Received a quickie invitation (Sunday morning)

to have dinner with friends at the home of a woman who is slowly growing into the inner circle of my life of good friends. She's coordinating the city's arts programming. We became acquainted during the brief period when I served on the Arts Commission.

Jennifer called early in the day to say that Michelle had invited us to share an impromptu supper with her family, and that a few other friends might be there as well.

It was a do nothing evening with only Dorian to commune with, and she was busily working on a new bedspread. Her crocheted coverlets are piling up now, with each new and colorful piece begging for distribution. I've about decided to let her sell them on eBay, as soon as I can figure out just how one does that. I need to photograph them (beautiful!), and advertise online -- to see where that goes. I have the label created, "Global Warming" by Dorian Leon Reid. How's that?

We attended a reception in the rotunda of the Oakland City Hall last night. Dorian has a painting on exhibit that was getting some notice. She's now sold four pieces at NIAD over the past few months (okay, one was to her mother), with one of her large quilt-sized collages currently under consideration by a potential buyer.

But let's get back to Sunday evening:

It was very casual with the small group gathered randomly, some with wine or a dish to share, and all with warmth and "life!" There was music from somewhere, and I saw a young man enter with a guitar in hand and knew that there would be more than food and fellowship shared. There was.

When it seems right -- when the mood struck -- he brought it out and began to play his original compositions. Started with a blues and followed with art songs that sounded free-flowing, free-form, and possibly improvised on the spot. Fun!

For the first time in years, I asked to have turn, to recite the lyrics of a song written long ago, and did so while he strummed in the background. It woke the artist, and felt right. The words still rang true, and the emotions expressed still current. It was a moment I'll treasure.

Yesterday, before sitting down at my computer, I poked my old Martin out from its hiding place in the back of the closet; remembered seeing a packet of new strings somewhere ... found them in the bottom of a drawer, and went about the business of changing the much-corroded ones for new and resonant ones. Fingers quickly remembered the process -- stored in muscle memory, I'm sure. This was step one.

Fingernails on my left hand must be clipped close (what a sacrifice, since they are such a nice length and I've been nursing them along with diet supplements of collagen) and new callouses need to build up on my fingertips in order to press the chords ... it I take this detour... .

Still, I tuned up and gingerly started to send the signals from mind to fingers and the strings responded accordingly, and -- before tucking my beloved guitar away in its old hidingplace, I held it for awhile just remembering the times we'd shared. Ask any musician -- one's instrument becomes imbued with human attributes along the way, and ties between you are binding for life. And, by no stretch of the imagination would I consider myself a "musician." An artist, surely, but in an ill-defined way. A lyricist, a writer, a poet, maybe. A guitarist, never, but I've always sensed the potential -- if ever I applied myself to the effort to de-mystify the symbols and learn to stop being dependent upon a supersensitive "ear" that dictates where fingers need to be placed instead of the notes and chord symbols on the sheet. There was never a problem replicating the sounds in my head with the instrument in my arms. It made for great freedom in creating songs, but completely destroyed any ability to master the instrument.

My oh so sensitive therapist told me years ago -- when I wondered about the source of the songs that poured so effortlessly out of somewhere within -- "forget the lessons. Go with what your heart says. Those who create do so to make the map for others to follow. You must not limit the scope of the creative process by adherence to rules." Made sense of a sort, but said nothing about the frustration one experiences when the muse can't be evoked, and there is not the box of "tools" into which to dive at such moments. That may have worked for the likes of Jackson Pollock, but I'd have much preferred to emulate the artistry of a YoYo Ma who has such mastery that he can throw away "the book" and improvise with total freedom. Too late for that. Not enough time for "mastery," but the music may still be in my head and heart, and may still be accessible if... .

That was yesterday. Today I've toyed with the idea of clipping my nails. It's only a short step before the beginning of the building of the callouses on fingertips of left hand, an hour or so at a time - while those voices are being re-awakened ... .

Maybe the source of the music is still hidden somewhere behind my eyes. After that brief trip back in time on Sunday, sitting with other creative artists listening to their young souls, I may be ready to unwrap my own. Maybe a few more evenings with others with active muses will do the trick. Good reasons for creating some Sunday Salons where that can happen -- house-to-house? At the library? Community centers?

Maybe... .

And wouldn't you know that the "community organizer" part of my brain would enter just about now? Just in time to get in the way of the creative process, too (grin!)

Have written a couple of blogs only to have them go "pouff!"

into cyberspace as I hit the Publish Post button. Didn't have the heart to try to rewrite. The words only make sense when they flow naturally. Guess that's why I'd never have been able to do any serious writing. The re-write would have lost meaning for me; another metaphor from my "music" self; ashes and embers ... .

I remember one evening long ago when Bill was downstairs in the library working on a grant proposal. I was alone upstairs -- sitting with my guitar before a crackling fire in the grate -- strumming and feeling warm and cozy and pleasantly idle. In the flickering half-light from the fireplace that kind of meditative mindset forms and a song started to shape under my fingers and in my head. In a few moments I was singing the "newest most beautiful song in the world" and it had to be shared. It was always this way.

As the last notes sounded and I knew it was saying "truth," I picked myself up -- almost tripped over Sang-Sang (one of our two Lhasa Apsos) and invaded the library. "Hold that thought and listen," I called out to Bill on the way down the stairs. He smiled. I jumped onto the back of the sofa, bare feet tucked into the pillows, and got ready to sing. Bill gave the platen on the typewriter a gentle thrust at the end of the line and, obediently answered the call.

It was a song about us. It was lovely. He listened intently (or with feigned interest, I wasn't sure) and as I struck the last chord and sang the last note he clapped with delight. His next words I've never forgotten:

"That is so lovely, dear, and think of how wonderful it will be when it's finished!" I was crushed. It was finished. There was nothing more to say. The little song was my truth for the moment. I could add nothing. He could see my obvious disappointment but understood little, so continued. "I'm been meaning to tell you, Hon, that I'd like to request that the university allow you to enter the music department as a special student. It will be so wonderful for you to learn to go deeper -- to fashion just the right word or phrase -- to have the joy of composition that is so enriching to real composers -- the polishing and refining of words and phrases in a lyric... ."

I fell silent. He was puzzled. How could I explain to him that my song was what it was. Complete and unchanging. If I tried to alter a word it would become something else. He would never understand that these were momentary little explosions of "truth," ephemeral and mercurial and always only related to now. The next moment would include this moment, with the resulting subtle but important shades of difference. I could say that now, but at that time I lacked the confidence to hold my own in the company of one with advanced degrees in the academy.

I believe that this was the last song I ever wrote. Unlike the legendary composers to whom Bill must have been referring -- I'd never thought of myself as anything more than quite simply a "song maker-upper." I'd done it all my life, I suppose, with none of the self-consciousness of "composing." It had been my way of taking the rich material from inside and moving it outside where I might better understand it -- whatever it was. "Making up songs" had never required any more from me. It was truly a gift. Hearing the music in my head and having the ability to translate it through my instrument and voice to better tell others what it meant to be me, I suppose, was enough.

