Here's the story...

Long Ago and Far Away Lives

2012-01-26T20:35:00.001-08:00

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

2012-01-16T13:24:00.000-08:00

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

2011-06-28T18:54:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-18T21:20:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-30T10:07:00.001-07:00

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

2011-05-03T09:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-24T09:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Visible and Vocal

2011-02-11T22:02:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, one thing happens after another until it finally catches your attention. On last week's episode of "The Big Bang Theory", the idea of a 30-something male romantically involved with an attractive, older female was the source of ongoing hilarity. It did cross my mind that if it had been a 30-something female romantically involved with an attractive, older male, it wouldn't have been funny at all. It would have been played out as a romance. Later, I was reading a brilliant piece written by Tina Fey in The New Yorker. Among the many things she touched on was her observation that, in the entertainment world, once a female reaches a certain age, she's labeled as "crazy" so that she can be ignored without opposition--albeit with a false accusation. Before bed, I read an article on a news website which stated that women "of a certain age" become invisible to the opposite sex. And just this morning, my son asked, "Mom, are you older than Steven Tyler?" A rapid-fire check on Wikipedia found me saying in a not-very-quiet or motherly voice, "Steven Tyler was born in 1948!" The issue of age was suddenly everywhere.

I don't rant often, but I will now. I refuse to drink the offered kool-aid of self-doubt and surrender. As a woman "of a certain age", I don't believe it's now time to spend the second half of my life with my eyes lowered along with my ambitions. Nor is it time, as is the case with some of my peers, to try to look markedly younger. Hello Kitty t-shirts don't fool anyone.

I love where I am in my life. I finally have some wisdom gained from experience. I have the solid marriage and family I'd always wanted. I can detect liars and posers more easily now then ever before and promptly ignore them. I spend time with people I actually want to spend time with. And I'm fervently working on my writing. My overriding thought tends to be, "If not now, when?" and it's emboldened me to be braver and to take risks I would have shied away from before. This is not the time to make my life smaller.

Of course, there's some inner conflict. I won't pretend being my age doesn't have its sobering moments. I was so happy to reconnect with an old friend on Facebook and later realized that we haven't seen each other for 32 years. And it's not as if we parted as toddlers. I don't like having lines around my eyes, particularly after a good night's sleep. Or that teenagers use their "polite" voices around me. When someone guesses I'm younger than I am, I feel like purring. Yes, I realize I haven't mentioned my exact age at any point here. Nor do I think I will. As I said, I'm not without conflict.

And, by the way, Steven Tyler has well over a decade on me.

Speaking of Competitions...

2011-01-21T20:03:00.001-08:00

Amid the nail-biting period while I wait to see if I made the next cut in the NYC Midnight Short Screenplay Challenge, another competition popped up. Tweet Me A Story, which asks writers to tell a story in no more than 140 characters, including spaces. And punctuation.

I knew at least two of my favorite twitter-writer-friends, @lisamarks and @LynneRice, were hopping on board and it was hard to resist. For a talkative person-and one who must learn to limit dialogue in scripts!-it sounded like fun.

Last Thursday night, all participants were arranged into groups and given a word that HAD to appear in the story. We could submit up to three entries by midnight that night.

Taking full advantage of this three-chances opportunity, I submitted mine before deadline. I've actually forgotten the third one I submitted, but was thrilled to see two of mine made the top 25 for my group, so I'll be in the next round.

For the curious, my given word was HONOR. And my two entries that made the cut were:

"What's MOST important?" he repeated. He stared at Ray's revolver and whispered,"Silence?" Ray hissed the last words he'd hear,"No. Honor." by Karla Bryant [12]

and

Drunkenly,he staggered to his front door. He fumbled for keys amid fake ID's and forged prescriptions.The newsboy waved,"Hi, your Honor!" by Karla Bryant [12]

Competition!

2011-01-12T21:42:00.000-08:00

Being fairly new to screenwriting, the idea of signing up for the NYC Midnight Short Screenplay Challenge intrigued me. All I knew was that each writer would participate in at least two challenges, each time writing a five page script within 48 hours with a given genre, location, and object. The idea was exciting. It seemed like a unique way to stretch as a writer and when else would I write anything in the (potential) political satire genre? Aside from that, if I came in last in both challenges, I would accept that as a valid sign that maybe I needed to rethink the whole screenwriting idea.

The first assignment for my group was a fantasy set in an abandoned house, the story featuring an engagement ring. I immediately became a contrarian. I suspected most people would interpret "Fantasy" as pseudo-medieval hobbitscapes, so immediately decided to write about a Greek goddess instead. The next assignment for my group was a romance set in a driving school, the story involving a bottle of hot sauce. For some reason, Daniel Craig came to mind, along with the title, "Baby, You Can Drive My Car", and I had it written within an hour. Now I was enjoying myself and having fun with the absurdity of the parameters. Last week, I found out I'd made the initial cut to the top 100 participants and would be moving on to the next round. Which would begin the next day.

The clock began ticking near 11:00 pm (midnight EST) when I received the new criteria: OPEN genre; location, tugboat; object, x-ray machine. Absolutely nothing came to mind. I went to sleep and woke up the next morning. I grabbed the laptop, opened Final Draft, typed the words: EXT. TUGBOAT. DAY Then, I stared at those words for about half an hour. I decided on a sci-fi sub-genre and some other details and began writing. But, I knew there was something missing. In a panic that evening, I shared my draft with a screenwriting friend who summed it up, "But, nothing happens!" Ah! That's a problem. By the next day, and with the deadline looming, I still had nothing. Another screenwriter friend calmly offered some suggestions that helped me focus. I called the first friend back and we brainstormed for a while. I opened Final Draft again and glanced at the clock. I had to write quickly.

I finally had it...fabulous character, inciting incident, conflict, and resolution. Done! After more tweaking and editing, I submitted the script with less than an hour to spare. The next day, I checked the message boards designated for screenplay contest writers. "The roughest time I've ever had writing...". "This round was very difficult for me...". Consistently, everyone posting had experienced the same thing I had. In fact, one particularly good writer never did come up with an idea and didn't submit a script.

So, what happened? I suspect we'd gotten lulled into the good fun of writing as best we could within unexpected parameters. We looked forward to seeing what each other had done with the same criteria and comparing notes. But, now, it had changed. It's as if we'd all realized that we were now in an actual competition against each other. I'm not sure writers, with their solitary side and lack of team participation in their work, are the most competitive group of people. Yet, the challenge is now on. I have no idea if I'll make the next cut or not with the script I submitted. But, it's been a fascinating journey.

#amwriting

2011-01-01T22:00:00.000-08:00

#amwriting. On Twitter, this is the shortcut to let people know you're closing your social networking window for a while to stop talking about writing and start doing it. It can just as easily apply to Facebook, Google search, Stumbleupon, numerous email accounts, and all those other distractions that mysteriously devour one's "writing time". For an example, before signing in to write this post, I first completed a quiz on the BBC's website to discover what my name would be in a James Bond movie. (Answer: Honeypie.)

The New Year always brings with it, if not resolutions, ideas on how this year can be better than the last. How the year will see your goals move forward instead of treading water, or worse, dissolve entirely. And, for me, my greatest tool in being more successful, more professional, more in control of my time is to set limits. Although social networking is a weakness of mine--I do learn useful information from links of creative, intelligent friends and enjoy "talking" with them--it needs parameters. It's not just the internet that needs boundaries. It's phone calls and texts and long lunches...all of it is in need of reins.

As I thought about this more, I realized that while everything I've written is true, what a wonderful problem to have. I know some amazing people and am fortunate to have them in my life, whether around the corner or on my laptop. There are many ventures I would have never undertaken if it wasn't for them, new journeys I would have otherwise left to others.

So, what I'm most seeking in 2011 isn't, perhaps, boundaries as much as balance.

A New Adventure: Her Letters

2010-12-06T21:59:00.000-08:00

"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?

2010-11-26T09:00:00.000-08:00

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

2010-10-19T20:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-18T08:24:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-27T20:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-22T09:14:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-23T07:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-15T21:04:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

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"

2010-07-29T22:26:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-07-22T07:41:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-11T21:23:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-07-06T19:33:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

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. More likely, it's been the recent wave of old high school friends appearing on my Facebook wall and then lingering in my mind.

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.

Little by little, the strangeness of my life having abruptly changed settled down and I made friends I would keep through high school. A long list of names returns immediately: Tammy, Nicki, Tina, LaRee, Susie, Diane, Dawn, Janlee, Jeff, Steve, Scott, Jim, Brian, Mac,...so many good friends. During the school year, life was fairly structured and conventional. But, during the summers, when the town's population perhaps doubled with tourists primarily from Chicago, Eagle River switched personas. Our summer jobs had us working long hours at resorts and restaurants, the places that catered to tourists. I always thought the annual migration of urban visitors helped keep Eagle River from becoming too provincial, too narrow minded.

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.

Then, I left. I went to college, then moved to Philadelphia. I'd return briefly, once a year, to visit my mother and a few friends who had remained. At twenty-three, my mother's sudden death brought me back to spend a week clearing her house, putting the artifacts of her life into boxes. When I was done, I flew home to Philadelphia. And, I never returned.

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...

2010-07-01T13:03:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-16T08:27:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-09T09:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-04T20:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-31T12:08:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-24T07:05:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-15T13:41:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-05-09T12:42:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

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

2010-02-19T14:18:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-06T09:57:00.000-08:00

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.

When All Things Are Possible

2010-01-07T14:27:00.001-08:00

It struck me the other day that my son, caught in the awkward border between childhood and adulthood, still has the capacity to believe everything is possible. Things that are clearly outside the realm of reality can't be entirely dismissed by him. When he was very young, he spoke for some time about wanting to create a "showing up machine", which later became abbreviated to SUM. The concept was for fictional characters, through the SUM, to become real. I explained that this was pretty much what movies and television were about, but my imagination was clearly too limited. He was talking about something closer to teleportation, but from a fictional universe to our own. I, too, wish such a thing could be created, but for me, the notion is flattened by pragmatism.

More and more, I've found the ability to have that childhood openess to possibility never entirely leaves. Outside of a toy store in Downtown Disney in Orlando, a couple in their 20's was walking by. The woman said, "Look! Did you know you can build your own lightsaber in there?" The man, clearly showing his Star Wars devotion, stopped suddenly, widened his eyes, and asked, "What?!?! A real one?" Soon after my husband had moved to Philadelphia, he'd been listening to the radio on Christmas Eve. He was startled by what he'd heard. "Did you know a reindeer was hit on the expressway? And on Christmas Eve! How weird is that?" It took me a moment before I had the heart to say, "No, it was just a joke. We don't have reindeer in Philadelphia--it's not THAT far north!"

Always the extreme optimist, I like to say that I'm only at the halfway point in my life. And it seems each year, some of my adult-adopted cynicism erodes and things I'd thought absurd seem within reach. Skepticism has occasionally been defeated by events that could be classified as miraculous. And, at this point, I've never looked more forward to what wonderfully unexpected, unlikely thing might happen next.

Pandora and Beckoning Worlds

2009-12-29T05:55:00.000-08:00

As a child, I had a picture book with a particularly intriguing illustration. It showed a ring of fairies in the moonlight, each one with a different expression. Beneath a sky of brilliant violet and indigo, the ground looked coated with soft, green moss. There was something about it that looked so wonderful and magical that I was certain it was mysteriously real. Several times, I'd secretly stay awake until midnight. Suddenly opening the bookmarked page, I was convinced I'd catch at least one of the fairies moving or looking startled at my discovery of their world. I'm sure I won't ruin any suspense by saying that I was unsuccessful every time.

But that feeling, that hope of being able to experience another world felt very real when watching James Cameron's Avatar in 3D. I may be one of the few people who could have been satisfied if the film had eliminated the spectacular battle scenes in favor of a deeper exploration into the Na'Vi culture and a kind of travelogue across the planet. There were times when Pandora's color palette was so much like that old illustration that I had to smile. I loved that the Na'Vi shared the Native American tradition of offering a prayer of gratitude for the animal they'd just killed for their own sustenance. And there was a continued theme of connectivity of the people to the land, to the animals. This was literally played out when the Na'Vi would attach the end of their long braids to the end of an animal's tail and the two would move as one. So much begged further detail...the Tree of Life, the Hanging Islands, the many unnamed elements that kept my eyes on the screen at all times.

I realize that this sounds, especially to those who haven't seen the film, all very cliche in a kind of hippy-chic way. Honestly, I don't wear patchouli and I do shave my legs. I suppose since the film's setting is literally on a different planet, the ideas of harmony with nature and mutual respect seemed fresh and interesting. That in itself is an intruguing accomplishment.

If James Cameron's only goal had been to create a film that was a masterpiece of storytelling, I think he fell short. But, his goal of offering audiences an invitation to another planet that was unlike anything they'd experienced before, I have to applaud his success. And, thank the incredible artists who worked on the project, bringing me to the very edge of a new world.

NaNoWriMo aka Where I've Been Lately

2009-12-07T07:26:00.000-08:00

During the last week of October, a friend of mine--whom I'll call "Donna", since that's her name---reminded me that on November 1st, the annual NaNoWriMo event would begin. She told me about it last year as well, when I handily brushed it off as insanity. This year, the challenge seemed intriguing.

What NaNoWriMo stands for is National Novel Writing Month. Since it's global, I'm not sure why it's not called International Novel Writing Month, but that's not up to me. Beginning at 12:00 a.m. on November 1st, registered participants may begin writing a novel. By 11:59 p.m. on November 30th, the (minimum) 50,000 word, 175 pages novel must be complete. How daunting is that? Of course, they try to reassure you that you need only produce the first draft and they encourage you to save all revisions and editing until after the first draft is finished. That makes the goal seem a tiny bit more reachable.

It seems the people behind NaNoWriMo, aka The Office of Letters and Light, know the Achilles' heel of most writers: procrastination. We all have fascinating plots, colorful characters, and witty dialogue in our minds. The problem is sitting down and writing it out. And that's a big problem if you want to get any traction as an author. So, NaNoWriMo, like an imagined stern headmaster, accepts no excuses. There are no deadline extensions available. The rules of the challenge are clear and few and even as I registered on their site, I wondered what in the world I'd gotten myself into.

Then, I upped the ante. Not only had I become an "Official Participant", but I actually went around telling people about it. I tweeted it on Twitter. I made updates about it on Facebook. I tried to make it as humiliating as possible for myself if I backed down from the challenge. Characteristically, I begin projects full of enthusiasm and productivity. And, at about the halfway point, I meander off in some vague other direction. This time, I gave myself daily goals that had to be met. The scenario that gave me cold sweats in the middle of the night was an image of myself at 11:30 p.m. on Nov. 30th with three chapters left to go. I promised myself, if nothing else, I would not play that role.

So, I kept at it. And friends and family, both in my physical world and my online world, encouraged me and cheered me on. My husband, always my staunchest supporter and advisor, became my writing coach. My son allowed me blocks of time to be alone with my laptop and never complained. My editor/cousin/soul sister in California insisted that I email her a new chapter every day. Most of my writing got done between 11:00 p.m. and 1:30 a.m., but I met each daily goal. No excuses. And, somewhere along the way, I realized I'd gone too far to turn back. I no longer had a choice in the matter.

And on Friday, November 27th, at just about 8:00 p.m., I wrote the last line of my novel, Blood Relations. I'd made the goal, met the challenge. And, as I suppose is the benefit of any project like NaNoWriMo, I learned something about myself. I can see a project through to completion. And that knowledge is a very valuable reward.

Twitter: Follow You, Follow Me

2009-09-01T19:09:00.001-07:00

To begin, all Twitter users know the difficulty in converting others. We usually get interrupted by the inevitable question, "But, why would I want to do that?" Our response is often an ineffectual, "No, but it's fun." Not a ringing endorsement. What I mean to tell others is that it's not about what you had for breakfast (well, sometimes) or keeping to the 140 character limit. It's about developing a group of friends or connections who happen to--usually--share interests and opinions.

One trait I think most twitterers share is curiosity. Curiosity about the arts, the news, the world at large. Other cultures, other ways of thinking. Twitter is a natural magnet for those people. In the same way that those with a more parochial outlook may truly find the social network useless.

