After recent article’s reference to the surrealist, philosopher Jean Paul Sartre a memory was re-awakened from my acting days way back in undergraduate school at the Suny/Buffalo. Interest in Sartre’s work was part of popular culture in those days. although, I am not sure that popular culture was, as yet, even a category. This occurred two decades before his death in 1980.  

Our reader’s theatre group mounted a reading of his play NO EXIT.  I played Estelle, one of four characters condemned to hell, confined to a drawing room “from hell” and as they try to accept, indeed, in hell.  It is likened to being confined forever with your worst enemies.  The four of us sat on stools, the stage bare.  I wore a long blond wig and we all wore black clothing. Only our heads and scripts were lit as we performed.  The auditorium was full of students, professors, family members and theatre fans. A late spring snow storm had raged for two days before the performance. My parents drove to Buffalo from Rochester to catch the gig. They did arrive safely, but the going was not easy along the Thruway and they were distressed but happy and relieved to be there.

The play was first performed in 1944 in Paris. Our reader’s performance was held in the auditorium housed in the Campus Student Union.  We jump-start to the final lines of the play, presented in a dramatic short and quick series of alternate lines. My line affirmed the reluctant acceptance of fate with two lines to follow by other characters, meant to dramatically nurture the audience’s quiet anticipation, hesitating for a few moments before offering the expected applause. 

The audience was indeed hushed. As I uttered my final lines–“dead?” and “Forever, My God, how funny! Forever.”  the dead silence tremored with a loud piercing ring of the fire alarm followed by the directive to disregard the alarm set off by false information.

We, the players somehow kept our cool and did not panic. Instinctively, we repeated the last few lines of the play and were greeted with enthusiastic applause. We took our bows and collapsed in each others arms after lights went black for a few moments.

Audience members soon joined us to extend their kudos for the performance as well as our clear headed reactions, not to run off stage in tears or sit dumbfounded on our reader’s theatre stools after the spoiler disturbance at the exact wrong moment.  Our director was elated at our reading and by our reaction to the disruption as well, pledging that heads would roll after the unfortunate noise.  How our memories live on, often to be tweaked and relived at moments that we can not anticipate. 

Martin Luther King Jr. has long been one of my heroes, hefty on courage, leadership, determination and laden with great quantities of Chutzpah. How familiar we are with his achievements, daring and dedication to a great cause, facts I do not need to reiterate today, on the day devoted to celebrating his life. It will be all over the media and in many people’s hearts and minds. 

I also celebrate his wife Coretta Scott King’s impact on our lives. I note her grace, her courage and her support in her husband’s great work as well as her own achievements and contributions to the world. How often she must have watched the media footage or been next to him as he began to make an impact on the divided country, How she must have worried and fretted at his well-being while he pursued his dreams, shattered on that terrible day, April 4, 1968 on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. He accomplished so much and lived to seek freedom and equality for millions and then died at the young age of 39.

How does a leader of MKL’s caliber get to such heights. It does not come quickly.  It is not innate at birth but grows from a seed of need and want. It comes with hard work, introspection, fear, anxiety and that deep-felt determination. I refer to an interview with Dr. King that has stuck in my mind for many years covering the early years of his crusade. 

When questioned about his style and approach, he said that it evolved with time, with daring and small steps feeling his way ahead, inventing his approach as he worked.  During difficult encounters he often felt fearful and unsure of how to start climbing this mountain but his will and determination served to fashion the sound and light of his growing campaign reaching towards recognition and equality for the downtrodden.   He followed his heart. He spoke his mind. He grew into a cherished leader with a dramatic, haunting style that won millions of hearts and united blacks and whites building toward equality in this land. 

I think of this poignant testimonial often when hearing leaders and shakers speak on their causes and know that they were not born with the words and actions we hear and see but grew through their courage and determination towards change. Upbringing and background still cannot be discounted in building the foundations of our lives.

