A New Adventure: Her Letters

"A work of art is above all an adventure of the mind."-Eugene Ionesco

About this time last year, I made a mental list of the writing goals I wanted to accomplish in 2010. While I haven't achieved all of them, they're achingly close. But, an extraordinary thing happened on my writing journey. I was asked to work as an executive producer on a small, beautiful film, "Her Letters".

Amanda Lin Costa is the multi-talented writer, director, and producer of the film. Amanda and I have known each other for a while now. She's been an amazing mentor to me in my venture into screenwriting, even while she's been tremendously busy with her own professional projects. In November, we finally met face to face in New York City with a group of mutual friends. As expected, it was an evening packed with conversation, laughter, and a wish for more time together. And one of the things we discussed was one of her upcoming projects: a film adaption of a short story by the 19th century writer, Kate Chopin.

Later, when I was on the train back to Philadelphia, Amanda and I emailed each other about the project. She sent me a copy of the story itself, shortly followed by the first draft of her contemporary screen adaptation. And as the train rattled down the tracks, I was suddenly lost in the lives of others in a poignant, timeless story.

“I leave this package to the care of my husband. With perfect faith in his loyalty and his love, I ask him to destroy it unopened.”

These words are at the core of both Kate Chopin's story and Amanda Lin Costa's film. A woman, in the prime of a life soon to be cut short, is blessed and burdened by a stack of letters. And, when the time comes when those words are read by her husband, what does he do? What would any of us do? The conflict between respecting his wife's wishes and maddening curiosity grows increasingly deeper. Like an emotional cancer, it consumes him until he finally makes his decision.

I am truly honored and excited to be a part of "Her Letters". What am I going to actually be doing in my position? Primarily identifying and contacting potential funding sources to cover finishing costs, exploring target audiences and future distribution channels, and working with Amanda to determine which film festivals would be most appropriate for the film.

Above is a previously unpublished production still from the film. I think it gives a powerful visual of "Her Letters" as both a timeless drama and a beautifully realized adaptation.



Be sure to take a second to 'Like' "Her Letters" on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/HerLetters
and bookmark www.herletters.com for frequent updates.

Why Write?

Not too long ago, filmmaker Joel Coen said,“One of the pleasures of movies is creating a world . . . it gives you a license to do certain things.” While the most common explanation offered as to why people feel the need to write is to communicate, I think the reasons may often be closer to Coen's description of the pleasures of filmmaking. The creation of a world. The license to do certain things.

There are those who claim they wouldn't know where to start if they were to write and others who can not stop themselves. There were years when I wrote consistently, followed by years of responsibilities that left little time to create worlds in my mind, let alone write about them. And then, something remarkable happened. Just as some of the demands on my time lifted, a story was dropped before me. As touched on in other posts here, the details about my mother's birth family contain enough material for at least three novels or screenplays. Yet, every time I begin writing a semi-fictionalized version about it in one form or another, new information is discovered that changes things. The revelations usually make things more intriguing and often less plausible, yet true. It feels like trying to grab hold of water.

In the meantime, I started writing about other things, other people and places. I began my blog and worked on short screenplays. I completed the NaNoWriMo challenge of writing a 50,000 word, 175 page novel in one month. It felt comfortable to be back in that place where you can move between your reality and an alternate reality that's being built line by line, page by page. And sometimes deleted and rebuilt as something entirely different.

When I was looking for a graphic for this post, I inadvertently found myself looking at photos, sketches, and paintings of women writing in a variety of places, from a number of centuries. Studying the images is fascinating. Who were these women? What were they writing? Letters, stories, prayers, poetry,...confessions? One thing that seemed consistent was that each one was engrossed in her writing. It was as if the passion to express or create something on paper was the common thread that tied women writers together from ancient Greece to the present. In the painting I finally settled on, there's a duality. While one woman writes fervently at a table, her servant looks out the window. One is looking out at the world as it is, the other perhaps writing about an entirely different world. Whatever she wrote may have never been read and was most probably lost in time. Yet her image remains, pen to paper, writing without end.

Dark Eyes: The Search for My Grandmother

After twenty-four years of trying to find information about my mother's birth mother, I suddenly received an email from her other granddaughter three years ago and I thought my search had reached a definitive conclusion. I was wrong. It turned out that my grandmother had lived a life very much apart from that of her known four children. And my newly-found cousin and I decided to roll up our sleeves and work together to figure out what our grandmother's life had really been like. In the back of my mind, I still needed to know the identity of my grandfather. I was and remain motivated in that pursuit.

In the 1920's, Ada B**** gave birth to my mother and her twin brother in a Chicago maternity home two doors down from where the St. Valentine's Day Massacre would occur. It was the same hospital where John Dillinger's girlfriend gave birth. In the 1930's, the family told me, my grandmother could walk into any nightclub in Miami Beach and, upon seeing her arrival, the bandleader would immediately start playing the Russian gypsy song Dark Eyes. I had to wonder: Who was this woman? Where did she come from? Where to start?

90 percent of my research success has come from the internet. After finding an early census in which her name was listed as "Ida B****" instead of Ada, I began searching with the new spelling. And, in a Cedar Rapids, Iowa online newspaper archive, I found her. Ida B****, the "pretty fifteen year old" girl from Minneapolis had been tracked down with her twenty-one year old boyfriend. From the multiple stories printed as the 1920 story unfolded, it went something like this: A young medic fresh from WWI was stationed at Fort Snelling in Minneapolis. There, he met and fell in love with Ida, who was "attending business school at the West Hotel". The solider had questioned her age, but had been assured by Ida and her friends that she was "almost eighteen". They met in secret for months, then ran away together to get married.

There was a problem. Ida's father discovered their correspondence in her bedroom and set off in pursuit of his fifteen year old daughter. Successful owner of a Minneapolis scrap metal and auto supplies business, Sam B**** arrived late at night in Cedar Rapids, offering $500 to anyone who would tell him where his daughter was. At the time, the average annual income was $1236.00. The two were discovered and brought to police station for questioning.

This is where the story gets even more interesting. The police interview with the soldier paints a portrait of a terrified and confused young man. He explains that he truly believed Ida when she'd said she was almost eighteen, that he wanted to marry her, and that more than anything, "I just love the girl". Then, the paper printed an interview with Ida. She's very sketchy on details, but apparently, while it turned out the soldier was broke, a well-off dentist had just treated her to breakfast in a good restaurant. As for the soldier? "I don't care if he goes to prison now," was her non-chalant response. And he did. Two years of hard labor at Leavenworth. And Ida? Months later, she was married to the first of her three husbands.

Sometimes, in light of a discovery, I overlook a detail. Re-reading the articles, I thought it strange that Ida would have attended "business school" at the West Hotel. So, last week, I did research on the West Hotel, which had been demolished in 1940. The prominent fact about it in that era seems to be that Isadore Blumenfeld aka the notorious crime lord, Kid Cann, had run all of his operations out the the West Hotel in the 1920's. I spoke with a librarian at the Minnesota Historical Society and, after consulting an old city directory, it was clear there was no "school" operated in the West Hotel, just Kid Cann's businesses that were usually used as fronts. To those of you who watch Boardwalk Empire, he ran his operations from the West Hotel just as Nucky Thompson ran his in Atlantic City. And, for those of you who don't watch Boardwalk Empire, think of Kid Cann's position in Minneapolis being parallel to that of Al Capone in Chicago or Charlie "Lucky" Luciano in New York. "Business school" indeed.

