In sharing personal history with visitors to the park these days ...  

... I'm finding myself increasingly moving away from what I once perceived as "black" history, toward an insistence that our story be seen as an important American narrative. The change in my thinking began upon realizing the critical role played by black southerners whom tradition had forced to step into the Mississippi gutter when meeting a white person on the sidewalk.  Those folks played a major role in shaping the times and the future.  And, that as the result of an aggressive recruitment of workers into the war industries -- particularly in the Kaiser shipyards -- where they  found themselves literally catapulted to the "front of the bus" 10-12 years  before Rosa Parks and the Montgomery bus boycott (1954-1955), and incidentally, becoming the catalyst for irresistible and enduring social change. 

This unfamiliar spasm of at least limited respect and civility surely bred a new burst of hope in this new place, and may have started the surge toward full equality which radiated outward into the nation to become the modern Civil Rights Movement. The more research I do; the more refreshed my memory; the more certain am I that -- from their humble efforts in an era of relatively powerless Jim Crow institutions -- it was that heroic generation of blacks who altered the course of history, and forced a redefinition of Democracy for all Americans.

I guess this is on my mind because I'm speaking before audiences of major corporations (Safeway Stores, IT&T Employees, major labor unions, etc.) in the coming months, and that it's in January (the MLK remembrances), February (Black History Month), and March (Women's History Month) that I'm invited to share history that is largely dependent upon opinion; mine. That's a huge responsibility since I don't pretend to be an historian.   I'm sharing what is purely subjective -- yet it is I who has been given the microphone ... and the audiences.   It is sobering. It is humbling, and it is awesomely important that I measure up to the task; yet it is difficult to feel worthy of the privilege. 

I find myself wondering if this isn't partly a woman's natural reluctance to accept the mantle of leadership, even at those times when it is obvious that it is we who are leading?

More about this in weeks to come ... . 

Photo:  banner for the Southern Poverty Law Center.

How in the world .... ?


did this poster get from the wall of our office onto the Internet?  It turned up in my Google Alerts this morning when I clicked on it to find myself standing before this Ron Black poster designed for the Shotgun Players' production of the Marcus Gardley play, "This World in a Woman's Hands."  This show was staged to critical acclaim a couple of years ago in Berkeley. 


That control of one's image has long ago been lost is a given; but the number of times I've begun to confront myself without warning can be pretty disturbing, depending upon how that image is used.


Don't misunderstand; I love Ron's work, and am delighted to be associated with its message, but the use made of it by the group whose name I hesitate to repeat suggests a more strident attitude than I'm feeling at the moment.  Maybe I've simply been mellowed by the holidays and, just maybe, I'm experiencing a shift in thinking ...  .


Perhaps it's just a question of aging while having outlived my rage without losing my passion.


Need to give this some thought -- when the scent of pine needles and peppermint candy canes dies down though.  I seem to have been overcome by "Peace on Earth Good Will Toward Men", at least for the moment.

It's still there, only it's been bought by Neiman Marcus who wisely kept the magnificent towering tree ...


When I was a teenager, dating, Christmas season was not officially in until the trip to see if the great Christmas tree was in place at the City of Paris on Union Square.  It was a real tree, of course, and not the perfect artificial one we're standing under here.  (Though I wonder if artificial can ever really be perfect?)  I suppose the scent of pine is piped in ... .  It's been decades since that trip by ferry across the Bay --  (pre-Bay bridge) -- dressed to match the occasion (which meant hat and gloves, of course) officially ushered in the season with a spray of English holly in one's lapel -- and for the more daring -- a sprig of mistletoe in one's hair.


This year Peter, Tom, Pam, and I completed the pilgrimage 'roun' the Square to the sounds of Christmas bells and cable cars clanging their way up Powell street toward Grace Cathedral where memories of my late husband, Bill; dear friends, Bishop J. Kilmer "Kim" Myer, elegant silver-haired Deacon John Weaver and his Jean, popped up unceremoniously as the ghosts of Christmas past ... .  The taxi we hailed climbed to the top of California Street to return us to our car parked at the bottom when the circling-the-Square was ending; an almost forgotten decade that has pretty much dropped out of conscious memory until now.


