Fit To Be Tied

 I walked down to the Post Office this morning.  It's about half a mile round trip from my house or a couple thousand steps on the ol' step-tracker.  As I crossed the street behind my home and approached the main drag in my little section of North Portland, I noticed that the guy who regularly sleeps on the sidewalk was there, but just in front of him, another guy was bedded down.  Usually they just lay on or in sleeping bags, but this morning they had built a couple of little shelters from large cardboard boxes.  In fact between them they had about 4 little cardboard rooms.  

There is a motorcycle dealership that specializes in Vespa scooters across the street.  They often receive their new vehicles in large cardboard boxes and then put them on the curb for recycling.  I've no doubt that's where the "cardboard bedrooms" came from.  

I stepped deftly around the sidewalk sleepers and went on my way, but a thought struck me. My first reaction was that it's a real shame that people in what so many call the "greatest country in the world" have to sleep on the sidewalk.  Of course it's more complicated than most would admit, but nevertheless, in this land of the free and home of the brave, thousands are without the basics of living. These makeshift structures reminded me of the many "Hoovervilles" that existed during the Great Depression."  Named for President Herbert Hoover, they popped up all over the country.  People living in piano crates, cardboard boxes, and all manner of temporary shelters.  History rhymes, doesn't it?

A few more blocks of walking later, and I began to think of the history of homelessness.  I recall a college professor of mine lecturing on the concept of Social Darwinism.  In an attempt to explain the poverty, and squalor of the early 20th century, this philosophy developed in an attempt to explain and subsequently deal with these issues.  To explain the human condition by means of Darwin's "survival of the fittest" concept still resonates with some parts of the political spectrum today.  Things are the way they should naturally be.  Only the fittest will survive and thus improve the condition of mankind.  It's a good excuse not to feel empathy or not to do something to alleviate the struggling conditions many have to endure.

"But it's a false equivalency," my professor said.  "Because not just the fittest survive.  Those that are merely fit, also survive.  They may not be very fit, but they survive, any way they can."  

Makes sense to me.  Those that are not the fittest, don't just evaporate, they survive, sometimes barely.  It's human nature to meet your needs.  Walk around on this planet and you find things.  Things to eat, places to  sleep.  Sure it's dangerous, and not very fun, but it happens every day in the USA.

I'd love to see this discussion make its way into the current political climate.  In fact, perhaps a question on Social Darwinism in one of the debates would shed some light on how much empathy those who would lead actually have.  Sure they'd say all kinds of things to appear sensitive to the needs of "all Americans," but I'll bet some would get all twisted up in their rough rhetoric about ridding the nation of vermin.

The weather in my hometown is changing day by day.  The rain is about to begin and the last days of warm weather are definitely over.  Pretty soon, even that deluxe cardboard won't be enough to ward off the dank, wet, weather.  But those two guys I saw this morning will be somewhere.  If not on their present spot, perhaps another that is closer to a heating vent, or a fire pit.  But one thing is for certain, they will survive.

Wonderful Mouth

 With the recent passing of my lifelong friend, Ken, I started thinking of some memorable times we had together.  Ken was an artist and extremely well read.  He unabashedly love living in Los Angeles.  He knew the city well and was a frequent visitor to galleries, museum shows, and concerts.  In high school we both shared one art class together.  It was an elective called Art Crafts taught by a rather quirky teacher.  In this class we created various projects, some required and some left to our own devices.  I remember discovering the tedium and magic of a crow quill ben and India ink in this class.  I took a photograph of the bark of a dead oak tree and painstakingly drew a tree whose truck was composed of thousands of little squiggly lines.  I got lost in the minute patterns, even writing a message of love to my girlfriend that was hidden in the fine patterns. Halfway through that school year John F Kennedy was assassinated and I vividly recall walking to that art class during the most silent passing period imaginable at a large, 3000 student high school.