I know my grandmother was smart. As an adult, she left almost nothing of a paper trail. She frequently changed the spelling of her surname and would randomly use the surnames of former husbands. You won't find her on a census or a voting register. But, she could have never imagined the information available on the internet. She could have never known that she'd have granddaughters in hot pursuit of the truth and that they'd question older relatives who still have clear memories. We know the geographic path of her life now: Minneapolis to Chicago to Miami Beach to Key West to Jamaica to Los Angeles and back to Miami. And, little by little, the puzzle pieces are fitting together to form a very unexpected picture.

The Rise and Notorious Downfall of Aunt Kay

It's true. My reaction to many of my discoveries of my recently-found-mother's-side-of-the- family has been something like, "What? What?!? WHAT?!?!" I've shared a few stories with a handful of people. Other revelations have remained in the family until we have time to process the information. My cousin and I have become a detective team, opening cold case files others never knew about. Or never spoke about. Understandably, I have to be careful about what I write when it could affect other members of the family. But, it's been agreed that I could safely write about Aunt Kay Brunell. After all, that was never her real name in the first place.

Technically, Aunt Kay is my great aunt, only sibling of my grandmother. The younger of the two by a couple years, Aunt Kay was born Kate B**** to Lithuanian-Jewish immigrants. In her teens, Kate moved from Minneapolis to Chicago, writing obituaries for The Chicago Herald.

Suddenly, Kate B**** disappeared. In the 1930 U.S. Census, she reappeared under the identity she would claim for the rest of her life: Kay Brunell, "author of books", daughter of an Anglo-sounding couple from Pennsylvania. In the next paper trail we've found, she was living alone in New York City in a Park Avenue apartment. A fashion editor for film and fashion magazines, there are newspaper articles about her attending rooftop parties at the Pierre Hotel and suing another hotel for refusing to allow her Beddlington terrier to stay there with her.

When she was very young, my cousin visited Aunt Kay in her spectacular apartment. She remembers Kay smoking a cigarette in a long holder while my cousin felt the soft fur coats that filled a whole closet. Aunt Kay, in her deep, raspy voice, commented, "Maybe someday you'll have a closet full of fur coats, too."

But, soon after that, things began getting shaky. The tide of good fortune that had carried Kay along for decades was shifting. Instead of working for fashion and film magazines, she became a fashion editor for True Romance, a pulp fiction publication. She soon left that position to become a stockbroker. The house of cards she'd built was about to collapse.

In the 1961, Kay registered with the SEC to become the sole proprietor of Kay Brunell Securities Company, 277 Park Avenue, New York. And, her registration was denied by the SEC due to the small fact that she'd been using fraudulent claims to sell shares in a shady Florida racetrack. As my cousin and I frantically did more research, we discovered that soon after the SEC rejection, Aunt Kay's long-term boyfriend was involved in a headline-making stock market scandal. The trial lasted 11 months, the longest federal case on record at the time. There were indictments and plea bargains. And it was just about then that Kay contacted Christie's auction house to sell an original Sir Joshua Reynolds oil painting that had hung in her lavish apartment.

It's difficult to track the next seven years of Aunt Kay's life. Without children and having lived an invented life, there are no photos of her since childhood--aside from a few, grainy, unflattering newspaper pictures. We know she died in 1971, alone, penniless, and in pain, in a shoddy nursing home in Miami. She'd been put there, then ignored, by her sister. My grandmother.

To be honest, my grandmother's story is more exciting and dangerous than Aunt Kay's. But, it's so complex and there are so many privacy factors to consider that I always feel thwarted when I try to write about it. It may be easiest to fictionalize parts of it. In fact, it may be best if I used a pen name for it. The alias K. Brunell comes to mind as being perfectly appropriate.

Private Literature

Earlier today, I came across an Aldous Huxley quote I particularly liked: "Every man's memory is his private literature." I'm not sure which I initially liked best, the idea of literature being mined from memory or the concept of "private literature". The more I thought about the statement, I realized Huxley had, of course, meant both things are one.

Even among the most outwardly unexceptional people, all lives trace a story. Some contain more characters than one can easily track, others follow plot lines that can only be described as convoluted. Some are full of description where nothing seems to happen, unless you're patient enough to read between the lines. I'm not sure writers can create anything meaningful without the work being influenced and shaped by some person, place, or thing in their past. Memory is so often synonymous with inspiration, even if it's the recollection of something heard, seen or read.

"...private literature." Never entirely private, is it? Almost everything we've experienced has been a shared event, even the once-forgotten moments that play back clearly and unexpectedly in our minds. I know that in my "private literature" collection of memory, there are some amazingly poignant stories waiting to be told. And, in some cases, the stories will never materialize. They come from shared libraries and cannot be borrowed without special permission. Like an ancient manuscript, some moments are too fragile to touch. Best to leave them on a high shelf, both acknowledged and undisturbed.

Fortunately, there still remains much to be revisited and reworked and rewritten until it becomes something new on its own terms. I think of some of my migratory paths: From an idyllic childhood in Buffalo, New York to being greeted daily by the doorman at our apartment building in Washington, D.C. to trudging through deep snow in a remote town in the north woods of Wisconsin to Philadelphia to a small city in the South.

I consider the people I've known from so many walks of life, on such different career tracks, holding varied beliefs and motivations. There are the moments that felt frozen in time as they happened, from the across-the-room realization that my then-boyfriend would be the man I'd eventually marry to the phone call telling me my mother had died an hour earlier in a car accident. There are the highs and lows that make up cherished friendships and the expansive reach of family. Memory can be like an endless web that starts with one experience, then continues to include all who had been a part of it and their individual pasts. And everyone's private literature contains stories worth telling.

Skepticism, Trust, and Donald Trump

Sometimes, I think I worry too much about my son. Yes, that's an understatement among mothers. I suppose I have the standard-issue concerns, but one of my biggest ones is that he's so trusting. Too trusting. He believes in the best in everyone and it would never occur to him that anyone, other than a costumed arch villain, could wish anyone harm or have ulterior motives.

When he was nine, for some long lost reason, we'd watched the first season of Donald Trump's The Apprentice. It was the first time that Thomas had ever seen anyone show so much arrogance, so much posturing, so much Trumpness. Yet, he was excited that Donald Trump was giving up his "valuable time" to help the career of a hard-working, smart individual. Of course, there could be no other motive. At this time, we had a trip scheduled for New York City. Looking at pictures of our hotel online, Thomas noticed we were not too far from Trump Tower and happily detected a McDonald's in the hotel's background. My son is a notoriously picky eater and, at that age, he needed the reassurance of a McDonald's as back-up. So, it was all perfect in his mind. He'd invite Donald Trump to lunch at McDonald's. He'd saved his allowance, he'd be able to treat. So he asked me to help him find Donald Trump's address.

I admit it. I balked. I explained that not only was there no way this idea would ever become a reality, but his letter would probably get trashed. At Thomas' insistence, we found the address and he carefully wrote out his invitation, including the tempting offer of a free Happy Meal PLUS an apple pie. Thomas enclosed the most recent photo of himself so Donald Trump would recognize him at the restaurant. The photo had been from Disney World. A picture with Chip, of Chip and Dale fame. Thomas added a p.s. that he was the one in the photo who wasn't a chipmunk.

No, the lunch never happened. But, much to my surprise and Thomas' satisfaction, he received a letter from Donald Trump. Initially, I thought it was a form letter. Reading it, I wondered how many times he wrote: "Your invitation to treat me to lunch at McDonald's is appreciated..." Okay, so maybe it wasn't a form letter after all.

A couple of years later, we were in Minneapolis. While my husband was at a conference, we spent the day on our own. There was a restaurant I was interested in for dinner, and again with his caution of all unknown foods, Thomas and I were going to stop by during the day and look at their menu. Taking an unknown shortcut in a large, unfamiliar city isn't always the best idea. Suddenly, the street we were walking down looked a little...menacing. I realized we were the only two people on the block, aside from a couple of men several yards away who looked a little threatening. One glanced up and saw us. He whispered something to the other man, who glanced our way. Their stances changed.

