Sam & ceil: Some Good roads (at last)

Left Redding about 8:30 and certainly had bad roads to contend with for about (?) hours. Then we hit the good roads and did some hard riding until we got to Sacramento at 9 P.M. The scenery was nothing to talk about with the exception of Mt. Shasta. Ate at a restaurant and went to the campgounds.

Sam & CEil: Car Trouble

Left Yreka at 9 o'clock in the morning and encountered very bad roads. The scenery was beautiful for a while, ridge scenery, then nothing but hills and such poor roads that the rest of the trip was miserable. We burned out our emergency brakes on the last hill coming down into Redding.

Sam & ceil: “then it was all down hill.”

Left Grants Pass at about 9 A.M and had to climb over the Siskiyou Summit in order to get to the State line. The Summit is at an elevation of four thousand some odd feet. It was a good thing the roads were paved, as otherwise it might have proven too dangerous to attempt. It was dangerous anyhow, as one did not dare take their eyes off the road. The scenery was wonderful, putting you under the impression that if you go another 100 feet, you will go into a rocky wall. At the summit the scene was just wonderful. Then it was all down hill. At the border line, which we reached at about 1 P.M or so, the roads were gravel and it was very dangerous going down as the car would not hold the road. Of course that meant nothing in our young lives. We stopped and had lunch, bacon and eggs on the mountainside, under the shade of a few trees and after cleaning up and bathing Squidge we started again. When we reached the base, we rode along the side of one mountain and had mountains all around. It was a gorge well worth seeing and we rode about 17 miles in the gorge until we got to Yreka, California where we camped for the night. We found the camp grounds very good, everything free, including shower baths.

Sam & ceil: On the road again

Got as far as Salem, Oregon. Stayed at auto camp. [Every town had an auto camp where tourists coukd stay overnight. Most towns did not charge anything and some charged a nominal fee, like 25 cents. The camps were equipped with a place to take showers and wash clothes.]

Sam and Cel's 1921 roadtrip-a summary

We bought a 1917 Ford car for $350.00. The man we bought it from told us how to drive. We had the front seat put on hinges so that it folded over and met the back seat. We bought a mattress for $4.50. Some of the other items we bought for the trip were: gasoline stove $6.75, mess kits, pot and cups $3.45, pillows $2.00, camp table and box for eats $5.00, two camp stools $1.80, flashlight $1.40, washboard 15 cents, water bag $2.60, khaki trousers (for Cel) blouse and woolen socks $8.40.

We started out with $760 on hand. When we finished the trip, it had cost us $499.23.

The cost of gasoline averaged 25 cents a gallon, costing as little as 20 cents and as high as 55 cents. Tires cost about $15.00 each and the best tires were guaranteed only 3,000 miles. We used an awful lot of oil, buying a gallon every few days. Toward the end of the trip, I had to clean carbon every day. I had to take the head of the engine off to do this. No doubt this was the cause of our getting started late a good many days.

We bought a puppy in Oregon and sold it in Sacramento because we found it too much trouble to take care of.

We had a nice soft bed by folding the front seat over and placing the mattress over the seats. Cel was dressed in khaki and when we reached some of the eastern states people would take a second look at her wearing trousers.

In those days there were no motels and everyone had to stop at camp grounds which were supplied by all the towns. Most of them were free while a few were charging 25 cents for the night. They were equipped like some of the state parks are now in California, with a fireplace to cook, some tables, and some had a place to take showers. We carried the water bag to have drinking water and also for the machine which used quite a bit of water. Water was free every place, even on the desert where they had a sign “help yourself to whatever you need, but don't waste it,” except when we hit the mountains in the western part of Pennsylvania and Maryland, where they charged us 10 cents for water.

The roads, for the most part, down the western coast, through the National Parks especially, and then east as far as St. Louis were simply terrible. From St. Louis east we had good roads. Yosemite National Park charged us $5.00 for using their awful roads.

When we finished the trip, we were interviewed by reporters, a trip like this at that time being considered quite a feat. But we said “never again” would we go through anything like this, supposedly for pleasure.

CRoss U.s. in flivver

100 years ago today, my paternal grandparents, Sam and Celia Rosenfeld, began a cross-country trip in a 1917 Ford automobile. They drove from Seattle, Washington to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. They kept a log, which I will post here, on the dates when the log entries were written.

Tomorrow I will post a summary of the trip which they wrote years later, after reviewing the original log. It has information about the car, their expenses, and other interesting details.

Left Seattle July 30th.

