Throughout my workday, the image of Sr. Corita Kent's colorful poster from the Sixties -- "Don't just DO something, Stand there!" kept flashing from somewhere deep inside ... .

Yesterday in Dr. Smith's reception room was my "Stand there!" moment, and I was helpless to resist.

For just a few moments while Dorian was with the medical assistant undergoing a 500 item true/false test (being read to her), the psychologist invited me into his inner office for some clarification of conflicting facts in Dorrie's interview -- nothing especially noteworthy, just some confusion around dates and times.  But it was his questions about any signs of changes in her mental states that I may have noticed in the months after the accident.  My hesitancy in answering his question puzzled me.  I could feel the hesitation and mumbled something almost incoherent (or so it felt).

Her life had surely changed unalterably, and there had been traumatic injury, but why were the signs not obvious to me?  After all, she'd been moved out of a group home, been through 2 rounds of surgery, been relocated 5 times (counting her move back home); before moving eventually into her own apartment; had lost her peer group; and had she really weathered all that without any visible effect?  I consider myself an observant mother, but couldn't point out what must be quite obvious to others.  Why was that?

Well into my reception room " 7-hour retreat" it began to dawn that I had done the thing I've spent an entire life trying to avoid; I'd filled in all of the "holes" in Dorian's life with huge chunks of my own!  Because this has been an unusually productive period with many honors and rewards and meaningful work to do, I've been blinded by the reality that since November 27, 2009, I've given up the one friendship (with Tom) which provided a peer relationship.  Those occasional lovely weekends at the ocean in Mendocino have ended; those occasional celebratory dinners at Tadich; visits to the DeYoung, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art; the occasional concert and/or play; walking the headlands, and wandering through the Mendocino and Fort Bragg art galleries; had all abruptly and unceremoniously ceased.  I miss riding up and down the Coast Highway in Tom's little red Citroen
Duex Cheveaux - the "Geezermobile" and sitting around in the evenings arguing politics while looking up through the skylights at the incoming fog bank... .

For the first six months of last year I worked my regular hours and visited Dorian in various facilities every day -- sometimes twice -- bringing her yarn for her various projects and picking up soiled laundry or returning clean clothing.  In June, she moved into my condo (returning to the group home was not an option - or was it?) where she remained for several months.  Since moving into her own apartment about 5 minutes away from mine, she has no life except for NIAD and the time shared with me.  Her weekends are all spent at my apartment.  Her income is limited to SSA so I pay for a part of her rent and most of her groceries, and I've given up both cable service and my house phone augmented by liquidating some limited Roth IRA shares in order to do so.   After all is said and done, could this not be the emergency I'd always been saving for?  I've made my daughter dependent in ways that are new and really not healthy for either of us.

I've been anticipating every bump in the road, and providing cushioning against a world I no longer could trust with her life.  Small wonder that I can't find signs of trauma in my daughter -- I've absorbed most of that into my own.  Had I not been there to catch her as she fell, she would have had to use that social system that we've spent so much time preparing her for.  She has more of me and my time than ever before in her life.  I'm completely dominated by her needs, and I've failed her in that -- after granting her autonomy I've snatched it away to ease my own guilt at being off scene when she was struck in the streets -- guilty because she'd lain in a hospital bed beyond the reach of anyone; unidentified because she was carrying 5 different identification cards -- none of them current, and in a hospital in a strange town because her medical coverage had been allowed to lapse for 6 months prior to the accident!  (All the responsibilities of her supervisors from the vendor operator, social worker, and assigned case manager.  The accident laid bare a badly degraded system designed to serve the developmentally disabled.)  I was out of cell phone range, 3 hours away, until Monday morning 3 days after the accident, when on the drive home my cell phone came alive with an urgent call from a strange voice of a male nurse, " ... does anyone at this number know Dorian Reid?, if so, please call Eden Medical Center and ask for Zack."  Her group home supervisor did not know where she was because she'd been visiting friends in a nearby town for the weekend.  She hadn't been missed until I notified the house of her whereabouts on Monday morning. The friends she was visiting with were also mentally disabled and living independently in an apartment in a neighboring town.  They did not report her missing, but continued to try desperately to reach her when she failed to return.  Her cell phone was lost at the scene of the accident.  This I learned when calling her number to find the voice mailbox filled to its capacity with frantic messages  ("Dorrie, Dorrie, where are you?  Dorrie, call  us, please!") a few days later.  The phone was never recovered to my knowledge.  It was her lifeline, had she had it she would surely have called me when she woke after the surgery.  It was her connection to everyone in her life, and that connection was now hopelessly broken.

If Dorian hasn't displayed the trauma that surely she experiences, it's because of the regression that I've
gone through.  She is still productive and is back in her arts program at NIAD (a Godsend!), but her mobility is now curtailed by a weight gain (25-30 lbs) and a less responsive body from having to use a walker and wear a leg brace, the chronic headaches, and losing her physical activities as a year-round Special Olympics athlete has reduced her social life to nil.  (Could her excessive sleeping pattern be symptomatic of depression?)  There are always weekends with Mom to look forward to, of course.  And Mom can be so engaging; so resourceful; fun!

With a conscientious "Mom" anticipating her every wish, who's to worry?

So, now that I've "stood there," Sister Corita, what on earth do I do now?  Dorian hasn't the mental capacity to know what is missing from her own life and little reason to want more independence or autonomy, but her mother needs her own life back, I think, and the sooner I can regain what little there is left of that -- the better, right?

I used to say that keeping distance between us and allowing Dorian her autonomy gave me the luxury during my lifetime of seeing how she would fare in the world after I'm gone.  Told myself since she was a toddler that my job was to teach her to use systems, find her way through bureaucracies; social workers, case managers; that it was of far greater value to her for me not to provide answers but to direct her to others out in the community who could supply them in my absence.  I created myself a role as "Mother as best friend."  It worked, I thought.  She surely fulfilled her part, and I truly believe she uses everything that she has and has been "maximized" as much as possible.  She clearly has developed enough skills to get her basic needs met.  I believe we've done all the right things, until now.

How on earth do I step back now, and trust the world with her life; yet that is precisely what I will need to re-learn, even knowing that she may not make it.  She must continue to have the chance to try.

Maybe now that I've had that precious 7 hours to face up to the truths that I've masked all these months, maybe I'll be able to see the signs of trauma that she surely must experience.  I've so needed to believe that she is alright, and my own world has provided so much distraction, a blessing, really ... .  

Fortunately, I have my work, and - though barely adequate in these times -- my fiercely-guarded financial independence -- but we just may need to consider professional help to resume the direction toward that separation that is now eluding us, and that is so essential if I'm not to abandon her to impending "natural causes."  I have so few answers at this point, and little confidence that anyone has. 

