Nothing Means Nothing
It's the Monday after 4th of July. I'm in LAX, waiting for the flight that will wing me back to Jakarta after a month away. Too long to be gone from Curtis and home. As a fitting end to a whirlwind trip, I'm in Reno visiting my mom and my brother, Joe and his family, Joanne his wife, Devin and Grace their as Garrison puts it "handsome and above average" children.
Getting here Friday was no easy feat. My flight overflowed with disgruntled families--iincluding a 5some which had been separated due to a plane switch (a major problem because their youngest child had cerebral palsy and was wheelchair bound). The mother , fuming and shooting sparks, blocked the check-in counter so no one else could be served because the United Airline desk folks wouldn't/couldn't rearrange seats so they could be together; and a family of seven, including 3 children under 8, who had also been separated as a result of the plane switch. While the first mom ranted, the 6 year old from the second group disolved in tears after discovering hers was a lone middle seat several rows in front of her parents, and refused to budge from the aisle. Add to this, a young family with 2 toddlers seated behind a blousy bleached blonde middle-age crazy who turned and screamed several times for the tots to "shut up, I'm trying to sleep." A rant to which the tots mother responded by calling the flight attendance and complaining (while the 1st and 2nd mother shouted out supporting "crazy lady" theory evidence.) From my cozy window seat, I watched, as one does a reality show, glad their drama wasn't my drama.
My second flight, from Denver to Reno, saw a completely different cast of characters--down right boring in comparison. Anticipating a restful flight, I was alternately dozing and reading when the pilot turned the fasten seatbelt sign back on and announced the generator had failed, as had the restart attempt and 1st back up, so we were RETURNING TO DENVER!!!!! We were almost, but not quite, at the half-way mark...if we had been there, or past it, we would have flown on to Reno. Electricity, pashaw! I thought, Chicken Shit! Don't turn back--get me to Reno!!!
5 hours later than original scheduled, I collected my way too heavy bags (60 & 58 pounds--do we really need 1 pound jars of peanut and almond butter and 3 bottles of Anne's Goddess Dressing?) and staggered out to the rental car shuttle stop. The sky was bright, the sun hot, and I sweated and waited...and waited...and waited...
...and finally dug out my Thrifty Blue Chip card and called the number on back to ask about the tardy shuttle. Fancy this: Blue Chip info keeps banker's hours. Now that's what I call service: a "preferred customer" number that is closed when the supposed "preferred customer" needs them! After unearthing my reservation from my wad of receipts and reservations and dialed Thrifty Reno's direct number, a cheery someone informed me: "There aren't shuttles anymore as we are now on sight" and all I have to do is come back inside---me and my4 bags and purse--did I forget to mention my 3rd and 4th bags, a carry on rollerboard and overstuffed purse?--trudged back inside to the desk, finished the reservations, retreived the keys and walk across to the parking garage. What joy! Was this roased turkey supposed to be happy?
My friend, Beverly, is fond of saying "a bad beginning makes a good ending." That being the case, we'd have to pretend that the ending happened 4th of July midnight--after 2 days with family. Mom and I shopped and ate and drove and laughed, and spent lots of joyful time--taco night on the patio with Joanne and kids, Sunday picnic with the whole family; and the fireworks spectacular in Sparks! The 4th of July celebration was such fun that even the hour wait in a fume-filled garage afterwards, couldn't mar it. However....
I awoke this morning at 2:51 am! (9 minutes early as my 1st flight departed at 5:30. )--scratching the top of my foot and what look like bug bites all over my thighs. Worse, were my ears--my dainty, shell-like ears, my grandmother's favorite ears, the very same delicate ears which prompted her to tell me to "pull your hear back so your ears show" more times that I can count--were bright red, swollen, itchy and sticking out from my head like those of Snow White's 4th dwarf, Dopey.
Now, several hours, ice water and aloe vera dressings later, I'm worse. The "bug bites" have spread from the back of my thights to the fronts, my arms and chest. And despite repeated applications of Cortaid and several Benadryl tablets, my ears have passed through "Dopey" to "Dumbo" as in, the flying elephant (no comments, please, I am well aware of the implied implications of that comparison...)
