Tuesday, March 27, 2007
No plans
Just now I have no plans for the future, because mother Anne is dying. No music. Little sleep. No one to pick me up at the airport when I arrive in the wee hours of the morning Swedish time. In the wake of a 9 hour jet lag, I will get up at 5 or 6 am to work mornings for the Swedish export industry, visit my mother at the convalescent home in a suburb of San Francisco in the afternoons, and try to make arrangements for a move to an assisted living facility in the meantime. I am already a bit nauseous and more dizzy than usual. When I informed the soup kitchen in the Swedish Church that I couldn't help out next week because I would be in San Francisco, I received an sms: låter kul, ha det så bra! Breath deeply. Take it easy. No plans, just wait and see. My friends in Berlin understand. Thirty years ago Bernard said: "Your strength is your greatest weakness." Wish he were here now. One step at a time.
Monday, March 26, 2007
The mast
On the horizon
of this barren island
the child has sited a mast
between heaven and earth.
So every morning before
the others are awake
she bicycles out to
what she sees, meets
an old woman on the road
who can no longer see
what the child does not see,
and lifts her green watering can
to wet the ground around
the cutting that she has struck
so that it will take root
and sail out to sea.
of this barren island
the child has sited a mast
between heaven and earth.
So every morning before
the others are awake
she bicycles out to
what she sees, meets
an old woman on the road
who can no longer see
what the child does not see,
and lifts her green watering can
to wet the ground around
the cutting that she has struck
so that it will take root
and sail out to sea.
Hope
There are battles being fought
on more than one front
in the Old Testament and the New.
The cock has crowed more than three times
tonight and today and tonight again.
He says that in the brittle end
we will reach the pacific daylight
saving time to witness the sunset
fall again and rise in the east.
on more than one front
in the Old Testament and the New.
The cock has crowed more than three times
tonight and today and tonight again.
He says that in the brittle end
we will reach the pacific daylight
saving time to witness the sunset
fall again and rise in the east.
On a "perk"
Dear Mago,
On my way home from Berlin yesterday with the budget airline Germanwings, I was surrounded by several very attractive and friendly Swedish women, most of whom appeared to be in their mid-forties to late fifties. They were on a ”perk” weekend financed by the foundation for which they work, an organization that lobbies for entrepreneurship, with a focus on lowering employer social taxes in Sweden. Since I was familiar with their employer’s agenda, likewise sympathetic to the cause after having shouldered the burdens of self-employment myself for so many years, it was easy to keep a conversation going, at least for a short while… above the drone of the jet engines.
The woman seated beside me had never been to Berlin before. Intent on shopping, and without a guide, she and her colleagues didn’t have time to visit any museum, gallery, cultural or political event, nor to do any sightseeing. With regard to their impression of Berlin, they said: ”prices are about the same as in Sweden.” I didn't ask them what they had purchased. They seem to have had a good time together.
As I returned to Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye, I couldn’t help but feel perked - thinking about the hospitality of my friends in Berlin, as well as the pleasure of my own company - from another crow’s nest.
Your devoted granddaughter
ps. The first time I was in Berlin I flew with Lufthansa and stayed with the same good friends. That time I wrote:
"Ich bin einer Berliner"
said John F. Kennedy
from the Rotes Rathaus balcony
on a brief visit
in nineteen sixty two.
Who can say
I am a Berliner now
if not an American
advertising agency
ultimately commited
to the mad
myth of freedom
on a specially priced
weekend Jackpot flight
with Lufthansa?
I don't think I've changed my outlook, it's just that the news today is that I'm more than half deaf, easily disoriented in outer space, more brittle and easier to chime when struck, closer to...
On my way home from Berlin yesterday with the budget airline Germanwings, I was surrounded by several very attractive and friendly Swedish women, most of whom appeared to be in their mid-forties to late fifties. They were on a ”perk” weekend financed by the foundation for which they work, an organization that lobbies for entrepreneurship, with a focus on lowering employer social taxes in Sweden. Since I was familiar with their employer’s agenda, likewise sympathetic to the cause after having shouldered the burdens of self-employment myself for so many years, it was easy to keep a conversation going, at least for a short while… above the drone of the jet engines.
The woman seated beside me had never been to Berlin before. Intent on shopping, and without a guide, she and her colleagues didn’t have time to visit any museum, gallery, cultural or political event, nor to do any sightseeing. With regard to their impression of Berlin, they said: ”prices are about the same as in Sweden.” I didn't ask them what they had purchased. They seem to have had a good time together.
As I returned to Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye, I couldn’t help but feel perked - thinking about the hospitality of my friends in Berlin, as well as the pleasure of my own company - from another crow’s nest.
Your devoted granddaughter
ps. The first time I was in Berlin I flew with Lufthansa and stayed with the same good friends. That time I wrote:
"Ich bin einer Berliner"
said John F. Kennedy
from the Rotes Rathaus balcony
on a brief visit
in nineteen sixty two.
Who can say
I am a Berliner now
if not an American
advertising agency
ultimately commited
to the mad
myth of freedom
on a specially priced
weekend Jackpot flight
with Lufthansa?
I don't think I've changed my outlook, it's just that the news today is that I'm more than half deaf, easily disoriented in outer space, more brittle and easier to chime when struck, closer to...
Sunday, March 25, 2007
One step at a time
Dear Mago,
Until recently I used to climb up onto a chair whenever I needed to change a light bulb, wash a window, or get something into or out of an upper cupboard in my kitchen. The climb never seemed as perilous as the descent. Like a cat I’ve always been quick to claw up, and slow to crawl down. Insight into the value of investing in a sturdy step stool came with a thunk and a thud some years ago as I jumped to the ground from the lowest branch of an apple tree. It felt as though I had suddenly pitched a tent on the jutting shafts of my brittle shoulder bones.