There is so little time left to correct our course ... .

Just hit the proverbial brick wall ... and I'm not sure what to do about it ... .

On Wednesday Dorian and I met with the orthopedist who was assigned to do an evaluation for the pending litigation having to do with her 11/27/2009 auto/pedestrian accident.  I'm not sure what I expected, due to the fact that the only experience I've had over a lifetime having to do with attorneys had to do with my divorce which was amicable.  It seemed logical to follow the advice of those professionally involved in such matters, and there were certainly enough existing records to draw from and the only confirmation of claims lay with examination of the one involved; Dorian.  I could be of little help in this matter except as support for her, but only if needed.

I waited until about two days before to tell her about the two appointments (Wednesday orthopedic, and Wednesday, psychological) so that she would not be needlessly apprehensive.  The truth as she could recall it and whatever impressions they could illicit through their meeting with her was really all she needed to provide.  Ten years of marriage to a psychologist had perhaps prepared her mother, so it felt about right.  I picked her up from her apartment on Tuesday night so that we would be ready for the drive to San Francisco early in the morning.  She asked few questions, and seemed comfortable with the arrangements.  On the drive over in heavy commute traffic, she was in charge of the GPS system and aided the robotic voice by repeating the prompts at each highway change.

Wednesday went well.  The physician was warm and welcoming, and seemed well-prepared to receive her.  In about 4 hours we were on our way home, and the only threat was the drive across the S.F./Oakland Bay bridge, which we navigated successfully (this had been the only threat I've felt in the days leading up to these appointments).

Yesterday's appointment turned out to have some hidden landmines:

The psychologist let us know -- even before we left the reception room to enter his inner office  -- that this session would last for at least 7 hours!  (He told us, as an aside, that the procedure normally takes 8 hours, but that we were starting an hour later than usual in order to accommodate our wishes.)  We'd had no warning of this, and my minimal preparation of Dorian provided no hint of what this might entail.  Actually, she's never  undergone such intensive testing before in her life, so neither of us knew what this meant.  It also meant that I'd not come prepared with a book to read or crossword puzzles to solve, and would be forced to do something completely foreign -- sit and think for 7 whole hours --uninterrupted!  This is called "hitting the wall," and it would prove to be sobering, indeed.


But now I have to leave for work, and the revelations brought on by my enforced stoppage will have to wait until I get home this evening ... but I think the insights were profound;  maybe even life-altering.

More later,

The sculptor's name is Mario Chiodo, and his work is breathtaking  ... !

 ... a visit to his Oakland studio on Thursday proved to be absolutely awe-inspiring.  The figure shown here is the head of Thich Nhat Hanh, Buddhist Monk, and but one of the many figures who, together, make up the elements in this magnificent sculpture to be installed in Henry J. Kaiser Park in downtown Oakland on September 6th.  This work has been ten years in the making, and the first phase is now nearing completion.

It stands 30' tall, and we were able to see the first of the four elements in the final stages of creation; being cast in bronze.  This was a visit to the foundry where that work is in progress.

Another of the elements is a depiction of Maya Angelou (below), with little Ruby Bridges of the New Orleans school desegregation struggles standing below at the edge of this photo on the far left.

Standing in the presence of these imposing figures was overwhelming.  There are -- at this stage, 25 in all, and another ring of local "extraordinary ordinary" people (not yet created) will accompany those shown in the original piece.  Among the rest of the original cast are Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, Chief Joseph, Mother Teresa, Winston Churchill, Martin Luther and Coretta Scott King, Rosa Parks, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Cesar Chavez, Helen Keller, Harvey Milk, Henry J. Kaiser, Ansel Hall, Abraham Lincoln, Malcolm X, and others.  Chiodo's concept posits that these were ordinary people of every race and ethnicity who rose to make extraordinary contributions to serve all of humanity, and there is resonance in this year's Home Front Festival -- where -- coincidentally, we'd quite independently fashioned the concept of "Extraordinary Ordinary People" to serve as the theme of this year's mid-October festival.  It's almost too good to be true, though obviously an idea whose time has come.  But how do we make the connections?  Which is why we visited Mario's studio, to meet him, and to try to figure out just how that might be ... .

What an amazing day of discovery and awe in the presence of genius!

Note:  For more information, visit Mario Chiodo's website, or that of "Remember Them, Champions for Humanity."

Not to worry ... .

I just may be -- not only the oldest national park ranger in the country -- but the only ranger yet hired into infinity!

My stay with the park service has been extended into the unknown future.  I've been rehired, and this time it's not a "term" appointment, but designated as "permanent."  And, the  competing applicant was also hired.  How cool is that?

Over the past days I've become aware of how uncertain I've been about my future.  The fear that I would overstay my usefulness to this work that has become so central to my existence -- was causing me to distance myself from any notion that there was even the faintest possibility that my work has also been important to the development of this park.

Got caught  up in strange conversations with my colleagues having to do with how I really could find alternative ways to spend my time; that there were still job opportunities waiting, and that they needn't worry about me; that the decisions-makers should really give full attention to the other applicant without feeling the weight of "taking care" of me.  I never once felt confident that these were bright young people who are dedicated to the mission of the National Park Service and that the decision to keep me interpreting that mission was best for the park.  I should have known.  ... but I was so afraid that it might be time to leave and that my zest for this exciting work would prevent me from seeing it.

In my heart, now that the decision has been made -- I would agree.  This has been a remarkable year in a long life that seems to have been preparing me for precisely this role -- how incredible!  What a miracle that fate has placed me on the planet among those with whom I can now expand beyond even the limitations of age!

To hell with the tango lessons and chuck the kazoo!

I've been given new edges from which to carve out the rest of life!

Recently found myself observing that -- as I listened to my favorite jazz station on the car radio ... .

that I hadn't heard an African American jazz singer for a very long time.  Also, that black jazz musicians have virtually disappeared from the airways, or is it simply that I can no longer distinguish them from their emulators?  I don't think so.   Josh Redman still stands out as having an identifiable black sound.  And, it doesn't take many notes into a song to be able to tell a black from a white voice -- no matter how hip or laid back the performer.  There's a kind of quiet pride when -- alone in car --  Aha! I pounce on the imitators.  And, yes, even Diana Krall and the inimitable Mark Murphy fail my test of the melaninian sound (and I know that's not an actual word - but it'll do for the purpose of discussion).

Somehow great American popular music gave way to overwhelming decibel levels, elaborate costuming, general messiness masquerading as costume, mosh pits, dramatic clown-like theatrical makeup and fright wigs; partial and whole nudity on stage, the smashing of guitars, etc., and over time, both the music and my finely-tuned ear got lost in the carnage of Rock and Roll!