In his early years, in 1949, distraught at the news of the death of his grandmother Jennie at the age of 12 he tried to kill himself by jumping out of a window, additionally distraught because he defied his parents wishes as he joined parade of protest and then learned of her death. In his early years he questioned  religion and religious worship.  But in his junior college year, King took a Bible class, renewing his faith and entered a career path in the ministry. 

Is there some irony in the fact that before writing this Monday’s entry, I did a Google search to see if I had company in feeling the way I do? Indeed, the irony is in the fact that I used an electronic search about my problem of letting go of something non electronic. The search confirms that I do have plenty of company–those of us who can’t let go of our paper calendars, even though electronic calendars are neater and cleaner and always appear on demand. No more “where did my calendar go?” (usually found buried under the pile of books and mail) and frantically digging under the piles to make an entry in my calendar before forgetting the details.

Let go? I can’t do it. I have many of the electronic toys popular in today’s world.  The electronic calendars appear on each of the devices that I use, but my paper calendar remains on my desk.   A smaller calendar travels in my purse. The paper calendar is my non religious Bible–(terminology still up for review, perhaps it is worship in some form) as in keeping up with daily events is probably a religion of a kind. It certainly takes a significant part of my daily routine, energy and concentration.

I do not remember living without a calendar, from middle school forward. Letting go of the last year’s calendar is also difficult for me. Recently I pledged to keep only the past year and reducing the clutter in my drawer. Of course I can refer to many prior year calendars on the electronic version as well, but–letting go…not easy for me.  Most recently, my paper format of choice is a spiral bound weekly calendar with ample space in which to write and beautiful images of artifacts from the collection of the Jewish Museum in New York City.

Thinking back, I remember my parents maintaining a wall calendar with notes crammed into the small space and my dad carrying a pocket calendar recording his RPO rehearsal and performance schedule, his violin teacher schedule and so much more. The historical development of the concept of calendar is brilliant and long, leading to the advent of personal calendars as we know them–a few results from my Google search;

Next on my plan for today is to open my paper-back book and indulge in a favorite pass time, reading. I have chosen to occasionally pick up a paper based book and give my Kindle and Tablet a bit of a rest. I hope your Monday was fulfilling and memorable.

Joshua Trees are foolers. They are called trees but are seated in the Yucca family. They stand as if praying, reverent and stable, pointing to the sky. The shapes are artful, never repeated, can be small and humble or huge with 15-20 branches supported on a strong trunk. Our last visit to Joshua Tree National Park was in 2002 with our son, daughter in law and grandson, age 2. Our memories stayed strong and true in our minds.

This trip there were 3 of our 5 grandsons along to guide us through the park through their eyes and energy. At first glance, the park looks healthy and hardy. With a closer look, the drought of the past several years shows the wear and tear on the growth of this unique region.  Blossoms and leaves on the Joshuas seem dry and weary. Yet they still stand tall and strong. What a joy to return to this park and enjoy yet another national treasure. How fortunate we are in this country to enjoy such a strong Park service. We must all do our best to keep it strong and healthy and to introduce sites like Joshua Tree to our young and growing citizens.

This week, I offer you a Dr. Seussian style tale;

The 9 year old grandkid snuffled a complaint to his grandma, “Socks and undies, Undies and socks. That’s what I get for Christmas. Socks and undies, undies and socks. It’s not fair.

The 10 year old grandkid snuffled again in complaint to his grandma. She thought she heard him utter “Year after year, it’s not fair, every year, socks and undies. Undies and socks.  I ‘m just a kid. Toys and stuff are what I want.” So she reminded him, “hey you get those things from others. How would it feel to go outside in the cold with no warm and funky socks to hug your feet?”

An epiphany she had, the very next year. How about packaging the socks as a fooler. So, into the box went the socks and undies in a BIG box with old toy blocks to give it some weight and mystery. 

