Long Ago and Far Away Lives

I've been running into a recurring theme lately: people being reminded of significant incidents and people from their pasts that they hadn't thought of for some time. A wonderful journalist and friend who goes by the alias Hollywood Spinster recently posted in her blog about the confused and complex feelings that occurred when she learned that an old boyfriend had died. She was visiting the country where she'd once lived with him, decades earlier, and decided to google him-as one would-, only to find his obituary from two years ago. She writes movingly about her unsettled emotions over the discovery here: http://hollywoodspinster.wordpress.com/2012/01/26/death-of-an-ex/

I'm involved in planning a large school reunion in my home town of Eagle River, Wisconsin. A place I haven't visited since my mother's death there, 29 years ago. Although I'd recently reconnected with many friends from the North Woods on Facebook, there were some I knew I'd have to call. Like one of my mother's closest friends, whose annual Christmas cards I'd left unanswered for decades. I finally found her number and called. Understandably, she was surprised to hear from me, but she was friendly and engaging. It wasn't until about 8 minutes into the conversation that I discovered she thought I was my mother. After correcting her, and more discussion, I realized that she clearly had pervasive dementia. The last time I'd seen her was when she was in her 50's. She's now 86.

After hanging up, I broke down in tears and wasn't sure why. Guilt, that I'd not communicated with her for so long and now, meaningful communication was impossible? In part. Speculation that, since my mother and her friend had been the same age, my mother might have also had dementia if she'd lived? I think it was an example of how the passing of time can bring startling changes to our old realities. Especially when you step back into a world you'd left long ago. In your head, everything is as you'd left it. In reality, nothing's stayed the same.

Another person recently blogged that, given our longer life spans, people are reinventing themselves multiple times in a lifetime. Reading it, you couldn't help but feel energized and optimistic. I thought about how many times I felt my life had truly taken new directions: certainly, when I changed from being single to being married. And again, when I became a mother. And, now that the more time-intensive years of motherhood are subsiding, I feel like I'm on a new journey with my writing.

Yet, with all the forward momentum, there are those stark moments when something unexpected triggers a memory and you stand still, suddenly remembering being in a different place, talking with a person you'd almost forgotten. You hear an old friend's laugh, remember an old boyfriend's smile. And I realize that it's not so much that we move forward and have a "new life". It's all part of the same book, just a new chapter. And you can't fully experience Chapter Twenty if you forgot what happened in the worn and dog-eared pages that came before it.

Lesson Learned

So, where was I? Right. Almost seven months ago, I'd blogged that I'd decided to bravely take risks and say yes to positive opportunities as they appeared. And I did that. What I learned along the way, as my dormant blog may indicate, is that sometimes enthusiasm needs to be tempered. I'd taken on several creative projects, but didn't finish them all. By spreading myself so thin, I realized the sobering truth that, since nothing had received my focused attention, my best work just wasn't there. I can do better. I could hear echoes of my mother's voice, saying, "Karla, stop being so cavalier." How long does it take to learn some lessons?

In this case, it took seven months to learn that the more specific I make my goals, the more likely I am to achieve them. Tightening the horizon even more, I'm focusing on goals for the next six months, rather than the whole year. If I can hit the first round, I'll have that much more confidence when choosing the next set. Over the next six months, I have two primary writing goals:

*Finish and polish three feature scripts, including a collaboration.

*Keep my blog active.

It's a good list. Focused and solid. It's challenging, but achievable. And, this time, it even gives me space to breathe.

Taking Risks

The other day, I read a blog that focused on the image of ladies waving away the dessert tray while dining on the Titanic. Playing it safe with their diets, priding themselves on their tiny waists. The writer wondered, hours later, how quickly their priorities must have changed. I have to disagree with the writer, though, when it comes to his opinion that they would have regretted passing up the cherries jubilee. That had to have been far from their minds. But, I thought it was a striking example of the dilemma of how much should one plan for the future and how much should one live for today?

The question has been on my mind for some time. More so now, when there are increasing instances of peers suddenly dying, their long-term goals never to be met. Often, not even their short-term goals. My own mother died in an accident decades ago and I'm well aware of all the sentences she'd say that began with, "Someday...". The problem is, no one knows if their "someday" plans should be pulled a little closer.

For me, I've found my risk tolerance seems to grow each year. Having played it safe and cautious most of my adult life, I've asked myself, "Why not?" with some frequency. You know, when it comes to positive things. For me, that means kicking my writing into action. NaNoWriMo, a challenge to write a 176 page novel in a month? Okay. NYCMidnight--short screenplays written in 48 hours? Sure. Enroll in the highly recommended ScreenwritingU ProSeries? Why not? And, while I'm at it, I'll work on my novel as well. I finally reached the point of being tired of my own excuses for delaying things. My mantra has become, "If not now, when?"

And, to be honest, the musing over the ladies on the Titanic is a little bit forced. I would never wave the dessert tray away, whether I was on the Titanic or not.