I took Thomas' arm and whispered, "We're crossing the street here."

"But, we're not at the corner!"

"I know. I'll explain later, let's go."

I gave a quick look both ways and we started quickly crossing the street. Until the heel of my shoe got caught in a pothole and I fell down, my ankle so twisted I struggled to get up.

"Mom, the light just changed!"

As soon as Thomas said that, the two men I'd been avoiding hurried over. One held back cars while the other helped me to my feet.

"Are you okay? Are you able to walk?"

"Yes, thank you, I'll be fine."

So, I hobbled across the rest of the street and towards the restaurant, which was nearby now.

"Mom, were those guys who just helped you the ones you didn't want us to walk past?"

I looked at him. I felt ashamed. In his eyes, I could see mild reproach and concern. He understood why I'd reacted the way I did, but wished I could be more trusting, see the best in people.

Sometimes, I think my son worries too much about me.

Be Who You Were Born To Be

We've all heard or read the words, "Be who you were born to be," at one time or another. It's a kind of shared wisdom that just keeps getting passed on--sometimes skipped over, other times thought deeply about.

Be who you were born to be. On the surface, it seems like it should be the easiest of goals. What happens fairly soon after you're born, however, is that other people begin deciding who you should be. Initially, it's the do this and don't do thats which build the track on which you're permitted to operate. Almost as soon as they can speak, after being asked about age and general health, children are usually asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" It's there that it starts, the mental handcuffs uniting who you are, your personhood, with your career. The real question being asked is what do you want your job to be?

There was a period when I was very young when I would alternately answer the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with either "A doctor." or "A go-go dancer." The latter would invariably trigger my mother's immediate, "Karla, that's inappropriate," response. And I'd argue, "But, Mom, they're so happy--and they dance in cages!" My father was less than pleased when he discovered I'd handed out my business cards at school, stating "M.D." after my name. In crayon. I was seven and just trying on the various roles. Though, late at night, I'd write down small poems and stories I'd thought of that day, trying to distract myself from the task of choosing a career.

I'm not sure how old I was when it dawned on me that "writer" could be included on the career options list. When it did, it was an epiphany. Wasn't that what I was always doing anyway? Imagining fanciful worlds during the day and writing about them at night? Somehow, close on the heels of the revelation, came a shadow. No, it seemed "writer" was not really a solid choice. It was a little too ethereal, like wanting to be a muse or a philosopher. One could give it a little more weight by stating "journalist" as the goal. But, simply reporting who, what, why, when, where, and how held little appeal. I was fortunate to have parents who encouraged me in my creative pursuits, but other influences dampened my enthusiastic rush to be a writer. It got put on hold.

Then, a new revelation occurred during my adult life. I stopped identifying people by their careers. I had no idea what the volunteer at the animal shelter did during her weekday life. The soccer coach who kept encouraging our son when he was frustrated? No idea what job brought him a salary. There's something so freeing about getting to know people based on their compassion, the ideas, their humor...and not even thinking to ask what they do for a living.

Imagine the thoughtful, creative replies one would hear if children weren't asked how they're going to make money as an adult, but what kind of person they hope to be.

Somewhere along the way, I began to identify myself as a writer again. Certainly not because I'm earning enough money writing to support myself on it. But, because it's what I do with meaning, what I feel compelled to do. And, deep down, there's an encouraging voice that being a writer is what I was born to be. That's the voice I listen to now.

What The Rabbi Said To Me

Last April, the rabbi and I sat down, he behind his desk, me facing him.

"So, Karla, what brings you here today? Tell me what has transpired that you're now sitting across from me."

For a moment, I was taken aback. How could I possibly explain everything in one sitting? I glanced over my shoulder at my cousins, the Berkowitzes, who smiled and nodded their heads in encouragement. I looked to my other side, at my husband and son, who waited expectantly for me to begin. I had to collect my thoughts. After all, how was it that I was now sitting in a rabbi's office, the synagogue bright with the Los Angeles sunshine, with relatives I didn't know I had two years ago?

"My mother and her twin brother had been adopted." I began, "My sister and I looked for over twenty years to find our mother's birth family without success. Three years ago, through an extraordinary chain of events, someone from my mother's birth family--my cousin--contacted me and the whole story began to unfold. My grandmother was Jewish and, according to the DNA tests from my male cousin, my grandfather was Jewish as well. As I did more research, I found my relatives, the Berkowitzes."

I paused. "I was raised as a nominal Protestant. In my mid-thirties, I had a conversion to Catholicism. I'm not here because I'm thinking of converting to Judaism, but because I want to know more about the heritage and faith of my ancestors. It's such a rich legacy and it seems tragic that all of it was discarded in one generation. I've been trying to incorporate some Jewish cultural traditions into my life, like baking challah, to somehow, in some small way, honor my ancestors. So, the reason I'm here is to learn more about my maternal heritage."

The rabbi was quiet for a moment as he thoughtfully considered what I'd told him. Then, he slowly leaned forward and we looked at each other.

"You are a Jew," he said simply. "Now, I have no idea if those words will make you want to jump up and rejoice or make you recoil in horror or something in between the two, but the fact is, you are a Jew. I'm not talking about religious conversion. Of course, those with no Jewish relatives who make a sincere religious conversion, we also consider to be fully Jewish. But, being Jewish is not simply following a religion. It is not a race. It is a people. The fact is that your grandmother was Jewish, your mother was Jewish, and you are as well."

The rabbi's words reminded me of a joke a Jewish friend told me: A hijacker took over an El-Al plane, the Israeli airline. Gun in the air, he looked around the cabin and demanded, "Who here is a Jew?" The passengers looked at each other. Then, one man spoke. "That's a very complicated question."

We moved on to the main sanctuary itself. The rabbi spoke of a number of things, but I realized I was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the knowledge I desired, the vastness of my ancestors' religious traditions and teachings. He brought out the Torah, an act which made me feel deeply privileged. He explained how each Torah is written by hand, usually by one person, using vegetable dye on vellum. Nothing man-made. The vellum pages are sewn together with a needle made of quill, as metal could represent an armament of war. And, if the scribe makes a mistake on the last letter of the last page, the Torah copy must be discarded and a new one begun. I stood looking down at the ocean of Hebrew letters, not able to identify one of them. Yet, my grandmother was born to a family who spoke Yiddish as their primary language.

I remember my feelings at the moment: everything was new, yet on some level, familiar. Things seemed distant, and at the same time, I knew I had to bring them close enough that I could learn. For myself, for my son, for my ancestors.

Facebook Chapters

Chapter One: In Which We Are Introduced and I Am Unimpressed

I was fine using Twitter as my sole social network. I'd joined when, as a group of GeeksOn podcast listeners planning to attend the 2008 San Diego Comic-Con, we decided on the somewhat new network as our preferred means of communication with each other. Following the event, many of us stayed in touch through Twitter and my circle quickly expanded. It was a fluid, real-time site where I could learn, interact, and share with others, particularly about creative projects in progress. Then, one Twitter friend encouraged me to join Facebook. I took a look and wasn't sold. It looked cluttered with posts by teens and college students about humiliating drunken exploits. Or, their dogs. Sometimes both at the same time. But my friend persisted, explaining (tactfully) that Facebook has "people of all ages"-- you just have to create your own network.


