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
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
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.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Soon and very soon
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
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
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