As it is with news magazine shows, late Friday evening we received word of the postponement of our segment on the Weekend Today Show ... 

... and I experienced feelings of both excitement and relief.  Major news events had crowded out the prepared piece, and it will be shown "sometime in May", according to the producer.  "It's completed, and is great," says she.

After  eight hours of shooting, and the subsequent requests for additional photos and relevant information -- I'd completely lost any sense of what would be shown.

I was beginning to wonder if I'd remembered to comb what hair I have left; whether I'd checked my makeup after a full day (hadn't looked into a mirror since leaving home that morning); and all those things that fill the time after you've spent endless hours being on camera.  There were long stretches when I'd forget the crew was even on site, or that I was wired the whole day as I conducted my bus tour (had I said anything that might later prove embarrassing?).

It would have been great to have risen this blue-skied Sunday morning; viewed the footage along with the nation as it watched; and had it all behind me.  Now the period of nervous anticipation has been lengthened, and the doubts will continue; maybe not.  There's a level of disbelief to it that persists, and I really do forget the continuing public exposure in the course of my work days as things settle into my new normal.

And that includes word from our superintendent announcing that he'd received a request from the Guardian (and I mistakenly associated that with the Bay Guardian - a SF newspaper) from the UK.  They were seeking a 30 minute phone interview to be used in connection with a travel show aired in England.  "We'll send questions by email, and set a time certain if she will accept."  I said yes.

The same day I'd just responded to a request from a State University of New York (a "... small college with a student body of around 2000") for me to deliver the Commencement address at their graduation ceremonies of May 2016.  What an honor!

My response was to live rather immodestly with the sense of importance it afforded me for a few days -- let the warmth of it wash over and stoke my ever-aging ego before sending regrets.  "... While I enjoy excellent health at 93, to accept such a commitment for a full year in the future would be tempting Fate," says she.   (You'll notice how readily I slip into referring to myself in the third person these days).  I no longer plan ahead more than six months, and this proposal more than exceeded those self-imposed limits. 

Meanwhile, someone on the faculty of the University of Oregon has discovered my blog and -- on the strength of that interest -- has invited me to travel to their campus some time this fall or winter semester to present to their classes.  The NPS will grant permission, and plans are being made for me to accept their invitation.  This is a pleasant reminder of my visit to Humboldt State University in Northern California a few years ago, and of how exciting that was, and how it felt to be interacting with students and faculty women who were doing such amazing work in Feminist Studies.  I've accepted and am waiting for next steps.

Who says the Golden Years can't be quite the best ever?

I just have to be careful not to ever buy green bananas ... .

My first great grandchild, Patrick Kayden Hebert is now capable of these morning conversations with his Mommy as you can see ... .

... and I'm serving notice on the nation that I'll give y'all about a dozen years to get your act together enough so that these chats don't have to consist of warnings of how to act should he encounter problems with authority, "keep your hands always in sight!" etc.

At this point he's being loved unconditionally, and is interacting with his environment with complete trust.

I'm praying that I and others of like mind have done enough world-changing in our time to give him and others of his generations at least an even shot at success in life.  And, that the necessary social changes keep pace with global warming and rising sea levels that are no longer debatable.  That's a lot to ask, but ask it I shall.  His precious little life may well depend on it.  Today's headlines (Ferguson, Baltimore, New York, Cleveland, etc.) would suggest that we have a long way to go before progress is measurable, but I'm optimistic when looking back at past successes that I've seen over a long lifetime.

Of all of the little boys like Kayden, one or another may have brought into the world some of the answers to the unprecedented problems we'll be facing in the next decade or two.  We know not just who they are, but we cannot afford to not give each the greatest education and opportunity to contribute if we're to save ourselves and our place in the universe.

Wish I could hang around long enough to continue to influence what comes next ...  .

Meanwhile, the work goes on, and the thing that I'm fighting so hard to forget is the fact that at a recent off-site presentation -- during the Q&A following my talk, a suburban woman in her middle years raised her hand to declare proudly before an all-white audience, "... I watched The Help twice, and I even read the book!"

Shienelle Jones of NBC Today Show

Weekend Today Show hits Richmond ...

On Wednesday last, promptly at nine o'clock a 4-person team consisting of producer Caroline Gottlieb and NBC news anchor Shienelle Jones who flew out from NY,  plus a cameraman and audio tech from the local NBC Affiliate in San Francisco arrived at the Visitor Center to spend the day filming my bus tour for airing next Sunday, April 26, sometime between eight and nine o'clock.

It turned out to be a full 8-hour day for what will probably be two minutes of air time, but that's the way of these things.  Before day's end we would film at Lucretia Edwards park as the group boarded the bus for our 2 and-a-half-hour tour; then for a meet-up at the SS Red Oak Victory where we went aboard and -- with a glorious spring day with a cloudless blue sky we walked on the top deck and spoke of the ships history; then I continued the bus tour while the crew headed for the Rosie the Riveter Memorial to cover that moving site; then back to the Visitor Center for viewing of the film and my talk in our little theater.  It would be another adventure to remember. 


Surprise for me was that I had no idea that a Weekend Today Show even existed, or that its news anchor was a lovely young African American journalist, and that it would be she with whom I would interact on camera.

This would be Shienelle's first visit to the West Coast, and from her arrival at the Visitor Center with its sweeping views of the entire San Francisco Bay shoreline; with the grandeur of the Ford Assembly Plant, she was blown away!  From the first moments of the shoot it was clear that this team was totally into their assignment -- and that we would be shown in our best light.

However, had they been present in the hour leading up to this day, it would have been quite a different story:

At about 8:30 -- just a half-hour before I was due to present myself at that Visitor Center to meet with the 22 folks who'd signed up for my bus tour -- I was putting the final touches on my appearance, and, remembering that I needed to apply Polygrip before the lip gloss, and nowhere in sight was my

lower denture!

The next 20 minutes were spent frantically searching my bedroom;  on my hands and knees searching under the beds, stripping the blankets and sheets, the pillow cases, dumping wastebaskets as I tried to recall whether I'd thrown anything out; frantically going through pockets of yesterday's uniform and today's bathrobe, all to no avail!  Suddenly that defensive something that kicks in at such times, that provides the resilience -- and that allows you to view yourself in the third person -- and suddenly I was lying on my back on the bedroom rug giggling hysterically as I thought that I might have to call in to explain that the whole thing had to be shelved because Betty couldn't find her teeth!

