Dear Mago,
I just booked a flight “home” yesterday, realizing that I need another sweet moment with mother Anne, before it is too late. I am hoping that she stays well enough until I arrive Easter week. My brother Stephen (alias your first grandson) now living in Boston, will join me in San Francisco, and my sister (alias only your other granddaughter) Carolyn and I are already practicing the harmonies of some traditional spirituals, like a bluegrass gospel version of “My heavenly home”, to share over there:
“… Beyond this world there is a place
Where we shall have eternal grace
Where fragrant springtime breezes blow
Where trees stand tall and flowers grow
And the clear and peaceful waters flow…”
In the meantime, a jam session with my favorite godson, a cross-country skiing excursion, a birthday celebration, a choir and solo concert, a public talk about a couple of personal films, a long weekend with close friends in Berlin, five more weeks of work, and more await. I am sill alive.
Your devoted granddaughter
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Waving with the lace handkerchief
Since you have been gone (from this blog?) for such a long time, I nearly forgot what we were “talking” about. Let it be known that in your absence (was it soon 30 years or 3 weeks since I had last heard from you?) I remain grateful for your perspectives. It seems I still need to hear your maternal chatter, to listen to you chide Pops, and to remember how tickled pink you were to become a granny.
Returning to your upbeat perspective on life in 1942, I realize too that I am free to use a lace handkerchief however I choose. That's something we hold in common. I don’t have to leave it with Babcia, or even in a semi-private room at a convalescent hospital with mother Anne, for you to understand. I can drop it and forget it, or drop it in the hope that some handsome young man will retrieve it. Whether by accident or by choice, I can still remember where to go back and retrieve it. I can also wave it before my enemy. To capitulate: what I believe we can both appreciate most is the quality of the fabric itself, the craftsmanship…like your garden and your jingles.
Thanks for leaving your diary, a lace handkerchief, behind. Between your entries and Letters from Iwo Jimo I have more than enough food for thought tonight, and tomorrow is another workday.
Love,
Your devoted granddaughter
Returning to your upbeat perspective on life in 1942, I realize too that I am free to use a lace handkerchief however I choose. That's something we hold in common. I don’t have to leave it with Babcia, or even in a semi-private room at a convalescent hospital with mother Anne, for you to understand. I can drop it and forget it, or drop it in the hope that some handsome young man will retrieve it. Whether by accident or by choice, I can still remember where to go back and retrieve it. I can also wave it before my enemy. To capitulate: what I believe we can both appreciate most is the quality of the fabric itself, the craftsmanship…like your garden and your jingles.
Thanks for leaving your diary, a lace handkerchief, behind. Between your entries and Letters from Iwo Jimo I have more than enough food for thought tonight, and tomorrow is another workday.
Love,
Your devoted granddaughter
Saturday, February 24, 2007
February 24, 1942
....a few hours after previous entry, 1942 [ed. com]
Have had another letter from my Ginny again, but nothing definite about her return to the United States. Of course, they won't permit her to tell when she is coming, but I think it will be about April. We'll see how good a prognosticator I am. She says she's learning to do the Hula and is coming home with a cellophane skirt. Look out Sally Rand. You're likely to have some competition.
Haven't had another letter from Captain and Mrs. Moody and our little Captain. Was hoping for a letter from Anne in answer to some of mine and I wanted to hear what she had to say about the Valentine I sent Stephen. She and Kreigh have always razzed me about being such a poor grandmother that I had to send this absurd jingle to little Stephen – but I'm hoping Stephen's parents get a little laugh out of same:
Stephen, dear, your mommy says
As grandma I'll be bad
And not a fit example
For any little lad.
She says I'll feed you Lollypops
Ice cream and chocolate cake
Until you have that misery
Folks call the tummy ache
She even hints that I run wild
And come home "on the beam"
And do all sorts of silly things
Good grandmas never dream.
When nice folks mention "modesty"
She says I always say
"Pooh! Pooh! Oh fiddlesticks,"
In such a naughty way.
She'll tell you that she has no doubt
She'll have to go my tail
When some real nasty speed cop
Clamps me in the city jail.
But don't believe a word she says;
Just look at your dear Pops,
And if you think he's perfect
Well, then, you'll know I'm "Tops".
Have had another letter from my Ginny again, but nothing definite about her return to the United States. Of course, they won't permit her to tell when she is coming, but I think it will be about April. We'll see how good a prognosticator I am. She says she's learning to do the Hula and is coming home with a cellophane skirt. Look out Sally Rand. You're likely to have some competition.
Haven't had another letter from Captain and Mrs. Moody and our little Captain. Was hoping for a letter from Anne in answer to some of mine and I wanted to hear what she had to say about the Valentine I sent Stephen. She and Kreigh have always razzed me about being such a poor grandmother that I had to send this absurd jingle to little Stephen – but I'm hoping Stephen's parents get a little laugh out of same:
Stephen, dear, your mommy says
As grandma I'll be bad
And not a fit example
For any little lad.
She says I'll feed you Lollypops
Ice cream and chocolate cake
Until you have that misery
Folks call the tummy ache
She even hints that I run wild
And come home "on the beam"
And do all sorts of silly things
Good grandmas never dream.
When nice folks mention "modesty"
She says I always say
"Pooh! Pooh! Oh fiddlesticks,"
In such a naughty way.
She'll tell you that she has no doubt
She'll have to go my tail
When some real nasty speed cop
Clamps me in the city jail.
But don't believe a word she says;
Just look at your dear Pops,
And if you think he's perfect
Well, then, you'll know I'm "Tops".
February 23, 1942
San Francisco
February 23, 1942
Wednesday evening
It has been several days since I've made an entry in my little book — have been either too lazy or too tired. Then every evening the radio is on with all the war news – one commentator after another with various and sundry phases of the war situation. Some of them are excellent and some mediocre.
Fulton Lewis Jr, William Winter, Bill Heury, Raymond Gram Swing and Robert Desmond are among my favorites.
'The President gave a half hour talk this evening that was magnificent. He always speaks forcefully and with beautifully chosen words. It is a joy to know that we have at the head of our government a man so cultured and intelligent. Oh, I know that is a controversial point about his speech, but at least, even those who oppose him most bitterly, have to admit that he is a cultured and intelligent gentleman.