But the one project that both Ken and I were required to do was a mixed media self-portrait. Many turned out like Bob Dylan's painted self portrait which later became an album. (Pictured below) However, we were not allowed to use paint We had scraps of wood, yarn, buttons, crayons, and many other "objects" with which to construct our self-images.  When completed, we would bring our creations up to Mrs. Norvell, who sat at the front of the classroom.  She would evaluate our efforts in front of the entire class, giving out criticism and suggestions.  It was during this project that Ken displayed his true contrary nature.  She somehow felt that his efforts were not reflective of his ability.  She had higher exceptions for him, perhaps because of his innate ability.  Ken would do what he was going to do no matter what.  After all, this is the guy who wore a coral colored tuxedo to the Jr. Prom while the rest of the guys stayed true to our class colors of powder blue and black. 

When my turn came to bring my project forward to Mrs. Norvell, I stood next to her chair as she gave it the once over.  Eyes and eyebrows passed muster. Nose, my most sensitive feature being larger than most, was OK.  Then came the depiction of my mouth which was rather thin and linear.  

"No," exclaimed Mrs. Norvell, "This is not your mouth! You have a wonderful mouth."  

Soon I was back at my seat ripping off the offending mouth and wondering what to replace it with and what it might be made from.  I went home that day vowing to take a good look at my mouth.  After standing in front of a mirror far too ling, I saw that my lips were indeed fuller than what I had portrayed.  Maybe my mouth was glaringly different than how I had constructed it.  Next day I created what I thought looked like a "wonderful mouth" from strips of leather and yarn.  I gave myself a sly smile and Mrs. Norvell approved.  But the damage had been done.  When she first declared to the class that I had a wonderful mouth, Ken and my other friends in the class wouldn't let me forget it.  For weeks afterward, they'd greet me with, "You have a wonderful mouth."  Laughter ensued, but in reality, I found that my self esteem improved.  The following year, I ran for Senior Class President and won!  Could it have been that wonderful mouth?

Write Now

 I've been thinking of offering a writing workshop for older adults.  My peer group now.  It occurred to me that many of the prompts I used over a 35 year teaching career would work well with mature writers.  I think that's because aside from stimulating the memory and offering some critical thinking opportunities, writing helps one save their life...literally and figuratively.  There are other simple benefits too. Even writing by hand helps maintain fine motor skills and of course, writing helps people process their thoughts.  In the words if one if my favorite quotes, "How will I know what I think until I see what I say."  Just substitute write for say and there you have it.  I don't think E.M. Forester would mind.

I'd decided to start with a simple writing strategy I'll call a childhood table of contents.  If you look at the table of contents of many books, the chapter titles are often fascinating...a world in themselves.  In my classroom, we used the Table of Contents from the popular Sandra Cisneros book, The House on Mango Street.  Most of these titles are so intriguing that you know there is an interesting story there at once.  

Take a look at this portion of the Table from the Cisneros book.  Which ones jump out at you so that you are dying to know more?

For me, it's titles like Hair, and Those Who Don't that make me want to know more.  They just sound intriguing.  

So, the next step is to think about your own childhood events and experiences and what a table of contents for that might look like.  My own personal Table  contains the titles, Do You Want To Practice Kissing, When He Robs Them, and Becks.  Anything peak your curiosity.

If that exercise is successful and my little group of reluctant writers want more, I'll follow that up with some descriptive writing activities to build some skills in writing fresh similes and metaphors, and possibly take a look at some models of various genres.  Trying to emulate some of the styles and skills of our favorite writers is always worthwhile.  Aside from building more skills, it serves to remind us how skilled there writers are and hopefully we retain fresh appreciation for them.

The longer we live, the more our memory plays tricks on us.  I'm sure working with memory will bring many confusing or contradictory experiences to the surface.  That's OK.  Writers of memoir don't have to be exact.  We are not trying to recall every exact detail from something 50 or 60 years ago.  We are retelling and recreating the emotions felt.

A Lifetime

 Disneyland in Anaheim, California, opened in 1955. For young Baby Boomers, this was Nirvana.  The popular Disney TV show had become a reality that they could visit.  All the familiar characters were there as well as the various "lands" they knew from the TV show.  You could actually go to a place called Adventure Land, or Tomorrow Land, Frontier Land and even Fantasy Land, complete with Sleeping Beauty's castle.

Two brothers down the street from me went to that opening day.  Their father worked for Technicolor and folks in the movie industry were among those privileged to go to the opening day.  My sister and I went a few years later thanks to the generosity of a New York uncle who worked for a media agency and sent us credentials for complementary tickets.  Even the E ticket coupons, the hardest to get.  I was about 10 years old and my sister 11.  We went with our parents and my Aunt Dorothy and her husband, my Uncle Clery.  They had no children but were just as eager to see this much talked about new amusement park.  