In the middle of that spasm of laughter my eye caught something lying just under the edge of the bed near the nightstand where there lay a box that was tilted awkwardly.  It was the Walgreens vanilla caramel package with my lower stuck to the bottom! It had fallen from the nightstand where I'd absently set it while watching the Daily Show the night before.  Phew!  That was close.

With what dignity there was left, I finished dressing and headed for my big shoot.  They'd never know, right?  But it was a reminder that Life has a way of humbling the best of us and that the next time I might not be so lucky.

Yesterday there was a call in my voice mail waiting for a callback from KQED-FM in San Francisco.  I'm being invited to do an interview sometime this upcoming week for their Forum show with Michael Krasney.           

Because the subject came up during an interview after my talk last week, I find myself thinking about feminism -- and why my coming to terms with it was so late ...

... but with some background, maybe my case can be made.

When the women's movement began to hit like a juggernaut in the suburbs where I was living in the late 60's through the 80's, it tended to skip our address.

My world was peopled by middle class and upper-middle class wives and mothers of absentee upward-mobile husbands, and the air was filled with bitterness and resentment as the controversial book, "Feminine Mistique" hit the market.  At the time my attitude was much as it is when Rosie the Riveter is mentioned in my world of today.  In my life it was simply a non-issue; a white woman's story having little to do with my life.

Truth was that the oppression I experienced was not coming from the men in my life (father, uncles, husband) who were living under the same oppression as were we.  And ours was from the white world; and mostly from white women.   I'd had little occasion to interact with white men.  Neither did my mother nor my aunts since their roles in life, historically, involved working in private homes and being supervised by white women.   Our uncles and fathers were of the service worker generation with few if any positions open to them above that level, so racism was a strong factor in their lives.  Ever since slavery this had been true.  As women we were aware of the degrading hoops our men were forced to jump through in order to support their families.

This being so, the memory of the Sixties civil rights revolution was marked by black women being sensitive to the plight of black men and at that time there was a resistance to stepping up in front of our men or to compete for power in society where we might be called upon for leadership.

I remember that in the late Sixties while attending a national black power conference in Chicago the opportunity to become a part of a national board upon which I would be the only female -- and that I refused to accept the role while feeling that I was more than qualified to do so.  It was the Black Caucus of the Unitarian Universalist Church, an organization that had gathered together about 500 black intellectuals -- mostly humanists -- from throughout the country to struggle for equality within the predominantly white denomination.  I'd gone there with the full support of my local church which funded my participation though I was one of only 3 black members at the time, I believe.  At the time the conflicting goals of racial integration and black power were under intense scrutiny, and I was right in the middle of the debate.

The second year we came together in Cleveland where the Black Caucus was registered at the same Hilton Hotel as the general annual conference of UU's, but we were not meeting with the full body while making our claims for political and denominational power.  We met separately for several days, with our black men negotiating behind closed doors with the general body and bringing back reports of their progress to our caucus.

At the final plenary session our issues had been successfully negotiated, and our caucus was to open to celebration.  Mind you, black caucus women had participated in few if any of the negotiations up to the time, and were busy doing the behind the scenes "grunt" work and planning the caucus celebration in our self-segregated separate-but-equal hotel suites.

The hour came for our victory party.  We found ourselves sitting in small groups chatting nervously whatever nonsense came to mind as the clock ticked mercilessly on as we anxiously waited for male friends, co-conspirators, and husbands to join us.  I remember the heavy unspoken feelings of embarrassment as the ice melted in the punch, the brie began to melt into formless blobs, and the icing on the brownies grew sticky and stale ... .  Unfortunately, our men had opted for the "white" parties in other places in the hotel where the young white women they'd charmed during the week were waiting.

The evening just before leaving the conference I participated in an encounter group session called by the emotionally-bruised women.  There was a highly volatile confrontation with the men.  It was one of the most intensely-charged meetings I've ever experienced.  I cowered in a dark corner next to my friend, the late Henry Hampton (of Blacksides Productions that produced the highly-acclaimed Eyes on the Prize for PBS) who, along with several other men, shared the outrage of the tearful sistahs.  The men were petulant, defensive in the face of the brutal honesty of the women, and on an ego-centric high from their conquests.  Little of value was achieved that fateful night, and it was a prelude to the many break-ups of relationships and marriages over the following decade.

Long into the years after the women's movement was formed, memories of that evening continued to fester.  I was aware that -- as we'd stood aside to make room for our men to gain their rightful leadership roles in the workplace and in society as-a-whole -- it was often white women who unknowingly stepped into the leadership vacumn we'd deliberately left unfilled.

Early in the Movement, as white women began to crash through the glass ceiling, black women were hired to take care of the newly-abandoned households and children in order to enable former housewives to take their places around corporate boardroom tables, so there was a lag between white and black women's ability to access economic and political power.  It was eventually noticed  that black women were slow to enter the Movement and that far fewer were hired into domestic roles, as those roles were gradually and systematically taken over by undocumented immigrant women who were willing to work for less in exchange for the promise of eventual sponsorship by their employers. Despite the fact that this was a different cohort of black women, this meant that the low-skilled jobs previously filled by poorly-educated black women were no longer available with huge economic impacts to their families and communities; effecting all black lives.  Black women, in general, were again pushed to the bottom rung of the economic ladder for reasons beyond their control.

Today, with such a high percentage of black males being caught up in the underground economy fueled by the drug trade and imprisonment (and those not being claimed by Kardashian women), they are far less likely to be candidates for marriage.  Black women have had to achieve financial independence through continuing education and greater job opportunities.  Many have successfully done that, are becoming accomplished in every field, and are single mothers by choice in order to live a more complete life. 

The case for a delayed entry into Feminism may be the main reason that I'm so turned off by the identification of my role in the home front story as a "Rosie the Riveter."  I believe that there is still some residual pain that has persisted into these years, and that continues to prevent a full-fledged alignment with the cause of women's equality though, intellectually, I see the need for achieving those rights in order to have a more fully balanced society.

As long as white women are seen as the generic woman and all the rest of us continue to be seen as "somethin' else", my personal view of that reality will probably remain unresolved.

During the Q&A on Saturday, a visitor asked if the warfare currently underway in the Middle East doesn't take priority on our list of things needing direct action?

Without hesitation my response was, "no, climate change must be acknowledged and accepted before anything else can be addressed."

I found myself wondering on the short drive back to my apartment if this is what I truly believe?

It was then that I realized how enured I've become to the horrific violence we're living with every day, and how desensitized I'm becoming.  Maybe we all are falling victim to an acceptance of a level of inhumanity that not too long ago would have been unthinkable.

