...and that was only my Saturday morning adventure -- preceding an unforgettable afternoon at the Sundance Kabuki Theater in San Francisco...

After spending several hours at the Cinco de Mayo celebration, Lucy (who shares my passion for NOLA) and I boarded BART to attend the matinee at the Kabuki to see the great documentary about the Tremé District -- where our traceable Charbonnet African American ancestral roots found their beginnings. Though our French ancestry goes back to the 1600's in Thiers, France, our earliest black history (dating from the mid-1800's) lies in the Tremé (pronouced Trah-may), the district adjacent to the Old French Quarter; and among the Islenos of St. Bernard's Parish, Louisiana.

It was in the Tremé that jazz was born and where the earliest examples of the country's civil rights movements found their beginnings. Where Plessey vs. Ferguson played out, and where Reconstruction so brutally reversed all movement toward racial equality and brought horrific lynchings to Congo Square.

What a strange afternoon ... with moments when I found myself quite literally sobbing into my hands, wiping away tears with my sleeve; times when the memories of 6 year-old Betty rushed to the forefront re-living the tragic Good Friday flood of 1927. The storm that catapulted my mother, Lottie, and her 3 little girls onto a train bound for California -- with all of her possessions in a cardboard suitcase. She had little more than the hope of survival in a strange place with (my grandpa) Papa George and the few family members who had escaped the south during World War I. Dad would join us later, after the waters had receded and an assessment made of what remained. Nothing.

It was interesting to learn that the Tremé was apparently not effected by the 1927 floods (according to the film), and that our home must have been in the 7th Ward at that time. I remember that we were living on Touro Street but I no longer am sure of the spelling or just where that would be located. Funny what our minds retain; even from the memory of a traumatized child of six.

It is a brilliant documentary that I'll not soon forget.

It was eerie to sit in that darkened theater knowing that I'm a survivor of the Katrina-like tragedy that occurred 80 years earlier! That watching what felt like my personal history being retold -- this time through Katrina and its victims -- clipped short my shallow breathing. Having difficulty -- moment to moment -- knowing just which decade I was in as I watched the awful images (again) of bloated bodies floating by in that devastating nightmare. Having the feeling of wanting to shout out to the audience that we cannot be destroyed; neither the Tremé nor I! That I can close my eyes and still hear the streets vendors from their donkey carts yelling "watah mel-on, red to the rine!" as if it is only yesterday. That I can remember those parties that lasted 'til dawn when you pulled the kerchief from your pocket to cover your hair for the early mass at Corpus Christi (built by our grandfather, Louis Charbonnet) that you'd attend before going home to bed; a story remembered from a visit to New Orleans as a teenager one summer after being sent home to re-connect with family and history. To get to know the family's matriarch, Mammá, of St. James Parish.

I was able to meet the filmmakers when it ended -- during the Q&A -- and learned that Gina Charbonnet and other members of our family were heavily involved in getting this remarkable artistic achievement to the public. There there were -- Charbonnets -- up there on the screen as the credits rolled by at the end, along with Wynton Marsalis et al.

I am so-oo-o proud!

Just went online to order copies for my sons and our grandchildren and will have everyone to supper one evening soon so that I can present them and have a formal viewing of this living legacy so lovingly caught on film by a new generation of artists.

Thank you world!

Cinco de Mayo celebration in the City of Richmond, California ...

This was yesterday, and oh how I wish the lighting were better on these photos -- that you could really see this beautiful little Inca child!

The photo on the right shows an unidentified lovely celebrant, two members of the Richmond City Council; John Marquez and traditionally turbanned Harpreet Sandhu, with Betty in the middle.

And -- if I could just find myself some idle genie with wishes to toss around -- I would wish that the banner being held by Nicole Santiago, Jovanka Beckles, Mayor Gayle McLaughlin, Marilyn Langlois and at the far right end (dimly lit at the end under the floating hat) Betty -- would announce our present state of civic greatness and place less emphasis on a declaration that we have miles yet to go!

The big thrill for me was seeing all those beautiful "Latino" faces that -- in our everyday-on-the-street-lives morph into a simplistic whole -- to see them suddenly break out into every colorful culture and costume from Central and South America! Suddenly to be aware of Salvadorans, Guatamalans, Chileans, Mexicans, Brazilians, Argentinians, etc., and how rich it felt! That there was suddenly a burst of marching, dancing, and drumming children of every skin color -- but speaking foreign tongues; including slave-descended black children from every country below our southern border -- children who bridge cultures and languages and who are striving so hard to be "American" with varying degrees of success.

The parking lot on 24th and Barrett, yesterday, where we gathered to organize ourselves into a parade -- was alive with color and the sounds of drumming and pride and I was keenly aware that the multinational, multicultural, ethnically diverse and peaceful world we long for has already been created here in this low income working-class community that cries out to be celebrated for what it is -- and far less for what we hope it may become!

I am so proud to be a part of a world that bespeaks the future. We have only to recognize it for what it is and stand tall in a world desperately searching for achievable models of governance. We, too, are America, and the nation's spirit and aspirations live quite comfortably in this unassuming city of Richmond. Even when we're unaware that we carry the legacy -- on days like yesterday, we're celebrating the hopes and dreams of those who've gone before us; immigrants all!

My talk for the next few events is beginning to take shape and play against my eyelids just before sleep ...

Met with students from Dominican College and their teachers on Friday, along with my colleague, Elizabeth. We toured the Rosie Memorial (always a moving experience) and toured the SS Red Oak Victory, the last ship built in the Kaiser Shipyards and now undergoing restoration at Shipyard 3 in Richmond. The Red Oak was one of the 747 ships completed and launched by (cement contractor who'd never built a ship!) Henry J. Kaiser and his rag-tag work force of thousands of former sharecropping older men and women of every race, newly emancipated white women, under-aged boys, and many of the disabled. And that remarkable feat was accomplished in just 4 years and 7 months of WWII. If you're keeping score that would be launching a ship almost every other day; a feat never equaled since that time. The record shows that one ship was successfully completed and launched in 4 days and 17 hours in a competition with other shipbuilders!

Accompanying her classes was Cynthia Taylor, Ph.D., historian and author of a newly-published book on the life of the late great A.Phillip Randolph, founder of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. She'd visited us last week in preparation for Friday's tour and we'd had some time to chat. I've been invited to work with her this summer on her next book having to do with the early development of the modern Civil Rights Movement (during the 40's) from the West Coast as it moved across the country. Exciting possibility.

Just before sleep, I now find myself comparing the historic mobilization of the nation in response to the very real threat of world domination by the forces of Nazism and today. Far fetched? I don't think so. The more I've thought about it, the more I'm certain that the two periods are closely aligned and that comparisons are relevant to today.

It is said that it took 17 people working on the home front to support each man in battle overseas. That meant that we were all critical to the positive outcome of WWII; every man woman and child had a role to play. And we did; even that little 20 year-old clerk, Betty, in the Jim Crow union hall. Women moved into the work force in large numbers for the first time; child labor laws were suspended so that they, too, joined in where feasible; families planted and maintained victory gardens to supplement limited civilian food sources; and elders acted as air raid wardens and/or returned to the factories and canneries for the duration (Papa George among them).

