Saturday, March 18, 2017

More! More! More.


Crawling and babbling to toddling, then walking, running and dancing, climbing, laughing, and talking. I ask her questions and she answers me. I ask her to do things and she does them...some of the time. She's nearly 19-months-old now.

"Mumma gasses" she says, reaching for my black frames on the bathroom sink.

"DaDA!" she hollers toward the ceiling when she knows her father is upstairs working, to which he replies, "AMELIA!"

"Hup pease" (help please), She says when she wants to get into the storage closet (where all the battery operated toys are kept). Or "Hup pease! HupPEASE! HUP PEASE! When she wants to get into the storage closet several seconds before she realizes that she wants to get into the storage closet.

She pokes me in the eye, saying, "eye...Momma eye", then "no" (nose), "mout" (mouth), and with the most enthusiasm, "Mumma 'AIR!" (hair) with a slap to the top of my head, followed by a firm grasp of my bangs.

She's learning the difference between "Nice" and "Not nice." Sometimes she hurts me: drops things on my head or feet, sits on my stomach and jumps, squeezes my skin or slaps me. Most of the time, it's because she can't yet articulate her feelings (we're working on it), but sometimes, I think, she's just curious to see my reaction.

"Ouch!" I often exclaim because it hurts and her attacks can be startling and strong. "That was not nice, Amelia. Be nice to Mumma."

"Not Nie." She repeats. "Nie Mumma." She might say, petting me.

I watch my friends' baby a few mornings a week. She's tall, slender and sweet with glassy doll blue eyes and a love of throwing things, clearing surfaces and emptying containers. She's 13 months old. When she thinks I'm not looking, she reaches for rocks and licks them or grabs fistfuls of dry dirt from my houseplants. Her name is Sedona. Amelia loves her.... most of the time. And she has discovered that if she wants Sedona to crawl toward her in a game of chase, the best way to get her to do this is to let out several terribly shrill trilling screams. (We're working on a quieter version for the library and larger group gatherings.) When Sedona begins learning to walk, I catch Amelia holding her doll by the head, saying, "Walk baby, walk baby, walk!" Both girls find my homemade tents exceptionally thrilling and stand inside the tablecloth walls, screaming.

Some days, Amelia sneaks up behind Sedona to hug and kiss her ("ooowah!") Other days, she isn't so kind.

"Not nice, Amelia. You have to be nice to baby Sedona."

"Not nie. Nie baby. Nie."

Sedona and her parents, Mark and Amy, come over for supper recently. Amy is very important to us all, but to Amelia, she's the person always at the other end of her imaginary phone calls and at the other end of my real phone calls. Her name is often on the tip of Amelia's tongue. Mark is here a little less often, but she loves him just the same. Tall, goofy, fun, he's always up for spontaneous play and whenever he's here, Amelia is often raising her hands toward him, breathlessly pleading for "more! more! more!" More flying! More spinning! More galloping! The other night Mark and the girls play with this alligator vest we have. Amelia wears the toothy, big-eyed-gator hood, raises her hands toward Mark and lets out a roar. Mark plays along, because Mark always plays along. She roars and he cowers and hollers in a fit of silly fake fright. It's hilarious. Amelia reacts as if she's watching magic. Her eyes go wide then small as she laughs. MORE! Again, she raises her hands and roars. He screams. More! Roar! Scream!

She plays this game with everyone now. First, she finds something to put on: a piece of clothing like an oven mitt, or her plastic polka dot glasses, or her hand-knit chicken hat. Then the hands go up and ROAR! Most people participate and scream, which makes her giggle and roar again.

Today she lounges alone on the couch with Eric Carle's Polar Bear Polar Bear What Do You Hear?, naming nearly every animal. This includes her own inventive ways of pronouncing, "hippopotamus", "boa constrictor", "flamingo" and "peacock." I'm tickled and floored.

I do a short yoga class on my computer, pausing it only twice, while she sits at the table, bluing her teeth with blackberries. When I get her down from her seat (with 10 minutes left of the class), she stands on my mat and crawls between my legs and sits and smiles, grasping her toes, mimicking me. This makes laugh. Later, she's restless at nap time so I bundle her up in gloves, boots, hat and coat and strap her to my back. Then my dog and I climb the hill behind our house and wander through the deep soft snow, while she sleeps at my shoulder and the wind hushes the rumbling hum of the machines on the highway below.

This walk in the woods is how my whole life sometimes feels - like I've wandered away from the road and I'm lost in the thickets and weeds, tangled up in the prettiest wildflowers and dry fallen leaves, wondering why I am wandering and staring up at the tops of trees instead of forward toward the noise of the future. But then I try to tell myself that this quiet path I am building, trampling and dancing upon is not nowhere. It is here - my here with her.




Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Grampa and the Iranian Revolution


Image may contain: 2 people, people sitting and indoor

Dear Grampa Lou,

1930
February 28, 1930, you are born in Sagamore, Massachusetts in the house you grow up in. Where, when you are real small, there is an outhouse attached to the garage and a bathtub in the kitchen by the kerosene stove. Your Italian-American mother makes all of your clothing and darns your socks and mends your slacks. She has a “wringer” washer and hangs the wet laundry outside to dry, even in winter. Your father is from Nova Scotia, Canada. He never has much of an education. Mom says he only completes the sixth grade, but he goes on to become the Supervisor of Maintenance for the entire Bourne Public School system (which means he knows how to fix just about everything). He's also an air-raid warden and a member of the State Guard. World War II is happening throughout your childhood (1939 - 1945). In high school, you and a buddy work an outpost near Sagamore Bridge, reporting by telephone, every passing airplane.

1947
After high school, you enter The Carnegie Institute of Technology in Pittsburgh to study engineering. Your girlfriend, Nancy (Grandma) goes to college for elementary education, but hates it and soon returns home to work her old job at the Western Union. The following fall, she enters The Massachusetts Memorial Hospital School of Nursing, where she is class president all three years and seen as a very promising future nurse. You, Gramp, have a scholarship for your first year of college, but you need another so you go out for the football team. Not only do you get onto the team, but you also receive a full football scholarship. You love these days, playing college ball, studying engineering and writing daily letters to Nancy.

1951
Grandma Nancy writes:
In June 1951, I went by car with Lou's parents, his sister and brother to Pittsburgh for his graduation. ...On that trip home, Lou and I decided that we wanted to get married. ...I think his parents were stunned but did not say much. He was marrying the minister's daughter! My parents accepted our decision but we knew it would be impossible to have a church wedding. Many years later, my father co-officiated at Steve and Mary's wedding at Buzzards Bay Catholic Church. Times have changed for the better.... My Mom got me a suit and hat and shoes. I took off and, after staying with friends 2 nights, I met Lou and Lennie and Dot at the nurses home on Harrison Ave. We went to the church where a priest I knew would perform the ceremony. ...The four of us went into Boston and had lunch and then took off for Lake Winnipesaukee, we had a little cabin on a hill for a whole whopping weekend honeymoon. Then back to Lynn where we had rented an apartment, I drove into Boston to work and Lou started at GE. When I graduated officially, I got a job in the maternity nursery at Lynn Hospital.
1967
In 1967, pining for Cape Cod, you purchase your own gas turbine consulting firm, Fern, and a couple years later, you move to Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts.

1978
Years later, in 1978, Fern's number one client is Amerada Hess Oil Corp and in October of that year, you take a trip. Then you write about it.