While laminting my swollen ears and reliving the last couple of days to uncover something I may have eaten or used which could have caused such a reaction, I'm recalling a bout of larangytis. My friend, Sydnie, a Christian Scientist, told me then that she believes disease is actually "dis-ease." That when a person is ill, which ever part of the body is ailing is reacting to repressed feelings. In the case of my sore throat, Sydnie suggested it meant I was "not saying something I should be," that I was holding back, staying silent rather than addressing an issue.
I wonder what Sydnie would have to say about my ears????
Play Me I'm Yours-Pure Magic!
Occasionally, often at inconvenient, unexpected or irksome times, we happen upon magic. It happened again Tuesday night. I was in New York City to visit my daughter, Lexi. It was late for a weeknight dinner—close to 9. Lexi, her beau, Ryan, and I were hungry, tired, and wanting dinner. It was one of those evenings after a long day for all of us: I had just ridden in on the train from Baltimore, after spending a delightful few days with my writer bud, Barb Crispin, racing through the ALA Convention in Washington, DC; Lexi had put in a hard day at the office; as had Ryan, who’d been up and at it since 5: 30. If we were smart, we would have ordered in. But it was a spring on the brink of summer eve where everyone on the streets seemed joyful. Pretty girls in short, flirty skirts and tall shoes pranced; suited men with ties fluttering had bounce in their step--a night begging to be enjoyed--a "Puck" night.
We chose Italian, because there are several al fresco cafes on 6th Ave between Bleeker and Spring, and agreed to meet there. Unfortuanately for us, everyone else was similarly possessed. Every café with open air seating was packed with waiting lines, more aptly, rings of anxious diners hovering, willing those at tables to “shut up, eat up and leave so we can have your spot.” Ryan and Lexi arrived before me. They were sitting on a bench, motioning at me with their cell phones and eyebrows raised in that “we’ve been calling you, why didn’t you pick up” way. I was rushing toward them when it happened.
The piano caught my attention immediately. Angled jauntily, splashed with Technicolor it beckoned “Play Me I’m Yours!” and they did! Everyone who had ever taken a piano lesson, or banged out Chopsticks, stopped to tickle the ivories—Magic!
The piano is one of 60 mysteriously deposited all over New York City by Sing For Hope, “an ‘artists’ peace corps’ that mobilizes more than 600 professional artists in our volunteer service programs that benefit schools, hospitals and communities.” From 9am-10pm each day, June 21-July 5, 60 pianos are/were scattered throughout NYC, inviting passersby to play a ditty.
“Play Me, I’m Yours” is an artwork by British artist Luke Jerram who has been touring the project globally since 2008. (He’s posted a street piano webcam viewed through his website: http://www.lukejerram.com/ site.)
If you’re in NYC, you have one more day to experience this musical magic in person. And, thanks to that tech magic called Internet, Play Me I’m Yours videos, stories and photos can enthrall us all. Click on: http://www.streetpianos.com/nyc2010/
This musical magic continues! 20 pianos strong, Play Me I’m Yours hits Grand Rapids on September 22nd—where else?????
Magic Happens…. Keep your eyes and ears open!
Children's Books for Fun's Sake
Author, Anita Silvey, renowned for her encyclopedic knowledge of children's books and elegant hats, questioned 100 people to select noteworthy childrens' books when writing Everything I Need to Know I Learned from a Children's Book. She asked them to answer this question: "What children's book changed the way you see the world?" According to the "Authors Guild Bulletin", winter 2010, quoting from PW, Maurice Sendak replied: "Crockett Johnson's Harold and the Purple Crayon is just immense fun. Harold does exactly as he pleases....Books shouldn't teach. They shouldn't give lessons. Kids should feel that they can do what they want and no one will punish them. They can just be kids and enjoy reading and looking at a book."
