tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1193836476657293372024-03-14T04:29:30.800-07:00SessaonlineUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-8095065782647410842011-06-01T02:57:00.000-07:002011-06-01T03:12:11.433-07:00The Perfect ManI'm thinking about all the men that I have to say good bye to.<br /><br />If you are lucky you can create the perfect man in your life from a composite of the men you have known and been close to.<br /><br />I started this train of thought this morning thinking about my Financial Manager. I started my association with him, testing him in 1997. I gave him my inheritance from my mother and my IRA to manage. I thought, "I'll see how he does with this and take it from there."<br /><br />Well, he did very well and gave me a lot of education about investing at the same time. <br /><br />When it came time for Ken to retire we went to him for help with our understanding and management of our financial future. He, Jim, came up with a simple but brilliant plan for managing our combined resources.<br /><br />Another piece of this "Perfect Man" was my husband, protector, provider, father for my children, friend, companion.<br /><br />Then there have been the friends that have provided the masculine point of view in my life, Jay, Bill, Aram, Tom. Such fun people. Smart, willing to engage in intellectual explorations.<br /><br />When I put them all together I realize I have been fortunate to have a "Perfect Man" in my life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-16455194569852864732011-03-08T16:07:00.000-08:002011-03-08T16:47:33.090-08:00On the Trail West<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9IcFLQiUbNPCM5A13VQQprRcbl8B7ufWAhDdtS-ZkfgqAWsB0APeE3dBKRwpKdZ3P6ubd4_GyeVLWpBSG1-8uqTsYHdNlzlYd8uKtZZUNe5AsKWv46qaVyVa3RzQUKGAgUyZkiT-G0M/s1600/IMG_1745.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9IcFLQiUbNPCM5A13VQQprRcbl8B7ufWAhDdtS-ZkfgqAWsB0APeE3dBKRwpKdZ3P6ubd4_GyeVLWpBSG1-8uqTsYHdNlzlYd8uKtZZUNe5AsKWv46qaVyVa3RzQUKGAgUyZkiT-G0M/s320/IMG_1745.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581875256267819890" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzsUUp8rVOoAh2fSOZO8JjAkcMaWRBO3FvC67w1OzHqVY2VIs4El3TEWfDM2KUsz9DtW3dNgH4hodzyjPMoLp_a52RTTU2AIxyK3y2e-1s-YdO_BgeWIgwbbTLTiULw78i29tBOVMt-c/s1600/IMG_1745.JPG"><span><span></span></span></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQo7gV3DGcVPZ_o8X89mt82XadtVQSkV7EKmWSlN9MqPNKVHyegCcM7Z2OvrjR0km1UWwpMJ_kvY-1xtn-1LAJZTxvrqilcNpCoWPot792aRMYTvCinSkbAinMcuj2SR4XVvv16f2Y7g/s1600/IMG_1751.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQo7gV3DGcVPZ_o8X89mt82XadtVQSkV7EKmWSlN9MqPNKVHyegCcM7Z2OvrjR0km1UWwpMJ_kvY-1xtn-1LAJZTxvrqilcNpCoWPot792aRMYTvCinSkbAinMcuj2SR4XVvv16f2Y7g/s320/IMG_1751.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581867529396731874" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC18lcotPBbJNIyIRcmrKYfhMlyJ42iZQTmJhlnGo-iu-EZb7orCDcR-VWEJE3d5uaeEQDTJ_dpyh2UmDUXqBb8b1M9XeOiommTi5PQm8Ybksv7tGS5bpzamfpigj48esg6XGgSOBrTj4/s1600/IMG_1739.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC18lcotPBbJNIyIRcmrKYfhMlyJ42iZQTmJhlnGo-iu-EZb7orCDcR-VWEJE3d5uaeEQDTJ_dpyh2UmDUXqBb8b1M9XeOiommTi5PQm8Ybksv7tGS5bpzamfpigj48esg6XGgSOBrTj4/s320/IMG_1739.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581866643645783410" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><style>p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve Just returned from a trip into the 17<sup>th</sup> century.<span style=""> </span>I followed the Hale family west from Concord Massachusetts, through West Concord, Maynard to Stow where our line spent two generations before going west again to Leominster, Massachusetts.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I notice from the Historical Marker<span style=""> </span>it was Pompositticut Plantation, a Wampanogue place name.<span style=""> </span>I will have to ask Jessie Little Doe what it means.<span style=""> </span>1630 was early!<span style=""> </span>Before King Phillips War.<span style=""> </span>I think the Hales waited until that war was over to move west.<span style=""> </span>They only got to Concord in about 1641.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Fourth generation Hales stayed in Leominster, again, for two generations before picking up and going to Windsor, Vermont.<span style=""> </span>Four of the Hale boys returned from fighting in the Revolution went together to take up farms in Windsor.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m wondering what these frequent moves to new pastures says about the economic status, restlessness of the Hale Clan.<span style=""> </span>They didn’t stay anywhere long enough to build a financial success that might have entailed an enterprise or a notable house.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I gather they were subsistence farmers.<span style=""> </span>They built wooden houses that for the most part have not survived to present day.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I did see a banner announcing a concert at the Hale School in Stow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mostly I was seeking the grave sites of ancestors I knew had lived and died in Stow.<span style=""> </span>I did find quite a few Hales.<span style=""> </span>Fourteen Hale/Healds in the “Lower Village Cemetery,”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>It was identified as the oldest Cemetery in Stow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <style>p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> </p><p class="MsoNormal">The second Cemetery I visited was<span style=""> </span>“Hillside Cemetery”.<span style=""> </span>I found four Hales there.<span style=""> </span>One marker resting against a monument gave me pause. It was the head stone for Sally Wetherbee Hale, who died Feb. 26, 1885,<span style=""> </span>AE 74 years<span style=""> </span>9 mo..<span style=""> </span>Sally, what was your life like?<span style=""> </span>Did you initial documents, notes,<span style=""> </span>“S.W. H.”?</p><p class="MsoNormal"> <br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <img src="file:///Users/sarahale/Desktop/IMG_1745.JPG" alt="" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-27884993553775981862011-03-05T15:43:00.000-08:002011-03-09T04:17:43.021-08:00Lost Lives, Lost Art<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnjzi31KXDjfsXDofjB9xSACL23JPStBrLlShkVL71_2GM-G41W8CUIQ0lexz-7OVht5M6usQvM-8XxsiN82ap-mzFGRGp0kHD-vt9e5BAZjAjLUOWrA9q0NPGkSpt-hJRsmPXpQ83Ic/s1600/IMG_1676.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUnjzi31KXDjfsXDofjB9xSACL23JPStBrLlShkVL71_2GM-G41W8CUIQ0lexz-7OVht5M6usQvM-8XxsiN82ap-mzFGRGp0kHD-vt9e5BAZjAjLUOWrA9q0NPGkSpt-hJRsmPXpQ83Ic/s320/IMG_1676.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582053127860260450" border="0" /></a><br /><style>p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">I picked it off the New Books shelf in the Library.<span style=""> </span>I was initially attracted by the cover.<span style=""> </span>It included the famous painting, Gustav Klimt’s picture,<span style=""> </span>“Woman in Gold”.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><u>Lost Lives, Lost Art</u>;<span style=""> </span>by Melissa Muller and Monika Tatzkow.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, there is something I know little about.<span style=""> </span>I aspire to be a collector.<span style=""> </span>It has been different things at different times.<span style=""> </span>My endeavors have always been proscribed by the limits of my purse.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">There was the BUTTONS phase.<span style=""> </span>Mostly I looked for antique buttons, in sets of at least six.<span style=""> </span>In 1980, before Antiques Road Show there were a lot of buttons to choose from in New England.<span style=""> </span>I used them in my knitting and sewing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Next came the HAND CROCHETED lace, knitted lace, tatting, islet trim, and antimacassars.<span style=""> </span>Again there used to be a lot of this stuff around before it caught fire.<span style=""> </span>I used it to make linens.<span style=""> </span>Decorate my quilts.<span style=""> </span>I thought about all the women sitting in the evening, before Television, the light coming over their shoulders, fine cotton and crochet needles in their hands churning out yards of this beautiful stuff.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I found someone’s little cloth pattern book for crochet in an Antique shop.<span style=""> </span>Each “page” had samples of the pattern, to be repeated, stitched to the pages.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I carefully examined the collection of lace displayed in the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum.<span style=""> </span>If Isabella were to appear we would have something to talk about.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I became enamored with beads.<span style=""> </span>If you are traveling it helps ones focus to have something you are looking for.<span style=""> </span>On a trip to Montreal, with my husband, I hit every antique shop in Antique Alley.<span style=""> </span>I did find some treasures, though I didn’t know it at the time.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I found and bought Red Amber, Moonstone trade beads.<span style=""> </span>Then I had to learn how to string beads.<span style=""> </span>I took a four session class in the evening Adult Education.