Chapter Two: In Which I'm Mildly Intrigued

So, I tried it. Initially, my Facebook network consisted of a few local friends, some family, acquaintances from other online communities, and a couple of long-distance friends. You know, it was fine. I had to admit, it was better for sharing links, photos, and music. It was a fun way to interact with people who were more frequently a part of my daily life than those on Twitter. Then, I suddenly received "Friend Requests" from nieces, nephews, and the children of friends. What? This was unexpected, but interesting in its own way. I just had to remind myself to be cautious about which clips, even if they were hysterically funny, I could now post. The next wave was linking up with several of my newly-found relatives from my mother's birth family...even one relation who's connected by DNA, but we just can't figure out how yet. So, it's been especially interesting to look through their Facebook albums and search for signs of familial resemblance. A bit of a genealogist's dream.


Chapter Three: In Which I Discover the Meaning of Reconnecting

A couple of months ago, the floodgates opened on old school friends. You remember high school. Every day was either full of bliss or full of heartache. It's been fascinating to see photos of people I last saw, in some cases, decades ago. I quickly caught up on their lives, documented in their albums filled with smiling spouses, children, vacation spots, and pets. It felt as if I was absorbing the "and then they went on to..." epilogue at the end of a movie. There've been many happy reconnections, some fun can't-get-caught-up-fast-enough phone calls, and even an unexpected and healing exchange. And with each reconnection, there's been a moment when I pause and think silently about what I recall last about that person...what memory stands out the most about them...and why I connected with that person in the first place. It makes for a special kind of quiet reflection.

And, as if in a dream, I now go to Facebook and find so many people I've known from different stages in my life, from the diverse places I've lived. And yet, I may make a post that randomly brings friends from these different worlds together in a way that could never happen in the physical world. Ever. It makes for an exhilarating mix of voices, opinions, and personalities that seems, at times, unimaginable to me. I realize that I've discovered what draws most people to Facebook. I suppose I should have called this chapter The Conversion.

"...Everyone You Meet is Fighting a Hard Battle"

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." Plato wrote those words over 2,300 years ago. An interesting footnote to history may be that Plato had once been a wrestler, but we all know that's not the kind of fight he was talking about.

We read those words and know exactly what is meant. We are familiar with the lay of our private battlefields. We have our strategies, our victories, and our losses. Our scars are usually invisible to everyone other than ourselves. And, we're never quite certain when the battles will rise up again. We only know that they will.

Plato believed there were three levels of of human nature: passion, courage, and thinking. His proposed goal was, through thinking, courage would overcome passion to bring one to a higher level. Later, St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas, among others, would expand on the idea. Yet, aside from philosophical discussion, aren't these the components of so many of our personal battles? Right vs. wrong, what we want vs. what is best, what must be done vs. the easy way out.

It's all familiar to us. But what we forget is that everyone around us, from the stranger in line in front of us at the post office to our closest friends and family members, are just as vulnerable, just as battle-weary at times.

One of the clearest examples I've seen of this was when my late mother-in-law was in an assisted living facility. The residence was lovely, the employees compassionate. Yet, the battles of the individual residents were less hidden than they are with the rest of us. One woman would work so hard to maintain a conversation, trying to mask her bewilderment at the rush of words that were somehow so difficult to follow now. A man, a veteran from a distant war, struggled to keep his dignity while trying to walk on his own to the dining room, where he'd feed himself with a trembling hand.

It took little effort to exchange a few words with them, to offer them a smile and nod. The challenge is remembering to do that with everyone we encounter. No one deserves less.

Facing Fear

Each of us has at least one irrational fear. Ask anyone to name their's and you'll most likely hear answers like "spiders", "snakes", "heights", or even "enclosed spaces". Oddly, one of my main fears has always been having to serve on a jury for a mob trial. Or, even worse, being the only witness of a crime. I'm pretty sure the only explanation for how this started was that I must have seen Some Like It Hot late one night on tv as a child. However it started, I was fairly removed from it becoming a reality until I moved to Philadelphia.

As tends to be the case, what frightens us often intrigues us. The Philadelphia Inquirer always seemed to provide some information on current mob arrests and news, which I could never resist reading. The day after mob leader, Angelo Bruno, was shot through the mouth in his car, parked outside his favorite South Philly Italian restaurant, the more lurid Philadelphia Daily News had the crime photo covering its front page, complete with red ink to accentuate Bruno's bloodied face. It was very shortly after the incident that I received my jury duty notice in the mail.

Of course, as creative as my mind can be at times, there was no way out. I remember all prospective jurors were shown a poorly lit, decade old film about our "responsibilities". No one paid attention. Looking around, I realized I wasn't the only one feeling nervous. A man next to me was ferociously biting his fingernail. Another person was hastily shredding a paper napkin into tiny bits. As we went into the courtroom, I was almost numb with anxiety. As the judge called each prospective juror to the stand, literally pulling names from a hat, I tried to be a detached observer. I looked around the courtroom, packed with tough-looking men with slicked back hair. They wore dark suits and held pens and notepads in their hands. As each potential juror sat on the stand, they had to state their name, their home address, where they worked, and so on. All of it being dutifully noted by the intimidating men sitting yards away from me. Now and then, one man would whisper to another, pointing at something he'd just written down. Once, one of the men glanced at the written information, smiled, shook his head, and shrugged.

At the time, I was single, living in my own apartment, and suddenly feeling very vulnerable. My heart was pounding. And when all but one juror had been selected, it was down to two people. Myself and a man who had already served on a jury twice in the past three years. And all I can say is my prayers were answered that day because his name was pulled from the hat instead of mine. He wasn't happy about it.

Of course, I read every newspaper article about the trial. It was, as could be expected, full of witnesses who had somehow completely forgotten what they had once seen. There were testimonies about the accused being exemplary family men, devoted husbands and fathers. Follow-up arguments spoke about the right of people to protect themselves from those who would do harm to them. Yada, yada. Bada bada bing.

I believe it's true that when you face your fear, it is diminished and you are stronger for it. I still follow news stories about the mob for varied reasons, but they no longer sends chills down my spine. That said, when I received my more recent jury duty notice, I gave a deep sigh that I now live in a small city where most crimes that are committed would be more worthy of an episode of the old Andy Griffith Show. And there's something to be said for that.

A. A. Milne Thoughts

When I was very young, my bedtime ritual included my father reading to me from The House at Pooh Corner or When We Were Very Young, both by A. A. Milne. I'd sleepily rest my head in the crook of my father's elbow and stare at the detailed pen and ink Ernest Shepherd drawings, trying to keep my eyes open as the hour grew later. And when Disney came out with their bright, boisterous version of Winnie the Pooh, the outrage from my father was memorable. How dare they dumb down one of the most charming children's classics? How could they turn the sweetness of the deftly drawn sketches into flat, color-saturated cartoons? In all honesty, he had a point.

Tonight, a good friend had posted a long-forgotten quote of A. A. Milne's:

"Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think."- Christopher Robin to Pooh

It made my eyes water. Then, I remembered another A. A. Milne quote:

"Never forget me, because if I thought you would, I'd never leave."

What is it about these words that make me wipe my eyes, just a little? Even: "We can't all, and some just don't. That's all there is to it," suddenly seems profound.

A. A. Milne had been a playwright prior to writing his books dedicated to his son, Christopher Robin. And after the success of the Pooh stories, Milne's reputation as a serious author evaporated, leaving him deeply bitter until his death. Even Christopher Milne had no affection for his father's works, nor for his childhood. They're among those rare facts that I deliberately turn from.

Instead, I think about the winding, sandy paths through the 100 Acre Woods, the pajama-clad child whispering vespers at the foot of his bed, and words of advice such as "Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.".