Auntie Alice came over this afternoon and Betty McCae came over also. We went for a little drive and saw the thrilling sight of a big blimp hovering over a sub-marine that was gliding through the bay. There are many ships sailing in and out of the harbor now and many mine sweepers out at the heads to guide them in and out.
One day Dad and I went up to the "Crow's Nest" – that's what we call that lookout spot below the Marine hospital – and watched a fleet of ships enter the harbor. There were seven mine sweepers making a lane to guide them through the channel, the blimp, shining like silver, hovering over, and any number of airplanes scouring the water for miles around. It was a thrilling, unforgetable sight. It made me very happy to know the ships have such excellent convoy. For I didn't know but that my darling Ginny might have been on board the very ships we were watching enter the bay.
Today was a gorgeous day. We took a little drive down the highway and between the emerald hills and the gorgeous cloud effects and the ocean being particularly beautiful – such a deep blue and the visibility perfect – we were actually breathless. We've had nineteen inches of rain to date and everything along the highway is growing beautifully. There are dozens of different shades of green and splashes of wild mustard and the wild flowers are beginning to blossom. We always have lovely weather around George Washington's birthday. Thirty-one years ago yesterday – my first Washington's birthday here in California – the day was warm and very lovely. I took Kreigh to the park and we sat on the grass and listened to the municipal concert while he played. It seemed so unusual to me, for I had come from a state where such a thing was unheard of – on February 22. Such lovely days! When I look back after all these years I wonder how I had such courage.
Tomorrow is another work day. How I hate it, but I suppose that isn't a very nice attitude to take. Well, I do. I'd much rather putter around the house and do the things I think are needed to make it a real home. I love the garden and wish I could spend more time there. Dad is no gardener and what is sadder he won't try to learn. He hasn't the least conception of the simplest, most elementary rules and becomes actually hostile when you make the least suggestion. One Christmas, just to be silly (but secretly hoping he'd make the effort) I gave him a garden book with this idiotic little jingle, but to no avail:
When "Wandarin' Willie sallies forth
with rake and how and spade
You know full well that garden history
Is certain to be made
He hoes up all the pansies
And the mignonette so sweet
And the fragrant little posies
Are all crushed beneath his feet.
He cultivates with pleasure
Some prolific, silly weed
But he never fails to dry up
Mother's freshly planted seed
Now things go very lovely
Until mother from the door
Spies her Willie's noble efforts
And she lets out such a roar
That neighbors come a running
From near and far and wide
To witness Willie's effort
And observe each homicide.
Now with this little booklet
Amid these pretty shiney tools
Willie soon should be the master
Of some simple garden rules.
But it didn't work. I suppose you have to have a real love of the soil. It means something to me to let it trickle through my fingers and to smell the fresh, damp earth. I can understand now the pride my father took in the neighbors' remarks that Bill Kreigh had the tallest corn and the cleanest fence corners in all of the country around. Well, I'd have the prettiest garden too if it weren't for my silly old back...
February 23, 1942
Wednesday evening
It has been several days since I've made an entry in my little book — have been either too lazy or too tired. Then every evening the radio is on with all the war news – one commentator after another with various and sundry phases of the war situation. Some of them are excellent and some mediocre.
Fulton Lewis Jr, William Winter, Bill Heury, Raymond Gram Swing and Robert Desmond are among my favorites.
'The President gave a half hour talk this evening that was magnificent. He always speaks forcefully and with beautifully chosen words. It is a joy to know that we have at the head of our government a man so cultured and intelligent. Oh, I know that is a controversial point about his speech, but at least, even those who oppose him most bitterly, have to admit that he is a cultured and intelligent gentleman.
Auntie Alice came over this afternoon and Betty McCae came over also. We went for a little drive and saw the thrilling sight of a big blimp hovering over a sub-marine that was gliding through the bay. There are many ships sailing in and out of the harbor now and many mine sweepers out at the heads to guide them in and out.
One day Dad and I went up to the "Crow's Nest" – that's what we call that lookout spot below the Marine hospital – and watched a fleet of ships enter the harbor. There were seven mine sweepers making a lane to guide them through the channel, the blimp, shining like silver, hovering over, and any number of airplanes scouring the water for miles around. It was a thrilling, unforgetable sight. It made me very happy to know the ships have such excellent convoy. For I didn't know but that my darling Ginny might have been on board the very ships we were watching enter the bay.
Today was a gorgeous day. We took a little drive down the highway and between the emerald hills and the gorgeous cloud effects and the ocean being particularly beautiful – such a deep blue and the visibility perfect – we were actually breathless. We've had nineteen inches of rain to date and everything along the highway is growing beautifully. There are dozens of different shades of green and splashes of wild mustard and the wild flowers are beginning to blossom. We always have lovely weather around George Washington's birthday. Thirty-one years ago yesterday – my first Washington's birthday here in California – the day was warm and very lovely. I took Kreigh to the park and we sat on the grass and listened to the municipal concert while he played. It seemed so unusual to me, for I had come from a state where such a thing was unheard of – on February 22. Such lovely days! When I look back after all these years I wonder how I had such courage.
Tomorrow is another work day. How I hate it, but I suppose that isn't a very nice attitude to take. Well, I do. I'd much rather putter around the house and do the things I think are needed to make it a real home. I love the garden and wish I could spend more time there. Dad is no gardener and what is sadder he won't try to learn. He hasn't the least conception of the simplest, most elementary rules and becomes actually hostile when you make the least suggestion. One Christmas, just to be silly (but secretly hoping he'd make the effort) I gave him a garden book with this idiotic little jingle, but to no avail:
When "Wandarin' Willie sallies forth
with rake and how and spade
You know full well that garden history
Is certain to be made
He hoes up all the pansies
And the mignonette so sweet
And the fragrant little posies
Are all crushed beneath his feet.
He cultivates with pleasure
Some prolific, silly weed
But he never fails to dry up
Mother's freshly planted seed
Now things go very lovely
Until mother from the door
Spies her Willie's noble efforts
And she lets out such a roar
That neighbors come a running
From near and far and wide
To witness Willie's effort
And observe each homicide.
Now with this little booklet
Amid these pretty shiney tools
Willie soon should be the master
Of some simple garden rules.