Sometimes, a friend will ask, "So, who's in your followers and following lists?" I'm never sure where to begin or where to end. I think I have the most eclectic and fascinating group of people in the twitter universe. But, I always hesitate before replying because I'm well aware that I could sound delusional. "Let's see, " I might begin, "along with friends I hang out with here--one very cool friend in particular, there's a really talented, crazy-busy film editor in New York City, a notably impressive photographer, a wonderful Apple expert, a Venezuelan rocker, a gourmet Libertarian, a composer who always makes me laugh, several solid filmmakers and writers (talk about crazy-busy!) --including one who's got a lovely French film project in the works, an encouraging fellow writer in Chicago, a whole TRIBE of terrific geek friends, an outstanding-in-many-ways artist at The Ranch, impressive English writers, two great people in Australia, a creative woman in Michigan who shares my insomnia and humor, ..." as they glaze over, I may add, "Oh, and an astronaut." It all sounds just a bit deranged.

The next question is even harder. "But, are they friends?" Hmm. On one hand, that would be dependent on the way each individual would answer the same question. Yet, we check in whenever we have the time, often throughout the day. We share joy, dismay, anger, humor, and elation. Often, when everyone else is fast asleep, we're at our keyboards, wondering why we're so sleep deprived. We encourage each other, we challenge each other.

I'm really not sure what else would be needed to define "friend".

District 9

2009-08-24T14:26:00.001-07:00

The first thing I'd say about District 9 is that it is not a film solely for sci-fi fans. It is, however, a welcome return to intelligent sci-fi for those who have been waiting and waiting. It's about ideas and ethics and I don't seem to remember weighty issues going through my mind after Transformers 2.

Most people who did their homework know that this is Neil Blomkamp's directorial debut (after a film adaptation of the Halo franchise, partnered with Peter Jackson, fell through). It's frequently mentioned that Blomkamp was born in South Africa. The kind of horrific settlement actually used for South African racial segregation, prior to apartheid's 1994 end, was used as the set for District 9. It's sobering when you realize the indignation you feel about aliens being so cruelly housed was a human reality for so long. Blomkamp has said the comparisions are inevitable, but he didn't want to hit the audience over the head with it. It's still an unavoidable link.

The movie begins as a documentary and immediately introduces the main character, Wikus van de Merwe, a debut performance by Sharito Copley. For two decades, an alien mothership has stalled over Johannesburg, South Africa and over a million aliens have been rescued and settled in District 9. The small, filthy shacks, with piles of trash everywhere, make up their new homeland. But, humans have become tired of the aliens, who have become scapegoats for any number of problems. Wikus' high profile assignment is to relocate the aliens to a new settlement, District 10, which will be worse than their current environment.

The transformation, both literal and figurative, of Wikus is simply mesmerizing. By the end, we're left wondering if one needs to lose their human nature to become humane. And to wonder what "humane" really means. At the end of a summer so full of empty spectacles, District 9 is a film of weight and meaning. Go there.

It's What I Do

2009-08-14T09:01:00.001-07:00

When I initially mention to someone that I homeschool my son, I always wait to watch for a visible reaction. I wonder if their thoughts are what mine were when I first heard about "homeschooling": horror. How can sane parents remove their children from the daily norm of all their peers? Why would they do such a thing? What about socialization?

Well, in our case, it had never been the plan. Our son has always been very bright. Early on, it was clear he had some auditory focusing issues that made it extremely difficult to absorb information in a traditional classroom setting. We were told at Vanderbilt University, where--okay, I'm going to brag for a moment-- he became part of the Einstein Syndrome database, that the best recommendation would be to homeschool our son. And, if like most parents, you're determined to do what's best for your child, you step up to the plate. You just do it.

So, it had never been the plan, but it turned out to be a decision we've never regretted. Of course, there are moments that are less than thrilling, such as revisiting algebra and defining the differences between a noun in apposition vs. an objective complement or cognate object. Diagramming sentences. The words, "When will I ever have to use this?" have come back to haunt me.

Still, as any homeschooling parent knows, you suddenly have so much creativity in what you can add to your child's curriculum. Model of the Colosseum made with real stone? Check. Painting hieroglyphics to communicate messages? Check. Film a documentary about your neighborhood? Coming up. The discovery that travel is much cheaper when traditional schools are in session has allowed us to explore modern art at MoMA in NYC, science at Philadelphia's Franklin Institute and history at Independence Hall, collections at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C., the Children's Museum in Seattle, Old Town San Diego. The list goes on. It's a different kind of education, and a wonderful one. (To assure some readers, our son has taken TaeKwonDo lessons three times a week for over six years now and participates in a weekly Co-Op, along with other gatherings. He does actually have friends his age.)

So, for those who wondered, that's how I spend my days. Now that my son has more independent work, I'm starting to dip my toes into writing projects again. I did get published in The New Yorker a couple of years ago. It was a letter in defense of homeschooling. (Really, we don't all cut our own hair and use a Bible and dictionary as our curriculum.) More challenging projects are calling. I've learned that the days, months, and years go by more quickly than I'd like. But, for now, the priority has to be on my son's education with my writing being squeezed in where I can find space, a spare fifteen minutes here and there. And who knows? Maybe a clearer sense of cognate objects will help my final draft.

When Low Tech Knocks Out Writer's Block

2009-08-04T10:36:00.000-07:00

Just over two years ago, family history--previously unknown due to my mother's adoption-- begin revealing itself in my life in a way that begs eventual book or screenplay treatment. I have a growing group of stacked files and notes. As new discoveries are uncovered, there are multiple twists and turns that have not yet ended. Some paths may be red herrings...maybe not. But, one thing is certain: it's complicated.

One of the complications is the fact that several people in the story are extremely well-known, even though dead now for decades. Of course, they also make parts of the plot especially fascinating. I've been advised that I can use them, the famous and infamous alike, as long as I call whatever I write fiction. Even if it's entirely true, the fiction label is mandatory to avoid potential lawsuits from descendants. Fine. But, more complex now.

So, for just over two years, I've been diligently researching, faithfully adding notes to my files, but just as diligently avoiding the first step towards actually writing it all out. I was completely overwhelmed trying to figure out the starting point, especially when the end has not yet been determined. Of course, if it's fiction, I can just make that part up. But I don't want to. You see the problem? I've looked at First Draft and other software programs, wondering which are truly useful and which may be so formulaic I wouldn't use them. And then, I happened to see a link on Twitter.

I can't even explain how it is that my twitter circle is so highly populated with people in the film industry, it just is. And, a few weeks ago, a Los Angeles filmmaker, Angelo Bell (thank you again, Angelo!), posted a link to the lowest tech method imaginable for outlining your screenplay: 50 index cards. The site explained exactly how to set up the cards, from plotline to the protagonist's inner and outer journey, all the way through to the final scene. Too easy? No. Not if you really approach it with creativity and thought. And, bonus for me, it's completely portable, so I can work on the cards anywhere, anytime.

So, after years of nail-biting and researching software, I'm carrying around a pack of 50 index cards, held together by a rubber band. I'm one-third of the way through already.

Knights in a Database

2009-07-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

I've always found genealogy fascinating. Not for any type of bragging rights, but because of the massive jolt to the imagination that the stories of past ancestors bring to mind. Four hundred years ago, my ancestors could not have predicted the series of marriages and migrations that would come after them anymore than we can envision what our descendant, 400 years from now, will be like. Yet, with careful research and notes, I can piece together enough facts to have an idea of what life was like for the German woodsman, the English knight, the Russian-Jewish shoemaker, the Danish fisherman...a few of the hundreds in my family tree.

And, there has never been such a wealth of information for genealogists than there is now. Almost each week, new databases are added online--often for free--that fill in blanks that had been left unanswered for decades. DNA testing for genealogical purposes is thriving and previously unknown cousins find each other and share even more information.

Today, I read on twitter that a new, free database had just been uploaded of soldiers in late medieval England. In less than five minutes, I'd grabbed my file on medieval English ancestors, entered a few surnames, places and dates and actually found matches. The first one was Thomas Ferrers, who served as an archer under Thomas, Earl of Arundel, and fought in France in 1415 for King Henry V. Extraordinary! It seems his family, and another ancestor's family, were all archers. A small detail, lost for centuries. Yet, now found, it stirs up colorful images and makes me wonder...once again what these men were like.

Many see genealogy as a dusty, dreary pursuit. Yet, for every revealed name, there was a life full of details and dramas, passion and routines...much like our own. And, on some level, a degree of honor is given to each ancestor in the simple act of remembrance. That's what genealogy really is.

Dear Hollywood: Please Do Not Remake...

2009-07-14T06:22:00.001-07:00

We know. We know that with so many ongoing technical advances in special effects that there's hardly anything that can be imagined that can't be put onscreen. However, that doesn't mean it should be. It doesn't mean that films with incredible special effects, but lacking a plot, a logical script, and decent acting should be an acceptable goal. And it especially does not mean that every film from the past can be improved upon by updating it to show off "what CGI can do now".

One film I worry about getting a remake, more than any other, is The Wizard of Oz. I know there have been adaptions, like The Wiz. But, my fear is that there would be a new version of the 1939 original. Given the current trends in Hollywood, I imagine it would be something like:

*Cast Megan Fox as Dorothy. Show cleavage.

*Cast Jim Carey as the Scarecrow. Make sure he overacts.

*Cast Jack Black as the Cowardly Lion. Give him an offensive catch-phrase.

*Cast Justin Timberlake as the Tin Man. Add ballads.

It's not just that. You know the amazing silk-stocking-tornado would be replaced with CGI. The deep creepiness of the Wicked Witch would become polished and perhaps become a motion-capture character. Munchkins? Make them virtual and you can have more of them. Emerald City would be nothing but a green screen project.

Yes, it may be possible to recreate The Wizard of Oz to be eye-poppingly fantastic. But, a hands-on creativity would be lost. The images that managed to be both somehow cozy, yet frightening would be gone. Sometimes, it's best to leave things with their dated charm, their echo of a past era, their familiar homeiness. It is true magic.

[Any other films you'd add to the "Please don't remake list? Add a comment!]

Too Much Empathy?

2009-07-09T14:16:00.001-07:00

I think genuine empathy may be something that is hardwired within us from birth. I'm sure it can be taught to some degree, but I confess to being a bit eccentric when it comes to "feeling sorry for" all things broken, unwanted, misunderstood, rejected, or treated unjustly. And it started young.

I had two beloved "collections" as a child. One was my Foreign Doll Collection. Always a sure hit for classroom Show and Tell. I had dolls from the Netherlands, Argentina, China, Lebanon, France...you get the idea. I'd study the country of my new acquisitions in the antique now known as an encyclopedia. Each name had to be authentic to their culture, so I had to educate myself.

My other collection, more secretive, was my Broken Doll Collection. Each one had a story. More often than not, they were spotted on the floor of the toy department...smudged, forgotten through no fault of their own. I was a fairly non-materialistic child, and rarely asked for toys. So when I spotted a victim-toy and asked for it, my mother would know I "felt sorry for it" and her follow-up question was usually, "Why? What's wrong with it?"

Of course, when I'd watch Rudolph and the story of the Island of Misfit Toys, I was always a bit worried that they may not get rescued. It was unthinkable. At least I'd rescued the bear with a loose arm, the doll with the odd hair, the stuffed dog with uneven eyes.

Honestly, until I was an adult, I'd had no idea this was an unusual manifestation of empathy. It must have been an ongoing cause of concern to family elders. After meeting my soon-to-be-husband, my astute grandmother told me she liked him very much. She then added, "I've always thought about the broken toys that you loved so much and was a bit afraid to find out who you'd marry. I'm very relieved."

I wish she hadn't worried about it. It makes me feel sorry for her.

Public Enemies

2009-07-03T10:39:00.000-07:00

Near the end of Public Enemies, surely no real spoiler, John Dillinger is watching the movie, Manhattan Melodrama in Chicago's Biograph Theater. In the 1934 film, Clark Gable plays a gangster, Edward "Blackie" Gallagher, and we briefly watch select scenes as Dillinger is watching them. I realized then how much Public Enemies is an example of a very traditional gangster movie with a stylish patina. I mean that in a good way.

When there's a solid story to tell, you don't want the film to be about the director, but about the narrative. Sweeney Todd suffered as a film when it kept ebbing into Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd, and away from the work of art it was of its own standing. The story of John Dillinger remains such a compelling one that Michael Mann smartly offers the tale audiences want to see without distraction. Yes, there's the handheld, HD camerawork that shows each of Johnny Depp's pores, but it also brings a sense of immediacy to the film that adds to the tension. A few of the music choices seem odd and out of place, but there are points gained for the plaintive folk music and Billie Holliday recordings that are spot on for the time and place.

Expectedly, Johnny Depp is a believable, human John Dillinger. The movie doesn't glorify him, though in reality, Dillinger was something of a folk hero to the Depression-era public. His flaws and narcissism are in plain view, but you do cheer his escapes, you do hope he can avoid his inevitable end. That's not to say Christian Bale's Melvin Purvis is the bad guy. He's noble and dedicated and not without compassion. The problem is that Christian Bale keeps playing unsmiling roles that involve, primarily, talking sternly. He makes a strong Purvis, but it feels like he's played the role before. Johnny Depp and Christian Bale were so evenly matched you wanted both their characters to succeed, but knew only one could do so.

Marion Cotillard is almost luminous as Dillinger's girlfriend, Billie Frenchette. There is one scene in which she's so brutalized that it shocks, in part because by that point, she's already won the audience over to her side.

Public Enemies is a very, very good film. Perhaps the one thing keeping it from being great is that there's not quite enough depth to the character development. Then again, if you've read a John Dillinger biography, you know he wasn't a complex man. He did, in fact, rob banks and like fast cars and pretty women. And, in Public Enemies, they capture that man perfectly.

Please, Sir, May I Have Some More?

2009-06-28T20:09:00.000-07:00

My 13 year old son's eating habits are a curious combination. On one hand, he's a notoriously picky eater and finds many common foods, like pasta, repulsive. On the other hand, of the foods on his quite limited "acceptable foods" list, he can consume massive amounts without gaining a pound. Note the photo above. Yes, he did ask if he could have a brownie. No, I didn't define what size I meant by"one brownie". And, yes, it's time for a talk about portion control.

One of the worst food phases was when he liked ice cream cones. Literally, the cones only. No ice cream. When we'd go to an ice cream parlor and I'd order a plain cone with no ice cream for my son, more often than not, I'd get suspicious looks from the staff. I'm not sure if they thought I was being absurdly cheap or simply cruel. Now, of course, a quart of Breyer's Natural Vanilla lasts maybe a matter of hours with my son around.

On vacation, we went to a restaurant that served all-you-can-eat meats from their wood-fired grill. With steak being a big favorite of my son's, I suspected he'd have more than one. What I didn't expect was that he'd eat six steaks. After the 5th steak, he politely asked the waiter for another and the startled man glanced at me and asked, "Are you sure this is alright, ma'am?" I think he must have thought my son was stuffing the steaks in his pockets or something and wanted me to check.

To be honest, I can remember eating almost like that as a teen and remaining somewhat underweight. Lunch might have been a grilled reuben sandwich, french fries, and a 3-scoop ice cream sundae. Dinner, no less caloric. Fast-forward to the present and I seem to gain two pounds if I choose the wrong salad dressing. So, all in all, I simply have to look at my son and say, "Enjoy!"

Father's Day 2009

2009-06-21T10:12:00.001-07:00

When I talk about my father, most people expect me to talk about his work as a founder of NPR (National Public Radio) or how he created its flagship show, All Things Considered. More recently, the discussion is usually about his genuinely extraordinary work in helping community radio stations develop in emerging democracies. But, today is Father's Day and it's my turn to talk about him the way I see him.

Growing up in Buffalo, New York, Saturday was always the day of the week Dad and I spent together. My sister and mother would spend the day having lunch out and shopping. Dad and I would spend the morning at the Broadway Market, picking up special foods for the week, and then go to the Albright-Knox Art Gallery. We'd stop in front of different pieces in the collection, whether it was Andy Warhol or Matisse, and Dad would ask me questions about it that would encourage me to not just look at art, but to try to understand it as well. Invariably, other people would start gathering around, thinking he was a tour guide. He'd laugh , a little embarrassed, then we'd quietly walk on.

Later, we would move and our lives would change. But, constants were things like our walks in the woods and long conversations. Throughout the years, there are at least ten Important Things I've learned from those conversations:

1. You grow old when you stop taking interest in new things.

2. It's always more rewarding to do things for others than for yourself.

3. The saddest people are those with no curiosity.

4. There are always new chapters in life.

5. It's important to continue expanding your horizons.

6. Do not let fear decide things for you.

7. Don't dwell on the past.

8. Keep moving forward.

9. Take pride in a job well done.

10. It's important to wash your hands well.

For all of the above, and for much more, Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

Transformers: My Minority Report

2009-06-19T14:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it seems curious to me that the personification of Michael Bay's target audience lives in my house. My thirteen year old son has been anticipating Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen (and I know better than to refer to it as anything other than it's complete title) since---Transformers 1.