The meaningful past tends to leap back to Mel and the kids; Tinker Toys, Tonka trucks, Lionel trains, innocent cap pistols (some things have changed; ominously), new cowboy hats; and those midlife Christmases tend to get lost.  Maybe it's because it's my children who have prevailed and continue to define life for me.  Christmas needs children, doesn't it, even when your baby is eligible for AARP?


This, after a bountiful crab dinner at Tadich at the foot of California Street near Battery ... and yet another set of decades to account for; new friendships, persisting hopes and dreams, and so very much to be grateful for.   Can Christmas be any more beautiful in New York or Paris?  If so, don't tell me.  I treasure these snow-less street scenes of the Bay Area beyond all reason. 

Merry Christmas All!
Photos by Pam's cell phone camera

I'm (more or less) firmly back under my hat, but just barely -- at times ...


Had no idea what it would mean to have to deal with the less disciplined part of myself (the artist), but maybe it was for just this reason that she remained buried for so long.  I'm daydreaming and fantasizing, and "what-iffing" for long periods of time, except for those times when my work -- which is so compelling -- intervenes.  That's when all of my "Bettys" come to full attention, and my mission takes precedence.


... as on a recent day when members of the ROHO (Regional Oral History Office) of the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley brought a small delegation from the United Arab Emirates to visit the park and a bus tour with me as interpreter.  Aisha Bilkhair, Ph.D., Director of Research & Knowledge Services, headed the group.  When I learned that it is Dr. Bilkhair's responsibility to re-create and document the history of her young country through the capturing of oral histories of those still living, I felt the current of new excitement.  I learned that she and her assistants travel to Berkeley to work with the ROHO staff, and that this was one of those purposeful trips.


I recognized this as precisely the task before us in recapturing the history of the Home Front years 1941-1945 of WWII, a period only now being documented and recorded through the work we're engaged in, in collaboration with the Bancroft Library and its staff of researchers and historians.

I felt a surge of pride and a deep sense of the privilege we're being given by the National Park Service, and a new appreciation for the responsibility this demands to be accurate and honest and to imbue the work with authenticity -- a fading resource available to us mainly through the still-living veterans of the great home front mobilization of WWII.


... the fact that this Muslim woman from the Middle East has been given this important mission to accomplish at a time when the impression in the West is that women would not be chosen for such an important work was a revelation to me.  That a woman of color at such an advanced age in the West -- would be working for a federal agency in a position such as mine was undoubtedly as surprising to her.


We do live in a time of collapsing stereotypes, do we not?


Meanwhile, I'm working hard to climb back into my box, but each day I discover ribbons, sparkles, and confetti spilling out as I find myself humming under my breath ... re-imaging that road not taken ... but maybe this, too, shall pass ... .  (a gig at some upscale oasis in Dubai might not be too shabby, right?)

Note:  Aisha Bilkhair Khalifa, Ph.D., a Fulbright Post-Doctorate Fellow at Harvard University (2005–2006) holds degrees in Filmmaking, Electronic Engineering, and Ethnic Studies and a doctorate in Arab Gulf studies. Her main research interest is the African diaspora in the Gulf region. Specific areas include spirit possession, women, youth, and the transformation of identity. Recent publications include “Spirit possession and its practices in the United Arab Emirates” and “Secrecy and the circulation of knowledge among Gulf African Musical Groups”. 

Oh what I wouldn't have given for a leisurely evening probing the mind of this amazing scholar from faraway exotic lands!  My work allows me to touch lives with oh so many fascinating scholars from an increasing number of other cultures.  My options at this stage in life seem limitless.

Dorrie's Art with Mardi Gras beads

Another necessary step taken in the "taking leave" process of aging ...


Yesterday Dorian and I drove out to a nearby town so that she could meet -- for the first time -- members of the Trust team who will be responsible for her life after my death.  It went beautifully!


I'd carefully avoided building too much anxiety before the fact by too much preparation.  She has been aware that a Trust has been created, but its purpose was never defined so that her expectations wouldn't involve her having to lose her mother in order for her team to take over responsibility for the decision-making.  The goal, for me, was to try (before I become infirm and therefore unavailable to her) to have the luxury of setting my successors in place in order to have a chance to witness her life as it will be lived when I'm no longer here.  Given any luck, some of the dependence will have been transferred to others before that happens, and therefore lend less disruption to her life.


