's this:  Have I simply aged into a time where one receives honors simply for being able to spell one's own name or tie one's own shoes?  I'm surely extremely proud of being able to play what I see as a meaningful role in the shaping of a national park, and to be able to do so around what is still a rather controversial era in history, and to be able to do so without compromise -- that's a given.  But the extent and amount of attention that surrounds me of late seems excessive, and there are times when it truly leaves me puzzled ... .

That being said, may I add that a reporter for the Voice of America is coming to meet with me for an interview early next week, and on last Thursday afternoon I met with the producers of a project that will probably take up most of next year as they research and plot the filming of my life story for a variety of purposes.  It so happens that -- at least the past number of years of my life coincide with the beginnings of the park -- so is also the park's history.

Before that time, however, there is the rest of my bio that has become the basis for my presentations twice weekly in our little theater -- and is also -- quite incidentally --the story of the nation's social progress through the decades.

That's almost too huge to wrap my mind around, but there it is.  Do you wonder that I've been having difficulty writing about it all?

I blush even in typing these words ...

bear with me, though, as all of this begins to reveal itself in more understandable ways ... .    

It has been so long since posting that I hardly know where to start ... .

... maybe the place to begin is with the most recent developments in the ever-unfolding of the Betty Charbonnet Reid Soskin epic ... which involves an historic encounter with the Navy.  (See what I mean?  Does this not place a strain on all credibility?)

Some weeks ago a message was received by email from the senior producer/project director of an agency which produces content for Armed Forces Media, worldwide.   Her agency is called Defense Media Activity, (DMA) which is located in Ft. Meade, Maryland. She was announcing their interest in coming to Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park with the hope of doing a profile for an upcoming story in which I'm (at least) one of those to be featured.

Last Monday I met Princess Hester, a "sistah" to my delight, with her project partner, Kevin, who spent two days with me touring some of the scattered sites of our park and conducting a full hour's videotaped interview for the purpose of gathering material that will provide the content for their script.  They will return with a crew of 5 for a full week in January to do the filming of their story.

As has become the rule rather than the exception, much was learned from their questions; for instance, I had no idea that it was our Navy that enabled and supported Henry J. Kaiser's historic shipbuilding feat through a Rear Admiral (will supply his name later) through an Emergency order issued by the Navy.  It is that Naval history that they're interested in recapturing, a part of the forgotten stories that is in need of fleshing-out through this project.  Who knew?

To date we've been crediting the Maritime Commission with the sponsorship of the Kaiser contribution without the realization that there had to be a tier above Maritime -- and that was the Navy -- in order to facilitate the funding and the work.

I'm not certain how I figure in this scenario, except that it was learned casually over lunch that Princess Hester, Senior Producer, was apparently following my blog for some time and convinced whoever holds the keys to such projects that this was at least one channel that might provide a way into the story.  I'm still not quite sure of the connections.

The team will want to refresh the Port Chicago story with its mutiny trials -- still smoldering through a veil of semi-secrecy in the background -- as a part of their investigation.  We lightly touched on that volatile story, and doing so has reawakened disturbing memories and has remained with me many a night since their visit.  I'm still mulling that over, and am surprised at how much my sense of that history is beginning to shift, clarify, ... strange ... but I'll write about that as  it deepens.  Interesting.  I was startled to discover during the taping that I've not lived that trauma out of my system -- even after all these years.  Maybe this experience will serve to discharge the balance of the residual pain and bring some freedom from those memories; finally, for both me and for the Navy.

It was fascinating to take them out to scout out Point Molate, the site of Winehaven -- once the largest winery in the whole country which served as a re-fueling station under Naval command during WWII.  Prior to life as either a winery or a naval site, however, Pt. Molate was an important whaling station -- truly a part of California's historical narrative.  Our guests had not even heard of it previously, so it felt good to be able to be in on the excitement of their discovery.

 Photos by Don Gosney

I wake to this painting by Clarisse Bois each day ...

Trying to deal with the new reality of the turn my life has taken is exhausting ...

... but is, at times, exhilarating.