While watching Lee Williams, traditional gospel singer from Mississippi in a gospel concert -- almost motionless and dignified -- dressed in a fine dark brown suit, white shirt, and handsome silk tie standing at the mike before a fervent black evangelical congregation, I was reminded of how far the general music world has moved from complex sound to appearance and marketing ploys to attract sales and new audiences.  And today's white derivative musicians are working frantically to produce that wildly passionate 'call and response' still so natural and alive in the black church.  It was exploding all around us as we swayed to the insistent rhythms at Parks Chapel that day.  What I was hearing (and fighting the urge to dance in the aisle) was the age-old fundamentalist roots of jazz,  the legacy that I've almost lost in the course of becoming acculturated into the American whole. 

With Lester Young it was a simple pork pie hat; with Duke it was either a continental casual look or those formal tails swinging from the back of that piano bench, and Nat "King" Cole was the very essence of good taste -- right up to his time- and date-stamped patent-leather "processed" hairdo.  Physical appearance didn't compete with the music, even for the women of jazz, the signature was buried deep in the individual sound of their music.  I like to think that their style of dress was in keeping with respect for their audiences and their art.  I also believe that a cultural marker was set by the style created in the jazz world that is still visible in today's black church where one would never be seen in torn Levi's and  T-shirts in the House of the Lord, and where hats are elevated to "crowns" by the "saints" of the congregation.  Traces of the jazz world are still reflected in both the sound from the choir loft and in the pews through the "call and response" and "the beat" of sung gospel.  Black music has been powerful enough to stand alone with little need of enhancement beyond the artist's ability to deliver its message. Think the always well-tailored Wynton Marsalis for a contemporary example, and you'll gain some sense of the sacredness of jazz, and that this is, indeed, the black world's classical music.

The distortions emanated not only from the Rolling Stones and Kiss, but Cindy Lauper and now Lady Gaga in her infamous meat dress.  It seems foolish to hear both Lauper in her day and Lady Gaga, currently, complain that their outrageous look is merely attention-seeking, and that when they're performing -- we should only pay attention to their art.  

They've all been "commodified"  (okay, so according to the spellchecker, I'm making up words again) to the extent that artists have for the past few decades been sold as packages, a package that must include a "look," so that the quality of the music has disintegrated almost beyond recognition.  It's now almost impossible to comprehend either lyrics, or the intent of whatever they're offering to audiences beyond the sensational.  At best, most groups are playing mediocre music -- all different in an identical way, except for those still writing and performing simple original music on acoustic instruments in a genre other than jazz or blues -- but those more clearly associated with the individual artist's life, and within the context of their own experience.  I continue to find indescribable beauty in authenticity wherever it might be found.


But today Sonny Buxton has reminded me that all that good stuff is still available if I just tune in to a time when Jazz at the Philharmonic sessions were recorded for posterity.  I've now lived into that posterity -- and can draw on all those musical treasures for the good of my soul.  I've spent the past several hours just listening and remembering, and oh so many years have been tossed off in the process!

I find myself wondering when we're going to discover that those young black kids who might have become the Nat Coles, Lester Youngs, Mile Davises, the Charles Minguses, the Ella Fitzgeralds and Sarah Vaughns, are probably languishing in the prisons of the nation, completely unaware of the loss of the legacy that was theirs; while their imitators, the well-intentioned "derivatives," have filled in the vacuum left by their absence from the schools, the studios, and the sound stages of the country and the world?  And there's an innocence about it all since I have the feeling that fine white musicians have expropriated black music to the point where it is now they who are defining the genre, and all without any awareness of what role they've unwittingly played in the process.  Don't blame them, they were just "integratin'," and God knows that was the name of the game, was it not? 

... and are we all not the poorer for the loss?

Top right photo: Billie Holiday with Duke Ellington at lower left.

Thinking about jazz today as it plays in the background.  It's Sonny Buxton's Mid-day Jazz ... .

Sat down at the computer this morning wondering just how I could possibly write about yesterday's bus tour and do it justice?  It had been on my schedule for weeks though I'd paid as little attention to its approaching as possible without admitting to myself that there was some concern lurking in a corner of my consciousness that I might not be adequate to the telling of this history?  Would they guess that I might be insecure in this time of such high public acclaim ... acclaim that I still question ... in those minutes just before sleep each night? 

The teachers from Placer County school district under the leadership of the Department of Education (history?) at Sacramento State had arranged as a part of their week-long Bay Area experience, a day at Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front National Historical Park; a trip to Angel Island; one to Golden Gate National Regional Park at Fort Mason; and among them would be Professor Shirley Ann Moore of the black history department of Sacramento State.  Dr. Moore was to give a talk following lunch that would prove to be an extension of my own presentation earlier in the day.  Our work dove-tailed as if it were planned. We'd met once before as participants in a seminar sponsored by the University of California, but not where I had any kind of primary role to fulfill, so we were virtually strangers.

Also in yesterday's group would be recently-retired former journalist Tom Debley, historian from the Heritage Department at Kaiser Permanente corporate headquarters in Oakland.  We will be working together on a project involving the Pullman story involving Ethel Dotson's little International Hotel over on South Street in Richmond.  This would be the first time he would experience Betty the Tour Guide and self-proclaimed "historian."  Wow!  Two professional historians before whom I would be conducting 3-hour bus tour based on WWII history -- an era I'd surely lived through as a naive 20 year-old, but certainly not studied.  As I've said, I'm not working from an acquired store of knowledge, only personal remembrances of the era of WWII; my personal oral history.

Early in our 30-minute orientation before boarding the bus I opened with, "you will be experiencing through me, a very subjective presentation of one who lived the experience, but in no way do I claim to be an historian."  That being said, I almost immediately lost all self-consciousness or feeling of being inadequate to the task before me -- which meant almost 3 hours of being "on" with microphone before 50 passengers on a huge bus -- who magically were transformed into 50 pairs of eyes set in faces that expressed an avid interest and mirrored back to me expressions that assured me that it mattered not what labels were used, these were eager listeners to the stories -- and as such gave me more than polite attention.  They were involved.  As always, I felt the excitement of sharing those stories and, as always, they came alive for me as well.


But these thoughts are competing with the music of the jazz station, KCSM out of San Mateo, playing in the background.  Maybe I need to stop and write them out of mind while they're fresh and clear ... .

The music also brings to mind, Dmitri and the fact that I've not yet had a chance to hear him again; maybe this summer he'll be coming to one of the jazz festivals; there's one at Stanford university tomorrow at 2:30 featuring a Tribute to Nat Cole, just maybe ... .Skipping over to the website I learned that the great Brazilian composer/musician Milton Nasciamento will appear some time during the festival ... .The only time I wish to be young again -- the music I'd love to live over again.

Maybe there is comfort in being reminded that there are at least two tracks to my mind, and that I can still entertain more than one interest at a time even at this age without losing it!

