Adjusting to new limitations that resulted from the less than fully-successful cataract surgery three weeks ago ... .

It may be finally getting through to my busy brain that "old" may be making its belated entrance from stage left, and I may just have to deal with it at last.

Have been in recovery that doesn't seem to be taking hold, and my sight is truly less than before, but there's still hope that when my new prescription for glasses has been completed -- and sight is optimized again -- things will clear up considerably.  Let's hope.

Yesterday I found myself musing about that new driverless car that Google, Tesla, and others are developing, and how great it would be if the "Oldest Ranger in the National Park Service"might be the perfect choice to demonstrate this new age of auto travel.  Do you suppose? I could be the poster girl for this new method of travel.  Think about it.  They might use me in order to begin to answer some of the questions about just how effective this technology will be in extending the independence of elders as life itself is extended by many years.  Interesting?  Okay.  It was just a fast-moving fantasy, but worth  a few moments of consideration while waiting for the tea to brew... .

I've given up driving almost completely, and am relying on friends and ParaTransit for transportation to and from work, but that leaves a lot to be desired.  I figured that -- if I could get a group of friends to each take on one day each week when we could visit en route the six mile drive to or from, this would offer a continuing regularly scheduled social contact with others, and those times that weren't covered that way would be times to use Uber or Lyft.  Sounds perfect, right?  Not quite.

So far I find that I'm reluctant to ask my friends, and, to use ParaTransit requires a 24 hours notice to reserve rides, and only works between 8:30 to 5:30 each day.

The 4 and a half mile drive from our offices to my home (10 to 12 minutes drive) takes 4 busses and more than an hour  by public transportation!  The 5 and a half mile ride from the Visitor Center probably requires even more time.

Small wonder that we're not rushing to use that system

Seriously considered retirement as a practical answer, but then on Saturday night at an important dinner I received the Roosevelt Award and ... .

Since I work a 5-hour day, paying $18-$20 round trip is hardly reasonable by  ParaTransit, even more by Uber, and outrageously expensive  by taxi.

I've decided not to force my sons to wrestle my car keys away, but to turn them over to one of my granddaughters as soon as she has her license.  Having it sitting there declaring my loss of independence each time I give it a glance is just too tempting, and the time has come to adapt to a new reality.

How 'bout it Google?  Tesla?  Anybody ready for a no-drivin' hell-raiser with enough passion to go it apace for at least another decade? Maybe the Department of Motor Vehicles has some unanswered questions that need exploring; and how about those questions about accountability on the road?  Focus groups, perhaps? Except for very slowly-failing eyesight, all other systems are firing appropriately, and  you'll rarely find a sharper mind or keener insight.

Those Boomers are fast moving up to making such decisions, and within a few years are going to make up a significant portion of the group for whom driverless vehicles will be a godsend.

We've ventured into the age of robotics and mechanization, and anticipating the changes they will bring could hardly be more spine-tinglingly exciting!

The Future is NOW, and I'm ready if you are.

For many months now I've been giving interviews to what has become, little more than phone conversations with friendly strangers ...

There has been much repetition, and at times I find myself wondering ... the questions are as much the same as the answers ... each is forgotten within minutes, and I lose all sense of who it was and just what publication was that?  I rarely ever see copies of the pieces upon completion.  I get lost in "the work," and in the people who come to my talks ... .

But then there comes that rare moment of realization.  This time it was an email from an editor from the In-Flight magazine for British Airways, and I remembered that only yesterday there was a woman in my audience who'd read about me only last week in the Guardian which is delivered to her home in London.

The editor was requesting a date for a photographer to come to the Visitor Center, "a (possible) cover shot,: says she.  The email contained a sentence that mentioned that their readership is over three million.  That caused a shudder to run up my spine and the catching of my breath -- and the instant and full realization of how widespread is our park and my role in it, and how wondrous that is ... .

... and how little impact those friendly conversations with interesting young people has had on this aging ranger -- at least in those moments of encounter.  It all seems virtual, a word and a concept that has only come to me in my last decade.

It causes me to wonder just when did all this become self-generating, begin to feed on itself,  and will it suddenly come to an end just as it began?

,,, but then there is the filmmaking team who shared some of their footage at the Rosie Trust's banquet last weekend, and -- though it was difficult to view myself in a room holding 250 other people -- I found a way to do it in the third person.  She turned out to be someone I might wish to know, actually.  Not sure I'd want to repeat the experience, though.  It's rather eerie ... .

A few weeks ago -- from an unexpected source -- I felt my veracity challenged ...

It was disturbing... disappointing.

Maybe this is the reason that I was catapulted back in time to the Betty in the previous post, at the nadir of life.

It was on a Facebook post that my friend stated publicly that,  "... though Betty states that during WWII black women were not hired as welders until late in 1944, I know that they were hired in 1942  because ...".

She was referring to a strong activist African American woman, Frances Albrier, I'd known in adolescence, and another who was one of the early and effective lobbyists for the establishing of Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park, Ludie Mitchell.  I was aware of both these women as having been early shipyard workers -- but far from the norm -- both were feisty women of courage, but hardly strong enough against the prevailing social forces to bring substantive change.  They simply led the move toward greater equality in the workplace -- something that would be several years away for ordinary black women.

My word forms the basis for my work, and I felt threatened by her denial of my truth.  Partly, it was because she is a professional, an academician in the field of history; an historian.   I think I'd expected more, and found disappointment in the naiveté her denial suggested. I am working from my memory of the times -- not dependent upon research -- but purely on what comes up for me during my presentations.  I've never claimed otherwise, and it has always been enough, at least until now. Her denial caused me to doubt my value as a carrier of this history, and knowing that the work of our park has come to rely heavily on my word, this was devastating.

I had always known that some black women had worked as laborers earlier, and that there were always exceptions, there always are prior to policy being established.  I'd been one of those forerunners all my life.  It is my belief that black women began to be trained as welders as policy late in the war.  Before that time they mostly swept the decks and picked up trash while other people worked.  This photo -- taken at the time -- would support that assumption.


To have claimed that because we built a home in the suburbs in 1953, therefore people of color integrated the Diablo Valley at that time would be folly.  Our moving in was just the start of a twenty year process that would carry much pain and anguish.

By invitation, I would return some years ago to that community to give the Martin Luther King Day keynote address.  Upon acceptance I looked up the demographics of the City of Walnut Creek in preparation for my talk, and noted that, a half-century later, the black population was at 1%, still.  That figure may now be suppressed for economic rather than racial reasons (I suspect), but is nonetheless not the norm.  Maybe that's a kind of progress, but I noted that figure in my speech.

I'd eventually grow to recognize the years we spent in that otherwise white and upscale community as a period of being culturally-deprived.  I'd moved back into the urban areas and my kids, now all out of high school, were dispersed to a variety of places because suburban living was less than I'd hoped for them, and the nation was sorting itself out in ways that seemed more promising in the Seventies, than ever before.