I've never wanted to have my sons responsible for her since the added weight upon their lives might one day be experienced as a burden.  I want them to go on loving and caring about her into the foreseeable future, and that might be jeopardized were she perceived in that light.  They have their lives and families, and I've carefully protected their love for her by assuming all of the responsibility myself.  It was an investment in all of our futures.  We've arrived at this point with an unbroken bond that may be sustainable with professionals bearing the responsibility for decision-making on her behalf.  Her brother's will ultimately take my place as guardian ad litem when signators are needed, or in acting for her legally, but the team created as her Trust are staff members in the law firm of highly-reputed Attorney Stephen Dale whose practice is designed for the sole purpose of serving the physically and mentally handicapped.  They will assume the major guiding role in her future.

Dorian's team consists of an investment counselor, an attorney, and a day-to-day adviser.  She remains a client of the Regional Center of the East Bay, one of a chain of agencies created and supported by the State of California under the Lanterman Act.  The RCEB will continue to provide case management, fund her NIAD education, and auxiliary services as needed.   


Yesterday, Dorrie met with her team, and as her session ended she came out to the parking lot where I sat waiting in the car with some quiet fears -- to announce that her team understood the importance of Special Olympics -- a real concern for her.  She was glowing!  She explained who her "new friends" were, and came away with a fairly good idea of what a Trust is, and of its role in her future.  Allowing her to experience this session alone, made them her team and not her mother's.  That is precisely as it should be.  My first baby steps out of the foreground and into the background of her life has been successfully accomplished.


My feelings as we drove home through the lovely and newly greening Alhambra Valley were of contentment.  Another step has been taken to insure her safety and security -- even as Governor Jerry Brown was announcing on the car radio that substantial budget cuts were unavoidable and would kick in as mandated by conditions set forth last summer in order to gain enough votes for passage. These would be in education, elder services, and for the developmental disabled ... .


... and maybe now I'll have time for those tango lessons and riding my new bike .... .

About that press conference aboard the USS Iowa on Wednesday ... .


There is something sad -- and maybe a little comic -- in an old battleship that has been resurrected from the Mothball Fleet to live again as a tourist attraction.  Those 18 inch guns that once blazed menacingly at whatever served as the defined enemy at any time have been silenced, I believe, for all time.


The men aboard on Wednesday were obviously reverent and awed in her presence.  I guess it was the gender gap that caused me to have to hide my amusement when standing 'neath those big guns -- reminding my irreverent soul of the phallic symbols they so ably represent, symbols of male dominance over the seas?  Such thoughts could not be repressed, try as I might.


Wonder how those who sailed her into battle in an earlier time would feel about today's drone jockeys -- contained safely in a capsule of some kind -- somewhere in Colorado while bombing faraway places -- over an ocean away -- with little regard for lives lost.


Where do we find the heroism in that?


Nonetheless, it was impossible to not feel the drama beneath our feet on those decks so soon to re-enter history, this time as a naval museum, a reminder of days past when heroism was differently-defined.


Photo:  Ellen Gailing

... and just what other human being do you know who received a bike for her 90th birthday?

Yes, as a complete surprise and at the top-of-the-evening, I was invited into the room with, "we have something for you," and there it was sitting in all its orange and yellow splendor in a side room at Nexus -- my bicycle!


My friends and park colleagues (plus Rosie, my southern California granddaughter who couldn't attend) picked up a collection and made the purchase weeks ago.  It had apparently been hidden away in an attached storage building outside our administration building waiting to be sprung at the concert.


It was almost too much -- and all I wanted to do in that moment -- was to crumple up in a heap and weep for pure joy!


... an unforgettable evening that still resonates daily just before sleep each night and probably will for all of the nights yet unborn ... .

Diva Days ... now truly in the past, ... maybe ...

... except that on the morning after my dream concert, the owners of Nexus  -- the beautiful Buddha-filled site where the performance was held -- invited me to sing the National Anthem at a press conference aboard the USS Iowa, the battleship moored in the Port of Richmond undergoing repairs before sailing south for a new life as a naval museum.  The event was held in commemoration of Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day; December 7th.  We old battleships are seeing a resurrection of sorts, right?