The 11 year old grandkid picked up each package giving it a shake. Sure enough, grandma’s was the first he opened. Well trained by his Ma, he uttered a polite and requisite thanks. But, his dark eyes stood wide open in disbelief. He was fooled, there were the socks and undies in the box with old toy blocks.

The 12 year old found rocks in the box. Socks and undies, undies and socks tied together to blocks in the box. 

The 13 year old pulled out hand weights wrapped in the socks and undies.  “Hey not bad. I can add these to my weight set, but I still have socks and undies, undies and socks. 

In his 14 year he was sure he felt books in the box. No deal, socks and undies, undies and socks. No books found, but no more rocks. 

Now the grandkid is older, savvy to the world, grateful for what he has. Memories of his loving grandma. Warm feet and a parade of socks and undies to take him through life and just maybe he will give his grandkids foolers for the holidays. 

About this Seussian flavored offering. It is based on a tale related to me by my loving niece. A story told to her by a faithful customer in a big box store before this year’s holiday. It is in honor of the timely review of books 2015 celebrating the lost and recovered story of Dr. Seuss; What Pet Should I Get?.  It also honors another lost and found story; Go Set a Watchman, by Harper Lee, most famous for her classic To Kill a Mockingbird. Have a good year to come.

The topic this Monday lies in the realm of “Things I never thought I would own.” Somehow when new “super hyped, must have” items come on the market, I grow a resistance to running out and acquiring them.  My inclination is to hesitate, hem and haw and rationalize ownership from every excuse or angle. Some cases in point, microwaves, food processors, the incessant upgrading of computers and accessories, digital cameras. Heck, I never thought I’d own a honkin down the road motor home. Now we live in one most of the time. But acquire them I did.  Often they were a gift, for instance, from the art world, a silver necklace with uncut ruby from my loving husband, my first Cuisinart from my beloved mother in law and two additions to the ruby theme. This theme continues. 

Our next few months will be spent in the west, the far west, southwestern California. Gee Whiz, as we fondly call our motor home is set up in a beautiful campground near Temecula, CA and nestled in breathtaking mountain landscapes. Our tow vehicle, lovingly called our Toad in RV lingo, is a Ruby red Jeep Rubicon.  Back to the realm of I never thought I would own; on our second day on this site we purchased a golf cart to maneuver the steep hills, especially when we need to haul some type of cargo or people. I haven’t played golf since my college days, and that was before any of us knew about golf carts, if indeed they existed. I enjoyed golf and was always told I was quite good. But it never fit into my scheme of life after that time. 

Yes, you guessed it, our golf cart is Ruby red as well and a close cousin to the Jeep.

As for our western location, we will view the country from the left coast, time wise behind our east coast “home base” by 3 hours.  We will hear news later rather than sooner, speak California-ease, such as calling the expressways freeways and referring to them as THE-10 or THE 405.  We will navigate the mountainous off-road trails in Ruby and we will navigate the hills of Jojoba hills SKP RV Resort via Rubyette. Watch out all of you critters along the road, here we come.

The mind is a powerful thing, often beyond our control or understanding. Suddenly, an image flashed into my mind taking me back to my high school days in the late 1950s. The trigger leading to this image must have stemmed from the shadowy recesses of memory; the day was sunny, the fall leaves in their full glory before they cascaded to the ground and before the inevitable calluses of hand raking the leaves into piles at the curb.  

My house was too close to the school to be eligible for the school bus. I have no regrets about having to walk. Even then I held the camaraderie of walking home with friends and the joy of exercise a decided benefit over the travails of the rumored school bus experience.  I had to endure some teasing upon leaving the school through the back door short cut (past the smokers and testosterone-laden boys) lighting up on the slab waiting for vulnerable teen girls trying to avoid their nasty glances. 

