So much has happened -- with so much waiting in the wings ... .

But at the top of the list is a very surprising email message received a few days ago from a publishing house in Chicago, the head of which -- in a few sentences -- informed me that he'd been looking for me for a very long long time, and he then shared a few words from a song I'd written and performed many years ago -- maybe 50?

At first I thought there must be some mistake, and responded with my doubts, yet, the song was clearly one I'd written long ago ... .

It was quite lovely.  Wind Song was written during one of our annual trips to Asilomar for Stebbins Institute of the Unitarian Universalist Association.  The kids and I looked forward to sharing that mid-August week with other UU families each year, building friendships that have lasted our entire lives.

The song was later picked up by a filmmaker, Charles Peterson, and used in Farallon Light, a documentary about the impending removal of the centuries-old beacon that had served on the island  to warn seafarers of hazards -- but also to serve as protection for shorebirds along the Pacific flyway --  instead of automated surveillance that could not provide enough of the necessary protection along the usually fogbound coastal shoreline.  I believe this prize-winning film influenced the decision to maintain a small team on the island supervised by the Audabon Society.

Wind Song came out of that rich yet personally painful period, but had been buried deep in the suburbs as our lives moved us in and out of one marriage and into another; the kids grew into their own lives; and I gave up my secret life of singer/composer of art songs in favor of a multitude of new edges to live out of into the next decades.  I'd truly moved past young Betty and deeper into the political activist/merchant/ranger Betty of today over those many years.

Shipley is seeking to include it in a compilation album along with other as-yet undiscovered artists of the 50s, 60s. and 70s.  How he ever found this obscure recording so many miles from its place of origin is a mystery I'll never understand.  About 3 years ago, another collector contacted me to announce that he'd turned up another of my songs ... once "out there," art seems to never die, I guess.  I marveled at the miracle and allowed the interest to return to the past without revelation.

You can imagine how Ken Shipley's message would reawaken those long-forgotten embers by breathing oxygen over them at a time when -- only last week I'd given a disk on which 7 original songs were etched -- for consideration for including in a documentary about our family; a work now in production.  After more years than I can count, here was my music stubbornly coming to life again in unpredictable ways, and having to be dealt with. This time I would pay attention.  This time there was a context in which it might live again.

Shipley included in his email the link to the little song.  Someone had taken a recording of my quite lovely little voice singing to my own barely adequate guitar accompaniment -- added a bass and flute -- and, Voila!, young Betty sounds quite professional, and with all those intervening years now past, I can now listen to her without ego or passing judgment, as if in the third person, and find myself responding to her as "audience."  Amazing!

Can you imagine having your younger self emerging into a suddenly-exploding life of "the nation's oldest park ranger," at a time when your older self is being caught in a flurry of floodlights and peering into camera lenses and speaking into microphones, giving interviews to Der Spiegel, the BBC, CNN, ABC, CBS, etc., none of whom has ever heard of young Betty the singer/composer!  She snuck up on all of us, and I'm not certain what to do with her at this point.

I will be leaving in 3 weeks for Washington, D.C., to serve on a panel before the Congressional Black Caucus Conference,  then to New York mid-week for another commitment, and then back to Washington for the grand opening of the new African American Museum on the Capitol Mall.

Surviving a home intrusion burglary may have been easy compared to trying to juggle September on the East Coast where my 95th birthday will be spent along with everything else, and now young Betty turns up at this late date -- opening yet another door into a fast-fading and very fragile future ... .

It has been a very long time since I've posted ... and so much has happened ... .

I DO blame Facebook mainly for sapping most of the energy that once went into blogging.  That program tends to drain off the immediacy that once went into the processing of "...life as it unfolded," (I remember writing those words once to explain some other temporary issue), by having created a world of "friends" who now inhabit my world -- but not really -- and who tap into my reality in sometimes disconcerting ways.  There's something faux about it in that the word friend has been redefined into something that defies reality -- but that has loomed in the background of my life in ways that seem actual but are not.  Except that in a real emergency situation those friends who were virtual became quite real at a time when my life appeared threatened.

It was the early morning of July 1st (my late mother's birthday) when I woke at one-thirty to an intruder standing within six feet of my bed.  I live in a second floor apartment.  He'd climbed up using the drain pipe -- climbed over the railing, broke the lock on my sliding balcony doors and entered surreptitiously in the night.

He was a slightly-built white man wearing a hoodie and (I suspect) lightweight pajamas.  I knew that he was a white man because he spoke while trying to get me to stop screaming.  I would have recognized a black male voice.  He was probably 5'7-5'9.

I rose from my bed with my cellphone in hand (I'd placed it next to my bed) but had no time to summon the police before it was wrested from  my hand in a struggle that took us from the bedroom into the hallway with his arms pinning mine down and his hand over my mouth to silence my screams.

Had either of us been armed, my gun would have been taken from me in those same few seconds that my cellphone was knocked out of my hand and slung across the room.  I might well have not survived.

Gift on my return to work

He straddled my body as we struggled on the floor of the hallway and he beat me about the head and face with his fists leaving bruises and a split lip that would last for days.  As we struggled on the floor with me screaming as loudly as I could to no response (I didn't know that the two apartments downstairs were empty and there was no one to hear), but a sudden memory of defense strategies gave me the chance to reach into his loose-fitting (pajama pants?) garb and squeeze his genitals as hard as I could which caused him to back off allowing me to escape to the nearby bathroom where I immediately sat upon the floor with my feet propped against the door and my back against the cabinet housing the sink.  I remembered that my electric iron was stored under the sink -- let my feet loose for the few seconds it took to plug it into a wall outlet beside the sink and turned the dial to linen -- the hottest temperature -- and sat while it quickly gained heat enough to brand the culprit for the police to find him once caugh!

I have no idea where that power springs from under  such circumstances, but I do know that as I sat down on that floor I was suddenly as calm as a cucumber, and knew that I was going to survive this, that I was surely not a victim.  Though I'd never had to know this before now, I had the distinct realization that I could take care of myself, and that this intruder was not going to be allowed to change my life, nor to make me fear.  I suspected that his beating me was for the purpose of silencing me.  That he had no intention of killing me, or seriously harming me, that I was interfering with his intent to steal items that he could sell and that -- had I stopped screaming, or, if I'd pretended sleep and allowed him to do his work I might well have escaped personal harm.

I was told that this is a "victim's" way of blaming oneself, and not a healthy attitude, but I suspect that I'm right.

As I sat in that bathroom listening for signs of activity (at least 30 minutes), he was busy going through my apartment picking up items (my computer, my IPhone, a lovely hand painted bamboo fan and teak box beautifully adorned with abalone shells sent by as gifts by the South Korean National Park Service for an aricle I'd written for their journal; and the presidential coin presented to me by President Barack Obama at the national tree-lighting ceremony last December.  That, along with other challenge coins collected over time and together in a small wine-colored velvet drawstring bag that lay on the table in my living room along with other personal treasures.