WWII was our country's last declared war and the last time in our history when the nation went to war -- not just the armed forces. Korea was called a "police action" and suitable euphemisms have covered every conflict since that time.

Today we live in a time, again, when the entire world is under threat. This time that threat is climate change. And this time it will take -- not only those of us living in the developed nations, but the entire world population to stave off the gradual extermination of human life from rising seas and changing physical environments. Maybe each 1 in-the-developed-world to 17 in-emerging-economies odds will again be required in order to balance off all those good folks in faraway tropical climates waiting to own their first refrigerators and air conditioners! Whether we can globally respond in time remains a question. That we have already begun to see measurable signs of global warming is no longer in doubt.

The kind of general mobilization required to sustain life as we know it may lie in the history of World War II home front as we lived it. The lessons were difficult to absorb since the speed with which we were forced to respond in order to survive the Nazi onslaught left little time or energy to incorporate them. It might be wise now to revisit that heroic period and take from it the models that served to reverse that crisis and make the world relatively safe again.

Maybe. Just maybe. If we allow that those of us in the western world consume the lion's share of the earth's resources; that it is we who have contributed most heavily to global warming; and that if we can contain and conserve on that which we have created - with or without the rest of the underdeveloped countries -- we might buy the necessary time to develop corrective technologies to move us from this disastrous path we've embarked upon.

In the history of the home front effort of WWII there may be evidence that this is possible. Our generation answered the call to protect and conserve in ways that turned back the threat of murderous world domination. The only question is whether today's generation with its greatly improved technological capacity can be mobilized, again, in time to answer the call?

One of those lesson not learned?

Easy. As one who at the age of 20 was limited to working in a segregated powerless black union with few alternatives through which to serve; I remember. I know that my own productive life and others like it -- over the decades that followed -- illustrate how much the nation was deprived of the talents and abilities of at least 30% of its human potential through crippling racial policies that denied equal opportunities to all of its citizen. There were(are) millions of Bettys with the capacity to contribute far beyond the limited expectations of institutions and industry -- both then and now.

Over recent history we've experienced the Civil Rights Revolution, Sesame Street (yes!), the premature deaths of President John Kennedy and his brother, Robert; Dr. King and Malcolm X, all by brutal assassination; the March to Selma, witnessed scenes of the Montgomery bus boycott; and a succession of little-understood and life-destroying wars in many places in the world. These have all been life-altering deeply traumatic national experiences. In response, we may finally be ready to mobilize, this time as an example to the rest of a world in peril that we, too; young and old, rich and poor, Americans of all races and cultures; that we truly understand our place at the helm of this lifeboat called Earth. Maybe we can still regain the respect of the world by meeting this obligation of true leadership by mobilizing once more -- this time for world peace and sustainability.

And at this point in my life I'm hopeful because we're finally having those long silent conversations that will help to heal us before too much more time has passed.

And as Rosie says,

"We can do it!"

We know that because we did.

Interesting afternoon at MOAD (Museum of the African Diaspora) in San Francisco ...

It had been advertised as the first in a series of teas for women; in this case to celebrate a new book, "Wise Talk Wild Women," dealing with the positive aspects of aging. That should have been my kind of tea, right? Wrong. These were women just entering their 60's and trying to deal with it honestly and directly and for the benefit of Boomers who would follow.

During the course of the presentation by these two lovely African American professional women, I learned that there were " ... 3 waves of Boomers; those just over 40, those in their 50's, and the frontrunners; those in their early 60's." And here I sat among them having expected that the afternoon would be relevant to me and my life. In the course of their presentation I suddenly remembered with a start that I am the mother of 3 Boomers! I'd either missed my appropriate tea, or, by now my crowd has been thinned out drastically from natural causes -- leaving teas behind for the young.

Were these women holding their "Aging Tea" far too early, or had I just stayed stage center too long? I truly didn't know, but I found myself desperately struggling to restrain the impulse to exit giggling!

The exhibition of photographs of lovely maturing women taken from the book, and the marvelous setting of the museum (where I'd just renewed my membership) weren't enough to dispel the feeling that I may have "... stayed too long at the fair," and that there was little I could add to this gathering without seeming to be trying to upstage those who'd come together to ponder aging in a positive way. I've already aged but have never lost the sense of aging as a natural progression of living a life. Beside that, the wisest thing I might have added was the knowledge that my only real advantage was that I know how more life stories have turned out than anyone in that room!

But maybe that wasn't enough. I left quickly after finishing my tea and the good ladies ended their public conversation to an appreciative audience trying to be happy to be post menopausal.

Not sure what to do with that, but I'll figure it out.

Thursday brings one more day of sleuthing -- wandering through this bonanza of historic photographs of black life in the S.F. Bay Area, 30's through 70's ...

Careth "Diddy" Bomar Reid, Electra Kimble Price, and moi (and others as they join with us) now devote 3 hours each week to excitedly pouring over printouts of old negatives; trying to identify literally thousands of brides, grooms, fraternity sisters and brothers, church goers, choir members, cornerstone layers, debutantes, etc., so that somehow, somewhere we'll begin to make a dent in this priceless collection of images of African Americans who were drawn to life in the Bay Area (mostly) from long before World War II through the Seventies.

What is becoming clear -- at least to me -- is that we're going to have to grow our little group to include more brains with attached active memories if we're going to come anywhere near to accomplishing this task within the next decade! I believe I have some ideas for how to multiply our numbers soon.

Today we came up with the 7th Street office address of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters; with 8x10 publicity photos of legendary blues singer, Jimmy McCracklin; with a marvelous picture of an event hosted by "100 Black Men" held at Slim Jenkins Lounge in West Oakland; with photos of Mrs. Vivian Osborne Marsh and journalist, Taria Hall Pittman; with the executive board of the Fannie Wall Home & Day Nursery on 8th and Linden; group photos of fraternity and sorority activities, etc. It was another satisfying day, but that's such a small number when one considers that there are more than 10,000 still to be processed! That there will be many WWII home front photos still to be recovered keeps me working breathlessly. The documentation for black history is under our fingers every Thursday from noon until 3:30, and only time (the one thing we don't have) will deliver those identities to us.

Tennyrate, the work and Dorian's balding has dulled the euphoria produced by the billboard announcement, and I'm back in the properly humbled column again. It didn't take much. However -- there were a few moments there -- yesterday -- as I walked across Frank H. Ogawa plaza -- away from a meeting with the director of the Older Americans Day celebration and toward City Hall and a brief meeting with a member of the Oakland city council where we were to talk a bit about historic sites in her district. Four young black men were passing nearby ... and as we crossed paths one of them said, "...she's a park ranger. That must be a great job. And she looks so good in that uniform." They were obviously speaking loudly enough for me to hear. I turned back to them and grinned, saying, "...it is a great job, and thank you kindly, sirs!" Felt good. This was the kind of tribute young black men are so good at delivering. It nudged alive young Betty. But my ego isn't strong enough to warrant such a tribute. It was surely the thought of such a job that rang their bell, right? But for just a minute there ...