It was in 1972 that my marriage ended, and re-marriage to Bill Soskin occurred, starting a completely new life as a faculty wife on the University of California campus in Berkeley -- and eventually -- a merchant and political activist in Berkeley. 

The price of trying to stay sane in an irrational world had taken its toll, and -- as you can see by the gaunt figure I became while struggling against insurmountable odds -- I was at high risk for suicide, but was rescued in time by Dr. Jean Neighbor, a perceptive and caring Jungian psychiatrist, and Betty the Artist who lives behind my eyes.  He teased her out and gave her substance that is with me still and guides my work.

I imagine that the black woman in the photo above is by now a grandmother who may have visited her husband in prison over the years, and may have by now seen at least two of her grandsons lose their lives to violence.

I'm  hoping that my talks may bring some  understanding to the continuing plight of people of color in this evolving nation, and if so, I will go on speaking to my own truth and not be dissuaded by anyone or anything that might derail my efforts.

  

Every now and then -- in rummaging through old papers something of worth reappears ... 

This is a song written when we were living in the (white) suburbs.  It was some time in the Sixties, at a time before acceptance of our presence in the community had arrived.  Within weeks of this photo I suffered a mental break that would bring a 3-year period of recovery and the beginnings of the life of discovery that would ensue.   From the accumulated trauma of trying to adapt to an irrational world, my weight had dropped to 89 pounds at this point, as I remember.  (click on photo)

One of the boys had been stoned by teenagers driving by as he rode his bike from Slo Sams, the little grocery store just down the road and across the creek.  He was quite young, and too strong to cry, but too young to understand the venom the act expressed, or, how to deal with the hurt it caused.

There was no way to explain to that questioning little face, except to take him into my arms and hold  him close enough to sooth us both.

After he was calmed and ready to move on, I wrote this:

Singing this song at Asilomar

Where is my brown-skinned heart to hurry?
Where will I find my song?
Why must my mind be just for worry?
To whom does my dream belong?

What are my hands to hold this morning?
Where is my place in the sun?
With what shall I fill this time of yearning?
Whose will shall be done?

The fruit of my labor will tumble in soon
in search of my love and my lead
gave all I had when they left this morning.
Why don't they know that little souls bleed?

Where is my brown-skinned heart to hurry?
To whom does my dream belong?
Why must my mind be just for worry?
Who will hear ...  my ... song ... ?

This is the Betty who still lives inside, and who views current successes with a jaundiced eye at times; never quite completely trusting it.

But it's clear that my song was eventually heard, all the way to Washington, D.C., and wouldn't it be great if all of our songs could be?

Some months ago I received an invitation to be a panelist at the MountainFilm Festival 2016 at Telluride in Colorado over the Memorial Day weekend ...

... and a few days after that initial contact learned that I was to be participating in a symposium with New York Times columnist Timothy Egan, and noted historian, Douglas Brinkley.  You can imagine  how surreal this struck me, but not having ever been involved in such an unbelievably significant event -- what did I have to lose?  At my age (having outlived all the naysayers in my life) why not?  By the time they realized their error I would have had my say and moved on, right?

So I accepted but filed it away for re-thinking when common sense might return and life assumed its ordinariness, and there would be enough time to reconnect with my new reality at some less spirited time.

Meanwhile, there were a number of occasions that Douglas Brinkley appeared on the screen of my television on panels of some sort -- mostly related to punditry, and nagging at the back of my mind would come the words, "...whatever was I thinking?"  What form of insanity had overtaken my usual ability to sort out the real from the unimaginable, and what were the expectations of others that I'm supposed to fulfill?

Then it happened:  Being a faithful CSPAN junkie, I just happened to flip into BookNotes last week when this eminent author was being interviewed about his newly-published book about President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his years of expanding and developing the National Park Service through the acquisition of new park lands, protections of wildlife,  developing and maintaining properties and roadways through the use of the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC); a program designed to provide employment and teach skills to young men of the country at a time when jobs were scarce and resources for youth at an all time low (not unlike our current state of the nation).

Over the course of the hour I became fascinated by NPS history -- some of which I had been exposed to over the past 15 years -- but that had never come alive for me; not really.  The park system Professor Brinkley was referring to was that which has been inspired by environmentalist John Muir, President Teddy Roosevelt, Albright, Mathers, etc., and through his research he was presenting a National Park Service that was clearly male-dominated -- a federal agency closely resembling the model of the Armed Forces.  This was not the park system that I recognized, except as an agency worthy of giving the rest of my life to (I'd figure out the whys later).  In the beginning it was pure intuition and little more.

I'd learned over past years that -- about 1981-- there began to grow in the Department of Interior the slow realization that -- though all American taxpayers paid for the creation, development, and maintenance of this incredible system of a growing number of units, it was only those with the financial resources and the leisure time who could afford to visit them.  It was during the early 80's that the concept of urban parks began to gain traction; the need to bring the parks to the people.  Our park is one of those.  There were no models for these so there had to be thinkers looking at the problem in new ways.  How, for instance do you create national parks without federal lands?  How do you create parks without borders -- parks based on stories alone?  How do you create parks that only exist under the hats of the interpreting rangers?  How do we create parks when the legislated scattered sites were owned commercially, by city or state, by private individuals, by non-profits?  We were to own nothing, and would need to create partnerships with those who did.  How do we do that?  Each of these urban parks had to be created from whole cloth, with no models to guide those original planners.


As an original source, this is where I entered the park system because this is where women and "the feminine factor" began to augment what had been a purely male-dominated agency.  "Rosie" gave us the possibility of equating the building of those Henry Kaiser-built 747 ships in 3 years and 8 months with the human stories -- the why, and why not?, the female-oriented questions like, ... how on earth could we have fought a war to save democracy (a war which cost 54.8 million lives worldwide), with a racially-segregated armed forces?  That is delusional, but that's a question men would probably never have asked themselves, and never did, as far as I can tell. It is just such questions that we had the audacity to boldly ask.

Men have always been more concerned with how many bullets were used, and how many miles did we march, and how many ships did we build -- while women -- who were sending husbands and sons off to be killed, would have been asking very different questions, but rarely having their voices heard or warnings heeded lest they be seen as soft and unrealistic; womanly. 

We are asking those questions now, in a system of urban parks now scattered at strategic sites that relate to the heroic places, the scenic wonders, the contemplative sites, the shameful places, and the painful ones.  The feminine embraces the human stories -- there is a visitor center that sits at the bottom of the south end of Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama; another at Manzanar on the eastern ridge of the Sierras; at the graves of Dr. Martin Luther King and his Coretta, at Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad; at Port Chicago in Concord, California.  We can re-visit almost any era in our history in order to own it, to process it, in order to begin to forgive ourselves so that we might move toward a more compassionate future, together.