This is a true story that, in the interest of historical accuracy, must be told for the record. There are already several versions that have been told in the same manner as a folk tale...each one embellishes the previous one. Since I am the one who precipitated the whole incident, I am taking it upon myself to set the record straight. (Also, I have to rescue whatever is left of my reputation.) 
My name is Lou Fougere. At the time this story unfolds, I was the President of Fern Engineering, a consulting engineering firm specializing in gas turbine machinery. Our main client (actually, Client #1)  was Amerada Hess Oil Corp.  One of Hess’ ventures was an offshore oil concession and oil stabilization facility on Arzanah Island in the Arabian Gulf. This facility was powered by Ruston gas turbine generators, and that is why Fern Engineering was involved.
You go to Arzanah Island for the initial construction with Mr. Hess himself, along with his Senior VP, Mr. Hank Wright. There is a problem with the buried electrical conduit and you take photographs with your 35mm camera to document. Two Hess airplanes fly staff from America to the island. One plane returns to the U.S with most of the crew, but you stay with Mr. Hess and Mr. Wright to do more work. Before flying home, you tag along for a quick trip to Iran.
Hess had to go to Tehran in order to negotiate an oil purchase with the Shah of Iran.
The Shah, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, has ruled since 1941, inheriting the throne from his father who flees to South Africa in exile.  At the time of Hess's meeting with the Shah in October of 1978, Mohammad Reza Pahlavi is dying of cancer and a revolution is erupting in the streets of his country. Martial Law is declared.

On September 8, 1978, approximately one month before you arrive, there are protests and a religious demonstration in Jaleh Square, Tehran. The military tries to stop the rally by blocking the route. The crowd refuses to disperse, moving toward the military. Soldiers open fire on the crowd. Some sources say dozens of unarmed citizens are shot down dead in the street, while other sources say hundreds perish. This day now wears the name, Black Friday in Iran, and is considered the moment of no return in the rising conflict between the Shah and the rebels.

You stay at the Royal Tehran Hilton. On the morning of your arrival, Mr. Hess has a meeting with the Shah. You and Mr. Wright think it might be interesting to go into the city - to see what it's like. So Mr. Hess arranges a big black Cadillac (owned by the Iranian Oil Company) to pick you up.
When the limousine arrived we discovered two disturbing things: (1). The driver couldn’t speak English (and we couldn’t speak Farsi) and (2) a strike had been called in support of Khomeni and the revolution. You may not recall (I will never forget) but in October, 1978, Khomeni was in exile in Paris and a revolution was brewing in Iran prior to the overthrow of the Shah. Being a worldly bunch, with no shortage of self-confidence, what the hell….we decided that we’d take a tour anyhow. Maybe the large department store would be open even if the Souk (the open air market) was shut down.
Ruhollah Khomeni is considered the 1st Supreme Leader of Iran (the highest ranking religious and political leader), but long before he takes this position, he is imprisoned in Iran and then exiled in the 1960s for speaking out against the government's push toward westernization. In exile, Khomeni lives in Iraq for 12 years before Saddam Hussein forces him to leave. Then he goes to live near Paris where he records sermons on tape, which then spread throughout Iran, building support and unrest. When you, Grampa, are there in October of 1978, there is a widespread strike because many Iranians want Khomeni to replace the Shah.

In December…just a couple months after you leave, the army mutinies and in mid-January, the American-supported Shah flees Iran with his family. Khomena is appointed Supreme Leader in February of 1979.

On your ride into Tehran from the hotel, Mr. Wright sits in the front seat. You, along with the jet’s co-pilot and the project manager, Dick Palmer, sit in the back.
Oh yes, being two experienced tourists, Hank and I had our 35mm cameras…his was a Minolta and mine was the same one that I had on Arzanah...With pidgin English, which neither the driver nor we could understand, and a generous dose of sign language, we managed to get the limo headed downtown. ….The Hilton is on a hill above Tehran, and we had a long ride down a beautiful boulevard with flowers in the middle and every ¼ mile or so a good-sized traffic circle...
The closer the Cadillac gets to the center of the city, the more crowded the streets become with people, cars and army vehicles. All the shops are closed, but you get the driver to pull over and let you out so that you can walk a bit and see if the big department store is open. When you discover that it too is closed, you return to the car and motion for the driver to take you back to the hotel.
We had gone only a few blocks when I noticed a small convoy parked along the curb, consisting of several troop carriers (complete with rifle-toting troops), a large water canon resembling a Coke truck with a long pipe (the canon) on the roof, and a jeep with a mounted 50 caliber machine gun just like in the TV show called “Rat Patrol”. Troopers with their rifles at ready (and their fingers on the trigger) stood between the convoy and the slow-moving traffic and the milling crowd. As we approached the convoy, my war-correspondent instincts took over…I pulled out my trusty camera and clicked off several shots that were sure to get me a Pulitzer Prize. The last shot was a picture of a trooper so close that I could only see his hands holding the rifle. At that time, all hell broke loose.
Oh my goodness, Gramp! WHAT are you DOING!?
As I put my camera down, the limo stopped short and I looked up to see the face of the soldier behind the rifle which by this time was pointed at me. His finger was nervously on the trigger (it was twitching) and I swear to God his eyes were bearing through me as if to make way for the bullet that was sure to follow. He looked like he had just come off of a camel. I’ve never been so damn scared in my life. Thank God he had enough savvy to realize that he was way over his head, and he called his sergeant, who arrived within seconds and took up the same position including the rifle pointing at me.
Later you ask Hank Wright what it's like to turn around and see “the business end of a 30 caliber rifle” and he says it's like a “damned howitzer" …. He turns around and quietly sits on his camera. Smart move, Hank.
Meanwhile the limo was completely surrounded with nervous, jabbering troopers pointing their rifles at the big black Cadillac owned by the Iranian Oil Company driven by a man who, by this time, had turned a pasty white….The sergeant, whose eyes looked disturbingly like the soldier’s who had preceded him, realized that he also was over his head, and he summoned his lieutenant. That young man moved the sergeant aside and thrust his head through the open window, stared at my camera and said something like ‘filma, filma’; Dick Palmer mumbled that the lieutenant wanted the film. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that, but, by this time, I had grown ten thumbs. I couldn’t have opened the camera if my life depended on it…which, of course, it really did. Finally, I remembered the combination and popped open the film compartment…only to find the compartment was empty!
Then you remember the new roll in your pocket. You take it out, open the foil and give the lieutenant the new roll of film, before saying with a nervous smile, “heh, heh, no film.”

 This, I think, blew him away. He turned to the rapidly fainting driver, yelled something in Farsi which probably translated to "get to the hell out of here before you get killed", and stepped back out of the car window. 
During this episode, the street ahead of us had cleared of traffic, since no cars could get beyond our limo which had been stopped by the Iranian army. The street behind us however, was at a complete standstill, backing up at least to the Turkish border. The almost comatose driver slapped his foot down on the accelerator, and the big black Cadillac pealed rubber for blocks, putting distance between us and the Iranian army.  
The ride back to the hotel was quiet, each man reflecting on the last 30 minutes and thanking his benevolent God, whomever He may be.
1983
Five years later, in April of 1983, your eldest child, Stevie dies. Steve is an engineer. He's a really smart guy, an incredible, natural musician and usually very laid back - my mom tells me now. In 1983, he's on a ship in Brazil, working as an engineer - apparently, he often goes down to the docks to get work. In the South Atlantic Ocean, he discovers a problem with the ship he's on so he starts running and running, up and down and all around the vessel, trying to fix the damn problem, which must be a tremendously dangerous issue, because in an effort to solve it, he runs until he collapses.

His widow, Mary, writes,

Rach....I've got to set the record straight and correct any faulty memories. Steve was 30 years old when he died. He died in a hospital in Cali, Columbia after being driven overnight in an ambulance through the mountains of Columbia. It might have been heat exhaustion or CO2 poisoning....we'll never know. He left behind 3 babies....Dan 4 years old, Sarah 3 years old and Tom 1 year old....and a very heartbroken wife who was 28 years old. This all happened the last day of April of 1983.
Mom says that when you tell her Stevie is dead, she calls you a liar. The morning you must begin mourning, you go from house to house, telling your children of the death of their brother, father, husband, uncle, son - a tragedy you yourself are still trying to comprehend.

Gram goes to church every morning after Stevie's sudden death, walking miles and miles to and from the church. He leaves three little children at home. He’d be so proud of them now.


There’s this photograph of Stevie. You and all of your children have copies of it in your houses. I love this close up portrait: his strong bare shoulders, shaggy dark hair, a generous happy smile, a big black mustache and squinting eyes behind gold framed glasses.

