What on earth is there about Minstrel Shows these days ...

... and why are they hounding me so?

But my adventure as guest speaker at the Blackhawk Guild's monthly meeting in Danville turned out incredibly well, with enough goodwill to spare.  In fact, I'd say that some line was crossed yesterday that probably de-toxified the entire matter of Minstrel shows for all time

Maybe this is what young rappers are saying; something that I've failed to hear, about their ability to move past the "N" word by owning it and by using it deliberately thereby stripping it of its power.  We elders continue to be so traumatized by it and continue to cringe each time it gets used in our presence -- even when that use is couched in some arts or cultural context.

It happened to me yesterday at the Blackhawk Auto Museum -- a most magnificent edifice housing the collection of the most luxurious automobiles on the planet!  What a dream it was just to be there under that dramatic lighting -- with so few descriptive words to draw from that could possibly express the splendor of the Museum or the two floors of glamorous million dollar vehicles that had been once owned by Hollywood celebrities and other Titans of the World in their opulent lives of Eras past.

I'd been invited by the Museum Guild to make a presentation before their membership in a

monthly meeting.  Never having visited this wondrous place, this venture into the world of privilege  turned out to be beyond my wildest dreams.

The audience was beyond respectful, but was really warmly welcoming to both my granddaughter, Rosie, and her Ranger grandmother, and at the conclusion of my talk stood on their feet in an enthusiastic standing ovation!

The highlight of the day, and the greatest triumph, however, was not that moment, but a bit earlier when I stood beside the legendary stage and screen star, Al Jolson's, grand convertible to have a photo taken (Aha!  The Minstrel!).   I found a gaggle of giggles rising in my throat that threatened to take over my entire body in a grand guffaw that would surely have embarrassed Rosie!  But the setting; the event; my role in it; the historic WWII period that my talk deals with, and that comes so alive in the present -- all combined to suddenly illustrate how hopelessly ridiculous it all is!

I am by now so far past any semblance of that negative history that it has lost its power to inflict pain.

The irony in considering how a white man (a Jew in this instance) could be catapulted into such stardom by blackening himself to parody a person of color -- a creature who at that time was barely considered human -- and to do it so successfully that he would be able to live such  a  life of luxury speaks to something I'll never hope to fully understand.  I can still hear him singing, "Mam-my, how I luvya, how I luvya, my dear old Mammy," and I now remember that the child I was at that time liked his act!" 

Like most of the public, my family, too, enjoyed Al Jolson, at a time when childhood innocence made me oblivious to any darker meanings of his performances.  But then I can remember my family gathering around the radio to listen and laugh at the antics of Amos 'n Andy, Lightnin' and 'da' Kingfish (Freeman Gosden and Charles Correll, two white men in black face), not ever considering that these characters were being seen by the nation as representing all black people, and that  life and death national policy was being made based on those images of our being sneaky, lazy, untrustworthy, and -- most of all -- hopelessly stupid.   In my world colored people were laughing and enjoying them, too, but as comic characters in a play.  In the old radio show, The Goldbergs, Molly surely was beloved by everyone without anyone assuming that she was the Jewish community personified.  In another generation and at a somewhat higher level of culture, artists like Elvis Presley and Mick Jagger et al would just skip the burnt cork and continue to expropriate black culture in their successful bids for fame and fortune.


... but I really suspect that, yesterday, the ambiance, the obvious positive energy expressed by really good people who were open to my words -- expelled whatever doubts that may have existed in that grand space.

Love wins another one, as unlikely as that may seem ... .

I'm looking forward to the Guild's visit to my world, in late spring.   

It's not easy bein'  green (with envy, that is) ... .


I've been wondering just why Phyllis Gould -- whose persistence with successive presidential administrations over many years sent her pleas for recognition to the White Houses of Presidents Bill Clinton (twice), and George Bush (twice), but in the Obama years, only through the highest ranking white person in the administration, Vice-President Joe Biden?  Is it really possible to "dis" the Leader of the Free World and have it go unnoticed?  Apparently so.  I suspect racism rising from the entitlement that goes with white privilege, but it was just a fleeting glance of an idea -- and I suspect it rose from envy.  But why Joe Biden and not the President whose grandmother had served as a "Rosie" at Douglas Aircraft during WWII?  What other explanation could there possibly be?