And you know what? I've always suspected that those "legendary composers" with whom Bill would have placed me were probably less free than I, and though I knew next to nothing about the rules of harmony, I was nonetheless applying them or it would not have produced music. Strange; but quite awe-inspiring when you think about it.


In the wake of the disastrous election results and the fears they've generated, why on earth am I thinking such thoughts now? Don't really know. Though it all probably fits with the ease with which I slipped into thoughts weeks ago about music and refreshing my technique on the guitar and clipping my nails (as if to get ready for what?) and the trip to Tupper & Reed for a new music book...do you suppose?

Is it that "using information before it arrives" phenomenon?

Haven't my creative urges generally come in times of trouble?

Does this mean truly difficult times ahead?

Or, am I simply looking for a way of escape; some exit strategy?

Maybe it's just time to make music ... .

Photo: Tuptin and SangSang were a beautiful pair of Lhasa Apsos; a gift from Tarthang Tulku, Rinpoche, Bill's guru at Padma Ling Tibetan Center in Berkeley. The first week they arrived the chewed up the entire bottom shelf of books in the downstairs library! We loved 'em anyway.

Historians take note: I have been reborn into Grinch form as of precisely 4:36 on this day... .

It's been coming on for several years; this total disillusionment with all things Christmas. Noticed the first signs the year Dorian accepted, finally, that there was no Santa (it takes a bit longer for the retarded so it was necessary to indulge in reality hints over the year leading up to full disclosure). That wasn't easy for either of us, but in time she bought into the notion that being Santa was almost as much fun as pretending.

Being one who didn't give up on the myth until I was about nine, (I know; my imagination blew away any signs that may have suggested otherwise). There were those years as a teenager when it was great fun to exchange gifts and swig the eggnog. There were those great years when being Santa for my children was just about the greatest dream come true.

The apex was probably the year that Mel presented me with a set of car keys for a brand new simulated wood-paneled luxury Mercury station wagon sometime in the Sixties. This would have been during my "pretty little brown Doris Day in the suburbs" period. It was a big year for the Reids. I believe the following year scored nearly as high when I opened up a huge gift box containing a magnificent Martin concert guitar which still leans (though now silent) against the wall in my living room; a reminder of a Betty who once was... .

Today is December 22nd, and the first day to begin the shopping ritual. What a disappointment! Rose early this morning to drive first to HoneyBaked fully expecting to find the cars wrapped around the block (should have suspected something was amiss) but a parking spot was waiting just beyond the entrance so I thanked the parking gods and slipped in. There were no lines out front. Thought for just a minute that the place may have closed, but no; someone was coming out as I looked around for an open sign. He was clutching the familiar large plastic bag.

Walked into the store that was only sparsely-filled. In less than 8 minutes I'd worked my way to the front counter only to discover at least part of the answer to the missing crowds. I asked for a medium-sized ham and was told that there were none left under 9 lbs. Sounded about right so I automatically offered my Visa card as one of the many clerks behind the counter said, "that will be $54.83! Something snapped. I wasn't sure just what it was, but life would not be the same again, and in that moment I knew that we (the economy and I) had crossed a threshold of some kind. Nor will Christmas. Then I remembered that last Christmas the ham cost under $40, but still a shocker at the time. It may have weighed less, but the cost was not as stunning as today for some reason. Maybe it was because I'd spent $3.36 a gallon for gas on my way to the store, this morning. Next year I'd need to put the ham on Layaway and pay it off in installments, if there is a next year, that is! It's about time to institute ham hocks with red beans and rice as the festive "traditional New Orleans" Christmas dinner of choice. And -- that old saw about "God willin' and the creek don't rise" is no longer a joke -- given the grave warnings of mounting evidence of radical climate change underway... .

The shock didn't hit me all at once, but this was like the beginning of a kind of long-delayed sobering up after years of drunkenness. I remember then how shocked I was at the announcement during the week before Thanksgiving that the stores would be open at 4:30 a.m. for the early birds! Some stores advertised that they would be open all night. I was appalled! What have we come to? What kind of people get up in the middle of the night to head for the department stores to buy "stuff" they don't need and probably can't use before recycling time?

Alright. Time to rationalize this ham thing. Decided while driving back to Richmond that I needed to frame the question differently. If I were to take my family out for Christmas dinner, it would surely cost far more than this. Comparing it to the restaurant bill (and the fact that I wouldn't need to bake it myself), it made a kind of sense; but only barely. But this would be the last year of commercially-baked hams. I would join those who have regained their sanity and prepared their own this year.

But common sense had now risen to the front of my brain and was not to be denied. It followed me into the Mall where I walked from rack to rack looking for wearable gifts for my pre-teen granddaughters. Awful! All of the fabrics had that woody feel to them -- the feel and smell of synthetics. Everything was poorly made and styled like miniature women's wear with plunging necklines on little girl's sizes 7-10 with spangles and logos and brand names painted, sewn, and stamped on everything! The prices were outrageous! Even at the markdowns of 50-60%, there was little worth owning. (Whatever on earth are young parents doing these days?) I could not pay these prices only to turn the girls into walking billboards for some offshore sweat shop.

Left the Mall and stopped in at Barnes & Noble (no independent bookstores are left in my community) to pick up a half-dozen classic books for the children -- no problem there. Then on to the Christmas tree lot to empty my wallet in the spirit of the season.

You know what? I realized as I drove into the lot that Christmas had died at around 4:36 Pacific Coast time, on this day of December 22, 2007. I have never in my long life ever not had a live tree. I hate the artificial ones. We have an 70 year accumulation of family ornaments stashed away waiting to be hung and admired, with all of the memories attached. I've never even considered not putting up a tree... .

When I saw the sign announcing "..all trees under 5 ft. now $39.00 it was over. I was not about to buy a dead tree for $40! And as I looked at them -- regularly trimmed with an electric pruning saw -- looking identical and without the familiar pungent fragrance of evergreens (since they were cut back in October and trucked in from Oregon). The second level of "snap" happened and I turned away to buy a large poinsettia ($17.95) and headed for home with my classics books in the trunk of the car and feeling sad for the end of a long era of believing ... only it's not Santa who's lost credibility, this time it's the entire economic system based upon greed -- and our unjustifiable all-consuming way of life in a world of such need.

Tomorrow I'll set out again to check out my Christmas "pulse" for any signs of life. If this is anything more than fatigue and/or a continuation of missing Rick, I'll let you know. I don't believe it is. It is my suspicion that a lot of folks are sobering up this year from decades of over-consumption, and that the economy will take a crushing dive come the New Year.

We may have permanently lost our "Peace on Earth Goodwill Toward Men" on the battlefields of the Middle East. I hope not.

Maybe all I'm needing is a good stiff eggnog and a few choruses of "Children go where I send thee."

Stay warm.