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lately my tastes have gotten more pricey.<span style=""> </span>Ceramics and oriental rugs.<span style=""> </span>Clearly I have progressed.<span style=""> </span>Time to read about serious collectors.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hence the book about<span style=""> </span>“Jewish Collectors, Nazi Art Theft, and the Quest for Justice.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Is this a cautionary tale?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The book details the experience of sixteen collecting Jewish families in Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Russia.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The stories take on a painful similarity.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">There is the initiating person, an artist or someone fascinated by art.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes it is a couple.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">They gather<span style=""> </span>a collection brilliant enough to attract public attention.<span style=""> </span>The collections often contain old masters, but most noticeably they begin to build on new styles.<span style=""> </span>Impressionists, Cubists, beautiful wonderful new art.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Enter the Nazis.<span style=""> </span>They denounce this “degenerate” art.<span style=""> </span>However they lust after the collections.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">There are a whole host of “co-conspirators”,<span style=""> </span>“friends”, Art Appraisers, Art Dealers, Museum Directors.<span style=""> </span>It becomes a feeding frenzy.<span style=""> </span>It is the functioning of a Criminal State.<span style=""> </span>Laws are passed that result in expropriation.<span style=""> </span>The owners who can escape with their lives do so.<span style=""> </span>Some wait too long, are too old to move and are ruthlessly sent to Concentration camps.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Stories continue with the heirs attempts to recover the lost art of their Grandparents,<span style=""> </span>Great Uncles, collections.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">They are stone walled, forced into court, stymied in every way known to beaurocracys.<span style=""> </span>Some of these stories continue to this day.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Their stories document what Germany and the World lost from WWII, not only the wonderful art but the wonderful people who appreciated and gathered it.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-40038143289328557732011-02-20T04:55:00.000-08:002011-03-10T18:38:00.882-08:00Station One: Stability<style>p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">I am beginning to struggle with the signs and symptoms of aging.<span style=""> </span>They are sneaking up on me.<span style=""> </span>More frequent longer naps.<span style=""> </span>A stiff joint here and there.<span style=""> </span>A contracting vocabulary.<span style=""> </span>For a writer this is the most frustrating.<span style=""> </span>I still understand all the words when I hear them but that word I want, the one that most exactly describes my thought, has dropped out of my vocabulary storage.<span style=""> </span>Very frustrating.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Then there is the “loss of interest”.<span style=""> </span>I can’t raise the energy or enthusiasm to get my self to Tufts and the Osher program, Learning in Retirement.<span style=""> </span>I think,<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“It’s a hassle getting over there.”<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“That last course wasn’t that interesting.”<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“ I can learn more from a book.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I do feel more isolated but I rationalize,</p><p class="MsoNormal"> “Only children know how to entertain themselves.”<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“I’m never bored with my own company.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I stopped going to Church about two years ago.<span style=""> </span>There was a bit of a “dust up” over what I felt was the inadequacy of the “Food Bank” for the town, housed in our building.<span style=""> </span>Two local elderly men ran it as a proprietary enterprise.<span style=""> </span>They depended on voluntary contributions to stock the pantry.<span style=""> </span>(Give what you don’t want, don’t need).<span style=""> </span>This modus operandi does not provide a balanced, adequate diet for anyone.<span style=""> </span>I felt it was totally inadequate to sustain the needs of the poor and jobless in our community during the coming economic crisis.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">There was a friendly, supportive meeting after church one Sunday.<span style=""> </span>It was a kind of “I’ll stroke your back, you stroke mine”, sort of meeting.<span style=""> </span>I kept asking questions about why the town of Arlington Food Bank was not affiliated with the Greater Boston Food Bank.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The response was,</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“They sent us rotten eggs”.<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">“ We don’t have freezer space to store the meat.”<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I wouldn’t back down.<span style=""> </span>I felt like the jobless and needy had my back.<span style=""> </span>I later heard that the Minister had said I was a “trouble maker”.<span style=""> </span>Fine, I thought, I’d stop giving money to the Church and give it to the Greater Boston Food Bank.<span style=""> </span>At that point it seemed more Christian.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">So, there went my weekly socialization at Church.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I have my three times a week exercise group where I check in with friends and acquaintances.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I have my sons, their wives and children, close by, praise be.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It takes more time, planning, gearing up for projects, chores, errands.<span style=""> </span>I program each little trip, to the store, library, the grandchildren.<span style=""> </span>No more dashing out the door spontaneously.<span style=""> </span>Make sure you have everything you need.<span style=""> </span>I am brought up short by omissions, loss of sequence.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Going someplace alone makes me anxious though inside, I know I can do it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">My friend Barbara Benes has just given me a book,<span style=""> </span><u>My Mother, Your Mother </u><span style=""> </span>by Dennis McCullough, M. D..<span style=""> </span>I have started to read it and feel like I have stumbled on the road map for the rest of my life.<span style=""> </span>He calls his approach “Slow Medicine”.<span style=""> </span>It is a caring compassionate journey.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I have sent copies to my sons. I recommend it to you and all my friends.<br /><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:12pt;" ><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-80487229571459294792010-12-27T14:05:00.000-08:002010-12-27T14:24:36.562-08:00The Failure of Education<style>p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">The news is full of it.<span style=""> </span>"America's Education System is Failing".<span style=""> </span>The United States ranks twentieth in Science,<span style=""> </span>sixteenth in Math, ad nauseaum.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Why is this so?<span style=""> </span>Why are we failing to keep pace? Why are we falling behind?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">My thought is,<span style=""> </span>"Have you no eyes?"<span style=""> </span>"Don't you see the young consumed, anchored, preoccupied, in their hand held devises?"<span style=""> </span>That is where their minds are.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">These toys do not teach them to think, concentrate, problem solve.<span style=""> </span>They are all being made Attention Deficit Disordered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just at the time when they should be learning to concentrate, pursue a line of thought, struggle with solutions, their minds are elsewhere, in overdrive, distracted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times;">Wake up people.<span style=""> </span>The affluent society has finally hooked the next generation.<span style=""> </span>They are immersed in the moment, unavailable for the serious task at hand.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-33993452265876157152010-11-04T06:48:00.000-07:002011-02-07T13:09:14.043-08:00Processing the Pain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_tXYK5-xSWt8y_dAMF6wOSsekQ_Rlldg4ChgpMibARfN-XK6iqfLsrAlqqUlyySONRREp-JgqhZ8LZx5ArLniCmN-on7iUiQeHadjmyIpUrGExMOkycSc-7tCi8TMbD5mUtznaITj44/s1600/Gillinghams+1947.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_tXYK5-xSWt8y_dAMF6wOSsekQ_Rlldg4ChgpMibARfN-XK6iqfLsrAlqqUlyySONRREp-JgqhZ8LZx5ArLniCmN-on7iUiQeHadjmyIpUrGExMOkycSc-7tCi8TMbD5mUtznaITj44/s200/Gillinghams+1947.