I didn't feel a day over 65!

Maybe I understand after all ... So she's now totally bald! So...?

Do you suppose that -- given her mental retardation -- and, since her decisions must therefore be emotionally rather than intellectually based -- she's seized the lead in freeing us both from these past weeks of regression? She has always had these flashes of rationality that defy logic. I suspect that this is one of those times.

We'd gotten ourselves locked into a pattern that was destructive to her sense of self and relative independence. I couldn't allow myself to admit how guilty I felt at having left her behind to enjoy that great trip without. It's so hard to admit that I sometimes feel weighted down by the constant awareness of her needs.

Recently I've fallen quite comfortably into picking her up each day -- taking her to my apartment for endless and mindless television watching and mother-prepared suppers. She'd become glued to the Disney channel and little else as I read or poured over studies for my work.

Maybe taking the clippers to her head at the first opportunity when she was alone in her own place changed the pattern. She is too fearful to face me without her hair -- so can't possibly come home for awhile, right? I haven't seen her yet, though she's called several times today to tell me that she's sorry for "...doing a dumb thing."

It was a drastic move, but she accomplished something we both needed to have happen. She's free again. She's back home being the adult in her own household (to her two cats). I'm free again to return to my work and my usual busyness.

She is probably less lonely in her own surroundings than when she is with me as I'm off into my head or escaping into the Internet or conceiving some new outreach plan ... while she sits before the idiot box watching Hannah Montana -- hoping to understand a world far beyond her capacities but that charms her nonetheless.

Dori may have found the answer for us both; and I love her for it.

Maybe -- in a day or so when she's ready -- I'll stop by and pick her up to buy a new hat or some bright head scarves. After all, the media brings her visions of women of the world in head coverings every day.

We'll have dinner out; then I'll take her to her own home.

...then I'll return to mine.

Signed: A repentant mother.


Photo: Dorian with a painting in acryllics of her cat, Speedy Reid. We'd had to have her euthanized after a long life of being cherished . This piece was done to serve as the centerpiece for a lunchtime memorial service she conducted at NIAD (National Institute for Artists With Disabilities). Note the halo.

Earthday Birthday with its reminders of the fragility of the planet -- and Dorian's declaration of independence.

Nature could hardly have delivered a more perfect day for hosting an outdoor party for one whom I rarely take the time to think much about. Except for the monthly staff meetings that are held at John Muir National Historic Site -- I have little reason to wander those grounds or to be particularly aware of the Muir legacy. Living in the daily rich environment of the World War II period in Richmond has dulled my senses to the others of the four park consortium with which we're associated. The stories associated with them are varied and fascinating. I tend to think of John Muir only at such times as when I catch sight of the great photographs of Ansel Adams or see a Sierra Club poster. He just doesn't come up for me all that often.

Yesterday our staff from all of the area's national sites gathered in the town of Martinez to join with ecologists, preservationists, living descendants of the Muir clan, civic leaders, park volunteers, and -- the marvelous re-enacter of the great man (pictured above). His brief speech in the burr of Scotland ... after an afternoon of live music chosen for its relevance to his life and times blended with the plaintive sound drifting across the historic orchards from bagpipers in kilts ... a love-ly afternoon spent in the shadow of Muir House.

As an African American with a distinct tendency to view the world from that perspective, it is always startling and disarming to rediscover my country through the lens of other cultures -- other times in history. How rich are we! To feel myself yielding -- leaning in toward the sounds of bagpipes with a faint sense of recognition, somehow, but from where does that come? The sound of drums, surely; but bagpipes? Why, one might wonder, would I think of Hubert Laws playing "Amazing Grace" in that magnificent flute solo -- winding ever higher with each chorus until it sounds reedy and fife-like (bagpipe-like?) whenever I hear that sound. What on earth could be the connection?


Dorian and I have been at odds since my return from the Arizona trip. She had no way to understand where I was for two whole weeks since her perception of distances is not dependable. I've always been within cellphone reach, except for this time when there was no access and I'd dropped off the planet.

Since I've returned she has spent the major part of the weeks sleeping on a futon in my bedroom, only returning to her apartment across town to feed her two cats. I've been dropping her off each morning at NIAD (National Institute for Artists with Disabilities), allowing her to return to her place at 3:00 o'clock when her work day ends, and waiting for her to call to be picked up for dinner and an overnight. I've been waiting for her to voluntarily give up this arrangement and return to living independently again. I couldn't initiate without suggesting rejection. I felt that I had a lot to make up for. Guilt is a powerful motivator, and maternal guilt -- the worst!

On Friday evening -- finally -- she decided to stay at her apartment. I would drive out to have dinner with a friend that evening -- and fulfill my ranger role at John Muir National Historic Site for 3 hours on Saturday with the others. Before I left in the morning she called.

"Mom, I wanted to have a mohawk so I cut off my hair! It came out crooked, so I had to take it all off."

This may be where it was all leading. I now have a completely bald daughter who may have finally been able to express her rage at what she may have concluded was my abandonment. Perhaps now it's over.

It's now Sunday afternoon. She is still at her own apartment, probably a little fearful of having me see the results of her adventure (I was not "cool," guys) and -- frankly -- I'm almost afraid to see her. We'll have to live for months with the shaved head (I believe she used clippers) which means that this may be only the beginning of a major revolt!

Wonder how the great John Muir would hae 'andled this?

Oh well... .


Photo: "John Muir" giving his speech just before the cutting of his birthday cakes. Click on thumbnail for full picture.

If you think the last post was over the top; this one is outrageous!

I'm desperately in need of an emergency intravenous injection of humility! It may be too late -- but I pray not. I haven't felt this sought-after and important since being invited as the object of "Show and Tell" in my 9 year-old granddaughter's fifth grade classroom last year. She presented me before her peers, her park ranger grandmother, with all of the pride one little girl can muster. Wait 'til my kids and grandkids run into this one from the highway!

Today came the announcement in a quickie phone call on my cell from the organizer of Senior Day. I was sitting with an adviser at my local bank when it came. "Ms. Soskin, we would like permission to use your image on two billboards and some bus shelters." Crazy! I'm about to be immortalized in full uniform to advertise the upcoming Senior Month celebration being held mid-May at Frank Ogawa Plaza in front of Oakland's city hall. I'm the keynoter -- but of course that much I was prepared for. I'm scheduled to give a brief ten minute talk (about the upper limit before sheer panic sets in). This is the sixth annual, I believe, and is expected to "draw thousands."

There will be tabling by businesses, nonprofits, service providers. There will be stiltwalkers, line dancers, poets, and music. And there will be me; hat 'n all, and I haven't the foggiest notion of what I'll say ... but that will come ... some night just before sleep... .

It always does.

Meanwhile, maybe I need to spend more time with Dorian. Doing so tends to reduce the ego blast by reminding me always of how much she does with such limited capacity. And of the importance of holding onto perspective when life appears to be spinning out of balance. The pendulum will swing back -- and if I'm lucky -- some of the stardust will settle into the cramped and troubled spaces we share as I grow older and she remains ever the child. This is the cruelty of mental retardation -- that one can never be certain the carefully-taught lessons stay learned.