Then I remembered that I'd written a post on April 23, 2004, when invited to Washington as a member of the delegation seeking congressional support for our park.  Our superintendent was Judy Hart at the time, and I was acting as a consultant to the park under development.  We were to testify before Congress, I believe, and I was to be the guest of Rep. George Miller.  It would have been my chance to visit the White House, right?

Has there ever been a more awkward embrace?

I refused to participate explaining that I did not accept George Bush as my president, and therefore would not attend.   It was shortly after the Supremes selected him to be our president after the debacle of the Florida challenges. Of course, it wasn't racism, but was it any more justified than the suspicions I'm laying on Phyllis?  Could it be simply that I was uncomfortable with there being only white women in this delegation, and no women of color -- for whatever reason?  The National Park Service would surely have preferred this were not so, but it was a private adventure, so there was no choice in who those representatives would be.  But this delegation surely was an accurate representation of life as it was lived in the WWII era.  Being historically correct is painful, even when that is not what was intended. These things are really complex, and often tainted by hidden factors.

It may be enlightening to check the archives for that post of 2004 (see the archives for post of April 23rd).

I don't know the answer, but the fact that I've made such a big thing of rejecting the label of "Rosie the Riveter," declaring that this was a white woman's story and not mine, may be a contributing element in this twisted tale.  I would have only agreed to go as a ranger, and even now -- would surely not have attended as a Rosie had I been invited.

There, I've said it.   Feels better to not have to carry such feelings around in coming weeks.  I like these women, and am genuinely happy for their good fortune.  It must have been a glorious week for them!


And -- tomorrow two huge Semi's will arrive from the East Coast.  They'll pull up to unload the permanent exhibits -- and we'll be opening another chapter in the development of Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park.

The Blues, the Envy, Climate Change and Rising Sea Levels will all be forgotten as we embark on the next round of park development!

I can hardly wait!

 
  

The Rosies took the White House by storm ... and I'm envious as hell!

You've all read about the five Rosie the Riveters who (through the hard work of Phyllis Gould, one of the group) had wrangled an invitation to the White House through Vice President Joe Biden.  It turned out to be a once in a lifetime grand adventure for 5 deserving elders who served their country well by answering the call when needed in the wartime workforce during WWII.

Phyllis is one of the Rosies who are still serving as volunteers at our Visitors Education Center in Richmond.  They're on site from ten until two o'clock every Friday to interact with the public and share their history as the first women hired into non-traditional roles during WWII.  She has been working on getting invited to the White House and national recognition since the Clinton Administration -- through two Bush terms -- and now into the present.  Vice President Biden finally responded positively, but the invitation didn't cover travel expenses so several agencies stepped up to sponsor their adventure, including Virgin Airlines who booked only female pilots to fly them -- first class -- to Washington where they enjoyed a week of festivities!

And, folks, I do truly appreciate your concern that I was not included in what was a private party, but I've had more than my share of notoriety over past years, which included an invitation to witness the Inauguration of President Barack Obama, and though I've had my recent moments of envy -- I'm not the only crayon in the box, and this one was not meant for me.

I'm taking comfort in the fact that so many of you were outraged at what they believed to have been an oversight of the White House.  Not so.  

Congratulations to Phyllis on her persistence in finally gaining the recognition she's been seeking for so many years!

Feeling depressed -- and far beyond the ordinary late winter blue periods that have dogged the dark days all my life ... .

This one seems different somehow ... deeper and less focussed ... .

It started one dead of night when I woke suddenly in a sweat -- though the room was cold.  Maybe it was related to something from the National Public Radio program that penetrated my consciousness as I slept.  I'd fallen asleep in the middle of listening ... but the words had risen from some place within me.  It was not something I'd heard someone say.  I knew that.  It was a primary original truth.

The words are still ringing in my brain, "... I will not believe that the world is serious about climate change and rising sea levels until some agency has published the carbon footprint of War.  That was it.