Of the items, it was that presidential coin that I treasured most and felt most the loss of.

The physical bruises were not serious enough to require a physician's attention, though the fire and police departments were well represented in my living room within a few minutes after my neighbors placed the call.

They were outraged!  My community was outraged!  I think that I just felt lucky to have survived the encounter.

I was distraught, but held together until late the next morning when -- after a sleepless night -- I fell totally apart ... .

Finding the need to pull back a few paces -- to try to absorb all that has happened ... .

Am back at work, having checked in on Tuesday where a box from South Korea was waiting.  Staff had been impatiently waiting for me to return so that the contents  could be revealed.

Ranger Elizabeth Tucker insisted upon doing the honors and  quickly gathered up her scissors to snip through the wrappings.  Apparently protocol has been instituted by Homeland Security so that there is a designated "unwrapper" to do this, and Elizabeth was mine.

Mothering with Dorian and Bob at the beach at Asilomar

As she made her way through the artfully wrapped gifts; a lovely fan, a toy bear wearing a park ranger hat with Korean characters across the crown; a beautiful black teak box inlaid with abalone shells in the cover; plus 2 copies of the South Korean National Park Service journal in which two pages that hold a paragraph authored by me that was (apparently) created from one of those many phone interviews I've granted lately.  There is a small photo of a uniformed Betty in the lower left hand corner, and the words are printed in both Korean and English -- on facing pages.  What an honor!  The thought that this is being read in a faraway land by total strangers is inconceivable -- but obviously true.  I'm now international!

Wednesday I worked from home, catching up with mail and trying to establish whatever new normal we're entering into ...

Went back into my family photo album for some grounding, and found this ... taken on the beach at Asilomar, California, on the Monterey Peninsula, where the kids and I spent the third week in August of every year for many years ... as we participated in Stebbins Institute with other Unitarian Universalist families who became lifelong friends.

Let myself return to that idyllic place for just a few moments before getting into the rest of my week at the Visitor Center and the growing audiences ... and back to this unlikely late-in-life career with its growing public attention ... wish it had come earlier in the life cycle, at a time when I was still building a resumé and could benefit by it.  In my mid-nineties, it all seems inappropriate in a way, and rather out of place -- as an afterthought in a pretty ordinary existence 'til now.

This week there's another film crew (Scripps) coming to document my talk, and another (Nowness from New York) the week after.

I may find myself paging my way through my family album more frequently now, in order to try to find ways to avoid getting lost in a world of other's making ...

Maybe I'm needing to get back to making music ... .

June 9th -- a day to be remembered ... .

Bob and I arrived in early evening at our hotel, the Loew's, on Poydras near Canal Street and about ten blocks from the National WWII Museum where we were to have a family gathering the next day.

Found we were to be guests on the 21st (top) floor of our hotel, where our hotel bathroom may well have been equal in size to my condo's second bedroom (where I've located my desk, computer, and all of the overflow of life with a month's worth of accumulated junk mail that I never have the time to go through -- and which is beginning to threaten my ability to reach the closet where an accumulation of all that stuff I need to go through one more time before calling Good Will ... you know how that goes, right?

At any rate, promptly at 5 our limo arrived to deliver us to a family gathering arranged for by cousin Paul Charbonnet and Ellen Buckley of the WWII Museum staff.  They'd put out finger foods and wine and soft drinks in a room reserved just for our family.

Among the guests were cousins we'd never met from both sides of the Charbonnet clan, both white and black, plus (surprise!) Times Picayune journalist John Pope who'd written the feature article announcing our visit to New Orleans, and about the award I was being presented with at the Gala.  He blended in with the rest of family, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the party, staying through to the end.

The Museum photographer was there to cover the event, but I've not yet received his photos but will post them when possible.  Our film team also was at work, too, and there should be some good footage to be shared.

There was Pierre Charbonnet (from our side), a former police officer now retired, and two of his sisters, one being Municipal Judge Desireé M. Charbonnet, a lovely woman with whom I immediately felt kinship.

But it was (white) cousin and dear friend Paul Charbonnet who was the hit of the evening, and who established an instant connection with younger Pierre (from our side), and they will probably continue in relationship into the future.  Pierre learned (from Paul) the secret that his father and grandfather would never reveal to the family -- the identity and origin of the family -- a white man.  It was at this informal gathering that Pierre would learn from Paul that our ancestor in common, Amable Charbonnet, was their ancestor in common, and that we would visit that grave, together, the very next day.  You can imagine the emotions alive in that room ... .  You could almost hear and feel the chains dropping away and new connections based upon family ties being forged.

The reuniting after generations of separation was not by any means universal.  There are holdouts on both sides, I'm sure.  Some expression of the reluctance was expressed, but without overt animus, at least not where I could hear or feel it.  I'm sure that Paul experienced some resentment on the part of members of his family, but his sister, Helen, appeared at the next morning's visit to the cemetery.  She was gracious, and welcoming and seemed thoroughly at ease.

The walls of centuries of separation finally begin to fall as the descendants of those two Charbonnet brothers from Thiers, France, Jean Baptiste  (Paul's line) and Antoine Charbonnet, (our's) come together in harmony.  It is from Amable, a grandson of Antoine's that our line was formed.  The two brothers arrived in the Americas before the Revolutionary War of 1776, and the Louisiana Purchase of 1806.  Our ancestors helped to found this city that was already established in the time of the Haitian Rebellion and the War of 1812, and before the United States was a country.  Our ancestor, Antoine, went on to settle in Haiti while Jean remained in Natchitoces, Louisiana.

The story is totally fascinating, and should become a book at some point, maybe authored by Isabel Allende.  Wish there were enough days left on my Calendar of Life to do it myself, but, alas, time is running out ... .

My brain can hardly take in the implications of what we were experiencing in those moments ...  but this day would pale when compared to June 10th -- the unforgettable day to come!

More tomorrow.

Unforgettable ...

The Telluride MountainFilms Symposium on Friday morning opened with the National Anthem being sung by lovely 12 year-old Tonisha Draper in her Navajo language.  In a crystal clear young voice the strange-sounding lyrics with off-beat sliding phrases to the old familiar almost-impossible-to-sing notes was born into something refreshingly new and exciting.

Later we were able to view a National Park Experience  film called Canyon Song PBS in which the Draper family shares their story in a deeply moving 12 minute piece.  Look it up on Vimeo or under PBS.  It's well worth watching.

Given the brutal and duplicitous history of the struggles between the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Bureau of Land Management, related governmental agencies, and the Native American peoples -- plus the continuing questions yet to be resolved, it was moving to listen to what was a combination of innocence and Knowing-ness of the Ages in the voice of this lovely child of Antiquity.

Tonisha's generation of Native American youth appears to be finding their place among the youth of the country.  Social media is proving to be fundamental in breaking down the old and crumbling walls of separation that have held us captive for so long.