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571057600568862482" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeuEGZ8JphA5BV2UhAlra2V9uJlIxHpRZAvVjwHy4xxwm6CEqwCRbkWW44tOvX1Cihx8bJSyH2hb-vomrwVEZ7vsNE6NQLBOh9BQk_76BgtH2md07Iz8orKHFnl4-tkQWEmgOg0sLSurs/s1600/PeterOnCowboySaraOnDukie.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeuEGZ8JphA5BV2UhAlra2V9uJlIxHpRZAvVjwHy4xxwm6CEqwCRbkWW44tOvX1Cihx8bJSyH2hb-vomrwVEZ7vsNE6NQLBOh9BQk_76BgtH2md07Iz8orKHFnl4-tkQWEmgOg0sLSurs/s200/PeterOnCowboySaraOnDukie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566901406961853906" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEMw4chQThD0Dg9bSIfseB3T0ThHOPkrO06j_txG6dmHSBlS1OxKuPhnJoGobixxcuZNWgemVm3nJ41Gk76fdbQl39BgT8YKIOt04fgv5wO1L5uVMonnGmHVWAgrksoX6QzQEKXBtrPA/s1600/SaraAndPeterOnDukie.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEMw4chQThD0Dg9bSIfseB3T0ThHOPkrO06j_txG6dmHSBlS1OxKuPhnJoGobixxcuZNWgemVm3nJ41Gk76fdbQl39BgT8YKIOt04fgv5wO1L5uVMonnGmHVWAgrksoX6QzQEKXBtrPA/s200/SaraAndPeterOnDukie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566900897959276818" border="0" /></a><br /><style>p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Occasionally I wake up in the morning under the spell and sadness of the Gillinghams.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">They would appear, after an absence of years and do magical things in your life, while their lives remained a secret, a mystery.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Mildred always was private, the submarine woman, her periscope up and her life below the surface, out of sight.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">They tore at me emotionally because I loved them but could never get my love through the perimeter, to envelope them as I desired.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">They were three, James, “Gillie”, Mildred and Peter.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I called them my Godparents and Peter used to jokingly call me his “God-sister”.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We all shared this unique history of the Yoga Colony, the Clarkstown Country Club, in Nyack, New York.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">This history started in about 1925 and lasted for my parents and myself, until 1938.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The Gillinghams had left earlier and settled in California, Alameda.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Aunt Mildred was a namedropper and I remember “Dan Dana” being mentioned.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I felt that they went because there were more glamorous, important people out there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Our lives intersected on the Gillingham timetable.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The first episode was on their little ranch in Canelo Arizona, 1938-39.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Next was in Arizona in 1948.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Aunt Mildred waved her magic wand and got me a three-year scholarship to Verde Valley School.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">She convinced my future husband’s parents to send him as well.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Our lives went their separate ways.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Peter would appear on my screen periodically; news of his marriage to the “beautiful and talented Molly Scott” from Aunt Mildred; his Graduation from Yale Law School, his work for the Government.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Some times the contacts seemed unreal.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My husband, who was a tenured professor at MIT recounted Peter’s suggestion that he, Ken, return to Canelo and dig up this giant bird, and make a name for himself.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My mother’s response to this was,</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">“Gillie was always looking for buried treasure.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Earlier, after college graduation Peter, who had been studying Russian at the Army Language Training School, told Ken that<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“They wanted to operate on my eyes, to make them look Asian, and drop me behind enemy lines in Russia.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Peter’s name appeared as the Director of the new program of Viet Namese Studies at Carbondale, Illinois.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Ken and I were actively opposing the Viet Nam War at this point and I knew some of the history of this program, which major universities had refused to host.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We thought it tainted and began to wonder if Peter had a CIA connection. I wrote him a long, disparaging letter giving our views on the whole Viet Nam involvement, asking, “how can you be involved with this illegal and immoral war?”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I didn’t get an answer then but later he said,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"> “We knew the Tet Offensive was coming and warned the Military but they didn’t accept our analysis.”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I thought the “we” was an oblique acknowledgement of his CIA status.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">In 1989 I visited Nyack and had lunch with Viola Bernard, a former “club” member and then a Psychiatrist, practicing in New York City.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I was working as a Psychiatric Nurse at that time.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">We were recounting what we knew of former Club members, and the Gillinghams came up.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Viola said,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Mildred asked me to see Peter.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I did.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He was crazy.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">She then looked uncomfortable, realizing that she had violated his confidentiality.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The last time I saw Peter he drove across the country in a pick up truck to wish my mother a Happy Birthday in her 100<sup>th</sup> year.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It would have been 1995.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He stayed with us in Lexington. I remember being struck by him having his own bottle of Scotch along.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He brought it in from his truck then took it with him when he left.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I thought, “I wonder if he has a problem with alcohol?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I next heard he had died.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He checked himself into the VA Hospital, in the process of a stroke, and it had taken his family ten days to find him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I was crying and crying.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Couldn’t believe he was gone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Some five or six years ago I had reason to go to Portland Oregon.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I remembered Peter saying his son, Ian, lived there.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I looked him up, found him, and went to dinner with him, his wife and her parents.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:100%;" >I realized they knew very little of the Gillingham family history, victims of the family style. I recounted what I remembered and enjoyed seeing their interest and surprise.<br /><br />Ian recounted the sad history of his father's decline. It seemed that all the things that were of Peter got distorted, inflated, out of control. That was hard to hear.<br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-3834664738630315452010-10-14T05:25:00.000-07:002010-10-14T06:08:57.241-07:00Visit to Hyde Park<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhug_24IAPD92momHVw4K8S6Z7_t5eAXYLFwviwrUOOk6d-8KGVtYT3JDw1vIjZgDZnDW2HswMIOW1IAP4TwCV0sw3NhX2i9pdkGRm7eAkYVRGJyFa5yBWV71N7tXEpO4G2KCkKBMneYAw/s1600/IMG_1405.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 350px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhug_24IAPD92momHVw4K8S6Z7_t5eAXYLFwviwrUOOk6d-8KGVtYT3JDw1vIjZgDZnDW2HswMIOW1IAP4TwCV0sw3NhX2i9pdkGRm7eAkYVRGJyFa5yBWV71N7tXEpO4G2KCkKBMneYAw/s200/IMG_1405.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527884980754907666" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Ze6a0O_wCUcGzzINuifvFLw6GUebK6gpqDDsv1zViSo2FNxyuoTUv1JYVGcs7l6iSqjKSa8_-e91wZ8krUvh5CbdqTIyNthrhlPDJXN79wXp08jM48Xxd8gR1oNwSf7Dz3wfIPUBTMI/s1600/IMG_1455.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Ze6a0O_wCUcGzzINuifvFLw6GUebK6gpqDDsv1zViSo2FNxyuoTUv1JYVGcs7l6iSqjKSa8_-e91wZ8krUvh5CbdqTIyNthrhlPDJXN79wXp08jM48Xxd8gR1oNwSf7Dz3wfIPUBTMI/s200/IMG_1455.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527881299820577618" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh5Uxts58ZcmpjU6BeSbv8gwa2CAuQRNgwo4pbq182FSiZoxTOFGSK2klM6wv7cdwtpBq2ha3orlDlnsfpuOA9pxvTrWWfcOX-QpJM6_xFAde5H0V5PnE-4lT5N7xsgzp7lIeAsAgMyJg/s1600/IMG_1393.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh5Uxts58ZcmpjU6BeSbv8gwa2CAuQRNgwo4pbq182FSiZoxTOFGSK2klM6wv7cdwtpBq2ha3orlDlnsfpuOA9pxvTrWWfcOX-QpJM6_xFAde5H0V5PnE-4lT5N7xsgzp7lIeAsAgMyJg/s200/IMG_1393.