A step stool came in handy again today when I had to adjust my kitchen clock to daylight savings time. We lost an hour last night. And to think that just last evening, I was walking toward a setting sun over Cecilienhof Palace in Potsdam, along the lakes where allied powers (Churchill, Stalin, and Truman) met in 1945 for the last time, to outline the terms of surrender for Japan. And today is the 50th anniversary of the signing of a ”bundle of blank pages” that established the European Economic Community. And then there are the letters from Captain Buddy in Kitigate that I have yet to climb up and bring down. When is history in the making, whose history?
I enjoyed the huge sculptures in the little gallery on August Strasse in Berlin the most. I liked the semblance of reinforced concrete, bedsprings and bunkers of papier-maché. The Rip van Winkle of an artist sat in the back room beside a heavy stack of old newspapers and a washtub: “I love crumpling up all this bad news and burying it with my shovel under water.”
Fortunately, H’s sister reminded us to reset our clocks. Otherwise I probably would have missed my flight home from Berlin this afternoon…packed with half- baked sourdough bread and vegetable bouillon. Someone once told me that Ruth Berlau, Brecht’s lover, kept a hollow plaster bust of him in a hatbox. She used to get up on a step stool and take down the hatbox whenever she wanted to talk to him. The beauty of art. Take it easy, one step at a time. I may be running an hour late this evening, but I’m still nine hours ahead of San Francisco. Next week I will fly to San Francisco to visit mother Anne.
Your devoted granddaughter
ps. Do you think granddaughter and "forever young" are synonomous? Was heisst "tachales?
Until recently I used to climb up onto a chair whenever I needed to change a light bulb, wash a window, or get something into or out of an upper cupboard in my kitchen. The climb never seemed as perilous as the descent. Like a cat I’ve always been quick to claw up, and slow to crawl down. Insight into the value of investing in a sturdy step stool came with a thunk and a thud some years ago as I jumped to the ground from the lowest branch of an apple tree. It felt as though I had suddenly pitched a tent on the jutting shafts of my brittle shoulder bones.
A step stool came in handy again today when I had to adjust my kitchen clock to daylight savings time. We lost an hour last night. And to think that just last evening, I was walking toward a setting sun over Cecilienhof Palace in Potsdam, along the lakes where allied powers (Churchill, Stalin, and Truman) met in 1945 for the last time, to outline the terms of surrender for Japan. And today is the 50th anniversary of the signing of a ”bundle of blank pages” that established the European Economic Community. And then there are the letters from Captain Buddy in Kitigate that I have yet to climb up and bring down. When is history in the making, whose history?
I enjoyed the huge sculptures in the little gallery on August Strasse in Berlin the most. I liked the semblance of reinforced concrete, bedsprings and bunkers of papier-maché. The Rip van Winkle of an artist sat in the back room beside a heavy stack of old newspapers and a washtub: “I love crumpling up all this bad news and burying it with my shovel under water.”
Fortunately, H’s sister reminded us to reset our clocks. Otherwise I probably would have missed my flight home from Berlin this afternoon…packed with half- baked sourdough bread and vegetable bouillon. Someone once told me that Ruth Berlau, Brecht’s lover, kept a hollow plaster bust of him in a hatbox. She used to get up on a step stool and take down the hatbox whenever she wanted to talk to him. The beauty of art. Take it easy, one step at a time. I may be running an hour late this evening, but I’m still nine hours ahead of San Francisco. Next week I will fly to San Francisco to visit mother Anne.
Your devoted granddaughter
ps. Do you think granddaughter and "forever young" are synonomous? Was heisst "tachales?
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Luft luft luft
Dear Mago,
Thinking of you, as I pack my bags to go to Berlin this weekend.
I have close friends there and feel I need to get some air before I travel to San Francisco in a couple of weeks to visit mother Anne.
Berlin is a city that reminds me of my own first breath, just after the war. Das macht die Berliner Luft luft luft. In my diary from an earlier weekend in Berlin I wrote:
And here you see
Air Bridge Monument
to a fetal City
that the Soviet tried to strangle
on the Autobahn in nineteen forty eight.
Parachutes of bonbons fell to
still unborn children of the war.
DC-3 raisin bombs pumped necessities
every three minutes.
No one need suffocate
as long as the umbilical cord
is not wrapped around her neck
as long as she is securely connected
to the rest
of the west.
If the air presssure in the cabin drops
a mask will be lowered.
Pull it to your face.
Thinking of you, as I pack my bags to go to Berlin this weekend.
I have close friends there and feel I need to get some air before I travel to San Francisco in a couple of weeks to visit mother Anne.
Berlin is a city that reminds me of my own first breath, just after the war. Das macht die Berliner Luft luft luft. In my diary from an earlier weekend in Berlin I wrote:
And here you see
Air Bridge Monument
to a fetal City
that the Soviet tried to strangle
on the Autobahn in nineteen forty eight.
Parachutes of bonbons fell to
still unborn children of the war.
DC-3 raisin bombs pumped necessities
every three minutes.
No one need suffocate
as long as the umbilical cord
is not wrapped around her neck
as long as she is securely connected
to the rest
of the west.
If the air presssure in the cabin drops
a mask will be lowered.
Pull it to your face.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Dear Mago,
I just want you to know that I am going to perch on the crow's nest (my parallel blog) for a while, since it may be awhile before I hear from you again.Lookout from a crow's nest
Your devoted granddaughter
I just want you to know that I am going to perch on the crow's nest (my parallel blog) for a while, since it may be awhile before I hear from you again.Lookout from a crow's nest
Your devoted granddaughter
Testing our limits
I'm not at my wits end
just in an airlock
emitting a weak signal
to another would-(not-like-to)
-be terrorist
on my way through
security control
where limits are tested
by x-ray exposure
between tattered rubber curtains
and a cabaret or bierhaus.
Better take off the heavy metal
rock and let the extra weight
lift the winter chill,
splash us both up into
a rubble bubble bath
or some other warm space
where we've never been before.
Enjoy the flight
home after another week
end next time
may be stronger.
just in an airlock
emitting a weak signal
to another would-(not-like-to)
-be terrorist
on my way through
security control
where limits are tested
by x-ray exposure
between tattered rubber curtains
and a cabaret or bierhaus.