For whatever reason, the Draper family's presence at the Festival was clearly effortless and comfortable, and caused me to reflect and appreciate that I, too, felt in no way "exotic" as of old, but a legitimate contributor to the goals of the Festival.  The universality created by technology combined with a growing sensitivity and  a respect for cultural differences now evident among members of the emerging society of today turned up in many forms throughout the Festival.

It is my firm belief that-- if humanity is to be saved -- it will be through the Arts; with Science and Technology a close second.  Theology or Philosophy may be a distant third, but the order shifts depending upon a variety of revelations that pop up with disconcerting regularity these days.  Telluride was crazy-making on that score.  Holding onto my Humanism was a struggle in the face of the stunning beauty of the physical world of snow-capped peaks and miles and miles of the chartreuse of just-budding aspen.  Who knows what would have happened had night clouds not hidden the brilliantly star-filled skies at 9000 ft. above the earth!

I will be in a state of awe for weeks by having shared this experience with those who believed that my place might well be among them.  That my truth, also, represents that of others long unappreciated and now slowly but surely beginning to be recognized as a valued and contributing part of the aggregation that calls itself America.

There is still a long way to go, and much resistance in some areas of the country -- to the much-needed change necessary in order for justice to prevail, but measured by how far we've come -- I am hopeful.  That hope has been increased tenfold by having experienced Telluride MountainFilms 2016.

The child in me felt a strong connection with Tonisha, and still does. That much came down the mountain with me and still whispers in the quiet moments ... .

                     "We've come a long way, Baby!"

So much has happened ... so little time ... 

Rangers Vanessa Torres, Michael Gautier, and Moi with Cheryl Strayed as moderator

Since I last was able to settle down long enough to write there were the 5 unbelievably spectacular days at the Mountain Films Festival in Telluride, Colorado, and the flight over the Rockies that would serve as the magnificent backdrop to a slice of Life that was magical!

To find myself at 9000 ft. into the clouds with what appeared to be the next generation of world changers was heady and unanticipated in my wildest dreams.  They are physically fit at the highest level -- mountain climbers, mountain bikers, filmmakers, writers, poets, photographers, visual artists, such beautiful human beings of every age (the eldest being Katie Lee at 96!).  I came away with the distinct impression that obesity doesn't exist above 8 thousand feet.

However, among the hundreds (thousands?) in attendance, only two African Americans were visible, though I might surely have missed some.  I remember mentioning to my great travel companion and co-worker, Gretchen, that the last brown face I'd seen was back in the Denver airport!  However, after giving it some thought during a quiet moment between events -- I decided that this was less a case of discrimination based on race, but based clearly on economic factors.  At this altitude and level of existence there were very few white folks and almost no blacks.  Moving around in this world required much more money, varied life experience, and power than  most ordinary folks possess, whatever their race or ethnicity.

Ironically, maybe, the power to meet the huge challenges the world is facing in these troubling times may be largely in the hands of those who gather at such places as Telluride and Aspen because it is they who have the resources, the education, travels to far away places,  and the world experience to be able to lead us toward the answers that must be found if we are to survive an unknown future of unprecedented planetary change.  That may be a scary thought, but maybe this is where we find ourselves at this time on this fragile planet.  Maybe this is the segment of the world population who have evolved to a place where basic needs are being easily met, and they can now afford to take on universal human concerns that those of us who are still at the level of mere survival cannot begin to address.

Those who are homeless rarely experience the wonder of sleeping under brilliant starlit skies of a winter's night, or, are thrilled by a wolf's call in the wild when the choice to be elsewhere does not exist. 

I could feel my mind stretching into unfamiliar places with regard to how I see others, and expanding into new complexities and nuances.  It proved impossible to hold to the comfort of political provincialism in that wondrous place among these self-appointed social avatars who are leading the way toward a better world.  This, I shall take down the mountains and into whatever lies ahead.

I learned about Chris and the late Doug Tompkins, who, through a vast accumulation of wealth (Esprit and Patagonia), have purchased huge bodies of potential national park lands in Chile and Argentina; scenic lands which they have gifted back to those governments to be kept wild, protected, and preserved into infinity.  And the Tompkins are only two of a number of dedicated  environmentalists whose generosity and hard work to protect and  preserve the planet has enriched us all. 

We were present in one of the several venues as a film of the Tompkin's work and a moving tribute to Doug by those who knew and loved them both, was presented one evening ...  His widow, Chris, was a participant in this moving remembrance.

Doug had a history in the Bay Area, and by references during the evening I found myself connecting him with others like Stewart Brand, Hunter Thompson, Wavy Gravy, Peter Coyote, the Grateful Dead, etc., and wondered whether we'd crossed lives at some point -- maybe through Ken Kesey or Paul Sawyer?  The touching would have been mostly at the edges, but quite possible ... .

There is so much more to tell ... but now that I'm home there are important things to do in preparation for packing up to fly off to New Orleans in a few days ... and this will have to be picked up after I've emptied the clothes drier and sorted the next load.

Another adventure to savor ... .

In the green room ... waiting to go on ... .

David and I boarded the eleven o'clock Southwest flight to Glendale and the studios where the Tavis Smiley Show is taped.  He spends all day on Mondays completing 6 interviews for the week.  Mine was only one.

Had no idea what to expect, but felt fairly comfortable this time, maybe it was because my son, David, with his easy-going-ness tagging along as escort.  It is almost impossible to be rattled in his presence; my anchor at such times as this.

We were met at the airport upon arrival by Paul, our driver, and his sleek black Highlander SUV who delivered us in the 16 minutes required to Tavis's studio where we were led by an intern to our green room to await next steps.  Those turned out to be Devin Robins, producer with whom we'd been in mail contact in preparation for this momentous day.  We watched Kristin Chenoweth, Broadway star, being interviewed and found myself concerned that this lovely diva was in danger of breaking her legs by falling off her disastrously high heels!  David assured me that her sneakers were probably sitting at the door of her green room for a quick change.  That's David.

After one more interview -- this time an African American professor noted for his conservative views -- I didn't catch his interview because I was due to be in make-up prior to mine at the time.  There simply was no time to be nervous.  "Helen" was dormant throughout this period.  In fact, as things turned out, she wasn't needed at all.

I think this is where I said, "get lost, "Helen",  I'll take it from here!"

Suddenly (before the hair on the back of my neck could rise) I was led to the set and to a warm and welcoming Tavis Smiley -- who was so familiar from all those nights I'd viewed him on screen between my feet and beyond my quilt just before sleep -- that it was "cousin" Tavis now before me.  Strange!

The upshot of all this is that the interview was suddenly on, and we became so engrossed in the exchange that it ended before he wanted it to so that -- on the spot -- a "Part two" was ordered up and the cameras keep rolling!

Part One will air on the PBS channels on Friday, May 20th, with Part Two on Monday evening!

Only problem is that he attempted to cover 94 years of life in two 20-minute segments (impossible!) and I can't recall ever mentioning Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park once, and that was the intent of this adventure, after all.