Those few words thundered with authenticity in my brain.  They stayed with me all day, and all the days since. 

At one point -- in an attempt at ridding myself of the hopelessness they've triggered -- I posted the sentence on Facebook.  Then to Twitter.

... and still they echo through all else.

Peace, be still ...

This post will require some experimenting ...

You'll need to go into the little white search bar (left side, above the banner and my photo) and enter the words, Minstrel Show.  That will bring up a post of January 1, 2004 that shows a picture of my son, Rick, in his early years.


To show that this history is still being lived and that revelations still crop up from time to time, this is noteworthy.

Only last week -- after my talk in the theater -- a young University of California graduate student lingered behind as the audience was leaving.  She asked if she could have a few minutes with me during which she mentioned that she was working on the dissertation for her doctorate -- the subject of which is Minstrel Shows of the Fifties.  That was enough to cause me to invite her into our staff break room for a brief conversation.

It was then that I learned, for the first time, that my experience was but one instance in what had been a program being distributed at the time by a national company that specialized in producing kits (costumes, scripts, instruction manuals) to schools all over the country for Parent Teacher Associations (PTAs) to use as fundraisers. 

She told me that in her research she'd found a number of letters from African American parents who were deeply offended and were attempting to get the NAACP to provide some defense against a practice that was fanning the flames of racism, and doing grave harm to their children.

After having run across this 5 year-old account on my blog during her research, she told me that mine was the only example she'd found of someone facing -- head on -- this horribly destructive program.

Until that very moment I'd assumed that the nightmare was a purely local phenomenon -- my hostile neighbors  expressing their abject ignorance.

Would I have faced into that storm had I known that this was a Goliath, a local version of an evil national industry so much larger than could be seen at the time?  Was I protected by my innocence so that it wasn't the courageous act she may have believed it to have been?  I truly don't know ... . 

She's agreed to bring a copy of her dissertation when completed.  It should shed light on a shameful though fascinating period in our history -- in this seemingly never-ending struggle toward full equality.

... and why the tears?  It was so long ago, and surely I've now grown far beyond their reach ... .

Then so has Rick, though it's only because he died far too young in a thinly-veiled suicide after a self-destructive life probably contributed to by those early years of sadness and rejection, as have so many of our children. 

Betty goes international!

Received a package several days ago from Japan, which stirred much interest among staff -- and some amusement by at least one staff member -- me!

It's written in Japanese and was sent by a young professor who visited our park about two years ago when she was on a tour of "Small Museums on the West Coast of California."  I do remember her well.  She was present when I gave my talk in our little theater.  This charming young author and her husband were traveling together, and quite obviously shared her interest in the subject they were gathering information for.

The 5-page article is about Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park, and includes several photographs (one of the Rosie Memorial, another of the Visitors Center, and this one of Ranger Betty.

Haven't the foggiest notion of the content since this "reading-from-back-to-front" book as is done in the Far East --  and written in Japanese -- it is beyond comprehension for this ranger -- but tomorrow I'll hand it off to Flora Ninomiyo who will surely be able to get the article translated for me through one of our mutual friends in the Japanese Americans Citizen's League (JACL) and the suspense will have ended.

Meanwhile ... . 

Lost in the crowd ... a strange turn in a still-evolving historical record ...

Traveled to Monterey on an assignment as a presenter at the National Conference of Public Historians, with mixed feelings.

Firstly, I'm surely not an historian, but simply a survivor of the era of 1941-1945 memorialized by the Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park -- a primary source sharing personal history.  That's an odd role to fill since audiences have no idea what to expect of me -- and I have no idea about the "Rules of Engagement," and that makes a considerable difference. 

There were probably 1000 conferees, all in meeting rooms scattered throughout the Monterey Convention Center, and all "of a world" that is alien to me, but reminiscent of the years of my marriage to Bill Soskin.  I don't think that I ever made my peace with the world of the Academy, so there was some dissonance present in the mix.

The day before leaving for Monterey I'd received an answer to a mystery that I've been living with for some years, and it colored my experience considerably.