Having become a nationally-recognizable public figure has meant accepting responsibility for never leaving the house without checking first to see that my socks match (easy when they're all government regulation and identical), and that I've remembered to attach all my i.d. tags so that they're both visible and lined up properly on my jacket.  Beside that, the only thing that seems to have happened is that almost everyone who turns up at our visitors center mentions having seen me on local or national news programs, and never have I had so many requests of folks wanting to have me take snapshots with them for sending home to family and friends.  Other than that ...

But maybe there's more.

Our visitation has soared, and more and more people are coming in as the result of having heard of Rosie the Riveter/WWII National Historical Park for the first time only recently, and one gets the feeling that I've become the poster girl for senior centers from coast to coast!

... and one might think that the end of the national Shutdown might have brought an end to the splash of publicity but, to the contrary, it seems only the beginning:

In the first week in December the project manager for the Defense Media Acivity (DMA), formerly the Naval Media Center, which produces content for the Department of Defense to be distributed to the Armed Forces throughout the world -- will be coming to Richmond from Fort Meade, Maryland, to produce a "Betty" profile.  

I found myself in a peculiar stance yesterday during my regular two o'clock presentation.  I was both delivering my usual unscripted commentary -- but also sitting "outside myself" and trying to hear just what the world is hearing, simultaneously.

Among that small audience (a capacity house of maybe 48) were a white couple who'd come to hear me as the result of having been in the great ballroom of the Astor Crown Plaza Hotel in New Orleans when I spoke there last year before the crowd at the WWII Museum Conference; a CBS National News cameraman and son of a Tuskegee Airman who'd flown over Europe during WWII (and one who worked on my recent pieces for national news -- today returning as a private citizen for a visit); and a young female graduate student from Starr King School for the Ministry -- of the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley.  What on earth were these people from such divergent backgrounds finding in my words?

Surely the attention I'm receiving goes far beyond my status as the "oldest park ranger in the National Park System."  The "92 year-old ranger" story shouldn't have developed such "legs" so there has to be more to explain it.

I heard myself speaking truth -- and realized that my words express a unique though in many cases a universal story that gives an authentic picture of the past that we've all lived in some fashion, and a future we're hoping to live into.   I heard myself giving hope in a troubled world where several generations have been mashed together by technology into a common need for some way to build bridges strong enough to carry us through to the next stage in our evolutionary process of positive change.

Yet, how do I avoid becoming an older pollyanna who is simply giving aid and comfort to today's Americans who may be more in need of a cold dash of ice water in the face that will waken them to the perils of not facing into the winds of change that still carry the now nearly-forgotten sounds of the screams of Trayvon Martin's parents, and the urgings of today's generations of Japanese/Americans who suffered the most egregious examples of racial profiling in recent history -- 120,000 of whom lost 3 and-a-half years of their lives in internment camps for the simple fact that they looked like the enemy?  Of the dangers of old/new restrictions on voting privileges now fully in force to strip voting privileges from people of color in many southern states made possible by recent Supreme Court rulings. 

That I must not do.

What accounts for the feelings of obvious good will when my talk comes to an end?  Why do we leave that room with genuine feelings of empathy and affection?  What am I sacrificing in exchange, and why?

... on the drive home I replayed in my head the words I'd just shared; and found that I'd managed to share that painful history without giving ground in the struggle to be truthful, yet  I heard my words as helping to continue the process in a dizzyingly-changing world.

Maybe that's what I'm managing to do with enough success that those audiences are hearing enough of themselves in me and my story to identify and help in this period of continuing transformation.

... but that feels not the least bit exceptional,  yet maybe it is just enough to bring attention to the place where it's beginning to happen ...

this new and increasingly important national park.

Spent the whole morning being shadowed by Justin Sullivan, photographer for Getty Images ... .

... as I understand it, this is a news wire service that supplies images to the media, but I still need to check their website for a better understanding.

Though the past several weeks have served as an introduction to an unbelievable amount of media coverage, and to several local and national news teams -- all wonderful people who've added to my life and experience immensely and given reason to appreciate a field that always had to do with  those whose lives warranted public scrutiny and celebration.  Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever seen myself propelled into such prominence.

Nor could I have imagined a portrait such as this ... one that captures my entire life as lived into what is now my tenth decade -- and it's all here in my face, and Justin's art lays bare enough of what's been hidden that I cried when first I saw this image.