I think that she's experiencing some regression and losing the carefully-nurtured sense of independence we're worked so hard to achieve over all these years.

This is troubling...

Maybe the ego boost is needed just about now, in order to help me to get through this bumpy period while we try to strengthen her trust in a world that was simply not designed for her to navigate except precariously.


Photo: Appeared July 30, 2007, in the Oakland Tribune. They eliminated the busy background and spread it across 4 columns. It is this image that will be used on the billboards -- if the paper grants permission to the City of Oakland.

Yesterday it was brunch in the Napa wine country after a drive through the most incredible display of wildflowers in years ... .

Today ... it was a gift like no other ... .

One of my colleagues asked recently if I'd be free to have lunch with a performing artist who would like to visit the park and learn more about our work. I remembered vaguely that there had been an invitation in my email-box about an exciting one-woman show about World War II that was happening at the Marsh theater in San Francisco. A group of my co-workers were making up a party to attend. I somehow missed out on the event -- being still in the throes of making up for having left Dorian for that long two week sojourn at the Grand Canyon training. She was still showing signs of resentment and confusion, and I'd allowed myself to be drawn into her drama.

When dealing with one with real mental deficits; and when something comes up that you really want to do (as with this amazing trip to Arizona), things can become pretty weird. Dorian couldn't reach me by cell phone (no reception) for the entire two week period -- and on the occasions when I'd tried to call her, either her phone was being charged, or was lost somewhere in her little apartment -- probably under one of her cats!

At any rate, we're still working out the kinks in our relationship and I couldn't free myself enough to do the theater party. And oh how sorry I am that I missed it!

Today Ms. Jovelyn Richards, a performer who came to the west coast from Minneapolis and the creator of that one-woman show came to Richmond to have lunch and to join Carla and me on an informal tour of the Rosie the Riveter memorial and other sites.

When she arrived she greeted me with, "... I saw your picture on the newstand (the big photograph published by the Oakland Tribune); read the article about you and within 3 days I'd created this piece." She was talking about a monologue (with music) entitled "Come Home." I was stunned! It was difficult to wrap my brain around. At first the words refused to compute -- but it was clear that this young woman was quite sincere. She told me that she'd hoped that I would attend her play -- and suddenly I heard from somewhere deep in my brain -- almost for the first time what no one had made clear. The invitation to the theater party was not in the least casual. It held great meaning. I'd missed something extremely important. I'd gotten lost in the pathos of my "Dorian dilemma" and -- as I'm sure has happened numerous times in our lives -- gotten lost in a vacuum of misplaced mothering that denied both this young artist and me a once-in-a-lifetime experience. An artist had been inspired to produce a work based on my research. On a critical era in my life and times. She had lifted our ordinary extraordinary black experience of the war years into a new dramatic form and I'd missed the show!

The show is not about me, of course, but about 15 African American soldiers from Arkansas who were fighting overseas during WWII. There were 13 survivors. The stories are told through a female character -- though I believe our playwright/actress slips in and out of many characters. I believe that she's used my words as a way to provide context to the stories. But that's only an inference I've drawn from today's conversation.

I tried to make it up to her by talking too much; by trying too hard to show her how sorry I was to have ignored her invitation; by trying too hard to assure her that I was sorry and would do better in the future.

She emcees an hour-long weekly Women's Magazine for Pacifica Radio's flagship station, KPFA, and I'll do an interview for her soon. I'll also be looking for ways to let her know how honored I am to have a performing artist amplify my work by introducing a new medium for delivery of the stories of ordinary African Americans of my time and history.

What an amazing experience.

Ms. Jovelyn Richards has promised to send a DVD of "Come Home," so I won't have missed it entirely. But wouldn't it have been a thrill to have been in the audience as it was unfolding? She told me that she used my actual words (taken from the newspaper article) in places in her script ... .

Life is unimaginably surprising!

And you think I'm an elder phenomenon? Wait'll you meet my friend, Jane Stillwater... .

During yesterday's late morning Ms. Applewhite, a writer from the East Coast, arrived for an interview as planned. She had been referred by a local friend with whom I've done some work. I'm, potentially, one of the subjects to be featured in a upcoming book entitled, "So when are you planning to retire?" or words to that effect. It's about those of us who are over eighty and still in the workforce. Interesting. She'll fly back across country tomorrow to Maryland to attend a week-long conference on gerontology. I cannot believe that she came all the way here just for this interview. The thought occurred to me for just a few seconds -- but I couldn't bring myself to ask the question. What if she'd said no? What would that have meant? But there it is. Am I becoming ... (not sure how to think about that).

But let's get back to Jane.

She is now in her mid-sixties and has more adventures than anyone on the planet half her age. And -- these escapades are certainly not "age-appropriate," if you're hung up on stereotypes.

This morning's email arrived from China (she's en route to North Korea) where she has taken herself without ceremony or fanfare -- but over the past year she's been to Iraq twice (both in and out of the Green Zone) where she was embedded as an independent journalist. She's been to Egypt, to Kuwait, to India, Mexico, and (over the past few months) to the midwest to hang out with the other newsies on the Clinton and Obama campaign trails. Last week she was in San Francisco to cover the McCain fundraiser from across the street and behind the barricades. This, is an elder phenomenon, big time!

And -- Jane lives almost exclusively on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and gelato with an income that most would consider totally inadequate to support life. She saves up in jelly jars and takes off into the wild blue yonder as the mood strikes; and always for good cause and to satisfy her need to effect positive change in the world.

Take the time to check into her blog (http://jpstillwater.blogspot.com) for some of the most understated adventures imaginable. She has a wonderful light touch that she applies to the most horrendous of subjects -- and it works. Her awesome sense of humor fails to mask a deep sense of humanity in much the way of the late great Molly Ivins.

Jane once made a trip to Washington, DC, for the sole purpose of hanging an eviction notice on the fence at the White House! She is the original free spirit; a flower child of the Sixties who never recovered. It is Jane who embodies the Berkeley image more than anyone I know; bright, sensitive, powerful, dedicated to principle, and an unforgiving and unrelenting idealist with a wanderlust. She has an abiding belief in the power of one.

Jane and her daughter's Girl Scout troop hold the record for having sold 60,000 boxes of Girl Scout cookies, and by doing so earned a trip to the Caribbean!

When and if world peace is eventually achieved, it will have been Jane who brought it about. I'm certain of it.

I am so honored to be one of her close friends (one who chipped in to buy her a Kevlar vest for the red zone). I wondered during yesterday's interview why it was not Jane sitting in my chair with the tiny tape recorder at the elbow? Maybe it's because she's not yet an octogenarian? Maybe -- at 64 -- she's simply too young ... .

Now how's that for a new perspective on aging?

Rarely have I felt so uniquely-qualified for a job ... that of identifying a gaggle of images of vaguely-familiar-looking faces -- by the thousands!