Memorable Day on board the USS Hornet ...
and to think that I came very close to missing it entirely. But what is needed here is the exchange of emails between the USS Hornet's CEO, Jon Stanley, just yesterday. I'll look them up and post on the next blog entry.

I came home on Saturday afternoon feeling jubilant -- partly from having experienced that gigantic war machine -- the brave walk up that scary gangplank not daring to look down even for an instant! Entering that cavernous deck with its displays from the two times it had served as the pick-up vessel for the space capsules with their precious cargo of John Glenn and the others upon their return from space. It is impossible to not feel the excitement embedded in the walls of that majestic giant. It is impossible not to feel absolutely insignificant as you look around at planes and the other tools of war and space exploration. It is also possible, even for one as anti-war as I, to understand the energy -- the ultimate adrenalin rush that must be present in battle. I could feel my pulse quicken just walking through the exhibits.

Then I saw the flag ... the likes of which I've only seen hanging behind the figure of General George Patton in the movie bearing his name. I would be framed in this setting -- using my allotted ten minutes to explain why I'd come today. That I hadn't realized when I accepted this invitation to participate in the Museum's Women's History Month's celebration -- that it would fall on the weekend of the 4th anniversary of the Iraq war and that those who shared my anti-war feelings would be gathering here and across the nation in major demonstrations. And -- here I would be, standing on board the ultimate symbol of western military dominance, the USS Hornet aircraft carrier, speaking before I knew not whom ... .

I'd decided to not cancel out at the last minute, but to make my own statement in the hope that I could maintain my own integrity by standing by my beliefs, even in this setting. I would rely on the goodwill of these strangers and hope for the best. And -- if I could be so lucky -- the shore patrol wouldn't haul me away and dump me into the estuary!

The other four female panelists were a Cmdr. Lisa Avila of the Naval Air Force; a tugboat captain, two civilian pilots, and a Blue Star Mom carrying an enlarged poster of her marine son now serving in the Middle East. What a place for a peace protester to be!

Then
I'd decided sometime during the night just what I needed to say -- and it came easily:
I'd remembered an incident involving a conference at Asilomar (Stebbins Institute) where I'd heard the author, Ken Kesey, introduce his first lecture in the weeklong series. It was the summer that Kesey and others from many disciplines were on the Stanford University campus as artists in residence -- changing the world as we knew it. It was the summer that heralded San Francisco's Trips Festival, the Grateful Dead at the Fillmore; LSD experimentation in the Summer of Love and the Haight/Ashbury phenomenon. Kesey had published "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and was working on "Sometimes a Great Notion." He was seen as one of the latter day prophets by many in both literature and theology.

I was almost traumatized by that night as Kesey spoke of the flag being merely "...a piece of red, white, and blue bunting" -- only a symbol, and how we confuse that with the reality -- and that it surely did not represent him when flying over Vietnam in a war in which he did not believe. Nor did it represent him when standing beside the throne of the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan in some Mississippi town. In illustrating his point he seized the huge American flag from the standard at the edge of the stage, threw it to the floor with a loud crash -- then ground his feet in it! Three young girls seated behind me ran from the chapel in tears. I sat feeling nauseus and cried through much of the night afterward. Surely we had made his point. Bunting, indeed! The description of that event became a chapter in Tom Wolfe's book, "The Electric Acid KoolAid Test." I had no idea how mind-bending that conference was on many levels.

I talked of the effects of that dramatic presentation and - after a sleepless night -- how I'd walked down to lie on the white dunes the next morning -- trying so hard to understand both Kesey's presentation and my own response to it. After all, was this not the extension of what I'd been doing most of my life by refusing to participate fully in the reciting of the Pledge of Allegiance? He'd forced me to the crucible, and left me wounded.

I lay on the dunes for most of that foggy morning -- calling up bits and pieces of the founding documents; the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, America and America the Beautiful, the Star Spangled Banner; and I spoke the words aloud while I strummed my guitar and sang the lyrics quietly to myself.

I remembered that when I was a very young teen, I'd given up the words of the Pledge, "..with liberty and justice for all...," and would no longer allow sound to escape my lips -- but would mouth the words so that those around me wouldn't know. I suspected that they didn't know that those words didn't mean me. But I knew. And there was no one to talk with about it at the time. I would learn much later that others "edit" pieces of such writings -- as we emerge into a fuller understanding beyond rote memory.

These words still come to me from time to time just before sleep: "We the people in order to form a more perfect Union ...," and some time later, "Thine alabaster cities gleam undimmed by human tears" (to my increasingly politically aware young mind -- I heard this as cities of white people unaware of innercity black pain); and the lines from the third verse of America the Beautiful that sings; "America, America, God mend thine every flaw -- confirm thy soul in self control, thy liberty in law;" how powerful is that? And how prophetic.
I remember speaking of the realization that day on the dunes -- that all of those passionately patriotic words were the expressions of poets and visionaries -- that they were never promises carved in stone, nor facts or edicts hammered out in legislative sessions by the rulers. They were aspirations of an America that we must continually re-create with each new generation. Democracy is a dynamic thing that cannot be frozen into form nor shot from the barrel of a gun, nor can it be established through a mandate handed down from the powerful and the privileged.
I'm not sure how much of this I communicated during my ten minutes at the lectern, because I hadn't made notes in preparation. But I do remember saying at least twice during that time -- at the beginning and again at the end -- "We the people in order to form a more perfect Union ..." and that on that day on the dunes I took back the patriotic symbols from those who had claimed them -- and that I knew that I had as much right to define patriotism as anyone, and far more need to hope. And I'm sure that I implied that -- when I'm demonstrating against the war -- I am one of the ordinary American people working hard to "...form a more perfect Union."

It was a memorable day ... a keeper.

Photo: CDR Lisa A. Avila, USN, commanding officer of the Navy Ooperational Support Center, Alameda; Captain Jan Tiura, the first woman tugboat captain on San Francisco Bay. Judy Barker and Billie Sposeto, members of "The Ninety Nines." the world's oldest organization of licensed women pilots.

Will two twenties cancel out a pet theory about the power of giving for Dorian?  If so, how? 

When full realization set in that our only daughter and youngest child had suffered brain-damage from birth trauma, it was devastating.  Not only was I struggling with bringing up 3 little boys, but was doing it at a time that offered little in the way of help in the form of research into the field.  The mentally-retarded were still being hidden behind closed doors, and were segregated from "normal" children in educational settings.

Not only that, but I had little exposure to other parents of children with mental disabilities and was left alone to try to "read" my special child for clues for the parenting she would need in a world not designed to support or protect her.  That was probably the wisest course one could follow since my "reading" of Dorian proved to be the most valuable asset as the years piled on.  When it became obvious that she was functioning at the level of the retarded, she was about 18 months.  I'd depended upon the works of "The Child From One To Five" by Gessell & Ilg," child psychologists whose work was the guiding force in the field at that time.  I'd bought the complete 5-volume set when we adopted Rick, and before I felt competent as a parent (does one ever?).  I remember telling Rick on his 13th birthday, "we'd better read this together, hon, cause if it's right we're going to hate each other by the time you reach 16!"