(Now I'm listening to a Slam Stewart solo with Slam humming along with his acoustic bass in a fantastic improvisation on Hoagy Carmichael's Stardust -- with solos by trumpeter Willie Smith, Lester Young on alto sax, and Lionel Hampton on vibes from a concert produced by Gene Norman in Los Angeles in 1947.) 

I need to give this full attention, guys, sorry!

If I ever wondered how it would feel to be 'cartooned,' the answer is in ... .

As I understand it, in the Sunday edition as published this will appear in full color and that day the little child characters will be talking about the figure featured in the Soul Corner.

Received a call today from the office of the city manager announcing that the mayor of Richmond's sister city, Shimada, Japan, is arriving soon with his entourage of about 16 visitors, and that they would like to schedule a bus tour for July 5th.  That means working through an interpreter, of course, but that is far less daunting than you might assume.

I'm looking forward to another adventure in international relations -- and by that time I will surely have had some word about whether my contract is being renewed or if I should get out the kazoo and start humming!


In a few short weeks we'll be observing another Day of Remembrance at the Port Chicago site of the July 17, 1944 tragic explosion during WWII.  That night 320 young American lives were lost.   Everyone is deep into the planning of this second such event since the site became the 392nd unit of the National Park Service in March of 2010.  It now has assigned staff and is developing programming that is bringing to light the little-known history of the mutiny trials that eventually resulted in the desegregation of our armed forces.  (Enter "Port Chicago" into the search bar at the top left side of the screen - above the banner - for the full story.)  The process took 5 years to complete, but it was a watershed in our history of social change that forever changed the nation.

But, for now, I'm needing to reacquaint myself with the stories of Japanese internment (120,000 taken from their homes and sent to relocation camps -- 70,000 of whom were American citizens), so that I feel competent to handle any questions that may arise on the July 5th tour.  But, if I recall, last year when I conducted a tour at the Rosie Memorial for visiting students from Japan -- their professor told me that the internment is not taught in their schools -- so maybe I'm being overly sensitive.  We'll see.  But I'd want to be sensitive to the possibility that someone will remember ... .

I still do.

Can you imagine ... ?

.., I was asked to serve as interpreter for a bus tour of the scattered sites that make up Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front Historical National Park.  It was to accommodate a request from the director of California State Department of Parks and Recreation in Sacramento.  The special guest was award-winning Morrie Turner, nationally-syndicated cartoonist (featured in over 100 newspapers), the creator of Wee Pals.  He had been following stories about me and wanted to know more about my work and that of the National Park Service.  Occasionally, he does a Soul Corner in which some person of interest is featured -- and it seems that I've come to his attention.   

We spent 3 hours wending our way through the city while I told the stories of the WWII era and what was happening on the home front at that time.  During the course of the tour I discovered that he'd grown up in Berkeley, that he knew my husband, Mel Reid, and that we'd crossed paths many times over the decades.  He was wonderfully warm and engaging, and as our visit came to a close he presented me with his original draft of the pen and ink original sketch on Betty Reid Soskin that will be featured in full color in about 8 weeks in the Sunday comic sections!

Can you imagine being presented with an honorary doctorate and appearing as a cartoon character in the same summer -- or even the same lifetime?

Next thing you know I'll be dancing on coffee tables and playing my kazoo (which I'm practicing just in case my position comes to a close in a few weeks as my current contract ends)!

...and i just had to say:

Regarding the lost inkiness of the night sky that you wrote of so thoughtfully on 11/2/07, I recalled an account of an old woman whose first reaction to a room lit up with an incandescent bulb was to exclaim “But what about the darkness?  Where has the darkness gone?”

Some might think she was trying to comprehend the science of artificial illumination.  But it struck me that she was really expressing a sense of loss.
She is not alone.

Diane
Richmond, CA

Every now and then souls touch, as may be the case in this exchange with an online reader who felt obliged to respond to something I'd written.  In this instance, it was musings long since forgotten -- written on November 2, 2007 about the visit to my granddaughter's fifth grade class at Arts Magnet School in Berkeley.  I was -- for the day, "Show and Tell."

This beautiful passage caused me to search the archives for the post referenced, and I found myself lost in space for the next hour or so; remembering those young faces and the feelings evoked by the experience of standing  before that class for the Q&A.  Those feelings were well-captured in the writing, and powerful enough to bring the experience into the present for an encore.

Rarely do I hear from readers, only a few times a year, and I tend to forget anyone is "out there."  Odd, because I sometimes have the feeling that I do leave openings for dialogue, but then maybe not.  I normally tend to be "uploading" into my own reality without any idea that anyone is listening.

Not so, apparently.  Diane was on the same wave length -- even crossing time -- which allowed me to revisit something truly meaningful.

Upon reading her message and re-reading my 11/2/2007 post, I recalled that I'd never shared those feelings with Tamaya -- who is entering high school this fall.

I will send her to this post.

Taking a breather ... but I'm glad it may not be permanent ... .

Learned last week that I've made the cut with Human Resources and am still in the running for an extension of my contract with the NPS.  This means that -- at the resumé level -- where only the facts are being dealt with in assessing one's qualifications for a position (nothing about age or race involved), I'm still competitive.  That, in itself, is a minor miracle.  Next steps will be for the local staff to determine which of the remaining applicants from the national pool will best serve the needs of our park.  One can only hope, but I've decided that I can live comfortably with whatever the final choice is.  If another applicant can match or surpass my resumé, and have the added advantage of youth -- then the choice is obvious. But my record is a formidable one to measure up to -- and I say that with full confidence in those making the decision to have taken experience into account. 


Took a week off to come down from the high of commencement and the lows of anticipated legal actions having to do with Dorian's auto/pedestrian accident of 11/27/2009 (and, yes, the case is finally working its way through the legal system).  Our attorney has been working diligently on the case over the past months and, come July, Dorian has her first depositions with the examiners (orthopedic and psychiatric) to determine whether our claims are legitimate and just in a court of law.  Fortunately for us, the accident didn't involve an uninsured driver, but in this case she was struck by an auto operated by the police department of a neighboring city.   

She has unquestionably sustained permanent physical injuries (both legs fractured and two rounds of surgery - 4 nursing homes then rehabilitation that is on-going).  The damages are more obvious with each day.  The psychological damage in terms of increasing dependence and regression on both our parts is almost impossible to assess at this point, and I'm not sure that we can ever make up for what has been lost.  And, after a lifetime of working toward leaving her equipped to live beyond my lifetime; those losses are devastating.