I'm such an natural active listener, and so is Tavis, that we got lost in the talk and I have no idea what was said, except that it felt natural and good, and exciting, and he was genuinely sincere when he told me that he will visit Richmond and our park soon.


Chalk up another wonderful adventure, unexpected, and amazing!

Life continues to unfold, and we've not run out of red carpeting quite yet ... .

Photo by Susan Wehrle at the Rosie Memorial in Richmond, California

Tomorrow I'll be landing in the early afternoon in Southern California to meet with Tavis Smiley, a noted black voice among rising black voices that are less familiar than those of old.  But then this has always been true, hasn't it?  It's what's called progress, and must be bowed down to as the generations face the changing of the guards.

My voice will be stilled in the not too distant future, I know, and just who will be my replacement hasn't yet been determined.  Or, maybe I'm just not aware of how that process will play out over time, and that's how it should be.  After all, we're each one-of-a-kind human beings, not to be cloned except maybe in the case of identical twins, but even that may be improbable.

Perhaps those things we see in ourselves as flaws are really what makes us unique and un-clonable, maybe?

It becomes more puzzling with each day -- just why this relatively frail and inconsequential woman in her final decade has come to the attention of "The World", a world she has stood in awe of throughout a long and rather ordinary existence.

Only, in looking back, that life may have been far less ordinary -- in the living of it -- than I ever realized.  The ups may have been higher and the lows far deeper -- all leading to an extraordinarily rich life experience, for all the pain or pleasure it brought.  It's only in retrospect that I can see that, and realize that all of it was providing the enhanced energy and a keen perceptiveness that I'm able to access today as all of that aliveness appears to be on tap when  I'm before audiences in my little theater presentations.  I seem to be able to draw upon what turns out to be common and universal themes that connect with others.

This may be the only way for me to make sense of the magic ... .

Tomorrow I'll be facing the man I've watched so often as the Charlie Rose PBS show morphs into the Tavis Smiley show just before I fall off to sleep most nights.  I'm so often struck by the sharp differences the two hosts represent -- Rose urbane and so clearly "New York", and Smiley "urban" and "earthy" (for whatever that means),  but the nature of those differences has never been clear; except for that of race -- but that's no longer enough nor are those differences clear or of any particular importance.

There will be those first few moments of awkwardness as the fleeting and jarring thoughts of "who on earth do they think I am, and what are these folks expecting of me?" cross my mind.  As always, once the conversation begins  and I become an active listener (the secret) I will forget completely that this is out-of-the-ordinary, and my host's natural warmth will take over and he will become that young male interviewer of his older and more experienced guest (moi), and the time will flash by and it will have been just one more memorable experience to savor against an unknown future that has -- until this day -- always held promise ... .

... and then Monday will have passed, and another Tuesday will come, as always.

 

Wonders never cease ...

Flying off on Monday morning for a taping of the Tavis Smiley television show to be aired some time next week.

The invitation came a few days ago from producer Devin Robins, who worked on the Farai Chideya show -- an interview show of which I'm unambiguously proud.  It was one of those many telephone interviews where the host was in a New York studio and I'm sitting on the floor of my bedroom on the Left Coast in my pajamas as I recall, and barefoot, un-lipsticked uncombed hair, sipping a cup of herbal tea.  The interview was relaxed and went well.

We've never met and never really exchanged words except through Farai.  Nonetheless, that was about a year ago and she is now in Los Angeles and working with Tavis Smiley -- and here was her voice on my office phone voicemail inviting me to come to tape a show for airing next week on the PBS channels, nationally.

(I know.  It's crazy and wild, but true.)  Next thing you know I'll be turning at a Kardashian party hanging with Kim and Kendall, and bouncing North on my aging knee!

In only two days arrangements were completed through our park staff, with my son, David, to act as escort -- and another adventure has been scheduled to occur at the beginning of next week.

Time to bring out "Helen," the persona my psyche has created to handle those things I can't possibly do, and let us pray that she's ready.  I've been thinking of giving her a separate name tag and her own stylist.  She's being called upon more frequently of late, and will need to be in good shape for the Telluride Mountain Film Festival where we're participating in a symposium, and will both need everything we can dredge up for 4 days at 9000 ft. next to Heaven.   I'm told that the upper performance area is reachable by gondola, and I'm hoping that Helen isn't terrified of heights.  I am! But what have we got to lose at this stage in life?  What a way to go! 

Then it's on to New Orleans and festivities at the National WWII Museum in early June.

Can anyone believe this?

Adjusting to new limitations that resulted from the less than fully-successful cataract surgery three weeks ago ... .

It may be finally getting through to my busy brain that "old" may be making its belated entrance from stage left, and I may just have to deal with it at last.

Have been in recovery that doesn't seem to be taking hold, and my sight is truly less than before, but there's still hope that when my new prescription for glasses has been completed -- and sight is optimized again -- things will clear up considerably.  Let's hope.

Yesterday I found myself musing about that new driverless car that Google, Tesla, and others are developing, and how great it would be if the "Oldest Ranger in the National Park Service"might be the perfect choice to demonstrate this new age of auto travel.  Do you suppose? I could be the poster girl for this new method of travel.  Think about it.  They might use me in order to begin to answer some of the questions about just how effective this technology will be in extending the independence of elders as life itself is extended by many years.  Interesting?  Okay.  It was just a fast-moving fantasy, but worth  a few moments of consideration while waiting for the tea to brew... .

I've given up driving almost completely, and am relying on friends and ParaTransit for transportation to and from work, but that leaves a lot to be desired.  I figured that -- if I could get a group of friends to each take on one day each week when we could visit en route the six mile drive to or from, this would offer a continuing regularly scheduled social contact with others, and those times that weren't covered that way would be times to use Uber or Lyft.  Sounds perfect, right?  Not quite.

So far I find that I'm reluctant to ask my friends, and, to use ParaTransit requires a 24 hours notice to reserve rides, and only works between 8:30 to 5:30 each day.

The 4 and a half mile drive from our offices to my home (10 to 12 minutes drive) takes 4 busses and more than an hour  by public transportation!  The 5 and a half mile ride from the Visitor Center probably requires even more time.

Small wonder that we're not rushing to use that system

Seriously considered retirement as a practical answer, but then on Saturday night at an important dinner I received the Roosevelt Award and ... .

Since I work a 5-hour day, paying $18-$20 round trip is hardly reasonable by  ParaTransit, even more by Uber, and outrageously expensive  by taxi.

I've decided not to force my sons to wrestle my car keys away, but to turn them over to one of my granddaughters as soon as she has her license.  Having it sitting there declaring my loss of independence each time I give it a glance is just too tempting, and the time has come to adapt to a new reality.

How 'bout it Google?  Tesla?  Anybody ready for a no-drivin' hell-raiser with enough passion to go it apace for at least another decade? Maybe the Department of Motor Vehicles has some unanswered questions that need exploring; and how about those questions about accountability on the road?  Focus groups, perhaps? Except for very slowly-failing eyesight, all other systems are firing appropriately, and  you'll rarely find a sharper mind or keener insight.