Not only on "the dark continent of Africa," but in our own streets against the homeless; against young black and brown men by police who have become our para-military forces; on television in a constant stream of crime shows; stories of unsolved "cold" cases; an airliner with a young depressive at the controls crashing into an Alpine mountainside; helpless young people gunned down on a faraway college campus; young women being kidnapped and sold into sex trafficking never to return; so much, so awful, so endless ... .

Is this the way of the world that has always been and that we're only now -- through the insistence of technology -- unable to escape knowing about?  Are we being de-civilized at an accelerated rate?

... then I found myself admitting that the foreground of my life; and maybe all of our lives, doesn't reflect that reality at all.  That my days are made up of good friends doing great things, kind thoughts and pleasurable prospects ... while in the background there is world misery that is almost too much to incorporate without being threatened with the onset of soul-searing depression of the kind that shared the controls with that young mentally disturbed pilot!

Maybe it's the result of the fact that in ancient times only the catastrophic (earthquakes, wild fires, and other natural disasters) would extend beyond the borders of our villages until a crier from the other side of the mountain brought news weeks and maybe months after the fact.  We were protected by the isolation of the times in which we were living.  That no longer is possible.  If ISIS invades Syria within hours we have not only a count of the casualties, but the most horrific details of the actual methods used to vanquish their perceived enemies.

... and the most dire of all fates tends to pale in comparison with the immediate dangers -- that most dire threat of all would be the now-impending destruction of the planet due to man's effect upon the living environment, and the destructive denial by a few of the most powerful among us who fail to see any way to profit from planetary protection.  Until they can decide among themselves just who can lay claim to the Sun, itself, we may have to stand by helpless against their all-consuming greed.

How does one mere mortal attempt to balance all that without losing any sense of control over even one's own destiny?

This is a time when I'm so aware that there is but one Life, and that we're all sharing it. 

As if having the Secretary of the Interior Jewell pay us a surprise visit last week weren't quite enough ...

... The Today Show announced through our superintendent that their crew would be visiting on Wednesday, April 15, to film my next public bus tour! 

I'm trying desperately hard to not allow myself to even think about what lies ahead, and today is Easter Sunday and I've no exciting plans to take up my thoughts and calm the anxiety so my mind is now leaping ahead with a noticeable tightening of every nerve and sinew in my body!

There are ten days until that happens, but by the time our park visitors begin to gather at our front doorway to board the bus on that morning -- I may be ready for the Looney Bin!

One would think that all of this would be routine by now, after all it's been almost two years since the governmental shutdown happened, and the public exposure that has become such a major part of my daily existence.  But for reasons I cannot explain, I'm suddenly feeling crowded and vulnerable ... and there's that familiar sense of unworthiness... this, even at a time when I'm feeling so effective in my presentations, and deeply aware that I'm doing good work that is being recognized widely.

I suspect that -- as I feel the now familiar surge of adrenaline each time upon entering the little theater and that rush of whatever-it-is that brings such closeness between me and those faces that makes for such a feeling of intimacy and that graces the room with each experience -- so it will be as we board the bus for our tour of those scattered park sites.  So it will be, hopefully, when those cameras are rolling ...

Will let you know when it will be shown.  And, as is customary, that crew will spend 4 hours with us to capture 3 minutes of air time!  So why should this seem any more than what we've been through before with these media teams?  Since the next week is National Parks Week, it's probably safe to assume that it is for this that this piece is being produced, and then life will return to whatever we deem is our new normal.

What more can lie ahead?

We keep "max-ing" out!

The question comes up occasionally during the Q&A, and I don't think that it's being answered as completely as it should be ... .

"You are obviously well-educated, Betty, what college did you attend?"  Usually asked by someone who then goes on to add, "... your vocabulary certainly reveals that."

There is usually a pause of a few seconds as I weigh just how to respond, and it may interest you to know that there is some discomfort -- uncertainty -- an awareness of what I've always seen as a deficit in my education.  My education didn't extend beyond high school, so to answer with what feels to me as a reminder that I'm among the unwashed ... .

It occurs to me that what we have here is a lack of complexity that doesn't allow the truth to be revealed; my answer should be nuanced.  It is this:

My education took place when the California public school system was the envy of the known world. This would have been prior to the enactment of Proposition 13 which started the dismantling of that system.

Also, because there were so few African Americans living in the State or the Greater Bay Area before WWII, there were few reasons to have anything but a great general education for everyone, so I escaped the handicap of being squashed under the crushing weight of low expectations that now becomes the fate of disadvantaged children of color.  For whatever it was worth, I was receiving the same training into the same culture as those around me.

Not only were my influences Jack London, Mark Twain, Willa Cather, the Bronte Sisters, Rudyard Kipling, Louisa Mae Alcott and Edna St. Vincent Millay, Alfred Noyes, James Whitcomb Riley,  and Eugene O'Neill, but by fifth grade I was singing the operatic works of Giuseppe Verdi, and Sibelius's Finlandia with our glee club!

Richard Wright's Native Son and the poems of Langston Hughes, James Weldon Johnson, and Gwendolyn Brooks I would not be exposed to until young adulthood. By then my racial designation would have become hyphenated by the experiences of WWII on the Home Front and the Civil Rights Revolution of the Sixties.  Before then I was simply a youngster being educated to the majority culture.

Of course, one might say that I was missing the black artists, authors, and scholars, and that is true. But I was being educated for the state and nation I was growing up in, and being acculturated at the same time -- which would serve me well over time.  The fact that, eventually, I would be exposed, in depth, to both black and white cultures has been a gift to be cherished.  Maybe that would be the ideal for us all.

In high school we performed Maxwell Anderson's Winterset in my junior year drama class, and I read and analyzed Shakespeare in English Lit as a senior.  The training received in Mr. Bill McLaughlin's public speaking class is still with me in our little theater every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.  "Stand straight with weight on front foot -- take a deep breath, and start the first word on an exhale, etc."  The ability to analyze material, debate issues, and defend my positions was nurtured by what happened in that exciting class where kids could differ and grow.  Where questioning was encouraged, and cynicism rewarded if rational.

And I can still hear those oratorios screamed in the thin treble-clef voices of children before the little silver pitch pipe and waving baton of full-bosomed and bespectacled Mrs. Edith Reiniger whose great passion for Giuseppe Verdi's il Trovatore fed our little souls.  No I've been working on the railroad or My Darling Clementine for us!