Stayed in Portland until August 9th. Took Columbia River Highway, which was beautiful. Also visited Long Beach, Washington, going by way of Astoria, Oregon. Had a nice time here. The Pacific Ocean was like ice water. We liked getting up real early to dig for clams. We stayed with Ann Hurwitt's sister.

Doubt

Years ago, I read a short story by Michael Thomas Ford. I have forgotten the title, but there was a little boy, cake, butterflies, and a much-loved grandmother who had died. The boy put a slice of cake by an open window, or outside, and butterflies came to take tiny crumbs of it. Butterflies are messengers to and from the other world. The boy was sharing cake with his grandmother.

This story stayed with me so strongly that I think of it whenever I see a butterfly.

Years ago, my mother and I were visiting the graves of her parents and grandmother. As we stood there, two butterflies appeared. “Look,” I said, “They know we're here.” And my mother quietly replied, “I love you, honey.”

Perhaps, like me, you are a writer. Perhaps, like me, you often doubt yourself. But never doubt the power of the written word; the power of story.

Joy

I was born on December 21st, which is often a turning point in the wheel of the year; more darkness than light. One of my small, quiet holiday traditions is to light candles.

For me, for many, an unexpected darkness arrived early in November and is still here. A cloud over the spirit. The threat of terrible storms. The fear of planetary disaster. Specters come to life, full-blooded and shockingly familiar--neighbors, colleagues, friends and family.

This month, in Japan, there will be hundreds of performances of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, most famous for the fourth movement, where soloists and chorus sing a version of Friedrich Schiller's poem, "Ode to Joy." You know it; you can probably hear it in your head right now. For some reason, even though it is a song of joy I always weep when I hear it.

I know about the performances in Japan because a couple of years ago I saw a beautiful documentary film by Kerry Candaele called "Following the Ninth." The film examines how Beethoven's Ninth Symphony has been used for support, and healing and inspiration--in Tianamen Square and in Chile during the Pinochet regime. It is a heart-opening reminder that we are all connected and that music transcends whatever we perceive to be our differences.

"Following the Ninth" is going to be my holiday film this year. I lent my copy to a friend and they haven't returned it, so I ordered a new one. 

This is what I wish for all of you: that you can find a way to see this film. If I could I would buy a copy for each and every one of you. But if you can't see the film, then find a way to listen to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony sometime soon. It's usually No. 1 on WQXR's end-of-the-year classical countdown, and the New York Philharmonic will be performing it in early May 2017. 

 

 

 

Source: http://www.beethovenhero.com/following-the...

America The Ugly

America's mask is off. Last night you saw the face of America, and it is a face of hatred. America is a monster that exults in ignorance and intolerance. Last night, you heard the monster that is America roar.

The roar disguises the monster's fear: fear of people who do not have the monster's white skin, people who do not share the monster's vision of God, fear of people who are female. The monster that is America fears women most of all. Because the monster that is America knows, in that deepest part of itself, that women are powerful. That women will destroy the monster's world if he gives them the chance.

This woman says: I have seen you, monster. I know you now. And I say to you, you shall not stop me. Last night you threw down the gauntlet. Today, I picked it up.

 

Not With a Bang But With a Whimper

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but with a whimper.

 T.S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

 

My mother worked as a secretary in the office of John Bartram High School in Philadelphia. They gave her a surprise party when she retired, and invited my father to be there as part of the surprise. Photographs were taken; the photographer managed to capture the moment just as my mother was walking through the door, when she saw my father.

I’d always imagined that when she died, it would be just like the photograph at her party—walking through an entryway and glimpsing my dad, both of them smiling, the anticipation of a kiss.

But she’s angry with him now. Recently she’s been telling me that women have been coming into her room, telling her my father is at her facility and that he wants to see her. “Why does he want to see me?” she asks. “Why, after all this time?”

“Maybe he wants to see how you are,” I say.

“Well, I have nothing to say to him,” she replies.

And she keeps asking me if they were divorced.

“No,” I say. “You were married for almost 58 years.”

“Then why did daddy leave?”

“He died,” I tell her. “We buried him. His body is in Montefiore Cemetery, with Sam and Ceil.”

Tears well in her eyes and for a minute I think maybe she understands.

If our soul is freed when we die, do memories go with us? Will my mother remember loving and being loved by my father? Is memory a part of our soul, or merely a function of our physical brain?

The other day I was thinking about how fingerprints and snowflakes are unique, and wondering if the delusions of dementia and Alzheimer’s are unique too, each individual creating their own realities. When I can step back, separate myself from the emotional aspects, I note that many of my mother’s stories and fears involve strange men in her room or outside her door. If I’m feeling particularly fanciful, I imagine that the strange man outside her door is my father’s ghost, or even death itself.