In 2007, I knew there was little I could do to protest seeing Transformers on opening night. Then, as now, my son's conversation had been focused on Michael Bay, Optimus Prime, Megatron, Starscream, etc. Our family arrived at the theater about 45 minutes early. (We'd already bought our tickets the day before.) As we entered the actual theater, I could hear a rumble of voices from behind the wall that blocks the seating from the entry hall. As we turned towards the seats, I actually laughed. The nearly filled room was occupied primarily by 20-something males wearing either Decepticon or Autobot t-shirts. Anticipation was almost tangible. Here and there, I noticed a few wives and girlfriends who had clearly been dragged there against their better judgement. Payback day for all the Hugh Grant movies.

Yes, there was arm waving and cheering from the crowd when each Transformer made his screen debut. Yes, there were explosions and fights and explosions and fights. But, to be honest, the movie was fun. It really was. It didn't take itself too seriously--how could it? It delivered what you usually want from a good summer popcorn movie: action, vague plot, impressive CGI, and some humor.

I suspect the audience on opening night of Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen will be very similar to the first one. Actually, I suspect the movie itself will be very much like the first one. And today, when it's a humid 94 degrees and my brain feels like it's functioning at 80%, the idea of just relaxing with a big bucket of popcorn and going along for a raucous ride of a movie, even when Michael Bay is the driver, has its appeal.

My Cat Is Smarter Than Your Cat

2009-06-17T20:16:00.000-07:00

Initially, I was going to write about something Important. Something to do with the Iranian election crisis. As a long time twitterer, it's been fascinating to watch as Twitter unfolded the story of the protests in Iran so much more effectively than any major news network. It seems like a revolution for democracy in Iran as well as a revolution in how many people--especially those who are non-tech types--are beginning to realize the vast potential of social networking sites.

But, then I realized the iraniantwitterevolution is the focus of almost every news site. Bloggers who are much more talented have offered detailed analysis on the story. My vaguely formed commentary had already been clarified and posted by others. I sat and looked at my almost-16 year old cat, Kate. She convinced me to write about her instead.

Kate initially belonged to our neighbors in Philadelphia. But, she seemed to prefer our house to that of her owner's. First sign of intelligence. I say that because, shortly before we adopted her, the owner's child had excitedly told us about her father having tried to hold Kate under water in their "bathtub over and over again, but she kept escaping". Kate soon had kittens and unsurprisingly, the owners were pleased when we said we were going to take both the cat and a kitten.

From the start, Kate seemed unusual. She has such a wide range of vocal commands that one suspects she's speaking in some kind of language. She's always been a bit vain, looking very pleased when catching sight of herself in a mirror. And when she would see her former owner walking by, she'd start gagging.

Soon, Kate became almost...spooky. She'd always been primarily attached to my husband. My husband has always been prone to migraines and when they were bad enough for him to have to leave work, Kate would regularly be under the covers on his side of the bed, making the area warm an hour before he'd lie down.

A week after I became pregnant, I couldn't sit down without her crawling under my top, pressing against my stomach, and purring loudly. Nine months later, when I went into labor, I went into the dark bathroom and saw Kate seated calmly on the edge of the sink as if she'd been expecting me. Given her previous near-drowning incident, the bathroom was the only room she had consistently avoided at all costs. And when we brought our infant son home, Kate went into immediate nanny mode with him, never letting him out of her sight. When he started crawling, in spite of a protective gate, Kate would throw herself across the top of the stairs to prevent a fall.

There're actually too many stories about her to fit in one blog post. I was once listing her uncanny behaviors to a friend who is a priest. At his increasing surprise, I laughingly said, "I know, in medieval times, she probably would have been burned as a witch."

"No," he joked, "You would have been the one burned for owning her."

She didn't like the exchange at all.

Why Not The Who?

2009-06-12T12:54:00.001-07:00

Last week, I watched Amazing Journey: The Story of The Who and it made me start wondering about one specific issue. As a young child in the '60's, I'd listen to the radio in my older sister's room as every rock station seemed to have a weekly call-in contest called Battle of the Bands: The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones. In case you were wondering, The Beatles always won. After watching Amazing Journey, my nagging question was: Why not The Who? Why did The Rolling Stones trump The Who for the second-place position?

As much as I really do love The Rolling Stones, they're primarily a fantastic dance band. When Brian Jones founded the group, they had a distinctive blues sound. Then, Brian Jones began discovering world music and indigenous musical instruments. The rumor was that Jones could pick up an instrument from anywhere in the world and have it figured out within an hour. He kept trying to push the band into experimentation with music from other cultures.

Listening to Paint It Black, you get an idea of the potential, of the direction Jones was headed. Instead, he became one of the earlier victims of drug and alcohol abuse. As tragic as his sudden and untimely death was, there was a moment before that which seems almost equally tragic. Brian Jones showed up for a recording session, completely stoned. He could barely stand, but looked at the directions for the songlist and noticed he had no role. Jones pulled his head up and asked Mick Jagger,"What instrument can I play?" Reportedly, Jagger stared at him coldly and asked, "I don't know, Brian. What instrument can you play?" Very shortly after that incident, Brian Jones was fired by the band he'd created and was soon dead. If you look at The Rolling Stones' discography after Jones' death, you can see the change. They had hit after hit, mainly dance songs that felt slightly dangerous for the era, but I think Jones' vision of incorporating world music had vanished.

The earliest songs by The Who, such as The Kids Are Alright and I Can't Explain, sound like near-perfect examples of the British Invasion sound. But, also on their first album was My Generation, which was something else altogether. It was rebellious, angry, and distinctive. I Can See For Miles and Magic Bus followed. But then, Pete Townshend's genius took hold and he worked towards something more than just another hit.

He decided to write a rock opera, a concept no one else had thought of and almost no one could imagine. Townshend has often said that he's always seen himself as an artist whose medium happens to be music. For decades, critics have used the word "pretentious" in conjunction with Pete Townshend, but surely at this point, his claims of being an artist have been validated. When Tommy came out, it was a watershed moment in rock history. Its hard to think of anything else more original and ambitious from that time. The only problem was that it became so famous in its own right, that it made The Who seem like the Tommy-band. But, the band kept working, kept evolving, kept producing excellent, original music. The Who was never stagnant.

Shortly after watching Amazing Journey, I saw a video online of The Who performing Baba O'Riley. As I was reminded again about how great the band is/was, my eyes caught sight of a comment under the video:

"Hey! The band is playing the song from House!"

It was like that stale joke about a child not knowing Paul McCartney had been in a band before Wings. Only somehow worse. How could The Who be reduced to "the band" who plays a song recognized now from a television series? After all, they were arguably the second-greatest rock band...ever.

Home Improvements = Active Boredom

2009-06-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

There's one particular subject that I loathe reading about: writer's block. I find it a lazy, self-indulgent, narcissisic topic and resent someone expecting me to read about their slothfulness. Reading about someone else's boredom is not a treat. I have promised myself to never be that inconsiderate of my readers. So, today I'm going to write about watching paint dry. Literally.

A neighbor in Philadelphia once gave me this advice: Every couple of years, pretend you're moving and get your house looking just as you want it to. Her husband had been transferred and, within two months, they'd repainted, redecorated, and refreshed their home and it looked fabulous. When they were done, she told me she'd never felt more depressed. The house looked fantastic and they had less than a couple of weeks to live in it. Hence the advice.

Well, it's been more than a couple of years since we moved into our lovely 1920's bungalow. Okay, it's been ten years. And it's really time to roll up our sleeves and get to work. Home improvement #1 is to repaint the living room, dining room, hallway, kitchen, and den. Which wouldn't be so horribly time-consuming and overwhelming if it weren't for the trimwork, high and low, that also needs attention. Fortunately, this is my husband's role in the project. I tend to paint walls like Jackson Pollock...just get the paint on there already! Get the color on the wall! I have no patience or talent for the detail work. Even though I admit I have the better end of the bargain, I still get impatient waiting for the trim work to get done and for the paint to dry so I can move on to the next wall, my next canvas.

The one thing I'm dreading--really, my brain can't absorb the idea, is organizing the den. I have an absurdly large desk with shelves and nooks and file drawers and cupboards and have been told that we're going to streamline things to simply have the computer sit on a table. What!?!?! My carefully arranged stacks of clutter cannot possibly fit on a corner of a table. Where will I put the cds I mean to listen to, but don't? My illogically arranged genealogy files and notes and post-its? My dusty: Important! Do Now! stacks? It makes no sense at all to me.

In the meantime, I'll have to figure it out while I'm watching paint dry.

Guy Ritchie's Anti-Sherlock Holmes Movie...I Complain Again

2009-06-08T08:24:00.000-07:00

I know. One of my first blog posts was my disbelief at the poster for Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes film. Robert Downey Jr. stared out from it like some kind of weird Jimi Hendrix wannabee rather than the globally recognized Holmes. Since then, I've seen the trailer and have discovered that perhaps for the first time, I share something with Madonna: a nagging loathing for Guy Ritchie.

http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=X29IK0auNnw

If Guy Ritchie had decided he wanted to make a film about a charming Victorian rogue who happened to be a detective, it might actually have been a compelling movie. Instead, he chose to take one of the best known fictional characters in history and simply dismiss his most distinctive qualities. Holmes was never charming. Holmes was certainly not interested in romance. He was immaculate in his habits. So, Guy Ritchie presents us with a "Sherlock Holmes" who is enchanting, impassioned, and slovenly. Thanks.

What bothers me the most is the arrogance it reveals. Certainly, legendary characters can be revisited and refreshed, as J.J. Abrams did recently with Star Trek. Using new actors and plot devices, he brought a vigorous reboot of the franchise to the screen. He didn't sloppily decide to make Vulcans comic-relief characters or Kirk cowardly. Yet, so far, it appears that Guy Ritchie couldn't be bothered with the specific qualities that make Sherlock Holmes a masterful character. It almost seems as if he took an idea and thought, "Let's just retitle the character Sherlock Holmes because that will give it name recognition."

In all honestly, the film looks like it could be a lot of fun. It just needs a different name for the lead character.

The Magician's Closet

2009-06-04T07:45:00.000-07:00

The hot, humid evenings lately have reminded me of a somewhat magical summer night many years ago. My grandfather had died and, not too long after that, my father and I visited my grandmother for a few days. Dad stayed in the guest room and, for the first time ever, I was to stay in what had been my grandfather's bedroom. Yes, my grandfather and grandmother didn't just sleep in different rooms, but on different floors of the house. As a child, you don't really ask questions.

When it was time for bed, I carried my suitcase to the second floor and opened the creaky door with some trepidation. It wasn't a fear of ghosts that was frightening me, but an overwhelming feeling that I was trespassing. I must have spent hours looking through my grandfather's untouched, crowded bookshelves. Everyone else was asleep by the time I found his memoirs, typed and bound in a coral folder. I began reading. It began with his earliest memories as a child of German immigrants, the young death of his mother, and the harshness of Minnesota winters. It went through his childhood, telling of experiences completely unfamiliar to those I'd known. And it moved on to his young enlistment in World War I. Unbelievable. (I should mention that there seems to be a time-honored tradition on my father's side of advanced paternal age. My great-grandfather was 45 when my grandfather was born; my grandfather was 45 when my father was born; though he was a younger parent to me, my father was 45 when my younger sister was born. When she was in high school and had to write an essay about a veteran, she chose her grandfather, a veteran of World War I, while her classmates' grandfathers had been in Vietnam or Korea.)

There was no air conditioning in the bedroom and it was so hot it felt impossible to sleep. I wandered around my grandfather's bedroom a bit more. I was thirteen when he'd died and my memories of him were jumbled. He'd loved teasing me, usually with a heavy German accent. In fact, it wasn't until I was nearly ten that I discovered he wasn't actually from Germany. I was shocked. He'd give me pieces of strong black licorice as a secret treat and even stronger German cheeses to sample. Sometimes, the two of us would sit together and watch a little television. I remember him becoming enraged if Frank Sinatra was ever on---something about cowardly draft-dodging during World War II. Though he had begun his career as a stage actor, the bulk of my grandfather's life had been dedicated to helping veterans.

As a stared around the room, I saw a door I hadn't noticed before. Carefully, I opened it and fumbled for a light. Nothing on the wall, but I could see a string dangling and pulled it. A dim light filled a closet almost as big as a small room---but it was different from what we now think of as a walk-in closet. There were bookcases in rows, filled with---I had no idea. There were many shapes beneath scarves and cloths. I slowly lifted one and saw a silky, black magician's hat. I think I may have literally gasped. As I investigated more, I found a cape, a wand, something wooden that looked like an egg cup, but had a trick lid, and all kinds of vintage bits that belonged in a magician's trunk. What on earth had I discovered?

I'm not sure if I even slept that night. In the morning, I hurriedly told Dad about the fantastical closet I'd found.

"Oh, right! He used to always put on magic shows for the neighborhood children."

What?!?! I'd had no idea. I sat quietly, thinking about my grandfather. And as I think about it all now, I don't think I'd say that summer night in his empty room was "somewhat magical". It was perfectly magical.

The Beatles: Rock Band...Yeah, Yeah, YEAH!

2009-06-03T08:10:00.000-07:00

I have a new definition for my generation. We are the ones who were too old to have grown up with video games, but are too young to rule them out entirely. We just need the right motivation. And, as I patiently explain to my son, playing war games is not an appealing use of my time. Besides, my attempts at Battlefront have been laughable. I enjoyed Fable, but don't seem to find the time to get anywhere in it. Then, Rock Band entered our home. Video games became much more interesting, but I still wanted something...more.

At the E3 (Electronic Entertainment Expo) in Los Angeles Monday, Microsoft unveiled greatly anticipated news for gamers at their press conference...a new Halo game, a new Knights of the Old Republic Game and--- I can't recall any more of them or many details because my brain is completely fixated on their new version of one of their best games: The Beatles: Rock Band. At last. Really, at last.

Giles Martin, son the The Beatles' famed record producer, Sir George Martin, was on hand at the presentation to add some reassurance that he's worked on the project and is quite proud of it. Yoko Ono and Olivia Harrison made brief walk-ons, apparently to indicate the game has their blessings. And just as I was wondering if maybe, possibly...there they were. The two remaining Beatles, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr. (Making me suddenly remember I was always a John Lennon, then George Harrison girl when it came to the endless, "Who's your favorite Beatle?" question.) It was very clear that they are of the generation that most likely will never play video games, but I'm sure they're both quite aware of the massive financial potential for them from the game release. Even though it seems, fortunately, that their music will never go away, The Beatles: Rock Band will present it in a fresh, active way they couldn't have imagined.

When I think of The Beatles, I have revolving images, usually accompanied by era-specific songs: the Cavern Club, Shea Stadium, The Ed Sullivan Show, Sgt. Peppers, the London rooftop, Abbey Road studio,...and on. From the trailer, I was excited to see it looks like the game will encompass the whole journey:

www.thebeatlesrockband.com/trailer.php

It's okay, you can watch it more than once. Or twice. So, Rock Band players are going to get a chance to try their hand at John Lennon's Rickenbacker 325 guitar or Paul's Hofner bass. And I can only guess at the 45 numbers on the songlist. It's a given that, regardless of the specific songs, the music is going to be fantastic. I've never in my life heard someone say, "The Beatles are so derivative!" or, "The Beatles are so overrated." It just doesn't happen. So one of the variables would have to be graphics. I was relieved to see how detailed they are, from Paul's somewhat alarming eyebrows, to George's suppressed smirks.

So, I'm warning my son now about a phrase he'll hear frequently once The Beatles: Rock Band is in the house: It's my turn on the Rickenbacker.

Meet the Berkowitzes

2009-06-01T07:32:00.000-07:00

Strange how journeys can have small arcs that sometimes make full circles. Since initial contact with my mother's natural sister and niece, we knew our grandmother had been Jewish. Typical of her lack of maternal responsibility to her known children, they had never been raised in the Jewish faith and some never realized their heritage had been Jewish until they were Christian adults. On my quest for yet more facts about the family, I came across someone else doing online genealogy research. We were both researching the same family of Russian Jews who had immigrated from Lithuania to Christiania (Oslo), Norway to New York City at the beginning of the 20th century. We were both following Abraham and Pauline Berkowitz and their twelve children.