Prior to this I'm always been struck by how accurately the camera shows the ravages of aging, the gradual devolution of the physical self ...

I think that Justin Sullivan has caught something that time may add, though I can't name precisely what that is.

Nation's oldest park ranger happy to return to work

Having given up my LAN phone as well as cable service I'm not the easiest person to reach, and I ...

... find myself wondering just what set off this flurry of publicity at all?

It all started with a call from Tom Leatherman, our superintendent, on the day after the Shutdown telling me that an Associated Press reporter had called wanting to do a story for the wire services and asking permission to give out my personal cell number.  Glad to have an assignment I,  of course, said yes.  The rest is history.  Within hours of the AP story's publication the excitement began!

I better understand why the need for someone between you and the media.  I was simply not up to the scheduling and accessibility needs; the time differences that world deals with, etc.

Given the constraints placed on federal employees by the Hatch Act, there was need to keep the interviews firmly fixed on the personal -- any references to the larger questions of where the blame should be placed for the Washington madness was prohibited, and in all honesty, not one reporter made any attempt at causing me to make statements that might jeopardize my position.  No offhand remark taken out of context appeared in any news segment.

But in just how many ways can one say, "let me get back to work, you're twasting my time?"

There was this place in me that couldn't fathom just why I was news at all?  Since the facts about me were outside the perimeters of the 3-minute sound bite, how did anyone even know to value me as worthy of national coverage?  Could simply being "the oldest park ranger in the park system" really justify all that?

After posting to my blog last night, I managed to fall asleep after concluding that there may have been no way to respond to what had been happening in front of the White House; the demonstrator standing with the huge confederate flag with another protestor standing beside him on camera shouting demands that the president come out with his hands up!   The images were really alarming.

Maybe the only response  would be to simply present an alternative  image -- that of an articulate African American woman speaking in complete sentences and a reasonableness borne of a long history of tolerance and common sense.  I've been tested by life, and it probably shows in my work.  I'll accept that.  Maybe that's enough to be in such times.

Being one of the grownups in the room may be worthy of such attention; but I'm not yet  entirely convinced of that.

That it brought attention to Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park is a given.  That audiences for my guided tours and theater presentations will increase, and my opportunity to share the history of those heroic times celebrated by this park may finally be recognized for the profound social changes it brought to the nation and the world by a heroic generation of workers will be enhanced.

I think I can put it away now, and begin to look forward to my anticipated flying adventure with choreographer Joanna Haigood which is fast approaching.  Her schedule will free up for us to begin work after November 17th, according to a note received last week in the middle of the melee!

Stay tuned.

Watching what is surely the last of the pieces on "The 92 year-old Ranger ..."

... on the CBS Evening News, there was a moment when the Betty on the screen and the Betty watching the footage brimmed with tears.  It was not obvious, but the moment was so filled with memories -- alive with pathos ... and there were no words to express the depth of feelings that surfaced.

It had to do with the raising of the flag.  John Blackstone, the interviewer, asked what it meant to me.  I fell silent for an instant ... then felt the tears forming ... there was no way to answer that in the few minutes allowed on camera.  I was grateful that my glasses had darkened in the sunlight so that the emotion that might have been visible was not evident.  The answer would take an essay -- and even that would hardly be adequate.

But if you'll place the name of the late author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,  Ken Kesey, into that little white search bar on the left hand side of the screen just above my photo, you'll understand my response to the question.  Or, a different set of posts on the flag will appear if you just enter "flag."

I don't believe that I fully understood what it meant to me until asked to give the keynote address for the National Park Service's Naturalization Day ceremony this past spring. In the writing of that speech I finally worked through, conclusively, its meaning at least to me.  That speech can be brought up with the search bar, if you're interested.  But it took all of those prior experiences to bring me to a personal patriotism that sustains me today in a still flawed social system.

Then there was this -- working away in the background  ...

While en route to the Oakland airport cell phone rings and CNN is on the line from New York wanting to arrange for an interview with Anderson Cooper.  By now nothing seems impossible.  Why not? I explained that I was boarding a plane within minutes and that the immediate future was unknown!   I've walked through the looking glass and was now firmly on the other side.