The raising of the feminine consciousness to match that which those far-seeing NPS icons brought into being may yet provide the balance so necessary to face the challenges to climate change, rising sea levels, global warming.  Those illustrious environmentalists of long ago may have provided us with the incentives to save ourselves by instilling in us -- not only the respect for the beauty of our natural wildlands and the will to survive, but the valuing of all of life in all of its forms,

... because Life matters.

After living with such thoughts over the past few hours, I'm thinking that Prof. Brinkley and I might provide a respectable range of perspectives for audiences -- he, with his proud male-oriented view, balanced by my more recently-lived nuanced experience that is so strongly shaped by the female-orientation provided by the complexity of our interpretations at the Rosie the Riveter/WWII Home Front National Historical Park.  

And, again, this morning I woke to the sound of my telephone ringing (by pre-arrangement), this time from Pacifica Radio station WPFW in Washington , D.C.

Hardly awake, and fishing for my cell phone beneath the quilt where I'd left it last night, I answered the unfamiliar voice of the producer asking that I hold for a few minutes, and that  host, Joni Eisenberg, would be with me in a moment or two.

It's all so surreal in many ways;  the new norm.  If I were awake enough, propped on 3 pillows at seven o'clock in the morning (PDT), I surely might have been embarrassed to realize that for the next hour I would be within earshot of however large that audience is across the East Coast?  And here I was without my hair combed, and in pajamas with snow men imprinted all over (a Christmas gift from the grandchild of a friend).  My bedroom with clothes strewn about as I'd tossed them sleepily after being at my computer far too late into the night.  There was each piece lying as it was flung into the peach velvet armchair that sits next to my bed, on the floor in front of the chair my socks -- tossed after the lamp was turned off.  This was hardly a scene I'd want to share under any but these circumstances.  No one could see, and no one should, ever!  Yes, as improbable as it was, I was being Betty Reid Soskin, Oldest Park Ranger in the National Park Service holding forth with an unseen radio audience scattered about (a metaphor?) in far away Washington, D.C.

I have no idea who or how many are "out there" in space listening to my words; it's all beyond imagination at this point.  In a strange way, my mind could only envision two people at the other end of the phone line -- a male producer from Louisiana with a background in the Labor Movement, and Joni, who was celebrating the 24th anniversary of her radio show, and had chosen to do that with me as guest.  That's enough to have to relate to, and I could only imagine that we were having a conversation and that her friends were being allowed to eavesdrop.

It was something like what happens when I'm blogging.  I'm writing for my children and theirs, and, though I'm aware that there are others reading my writings, they're "virtual;" lurking somewhere in the background with our permission.  Ultimately, I'm sure that I'm really writing to myself in the attempt to process life as it goes by.  It's the way I find clarity when I need to.

Maybe that's the only way one can move into a public status at all, without being destroyed by doing so.  That, and a lively sense of humor, of course.

During the interview with Zoe Donaldson of O Magazine on Saturday, it was all I could do to not send out a challenge to arm wrestle Oprah for the cover!  Preposterous?  Of course, but that came from the same place that -- just as I was approaching President Obama on that great stage at the National Tree Lighting Ceremony on December 3rd -- all I could think of was (imaging myself pointing to the huge decorated but aging tree behind us), "... you know I've got a year on your tree, right?"  I'd seen stories that placed the tree's age at 93.  I resisted the temptation, but that fleeting and absurd thought made it possible for me to get through the moment when he was approaching me with arms outstretched for that well-documented presidential embrace.

It was so this early morning when I realized that countless people through the Northeast had been with me this day, and luckily, I'd remembered where I left my dentures!  That I could scratch through another item on my To-Do list ...

Next up:  Tomorrow British Airways In-Flight magazine interview at one o'clock.

Yesterday brought another of those unbelievable days with events unforeseen in my wildest dreams ...

Promptly at 10:30 by pre-arrangement, I found myself sitting in the rangers "Cube" at the Visitor Center waiting for the telephone to ring.  It did.  The caller identified herself as Zoe Donaldson of O Magazine (yes, that's Oprah's) and the interview began as planned.  I'm being featured in the June issue along with other "women of inspiration."  That's a bit much, right?

She opened showing little evidence that she knew very much about the National Park Service, but -- after all -- this would be my chance to speak with someone who had few preconceptions about the subject; which could be awful or great, depending upon where the chat would take us with so little to build upon.

The interviewer was obviously young and enthusiastic, and very easy to talk with.  The usual tension experienced prior to these interviews was strangely missing. We covered an awful lot in the 30 minutes that we had in which to do so.  Her questions were real and there was curiosity to match.  I felt good as we signed off.

The last question was, "... if you could visit any park site of the entire 410 units now in existence, where would you wish to go?"  Easy.  To Hamilton, says I!  That Broadway show crowds out even the 410 units of the park system these days.

Unfortunately, the night before the interview I'd seen a repeat of the Charlie Rose/Lin-Manuel Miranda 1-hour interview, and again I was reminded that I need to experience this phenomena while it's in its original cast form, and that my shelf life is growing too rapidly toward stale-date status, and that if I'm going to do that it needs to happen post haste, or it may not happen at all.  That's even bigger than an interview with O magazine.

Last week there was a call from a NY filmmaker inviting me to come to the east coast to participate in a segment of a film now in production.   It has to do with women in uniform, as I understand it, or how we respond to life depending upon what we're wearing.  It's quite lovely, I think, something I'd be really proud to participate in.  The caller free-lances for The New York Times, Vogue, Elle, etc., but the only thing I heard was New York.  Could I tack this onto the upcoming trip to the WWII Museum in New Orleans in early June?  That would get me to the East Coast and I could do this plus see Hamilton!  But that would be a stretch even for Super Woman, right?

Am I obsessed?  One might say that.  

Sure.

Heard from superintendent Tom Leatherman yesterday that I should return a call to British Airways.  They would like an interview for their In-Flight magazine.  That's on Tuesday at one o'clock (PDT).  This appears to be my new normal.  Find myself wondering how long it will take before I stop feeling like a faux celebrity?

... and I've not even mentioned to my supervisors the call from the NY filmmaker.  I'm so fearful that given cataract surgery scheduled for April 4; Telluride Documentary Festival in Colorado on the Memorial Day weekend, and, the trip to the WWII Museum and a family reunion in New Orleans, Louisiana just 10 days later -- on June 10th ... what are the odds?

(... and when do you suppose it was that I crossed over into Neverland?)

Naturalization Day was as moving as ever ...

... and, as before, there was a perceptible rise in my patriotism quotient as the tears gathered at the sight of those open and engaged faces from far off lands.  There's nothing like that experience to rid one's mind of the recent week's awfulness spewing uncontrolled from the media around this year's presidential campaigns.

I wish there was a way to send each aspiring presidential candidate back to whatever educational institutions that might be up to the task -- to try to cram into them the defining principles that so many have died to protect and preserve over all the years since 1776!