We'd had plans to revisit my aunt and cousin earlier this year and, as it happened, Dr. and Mrs. Berkowitz--the latter my fellow researcher--lived just two hours away from them. Dr. Berkowitz' grandparents are our common relatives. Age ranges among their twelve children make the details complicated, but family is family.

It's one thing to intellectually know that your newly-discovered heritage is Jewish. It's another thing to meet family members who actually speak Yiddish and know their religion. This would be the Berkowitzes. They greeted me warmly and, as I've learned happens in adoption situations, Dr. Berkowitz and I studied each other's faces.

"I can see Berkowitz in your eyes," he noted.

This struck me as another of those curious cases of puzzle pieces coming together. My aunt, upon meeting me, had said that from my cheeks down, I looked just like her sister, but she didn't know who's eyes I had. Well, clearly, Berkowitz eyes. (I need to say that I'm very proud of the mannerisms and traits I share with my understanding father...I just--oddly--don't share any facial features with that side of the family.)

We were invited into the Berkowitzes' home and a strange thing happened. We didn't stop talking for five hours. Straight. The Berkowitzes treated us to dinner at--where else?--a fabulous deli and we then went back to their home to talk for another 3-4 hours. The Berkowitzs are great conversationalists---thoughtful, highly intelligent, and sharply funny. And I don't believe any of us ever felt like strangers.

Among the many delightful things they did was a small, whimsical gesture. They'd spelled my name out in small stones on the potting table in their garden. Later, I thought of my very first action acknowledging my heritage after learning about my mother's birth family. According to Jewish tradition, I'd placed small stones on my great-grandfather's tombstone in a distant city as a symbol of remembrance. And, now, the first truly Jewish family members I'd met had arranged garden stones as a sign of welcome to their faraway relative. A small, full circle on the continuing journey.

My Computer Guy's Curious Story

2009-05-28T11:54:00.000-07:00

No one ever counts their blessings often enough. It's usually thought of in the worst possible situations: the doctor gives an unwanted diagnosis, a friend or relative is in a desperate predicament, or--as in my case recently--your "back-up" laptop gets a nasty virus shortly after your preferred one has a bad case of malware. It was then that I realized how thankful I am to have a reliable, efficient computer person to call.

A certain scenario always plays out. I call my computer guy, he says when he'll get here, then I'm overwhelmed by a wave of both relief and panic. Relief that I'll be able to soon use my laptop again and panic at the state of disorder in our den. If a messy desk is a sign of genius, I am off-the-charts brilliant. Of course, I know where everything is. I have my numerous piles of genealogy data, vacation budget sheets, correspondence that needs to be answered, colorful "reminder" post-its accenting the above described stacks. I do my best, but by the time my computer guy, who I'll call CG, arrives, I still laugh nervously as I apologize for the mess.

Kindly, he always assures me, "Oh, don't worry. I've seen much worse." Once, he shared a story about a particularly disturbing job. He knew from the start it was going to be odd. As he pulled up to the new client's home, he saw two men--brothers--wave to him from their front porch. They raced towards him, running alongside his car as he tried to park. When he stepped out of the car, they linked arms with him on either side as they lead him to their front door. CG quickly unlinked himself and wondered what awaited him.

The interior of the home was atrocious and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a racoon run by.

"Don't worry," they told him, "We're just working on training him"

It was then that CG noticed a cage next to the faulty computer tower, complete with racoon feces all over both items. He told them that they'd have to clean up the computer before he'd be willing to work on it. They agreed and said they'd call him as soon as it was all clean.

A couple days later, CG returned. As he'd requested, the brothers had left the computer on the porch. He brought it to his office to work on it. When he opened the tower, he noticed some hardened chunks of blue powder. CG called them.

"You ran the computer through the dishwasher, didn't you?"

"We did. We wanted to make sure it was a clean as possible."

So, today, I'm especially grateful for two things in particular: 1. Having a great computer guy I can rely on and 2. Knowing there really are people with messier dens than mine.

Abbey Arrives (Because I Promised)

2009-05-26T20:21:00.000-07:00

After our family dog died of lymphoma, I couldn't believe how quiet the house had become. Always having been a cat person, I now stared at our two senior cats and wondered, "Why don't you make any noise? Why so much stealth?" I began obsessively looking at petfinder.com and came across a photo of a small dog, Abbey. I read her description, but there was just something about her picture that seemed...odd. She was staring straight at the camera, one ear up, one folded, had bi-colored eyes, and a somewhat blank look. No.

A couple of weeks later, my dear friend, Sherry, asked if I'd go with her to look at a boxer at our shelter. Looking back, I'm sure it was a ruse on her part. As we got out of her car, I saw Abbey out of the corner of my eye. A shelter worker had her on a leash and was walking her...straight towards us.

"Look at the long legs on that rat terrier!" Sherry said a bit too enthusiastically, "She's precious!"

"No, I know who that is. I saw her on petfinder, but she's not the right dog for me."

Of course, this was taken as encouragement and the next thing I knew, Abbey was sitting on a bench between Sherry and myself. She raised her chin and looked at me with warm chocolate eyes---well, warm chocolate eye. The other one was more like an ice blue marble. But, I had to admit, there was something achingly sweet in her face. She seemed perfectly calm and well-behaved.

Upping the ante, Sherry coaxed me into making a second trip to visit Abbey, this time with my son. Again, Abbey was very serene and sweet. I still couldn't quite decide what I thought. Was it too soon after our beloved dog's death? Or was Abbey just not a good fit?

That weekend, my husband joined our son and myself for yet another Abbey visit. When we arrived, we were told that she was the longest resident small breed dog they'd had. She'd been moved over to the larger section that housed bigger dogs to make room for newly arrived puppies. Okay, that tugged at my sympathies. It was decided she was a rat terrier, border collie, whippet mix. Three high energy breeds. Great. We sat in a small room and, again, Abbey behaved exceptionally well. My husband, who had left the house with the firm statement, "We are NOT coming back home with a dog!!!" suddenly announced:

"Okay, we can take her."

Then, a surprising thing happened. As soon as the words were uttered, Abbey took off on a wild tear around and around the room. She leaped up in my lap just long enough to scratch my face, then continued running and wagging her tail. Of course, my husband and son thought she was hilarious.

When we brought her home, she raced to our sofa and sat stiffly with her back pressed against the couch. She looked one way, then the other, with a look of total terror on her face. As I began to look through her pile of paperwork, I noticed comments like "frequent accidents" and "can jump high fences". Horribly, I also learned that her previous owner had kept her in a crate for about 22 hours a day. She kept looking at each if us in turn, wondering what was expected of her. Nothing, really.

It took Abbey some time to seem to trust us and accept affection. In return, she is our devoted and loving pup. She still has some flaws: she has tremendous fear aggression towards other dogs and is way too possessive of us, her pack. But, she's a happy, loyal little dog which is really all we ever wanted.

The First Face to Face

2009-05-21T09:30:00.000-07:00

It was probably the most surreal trip I've ever taken. I'd never been to California before, never seen a desert, and had never met my newly-discovered aunt and cousin. As if the itinerary needed more curiosities, it was also the first time I ever attended Comic-Con, but that's for another post.

As we drove for a couple of hours through the desert, I thought alternately of both nothing and everything. I stared out the window, occasionally trying to put my journey into logical steps. A question I'd posed on a genealogy site years ago had been answered. Contact, after twenty years of searching for my mother's birth family, had been made by a cousin I never knew existed. And, she had graciously offered to let us stay at her home to meet both her and her mother, my mother's half-sister. My mother, who had died twenty-five years earlier, would have found the whole thing staggering as well as incredibly wonderful. As did I.

When we were minutes away from our destination, my heart began pounding. What was it going to be like? What would we say to each other after initial pleasantries had been exchanged? As we slowed to look at street numbers, I saw them. A woman close to my age with her mother, both waving happily at us. I couldn't wait for the car to stop so I could see them more clearly and to hug them, possibly to make sure this was all real.

When I did get out of the car and ran over to them, I saw my smiling aunt stare at me with wide eyes.

"You look just like my sister!" She exclaimed, "I can't get over how much you look like her."

It took me half a second to know she didn't mean my mother, whom she'd never met, but the older sister she'd grown up with. I was a little surprised. We'd exchanged photos earlier and I thought the person I'd most looked like was my grandmother. Apparently, that wasn't the case. I did feel a little intimidated by my cousin's looks, then reminded myself that there aren't too many former beauty pageant winners out there. And she was clearly her mother's daughter.

All this happened in a flash. My ever-patient husband and son followed us into the house, where we all sat down, smiled, and stared at each other again. Photos are one thing, being with someone face to face is another. And there was an unexplainable quality to my aunt that brought my mother immediately to mind. It may have been the turn of the head, the fleeting gesture, the gait of her walk. Whatever it was, there was absolutely no doubt that I had found family. My lovely cousin and I seemed to have the same laugh...we certainly had the same sense of humor and way of looking at things. And, perhaps surprisingly, we were all so relaxed in each others' company.

Of course, we spent hours comparing puzzle pieces to the mystery of my mother's adoption and her mother's life. My grandmother, whom I'd been told had died in childbirth. My grandmother whom I'd always imagined as a kindly, poverty-stricken immigrant. My grandmother, who in fact had lived very well in Miami Beach, Key West, and Jamaica while neglecting the four children in her care. Why? We kept asking the same question. There were rumors about her acquaintances, both famous and infamous, and we tried to determine which were likely and which ones unlikely. They are among the questions we're still asking each other today.

Yet, the most amazing result of the experience was the bond of family. My sister and I never gave up our search and our cousin willingly opened the door to us. I'd read recently on a genealogy site: A tree without roots will fall over. I wasn't aware of feeling that earlier, but I now believe it to be true. Since finding my mother's family, my step is a bit surer, the circle of heritage almost complete. And I hope we will all someday know our grandmother's real story.

"The Way to Crush the Bourgeoisie..."

2009-05-18T08:30:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to brag, but I have a very cool dad. Most people know him as being the person who wrote the Mission Statement for NPR (National Public Radio), who was NPR's first Program Director, and who created the flagship show, All Things Considered. Not too long ago, someone asked me how I would describe my father in one sentence.

I thought for about half a minute, then answered, "He's spent most of his life trying to improve the lives of as many people as possible."

I still stand by my reply. Since leaving public radio, my father has travelled literally around the world, helping to create community radio stations in newly developed democracies. He's spent an enormous amount of time particularly in Mongolia, South Africa, and Eastern Europe. He works tirelessly for funding for DRP, Developing Radio Partners.

During our recent trip to Philadelphia, Dad and I sat on his sofa, going through stacks of photos from our respective travels. Mine not so exotic as his. As he glanced sideways at a picture in my hand and he nodded his head.

"Lenin."

"What?"

"The statue of Lenin. In front of St. Basil's Cathedral."

I stared at the photo. It was my son, Thomas, in front of the statue of Walt Disney (and Mickey Mouse) in front of Sleeping Beauty's castle in Disneyland. I couldn't help bursting out with laughter. I mean, the concept of confusing Walt Disney, visionary and successful capitalist, with Vladmir Lenin, revolutionary leader of the former communist USSR, seemed hysterical to me.

"Look," Dad protested, "Really, if you're just looking at it from this angle..."

OK, I could kind of see his point. Though I still can't figure out who he thought Lenin's short sidekick could have been. It's a small world after all.

Becoming LOST

2009-05-15T19:35:00.000-07:00

In May 2005, I was having lunch at our local, ever-charming McDonald's with my dear, slightly madcap friend, Fredericka aka Fred. She has a sister named Georgeanna aka George. They are the daughters of my husband's Aunt Teddy. Anyway, we were watching our children play in the PlayPlace when Fred suddenly blurted out, "Have you watched any of that new show, Lost?"

I shook my head. "No, I heard about it, but never seemed to catch an episode."

"Well," her eyes widened,"They just had the season finale and it was incredible."

"What's Lost about, anyway?"

Those four words have became legendary. As soon as I said them, Fred began to download the entire season to me, without stopping, for about a full hour. As confusing as the storyline is, it was made worse by the fact that she couldn't remember the names of any of the characters.

"So, the Korean girl may or may not like the New York artist, whose son is kind of estranged from him. And the Iraqi torturer doesn't trust the Southern con man--neither does the spinal surgeon--and I think they're right. It seems like the fugitive girl is becoming friends with the pregnant Australian and helped her deliver her baby in the jungle...remember how the washed-up British singer kind of likes the Australian? But, it's not his baby, the father is an Australian artist who left her. And it's so weird that the bald guy was paralyzed, but the plane accident made him walk again and..."

I remember being able to interject, "Wait, all these characters are on the same show?"

She nodded before continuing her detailed, rambling synopsis, ending with, "...and the father yelled for his son, but we thought they were coming for the baby with the crazy French chick. And then they sailed away with the child."

Okay, with an introduction like that, I was exhausted, but intrigued. I netflixed Season 1 of Lost, disc by disc, and became obsessed. One episode would end at 2:15 in the morning and I'd ludicrously tell myself, "Oh, good! There's time for one more episode!"

I'm not sure exactly what is so compelling about the show to so many diehard fans. My guess is that it comes down to two words: mystery and intelligence. Now that Season 5 just ended this week---and the final season will begin in early 2010, there are still as many unanswered questions as there were at the end of the first season. But the ride is actually great fun for those who are patient. The writers never, ever underestimate the intelligence of the viewer. I've checked out numerous message boards online after most episodes. Since the show is popular internationally, someone is always able to supply language translations--don't expect the show to subtitle the Portuguese or Latin--, backgrounds on philosophers whose names are frequently given to characters, and expanded scientific theories. And, still, no one anywhere has been able to put the puzzle pieces together.

I'm still thinking about this season's finale. If the unnamed man talking with Jacob, making his first appearance in the series, is able to inhabit John Locke's dead body--let's just call him Unlocke--did he also inhabit the bodies of the fallen leader's daughter? The spinal surgeon's alcoholic father? What about the smoke monster? And was the nuclear explosion "the incident" referred to in the future, or was it the exposure of the magnetic anomoly? Did the bomb reset everything forward thirty years to the moment before anyone boarded the fated plane or just after the plane crashed, forcing them to relive an endless loop of sorts?

I think I'll need until 2010 to work on my theories. Right now, I'm still lost.

Suite Dreams

2009-05-14T19:20:00.001-07:00

A few friends noticed the photographs of the amazing, wrap-around hotel suite we stayed in on our recent trip to New York City. I haven't had the opportunity to explain the bad luck/good luck combination that brought us to those lavish-for-us accommodations.

I will not--will not!--pay New York City hotel prices. Instead, I save up member reward points with a couple of international hotel chains until I have enough for a night in Manhattan. This year followed the routine and I booked a double room at a very well-located hotel. (Since the hotel was actually fabulous, I'm not going to mention it by name. You'll soon know why.) After arriving from D.C., we checked in and went straight to our assigned room. We dropped the luggage on the floor and sank into chairs while my husband walked around to inspect the room, as is his obsessive habit.

"Karla!" He called from the bathroom," There is diarrhea on the toilet!"

I literally sprang to my feet, "Oh, come on! Not really?"

I walked into the bathroom area gingerly, truly not wanting to be a witness at this point.

I looked around, "Where?"

"There!" My husband pointed to the area, crevice really, between the toilet seat and the back of the toilet.

"Okay," I walked to the phone, "I'm calling the front desk. They'll hopefully change our room."

So, I called and politely explained the situation. The reaction was as if I'd told them the room was splattered with blood. They asked us to come to the front desk and, as I'd expected, be given keys to a different room.

As the elevator doors opened into the lobby, a man who looked uncannily like Nathan Lane was pacing and stopped as we stepped out.

"Excuse me, but are you the Bryants?

"Yes."

He actually was in a sweat. "I'm Mr.__________, the Housekeeping Manager, and I cannot express our complete regret for what you've just gone through. There is absolutely no excuse for such a thing to have happened and I will do everything that is within my power to make things right for you."

I really felt quite sorry for him.

"We will give you a suite on the 37th floor for your stay. I think you'll like it. Let me personally bring you to the suite."

Which he insisted on doing. Yeah, the suite was beautiful with views of the Hudson River, Times Square, and Central Park. Magnificent. We thanked him and he went back to the lobby with us.

"Now," he said, turning to us,"I would also like to pay for lunch for you and your family in appreciation of your being so understanding about this awful situation."

I hesitated, glanced at my husband, then turned back to the Housekeeping Manager. "No, really, it wasn't that much diarrhea. We certainly appreciate the suite, but lunch would just be too much."