When Dorian was about 5 and I needed to enroll her in "the World", I visited the local elementary school to learn about what that scene would be like for my special child.  When I walked into the portable where such children spent their days, the classroom was quiet.  They were brought to school each day by a special bus, and spent their time separate and apart from other children.

There was a teacher seated on a low stool holding up flash cards to several children who were attempting to parrot back the large printed numbers.  There was a sadness that I was unaccustomed to.  Dorian was loved by her brothers and fared pretty well in social situations.  As a family, none of us were scarred by the deficits she would carry for a lifetime.  At home and in most social situations she seemed well accepted and psychologically healthy.  She developed early the capacity to stand her ground and knew how to get her needs met.

I chose not to enter her into the public school system, but chose an alternative; a decision I've never regretted.

After spending about an hour I approached the teacher to ask if there was music in the classroom, and that I'd be happy to volunteer to bring my guitar and sing with the children on a regular schedule.  I told them that I'd learned from my daughter that what I said to her may or may not be retained, but that what I sang to her was clearly integrated immediately and remained with her as a guide.  However, there was no literature to back this up, it was one of the many techniques I discovered along the way. I made up songs that we shared that covered the rituals of our daily lives.  I was told in no uncertain terms that the school district could not allow the untrained into the classroom with these fragile children.  Nonsense! 

As it turned out, later psychological testing confirmed that Dorian had developed  rote memory skills as compensation for the brain-damage, and that this, combined with the music that was so important in our household -- made it possible for her -- at the tender age of 8, to repeat back in proper sequence 22 items in the camping fireside game "I took a trip, and I took along ...".

I learned to trust myself where her training was concerned, and over time my observations turned up some truths that have had lifetime implications.  For instance; I learned that those who were the givers in life experienced growth and made out more successfully than those who were takers.  This was a strategy that could be taught that might determine how she was viewed by the world.  It's the reason that she's been crocheting miles and miles of "gifts" over time, (scarves, afghans, bed spreads,) and presenting them to others who are so visibly touched by her generosity that she gets immediate and life-affirming feedback.  Dorian has created over 500 colorful afghans for wheelchair patients who reside in nursing homes.  Whenever she's produced a couple of trash-bags full, we drive to an institution where she presents them (a dozen or so at a time) to appreciative patients with nursing staff beaming and cameras snapping.  Dorian is a Giver Supreme.

She has been in 4 nursing homes for rehabilitation since the accident at the end of November.  She has created gifts of her handiwork for staff and patients, alike.  I've now invested considerable dollars in skeins of yarns in a variety of colors.  I consider this as occupational therapy that maintains her sanity and good spirits despite the dim prospects for her eventual release back into the world with physical in addition to mental challenges to adjust to for the balance of her life.

Last week, as I was placing freshly-laundered clothes in her drawer two twenty-dollar bills crackled up!  Dorian looked guilty and reached frantically for the money.  I yielded and returned it to her. Her reaction was startling and I wondered ... she quickly crushed them into the pocket of her sweatshirt. Had her brother David stopped by and given her $40 for incidentals?

My mind made a giant leap into the irrational -- why would anyone want to chip away at her reason for being?  But then, how could anyone know the importance of being a giver if no one told them about our longstanding formula for living a life of meaning?  Obviously some well-intentioned person wanted to compensate her for her work and had gladly given her a "tip." Why would they not want to contribute something to her for the work?  Was I robbing someone else of their ability to express generosity?  Is the concept too subtle to serve her needs -- did this simple philosophy only serve mine?

I was confused and felt resentment for no reason; except that it may be that one of my theories had been corrupted.  I knew that I didn't want Dorian's gifts to become commodities for cash.  This felt so terribly important.  She's learned the satisfaction of "earning" at the National Institute for Artists and Disabilities through the arts program where she gets 50% of the price of any sales of her work.  Giving carries with it the factor of growth of a kind that acts as an equalizer in human relations; a faculty not dependent upon mental capacity.

I asked if she wanted me to deposit it into her savings account (the fund where she saves her NIAD checks for summer vacations).  I suspect that, in fact, I was trying vainly to remove any hint of contamination of a principle -- so -- out of sight out of mind?  But I was missing something important; underestimating her ability to have learned the difference for herself?  It won't be the first time.  There have always  been surprises; in the way of the unpredictably complex effects of brain damage. 

She said, "No, Mom.  I need it for Mother's Day."  I'd spoiled her surprise.

Perhaps there is no harm done, after all.

But then ... .

Photo 1:  Dorian at 4 months ... before we knew.
Photo 2:  Bob and Dorrie taken in our backyard under the oaks ... after we'd learned.
Photo 3:  Dorian Leon Reid  on graduation day at St. Vincent's Academy in Santa Barbara.

After my talk ended tonight, a lovely young women slid into the chair beside me and slipped this photo into my hand ... .

It was taken during the Sixties (not sure what that "70" means at the bottom of the snapshot). It surely was taken at the annual weeklong Stebbins Institute at Asilomar on the Monterey Peninsula during my Coffee House/Bob Dylan/Joan Baez period which was preceded by my "Little Brown Barbie in the Burbs" period of the Fifties. If it does come from the year 1970, that's close enough to trigger these memories:

This was the year that the keynoters were Rev. Paul Sawyer, Dr. Robert Kimball, and Author Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters; the week Tom Wolfe wrote about in his book, "The Electric Acid Kool Aid Test". I recall feeling as if the entire week should have been off-the-record! A group of UU ministers packed up midweek in a huff and went home -- outraged! It was a week of seeing free spirits publicly skinny-dipping and the persistent rumored use of LSD. It was also the summer of the Trips Festival in San Francisco. The Summer of Love, the Diggers, and the birth of unprecedented social change. What a time it was!

We actually rode with Mountain Girl, Ken Babbs, the Hermit, and the rest of the colorful Pranksters into picturesque Carmel-by-the-Sea on a brilliantly-painted bus named "Fur-thur" with a loudspeaker blaring "Revolution!" from the roof of the bus causing well-dressed and -coifed tourists and shoppers to stop dead in their tracks and gape in slack-jawed disbelief! And, yes, my children were included in the journey as well. I recall telling Bob to watch everything closely since this may be important. How prescient was his Mom? I can still remember the combined feelings of pure joy, excitement, and fear -- delicious!