Better take off the heavy metal
rock and let the extra weight
lift the winter chill,
splash us both up into
a rubble bubble bath
or some other warm space
where we've never been before.
Enjoy the flight
home after another week
end next time
may be stronger.
Shipwrecked
Dear Mago,
What a week this has been, huh? It is well that you were able to satiate your curisoity with the name of that beautiful liner on Tuesday my time. I also wanted to follow you and see what you saw, and so I went out looking for photos of the Aquitania. In the process I discovered the optical communication - a precursor to modern digital communication - that I wrote to you about a couple of days ago, the exchange of light signals between the Captain and a curious destroyer in her native waters.
That was the day after I had my hearing tested. As the audiologist turned up the volume of the interference used to mask the transfer of signals through my skull, I sensed that I was being pierced by an impulse far beyond visual or audible perception. In the split second that I might somehow perceive the pain of the intrusion, I found myself being catapulted into an enemy zone. Was the Captain not entrusted to steer this vessel through the Battles of the Atlantic? I note in retrospect that he exhibited at once the charm of a proud father – 'read the world news' - as the dictates of a Caesar – 'can you keep up?' Soon thereafter I shipwrecked. Faint signals can still be detected coming from my heart at the site where I bottomed out: in the nave of the nearby Church of Maria Magdalena, to the silence and song of brothers from Taizé.
What a week this has been, huh? It is well that you were able to satiate your curisoity with the name of that beautiful liner on Tuesday my time. I also wanted to follow you and see what you saw, and so I went out looking for photos of the Aquitania. In the process I discovered the optical communication - a precursor to modern digital communication - that I wrote to you about a couple of days ago, the exchange of light signals between the Captain and a curious destroyer in her native waters.
That was the day after I had my hearing tested. As the audiologist turned up the volume of the interference used to mask the transfer of signals through my skull, I sensed that I was being pierced by an impulse far beyond visual or audible perception. In the split second that I might somehow perceive the pain of the intrusion, I found myself being catapulted into an enemy zone. Was the Captain not entrusted to steer this vessel through the Battles of the Atlantic? I note in retrospect that he exhibited at once the charm of a proud father – 'read the world news' - as the dictates of a Caesar – 'can you keep up?' Soon thereafter I shipwrecked. Faint signals can still be detected coming from my heart at the site where I bottomed out: in the nave of the nearby Church of Maria Magdalena, to the silence and song of brothers from Taizé.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The four-funnel liner
Dear Mago,
I love the “liner” that is the fabric closest to my skin, that is the artist who draws the funny lines, that is a clever joke or comment, that is something that women in particular use to draw attention to their eyes. I don’t think I’m a “good blogger”, i.e. a local media sensation, because we have lost our histories, lost our cultures, lost our collective consciousness, lost our mother tongue, and perhaps most unfortunately lost our interest in exploring…in taking the time and having the patience needed to open ourselves to new perspectives, new associations, needed to create new memories.
In a book called “Liners to the Sun”, the author Maxtone-Graham says that up until World War II, the Aquitania was the only “four-funnel” ship in the world. He mentions that on her first trip back to Europe during World War II, she was met by a destroyer from the reserves that signalled with an Aldis lamp asking the “four-funnelled ship" to indicate who she was. The captain's response was “We are the only *******four-funnel ship in the world and that *********wants our name. Tell him to read ‘The News of the World’ ”. The next signal from the Aldis lamp asked if the ship required an escort, and the reply was, “Can you keep up?” The final Aldis signal as the Aquitania quickly drew away was that the Godspeed of the Aquitania did not require protection.
I love the “liner” that is the fabric closest to my skin, that is the artist who draws the funny lines, that is a clever joke or comment, that is something that women in particular use to draw attention to their eyes. I don’t think I’m a “good blogger”, i.e. a local media sensation, because we have lost our histories, lost our cultures, lost our collective consciousness, lost our mother tongue, and perhaps most unfortunately lost our interest in exploring…in taking the time and having the patience needed to open ourselves to new perspectives, new associations, needed to create new memories.
In a book called “Liners to the Sun”, the author Maxtone-Graham says that up until World War II, the Aquitania was the only “four-funnel” ship in the world. He mentions that on her first trip back to Europe during World War II, she was met by a destroyer from the reserves that signalled with an Aldis lamp asking the “four-funnelled ship" to indicate who she was. The captain's response was “We are the only *******four-funnel ship in the world and that *********wants our name. Tell him to read ‘The News of the World’ ”. The next signal from the Aldis lamp asked if the ship required an escort, and the reply was, “Can you keep up?” The final Aldis signal as the Aquitania quickly drew away was that the Godspeed of the Aquitania did not require protection.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
...on with the Aquitania
San Francisco, California
Well all of this is a long, long way from the war. My curiosity has been satiated concerning the identity of that beautiful liner that came in with the convoy on March 1. It was the Aquitania – a ship that belongs on the Atlantic coast. Betty H McKay says it is the one on which Bobbie went to England. Well, she's a real beauty no matter from whence she may have come.
Mago's last entry in diary from 1942. To be continued by...
Well all of this is a long, long way from the war. My curiosity has been satiated concerning the identity of that beautiful liner that came in with the convoy on March 1. It was the Aquitania – a ship that belongs on the Atlantic coast. Betty H McKay says it is the one on which Bobbie went to England. Well, she's a real beauty no matter from whence she may have come.
Mago's last entry in diary from 1942. To be continued by...
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Untitled
Dear Mago,
Yesterday I was looking at some old family photographs, especially the one below that was taken of you in 1900. Even though it was taken long before we who are still alive knew you, it is ever so close now. I note that your mother died in March, 1900, the same year that this photo was taken. Thank you for saving this photo for us to see. At age 14 your image has the intensity of an icon, eyes that see us wherever we are as deep and wide as our opening to the spirit within ourselves.
Yesterday I was looking at some old family photographs, especially the one below that was taken of you in 1900. Even though it was taken long before we who are still alive knew you, it is ever so close now. I note that your mother died in March, 1900, the same year that this photo was taken. Thank you for saving this photo for us to see. At age 14 your image has the intensity of an icon, eyes that see us wherever we are as deep and wide as our opening to the spirit within ourselves.