In looking down on the gathering of 51 new Americans being welcomed into citizenship in their new nation -- it occurred to me that any one of them could probably teach almost any one of our candidates a thing or two about what it means to be an American.

new citizen from Peru

Overwhelming was the image of the countless millions of refugees fleeing their countries of origin over past months, only to find themselves wandering a frightened and defensive world, hoping to find a place on the planet where freedom of or from can be found.  Those before us in that beautiful sunlit space in the Craneway Pavilion represented only a fragment of those seeking asylum and asking little else.  These new citizens had found their way to our shores after who knows what might have had to be overcome?  In some cases, they've been studying for a decade or more toward this day of acceptance and affirmation.

It was such a honor to stand in the receiving line and to shake the hand of each of the 51 as their names were called and they received recognition and a warm welcome as fellow Americans, all! 

Here in our country -- in today's political climate, depending upon skin color, religious affiliation, gender identification, their fate might well be determined -- not by the American experience described in the literature, movies, and catechisms brought with them -- but by policies that will be introduced and enacted by one of those seeking the office of the Presidency of this nation and Leader of the World even as we speak.

For their sake and our own, may we choose wisely.

 keynote aboard the USS Hornet carrier--Alameda, March 20, 2007

On Thursday, March 24th I'll be giving the keynote address at the Naturalization Day celebration ... .

... and I find myself still coming to terms with my own expression of citizenship and patriotism.

This will be the third time I've been asked to so, and it should be a breeze since this will be a different audience of new Americans, and my speech needn't vary since it was all thought through when it was written 3 years ago, so what's the big deal?

I suspect my growing unease rises from the endless bombardment from the current presidential campaign hoopla, and feelings of disquiet at increasing signs that we may be a nation coming apart at the seams -- with barricades going up at every level-- rightly or wrongly.

I know it seems unlikely, but I'm becoming more aware that there are few villains in this great national drama.  Surely the good folks who gather in our little theater for my talks are coming because they're finding something of value there, something that has to do with our American experiences "in common." 

Maybe it has to do with my sense that the America that most are living in is an America that's working for them, and why change it?  The fact that that America is one that I've always considered only a work in progress; needing my participation in order to become the democracy of promises yet unrealized.  Perhaps we've all been working and living at cross-purposes.

How much of the dissonance comes from the fact that those in power at every level of governance have come from the nation of privilege, one that has been realized with dreams fulfilled.  Of course they want that idealized America replicated on every continent for every world citizen, but do they know that their America has yet to be attained by the majority of citizens of this country?  I don't
believe they do, and there's the rub ... .

This year, again, the Department of Homeland Security and the National Park Service will co-sponsor this moving ceremony and I will participate as before, and without reservation, fully engaged.  But as I look down from the dais at those hopeful upturned faces of every shape and color, nationality and religion; new Americans who have arrived on our shores bringing fervent hope and aspiration to share, in the background there will be the voices of ambitious politicians fighting for the right to lead the nation and the world regardless of the fact that some simply don't know that they don't know, and are resistant to truths that don't confirm previously-held biases.

How on earth do we build that "more perfect Union" if we can't see its imperfections?

How I wish I didn't feel so unsure -- this time ... .

With Dolores Huerta of the Farm Workers Union

I've not written yet about the Boilermaker's Banquet ... haven't known just how much to share ...

but today someone from the Union forwarded photos taken at the time, and I was reminded ...
besides, there were a thousand witnesses in that ballroom so what's there to withhold?

I'd been invited to attend at the request of Mr. Newton B. Jones, International President of the Union.  I was not asked to represent the National Park Service, but was told by my supervisor that Mr. Jones was traveling from headquarters in Kansas City to San Francisco for this occasion, and that he had especially requested my presence.

And, of course, the organization sent a limo to Richmond to transport me to the Union Square Hilton Hotel that evening.  It was Cinderella time, and, having spent the morning hours being filmed by their team -- there was a surreal character to the entire weekend.

But on arrival in a rainstorm at the hotel, and being greeted by Union officials with whom David and I would spend the evening among a ballroom filled with 1000 union members celebrating their National Labor Awards.   Mr. Jones was receiving the International Labor Leadership Award; the reason for his being in San Francisco that evening.

There were other honorees, each giving a speech of acceptance.  Mr. Jones was the last to speak, being the "star" among stars.

David and I were seated at #1 Table, just below the dais and within a stone's throw of the speakers.

Mr. Jones spoke for about ten minutes -- a speech with lots of inside references with lots of names of those unknown in my world, but noted in theirs.  Suddenly, as he was coming to the part where he was introducing me to the house -- and I stood to receive their applause -- he lost control.

He provided  to the gathering background that could only have been known if he'd been reading my blog or paying very close attention to articles and/or interviews I've done over years.  But as he referred to his regret that I'd worked for the Union at a time before it was racially integrated he was overcome by emotion and the tears came, and -- before 1000 Unionists he simply couldn't go on.  The room was absolutely silent.  You could hear the proverbial pin drop as he struggled to gain control.

As he struggled to regain his composure and without warning I was suddenly being asked to join him on the platform; this was not planned, but the room faded away and there was only this dear man who had just apologized for the entire International Boilermakers Union and there was nothing to do but grant forgiveness after more than 70 years of struggle.  So that was what I did and without hesitation.

In a strange way it didn't feel personal at all, but purely symbolic.  It was as if this was a conversation the Union was having with itself, and that I was only incidental to the outcome.  But that it was a role that someone (me?) needed to play in order to exorcise the demons of bigotry, finally, so that they might be able to own that awful history and forgive themselves.  But ultimately it is the Union of today that holds the power to forgive the Union of 1944, because, of course, this is the only way to find the peace we're seeking in these troubled times.

It was all over in a few minutes after decades of angst and guilt.  Mr. Jones wrapped me in his arms and planted a kiss firmly on my cheek as the room filled with 1000 dinner guests melted away for us both.

If only it could be so easy ... .

I'm beginning to find myself increasingly performing the role of "celebrity," which was probably predictable -- given the continuing public exposure ... .

Last night I served as honorary co-chair at the 40th anniversary Gala of the LifeLong Medical Care program held in The Rotunda -- a most beautiful building in Oakland's Frank Ogawa Plaza.  What a spectacular evening it was; one which started out by being picked up (again)  at my condo by a chauffer-driven Lexux town car and delivered right to the steps and into the able hands of a board member who would escort me to the guest registry counter then down the marble staircase into a transformed lobby now furnished with decorated dining tables and 300 hundred well-dressed celebrants.

The gathering was made up of political figures from my past; some with whom I'd shared causes -- and some with friendships.  The room felt warm and welcoming; either that, or, I'm beginning to enure to my growing celebrity status and find it less undeserved over recent weeks.  (Maybe this is when Betty the Persona goes off the rails!)