If you'll check that little search bar at the top left side of the screen above the banner, enter the words Port Chicago, and you'll bring up (among other posts) this photo of a burial ceremony which shows 8 caskets with mourners standing around looking appropriately grim.  I'd never understood why those caskets weren't flag-draped as all such rites would demand in Armed Forces burials.  I've made a real poser of the question, and was frustrated over several years when no answers were ever forthcoming.  I'd (wrongly) assumed that this may have been ultimate proof that those "mutineers" could not have ever had a fair trial since the Navy did not accord them the honor even in death.  I'd suspected that they were buried as dockworkers, and not as Navy men at all.  The social climate of the times in which we were living supported such speculations.

Last week there came in the mails from my friend, Careth Bomar Reid, and the owner of the E.F. Joseph photo collection, a packet containing several photos -- among them a copy of the (long assumed) Port Chicago burial rites, but the packet was dated January 21, 1944, 7 months before the tragic explosion at Port Chicago and the 320 lost lives.   The Port Chicago explosion occurred at 10:47 pm on the evening of July 17, of that same year. There were no flags on these caskets because the graveside ceremony was not Armed Forces, but civilian!  Those caskets held the remains of 8 African Americans who'd met death in some awful industrial accident in Kaiser Shipyard #3, or, perhaps in some kind of racial unrest ...

The mystery has deepened.

How do we know those remains were from blacks?  Because the identifying marks are that the floral wreathes have inscribed across them, "Kaiser Permanente Shipyard 3," and, "Boilermakers A-36" -- the name of the African American segregated Jim Crow Labor Union that had been my employer in those days.  The Union officials pictured were those for whom I'd worked in 1942-43.

Also, the Port Chicago remains were gathered into 22 caskets and buried as Unknowns in the Colored Section of the federal cemetery at San Bruno, according to recorded history of the times.  I'd always assumed that the 8 showing were only a portion of that larger number which were off-scene.

This is a second tragedy, long forgotten among the untold stories of WWII.

I'm attempting to re-connect with an AFL-CIO Union archivist and historian with whom I've exchanged information in the past, in the hope of learning more.

More to come ...

What's in a name?  

Everything, I suppose, though I had no idea that the question held any meaning for me.  It does.

Having been christened under my centuries-old surname of Charbonnet, I'd married Melvin Reid in 1942 and became Betty Reid.  After having been married to Mel for over 35 years, we divorced and I met and married  Dr. William F. Soskin (actually changed from Sosinski when Bill entered the University of Michigan at the insistence of two older sisters who had done so earlier).

Since I'd spent at least two decades as Betty Reid while living in the world of Northern California Suburbia, I was clearly identified in that world under Mel's last name.

When we divorced and (having reared our 4 children to adulthood by now) I returned to Berkeley to take up life as a faculty wife in a totally new social setting where I was now known as Bill Soskin's, Betty Soskin.  I insisted upon carrying both my married names during our 10-year marriage due to the fact that my kids were all Reids, and in order to remain connected to my family it felt important.

I'd by this time developed two separate identities, one as the wife of a well-known African American business man; who was a stay-at-home suburban mother while also a political activist with significant "street cred" under her belt, and a growing reputation as a poet/singer; and now the new identity as a faculty wife of a brilliant professor who was doing groundbreaking research for the University of California at Berkeley.  Few in the university years had any knowledge of the former Betty Reid who had been unceremoniously left in the (all-white) suburbs behind the East Bay hills.

Together, Bill and I served on boards and commissions, hosted faculty parties,  conducted workshops associated with his work; traveled to far away places where I tested my new identity on the world, but always in the support and the shadow of an eminent man.

But both these men died in 1987 within a 3-month period, and, since I'd allowed myself to be defined in relation to each, in turn, for several months I wasn't sure just who I was now that they were gone.