When I visited this past weekend, she told me there was a new man at her table at breakfast and he’d reached across and touched her breast. I don’t know whether to believe this. It could have happened—the staff can’t watch everyone all the time. Once, when my mother and I were waiting for the elevator, a man walked out of his room in his underwear. But then I remember her calling me at 11:00 p.m., telling me a man was trying to get into her room. I called the main number, was connected to her floor, and explained what was going on to the aide. She said she would check on her, adding that my mother does this a lot.

Every room on the memory care floors has a glass box with shelves outside the door. People personalize them with photographs and objects. My mother’s box has, among other things, the bride and groom topper from her wedding cake and a framed photograph of her with my father and me. At first, I enjoyed looking at the contents of everyone’s boxes, but now it just makes me sad. Remnants of a life, a reminder of what has been lost.

 

But Not For Me

Spoiler Alert: If you have never seen the movies "Casablanca," "Gone With the Wind," or "Titanic," this blog entry reveals endings and key plot points.

Happy endings. Readers crave them, demand them, and may whine if they don't get them. I understand--I'm a happy ending girl myself. I like my films sweeter than treacle.

But let's take a quick look at #2 and #4 of the American Film Institute's Top 100 films--"Casablanca" and "Gone With the Wind," and at the second highest grossing film of all time, "Titanic."

"Casablanca"--Rick gives up Ilsa because he thinks Victor needs her more than he does.

"Gone With the Wind"--Rhett walks out on Scarlett.

"Titanic"--Rose finds true love and he dies.

No happy endings there, and yet all three films have stood the test of time.

I hope my publisher won't be too annoyed with me for revealing this, but my debut novel, The One That Got Away, doesn't have the proverbial happy ending. From the feedback I received in the workshops I was in, I knew that people liked the main character, Bambi Devine (a.k.a. B.D.) and wanted her to have the ending that she wanted. But I couldn't give that to B.D., or to my readers. It didn't feel right. Much as I love the idea of a happy ending, it isn't something that I have experienced. Sometimes I wonder if writers do their readers a disservice by promoting the idea that there is one and only one true love for each of us; that we need someone to complete us. Or that marriage--or the equivalent of marriage--is what everyone should aspire to. (Good thing Bywater and Ylva didn't assign the Valentine's Day blog duty to me when they were drawing up the schedule for the blog hop!)

Rick didn't have a bad life without Ilsa ("We'll always have Paris") and Ilsa did love Victor, in a way. Rhett and Scarlett loved each other but couldn't really make it work. And Rose ended up having a pretty good life without Jack.

I can remember the day I realized that a happy ending might not be in my future. I was washing dishes (many of my epiphanies happen around water), wondering when that special person would come along to take care of me (perhaps I was humming Gershwin's "Someone to Watch Over Me") and the question popped into my mind: "What if no one ever does?" And I realized that I had better be prepared to take care of myself. 

Sometimes I speculate about why I've never had a long-term relationship. Did I do something terrible to someone in a prior life? Did I agree to be single in this life because I needed to learn something? If that's true, I hope I'll understand the lesson at the end.

Of course, The One That Got Away is fiction, and the characters are not based on anyone living or dead (wink, wink), but I've come to realize that if B.D. had gotten the woman she wanted--it probably wouldn't have worked out.

In a way, love and happily ever after is a little bit like law and justice--two admirable concepts that sometimes have very little to do with each other. And that is my attempt at a nifty segue into announcing the next author you're going to hear from--Blythe Rippon. "Barring Complications" features a lesbian Supreme Court justice--and hey, there's an opening on the court right now. Blythe is also the author of "Stowe Away." Take it away, Blythe! http://www.blythe.rippon.wordpress.com.

Family of Choice

Last night I saw two one act plays--"The Further Adventures of...," by Kathleen Warnock, and "Adam & Eva," written and performed by Jack McMahon and Yasmin Zadeh--on a double bill called, "We Met in Dublin."

This morning I realized that while the playwrights and the actors may in fact have met in Dublin, the theme of the evening was finding your family of choice.

Even if your blood family accepts you, but especially when they do not, LGBTQI people tend to create their own families.

Kathleen Warnock and I met in Jenifer Levin's fiction workshop at the west side YMCA, more years ago than I care to remember. At that time, I thought of a play as something with two (or more) acts, actors, sets and costumes, that you saw in a Broadway theater. One of the many blessings of my friendship with Kathleen is that she introduced me to a world of theater that I didn't really know much about--the theater that does on underground or two or three stories up, and the pleasure that a well-crafted one act play can provide--even a 10 minute play! I have enjoyed so many wonderful evenings (well, okay, a few were not all that wonderful but that wasn't because of Kathleen's plays) that I never would have known about were it not for Kathleen.