Friday, March 9, 2007
"Git up, Punk"
Photo taken in 1899 on the Kreigh family farm outside Greencastle Indiana. From left to right: Nellie Walsh, Margaret Kreigh (Gertrude's mother), Nellie Griffin, William Kreigh (Gertrude's father), and Edith Gertrude Kreigh, i.e. the girl up front reading a book. (Click on photo to enlarge)
Con't from previous entry on 9 March, 1942, where Mago recalls memories of her Grandfather Kreigh's old yellow horse named Punkin:
I meant to tell about the jingle. I've called the (one can't call it verse and be consistent) jingle:
"Punkin"
Stephen has a little mule
His color is like clay
And what can be the use of him
I fear no one can say.
He has a grin from ear to ear
Expression, oh, so bland!
You know he's up to mischief
Some deviltry long planned.
He plants his feet and shows his teeth
And not an inch will budge
It matters not how much you coax
Nor if his ribs you nudge
He jumps a fence six feet or more.
Kicks over all the traces
Then looks at you and blinks
To get back in your graces
He's "stubborn as a little mule"
But he can be so sweet
When you strup on the feedbag
And say, "Here, Punk, let's eat."
This silly little Punkin mule
Has ears quite large and floppy
And, blest Pat, If I don't think he is
A wee bit like your Moppy [Moppy is another nickname for Mago]
March 9, 1942
San Francisco, California
Who was that gal, anyway, that suggested I write a diary – or journal, or whatever you call it? She didn't know what she was letting me in for, I'm sure. It's lots of work if anyone should ask you, and I'm afraid I have so little time to give to compiling my little bit of information that I'm not going to be able to make it (this journal) very interesting or informative.
Today is my darling sailor boy's [Mago's son-in-law who was working in Pearl Harbor with rdio communications in 1941 and-42] twenty-fourth birthday. He's really a dear and I hope he has many happy returns of the day.
I just finished a pair of socks that I made him, but they're not for his birthday – they're part of his Christmas. I gave him a rain check for two pairs and now it looks as though I'm never going to get caught up on my birthdays. Since all of the children are away I feel I must be sending them something all of the time to let them know they have a mother. I know it's silly, but I can't help but feel closer to them when I'm sewing or knitting something for them.
I've made Stephen a little mule that everyone says is very cute, and I'm dying to send it to him. It's so silly I know to be in such a hurry, for he's so very tiny yet – not two months old until the 18th, but I fear I'll have to send the mule very soon – or pop. Of course, I'm sending one of my silly little jingles which was inspired by the little mule itself and memories of my Grandfather Kreigh's old yellow horse that he called "punkin", because it was about the color of a pumpkin. I can see him still _ a tall heavy man with deep set dark brown eyes and grey beard – sitting in his old buggy with one foot hanging out the side. He'd take his cane and poke old Punk in the rump and say "Git up, Punk", and Punk's gate would never vary a fraction of an inch. When Punk saw another vehicle approaching, she'd pull up to the side of the road so the person could say "Top of the Morning" to old George, as my grandfather was affectionately called by all the countryside. He was a pioneer. Born in Hagerstown, Maryland, January 2, 1809 (his parents were born in the United States and some of the family fought in the Revolution, but the family originally came from Germany. However, my grandfather could neither read nor write nor speak German, (so I judge the family may have been very early settlers). He moved to Columbus Indiana when a very young man and it was there he met my grandmother Zerelda Gabbert. Of her I know very little, since she died before my father and mother were married, but I should have interrogated my father's Aunt Josephine Kitchen, my grandmother's sister and then perhaps I would know a little more. This much I do know. The Gabbert family decided to move further west and my grandfather and grandmother were married in Columbus and did not leave the Hossier state, Goodness! How I have degressed.
Who was that gal, anyway, that suggested I write a diary – or journal, or whatever you call it? She didn't know what she was letting me in for, I'm sure. It's lots of work if anyone should ask you, and I'm afraid I have so little time to give to compiling my little bit of information that I'm not going to be able to make it (this journal) very interesting or informative.
Today is my darling sailor boy's [Mago's son-in-law who was working in Pearl Harbor with rdio communications in 1941 and-42] twenty-fourth birthday. He's really a dear and I hope he has many happy returns of the day.
I just finished a pair of socks that I made him, but they're not for his birthday – they're part of his Christmas. I gave him a rain check for two pairs and now it looks as though I'm never going to get caught up on my birthdays. Since all of the children are away I feel I must be sending them something all of the time to let them know they have a mother. I know it's silly, but I can't help but feel closer to them when I'm sewing or knitting something for them.
I've made Stephen a little mule that everyone says is very cute, and I'm dying to send it to him. It's so silly I know to be in such a hurry, for he's so very tiny yet – not two months old until the 18th, but I fear I'll have to send the mule very soon – or pop. Of course, I'm sending one of my silly little jingles which was inspired by the little mule itself and memories of my Grandfather Kreigh's old yellow horse that he called "punkin", because it was about the color of a pumpkin. I can see him still _ a tall heavy man with deep set dark brown eyes and grey beard – sitting in his old buggy with one foot hanging out the side. He'd take his cane and poke old Punk in the rump and say "Git up, Punk", and Punk's gate would never vary a fraction of an inch. When Punk saw another vehicle approaching, she'd pull up to the side of the road so the person could say "Top of the Morning" to old George, as my grandfather was affectionately called by all the countryside. He was a pioneer. Born in Hagerstown, Maryland, January 2, 1809 (his parents were born in the United States and some of the family fought in the Revolution, but the family originally came from Germany. However, my grandfather could neither read nor write nor speak German, (so I judge the family may have been very early settlers). He moved to Columbus Indiana when a very young man and it was there he met my grandmother Zerelda Gabbert. Of her I know very little, since she died before my father and mother were married, but I should have interrogated my father's Aunt Josephine Kitchen, my grandmother's sister and then perhaps I would know a little more. This much I do know. The Gabbert family decided to move further west and my grandfather and grandmother were married in Columbus and did not leave the Hossier state, Goodness! How I have degressed.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
I don’t get it…who are you talking about?