There's something satisfying in the idea that the honesty of young children is a kind of wisdom that is regained years later. The same quote attributed to six-year old Christopher Robin rings just as true when it's credited to an adult. Sometimes, it takes decades to strip away the layers of image, posturing, and affectation that have been acquired, like an unnatural patina. And when it's removed, all that ever really mattered can once again be seen.

"So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."

Good Memory! Good Thing?

Like many other people in my family, I have a good memory. I don't say that to boast. To me, having a good memory is like being tall or having freckles. It's in the genes and has nothing to do with hard work, talent, or dedication. It just exists. I know there are many who will say that you can train yourself to have a good memory. Perhaps. But those recommendations always seem like little tricks to remember names or dates, not to contain a fairly full recollection of your life.

It had been decades since I saw the old photograph above. Of course, the awesomeness of wearing bright red pants that matched those of my always-groovy older sister and my young friend could be memorable to many. But, I also remember the friend's full name, that her father was a pastor at a church we sometimes attended, that she had two much older siblings (one with a lazy eye), and that, after eating a double portion of cake that day, she soiled her bright red pants. Which is why I'm kindly not saying her name. All of this came instantly back to me, in spite of the fact that at the time, I was clearly engrossed in a book published by mice.

My memory is nothing compared to that of my older sister or my deceased aunt. Aunt Gretchen, honestly, could tell you what she ate for dinner on any given occasion during the past decade. She knew birthdays, anniversaries, and addresses of rarely seen second or third cousins. My sister may start a conversation with, "The other day, I wondered what happened to Ed E., the nephew of Jenny L.'s handyman, during the fall of 1972." My more recently discovered aunt is the same way. She described, in detail, a hotel she stayed at when she was six in the late 1920's. Curious, I googled the "historic" hotel and it was exactly as she'd remembered it. This, it appears, is my heritage.

A question I often wonder is whether or not a good memory is truly an asset. The scales are usually in even balance on that one. Of course, the warm, bright, all-is-right-with-the-world moments are always wonderful to embrace. I decidedly force myself to turn away from the sometimes darker recollections of regret, anger, and sorrow. In between the two, though, are moments so fragile, so nearly elusive that I only speak of them in a whisper. And when everything is before me, those are the past experiences that make me deeply grateful for my memory.

More Than a Place: Eagle River

It's hard to say what suddenly made me feel nostalgic about Eagle River, Wisconsin. Maybe it's the suddenly tolerable summer temperatures that reminded me of the north woods. It could have been the fresh raspberries I just sampled, tasting very much like the berries I'd pick at my grandparents' secluded property.

Growing up in Buffalo, New York, we spent every summer visiting my grandparents, who like so many other Chicagoans, had retired to one of the northernmost towns in Wisconsin, Eagle River. Their home sat amid thirty-six acres which included a dizzying valley view, densely forested borders, and a serene lakefront area reached by a small, sandy path. It was truly idyllic. I'd wander down gravel trails alone, imagining I ruled this forested kingdom; or, that I was inside a giant's greenhouse; or, that I was on a secret mission. I imagined a world.

When I was twelve and living in Washington, D.C., my parents went through a difficult, painful divorce. Like wounded animals, my mother, sister, and I numbly left what had been home and moved in with my grandparents. Eagle River, The Idyllic, had become a retreat in which to heal, to hunker down, and to breathe again.

Eagle River is where I came of age. Never an easy process. It was where I first fell in love and where I felt the sting of it fading unaccountably away. It was a time of uncertainty. There was a kind of wild joy mixed with mistakes, teen arrogance tempered by occasional insight. Each day seemed to contain a lifetime.

I like to imagine that, sometime, I will go to Eagle River again. It would have to be in the summer, when my friends and I would spend hours in a boat on a lake, unaware of the time until the sun started to set. The memory reminds me of a stock image you'd find in one of the souvenir shops there. But, I could never fit my thoughts about Eagle River on the back of a postcard.

So, A Woman Signs Up For a Comedy Writing Course...

Here's the thing: Comedy is difficult to do on paper. Unless it's a very short piece, like the guy (above) I saw in Santa Monica had figured out. And his bit was even on cardboard.

The curious thing is that there are writers who are hysterically funny in person, but can't compose a single, truly funny line. I've talked about this with at least three experienced writers and none of them can quite figure out the answer to the problem. Taking the easy way out, I resigned to simply not attempt comedy until I came across a workshop being offered in comedy writing for the screen. The company offering the course came highly recommended, the workshop is just 11 days, and the fees were reasonable. I signed up. Two days ago.

So, I've already learned something about what makes comedy work. It involves set-up and structure, incongruity and absurdity, and, certainly, creativity. While doing the daily assignments, I feel like I'm using my brain in a different way, as if I'm retraining my mind. Which pleases me because it makes me feel like something's happening. I've gotten attached to a couple of my scenarios already and have been amazed to discover that "funny" to many males in the course seems to consistently include strippers. I suspect they're doing that in hopes of having to do casting research or something.

Since we receive our assignments daily, I have no idea what's coming next. But, when we had to do set-ups yesterday, I abandoned my hastily thrown together idea when it dawned on me that I may have to build on it for the remainder of the course. Much better to work with an idea you actually like. And, interestingly, I've found myself thinking about my project throughout the day, imagining various situations and dialogue. And trying not to grin while I'm walking the dog by myself.

At the end of the eleven days, I wonder if I'll actually be able to write comedically. I imagine I'll shyly try to insert some slightly funny scenes into a drama at first. It will be some time before I'll have the nerve to attempt writing a full-fledged comedy. I wouldn't want to end up with pie in my face.

The Old Neighborhood

It's been ten years since we lived in Philadelphia. I still miss family and friends there, but I also feel a longing now and then for other things you can't find anywhere else. A real Italian hoagie, the Morris Arboretum, Philly cheesesteaks, Reading Terminal Market, South Street,...and my old neighborhood.

My old neighborhood is known for its boutique shops, stellar restaurants, and expensive real estate. Somewhere along its 250+ year history, Philadelphia's wealthy, "old-money" families settled there and soon built rowhouses for the Irish hired help and the Italian stone masons. In the 1990's, these rowhouses, where we lived, were occupied by a mix of young families and elderly immigrants.

One neighbor across the street, who was also my next door neighbor's father, had such a heavy Irish brogue that I often wondered how much might be put on. Mr. Coyle would smile at people as they walked past and would actually say, "Top of the morning to ye!" Shortly after our son was born, my husband and I took our baby out in his new stroller. Mr. Coyle peered inside at our son, stared at his tiny face, then grinned and looked at my husband, saying, "Well, there's no denying that one, is there?"

Further down our block was an old, short Italian couple. Every Saturday, we'd see the husband, smiling, carrying a six-pack of beer down the street. Two yards behind him, his wife would be ceaselessly scolding him in angry Italian. Every now and then, the husband would give a slight shrug, but the smile never left his face. Every inch of the backyard of their rowhouse was cultivated to grow copious amounts of tomatoes, peppers, onions, and herbs for sauces. Grapes, to be turned into homemade wine, grew from the vines tangled around the tiny arch that framed their back door. I never knew anyone who knew the couple well. There was a sting of tragedy to them. I'd been told that several decades earlier, the husband had given their young son a bicycle for his birthday. That afternoon, the boy was found drowned in the nearby Wissahickon River, his bicycle tumbled on its side by the bank. It's the kind of story that never goes away. But, it made me somehow grateful that they put such energy into their garden, into their bickering. Life had not passed them by after all.

Every year when we go back to Philadelphia to visit family and friends, we go for a walk through the old neighborhood, past our old house. As expected, things have changed. More and more of the rowhouses seem inhabited by young families. The porches of elderly, former neighbors are now full of strollers and skates and Fisher-Price in general. We see fewer and fewer familiar faces. Metal bars are on several doors and first floor windows, which saddens me.