Those Boomers are fast moving up to making such decisions, and within a few years are going to make up a significant portion of the group for whom driverless vehicles will be a godsend.

We've ventured into the age of robotics and mechanization, and anticipating the changes they will bring could hardly be more spine-tinglingly exciting!

The Future is NOW, and I'm ready if you are.

For many months now I've been giving interviews to what has become, little more than phone conversations with friendly strangers ...

There has been much repetition, and at times I find myself wondering ... the questions are as much the same as the answers ... each is forgotten within minutes, and I lose all sense of who it was and just what publication was that?  I rarely ever see copies of the pieces upon completion.  I get lost in "the work," and in the people who come to my talks ... .

But then there comes that rare moment of realization.  This time it was an email from an editor from the In-Flight magazine for British Airways, and I remembered that only yesterday there was a woman in my audience who'd read about me only last week in the Guardian which is delivered to her home in London.

The editor was requesting a date for a photographer to come to the Visitor Center, "a (possible) cover shot,: says she.  The email contained a sentence that mentioned that their readership is over three million.  That caused a shudder to run up my spine and the catching of my breath -- and the instant and full realization of how widespread is our park and my role in it, and how wondrous that is ... .

... and how little impact those friendly conversations with interesting young people has had on this aging ranger -- at least in those moments of encounter.  It all seems virtual, a word and a concept that has only come to me in my last decade.

It causes me to wonder just when did all this become self-generating, begin to feed on itself,  and will it suddenly come to an end just as it began?

,,, but then there is the filmmaking team who shared some of their footage at the Rosie Trust's banquet last weekend, and -- though it was difficult to view myself in a room holding 250 other people -- I found a way to do it in the third person.  She turned out to be someone I might wish to know, actually.  Not sure I'd want to repeat the experience, though.  It's rather eerie ... .

A few weeks ago -- from an unexpected source -- I felt my veracity challenged ...

It was disturbing... disappointing.

Maybe this is the reason that I was catapulted back in time to the Betty in the previous post, at the nadir of life.

It was on a Facebook post that my friend stated publicly that,  "... though Betty states that during WWII black women were not hired as welders until late in 1944, I know that they were hired in 1942  because ...".

She was referring to a strong activist African American woman, Frances Albrier, I'd known in adolescence, and another who was one of the early and effective lobbyists for the establishing of Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park, Ludie Mitchell.  I was aware of both these women as having been early shipyard workers -- but far from the norm -- both were feisty women of courage, but hardly strong enough against the prevailing social forces to bring substantive change.  They simply led the move toward greater equality in the workplace -- something that would be several years away for ordinary black women.

My word forms the basis for my work, and I felt threatened by her denial of my truth.  Partly, it was because she is a professional, an academician in the field of history; an historian.   I think I'd expected more, and found disappointment in the naiveté her denial suggested. I am working from my memory of the times -- not dependent upon research -- but purely on what comes up for me during my presentations.  I've never claimed otherwise, and it has always been enough, at least until now. Her denial caused me to doubt my value as a carrier of this history, and knowing that the work of our park has come to rely heavily on my word, this was devastating.

I had always known that some black women had worked as laborers earlier, and that there were always exceptions, there always are prior to policy being established.  I'd been one of those forerunners all my life.  It is my belief that black women began to be trained as welders as policy late in the war.  Before that time they mostly swept the decks and picked up trash while other people worked.  This photo -- taken at the time -- would support that assumption.


To have claimed that because we built a home in the suburbs in 1953, therefore people of color integrated the Diablo Valley at that time would be folly.  Our moving in was just the start of a twenty year process that would carry much pain and anguish.

By invitation, I would return some years ago to that community to give the Martin Luther King Day keynote address.  Upon acceptance I looked up the demographics of the City of Walnut Creek in preparation for my talk, and noted that, a half-century later, the black population was at 1%, still.  That figure may now be suppressed for economic rather than racial reasons (I suspect), but is nonetheless not the norm.  Maybe that's a kind of progress, but I noted that figure in my speech.

I'd eventually grow to recognize the years we spent in that otherwise white and upscale community as a period of being culturally-deprived.  I'd moved back into the urban areas and my kids, now all out of high school, were dispersed to a variety of places because suburban living was less than I'd hoped for them, and the nation was sorting itself out in ways that seemed more promising in the Seventies, than ever before.

It was in 1972 that my marriage ended, and re-marriage to Bill Soskin occurred, starting a completely new life as a faculty wife on the University of California campus in Berkeley -- and eventually -- a merchant and political activist in Berkeley. 

The price of trying to stay sane in an irrational world had taken its toll, and -- as you can see by the gaunt figure I became while struggling against insurmountable odds -- I was at high risk for suicide, but was rescued in time by Dr. Jean Neighbor, a perceptive and caring Jungian psychiatrist, and Betty the Artist who lives behind my eyes.  He teased her out and gave her substance that is with me still and guides my work.

I imagine that the black woman in the photo above is by now a grandmother who may have visited her husband in prison over the years, and may have by now seen at least two of her grandsons lose their lives to violence.

I'm  hoping that my talks may bring some  understanding to the continuing plight of people of color in this evolving nation, and if so, I will go on speaking to my own truth and not be dissuaded by anyone or anything that might derail my efforts.

  

Every now and then -- in rummaging through old papers something of worth reappears ... 

This is a song written when we were living in the (white) suburbs.  It was some time in the Sixties, at a time before acceptance of our presence in the community had arrived.  Within weeks of this photo I suffered a mental break that would bring a 3-year period of recovery and the beginnings of the life of discovery that would ensue.   From the accumulated trauma of trying to adapt to an irrational world, my weight had dropped to 89 pounds at this point, as I remember.  (click on photo)

One of the boys had been stoned by teenagers driving by as he rode his bike from Slo Sams, the little grocery store just down the road and across the creek.  He was quite young, and too strong to cry, but too young to understand the venom the act expressed, or, how to deal with the hurt it caused.

There was no way to explain to that questioning little face, except to take him into my arms and hold  him close enough to sooth us both.

After he was calmed and ready to move on, I wrote this:

Singing this song at Asilomar

Where is my brown-skinned heart to hurry?
Where will I find my song?
Why must my mind be just for worry?
To whom does my dream belong?

What are my hands to hold this morning?
Where is my place in the sun?
With what shall I fill this time of yearning?
Whose will shall be done?

The fruit of my labor will tumble in soon
in search of my love and my lead
gave all I had when they left this morning.
Why don't they know that little souls bleed?

Where is my brown-skinned heart to hurry?
To whom does my dream belong?
Why must my mind be just for worry?
Who will hear ...  my ... song ... ?

This is the Betty who still lives inside, and who views current successes with a jaundiced eye at times; never quite completely trusting it.

But it's clear that my song was eventually heard, all the way to Washington, D.C., and wouldn't it be great if all of our songs could be?

Some months ago I received an invitation to be a panelist at the MountainFilm Festival 2016 at Telluride in Colorado over the Memorial Day weekend ...