Having no idea what we're heading into, I could only think to give the caller the name of Producer Bryan Banly with the suggestion that they make contact with the studio staff to see if this was within the realm of possibility.  I'd not yet seen an itinerary for my day in LaLaLand, and had no idea of what to expect beyond the fact that I would be picked up by a limosine at LAX for delivery to the Studio.

Upon landing without a hitch, we found our driver waiting below holding up a REID sign.  Should have guessed that this was the way it was handled.

Shortly after our arrival at the Hollywood studio where we would spend this incredible day, we were greeted by our producer with his clipboard and anxious look (explained earlier) and news that they'd received the call from Anderson Cooper's people and that -- at sometime between makeup, rehearsal, and the actual show, the truck from the Los Angeles Bureau of CNN would arrive to set up the interview.

It was while I was in Make-up that Al Jazzera America called, a call I was never able to return, unfortunately.

After deciding that the studio space they'd been assigned was just too noisy, CNN decided to set up outside where I sat in a tall chair waiting (and waiting, and waiting) to go on -- all wired up with the little receiver tightly set in my left ear -- listening to the end of the interview that preceded mine.  For this they'd sent over a huge satellite truck from the Los Angeles CNN bureau for but a few minutes of the exchange between the coasts via Anderson Cooper and moi.  What on earth could one say in five minutes that would be worth all of this?  The weight, the responsibility of being cogent and significant and not wasting these expensive resources was a thought that rose to the surface but was quickly discarded.  To go there would be to deliver myself into the madness.

Then the real waiting began.  I learned later from David that there were negotiations going on concerning that Arsenio sign that is clearly visible here.  CNN wanted it removed.  Arsenio's people were adamant.  After all they'd bourne the expense to bring me to Los Angeles, and -- at least until my plane lifted off tonight -- I was their property.  They argued while I sat waiting for some resolution.  (Not unlike the insanity going on in Washington, right?)

Suddenly things got resolved, and in the negotiations it was determined that they would remove the sign only if Anderson would give them a mention during the interview.  That happened, if you'll notice.  It had taken about 20 minutes to get through to what ended up a five minute segment on camera.  I will never understand the logic of such things ... .

Only difficulty I found was that I've learned that I'm clearly not a "radio" person.  I need to see to whom I'm speaking.  I hate spotlights since they blind me to an audience.  In this instance I was actually speaking to a little box raised on a tall pole and Anderson was in New York -- out of sight.

When I've watched the interview since returning home, I see my face go blank at the start, and can remember clearly how that felt.  It was uncomfortable.  It was disorienting.  I also realize that I was lucid and after a few wasted simple "yes" answers -- I did share the message that I needed to, and that I didn't look scared -- only not animated.  Not really as interested in the process as I would be once the rehearsal began.

Then it all came alive! 

Life is beginning to slow down now ... rumors from Washington are beginning to turn toward some resolution ... .

and maybe we'll be back at work before many more hours have gone by.

I'm still feeling the warmth of Arsenio Hall, now that the dust has settled, and I can finally exhale.

What an adventure!

A more gracious group of young people I've seldom experienced.  I was shown total respect and every wish was granted.  I do hope their show survives what appears to be a troubled re-entry, and that this talented young man can hit his pace and continue his rise to the success he so richly deserves.

For me it was a total success, if I'm to believe the messages received over the past few days.  Though it didn't seem likely at the time, the message of the National Park Service was successfully delivered to a demographic that has been elusive in the past.  There are many comments from African Americans throughout the country -- and of all ages and genders -- who identified with me and who saw my success as partly their own.  The young members of my extended family are ecstatic and affirmed by what's happened.  That was a bonus.  I wasn't reaching quite that far; actually I wasn't reaching at all since the experience could not have been anticipated nor planned for.  It was just one of those serendipitous happenings that resulted from a news story on the AP wire service.  That was probably merciful since -- had I known in advance where it would take me I might have dashed for the nearest bush to hide behind!  One is never ready for such attention, but I'm so happy to have had the experience.

Thank you, World!

Travel itinerary with flourishes ...