But, walking another block further, we visit with some favorite friends and their children and wonder how we can live closer again. Another block over and I visit with my old work colleagues, some still there from my 12 year stint. And I know, in another two blocks, there will always be a real Italian hoagie waiting for me at the local pizza place. There are some things that remain the same.

Irony

When I was very young, I used to listen to albums from Broadway musicals, one of my favorite being Lerner and Loewe's My Fair Lady, based on George Bernard Shaw's play, Pygmalion. When I became exhausted from erratically singing and dancing to "I Could Have Danced All Night", I'd sit and stare at the album cover. It was a brilliant, simple caricature by Al Hirschfeld. In it, George Bernard Shaw was portrayed as God, holding marionette strings that controlled puppet versions of Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews. I don't know how many hours I spent studying the drawing, but somewhere along the way, my childhood visual image of God was identical to George Bernard Shaw.

I doubt I thought about it very much. At some point, I realized that God was much more than a large white-haired, bearded man who lived beyond some celestial staircase. I was a senior in high school, relishing my English Literature class, when I turned the page in my textbook and gasped. There was a photograph of...God. At least, looking identical to my childhood image of him. My cheeks began to feel warm as I read the name, George Bernard Shaw. Shortly into his biography were the words, "...noted atheist." What!?!?! Okay, fine, even if he wasn't God, did he have to be an atheist? I suppose that was my first, fully-realized experience with irony.

I love irony. I love verbal irony ("The literary genius of USA Today..."), historic irony ("World War I, also known as the War To End All Wars,..."), ironic names ("Paging Dr. Slaughter!") and everything written by O. Henry. I love irony in the news, one of the best recent examples being a sign at BP stations, stating, "You are responsible for spills".

And, ironically, George Bernard Shaw was a master of the literary techinique. As was his peer, Oscar Wilde. As were many writers in their circle, which makes me think their conversations would have been dizzying. Yet, one of my favorite Shaw quotes is not at all ironic. It's plain and clear and, I believe, true:

"Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself."

Well said.

Real Capone

There are legendary people in American history who can be instantly identified solely by their surname: Lincoln, Lindbergh, Twain...Capone. At the mention of Al Capone's name, people have an immediate image flash in their brains of the ultimate gangster, the godfather--so to speak--of organized crime, the stylish, ruthless criminal who epitomizes the roar of the 1920's.
A quick list of thoughts soon follows: mastermind behind the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, bootleg king, psychopath who beat his enemy's head in with a baseball bat. Wait, that was only in a movie. Of all the "facts" we know about Al Capone, how many are true?

This fall, that question will finally be answered. The book Uncle Al Capone will be out and it's likely to cause some controversy. For decades, endless gangster "experts", criminologists, and even psychologists have told us the story of Al Capone until it's so familiar it's almost part of our consciousness. But, something entirely different in Capone lore is about to happen. Uncle Al Capone is written by Deirdre Marie Capone, great-niece of Al Capone and granddaughter of his older brother, Ralph Capone (aka Public Enemy #3). As Deirdre frankly says, "No book about Al Capone to date was ever written by someone who actually saw him, heard him, smelled him, and was a member of his family who saw things from the inside. No one else can write this story." So true. Think about it.

And the story is mesmerizing. While today the name "Capone" has a ring of cool to it, it was a horrific burden for Deirdre Capone for most of her life. Imagine parents letting their young children go over to Deirdre Marie Capone's for a playdate. Didn't happen. Nor did she get invited to parties held by other children. It must have been a supremely confusing, lonely, and painful childhood. After all, she had done nothing wrong, yet was cast out by her name. It didn't get better. To survive, she began going by her father's middle name as her surname. She was now Deirdre Gabriel. Yet, working dutifully at her first job, she was called into her boss's office only to be asked her real name. In spite of her excellent job performance, the name Capone led to her immediate dismissal.

Yet, with all this, there were moments of great joy in her childhood, most of them stemming from the warm embrace of the Capone family members. To the country, he was Public Enemy #1. To Deirdre, he was her Uncle Al who would play with her on the floor like a big teddy bear, laughingly wear an apron while making spaghetti sauce, and would even teach her how to play the mandolin. During the Depression, he set up a huge soup kitchen in Chicago, feeding thousands of hungry people. He would generously help a stranger without expecting a thing in return.

Deirdre Marie Capone has no intention of whitewashing her family's history. She does not shy away from discussing the dark side of her legacy. But, perhaps for the first time, the public will see the world of the Capones in honest balance. Deirdre is, in fact, the only person alive who can tell the real story and she has admirably taken on the challenge. And now, all we have to do is wait.

*For a sneak peak at Uncle Al Capone, send a friend request on Facebook to Deirdre Marie Capone. You'll then be able to access the first chapter...fascinating read!

One True Sentence

Hemingway is one of those writers I like thinking about more than reading. So much burly, brawling, bravado. I've been thinking specifically about the famous piece of advice that Hemingway gave to writers: "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know."

Honestly, I think that should be a screensaver, a sampler hung in homes, sprayed as graffiti on walls, seen all over the place until it becomes almost a catchphrase in the minds of writers. What, exactly, is meant by "one true sentence"? My guess is that several academic papers may have addressed that question over the years. My belief is that each writer has to answer it for themselves.

At heart, aren't all writers storytellers? Don't we relish finding the ideal adjective, the breathing adverb, to make the story better and brighter? Don't we know a specific plot twist may be unlikely, but it would certainly make the reader turn the page? We try to create fascinating characters and give them witty or poignant sentences, neatly contained between quotation marks. What does this have to do with "one true sentence"?

I think Hemingway was getting at the exposed core of each writer. What may be honest for one author, may feel false and misleading for another. One person's reality varies from the next by a matter of degree. All a writer can try to do is draw from their own, inner perception of truth. And from that can spring something entirely fictional that strikes us as more "real" than anything else in our world.

Of course, thinking about "one true sentence", I wondered what I would write as an example. Following Hemingway's style, devoid of adjectives and adverbs, is there a simple and over-riding truth that's mine as a writer? It's actually a difficult exercise. I'm learning how hard it is to force away the pretense and safety of writing by habit. One true sentence? I'm still working on it.

For My Grandfather on Memorial Day

The men on my father's side of the family all seem to have had a child in their mid-forties. My father was 45 when my younger sister was born, his father had been 45 when he was born, his father had been 45 when he was born, and so on. So, imagine the chagrin of my little sister when she was in school and tried to explain, on Veteran's Day, that our grandfather had been a veteran of World War I. That's right, WWI, not WWII. Grandchildren of Vietnam Nam veterans stared at her in disbelief. But, they should have stared at her with respect for our grandfather.

Our grandfather was William Henry Siemering, the son of first generation German immigrants to America. During the long, bitter Minnesota winters, they were grievously homesick for Germany. They never fully grasped the English language, American culture, their new world. My grandfather grew up hearing marvelous stories about Hanover and its surrounding villages. He'd picture it all in his mind, and would daydream of the time when he would sail down the Rhine and walk through the breathtaking forests.

The reality was quite different from the dream. He first stepped on German soil as an enemy soldier, a teenage American who had enlisted early to fight for his country. As with many war heroes, he rarely spoke of what happened during battle. But, he was awarded the Purple Heart for being wounded while , running through enemy fire, he dragged a shot fellow soldier to safety. When the War was over and he returned, there was a different battle to be fought. Though few people realize this today, after WWI, there was tremendous anti-veteran sentiment to greet the returning soldiers. Signs in windows announced that they would not hire veterans.