But it didn't work. I suppose you have to have a real love of the soil. It means something to me to let it trickle through my fingers and to smell the fresh, damp earth. I can understand now the pride my father took in the neighbors' remarks that Bill Kreigh had the tallest corn and the cleanest fence corners in all of the country around. Well, I'd have the prettiest garden too if it weren't for my silly old back...
Friday, February 23, 2007
No private room
Dear Mago,
This evening, when I called the convalescent home , I could hear mom’s roommate screaming. I waited while mom calmly tried to convey the logic of “could you please lower your voice, I’m talking on the phone”, to no avail. How fortunate I am that mom is not suffering from dementia, that I can still talk to the person I remember. She continued to inform me that she is trying to accept her new roommate despite the fact that “I am a true loner”, in the hope that this tactic “might bring me greater attention from the care staff”. When I chuckled in recognition of myself and the gregariousness of my “old mom”, the solace of this intimacy was, however, quickly stifled by the comment “you sound just like your brother”. Jolted by this unexpected association, by a reminder of the imminent end to any “glitter scene” of collusion with an unwanted roommate and the proximity of death, mom managed to hang up without seeming abrupt. Though I called back a few hours later to ask what I thought were pertinent questions, this too was to no avail. This time, I didn’t even hear her roommate screaming.
Can you hear me?
Love,
Your granddaughter
This evening, when I called the convalescent home , I could hear mom’s roommate screaming. I waited while mom calmly tried to convey the logic of “could you please lower your voice, I’m talking on the phone”, to no avail. How fortunate I am that mom is not suffering from dementia, that I can still talk to the person I remember. She continued to inform me that she is trying to accept her new roommate despite the fact that “I am a true loner”, in the hope that this tactic “might bring me greater attention from the care staff”. When I chuckled in recognition of myself and the gregariousness of my “old mom”, the solace of this intimacy was, however, quickly stifled by the comment “you sound just like your brother”. Jolted by this unexpected association, by a reminder of the imminent end to any “glitter scene” of collusion with an unwanted roommate and the proximity of death, mom managed to hang up without seeming abrupt. Though I called back a few hours later to ask what I thought were pertinent questions, this too was to no avail. This time, I didn’t even hear her roommate screaming.
Can you hear me?
Love,
Your granddaughter
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Min andliga semla
Idag, min "komplediga" dag, passade jag på att delta i en middagsbön med Taizébröderna från Frankrike i Maria Magdalena kyrka…så skönt att stämma in i deras meditativa sånger varvad med tystnad och stillhet. Känns som en lyx, en underbar efterrätt mitt under fastan, en slags andlig semla. Hur ska jag nu förmedla detta till farmor?
Dear Mago,
Paradoxically, the more attentive I become of something so basic as breathing, the more I experience the luxury of life. These days, nothing is more refreshing than to listen to silence, and to focus on breathing before I proceed to explore my body as a musical instrument. In an orchestra of fellow human beings, I am easily brought home to the garden where Carolyn and I used to sit and sing in harmonies, leaning close to one another to ensure our very best blend of timber and pitch. Thus I can also return "home" to mom’s bedside where we sang “Soon and very soon” on her 90th birthday. To this day, it remains a solace to hear her say: “that was my very best gift”.
Att få berätta för farmor och bli bekräftad av mor. Tänk att dessa behov kan vara så länge...kanske för evigt?
Your devoted granddaughter
Dear Mago,
Paradoxically, the more attentive I become of something so basic as breathing, the more I experience the luxury of life. These days, nothing is more refreshing than to listen to silence, and to focus on breathing before I proceed to explore my body as a musical instrument. In an orchestra of fellow human beings, I am easily brought home to the garden where Carolyn and I used to sit and sing in harmonies, leaning close to one another to ensure our very best blend of timber and pitch. Thus I can also return "home" to mom’s bedside where we sang “Soon and very soon” on her 90th birthday. To this day, it remains a solace to hear her say: “that was my very best gift”.
Att få berätta för farmor och bli bekräftad av mor. Tänk att dessa behov kan vara så länge...kanske för evigt?
Your devoted granddaughter
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Fasching
Remember the MardiGras, the carnival in New Orleans, that winter when we lived in DeRidder Louisiana? As I kid I hardly remember the parade, the music and dancing. I didn't understand much about letting go of all restraints, of borders, the need to eat, drink and be merry because tomorrow it's all over, gone, gone, gone. We never ate meat on Fridays anyway, and we sometimes tried to think twice about the candy, at least during Lent for the forty days before Easter.
The message on Ash Wednesday continues to make a much bigger impression: As I go up to the priest and have the ashes rubbed onto my forehead He says: "Dust thou art to dust returneth." Here in Sweden He says either "Vänd dig om" or "Av jord är du kommen till jord ska du återvardas". As I walk back to my seat, down the aisle, and later onto the streets, I sense that I am marked. I notice that people look twice in the winter sunshine along Skeppsbron, and often wonder why, until I realize that it is of course because they wonder why I am so black, so dirty. I continue on, happy enough to be seen for what I am, even if they have no idea what I mean.
The message between Tuesday and Wednesday, between the carnival and the 40-day fast, is that despite the fact that we are finite and fragile, we can transcend. Yeah, though I walk in the shadow of the valley of death. Though Cinderella's coach is turned into a pumpkin at midnight, that's not the end of the story. Several years ago, I was in Berlin on Fasching, i.e. German 'MardiGras', Swedish 'FetTisdag'. It was just a couple of years after the wall had fallen, but the borders were still there, however invisible. I wrote:
Who is on the side of God
on the side of man
in no man's land
where police and priests once
patrolled our iconostases?
Before the sun rises
lashes will fall
masks will be removed
on stage and worn off.
Men and women will grope
in the wings
before learning to fly.
Music will stop to
find a master key
a common beat,
the same rate of exchange.
People will wonder who you are
in the danger zone of a depressed market
where western lawyers sell life insurance policies
in a polluted environment
and eastern doctors treat sick children.
They'll want to know how you intend
to survive the rubble of the east or
the bubble of the west.
All this and more remains
to be seen like the sound
of silence at all the old checkpoints
and in the pauses
between the acts between the stations
of the Ubahn.
Listen carefully where
ashes are falling before our eyes
let me see you, be seen.
For who we are.