Alas, it was an honor just a tad too far and I regretfully declined.  Not looking to extend my now reinstated temporary career as an over-ripe chantoosie, and, not seeing any possible way to sing myself through the National Anthem without tripping and falling on my face, I said no to this great honor.   Singing before an audience of lifelong friends in celebration of my birthday while raising much-needed funds for a program that has meant so much to me and to Dorian was a very special thing -- to be treasured for all time.  Adding another facet to my now more-public-persona than I'd ever dreamed of or wished for, I felt in danger of over-reaching and that would be tragic.

I did attend the press conference as a part of the National Park Service delegation, however, and explained to our hosts when asked, that I might have said yes had he invited me to sing "America the Beautiful."  And, you know that might not have been so easy to refuse.  I've always so loved those lyrics ... .

especially those brilliantly instructive lines in the second verse:

"... confirm thy soul in self control, thy liberty in law."

Magical!

Then and Now ...

More photos ... .

In the weeks leading up to that incomparable evening there was the opportunity to work with Tru Peterson, a brilliant jazz guitarist who is a graduate of Boston's Berklee School of Music; a colleague of Wynton Marsalis; who toured for a time with the folk legend, Joan Baez, and later with jazz singer Cassandra Wilson; and is currently teaching and performing in the Greater Bay Area.

We had four evenings of working together at my home in preparation for my appearance before a live audience -- 4 evenings of feeling the years drop away -- and for the first time in about 50 years I was going to sing before an audience!  I had no idea what would happen, but the experience became increasingly important to me as the time of the concert neared.  Now is a time for integration, and bringing more of my "selves" together in what is surely my final decade has almost become an obsession.

I'm not at all certain that -- had it not been for the support and encouragement of my son, Bob, I'd ever have followed through.  He was insistent and loving and probably should be recognized as having been the motivating factor in this great adventure.  Bob, along with his music partner, Margaret Miles, appeared together with me on stage for the first time.  I think I've always seen Bob as living out those inherited music genes that I'd so long ago disowned.  He is a natural performer who has lived his music with passion throughout his life.

A "Mom sandwich!"was created as 
sons, Bob and David, spontaneously
bounded onto the little stage!

In the beginning I felt tentative and for brief moments wished I'd not committed to exposing myself to ridicule (one friend aptly called it the "cringe" factor).  My voice seemed to have shrunken to a whisper, and I was rushing the phrasing and could see that Tru was having difficulty reading the level of my musicianship.  I don't think that either of us doubted for a minute, though, that it was still there, though suffering from sheer panic, surely. 

That evening I was surrounded and embraced by friends, some from a time when I was ever so young -- composing and singing -- and many who had no idea that this was ever a part of my life, but who only knew me as a community activist, political ally, wife and mother, and -- more recently -- park ranger; certainly not as poet or singer.  How would the revelation of the long concealed artist in me affect the rest of my life?  I'm guessing that I am the only one concerned with the question.  It probably held little importance to anyone else, and I'd wake the day after to find little has changed.  And, you know what?  That's precisely what has happened.


The goal of raising enough funds to make a significant donation to NIAD was more than met, thanks to the support of so many friends and family (and a few strangers) who filled the room to overflowing!

Life is spectacular, thank you!

Photo by Ellen Gailing

Tru Peterson, an extraordinary guitarist, and moi 
performing before a sold out house!

It's been a long long time, has it not ... ?

So much life in so few months -- crowding out blogging in favor of just enjoying the living of a remarkable life.

How will we ever catch up?

Maybe a few photos of the now-in-the-past  

"Road Not Taken"

concert?  What an evening!  Wish you'd all been there ... .

I have so few unrealized dreams remaining; I seem to have lived them all.

... but today I am due at the Boilerhouse Restaurant at Ford Point to provide interpretation for a park tour for 80 visiting trade unionists from around the country -- in just 45 minutes --

.. more later.


Photos by Ellen Gailing

Now here's a tribute I can relate to.  It's all a question of scale!

A ranger colleague was browsing Craig's List for bike listings and ran across this one and forwarded it to me.  It made my day -- actually several days!

It comes unsolicited from someone I'll never meet, probably.  I cannot imagine such a serendipitously more delightful tribute from one with nothing to gain.  My name on a bike riding around San Francisco carrying some unsuspecting admirer and fellow-activist, presumably.