A friend from the past -- and a woman of distinction -- some years ago managed to rescue a priceless photographic collection as a member of the Phyllis Wheatly Club. She'd learned that the works of prolific Caribbean/American photographer, the late E.F. Joseph, were still stored in his studio/home on 50th Street in Oakland. His widow was closing his estate -- and having been offered $2000 for the countless negatives from a buyer who planned to recycle the silver nitrate on the negatives -- thereby destroying their captured history. Needless to say, my friend very wisely managed to purchase them (for the price offered) and carted them off for safekeeping until decisions could be made about their eventual disposition. She stored them safely in the basement of her apartment building in San Francisco.

In the interim, she flew to Joseph's home of origin in the Caribbean and learned what she could about him (though we all knew him well during his lifetime in the Bay Area). Emmanuel and his wife, Alice, were of our parent's generation. Careth visited with his family and unearthed biographic materials to be added to enhance the collection.

Joseph photographed every important and unimportant event of black life in the San Francisco Bay Area over a period of 40 years; from the 30's through the 70's. Every party, funeral, grand-opening, sporting event, beauty contest, concert, an evening at the Buchanan Street USO (for blacks only) in S.F.., and even the Inauguration ceremonies of the United Nations held at the San Francisco Opera House in 1945. The events were photographed from a black perspective with stills of Ralph Bunche; NAACP national president, Walter White; Dr. W.E.B. Dubois, etc; truly historic photos.

There are upwards of 10,000 negatives waiting to be identified and cataloged. They cover some of the most chaotic periods of growth and change in one of the fastest-developing periods in our history -- that of the western migration of African Americans during World War II and beyond. Can you imagine the importance of this work to the telling of the African American story?

But of what value would they be if there were none left who could give them identity? Fortunately, given today's extended life spans, at least some of us are still around with the time, the energy, and (most importantly) the memories to do the work. It falls nicely into my work day and fits well into my outreach role. For three hours on Thursdays I will work with this crew as we sip herbal tea and recall as familiar faces crop up under our fingers.

Over the next several months, I'll join with various combinations of long-time friends for a few hours each week as we examine contact sheets (made from freshly-cleaned negatives that have retained all of their sharpness over all the years), cataloging and numbering and forming packets -- and re-living our lives through the work. (No one under 70 need apply.) Of the 10,000 -- we've examined perhaps a couple of hundred to date -- and with not that great a "hit" average -- but it's amazing to see all those familiar youthful faces as we try to remember... .

"Oh, she went off to dance with Katherine Dunham's company," and, "that's saxophonist Jerome Richardson who left with bassist Vernon Alley to join Lionel Hampton's band." And, "isn't that Joe Louis? The guy standing over the bed of that soldier at Letterman hospital?" And -- "yes, that's the Camp Ashby Chorus -- and that's tenor Jerome Swanigan in the back row, second from the end." Camp Ashby was at the end of Ashby Avenue in Berkeley where black Army military police were stationed during the war. And, "...oh how sad. Those sailors from Port Chicago were picketing the mutiny trials." What a moving experience it is... .

On our DVD entitled "Lost Conversations and untold stories" (YouTube.com), many of the photos were taken by Joseph, though I received them from the personal photo album of Mrs. Marguerite Roles.

The task is overwhelming and we're under no illusion that we can accomplish it alone. Hopefully, my friend will enlist the media department of one of the nearby colleges or the university for interns who can help to double our efforts and speed the process.

Stay tuned.

What an amazing new adventure this promises to be.

Photo: Me (far left), at the age of 17, with cousins Ruth Warnie and Elaine Allen. The 1938 Exposition, S.F. Treasure Island's world fair was the event. I believe the girl who won the contest (selling the most tickets) would have been below (notice rounded cutout). Photo by E.F.Joseph submitted to a local black newspaper, the California Voice, I believe.

There are times when the world is moving too fast to record the process...

This is one such week. And it isn't due to my inability to keep up for reasons of inadequacy. It's because the rate of change and the need to pause long enough to allow for absorption demands it.

Case in point:

How does one separate the political from what are surely huge societal adjustments of the kind that may be life-altering? How can I write (without political advocacy) about how it felt as a black woman to watch a candidate for the presidency confront the nation around our most challenging national issue -- continuing cancerous racial inequality -- and to watch him do it without one scintilla of hatred? What can one say when to say anything that even hints of endorsement is forbidden by one's professional role? So -- I've chosen silence. At least until today when I'm confronted by the need to work through a work-related problem that brings it all front and center in a way that makes silence difficult if not impossible.

I'm still struggling with how best to talk about those feelings and about how they're effecting my day-to-day existence, but that may change. In the interim, I'm working through memories of a period that exemplifies a personal history of the World War II era -- a period of racial inequality that must be revisited if we're to grow beyond it. And that historic speech -- if nothing else -- challenged us to enter into a long-deferred national conversation. But maybe there is an opportunity to engage others without advocacy if I can do so with sensitivity to where the boundaries lie.

All this is to say that we're in the beginnings of planning this year's 2nd Annual World World II Home Front Festival here in Richmond, California. Last year it was a rousing success, but there were some bumpy places for me, personally. Meeting blank stares when I tried to remind others what life was like for me -- and others like me. It was like being a skunk at the garden party.

When the Saturday night USO dance was being planned by the Chamber of Commerce last year, I tried to remind the committee that black servicemen and women were barred from those activities. That it would be no surprise if there were no black folks attending the commemorative dance. And so it was. Very few black or brown faces were in the festive red-white-and-blue crowd that night last fall, and those few who did attend probably were too young to remember or to be carrying any of the scars of that rejection. And the white veterans; couples who came back to remember and to celebrate, were unaware and/or were untouched by that history and could continue to be so because the reminders were deliberately missing from the collective mindset of the party goers as well as to the planners.

What to do?

This year we'll use folk and union music traditions through which to tell the stories of the home front. Great! Right? New problems: both movements -- though rich in Americana -- were almost exclusively White. African Americans sang from a different songbook, and our music was used only as raw material from which to form "American" music, and held no intrinsic value of its own.

The unions were segregated and the music that grew from those movements was coming from Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and the Weavers, Peter, Paul and Mary, et al, (good folks all) but it would be decades before black artists would be allowed to cross over into the mainstream of arts and culture. Then Josh White, Odetta, Oscar Brown, Jr., and the great blues singers began to be recognized and appreciated -- but only in a special category called "race" music. I know because we got our start in the music business at the end of the war, in June of 1945, when we opened Reid's Records in Berkeley, oriented to a black clientele.

So -- we bring together the Folk Music Society of San Francisco and the Union Chorus to this year's festival to reunite and celebrate. We've made the initial contact and it looks likely. It will be exciting. Some of those singers and musicians are veterans of the home front story -- shipyards, aircraft plants, munitions, Red Cross workers, USO volunteers, and some are Rosies. But how do we address the old race questions without breaking with our obligation to not advocate politically? Or, do we seize the opportunity to finally re-visit that period and those issues in a healing and inclusive way in order to get beyond them and in a way that exercises the commitment to community outreach which falls well within the bounds of my job description? If this sounds convoluted, it's because my pathway through this is still unclear.

Finding the balances will be critical.