At a moment in the proceedings I delivered my hastily-written one-page triple-spaced little speech which received a standing ovation (and I'm still not quite understanding how that continues to happen), something I've given much thought to over the weekend in quiet moments ... .

I spoke of being a child and adolescent during the Great Depression, and that meant that the only medical attention I'd ever received was subsidized by the County.   I was a frail child thought to be at risk for tuberculosis so was sent to Del Valle in Livermore, California where I spent almost a year -- at no cost to my struggling family. 

That was because I was a child of the service worker's generation with our fathers and uncles employed as Pullman porters, waiters, janitors, bell hops, elevator operators, cooks, etc., and our mother's were 50 cents an hour domestic servants.  At a time when it took $47.25/wk to support families -- if you were white, our fathers and uncles earned $25-$35/wk (Pullman porters earned $18/wk plus tips) so there simply was no money to pay for routine health care. 

One might well wonder -- if the costs of such basic health services could be absorbed by society when the nation was so stressed economically -- why, in a far rosier era, is that not possible today?  This was in the Thirties when bread lines were a common sight, and childhood diseases more prevalent and less controllable.

Though I made my way out of the need for such assistance programs long ago, there are many children of color still trapped at that economic level; children who are still in crying need for such services. 

My speech:

People forget that those of my age were children and adolescents during the Great Depression.  The only health care we ever knew was subsidized by the Alameda County Department of Public Health.  Free clinics were the only clinics I'd ever experienced until the grownup and married Betty became a member of the Kaiser Permanente Health Plan much later in life.   I suppose I was the recipient of "Universal Health Care" before the concept was born since everyone in my universe was served by that system so there was no stigma to have to bear.  I was a child of the service worker's generation at a time when the nation's economy was in a shambles.

Because I was a frail child, considered at risk for tuberculosis, I spent a year in what was then called a preventorium (a word my spellchecker doesn't recognize), Del Valle Sanitarium in Livermore, California.  That health-giving facility is no longer in existence.  There was no cost to my family, ever.

It would be the first time I was away from home, spending that year with parents unable to bear the cost of visits more than a few times over that period.  I was about 11 years-old.  It was during those long months that much of the autonomy and independence I enjoy now as an elder were born.  It was a brush with loneliness of a kind rarely experiences by children, I think.  It was a time to develop inner resources for the sake of mere survival.

I doubt if there is anyone around with a greater sense of the meaning of collective health care being assumed by one's community when life's problems grow beyond even loving parent's ability to provide for or cope with.  I was surrounded by caring adults who helped me to grow through early adolescence without too much scarring.  It was during that time that I learned that even strangers in stiffly-starched uniforms and pointed white caps could care deeply about kids, and that both givers and receivers could benefit by such programs.

I'm honored to be involved in giving recognition to such critically important work, and value the chance to re-visit a long-forgotten past.  I'm so far beyond the reach of that lonely child that it almost feels as if she never really existed... .

Thanks to Lifelong Health Care for providing the opportunity for me to express long overdue gratitude to those caregivers of my childhood who are no longer with us, and to offer whatever assistance in my power to those continuing this important and life-giving work to those in need of such services today and in the future.

As we entered the US Mint we met security measures unequaled ever before in life ... .

Despite the fact that we were invited guests of their administrators, both in the uniform and badges of the National Park Service, arriving in a fleet van bearing the logo of a federal agency, Tom was required to pop the hood as two security officers went over the vehicle with their wands -- including the interior and the storage areas.   Upon completion of this meticulous inspection (as I waited on a level above after submitting federal smart cards plus California I.D.) a humungous monster contraption that looked like nothing I've ever before seen -- with a great roar was swallowed up by the ground that lay just beyond the reinforced iron gate.  It just rolled away to reveal a flat surface that Tom drove up toward the parking lot above. 

I've visited San Quentin Prison, and this display of security made that one look like it was put together by rank amateurs.

We walked into the next level of security, one that resembled those in play at airports nationwide, with the addition that it was necessary that we turn over any coins in our possession.  This meant that I'd have to leave my wallet to be put in a secure place to be retrieved on return.  (Unknowingly, I neglected 3 pennies, 2 dimes, and a quarter in the pocket of my trousers.)

All this had to do with the need to protect the products from being pilfered by visitors -- though this Mint is not open to the public.  Even the employees can only use paper bills to make purchases in the vending machines.  They cannot bring coins of any kind into the building.  Anything brought in unintentionally is confiscated by management, never to be returned.

When the ceremonies ended we were taken on a walking tour so that we could see staff at work, and marvel at the robotics, machinery, and processes in operation.  Really interesting stuff!

... but that brings us to an embarrassing and crazy exit!

The last stop was walking back through the security process with several uniformed guards, the trays that hold anything containing metal (rings, watches, belt, badges, etc.,) to be put through the machine that detects such objects.  There's the walk-through structure that is so nervous-making when the bells and whistles go off declaring that you may be smuggling contraband out of the Mint!

It was like a comedy skit.  It took 6 attempts to get through those gates, each time without success ... and those telltale bells and whistles announcing my "crime" attempt each time.  None of us could figure out what was setting off the alarms, but I suspected -- finally -- that it must be the underwires of my bra.  We'd been through what began to resemble a strip tease routine as we discovered those 3 pennies, 2 dimes, and a quarter in my pants pocket, the clasp on my belt loop that held my smart card, my ring, my watch, etc.

It became laughable, and the guards finally just let me pass without incident, and I suspected that we were all caught up in a process that no one was taking too seriously, except for the sober-faced guards.  I didn't feel in any way threatened, or that anyone believed that I was trying to sneak out with a coin or metal of any kind, but it gives you a sense of how much value is placed on those commemorative coins, and how difficult it would be to get away with what starts out as a 20 cent product in process, and that would come out at the end as a 50 cent piece selling for $25!

Pretty crazy, right?

 Who would ever have thought that, at 94, one would still be having first time experiences ... ?

... but yesterday Superintendent Tom Leatherman and I were guests of the US Mint in San Francisco. 
We were both invited to "say a few words" at a ceremony created to celebrate the striking of the first silver coin commemorating the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service.  Tom would speak on the park service and then introduce me prior to the actual creation of that first 50 cent coin.  Then, under the supervision of a Mint specialist, I would press the two buttons that controlled the striking of three coins that would roll down for inspection.  The sheer power felt in that process is awesome.  Can't recall the metric tonage involved, but it is truly wondrous!

The imposing building sitting atop one of the great hills overlooking the city offered  one of the most thorough security experiences I've ever been through.  Fort Knox could not have been better guarded.  It proved, however, far more difficult to get out of then in!

After the commemorative coin has been struck, both sides are photographed as seen here being held for the cameras by one "grown-up" park ranger and Chief of Staff Elisa Basnight of the US Mint.

There are roughly 250 employees at the facility, and it was clear to see that diversity and inclusivity issues were faced long ago, and that the ratio of male to female and racial questions are by now non-issues, and that this governmental agency is at the forefront of the march toward full equality in the workplace.