I wrote the person who placed the ad to thank him/her for not painting over my name -- wishing I could afford to buy it to set in the middle of my living room with a lace doily draped over the handlebars, just because!

54cm Road Bike - $275 (marina / cow hollow)

---

Date: 2011-10-04, 10:18PM PDT
Reply to: sale-vgfsr-2633304535@craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}

---

This awesome bike is on sale because I need the money for rent and it's a little big for me anyway. It's a 54cm vintage american eagle road bike with a rock solid lugged steel frame. No dents or dings but a few chips in the amazing orange color.

The best part of this bike is the artistically crafted lugs, there is even a heart designed in the top tube. The bike is clean, new tires and grip tape. The last owners painted the name Betty Reid onto the side of the bike, named after a powerful civil rights activist of the 60's. Check her out at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Betty_Reid-Soskin.

Hard to let her go but let me know if you're interested!

• it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 2633304535

Watching and listening to how others memorialized September 11th  against the background of our local experience reinforced the rightness of our observance here at home ... .

Found myself silencing my radio early this morning -- feeling mercilessly exploited by media insistent upon drawing a cynical bow across every emotional string in my patriotic soul!

To have participated in Tuesday's ceremony in which a master sculptor introduced his decade-long love-based response to the World Trade Center's horrific tragedy drew upon the positive responses within each of us, and transformed the rage and fear into an instrument that would evoke our very best selves in answer to those who wished to destroy us.

But there have been moments throughout the day when I was reminded that proximity is surely a factor.  We on the West Coast didn't witness the carnage.  Surely our emotions would have been deepened had the TransAmerica Tower or the Golden Gate Bridge been struck with an equal loss of life.  Surely our fear and anger would have been heightened, and recovery less easily achieved.

Yet  --I've found myself wondering whether there isn't an overt attempt at freshening the case for continuing to generate a rationale for a profitable and never-ending state of war ... .

... but it's difficult to believe that there would be enough cynicism among us to support such a state of being -- or is it?

Telescoping time ...

Attended the history-making unveiling of the Mario Chiodo sculptures in Henry J. Kaiser Park in downtown Oakland on Tuesday.  This was the first installation of what is a monumental work of art entitled, "Remember them; Champions for humanity."  When completed it will consist of 25 figures of those who have set the patterns for the best that we are as a nation and a world.

Among the honorees were in most cases descendants of those honored, added to by those still living.  Please go to Mario's website for the complete story and photos of the event.  The sculptures were inspired by the tragedy of September 11th and took ten years to complete.  The centerpiece stands 40 feet tall and will be installed during the first part of 2012.  I can hardly wait, having had a chance to visit his studio where the work is proceeding on schedule.

But -- can you believe these photos (taken with Shirley Butt's cell phone).  They were taken at the studio party after the unveiling ceremony.  The lovely young blond woman shown on the right is Juliana Roosevelt, granddaughter of President Franklin Delano and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt (Juliana's grandfather is one of the figures).  Above is Ruby Bridges -- shown in the monument as the 6 year-old courageous little girl who integrated New Orleans schools during the early days of struggle to integrate our public schools -- and under the protection of the National Guard, remember?  This drawing is from the Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover that inspired us all.  Here she is all grown up; an attractive, passionate, and articulate young woman who was in town not only to receive her honors at the unveiling, but to be present for the dedication of a bronze statue of herself that Mario created for the Alameda school that has been named Ruby Bridges Elementary in her honor!

... and here I am spanning the generations with these three iconic young American women.

... and that's not all.  The great American hero of Japanese descent, Fred Korematsu, who valiantly fought against the unjust internment of his people during WWII for which he received the Medal of Honor from President Clinton, and who is also one of the 25 figures -- has a beautiful social activist daughter, Karen Korematsu (seen here in red).  I felt surrounded by reflected greatness, and found myself wondering just how one shares such experiences so that they radiate out into the ether and enter into whatever it is that sustains us all?

So many generations since the time of their family ancestors (and me), but Chiodo managed with his magnificent sculptures to capture the essence of what it means to be human -- that potential for greatness which resides in each of us, and that -- for the most part -- lies dormant; untapped.  In an odd way, those giant figures -- though dwarfing those of us who stood in awe before them -- were extraordinary ordinary people -- their humanity made manifest not only in these great bronze images, but in the aura of their descendants as well, if only because we endowed them with inherited greatness.  In our quiet conversation, Juliana spoke with humility of how many years it took to ease her way into her iconic surname -- and that she has only recently felt -- not only the honor of being a Roosevelt -- but the heavy responsibility the name imposes.