... and a few days after that initial contact learned that I was to be participating in a symposium with New York Times columnist Timothy Egan, and noted historian, Douglas Brinkley.  You can imagine  how surreal this struck me, but not having ever been involved in such an unbelievably significant event -- what did I have to lose?  At my age (having outlived all the naysayers in my life) why not?  By the time they realized their error I would have had my say and moved on, right?

So I accepted but filed it away for re-thinking when common sense might return and life assumed its ordinariness, and there would be enough time to reconnect with my new reality at some less spirited time.

Meanwhile, there were a number of occasions that Douglas Brinkley appeared on the screen of my television on panels of some sort -- mostly related to punditry, and nagging at the back of my mind would come the words, "...whatever was I thinking?"  What form of insanity had overtaken my usual ability to sort out the real from the unimaginable, and what were the expectations of others that I'm supposed to fulfill?

Then it happened:  Being a faithful CSPAN junkie, I just happened to flip into BookNotes last week when this eminent author was being interviewed about his newly-published book about President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his years of expanding and developing the National Park Service through the acquisition of new park lands, protections of wildlife,  developing and maintaining properties and roadways through the use of the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC); a program designed to provide employment and teach skills to young men of the country at a time when jobs were scarce and resources for youth at an all time low (not unlike our current state of the nation).

Over the course of the hour I became fascinated by NPS history -- some of which I had been exposed to over the past 15 years -- but that had never come alive for me; not really.  The park system Professor Brinkley was referring to was that which has been inspired by environmentalist John Muir, President Teddy Roosevelt, Albright, Mathers, etc., and through his research he was presenting a National Park Service that was clearly male-dominated -- a federal agency closely resembling the model of the Armed Forces.  This was not the park system that I recognized, except as an agency worthy of giving the rest of my life to (I'd figure out the whys later).  In the beginning it was pure intuition and little more.

I'd learned over past years that -- about 1981-- there began to grow in the Department of Interior the slow realization that -- though all American taxpayers paid for the creation, development, and maintenance of this incredible system of a growing number of units, it was only those with the financial resources and the leisure time who could afford to visit them.  It was during the early 80's that the concept of urban parks began to gain traction; the need to bring the parks to the people.  Our park is one of those.  There were no models for these so there had to be thinkers looking at the problem in new ways.  How, for instance do you create national parks without federal lands?  How do you create parks without borders -- parks based on stories alone?  How do you create parks that only exist under the hats of the interpreting rangers?  How do we create parks when the legislated scattered sites were owned commercially, by city or state, by private individuals, by non-profits?  We were to own nothing, and would need to create partnerships with those who did.  How do we do that?  Each of these urban parks had to be created from whole cloth, with no models to guide those original planners.


As an original source, this is where I entered the park system because this is where women and "the feminine factor" began to augment what had been a purely male-dominated agency.  "Rosie" gave us the possibility of equating the building of those Henry Kaiser-built 747 ships in 3 years and 8 months with the human stories -- the why, and why not?, the female-oriented questions like, ... how on earth could we have fought a war to save democracy (a war which cost 54.8 million lives worldwide), with a racially-segregated armed forces?  That is delusional, but that's a question men would probably never have asked themselves, and never did, as far as I can tell. It is just such questions that we had the audacity to boldly ask.

Men have always been more concerned with how many bullets were used, and how many miles did we march, and how many ships did we build -- while women -- who were sending husbands and sons off to be killed, would have been asking very different questions, but rarely having their voices heard or warnings heeded lest they be seen as soft and unrealistic; womanly. 

We are asking those questions now, in a system of urban parks now scattered at strategic sites that relate to the heroic places, the scenic wonders, the contemplative sites, the shameful places, and the painful ones.  The feminine embraces the human stories -- there is a visitor center that sits at the bottom of the south end of Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama; another at Manzanar on the eastern ridge of the Sierras; at the graves of Dr. Martin Luther King and his Coretta, at Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad; at Port Chicago in Concord, California.  We can re-visit almost any era in our history in order to own it, to process it, in order to begin to forgive ourselves so that we might move toward a more compassionate future, together.

The raising of the feminine consciousness to match that which those far-seeing NPS icons brought into being may yet provide the balance so necessary to face the challenges to climate change, rising sea levels, global warming.  Those illustrious environmentalists of long ago may have provided us with the incentives to save ourselves by instilling in us -- not only the respect for the beauty of our natural wildlands and the will to survive, but the valuing of all of life in all of its forms,

... because Life matters.

After living with such thoughts over the past few hours, I'm thinking that Prof. Brinkley and I might provide a respectable range of perspectives for audiences -- he, with his proud male-oriented view, balanced by my more recently-lived nuanced experience that is so strongly shaped by the female-orientation provided by the complexity of our interpretations at the Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park.  

And, again, this morning I woke to the sound of my telephone ringing (by pre-arrangement), this time from Pacifica Radio station WPFW in Washington , D.C.

Hardly awake, and fishing for my cell phone beneath the quilt where I'd left it last night, I answered the unfamiliar voice of the producer asking that I hold for a few minutes, and that  host, Joni Eisenberg, would be with me in a moment or two.

It's all so surreal in many ways;  the new norm.  If I were awake enough, propped on 3 pillows at seven o'clock in the morning (PDT), I surely might have been embarrassed to realize that for the next hour I would be within earshot of however large that audience is across the East Coast?  And here I was without my hair combed, and in pajamas with snow men imprinted all over (a Christmas gift from the grandchild of a friend).  My bedroom with clothes strewn about as I'd tossed them sleepily after being at my computer far too late into the night.  There was each piece lying as it was flung into the peach velvet armchair that sits next to my bed, on the floor in front of the chair my socks -- tossed after the lamp was turned off.  This was hardly a scene I'd want to share under any but these circumstances.  No one could see, and no one should, ever!  Yes, as improbable as it was, I was being Betty Reid Soskin, Oldest Park Ranger in the National Park Service holding forth with an unseen radio audience scattered about (a metaphor?) in far away Washington, D.C.

I have no idea who or how many are "out there" in space listening to my words; it's all beyond imagination at this point.  In a strange way, my mind could only envision two people at the other end of the phone line -- a male producer from Louisiana with a background in the Labor Movement, and Joni, who was celebrating the 24th anniversary of her radio show, and had chosen to do that with me as guest.  That's enough to have to relate to, and I could only imagine that we were having a conversation and that her friends were being allowed to eavesdrop.

It was something like what happens when I'm blogging.  I'm writing for my children and theirs, and, though I'm aware that there are others reading my writings, they're "virtual;" lurking somewhere in the background with our permission.  Ultimately, I'm sure that I'm really writing to myself in the attempt to process life as it goes by.  It's the way I find clarity when I need to.

Maybe that's the only way one can move into a public status at all, without being destroyed by doing so.  That, and a lively sense of humor, of course.