I failed to get his name, but there was an African American worker who approached with a young blond woman co-worker during the informal gathering at the end of the ceremony.  He was totally deaf.  He was also comfortable enough to come over to express his pleasure at my brief comments (through his interpreter) and to not seem hurried or awkward.  It was a great moment for me, too, and added an exclamation point to my sense of the depth of the inclusivity in that governmental agency.

Only question for me was:  How in the world do we have such an impressive agency that does not make coins for distribution, but that only makes commemorative coins that cost 20 cents to make but which sell for $40?   Is that legal?  Is it like that famous President Nixon quote, "... if the president does it it can't be wrong?"

In an article that came out today from one of the members of the press who attended the proceedings, it was stated that the coins will sell for $18 online on the Mint's website.  That's better, but still pretty stilted, right?  My information came from one of the workers in conversation after the ceremony.

Another day, another life experience to savor, and I can't imagine what tomorrow may hold ... .  

What a day it was ... .

I've known for weeks that on March 5th I would be a guest of the International Boilermakers Union at their Instituto Laboral De La Raza 2016 banquet at the Union Square Hilton Hotel in San Francisco.   There didn't seem to be any special instructions for the evening, though, just that they would be sending someone to my condo to pick me up at four o'clock on that day, and that I would be returned some time after nine o'clock that evening.  No need to prepare "...just a few words"; just be a "presence" as I've been many times before under differing circumstances.

The instructions from Tom Leatherman included the fact that a film crew from the Union would be at the Visitor Education Center to film me that morning, and that I was to come in early (9 o'clock, we don't normally open until ten) in order to comply.  This would be another work day -- maybe just a bit more special -- but then most of my days are that these days.

I arrived at nine to find a film team of 5 plus a make-up artist waiting.  This was going to be important if numbers were any indication.  They were here from Kansas City, Kansas, and the footage would be edited for purposes that were unclear at this point.  Surely Tom would know, and, at some point I'd be informed.

They spent about two hours filming a Betty-led tour of the exhibits.  The steady rain made it possible for us to work uninterrupted by visitors and the work went well, I think.

The "someone will pick you up" turned out to be a stretch limo (with at least a half block between me and the driver!) complete with uniformed chauffer who appeared at my door promptly at four.  You'll want to know that my apartment is in a modest complex where I'm fairly certain a limo has never before been seen!  I was smothering giggles all the way to Berkeley where we picked up my son, David, who would serve as Mom's escort for the evening.

My life doesn't allow much time to interact with my neighbors, so we nod politely when we meet at the mailbox or the dumpster, but rarely share more than greetings.  This surely blew my humility quotient to smithereens!

But this would not prepare me for what would happen in the evening ... .

Made my presentation before City Council on the tragic Dormitory O fire in 1944 ...

... and it was well received.

Last week there were two front page articles about the project, and several calls for interviews in various media.  It may be that I've exhausted every avenue into this story, and need to back away for a spell.

Funny, something was expended in the sharing of that history with the public, and I'm finding that I'm ready to move on now and leave further development in the hands of others.  Not sure what that's about, but the feeling is decisive; firm.

I may be operating on the edge of an overload.  It may be fatigue setting in, knowing what lies ahead over the next weeks is more daunting than before.  For whatever reason, I'm back to living an hour-at-a-time, and trying to not look ahead more than 24 hours.  There's a lesson in this somewhere, and -- if experience holds the secret -- this may mean that a pause is needed about now ... .

But then the tour bus rolled up and 35 lovely and lively African American women arrived at the Visitor Education Center from the Bayview District of San Francisco, all in the mid- and later years, dressed in Sunday best, chattering happily and smiling broadly; the leader offering a lovely bouquet of flowers, and whatever had been missing returned to my day and we were soon off into the Home Front experience.

They spent about two hours with me -- touring the exhibits, learning the stories, viewing films, then attending my talk, and -- as always -- I was richly nurtured by their warmth and generosity, and whatever that magic is appeared on cue and the  overcast day was again alive and magnificent!

They took photos to share with their families, and I felt affirmed and appreciated in my work by their enthusiasm.  It was clear that the history being shared belonged to us all, and that we were united -- not only as American citizens whose life experiences varied greatly -- that we were all survivors of a badly broken social system, but that we were still one people willing to share love beyond any previously limiting boundaries.

I promptly left them at the end of our session; climbed into my car and drove to our Civic Center headquarters for an appointment after taking the time to drive along the Parkway where there were highway plantings of cerulean blue/purple ceanothus in full bloom to wonder at.  I was so needing to hold onto those warm feelings for just a few more minutes before plunging back into work ... .

But maybe it's work that I, as a primary source of that important Era, am best suited to do.

... and how brilliant of Life to have set me down in this space and time with a whole busload of loving Sistahs!

Class of ?  Maybe 1938? Can't recall ...

Living life "One day at a time" has gained a deeper meaning over past weeks ... .

There are more items on my To Do list than usual, and each holds excitement and fulfillment within, and I wouldn't know where to prune -- were that to become necessary:

l. Tomorrow I will be installed in the Castlemont High School Hall of Fame by the Alumni Association at a luncheon in Oakland, the city where I grew up, but it will be in absentia.  My acceptance speech (4 minutes on a DVD) has been prepared and sent to the organization where Mr. Darryl Bartlow will represent me.  Me?  I'll be at work, as advertised, giving my presentation at two o'clock.

2. On Tuesday evening, February 23rd, we're presenting the story of the tragic fire that destroyed Kaiser Dormitory 0 and cost the lives of 8 black male shipyard workers in Richmond; this in the hope of raising awareness of the community toward the need to memorialize those lives as representative of the 37,600 civilian deaths that occurred on the Home Front during WWII.  That will happen during a study session of the Richmond City Council.  I will present that history through a PowerPoint. It will be this year's observance of Black History Month, and will be reflective of this community's rich history,  to a city unaware of its own stories in many ways -- since the happenings are so recent.

3. Next week I will be the guest speaker at a meeting of the Berkeley Breakfast Club in the beautiful historic building designed by architect Julia Morgan -- at seven-thirty in the morning!  Then will be back at the Visitor Center for my eleven o'clock talk.

4 Then there is the honorary chairmanship of the LifeLong Medical Association at a banquet in the Rotunda in downtown Oakland to be enjoyed.  No speaking commitments connected with this event, just being "honored at," I think.

5. ...  and then we're into March 5th when I'll be the guest at the Boilermakers International Union banquet in San Francisco in the evening -- preceded by filming at the Visitor Center by their team that morning that (I'm guessing) will be shown at the dinner.  The honored dignitary will be the international Head of the Union, President Jones, who will be in the area for this event.

6.  On March 9th I have a commitment to be at the old Mint in San Francisco for an event that I have little or no information about at this point, except to just be there.