Wish I were a poet at times like this.  But there is out there somewhere, a word artist or musician who will one day sit in the shadow of those stunning figures and give voice or notes and lyrics to what is beyond my ability to express; will marry their artistry to that of Mario Chiodo and the result will be magnificent beyond measure!  I'm certain of it.

And, most meaningfully, what is not extraordinary in Oakland and the Greater Bay Area is the fact that we were all together as equals in a social situation, something their illustrious ancestors could hardly have dreamed of.  During the time of Bridges, Roosevelt, Korematsu (only 70 years ago - less than my lifetime), I cannot imagine under what circumstances this would have been possible.   Regrettably, this probably can't be said for some parts of the country or the world still, but here -- in this place -- though unspoken, differences are no longer merely tolerated, but celebrated.

This brilliant sculptor, Mario Chiodo, has marked the place indelibly where this, above all else, is the living truth.

Calls have been coming in for days from friends asking about my upcoming 90th birthday celebration ... .

There was one from Kathy, the co-creator of the musical "Rivets" and the producer of the Vagina Monologues we appeared in a year or or so ago; from Joan, of Supervisor John Gioia's office, from our Chief of Interpretation, Morgan, from colleagues, Lucien and Elizabeth; and assorted other caring friends and family.  I just kept bobbing and weaving for reasons unknown.  I've known the day was on the horizon, but I've held the public's attention for some time now, and echoes of the commencement at the California College of the Arts are still ringing in my ears (I've not been able to watch the CD of that event to this day. I may never come down from that one).

Kathy provided a way to approach the occasion that may work:  She said, "think of something you'd really like to have happen; some benefit for a favorite cause ..."  and then I remembered my political friends who regularly hold birthday celebrations to retire campaign debts or to fund raise for the next election cycle.  Could there be something here?  And I found the answer was "yes"!  I drove to Michelle's Visitor's & Convention Bureau in Point Richmond to begin to commit before the impulse vanished in thin air.  She agreed to help, when she returns from Burning Man next week.

With September's calendar already bulging with commitments of the grand opening of the long-awaited Maritime Child Development Center and the unveiling of Mario Chiodo's brilliant sculpture, "Remember Them; Champions for Humanity,"  leading to the 4th annual Home Front Festival in October, there simply isn't time to even think of birthdays, even my own.  Besides, what I'm considering will take a good deal of planning.  Interwoven through those epic events is my participation in an evening at St. Marys College, and various guided tours and meetings in preparation for all of the above.

First, I'm creating a group to plan what will be Betty's "The Road Not Taken Concert."  How's that for hutzpah?  If you've been reading this blog for long, you're aware that there was a time when I flirted with a career as a singer/composer.  That I appeared from time to time as a kind of singing poet in institutional settings (colleges, churches, sometimes coffee houses) and that during that time I'd been "discovered" by a number of record companies but only once was tempted enough to fly east for an audition for Max Gordon of the Village Vanguard in NY.  I left my kids with Georgia Wiseman, our friend and housekeeper, for two weeks while I rehearsed with jazz pianist, Paul Neves, at a Hartford, Connecticut nightclub but opted to return home to my family abruptly -- the night before the scheduled audition.  My friend and sponsor, the late Henry Hampton of Blacksides Productions out of Boston (and also the creator of "Eyes on the Prize," the groundbreaking PBS series) was deeply disappointed, but understood eventually.  I'd left behind 4 children; 3 young sons and a special needs little girl -- and a failing marriage.  A career as an entertainer was simply not worth what it would mean to my family.

Over the years that followed I successfully stifled Betty the Artist and opted to live off my other "edges" and found them sufficient to satisfy my needs.  I moved out of the suburbs and, eventually, into a new marriage and left her pretty much behind.