I remember one evening just before dark -- sitting on the dunes singing my songs to Kesey as he lay sprawled upon the sand on his back; hands clasped behind his head -- with a piece of adhesive tape covering his mouth. Printed in crayon on the tape in a childlike hand was the word, "Hello!" He'd said not a word, but plopped down beside me silently pointing to my guitar -- motioning me to play. As I sang the last notes he jumped up and continued toward the ocean with tear-stained cheeks. He'd been on his way to the painted bus parked near the breakers when he saw me sitting alone. Such a moment it was. I watched as he resumed his walk along the path when he suddenly stopped to pick a small bouquet of wildflowers and returned briefly to where I was sitting to present them with a deep bow to the unheard sound of trumpets! Ken Kesey, the Pied Piper of the era. On the bookshelf in my bedroom -- between the pages of my copy of Sometimes a Great Notion -- that fragile little gift remains. I last took it out the day I learned of his death. Romance? No. Just a lovely vignette; one of the many that have enriched my life; an exquisitely tender stand-alone moment in time.

How little we know about what may or may not lie ahead in this Grand Improvisation called Life -- and how little it matters as the days, week, months, years, and decades unfold with little rhyme or reason. Looking back now, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Living life in a constant state of surprise has added to this phantasmagorical miracle of existence.

Save the dates for the Eugene O'Neill Festival - September 19th, 20th and 21st in Danville, California!

Attended the second meeting of the planning group for this year's event, and, despite earlier misgivings -- find myself really excited about being involved in working this through. I'm more convinced than ever that -- by working sensitively with all of the elements -- we can use "All God's Chillun Got Wings" to extend the intent of the great Mr. Eugene O'Neill to bring deeper understanding to the questions the play raises.

I am also firmly convinced that the American public is ready for these conversations and that I want to be in the vanguard of the next series of social changes that lie ahead. My work with the National Park Service has placed me front row and center as we continue to write history, this time through the arts.

It will be a challenge, but one that is manageable, I think. Last night's meeting reinforced my positive feelings about the intent of the director and a growing trust in his ability to match the courage shown by both O'Neill and Robeson. Haven't met any of the cast, but by extending the trust to those chosen by this director -- and the well-intentioned planning group -- I'm ready to watch our play unfold over the next several weeks as we wend our way through what could well be a thorny list of questions and challenges. If we're to grow, that may be an essential part of the process.

Today I meet with another planning group, this time with those working on the Reunion program for the 2nd Annual Home Front Festival here in Richmond. It will be a celebration of the life of folk singer, Faith Petric, who is this year's poster girl. She's a 92 year-old Rosie who helped to build the ships in the Hoboken shipyards during WWII. She is still performing! This year's Festival will not only be a celebration of the women of WWII and the homefront workers, but will also be a bringing together of the folk music world to pay honor to this venerable woman who was a friend and contemporary of Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, Josh White, et al, and a chance to bring together as many as possible of those whom she hasn't outlived for a day of remembrance.

We're working with the members of her 42 year-old San Francisco Folk Music Club, members of the Labor Chorus, individual performers with whom Faith has sung over the many years -- for the sole purpose of adding to her already illustrious career by this added recognition of her gifts.

These will be several weeks of intense involvement in the arts; with many lessons I hope to be capable of absorbing -- without too much stress on those around me.

But there are real signs that I'm willing to let go and move on:

Yesterday -- on an impulse -- I walked to the desk of a young aspiring singer who works within earshot of my desk. She's a member of the staff of the Redevelopment Agency (we share space in city hall). She is African American, both beautiful and talented.

At my desk I'd been listening on my I-POD to some of the music that my son, Bob, had added to my list of possibilities for the Home Front festival scheduled for the weekend of October 5th. Preceding those written and performed for Faith at her 90th birthday party were 7 songs of mine that were written long ago. I heard my own songs in a new way. This young woman with the thin voice was good. but the songs were better. I'd taken out copyrights on all of them; had performed them on occasion; but had never gotten around to publishing.

At one point I could hear Jacqueline at her desk as I walked toward the conference room. On a whim -- returned to my desk and picked up my I-POD and took it to her. "These are lovely songs. They're not being sung and should be." The words spilled out easily. "Would you like to add them to your songbook?" I watched as she listened. She was obviously stunned. She wiped her eyes at one point. I realized that in that moment she'd forgotten that this was the voice and the music of 40 years ago. "You should be singing them yourself, Betty!" Obviously not. That voice was stilled long ago by competing interests and an unwillingness to enter a more public life. Those callouses that one works to develop for playing the guitar had disappeared eons ago during some other lifetime. But even more importantly, that Betty had grown into yet another and the music now -- though abandoned in time -- may now have a life of its own.

So saying, I finally gave the songs away to move out into the world -- separate from their creator.

Jacqueline will use them well -- and I'll watch from the wings as I move on into yet another life no longer encumbered by the myths of what might have been... .


Photo: Top photo taken at last year's Eugene O'Neill Festival. Lower photo was taken by a news photographer during performance at a concert in Cleveland, Ohio, sometime in the late Sixties.

I can barely see my computer through eyes tear-swollen from hours on end of sobbing ...

This day, like so many others of late, are filled with seemingly disconnected yet book-ended vignettes brought to life by events I'd never before seen as related ... .

It was the massacre at El Paso:

Upon watching the awfulness of the weekend's horrific killings I fell further and further into a deep depression without recognition of what was happening.  And it wasn't what was the unbelievably dreadful scenes on the screen, no, not at all.  Instead, the mind images were quite different -- giving me a feeling of being out of control -- out of touch!  I'd been here before.  There was a familiarity about this phenomenon; it was at this point that the convulsive sobbing began:


The year was 1935.  I was fourteen, and traveling to New Orleans as the West Coast family's delegate to the celebration of Mamma´s birthday in St. James Parish.  I distinctly remember my mother's telling me (as she pinned my ticket to my coat lapel at Oakland's beautiful 16th Street railroad station) to be sure to watch for the Pullman porter when we reached El Paso because that was where we'd cross the Mason Dixon Line and would officially enter the South.  That he would let me know what to do.

I would have had no reason to know that the Mason Dixon Line was that place where the Free States were separated from where the Slave States began,  and that it was at El Paso that this historic line was crossed.  I'd grown up in California and, though much of family lore involved stories of Southern bigotry, it was balanced off by a home life rich in Creole cultural traditions.

We'd been traveling for many hours, days, over a barren arid landscape of sagebrush and sameness hour after-hour, when the train noisily expelling steam lurched into the station at El Paso, Texas.  I'd gathered up my things and readied myself to watch for the porter without knowing just what would happen ... so it was with adolescent excitement, and little fear.

As I watched the porter approach in anticipation and eagerness for the next adventure, he paused at my seat, tapped me on the shoulder with the words (spoken quietly), "please follow me."  There were about a dozen Negroes of all ages lined up behind him in the aisle.   We were about 3 passenger cars back from our destination, and would continue adding to our numbers as we obediently followed.  We were being led to the Jim Crow car, a coach that was the closest to the engine, behind the mail and baggage cars, to where the smoke and noise would be greatest.

We, Negroes, were being marched past the "Privileged," the "Supremicists," to a separate space lest we contaminate, taint, those who were white-skinned.