Stockholm, Sweden
Dear Mago,
Since International Women’s Day will begin here in a matter of minutes CET, Central European Time, it’s high time to try to answer some questions I’ve had about something you wrote in the first entry in your diary:
"For years I've felt that anyone who kept a diary was adolescent, neurotic, or particularly erudite. Of course, if I were Polly with a past and could write something so daring as Amy Crocker, Amy McPherson, Mary Astor and many others that might have been some inducement, but I'm just plain me…"
To begin with I didn’t understand what you meant by “Polly with a Past”. A little research tells me that you’re referring to a comedy in three acts about a small town American girl who goes to Paris to study singing, but winds up as a maid for a couple of bachelors. Needless-to-say, I’m still more interested in the American girl who grew up on a pig farm in Indiana (even if she did have a younger sister who studied and taught singing). I’m more interested in the young woman who studied English and who, after a brief marriage, took off alone with her young son for San Francisco in 1910.
And then I was wondering about the three pollies you mentioned. In order to still my curiosity today I’ve managed to unearth an interesting trio: a traveler, an evangelist, and an actress.
The most enigmatic of the three is Aimee Crocker. It seems she was a wealthy San Francisco socialite who wrote under the pseudonym Princess Galitzine. Aimee was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed woman who refused to play by the Victorian rules of her conservative family home. The San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen alludes to her association with Oscar Wilde. She could only go farther west than you by taking to the sea, and ended up in India, from where she wrote "…here I am, [in] a country whose individual life covers over 4,000 years, and whose living breath had been blowing upon me across broad seas, whose finger had been beckoning me."
Sister Aimee Semple McPherson (1890 -1944) turned out to be a controversial evangelist and media sensation in southern California in the 1920s and 1930s. Influenced by the Salvation Army, she eventually set up her own Salvation Navy, with lighthouse parishes. Her fate was to die on an overdose of drugs.
It appears that Mary Astor (1906-1987) was an award-winning actress, who wrote a diary that was eventually published in some newspapers. Although the excerpts that were published were "fairly harmless – romantic and sentimental chatter in no detail” – tales of sexually explicit content began to circulate though no one had evidently ever read her authentic diary. Referring to the five stages of her career, one of Mary Astor’s most famous quotes is purported to be: “Who’s Mary Astor? Get me Mary Astor. Get me a Mary Astor type. Get me a young Mary Astor. Who’s Mary Astor?"
It’s amazing how quickly our frames of reference change, and either distort meaning into meaningless banter, or offer fresh perspectives on life. These days feminist writers here in Scandinavia are fascinated by the lives of a postwar generation of California residents like Edie Sedgwick (1943-1971) and Valerie Solanas (1936-1988), both of whom led perilous lives in the periphery of the New York art scene. Like your Sister Aimee, Sedgwick died of an overdose. Like mother Anne, Solanos ended up with a case of emphysema and pneumonia. Solanos' last days were spent in a welfare hotel in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. Perhaps she died in the same hotel where mother Anne’s sister Evelyn lived between the death of her mother and her move to a mental institution in Redwood City.
Perhaps what is new is the way we dare to cut and paste references to the lives of real people whom we have never met, in an effort to express the vicarious joys and tragedies of our own lives.
To be continued...
Your devoted granddaughter
Dear Mago,
Since International Women’s Day will begin here in a matter of minutes CET, Central European Time, it’s high time to try to answer some questions I’ve had about something you wrote in the first entry in your diary:
"For years I've felt that anyone who kept a diary was adolescent, neurotic, or particularly erudite. Of course, if I were Polly with a past and could write something so daring as Amy Crocker, Amy McPherson, Mary Astor and many others that might have been some inducement, but I'm just plain me…"
To begin with I didn’t understand what you meant by “Polly with a Past”. A little research tells me that you’re referring to a comedy in three acts about a small town American girl who goes to Paris to study singing, but winds up as a maid for a couple of bachelors. Needless-to-say, I’m still more interested in the American girl who grew up on a pig farm in Indiana (even if she did have a younger sister who studied and taught singing). I’m more interested in the young woman who studied English and who, after a brief marriage, took off alone with her young son for San Francisco in 1910.
And then I was wondering about the three pollies you mentioned. In order to still my curiosity today I’ve managed to unearth an interesting trio: a traveler, an evangelist, and an actress.
The most enigmatic of the three is Aimee Crocker. It seems she was a wealthy San Francisco socialite who wrote under the pseudonym Princess Galitzine. Aimee was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed woman who refused to play by the Victorian rules of her conservative family home. The San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen alludes to her association with Oscar Wilde. She could only go farther west than you by taking to the sea, and ended up in India, from where she wrote "…here I am, [in] a country whose individual life covers over 4,000 years, and whose living breath had been blowing upon me across broad seas, whose finger had been beckoning me."
Sister Aimee Semple McPherson (1890 -1944) turned out to be a controversial evangelist and media sensation in southern California in the 1920s and 1930s. Influenced by the Salvation Army, she eventually set up her own Salvation Navy, with lighthouse parishes. Her fate was to die on an overdose of drugs.
It appears that Mary Astor (1906-1987) was an award-winning actress, who wrote a diary that was eventually published in some newspapers. Although the excerpts that were published were "fairly harmless – romantic and sentimental chatter in no detail” – tales of sexually explicit content began to circulate though no one had evidently ever read her authentic diary. Referring to the five stages of her career, one of Mary Astor’s most famous quotes is purported to be: “Who’s Mary Astor? Get me Mary Astor. Get me a Mary Astor type. Get me a young Mary Astor. Who’s Mary Astor?"