Picked David up at his place for the drive to Lionel Wilson Airport in Oakland (Lionel was an old friend who played baseball with my husband, Mel Reid, for the California Eagles of the Black Baseball League back in the day), left at 10:30 and arrived at LAX 15 minutes early to be picked up by a sleek black luxurious limo whose driver was standing below with his printed sign bearing our name.   This is where the dream took wing.

About 40 minutes later we arrived in Hollywood at the studios, were met by a most courteous producer who would escort us through the day.  We were guided to a dressing room bearing my name which was arranged like a small living room with an adjoining private restroom.  A delicious lunch was delivered shortly thereafter (crab, prawns, green salad, garlic bread).

Bryan, our producer and the young man with whom I'd been corresponding over the past 24 hours joined us clutching a clipboard to his chest and a worried look on his face.  "I'm supposed to ask you if you'd be willing to join Arsenio for a couple of jokes during the show,"  and poor Bryan's expectations weren't wrong.  Without hesitation I said a resounding, "No!"  This is what I'd feared.  I did not want to become the foil for a professional comic's schtick.  Nor did I wish to become a 'lil' ole lady cartoon.  If I couldn't do this on my terms, then I'd not do it at all.  I was smiling, but adamant, and Bryan knew it.

He assured me that he could fix it, and that I shouldn't worry.  It was clear that it was Bryan who had discovered me online, and it was he who had sold Arsenio on bringing me to the show -- and that Arsenio didn't have a clue.  I was sure that if Arsenio didn't have any idea of me or my work then we wouldn't get beyond the 92 year-old ranger, and that would be wasteful of my time and their money.

He disappeared for a time and returned with a smile which meant that my message had been delivered and they'd adjusted their expectations.

I would have about 5 minutes with Arsenio on camera, and there would be no time for messaging.

This is where my inexperience was a handicap.  But by then things were moving so fast that there simply was no room for doubts.  I was guided to the make-up artist who made some adjustments to my coloring, but did no major changes.  It was time for rehearsal which is just a walk-through for timing, I suppose, and this revealed the level of humor that reigns on the Arsenio Show.

And, Oh Lordy, the level of humor on this show is surely not that of either Bill Maher or Jon Stewart.  Both specialize in sophisticated political commentary generously laced with obscenity and irreverence, but the edgy message never fails to come through with the laughs.  The style of Arsenio's show is closer to that of a risque Soupy Sales (make no mistakes, I loved Soupy) and greatly dependent upon sexual innuendo enhanced by lots of skin.  I suppose that -- on the spectrum of humor -- many expressions are essential to meet varied tastes,  but oh my!  What could I have been thinking?

It seems that the night before when Tyra Banks was his guest, Arsenio had done the first 20 minutes of the show with his fly zipper down.  Several times members of the crew had tried to call his attention to it during the show, but failed.  Tonight the opening skit was based on "Zip Down Fridays," and everyone, including the star of the show had their flys unzipped.

Backstage I was seated with David and others before a huge monitor watching the rehearsal in horror!  I was to follow this!  I uttered outloud that Arsenio ought to be ashamed of himself for using such material.  That this level of humor was below any standards of decency, and to my surprise his backstage people said, "tell him, Betty!  We think you should tell him on camera."  I was deadly serious.  When I was introduced during the rehearsal the first thing I said was that the skit would never pass the grandmother's test for decency (with a smile, of course).  I was serious, and he knew it.  They decided to drop the stuff they'd prepared for me to say and get it into the script.  His charm over-rode my objections, and my resistance flew out the window.  One would have to go a long way to escape Arsenio's boyish warmth and infectious good nature.  I liked this crazy man!

All-in-all, I figure that they'd flown me down and paid for a limo to pick us up and only for five minutes on camera and no time to learn anything about my work.  Makes no sense to me.  In the aftermath the public response has been purely positive -- which also doesn't make much sense, either.  What are they responding to?   

I was followed by Cedric the Entertainer, but didn't hear his interview due to my own inattention brought on by the relief of having completed my brief public appearance on television.

But it was the CNN Anderson Cooper interview that was something I'm still mulling over in the quiet moments.  That was even more strange, but I'll leave that story for tomorrow.

Goodnight.