I joined that little procession excited and expectant, but by the time we had walked through 3 cars of grinning, staring, or simply disinterested, white people, I'd gotten the message.  The lessons had been learned.  Shame and humility had been absorbed through every pore.  I would carry them the rest of my life after that long and awkward march of disembodied shame and inexplicable humility.  This would be the moment in history when my racial identity would be forever baked into my being; where my black identity would become irrevocably fixed.

It's interesting that what I took away from that experience was not that degrading and embarrassing lurching march through those passenger cars, but how wonderfully that trip came to life once we "colored folk" were together in that Jim Crow car; how the porters gave us extra pillows and blankets; how the waiters in secret plied us with the best from the diner (where we would not be allowed to enter through to the end of the trip); when those picnic baskets packed with fried chicken and sandwiches prepared lovingly by those southern folks who knew the drill and had come prepared for the sharing.  The warmth of the partying that went on, once the harmonicas and a battered guitar surfaced, is with me still. I remember no sign of resistance, no comment on what had just happened to us, I even recall the thought that -- if those white folks learned of how much fun we were having, they'd put a stop to it!  But we were bound together in a silent acceptance of "God's Will," or of whatever this was, but even at 14 I was made aware by that experience that I was part of a larger family, at least temporarily.  I believe that this is what sustained me through the Sixties, that feeling of an unbreakable relatedness to that greater cause.

This was the "We" of Me, and it was born in that Jim Crow railroad car just a few miles outside the City of El Paso, by benevolent Pullman porters, and that little band of "Strangers of Color", who shared enough love to take this pretty little stranger across the North/South barrier, the infamous Mason/Dixon Line.  A girl who was living proof of what white nationalist's fear most of all.  In my racial ambiguity -- my lightly caramelized skin color,  I was that mongrel that happens if you let those little white and black kids go to school together; if we don't keep 'em separated in every way, they might love one another!

I do remember several hours of paralyzing fear when two uniformed armed guards boarded the train in the middle of the night and entered our car with two manacled and ankle-chained convicts (white).  They were obviously being transferred to a prison somewhere along the run.  The four were seated behind a makeshift partition, but were clearly within sight of those of us not yet asleep.  Strange. Ironic.  As I recall, they were only with us for a few hours, but the fears ran deep, and to this day add insult of a kind that eats away at a young girl's fragile sense of worth.

That walk in that little procession of shame was tucked away for over a long lifetime in that mind space wherever we stow that which is impossible to understand or process.  Until a time in life when one has found enough strength to face the pain of the experience. Until now.  Until it explodes from within ... .

But there were also lessons learned by those we marched past in those three train cars,  lessons affirming the rights of white supremacy and privilege -- lessons that were/are so deeply embedded in our nation's DNA -- lessons that are false, deceptive -- lethal, lessons that have this day in August of the year 2019 robbed 22 Texans of their lives, and 9 Ohio-ans as well, and thousands and thousands of other innocent citizens across the centuries, plus 4000 black souls who were brutally lynched in the years following a never processed and still being fought, Civil War.  Six million Jews whose lives were lost in the ovens of Hitler's Germany.  Lives lost in endless wars against Terrorism.  Lives sacrificed upon the Altar of Racial Purity! Lives lost in the futile quest for White Supremacy.  

It is the children and grandchildren of those passengers, and others like them, who are now dying in a hail of bullets as suicide killers in these mass murders. 

How long must we live this horror?

Only through these tears do I begin to fully understand that young Betty who returned to California, and -- a year or two later -- would respond to the drama teacher's admonition after the moving reading of Maxwell Anderson's Winterset, Mariamne's love scene to a hushed audience of other teens, when, after class, she would say, "... we know you read that part very well, Betty, but you do know that we can't possibly cast you in that part?  You're playing a scene with Eddie Baptiste who is white, and his parents would simply not be pleased.  I'm so sorry."  My response (that I remember to this day but never quite understood until this moment) was, "Of course. Whatever was I thinking?"  That I would passively drop that class and join the public speaking class being taught by Mr. Bill McLaughlin, making myself complicit in the madness.  Shame and humility ... .

This Winterset story remains so deeply embedded that it was included in my book, Sign my name to Freedom.

Bookends.  So many book ends ...

That sense of shame and humility was shed long ago, as these pages surely show.

So why can I not stop crying?

It was in reading back my last entry that I discovered something that has eluded me all these years ...

At dinner a couple of days after Christmas my son Bob was speaking of his phone interview with author Bruce Frankel. He told us that it was while he was trying to think back on just when he believed I started life as an emancipated woman. "It was after the death of my grandfather and my father -- the main men in her life -- that she found her voice," was the statement he'd made to Bruce. I whole-heartedly agreed -- that is until I was re-living the Gregory Gardens meeting while writing about it a few nights ago. I think that I've always believed that I came into my own only after being forced to confront life without the men in my life who defined me. I think that I saw them as the positive space to my negative; that I had always been the other half of a whole. This is clearly not so, in retrospect.

When I read back over the account of that traumatic summer evening in Pleasant Hill I saw for the first time the actual description of my metamorphosis. I'd written that I'd suddenly stepped out of the role of victim and taken on that of defender. I know now that after spending those 3 years from 1950 through 1953 living as "other," and having to be seen as an outsider in that community with no way to escape the madness -- that I'd finally broken free. It was on that night in that frightening meeting that I tossed off the shroud of victimization that had held me in its grasp and became a full-fledged mature woman.

But it seems now when looking back that it was not possible for me to negotiate a way for that mature woman to exist in a marriage entered into by a 19 year-old girl with no expectations of emancipation and no idea of how to live in freedom. I was suddenly on a collision course with a reality that life had not prepared me for.

It must have been the Pleasant Hill event that changed the course of my life and started the process of slow erosion of my first marriage. I'm wondering now why I didn't see that the path I'd taken that fateful night would inevitably lead to full independence and complete emancipation at some point. Why did it take so many years? Why did I slip back into my traditional wife's role rather than proceed toward this new direction?

I'm assuming that it was easy to ignore the new restlessness since I'd found an avenue of expression through my association with the Unitarian Fellowship. I'd finally walked away from my restricting Catholic upbringing in favor of the intellectual and spiritual freedom of a new faith.

As it was with David Bortin, I can't recall ever speaking with Mel of my trip to Gregory Gardens. He was absent from our lives -- totally involved in his business at that point. About that time so much of my life became secret and unshared which probably caused the mental break a few years later when my distinctly different realities could no longer be held separate -- and when no amount of logic could bring them together with any semblance of order.

It was during those years that the threat to my sanity became real and when the artist Betty came into being. She was my defense against the growing split that would eventually have to be tended to. Fortunately, she found expression through a gift of a beautiful Martin guitar (still standing in my living room against the wall) that Mel gave to me at Christmas time that year. He had no idea what it would bring with it over the next few years.

The secret "Betty" that friends and family in my current world have no idea ever existed moved front and center for many years -- a talented young woman that I left in the suburbs in the early Seventies -- eventually abandoned but never quite forgotten.

She has been reclaimed only recently, and with no regret. She's back at a time when I'm able to integrate her into the whole and recognize her gifts with little ego involvement.