It’s amazing how quickly our frames of reference change, and either distort meaning into meaningless banter, or offer fresh perspectives on life. These days feminist writers here in Scandinavia are fascinated by the lives of a postwar generation of California residents like Edie Sedgwick (1943-1971) and Valerie Solanas (1936-1988), both of whom led perilous lives in the periphery of the New York art scene. Like your Sister Aimee, Sedgwick died of an overdose. Like mother Anne, Solanos ended up with a case of emphysema and pneumonia. Solanos' last days were spent in a welfare hotel in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. Perhaps she died in the same hotel where mother Anne’s sister Evelyn lived between the death of her mother and her move to a mental institution in Redwood City.
Perhaps what is new is the way we dare to cut and paste references to the lives of real people whom we have never met, in an effort to express the vicarious joys and tragedies of our own lives.
To be continued...
Your devoted granddaughter
Monday, March 5, 2007
Emergency landing
Dear Mago,
We are going to have to return to Japan many times after the war is over, by sea and by air. First in the belly of a woman leaning over the ship’s railing, forced to regurgitate all the days it takes to travel by sea from San Francisco to Kyushu on a liner with only one smoke stack and two packs of Lucky Strikes. We’ll also return later in a four-propeller plane, and be forced to land on a coral reef because one of the engines has caught fire.
I can still recall the pleasant voice of the stewardess as I gaze out the oval window and watch the flames licking the wings – the closest I can get to the calm of an open hearth. I am focusing on the horizon to still the nauseating turbulence of travel, in the hope that it will give me a clue as to the time of day, of year. As we cross the International Date Line, I'd rather be back on the mainland with my friends, the up-and-coming global generation, watching the Howdy Doody show.
Mother Anne has caught sight of the island where we are headed. From the air, Wake Island looks like the cross section of an eyeball filled with a luminous emerald green liquid. The airstrip is at the inner end of the lagoon, the only place where the albatross ever lands – to lay her eggs. When the hatch door is opened there will be no refreshing breeze or fragrant leis to greet us here, just stifling humidity.
Did you ever hear the family anecdote about the girl’s pronounced lower lip: “if she doesn’t stop pouting we’re going to have to cut it off?” No wonder she’s surly, unsightly, maimed this girl with the bird. “Oh pooh, there she goes again, claiming to remember things that happened before she was born.” And then there was this other woman, whom father Kreigh tells us he has fallen love with, this other Girl with the Bird.
To be continued…
Your devoted granddaughter
We are going to have to return to Japan many times after the war is over, by sea and by air. First in the belly of a woman leaning over the ship’s railing, forced to regurgitate all the days it takes to travel by sea from San Francisco to Kyushu on a liner with only one smoke stack and two packs of Lucky Strikes. We’ll also return later in a four-propeller plane, and be forced to land on a coral reef because one of the engines has caught fire.
I can still recall the pleasant voice of the stewardess as I gaze out the oval window and watch the flames licking the wings – the closest I can get to the calm of an open hearth. I am focusing on the horizon to still the nauseating turbulence of travel, in the hope that it will give me a clue as to the time of day, of year. As we cross the International Date Line, I'd rather be back on the mainland with my friends, the up-and-coming global generation, watching the Howdy Doody show.
Mother Anne has caught sight of the island where we are headed. From the air, Wake Island looks like the cross section of an eyeball filled with a luminous emerald green liquid. The airstrip is at the inner end of the lagoon, the only place where the albatross ever lands – to lay her eggs. When the hatch door is opened there will be no refreshing breeze or fragrant leis to greet us here, just stifling humidity.
Did you ever hear the family anecdote about the girl’s pronounced lower lip: “if she doesn’t stop pouting we’re going to have to cut it off?” No wonder she’s surly, unsightly, maimed this girl with the bird. “Oh pooh, there she goes again, claiming to remember things that happened before she was born.” And then there was this other woman, whom father Kreigh tells us he has fallen love with, this other Girl with the Bird.
To be continued…
Your devoted granddaughter
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Fuel for thought
Dear Mago,
What grace that your beautiful vessel appeared just when she did. Your timing couldn’t have been better, and with so many and still nobody we know on board!
In my conviction to describe the fuel for your ship, I am reminded of a series of paintings I did many years ago, especially a self-portrait. While the portrait is anything but flattering, its colorful uncanny aura has continued to fascinate me over the years. In fact, I brought it up from the basement just yesterday to reacquaint myself with her. She’s a young redhead, set off against a green background and a house with no smoke stack. There’s a crow with a mossy green breast perched on her left shoulder. The shadow of this feathered friend is cast across my chin - just below my lower lip - as if to make sure my mouth is kept shut. My eyes are steadfast in their look-out, as some distant gulls seem to have sighted prey beneath my brow. What am I thinking? What is it I see? What have I heard? What do I mean? What is it that I am apparently so loath to disclose?
The first reading today was from Leviticus 14, where God tells Moses and Aaron how to cleanse a house of mildew. Several birds are sacrificed to free one that is the subject of prey.
One evening in the fifties while we were living in Tokyo, and you were planning on visiting us soon, father Kreigh announced at the dinner table that he had fallen in love with another woman. His one-liner was loaded, and we all loved it. We knew he was full of surprises and stories for us. He continued to tell us that he was planning on taking mother Anne out to lunch the next day to meet this new love, and that if the meeting went well he would bring her home to meet us all.
Nowhere is the presence of the crow so intimate, so self assertive, so much at home as in Swedish lore. She is more cunning and clever than most birds. While she keeps her beak shut, she continues to cajole with the coquetry of the devil. If she opens it to cackle, the omen is shrill. Perhaps that is why I suddenly became deaf in the ear closest to her beak. Perhaps she wanted me to remain uncertain of what I had heard so as never to repeat it. Now I must begin to tell you, before it is too late. Should your entries stop before I have finished telling you, then I will continue to write to you wherever you are, hopefully better equipped for these reflections.
to be continued...
Your devoted grandaughter
What grace that your beautiful vessel appeared just when she did. Your timing couldn’t have been better, and with so many and still nobody we know on board!