I hope that when you tell Stevie about your trip to Iran, laughter falls out of both of you, while relief makes you feel lightheaded and giddy. Are you the one who takes this photograph, this portrait? (I don't think I have ever seen you with a camera, so perhaps you abandon photography after you're nearly shot dead for it.) But maybe not, maybe you take this picture with that same 35mm and that's why he's smiling so big, because you've just told him your adventure story.

I love that you always end your notes with God bless you so...God bless YOU, Gramp...and HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I LOVE you so,

Rachel


Saturday, February 11, 2017

Paper Newspaper

Image result for newspaper coffee toast

I ordered a subscription to the Sunday New York Times.

Tomorrow morning, an ink pressed paper bundled and rolled inside a plastic bag will lie on my doorstep. They emailed to say that they received my postcard and payment, and that I now have unlimited access to online news stories. I don't want unlimited access to online news stories. That's why I decided on a paper newspaper in the first place - for this national election and our current political climate has left me with a new addiction and it is the scrolling of news headlines on glowing screens. An act that subsequently spins stress around my heart like frayed, knotted twine wrapping a ripe mango, binding my soft ticker until it swells and throbs every vein (from my temples to my toes) making me mad, miserable and without hope (without even any hope of hope).

A little while back, I got so worked up about the president's regressive executive orders that I couldn't stop talking about it. My brother called to say 'hello' and my mouth became a fire hose of fury. I couldn't calm myself. My friend was here and we talked (or rather, spewed all the bile our eyes and minds had choked down that day), while our babies played on the floor. Then my husband came home. Then everyone left. My friends went home and my husband went to teach his evening class. My body felt stiff and my mouth tasted of metal. I had to relax. So after supper and before bath; before teeth brushing and before selecting a pile of bedtime books; I turned on music and my toddler and I danced. She stomped her bare feet and raised her hands and turned in circles, while I jumped and jutted my arms and shook my head and shoulders and hips. I grabbed her by the hands and moved us both to the quick drum beat. Then I picked her up and spun her around and around until we were both wide with smiles and glowing, our spirits yellow with bliss. It worked. I felt so much better. That's when I realized: I can't keep on clicking. Our president is turning our government into a reality show and I don't want to watch anymore. So I've decided to pay for the press he so often attacks, the press he fears.  

Internet news is like a river during a deep white winter melt. Some people can ride the rapids - in fact, they appear invigorated by them, bending into every unexpected turn and flying from every bump. But I can't seem to stay in the damn boat. I constantly get pulled into the cold water and before I know it, I am drowning. I am pinned between boulders, dragged down dams or washed up on rocky river beds. However for me, a paper newspaper is more like a puddle or pond. It can be surprisingly deep and frigid, but it is quiet and calm and shallow at the edges so that I can step into it with caution. It has advertisements, but they aren't blinking or speaking and there isn't a box that will suddenly appear in front of my glasses to block my view of the page. Above all, when I hold a paper newspaper in my hands, no one else knows (except, of course, me), which articles I choose to read, the ones I remember, the pieces I cut out with scissors, the stories I skim and the columns I ignore.

During these times, it is important that we remain informed and vocal, but we'll help no one if we don't first help ourselves. Stress will squeeze us all dead if we let it. So find your way of coping. I'm starting with a paper newspaper... and daily dance parties with my daughter.


Saturday, February 4, 2017

Part Six: A Maker (The Last of the Letter to my Great-Grandmother)



Dear Sunny -

John gives you a bible and inscribes it with these words: July, 1927, Philippians 1:3, which is, I thank my God upon every remembrance of you. In her notes, Grandma Nancy then writes, “thus began a marriage of devotion and pain."

When the summer of 1942 arrives, the relief of heat is a tease, for with it, humidity settles, sticks and sweats. So you pack the station wagon with swimsuits and drive north to be with Baba by the sea. She has a house in Buzzards Bay, Cape Cod - a whole house all to herself.

For years,  you and John and the children escape to Baba’s in Buzzards Bay often. And when the house next door goes on the market, you buy it for real cheap and stay there during your retreats north. John is asked to lead a new mission church in Bourne. He takes the job. It won't pay very much, but you are all more than ready to leave Pennsylvania for the country by the sea.

In the fall of 1944, you and the children set off for Buzzards Bay without much of anything. The house is partially furnished from your summer stays. John cannot join you yet - he has work to finish in Philadelphia. Soon after you arrive in Massachusetts, however, The Great Atlantic Hurricane, a category-four major tropical cyclone, flies up the eastern coast of North America. They cannot predict storms in 1944 like meteorologists can today. No one sees it coming until it’s too late. Many ships are out at sea when the strong storm - as wide as 600 miles - hits. 70 years later, it is still considered one of the most destructive hurricanes in New England history.

That night, while the wind whips the water and whistles through the windows and walls, you and the children huddle inside with neighbors. Nancy hardly sleeps at all that night as she lies listening to the trees creak, crack and collapse. What do you do, Sunny? Curse? Weep? Drink? Smoke? Stalk the windows with your bags by the door - ready to run? Holler prayers in hoarse whispers: Really God? Really? After all this, after all these difficult years, I finally make it to a place I love and you send down the storm of a century to wash me and my children away? The storm passes and in the morning, you see the damage. The small sailboat is gone and the boathouse by the beach has been swept away. The bank on the bay is never the same and the power is out and remains off for days. When the lines are finally mended and the electricity is turned back on, the children go off to their new schools. Eventually, John makes it past all the downed trees to reach you.


In the fall of 1944, Nancy is 15 years old. She attends Bourne High School and soon meets Louis Fougere while on a bus ride to a football game. Lou asks Nancy if she'd like to go with him to the movies. The two teenagers start dating and 72 years later (after many wedding anniversaries, birthdays, houses, boats, babies and travels) my grandparents are back in Buzzards Bay, living in a beautiful, bright condominium.

The mission church where John begins preaching is called St. Peter’s Episcopal Church on the Canal. It's established in 1938 with services in an empty hall. In 1944, when you all come to town, John begins leading the growing congregation, which wants a permanent home. You get the idea to write a letter to the popular national radio show, Vox Pop - to see if they'd be interested in doing a piece about the church. They contact you and John, tell you that they'd like to do an entire live show about St. Peter's. After it airs, inspired listeners across the country send you donations. These gifts (along with money from church fundraisers), make the purchase of a church possible. John finds a vacant chapel 60 miles away in the town of Hull, Massachusetts. It is far too expensive to move by truck, but by water, on a big flat barge, is possible. The year is 1947 and this little white church floating down the Cape Cod Canal makes the front page of the local newspaper and settles into our family history as one of our most cherished stories.

The old church is in poor shape when it arrives, but the parishioners and you and John, beautify the building with nautical symbols, light gray shingles and white trim. The doors are painted a bold red. Mounted above the front double doors, the bow of a small shiny green fishing boat floats. In the boat, there is a man in a yellow slicker with a matching brimmed hat. He holds a net. He must be Saint Peter. With his white beard and old face, he looks out and up. Behind him, the mast of his boat is the shape of a cross.

"When you think of Sunny, do you think of someone who was frail?” I ask my mother.  
“No. Not at all.” Mom says. She tells me how capable a person you are. She says you probably just don’t have a lot of physical stamina because of all the cigarettes you smoke. "Grand smokes like a chimney too." ("Grand" is our name for John). She says.

 "Pipe or cigarettes?”
“Cigarettes.”
In the papers Grandma gives me, there is the copy of a newspaper article written about you entitled, Ceramics Grows From Hobby Into Profitable Business- Buzzards Bay Woman Gets Many Orders. It tells of a Christmas when John gives you a book about ceramics, a small hobby kiln and the materials needed to craft clay. The article reads,
She has converted a former bedroom into her own studio workshop. It is beside the garage and has an excellent view of the water. There she is able to work undisturbed. A small heater that her husband has placed there keeps the studio warm regardless of the outside temperature. She does all her modeling, firing and decorating in her workshop. There are many of her designs pinned on the wall and her work bench is mute evidence of her industry.
Gram writes,
My parents had a great relationship in their younger years. When they got to be late seventies, things fell apart a bit, not really sure why except for ill health and the weight of years. My father did not counsel Mom as you think. We were all exposed to his beliefs and teachings all the time in church. My dad was a people person, my mom more a private person.
He may not council you in the traditional sense, with advice, but maybe he helps you in other wordless ways. 