Love, your devoted granddaughter
The message on Ash Wednesday continues to make a much bigger impression: As I go up to the priest and have the ashes rubbed onto my forehead He says: "Dust thou art to dust returneth." Here in Sweden He says either "Vänd dig om" or "Av jord är du kommen till jord ska du återvardas". As I walk back to my seat, down the aisle, and later onto the streets, I sense that I am marked. I notice that people look twice in the winter sunshine along Skeppsbron, and often wonder why, until I realize that it is of course because they wonder why I am so black, so dirty. I continue on, happy enough to be seen for what I am, even if they have no idea what I mean.
The message between Tuesday and Wednesday, between the carnival and the 40-day fast, is that despite the fact that we are finite and fragile, we can transcend. Yeah, though I walk in the shadow of the valley of death. Though Cinderella's coach is turned into a pumpkin at midnight, that's not the end of the story. Several years ago, I was in Berlin on Fasching, i.e. German 'MardiGras', Swedish 'FetTisdag'. It was just a couple of years after the wall had fallen, but the borders were still there, however invisible. I wrote:
Who is on the side of God
on the side of man
in no man's land
where police and priests once
patrolled our iconostases?
Before the sun rises
lashes will fall
masks will be removed
on stage and worn off.
Men and women will grope
in the wings
before learning to fly.
Music will stop to
find a master key
a common beat,
the same rate of exchange.
People will wonder who you are
in the danger zone of a depressed market
where western lawyers sell life insurance policies
in a polluted environment
and eastern doctors treat sick children.
They'll want to know how you intend
to survive the rubble of the east or
the bubble of the west.
All this and more remains
to be seen like the sound
of silence at all the old checkpoints
and in the pauses
between the acts between the stations
of the Ubahn.
Listen carefully where
ashes are falling before our eyes
let me see you, be seen.
For who we are.
Love, your devoted granddaughter
Monday, February 19, 2007
Harry Martinsson must be rolling in his grave
Dear Mago,
I can still remember one evening in the sixties when I drove you home. I had a teenage peer along to keep me company, as though you didn’t count. You sat in the back seat, and since you were hard of hearing, we spoke as though ... weren’t there. To this day it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that you could in fact hear most everything we said, but chose to tune out.
In the year 2007, we may no longer skip ropes but do still play games. Many, especially boys and young men, use joy sticks to maneuver through virtual reality, up to eight hours a day I hear. It’s new biology. We “zap” through TV channels, surf internet sites, and slide around with soap operas. Everyone seems to pick up speed on new themes, new subjects, new thoughts that quickly displace one another at random, like scattered showers of meteorites. No question of making conscious connections, but of protection. Ultimately, a fragment of a thought latches onto some “blog” to fill a void, and avoid the inevitable. It's new technology.
Harry Martinsson is surely rolling in his grave. I’m relieved for the time being to believe that I can still return to the Earth and the island where I was born after the atom bomb. But what about collective memories, conscience and culture, the muse and the mime?
Literally half deaf myself these days, I find myself struggling to hear what is going on around me, often turning off and tuning out interference. Will I never again hear a chorus, just chaos? Fortunately, you offer me another a perspective, the crow’s nest, center balcony, from where I can read lips and discern some sort of a carrier mooring in the bay. I hear a song and a celebration, of you and me. Dad has climbed up to the center balcony just to tell me how much you and your sister loved to sing too. Känner hur det värmer att bli sedd av pappa i samma andemening som farmor.
I can still remember one evening in the sixties when I drove you home. I had a teenage peer along to keep me company, as though you didn’t count. You sat in the back seat, and since you were hard of hearing, we spoke as though ... weren’t there. To this day it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that you could in fact hear most everything we said, but chose to tune out.
In the year 2007, we may no longer skip ropes but do still play games. Many, especially boys and young men, use joy sticks to maneuver through virtual reality, up to eight hours a day I hear. It’s new biology. We “zap” through TV channels, surf internet sites, and slide around with soap operas. Everyone seems to pick up speed on new themes, new subjects, new thoughts that quickly displace one another at random, like scattered showers of meteorites. No question of making conscious connections, but of protection. Ultimately, a fragment of a thought latches onto some “blog” to fill a void, and avoid the inevitable. It's new technology.
Harry Martinsson is surely rolling in his grave. I’m relieved for the time being to believe that I can still return to the Earth and the island where I was born after the atom bomb. But what about collective memories, conscience and culture, the muse and the mime?
Literally half deaf myself these days, I find myself struggling to hear what is going on around me, often turning off and tuning out interference. Will I never again hear a chorus, just chaos? Fortunately, you offer me another a perspective, the crow’s nest, center balcony, from where I can read lips and discern some sort of a carrier mooring in the bay. I hear a song and a celebration, of you and me. Dad has climbed up to the center balcony just to tell me how much you and your sister loved to sing too. Känner hur det värmer att bli sedd av pappa i samma andemening som farmor.
Friday, February 16, 2007
A bookkeeper's wail
Dear Mago,
It’s been a while since you last made an entry in your diary. Believe me, I have no intention of “guilt tripping” you. Rather, all I mean to say is: I miss you, and oh how I miss a dialogue with someone who cares not only about me, but about what’s going on in the world. You are a reminder – in your as absence perhaps more than in your presence – of my greatest longing.
Believe me, I’m sympathetic to any problems you have in finding time to keep up on the world and reflect. Having worked overtime myself this Friday evening, I'm pooped. Fortunately, tonight I also have time to look through your poetry to give me some solace. I’m sure that many of us who feel overworked and inadequate can relate to your rhyming wail from the 1940s:
A Bookkeeper's Wail
To find that damn dime
I would stand on my head
Until weary and worn
And my face very red
I would scale Mount McKinley
And would swim Golden Gate
I'd paint the town red
Until scandalously late
I'd pick someone's pocket
With such expert technique
Old Fagan would look
Like an amateur sneak
I'd even go begging
Palm up on skid row
And quaverlingly whisper
"Kind brother some dough"
I'd face those stern auditors
Bold as could be
Sans butterfly stomach
Or shivering knee
But to "lose face" with Christopher
I simply can't do
Nor honestly think that you'd want me to
Be met at the door
And be forced to say "nay"
When eagerly asked
"Did you balance today"
So please do not fugit
So rapidly time
With a little more leeway
I'll find the damn dime.