7.  Learned yesterday that I will be giving the keynote speech for the Naturalization Day ceremonies on March 24th in the Craneway Pavilion (for the third year), and I'm so grateful that the speech has been saved on my hard drive so needs no further work.  This annual event is co-sponsored by the Office of Homeland Security and the National Park Service. It is such a moving experience for the new Americans who are welcomed into citizenship, and for me, as well. 

From the raised lectern, whatever cynicism I've experienced as an African American over the decades tends to evaporate  before those upturned radiant faces of every race and ethnicity that are before me in that brilliantly sunlit space.  To be privileged to represent my country in this ritual is humbling and dramatically deepens my patriotism to match theirs; a consistently memorable experience. 

During the rest of this month and the next there will be all the usual 3 to 5 one-hour presentations to give in our theater while the team of 3 filmmakers do their work documenting my work -- and adding weight to the proceedings.  They've been accumulating footage for months now, so I suspect that there may not be many more sessions to film.  Then will come the editing and that's something I'm not involved in.  Have mixed feelings about viewing what's been captured thus far, but will either need to step out of the room or willingly expose myself to that experience at the Rosie Trust dinner in April.  I'm responsible for a 15-minute talk -- as a part of the dinner program -- plus being subject to a few minutes of the work especially edited for introduction of the film project at this time.

Somewhere in there -- some time in April -- there will have to be enough space cut out for cataract surgery and recovery.   There's the long-promised trip to Yosemite with Dorian, now scheduled for a couple of days the week of April 5th, returning in time for the Rosie Trust Annual Dinner on April 9th ... .

I really am beginning to see myself in the third-person, since so much of me is now split off into an entity I'm only just meeting along with the rest of you... .

Can't see time to accommodate that deep depression yet, can you?

Maybe next year.

This has been one of the busiest weeks of my new year ...

... and one of the most exciting!

Besides my regularly-scheduled programs in our theater, on Wednesday we tucked in an extra presentation for 10 rangers from Santa Monica augmented by a group of 25 rangers from the East Bay Regional Parks District.  The little theater was filled with receptive faces and lively eyes of the young, and  it was a great morning.

On Thursday morning we experienced our first distance learning trial from Richmond with an auditorium full of high school students in Eugene, Oregon.  Being a first, it presented some unexpected problems on their end -- after a week's practice run by our staff and theirs there were unanticipated snafus with the use of the technology.  We diddled away at least 20 minutes trying to get the audio and video synchronized, but it finally worked out.

I've suspected all along that my presentations depend upon being able to see real live faces -- and this time involved peering at a tiny screen on a laptop -- faces that never came "alive," so neither did I.  We need to work out the bugs before trying this again, but it makes possible another way of communicating with groups and reducing the distance between generations.  Failure was not the result of not trying hard enough, it was simply that we were in uncharted territory.  The solution will surely be worked out soon.

Friday brought another memorable experience as I was presented with eleven other honorees to the California State Legislature in their Black History Month observance.  The only disadvantage was that I'd not been able to attend a celebratory banquet the evening before with the others, where our hosts and hostesses read our biographies before the group.  Sacramento is 90 miles from my home, and with a day that held both the Oregon experience as well as one of my regular one-hour theater presentations, trying to take in the dinner would just be more than could be managed comfortably.

This meant that I dropped into the experience as a total stranger -- as in the middle of the movie -- on Friday morning, and I just never quite caught up with the proceedings, and learned little about the other honorees despite the fine descriptive introductions we each received.  'Tis the pity!   Nerves tend to shut down ears at such times, and mine were used up listening for my name to be called, so I missed the details.  These were all such high achievers and I'd loved to have had a chance to know  each of them personally.

After a somewhat lengthy program with short speeches by the twelve African American legislators, we were escorted down the aisle by our hosts to receive beautiful framed Resolutions extolling our virtues and worthiness -- before being marched to the Senate chambers for further recognition.  California has two African American senators.

It was a lovely ceremony.

I was reminded of how important these rituals are and how much we need heroes as a people.  It's difficult to see oneself in such roles, but as I was walked up the aisle on the arm of Assemblyman Tony Thurmond -- I imagined myself for just a few seconds watching the proceedings from the gallery high above -- and being impressed by not only the implausibility, but also by the grandeur of this moving ritual in this historic space created as the People's site of governance and celebration.  To be so honored was humbling... .

with the grandson of Gen. George C. Marshall

Received a large FEDEX packet at the end of last week ... Julio had thoughtfully set it next to my computer to be discovered... .

Love receiving unexpected packages ... this one was very special.

Opened it to a 2-page letter that, in part, read,

"On behalf of the Board of Trustees at The National WWII Museum, it is my honor to share that you have been selected to receive the 2016 Silver Service Medallion at our American Spirits Awards Gala on Friday, June 10, 2016 at the Museum in New Orleans."

The American Spirit Awards celebrate individuals and organizations whose work reflects the values and spirit of those who served our country during the World War II years.  We honor those who inspire others through their own acts of courage, sacrifice, initiative and generosity - particularly in the areas of leadership, service to country or community, and education."

It was in December of 2012 that I served as a panelist for the Museum's annual convention in New Orleans; an unforgettable experience.

Met the iconic leaders and heroes of the period in a memorable setting on the edge of the old French Quarter of New Orleans -- the ancestral home of both my maternal and paternal lines -- the Breaux/Allens and the Charbonnets.  Can you imagine what this will mean to those relatives still living in this historic city?

(... and the walls come a-tumblin' down?)

Can't wait to tell them!

Now I'm being invited for a reprise of that experience, and this time as an honoree.

Among former recipients on the list are Major Norman Hatch,  Senator George McGovern, Harry Connick, Sr., Senator Robert Dole, Carl Reiner, Rear Admiral Robert F. Duncan, and a score of others too numerous to name.  It's interesting to note that -- on a list of 30 there is but one other woman, Elizabeth Dole, in 2010.

I will probably spend the rest of my life figuring out how in heaven's name I ever got on this list! Not complaining, mind you, just wondering ... .

Still waiting for some kind of response from inner Betty about that dire diagnosis ...

... still nothing.

I assumed for a few days that the prognosis of the onset of irreversible blindness was so devastating that I'm in a state of denial, and, that at some point the ominous dark clouds will gather and I'll be engulfed by a deep depression.  Maybe.  But I've lived with the news for 3 weeks now, and nothing ... .

I did speak with my eldest son, Bob, and with our superintendent -- in the interest of full disclosure.   We even laughed at my bad Boston Marathon with the guide dog joke!  If this is cause for retirement soon, my colleagues need to know.  Neither was particularly alarmed, but took the news in stride.  I was assured that my work will go on for as long as I want or need it to.   There's a full calendar of events to take me through 'til summer, at least.  I see no need to contemplate retiring any time soon, or ever -- for that matter.  Maybe I'll just go from the park to the cemetery (crazy?).