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527880384035095010" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I have just returned from a visit with my friend, Doris Powell, to Hyde Park for the re-dedication of Franklin Roosevelt High School. Doris, "Coxie" was a member of the first graduating class. Seven members <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfdvE2zfYb7kgohje5HF-o0wK8FBNTwLVnBDF1DiAsj3cRC_RmN5peryou55xnOBzg1cLqEYM_BkPPQG34j0pXaE96_8RsoQtfvK3QM1wfN_6THe2JKsDEC4QLlRFDNS_OUY3wjAnzOVA/s1600/IMG_1386.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfdvE2zfYb7kgohje5HF-o0wK8FBNTwLVnBDF1DiAsj3cRC_RmN5peryou55xnOBzg1cLqEYM_BkPPQG34j0pXaE96_8RsoQtfvK3QM1wfN_6THe2JKsDEC4QLlRFDNS_OUY3wjAnzOVA/s320/IMG_1386.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527879804020317746" border="0" /></a>of the class survive and five made it to the ceremony.<br /><br />The ceremony at the re-dedication of the Roosevelt School was very lovely and appropriate. David Roosevelt, Elliot's son, spoke. It was full of meaning for the community and the emphasis on education, supported by both Franklin and Eleanor. The school building has been placed on the list of National Historic Places.<br /><br />The next day I got up early and went to Valkill, Eleanor's private place. What a beautiful spot. She and two of her friends had built a stone cottage there. Franklin had given them life tenancy on the land. It is the place you see pictured. Eleanor didn't live there. She visited and she and the two friends started a furniture factory right there to train local people and give them work during the depression. It went broke on 1936, Eleanor said she was their main customer, so she closed it and rebuilt it for a residence for herself. it is spacious but modest.<br /><br />Eleanor lived mostly in one wing, LR, DR, Kitchen, secretary's small apartment down stairs and her bed room, sleeping porch, two guest rooms up stairs. The park service is refurbishing it as it was during her tenancy. John, her son, had given or sold the contents at auction when she died. Luckily the local museum had come and taken pictures of the rooms and they had the records of who had purchased what at the auction. The Park service is tracking things down.<br /><br />Ken Burns has just completed shooting for a film on the Roosevelts and the Ranger said he came up with a number of pieces. The film will be out in about two years so I'll look for it. I loved his film on Mark Twain.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-44069896064268231932010-09-25T06:22:00.000-07:002010-09-25T15:14:42.420-07:00Being Ken's Wife<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUBifo92iFFVUiMLQz3XKgGPBjR5jBC3PIRfyxetsIKPkMdDYOC66QYD3F2_te3hQrnnepGzWPorqlbSht2i0wAfv8dDs3BZ7kAqaN8Y4yU_S4HsrLm-0vA5L8SBtH9NhbF6s4m_joec/s1600/holg_mom_209.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 312px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiUBifo92iFFVUiMLQz3XKgGPBjR5jBC3PIRfyxetsIKPkMdDYOC66QYD3F2_te3hQrnnepGzWPorqlbSht2i0wAfv8dDs3BZ7kAqaN8Y4yU_S4HsrLm-0vA5L8SBtH9NhbF6s4m_joec/s320/holg_mom_209.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520842407664928642" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJC-2teWoTlRAAJ7T_pev35aGiOeqGkICpvlPRU9kqJtnLlBhiJKz1mO8R0LAigunewATMbDePAHprO-VO56Lc4LD1alPS-rLb5Krwqe9c3wMbuU-CQCQ6g6oJANLXpykEa3iDDfrV40/s1600/Ken+Hale,jpg.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJC-2teWoTlRAAJ7T_pev35aGiOeqGkICpvlPRU9kqJtnLlBhiJKz1mO8R0LAigunewATMbDePAHprO-VO56Lc4LD1alPS-rLb5Krwqe9c3wMbuU-CQCQ6g6oJANLXpykEa3iDDfrV40/s320/Ken+Hale,jpg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520841967585839826" border="0" /></a> <style>p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal">Someone has emailed Ezra and wants to know what it was like to live with Ken Hale.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">This inquiry has gotten me thinking.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It must be different to live your life with someone who has a special gift, has a unique ability, recognized by the people with whom he interacts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I think my realization came gradually because I had known Ken since we were quite young, he twelve and I fourteen.<span style=""> </span>Initially I was attracted to him because I thought him handsome.<span style=""> </span>His special interest just seemed part of him.<span style=""> </span>He was also interested in Gun Smithing and Trapping.<span style=""> </span>So I just thought, "that is who he is."<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>He seemed very attracted to me and was always there and available as a boyfriend whenever our lives intersected.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">He once said to me,<span style=""> </span>“Why did you choose me?”<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I said,<span style=""> </span>“No bad vibes.”<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>He was very hurt by this but I think he didn’t realize how many men there were out there with serious flaws, from a woman’s point of view.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We kind of grew up, went through life, and were separated by death.<span style=""> </span>I’ve had a few dreams about him since he died and feel they are insights into our relationship.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">About two weeks after Ken’s death I dreamed I came into our bed room and he was standing on his side of the bed in his robe that I had made him.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He said, “I’m sorry”.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I threw my arms around him and hugged him and said,<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I miss you so.” And he was gone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">5/21/04:<span style=""> </span>I dreamed Ken rode up on a bicycle and dismounted.<span style=""> </span>I threw my arms around him and kissed and kissed him on his cheek.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I said,<span style=""> </span>“I’m so lonely, stay with me.”<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>He said, “I can’t” and disappeared.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">5/16/08<span style=""> </span>I dreamed I was in a Market and realized I didn’t have the car keys to get myself home.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I started calling,<span style=""> </span>“Ken, Ken”.<span style=""> </span>And was distressed at how weak, and feeble my voice sounded.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I tried to call louder, younger.<span style=""> </span>I saw Ken coming toward me wearing a shirt he had of red and white plaid.<span style=""> </span>He was pushing a grocery cart and alternately smiling and looking concerned.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I thought, “There he is.<span style=""> </span>He will get me home.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I think living with a Polyglot concerns two Domains:<span style=""> </span>one is the Language Gift and the other Personality.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember reading J. P. Harrington’s wife’s autobiography with a lot of interest even before I thought of myself as being married to someone with language phenomena.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Her book was titled; <u>Encounter with an Angry God</u>.<span style=""> </span>Now here was a linguist, gifted, who was incredibly difficult.<span style=""> </span>I’ve since learned that he must have been paranoid.<span style=""> </span>He hid his notes and manuscripts in many different places and some were never found.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I realized pretty early in our marriage that Ken had just one interest, languages; all languages.<span style=""> </span>He never ranked them as worthy of study.<span style=""> </span>He did acknowledge that some were more “difficult” to learn than others.<span style=""> </span>(Navajo, Gaelic, Basque).<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I think my support of his interest first evolved around my realization that this was how he was going to support us financially.<span style=""> </span>That language work was what he was suited for and what he wanted to do and that teaching this interest could bring in an adequate salary. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">As the wife in this marriage it was my obligation to help him succeed in this profession.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This support from me meant going where he wanted to go and freeing him up to do his work while I did the rest, the household, entertaining, finances, children in the family.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">This division of labor worked well for us.<span style=""> </span>He worked hard, was successful professionally earned an adequate income for our needs and didn’t second guess my decisions about family matters.<span style=""> </span>I did realize that this gave him what he wanted, time to do his “work”.<span style=""> </span>He did show some initial irritation when I would ask for help that took him away from his work.<span style=""> </span>Usually he would stop what he was doing and “get it over with so that I can get<span style=""> </span>back to work”.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>He would do the requested task willingly after expressing the initial irritation with the interruption.