I've also been privileged to see her work evolve. Each time I've seen "The Further Adventures of...," Kathleen has made changes to it and made it better. Last night it had a new richness and depth that moved me deeply.

I've been so impressed by what can be achieved with minimal--or, in the case of "The Further Adventures of..."--no costumes or sets. The actors create with their bodies, facial expressions, voice and movement. In "The Further Adventures of...," the two male actors, Tim Burke and Mark Finley, play multiple roles. I've found that I don't mind the absence of scenery or costumes; it makes the experience more intimate somehow.

Lately, I've been thinking that storytelling is in our DNA. From the first cave drawings, we have been drawn to tell stories and to listen to them. We need them.

So last night was a lovely evening of stories. "The Further Adventures of..." is about many things for me, including how, as children, we are drawn to particular stories without really understanding why, and how difficult it sometimes was for the generation that came before us. It's also about how creating and imagining our own happy endings is healing and a way to move forward. And "Adam & Eva" reminded me that although it's great that LGBTQI people have the freedom to be out now, that doesn't mean that it's safe.

This is fanciful, I know, but towards the end of "The Further Adventures of...", I felt/imagined Sandra Moran hovering over my left shoulder. i almost turned my head to ask her, "So, what do you think?" But I could only feel regret for another conversation that I would never have with her.

Thanksgiving is next week, and I'm sending out a little pre-holiday gratitude to my dear friend Kathleen, and her wife, Donna. Thank you for being part of my family of choice.

 

"I Am Love"

Part I: The T-Shirt

Several years ago I saw a revival of Terrence McNally's play, "Corpus Christi," which features a gay Jesus. It was performed in a small theater in Greenwich Village. I almost missed it--the only reason I went was that a friend of mine knew people in the cast. That revival of "Corpus Christi" remains one of the most powerful theatrical experiences I have ever had. The cast traveled all over with the play, and they made a documentary film about it: "Corpus Christi: Playing With Redemption." I contributed to the film through one of the on-line fundraising sites, and I received a t-shirt as a thank you. The message printed on the shirt was a simple one: "I Am Love."

I couldn't wear it. I felt as though it would be a lie if I did. I didn't feel love on my subway commute or fighting my way through crowds on the street. I didn't feel love for my neighbor when she vacuumed at 3 a.m. In truth, I felt like much of the time I wore a polite or cheerful mask that covered a bottomless well of anger.

I thought I had to earn the right to wear the t-shirt. Perhaps if I learned to meditate, I might be worthy of the shirt one day.

Part II: Buddha Body Yoga

A couple of years ago I heard about a yoga class for large-bodied people, and I started going to it. I've blogged about Buddha Body Yoga before ("Torture Chamber," April 20, 2014). We use props such as chairs, blocks, bolsters, straps and a yoga wall. I enjoy the class because it's not a "typical" yoga class--Michael Hayes, the teacher, makes puns and sings songs. Students make comments like, "This sounds like a track for soft porn" ("Buddha Bar" music). 

Almost every week, when everyone is groaning over a particular position or movement, Michael will say: "Hey, Carol called me up today and asked for this." Of course, I hadn't done any such thing!

 Michael often talks about working on backbends. As we're leaving, he might say, "Next week--backbends." Fortunately, he  doesn't usually follow through with it.

Part III: A Writer Named Sandra Moran

This past July, during the Golden Crown Literary Society conference, my publisher, Bywater Books, hosted a dinner for their authors and some friends. It was a large group, and I ended up seated next to a writer named Sandra Moran. I loved talking with her. Really smart, funny, interested in lots of things, amazing energy. We agreed to keep in touch, and I felt happy about the new friend that I'd made.

After I read two of Sandra's three books--Nudge and Letters Never Sent--my respect for her increased. She is a wonderful writer, and I really enjoyed both books.

Last week Sandra Moran publicly announced that she had a very serious illness. She provided details that I do not think need to be repeated here. 

I wanted to do something, but I wasn't sure what. And then I wrote an email to Michael Hayes, titled: "A Real, Honest-to-God Request from Carol." I explained that a friend of mine was seriously ill and I wanted to do a backbend in her honor.

At first I thought I'd wear a t-shirt with the ruby slippers (Kansas connection). But then I remembered the "I Am Love" t-shirt. Did I dare?

Monday evening, from 6:30 to 8:00 (EST), I am dedicating my Buddha Body yoga practice to my friend and fellow writer, Sandra Moran. And for that one hour and a half, I will try to be love. If I can do it for an hour and a half, maybe I can work my way up to longer periods.