Through the 1920's, my grandfather had an odd assortment of jobs. It was while he was an actor in the Chautauqua cicuit, often performing Shakespeare, that he met my grandmother. When the Depression hit, he took any work he could find, even selling dishes door to door. But, then he found his calling. The Veteran's Administration. He would say he never wanted another soldier to be treated the way he had been treated on his return home. And he worked for the rest of his life towards that goal. It was, of course, not just his work, but was his vocation.

There're several photos I love of my grandfather...his smile in his formal stage attire when photographed in the middle of a midwestern field in the 1920's; his haunted expression in the WWI military hospital, his dented metal helmet in his hand. But it's the one here that always makes me pause and remember him. And to remember him with one word: patriot.

Salem Witchcraft Trial Genealogy Fail

I know when I usually write about family history, it's about my somewhat recently discovered mother's side of the family. It's all so notoriously fun. That's not to say my paternal line has fewer stories. For the most part, my father's heritage is from northern Germany (or "Denmark" as I tell my cousins, the Berkowitzes). Though he also has a branch that stretches to colonial New England before its origin in 16th century England.

Among my father's more illustrious ancestors was Samuel Shattuck, most noted for appearing before King Charles II to petition for greater freedom and protection for himself and fellow Quakers in the Puritan colony of Massachusetts. Yet, this brave Quaker leader had a namesake grandson who was one of the accusers during the infamous Salem Witchcraft Trials.

When I first found this out last year, I felt as angry as my son did when I made him watch Lamorisse's The Red Balloon when he was about five. I'd forgotten that following the charming antics of the balloon, things didn't turn out so well for it. In the same way, I was beaming with pride about my courageous Quaker ancestor, only to find a nearer relative was partially responsible for the unjust executions of both Bridget Bishop and Mary Parker.

Samuel Shattuck's accusations towards Bridget Bishop, in particular, were a bit bizarre. Nothing about black cat consorts or cauldrons or flying broomsticks. His accusation was that the pieces of lace she bought from him were "too smalle" for a woman to wear. So, naturally, the only reasonable explanation was that they must have been used to clothe some kind of voodoo dolls. His accusation against Mary Parker was creepier. He claimed she had somehow bewitched his son, causing his "Phis vitalls would had broak out his breast boane drawn up to gather to the uper part of his brest his neck & Eys drawne Soe much aside as if they would never Come to right again." Seriously? I mean, what was going on?

By now, the trials have been examined and studied for centuries. We have common knowledge that a certain level of contagious hysteria was involved. Of course, no one wants to have a Salem Witchcraft Trial accuser in their family tree. It's maybe just a few degrees less awful than if you had a murderer lurking on a genealogical branch. But, I have to wonder if Samuel Shattuck ever had second thoughts or doubts. Long after the executions, did he ever sit quietly on a dark, cold Massachusetts night and ask, "What have I done?" Did he ever try to make amends? I can only hope.

LOST and Why I Loved It

Six years and a hundred and twenty episodes. That's a very long time to tell one, compelling story. Sure, there were some parts that dragged and others that seemed pointless. But what kept so many of us tuning in was that the show was smart. It was unpredictable. It was about Bigger Things than network television is usually comfortable with. And, contrary to the opinion of some, it ended with a conclusion that was not only satisfying, but clearly not made up as the show went along. It had always been there.

As soon as the finale ended (and, I admit, I had to wipe away tears), I thought, "That's going to get completely polarized reactions." And it seems that's the case. Lost was a consistent mix of myth, spirituality, sci-fi, and romance. Its viewers may have been divided decidedly into those four camps. And my guess is that the group most disappointed in the finale were those in the sci-fi section. An early episode was titled, "Man of Science, Man of Faith". And the conclusion was anything but scientific.

*SPOILERS*

Having always followed interviews with two of the shows co-creators, Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, I knew they felt the the show was ultimately dealing with a weighty topic. I knew it wasn't going to end with a lazy, "It was all a dream!" cop out. When people started asking them if The Island was purgatory, they carefully answered, "No, The Island is not purgatory."

And, as it turns out, it wasn't. The Island was "real life", where flawed characters worked towards their redemption, their personal healing. The flash-sideways of contemporary California turns out to have been a type of purgatory, where the characters continued to work towards healing until they were ready to "move on" with the people who had mattered the most in their lives. None of them seemed to realize that's where they were until they would have a literally touching encounter with someone significant from their life. Then, what was hidden became known.

I'm sure there are some people who will balk at the flatly spiritual ending, even though there were pains taken to make sure no one would feel it was an endorsement of any one religion. In fact, the shots of an alter as well as stained glass window showing symbols of every major world religion felt a bit obvious. Okay, we get that you're referring to a belief commonly held by most faiths, you don't have to keep assuring us that you're not singling one out for special honor.

There's another thing surprising to me about the finale. We tend to think of television that deals with spirituality and religion as syrupy, easily digested shows like the old Touched by an Angel or Highway to Heaven. That audience is not the Lost audience. And what Lost has shown is that those topics can be addressed intelligently, creatively, and movingly. And that's an important distinction.

Are all the questions answered? No. But, I keep thinking back on events in past episodes over the whole series and continue to have enlightening, "Aha!" moments. I'm sure more will come. Because if Lost gave us anything, it was always something intriguing to think about.

How You Made Them Feel

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." - Maya Angelou

Even among those who claim they have a poor memory, I believe these words still hold true. We all recall what it felt like to be unexpectedly helped or unaccountably hurt; to be embraced by love or injured by hate. When people from the past reappear in our lives, we remember immediately if they played the role of angel or demon.

In fact, once you start thinking about how people made you feel, it becomes difficult to stop the flood of emotional memory. And it tends to be so arbitrary. I'm immediately transported to my desk on my first day of First Grade when my teacher stared at my name, that I'd just printed on lined paper. Painfully shy, I looked hopefully up at her. She quickly snatched up the paper, held it up in front of the class, and tore it in pieces, shouting, "This is the worst penmanship I have ever seen in my life!" Demon.

Then, a folded piece of paper was suddenly on my lap. I opened it with shaking hands. "Don't cry. We're best friends forever." I glanced at my friend, Holly, who nodded her head at me and gave me an encouraging smile. Angel.

I think, too, of how I have made others feel in my life. I wince at the memory of my decisions to not answer the phone or to say something I knew would be hurtful. I try to console myself with recollections of the better choices I've made. As a wife and mother, I hope I've made my husband and son feel loved and supported. I want my husband to remember the hundred daffodils, his favorite flower, I surprised him with on his thirty-fifth birthday. I want my son to remember me cheering him on as he took his first steps and read his first words. I'm hoping the memories of me absorbed in my iPhone or having the occasional rant won't take precedent.

This all came home to me several years ago. I wasn't able to attend a high school reunion, but a friend of mine did. As she reported back, she mentioned the name of a shy girl who had been in our class, and told me that this woman had recently received the direst of cancer prognoses. "Oh, and she said she'd hoped you would have been there." "Me?" I asked, "Why, I wonder?" "She said that you were the one she remembered taking the time to befriend her when no one else noticed her."

And I literally felt a lump in my throat. Yes, I remembered occasionally trying to pull her out of her isolation, sharing a joke now and then, or commenting on a pretty color of her sweater. The lump in my throat wasn't from pride, it was from the realization that something small on my part had mattered to her. The tightness in my neck was from the guilt that I could easily have done so much more.

It's so achingly simple after all. Words and actions have consequences that have lasting echoes. People will remember how you made them feel.

If I Had 3 Minutes With My Mother

My mother died, suddenly, unexpectedly, in a car accident when I was twenty-three. And although that was many years ago, I still feel a little subdued on Mother's Day, her birthday, and the anniversary of her death. We had been very close.