He looked genuinely startled, but a little pleased at the same time. "Really, I want to make sure..."

"No, it's really okay." I smiled. "We're good."

When we came back that night and entered the suite, we just stared at the brilliant evening views of the city. It was a perfect example of how a little bad luck can turn into great good fortune. Still, not sure we need an exact repeat.

All Is Vanity

2009-05-12T07:02:00.000-07:00

I was at the gym last night, which is still a very odd thing for me to hear myself say. In February, I joined a gym for the first time in my life. But, you reach that point when you actually care about cholesterol and rapid at-rest heart rates and losing the weight you can no longer deny you've gained. So, "typical" gym members are still novel to me. In my class last night, I saw a woman who was at least ten years older than me. And, shockingly to me, she had her bleached hair in a Chrissy-from-Three's Company side ponytail, wore a rhinestone hairband, and her outfit had a pattern that looked like--surely not?--My Pretty Pony. I wanted to grab her shoulders, force her to look in the wall mirror, and tell her, "Honestly, it's not a good look for you!"

Not too long ago, I ran into a local man I'd met before. It had been about two years since I'd last seen him and now I was in a checkout line behind him. At least, I thought it was him. It was weird. The person in front of me, based on his profile, both looked like and unlike the person I thought he was. Then, he turned around and smiled at me, "Hi, Karla! How have you been?" Well, I know I had to have been wide-eyed for a moment. He looked like he'd gone to a plastic surgeon with a 1990's photograph of Jon Bon Jovi and told the doctor, "Here. Make me look like him." Again, someone older than me now had Jon Bon Jovi's lips, nose, and highlighted Jovi-esque hair...he even wore Jovi-colored contacts. But, none of the individual parts seemed to fit the shape of his face. It was so very strange and there was nothing on his face I could comfortably look at while talking with him. (And, yes, in case you're wondering, I believe it's highly unlikely either of these people would read this blog.)

What is going on? Throughout history, people have always tried to improve their looks and maintain a somewhat youthful appearance. But, I'm beginning to feel like there's a whole generation of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? look-alikes out there, thinking they look great. I suppose the primary question is: What is the goal of injections of toxins and potentially dangerous surgeries? To fool other people into thinking you're twenty years younger than you are? Okay, but to what end?

The usual answer lies in a deep fear of mortality. The longer you can keep old age at bay, the longer you'll live. There could be a kind of delusional hopefulness that if you look young, you really are young. You can pretend death is not inevitable. Sadly, I suspect it may be more shallow than that. I think there are people who have seen their looks as their main asset for so long, they may not have developed many other gifts or talents. If their looks fade, so do they. And that, admittedly, would be a terrifying prospect.

I look back on what I looked like when I was in my late teens and early twenties and I think I looked a little...vapid. Part of me would love to be 115 lbs. again and have a completely smooth face.I also look back on who I was then. I was never pretty enough to have been truly conceited, but there were times when I was smart enough that I became, regrettably, a little arrogant. Even though I'd paid the price for that over and over again and have fully learned that lesson, it saddens me a little. I'm grateful that I now have real humility, genuine compassion for others, and wisdom resulting from years of experience. Those are three traits I'm sure my 115 lb. self would not have thought about too much.

So, do I want to be younger? Would I like to be my reckless, headstrong, prone-to-bad-decisions self again? No, not really. I'd rather look at people and the world through eyes that have learned important things through the years, even if those eyes bear a few well-earned lines.

GeeksOn

2009-05-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

It may have come to some readers' attention that I tend to be a bit...geeky about things. By geeky, I don't necessarily mean simply being a sci-fi or rpg (role playing game) fan. Actually, I'm not an rpg fan. I mean having interests that are researched until a deeper-than-usual knowledge is gained on particular topics. Almost to the point of making less obsessive people a bit uncomfortable.

If my husband is a classical music geek (I've learned the answer to most of his questions is either Ralph Vaughan Williams or Handel), I've always been a history geek. When I was about 12, I became fascinated by the end of the Tsarist era in Russia. It probably was triggered by the movie Nicholas and Alexandra, though I have no idea why it grabbed hold of my imagination so strongly. It was unspeakably beautiful and horrible all at the same time. I read every book the library had on the last of the Romanovs and had acquired a huge collection of interesting facts about the people, places, and events of that period. I would have been an excellent conversationalist on the subject, but never managed to find anyone remotely curious about the topic. And that lack of an audience is unfortunately a frequent hallmark of geekiness. People politely express interest in your subject, but make it clear they have their limits.

My friend, Susan, and I always tend to delve deeply into a variety of movies or television shows that interest us. I mean, way beyond the, "Who stars in it?" kind of casualness. We've not yet been able to out-geek each other. And, as I'd written before, she frequently encouraged me to listen to a podcast called GeeksOn. My podcast backlog always seemed too long as it was, but I finally gave it a listen. And I haven't stopped.

What struck me was that I was listening to people like Susan and myself (not to mention my more typically geeky son), people who find out everything they possibly can about subjects that are of interest to them. They had astonishing amounts of detail about film, video games, television shows, technology, comic books, rpgs, and more. And, wonderfully, they had an audience to listen to them. An audience of people like them...people like us, who do not set limits as to how much detail we'll listen to about a topic. Based in LA, one of the hosts is a graphic artist, one a video game professional, one a screenwriter and director, and another, an actor. So, they're often able to find even more background on topics than the rest of us. It also helps tremendously that the hosts are entertaining, engaging individuals in their own right.

There's a basic format to the show: The hosts first discuss their Geek Week, followed by Geek News, then on to the geek topic of that particular episode. The latter is the heart of the podcast, when lively, often impassioned discussions erupt over any number of subjects: civil rights in sci-fi worlds, robots and AI, non-traditional comics, interviews with guests like Joss Whedon and George R. R. Martin, reports on events like Comic-Con and the Electronic Entertainment Expo, and, of course, episodes focused on specific films or television shows.Some of the topics are things I know little about, others are right on target to my interests.

I listened for some time before actually going to their website, http://www.geekson.com/, and joining the forums. I was reluctant since my experience with other forums or message boards had been that they became a little bland after a while. One post would look like another. Geekson has been very different. The members are usually intelligent, creative individuals with strong opinions. That alone prevents things from getting dull. But, I love the uniqueness of each member. I believe someone could show me a post with no name or avatar attached to it and I could guess with some accuracy who wrote it. I'm not sure I could do that successfully with many people from my daily life.

Ultimately, GeeksOn is all about community. A community of people who feel passionately about their interests and have, at long last, found their audience.

Star Trek: Full of Praise, Full of Spoilers

2009-05-08T23:41:00.000-07:00

I didn't bother to even try to write a new blog post yesterday. It seemed the only thing people were talking about, the one thing people were thinking about, was the new Star Trek movie. I include myself in the collective. Now that I've just seen the film, it's the single thing I want to write about.

I am exhilarated and I can't quite remember the last time I left a movie theater feeling that way. I mean, I went into this with absurdly high expectations, particuarly for a non-Trekkie. While I was in line, I began to worry that this alone would set me up for disappointment. But there was no disappointment. None. J.J. Abrams has made a Star Trek movie that soars on every level.

The first thing that comes to mind is that this is a visual feast of a film. The pallette is brilliant and, at times, almost jewel-like. The spaceships are incredibly detailed and sharply stylized. Everytime one was under attack, along with expected pity for loss of life, I kept thinking, "Wait! Don't destroy it yet... I want them to walk around more so I can see more of the ship!" I couldn't get enough of the ships' interiors --or exteriors. The special effects were amazing, even in this jaded era of nearly miraculous CGI. The action scenes delivered every time. For the most part, it felt like a film too big for any screen.

An annoying issue with action movies is when humor is simply tacked on to keep it from being "too heavy". The problem is the humor used is usually generic and banal. In Star Trek, the levity worked everytime. It made sense to the situation, to the characters, and that's what made it genuinely funny. There was more real laughter at those times than I've heard during a comedy for a very long time. The script got it just right.

I'd been eager to see what fresh interpretations new actors would bring to the familiar roles and was thrilled. Chris Pine surprised me. Based on the trailers, I thought he could be an acceptable James T. Kirk. And, that's kind of how it started out. But, as the movie progressed, he created a Kirk who was actually interesting and more complex than one would expect. The entire supporting cast was magnificent. It was a perfect example of what ensemble acting should look like when it works. McCoy, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, Scotty (!)...all of them were spot-on, none were there to simply fill in the chair of a character. But, as it perhaps should be, the big standout was Zachary Quinto as Spock. Time after time, I was unexpectedly and deeply moved by the character. After relinquishing the position of Captain to Kirk, I was absolutely riveted watching Spock walk down a corridor in silence. I don't know how Quinto did it, but it seemed like I could feel all his conflicts, his shame, his sorrow, his confusion, at once. Leonard Nimoy's presence, instead of feeling like a wink or cheap trick, was also notably moving and felt completely right. Nimoy added just the necessary amount of gravitas to give the movie some grounding to its roots.

I feel absolutely thrilled. Star Trek was a soaring, vigorous, unpredictable and, ultimately, completely satisfying ride that I'd love to go on again and again.

Non-Trekkie Catches Star Trek Fever

2009-05-06T09:00:00.000-07:00

I'm really surprised and a little unnerved at how excited I am to see the new Star Trek movie. Mainly because I've never been a Star Trek fan, always more of a Star Wars geek. In my mind,

there're specific differences between the two. There's the image of the old school Trekkies as somber devotees of a camp 1960's television show. They are obsessed with the minutia of specific tv episodes ala Galaxy Quest. Star Wars fans, on the other hand, have farther-reaching interests in filmmaking, science, and mythology. At least that's how I prefer to describe the side I'm on.

As I'd written/confessed earlier, a few years ago, we'd attended a Star Wars convention. One of the first things we saw when we arrived was someone costumed as Jar Jar Binks, wearing a sign reading, "Stop the hate!" I can't describe how relieved I was to be able to think, "Oh, good! They have a sense of humor." And, honestly, throughout the convention, there were conversations about filmmaking, science, and mythology.

This week, as everyone with access to media knows, the new Star Trek movie by J.J. Abrams is going to premiere. And I can't wait. Cannot. Wait. Primarily for five particular reasons:

1. New CGI capabilities. I'd like to see what Star Trek looks like with the technology the storyline deserves. Think of the potential if the special effects actually look convincing. Imagine if they're dazzling.

2. Directed by J.J. Abrams. I know people tend to admire or criticize him, but no one can deny that the man is smart and creative. He himself is no Star Trek fan and has promised to make a relatively unhampered film that's an exciting sci-fi story with plenty of action. And I believe him. (Of course, I also have faith that Lost, the series he co-created, will satisfy fans at the end of its final season next year. Call me an Abrams optimist. In spite of Fringe.)

3. Completely new cast. It's refreshing and bold to have new, young actors playing roles that have been around for four decades now. Zachary Quinto looks especially compelling as Spock and I imagine that may have been the hardest role to cast. New actors will allow for some unique interpretations and keep things from being too predictable. I hope.

4. The trailer. When I saw the first trailer, honestly, it reminded me a little too much of some scenes from Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones. But, then, a newer trailer appeared that looked so impressive that I immediately replayed it several times. So much potential to be a great action, sci-fi movie,...everything onscreen looked amazing. Definately not a wait-for-it-on-dvd film.

5. My very specific, personal treat: Simon Pegg as Scotty. I love Simon Pegg. Loved him in Spaced, in Shaun of the Dead, in Hot Fuzz, in Run, Fatboy, Run. I can't quite wrap my brain around him as Scotty, but it will be so much fun to see. As long as I can eventually believe him as Scotty and not just Simon Pegg playing the role.

If the film pulls it off by living up to most of the hype and proves to be the movie everyone's wanted to see, it certainly will breathe new life in the franchise. In that case, it will deserve to live long and prosper.

Why I'm Going To Stop Apologizing For Loving Walt Disney World

2009-05-05T07:48:00.000-07:00

It began like this: It had been a rough year. We were parents of a six year old boy. A relative generously offered us passes to Walt Disney World. That's how it all started.

Until that point, I was far from being a Disney fan. As a child, my father was especially careful about the quality of the books I had and, when I was very young, he would read to me from A.A. Milne's Winnie-the-Pooh books, pointing out the charming pen and ink illustrations by Ernest Shepherd. When I saw an image of the Disney version of a brightly colored Pooh wearing a tiny red t-shirt, Dad expressed his outrage. Disney had turned sweet, subtle children's stories into a crass movie. The carefully detailed Shepherd drawings had been replaced by flat, unimaginative animation. Comparing the two side by side, I still have to agree with my father. Disney products weren't part of my childhood...other kids had them. It was like having a friend whose mother smoked or whose father gambled. Fine for their household, but it was certainly not going to be a part of ours.

As I got older, I moved in circles where Disney snobbery was the norm. One Disney movie was panned after another...not that anyone I knew had actually seen them. And Walt Disney World was a whole other thing. One person reported that Disney World paid their employees to water fake plants to encourage the illusion the foliage was real. Another said all the fish in the ponds were fake. And, of course, there was endless derision of people--adults, even!--who had their pictures taken with employees wearing acrylic character costumes. Imagine!

Much later, as we flew to Florida--my first time to the state-- I felt that we were doing a kind of rite of passage for our son. After this trip, he'd have experienced Disney World and we could move on with our travels. Surely my husband and I could endure being there for a week.

We picked up the rental car and drove to the on-site (yes, really!) Disney hotel, Wilderness Lodge. And when we walked in, we were astonished. Not a cartoon character in site. Just magnificent architecture in stone and wood with a bridged stream running through the lobby. My husband and I looked at each other. We were very impressed, but a little confused. At check-in, we were treated as if we were special guests. I hate, hate to say it, but things started feeling a little magical. The view from our hotel room overlooked a large lake and dense woods with a sandy walking trail. It wasn't what I'd imagined at all.

The next day, we hit the parks, starting with Magic Kingdom. I'm not sure if our feelings would have been the same had we not been parents, but it was thrilling to watch our son react with pure wonder at his surroundings. Not that he knew who many of the characters were...it was the whole sensory experience that had enveloped him (okay, us). At Epcot, it was like visiting a world's fair and horticultural festival at the same time. (And we didn't see one fake plant.) At the renamed Hollywood Studios, our wildest Indiana Jones, Star Wars, and fireworks hopes were all met. At Animal Kingdom, it was amazing to see wild animals roaming outside of cages, yet so close. Our experience, however, was much more than just the culmination of the different parts. The quality and attention to detail was such that it became a kind of distinct world apart from our daily lives...which is what a vacation should be. I honestly don't want this to start sounding like an advertisement, so I'll stop my description of Disney World there.

Needless to say, we returned. Okay, we've returned every year. Some families go to Maine every year, some go to the beach every year,...Disney World just happens to be our family's annual vacation spot. And, because of family and friends living all over the place, we've also brought our son to Toronto, Indianapolis, Philadelphia (most years), New York City (many years), Washington, DC, Los Angeles, San Diego, Seattle, Vancouver, BC, the Palm Springs area, and Minneapolis. And, when he's a bit older, we hope to take him overseas with us.

But, for now, unapologetically, Walt Disney World remains our parallel universe of choice.

Donald Trump regrets...

2009-05-04T07:00:00.000-07:00

I don't know why we watched the first season of The Apprentice, but we did. Curiously, our son--who was seven years old at the time--especially looked forward to each week's episode. Thomas picked a favorite and became more and more anxious when it seemed he was in danger of being fired---which he eventually was. Yet, the compelling person on the show for our son, as was the case for many viewers, was The Donald. It may have been his demeanor, his alpha-male posturing, his perceived power...somewhere along the way, our son decided that he and The Donald could be friends.

Thomas kept these thoughts pretty much to himself until he looked online at a picture of the hotel we were going to stay at that year in New York City. It was the Doubletree Guests Suites in Times Square and Thomas managed to notice the golden arches of McDonald's in the photo. So, his picky-eater worries abated. No matter what kind of restaurant we dragged him to, he wouldn't starve with a McDonald's nearby. Then, another idea entered his mind. McDonald's wasn't very expensive. It would be within his allowance's range to treat Donald Trump to lunch there on our trip.

Doubting any outcome from it, I helped Thomas find the Trump Organization's address and let him write a letter. He politely introduced himself to Donald Trump and explained our plans for an upcoming trip to New York City. He invited The Donald to join him for lunch at the Times Square McDonald's and to be assured that Thomas would pay for both Happy Meals and apple pies. He realized that Donald Trump wouldn't recognize him, so included a photo from a Walt Disney World trip in which Thomas is standing next to Chip, of Chip and Dale fame. At the bottom of the letter, he added the reason he was including a photo and pointed out, "I'm not the chipmunk." The letter was sent.