So, all that is to say that I'd like to have my son, Bob Reid, who is an entertainer, along with his lady, Margaret Miles join me in my "Road Not Taken Concert" where I will sing publicly for the first time in about 40 years!  I'm sure there's not much voice left, but I know the beat is still pulsing away, and I can work with that. Besides, expectations could hardly be lower(!) than for one entering their tenth decade.  And, maybe we'll all be pleasantly surprised.  I'll locate a jazz guitarist and maybe an acoustic bass (rhythm section?) among my friends in that world, and begin to rehearse soon.  We will stage a benefit for NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities); Dorian's arts program.  We will present the NIAD performing artists in their new 10-minute original play based on a Japanese folk tale that is wonderful and must be viewed by the community as a part of the evening's offering. 

Why is it important to do this?  I've thought about that and have come to the realization that by performing again I will be stating -- if only to myself -- that the life choices I've made were the right choices.  Look where they've taken me, maybe to that honorary doctorate I received last spring.  And that there was enough "Betty" to stretch over more life than one might possibly imagine.  That we all are capable of whatever is demanded of us.  And that the alternatives for each of us are limitless. 

MAC is out of the box and we're back in business ...

Not sure there has been a break of this length in blog entries since September of 2003 when all this started.  But the old faithful computer died and needed replacement -- and whaddyaknow -- a state tax refund check with almost enough to cover a new I-Mac arrived in the mails several days after a techie assessed the situation and sent it to the recycling bin.  It has served me well, and it was a surprise to learn that an eMac might be considered too ancient to be fixed when it seemed to me to be fairly new.  Has it really been years since Steve Jobs strode across the stage at Mosconi Convention Center in San Francisco to announce its birth?

But now that I'm back in business with 1000% more technology at my fingertips than I know what to do with, let's see where we are.  And -- once I've gotten over the wonder at this high-powered genie's ability to deliver such undreamed of magic, I'll get back to blogging.

This time I signed up for all of the bells and whistles and you just may find me standing at the Genius Bar at our local Apple Store along with all the teens of this millennium checking out how to use Garage Band and I-Movies  -- and am I really ready for Face Time?  (Caught sight of myself by accident last night and almost fell off my sea green ergonomic office chair!).

I may not just be the oldest park ranger in the National Park System, but that might extend to the Apple Genius Bar as well.

There was a moment when the "child" who was my salesperson was explaining that -- if I would bring my old Mac in with the new one they would do a data transfer free of charge -- but that this would take about 3 days.  I laughed and answered that at my age (90 in 3 weeks), time was one of the few things I didn't have much of, and that they'd have to do better than that.  I was flattered when he looked at me in disbelief, but he obviously paid attention because the very next morning (Sunday) there was a call to say that Mac was ready to be picked up.

Every night since it arrived -- instead of writing -- I've been sitting here slack-jawed in awe at the wonders that I've lived to see, and wondering what I could possibly write that is worthy of the art of the technological geniuses of these times?  Then I'm reminded of the geniuses who brought us television, and of what we've done with it over the past decade (arggghhh!).  Maybe my words, after all, are worthy -- and if not, at least might spark someone else to be, and who could ask for more? 

If you're wondering whether I've met with some "disastrophe" ...

The answer is yes and no.  The old Mac was acting as if it had developed some terminal illness -- unlike its owner -- and had to be replaced.  It has gone to the MacStore for the data transfer to the new one and I'll not make entries until sometime midweek.

Meanwhile, life goes on and we're gearing up at work for fall programming and a full schedule of activities, and -- and life is good.

Worked in all-day sessions with a team of historians, filmmakers, rangers,  exhibit designers, and others for 3 days of advanced planning last week ... .

The filmmakers were here from the East Coast, and were with us for 3 days working on the third draft of one of the films that will become the 30 minute movie that explains the park to the public in the new Visitor's Center (opening early next spring) in the Oil House of the Ford Assembly Plant on the scenic Richmond shoreline.

On Wednesday, the designer's of the Visitor's Center exhibits met with us in long and intensive sessions going over the printouts and making the inevitable changes; sharpening the details; and bringing it into being after months of dreaming of the day ... it's all becoming real now, and is exciting!

It was during the session with the team creating the exhibits that an important insight pushed itself into consciousness --  but I didn't fully see it until long after we'd ended the discussion.  Isn't that always the way?