So, having meaningful work to do as this unfolds has been most important.  I'm not sure that I'd have made it this far without having this amazingly worthwhile career in the National Park Service in a position where I'm confident that I'm making a difference.  Helping to shape a new national park feels vitally important -- and to honestly believe that I'm performing a role that few people are as fit for as I -- well, that's about the best one can ever expect to achieve.  It may not be superior qualifications, but that I'm one of the few left with the experience, physical strength, and who can still tie her own shoes!  I've outlived all those whose memories differ from mine, so I've become an authority of sorts.  Who's to argue with a dinosaur?

So, I'm tossing papers and stopping to update photo albums and re-reading old letters and articles and vegetating gloriously!  But I wouldn't want too much of this idleness.  I've got a world to save and a park to create ... and that takes staying in the arena at least until something better turns up, or, until the National Park Service decides to send me to the dugout, or into retirement, and/or Lawrence Welk Land where old folks go to dance and play kazoos!


Bottom photo:  If there are no more days ahead, I'll always have the memory of being included in this mural by students at NIAD which hangs on the walls of the Chief of Police of Richmond, California, with that clearly identifiable park ranger right in the middle of it -- the one with the cigar extending from her left ear (that's my pony tail, actually). 

The sounds of revelry are beginning to fade ... banners stored away... and life is back to what passes as normal ... .

One would hardly think that so recently we were in the throes of celebrations that rival Mardi Gras and New Year's Eve rolled into one.  Tossed the fading bouquets out of their temporary places on tables and desktops around our offices, and finally ... gradually ... life has become breathable again.

Monday morning I checked into my week's schedule to find that I was booked to give a talk for the womens's group at Downs Memorial United Methodist Church in South Berkeley on Saturday (that was yesterday).  Actually I've been looking forward to this engagement since the church is in my old neighborhood and has an African American congregation.  Its pastor at one time was an old friend, the late Rev. Roy Nichols, whom I remember most fondly.  This was a rare opportunity to share my work for the National Park Service with an all-black audience, and that feels good.  On Tuesday, 5/31, I'm scheduled to be the luncheon speaker for the Mill Valley Rotary Club in affluent Marin County.  The audience will probably be mostly male and white.  That  provides an interesting challenge to deliver the messages of the era of the Home Front before vastly differing audiences without compromising the truth.  

Also, in the interest of another personal project, I was scheduled to finally meet with Tom Debley, recently retired Kaiser Permanente journalist/historian/archivist, who will lead me through the process of researching a tiny 20-room hotel in Richmond that figures in the Pullman Company history. The International Hotel was a "Jim Crow" facility where porters stayed while the luxury sleeping cars were being serviced and stocked in the huge terminal on Carlson Boulevard and South Street before heading back across country.  The Pullman Company served as a major employer of African Americans as laborers during the 20's through the 40's. The main Pullman hotel, where white employees were housed (a short distance away at the corner of Carlson), has been long since torn down with no sign that it ever existed.  The International, on the other hand, still stands isolated and abandoned in a state of decay that is heartbreaking.

Fortunately, I've found someone willing and anxious, and who has the financial resources to purchase it for purposes of restoration, and since it falls well within the interpretive areas of my work (related to WWII housing for blacks), there is hope that we'll bring it back from the edge.  It was formerly owned and furiously protected by the late Ethel Dotson.  It was left to her son and only heir with whom we're negotiating its fate. 

"... foremost of Ethel's concerns was an obsessive dedication to the restoration of the tiny International Hotel that housed black railroad men on their layovers prior to and during the decades preceding WWII. She continually called out for whatever action might be necessary to save this important landmark. My ranger partner, Lucy, and I visited her there one day and were treated to a tour of the 20 tiny upstairs single-occupancy rooms and the cluttered large reception room on the ground floor that reflected her personal taste for the flamboyant. She proudly showed us her collection of newspaper articles and vintage photographs that spelled out the history of her struggle to protect the building for posterity -- for the telling of this important Black migration story that preceded that of World War II. The stories of black waiters, cooks, and Pullman porters who discovered the West Coast and the Bay Area (as did the men of my own family) at the far western end of their railroad runs on the Acheson, Topeka & Santa Fe and Southern and Western Pacific rail lines -- decades before World War II."

(for the complete post see the entry for 11/4/2007)

If our work is successful, we'll provide justification for its restoration in order to be able to interpret the Pullman story.  It is of value to the black migration story as it is one of the few remaining structures -- not destroyed by redevelopment agencies and/or loss of institutional memory.

On a related mission, I drove in on Wednesday evening to a meeting where members of the A.I.A. were doing a series of PowerPoint presentations from a list of endangered historic sites for re-consideration.  Our little hotel is on that list.  I sat through them all believing that it would come up, but they didn't get around to it at this meeting, but I've been invited to return in the very near future to make a case for its restoration.

Meanwhile, Debley and I have had our first meeting and I've received from the Redevelopment Agency a study of the Pullman Company that is fascinating as much for a profile on Bay Area labor history as it is specific to the story of the little hotel. 

Now, would you believe that my 4-year contract (what's called a term position) with the National Park Service comes to an end in July?  My job has been posted -- I've applied for it, again, of course -- but stay tuned.  This all may fall to someone else to complete.  As it works in the system, the decision is made elsewhere in the country from a national pool of applicants, and only if my application is in the final selection among those who are being seriously considered for the position, will I be re-hired. 

If only the job had been posted with the proviso that "no one under 85 need apply."  Or, "must hold honorary doctorate with a degree in the Fine Arts"! But that may be asking too much; do you suppose?

It may just be that I'll have to leave in the middle of this movie ... but ... in all fairness, I'm not certain that I'll ever know when it's time to leave ... .

It would be terribly sad if I stayed beyond my capacity to serve ... and how on earth will I recognize the signs?

About my commencement speech ... .

Words actually do fail.  In this case I was so overwhelmed by the size of that audience that I instantly froze!  The plan was to thank a list of people starting with President Beal, Sanjit Sethi, the Board of Trustees, faculty, my family and friends, the students and Class of Spring 2011, and by that time the nervousness was (theoretically) to have subsided.  Instead, I remember mentioning President Beal and then everything became a jumble!

I managed to give a speech -- and from the silence in that huge hall -- it must have reached the audience, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember a word of it!  I must have uttered a reasonable series of words of some sort in a logical sequence, but everything seemed scrambled. After a reasonable length of time (maybe 10 minutes that seemed an eternity) I heard myself ending with best wishes to the Class of 2011 before returning to my seat (forgetting my folder on the lectern).  At that point I found myself distracted by a parade of interesting, outrageous, wildly inventive, highly-varied, shoes on the feet of the graduates as over 400 of them paraded within 8 feet of my chair in the ceremony of acceptance of diplomas and stoles not unlike my own.  (I'd leave the self-criticism until later.)

It felt as if I'd failed, totally, but as the grand recessional ended, I could see that the audience was not sharing my sense of failure.  They were smiling and reaching out to me as I marched by.  Somehow the words must have all come out in some coherent form - or surely it would have been evident in those smiling faces.