It wasn't too long before I stepped on the porch to get the mail and saw an envelope from the Trump Organization, addressed to our son. We opened it together and read:

"Dear Tom:

Thank you for your recent letter and picture.

Your invitation to treat me to lunch at McDonald's is much appreciated. My busy schedule does not permit me to meet with you.

Best wishes with your future endeavors and enjoy your trip to New York.

Sincerely,

[signature]

Donald J. Trump"

Although the message was short, the signature was obviously genuine and it was exciting for Thomas to think his letter had really been read. He wondered briefly if he should start going by "Tom". He continued to loyally watch The Apprentice. He has to be prepared in case he ever does meet The Donald.

When It Became Real

2009-04-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

I'd written earlier about the decades old search my sister and I had undertaken to discover our adopted mother's natural parents. When we were miraculously contacted by our previously- unknown-cousin, two facts became known during the first conversation: 1. Our grandmother had not died during childbirth as we'd been told and 2. Our grandmother had been Jewish, as we'd not been told.

By coincidence, my husband was scheduled to have a conference in a few months in the city in which my grandmother had grown up and where, we discovered, my great-grandfather had died. I tried, both online and by calling various cemeteries, to find out where my great-grandfather had actually been buried. I finally had success with a call to a large Jewish cemetery and wrote down his plot number.

My father's side of the family had been primarily German Protestant and I grew up with that as the only ethnicity to which I knew I belonged. When I spoke with our previously-unknown-cousin, she'd explained that they knew there'd been Jewish heritage in the family, but our grandmother had never practiced her faith and had certainly never exposed her children to it. In fact, her youngest child never knew anyone in the family had been Jewish until she was an adult. Which brought to mind the persistent question, "What is a Jew?" As a practicing Catholic, would I also claim to be Jewish? Is it valid as an ethnicity, as a race, even if it's not your religion? It seemed an impossible question to fully answer.

But, I did know that a very rich, vibrant heritage had been abandoned by two generations. As a genealogist, it genuinely bothered me to think of all the ancestors who had been forgotten, all their treasured rituals and traditions unknown and meaningless to their descendants. I knew I'd read somewhere about stones being put on the headstones of Jewish tombstones as a sign of respect. I was determined that, when I stood before my great-grandfather's headstone, I'd do the right thing as a descendant.

There seemed to be many explanations for the tradition, but the constant among them was that it was a sign of remembrance...that others would see the stones and know that person was not forgotten. So, my sister and my cousin (son of my mother's twin brother, who had joined the search) mailed me stones from their backyards. I took stones from my backyard and put them all in a bag that I packed in my backpack.

When we arrived at the cemetery, it took a while to find the right plot. I stood in silence in front of a large tombstone, carved with words written in Hebrew and a Star of David at the top. It was an extraordinary moment. Until this point, every result from my effort to know my maternal heritage had been on pieces of paper or on computer screens. And, after twenty-some years, it had all brought me to this spot. By this point, I'd learned enough to know that my great-grandfather had been far from perfect and had left scars on many who had known him. Yet, for that moment in time, I was his descendant...one he never knew he had, yet one who remembered him and who carefully placed the small stones on his empty headstone.

VCE: Very Curious Employees

2009-04-29T19:24:00.001-07:00

When I was out East recently, I ran into Joe A., the exceptionally talented landscape designer I worked with for over ten years. We had just enough time to get superficially caught up, then it was time to go. It's always a problem when you try to see a lot of people within a few days. I wish we'd had more time to talk. I wish we could have reminisced about a few former employees we'd known. Many--most--had been wonderful individuals. It's just a few who stand out as being somewhat curious.

The first one who comes to mind was Alex. Older than others applying for a position, he came in for the interview with excellent credentials and an unsubtle way of letting us know that he came from an "old money" local family. Alex had a very winning, courteous way about him. Joe hired him and sent him out on a routine landscape installation. That's when the first indication of trouble came. The foreman, never one to complain, called from the site to question Alex's insistence that dozens of rosebushes be planted up to their buds, with their stems completely underground. I can't recall, or imagine, what rationale was given. But, a shadow had certainly been cast over Alex's horticultural credentials.

A couple of weeks later, I found a datebook on my desk that didn't belong to me. I opened it up to see whose it was when a stack of Polaroid photos fell out. They were weirder than I'd feared. In each one, Alex had clearly taken photos of himself, usually looking suprised or astonished. His eyes would be artificially wide, eyebrows up, his mouth slightly open. In some, his cheeks were sucked in and he gave the camera a Vogue-ish stare. A few were slightly blurry images of his facial profile with his hand artfully propped under his chin. The other hand had obviously, shakily taken the picture. What was even stranger, if that's possible, was that I then noticed all the appointments listed on his calendar were with himself, i.e. lunch with Alex, movie with Alex, discuss budget with Alex, do laundry with Alex. I'm pretty sure it was at this point that I spoke with Joe and showed him the evidence of my concern. We were at a loss for words.

Then there was the wonderfully quiet landscaper, John. So he could keep track of weather affecting work hours, Joe had requested that every landscaper write in a brief description of the day's weather next to his hours for the day. A man of few words, John simply wrote "sh***y" for his daily weather report. Even when it had been a sunny, mild day. I think I never heard him actually speak until he mentioned he'd have to leave work early since he was a Big Brother and had a function to attend. Glad he worked hard as a role model.

Sometimes, an employee's strengths and weaknesses were apparent from the start. The gravel in front of the 18th century garden center had thinned out in areas, as often happened during busy seasons. Joe showed a new employee a pile of gravel in the back and a large, industrial wheelbarrow, already filled with gravel.

"Just take this around front and rake it in where it's needed," Joe explained.

We were upstairs in the office a minute later when Joe glanced out the back window, then waved me over. The new employee had managed to lift up the whole wheelbarrow--including the gravel--and was staggering towards the front with it. Amazing. The concept of a wheel hadn't been absorbed by everyone yet.

Joe called out to him, "Put the wheelbarrow down! Just roll it out front!"

"No, that's okay, I got it."

And, Joe, if you're reading this, I know you could add quite a bit to the list.

The Dog Who Changed Me

2009-04-28T14:57:00.000-07:00

As a passionate dog lover, it amazes me that I had been terrified of dogs for...decades. When I was very young, their sharp, loud barks were my fear triggers. I recall my older sister tying my red wagon to the back of her bike for a trip-around-the-block adventure. While careening wildly behind her, my anxiety rose when an unfamiliar German shepherd came bounding towards us. Always quick to think, my sister hopped off her bike, untied the wagon, and rode home as fast as she could. I sat, paralyzed with fear, as the dog circled and sniffed, but then went on his way. Relieved, I ran home, dragging my wagon behind me. Later, I found out that when my sister had arrived home and was questioned as to my whereabouts, she'd replied, "Oh, she's coming. She's right behind me."

Things didn't improve. A childhood friend, convinced she would end my fear of dogs once and for all, brought me over to our neighbors' yard. Their large, impressive boxer stood in front of their porch.

"First," my friend advised, "Just say the dog's name quietly." She looked at the dog. "Hi, Val. Hi, Val." She turned back to me. "Your turn."

"Hi, Val," I said with completely unconvincing friendliness.

"Now," my friend prepared me for Step Two, "Slowly hold out your hand for Val to sniff it, to get to know you."

She held out her hand and, in a split second, there was a sudden lunge, scream, and blood as Val neatly bit into my friend's stomach. I don't even remember getting help, but I know I did. My friend was actually hospitalized for days. And I successfully avoided dogs well into my adult life.

Then, I became a mother. And when our son was about six years old, his greatest desire was to have a dog. I invented all kinds of conditions when I noticed my husband also warming to the idea.

"It can't be larger than a cat when full-grown," I would begin, "And it has to be a puppy so we know it doesn't have a history of aggression."

After every empty-handed return from the shelter, I was relieved. Then, the shelter's director called me.

"We have the perfect puppy for you. He's adorable! Just five weeks old."

"What kind of breed?"

"We can't be positive, but we think he's a beagle-chihuahua mix. He's white with black dots...you have to see him!"

Dutifully, we drove straight to the shelter. And we saw, truly, the most adorable little puppy. Pretty much like the one illustrated in the old Pokey Little Puppy book. When I cautiously stared into his eyes, I could see nothing but an abundance of sweetness. He'd already won the approval of my husband and son.

"Okay," I agreed, "Okay."

The little puppy was named Wallace aka Braveheart. The tiny "beagle-chihuahua mix" somehow grew into a 105 lb. setter-dalmatian-pointer mutt. And, ironically, he became My Dog and constant companion for 5 years. Whatever room I was in, he was there. Anytime I walked somewhere, he was by my side. I've tried, but I still cannot bring myself to write about his unforeseen illnesses and untimely death. But, he was the sole reason for my switch from dog-fearer to dog-lover.

I remember being shocked at the silence of our house with Wallace's absence. And now our current wonderful shelter dog, Abbey [whom I have promised will get her own blog entry], has him to thank for her new home.

All Aboard

2009-04-27T07:33:00.000-07:00

Having been away for a week, there're many wonderful experiences I could write about...meeting new and old friends, meaningful time with extended family, adventures in three major cities within one week...instead, I'm going to write about an Amtrak experiment.

My father and I had gotten into something of a debate over whether Business Class on Amtrak provided any genuine value or not. To my thinking, a footrest and more space sounded worth the nominal extra money for the 3+ hour ride from Washington, DC to NYC after three hectic days. Dad claimed the same cars were used for both so-called "Business Class" as for the regularly-priced "Quiet Car". I decided to put his theory to the test. So, it was comfortable Business Class for the longer ride to NYC and Quiet Car for the shorter, 1 1/2+ hour ride from NYC to Philadelphia.

No complaints at all about the journey north. Coming back, we entered the Quiet Car and looked around for seats. I did notice the seats were smaller and there were no footrests. I usually sit across from my husband and son when we're faced with two-seat rows and I sat in a seat midway in the train car. Just before my husband sat down, I noticed his intended seat was covered with a watery splotch.

"Wait! Wait!" He turned around. "Don't sit there, it's wet."

"Wet with what?"

"I don't know and don't want to know."

By this point, many of the two-seat rows had single occupants, so my husband and son quickly took the row in front of the original choice. The train started and, after a minute, my husband suddenly stood up and looked down at his seat. He walked over to me.

"That seat's wet, too! It soaked through my pants!"

"Eww! What is it?"

"I don't know and don't want to know." He looked a little frantic. "Surely, it's rain."

I stared at his abandoned seat. "How would it be rain? It's the aisle seat, not the window seat, and there aren't any leaks."

He moved with our son to the next row forward, glanced down, then hissed at me, "This seat is wet, too!"

By now I was trying to figure out how this could be possible. How could there be three aisle seats, one after the other, soaking wet? The Quiet Car has a sign, reminding people to refrain from talking or using their cell phones...surely a reminder that there were toilet facilities available shouldn't be necessary?

Eventually, my husband and son ended up quite a bit away from me. At the next stop, a man boarded and slid in the seat in front of me. Before he sat down, he smiled and we exchanged pleasantries. In spite of the very clear Quiet Car warnings, he began talking to me about any number of things.

Then, he asked the awkward, "Which station do you get off at?"

Before I could say a word, my husband had instantly appeared, suddenly reviewing our travel itinerary. I guess the man in front of me got the hint and began observing the Quiet Car rules. My husband walked slowly back to his seat. Maybe a little too slowly. It was only then that I'd realized the seat of his pants were visibly soaked from his earlier train seat. But, no one said anything. It was the Quiet Car.

My sister, the sister

2009-04-15T21:21:00.000-07:00

It seems curious that two women from a German Protestant background independently converted to Catholicism. Surely, it must seem strange to our father. I remember writing to an elderly aunt in Germany, asking if anyone in the family there was Catholic. "Yes," came her carefully written response, "There were Catholics in the family. But, that was before the Reformation." Point taken.

I keep thinking it was inevitable that my younger sister became a nun. Even before Catholicism had entered my own consciousness, I remember asking someone, "Doesn't it seem like Sarah would make a perfect nun?" Really, nothing could have seemed like a less feasible outcome, in spite of my feelings that her personality was suited for the vocation. It was so far out of anything in our family's experience. It was so counter-cultural in a very real way.

My husband and I had taken a long, arduous road to conversion. But, it felt like a very private journey, discussed solely between our priest, my husband, and myself. My sister, who is 18 years younger than me, was at college at the time when I remember she began to ask a few vague questions about Catholicism. I answered as best I could and no further discussions really followed.

Until she called to tell me that she'd decided to become Catholic. I think that was the moment that my earlier image of her came to mind. If she was going to become Catholic, how could she not become a nun? Things of this world never held much fascination for her, but the spiritual life had always called her. There was nothing for her to run away from, but there was everything for her to run to.

We're on the East Coast for a week, trying to see as many friends and family members as possible. And, on Saturday, we'll be visiting my sister at her convent in Maryland. My little sister, now so serene, strong, and centered. Just as I always imagined her at her best.

Kindred Spirits

2009-04-15T10:37:00.001-07:00

I suppose I have my friend, Susan, to thank for much of what happened. We would frequently compare which media and geeky (as in pop culture enthusiasm) podcasts we listened to and check out each others' recommendations. One day on our way to lunch, she mentioned once again that I needed to listen to one of her favorite podcasts, GeeksOn (as in Geeks On: Moral Rights of Superheroes...Geeks On: Police States in Sci-Fi, etc.). I kept meaning to listen, but hadn't yet. As she was again trying to sell me on the podcast, I realized that the subjects would actually have high appeal for my then-11 year old son.

"So, I could let Thomas listen?"

Susan turned to me, veering slightly on the street as she drove, "Oh, no...you couldn't just let him listen without being there to edit it."

"Why?"

"Well, some language and some comments would be very funny to us, but are not really right for someone Thomas' age."

So, Thomas and I began listening to GeeksOn. We became fans. The hosts came from different areas in the entertainment industry and it was always interesting to hear their take on things. Thomas felt like he'd found people who researched their favorite movies, tv shows, and video games with the same passion he did. And, when he was faced with staggering disappointment in a video game rental, he was determined to email the hosts to let them know about his outrage.

"Um, I understand why you want to do this, but I really don't think those guys have the time to write to you just because you felt misled by advertising."

No matter. The email was sent and, soon after, Thomas received a thoughtful, helpful reply from one of the GeeksOn hosts, screenwriter and director, Peter Robinson. Not only did he empathize with Thomas, he wisely encouraged Thomas to continue to speak out against injustice all his life. Very impressive.

Shortly after, I was going for a walk, listening to a GeeksOn episode in which Peter Robinson's mother was being interviewed about "raising a geek". As I listened, I was almost unaware of my surroundings as I became more and more startled by the very specific ways in which Peter and Thomas were so similar as children. Same strengths, same quirks, same creative way of seeing the world. It was uncanny.

More emails were exchanged. Phone conversations followed with suggestions about film schools and early steps towards filmmaking. And, last July, we made our first trip to the geek mecca of San Diego's Comic-Con. We knew Peter and some of the other GeeksOn hosts were going to attend and hoped we'd have the chance to meet up.

We did get to meet. I'm glad that in spite of my doubt that he'd ever get a response, Thomas followed his instinct to send that first email. And I will always love the picture we took when Thomas met Peter Robinson for the first time. Whenever I look at it, two words come to mind: kindred spirits.

Revenge Is Sweet, Even If Bitter

2009-04-14T07:54:00.000-07:00

I have no idea why I was so exceptionally naive as a child. All I know is that my older sister gleefully took full advantage of the fact. She finessed her wildly imagined terrors for me most perfectly when it came to one subject: chocolate.

I guess this came to mind now because, at Easter, I would hand over my candies to my solicitous sister. She would explain that too many chocolates would make me quite sick. I'd be in pain. Out of the kindness of her heart, she would accept my candy to help me avoid disasterous temptation. I was always very grateful to her.

Halloween brought this scheme to a new level. I'd never known, before my sister informed me, that crazy people could fit miniature razor blades inside candy bars. The number of poisons that could be injected into chocolate was frightening. My sister would bravely take half of one of my candy bars from my orange, plastic jack o'lantern bucket and announce, "Okay, this one is safe. You can have the rest of it, but to be careful, I better take the rest of the candy." I was such a lucky child to have such a courageous sister!