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">The parts of Ken that I admired were his generosity, his ability to have a unique window into other cultures through their languages.<span style=""> </span>He was a strong and articulate advocate.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Often he was reluctant to defend him self but he would become a Gladiator for the down trodden minority ( Native Americans, Australian Aborigines, indigenous remnant tribes of Nicaragua ) faced with a voracious majority.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I admired his willingness to share his materials and insights.<span style=""> </span>He felt there was such a wealth of language and grammar in the world that he could never do everything he wanted to do in his lifetime.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“I’ve got to interest other people in working on this.” (problem)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>In thinking about the existence of God,<span style=""> he said, </span>“I think if there is evidence of the existence of God it is Grammar.”<span style=""><br /><br /></span>I think he was puzzled by my lack of interest in Languages.<span style=""> </span>I remember him trying to interest me by saying, “Each new language is like a mystery to be solved.” <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">He was strongly opposed to the death penalty.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>He said, “Imagine being the poor person who everyone wants to die, how alone you would feel.”<span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">That gave me pause and I have felt that I should support his insight.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Before Ken died I said to him:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’m going to miss you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I’ll always be around you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“If I move will you be able to find me?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">“I have tricks.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">September 23,<span style=""> </span>2010,</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am missing Ken a lot today.<span style=""> </span>Thinking how time stopped for him and continued for me.<span style=""> </span>I feel like I left him, back there, somewhere, alone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember before he died, when he was unable to leave our room he said,<span style=""> </span>“I’m afraid you are going to go off and leave me here ( abandon me ).”<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>It seemed such a logical understandable fear.<span style=""> </span>It was the first time he could not physically follow me.<span style=""> </span>I said everything I could think of to reassure him.<span style=""><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“I wouldn’t leave you for anything.”<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“I’m not going anywhere.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">September 25,<span style=""> </span>2010</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am remembering that about one month before he died, when he was pretty much bed bound, I decided to wash Ken’s feet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I spread the towel on the floor and had him sit on the side of the bed.<span style=""> </span>I brought a large plastic basin (the one I used to make bread in) filled with warm water.<span style=""> </span>I placed his feet in the water to soak then soaped them up and rubbed of the old skin.<span style=""> </span>I dried each one then cut his toenails.<span style=""> </span>We finished up with baby powder.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember how he smiled and how pleased he looked.<span style=""> </span>He deeply enjoyed the loving personal touch.<span style=""> </span>I’m so glad I did it and have this memory.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-64476899013968785142010-07-27T08:58:00.000-07:002010-07-27T09:10:44.552-07:00Transcontinental Rail Journey,1940<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-y5R1LHENBPuRJ_zzYe11TuEo1-XOWn5zNFx4KxK9lIdIytXwg0JLRTBbkDGXk4f30IRZ5agzhzzko7voYWmgWBRdpm32tBDlDX44PQe91Wcss9JevtSX_ezBQesUn-Elbx32Y1buCk/s1600/22MARIE+LOUISE+WHITAKER.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-y5R1LHENBPuRJ_zzYe11TuEo1-XOWn5zNFx4KxK9lIdIytXwg0JLRTBbkDGXk4f30IRZ5agzhzzko7voYWmgWBRdpm32tBDlDX44PQe91Wcss9JevtSX_ezBQesUn-Elbx32Y1buCk/s320/22MARIE+LOUISE+WHITAKER.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498618913597716578" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Some time in the spring of 1940 my Mother gave up her attempt to establish a new home in Mill Valley California and surrendered to my father’s demands and enticements that she return to cohabit with him in a new community, Patchogue, Long Island, New York. This meant giving up the duplex on which she had put a down payment, closing her bank account, selling our Buick car which had transported us from New York State, a 3-4 month stop in Canelo Arizona at “Turkey Creek Ranch”, and deposited us at the end of the trail, Mill Valley California. I was taken out of school. Good byes were said to a Finnish lady friend, Club Member Marie Krell, Aunt Emily Boyden, Aunt Alice Hatcher.<br /><br /> We mounted the transcontinental train and I entered a new and magic world of travel. The 5-7 days of confinement on our long and narrow traveling hotel passed quickly. I must have had a suitcase with enough cloths for the journey. I don’t remember it. My mother took care of that. What I do remember was my plaid woolen dress, a little scotch cap with a feather and a small purse. I may have had small white gloves too. My mother certainly had white gloves.<br /><br /> We were ensconced in a numbered seat, comfortable, upholstered with a small table fitted into the side of the rail car. There was a large window over our seat and table from which, you could watch the passing towns and countryside. Our meals were taken in the dining car. The railroad gave me some little books with which to entertain my self. I still have some of them. Morning Star: a Little Pueblo Girl, Watlala: An Indian of the Northwest, Gray Bird: A Little Plains Indian, Nigalek: A Little Eskimo Boy. They were little paperbacks, in color, illustrated by Roger Vernam. They were published by the Platt and Munk Co. Inc. Today I notice some coloring of the black and white pictures, with colored pencil, carefully staying in the lines, so they were duel purpose books to be read and colored. I’m sure my Mother also had a deck of playing cards for “Go Fish” and “Old maid”. I don’t think I was up to “Rummy” yet.<br /><br /> The days settled into their own rhythm. Meals in the dining car, the tables set with white linen and polished silver. Black waiters in white jackets took our orders from the presented menus. Tables must have been assigned because for some extended period we sat across the table from two young traveling salesmen in business suits.<br /><br /> One evening when the Waiter presented the check to the businessmen, one of them said, “The young lady is taking care of our check.” Where upon, the Waiter gave it to me. Fortunately I had the old checkbook to my mother’s closed account in my purse. I whipped it out, scribbled something on the blank check, tore it off and gave it to the waiter. At breakfast the next morning the waiter brought my check to our table and said, “Young lady, I have to tell you this check is no good.”<br /><br /> While we were at dinner our car was magically transformed. We left a light spacious car lined with seats and tables, windows on both sides and returned to a long corridor draped top and bottom with dark green curtains. My mother and I slept in an upper bunk. This dropped down above our seat. During the day it was a curved ceiling engaged above our window and the top of the center aisle. We entered our compartment via a ladder moving the curtain aside and landing on a comfortable bed all made up. A mesh hammock was strung along the wall for out cloths. Reverse magic happened while we were at breakfast.<br /> We stopped in Chicago and had a few hours layover while out train was reconfigured. My father had arranged for his Cousin, Howard King, to meet us there and chaperone us for a few hours.<br /><br /> When we arrived in New York City, there was my father to meet us. I must not have seen him for 6 months and was mystified as to how he had known where we were and managed to meet us.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-91934384155968137702010-07-05T05:13:00.000-07:002010-07-05T05:24:02.053-07:00"I know a place."<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQL5NhpMahh2oc6zb86miFopT2MIfEI3qSXGsdlKAYENXKw4MmiybhrxR3gqRjQFOsvwq17CM4hwg3Tfx8gh9n50dFnEqodUQQbCGvPLCgVYRM79x_ilnkIA4-HdMRehWDmHgc9TnnE4/s1600/the+farm!.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQL5NhpMahh2oc6zb86miFopT2MIfEI3qSXGsdlKAYENXKw4MmiybhrxR3gqRjQFOsvwq17CM4hwg3Tfx8gh9n50dFnEqodUQQbCGvPLCgVYRM79x_ilnkIA4-HdMRehWDmHgc9TnnE4/s320/the+farm!.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490396462769306418" /></a><br />It is easy to get anxious, depressed in today's world.<br /><br />I was drawn to the news on the internet, TV like a moth to a flame. I felt wired. How bad can things get?<br /><br />I got in my car. My cousins were coming from Oregon for their annual visit to the farm.<br />The Farm is in Vermont. It has been in the family for over 100 years. I have been visiting on a regular basis since 1968.