With love from us both this Friday night
It’s been a while since you last made an entry in your diary. Believe me, I have no intention of “guilt tripping” you. Rather, all I mean to say is: I miss you, and oh how I miss a dialogue with someone who cares not only about me, but about what’s going on in the world. You are a reminder – in your as absence perhaps more than in your presence – of my greatest longing.
Believe me, I’m sympathetic to any problems you have in finding time to keep up on the world and reflect. Having worked overtime myself this Friday evening, I'm pooped. Fortunately, tonight I also have time to look through your poetry to give me some solace. I’m sure that many of us who feel overworked and inadequate can relate to your rhyming wail from the 1940s:
A Bookkeeper's Wail
To find that damn dime
I would stand on my head
Until weary and worn
And my face very red
I would scale Mount McKinley
And would swim Golden Gate
I'd paint the town red
Until scandalously late
I'd pick someone's pocket
With such expert technique
Old Fagan would look
Like an amateur sneak
I'd even go begging
Palm up on skid row
And quaverlingly whisper
"Kind brother some dough"
I'd face those stern auditors
Bold as could be
Sans butterfly stomach
Or shivering knee
But to "lose face" with Christopher
I simply can't do
Nor honestly think that you'd want me to
Be met at the door
And be forced to say "nay"
When eagerly asked
"Did you balance today"
So please do not fugit
So rapidly time
With a little more leeway
I'll find the damn dime.
With love from us both this Friday night
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Valentine's Day
Dear Mago,
You and I both grew up celebrating Valentine's Day. To warm the hearts of others was every young girl's wish. But hardly to be the Queen of Hearts.
According to Lewis Carroll, the patent remark of the Queen of Hearts about anyone whom she found offensive was: “Off with their heads”. Everyone in Wonderland feared her though her wishes were rarely their command.
Long before Lewis Carroll, to be exact in the year 280 AD, the head of Saint Valentine was ordered to be cut off. According to the legend, just before his death he performed a miracle by restoring sight and hearing to the daughter of the one who held him captive.
Perhaps it might ease some hearts to know what the deaf and blind daughter thought and felt before she could see and hear, as it might hurt some to learn what she heard and saw after her senses had been restored. Or vice versa? Does no one ever go to Wonderland anymore?
You and I both grew up celebrating Valentine's Day. To warm the hearts of others was every young girl's wish. But hardly to be the Queen of Hearts.
According to Lewis Carroll, the patent remark of the Queen of Hearts about anyone whom she found offensive was: “Off with their heads”. Everyone in Wonderland feared her though her wishes were rarely their command.
Long before Lewis Carroll, to be exact in the year 280 AD, the head of Saint Valentine was ordered to be cut off. According to the legend, just before his death he performed a miracle by restoring sight and hearing to the daughter of the one who held him captive.
Perhaps it might ease some hearts to know what the deaf and blind daughter thought and felt before she could see and hear, as it might hurt some to learn what she heard and saw after her senses had been restored. Or vice versa? Does no one ever go to Wonderland anymore?
Monday, February 12, 2007
The war Queen and the postwar Princess
Dear Mago,
Just yesterday I saw a movie about Queen Elizabeth II of England, called the “Queen”. I think it fits in here, because it gives me another mirror upon which I can reflect over a generation of women who – like Aunt Ginny and mom – experienced World War II as young adults. I saw the "Queen" as a reflection on the generation that gave birth to all of us baby bing bang boom boom boomers. I saw it also as a reflection on the authority of a woman predestined to promote the interests of a nation, a monarchy, a nuclear family, a religion – at the expense perhaps of personal creativity. I saw it also as a statement about any woman past her prime – beyond sexuality – who wakes up one morning to find that her identity is suddenly no longer valid.
The war is over, the war is over, the war is over. I’m listening to Steve Reich, “Different trains”. From New York to Los Angeles, from New York, to New York, New York. We're on different trains of thought: a roller coaster and a boxcar, sometimes overlapping one another, sometimes looping. Been, being, and will be all at once taken for a ride on different trains. Catholic or Jew, monarch or commoner, prince or princess, writer or wronger? By the way, the prince and princess are divorced now, and the Queen's grandchildren divide their time from coast to coast between their parents. Traveling takes time.
The aged monarch is not accustomed to being ignored, much less being hated, the way she is now. Ever since the mother of her great grandchildren - named after the mythological goddess of the hunt - was suddenly stalked and killed in a car accident, she has been accused. Will the baby boom boom boomers, the upbeat generation and their global toddlers, force her to relinquish all her power now, by diverting the attention of the world to the postwar horrors of innocent children, tripping on still buried land mines... all gone, all gone, all gone, on one of the fastest trains, fastest trains.
It’s also about a Queen mother in her 90s who has survived herself. Her views are at best a woof of humor. We are as amused as she is aghast to find out that plans for her funeral have been usurped to facilitate the unexpected and untimely death of a goddess. I hear different tracks, different places, different times.
I hear too that the integrity of the human being - Queen, King or commoner – can be restored by repetition and mimicry, as we enter the next phase. As we move to the natural rhythms and progressions, ups and downs, through the various phases of life, our lives are cut, spliced and wiped out with the tools that we use to deal with grief.
Perhaps the lace handkerchief that mom left behind, and that Babcia kept for decades, holds a secret. The lost child may never return home...
Just yesterday I saw a movie about Queen Elizabeth II of England, called the “Queen”. I think it fits in here, because it gives me another mirror upon which I can reflect over a generation of women who – like Aunt Ginny and mom – experienced World War II as young adults. I saw the "Queen" as a reflection on the generation that gave birth to all of us baby bing bang boom boom boomers. I saw it also as a reflection on the authority of a woman predestined to promote the interests of a nation, a monarchy, a nuclear family, a religion – at the expense perhaps of personal creativity. I saw it also as a statement about any woman past her prime – beyond sexuality – who wakes up one morning to find that her identity is suddenly no longer valid.
The war is over, the war is over, the war is over. I’m listening to Steve Reich, “Different trains”. From New York to Los Angeles, from New York, to New York, New York. We're on different trains of thought: a roller coaster and a boxcar, sometimes overlapping one another, sometimes looping. Been, being, and will be all at once taken for a ride on different trains. Catholic or Jew, monarch or commoner, prince or princess, writer or wronger? By the way, the prince and princess are divorced now, and the Queen's grandchildren divide their time from coast to coast between their parents. Traveling takes time.