It was after speaking with them that I wondered why I'd not hesitated blogging about it last week.  Was that wise?  Should I have not done so?  Being a public person now, this might be cause for sensationalizing.   Would never have written about it on Facebook, but my blog is my private personal space, and I didn't hesitate for one minute.  This is where I sit in the lamplight in my pajamas and bunny slippers at day's end, and process life.  Family and friends remain my perceived audience, but there's more awareness of others in the mix now, but they remain "virtual."  There's a growing suspicion that my only real audience is myself. 

After thinking it over I decided that to have held the news in secret would be giving it too much power over me.  It just isn't that important, I think, but is a part of a naturally-occurring development in the aging process.  There's surely need to deal with the changes that should be anticipated, but there's time to adjust, learn, and to adapt.

All this is barring accidents, of course, one can never count on having that much control over life.

Decided yesterday after running into our city councilman Vinay Pimplé at a reception -- an
accomplished attorney who has probably dealt with blindness over a lifetime, but who has been active in politics of my city for a number of years.  This raises the possibility that this will simply be a new edge to grow from.   Vinay provides such a great example of positive energy well used.

His woman friend and escort stopped me to say that Vinay would love to hear my talk at the Visitor Center and wished to know my schedule.  We'd never met, though I've been watching his work on the council on the public access channel every Tuesday evening, so he didn't feel like a total stranger to me.

I found myself standing very close; at least close enough to place my hand on his arm.  Intuition was operating at full tilt, and I sensed the need to make physical contact.  He didn't recoil at my touch, so it must have been right.  There must be residual knowings that carry over from life with my sightless father in his final years. 

It could be that -- at this point in life -- I'm being affirmed in so many ways -- that the downside is having a difficult time getting through to me.

I'll settle for that, and prepare for a busy and exciting next few months.

Wait'll you hear!   

 

A long time between posts ... and, frankly, it's puzzling ... .

Last week called to the appointment desk for my 3-month checkup, and in just a day or so drove in to see my physician.  All vital signs "exceptionally good," says he, and further added that he rarely saw patients beyond the age of 50 who didn't require at least some kind of prescriptions.  I am totally med-free.  No high blood pressure, no heart problems, no hearing loss, nothing.  The pride he takes in keeping me alive is evident.  We grin over it each time I show up for my routine visits.  "See you in six months," says he.

After my check up and renewals of pneumonia and tetanus vaccines, I went to the eye clinic to check on the date for cataract surgery on my right eye.  I did notice during the exam that the vision in that eye had deteriorated considerably since last May, and that now the left eye wasn't all that great.  She dilated the pupils, checked the pressure, and completed the exam.

I'd given up night driving some months ago, since noticing that my night vision had become distorted and I no longer have the confidence needed to feel safe changing lanes, or even recognizing off ramps at times.  Something was going awry, obviously.

For the first time, my diagnosis was that -- not only was the surgery necessary to remove the cataracts -- but glaucoma was now present.  Glaucoma is, of course, incurable -- and the cause of blindness.  I will outlive my eyesight.

This was not anticipated though I am aware that my paternal grandmother was someone I knew only as a small child, and at that time she was totally blind.  She died when I was about four.  My father spent his last ten years without sight.  Since they both suffered from diabetes, I'd only associated their blindness with the disease.  I've never suffered from diabetes, so had never connected glaucoma with something to be expected as I entered this past decade.  Not for one minute did I anticipate or fear this diagnosis.

Because I'd received a clean bill of health from my primary physician only an hour before, the image that came up for me was, "... WOW!  I'm fit to sign up for the Boston marathon, but I may have to do it with a guide dog!" 

I drove home with new information that should have been shocking, right?  It wasn't.  Should have caused alarm.  It didn't.  I've lived with it for almost a week now, and find that I'm still waiting for some sort of reaction.  Panic?  Nothing, still.  I've enjoyed excellent health for such a long time that I'm feeling blessed 'til now, and grateful for being alive and able to still be productive into these years.

I know that -- though there is no cure -- there are drugs that may slow the progression.   I will have time to adjust to a new way of living, and that I'm computer savvy and have time to teach myself to use the features available to me.  How different my capacities will be than what Dad could call on.  My grandmother could only sit in the rocking chair on the front porch of that house on Lapyrouse Street in New Orleans and hold me close while my mother did the housekeeping and prepared meals for the family.  My memories of her are that of a 3 year-old sitting in her lap endlessly brushing her waist-length dark hair and fondling the buttery-soft flesh of her upper underarm while falling asleep ... and being much-loved.  Maybe that's why the thought of blindness is not more frightening. 

My father left a great model for me.  I remember being awed by his ability to use what capacities he retained into the sightless years.  He knew that that little line from the top joint on his thumb to the tip measured exactly one inch.  I often watched him, fascinated, busily doing home repairs using his thumb to measure as he went along.  What he could have done if he'd lived into the kind of technology that I  have access to!  He'd been a builder all his life, and a proud one.  Blindness required some adjustments, but he lived into his mid-nineties with little complaint.

Not sure how quickly this will progress, but one thing is certain; I'm about to enter still another cycle of life with new challenges.  I'm also aware that this means that how I handle this may well determine how well my children and theirs, my nieces and nephews, will deal with this potential in their lives.  My work as mother may not be over yet; that part of parenting that influences the lives of the next generation.  And, of course, this may be something that they needn't worry about, or, by the time they reach these years a cure will have been discovered.  Medical research is moving so fast; look at the advances between my father's days and mine.

None of this is immediate.  There will be plenty of time to adjust, and if this past week is any indication, I'm still a long way from either realizing what this means, or, figuring out why it is that I'm not more disturbed by the prospect ... .

Tomorrow I will take the first steps:

I'll talk with my sons and my colleagues.  I suspect that this will be harder for those around me than it (apparently) is for me.

No plans to retire.  Nothing will change, unless ordered by wiser heads.  I'm still in unbelievably good health, and don't anticipate any major problems in the foreseeable future.   Cataract surgery will occur sometime in April, at which time there can be a more accurate assessment of just how much and how fast the glaucoma is progressing and how to plan for the necessary life adjustments.  This involves an out-patient pain-free 15-minute surgical procedure, with a relatively fast recovery.

I'm committed to giving the keynote address for the annual Rosie the Riveter Trust banquet on April 9th, and the surgery will not interfere, but will be scheduled for the following week, or later. 

I need to make some changes to my bucket list, maybe, but that's about it, I think.   Maybe I'll need to plan to see Hamilton in New York; a luxury worth saving up for.  A national tour is not slated until 2017, and that could be too late. Meanwhile, I'm planning to take Dorian to Yosemite for another look at Half Dome and Bridal Falls -- which should be amazing this El Nino year.  That trip will come in early April.
 
Meanwhile, move along folks, nothing to see here ... .