Gram writes:
….My father was very handsome and always had ladies eyeing him. I remember one Sunday in Buzzards Bay, he got up in the pulpit, with his family in the front pew, and declared he had nothing to do with a rumor about him and a local female.
In your old age, you and John go off to live in Florida - for a few winters, I think. He is a pastor. You are a painter. You love the obscurity there. You can hide out in the sunshine with all the other old ladies and gentlemen - for hardly anyone knows you. But when you're away for too long. Grand misses the gossip of the cape. So you return to Buzzards Bay where Grand writes a column for the local newspaper, preaches at St. Peter's and rides his scooter around town, visiting old pals. In Buzzards Bay, you are the pastor's wife. You help run the church, organizing social events and fundraisers, as well as hosting dinner parties and gatherings. 

I am a child when you die, but I remember your funeral. Mostly, I remember my mother weeping. We sit on the left side of St. Peter's. Grand dies in 1986 when I am three. You die in 1990 when I am seven. Before the ceremony, while everyone is slowly walking in, I sit beside my mother while she cries harder than I have ever heard a grown-up cry before. (I am still in her belly when her big brother, Steven, dies in 1983). As people pass us, many place their hands on her shoulder, pausing to squeeze. You are very special to her. Perhaps your funeral is the moment my fascination with you begins.

I have written some of your story here. There is far more that is missing, but I'm sure, you prefer it that way.

I hope that your life is full of pretty little pleasures, of purpose and wet paint and stretched white canvases, of butterscotch candies, music, books, solitude and warm conversation. I'd like to, but I can't, watch you paint portraits or landscapes or porcelain. I can't sit with you in the bedroom of your childhood helping you to squish the bedbugs on your wall. Nor can I hold your hand in the hospital, while doctors poke you with needles and tubes to drain the pneumonia from your little child lungs. I won't ever watch you stroll down the streets of Philadelphia alone in 1925 or drink with you in a smoky New York City speakeasy in 1926. That's because you live then so that I can live now. 

Here I take in your story and spit it back out as best I can - simply to know you better and to appreciate my own life better. There is one conclusion I feel I can make and that is this: you cannot possibly be sad and ill with alcoholism and depression all day every day, for you are also, for many hours of your life, busy building lovely little things, which to me is proof that you're alright. You escape poverty, the death of your parents, addiction and the suffocation of sorrow, partially, I firmly believe, because you are a maker. I want to be a maker like you. I make bread and supper and scones. I make my baby with my body and now I make her laugh and I make her fruit and yogurt smoothies, pasta and popcorn. I make pots of coffee so dark it muddies the bottom of my mug and I make letters and cards and lists and joy. And I make up songs and stories and sentences. But I want to make more. I want to sketch drawings again. I want to learn how to knit. I want to lose myself to the unlimited possibility of paper and a pallet of paint. 

This small study of your life reminds me that it is the making, the process of building something new, that is most valuable to a soul. So thank you, Sunny. 

With tremendous love and gratitude, 
Your great-granddaughter, 
Rachel 


Thursday, January 19, 2017

Part Five: Old Fashioned Wars (A Letter to my Great-Grandmother)




Dear Sunny -

Your husband, Reverend John Samuel Stephenson, proves himself a charismatic speaker and a dedicated pastor (particularly with the youth). Soon, he's sent to St. Martin in the Fields Church in the wealthy suburb of Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, where he is named the Assistant to the Curate.

You move from your townhouse in Germantown to a larger, drafty house in Chestnut Hill, where the heat is broken. During the weekdays, your children are off at school - a new school where all the other children have hired drivers in luxury automobiles, while yours have their daddy in a wood-sided station wagon. You are often home alone and sick, due to the damp chill in the house and all the cigarettes you smoke.

Nancy loves her new fancy school. She has art classes and piano lessons and field days! ....I wonder if having small children makes you think back to your own schoolhouse in Eleanora. Do you ever smell burning coal, chalk clouds and pencil shavings? Or imagine the feel of a paper book beneath your hand and a worn wooden desk under your elbows? Back then, are your brothers "breaker boys"? Going off to work early every morning with tin lunch buckets and hobnailed boots, caps, handkerchiefs on their chins and chewing tobacco between their teeth? Returning every night black as crows with aching backs and swollen, blood-encrusted fingers? Or do you and your siblings all stay inside your schoolhouse with your studies, since your papa is the Mine Superintendent and makes a little bit more than the others? ...Perhaps you don't like to think about Eleanora. It's far nicer, I imagine, to look at your daughters and son - all ignorant to the kind of pain and fright you face as a child.

...And yet, as much as you might like, you can't hide them from the world. Early Sunday morning, December 7, 1941, before the family leaves for church, Nancy stands in the dining room, listening to the radio in the corner, from which a reporter hollers breaking news. Japan has attacked Pearl Harbor. Volunteers and servicemen-on-leave are told to report to police and fire stations to see if help is needed. Walk, the newsman emphasizes, do not run and cause hysteria. Commercials for Jello play. The reporter returns to read death tolls and ship counts and to make mention of the traffic in Honolulu, Hawaii. Nancy has just turned 12 a few days before. As you listen to the news, do you inhale suddenly, causing a fit of coughing? Or are you lighting a cigarette with shaky fingers? Is the coffee in your hands spilling from cup to saucer? I can picture Nancy standing between wallpapered walls, wearing her Sunday best, while her blue eyes are wide and wild with confusion and fright.

The day after the attack, the United States declares war on the Empire of Japan. Three days later, Germany and Italy declare war on America and in turn, America declares war on Hitler’s Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s fascist Italy.

Soon there are air raid drills in schools and food shortages, the distribution of meat and sugar coupons. Nancy has a breakdown. Weeks after she turns 12, weeks after the United States enters World War II, she refuses to go to school. I don't blame her. In school, bomb drills interrupt mathematics lessons and the naive chatter of children recounting adult conversations and overheard news reports, surely, cannot be avoided. Today, she blames hormones and nerves. As the eldest child and now a young lady herself, she can’t so easily ignore the fears of her fellow citizens, her friends and family. She writes “left mid-year” in her notes next to 1941. She misses one week of school.

Nancy’s inability to return to school those few days (she thinks back now), probably worries you and John a great deal, but I like to imagine that during that week, you and young Nancy sit with playing cards, stacks of books and knitting needles with yarn. While everyone else goes off to work and school, you, mother and daughter, sit with blankets and black tea and bowls of oatmeal - reading, and knitting and talking. And whenever reports about the war cut into your radio music, you switch it off and Nancy plays the piano, while you sit scribbling flower patches and sailboat sketches. Maybe Nancy builds a fire in the hearth of that house - stacks split logs, gathers and wedges kindling into every crack, crumples newspaper pages and presses them beneath the wood before taking a lit match and kissing the flame to every paper corner until a blaze bursts into a small sun. This makes you smile, I like to think, as you sit back, inhaling the heat. 

I am 33 years old, a mother now too, and I still need an occasional retreat to my mother's arms. For it appears, 75 years later, that our world is still run by violent, self-absorbed little men who want, more than anything, to rule like tyrannical kings and conquerors. In 1941, America fights fascist dictators. In 2016, America elects one.

I, of course, don't know your opinion on the matter. I am 7 years old at your funeral, so not many opportunities for political discussions between us before then. I do hope in the light of your current space, you can see time stretched around you like a quilt of maps and lines. And I hope that you are smiling as you get this message, thinking, Calm down, great-grandchild, you are overreacting.