... and at this point it matters not that throughout my childhood and into my adult years I still remember that California was first settled by Father Wanna-pera Serra!  (How on earth did that young teacher ever get out of school without learning how to pronounce Junipero?)  But nothing's perfect, right? ...  not even the greatest educational system in the world in its day. 

"I didn't go to college," then is probably only half true.  The fact of when I was educated says it all, I think.  I'm guessing that those students who shared those years with me received what would be seen today as at least two years of learning in any community college or higher.

This all happened, of course, before the systematic dismantling of public education began in this country, and before charter schools would be even dreamed of.  And those, you remember, were the years of the Great Depression, the Works Progress Administration (WPA), joblessness and bread lines, and my mother turning up at "Sally Ann's" (the Salvation Army store) early on Thursday mornings when the trucks were unloaded -- to get first crack at whatever books (for 25 cents) were among those discarded by the "Haves".

"I didn't go to college," are words that simply don't cover my educational experience.

Not even close.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto ... .

... and the Yellow Brick Road looks unexpectedly familiar.  Though there have been rough places and demons to do battle with along the way -- little here is surprising.  And I blush to admit that so unashamedly.  It's not that I don't see the specialness of it all, it's just that the miraculous aspect of everyday life is something I'm tapping into more and more these days, with a growing sense of wonder that we tend to walk through the miracles each and every day without fully appreciating this life as it unfolds before us in whatever ways it expresses itself.

Wish I could figure out how to share the great video piece that ran throughout the Department of Interior on their weekly "This week at Interior March 27, 2015" but you can access it on YouTube.com if you wish.  I can't figure out a way to link it, or, to even fix it so that you can copy and paste, and today is Sunday and I'm at home without the benefit of being able to have our graphics person, Luther Bailey, walk me through it.

Suffices to say that last week's visit to Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park of not only the Secretary of the Interior, Sally Jewell, but Jon Jarvis, National Director of the National Park Service, and, regional director Chris Lehnertz, as well, spent Thursday afternoon with us, and a warmer more congenial group I've rarely experienced.  What a time!  Sally Jewell is someone I'd find it very easy to love.  What a charismatic and lovely woman is she!

That they were truly impressed by what we're building here was clearly obvious.  That we're layering back in the nuances and complexities of the Era of WWII at a time when those lives and times are so often compacted into bumper stickers is being appreciated by Washington.  It is clear that those whose work guides our ability to do that are fully aware of our challenges and small victories.  I don't think I've ever felt so affirmed.  So surrounded by enablers.  We all did.  

The day ended with a quick drive home to change out of uniform and into more glamorous civvies to attend a reception at Alumna House on the UC Berkeley Campus -- held in honor of the dignitaries gathered here for consideration of plans for the upcoming National Park Service Centennial year 2016, and to tackle the vitally important environmental questions that are before us as a nation and a world.

... it was during the reception in that lovely tree-shaded gracefully designed building that I felt the first pangs of being completely awestruck by the unexpected turn my life has taken in recent weeks.  Upon arrival I entered the room where there was not a single familiar face.  Having outlived most of my contemporaries, I'm now facing a re-peopled world.  I'd arrived far too early and before the others came.   But standing nearby was the UC Board of Regents Chair, Janet Napolitano, and just beyond, historian Douglas Brinkley.

The world of the Academy was alien to me, but reminiscent of the years spent as a faculty wife, Mrs. Dr. William F Soskin, Ph.D., research psychologist connected with Tolman Hall on this very campus.  I'd never quite fit into that Betty's shoes, and the ten years we spent together hardly made a dent in that insecurity, though they brought new opportunities for learning previously not open to me, and re-cast my known world with new friends and possibilities.  It was those years that launched political Betty.

This time I'm the grownup!  These are the kids.  I've attained an eminence over the years through  unsubscribed and unintentional ways but it doesn't really matter at this point.

The game's almost over ... and just when I'm finally beginning to understand the rules of engagement ... .

What a week this has been ... !

The Department of Interior's piece was released to social media, and in one fell swoop I'm big news across the whole country!  Can you imagine?

When released it was re-Tweeted by the White House (have no idea what that means), but my imagination is running wild -- and I imagine the Obamas reading about this lil' ole lady ranger on the West Coast (crazy!), and wondering if the National Park Service has lost its collective mind!  A somewhat overripe but still-functioning park ranger let loose in the system -- and at a time when any other elder with an ounce of common sense is retiring into RV travel and registering for burial insurance!

I'm more and more convinced that -- at a time when contemporary culture would have us producing more and more Botox commercials and anti-wrinkle solutions; when public television is running fundraisers on "Aging in Reverse.  When we're being treated to a full season of television based on thugs and low lifers at all levels and in all ethnicities and races; with real life crime shows almost impossible to avoid; with frequent Amber Alerts and car chases feeding our need to be charged up, emotionally.  With racism and brutality on the rise and government response inadequate to the new challenges due to partisanship and short-sightedness, especially on environmental issues that grow more terrifying with each day, maybe we're searching for relief in new lifestyle possibilities.

Maybe we're just starved for relief from all of it and, as it was during the government shutdown, the sight of a real grown-up on the media (me!) serves to provide a false sense of security.

Maybe natural grey hair and well-earned wrinkles appear less to be feared.  Maybe someone who appears to have found a way to get through life without succumbing to all that can offer an alternative to the adulation of youth model.

I've not reached this place unscathed; this journal reveals some of that, but overall I seem to have come to terms with Life, at least if one doesn't look too closely... .

There is so little in all this that seems personal to me.

I don't think that I'm being overly modest.  I know that I've done and am doing good work, and am grateful that this is being recognized, but it feels excessive at times, and it's difficult to be the hottest thing in the supermarket checkout line when you're wearing mismatched socks and no makeup -- a perfect right of any lil' ole lady whose supply of shredded wheat and prune juice is running low ... .

Besides all that the plain truth is that the secret of my success may be that I discovered by sheer accident -- if I do it just right -- putting my ranger hat on, that is.  I raise my brows as if caught by surprise -- and start by setting the front edge of the brim in place on my forehead -- then while applying gentle pressure as I set my hat in place the effect is that it gives me a $1200 nonsurgical brow lift!   Problem is that everything falls when I remove my hat ...

... but you can't have it all.

 This link should take you to the Department of Interior article ... .


http://www.doi.gov/employees/news/womens-history-month-an-interview-with-93-year-old-national-park-service-ranger-betty-reid-soskin.cfm

I think you have to copy and paste this link into your web browser.

Will keep trying to get it into a hyperlink.

18 with a long life ahead ...