<br /><br />Driving into the valley below the farm, I could feel myself beginning to unwind. As I drove up the driveway I took a deep breath.<br /><br />Here is a place that doesn't change. It restores my soul.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-56377965913361081902010-06-20T09:08:00.000-07:002010-06-20T09:34:49.859-07:00Our Schools are in troubleArlington Massachusetts is having to decrease music and art, foreign language introduction. Class sizes are increasing as well. This is because there is a one million annual short fall in the budget for public education.<br />'<br />This is the next generation of Americans we're talking about. They come into a culture that is going to demand high math skills, engineers, doctors, teachers, a world view. We need an educated body politic to make wise decisions when they vote.<br /><br />Where are we spending out treasure, Iraq, Afghanistan, bailing out our excesses from the past, Fanny Mae, Freddy Mac, Goldman Sacks, and Citibank?<br /><br />The Lunatic Fringe wants less Government, Less Regulation.<br /><br />It is easy to get depressed these days.<br /><br />I am grateful that Barrack Obama is willing to serve in this difficult trying time. It is useful to contrast him with Senator Lindsey Graham. I watched him, Graham, display his Idea Fix, convictions from the Bush/Chaney era at the Senate hearings on Afghanistan. After delivering a totally ignorant and stupid line of questioning to General Petraeus, he got up and stomped out of the hearing. God save us from these Senators who are stuck in the past.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-13914361059212687612010-06-13T04:50:00.000-07:002010-06-13T04:52:07.369-07:00Letter to James CarvilleDear Mr. Carville,<br /><br />I have been watching you come apart on TV. For me it is one of the most distressing processes related to the Oil catastrophe.<br /><br />You are an articulate intelligent political man. We need you to make the connection with this event and our modern life style.<br /><br />Take a breath and think about this in the larger sense. Very few people are making the connection. Please note the adds following the news from the Gulf on CNN. There is Lexus, touting the speed of it's cars, wheels spinning. How insensitive it that!<br /><br />Obama is between a rock and a hard place. We need to shift the economy away from Coal and Oil, Gas but we can't do it quickly if we want to control the deficit.<br /><br />People who have the "public ear" need to help people see the connection between our reckless use of energy and the destruction of the Planet. It isn't just BP and the Federal Government, it is ALL OF US.<br /><br />I have always enjoyed your comments, so "right on". Now you are so upset I can't understand you, speaking so fast. "Time out" to regroup.<br /><br />Best regards to you. I am so sorry. I know you are watching the death of the life and place you love.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-4754548186001399762010-04-15T10:36:00.000-07:002010-04-15T10:41:17.671-07:00Bern Kilgariff<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg031r9DItWd0ZMb6h4tOxcyG4VqZSCL1pK7EQ2vUexs6Qt8iqL-BOBiuHEuCiR0c1jO5rD2RHjGk2E8yGW0cf0R1m-UM0Unr9QBV10oP39Zxff4tAzjaGI4Dk8q4XFOA4vEENEnL3miWI/s1600/Bernie-main.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg031r9DItWd0ZMb6h4tOxcyG4VqZSCL1pK7EQ2vUexs6Qt8iqL-BOBiuHEuCiR0c1jO5rD2RHjGk2E8yGW0cf0R1m-UM0Unr9QBV10oP39Zxff4tAzjaGI4Dk8q4XFOA4vEENEnL3miWI/s320/Bernie-main.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460420016866980338" /></a><br />Thanks, David. Looking at the picture of Bernie and Aileen I remember one time she loaned me blankets, I think it was when we moved from the Oasis Motel to the little stone house on the Todd, which she had found for us. She asked for them back because, "we have only two blankets for each child."<br /><br />Their past is ours too. Love, SallyUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-84107148150384091562010-02-12T08:24:00.000-08:002010-02-12T08:32:19.786-08:00Overheard at the DinerI was sitting in a booth waiting for my Vegtable Omlet. <br /><br />A man, about mid-fifties in age was in the next booth facing me and talking on his cell phone. I gathered from his conversation, that he was talking to a friend about being out of work. He said he was working part time in the diner, "For something to do."<br /><br />"I voted for Brown".<br /><br />"The Republicans were in we were doin great."<br /><br />"The Democrats are in we're doin terrible."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-25018159639153896522009-11-06T19:35:00.000-08:002010-07-27T09:30:32.977-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Sg80DuXyaHA/TE8IrdAo6XI/AAAAAAAAAPY/jB8No_Clk0Y/s1600/USS%2BKearsarge,%2Baft%2Bcopy.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 173px; height: 220px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Sg80DuXyaHA/TE8IrdAo6XI/AAAAAAAAAPY/jB8No_Clk0Y/s320/USS%2BKearsarge,%2Baft%2Bcopy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498623212657371506" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRKvLtpGQnwApKlDC5C3lfJt1aJhvQz4LmFpE3MMHnXZx0xLirGPRuJ48_OK1Hs2tNFpEsqKCyuMMRTfbao-VnqXhr_T6sYuPicLynpWKjQX9IA29-7-tjEt1eUDO0fMqwhTQpChgpiU/s1600-h/Ezra+Whitaker,+Chief+Engineer+copy"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYRKvLtpGQnwApKlDC5C3lfJt1aJhvQz4LmFpE3MMHnXZx0xLirGPRuJ48_OK1Hs2tNFpEsqKCyuMMRTfbao-VnqXhr_T6sYuPicLynpWKjQX9IA29-7-tjEt1eUDO0fMqwhTQpChgpiU/s320/Ezra+Whitaker,+Chief+Engineer+copy" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401200563030595090" border="0" /></a><br />Report to Ezra Jabez<br />Sacketts Harbor, 1996<br />Grandfather, they are taking the boats out of the water at Navy Point. In 1996. I<br />walked out there this morning. There was a misty rain and the wind was from the north- west, coming in off the lake. I thought of you and how you would know and expect the seasonal activity of this little harbor, so I am making my report to you.<br /><br />The harbor is full of pleasure boats, Sail and motor launches. They have names and home "ports", which seem to be the domiciles of their owners, not necessarily on the lake. There was "Empty Pockets", a message I will try to remember when I toy with the idea of boat ownership. Many are for sale, beautiful clean shining hulls, up on pylons, their dimensions, year of launch, and price stuck on their bows. The dollar amount ranges from $19,000 to $176, 000. Your estate, at your death was listed at about $27,000. You would be shocked.<br /><br />These boats are made of fiberglass, not much wood to be seen. They have tall aluminum masts, now lying side by side like stacked wood, segregated in another part of the boat yard. There are all sorts of navigational aids attached around the cockpit. These electronic navigators communicate with satellites, Grandfather! You can tell your position any where on the earth within a few feet by turning on these gadgets! What happens when the power fails? I hope these sailors still know how to "shoot the stars".<br /><br />They are predicting a drastic change in temperature tonight. Today, October 2nd it is about 65 degrees and sunny. The flowers are blooming. Tomorrow it is supposed to be 40 F. I'm ready. I know how changeable this place is. I've got my Down Parka along.<br /><br />Lots of love, your granddaughter, SessaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-23269319874397320102009-11-03T17:40:00.000-08:002009-11-03T17:56:47.173-08:00The Informant, staring Matt Damon, or Name that PathologyI had read of Mark Whitaker’s debacle with Archer Daniels Midland ten, fifteen, years ago in maybe the New Yorker? I had been fascinated and amused so looked forward to seeing the dramatization on screen.<br /><br />I was not prepared for the “this is your life” experience that unfolded before me. At first I thought, "Wait a minute, this is familiar."<br /><br />His story was good, believable. But then little things didn’t add up. What’s wrong here? <br /><br />The main character, Mark Whitaker spins out lies and fabrications with the ease of water pouring from a jug. It became apparent that he was preoccupied with his interior life. At first I thought, “pathological liar.” Then, “He’s paranoid.” Then “to think it is to say it.” <br /><br />At that point things became uncomfortably familiar. “This guy is like Ian. He can’t help himself. He even lies about his lies."<br /><br />I began to feel sad and depressed. There it was before me. The charm, the manipulation, the grandiosity.<br /><br />I have always struggled with my guilt, sadness, frustration trying to make Ian “like other people.” Wanting to shake him and say, “For once, just tell the truth.” I see the same frustration in the FBI handler. He always just gets more lies. <br /><br />What is this syndrome? There are elements of autism, antisocial personality disorder, paranoia, secretiveness, and manipulation.<br /><br />I left the theater sad and depressed. Ian was sick, from an early age. A lot of very good people tried to help him. No one really saw or understood the whole picture. It is a tribute to Matt Damon, a fine actor, that he could catch all the nuance and bring it before the audience. In the end how can we understand such complex mental illness? Poor Ian, he was his own worst enemy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-74324009623350045142009-07-28T10:19:00.000-07:002009-07-28T10:24:29.314-07:00Update the SenarioWatching movies on TV these days strikes a discordant note.