People tell me he's a populist. I agree. He's that too. But mostly, I fear, he's a fascist - an egocentric authoritarian looking for power through a third world war - an old fashioned war with the draft and bloody beach battles and nuclear weapons - a war he can set up on a  tabletop terrain map of the seven continents and five oceans with little army action figures and metal tanks and battleships and submarines.

Already we are entrenched in so many wars - so many wars I cannot even list them all, let alone fight them, but here are a few. I'm sure you'll be familiar with some of these these. (These are not wars declared by Congress, but wars started by the people, at the people - wars risen out of prejudices, ignorance, fear, and pride.)

There is a war on Women and Girls and it is global and violent and as complex as all the individual cultures where females are fighting for equality, a voice, votes, and respect. In our American culture there is a civil war currently between Misogyny and Feminism. Unfortunately for progress, Misogyny wins November 9, 2016 when its king claims the highest seat in our government. Tomorrow, Friday, January 20, 2017, his inauguration takes place, hopefully in the dreadful rain. The following day, The Women's March on Washington will happen, along with hundreds upon hundreds of other smaller "sister" marches around the globe. The mission of the Women's March on Washington is this:
We stand together in solidarity with our partners and children for the protection of our rights, our safety, our health, and our families - recognizing that our vibrant and diverse communities are the strength of our country.
I fear his embarrassment from this bold and beautiful act of citizens walking in solidarity. I worry he will retaliate by taunting his followers into violence against the peaceful protesters. I also worry that he will wait a little while. Then when he eventually provokes and engages other countries into war (or joins with Russia, as it, through quiet force, claims country after country, stealthily stealing world domination as if life were a big bloody game of Risk), I fear, the president will reenlist the draft, which will be horrifying enough, but I fear he will include women, old women particularly, then explain his reasoning in a Tweet at 2a.m. (Here I would explain to you, Sunny, what a Tweet is, but I'm not really sure myself - only I guess I could say that it's like an instant telegram for the world.) Anyway, his telegram Tweet might read:
What ladies? All you girls wanted equality. Now you have it. Go fight for me. Sad! 

And the only way to dodge his draft (aside from building a boat and hiding away at sea) is to be home and pregnant or participating in one of his beauty contests. And with technology today, he could easily find out who attends these marches by hacking social media and cell phones. Then he could place these women, these peaceful protesters, at the top of his draft lists, sending us all away to die in his faraway old fashioned wars where like astronauts we will be ordered to shove his company flag into the ground of newly occupied colonies (only after, of course, we've nuked them, and captured, tortured and  raped the survivors). When at home we demand a change or peace, the republicans in office will be frightened into silence - afraid to lose his support or his supporters' votes - bullied away from doing what's right.



I do, of course, hope that I am overreacting.

Image result for mussolini quotes women


But on with the wars....There is a war against African Americans and Mexican Americans and Muslim Americans. There is a war between Man and Mother Earth: attacks on African elephants and rhinoceros, attacks on the ozone and the oceans and the ice caps, attacks on our rain forests and the American Indians. There is a war on Science and a war on our Constitution. There is a war on Education and there is a war on the Educated. There is a worldwide web of unholy holy wars where self-righteous religious rage is plowing down innocents in the streets; stabbing priests on church altars and gunning down dancers. There is a war on American Diversity. There is a war on Homosexuals and Transgender Americans. There is a war on all those brave enough to be unique and outspoken and bright. And there is a deep, psychological (and possibly irreversible) war happening on the minds of our American children: Look, (America is telling our youth), we know we tell you not to bully, to quit lifting the skirts of the girls in your class and to stop pushing them down with your hands and your words. We know we scold you for fighting and for name calling, but...alright, listen, so it turns out we've been lying to you. Truthfully, the key to popularity isn't kindness. If you want friends, you really just need to be insufferably offensive (a misogynist, white-supremacist, homophobic bully). Only then will the other children think that you're funny and cool (or they'll fear you and therefore pretend to be your friend, which is sort of the same thing). So, go on and tease, no, better yet, torment ANYONE and EVERYONE who appears different from you. It'll work, trust us, just look at our president. 

America needs to be a better role model for our children. They see what's going on. They see it all. And with their growing brains and impressionable hearts, they are going to do what we do and say what we say. This has not changed since 1941. We still cannot hide war from children. 

"Live and let live!" Grandma Nancy says last year on Christmas Day, while we discuss the most recent terrorist attack. She is in her mid-80s. She's a great-grandmother now too.

After she says this, for days, I find myself repeating the old proverb again and again. It's so simple and yet, so perfect. Yes! LIVE (your own best life) AND LET (everyone else who isn't hurting you) LIVE (their best lives too!) For goodness sake, (I want to shout, Sunny!) quit ignoring/disregarding/shouting over/murdering people who think differently from you. Talk about it and AGREE TO DISAGREE. I mean, debate. Talk it out. And learn to at least (with some caution and occasional distance) understand the other side. Live and let live. American politicians and citizens aren't even attempting compromise. We're all just yelling with our hands over our ears. But if we want American democracy to survive and thrive, we need to stop this US vs. THEM. In fact, the whole world needs to graduate from this antiquated idea. We need it to be: US FOR THEM and THEM FOR US. Because, the truth is, our little world needs all of us and all of them.

Since the election, I have been in a war of my own: me and my feelings of worthlessness. I am a woman and a "stay-at-home-mom" and when I return to work, I will be a teacher to young children. Since the election I have wanted to run across the country telling every girl and woman I see that she is more than her hips and lips and legs and ovaries and breasts. That she is a builder - a builder of societies, life, and her own destiny. Sometimes, I fantasize about playing a non-traditional woman in our American culture. I think about what it might feel like to say that I am an astrophysicist or a brain surgeon or a senator, an oceanographer, a professional basketball player, a carpenter, or an engineer. I feel jealousy toward female lawyers and architects and city mayors. Because I want so badly to add more weight to this lopsided scale of gender equality. I want to do more and be more. I want to be someone girls look up to and think "I didn't know girls could be that!"  But then I realize that it isn't my fault that my society makes motherhood and the teaching of small children out to be trivial "womens work". There are cultures in the world that regard education as one of the most important positions in a community. For they understand that the care of a child is bigger than it appears. It is bigger than me and it is far bigger than him. For every child is a life - a life who touches so many other lives. A child is one moving piece in an exponentially expanding machine - a generation machine where every child is contributing to our world's collective future just by living their individual lives. This is what I keep trying to tell myself. That and if I want change, it isn't worthless or wasteful to spend my days caring, teaching and loving children.

"The education that will lead the way to a new humanity has one end alone: leading the individual and society to a higher state of development. The concept becomes clearer if we realize that mankind has to fulfill a collective mission on earth, a mission involving all of humanity and, therefore, each and every human being."
---Maria Montessori 

For my little girl, when she is 12, in the year 2027, I wonder what she will hear on the radio. Will she stand between the walls of our dining room, listening with tender ears to reports of world war? Or by then will we be on a boat, hiding away at sea? Whatever our destiny, I will make sure that she knows that she can take all the time she needs in my arms, beneath a pile of blankets and books.

But still, I have hope because I have to have hope - for her. Therefore, I hope when she is 12, in the year 2027, I hope more than anything that when we turn the radio on, the morning of December 7, we hear the voices of a vibrant, happy chorus of multicultural American children singing praises of WORLD PEACE.




Monday, January 2, 2017

Part Four: Books (A Letter to my Great-Grandmother)



Dear Sunny -


After college, John works for his father in the wool manufacturing industry, but he doesn’t like it very much. He wants to be a preacher. John Samuel Sr., however, doesn’t see religious service as a legitimate career path for his last living son. So John waits and works. Then in 1928, his father passes away and John joins the Philadelphia Divinity School.