The aged monarch is not accustomed to being ignored, much less being hated, the way she is now. Ever since the mother of her great grandchildren - named after the mythological goddess of the hunt - was suddenly stalked and killed in a car accident, she has been accused. Will the baby boom boom boomers, the upbeat generation and their global toddlers, force her to relinquish all her power now, by diverting the attention of the world to the postwar horrors of innocent children, tripping on still buried land mines... all gone, all gone, all gone, on one of the fastest trains, fastest trains.
It’s also about a Queen mother in her 90s who has survived herself. Her views are at best a woof of humor. We are as amused as she is aghast to find out that plans for her funeral have been usurped to facilitate the unexpected and untimely death of a goddess. I hear different tracks, different places, different times.
I hear too that the integrity of the human being - Queen, King or commoner – can be restored by repetition and mimicry, as we enter the next phase. As we move to the natural rhythms and progressions, ups and downs, through the various phases of life, our lives are cut, spliced and wiped out with the tools that we use to deal with grief.
Perhaps the lace handkerchief that mom left behind, and that Babcia kept for decades, holds a secret. The lost child may never return home...
Friday, February 9, 2007
Entre les duex guerres
Friday night
February 9, 2007
Dear Mago,
On January 27, 1942 you wondered what you talked about before the war.
In February 1993, when I was on a visit to Berlin, I wrote about my impressions of the time before the war, between the wars, from my new European perspective:
Dada, Bauhaus and Surrealism
temporarily elevated Europe
from the pain of the pinch
between the wars
by sublimating dirt
from the trenches,
common household dust
from the folds and cracks
of torn old maps, paper,
paint, ink, wood, sand,
cement and canvas
into fragments of intuition,
dreams and materials
on another level.
I wonder if you can relate to my fantasies, then and now, now and then?
You say that you have received word that your daughter Virginia is coming home from Pearl Harbor, but that she doesn't know when. Jungfrun i pärlornas hamn kommer hem, men hon vet inte när. Then, when she comes home, you say that you will begin to live again. February 1942? February 2007?: wanted dead or alive. Perhaps you can relate to my mention of the lace handkerchief (Feb 07/ 07) that Anne used to sublimate her grief.
Love,
your devoted granddaughter
ps. I have another blog with seemingly independent reflections at http://us-in-scan-din-avia.blogspot.com/ as well as http://lookout1941-42.blogspot.com/ds.
February 9, 2007
Dear Mago,
On January 27, 1942 you wondered what you talked about before the war.
In February 1993, when I was on a visit to Berlin, I wrote about my impressions of the time before the war, between the wars, from my new European perspective:
Dada, Bauhaus and Surrealism
temporarily elevated Europe
from the pain of the pinch
between the wars
by sublimating dirt
from the trenches,
common household dust
from the folds and cracks
of torn old maps, paper,
paint, ink, wood, sand,
cement and canvas
into fragments of intuition,
dreams and materials
on another level.
I wonder if you can relate to my fantasies, then and now, now and then?
You say that you have received word that your daughter Virginia is coming home from Pearl Harbor, but that she doesn't know when. Jungfrun i pärlornas hamn kommer hem, men hon vet inte när. Then, when she comes home, you say that you will begin to live again. February 1942? February 2007?: wanted dead or alive. Perhaps you can relate to my mention of the lace handkerchief (Feb 07/ 07) that Anne used to sublimate her grief.
Love,
your devoted granddaughter
ps. I have another blog with seemingly independent reflections at http://us-in-scan-din-avia.blogspot.com/ as well as http://lookout1941-42.blogspot.com/ds.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
February 6, 1942
Friday night
February 6, 1942
I do have a most dreadful time keeping up with the task I have assigned to myself – this task of keeping up with this horrible war and tying in a few of the daily happenings around the old homestead.
Another letter from my baby and what a joy! To have her rattle on more like her old self. They must have settled down a little more to normal existence since last she wrote. She's coming home! But she doesn't know when – but soon. Then I'll really begin to live again. I don't dare think about it. I did hope, however, that she and Bert could come home together. It would be so much nicer for them, but I keep forgetting, this is war. I do hope she gets into some kind of work immediately so the time will pass so much more quickly for her and the waiting for Bert's return won't seem so endless. They have gone through so many vicissitudes in their brief marriage that it breaks my heart to think of them being separated for even a short time. But I'm sure they both have the right sort of courage – they have proved that already – and things are bound to adjust themselves soon.
Am making a little sweater for Stephen for a Valentine gift. It's all finished except for one sleeve and I hope to make that tomorrow. I'm going to tie it up with a lollipop and all sorts of silly things.
It's been quite rainy for several days and there's been quite a gale blowing. The constant downpour has caused the Napa River to overflow its banks and three homes up at Mount Davidson toppled down the hill. Pops and I were just remarking a few Sundays ago about the precarious position of some of the houses perched upon the hills.
The country is still laughing about the "Bundles for Congressmen" even to the point of some of the people donating a slightly used onion, a glass eye and Sally Rand offers "her last stitch."
"Eleanor" has stuck her neck out good and plenty as a high up in the Office of Civilian Defense. She was raked over the coals in fine fashion in Congress today and I don't know but that there may be some justification for a portion of the adverse criticism. However, the green God of envy and jealousy is such a wretched creature that creeps out in so many places, it's pretty hard to tell just what is the true situation.
Dorothea was out Wednesday night and she was so keyed up I thought she was going to blow a fuse. Evidently she's pretty nervous and tired. She's at the stage now where she'd like to "bolt" if she had the money. Maxine's fiancé is getting on her nerves, I think, because he hasn't enough money to suit the requirements. I'm afraid somebody is riding for a fall.
Ressa was here last night. We had a very pleasant evening, as usual, and of course the was "proed and corned?" as no news commentators ever did.
February 6, 1942
I do have a most dreadful time keeping up with the task I have assigned to myself – this task of keeping up with this horrible war and tying in a few of the daily happenings around the old homestead.
Another letter from my baby and what a joy! To have her rattle on more like her old self. They must have settled down a little more to normal existence since last she wrote. She's coming home! But she doesn't know when – but soon. Then I'll really begin to live again. I don't dare think about it. I did hope, however, that she and Bert could come home together. It would be so much nicer for them, but I keep forgetting, this is war. I do hope she gets into some kind of work immediately so the time will pass so much more quickly for her and the waiting for Bert's return won't seem so endless. They have gone through so many vicissitudes in their brief marriage that it breaks my heart to think of them being separated for even a short time. But I'm sure they both have the right sort of courage – they have proved that already – and things are bound to adjust themselves soon.