Untitled Poem

I don't think I've ever posted this poem; I've never been completely satisfied with it. But I've decided to post it now.

it is September and

I am thinking of snow

the clean of cold

the numbing of ice

 

and even my mother

is playing at portents

saying, 

"Nine-one-one.

The number you call in an emergency

nine-one-one

that's the date it happened"

 

as I walk by Coney Island's Cyclone

the wind sighs an aria for the dead

at the Aquarium, the penguins seem nervous

in their exposed enclosure

but the beluga whales are serene

within their water world

 

it is October and

I am dreaming of snow

blurring and blanketing

dotting my city like Seurat

 

while on a BART train into San Francisco

a mother tells her son and daughter

"And in addition to everything else that's happened

I'm turning forty next week"

things are back to normal in America

when a woman turning forty

is a tragedy

 

it is November and

I am longing for snow

swirling soft and silent

 

a plane explodes

I conclude it was mechanical

terrorists want to kill Americans

not citizens of the Dominican Republic

 

it is December and

I am waiting for snow

but the icicles are electric

 

and I stare at a pallid sky

faded from the pristine blue

that was the last perfect thing

before September shattered

Father & Son Nights With My Dad

My father belonged to a Jewish men's lodge--Brith Sholom, Delco (Delaware County, Pennsylvania). When I was growing up, the lodge hosted "Father & Son" nights at sports events, and my father always took me.

It wasn't that he wanted me to be a boy; he just wanted to spend time with me. And I wanted to spend time with him.

Today, that seems like very out-of-the-box thinking for the 1960s--a time when girls took home economics (I still have the apron that I made) while boys took wood shop. Although no one ever protested my presence at the Father & Son events--at least, not to my face--I was always afraid that someone would.

The night before the basketball game, or the ice hockey game, my father would sit with me at the kitchen table and draw the court or the rink, explain what each player was called and what they did, and the rules and technical details of the game. I don't think I retained that much of it, but my father never quizzed me on it.

Thanks, Dad, for sharing what you loved with the daughter you loved. I will always be grateful that you did. Thinking of you and missing you this Father's Day. Love, Carol

Questions for Miss Manners

What is the correct stationery to use when writing to someone you haven't spoken to in years, for the purpose of announcing the debut of your first novel?

Having gone to numerous panels on book promotion and publicity throughout the twenty years I was working (sort of) on my novel, I know that I am duty-bound to mimic a mosquito and buzz around everyone and anyone who could possibly have an interest in MY BOOK. Their swatting will be in vain.

Art cards? The "correspondence cards" I bought at the Metropolitan Museum of Art store? The new initial "C" cards I just purchased? The choice depends upon the recipient; I won't send the same thing to each one. Which stamps? And which address label, out of the hundreds provided by junk mailers?

What is the best way to begin? "Hello, remember me? We were in a lesbian lawyer group together twenty-three years ago. I thought you might like to know I'm having a book published. What's new with you?"

There are, of course, some people I am not planning to tell. If they discover it on their own--so be it. I have a friend who does security.

What the Author is Doing Tonight

In Camelot--both the Broadway show and the movie--King Arthur is hiding in the forest, spying on Guinevere, his bride-to-be. He sings the song, "I Wonder What the King is Doing Tonight." The gist of it is that his subjects imagine him having a very different reaction to the forthcoming wedding than he is actually having.

I was thinking about this because, as of this posting, the publication of my first novel, The One That Got Away, is just a month away. (The publication date is June 30.) People keep asking me, "Are you excited about your book?"

I would never have thought that I'd say this, but--I'm not. (At least, not today.) In fact, I'm almost dreading it.

I've had short stories published in anthologies, but they were part of a collection; one story mixed in among many. The novel is all me, and I feel like I have a target painted on my back.

I worry about the people out there who delight in writing nasty reviews. I worry about the minefield of political correctness.

My Inner Therapist notes that I seem to be anticipating a negative experience.

Most of my short stories were erotica, and I announced their publication to various people on a need-to-know basis. But many more family and friends know about the book. This morning I found myself thinking about the sex scenes in the book and wondering what Thanksgiving will be like this year.

I received an email from an 80-year-old cousin that I think I met once, possibly at a family funeral. He has been doing some genealogical research, but at the end of the email he added that he was looking forward to the publication of my book. Freak out!

Perversely, the two people who are most eager to read my book--my mother and one of my friends--are the two people I would rather not read it at all.

And even though I have bought the books of hundreds of people that I've never met, it seems incredible to me that so much as one person that I don't know might buy my book. I just hope they'll like it.