<br /><br />Bank robbers get all excited about one million dollars<br /><br />Car thieves go ballistic about Cadillac’s, Hummers, and SUVs.<br /><br />“What’s wrong with them?” I think.<br /><br />One million dollars was a big haul twenty years ago. Now a days is it worth risking your life and freedom ?<br /><br />“Who wants one of those cars?”<br /><br />How long will the new reality take to get into the story line of the script?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-40817557637974958432009-06-23T06:47:00.000-07:002009-06-23T06:54:00.401-07:00MisstepIt was totally unexpected. Something was wrapped around my right ankle and arrested my motion to retrieve the small watering can I use to fill my iron. The Iron came flying off the ironing board landing on the cement floor behind me. <br /><br />I struggled mightily to stay on my feet feeling a terrible twisting pain in my right knee. There was a moment of confusion and reorientation. It hurt to put weight on my right leg but I didn’t go down which might have caused me to hit my head or arm or shoulder. I picked up the Iron and put it back on the ironing board.<br /><br />Yipes! I was in the basement, the place I feared most of falling. I checked. I had my cell phone in my pocket, my call button around my neck. I remember thinking. <br /><br />“I hope you can make it up the steps. Go carefully you don’t want to compound this mishap.” <br /><br />I turned off the light and iron. Slowly and carefully, bending forward left leg up first to lift my weight followed by my right leg to the same step I came out of the basement.<br /><br />I laid down and had a wee nap. I was due to go to the movies with my friend Eugenia. <br /><br />“I think I can make it. I don’t want to disappoint her.”<br /><br />We went but I begged off from the planned restaurant supper after ward. My knee was becoming more painful and less stable. I got home and went to bed.<br /><br />I had a restless and painful night. The next day I emailed Caleb and Anita to request that they bring me a large ace bandage. Fortunately for me my son, Caleb, who is both a Physical Therapist and an M. D. called me back and said he would be right over.<br /><br />He went over me carefully and said he didn’t think anything was broken. He thought I had soft tissue damage in the knee that was pretty swollen. He brought a knee support and got me a cane. He put my shower seat in my shower and showed me how to transfer to it.<br /><br />I had a better night last night and today feel fifty percent better.<br /><br />Having an incident like this makes you painfully aware of the losses suffered in an injury to a limb. Think of all the things you could do with out having to think about it, before this happened.<br /><br />Today I’m thinking about Hillary and her broken elbow, all the important meetings she had to cancel. I’m thinking about Sonia Sotomayor and her leg caste, still going to her meetings with the Senators and Representatives. I am thinking about Eugenia and her constant pain from her hip. She is reluctant to risk a replacement after one heart attack as a result of a colonoscopy. I am thinking about the teenagers in Somalia sentenced to having a hand and a leg cut off for stealing.<br /><br />At Seventy-six I don’t like joining the elderly “physically compromised”. An injury like this exaggerates all the other ageing signs and symptoms I deal with. The future looks more unpleasant this morning.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-8466955243923862982009-05-22T12:24:00.000-07:002009-05-22T12:34:18.830-07:00The Girlfriend Experience: ReviewI just watched “The Girlfriend Experience”, my first venture into “pay for view” on TV.<br /><br />What an interesting film. So permeated with the angst of modern life, recent history with its references to the Election and the Financial Melt Down. You know both are taking place somewhere off screen but you, the viewer are caught up in the lives of Christine and her boyfriend, both for hire to decorate the lives of the wealthy needy.<br /><br />Christine has a hard little face that she can almost soften with her youth, at will. Close ups reveal more that is distasteful, a square jaw, a deep crease in one corner of her mouth, a scar on her nose. Your mind jumps ahead. Where is this life going? What will she look like in five years, ten?<br /><br />Both characters are trying to maximize their earning power.<br /><br />“Work for the night is coming.”<br /><br />To wheel and deal, they have to step out of the chameleon mode and reveal themselves, which is distasteful to the people who are casting them in the image that serves their needs. The whole mood changes as you accompany them on these forays into the domain of another level of exploitation. There is the Gym owner who wants the boyfriend, personal trainer, to give up his individuality and wear the packaging of the Gym. There is the Pimp who wants to take Christine to Dubai. These folks are the real scary ones. You can tell they have seen Christine and her Boyfriend before and used them well before tossing them aside.<br /><br />There is a wealth of thought and comment in this film. Are we really this far of track in modern life? Is this what we have exchanged for the life of a Farmer? Factory worker? Do we live this much in the moment? Magically?<br /><br />Watch it and see what you feel, think.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-75129178450267805192009-04-12T10:28:00.000-07:002009-04-12T10:40:27.521-07:00The Hemingses of Monticello: An American Family by Annette Gordon-ReedI’ve just finished this book. I’m not sure if you can ever be finished with this book whether you read it or write it.<br /><br />Annette Gordon-Reed takes us on her journey of discovery and revelation, a labor of love, into another time, and extended family, in another place. I’m grateful to be carried by her work and effort into this family. It must have been emotionally exhausting to go and be with these people, resurrecting them in body and personality, time travel while writing, then describing what you are seeing, feeling, discovering. I can sense the reluctance to leave your own life and go there to be with them, then leave them suspended until you return.<br /><br />What a gift Gordon-Reed has given us, so many insights. I found my self thinking,<br /><br />“Yes, of course.”<br /><br />The author offers us Thomas Jefferson as he must have been, worts, blemishes, and polish. James Hemmings is fleshed out in all his frustration, anger and final tragedy. You hear Bob Hemmings pleading with Jefferson to understand his primary attachment to his wife and children. Martha Randolph takes form. Only Sally Hemmings remains a mystery, a shadow, a ghost. She was expunged from the written record. You can feel her presence, the importance of her role but you don’t see her or hear her voice.<br /><br />This must have been deliberate on the part of the other family members. It is so sad that they made her into a “non-person.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-85899977242154762072009-02-24T03:56:00.000-08:002009-02-24T03:58:21.118-08:00The Dionne QuintupletsAs the Depression of 2008 deepens we survivors of the Depression of 1929 are being encouraged to recount our stories.<br /><br />I was born in 1932 to an “older” couple whose fortunes were slipping away along with the rest of the country’s.<br /><br />My parents had met at a Yoga Colony in Nyack New York. The members still made up a group large enough to exert some influence in the Village.<br /><br />The Nyack Drug Store held a raffle to stimulate business. The prize was a set of Dionne Quintuplet Dolls. Each purchase entitled the patron to one vote. Someone at the Clarkstown Country Club, the yoga colony, organized on my behalf. I think I must have been around three or four years old. I remember seeing the dolls lined up in the store window.<br /><br />Time passed and like “abra-ka-dabra” the dolls appeared at my house. It all seemed very confusing. I tried to decode what had happened. My mother was my interpreter. As I stared at the five baby dolls all identically dressed I felt very confused. This was a “good” thing, a “special” thing. The bottom line was that I couldn’t figure out how to play with 5 baby dolls at once. I looked at their identical faces, learned their names, tried undressing and dressing them. Then what?<br /><br />My mother may have sensed my dilemma. She hit on a political solution.<br /><br />“There are a lot of little girls who don’t have a doll. You have five. I think you should give some to children who have none.”<br /><br />I remember asking if I had a choice. I had a feeling that five was an important and significant number.<br /><br />The decision had been made. Two dollies disappeared and I was left with the Dionne Triplets. They seemed less appealing and I think I stopped playing with them.<br /><br />The depression continued on its downward path and my parents lost their house in 1938. They couldn’t pay even the reduced mortgage they had refinanced with the Federal Housing Authority. Our little family began the series of moves that scattered toys and other possessions leaving them behind in unremembered corners. Only my doll, Sessa and Johnny Bear managed to stick with us. Johnny Bear was the most persistent. I think my mother loved him even more that I did. He is still with me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-33345351450566767102008-12-24T06:44:00.000-08:002008-12-24T06:48:33.591-08:00Henry Kissinger is Afraid to DieNew York Times: 12/24/08, pp A14.<br /><br />April 1972, President Richard Nixon got on the phone with his national security adviser, Henry A. Kissinger.