The walk home took about 20 minutes if taken at a directed fast pace without stops and starts such as a stop at Don and Bob’s restaurant for chips and gravy (served in a boat shaped paper dish,) not the rolled cone of newspaper that I enjoyed while visiting my mother’s family in Hamilton, Ontario or walking and talking to best friends Ellie or Marjorie  en-route, bidding them goodbye as we reached their streets before I reached mine.  

The crossing guard, there during my 5 years at Brighton HS stopped traffic at the busy intersection (1950’s traffic mind you) became our friend. She was short and dark haired like me, friendly and not very much older. We know she had two young children and lived on the block where we crossed. Her husband worked at Kodak, not a rarity for Rochester. Sometimes John, (a neighbor on my street) accompanied me home. After the fear of the teasing boys, the smells of the restaurant, the street crossing, the intense conversation with friends, it was quieting to reach the corner of Sunset Dr and the gentle downhill grade to my house. John was in my Spanish Advanced placement conversation class. I called him Juan, he called me Anna. We practiced our Spanish as we walked and were proud of our fluency. Both of us dreamed of visiting Spanish speaking countries and immersing our selves in this beautiful language. 

The houses on Sunset Dr were a mix of style, very blue and white collar middle class. Some stand out in my memory–at the top of the street a seemingly large, tired looking two story house boasting aging Greek-style columns stood close to the street. I did not know the occupants. Across the way stood the small, dark brown, mysterious and non descript one story house that never seemed to change. I don’t recall any of the inhabitants being outside, a small dark brown car came and went but otherwise there was no activity during the times I walked to or from school. Next to them was an active family, the Smileys, with 3-4 under-10 children living in a bright white house with a screened front porch.  We maintained a waving hello relationship and I gave them some of my hand me downs through the years.

John’s house was across the street. He lived with his parents and younger sister in a beige two story rectangular house with a windowed enclosed front porch.  We bid each other Adios as I continued alone to the end of the street and my house. Other houses of memory were square colonials like mine and a two story gray house housing families that were my regular baby sitting “clients;” even then a lucrative enterprise even at 50 cents an hour. 

The Goldstein’s lived across the street in a charcoal toned house with a porch but deeply recessed into the lot with bushy trees across the front. My brother had dated the woman of the house years before. Our western neighbor, Leila Mason, was a thin and seemingly frail widow and quite elderly (in my eyes but most likely in her early 60’s.)  She was an active and inveterate gardener and always astonished me in how long she could weed and dig in a deep squatting position without any sign of physical discomfort or strain. She and my mother visited each other often for coffee and chat.

Our easterly neighbors were friendly and a bit seclusive. The brother and sister were close to my age but we mostly greeted each other not having much in common I guess. The son’s friends played basketball in a hoop hung over the separate, backyard garage that reflected the style of the street and of the era.  The parents were of interest in that the mom was one of the ugliest woman I remember having seen and the dad, a very handsome dark haired man. The children resembled their respective parents. 

My Brother Arthur on leave from his Army duties photographed on Sunset Drive backyard overlooking the eastern neighbors’ back porch

On better weather days I would drop my books on our front stoop and wander to the very end of the street. The first 2 years this was swamp land, the remains of the old trolley bed. With my trusty eye dropper, I would gather water samples from the puddles to investigate under my beloved microscope, reveling in the exposed amoeba and one celled critters living in the drops. That joy was erased in the construction of the expressway that I drive today when in town. 

What wonderful memories are inspired by my road home and the saga of neighbors’ lives, neighbors’ pets, life cycle events, folks moving in and out and my life as a typical teenager, courted by my beloved bike riding future husband.  Visiting the street recently, the trees loom large, the houses loom smaller than in my imagination but my memories are vivid and alive. 

If one did not know the medium was bronze you would guess stone or ceramic. They are fetching and fantastical as would be expected by Miro.

Web access and phone contact are very limited and the air is fresh and clear. What could be more welcome after traffic jams and constant noise. 