We were considering the various sections of the Visitor's Center and the exhibits being designed.  It was in the "Rosie the Riveter" section.   (There is a Home Front section, and a City of Richmond section, plus a theater below.) I'd envisioned somewhere among the displays a screen upon which (like a screen-saver) there would be multiple head shots of those women who were the inheritors of the legacy of "Rosie."  You've all seen her, "We can do it!," in a polka dot bandanna with arm bent showing her strength and determination.  (I personally prefer the Norman Rockwell image of the beefy sassy Rosie with her foot resting on a copy of Mien Kampf.) 

In my imagined exhibit there would be a mosaic made up of tiny images of many women who -- in the decades since WWII have made their way into careers and made major accomplishments in every discipline:  Sally Ride and Mae Jemison, astronauts; Christiane Amanpour and Rachel Maddow; Bella Abzug and Jessica Mitford; Oprah Winfrey and Julie Taymor and Toni Morrison; Barbara Jordan, Shirley Chisholm, Nancy Pelosi, Carly Fiorino, Dolores Huerta, Barbara Boxer and Diane Feinstein, Mayors Jean Quan and Gayle McLaughlin; Gloria Steinem and Annie Liebowitz; Mia Hamm, the Stanford women's basketball team; Supreme Court Justices O'Conner, Ginsburg, and Sotomayor; a helicopter pilot flying over Iraq or Afghanistan; that race car driver at Nascar; firefighters, policewomen, park rangers; Betty Friedan and Katherine Graham and Adriana Huffington; and yes, some bus drivers, some girl scouts and Rosie's Girls, Spelling Bee winners, ferry boat captains, West Point cadets, army admirals and generals, that Episcopal Bishop,  and (yes) Sarah Palin, and Michelle Bachmann  (I'm an equal opportunity dreamer); and as many as we can crowd into a background with tiny images that would zoom into the forefront in one fleeting moment to fill the screen and invite murmurs of recognition from viewers.  You get the idea. 

I want to bring Rosie out of the past and into the present and the future.  And I want to write her into history as this history is being created!  Over the succeeding decades since she emerged as a powerful public relations symbol to bring women into the workforce, Rosie has evolved as has the nation and its attitudes, and has become more inclusive, many-hued, and in some cases a space helmet, hard hat, or hijab may have replaced that red polka-dot bandanna, but she still represents woman on the rise toward full equality.  In the immortal words of poet Maya Angelou, " ... and still I rise!" 

This is the trajectory I'd love to project on a screen.  I'm more concerned with this more dynamic image of Rosie than of erecting a mausoleum to the now white-haired Rosies who answered the country's call in WWII; we who've served as role models for her continuing march toward autonomy and independence; and who should now find immortality in the inspiration that we provided for those who climbed onto our slim shoulders for the continuing ascension in the decades that followed.  Maybe it's honor enough to see ourselves reflected in them and in their achievements.  I certainly do.

I heard another ranger's voice caution from across the conference table, "... but Betty, we don't want to use iconic women.  After all Rosie was an ordinary worker."  And, of course, I would agree -- and Elizabeth's words stifled the imagery and I gave it up for the moment; as deflated as a long-after-the-party-ended red balloon.

When I fell into that quiet moment just before sleep that evening, I realized that it was at just this place in the process that women get dropped out of history.  We complain and decry the omission, and don't seem to remember that men celebrate their icons, build institutions to them, name buildings after them, do "Halls of Fame" to honor them, but rarely do we women do so, and there's something fine about that.  It speaks to our inclination to want to be perceived in the aggregate as modest -- self-effacing -- but that doesn't make history, friends.  It is in just this kind of situation that the deed is done, and we women fail to promote ourselves at the cost of being erased from the history books as we've been over the centuries.  And maybe, just maybe, it's not a conspiracy to be dismissive of women at all, but women's natural reluctance to self-promote.

The team has returned to the East Coast, and the planning sessions have ended for now.  Isn't that always the way?  But maybe there's still time to make the point.  I'll just bet Molly MacGregor of the National Women's History Project would understand and applaud -- but then maybe I'm just making too much of it.

We'll see.  If it still seems important next week when our suggestions for revisions need to be submitted to be forwarded to the designers -- I'll act on it.  If not ... .

(I'd love to get some feedback in this instance, if you'll look just under my picture on the left side of the screen -- top of the list of links to send me an email.  You, too, can help to build a new urban national park, if you'd like.)