My Badass Great-Grandfather

So, it's Father's Day this weekend and I realized that my last post had been about my paternal grandfather. The one before that had been about my Dad. Okay, so I looked to my maternal side. As many of you know, my maternal grandfather is Mr. X...that man with the unknown identity I am determined to eventually discover. But, I DO have a paternal relative on that side of the family who I know something about...my great-grandfather. Sam Bloom.

I honestly don't know how else to describe him in one word other than badass. Born in a Lithuanian-Jewish shtetl, Sam Bloom was a young man when a military officer came to his home to give him conscription papers to the Russian Army. Knowing that, as a Jewish male, he'd be used as cannon fodder, he promptly hit the officer, knocking him out before immediately leaving home. He traveled around Europe for a few years, spending enough time in Greece that he could still speak the language fluently decades later. In about 1903, he met his future bride in a small Jewish community in Norway. Together, they immigrated to America, his wife pregnant with their first daughter.

There are some spotty years where we don't really know what happened. But, by 1920, he was the owner of a large, successful scrap metal business in a major city. He and his wife had two children, both daughters---ONE of which is my grandmother, but the odds on which one have been fluctuating lately. And speaking of odds, Sam Bloom loved to gamble. Compulsively. And drink. Compulsively. But, so did his friends, some of whom were among the most notable bootleggers, gamblers, and goodfellas of the 1920's and beyond. Again, some facts are foggy, but Sam later moved to Miami Beach, where he made frequent gambling trips to Havana. His wife died in 1927, and it appears he married three times after that. In the 1930's, he moved back to his former city and business. In newspapers, he's described as a successful, charismatic person, known for his light-colored suits and expensive cigars. And shrewd business practices.

It's odd to have so many fragments of information about a person and not quite be able to know where they all go. When I think of Sam Bloom, there's a montage of images as I try to envision his life in Lithuania, his quick financial rise in America, his notorious circle of friends, his charm, and, from other accounts, his extreme cruelty.

Within a year of discovering my mother's birth family, four years ago now, we happened to visit the city where they'd lived. I visited Sam's grave. Doing my research, as always, I learned of the Jewish tradition of leaving a few stones on top of a headstone, to show someone had visited that grave, someone had remembered that person. No one had been there before me. As I put the stones on the bare surface, I wondered what Sam would think...he was being remembered by the daughter of a granddaughter he'd never known. But, it felt important that I make the gesture. And, on Father's Day, he's not really the kind of paternal relative I would honor. But, now that I know so much of his story, he's someone I will never forget.

My Grandfather's War

There's a curious pattern on my father's side of the family in which a long line of men became fathers at the age of 45. And that's how it happened that my grandfather--my father's father--enlisted in, not World War II, but World War I.

My grandfather's parents had immigrated to Minnesota from northern Germany and never fully grasped the English language. His mother had died when he was five, and his memories of his father were of a man who longed for the country of his youth. But, that Germany had been changed by Prussian influence and would never be what it had been. America became his refuge, his land of opportunity. But, he could not stop telling his son about the beauty of the Rhine, about the beautiful, deep forests near his small hometown of Hamoor. My grandfather grew up dreaming of one day visiting the half-magical land of his father.

The reality of his arrival in Germany couldn't have been more divorced from his dream. He enlisted with the U.S. Army in April of 1917. He was young and ready to fight for his country, in battle against what he been his father's cherished nation. And he fought well and bravely. Among his medals and honors was the Distinguished Service Cross, as cited:

William H. Siemering
Distinguished Service Cross
Awarded for actions during the World War I

The President of the United States of America, authorized by Act of Congress, July 9, 1918, takes pleasure in presenting the Distinguished Service Cross to Private First Class William H. Siemering (ASN: 1106054), United States Army, for extraordinary heroism in action while serving with Company G, 142d Infantry Regiment, 36th Division, A.E.F., near St. Etienne, France, 8 October 1918. Although one of his hands was disabled, Private Siemering left a sheltered position against the advice of his companions, and went through heavy shell and machine-gun fire to the aid of a wounded comrade, bringing the latter to a place of safety.

General Orders: War Department, General Orders 66 (May 21, 1919)

Action Date: 8-Oct-18

Service: Army

Rank: Private First Class

Company: Company G

Regiment: 142d Infantry Regiment

Division: 36th Division, American Expeditionary Forces

Like most heroes, my grandfather never spoke about his time in the War, made no mention about his valor in battle. The only reminder of his time at war was that he asked that no family member wear red in his presence. He'd seen enough of the color on the battlefield. And that request was honored for the rest of his life.

My grandfather went on to devote his life to veterans. Living in Madison, Wisconsin as an adult, he'd always go to the cemetery and place small flags on the graves of veterans. There was an area of the cemetery where Confederate Civil War soldiers had been buried and he noticed those graves were never touched. He began placing flags at their graves as well. My grandfather was criticized for his actions, being told that the Confederates had been on the opposing side. My grandfather's simple response was that every American soldier deserves to be honored and remembered. And so, on Memorial Day, I can't help but think of my grandfather, his wisdom, and all those who have bravely served their country.