Big Sky     

December wild flowers

I have written past blogs about night symphony. The night symphony on this campsite was very Steve Reich, minimalist, reductive, with un-orthodox rhythm, musical patterns, hypnotic and often requiring patience and endurance for the listener. On to more adventures and destinations, with calm and peace in our hearts. 

Noises in the night may be subdued and soothing or startling and jarring robbing us from precious sleep. A few posts ago, I lamented upon the steady hum of a nearby highway. An overnight on a farm that hosts motor homers on their property offered another version of a night time symphony. This time, not subdued but raucous and irregular open to the mind’s musings deep in the night.

Golden Acres Ranch in the Florida Panhandle has provided a return stopover for years. The Goldens raise and sell, lamb, goat and beef cuts as well as seasonal fruit products, eggs, crafts, boarding for dogs and horses in addition to various festivals scheduled throughout the year. Check out the Mayhaw jam made from the unusual berries of their 175 Mayhaw trees at
Golden Acres Ranch

Following the long farm road into the property is slow, best taken with care as it glides by the goat and sheep pens and the acres of orchard and dense tree forest to the interior. Our parking spot is book-ended by the farm house and the country store. The chicken coop is close by. Chickens and guinea hens scurry out of the way as you walk by. 




During our long day’s drive we were well able to ponder and ingest the past week’s long anticipated, intense and emotional visit to my brother and sister in law and extended family and friends on Florida’s west coast. Seeking an interlude in our fast pace life, we anticipated a leisurely dinner, a good read and a restful night’s sleep. Of course, farms have no quiet hours. In the past Golden Acres has been fairly quiet at night but happily for the Golden’s, business is good during holiday time. With an abundance of dogs in residence for boarding on the day after Thanksgiving, the dogs sang out in chorus often but intermittently. We were aware of the coming night time entertainment. 

Our rig is well insulated, so the sound was a bit subdued, but still quite audible and remaining unpredictable. Sleep came and went at various intervals through the night. I was prepared and my mind was not full of regret or complaint.  Instead, I began to break down and focus on the chorale responses going beyond the cacophonous tones. Was that mournful deep throated bark a complaint as if longing for family to arrive to take him home? Perhaps he is remembering a run to fetch thrown balls, a tumble in the grass or scratches on the head between the ears. 

Was the higher toned repetitive yipping a complaint against a larger dog’s threatening stance or the three or four dogs in tenor-toned unison attempting to attract the freedom they so desire? Each session most likely was triggered in response to a critter passing nearby or a disturbance among the boarders. Do canines have visual memories to trigger their responses or are their responses purely instinctual in reaction to their environment and nothing more? 

In the end my night contemplating dog song past fairly well and the activities on the farm continued as usual. We did enjoy another comfortable night in the woods among creatures and friendly hosts and continued on our way westward for more adventure. 

The first time the matter entered my mind, the trigger was an exhibition on view in Austin, Texas, held at the Harry Ransom Art Center, part of the University of Texas on historical documents dealing with the world of ISMS. According to Eugene O. Golob, in his book, The Isms, A History and Evaluation, Harper & Brothers New York, 1954, Ism words define ideological concepts and are part of a lexicon of word endings with political, controversial and theoretical leanings.

I had always been fascinated by suffixes such as …ism, …ology,  …able, …ation and more that add certain assigned meaning to the words in each category.  Thus began my collection of such words and categories with hours spent delving into research on the matter. Not surprisingly, there exists a vast store of material before me. These include many essays, surveys and books on the subject, a society of ism lovers, and a vast storage of artwork including my own. 

The trend continues. I constantly encounter “ism” endings of words that seem to be spontaneously created by a writer to serve a particular purpose in their meaning. A couple of recently encountered ism words include Purposfulism and texturalism.

My intent in today’s message is to introduce the topic of categories of suffix as an occasional subject for my Monday Blog and to offer and share my fascination with word development through the ages and ongoing as we read. I hope it will offer wondrous, humorous words for thought for you, my readers.