The significance of my work of the past few days is only now beginning to dawn ...

About ten days ago I received an email from our superintendent saying that he'd had a request from the Department of Interior for an interview from me.  He forwarded the information with his response which had been, "here is Betty's information and you may contact her directly."


This being Women's History Month, it seems that the Department has decided to profile the National Park Service's "Oldest Park Ranger," and -- since I'm involved with a number of engagements already calendared and waiting -- this was just another such.  It's kind of "what I do." I hold a unique position of being an original source with the responsibility of sharing historic information when and where appropriate to the community, service clubs, agencies, educational institutions, on site, as needed.  This appeared to be within the area of my "expertise" and little more.

Now that I've completed a lengthy Q&A and had several brief phone conversations with the editor, it's beginning to be obvious that this is a bit more than out of the ordinary.

52 and counting ...

It wasn't until our deputy superintendent brought it to my attention (when I gave her the draft that had been forwarded for corrections) that this was not the National Park Service, but for the parent agency, The Department of Interior.  That the editor, Donna Margelos, was spending the major part of her work week reading and re-reading my blog; listening to video interviews that exist online; viewing DVDs and scanning my entire life as it exists online every day.

At my end -- between spare moments in my schedule of events -- I was finding myself searching out photos to send that span my entire existence since my 20th birthday!

This is big!  How big?  I have no idea, but it feels awesome.

The editor asked at one point, whether anyone at the National Park Service is capturing my blog -- and I had to admit that it had never occurred to me that anyone needed to ... that it was written as a way to process life as it whizzed by -- and -- since I'm really in conversation with my family and myself (mostly), and since I only write on my days off or late evenings ... it is strangely still a personal document.  It just never dawned that anyone else would see any value in the thoughts of an aging woman ... .

S. F. Giant's Game Day
90, and almost there ...

I'm hardly aware of any other readers, though on occasion (when someone asks) I try to check the numbers, but they're unimpressive at best, so for the most part outside readers are not my audience.  Leaving a record of my life for my family has always been the objective.

Some time this week The DOI project will be released -- where or how is still a mystery.  Ms. Margelos said something about "social media," and "a new young audience," but I know little beyond that.  It was just another assignment from superintendent Tom Leatherman, and that's about as far as it went.

Fortunately, the national attention has been incrementally growing, and each assignment (last week it was,Tom Bentley, a writer for the  American Scholar," the publication for the Phi Beta Kappa Society which has an interest in my blog; the week before it was Steve Early, Labor writer, who has a new book in process in which I'm included.) Early had been on board for two of my recent bus tours, and attended several of my afternoon presentatioins.  Until the Department of Interior's far more detailed piece required some work on my part, I really took it all in as just "what I do."

But it's far more than that, obviously.

The future is still opening up and the portals are widening even as we speak ...

What a week this has been -- so memorable ...

... among other things -- on Wednesday I finally got to Alcatraz Island, and the Ai Wei Wei exhibit.  It is so moving ... so important.  It will close in April, which is much too soon.

Learning about how it was executed -- with the artist still confined under house arrest in China and unable to participate in the installation except by long distance, and with the involvement of local artists who used his designs through detailed instructions to fabricate the disparate pieces into reality.  They're astounding! The Kite; the Wing -- the stories that came to us through interpretive Ranger John Cantwell and his 28 years of working on the Island ... .

There was a moment when standing among the reproductions (in Legos) of a worldwide collection of images of political prisoners -- when I felt a sensory overload and had to momentarily withdraw -- to remove myself from that place into myself and away from the present by turning my back on the exhibit to look out of one of the multitude of windows toward the beautiful Golden Gate ... .

The experience was beyond surreal.

Alcatraz has a visitation of 5000 tourists a day; one million per year.  Ferries are boarded at Pier 33 in San Francisco; 300/trip, and tourists from every state and nation arrive every half hour throughout the day, with every boat trip sold out.  While my friend, Ann, and I were being guided by Ranger Cantwell, there was a brief exchange with a group of four young people who were visiting from Sweden; a reminder of how far-reaching is the influence of this work of Wei Wei and the long arm of the National Park Service which has enabled this remarkable cultural exchange.

I was not prepared for the beauty of the site that is not as overwhelmed by the desolation and decay as one might expect.  Though the evidence of its lengthy Armed Forces history plus the 49 years of life as the nation's infamous maximum security prison are clearly dominant, the beautiful historic gardens and Mediterranean-like site is much as one might have expected to find somewhere in Italian waters.

And, as we boarded the ferry for the scenic trip back to Pier 33 the captain allowed me to take the wheel for a while and guide the vessel back to shore -- with 300 unsuspecting tourists on the decks below!

My "famosity" (yeah, I know that isn't a word -- yet) may be getting into the way of my work ... .

... this great cover for the in-house Geico publication arrived on my chair in the headquarters offices yesterday.  I vaguely recalled doing a phone interview early in the year, and that I'd referred the caller to our superintendent because this was one of the many media inquiries resulting from the governmental shutdown last year -- and, yes, they're still coming. Unlike most that had come from other agencies and/or nonprofits, this was clearly a commercial enterprise and might be subject to different protocols.  After all, we're a federal agency and there are regulations to cover such things.  Since such decisions come at a far higher level than mine, we needed clearance, but eventually the go-ahead came and the 30-minute interview took place, but was quickly forgotten in the busyness of daily life.

Yesterday when I reached my desk at park headquarters in the Civic Center, there was an official-looking manila envelop on my chair with the return address of the office of the superintendent of  Mount Rainer National Park in Washington State.  In it was a brief note from his secretary, Donna Rahier,  stating that this had been dropped off at their office, and that she was forwarding it hoping that it would reach me.  The envelop held this cover page and the inside article (great!) that was brief and accompanied another photo.  This was the first I'd seen it, and only then did I remember this interview ever occurring.  I loved it and her thoughtfulness in getting it to me.  I might never have known ... .

... but what it brought up for me was the fact that much of this media attention might be rising from the need of the up-coming and aging Boomer generation to have role models for later life ... could be. The old models of avoidance and denial of the aging process may be finally dying, and in its place this generation of my children may be developing a hunger for meaning of a different kind.  Maybe we elders who continue to hang in and thrive are creating hope for a generation tiring of the adulation of youth model and are searching for something more meaningful to hang their hopes on.

Do you suppose?

It seems clear that I've aged into a place where I'm receiving kudos, trophies, and certificates of honor for simply being able to tie my own shoes!  It defies explanation; and though I feel affirmed and flattered by the attention (who wouldn't be?), it's difficult to feel worthy of being singled out for such tributes.