During the interview with Zoe Donaldson of O Magazine on Saturday, it was all I could do to not send out a challenge to arm wrestle Oprah for the cover!  Preposterous?  Of course, but that came from the same place that -- just as I was approaching President Obama on that great stage at the National Tree Lighting Ceremony on December 3rd -- all I could think of was (imaging myself pointing to the huge decorated but aging tree behind us), "... you know I've got a year on your tree, right?"  I'd seen stories that placed the tree's age at 93.  I resisted the temptation, but that fleeting and absurd thought made it possible for me to get through the moment when he was approaching me with arms outstretched for that well-documented presidential embrace.

It was so this early morning when I realized that countless people through the Northeast had been with me this day, and luckily, I'd remembered where I left my dentures!  That I could scratch through another item on my To-Do list ...

Next up:  Tomorrow British Airways In-Flight magazine interview at one o'clock.

Yesterday brought another of those unbelievable days with events unforeseen in my wildest dreams ...

Promptly at 10:30 by pre-arrangement, I found myself sitting in the rangers "Cube" at the Visitor Center waiting for the telephone to ring.  It did.  The caller identified herself as Zoe Donaldson of O Magazine (yes, that's Oprah's) and the interview began as planned.  I'm being featured in the June issue along with other "women of inspiration."  That's a bit much, right?

She opened showing little evidence that she knew very much about the National Park Service, but -- after all -- this would be my chance to speak with someone who had few preconceptions about the subject; which could be awful or great, depending upon where the chat would take us with so little to build upon.

The interviewer was obviously young and enthusiastic, and very easy to talk with.  The usual tension experienced prior to these interviews was strangely missing. We covered an awful lot in the 30 minutes that we had in which to do so.  Her questions were real and there was curiosity to match.  I felt good as we signed off.

The last question was, "... if you could visit any park site of the entire 410 units now in existence, where would you wish to go?"  Easy.  To Hamilton, says I!  That Broadway show crowds out even the 410 units of the park system these days.

Unfortunately, the night before the interview I'd seen a repeat of the Charlie Rose/Lin-Manuel Miranda 1-hour interview, and again I was reminded that I need to experience this phenomena while it's in its original cast form, and that my shelf life is growing too rapidly toward stale-date status, and that if I'm going to do that it needs to happen post haste, or it may not happen at all.  That's even bigger than an interview with O magazine.

Last week there was a call from a NY filmmaker inviting me to come to the east coast to participate in a segment of a film now in production.   It has to do with women in uniform, as I understand it, or how we respond to life depending upon what we're wearing.  It's quite lovely, I think, something I'd be really proud to participate in.  The caller free-lances for The New York Times, Vogue, Elle, etc., but the only thing I heard was New York.  Could I tack this onto the upcoming trip to the WWII Museum in New Orleans in early June?  That would get me to the East Coast and I could do this plus see Hamilton!  But that would be a stretch even for Super Woman, right?

Am I obsessed?  One might say that.  

Sure.

Heard from superintendent Tom Leatherman yesterday that I should return a call to British Airways.  They would like an interview for their In-Flight magazine.  That's on Tuesday at one o'clock (PDT).  This appears to be my new normal.  Find myself wondering how long it will take before I stop feeling like a faux celebrity?

... and I've not even mentioned to my supervisors the call from the NY filmmaker.  I'm so fearful that given cataract surgery scheduled for April 4; Telluride Documentary Festival in Colorado on the Memorial Day weekend, and, the trip to the WWII Museum and a family reunion in New Orleans, Louisiana just 10 days later -- on June 10th ... what are the odds?

(... and when do you suppose it was that I crossed over into Neverland?)

Naturalization Day was as moving as ever ...

... and, as before, there was a perceptible rise in my patriotism quotient as the tears gathered at the sight of those open and engaged faces from far off lands.  There's nothing like that experience to rid one's mind of the recent week's awfulness spewing uncontrolled from the media around this year's presidential campaigns.

I wish there was a way to send each aspiring presidential candidate back to whatever educational institutions that might be up to the task -- to try to cram into them the defining principles that so many have died to protect and preserve over all the years since 1776!

In looking down on the gathering of 51 new Americans being welcomed into citizenship in their new nation -- it occurred to me that any one of them could probably teach almost any one of our candidates a thing or two about what it means to be an American.

new citizen from Peru

Overwhelming was the image of the countless millions of refugees fleeing their countries of origin over past months, only to find themselves wandering a frightened and defensive world, hoping to find a place on the planet where freedom of or from can be found.  Those before us in that beautiful sunlit space in the Craneway Pavilion represented only a fragment of those seeking asylum and asking little else.  These new citizens had found their way to our shores after who knows what might have had to be overcome?  In some cases, they've been studying for a decade or more toward this day of acceptance and affirmation.

It was such a honor to stand in the receiving line and to shake the hand of each of the 51 as their names were called and they received recognition and a warm welcome as fellow Americans, all! 

Here in our country -- in today's political climate, depending upon skin color, religious affiliation, gender identification, their fate might well be determined -- not by the American experience described in the literature, movies, and catechisms brought with them -- but by policies that will be introduced and enacted by one of those seeking the office of the Presidency of this nation and Leader of the World even as we speak.

For their sake and our own, may we choose wisely.

 keynote aboard the USS Hornet carrier--Alameda, March 20, 2007

On Thursday, March 24th I'll be giving the keynote address at the Naturalization Day celebration ... .

... and I find myself still coming to terms with my own expression of citizenship and patriotism.

This will be the third time I've been asked to so, and it should be a breeze since this will be a different audience of new Americans, and my speech needn't vary since it was all thought through when it was written 3 years ago, so what's the big deal?

I suspect my growing unease rises from the endless bombardment from the current presidential campaign hoopla, and feelings of disquiet at increasing signs that we may be a nation coming apart at the seams -- with barricades going up at every level-- rightly or wrongly.

I know it seems unlikely, but I'm becoming more aware that there are few villains in this great national drama.  Surely the good folks who gather in our little theater for my talks are coming because they're finding something of value there, something that has to do with our American experiences "in common." 

Maybe it has to do with my sense that the America that most are living in is an America that's working for them, and why change it?  The fact that that America is one that I've always considered only a work in progress; needing my participation in order to become the democracy of promises yet unrealized.  Perhaps we've all been working and living at cross-purposes.

How much of the dissonance comes from the fact that those in power at every level of governance have come from the nation of privilege, one that has been realized with dreams fulfilled.  Of course they want that idealized America replicated on every continent for every world citizen, but do they know that their America has yet to be attained by the majority of citizens of this country?  I don't
believe they do, and there's the rub ... .

This year, again, the Department of Homeland Security and the National Park Service will co-sponsor this moving ceremony and I will participate as before, and without reservation, fully engaged.  But as I look down from the dais at those hopeful upturned faces of every shape and color, nationality and religion; new Americans who have arrived on our shores bringing fervent hope and aspiration to share, in the background there will be the voices of ambitious politicians fighting for the right to lead the nation and the world regardless of the fact that some simply don't know that they don't know, and are resistant to truths that don't confirm previously-held biases.