For 8 years, you live at the Stephenson Homestead on Main Street in Philadelphia, while John studies and works as the assistant minister in a nearby parish.  Next, you move to a townhouse in Germantown, a poor suburb of Philadelphia. The church where John works has a convent. Nancy likes to visit the nuns there. She is nine. Your other daughter, Helen is six. Your son, John, is three. One day, an ambulance is called for you ---alcohol, pneumonia, depression--- these "demons" send you to the hospital many times, I’m told. But aside from the bottles and the cigarette boxes and the dreadful depressions, you also fall inside the bindings of open books. Grandma Nancy calls you a voracious reader.  Books are so generous - aren't they? Portable stories inked permanently onto paper pages for our eyes to run, roam and ramble along, while our minds strengthen and stretch and build us into stronger, more enriched persons.  I imagine you reading about world explorers, impressionism, fauna, flora, Mexican pottery, poetry, biographies, human biology and even silly romance dramas. I see you tracking your way through mystery novels, more out of necessity than anything, that needing to know, that curiosity some books give us. I imagine you reciting psalms and Shakespeare sonnets and the poems of Emily Dickinson. Do you have a favorite, familiar story? -one you retreat to when you feel heavy with worry? ...............................................................I am currently reading a book my brother gave me for my birthday. It's called, How to Be a Woman and it's by British Journalist, Caitlin Moran. It is hilarious. Last night, as I lie in bed reading, I start chuckling to myself about this part in the book where she's drunk at a wedding and on a tour of a fancy house with a glass of red wine when out of nowhere a bat flies in through an open window and crashes into her face. Her reaction is to scream, "WHAT THE FUCKING?" and throw her red wine across the white carpet. My reaction to her reaction (of receiving a bat slap to the face) causes me to giggle / fart and then CACKLE and FART- CACKLE - FART - FART - CACKLE. My husband, Scott sits at the computer by the window. He turns immediately to give me a stern shush, but this only makes it worse. He wants me to be quiet because our 16-month-old baby's bedroom is beside ours and we like it when she stays asleep at night. I cover my face with my book until my hyperventilating slows into normal breathing. I read for awhile longer before turning off the light and chortling myself to sleep. Next I'm going to read a two book biography on Eleanor Roosevelt.  SHOULD BE A HOOT!

Are there any good books to read when you're a child? My favorite book growing up is called The Little Match Girl. It is by Hans Christian Andersen. It's about a homeless child on New Years Eve who's starving and barefoot and bareheaded. She freezes to death in an alley, lighting the matches she's supposed to sell. I am fascinated by suffering. I seem to seek it out. I think it's because I always have mittens, knit hats, boots, books and breakfast. What is it like to be a little girl in that coal company town? Are you beaten like The Little Match Girl when you don't make any money? Are you terribly bored? Hungry? Forgotten? Are you overworked with raw blisters on your knuckles and scrapes and scars on your knees? With washboards and homemade soap and boiled water  ---how many rinses does it take to get that black dust out of cotton? How heavy are the water pails when they are full and how far must you walk to the pump? Do you play hopscotch, jump rope, baseball, kick the can? Do you make dolls out of old flour bags and run races in the middle of the black gravel lanes?  Do you have a swimming hole in the summer and a great hill for the snow in winter? Do you learn cuss words and practice saying them whenever you're alone? Are you loved? Or is love not a matter discussed by the poor at the start of the 20th century? When your daddy carries you to the hospital, when he leaves you there with the nurses and doctors, does he tell you he loves you? Does he bend down, take off his hat and kiss your feverish forehead, then wipe your wet eyes and runny nose with his coarse coal-stained fingers, before whispering, "I love you, sweet Carolyn May?" Or does he mumble some inaudible, meaningless phrase like, "be good, kid" before hurrying off for a drink? Do you get your need to drink from him? Do you get your depression from your momma? Are you just an unlucky combination of two unfortunate souls? Does she take her own life and the life of the baby in her body, feeling an irrevocable doom birthing another child, her eighth, into the dark, dusty world of her terribly sad circumstances? Or is she full of light and life and devotion for God and her children? Is she an optimist, a painter, a songbird? I just hope you are a loved child. Neglected children can have such a difficult time in life.

When your own children are off at school, are you chain smoking in the kitchenette of your townhouse, watching the clock tick to the end of the school day? Do you stand by a roasting pan, a paper package of pork and a mesh bag of little yellow onions, while you hold a recipe from a magazine and a half-lit cigarette? Are you trapped in that townhouse, stuck in the mine of your time in history as an American housewife of the 1930s? Is this home your own personal mental asylum? Or is it your quiet castle? Your sanctuary? Gram says you are a wonderful mother despite all you have gone through. But at the time of your ambulance rides, your children do not always understand what is happening. For most children are not given the entirety of sad stories. Instead, they see what they see and are often told very little.    



Friday, December 30, 2016

Part Three: Alcohol (A Letter to my Great-Grandmother)


Dear Sunny -

John meets you, pretty young Carolyn May, in a dry cleaners shop. You want to wed him. He wants to wed you, but because of the recent death of his mother, and perhaps because of the start of what will later called The Great Depression, you decide on a small ceremony. I’m sure you’re glad for the intimate wedding. No crowd, no camera flashes and no excessive attention, just you and him, and perhaps a witness or two. When you marry in that little church, does John know about your troubles? About your dreadfully poor childhood? Do you tell him about the man who hurt you? Have you told him about your mother and your father or your sisters and brothers? I imagine John probing you with questions, but that you keep things light and him in the dark. I imagine he likes to talk about big ideas, about humanity and kindness, God, empathy, service and community, while you’d much prefer to discuss the dinner you’re eating or the suit he’s wearing or the birds in the park singing. Maybe you want to remain a mystery. Or perhaps, you’re so lonely and in such need of companionship that all he has to do is tug at the past just gently enough and you can’t help but unravel your history until it is in a heaping heaving pile on some cafĂ© tabletop beside your ashtray and half empty cups. Maybe John thinks that he can help you, save you from yourself. After the wedding, he takes you to New York City for a honeymoon. It is 1926, Prohibition Era, but he seems to know people, possibly old college pals, and he has some money and so he takes you around town to speakeasies and secret parties and it is then that you are introduced to alcohol. 

I have my first real drink, wine coolers, in college. They taste like juice and quickly make me dizzy, giddy and flirty. A drink gives you confidence - doesn't it? Confidence to sit with strangers, to dance with John, to pretend that you aren’t that poor, hungry child from some unmapped coal mining mountain town for which you are. You are clean now and well dressed. You are a lady, a married young lady with a new kind of social life and this is all well and good, but money and pretty dresses and cigarettes and scotch won’t change you, Sunny. You are still the daughter of a drunk. You are still the survivor of pneumonia with a frail frame and punctured, weak lungs and scarred skin . And you are still an orphan. All you know of your past is what you manage to remember. You have no photo albums. No parents to call on to converse with and ask questions. (I want to mention that I don't want to sound as if I am blaming John for giving you your first drink. I hope you don’t blame him either. It would have found the inside of your glass eventually.) Your horoscope tells me that you appreciate simplicity, of experiencing life through the senses. It also tells me that you are shy. I know this already. Just as I understand that a drink feels good in a warm sensory sort of way and a couple drinks can silence most self-conscious worries. Is it here on your honeymoon in New York City when you discover that you have been carrying your daddy’s coal in the soles of your shoes since childhood? Do you drink very much and collapse onto the hotel bed in your evening clothes? Do you then discover in the morning the filth of your daddy’s addiction as if it were a stain beneath your heals? If so, what is this devastation like? Do you wonder if he has damaged your biology? It’s from him, isn’t it? Or has it manifested itself further back, as far back as your great-grandmother? I don’t know how much you and John drink once you return to Philadelphia after your trip, but Prohibition goes on for another seven years. I imagine you find a way, but perhaps you are forced back into seven more years of sobriety. As you age, Sunny, I’m told you crave alcohol when you feel alone or afraid. You won’t ever really quit. Not once you know this warmth, this ease, this softening or rather blurring of lines and memories and feelings.