... but whose complaining?

... with the awesome spectre of non-existence in the fast-approaching future --  I'll take it!

Black History Month has now faded into the past, and it's on to Women's History ...

... but before we do that there's March 3rd, Naturalization Day, to get through, and at the invitation of the Department of Homeland Security, I'm to give the address welcoming new citizens and their families and friends on Tuesday in the Craneway Pavilion of the historic Ford Assembly Plant.  This important national event is co-sponsored by the National Park Service, and is staged at many national parks throughout the nation.

It's an honor to have been asked to do so again this year.  I gave the speech two years ago, and those upturned faces -- so filled with emotion -- as I looked down from the platform ... I wonder if anyone remembers a word of it?

I know that the feelings in me as I delivered my words were almost overwhelming.

I'd spent days before trying to justify being the deliverer of those words of welcome.  How could I possibly be asked to give assurance to these new arrivals that the land they were entering would live up to their hopes and expectations?  Especially since my personal history contained generations of pain and anguish of those enslaved in a political system still struggling to overcome its violent past. To have survived into the present under decades of Jim Crow and broken promises offered little comfort.  Could I do this without yielding to hypocrisy and denial?  Was this what my great-grandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen, would have wished were she alive today? Would she have preferred retribution?  Could I do this while remaining true to myself?

The answers arrived at two years ago came about after many hours of tossing and turning, doubts, and sometimes tentative and temporary affirmations.  Those few words that found their way to the paper were arrived at after days of slash and burn editing and tears of frustration. I'd assumed that this would be a one time experience, and that, ultimately, the act of thinking through my position on such an important subject could serve to reinforce a commitment to my work as a federal employee operating inside the circle.

In the end, the speech evolved into a simple but honest statement of my beliefs and a believable declaration of my patriotism.  My sincerity had been sorely tested.

Several weeks ago -- when the request came to be the keynoter for this year's program, my immediate response was, "oh NO!"  I could not go through that again.  No one should ask that of me.

... then it dawned that this would be a totally different audience of new Americans, and that the agonizing is now in the past.  I'd lived through this test of my patriotism; no one was asking that of me.  I remembered that I'd posted that speech on my blog at the time, and that all that was needed now would be to copy and paste it into readable (double-spaced text), and we were good to go!

(Go to the search bar -- top of the left side of the screen, above my picture and the banner, enter Naturalization Day and the speech will pop up after scrolling down.)

A day with the Richmond Police Force turned out to be a day of confusion that ended magnificently!

I'd heard nothing from our Chief Magnus.  He's not turned up at any of my programs over the weeks since he'd presented his invitation for me to participate in his staff training, despite my insistence.

I'd checked with our superintendent to see whether anyone from our NPS staff would be sharing the experience with me, and that he'd had a follow-up conversations to confirm the Chief's invitation.  He'd assured me that they'd had a phone conversation, and that everything was in place.

On the day before, on February 24th as I was watching the six o'clock local news, I heard a segment referring to a "Day of training in the City of Richmond that featured Dr. Lori Fridell and which had police chiefs from nearby cities ...", and suddenly I panicked.  Had I not written the right date on my calendar?  Was the workshop on Tuesday instead of Wednesday -- the 25th?  Had I missed the commitment altogether by some error?

After an almost sleepless night I woke to face the day that might be an embarrassment for me and for our park.  What on earth could have happened ... ?

By nine o'clock I was at my desk hoping to solve the mystery -- but the answers were not forthcoming.  Sent out emails to my supervisors and to our superintendent, who knew as little as I did.  Nothing would clarify the situation short of driving to the Richmond Police Department for a talk with Chief Magnus.  That would mean facing the fact of my embarrassment at being a no-show for yesterday's training.  Met with a staff person who could answer my questions, but he seemed unsure of the needed answer that would solve my problem.

"Chief Magnus is in Southern California today, and is not available."  Something had come up and He'd apparently delegated the entire event to someone else, and there was no follow-up on the original arrangements.  I envisioned that, once he'd left town, his officers told themselves, "we don't need no history lessons; I was born and raised in Richmond, no one can tell me about this town!"  My heart sank as I waited for the day to unfold.

And, no, I hadn't made an error in listing the date.  The workshop had been broken into a two-day experience, and Dr. Fridell had done her training on Tuesday.  And, yes, my workshop (on Richmond's history) was scheduled for Wednesday, and, no it would not be happening in the cavernous Craneway of the Ford Building, but 24 sergeants would be arriving at the Visitor Education Center of our park at 2:15 today (Wednesday).

Of course, no one had thought to update us about the changes as they occurred, and it was necessary to immediately go to the Visitor Center to confirm that it was available for the training to occur at the time they planned to arrive.

Promptly at 2:15 they arrived in plain clothes (for which I was grateful), and -- together with several members of the public -- I gave my usual three-times-a-week theater program complete with Q&A.

It was magical!

They were rapt, engaged, and eager for the history and clearly open to the experience.

I'm looking forward to their return in the near future, with friends and relatives in tow, to share the exciting Visitor Center experience.

... and I think I've figured out just why our presentations seem to be so well-received.  I believe that the fact that most professional trainers in racial tolerance tend to deal with the subject behaviorally while we use the material in a causative way.  This is a new thought and I'm not sure how to better explain it at this point, but over time I'll better understand the concept and will let you know where it takes me.

It's challenging but also exciting whenever I have this feeling of breaking new ground in the understanding of my world ... .

 

I'm finding myself experiencing doubt and uncertainty at a time when the audiences are engaged and open ...

... wondering if my message of hope isn't misguided and overly optimistic?

As I recall, this also happened as the result of last fall's trip to Tuskegee and Selma; a time when I was just becoming aware that my talks were shifting toward insisting on the inclusion of black history into mainstream American history, and moving away from separating our stories from the great American narrative.  That trip into the deep South awakened in me something that my western upbringing hadn't prepared me for -- how different is the Black psyche and just why that is.

Last night before going to sleep I read an astonishing speech by U.S. District Judge Carlton Reeves, one of just two African Americans to  ever serve as federal judges in Mississippi:

Excerpts from National Public Radio:  "He read it to three young white men before sentencing them for the death of a 48 year-old black man named James Craig Anderson in a parking lot in Jackson, Mississippi, one night in 2011.  They were part of a group that beat Anderson and then killed him by running over his body with a truck, yelling "white power" as they drove off."


The speech is far too long to try to incorporate here, and deserves that you look it up and read in its entirety.