In my conviction to describe the fuel for your ship, I am reminded of a series of paintings I did many years ago, especially a self-portrait. While the portrait is anything but flattering, its colorful uncanny aura has continued to fascinate me over the years. In fact, I brought it up from the basement just yesterday to reacquaint myself with her. She’s a young redhead, set off against a green background and a house with no smoke stack. There’s a crow with a mossy green breast perched on her left shoulder. The shadow of this feathered friend is cast across my chin - just below my lower lip - as if to make sure my mouth is kept shut. My eyes are steadfast in their look-out, as some distant gulls seem to have sighted prey beneath my brow. What am I thinking? What is it I see? What have I heard? What do I mean? What is it that I am apparently so loath to disclose?
The first reading today was from Leviticus 14, where God tells Moses and Aaron how to cleanse a house of mildew. Several birds are sacrificed to free one that is the subject of prey.
One evening in the fifties while we were living in Tokyo, and you were planning on visiting us soon, father Kreigh announced at the dinner table that he had fallen in love with another woman. His one-liner was loaded, and we all loved it. We knew he was full of surprises and stories for us. He continued to tell us that he was planning on taking mother Anne out to lunch the next day to meet this new love, and that if the meeting went well he would bring her home to meet us all.
Nowhere is the presence of the crow so intimate, so self assertive, so much at home as in Swedish lore. She is more cunning and clever than most birds. While she keeps her beak shut, she continues to cajole with the coquetry of the devil. If she opens it to cackle, the omen is shrill. Perhaps that is why I suddenly became deaf in the ear closest to her beak. Perhaps she wanted me to remain uncertain of what I had heard so as never to repeat it. Now I must begin to tell you, before it is too late. Should your entries stop before I have finished telling you, then I will continue to write to you wherever you are, hopefully better equipped for these reflections.
to be continued...
Your devoted grandaughter
Friday, March 2, 2007
The one-liner with four smoke stacks
Stockholm, Sweden
While I may be a long way away from your beautiful “liner with four smoke stacks”, I find the image to be a relief from all the “one-liners” that are so ubiquitous these days, used to brush aside rather than to convey meaning.
You write that you were positively “thrilled” by the incredible number of smoke stacks. Unlike you, I am mostly “fascinated” by them and still wondering if she is in fact the true Queen Mary? Just imagine all the fire that can blaze beneath her decks. You allude to some of what might be used to keep her burning: the death of her firstborn as an infant, the negligence of a young mother, the thoughtlessness of grown-up “children”, the symbiosis between a mother and daughter, insecurities and resentments. Your hints of the hell of the family pyre offer plenty of fuel to propel my pen long after you've abandonned your diary. You seem to epitomize the sentiments that will grow out of your time when you write: “None are so blind as those who will not see”. Perhaps this is similarly trite but likewise true: none so miserable as the miser, or so alienated as the one who builds walls.
All I can do now is examine the realities my own life in search of bad faith and in an effort to heighten my own sensitivities - to oppression and exploitation. That's why I am writing this “blog”, to exemplify the value that I choose to create each day and for which I am prepared to assume responsibility. What can you or I know about another human being in our present state of knowledge?
Here and there, the weather report says that storms are getting the better of budget airlines. There's the JetBlue debacle in the US and the FlyMe belly flop in Europe. JetBlue has evidently become the whipping boy of the US media, front page news in the New York Times, and the butt of every late night comedian. To be continued…
Your devoted granddaughter
While I may be a long way away from your beautiful “liner with four smoke stacks”, I find the image to be a relief from all the “one-liners” that are so ubiquitous these days, used to brush aside rather than to convey meaning.
You write that you were positively “thrilled” by the incredible number of smoke stacks. Unlike you, I am mostly “fascinated” by them and still wondering if she is in fact the true Queen Mary? Just imagine all the fire that can blaze beneath her decks. You allude to some of what might be used to keep her burning: the death of her firstborn as an infant, the negligence of a young mother, the thoughtlessness of grown-up “children”, the symbiosis between a mother and daughter, insecurities and resentments. Your hints of the hell of the family pyre offer plenty of fuel to propel my pen long after you've abandonned your diary. You seem to epitomize the sentiments that will grow out of your time when you write: “None are so blind as those who will not see”. Perhaps this is similarly trite but likewise true: none so miserable as the miser, or so alienated as the one who builds walls.
All I can do now is examine the realities my own life in search of bad faith and in an effort to heighten my own sensitivities - to oppression and exploitation. That's why I am writing this “blog”, to exemplify the value that I choose to create each day and for which I am prepared to assume responsibility. What can you or I know about another human being in our present state of knowledge?
Here and there, the weather report says that storms are getting the better of budget airlines. There's the JetBlue debacle in the US and the FlyMe belly flop in Europe. JetBlue has evidently become the whipping boy of the US media, front page news in the New York Times, and the butt of every late night comedian. To be continued…
Your devoted granddaughter
March 1, 1942 con't
Haven't had a letter from Kreigh and Anne for weeks. I can't understand how Anne can fail to send her mother at least a card. Poor Evelyn is so worried about her and when she doesn't hear calls me up to see if I've heard. The poor dear has so many things to bother her that she's just beside herself, but she never tells Anne – thinking to save her. Children can certainly be very thoughtless at times. I know they must be having to move very shortly, but, even so, Anne could send a card. Evelyn said Anne had been having trouble with the baby, but I do hope to hear in the morning that everything is all right now. I am very disappointed that Anne didn't take better care of herself during pregnancy. Anne is very intelligent and she knows what she should do – heaven knows she's been steeped in medical lore since infancy ¬ but she won't do anything toward safeguarding her health. It wouldn't be quite so bad if it were just herself who suffered but it's all of us – especially the baby. Well, I suppose it is trite, but true – There are none so blind as those who will not see.