Dancin' down the Rabbit Hole with Arsenio!

... and Associated Press, CBS Local, CBS National, NBC Local, NBC National, CNN's Anderson Cooper, and along the way I was too swamped to field calls from Diane Sawyer's Good Morning Show and Al Jazeera America's producer and lost them.

I know.  It's crazy.  Weird, but as my grandchildren would say "waaaaay cool"!

I hardly know where to begin.

I suppose it began with the shutdown of the National Park Service along with other federal agencies, and -- along with 800,000 other federal employees, I was furloughed.  On October 1st we arrived at work, worked at our desks for about 4 hours putting our phones on vacation status, our email boxes with "sorry to miss your call, but I will not be available until we return to work at some indefinite time at which I will return your call."  We watered our plants, closed our files, and headed for home until further notice.

For several days I sat around matching socks, tossing accumulated junk mail, made an attempt to organize "the Cave," which is the "everything room" where those things that have no home elsewhere in my apartment find a place to rest.  It's where I'm sitting now at my MAC and where the walls are lined with photos of my life's events that are too numerous and too laudatory to be allowed in the living room lest visitors think me too self-promoting.  But here in the Cave, they serve to provide energy and confidence when those things are lacking -- we all have those days, I'm sure.

Then comes Friday!

Our superintendent called to ask permission to give my phone number to an AP reporter seeking a story.  Being happy to have an assignment, I, of course said "Yes!"

It was obvious that the media was seeking angles to tell the Shutdown story that might be unique, and "the Oldest Ranger in the National Park System" might be just the ticket.

That opened wide the doors and within 24 hours it seemed that every part of the news media was calling for an interview.

I'll continue this when there's time.  Gotta do some call backs now.

Later.. .
 

Nation's oldest full-time park ranger furloughed | News - KCRA Home

Nation's oldest full-time park ranger furloughed | News - KCRA Home

RAW: Park ranger speaks about government shutdown

RAW: Park ranger speaks about government shutdown

And so it came to pass ...

Not sure how to use this gift of time, but until further notice -- life has come to a grinding halt!

At one minute after midnight as the federal shutdown was called, I became expendable, and the days will be different until further notice.

Maybe it's time to take stock of what has been making up the balance of my life -- without that which is spent being a tiny cog in the wheel of a great federal agency.

Perhaps another trip to the north shore of Mendocino ... somehow the last one missed its mark ... I lost focus and came home less than whole.

... then maybe I need to check into submitting an unemployment insurance claim and maybe the food stamp program would be a good idea.  Well, maybe not yet.  I'm still solvent, actually, but it wouldn't take much to topple the part of the economy that exists in my immediate neighborhood; in fact, in my immediate household. 

Guess this is the prelude to retirement, maybe?  But I want to have my career end on my own terms and not at the whim of others.   Could that be what they're doing in Washington, just "whim-ming"?  I know that isn't a word, but maybe in this case it might explain a situation that defies logic or even common sense.  What ever happened to common sense, anyway?

Wonder if I'm ready? 

Pure magic ... religions have been built on less than this ... .

For my 92nd birthday celebration last week, I got to go "full extension" up into this giant eucalyptus.

Just  before lunchtime the operator arrived with his cherry-picker adorned with a streamer with happy birthday wishes, balloons, to "take me up!"

(click to enlarge)

but wait!

There's an allegory here that is magical!

If you'll look at my extended hand -- then drop your eyes to the large curled piece of bark that is dropping to the ground -- let your imagination transform that bark into the front leg of a canine-like tree-spirit (you can make out the two ears, eyes, etc.,) and once on that path, you can see that these two elders (the centuries-old tree spirit and me) are having an intimate conversation.  It's clear that this is a benevolent spirit since I'm obviously not threatened, but am leaning in (take note Cheryl Sandberg).

It took a while to get permission to use this photo, but today it came.

I hope you can see my animistic deity; but maybe it only needs to be seen by me.

At idle moments, I'm having a great time imagining a script ... giving identity to the tree spirit ... masked demon?  Death?  Ancestors in disguise?

... it matters not, since at a subconscious level, fear is obviously not a part of the equation.

Moral:  It's probably not advisable to outlive one's therapist!