Several things stood out and made sleep impossible for painful hours of tossing and turning in the night.

In Without Sanctuary,  historian Leon Litwack writes that between 1882 and 1968 an estimated 4,742 blacks met their deaths at the hands of lynch mobs.  The impact this campaign of terror had on black families is impossible to explain so many years later.  That number contrasts with the 1,401 prisoners who have been executed in the United States since 1976.  In modern terms, that number represents more than those killed in Operation Iraqi Freedom and more than twice the number of American casualties in Operation Enduring Freedom -- the Afghanistan conflict. Turning to home this number also represents 1,700 more than those killed on Sept. 11. Those who died at the hands of mobs, Litwack notes, some were the victims of "legal" lynchings -- having been accused of a crime, subjected to a "speedy" trial and an even speedier execution.  Some were victims of private white violence and some were merely the victims of "nigger hunts" -- murdered by a variety of means in isolated rural sections and dumped into rivers and creeks.  "Back in those days, according to black Mississippians describing the violence of the 1930s, "to kill a Negro wasn't nothing.  It was like killing a chicken or a snake."

Public lynching in Omaha, Nebraska

I'm reminded that -- when the Congress attempted to pass a bill against lynching in recent times -- 20 members voted against it and prevented passage.  That we have never enacted that bill remains true to this day.

WASHINGTON -- The Senate officially apologized Monday for something it didn't do -- take a stand against the lynching of thousands of black people. By a voice vote, the Senate approved an apology for failing to enact anti-lynching legislation. At least 80 senators signed on as co-sponsors.  Between 1890 and 1952 seven presidents urged Congress to end lynching. Nearly 200 anti-lynching bills were introduced over that period.  But the Senate, with Southern conservatives wielding their filibuster powers, refused to act. With the enactment of civil rights laws in the 1960s and changes in national attitudes, the issue faded away.

(Washington Post - June 15, 2005)

This most recent lynching took place only a few years ago, and the attitudes that still under-gird such hate crimes is still present in the culture.

I suppose that -- as a woman of color -- I see little difference between the horrific burning alive of a Jordanian man by ISIS in this latest atrocity, and those devastating photographs of charred castrated black male bodies hanging from the limbs of trees in this country as the carnival-like crowds of onlookers, including young children, grin with pleasure below.

This, folks, is who we were not so long ago, surely in my lifetime.  For us to react in shock and horror at the inhumanity of our Middle-eastern brothers in today's horrenduos conflicts may be ludicrous.

We must go back in time and own our own violent past in order to learn to forgive ourselves and, eventually, others who emulate such terrorism.  Only in that way can we influence the world -- by example -- toward positive change.  To pretend that we are not a part of a human race capable or such horrors is destructive to our need to move forward, together, into a more compassionate future. 

We're now deep into Black History Month events ... 

Dr. Lori Fridell

... and the upcoming week holds some challenging assignments:  On Wednesday, February 25th I'll be participating as a presenter for Richmond's Police Department in the Craneway Pavilion at the invitation of Chief Chris Magnus.

Since posting about this recently I've learned that I'm responsible for 90 minutes of a workshop on the city's  history as it was lived during WWII.  The time limit on this portion of the history is mine since this is the period that is relevant to my work with the National Park Service, and before that time there are good records of the times of the city's founding in 1905 up through 1941 in the Richmond Museum of History.  It was during that time that the city's population rose from 23,000 to 130,000 over the course of the war.  This means, of course, if one counts the city's birth as 1942 --the City is at least 20 years younger than I am!  The current population figure is 107,000.  The social changes embedded in those figures are staggering!

The reason for the workshop lies in the fact that Chief Magnus (in these days of "All lives matter") is wanting to have his force further sensitized in race relations; though -- under his leadership -- they're one of the most sophisticated in community policing strategies in the entire country.

That's one part of the workshop; the other is another 90-minute segment on race relations that will be led by a specialist in the field.  After learning her name I went to the website that listed her bio, and found myself with many questions ... may be foolishness, but nonetheless I find myself wondering ... .

Dr. Fridell is an attractive blonde who holds a doctorate in her field.  She comes from the world of law enforcement, so is part of that establishment, and probably has broad experience dealing with that population.   I have none.  However, I find my interest heightened as I try to imagine how a white professional in the field of diversity deals with questions around race before a force that is made of up a significant number of men and women of color.  Does she approach the subject from the point of white privilege?  That surely is the angle that successfully guides the work of one of my heroes, the brilliant and wry lecturer, Tim Wise of World Trust.  If not, then how do you suppose she handles the subject?  How will her presentation be received by such an audience?

As a black woman, my own work is so subjective, so personal, and so embedded in my treatment of that WWII history, that I'm wondering how on earth those two 90-minute periods will blend, if they do at all?

When Chief Magnus invited me to participate in this first of its kind workshop in this city, I clearly asked that he try to sit in on one of my talks so that there would be no surprises.  He agreed, but has not turned up thus far.  I suspect that the invitation came as the result of positive hearsay, and that he has no idea of the content of my talks, or of their effect upon audiences, or how they will interface with the other presenter.

I'm effective as a speaker, and my audiences are clearly moved by those presentations, but will they fit into this format?  I'm planning to simply do my Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday programs before this larger audience combining with the 15-minute film on Richmond's WWII history called "Home Front Heroes," then do my usual commentary and call for a Q&A.

I'm wondering if I shouldn't contact Dr. Fridell with a friendly warning so that she won't be unpleasantly surprised ... .

But then maybe I just worry too much.

... and then maybe I'm simply concerned that a presenter who comes from outside my world of color may deal with the race question not experientially, but in the abstract, and just how does that work in this context?  Maybe I need someone to convince me that this is possible -- without losing something of importance to the predetermined goal of establishing a greater understanding between the races.   Could it be that she will be really addressing the white officers, and that the officers of color will find little of relevance despite the good intentions of everyone involved?

One would think that -- at this advanced age I'd not be still developing questions, wouldn't you?  But the learning continues, and the answers remain just beyond reach ... as always.

      

Trying to stand back to get a better view of the present landscape ...

with students from the HAAS School of Business, University of California, Berkeley

... and finding that the busyness is clouding my vision, and causing at least some confusion.