The Dishes Still Aren't Done
I've been riding a hot air balloon the past few weeks. Thanks to my publicist, Rebecca Grose, my schedule is packed with events promoting my new books. This is the season for DAD AND POP and YOUR DADDY WAS JUST LIKE YOU, but DANCE Y'ALL DANCE has had it's share of attention, too. TV and Radio Interviews--including one where I came on right after this song, and a report about a box of human heads found on a plane--books signings, readings, storytimes. I've visited Bank Street Books and Books of Wonder. Both well-respected book stores have long been touchstones for me. I'd slide in like a thief, trying not to look suspicious as scoured the shelves looking for my books, only to slink back out with my tail tucked--no such luck. Well not anymore! I've read my books in those stores (never mind that only a few fistfuls of people listened), I've met the owners and they love my books and seem to like me and asked me to sign all the copies so they could feature them in their "autographed books" section. And...if that's not enough: I made it past the stone lions guarding the entrance to the New York Public Library and down into the hallowed "Children's Center". And best, after my presentation, the John Peters, the department head, took Lexi, my daughter and I on a tour, of this marvel. And, while we didnt' get to "touch" they collection of Christopher Robin's stuffed animans in "Poo Corner" we did get to press our noses against the glass and gaze upon them for as long as we wanted. All this was warm up for yesterday. The news arrived a few days ago, YOUR DADDY WAS JUST LIKE YOU was going to be in USA Today. Then, Monday, the news got even richer, DAD AND POP was also going to be featured. Yesterday dawned bright and hot in Houston. I rose early and jumped on the whirlwind of events scheduled. IAfter the "human head" 5 minutes of Radio Fame, in between rushing to the Blue Willow Bookshop, reading and singing with about 50 preschoolers, a stop at CostCo to buy 2 carts of party food for Amy, Lexi's BFF's Engagement Party, A run through Specks for Party Drinks, and dash over to Katy Budget Books for an afternoon signing and reading and lovely chat with my friend Stacy Morris, the event organizer there, I remembered it was Thursday (it was on my schedule...) and the USA Today issue was in my mind. But there were veggies and meats to buy, party lanterns to hang, table clothes to iron--and my friend Joy, who had loaned me her house to hold the event--was busting her rear right along side me to get everything ready, so neither of us really had time to sit down and read a newspaper, let along go out a by one.
Then Max called from Wyoming. He'd taken time to get USA Today, and open it and read the entire HALF PAGE devoted to Father's Day Picture Books--50% of which were mine. Then, out friend Marty called, she was making a late night store run to scoop up all the copies she could find. When Marty arrived, Joy and I retired our dustmops, wash clothes and cutting boards long enough to POP! open a bottle of bubbles, flip open the USA Today and give the marvelous, brillintly written and designed Father's Day Book Roundup it's fare due! As thrilling as it is to see my books, my babies featured in USA Today, we couldn't linger long. The food still isn't ready, the backyard is a mess, we need more ice, the garbage needs to go out, and the dishes aren't done....
And frankly, I don't give a hoot! Yeah USA Today! Go Dad! Go Pop! Go Daddy Go!
Channeling Elmore Leonard
I'm supposed to be writing an article on our recent orangutan viewing visit to Kalimantan and doing everything but... I have a tendency to, as Curtis puts it, write the article in an hour and then spend the next 2 days cutting the word count by 2/3rds or more cutting words. But I'm on a deadline and I would really, really like to change my long writing that habit. But no way can I do it alone, so I'm channeling Elmore Leonard. His advice to struggling writers:
"Try to leave out all the parts that readers skip."
Growing Up Is Hard to Do
“They say that growing up is haaard to do/now I know/ I know that it’s true…”—what Neil Sedaka almost wrote. A few days after my first child, Max, was born, my mother came to visit. Looking down on her grandson’s bald, red cone-head mom said this to me. “Now I can stop worrying about you. You’re a grown up.” To be honest, her comment baffled and insulted me, which is why it probably stuck with me all these 28 plus years. To my mind, I had already been a “grown-up” for years—since I was at least 16—quite capable of taking care of myself thank you very much.
Now that my babies are 28 and 26, I know what my mother meant. My grandmother had a saying to explain how mother love changes through the years: “When they are little they step on your toes, but when they are big, they trample your heart.” No matter how grown up our children may look, in a mother’s mind they are her babies to worry over and protect. But for how long? We mothers can tell ourselves to let go and let them do and be. We can tell ourselves they are their lives to live, their decisions to make and live with, but saying it and doing it are two different beasts.
I just received the following e-mail from my son. The subject line read: “Doris blew her Radiator.” Doris is Max’s name for our Toyota mini-van which he has decked out for camping and decorated with bumper stickers, thus laying claim to it (actually, while the title and insurance may be ours, I guess that “our Toyota” should read “his” Toyota).
“i was about 70 miles east of encampment, climbing up the pass, and the radiator went. I had it towed in to the cabin, because it is memorial day, and I'll have it towed to the Laramie toyota dealership for them to diagnose tomorrow. I have only used 1 of my 4 AAA uses so far, and it reloads in august. Tell me what you'd like me to do.