The later blow-up with Dorrie meant that there was no time to re-live those moments, or, to sort out those negative impressions, and I'm sure that the residual feelings of that failure to live up to my own expectations became confused with her accusations and added to my sense of being profoundly undeserving of this great honor; obviously bestowed in error!  Yet, my family and friends had been glowing in their pride when we met after the program; I could feel it.  Those balancing good feelings were lost in the melt-down -- but have since returned, and for that, I'm grateful.

It may interest you to learn that I've since "edited" that speech (having had it return in bits and pieces just before dropping off to sleep each night since), and it's now nearly perfect.  Wish that had happened before the last time to have my say before the world had passed by; but maybe there were enough fragments in whatever came forth in those moments, and they'll have to suffice.

None of it makes any sense, but at the feeling level, there is fulfillment of a kind that few of us mortals ever experience; I'm certain of that.  Maybe it's at this exalted level that life makes about as much sense as is possible to achieve -- but only if we stay on a spiritual emotional plane.  It's fragile, and tends to fall apart until we go beyond the rational.  But once there, the epiphany generates its own light and the brightness is blinding -- so much so that one can only hold on with a steadying and stunning parade of shoes ... .


On Friday I gathered up six original songs (written over 40 years ago) and burned them onto a CD ; enclosed them in cards of thanks -- and mailed one each to President Beal and to my friend, Sanjit.  I'm hoping that these bits of myself which contain words of meaning carried by a really lovely young voice I barely identify with now, will communicate the gratitude that will follow me for the rest of this remarkable life.

Photos by Liz Fisher except for
Bottom left;  Professor of Community Arts, and my friend, Sanjit Sethi, who introduced me to the audience and held my hand in the days leading up to the big event (the first of those taken by the assigned photographer).

 Niece, Gail Brooms Clifton, and granddaughter Rosie Reid Funk, Bob's daughter..

So Dorie and I did a "crash and burn," but now the air is cleared ... .

and the confetti and paper hats have been resurrected, and all because I finally had a chance to view the photos stashed in my camera -- and the images carried enough power to grant  a re-run of all that glory!

Just take a look at these gems!  And the promised shots of those taken by the professional photographer have not yet arrived  -- can you imagine what those will show?

These were taken at the dinner on Thursday, May 12th, in honor of John Baldessari and me -- I'd almost forgotten in the agony of the past few days -- just how wonderful that evening was.

Left:  Co-honoree, the world-famous photographer, John Baldessari. Six foot eight inches of creativity, with a resume that includes many prior academic honors.  His photographs are in the Smithsonian collections.

 CCA president, Stephen Beal and members of the Board of Trustees






                  My youngest granddaughter, Tamaya Reid, David's daughter.  
                      I've not yet located a photo of her sister, Alyana, but I will.


Betcha thought I'd never recover, right?  Not so.

The storm has passed, and life is good, again.

(Let's hope the quick turnaround between these last two posts didn't give you whiplash!)

Note:  Click on any of these photos to view details.

"The Rapture!"-- succeeded by the descent into Hell!

It simply didn't occur to me to not include Dorian in last week's events, though doing so was sure to produce some challenges.  I long ago developed the ability to factor those in and make do with whatever results.

At some point in an earlier blog (maybe last year just after 4th of July?) I tried to describe the schizophrenic state I have to place myself in when she's included in my social activities -- the choice  is between staying with my "normalcy" in relation to others,  or, leaving her all alone in the chaotic world of intellectual deficits that she inhabits.  The choice to stay in her world I've learned to make willingly, and to trust that others (who may read my behavior as socially withdrawn or deliberately isolating myself) to understand.

Without too much thought or planning -- and being preoccupied with my own over-the-top acclaim of the past months -- I took advantage of the fact that she was nursing a sore throat and running a low-grade temperature and excluded her from the Commencement dinner on Thursday evening.  I admit that I felt relieved at not having to deal with tending to her at my time of celebration.  I used the excuse that I had to attend a meeting in San Francisco (not so unusual) so would not be at home when she called to say good night, her usual nightly practice.

But she was with me all that evening in that I chose to wear one of her delightful creations (a black beaded,  sequined, and appliqued blouse with her signature cats and flowers over black crepe trousers), and used them as a conversation piece in those (often difficult for me) small talk encounters that are typical of receptions.  The choice served well since, in chatting about NIAD (National Institute for Artists and Disabilities), I learned that there was a significant number among the celebrants who were parents or siblings of the mentally-retarded or physically disabled, including at least one member of the Board of Trustees, and President Beal, himself.

When I returned to CCA for the Friday evening fashion show, I choose to wear my incredible Dorian-hand-painted "happy pants," which seemed appropriate since this was the California College of the Arts, after all, a school which supplied the interns who served as instructors at NIAD.  Though her fever had subsided, there was no thought of taking her along since she knew that she needed to heal in order to attend Saturday's commencement ceremony.

So far, so good.

Dorrie's throat and slight fever subsided over the next 24 hours, and (of course) there was no question that she would be included in the great event of the day.  I picked her up early on Saturday from her apartment and prepared her as far as I could with a description of what the day might hold.  I'm not sure that I gave her anywhere near a full understanding of just how "honored at" her mother was to be, however.  There was no clear way to do that, or at least I couldn't find one.  An important omission, as it turned out.

The limo (sleek black Lincoln Continental) arrived at 12:15 as scheduled, and we were off.  I'd tried to prepare her for this, and was amused with her remark as we rode in the back seat behind our uniformed driver that she'd been in a limo before, "... this is like Grandpa's funeral, isn't it?

She'd not been prepared for arriving at the Concourse and 4000 jubilant people gathered there -- with flashing cameras, strange people in black robes, unfamiliar cousins, friends, fellow park rangers, people who obviously knew me but who were completely unknown to her, nieces and nephews seldom seen, and her two brothers all in the mix.  She must have been totally overwhelmed!  Unfortunately, her mother, who is usually running interference, interpreting, and keeping close at hand, was too personally involved to notice the pressure building.

She managed to get through the celebratory dinner at a lovely East Bay restaurant  following the ceremony, but just barely.  There was her mother seated at the head of the table surrounded by proud family and friends, draped in "honorary doctorate stole" with bouquets being placed in water by the waitress -- wearing two leis draped 'round her shoulders, and being hailed like a rock star!  My preoccupation with self in those moments made me insensitive to the storm building in the background.


We arrived at home in the early evening to a nightmare of reactions to the day.