I wonder how deep this coal dust goes - how much of it is in my blood. Does it reach inside a miner to seep black specks of darkness into his sperm so that future generations can’t escape the sadness, which grows from hopelessness, hunger and years in the dark underground? Why am I not surprised to hear of a Scottish drunkard? Is there something in the soil of the lands of the Scots and the Ires? Something in the water? The sea air maybe? Have the rivers all turned to ale? A drunk father delivers his drunk disease to his baby, a future drunk son or drunk daughter. It is a story as old as famine and rotten potatoes and sheep wool sweaters. Could the stars be to blame? Your stars tell me how you might be. Much of it goes with the stories I’ve been told, but is this just coincidence? How can the moon and the tides and the planets shape us? Guide us? Do our brain cells or souls or cells reach for the heavens like a compass to gather our bearings before we push through our water womb to cold air and breath? If that’s true, then where we are born matters too. And how our mothers and fathers treat us - whether they love us, hate us, hurt us, spoil us- I imagine all these pieces matter. I hear that our genes can be very different from our siblings. We can’t all be made of the exact same matter or we’d all look, sound and act identically. Therefore, to share traits with one’s great-grandparents must be even more unlikely. But still, I wonder, are you in me? You must be here somewhere. Maybe all you give me is this story and your suffering. A story that says, I was born in 1906 in Eleanora, Pennsylvania. I live during this time with these circumstances so that you don’t have to.

Well then, dear Sunny, thank you.






Part Two: Your Mothers (A Letter to my Great-Grandmother)


This is a photo of my own beautiful mother. 

Dear Sunny - 


John Samuel Stephenson Jr. is born June 21, 1906 in Philadelphia to a wealthy Main Street family. He has two sisters and one brother, but his brother dies when John is young. After his brother's death, John’s mother, Sallie, devotes nearly all of her time to charity work, leaving John with his older sisters and father. His sisters are quite a bit older than the two of you (14 and 15 years older).

Sallie herself dies in 1926 when she is just 59 years old. I don’t know why, or rather from what. John is 20 years old at the time, you are 17, and the two of you have just met. John sounds like such a happy chap, a songbird with a kind, reverent soul. Does his gleeful temperament rattle you with guilt? Or does it soothe you like sunshine in early spring? Do you curse at your gloom so that it might hide in the corner of your broken heart or do you sort of invite it in, give it a blanket and a bed inside your bones, as if you deserve nothing better? John’s mother sounds a wreck, leaving him all day. But maybe that’s why he turns out alright. Perhaps she knows that if she is John's primary caretaker, he will grow up to the sound of her constant weeping and that isn’t healthy for a child. I wonder if Sallie can’t stand to even look at baby John for very long; to hold him or kiss his face. He is her other son after all and he is young and also destined, as we all are, toward death. I hope his sisters kiss his face in her absence and blow raspberries on his belly and play him records and nuzzle his neck and cheeks.

When you are a young gal, Sunny, your daddy is off working long dark days and drinking away his nights, while you are left with your mother and your sisters. I'd guess that the boys, your brothers, are breaker boys, working too - sitting beside conveyor belts all day in a dark cloudy building, separating coal from impurities, arriving home coughing filth and blowing black snot from their noses. You probably help clean the house. Maybe you have a large garden in the back, one you weed, till and harvest. Maybe you have a cow and a small flock of hens for eggs. Maybe you help bake bread in an outdoor beehive oven, churn cream into butter, scrub and wring and hang the clothes, make the soap, boil the soup, run to the company store, gather bits of dropped coal from beside the tipple (the structure above the train tracks for filling train cars with coal), clean out the nasty privy, and gather water from the pump. You squish bed bugs and wait for your Christmas orange. Unlike Sallie, your mother, [who's name is now unknown, forgotten, unwritten, lost (a metaphor that is not lost on me)] has no choices really - for poverty is a kind of imprisonment. She can’t leave you with a governess or a grandmother or with your father even. Sure, your sister Jean could care for you. But there isn't much extra scrip (company money) for fine haircuts in a nearby city or for pieces of delicate lace and silk, anyway. She’s stuck there in that house, in a row of other identical houses, sucking down coke oven coal dust, scrubbing out its grease from familial skin and coarse muslin - unable to hide from you the reality of your destitution.

John is shielded from his mother’s tragedy.

You are not.


Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Part One: Coal and Pneumonia (A Letter to my Great-Grandmother)






Dear Sunny -


Coal dust smudges the skin of sweaty miners, seeps beneath fingernails, and stains trousers, jackets and bootlaces. Is there running water? A bathtub and bars of soap? Is there a proper school, a grocer, baker, butcher? Is there even a doctor? I imagine whitewashed wooden houses with crooked roofs, dense gardens, open cook fires and muck and black dust everywhere. Does the sun shine through the coal dust clouds to the poor mountain town below or does is pass it by to save its rays for the bottom of the mountain where there is grass and a river that carries all the black runoff water away? Eleanora, Pennsylvania --- she can’t be found on maps today. Gram says there was a fire, but history tells me it was abandoned.

When you are a child, great-grandmother, you and all the other children in the patch are given an orange on Christmas day by a wealthy man, probably one of the owners of the coal company or the manager of the company store. One hundred years later, I see grey juice dripping from cold little fingers, down round chins to wet jumpers and jackets and holy wool sweaters. Orange globes in the hands of poor dirty children. I wonder if the coal, ash and soot is still there today with the rest of the remains of that forgotten Pennsylvania town.

In 1909, you are born, the sixth of seven children, to a Scottish drunken mine superintendent and your mother, who dies when you are young, but more on that later. Born, Carolyn May Hammond, later nicknamed “Sunny”, I see you like a little light in that town. Pale and pretty, squashing bed bugs when you’re sent to bed early, wondering if you’ll ever have enough to eat since your papa might be spending his pay at the company store or to bootleggers for bottles of scotch whiskey or wine or ale. But he isn’t all bad, your papa, for when you are a girl of six or seven years, you take off her coat. It is just before the start of spring and you must be warm and so, as all young girls and boys do, you remove her jacket. Someone scolds you for it, your momma or your big sister, Jean. And they are right to do so because a very short time later, maybe a day or two, you, Sunny fall ill with pneumonia and your daddy carries you out of the company town to transportation, to a train I’d guess. And it takes you and your papa to a hospital with doctors and nurses. There he leaves you to be saved. So no, he isn’t all bad. When you are an old lady, you remember the hospital, but you can’t recall where it is, just that it must be far from home since no one in the family goes to visit you, not even Jean. At the hospital, around the year 1915, before antibiotics, a year when a child with pneumonia usually dies, doctors insert tubes beneath your arms to drain the fluid from your small lungs. You rest and recover. The nurses must like you, you think, for they give you a little birthday party at your bed when May 1st arrives. When you are well enough, it is decided that you will go live with your aunt who knows a few things about nursing.

Throughout your life, you contract pneumonia many times, but it never kills you. It weakens you, as illness is prone to do and for the rest of your life, I’m told, you are frail. However, you reach your 80th year. I remember you in your glider, swaying in the Sunday morning sunlight. When I am a small child, we often visit with you after church. You chat with Mom and Dad while we play on your clean beige carpet.

When I am a toddler, I contract pneumonia. There is a Polaroid picture of me in a hospital crib. It must be 1984 or 1985. I don’t know how or why I become so ill, but I spend a week in the hospital. My lungs are not punctured and drained like your 7-year-old body, Sunny. I am given antibiotics, Penicillin probably. They don’t make me weak, you'll, I think, be happy to hear, I’ve always been very strong.