Love, Max”
It’s happened. Sometime between Max’s last emergency/disaster/situation and this e-mail, I did it! I let go! Upon reading the note I felt sorrow. I felt my bank account shiver as the dollars it would take to repair Doris flew out (shouldn’t “his Toyota” translate “his bill”? But my gut didn’t wrench, my heart didn’t heart, mother’s guilt didn’t ooze from every pore— “oh, I should be there, he needs me, what if something bad happens, I better call him, make it better, fix everything or better, badger him until he fixes everything exactly the way I want it” the way it always had before.
It feels good. Really good. I’m finally—at least, today—the kind of mother I wanted to be when I grew up. (Growing up, as it turns out, is elusive.) I’m feeling puffed up proud, and confidant that Max, is grown up enough to take care of this situation, and I’m grown up enough to sit back and let him.
Thanks Cynthia For Asking...
May 21, (Serendipitously the birthday of my honey, the best step-dad, Curtis) Cynthia Leitich Smith posted my guest blog "Kelly Bennett on Celebrating Fathers: Daddy, Father, Pop, Son, Shel, Cash and Cole." In asking me to write about what inspired my 2 new picture books, Dad and Pop, illustrated by Paul Meisel and Your Daddy Was Just Like You, illustrated by David Walker, she challenged me to undergo a little psychotherapy. Here's the link to my guest post. And whatever you do, don't stop there--Cynthia's website, Cynsations is as rich and luscious and smart and funny as Cyn herself! Indulge!
Just Who Do We Think We Are?
Anyone living in the USA whose ancestors weren’t immigrants raise your hands? 
Only Native American’s, First Nations People, should have a hand up…and then only pure bloods.
My American heritage dates back about 150 years, post Civil War, post slavery. (I like that part—it’s nice not taking blame). My father’s family came from Sweden and England, and were part of the Western Expansion. (Indian Relocation? Guilty). My mother is of Portuguese ancestry (with a little Scot-English we like to pretend never happened). Our Portuguese ancestors came here from the Azores in ships much like Columbus’s Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, small, crude, wooden. The ships sailed around the Horn—Cape Horn, the tip of South America, a journey called “a great challenge” by sailing aficionados—stopped in Hawaii and finally arrived in San Francisco Harbor. Immigrants who traveled this route were called “Green Horns.”
My grandfather’s mother, her husband and children left the Azores in the late 1800s. Long months later, my grandfather’s mother was the only one in her family to step ashore. Her husband and children died during the crossing. A “green horn,” alone, poor and grieving, she took the best job she could get, doing laundry. She remarried and had one son, my grandfather, Joseph Thomas Silva, born in America.
When I was 8 or so my grandparents were visiting and my step-father, having recently joined the Elks Club, proudly took us to his Club . As Elks do, the men got to comparing how long they had been members. My grandfather, also an Elk, pulled out his card. The man he was talking with whistled. “Wow! You’ve been a member a long time,” he marveled.
My grandfather looked at him. “I would have been a member longer, but back in my day, you wouldn’t let my kind join.”
My grandfather’s story is far from unique. If you’re descended from recent immigrants, you may know first hand how hard life is for anyone coming to America who does not speak American English with a USDA approved accent—aka one traceable to a southern, northern, Midwestern or eastern state—or broadcaster bland. Others, like me, look back through American history, through your own family history. You’ll uncover layer upon layer of injustices and difficulties new immigrants endured before finally being accepted as Americans. Sure, we love, love, love having “them” --African “them” to plow our fields, Chinese “them” to build railroads, Italian “them” to build our cities, Mexican “them” to harvest, clean, sweep, paint, garden, do all the “dirty jobs” we don’t want to do. But who do they think they are wanting citizenship? That may have been our ancestors’ right, but its not theirs…
What about that statue in New York Harbor, Lady Liberty, officially “Liberty Enlightening the World”? Should we sandblast the words off the base of her statue: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses?” Or paste a new sign over it: Only the wealth, white, and those under “work/study contracts" from Eastern Europe need apply, the rest of you immigrants—especially those of you already living and working and paying taxes here—shut up, do your job then get out. History be damned, the good old US of A is Full Up so Get Lost…