Am making a little sweater for Stephen for a Valentine gift. It's all finished except for one sleeve and I hope to make that tomorrow. I'm going to tie it up with a lollipop and all sorts of silly things.
It's been quite rainy for several days and there's been quite a gale blowing. The constant downpour has caused the Napa River to overflow its banks and three homes up at Mount Davidson toppled down the hill. Pops and I were just remarking a few Sundays ago about the precarious position of some of the houses perched upon the hills.
The country is still laughing about the "Bundles for Congressmen" even to the point of some of the people donating a slightly used onion, a glass eye and Sally Rand offers "her last stitch."
"Eleanor" has stuck her neck out good and plenty as a high up in the Office of Civilian Defense. She was raked over the coals in fine fashion in Congress today and I don't know but that there may be some justification for a portion of the adverse criticism. However, the green God of envy and jealousy is such a wretched creature that creeps out in so many places, it's pretty hard to tell just what is the true situation.
Dorothea was out Wednesday night and she was so keyed up I thought she was going to blow a fuse. Evidently she's pretty nervous and tired. She's at the stage now where she'd like to "bolt" if she had the money. Maxine's fiancé is getting on her nerves, I think, because he hasn't enough money to suit the requirements. I'm afraid somebody is riding for a fall.
Ressa was here last night. We had a very pleasant evening, as usual, and of course the was "proed and corned?" as no news commentators ever did.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Like the lace handkerchief
Saturday. February 3, 2007
Dear Mago,
Monday is Babcia's, my Swedish mother’s, birthday. She's turning 92. We’ll celebrate tomorrow at Sunday mass, followed by a breaking of bread and a toast with champagne at home. Babcia doesn’t long for birthday cake these days (if ever), but more for family attention and peace. I, on the other hand - who can still seek solace in puerile dreams - find myself looking forward to a big piece of “princesstårta”, justifying my appetite as requisite fuel for next week's work, for an abiding need to support myself.
Babcia is just about the same age now as you were when I last saw you in Los Altos. I’ve told her that I am publishing your diary from the war years, but I don’t think she’s interested. Having come to Sweden from a concentration camp in Poland, on a Red Cross bus, she has her own relationship to World War II. She does, however, ask about mom’s health (yes, your dear daughter-in-law Anne is now in her 91st year). It seems that people with whom we share firsthand memories, especially of our own generation, take natural precedence over others. Maybe that's why Babcia once washed and ironed the lace handkerchief that Anne left on her visit to Sweden in the early 1970s, safekept it and returned it to her in the US several decades later. This seems hardly to be another symptom of postwar coquetry or dalliance, but quite the contrary: of consideration, perhaps for unexpressed grief. But what do I know? We call these nonagenarian grannies who, like the iron curtain, separate your generation from mine, our "iron ladies" - hotheaded and hard, stubborn and vociferous, flat and simple, backward as they can be thoughtful.
Since computers are not a part of Babcia’s generation, our “iron ladies” remain innocently unaware of the virtues and vices of modern technology. Or do they? While informing about plans for her last birthday, mother Anne suddenly said: “I don’t mean to interrupt you darling, but what is a blog?” Apparently satisfied by my answer, she simply responded: “Thank you dear, I knew you could explain.” Hallelujah! A vote of confidence! Perhaps I can be called on to witness, in the ultimate court of conscience, and bridge times past and present.
If so, let it be known that I've always enjoyed your jingles, like the rhymes on personal gifts - knowing that they are not intended for the world. I notice too that the word “faithful” appears in the opening sentence of both of your last entries. Last week you feared that you wouldn’t be very faithful to your diary. Today, less than a week later, you are already prepared to confirm your fears. Is this deliberate evidence of a typical female tendency to be self-effacing? Perhaps you are expressing a legitimate fear - of a lack of time for reflection. I have to admit that I need at least a week in between your entries to reflect and comment on them. Babcia's birthday isn't until Monday and already I'm preparing. Distance, time and space, are prerequisites for reflection. And sometimes I wonder if faithfulness – like a lace handkerchief left somewhere behind – is quickly finding itself at home in an obsolete world.
Love,
your granddaughter
Dear Mago,
Monday is Babcia's, my Swedish mother’s, birthday. She's turning 92. We’ll celebrate tomorrow at Sunday mass, followed by a breaking of bread and a toast with champagne at home. Babcia doesn’t long for birthday cake these days (if ever), but more for family attention and peace. I, on the other hand - who can still seek solace in puerile dreams - find myself looking forward to a big piece of “princesstårta”, justifying my appetite as requisite fuel for next week's work, for an abiding need to support myself.
Babcia is just about the same age now as you were when I last saw you in Los Altos. I’ve told her that I am publishing your diary from the war years, but I don’t think she’s interested. Having come to Sweden from a concentration camp in Poland, on a Red Cross bus, she has her own relationship to World War II. She does, however, ask about mom’s health (yes, your dear daughter-in-law Anne is now in her 91st year). It seems that people with whom we share firsthand memories, especially of our own generation, take natural precedence over others. Maybe that's why Babcia once washed and ironed the lace handkerchief that Anne left on her visit to Sweden in the early 1970s, safekept it and returned it to her in the US several decades later. This seems hardly to be another symptom of postwar coquetry or dalliance, but quite the contrary: of consideration, perhaps for unexpressed grief. But what do I know? We call these nonagenarian grannies who, like the iron curtain, separate your generation from mine, our "iron ladies" - hotheaded and hard, stubborn and vociferous, flat and simple, backward as they can be thoughtful.
Since computers are not a part of Babcia’s generation, our “iron ladies” remain innocently unaware of the virtues and vices of modern technology. Or do they? While informing about plans for her last birthday, mother Anne suddenly said: “I don’t mean to interrupt you darling, but what is a blog?” Apparently satisfied by my answer, she simply responded: “Thank you dear, I knew you could explain.” Hallelujah! A vote of confidence! Perhaps I can be called on to witness, in the ultimate court of conscience, and bridge times past and present.