Typing out the words is helpful. I'll begin by asking for a meeting with those music groups so that we can explore the questions and invite them to help in the planning. It will be our chance to open the conversation and re-visit that historic period together. We can recognize that there were Americans of every race trying to get it right then -- just as there are now. That we can find ways to honor those efforts by sharing the hopes and dreams of a generation sharing the mission to save the world -- even while denying its collective humanity and need for one another.

And we can do it through the music of the period ... music that nurtured a generation and -- in time -- effected the direction of our progress. Despite whatever feeble efforts that were made by many, it would take another two decades to bring us to where we are now. There is much work still to be done. It may be that the opening of a new conversation on race relations is finally underway due to the candor and wisdom of a new generation of leadership.

Maybe, we're on our way toward true " .... freedom and justice for all!".


Photo: Can you place yourself in the shoes of the man being ushered out of this "Whites only" waiting room? Do you wonder whether his smile is from subservience -- or is it fear? By their dress one must assume the photo depicts a period during our lifetimes. Would not anger be the appropriate response to the situation -- even if it's delayed a generation or two?

Brain Theory ... .

Discovered about a year ago that I'd crossed a threshold in brain development that brought with it the capacity to filter out all extraneous messages. It's marvelous! I listen -- and if the incoming signal doesn't announce an emergency or if it doesn't require action on my part over the next 48 hours -- poof! It passes only momentarily between my ears then disappears into outer space never to be heard from again. I know that there are those who may see this as momentary memory lapses, but don't be fooled. It's a well-earned asset that deserves to be studied as one of the benefits of aging.

This new ability was most helpful during my recent two week training session where I found myself in learning mode for the first time in many decades. The format was a reminder of another earlier training -- for my First Communion at the age of 7 -- where I learned the Catholic catechism and could recite the entire booklet by rote memory at the drop of a proud godmother. Sister Richard Marie at St. Bernard's Church on 64th Avenue in Oakland was my hero then.

This time it was the NPS catechism (names, dates, factoids) but it was coming at a time when my new talent for filtering had kicked in and -- where I could have recited the Catholic version had I been asked (yes, even after years of humanism) -- however dedication to the process was missing now and Sister Richard had died long ago. The brain just kicked the non-emergency items out and refused to hold anything that didn't need my attention over the following two days.

Consequently, I sat in classes listening intently to the presenters while searching hard for relevance to my work life. I was far more involved with the natural surroundings; the magic of snow-laden evergreens; of mule deer and the sounds of coyotes in the night; of the wonder of the Grand Canyon at sunset or at moonrise ... images of the red sandstone rock formations of Sedona ... the "people" world with its "to do" lists and factoids simply didn't make a dent in my consciousness.

I'm afraid that if I were going to be able to benefit from the catechismic teachings it would have to be at some place far less seductive than this. My 86-ness was not to be denied, having predetermined what would and what would not be allowed into a mind now struggling with over-filled "files".

Day after day I sat in the classroom with the others -- more frequently than not looking out of the large windows at the falling snow outside instead of listening for the facts that should have been imprinted on my nerve ends -- ready for the last day's exam.

I could not spend these precious and slowly-diminishing days and hours in any way other than in full appreciation for these magical hours that wrapped themselves around me and held tight!
Olmstead, Mather, Albright, Muir, et al would have to be immortalized by others.

I'm collecting other kinds of memories these days; the kind that become brighter as time speeds by and days become ever more memorable.

"Of Lost Conversations and Untold Stories ..."

(Written for the April park newsletter)

It never dawned – while filing change-of-address cards or taking dues payments in the small office of the racially segregated Boilermakers A-36 union hall -- that I might live long enough to actually become black history; but so it seems. Despite a fading memory of working in that unassuming little office at 10th and Barrett Avenue in Richmond, and a reluctance to identify as the proverbial “Rosie the Riveter,” life has placed a soapbox under my feet and I’m speaking publicly for a generation for whom my presence in the workforce was questionable at best. As one of the diminishing female home front workers of World War II still standing, I often feel undeserving of the “Rosie” title. I’m increasingly called upon to speak for a generation that helped to save the world from Nazi imperialism – but often feel that I’m fulfilling that role by default since so many of those voices have been silenced by time. And since the equality for which we worked, fought, and died, has yet to be fully realized.

Due to working far from the shipyards, and despite being a part of 93,000 home front workers who moved in and out of the Kaiser Shipyards 24-hours-a-day and 7-days-a-week in one of the most intensive production efforts in human history, I never saw a ship under construction; never witnessed a launching. Neither do I recall feeling the surge of patriotism that inspired the monumental achievement of completing 747 ships in 4 years and 5 months of the war.

Time tends to soften, alter, and revise history, and the home front stories of WWII are no exception. As a 20-year old politically naïve woman of color with little understanding of the war except for the disruption it brought to everyday life. Confusion reigned as if a major fault line had shifted under the weight of the unprecedented population explosion that changed the social fabric of the Bay Area, the West Coast, and the nation.

The confusion was driven by still raw memories of a nation that, in 1941, assigned 91% of black women to work in few categories – agricultural, household, and industrial service jobs. Performing clerical work – menial though it might be in the scheme of things – working in a segregated union hall was a step up from making beds, caring for children, and mopping floors for white Americans.

Yet, in the wake of having become a full time park ranger for the National Park Service, I find myself invited to speak for that generation – to share the stories of the times (and there are as many stories as are there are workers who lived them) – to groups large and small. Over the past months I’ve been invited to participate in black and women’s history observances throughout the Bay Area. I’ve served as the representing “Rosie” as a panelist for the Oakland Museum; given talks for the US Department of Agriculture; Bay Area NOW; the County Welfare Workers; the Republican Women’s Club, the DAR, and the Valley Baptist Church. In the past I’ve appeared before the Social Security Administration, The Department of Forestry, before Berkeley Arts Magnet’s fifth grade classes, in a long distance interview with middle school history classes in Bakersfield. Over the next month or two I’ll be speaking for the University of California retirees and the American Association of University Women among others.

Does it feel real? Have I learned to accept my role as spokesperson for a period in history that holds painful and often humiliating memories? Oddly enough, the answer is yes. I find that today’s audiences are ready to explore the WWII era with an openness that holds the potential for promoting a continuing movement toward positive social change. This might well insure that my granddaughter’s generation will benefit from my participation in this long overdue national conversation.

The silence that worked against change has given way to new possibilities for measuring progress toward a more equitable society, and Rosie the Riveter World War II/Home Front National Historical Park is in a position to accelerate that movement through the “Lost Conversations and Untold Stories”* that I’m able to provide in this new public role.

Perhaps the trajectory of my life from a young and confused file clerk to full time national park ranger on a soapbox illustrates as much as today’s campaigns for the presidency – a woman and an African American – just how far we’ve come in the on-going process of growing our imperfect democracy to the benefit of the world.



*YouTube.com
March 9, 2008

A study in exoticism ... .

We were on a field trip to Hopi tribal lands and a remarkable archealogical dig that had unearthed a village complete with pueblo and blow holes ("...where the wind God lives").