So, one day in the Fall of 1998 we made our way from the San Fernando Valley to the sunny skis of Anaheim.  Until Disneyland, the area was just about all orange groves in those days.  I recall the immense parking lot and the iconic entrance to the park.  You could see the Monorail that circled the park from the parking lot.  The future really was right here.  Once inside the gates, we decided to make our way to Main Street USA, the section modeled after small town America  in the early 20th century. To get there we boarded a replica of a horse drawn streetcar of the era.

My Aunt and I sat together on a small bench while the rest of my family sat behind us two by two.  As we made our way toward Main Street, I began comparing this streetcar we were on with the electric streetcars I had ridden as a child growing up in and around Los Angeles.  The obvious difference was there energy source.  Looking at the large draft horse pulling the Disneyland streetcar toward Main Street, I began to think about the evolution of transportation that took place during my Aunt's lifetime.  I figured she was born around 1910, and may even have ridden on a horse drown streetcar as a child.  As the Monorail circled the park above us, the entire evolution of urban transportation revealed itself before me.  I wondered, at that moment what forms of urban transportation I might see when I reached my 60s or 70s?  

Most light rail rapid transportation systems today resemble offshoots of that Disneyland train.  The BART trains of the Bay Area and the Metro system in Washington, DC, are notable examples that I have ridden.  I often think of that horse drawn trolly car from Disneyland when I see or ride them.  

II.

This past week, I got the newsletter of the Bay Area Writing Project, the organization of teachers at the UC Berkeley school of Education.  I have been active in that group of educators for many years, since the time I became a teacher/consultant offering teacher workshops to recent years with many contributions to their digital magazine which appears 4 times a year online.  The latest email newsletter described a series of workshops being offered recently at the beginning of the current school year.  What stands out is that every one deals with how teachers can adapt and/or use AI.  To be sure, AI represents a formidable threat and challenge to educators.  It's on everyone's mind.  Obviously, some training and new skill sets are on the horizon for professionals too.  If I apply the same notion of evolution from the streetcar analogy mentioned above, it looks like this.  

When I was a graduate student in the school of Education at UC Berkeley, a secondary credential was earned by completing a year of coursework and well as various requirements like taking a test on the California State Constitution.  Another requirement was to pass a test on the use of audio-visual equipment.  On the bottom floor of Tolman Hall, a media lab was set up ands various stations were available for credential candidates to learn and practice audio visual skills.  This included showing a film after threading a movie projector, setting up various forms of slide shows including those synchronized with soundtracks.   But the toughest skill was to record from phonograph to reel to reel tape recorder and then edit the recording to accompany a specific project.  When we had a few minutes to spare from our days of student teaching in the morning and attending classes in the afternoon, my colleagues and I would drop into the media lab to brush up on the various skills needed to pass the test and be fully credentialed.  Today, those skills are mostly passed.  Videos come from You Tube at the click of a mouse.  All manner of recorded material comes from a computer as well.  Bringing a tape recorder of any kind today will probably be a new experience for students.  

Today, that media lab has become a computer lab.  Bringing audio visual materials into a classroom is a hundred times easier today than it was back then.  Like that streetcar ride behind the horses, I wonder what will replace the computer lab that replaced the media lab?

To a Tee

 I'm a sucker for a good t-shirt.  They are the foundational garment of my life.  My day starts with selecting a t-shirt and it ends with sleeping in one.  Once thought of as under garments, t-shirts are now original art and no doubt, a billion dollar business.  

You can get a t-shirt with anybody's picture displayed.  You can commemorate an event, a birthday, a death, even a specular play in any sport.  Family reunions usually have a commemorative t-shirt.  Also, any organization that solicits your support in the form of a donation is likely to offer you a t-shirt.

Where once I only had the basic white t-shirt, my drawers are filled with all manner of colorful choices.  Some recognize major events in my life, some, spectacular performances or plays I have witnessed, and some unforgettable places I have been.  