"It's always about you, you, you!!!!!  Justified or not, that has been disturbingly true over the recent past.  It must have been just awful for her.  She was now totally out of control and into a screaming rage!  I'd completely forgotten that it was she who is the artist, and not her mother.  Hadn't I always celebrated her for that? Had I invaded her world unwittingly? Was the wearing of her designs a mere exploitation of her artistry?  Why on earth was all of the attention being centered on me?  What on earth had I ever done (to her understanding) to deserve this amount of public attention?

Dorian's limited brain-power has provided her with no filters.  She could not possibly hide deep feelings of hurt, envy, and unmitigated rage! Was I truly as undeserving as I've always suspected, and could it be that my children and grandchildren share her negative feelings but were unable to express them as honestly as she? 

Over the entire weekend she ranted and raved about her own accomplishments -- bragged loudly and outrageously in an irrational but understandable display of what-ever-it-was until -- by nightfall on Sunday -- the fever had returned and her throat was now inflamed from screaming her pain.

Eventually, I felt terribly bruised from the onslaught of her charges, but there was just enough truth in them to overturn the elation of my extraordinary moment in time.  My long-restrained response to the unfairness that I've been feeling invited doubt to re-enter the ring for a return match.  I felt angry at her for her inability to understand and appreciate all that had happened for me -- and I felt helpless to combat those deficiencies that her retardation has caused to so relentlessly dominate my existence over a lifetime. And, I simply didn't like her at this point, for raining on my parade.  That said, we need to get on with life and continue the love that sustains us both through these extremely difficult places.  Maybe what saves us, eventually, is the ability to face up to circumstances that are beyond our control honestly, and ride them out with as little carryover as possible.

On Monday morning, I made an appointment with the Urgent Care department at the hospital and took her in for an examination.  The fact that -- added to a flare-up of allergies -- this was purely an emotional response to all that had happened.  My guess was that it would soon pass.  Predictably, she was seen by her primary physician and my diagnosis confirmed.  I then gathered up all of the lovely bouquets and the beautiful leis and brought them to my office cubby.  All signs of the celebratory weekend had to be removed from my home in order for peace to return to our lives.

A week has now passed.  She returned to her apartment on Monday as I got back into my work and -- except for an occasional reminder -- Commencement has been put on a back burner, except for my writings.   She holds nothing back nor does she carry such episodes into the future.  For her, it's over.  From her attitude since she came home for the weekend yesterday, one would hardly guess what a traumatic period we've just come through.  At this moment she's sitting in the big chair in my living room busily working on an art piece (making a crocheted pillow cover) and bragging to no one in particular about her hand-painted toy box at NIAD that sold for $140 during the week -- and that she has a new piece in an exhibit in San Francisco this week ... .

Dorian, the Artist, whose feelings of the unfairness of it all, has come through despite resentment at being skipped over -- of the absence of public appreciation (and isn't that a fairly universal hunger?). 

Her mother?

Not so much ...

... I guess I wanted to feel the confetti drifting down just a little while longer ... .

And more photos ...

taken by my granddaughter, Kokee, possibly with her cell phone.  The official (professional) photos will be sent by CCA, and they may be clearer -- but they won't carry the love that these do!  There will be a DVD of the proceedings in the mail in a few days.  I'm not sure I'll want to view it, ever.  Some things are better left alone.  Maybe it should be kept with this blog (I'm thinking of having it printed out in book form by an online service), but I'll need to save up for that.  Since there will be so many volumes, (since 9/2003-present), I'm not sure it won't cost as much as a complete set of the encyclopedia!

You cannot imagine such a  

glorious, confusing, affirming, crazy, wild, and wonderful day!

Speechless ... almost!  More later when the dust has settled and the petals have fallen from the bouquets.  

(Photo by Peter Freund)

The time is 10:50 a.m., the limo is scheduled to arrive at 12:15 to deliver Dorian and me to the Concourse where Commencement of the Class of 2011 will begin promptly at two o'clock ... .


It's reminiscent of those late teen years when my mother would try to talk me into not waiting for my date to arrive -- sitting on the front steps.  I'm now waiting for the limo and trying to not be looking out through the drapes for signs of arrival, two hours too early.  I will surely have wilted before the party begins! 

I've been up since six o'clock.  I lay awake for hours -- after attending the Fashion Extravaganza on campus; a most exciting event!  I hadn't planned on going, but found that I needed to have a continuing immersion in the universe that is CCA in order to fulfill the role that I've been given as mentor.  I'm finally convinced that this word is fittingly descriptive of why I'm here and being honored on this day.

On Thursday evening there was the warm reception and beautiful dinner (with bouquets of cream-colored tulips on each table) in the honor of the two of us who are being honored.  The limo's arrival at 4:30 was preceded by a ring of my doorbell and the delivery of a lovely floral bouquet with a card of congratulations from President Stephen Beal of CCA.

By midnight last night the panic set in.  Was I simply foolish to think that I could actually deliver a major address without notes?  What ever was I thinking?  This would be like performing a high wire act without a net!  And the promised carefully constructed speech of my dreams was nowhere to be found.

I spent hours trying to recall just what it was that I felt so sure would be standing by to be drawn upon.  Nary a word.  Had I become over-confident from conducting years of bus tours as an National Park Service interpreter, and for total strangers -- and doing it without notes?  I work from memory and whatever the moment held for us, together, to be expressed and explored.  Why had I put such stock in my capacity to transfer those abilities into this once-in-a-lifetime event?  Is this not what others train long years in order to do? 

Then, at about three in the wee hours of the morning the words began to line up in recognizable order to be uttered from the lectern this afternoon.  Rose about six and logged on to my computer and brought up the word processor in order to pull together at least the first few words of thanks to President Beal, my friend, Sanjit, who would be introducing me; the Board, faculty, staff, family and friends, and finally, to the graduates.  I'm counting on those important words to provide a proper foundation -- a chance to settle in and become accustomed to the setting -- and I'm gambling on this being enough to steady my emotions enough for those words of long nights of tossing and intense dreaming to come through.

It's still "Thumb prints, Gate Posts, and Bookends."  The connecting truths are there waiting in the wings of my mind.  If not, I will allow my words of gratitude to suffice.  But they will come.

I'm certain of it.

Almost ... .

Peace be with me ... please!

As one might guess, as the day of Commencement approaches -- the tension grows ... .

How on earth can one ever measure up to such expectations?  But then maybe it is only I, myself, who is setting those expectations, right?  Maybe I've already reached whatever heights others were setting for me, which would suggest their rationale for choosing me for this great honor in the first place.  But then the very fact that they're sending a limo to drive me from home and back announces their expectations in a fairly serious way, does it not? 