For a number of years I'd tried on the role of Merchant when Mel's health failed and I returned to run the business.  Bill had introduced me to an upscale international world but had left no models for me to step into easily.  Besides, I'd found the highly-competitive world of Academia disappointing, and had no wish to remain within it.  I then re-entered the African American world as a black activist/merchant and political organizer with much pain but some successes made possible by the years spent in Bill's world and the resulting rise in my level of sophistication and with contacts forged that would enable these new adventures.  I'd become by now a seasoned political activist with many more choices and a growing sense of how to use them.

with Chief of Interpretation Kelly English and Superintendent Tom Leatherman

For years now I suppose that I've been attempting to forge those identities into some kind of wholeness and with a certain amount of success.  I've taken back the poet/singer, at least long enough to satisfy those memories, and -- every now and then someone from my campus life happens by and I'm reminded of what seems now to have been only a borrowed life; my sons and daughter continue to define my "real" personhood.


Now I'm about to be cast in bronze, and there arises in me a wish to return to my original self -- the girl who bore the name Charbonnet but lost it to custom.  My parents gave birth to 3 daughters, of whom I'm the only survivor. There were no sons to carry the name into the future.  With me our historic name dies.  A name that traces back to the 14th century in Europe and in this country to about 1768.  My two men both died decades ago, leaving me to fend for myself in an often unsympathetic world, but also returning the me of me to myself to do with as I wish, right?


The Betty Charbonnet who survived into the present has lived to an undreamed of period of fulfillment.  I find myself wishing that I'd had the foresight to have given my surname as a middle name to each of my children at birth.

I know that Betty didn't get lost along the way after all, but has lived a life of meaning and is continuing to do so.

... but I'm not sure that -- when the National Park Service granted me permanent status that this is precisely what they had in mind!   

The days now, are filled to overflowing ... 

... and last Saturday's schedule is the case in point.

Started out being picked up by a driver to travel to Moraga, about a 40-minute drive from Richmond, to the Soda Center on the St. Marys College campus to keynote their International Women's Day celebration which would last all day.  My talk was to take up the first hour, and I would show our Home Front Heroes short video followed by my talk -- ending with a Q&A -- much as it happens every Tuesday and Saturday afternoons in our Visitors Center.

Met some wonderful students and instructors, and -- as I was leaving -- Oscar Grant's mother and uncle were walking across the courtyard, ready to take over the lectern.  I'd seen them both numerous times on news shows, but had never met them before (Oscar Grant being the young black teenager killed by the BART policeman about 5 years ago).  They were both warm and gracious beings, and I'd love to have remained to hear their presentation.

However, I was on my way to the car to be driven back to the Visitors Education Center to prepare for the usual two o'clock presentation in the theater, but today would be special since both before and after my talk the full-length film Rosie the Riveter was being shown with the filmmaker and editor in the house for a discussion immediately following.  Again. I felt like an interruption in the proceedings, and would love to have stayed to hear them.

But, alas, at the end of my event I was scheduled to immediately leave for the drive up to Napa to the studio of noted sculptor, Mario Chiodo, who is working on the preliminary concept for a major work that will become the signature of Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park.

At this point it is in draft form -- meaning multiple clay figures, "sketches," that are probably merely placeholders for the final work, but even at this point it is truly exciting to see.

The artist, Chiodo, created the massive 30' bronze tribute to the "Champions of Humanity," called "Remember Them" that was installed at 19th Street and Telegraph Avenue in downtown Oakland in the recent past.  He is one of the most charismatic human beings I've ever encountered.  Mario truly lights up any room he steps into, and Saturday was no exception.  It was a kind of reception that we'd been invited to where he introduced  his supporters, funders, and interested patrons of the arts, to this new work.

Upon completion it will tell the story of the Great Mobilization as a part of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt's Arsenal of Democracy --- that occurred in Richmond -- through many life-sized anonymous bronze figures in various groupings combined with cascading water-walls and mistings, meandering paths between clusters of those extraordinary ordinary people who made history.  It will be magnificent with dramatic night-lighting that will greet those who drive to the end of Harbour Way or arrive by Ferry from the across the Bay from landings north and south of Richmond.

Why was I invited to this glitzy groundbreaking reception?  Well you might ask ...