It was here that we met the most unlikely National Park ranger. He was about 5'7", "portly," with a protruding rounded belly and a waist-length jet black braid that bounced loosely against his back as he walked. This was Ruben, a member of the Wupatki people of the Hopi tribe upon whose land this national park had settled. In his park uniform Ruben appeared cartoon-like. I felt sorry for him in this inappropriate "costume" that did not fit the image of a bronze present-day Hopi warrior. How sad, I thought! He seemed more captive than ranger in these clothes. Given the history, I found myself wondering how his people viewed him dressed so...in the garb of the invaders ... .

The reception center features murals that tell the tragic story of a time in the not too distant past when our government came to the decision that the Hopi had over-grazed the land with their sheep and that they must go. The lands were then confiscated by the NPS and the tribes burned out of their pueblos. The Hopi were then dispersed across the deserts of Arizona. To its credit, the National Park Service owns that history and the murals on the panels of the reception center are true to events just as they occurred; despite the discomfort this surely must bring to today's more socially aware park administration. The saving grace in all this may be that -- as a nation -- we're finally having these long-silent conversations and owning responsibility for our past through our system of national parks which are actively engaged in the telling of the stories of the nation in countless ways.

After our class had inspected the excavated Wupatki Pueblo and learned something of its history through a quick study of the exhibits in the reception center, we gathered outside within sight of the excavation to hear a presentation from our unlikely interpreter and park ranger; Ruben.

And then it happened: This chubby dark-skinned oddly-garbed park ranger turned to one of the instructors. He quite deliberately removed his NPS ranger hat and handed it to someone standing nearby -- clearly by prearrangement; and in that simple act of apparent but practiced defiance, reclaimed his identify. It was a moment not unlike the act at the end of the movie, "Miss Jane Pittman," when -- after a lifetime of humiliation and racism -- Miss Jane walked up those stairs and took a drink from the "Whites Only" water fountain. This was Ruben's moment of transformation. One that he could not have brought off standing under the traditional and honored hat of the NPS. This would be about his people.

We listened to him relate his stories for the next fifteen emotional minutes; of his doubts about the wisdom of "the dig" of that Wupatki pueblo -- a construct that "probably should have been allowed to remain in the earth ... to become one with it." He spoke of the "Eaglet" story; of the decades-long legal battles for permission for his tribe to re-enter into their homeland and what was now "the national park" to capture an eaglet to be used in a 2000-year-old ceremonial ritual that was a part of the ancient Hopi religious tradition. The eaglet was to be revered as it matured under loving care. It would be raised to centuries-old tribal standards -- to be sacrificed at the end for religious purposes. The sacred feathers would then be used for traditional ceremonies. This practice, of course, clashed with the National Park Service's mandated mission of preservation of all natural resources. Needless to say, the Hopi have been continually denied their request despite years of litigation through our courts.

He talked about knowing many of the tribal land's secrets - of sites he would never disclose to anyone for fear of their exploitation and uses that would defame the long-held belief systems of the Hopi. There were hints that those secrets may be common knowledge among the Native American -- but would be withheld against further invasion from "the Invaders;" (my word, not Ruben's)

A strange thing happened as I listened. This plain little stubby man in his grey/greens might as easily have been standing before us in a feathered warbonnet, buckskins, and beaded moccasins. He was transformed in the telling of his stories. He was all pride and dignity. And -- the Anglos and others of us who stood around him were subdued and respectful. This was a giant of a man who was well able to stand on his own and not be buried by any bureaucracy. I had the distinct feeling that those park boundaries we honor have little meaning in his world, and that the Hopi world is inclusive enough to allow us to believe that those boundaries are real and unyielding.

I suddenly saw myself as the "exotic" in my park in much the way that Ruben is at the Wupatki site. I am the only African American on our staff. I wondered if I'm living my exoticism as effectively as Ruben is living his in that world? Like Ruben, I am able to speak my truth and bring my whole self into the process. And, like Ruben, I'm experiencing the respect of my community and my colleagues. I felt a deep kinship and an affirmation in my work from this quietly heroic man whose life had been shaped by events deep in human history but undying in their effects over succeeding generations and into his lifetime.

I won't forget him.

Since arriving home I've had dreams of that pueblo -- peopled and busy with life. And in those dreams Ruben appears in full native dress and holding an eaglet ... .


Click on this panoramic view of the pueblo for the full impact. It had an effect upon me similar to that experienced while visiting the slave quarters at the estate of Gen. Robert E. Lee at Arlington in Washington, D.C. Ours has been a painful history -- most of which we've never really processed. Perhaps this is the role people like Ruben and I are now fulfilling -- at a time in history when those lost conversations are finally encouraged and made meaningful.

About the Coming of Age... ?

Hadn't thought about it in quite this way, but this trip brought with it some interesting and vague reminders of the inescapable truth; that the day will come soon when I'll need to pay more attention to diminishing capacities. If that is the new truth, it is also true that I'll need to learn to distinguish between just which limitations are natural to the aging process (for me) and which are externally imposed.

When first it was suggested that I take this training opportunity -- I hesitated due to the suspicion that I would be the eldest and out of context for an entire two week period. That could be hard for me and (perhaps) might make for a less than optimal experiences for my classmates. After all, my assumption was that everyone would be young and eager and at the beginnings of their careers with the NPS. Not so, there were several men who were surely entering a second career after teaching or lawyering somewhere in the country and facing retirement reluctantly after the loss of a spouse. It was comforting to find myself not alone in my later years, but at least in a couple cases -- among contemporaries. I don't believe anyone, though, was older than I.

Nonetheless, it never occurred to me that -- once there -- I would not be able to keep up with everyone else. I'm healthy and fit and able to do about anything the training or the company called for, and so it was -- until ... .

Along about the middle of the first week we were studying concessionaires and partnerships of the NPS and as an exercise were sent out in teams with clipboards to survey the concessionaires along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. I happily trudged along with my classmates and entered the Hopi Shop to make an attempt at being discreet while looking at and assessing a number of criteria from my list. We'd been told to try not to be too noticeable among the tourists.

As I was observing a tourist trying on a beautiful Navajo bracelet, the woman behind the counter greeted me with, "...well, hello! Are you here with Elderhostel?" Suddenly I was no longer a student of the Albright Institute on a class assignment, but a lil ole lady who may have absent-mindedly wandered away from her tour. I found myself suddenly walking a bit more slowly and noticing that my breathing was more labored than usual (the altitude, I'd been told), and remembering that I might not be paying proper attention to the warning that I stay hydrated... all nonsense, of course.

Then, during the Sunday visit to Sedona and that anticipated visit to the Vortexes (mysterious energy fields that arise from deep in the sandstone hills), I jumped out of Maggie's little sporty top-down Miata and scrambled up the hillside to experience this phenomenon. Halfway up the incline I stopped to rest for a minute or so before taking on the next level. Maggie had gone ahead. As I stood catching my breath a conversation of a group of elders drifted across the slope. A white-haired older woman was saying, "...and, oh!, I was so frightened! I found myself caught halfway up to the hillside and I panicked. I couldn't go up or down and it scared me to death until someone shouted to me to just sit down and slide down on my bottom!"