If only I'd found her sooner ... but then, I seriously doubt that she could have stood her ground before the Gregory Gardens Improvement Association the way that "defender" Betty did. And it was probably Defender Betty who saved us both, eventually. This is the "me" who took over our lives at that point and who (apparently) still runs the show.

I recall now saying to Bruce Frankel, "...life is about choices, and I'm quite satisfied with mine."

That is most decidedly true.

Photo: This was the frail (86 lb.) young mother who is seen here in the throes of a deep depression that evolved into Artist Betty after two years of great therapy and much support. (Click for enlargement.) The lower picture was taken a few years later after full recovery and after having written and performed a full repetoire of original songs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Backstage with Maestro Morgan, Dr. Morrow, and a member of the chorus.
Photos by Fabian Aguirre

Lessons learned ... .

Leading up to the big debut of my song last weekend I'd experienced a great deal of anxiety, both about the concert, but mostly about singing again after so many years.  Could hardly recall when I'd experienced such feelings of resistance.

The producer/director had been coaxing with increasing pressure for months.  My son, Bob, whose opinion I value, had concurred in the belief that this was something that I could do, and that my fears were without cause.  "You can DO this, those throat muscles only need to be exercised and the vocal tones will return."  Nothing they could say was convincing enough for me to whomp up enough desire for trying to slip back into that younger Betty's persona, especially since I'd been re-introduced to her through those rediscovered 50-year-old tapes -- and was intimidated by her talent.  She could have done this with ease, but not the aged present-day Betty.  That was impossible.

I'd taken my guitar out of the case on more than one occasion over recent weeks and tried to find that voice ... .  It was simply no longer there.  I was convinced that those around me were fooling themselves, and that I was being led into the "cringe zone"!

Nonetheless, the film was becoming more and more dependent upon this scene that would be staged at the magnificent Paramount theater, and I could certainly understand how dramatic that might be to have me leading that huge audience in the singing of my little hymn -- what a statement this might make.  But could we not simply get one of the soloists from the chorus to step into that role?  Would not that be fairer to my deserving little song?

I had enough ego to fantasize myself wistfully into that scene, but each time the occasions arose that moved it closer and closer, the greater the panic grew until I could feel myself having difficulty breathing deeply enough to maintain any sense of calm whenever I tried to imagine myself into that role.

On Saturday evening, on the eve of the concert, there was a breakthrough.  It was an "Aha!" moment, and I told the filmmaker that I needed to speak with the director at the rehearsal scheduled for the next day.

I had figured out the problem, and how I might meet the expectations of all concerned.

Working thru the barriers with Dr. Lynne Morrow, Symphony Chorus director

It was that I'd learned while meeting with the chorus a few days earlier that my introduction would be through the Maestro followed by Dr. Morrow taking over to tell the audience how the song came about. I was shaken by that since I'd assumed  up until that moment that I would present my song and its genesis.  I now knew what needed to happen.

Suddenly I felt at peace:

I am not a singer.  I once was, but that identity had been long lived away, and there would be no stepping back in time.  I am a storyteller.  Even in my songs, this is who I've always been.  Over time this is who I've become in my work with the Park Service, and if Lynne Morrow told the story of my song, I would enter from stage right as a "has-been" singer.  My voice may now be unpredictable and unreliable, but that doesn't matter one whit to Betty the Storyteller.

I would meet with Dr. Morrow at this final rehearsal and explain the breakthrough.  I could not perform comfortably unless the story of how "Your hand in mine" came into being was allowed to be a part of my performance.  It would take no more than two minutes to tell, but would allow me to present myself more honestly, as the storyteller that I've become.

And by claiming the right to define myself, the anxiety disappeared and the performance lived up to my own expectations.

It only took a few minutes to find that this would be possible, and that she would notify Conductor Michael Morgan of the change.  Both graciously accepted my last minute program change.

Problem solved.

Thumb print ... ?

This is one of the key images governing my life, I think.  And I can recall precisely when it became so.  Though there's something about time with me that defies logic.  I only became aware of it late in life at a moment while watching my father -- who spent the last ten years of his life totally blind -- quietly going about making simple household repairs in the usual way -- by meticulously measuring with his thumb.  At some point during his long life he had determined that from the last crease to the tip was exactly one inch.  By so doing he made of himself a physical tool of mathematics. 

I remember that somewhere before my tenth birthday (which places this incident in 1931 -- mid-Depression), Dad and I were building a (dry) fish pond in the side garden on a summer afternoon.  There was no money for running water into the pond from the house, but nonetheless, we were working diligently on this project that would feature an island and miniature wooden bridge, and that -- as we worked -- there were always "the lessons," delivered as though gospels from on high.  I remember the sand, gravel, and bag of cement next to the galvanized water buckets; the scraping sounds of mixing with the hand trowel as we stacked the rocks in place, and then filled in with the wet mixture with Dad keeping up a patter of conversation all the while.

A nice reminder that beauty is its own reason for being, and that even a dry fish pond is justifiable if viewed as art (but this is an assessment of a mature woman -- remembering).  I have no idea what sacrifices were necessary for us to have that little pond surrounded as it was by iris, tulips, and daffodils each spring throughout my childhood.  It was sitting beside that little pond in the shade of an almond tree that I discovered Edna St. Vincent Millay in a book that arrived in a box from the nearby Salvation Army store that mother haunted at least weekly for bargains.

At that time our proud father was working for the Southern Pacific railroad as a lunch car attendant, and would be gone for days at a time with 2 or 3 days layover between runs.  With two sisters and Mom to compete with, time with him was precious, and to have it, alone, a privilege, indeed.

But this was late in life, and this always productive man was now in his early nineties, blind, and partially bedridden -- but was still going about his days being the "man of the house." As I watched, he was installing a new door knob and lock.  I stood fascinated watching the familiar "thumbing" that I now remembered as one of the lessons of the fish pond, and can still hear his voice as he said:

"My father taught me to measure carefully, and to never repeat the process.  If you can't trust yourself to cut it means that you didn't do it right the first time.  Never re-trace your steps."  

His father was the final authority.  Back in New Orleans, Louis Charbonnet was a celebrated engineer, ornamental iron worker, and millwright, and Dad had apprenticed under him since his early teens.

I'm reminded that -- when invited to write an article for the California Historian (something I'd never done for publication) - it was a complete disaster.  I could not edit my work.  Once written, all efforts to alter a single word met with failure.  I remember how -- when I tried to re-arrange sentences or paragraphs, delete for reasons of redundancy, -- the words would take me in some new direction and I could never re-connect the new text with the old.  Frustration caused me to finally submit the (far too long!) article to the editors with permission to "edit to fit," just to make the deadline.  To my total surprise, in a few weeks the editor called to say that they were not only not going to edit the piece, but were planning to run it as the cover article in its entirety, so could she stop by to select some photos?  Could it be that I'd "measured right the first time," and that it was not the lack of editing ability?  I recognize now that I'd chalked it up to a deficit when it should have been credited as an asset.  How often have I done that, and am I doing so now?