Over these past years -- as my dance card became hopelessly crowded with names spilling into the margins --  the feeling of disbelief grew right along with it.  Try as I might to re-direct the attention to other members of staff, it has become painfully clear that this just hasn't worked as well as one might hope, and that I've managed to attract far more eyes and ears than one small elderly woman might be able to easily manage:

... but January, February, and March, are the months when my services are in greatest demand (Dr. King's birthday month, Black History Month, followed by Women's History Month) and this year is no exception.  I will do events for the Alameda County Transit Authority; the Department of Agriculture; an invitation from the Department of Homeland Security and the National Park Service to be the keynoter for this year's Naturalization Day for brand new Americans; an "honoring" by the local branch of the national organization of 100 Black Women at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco; a talk for the Labor Archives in San Francisco; the training in race relations for the Richmond Police Department; plus my regularly-scheduled 3 times-weekly one-hour talks in the Visitor Education Center and two 2-and-a-half hour interpreted public bus tours each of those 3 months!

I've never thought to put my work into such a list, and I'm almost sorry to have done so here.  It seems foolhardy to even think of carrying such a load of activities at my age, doesn't it?

When I experience it incrementally, one day-at-a-time, it has been manageable.  In retrospect, it looks and is impossible.

I'm certainly being given every opportunity to cut back to something more manageable, but I'm reluctant to say no because I'm being driven by the realization that this might well be my last year of service as a primary source.  My generation is fast drawing to a close.  The deaths of my contemporaries are a constant drumming in my ears and a drain on my emotions, and my sense of urgency grows with each day.  Another of those stalwarts was memorialized a week ago, and it was held on a day when I was too busy to attend ... .

Fortunately, since I don't work from a script so have no need to prepare in any way -- except to just show up with memory intact -- it's fairly easy to just drift from activity to activity without too much stress.  My keynote speech for the Naturalization Day event (the only speech I've ever written since joining the staff of National Park Service) was created two years ago (it's available here in my blog by using the search bar above the banner on the left side of the screen -- scroll down to entry for March 5, 2013).  Since this will be a new audience, I'm guessing that this speech may still serve the need without revision.

... otherwise, I'll just go on showing up and taking my chances with the hope that the words will do likewise!

Introductions are in order!  Meet my first great-grandchild, Patrick Kayden Hebert!

... weighing in at 8 lbs 13 ounces,  and from this photo, the resemblance to his late great-grandfather, Mel, and his grandfather, David, is clearly evident. 

It's at a precious moment like this -- within the first 12 hours of his birth to my eldest granddaughter, Kokee Amanda Reid -- "Ms. Hermione Ginglehopper",  and her partner, Patrick, that I find myself wondering if we've prepared a proper place in the world for this brand new little American -- another young black male -- at a time when we're still sorting out whether or not there is room in our world for new males of his race and generation, and whether or not our justice system -- so riddled with imperfections -- will be better able to accommodate them than we've been willing to do over the past century?

On February 25th I've been invited by our truly remarkable Police Chief Chris Magnus to conduct a 90-minute workshop on race relations for his department.  This, as a followup to the continuing street protests occurring across the nation related to Ferguson and New York questionable police shootings. In my acceptance of this great honor, the not yet born Patrick played a major role.  Just maybe -- in this fast-changing young West Coast Bay Area (re-awakening?) city it still may be possible to play a small part in the making of those critical changes to our justice system that may effect little Patrick's destiny over the next decade.    Now that would be a significant legacy, would it not?

There are ways in which I feel totally inadequate to what is being asked of me.  I'm clearly not a trained "trainer" in race relations any more than I am a historian, but a private person sharing an oral history with a public that seems eager and ready to go back with me in time to own the truth as it was lived, apologize for any wrongs as may be appropriate, and then to move forward, together, into a more caring and humane future.  The content of my 90 minute presentation will be simply a re-application of the program offered in our little theater at the Visitor Education Center -- but maybe that's quite enough.  It's what I know.  But if love and hope are firmly embedded in that work, perhaps it's the best I (or anyone else for that matter) can offer in a persistently troubled  nation and world.

If we each contribute what we can to this latest pulsation in the on-going struggle against racial-profiling, undeserved and often unjustified incarceration; and for fairness in the distribution of resources; etc., than could be offered to young black and brown males before now -- then I can't afford to underestimate the importance of any opportunity to effect how we move forward into this future that now holds my great-grandson, Patrick.

Patrick's birth cannot be allowed to be seen as that of a perpetrator!  He is entering life as a much-loved little citizen who is carrying the hopes and dreams of a family who needs the support of society in order to gradually unfold the gifts that he may have brought with him into our  deeply troubled world.

Patrick Kayden Hebert's life matters!

For weeks now I've been saving up my pennies toward the purchase of an IPhone 6 ... .

... a luxury, surely, when I have a perfectly adequate flip phone and -- these days -- except for calls from Dorian -- I'm rarely taking calls except at my office.   In a related case, after being frugal for weeks I've accumulated nearly enough to get myself down to the MAC store after being convinced that I owe myself this one luxury.  (Stupid, since next month I'll not owe myself anything.  The debt will be to my credit card company!)

However, on Friday I woke with the vaguely familiar tightening of the throat and a raspy voice and all signs of the onset of a fresh cold.  Called my physician who suggested that this may be just a common cold, but that -- since this is flu season and -- (despite the fact that I had dutifully gotten my flu shot in October), at my age we need to err on the side of caution.  "Come in and let me check you out and order up an anti-viral."

In a few hours, with prescription in hand I found myself before a pharmacist who informed me that the hospital was totally out of the drug, but that he would make some calls around to see where I could pick it up.  No luck.  Walked back down the hall to my doctor's office who then wrote out a prescription and told me to take it to my local outside pharmacy.  Returned to the hospital pharmacy to release them of the need to continue to try to locate a supply.  The manager took my doctor-written prescription and replaced it with a blue card saying, "you're going to be charged an arm and a leg, but since we can't fill this until another shipment arrives on Monday morning (there's a 48-hour window in which to act before it becomes ineffective against this year's flu bug) you need to present this card at Walgreens and then we can reimburse you the difference between the Kaiser price and that of an outside pharmacy."

Twenty-four hours later (after driving around for what seems an endless search) a supply was located at a pharmacy in the next town of El Cerrito.

Picked up the prescription yesterday, handed my credit card to the clerk, then stood in shock as I signed for the transaction,  $196.83 for ten 30 milligram tiny pills taken twice daily for a 5-day regimen.

My IPhone 6 would have cost $199.

For a few minutes there I considered whether I wouldn't just prefer to suffer the flu for a few days and drive down to Emeryville to pick up my new phone.  I opted to be sensible, but for a while there it was a toss-up.

What ridiculous choices we're called upon to make these days.