Then, one day, somehow the whole scheme became apparent to me. It was like pulling the curtain back on the mighty Wizard of Oz. If all the candy was so dangerous and sickening, why did my sister happily eat it? How much delicious candy had I missed out on? Somehow, I knew I'd have my revenge.

My father has always been an excellent, from-scratch cook. One evening, he was going to prepare a special dessert that called for chocolate. I saw a huge block of dark chocolate on the cutting board and scraped my fingernail across it, putting the small curl of chocolate in my mouth. It was horrible! Horrible! I hadn't known some chocolate used in cooking could be completely unsweetened and wretchedly bitter. As I hurried to spit the offending chocolate into a paper towel, my vengeful plan emerged.

I picked up the entire block of bitter, unsweetened chocolate and simply stood in the middle of the living room, well within eyesight of my sister. Slowly, I raised the massive chocolate towards my mouth and my sister was beside me in a second. Without a word, she yanked the chocolate out of my hand and managed to quickly bite off a huge corner of it. And, she burst into tears. She ran to the bathroom, trying to scream, but unable to because of the melting bitterness filling her mouth. My mother hurried after her, asking what had happened. I'm sure my father wondered what had happened to the chocolate he'd just put out. And I simply stood there. Smiling.

Horse Sense

2009-04-13T10:00:00.000-07:00

People who know my husband describe him as introspective, intelligent, and rational. I'd be the first to agree with the description. So, it's very puzzling to try to understand what went through his mind on our visit to the Kentucky Horse Park in Lexington.

My sister's family was visiting the area and my niece is particularly enthusiastic about horses. The first-rate Kentucky Horse Park seemed like a perfect day trip. We spent the morning walking across the expansive horse farms, seeing famous thoroughbreds, and learning about the park's mission in caring for old racehorses. For horse lovers, it's nirvana. Granted, the food available at the on-site restaurant left much to be desired, but we were a captive audience. And, on this day, food was mainly to serve as fuel for the rest to the afternoon.

After lunch, our son wanted to use the restroom, which was on a sub-level a bit isolated from the rest of the building. My husband went with him. I suppose a combination of boredom and restlessness had built up in my husband as he washed his hands in front of the large restroom mirror.

"Hey, Thomas," he called to our son, still in a stall, "There's a horse in here."

"Right."

"No, there is...listen." My husband started making loud neighing and snorting sounds just as another man entered the restroom. Catching my apparently-alone-husband in mid-neigh, the man avoided eye contact and hurried into a stall. Mortified, my husband ran out of the restroom, leaving Thomas behind.

In the hallway, he realized Thomas wouldn't know where anyone had gone, so he had to wait for him outside the restroom entrance. His one dread was that the other man would come out and wonder why the neighing man was loitering.

Fortunately for my husband, Thomas came out first and he rushed with him to join us for a lecture in the thoroughbred stables. We heard many interesting stories from the guide that afternoon, but I suspect the man in the restroom left with the best story of the day.

St. Thomas More...It's Personal

2009-04-10T16:25:00.000-07:00

St. Thomas More always held a certain amount of fascination for me. Having been raised as a Protestant, that may seem ironic. Yet, there was something not so much about his life, but in his martyr's death that intrigued me. He had been one of the brilliant minds of his time. His intellect and wit won him the deep regard of his peers. As Lord Chancellor of England, he held one of the highest positions imaginable. And he gave everything up rather than compromise his Catholic faith.

Decades ago, I'd been impressed when I'd read about St. Thomas More's life and, also, his classic work, Utopia. When my husband and I first went to London, one of the places we found ourselves on our arrival night was at the steps of Westminster Hall in the Houses of Parliament, where St. Thomas More had been convicted of treason and sentenced to execution. Later that evening, we unknowingly had wandered to the site of his former home in Chelsea, where an imposing statute of him stands. This seemed to happen on subsequent trips, too. It became a pattern of odd little St. Thomas More coincidences.

Years later, my husband and I found ourselves, unexpectedly and to the confusion of our families, on a different kind of journey...a conversion to Catholicism. And, along the way, St. Thomas More served as a kind of beacon on that long road.

Life is rarely as one expects it to be and I'd suffered several miscarriages. In addition to our regular prayers, we decided to do a very Catholic thing: a novena. A novena is simply a discipline (novena meaning nine) in which you say a specific prayer for either nine days, once a week for nine weeks, or once a week for nine months. And, for the many non-Catholics reading this, I'd like to differentiate that Catholics don't pray to saints, we ask for the prayers of those in heaven. Anyway, it seemed the obvious choice was to ask St. Thomas More for his prayers on behalf of our hopes for a family.

And I found myself pregnant again. The baby's due date was the exact date of St. Thomas More's birth. When the doctor scheduled an ultrasound, I half-dreaded the appointment. In the past, this was when we'd found out there was no longer any movement, the heartbeat had stopped. Then, I noticed the date for the ultrasound was St. Thomas More's feast day. It seemed we were being reminded each step of the way that we had a friend in high places.

When our son was born, we knew we had no choice but to name him Thomas. Really, how could we not? And, I hope that like his patron saint, he'll grow up to be just, kind, wise, and faithful...a man always true to himself.

Aunt Teddy

2009-04-09T07:24:00.000-07:00

I'd heard many "Aunt Teddy" stories before actually meeting my husband's aunt. I guessed most of them had been exaggerated for comic effect. But, that was before I'd met her. Now I think the stories had been toned down.

Aunt Teddy is the physical personification of Mrs. Claus. In fact, people reading this who know her will wonder if the photo above is actually her, wearing a wig of longer hair. No, it is not her, but it could be. She's that sweet. She's that Mrs. Claus-like.

Along with being sweet, she's also easily flustered. She reacts unpredictably when caught off guard. Like the time her minister's wife asked her for a cookie recipe and Aunt Teddy began with, "Well, I know you need four f***s of flour---". As soon as the words were out, she turned scarlet in disbelief that "four cups of flour" could have come out so very wrong.

Another time, I was talking with her daughter, my dear, dear friend, in the front yard. Aunt Teddy was there as well. My friend and I were discussing how quickly our sons were growing and that they'd outgrown their clothes faster than we'd thought possible.

"I went through Thomas' dresser," I said, "And realized that he has no jeans."

"None at all?" asked Aunt Teddy, just tuning in.

"No, none...no jeans," I said emphatically. "Crazy, isn't it"

Aunt Teddy was getting her baffled look. "But, I really don't see how it's possible."

"Well, it is. He doesn't have any jeans right now."

She looked more confused. "None? Surely he has some. He has to have some from either you or Peter!" She paused. "I don't think it's scientifically possible otherwise."

That was my clue that Aunt Teddy had thought I was talking about "genes".

Not too long ago, Aunt Teddy moved to a condo in a retirement community where a number of her friends already lived. Once a week, a group of women would gather in the dining room to have a meeting. Their table was near a large gas fireplace that made the environment especially cozy. The maintenance man would kindly turn on the fire before their meeting and turn it off afterwards. One week, Aunt Teddy smiled as he turned the switch.

"Oh, thank you for lighting my fire!" At the outburst of giggling at this statement, Aunt Teddy suddenly rose to her feet to object, only to have her slip fall down around her ankles.

There is something very satisfying and comforting in knowing Aunt Teddy. I think most families somehow need an Aunt Teddy of their own. Every week, she has a new adventure of sorts. And, she's given me an arsenal of stories just waiting to be told.

The Boat That Rocked

2009-04-08T09:21:00.000-07:00

A new Richard Curtis (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, Love Actually) film premiered in London last week, The Boat That Rocked. The premise of the movie is fascinating.

In 1966, the BBC was playing classical music and jazz instead of rock and roll. Their policy was to play two hours of pop music a week. When you think of the overwhelming A-list of British rock bands at the time---The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Yardbirds, The Hollies, etc.--it hardly seems possible. And there were no commercial radio stations to fill in the gap. The situation created the phenomenon of pirate radio ships. With the ships moored in the North Sea, a minimum of three miles offshore to be outside the bounds of English law, they began playing pop and rock music 24 hours a day. And, they eventually had over 25,000,000 listeners.

It was impossible to be alive in the 1960's and not be aware of music. Even though I was too young to have really been part of the era, having a music-loving older sister kept me surrounded by top-of-the-charts records. If my sister was home and in her room, I knew the turntable would be going.

I did, however, have sympathy for grandparents. Well, my paternal grandmother in particular. My grandparents lived in Madison, Wisconsin...always a progressive university city. One summer in the late 1960's, our family visited for a week. It was soon obvious to everyone that the college boys renting the house next door were attempting to be a band. They practiced relentlessly. And only one song: Light My Fire by the Doors. My grandmother was a strict Christian Scientist whose religion banned drinking alcohol, smoking, swearing, and generally bad behavior of any kind. She was also one of the few people I've ever known who simply could not say a bad word about another person. As soon as the opening chords to Light My Fire would start again for the sixth time that hour, my grandmother would smile tightly.

"They certainly have a lot of perseverance."

They really did. More perseverance than talent. The only break our long-suffering grandmother had from a badly played Doors' song was when my older sister would repeatedly play her just-bought 45 record over and over again. Incense and Peppermints by The Strawberry Alarm Clock. It had to have been a tortuous week for our grandmother.

Even though it boasts an impressive songlist, The Boat That Rocked has received mixed reviews. With 59 songs packed into a 129 minute movie, it's no surprise the script has been called lightweight and the plotlines disconnected. There's also the issue of glamorizing the worst excesses of the '60s that claimed far too many casualties. Still, the one thing the film got right, according to several critics, was the music. Actually, music is the one thing the 1960's got very right. The movie isn't scheduled to open here until August. I'll probably see it...and I may also set time aside to listen to a very specific 59 song playlist on my ipod. Great music just never gets old.

Dark Eyes Part I: My Enigmatic Grandmother

2009-04-07T09:28:00.000-07:00

This is going to be a challenge. I don't know where to begin or where to end. I don't know how much to reveal or how much to withhold. I do know that this is the single plotline in my life that I most want to write about in detail...maybe a book, maybe a screenplay. I have to figure it all out first. I only have about two-thirds of the puzzle pieces in place.

It was never a secret that my mother and her twin brother had been adopted. Not that it was talked about frequently. We'd been told their mother had died during childbirth. There'd been the story of the poor widower who, in his grief and poverty, explained to my mother's adoptive parents that he didn't have the means to care for his already large family and would they please adopt the twins. I always imagined him speaking with an Irish accent and, maybe, wearing a cloth cap. Perhaps twisting the hat in his hands.

After our mother died in the 1980's, my sister and I decided to find out whatever we could about our maternal heritage. And through opened court documents, visits to the National Archives, and tireless correspondence, we got almost nowhere. Over twenty years had passed. Then, through a series of fast-moving and stunning coincidences, I found myself face-to-face with my half-cousin and my mother's younger half-sister. My grandmother clearly had not died during childbirth.

I knew my mother had been born in Chicago in 1925. We had her birth mother's name, but could never find any record of her. It never occurred to us that she'd had at least three marriages and used multiple variations of her name. She'd been a terrible mother to her four known children, often disappearing for months at a time. Contrary to our decades-old image of an impoverished grandmother, she'd lived well in Key West, Miami Beach, pre-Castro Havana, and Jamaica. For reasons still unknown, when she would enter nightclubs, bandleaders would immediately stop what the band was playing and change the number to Dark Eyes, a song based on an old Russian folk ballad about a heartless gypsy. It was my grandmother's theme. Literally. Imagine.

The search continues. Now with the generous help of new-found family members who are also curious, there are trails to follow that I would have never imagined on my own. There's a story here that's surprising and compelling and a little bit chilling. It's still a matter of detective work and time before, if ever, the portrait of Dark Eyes is complete.

Leaving New York

2009-04-05T19:10:00.000-07:00

I can't remember how many times I've been to New York City. It started decades ago when, as a child, our family would take the sleeper train from Buffalo, New York. I'd always have the top bunk. Outside the short, rectangular window, all I'd see were the black sky and bright stars. As you'd imagine, the monotonous rhythm of the train would force me to sleep. It was always a flurry of activity when I woke up, hurrying to wash and dress and get off the train at Grand Central Station. It was as if I found myself inside a new world, filled with busy people hurrying past and buildings bigger than I'd seen anywhere. I'd always hold on tightly to my father's hand, feeling giddy at the noise and sights around me.

When I lived in Philadelphia, New York was always my favorite weekend destination. But once, in the pre-Giuliani era, things had gotten rough there. My husband and I noticed it first around Columbus Circle. It was filthy and, atypically, not many people were around. It's always eerie when a normally busy place seems deserted. We stopped in one of our favorite nearby stores. We were the only customers there. That is, until a clearly unbalanced man raced inside.

"Don't argue with me!" He shouted, "Just don't argue with me!"

He charged towards the counter and we quickly edged our way out. Horribly, this seemed to be the pattern all day. Exhausted and dispirited, we ate dinner quietly at an Indian restaurant and were relieved that at least the food was good. The restaurant had felt like a haven from the rest of the city. When we stepped outside, there were few people on the sidewalk. We began walking back to our hotel when we heard footsteps behind us. They seemed to start moving faster, as if they were gaining on us. Fortunately, we were already at our hotel and hurried into the lobby.

"This whole weekend has just been weird and scary," my husband said as we waited for the elevator.

Just then, the elevator doors opened and we stood there, face to face with Stephen King and his wife. What's the likelihood? It had felt like our whole day had been spent inside one of his books. It was perfect. We both tried not to laugh as we got into the elevator and listened to them talk about a book signing earlier that day.

We checked out of the hotel the next morning and started on the drive back to Philadelphia. This was the era of the "squeegee guys". Throughout New York, there were questionable men who would jump out at your car whenever you were stopped and start squeegeeing your windshield, then ask for payment for the unrequested service. It really was a problem for a while. In keeping with the general tone of the weekend, we got treated to an especially memorable squeegee guy. Traffic into the Lincoln Tunnel was inching along when it wasn't at a standstill. We saw a squeegee guy make eye contact and race towards our car. My husband tried to wave him away, but he threw himself into his squeegeeing work with gusto. My husband rolled down his window about 1/2 inch.

"No, come on, stop. Really."

Squeegee Man looked upset, "But, I need a dollar! I need a dollar so I can get my butt washed."

What? Was this an independent business or a franchise that provided the service? He kept repeating himself, but fortunately, traffic finally started moving.

That particular weekend had not gone as planned, but at least we knew that next time, it would be better. And it always was.

Changing Vocations

2009-04-03T14:39:00.000-07:00

Before performing, the pianist Arthur Rubinstein would wear a pair of his deceased mother's black gloves. It comforted him. I only know this because that's what he told my mother once, backstage, when she, too, was a concert pianist. It's one of the very few stories from her performing years that I ever heard. She had quit her profession--suddenly and dramatically--long before I'd been born. She never really gave me a full explanation for her decision. As an adult, I can surmise that it had been a combination of burnout along with a revolt against the career path she'd been set on with minimal choice.

She never really found her bearings in any other career. I can identify with that. I remember I was quite young when I was with my mother and someone asked me if I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. My mother smiled down at me, waiting to hear my reply.

"I'd like to be a go-go dancer with tall white boots."

Nervous laughter from my mother. "Oh, Karla, you don't mean that!"

"No, I do. The ones who dance in cages."

An image from a tv show must have made a big impression on me.

A couple years later, my grandfather gave me a book on home remedies by a Vermont country doctor. Always impatient and looking for the fastest way to my goals, I now had a new profession. In my room at night, I drew a dozen business cards with my phone number and name--in colored pencil--followed by "M.D.". I passed my cards out in my class to those I thought would be the least problematic patients. And, oddly, I started getting calls from some of my classmates. After overhearing the third conversation in which I advised, "Take a tablespoon of warm honey with a glass of warm milk...", my father asked what was going on. I proudly showed him the master copy of my business card and that ended my short-lived medical profession. I was very annoyed.

I think the only career choice I ever made that stayed with me through the years was to be a writer. It waivered between being a bohemian, attic-dwelling poet to being a solid journalist, with many variations in between, but the goal of being a writer became a constant.

There's one memory that will never leave me. As an adult, I lived on the east coast while my mother lived in the midwest. Always close, we'd talk a few times a week. One November evening, she suddenly told me she'd had the piano tuned that day. She wanted to start playing again.

I really didn't know what to say, aside from a mild, "Oh, that's great!"