<br /><br />“They dropped a million pounds of bombs.” Mr. Kissinger said.<br /><br />“God damn, that must have been a good strike!” Mr. Nixon said.<br /><br />But then, “Johnson bombed them for years and it didn’t do any good.”<br /><br />“But, Mr. President, Johnson never had a strategy. He was sort of picking away at them. He would go in with 50 planes, 20 planes. I bet you we will have had more planes over there in one day than Johnson had in a month.”<br /><br />Add to this the bombing of Cambodia and Laos. The destruction of the democratically elected government of Chili and you have a picture of American terrorists, un-indicted war criminals.<br /><br />I get sick to my stomach and enraged each time I see the press trot Henry Kissinger out to make a pronouncement on some currant crisis. Why isn’t he in jail? Because he is our War Criminal.<br /><br />Why is he still alive? I think he is afraid to die.<br /><br />It is hard to be reminded at this time of the year.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-18215704494016848152008-11-15T10:32:00.000-08:002008-11-17T04:31:05.740-08:00Remembering Whitney Hubbard<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFDaVzX8Say2wr8_JEHSvqzQrnwAtt3RrO6qKA4kxRr_l1SU09VezENg8jWRA35X66M-Adu2IxPn28LIggkp9Ci21QPpwRmLQqV253yNgXszRr3PqpRj02DsCG1dUIU0ZLWi5XzVdqI4/s1600-h/Mrs.+Whitney+Hubbard,+Grannie%27s+friend.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 187px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFDaVzX8Say2wr8_JEHSvqzQrnwAtt3RrO6qKA4kxRr_l1SU09VezENg8jWRA35X66M-Adu2IxPn28LIggkp9Ci21QPpwRmLQqV253yNgXszRr3PqpRj02DsCG1dUIU0ZLWi5XzVdqI4/s320/Mrs.+Whitney+Hubbard,+Grannie%27s+friend.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268955968556301314" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis72agUj_71OSJ0KE2mA6rqH7JH593bxNTujCa6mUgUQNVv6Fs3vTmnM0c4dGt4uSSgiu-G5pkwDewPtx23F1495LgDkqe1_dfEFEd7kjRzpD-ak2HIS7LfssdPfM9x2ESePiKUv7r1TE/s1600-h/Morning+Greenport+Harbor.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis72agUj_71OSJ0KE2mA6rqH7JH593bxNTujCa6mUgUQNVv6Fs3vTmnM0c4dGt4uSSgiu-G5pkwDewPtx23F1495LgDkqe1_dfEFEd7kjRzpD-ak2HIS7LfssdPfM9x2ESePiKUv7r1TE/s320/Morning+Greenport+Harbor.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268954986616823746" /></a><br />I want to remember Whitney Hubbard and his wife. They were my mother’s friends in Greenport Long Island during the Second World War, 1941-43.<br /><br />Whitney Hubbard taught my mother watercolor. She included me though I found it boring. The first class was private at our house. I painted, labored over, a picture of the doghouse. I chose it because it related to my dog, King. <br /><br />One day when we were painting on the pier in the Village of Greenport my mother looked up to see me diving off the end of the pier into the harbor. I had taken advantage of her distraction to beg a dollar to buy a bathing suit and the next thing I was in the water. That was the last time she asked me to paint with the class.<br /><br />I remember Whitney as grey haired, a small slender frail looking man in a dark suit with hat and tie. He may have had a little mustache. I remember him as being quiet and patient. He and his wife lived in a run down house in the village across from the Episcopal Church and up the street a bit. I went there often with my mother. His wife whose name I will try to remember was probably manic at times but she greatly amused my mother. She was very funny. She was large, with a prominent nose, a bit over weight and had brown hair. They seemed an incongruous couple to me.<br /><br />Mrs. Hubbard was a musician. One of their sources of income were her engagements to play the piano. She may have played the organ at local churches as well. <br /><br />I remember her description of one of the “Ladies” clubs in the village. She imitated one of the fat ladies with a big bottom seating herself at the piano bench. My mother and I were in hysterics. <br /><br />You entered their house through a gate and stepped into an over grown and neglected garden. Kind of like an enchanted forest to my child’s eyes. Their house had a lot of plants. The floors were uneven and it was musty. I remember a green house room along one side with lots of windows and a brick floor. It did look to me at aged eight to ten, like it was about to fall down.<br /><br />The Hubbards were very poor. Mrs. Hubbard always had tea for us when we stopped by. My mother tried to help them by taking lessons and buying one of Whitney’s paintingsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-7939153025954593122008-11-01T14:16:00.000-07:002008-11-01T14:35:08.263-07:00Fire!In 1935, when I was three years old my mother took the opportunity to teach me about fire. The Rossiter House in Nyack, New York had burned. The roof was collapsed and the windows were gaping dark holes. There were streaks of smoke across the exterior, a bleak scene indeed.<br /><br />“This is what happens when children play with matches.” She said.<br /><br />The scene emerged from the oldest memories stored in the deep recesses of my brain where first traumatic scenes are encoded.<br /><br />Today I went with my friend Eugenia to view what is left of her condominium association building in Lexington Massachusetts.<br /><br />“I’ve seen this before,” bubbled up in my minds eye. We stood looking at the big brick historic building, the Hancock School on the National Register. Workmen setting up a Pigeon trap on the roof had ignited the roof with their acetylene torch.<br /><br />What a sad scene. The thick brick walls and chimneys stood clean, almost new looking, but the slate roof looked like some broken rollercoaster ride created by the "Mad Hatter". It heaved and sagged, gave way to the burned timbers that had supported it these one hundred and ten years. The rough edges of the slates dangled as if still trying to cover and protect that top floor. The fourth floor under the roof was totally burned out. Across the facade the windows of the third floor were dark holes.<br /><br />Eugie and I stood at the yellow tape looking up to the windows of her unit. She was on the third floor, a home to twenty-five people, four floors, four units on each, twenty-five souls who called this building home. They are now caste upon the waters to find a new berth. No one was hurt. Most residents were at work. Eugenia's bedroom windows are intact but the window to her sitting room was gone. We heard there was only water damage on the third floor.<br /><br />Eugie had been stopped as she turned into her street.<br /><br />“There is a fire.”<br /><br />“At what address?”<br /><br />“33 Forest Street”<br /><br />“That’s where I live.”<br /><br />I have her with me now, in my extra bedroom. We are both in shock.<br /><br />“I’ve lost everything.” She says.<br /><br />Slowly, protectively, her mind recalls the material representation of her life.<br /><br />“Its just things” she says. Then later, “I feel sick to my stomach.”<br /><br />How do you deal with such a loss, death come early, books, Manuscripts. Photographs, Antiques passed on by your parents.<br /><br />My twins started kindergarten here. One had suffered from school phobia after the neighboring building where they walked in a line for gym, burned down.<br /><br />“I always thought it was a fire trap.” He said.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119383647665729337.post-64693616476958416342008-08-29T17:54:00.000-07:002008-08-29T17:59:29.982-07:00Remember Jane Swift?Remember Jane Swift? You would have to be from Massachusetts.<br /><br />She came to my mind when I saw John McCain choose Sarah Palin to be his vice president.<br /><br />Jane Swift’s story should be one of caution for Sarah.<br /><br />You have to go back to William Floyd Weld our Republican Governor who chose Paul Cellucci to be his running mate.<br /><br />After a couple of years in the Governors Office Weld grew bored and decided he would like it better as American Ambassador in Mexico City. <br /><br />Now Jessie Helms was the gatekeeper for Ambassadorial Appointments and he did not like William Weld. Weld spent some time sitting in Jessie’s outer office waiting to be interviewed and appointed. It must have been very demeaning and embarrassing for Weld. After and extended period cooling his heals and being ignored he went off to join a law firm in New York City.<br /><br />Meanwhile back in Massachusetts, Paul Cellucci stepped into the Governorship. When he ran for election on his own merits he felt he needed to carry the western part of the state to win office.<br /><br />Enter Jane Swift, the unknown mayor of North Adams? Or was it Pittsfield. Jane welcomed the opportunity to take the stage on Beacon Hill.<br /><br />All went well. She and her husband conceived and bore twins!<br /><br />Then Paul Cellucci was appointed Ambassador to Canada and there was Jane, Governor! There were the twins still in the Berkshires. She was criticized for taking the State Police helicopter home on the weekends.<br /><br />Jane was willing to run again on her own merits. I liked her because, by executive decree she shut down the “Filthy Five” power plants that were poisoning coastal Massachusetts, especially Salem.<br /><br />However along comes Mitt Romney who decided he wanted to be the Governor of Massachusetts. What he and his machine did to Jane was not pretty. I don’t know the details but you could see it in her face that she had, like Daniel, been in the lion’s den.<br /><br />I recount this as a cautionary tale for Sarah Palin. She doesn’t even know WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0