Sometimes, what annoys me is that we had just gotten to the other side of my semi-rebellious teen/early adult years. She was barely beginning to see the person I would become, and she had started voicing her hopes for my "grown-up" life.

I don't believe in psychics, seers, or the visions of anyone wearing gold hoop earrings and a scarf on their head. But, when dead characters on LOST just suddenly pop up and disappear after a page or two of dialogue, it gets me thinking. If I had, say, three minutes of time with my mother now, what would I tell her? I mean, after I'd ask for a brief summary of the afterlife. I think it would be something like this:

*I followed your advice. I dated until I found the one I could love AND trust and married him. You'd like him. You'd approve.

*I'm a mother! We have a son and I'm pretty sure you would have spoiled him.

*Remember how you wondered who your birth mother was? Found her. Well, found your family...she had died the year before you did.

*So, I've visited one of your sweet sisters and spoken with the other one. You also have two living brothers. And wonderful cousins. Who knew?

*You know how you were a concert pianist, living and performing in Chicago? One of your sisters was a jazz singer and may have been singing several blocks away at Mr. Kelly's, the same nights you shared a stage with Arthur Rubinstein. The two of you were in very different circles, but both musical.

*The identity of your father? Still working on that one. I'll let you know.

*Yes, yes, I'm being more disciplined about my writing. Promise.

*You know what? I still miss you. And love you. Always.

Skywalker Ranch

Among the many things that are interesting about Skywalker Ranch are the polarized reactions from people when you say its name. The words are met either with a mildly polite, curious stare or else by eyes suddenly wide open at the mention of a magical, perhaps mythical place of their dreams. And now that I've had more than enough time to fully absorb the experience of spending a day there, it seemed May 4th , unofficially Star Wars Day (May the 4th be with you!) is a good day to write about it.

We had a trip to San Francisco planned when an artist who works on the Clone Wars series invited me to come with my family to visit Skywalker Ranch. Of course, I was thrilled at the idea and I couldn't wait to see what my son's reaction was going to be. I walked into the living room and smiled at my husband.

"Thomas is going to be so excited!"

"Why? What's up?"

"We've been invited to go to Skywalker Ranch for the day."

My husband initially just stared at me, trying to comprehend what he'd just heard. I hadn't realized until that moment how much Star Wars can mean to adult men of a certain age.

"Wait, we get to go to Skywalker Ranch?"

"Yes."

"Are you kidding me? Because that's not even funny if you're joking."

"No, it's true. We just need to set up the day."

"What? Go do it! Now!"

Let's just say it was a very highly-anticipated adventure from that moment on.

I love that Skywalker Ranch is off the grid, that it's far enough away from everything else that, in every direction, all you see is gorgeous countryside. From the outside, the main house looks like a traditional, albeit huge, early 20th century residence. But, inside, it's full of incredible art and artifacts that are so plentiful that after a while, you feel like you're in the treasure trove room in National Treasure. It has a library that, frankly, is where I'd like to live. Other buildings are a kind of fusion between the Arts and Crafts Movement and Asian elements, breaking the barriers between building and nature.

Walking around the property, up and down pebbled trails, past ponds, vineyards, and glowingly green hills, your imagination can run wild. I suspect that's entirely intentional. The artists at Skywalker Ranch work long hours and are never without deadlines. To step away from their computers and walk out into a vibrant, varied landscape has to have an incomparable effect. In quiet peace, fantastical ideas can emerge. At Skywalker Ranch, extraordinary creativity is unleashed.

I never, ever would have been at Skywalker Ranch if it hadn't been for the generous offer by my friend, Jahkeeli, to break from his schedule to serve as host. I tried to imagine what it would be like for a talented visual artist like himself to be surrounded by remarkably beautiful art inside, breathtaking scenery outside. To have that one's daily "work environment". Even though I honestly couldn't quite envision what it would be like, his genuine enthusiasm made it clear that he appreciates and embraces it entirely.

Every now and then, one has the opportunity to visit a place unlike any other place. To experience something that, later, doesn't quite seem like it really happened. And, in this case, I'm so grateful to have had the chance to explore a certain, special spot from which emanates unsurpassed creativity.

My Son Turned 14

Earlier this week, my son turned 14 and it felt curiously momentous. Thirteen would have been a more likely birthday to have thought, with disbelief, "My child is a teenager?" But, 13 is kind of the training wheels year of being a teen. It's as if everyone's getting used to the idea of it, but it somehow doesn't really count.

On his birthday, a friend took us out to lunch with her boys, the oldest being about a year younger than mine. While we were waiting to be seated, she turned to me and whispered, "Why is that table full of young girls staring at us?"

I glanced over and realized that the group of tweenish girls were staring--and smiling-- at our sons. When I pointed that out, my friend looked startled, confused, and proud all at the same time. I have a feeling that combination will be my primary emotion for the next few years.

I was never a baby-crazed, over-flowingly maternal type. Which may be partially why I didn't become a mother when I was younger. But, since I'd had years of travel and singlehood and couplehood beforehand, once I became a mother, I was ready. I was patient. I enjoyed sitting in the quiet of the nursery, wondering what images could run through an infant's mind as he dreams. As my mother had done with me, I'd hold his feet in my hands and imagine where those feet may one day take him.

But, then, everything seemed to go in fast motion. I know we had video tapes of The Wiggles that were soon replaced with Thomas the Tank Engine. Wooden train tracks seemed to sprawl all over the house for some time and then, suddenly, we'd entered the Star Wars stage. It seemed like there should have been more of a bridge between the franchises, but there wasn't. Star Wars has never been left behind. It was a gateway to all kinds of wondrous sci-fi and fantasy geekiness. And I suspect that's an aspect of my son that will continue to flourish, live long, and prosper.

I keep hearing the next four years will be important ones. I want to say that all "four years" are important, but I understand what they mean. At the end of these four years, my son will be a man and no longer a boy. Just writing that makes the Rudyard Kipling poem, "If", echo annoyingly in my mind. And that makes me all teary. Because, when all is said and done, I couldn't be more proud of the soon-to-be-man I see before me.

The Revisionists

I don't quite remember much about last November, other than writing. Writing late at night, writing early in the morning, writing at any time during the day that wasn't taken up with "regular life". Determined to meet the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge of beginning and completing a novel in one month, I kept at it. And, a few days before deadline, I had my 176 page, 56,500 word manuscript written.

My goal was to enjoy the holidays and begin revisions in January. Looking back, January found me busy sidestepping other resolutions (i.e. an organized den, five-days-a-week minimum at the gym, avoiding carbs as if they were toxic...). But now, the idea of some cut and slash editing is more and more inviting. I have some big changes in mind (focus on one generation of characters, drop the parallel, contemporary plotline) and smaller ones (expand the interior dialogue of some male characters, add more suspense). In my mind, it's almost like a different novel, and yet not. Just better. More focused.

It's also made me wonder about some older or deceased relatives who actually revised their own lives. Sometimes as innocently as using the prefix "Dr." for better perks when travelling. Other times, slightly changing the spelling of their names or their birth dates. And, intriguingly, some used full-blown aliases, fake addresses, and fictional occupations. (As one cousin commented, "Did they just keep 'Change of Name' forms on a table by the front door?") For those wondering why it's still taking so long to unravel my mother's adoption narrative, I could show you a list of aliases as Exhibit A.

Taking it a step further, would I revise my own life? I mean, if I could. Probably not. Most storytellers at heart know that to get from one point to another, a variety of experiences have to occur. There were some experiences I wish never happened, but I suspect they play their parts in a deeper way than I can now fathom. Only sociopaths and saints have no regrets. There's something satisfying in knowing I'd use my red pen sparingly on my life. My manuscript is not as lucky.