A view from the Crow's Nest, March 1, 1942
Sunday
March 1, 1942
Today has been a very busy day for Pops and me. Soon after breakfast we took the Sunday paper and my knitting and went up to the "Crows' Nest" The day was sunny, but not too warm and the visibility was poor. We thought that surely we would be disappointed and would not see any ships. There suddenly out of the fog emerged one – then two big ships loaded with guns – cruisers or destroyers – they're all the same to Pops and me. We don't know much about ships. Then the crowd at the Crows' nest began to thicken and even though we had a "front seat" so many people came and stood in our way that I pulled out – and did I have a struggle – had to back about four times – we were jammed in so closely. Went over Funston to the Marina where we had another front seat and saw the whole convoy come under the bridge. Such a thrilling sight I don't hope to see very soon again. There was one beautiful ship – I felt sure it was the Lurline and we could see hundreds of people hanging over her sides. Pops and I were so excited because we wondered if our own baby might be among them. We didn't count the ships as we should have, but there must have been twelve or fourteen. One beautiful liner had four smoke stacks and she was so long we wondered what they were going to do with her. Pops and I had started out to the beach about ten o'clock and it must have been about ten thirty when we spotted the first ship and after waiting to see the last ship safely through the gate and under the bridge, we went home to find it three o'clock. After a bite of lunch we went back again to see what we could see. This time I was determined to have a view from Telegraph Hill, Luck wasn't with me, and after we had struggled to get to the top we weren't fortunate enough to be in the right spot at the right time when somebody pulled out and, as a result, I had to complete the circle and go back down the hill. That didn't deter me. I found a place to park and this time took Shank's Mare. When we climbed up to the circle we saw our beautiful, graceful four stacked ship getting ready to dock. There were about five tugs out there shoving her around inch by inch. One young man loaned us his binoculars and we could see the passengers – hundreds and hundreds of them _ hanging over the sides. Everyone was breathless – passengers and spectators alike. In the midst of it all the Clipper took off from Treasure Island and sailed like a bird out to sea. We lingered on the Hill until our beautiful ship was safely snuggled against the pier and they had thrown out many ropes to hold her fast. Who is she? Wouldn't I give a lot to know? From whence did she come? Perhaps we'll not know the answer to that for some time. I shall seam the morning paper assiduously to see if I can solve the enigma. Some of the people on the hill said it was the Queen Mary – that we don't have any ships on the west coast with four stacks – everyone is agreed – so it must be, we think, from Australia. I heard on a radio broadcast one time that the Queen Mary couldn't dock at any of our piers – not that our bay was too small or shallow, but that our piers were too short. Well, this boat docked and with the neatest bit of maneuvering that I've ever seen – and I think I could say that for all the thousands – yes, thousands – of people that witnessed the docking. Pops and I didn't get home to dinner until about seven thirty. We were so excited, for we didn't know what the day might bring forth. I'm, glad though, that Virginia didn't come today. It is a sad anniversary of our little David's passing and I'm sure she wouldn't want her home coming to be on that date. I'm glad that she and Bert could be together on this day.
It made me feel a little comforted to see the way those two beautiful passenger ships were so protected by our navy. I hope and pray that our ships continue to come through so nicely. On the East coast the shipping is so endangered that nothing is safe in those turbulent waters. Four of our ships were sunk within the last twenty-four hours.
March 1, 1942
Today has been a very busy day for Pops and me. Soon after breakfast we took the Sunday paper and my knitting and went up to the "Crows' Nest" The day was sunny, but not too warm and the visibility was poor. We thought that surely we would be disappointed and would not see any ships. There suddenly out of the fog emerged one – then two big ships loaded with guns – cruisers or destroyers – they're all the same to Pops and me. We don't know much about ships. Then the crowd at the Crows' nest began to thicken and even though we had a "front seat" so many people came and stood in our way that I pulled out – and did I have a struggle – had to back about four times – we were jammed in so closely. Went over Funston to the Marina where we had another front seat and saw the whole convoy come under the bridge. Such a thrilling sight I don't hope to see very soon again. There was one beautiful ship – I felt sure it was the Lurline and we could see hundreds of people hanging over her sides. Pops and I were so excited because we wondered if our own baby might be among them. We didn't count the ships as we should have, but there must have been twelve or fourteen. One beautiful liner had four smoke stacks and she was so long we wondered what they were going to do with her. Pops and I had started out to the beach about ten o'clock and it must have been about ten thirty when we spotted the first ship and after waiting to see the last ship safely through the gate and under the bridge, we went home to find it three o'clock. After a bite of lunch we went back again to see what we could see. This time I was determined to have a view from Telegraph Hill, Luck wasn't with me, and after we had struggled to get to the top we weren't fortunate enough to be in the right spot at the right time when somebody pulled out and, as a result, I had to complete the circle and go back down the hill. That didn't deter me. I found a place to park and this time took Shank's Mare. When we climbed up to the circle we saw our beautiful, graceful four stacked ship getting ready to dock. There were about five tugs out there shoving her around inch by inch. One young man loaned us his binoculars and we could see the passengers – hundreds and hundreds of them _ hanging over the sides. Everyone was breathless – passengers and spectators alike. In the midst of it all the Clipper took off from Treasure Island and sailed like a bird out to sea. We lingered on the Hill until our beautiful ship was safely snuggled against the pier and they had thrown out many ropes to hold her fast. Who is she? Wouldn't I give a lot to know? From whence did she come? Perhaps we'll not know the answer to that for some time. I shall seam the morning paper assiduously to see if I can solve the enigma. Some of the people on the hill said it was the Queen Mary – that we don't have any ships on the west coast with four stacks – everyone is agreed – so it must be, we think, from Australia. I heard on a radio broadcast one time that the Queen Mary couldn't dock at any of our piers – not that our bay was too small or shallow, but that our piers were too short. Well, this boat docked and with the neatest bit of maneuvering that I've ever seen – and I think I could say that for all the thousands – yes, thousands – of people that witnessed the docking. Pops and I didn't get home to dinner until about seven thirty. We were so excited, for we didn't know what the day might bring forth. I'm, glad though, that Virginia didn't come today. It is a sad anniversary of our little David's passing and I'm sure she wouldn't want her home coming to be on that date. I'm glad that she and Bert could be together on this day.
It made me feel a little comforted to see the way those two beautiful passenger ships were so protected by our navy. I hope and pray that our ships continue to come through so nicely. On the East coast the shipping is so endangered that nothing is safe in those turbulent waters. Four of our ships were sunk within the last twenty-four hours.
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