All Things Considered, Dad, and Me

This is a big day for NPR's first signature show, All Things Considered, celebrating its 40th anniversary today. While so many are rightly praising the show, I'm also thinking back 40 years to when my Dad, Bill Siemering, created it.

We'd recently moved to Washington, D.C. I know I was very excited that we had a uniformed doorman in our apartment building, while Dad was very excited about something else--a new kind of radio show he was developing. It would be an in-depth, intelligent presentation of the day's news for evening drive-time. In 1971, such a program didn't exist.

If you ask most people what they recall about their parent's work while they were in grade school, the answer is something like, "He went to the office and did stuff." There was that, but Dad was so full of enthusiasm and energy about the "new" program for NPR (for which, by the way, he wrote the Mission Statement and served as their first Director of Programming) that it made an impression. It showed me that it's important to do work you believe in, that you should be passionate about your goals. He provided an example I've tried to follow.

Since 1971, All Things Considered has won some of the highest honors in broadcasting: the Peabody, Dupont, and Overseas Press Club awards. It was the first radio program to be inducted into the Radio Hall of Fame. It became the model for many shows that followed at NPR.

And since 1971, my father has accomplished amazing things. He has spent decades helping to establish community radio in developing countries around the world, always listening for ways to help those often considered the least among us. More publicly, he was awarded the McArthur Foundation "Genius" Grant, and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting's highest honor, the Edward R. Murrow Award. His current work is as President of Developing Radio Partners, created to help broadcasters build healthy stations that strengthen communities. Through it, successful projects have been completed in Mongolia, Sierra Leone, and Russia. Current projects are underway in Malawi, Kenya, and Zambia.

Someone asked me how I would describe my father in one sentence. I answered, "He's spent most of his life trying to make a better world for as many people as possible." And I stand by that statement. I couldn't be more proud of what he's accomplished, the work he's currently doing, and the work he's yet to do.

Anthony Schiavino and His Pulp Tone

As much as I love irony (and I do), it was never my intention to write a blog post titled "Visible and Vocal" only to disappear for over two months. All our lives are busy and mine recently became more so...determinedly pushing my screenwriting to the next level, accepting larger assignments for freelance writing, and so on and so on.

And while I'm kicking my writing up a notch, I've noticed someone else is doing the same thing. Anthony Schiavino. Also known online as Pulp Tone.

As anyone with a large number of writers, filmmakers, photographers, and other creative types in their social networks knows, it can be wonderful, yet overwhelming to be connected to many talented people. It's just not possible to click on 100's of links to check out everyone's projects. So what happens is you peek in on the work your known friends are doing and randomly click on the links of a few others. I believe, since Anthony and I seem to be on the same page on a number of issues, that we may have discussed politics or religion or families or the current state of print newspapers before I actually read any of his writing. I know the first thing I'd read of his was a piece he'd submitted to NPR's "This I Believe":



"My beliefs lay in the free-flowing smoke, sultry and alive, of a dance hall as Shaw or Goodman or Dorsey swing rhythms around two people talking – talking about everything and nothing at once, spanning eternity, meaning every word like it was their last. In their own world — a world going dark around them...

I’m an old soul at home in a decade thirty years before I was born. Too young to truly know what life is, yet too old to ever fit in. I sit and dream of what I could have been. (Not even sure I could have made it through those war-torn times – an era when men were men and not enlisting genuinely meant something.)

So I keep my faith in the power of words on paper, that thing I’m told is so unfashionable and out of date in these digital times. I write what I know. I write what I am. I write what I could have been."

Amazing writing, right? That was my reaction. Even though I don't normally read comic books, I was now intrigued to find out more about Anthony's major project, an ongoing series called Sergeant Zero. In it, his love of the 1940's and 1950's underscores a genre-blending story of brave GI's fighting Nazis, with unexpected supernatural elements. If you have a moment, he's written a brilliant background about the series and how he goes about creating it:

http://sgtzero.wordpress.com/2011/04/24/on-creating-character-comic-books/

This month alone, he's also written a two-part flash fiction piece for the pulp fiction site, Shotgun Honey, called "The Treacherous Road (Parts 1 and 2)", along with a shorter piece called "Jack Rose", all linked to on his site. If you have a moment, I highly recommend you check them out.

When people complain about social networking being banal and trivial and full of nothing but posts about what people have had for lunch that day, I just shake my head. It's like a cocktail party and it's as good as the people you invite to it. It's as good as what you contribute to the conversations yourself. And sometimes, you find people who can introduce you to new worlds, half-remembered, like an old jazz song from faded decades. A place where hard-boiled stories jump off the page with a strong, fresh voice.