Eventually, you return to your momma and papa in Eleanora. Around this time, the youngest child in your family, Marion, falls from her highchair into the fireplace. She is burned badly. I remember her, a little old woman from my own childhood. She looks like you. I don’t remember any burns, but perhaps that’s because her papery wrinkled skin hides them well. You blame one of your sisters for pushing Marion and for the rest of your life, you never speak to her again (even when Marion begs for a reunion). After her fall, your sister, Marion is sent away. She lives with relatives, sweet people she recalls, who treat her like their own child. A couple years after you are home from the hospital, your mother dies. She is pregnant with her 8th child. No one knows why or how now, but the thought of my great-great-grandmother, bearing a child and taking her last breath, inhaling that dirty air, while her soul slips from her tired malnourished body, a body with a belly that is hoarding water and scavenging nutrients for her newest developing baby, torments me. What is her husband, your father, like when he drinks? Does he see his wife as his property, taking her body whenever he wants? Or are they lovers and life partners pinned to their place in the world by addiction and poverty? I’ll never ever know. But after your momma dies and the babe in her belly dies with her, your papa remarries and when he does, he sends Jean away. Does he marry his second wife because he needs someone home to raise his children and keep house? I’m sure he can’t afford to pay a nanny. Does he decide then to marry one of the town’s known spinsters or a hungry childless widow or an aging prostitute, a flirtatious bootlegger? None of you children like the stepmother, but your pop isn’t married long. He dies a couple years later. Does he drink himself dead? Does he suffocate underground, choking on earth and dark? Does his heart break beneath the weight of his failures? Or does a fire in the mine snuff him out? When he perishes, does he fall ill by an infected wound or by the flu or pneumonia? ….Is his death sudden or foreseen? The young children who are still home are sent away. You are 13 years old and go on to live with a woman, not a relative, in Philadelphia. She isn’t very nice. She makes you go into the city to run errands for her. Years later, you realize that these peculiar jobs she sends you on are to retrieve stolen bottles of perfume, which this woman then illegally re-sells. I imagine you’re told: Go to this address. You will meet this person. Take the box. Bring it home straight away.

Your daughter, my grandmother, Nancy, writes, “These were her teenage years and I faintly remember her mentioning once about being assaulted by a man visiting the house. There are many dark corners in her life that we were never told about.”

You are an orphan living with a strange woman in the city, which is a new city to you. It is a busy city with trolley cars and automobiles and tall buildings and railroads and shops. You wander these wide roads, completely alone. Do you make any friends here? Is there anyone you can talk to or meet with? Who is this man who hurts you? A friend or the husband of the woman with whom you live? Does he sneak into your room at night? Force himself into the apartment when he knows you, a young girl, are home alone? Do you fight him off? Or are you too embarrassed and frightened to scream, kick, bite and claw his entitled skin until he gets off of your body, because it is your body, Sunny, a body you have worked so hard to keep living. Perhaps he presses a knife to your slender throat. Perhaps he has a rope. Perhaps he has the strength to hold you by the wrists and steal from you your dignity as if you were a box of perfume he could take and re-sell in the city. However it happens and whatever it is that does happen, I’m sorry. I wish I could be there. I wish I could slip into the past and protect you.

You start smoking cigarettes in 1924. You are 15 years old. Tobacco smoke blackens your fragile lungs all your life. You never quit. I can’t imagine this helps your health, your proneness for pneumonia. I wonder if you think it’s worth it, this trade. Maybe these nagging urges feel necessary for your sanity: a constant distraction from the real problems that threaten to suffocate and torture you.

Sometimes I make an entire pot of coffee and drink it all day long. Cup after cup. I drink it black now. Once in awhile, I'll drop in a little cream, but usually I take it as it comes.

After you complete your high school education, you enter a program to become a nurse. Do you want to help children who are alone like you? Paint birthday signs, wrap little gifts and blow up balloons for hospital bed birthdays? Tell them they’re going to be all right as you bring them supper or tend to their wounds or hold their bodies as they weep from fear or loneliness or pain? I’m sorry to hear you are unable to complete the training. That the physical labor of scrubbing floors and changing beds and cleaning bedpans and lifting limp bodies is all too much for you.

When you are 17 years old, while working in a dry cleaners shop, a happy handsome young man from a wealthy Main Street family enters. He is charismatic and good-looking with light hair and clear blue eyes. You are charming and pretty. I like to imagine you dancing home from work the day you meet him, your future husband. His name is John. You tell him that your name is Carolyn. I wonder if you blush with excitement and possibly even passion as you feel, maybe for the first time in your life, hope.





Tuesday, December 13, 2016

We must make ART.



I must make art. It would be easier to live without this condition for happiness. To spend my free time in mindless monotony. Busy myself with socializing, obligations and passive observations. But the trouble is...my passion to make stuff pokes at the microscopic puddles of my pores like sewing pins; swims like a pod of whales in my piss, blood, spit and soul. It bites at my tissue and bone like termites: MAKE ARTit demands, BEFORE WE SWALLOW YOUR SKIN AND SKELETON AND SHIT YOU OUT INTO A MOUND OF POWDERY GRAY MATTER. 

I thought I didn't want to make theater anymore. Thought I could outrun my infatuation with age, but this thing is more like real love. More complex than lust and far deeper than any crush or fleeting obsession. This is true. Admittedly, it is mean and difficult too. Theater isn't easy. The industry has abused me with disappointments. Starved me and confused me too. But my moments lit by tin can lights or rehearsal bulbs or the midday sun (on some outdoor stone stage) still enthrall me. I feel courageous up there with my lines of text and intention. My words fly / stab / sing / grab from my mouth to kiss the silences that sit on the edges of springy, velvet-sewn seats or metal folding chairs or patchwork quilts stretched over dirt and dry grass.  My body dances to the song, the story, of my characters. I love theater. I love the spit and wind of it. Love the raw unedited magic. Love the magnetic pull of poised, competent actors enunciating sharp poetry for a crowd of engaged onlookers. Oh yes, I love it so.

I've been searching for both distraction and action lately. Theater feels like an old friend who stands at the back of a cold church funeral. As soon as I see her, I weep and run, collapsing into her tight embrace. We laugh as she pulls me across the street to a bright dance party where the music is so loud and the lights and the people are so beautiful in their color and movement that I forget, for a little while, the tragedy I have just left behind. And even though, at this dance party, I must make sure not to embarrass myself and/or drink too much, I am reminded of passion. I am reintroduced to my own neglected joy. And I am served an entire pie of sweet sweet peace.

Since our nation's recent election, I have been feeling as if I were sprawled out across all the steps of grief [denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance], with a skyscraper on my chest and my back pressing jagged cement.  I'm mostly avoiding the news. It frightens me. This country and world appear terminally suicidal. Out in the corn fields, there is a plowed message, a tattoo on the arm of this "super" power, and it reads DO NOT RESUSCITATE.

I am seeking light.

A few weeks after the election, I am invited to perform in the staged reading of a marvelous play.  At night, after baby is in bed, I'd lie on the couch reading and re-reading myself into my character's body and story. [For actors are detectives and we spend much of our preparation gathering evidence so that we can understand the person we are trying to portray.]  This study is an old bliss of mine and I am grateful for the distraction. Even out in the stage lights, standing before the audience on the night of the performance, I feel as if I am catching the end of a long lost breath.

I want people to flee their TVs with me, even for just one night or for a few hours every day. To join me in a search for life. Come, I urge you, and turn off your cell phones. Silence them, and ignore them and your urges and addictions. Briefly or forever, abandon the noise of the Internet and all its false promises of entertainment and information and look with me to people, real people and to the art we make. Get dressed up and shout a song into a microphone or hide in a closet nook and make something. Sing folk songs on your porch / build a quilt / paint a portrait / dance in your living room / write a poem about the cracks in your mother's hands / write a silly novel about peach jam / write a love letter / stitch a dress / crochet a scarf / darn a sock / mix and bake a carrot cake / wallpaper a wall / go to a music shop and touch all the instruments, then take one home with you / sketch with crayons or markers or pencils or coal. Whatever it is, go on and make something.

Personally, my screens are burning me. I feel dry in my deprivation of skin and conversation and social interaction. I need a crowd, a cacophonous cafe. I need to go to town. Soak up the spoken word of strangers and suck in the stink of paint and clay, of wet cement and cigarettes, of candy shops and Indian food and messy book stores. I want to warm myself with body heat. Find friends, fliers and ticket booths. Gather on sidewalks and in bakery lines and libraries. I want us all to rebuild our world with stories / paint / glue / coffee and cake / yarn / ink / wood / tape / voices and voluptuous color.