If so, let it be known that I've always enjoyed your jingles, like the rhymes on personal gifts - knowing that they are not intended for the world. I notice too that the word “faithful” appears in the opening sentence of both of your last entries. Last week you feared that you wouldn’t be very faithful to your diary. Today, less than a week later, you are already prepared to confirm your fears. Is this deliberate evidence of a typical female tendency to be self-effacing? Perhaps you are expressing a legitimate fear - of a lack of time for reflection. I have to admit that I need at least a week in between your entries to reflect and comment on them. Babcia's birthday isn't until Monday and already I'm preparing. Distance, time and space, are prerequisites for reflection. And sometimes I wonder if faithfulness – like a lace handkerchief left somewhere behind – is quickly finding itself at home in an obsolete world.
Love,
your granddaughter
Friday, February 2, 2007
February 2, 1942
February 2, 1942
Monday evening
I don't seem to be very faithful in making these entries and keeping track of affairs and this war as much as I'd like. It keeps me pretty busy writing to the children and doing all the things I have to do to keep the wheels moving.
Haven't had any letter from Virginia except the one since the Pearl Harbor tragedy. It does seems as though some mail should filter through e'er this.
Ressa came over last Saturday evening and we had a very enjoyable time together, as usual. We always promise each other - most solemnly – that we won't speak of the war – but we aren't together two minutes until we're off – allee samee Whirlaway. (I'm sure he couldn't make better time than we.) Ressa is always refreshing and we always have a few good laughs, although there isn't quite so much to laugh about now as there was a few years ago.
She was thrilled when I told her about our "little Captain" and our "big Captain" too. It's such a pleasure to tell her something that you think is particularly good news, for she rejoices with you and you know she's really happy for you – not like Betty B. who says "Is he" in a dead pan voice when told Kreigh was now a Captain instead of saying (like most folks do) "Well, that's lovely", and "Aren't you proud?" I'm glad I'm not jealous like that. I think that sort of person must miss a lot of fun in life.
Yesterday we drove down to Redwood City to see Anne's mother. It was raining, but I didn't mind. The hills looked so beautiful and green it was a real feast for the eyes. There have been so many changes down the peninsula of late. All of the old estates are being subdivided and new tracts are springing up all over. Moderately priced homes are taking the places of the mansions and, while they may not be so substantial in their construction, they're most attractive – and so cozy and sweet within – all of the newest modern conveniences. I had visions of my own darling children having the kind of homes they wanted down the peninsula – or over in Marin Co. – but this war! I wonder when it will ever end!
From the way things are going now, I'm afraid they will not get worse before they get better. It's going to take some little time before our production end of it is going to get in full swing. And to think that the cream of our manhood has to suffer because of that cruel paranoia and his miserable "utensils" (as Winston Churchill dubbed them.)
I'm so worried about Kreigh. I don't know when or where he may be moved. Now that Stephen is here it would be such a pity if he had to leave the country. He'll make such a sweet father. He'll give generously of himself and material things – but wisely – I'm sure.
Some of the highlights of the news:
US fleet swashes Jap island bases near Wake in a surprise attack by planes and war ships take a terrific toll. Navy and air stations are blasted. American losses are small. This is first Yankee bombing of Nippon territory.
Corrgidor wipes out an invasion fleet; drive is foiled before it is even started. General MacArthur is certainly doing a magnificent job. I see in the paper tonight that another ship was in yesterday bringing three hundred more evacuees. One woman said "The writer who talked about the beautiful climate and scenery. Forgot to mention mosquitoes" That sounds very much like my darling Ginny who calls the mosquitos in the islands B19 no less.
Perhaps I'll get a letter tomorrow. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
Monday evening
I don't seem to be very faithful in making these entries and keeping track of affairs and this war as much as I'd like. It keeps me pretty busy writing to the children and doing all the things I have to do to keep the wheels moving.
Haven't had any letter from Virginia except the one since the Pearl Harbor tragedy. It does seems as though some mail should filter through e'er this.
Ressa came over last Saturday evening and we had a very enjoyable time together, as usual. We always promise each other - most solemnly – that we won't speak of the war – but we aren't together two minutes until we're off – allee samee Whirlaway. (I'm sure he couldn't make better time than we.) Ressa is always refreshing and we always have a few good laughs, although there isn't quite so much to laugh about now as there was a few years ago.
She was thrilled when I told her about our "little Captain" and our "big Captain" too. It's such a pleasure to tell her something that you think is particularly good news, for she rejoices with you and you know she's really happy for you – not like Betty B. who says "Is he" in a dead pan voice when told Kreigh was now a Captain instead of saying (like most folks do) "Well, that's lovely", and "Aren't you proud?" I'm glad I'm not jealous like that. I think that sort of person must miss a lot of fun in life.
Yesterday we drove down to Redwood City to see Anne's mother. It was raining, but I didn't mind. The hills looked so beautiful and green it was a real feast for the eyes. There have been so many changes down the peninsula of late. All of the old estates are being subdivided and new tracts are springing up all over. Moderately priced homes are taking the places of the mansions and, while they may not be so substantial in their construction, they're most attractive – and so cozy and sweet within – all of the newest modern conveniences. I had visions of my own darling children having the kind of homes they wanted down the peninsula – or over in Marin Co. – but this war! I wonder when it will ever end!
From the way things are going now, I'm afraid they will not get worse before they get better. It's going to take some little time before our production end of it is going to get in full swing. And to think that the cream of our manhood has to suffer because of that cruel paranoia and his miserable "utensils" (as Winston Churchill dubbed them.)
I'm so worried about Kreigh. I don't know when or where he may be moved. Now that Stephen is here it would be such a pity if he had to leave the country. He'll make such a sweet father. He'll give generously of himself and material things – but wisely – I'm sure.
Some of the highlights of the news:
US fleet swashes Jap island bases near Wake in a surprise attack by planes and war ships take a terrific toll. Navy and air stations are blasted. American losses are small. This is first Yankee bombing of Nippon territory.
Corrgidor wipes out an invasion fleet; drive is foiled before it is even started. General MacArthur is certainly doing a magnificent job. I see in the paper tonight that another ship was in yesterday bringing three hundred more evacuees. One woman said "The writer who talked about the beautiful climate and scenery. Forgot to mention mosquitoes" That sounds very much like my darling Ginny who calls the mosquitos in the islands B19 no less.
Perhaps I'll get a letter tomorrow. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
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