The big decisions have now been made; the "what to wear" and "what to say" are now set in stone.  It will be something already on hand and previously worn and guaranteed "comfortable" so that I don't have to think about appearances.  That will leave only the commencement address to concern myself with.  The title remains unchanged, "Thumb prints, gate posts, and bookends" it shall be.  Let's hope that I can weave them successfully into whatever final form they take.  At this point I'm happy to allow the content to continue to deepen and mellow.  I'm sure that I've given this talk over and over again in many settings -- in my dreams.  I'm experiencing a very active dream life from the disheveled state of the bedding in the mornings; though I'm noticing that I wake more at peace in the past few days -- a serenity that may indicate that the work is nearly done.

As foolish as it may sound, I'm reluctant to try to capture it into a paper for fear that I'll be tempted to simply read it instead of delivering the words as they present themselves at that moment at the lectern.  I know that I'm best when I can see the faces and look into the eyes of an audience; and I also know that about five minutes into my presentation, all of the paralyzing fear vanishes, and that I'll be safely home until just before the ending, with just a millisecond of panic in the silence just before the audience responds.

My colleague, Lucien, emailed that -- as she was at the StairMaster at her gym yesterday -- reading a magazine to while away the time (it was Real Simple Living) -- she happened upon a quote from me.  I vaguely recalled a writer calling from New York a few months ago (having been referred by Bruce Frankel, author of How Should I Spend the Rest of My Life).  She wanted a quote on aging to add to others from other older women whom she'd also interviewed for the article.  (It was jarring to note that those other older women were in their fifties and sixties -- the age of my children!)  By now it all seems a part of the job and a natural request that I can accomplish without losing a beat before returning to whatever I was in the middle of before my phone rang... .

Then, a few days ago a request came that seemed more important, and in keeping with my new found status as a resource in areas far beyond my ranger-ing.  This one caught my attention.   I've been invited to interview Isabel Wilkerson, Pulitzer prizewinning author of the brilliant "The Warmth of Others Suns"and then write an article for publication.  In a kind of rubber-hitting-the-road moment, I realized that it is quite possible that I'm being invited to participate just a mite above my current level of competence, and that I need to leave that kind of journalism to the journalists.  I lucked out with that article published in the California Historian, and this may be one of those times when I will over-reach and in so doing, risk this heady moment when I'm soaring far above my own expectations when I only need to bask in the rapture of having done so!

Since last weekend my schedule of activities included;

• driving (with Dorian) in uniform representing our park in the city's Cinco de Mayo parade; 
• that afternoon guided a 3 hour bus tour of 50 Tradeswomen, Inc., (members attending a national conference in Oakland)  through the Rosie the Riveter WWII/Home Front sites scattered throughout the city;
• ended that same day with a 101 mile drive to Aromas, a hamlet on the road to Watsonville in Monterey County, in time to attend a 7:30 pm sold-out "Songs and Stories" concert performed by my eldest son, Bob.  Dori and I stayed with Bob at his ranch home in San Juan Bautista, a  beautiful valley surrounded by hills in the greenest of springtime glory;  since then we
• participated in the Rosie the Riveter event at the Crucible in Oakland;  and yesterday
• attended the grand opening of the brand new state-of-the-art soccer field in the Nystrom District.

Life is good on this Mother's Day on this planet.


Photo:  Lottie Allen Charbonnet, my mother at 95.  She was partying at a luau in Hawaii when this photo was taken.  She lived to see her 101st birthday, and as you can see by this picture,  savored life despite the hardships her generation endured.

It's done ... !

Sent the invitation list off today, and once the problem was pinpointed and resolved -- got into the rhythm of this great honor.

It was so helpful to have had a chance to tour the campus of the California College of the Arts on Monday; to meet a member of the board; lunch with faculty members; visit the studios filled with young artists at work.  It all fell into place, finally.

I feel far less intimidated by events, and am ready now for the celebration!

Yesterday at the request of the National Institute for Artists and Disabilities I led a delegation of service worker volunteers from Belarus and their translator on a tour of some of our park sites.  They were accompanied by their US State Department hosts.  It felt great to feel confirmed in my role as a representative of an important federal agency.  There is a system of national parks being created in their country so the interest in our park-in-development was high.  I felt a real connection with the group despite the language barrier; though that was minimal since several were able to cross over into English now and then with relative ease.

Were I to have a chance to live some of those early years over again, I'd surely want to have several languages at my command.  Though, as I recall, I had a group of visitors from Japan about six months ago, and that also worked out well.  Maybe what happens between people at the non-verbal level trumps verbal expression. 

Now that the pressure is off -- maybe I can just bask in the glory of it all, and try to get into my paper hat for the festivities on May 12th and 14th.

Maybe I should think about buying a new dress for the occasion.  I thought that I'd outlived the Age of Acquisition.  It has been years since I've felt the need to even think "fashion."  But there are some lovely things hanging in my closet that I've had no occasion to bring out for a very long time.  There was a time ... maybe just once more?

A woman can always gear up for fashion, right?

Maybe I'll try for a new hair style ... do you suppose?

That is if we can still find enough hair to style!  Maybe it's time to just cut it all off and face the truth that there are just so many hair follicles to each lifetime, and at 89 I've outlived my allotment.

Mystery solved ... .

and ... had it occurred to me to stop for just a few moments ... I might have known why I couldn't create that guest list for the commencement ceremony.  It was due two weeks ago.  After spending days pushing the envelope to the back of my desk -- and at one time slipping it into a drawer so that it would be out of sight.  I finally separated out the form for cap and gown measurements, slipped that into the envelope, and dropped it off in a FedEx box in the Civic Center.  But the request for the guest list was missing from the packet.  I agonized through an enclosed note, and felt terribly guilty, but nothing moved the task forward -- not one inch.

Then today in a casual conversation with Julio, the answer was revealed.  It was so obvious.  How on earth could I not have guessed?

I've outlived most of my guest list.  And the time to allow the sadness that this realization should have elicited was missing.  The brutal truth of that sentence was the thing that I couldn't face.  Small wonder that this simple task was so difficult to complete ...  .  It was a time to mourn, and something deep inside wouldn't allow me to move on until I'd done so.

On the drive home I stopped my car on a nearby hilltop where the din of afternoon traffic is lessened -- and let the tears flow unashamed; let myself miss all those who would have made that list; lingered over each name as it surfaced.  Up came my sisters, my parents, Papa George, my dear Aunt Vivian, Gil and Eve, my eldest son, Rick; Mel and Bill; close friends and relatives long gone, and with the tears something vitally important was released.   Tomorrow I can face what is now a mere clerical task.

I'll complete the list -- made up of my sons and daughter, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, those few remaining old friends, augmented by the many good younger souls who have become central in the living of these incredible recent years; new friends;  those with whom I work; some city staff people -- some very young folks for whom I'm "Miss Betty," (and loving it!), and then I'll move on.

If I could only remember to just stop and listen ... for my inner voice.

It's always there in the quiet.

Maybe I just need more stillness.