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
Sunday, February 25, 2007
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.
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