How on earth do we build that "more perfect Union" if we can't see its imperfections?

How I wish I didn't feel so unsure -- this time ... .

With Dolores Huerta of the Farm Workers Union

I've not written yet about the Boilermaker's Banquet ... haven't known just how much to share ...

but today someone from the Union forwarded photos taken at the time, and I was reminded ...
besides, there were a thousand witnesses in that ballroom so what's there to withhold?

I'd been invited to attend at the request of Mr. Newton B. Jones, International President of the Union.  I was not asked to represent the National Park Service, but was told by my supervisor that Mr. Jones was traveling from headquarters in Kansas City to San Francisco for this occasion, and that he had especially requested my presence.

And, of course, the organization sent a limo to Richmond to transport me to the Union Square Hilton Hotel that evening.  It was Cinderella time, and, having spent the morning hours being filmed by their team -- there was a surreal character to the entire weekend.

But on arrival in a rainstorm at the hotel, and being greeted by Union officials with whom David and I would spend the evening among a ballroom filled with 1000 union members celebrating their National Labor Awards.   Mr. Jones was receiving the International Labor Leadership Award; the reason for his being in San Francisco that evening.

There were other honorees, each giving a speech of acceptance.  Mr. Jones was the last to speak, being the "star" among stars.

David and I were seated at #1 Table, just below the dais and within a stone's throw of the speakers.

Mr. Jones spoke for about ten minutes -- a speech with lots of inside references with lots of names of those unknown in my world, but noted in theirs.  Suddenly, as he was coming to the part where he was introducing me to the house -- and I stood to receive their applause -- he lost control.

He provided  to the gathering background that could only have been known if he'd been reading my blog or paying very close attention to articles and/or interviews I've done over years.  But as he referred to his regret that I'd worked for the Union at a time before it was racially integrated he was overcome by emotion and the tears came, and -- before 1000 Unionists he simply couldn't go on.  The room was absolutely silent.  You could hear the proverbial pin drop as he struggled to gain control.

As he struggled to regain his composure and without warning I was suddenly being asked to join him on the platform; this was not planned, but the room faded away and there was only this dear man who had just apologized for the entire International Boilermakers Union and there was nothing to do but grant forgiveness after more than 70 years of struggle.  So that was what I did and without hesitation.

In a strange way it didn't feel personal at all, but purely symbolic.  It was as if this was a conversation the Union was having with itself, and that I was only incidental to the outcome.  But that it was a role that someone (me?) needed to play in order to exorcise the demons of bigotry, finally, so that they might be able to own that awful history and forgive themselves.  But ultimately it is the Union of today that holds the power to forgive the Union of 1944, because, of course, this is the only way to find the peace we're seeking in these troubled times.

It was all over in a few minutes after decades of angst and guilt.  Mr. Jones wrapped me in his arms and planted a kiss firmly on my cheek as the room filled with 1000 dinner guests melted away for us both.

If only it could be so easy ... .

I'm beginning to find myself increasingly performing the role of "celebrity," which was probably predictable -- given the continuing public exposure ... .

Last night I served as honorary co-chair at the 40th anniversary Gala of the LifeLong Medical Care program held in The Rotunda -- a most beautiful building in Oakland's Frank Ogawa Plaza.  What a spectacular evening it was; one which started out by being picked up (again)  at my condo by a chauffer-driven Lexux town car and delivered right to the steps and into the able hands of a board member who would escort me to the guest registry counter then down the marble staircase into a transformed lobby now furnished with decorated dining tables and 300 hundred well-dressed celebrants.

The gathering was made up of political figures from my past; some with whom I'd shared causes -- and some with friendships.  The room felt warm and welcoming; either that, or, I'm beginning to enure to my growing celebrity status and find it less undeserved over recent weeks.  (Maybe this is when Betty the Persona goes off the rails!)

At a moment in the proceedings I delivered my hastily-written one-page triple-spaced little speech which received a standing ovation (and I'm still not quite understanding how that continues to happen), something I've given much thought to over the weekend in quiet moments ... .

I spoke of being a child and adolescent during the Great Depression, and that meant that the only medical attention I'd ever received was subsidized by the County.   I was a frail child thought to be at risk for tuberculosis so was sent to Del Valle in Livermore, California where I spent almost a year -- at no cost to my struggling family. 

That was because I was a child of the service worker's generation with our fathers and uncles employed as Pullman porters, waiters, janitors, bell hops, elevator operators, cooks, etc., and our mother's were 50 cents an hour domestic servants.  At a time when it took $47.25/wk to support families -- if you were white, our fathers and uncles earned $25-$35/wk (Pullman porters earned $18/wk plus tips) so there simply was no money to pay for routine health care. 

One might well wonder -- if the costs of such basic health services could be absorbed by society when the nation was so stressed economically -- why, in a far rosier era, is that not possible today?  This was in the Thirties when bread lines were a common sight, and childhood diseases more prevalent and less controllable.

Though I made my way out of the need for such assistance programs long ago, there are many children of color still trapped at that economic level; children who are still in crying need for such services. 

My speech:

People forget that those of my age were children and adolescents during the Great Depression.  The only health care we ever knew was subsidized by the Alameda County Department of Public Health.  Free clinics were the only clinics I'd ever experienced until the grownup and married Betty became a member of the Kaiser Permanente Health Plan much later in life.   I suppose I was the recipient of "Universal Health Care" before the concept was born since everyone in my universe was served by that system so there was no stigma to have to bear.  I was a child of the service worker's generation at a time when the nation's economy was in a shambles.

Because I was a frail child, considered at risk for tuberculosis, I spent a year in what was then called a preventorium (a word my spellchecker doesn't recognize), Del Valle Sanitarium in Livermore, California.  That health-giving facility is no longer in existence.  There was no cost to my family, ever.

It would be the first time I was away from home, spending that year with parents unable to bear the cost of visits more than a few times over that period.  I was about 11 years-old.  It was during those long months that much of the autonomy and independence I enjoy now as an elder were born.  It was a brush with loneliness of a kind rarely experiences by children, I think.  It was a time to develop inner resources for the sake of mere survival.

I doubt if there is anyone around with a greater sense of the meaning of collective health care being assumed by one's community when life's problems grow beyond even loving parent's ability to provide for or cope with.  I was surrounded by caring adults who helped me to grow through early adolescence without too much scarring.  It was during that time that I learned that even strangers in stiffly-starched uniforms and pointed white caps could care deeply about kids, and that both givers and receivers could benefit by such programs.

I'm honored to be involved in giving recognition to such critically important work, and value the chance to re-visit a long-forgotten past.  I'm so far beyond the reach of that lonely child that it almost feels as if she never really existed... .

Thanks to Lifelong Health Care for providing the opportunity for me to express long overdue gratitude to those caregivers of my childhood who are no longer with us, and to offer whatever assistance in my power to those continuing this important and life-giving work to those in need of such services today and in the future.