Also, not only have my music and lyrics always arrived fully formed and never change, but I remember that once written, they remain an accurate measure of the frame of mind in which they were created, and that I know that were they written even a few hours later, they would have been different songs.  They have always captured accurately for me the moment of their creation.

I've rarely retraced my steps; driven past the places where I've formerly lived -- even to the East Oakland home where I grew up and where that pond we built was created; nor have I shadowed my son, David, as he has taken over Reid's Records; or ever tried to revive my "artist" self from former lives (my guitar sits silently in its case -- as it has for several decades) until son, Bob, visits and wants to share something he's written); or, rarely read back through this blog, except to add a photo or two, and never to edit.

"Once measured,  cut and move on."

Wisdom of the Thumb Print, and a hint at just how early in life values are formed, and that children really are the sum total of all that has gone before.  One day someone will determine through proper study and peer review that we are, indeed, the product of genetic coding  --  that there well may be some esoteric forms of accumulated wisdom or gifts (yes, even the ability to bend time) that span generations -- and that -- at some point we will learn to use such knowledge wisely for the benefit of humankind, and move into the future less fearful. 

But I'm not quite there yet ... .

Maybe it's just a slow news day ...

...but I found myself one evening last week channel surfing and thinking about how much the television offerings have deteriorated since the great consolidation of the airways. Despite extensive cable offerings and at least five major network channels operating -- there's little more than the steady diet of crime shows, reality garbage, what I've begun to call "the last one standing" show; and pundits all yelling across the bow of anyone who dares to disagree with their always declarative proclamations!

PBS is in perpetual fundraising mode with the strangest assortment of barkers and snake oil salesmen and women one can imagine. If not that, there's the ever-present Andre Rieu (and where on earth did he come from, anyway?). I'm aware that the entire system of public broadcasting is under threat, but are we too late already? Is there now little left to save -- except for the occasional NOVA or Frontline? (And, yes, I'm sending my letters of protest to my representatives.) Were it it not for CSPAN, I'd probably cancel my account and bury myself in books again -- and blogs, or course.

I'd decided long ago (when considering a new more powerful teevee set or even HDTV) that I wouldn't invest another cent in the medium until the art catches up with the technology!

In this kind of petulant mode I happened across a KQED fundraiser featuring the exciting trumpet player, Chris Botti. I paused mid-remote-flick to hear him introducing a 16 year-old new jazz singer as the newest "...Sarah Vaughn or Ella Fitzgerald." This was an arresting statement and -- with remote hovering in mid-air -- I listened more closely. This kid must really be somethin', says I to no one in particular. The orchestra vamped for a few bars -- then she swung into gear, "every time it rains -- it rains -- (beat beat) pennies from heaven!" What a disappointment.

There was something familiar about all this, though -- and I suddenly recalled what it was:

Many posts back I found myself writing about the slow and methodical way black culture was being absorbed into American culture -- but that it was a one way street -- with our stuff going in and nothing coming out except the derivatives. These beautiful brass solos coming from Chris Botti were little more than Miles Davis in whiteface. It was again like hearing Lightnin' Hopkins swinging the blues from Eric Clapton's guitar! It was the recently-deceased Billy Preston swinging the entire Beatles combo from his electric piano or Hammond organ -- and never receiving so much as a mention except by the occasional critic who might refer to him as "the fifth Beatle."

On Sunday night I watched the Tony Awards along with the rest of the country -- and flinched at the irony of the Jersey Boys receiving their awards after a segment that clearly was based on Frankie Valli and his group singing Doo-Wop (picked up from black kids on the street corner of Philly or Detroit) and here were these broadway stars doing the Motown Temptations choreography with nary a credit to the originators nor an apology for the theft!

I thought of that really exciting young rhythm & blues singer from Britain who does such a credible job of covering Billie Holiday et al as she sexily slinks across the stage in her bare feet and hippy-like garb cradling the mike and breathing huskily the lyrics of old standards made famous in her grandparent's time. She's phenomenal -- and I'm moved by her ability to express those songs of my youth so movingly.

We've done a great job. Our culture is now so infused into the mainstream that artists rarely take the time to credit the source. It's all American, now. No longer black. Covers are no longer covers. Though depicted as a teenager hanging outside the windows of little black country churches to learn the licks that would bring him unanticipated fame, Elvis went to his grave "The King." Hogwash! He and Pat Boone and the others of the time brought to the public music and style that could not make it into the recording studios and film from the originators who couldn't get a contract and were still being let in the back door to perform in clubs that their friends couldn't follow them into. Even Sammy Davis Jr. and Dorothy Dandridge had to leave the clubs they worked in between shows, and could not be housed in the hotels where they performed. I later learned that this was also true in Hawaii where the Islanders who entertained were not permitted to stay in those posh hotels between shows but gathered at a small cafe nearby where they entertained each other. White supremacy reigned, and it was and is ugly, indeed!

On Sunday as I watched Chris Botti and the parade of young previously undiscovered white entertainers (except for Sting), I realized that the day has indeed come when people no longer are even aware that what they're watching are all the derivatives; those who have learned successfully and elegantly, to "paint by color." The music, the dance, the songs, of African Americans continue to find success most readily (surely in jazz) when adopted and performed by white performers.

I guess I'm resentful. And -- It concerns me when I find myself wondering where the new Dizzy Gillespies and Miles Davises and Louis Armstrongs and Ellas and Sarahs are going to come from? They once came up through the music programs in our public schools and lifted those kids out of the muck and into some measure of financial success (until late in the last century). But more important than the loss of a pathway to success through the arts -- I wonder about the loss of creativity -- of the kind that produced them for the world to emulate?

As I've said before, we've taken away access to the instruments and lessons that once were the keys to a kind of art that changed world culture. Having done that -- leaving them with no more than a pair of lips and a body that moves rhythmically -- differently than any others, our kids have turned that into an art form (Hip Hop and Rap) that has again taken over the world and become so infused into other cultures that I find myself seeking out Asian and Arabian and Island cultures on the teevee -- just to watch exotic-looking kids emulating Philly, Compton, and Oakland dance moves -- right down to the most intricate steps and rhythms.

Would sure like to see the more intricate and complicated demands of jazz continue to grow and prosper, but from our own. Learned in the late eighties that the best of contemporary jazz is now coming from the choir lofts of the country. Contemporary black gospel is jazz come home!

Ask Vicki Winans, and Kirk Franklin, et al. I suspect that those Texas mega-churches have been largely built by jazz-power. Ever watch them folks rock? Make a joyful noise ain't just a whistlin' Dixie. Those saints can blow!

Photo: Taken at Reid's Records the day that the great Motown gospel singer, Vanessa Bell Armstrong, and her entourage visited. We'd just been honored with a plaque for outstanding pioneer work in introducing black gospel music on a grand scale to the music world.