That was all it took. Again, I was suddenly old. I simply couldn't dare go up another foot lest I get caught in the embarrassingly helpless state just described. I missed the experience of the Vortex. The chance will hardly come again. And it was all because, again, I allowed myself to be limited by accepting an external view of what was possible for me. Had I not overheard that woman's conversation, I would surely have scrambled up that incline along with Maggie and thought nothing of it. Scraping up or down on my bottom would have been little more than something to laugh about later in explaining the condition of my Levis!

I decided during a moment of silence on the drive back to the Grand Canyon that I would never ever want to live in a nursing home where the expectations of what I am capable of comes from others.

I must continue to dictate life on my own terms -- while understanding that I'm bound to run into a lot of sandstone gravel-ly places over the next few years -- but somewhere at the top of the incline will be a Vortex that I must not miss.

Maybe -- if I keep listening for the music -- I'll not hear those dissonant voices that dull the senses and limit experiences.

The only limitations I experienced during the entire two weeks at Albright were those I placed upon myself.

What a pity!

Photo: A thumbnail panoramic view of Sedona from the site of the Vortex. Click to enlarge.

Suffering from a rare burst of outraged feminism!

I've seldom claimed militancy where women's issues are concerned -- been far too absorbed in dealing with racism and concern for human rights over a lifetime -- but today I'm more than a little annoyed.

After hours of searching the Internet for the name of the woman who designed this exquisite Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona, all I can come up with is "... created by a disciple of the great Frank Lloyd Wright." Now isn't that an abomination!

If anyone can do better, do let me know. I'd love to give credit to this superb architect. She deserves better treatment by the arts world -- as do the many great women artists whose work has been credited to others throughout history.

This photo can't possibly do justice to this exquisite little chapel, but maybe there's enough of a hint of the grandeur of the setting and the magnificent colors of the sandstone to encourage you to visit to see it for yourself at some point when the mood strikes and the gas tank is full. Makes me wonder why I'd never heard of the Chapel of the Holy Cross before now. Perhaps there are books published -- but then maybe -- if I'd taken the time to walk down to the lower floor to the gift shop I'd have noticed them ... but I was too totally caught up in the wonder of the moment to think of anything so obvious.

And how does one speak of Sedona? In hushed tones, or course.

Maggie, the delightful receptionist at the Albright Training Center, called one morning shortly after six o'clock (yeah, I groaned) to ask if I wouldn't like to hop into her little two-passenger Miata with the top down and do the two-and-a-half-hour trip to Sedona on our free Sunday? "Be ready by 8:30," says she. "We'll lunch on buffalo kabobs with fried rattlesnake and cactus at the Cowboy Cafe," all of which she topped off handily with a chocolate martini if you can believe ... (Lady Godiva, of course).

Earlier in the week I'd had the disconcerting experience of having been "outed" by an online article which had appeared in Inside NPS. Unlike the D-list "celebrity" I've become accustomed to being here at home, in this new context it made me appear kind of "above the fold" in importance. I later learned that it was Maggie who had discovered my more public persona and printed the piece out for posting in the classrooms. Up to that point I had been "Incog-Negro" and the added attention caught me off guard and more than a little surprised. At home the public attention from the media feels like a part of the job of doing outreach and not terribly real nor rightfully earned.

There is a sensuality to Sedona. The natural giant rock formations are clearly phallic and must surely have given rise to myth and legends of fecundity; fertility. The color is breath-taking! Against the azure skies the varied reds and oranges of the sandstone are stunning!

We visited the tiny Catholic Chapel of the Holy Cross that juts out from the dramatic background against which it was set like a brilliant and colorful gem in a tiara of some unnamed giant goddess. It was designed by a woman student of the great Frank Lloyd Wright (and whose name I've shamefully forgotten for the moment). It seats no more than about thirty people at any one time. Pilgrims from everywhere are ambling up a winding path from below in a never-ending stream of awe-struck art worshippers -- hour after hour -- and all surprisingly quiet and subdued; a tribute to true art. Here is a perfect blending of artistic vision and natural wonder.

More later ... .

I'm home again ... and have spent the past week since returning trying to figure out how it will ever be possible to write about the ineffable ...

When our 5-hour bus trip from the Phoenix airport brought us the first glimpse of the Grand Canyon -- I was speechless. There is no way to capture the grandeur -- the wonder cannot be translated onto a postcard, or even a huge glossy expensive coffee table book ...

Reminds me of the next day when there was the opportunity to stand with others at one of the vista points along the south rim ... trying to turn away from the almost impossible-to-resist urge to jump! It's hard to explain that there was no suicidal impulse propelling me forward -- just the almost irresistible wish to fold into the universe in this wondrous place ... to become one with all that IS! Crazy? Perhaps. But in that setting it felt primal. Clean. Real. This was not the place to be alone, I think.

There was a group of young people standing nearby. I listened as they, too, were apparently seeing this scenic wonder for the first time. For the most part they were silent. Then one oohed quietly, "...Cool! WOW!" My reaction was one of quiet (grownup) contempt for the failure of education to arm kids with no more adequate ways of expressing their feelings. How had we come to this -- this impoverishment of the English language -- this lack of adjectives that would reduce youngsters to this oft-repeated and over-used nothing of an expression? "Cool indeed!"

On Wednesday evening of the second week of the training session we learned that there would be a total lunar eclipse that we might view from vantage points along the rim not too far from the training center. I could hardly imagine such an event happening during my stay here -- to witness a lunar eclipse over the Grand Canyon! What kind of serendipitous coming together of the fates could have brought this not-to-be-missed once-in-a-lifetime celestial event to insignificant me? What could possibly be more magical or more unexpected?

On Wednesday the snows returned with a vengeance. It snowed most of the day; a sight so beautiful to my unaccustomed eyes -- having grown up in coastal California. The thought of missing the eclipse was only a minor disappointment. This white wonderland may just be enough for me. I was operating on overload in all this wonder stuff anyway, right? What more could the universe possibly offer after standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon viewing every stratum of millions of years of geological evolution from Mexico to Canada and from this one astonishing place?

The snows continued to drift down soundlessly throughout the day with only occasional breaks. About 18 inches had fallen by nightfall.

Then -- as if by some magical off-stage signal by some Grand Wizard -- just minutes before the scheduled beginning of the eclipse -- the snows ceased -- the sky was suddenly crystal clear. Here -- while everything stopped save breathing -- the rare and great drama of the universe began to unfold.

I watched through tear-filled eyes which distorted the image but increased the magic by so doing -- and felt deep inside that I was absolutely essential to this unfolding. An essential part of the miracle simply by bearing witness to something multitudes of human beings have shared over the millenium; had written into our legends and cultures and painted and carved into our arts and danced and sung ... and here I was at one of the holiest of places of the world -- bearing witness, too, and feeling at one with every living creature across the planet -- over all of the ages.

And -- you know what?

All I could think of was "like waaaaaay cool!" and hecka WOW!"

...on the walk home I grinned silently to myself as I came to terms with the fact that those adjective-challenged young people were surely experiencing the awe to the same degree that I was - and that they, too, will someday make or find their own means of expressing it -- through dance, through song, through carvings and stories and rhymes -- and that this is what forms the bridge of human experience that we all must cross before time overtakes mortality.