Among those anonymous bronze figures will be one Betty Charbonnet (Reid Soskin) at age 20 from a photograph taken on April 12, 1942, in a florist's shop in Oakland as she was choosing flowers for her wedding that would take place on May 24, 1942.  She would enter that work force in Richmond as a clerk in the segregated, Blacks-only, Boilermaker's Auxiliary-36 in the fall of that year.

(It seems important to add that the Grand Opening of the park is planned for May 24, 2014, exactly 72 years since my wedding day.}

Can you imagine ... ?

Note:  For those interested, my dress is cotton (lace-trimmed organdy) while my Matron of Honor, my older sister Marjorie's dress is crisp cotton piqué, as is the lovely little flower girl's gown.   Marjorie designed and made all of our dresses.  Never felt more beautiful!

As a footnote:  We Charbonnets do have this thing about timing ... beautiful Marjorie died after a long illness on the morning of the day that President Kennedy was assassinated.  Her death got lost in the numbing confusion that followed.  I've never felt that she was properly mourned. Maybe I'll find a way to do that one day ... it saddens me, still.

 

So-oo-o beautiful!

Ceanothus (California Lilac) is blooming profusely along Hilltop Drive this morning.  After a much- needed early light rain shower and the resulting heavy scent of Spring in the air, I couldn't resist the urge to do an encore drive up the 2-block display before picking Dorian up at the BART station in El Cerrito.  Such splendor doth Nature bring!

I so look forward to the spring blooming of wildflowers along the medians throughout much of the city each year.  Poppies, daffodils, golden wild mustard, lupin, baby blues eyes, buttercups, and those that I cannot name but that are so reminiscent of my childhood, and coming upon an occasional pure rare white trillium in some shaded bower in the Oakland hills of my youth.

Yesterday was another special day among special days that have become more numerous in these late years than ever before.  Maybe it only seems that way now that time is so precious ... .  maybe.

At the Visitors Center we launched Women's History Month with a visit from Ms. Elinor Otto, the celebrated 94 year-old still-working riveter from Douglas Aircraft in Southern California. 

By way of giving a sense of how far we've come, Elinor started out at 65 cents/hr in the WWII workforce and is now receiving $42/hr while working as the only woman with an all-male crew! Elinor still rises at four o'clock each morning to prepare for her five o'clock shift.

I'm a modest 5'3" weighing in at 118 pounds, but stand significantly taller than this tiny Rosie who
is less than 5' tall and weighs under 100 pounds.  Amazing!  Together, we total about 186 years and 218 pounds!  I think that we will have left an impact upon our times that far outweighs our physicality (says moi, immodestly).

The most touching moment in the day occurred while standing together at the Rosie Memorial with the beautiful floral wreath -- while the bugler played Taps in memory of the Rosies who are no longer with us ...

... maybe the encore drive along the brilliant royal blue ceanothus today was an attempt at re-capturing the poignancy of that moment -- holding those feelings just a bit longer ... .

May our sisters of the Great Arsenal of Democracy rest in peace.  
   

Let Freedom Ring!

This photo was taken at one of my favorite places in the City of Richmond; the Greenway -- the meandering park created by the community to follow the route of the railroad tracks that form one of the boundaries of the Iron Triangle -- a neighborhood under renewal led by a coalition of community groups which includes Urban Tilth, the Richmond Community Foundation and the National Park Service.  The railroad tracks were removed long ago, leaving an elongated space suitable for development into public gardens and orchards open to anyone wanting to participate.   By agreement with businesses and industrial properties that lie along this several-miles-long "park", the fences, backs of buildings, now bear dynamic, colorful, imaginative murals that feed the soul and nourish those who plant, cultivate, and reap the harvest of gardens planted and maintained by the community throughout the year. 

Among the youth contingent, led by NPS Ranger, Matt Holmes, are local high school students working alongside and sharing life with the elders of the community while working the soil, designing and painting the murals, adorning the trashcans, irrigating the gardens, and planting the trees.

... another sign of the renewal of the life process through the spirit of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., whose dedication to the concept of love has been remembered well enough to have carried us through these early decades of the 21st Century.

Richmond is well into its renaissance!

This photo was taken during this year's Day of Service, observed in memory of Dr. King.  

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 ... .