My brain was trying to wrap around the news. Decades ago, she'd sat before a keyboard in front of a full audience and then, inexplicably, stood up and walked off the stage. She'd never looked back. She'd occasionally played the piano for her parents, who had recently died. Was she going to begin playing for her own pleasure? I wondered if she imagined ever playing in front of an audience again.

"Well, it's late, so I'm going to go for now. I love you."

"I love you, too, Mom." I'd ask her more about it later.

When I was at work the next day, I got a call that my mother had died in a car accident earlier that morning. In the hard, sharp pain of grief, one nagging detail was that she'd never had a chance to play the just-tuned piano. She'd never had the chance to act on the step forward she'd decided to take.

The next week, I received a box from UPS. My mother had mailed it an hour before the accident. Inside was an ivory muslin Christmas tree skirt she'd sewn. Attached was a hand-written note: "I hope you remember me every time you use this."

I do, Mom. I do. All the time. In more ways than you could know.

My Biggest Email Fail. Ever.

2009-04-01T20:41:00.001-07:00

It's so hard to imagine life now without email. Yet, prior to email, it was much more difficult to humiliate yourself in any big way through correspondence alone.

My husband works in management for an NPR affiliate station and, every year, attends a public radio conference. Because of the flexibility of homeschooling, our son and I usually travel with him and take in the historic and cultural attractions of the host city while my husband attends his conference. One morning, during the planning stages, my husband forwarded an email from the national coordinator of the conference, outlining the conference agenda, hotel information, etc. Since I'm irrationally discerning about hotels, he wanted my opinion.

I was tired when I read his email. Our family dog, who had a multitude of health problems, had been up all night. The dog was very pampered and all 105 lbs. of him slept on our bed each evening. But, the previous night, he'd been restless, feverish, and acting oddly. At one point, my husband actually got up and slept on the couch so he could get some rest. He'd made a wise choice. I sleepily replied to his email, detailing how the rest of the night had gone. What I hadn't realized was that I'd clicked "Reply All", so the public radio conference coordinator---who had no idea we had a dog with a man's name--received this email, addressed to my husband

"It was a good thing you slept on the sofa last night. Wallace was really hot all night. I couldn't believe how hot he was. He just wouldn't calm down. I even asked him if he had to use the bathroom, but he didn't seem to want to. He finally got out of bed and I didn't know where he went. I looked down the hallway to see him pulling himself along the carpet by his elbows, dragging his legs behind him. He was acting so weird! He finally got back in bed with me, but neither of us got any sleep."

Oh, and I also criticized the hotel choice.

Neither my husband nor I realized the coordinator had received the email until my husband saw the email return to him from her with this comment: "I don't believe I was the intended recipient of this email." For obvious reasons, she did not want further details of our apparently strange and sordid lifestyle.

I'm still tempted to send her a belated email of just five words: "Wallace was a dog. Honest."

The Force Runs Strong In My Family

2009-04-01T14:09:00.001-07:00

I may actually be the only one to blame. I have a habit of blurting things out before fully considering their consequences. Like when I happened to see online that Star Wars Celebration III tickets had just been released for a convention about 4 hours from our home.

"Look!" I unthinkingly called to my Nabooian son,"There's going to be a Star Wars convention nearby."

I cannot describe how quickly my husband's head turned, with his "What are you doing? What are you doing?" expression of disbelief. Truly, both my boys are Star Wars fans, it's just that my husband 1. hates crowds and 2. doesn't like to consider himself a "Star Wars fan".

Still, we went to the Star Wars Celebration III convention. My son, who had received a Darth Vader voice-changer for his birthday, had only one costume in mind. And, be assured, he would be the only costumed family member. He had his black pants, black turtleneck, black boots, black voice-changer helmet, and needed me to do just one thing: sew a black cape. I'm useless when it comes to sewing machines, but had managed to hand-sew the collar of the cape, so I thought we were good to go. It was pointed out there was no bottom hem to the fast-fraying cloth.

"Okay, don't worry about it! I know we'll be sitting in long lines. I've got a spool of black thread in my backpack and I'll hem it during our waits."

Honestly, I was surprised at how intelligent and interesting so many of our fellow attendees were. There was an editor of a Mexican newspaper covering the event, German engineers, French-Canadian film students. The homeschool mother in me told my son to start listing all the countries of people we met and he could map it when we got home. Hemming the Vader cape kept getting delayed.

On the night before the last day of the convention, I promised I'd sew the hem in the hotel room. I laid the cape out, opened my backpack and took out the spool, empty aside from a few inches that had trailed outside of its zippered compartment. I had a very bad feeling about this.

My son whispered Vader-ishly, "Where's the thread?"

"Apparently, it unspooled all over the convention center." I had to make it right. "Hang on. I'll bet the hotel giftshop sells thread."

I hurried down and raced to the giftshop before it closed. In front of me was a short, silver-haired man. He glanced over his shoulder at me, then turned and smiled charmingly. Had my boys not made me watch every single "making of..." feature of every Star Wars dvd, I wouldn't have known this was the Star Wars swordmaster, Nick Gillard.

But, to be certain, "I'm sorry, are you Nick Gillard?"

"Yes, yes, I am."

I had to think quickly and pulled out a pen and wrinkled piece of paper. "Would you mind very much signing something for my son? "

"Not at all."

He scribbled something hurriedly before it was his turn in line.

I unfolded the paper and read what Nick Gillard had written. My smile disappeared. "Fear is the path to the dark side..."

OK, at the time, I wasn't versed enough in Star Wars trivia to know this was a Yoda quote. I basically thought Nick Gillard had just written an obnoxiously dark and pessimistic message to my young son. I actually was going to confront him, but he had already gone. I mean, what was wrong with this guy?

When I got back to the hotel room, I told my boys about the Nick Gillard meeting and reluctantly, uncertainly, gave the paper to my son. His face lit up.

"It's a Yoda quote!"

I can't say how relieved I was that I hadn't had the chance to blurt anything out to Nick Gillard. He surely would have found my lack of faith disturbing. The Force had been with me.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

2009-03-31T19:21:00.000-07:00

One of the most memorable comments I heard after moving to the South was, "Up North, you put all your crazy people in institutions. Here in the South, we put them on our front porches for everyone to enjoy." I wouldn't label my neighbors as "crazy", but they are sweetly eccentric.

During the early days of our move, when our environment was a chaos of boxes and furniture in the wrong rooms, an elderly neighbor knocked on the front door.

Her greeting was, "What's your favorite pie?"

"Um, I'm not sure."

"Well, I'd just love to make you your favorite pie, but I can't unless you tell me what it is. Now, no arguing, just tell me."

She was serious. "Okay, I guess...rhubarb?"

Crestfallen expression.

"I mean, apple."

She looked away and said nothing.

"Blueberry?"

She smiled broadly, "Why, don't you like chocolate cream pie? I think everyone does."

"Oh, chocolate cream pie sounds great!"

"See? I just wanted to make your favorite."

Curiously, no pie ever arrived.

One of my more fascinating neighbors has a thin mustache, slicked back hair, and the general demeanor of the old movie actor, Ronald Coleman. Except that he has a wonderfully slow, low drawl. A couple of years ago, I stopped to talk with him while I was walking our dog. He had a small rat terrier on a leash.

"What's your dog's name?" I asked.

"Roy." I can't explain how he made the word last for three syllables. "Roy is his name and thank you for asking."

The next year, I saw him out with his dog again.

"How's Roy doing?" I called breezily.

He shook his head. "No, ma'am, Roy died. This is Leroy." The new rat terrier looked very much like Roy. Anyone could have made the same mistake.

Then, six months later, I couldn't help but notice his rat terrier didn't look like Roy or Leroy.

"You have a new dog?"

"Yes, Leroy died," he drawled solemnly. "This is Elroy."

As I walked past my neighbor's driveway, I noticed the backseat of his car was loaded up with big bags of Ol' Roy dog food from Wal-Mart.

Sometimes, I'm not even sure what questions to ask.

Are You Experienced?

2009-03-31T08:53:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, a friend mentioned that the new Sherlock Holmes movie poster reminded him of Jimi Hendrix. He's got a point. His comment also reminded me of my own Jimi Hendrix experience. Not like that! C'mon, how old do you think I am?

I was in Seattle shortly after the Experience Music Project opened. The Experience Music Project, a museum showcasing the roots and origins of primarily rock, gospel, blues, jazz, and soul music, is in an absurdly cool building designed by Frank Gehry.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/randite/229757417/

I seem to remember that our son was young enough and admission high enough that it didn't make sense for all three of us to visit the museum. Between my classical music professional husband, our six year old son, and rockgirl -at-heart wife/mom, it was clear who was going to stay and which two were going back to the hotel.

When I was there, the first floor was dominated by Elvis, The Beatles, and Bob Dylan. I've always been partial to Dylan. When my older sister and I were young, she'd force me to play the boardgame Mystery Date. The goal, she would impatiently explain to me, was to open the plastic door and see your date was going to be The Prom Date, a crewcut blonde in a white tuxedo. Possibly The Bowler, who looked like Buddy Holly. To her endless annoyance, I always squealed in hope that I'd get The Bum, who had a definate Bob Dylan vibe going on.

There was a special exhibit upstairs dedicated to Seattle's hometown star, Jimi Hendrix. I'm not a huge Jimi Hendrix fan. I know about 5 - 10 of his songs. I get what he represented and still represents. I know the aura of cool that seems to form just discussing him. So, I went upstairs at the Experience Music Project. Honestly, the building is an exhibit in itself.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kopanas/111166916/

I was kind of zoning in front of the massive sound and light show when I noticed people walking past me. There were two guys in front of a door who, for the time, looked fairly edgy. Multiple piercings, tattoos, creative hair. As one man neared, the guys pulled open double doors and he entered the area. Several other people walked by, though the "doormen" didn't move. More passed by, still no opening of doors. Wondering what was going on, I began walking towards them. One doorman looked at me, said something quickly to the other, and the doors were opened before me. I stepped inside and saw, initially, Jimi Hendrix' crushed velvet pants and wide-brimmed, feathered hat. So, this was where the exhibit was. I overheard the doormen.

"How do you know every time who's here for Hendrix?"

"I can just tell who gets him or not."

Yeah. As I walked past more hats, guitars, and posters, there was a slight strut to my walk. Yeah.

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"

2009-03-30T13:38:00.000-07:00

I've been so excited about the upcoming Sherlock Holmes movie, starring Robert Downey Jr. In spite of the fact that Guy Ritchie directed it. Regardless of the casting of Jude Law as Watson. The latter is very hard to overlook. Still, it promises to be a fusion of a genuinely talented actor with one of the most memorable fictional characters ever written.

Today, when there was word the Latino Review had a picture of the Sherlock Holmes movie poster on its site, I couldn't click fast enough. This is what I saw:

http://www.latinoreview.com/news/first-look-new-showest-posters-of-sherlock-holmes-500-days-of-summer-the-hangover-easy-virtue-6468

Seriously.

One word immediately sprang to mind: no. The second word was: wrong.

What is going on? It looks like a poster to Godfather IV: The Prequel. I understand that there may be some interesting things that can be done by looking at the character from a new angle, but you can't completely recreate the person. Robert Downey Jr. looks dangerous and compelling and handsome---but, that's not Sherlock Holmes.

One summer, I stayed at my grandparents' home in northern Wisconsin. They'd moved there in retirement from Chicago and had a lovely home in the middle of acres of forest. It was very quiet. On their bookshelf was a large yellow and black bound book, A Treasury of Sherlock Holmes. Full-immersion reader that I was and am, I very much felt that I'd spent weeks in the company of Holmes. I couldn't stop reading. I couldn't stop turning the pages. As I stared over and over at the drawings in The Adventure of the Dancing Men, I imagined Holmes beside me, always smelling of wet wool and tobacco. "Well," he might ask sharply, "What do you see?" Of course, just like Watson, I could never figure it out on my own. Sherlock Holmes, to me, was unsmiling, lacking in empathy, and breath-takingly brilliant. His intelligence was almost alien.

Holmes was oblivious to his appearance. He was not dapper or stylish. He did not wear shaded John Lennon glasses. He lived in his mind more than the outside world. If someone just saw the movie poster with no knowledge of the film it's associated with, who would guess Sherlock Holmes?

I'm beginning to wonder if Moriarty isn't somehow involved.

Stan Lee

2009-03-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

Last July, we attended the San Diego Comic-Con for the first time. For the uninitiated, Comic-Con is a mecca for fans of the "popular arts": film, tv, video games, and comics. There are guest panels, screenings, previews, and other events to entertain the 125,000+ attendees. Yes, over 125,000 fanboys and fangirls wandering through a not-so-huge convention center. Many in costume.

As first-time attendees, we made many mistakes. But, one decision we got right was to stay at the hotel adjoining the convention center. Pricey, but worth it. After a long flight and a drive through an unfamiliar city, we arrived at the hotel. My husband dropped our son and me off at the lobby to check-in while he parked the rental car. I pulled one rolling suitcase behind me while our son was in charge of the remaining two. As soon as we entered the open, attractive lobby, my son pulled on my arm.

"I think Stan Lee just walked past us."

Again, for the uninitiated, Stan Lee is for many The Man at Comic-Con. Comic writer and former president and chairman (primarily founder) of Marvel Comics, his creations of Spiderman, Hulk, Ironman, and many others were there at the origins of Comic-Con when it really was all about comics. With the comic crowd, he's bigger than any other celebrity.

"Umm, no, I doubt you saw Stan Lee." I glanced and saw the back of a man who honestly did look like Stan Lee, but was distracted by the absence of suitcases behind my son. "Where are the suitcases?"

"The what?"

"The suitcases Dad left on the sidewalk for you to bring in."

"I don't know."

Three small panic-inducing words. Just as it was my turn to check-in, my husband appeared.

"Thomas doesn't know where the suitcases are."

"What!"

In a second, the boys were out the door. About ten minutes later, they reappeared with the suitcases. And huge grins. The missing luggage had been where my husband had left it, on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. And Stan Lee had been standing right next to it. I love the photo of my son with Stan Lee. Especially their expressions. Stan Lee looks as if he's about to laugh and Thomas is trying to smile, which is hard to do when your eyes are double their normal size. Try it.

By the next day, no one got near Stan Lee. Once Comic-Con officially started, he was surrounded by handlers and possibly bodyguards. Seats to attend his panels were quickly filled to capacity. People were disappointed they never got a glimpse of him in person.

Stan the Man. Creator of numerous world-famous superheroes. Protector of unattended suitcases.

A Rachel Shout-Out

2009-03-28T13:57:00.000-07:00

The weird thing to me about Rachel is that her mother was one of my sister-in-law's closest friends throughout school. Her mother. My sister-in-law.

We'd only had one conversation before I was assigned to assist in her history class at our Co-Op. That's when we talked about our writing aspirations, critiqued religions, and discussed performing arts before students began asking if we could keep our voices down so they could concentrate and complete their worksheets. We gave them bowls of popcorn to subdue them and returned to a conversation that had, curiously, morphed into fangirl whispering over the odd allure of Lost's John Locke.

What struck me in all our conversations, though, was Rachel's discipline as a writer. She has a blog. She writes everyday. She gets up early to write. She has three young children compared to my one, just-turned-teen. My excuses were vanishing as we spoke. I realized that one of the most futile things I could do was to continue to keep so many of my ideas in my mind and away from paper or flash drives. I had to stop living in my head so much and begin showing external proof of the writer inside.

So, Rachel, one word for you: Thanks.

Rachel's blog: http://www.rachel-homegirl.blogspot.com/

I don't remember the auditions.

2009-03-27T20:54:00.000-07:00

I'm not quite sure how several people in my life actually entered it.

Of course, there's family which has always been there and will always be there, no matter what you say or do or how much you protest. There're friends you met in school decades ago and new friends made with each move to a different city. This is normal.

But, where did the rest of the cast in my life come from? How did it begin that I have regular visits with my Ronald Coleman-esque neighbor? Why was it that my tiny, elderly "paperboy", who rode his bike everywhere with his pantlegs strapped with bungie cords, left a note explaining to me that his pastor advised him not to join a "hard rock band" as their drummer?

I've given up trying to explain to anyone over 50 how you can be friends with someone online (in a non-creepy way) whom you've never and may never meet face to face. When I try and rewind back to initial contact to explain, it's usually something like, "Well, there was a discussion on a podcast message board about sci-fi inventions that have become realities..." or, even more awkwardly, "I was following their tweets once they were following mine...". The more I explain, the more their expressions of blankness start clouding with concern. "Maybe less time on the computer," they'll suggest.

The thing is, it's often the people who seem to have slipped initially unnoticed into my life who stand out.