I say I'm a sucker for a good t-shirt because I have taken the bait on what I perceived as a must-have only to be disappointed.  A recent example would be the Willie Mays shirt I recently bought.  It portrays what has come to be called "the catch." Of course I'm speaking of Mays catch of a drive off the bat of Vic Hertz in the 1954 World Series.  Make no mistake, I like the shirt, but when it arrived, the person depicted looked less like Willie Mays than I expected and the image was a bit blurry.  No Matter. It's clear enough for any baseball fan to get the point and it lets the world know I'm a fan....a very big fan.

Another sports image on a t-shirt I have is probably a rare and collectable tee that I chanced to buy while attending a basketball game on the Cal campus. (UC Berkeley)  Titled "The Play" it depicts the most famous play in all of college football when Cal beat Stanford on the last play of the game with multiple handoffs and lateral passes.  The last Cal player storms into the end zone and crashes into the trombone player of the Stanford band who had occupied the end zone thinking the game would soon be over.  It's all depicted on the t-shirt with arrows and lines, x's and o's.

In 1982, when I went to the Kentucky Derby with full press credentials, I brought home a couple of t-shirts as souvenirs.  Over the years I wore them out.  That happens with clothing you love.  My New Orleans t-shirts enjoyd the same fate.  I sure do miss my Neville Brothers shirt, but it served me well.

Sometimes a t-shirt can serve other purposes.  I play harmonica with a group of old guys who meet frequently to jam.  I need to know the key of the song we're playing so I can use the correct harp.  That's why I jumped at the chance to buy the t-shirt I saw advertised with "What Key We In" written on the front.  Int sometimes works.  

T-shirts are like bumper stickers.  They advertise our beliefs, interests, and passions.  In my 3+ decades in the classroom, I've seen kids wear many t-shirts.  Once, a kid got sent home because his shirt depicted a cartoonish character with his head up his ass...literally.  Made me wonder if any parent saw him leave for school that morning.  I could just picture him walking out the front door waving good-bye wearing that shirt.  I don't think so.

Transformational Music

 I received an email from an old friend last week.  We'd been sharing memories of a mutual friend who recently died.  While I haven't seen her in over 40 years, I do recall a brief visit when she was passing through the Bay Area in the late 1970s.  

I used to date her sister and she dated my best friend.  These were teen-age dates, mostly, but their importance and dare I say significance has surfaced since we've been talking about our lost friend.  

It's about the music.  Those dates from the mid 1960s until the early 1970s revolved around the music scene in Los Angeles.  While those years are most notable for the Rock and Folk-Rock groups that emerged, it was the small club scene that we frequented.  The Ash Grove was a small folk music venue on Melrose Blvd. in Hollywood that emerged as the place to go.  Here we saw many of the blues greats in their prime.  The irony, of course, is that many of these performers were well into their 60s and 70s and would not be around all that much longer.  

When I tell younger people today that I saw Son House, Howlin" Wolf, and Big Mama Thornton in a small club, they are in awe.  But that was reality back then.  My friend's recent email asked me to send her a list of all the artists we saw back then.  She was hoping it might jog her mind and help her memory.  So recently, I sat down and deliberately made such a list.  

On my list are the above mentioned names as well as a who's who of folk and blues that includes the likes of Lightnin' Hopkins, Doc Watson, Sleepy John Estes, Taj Mahal, and Elizabeth Cotton.  As the late 60s turned into the early 70s, there were other special shows too.  Two come to mind.  One was a special promotion called the "Angry Arts." It featured a program of writers, musicians, and graphic artists all opposed to the Vietnam war who had produced anti-war works of some kind.  

I went to one such performance and recall a reading given by Dalton Trumbo, the author of the anti-war novel Johnnie Got His Gun.  Trumbo had been blacklisted in the 1950s for his politics, but continued to screen write for various movie producers under other names.  He chose a selection from his novel to read that night. It ended with the following lines:

    What's noble about being dead? Because when you're dead mister, it's all over. It's the end. You're less than a dog, less than a rat, less than a bee or an ant, less than a whiter maggot crawling around on a dungheap. You're dead mister and you died for nothing

You're dead mister.  Dead.

Trumbo's voice rose and fell.  The last few words were delivered almost in a whisper.  Then, with the audience entranced, he delivered the last word in a loud rage.  And the lights went out.  Total blackness.  It was chilling.  

Another special show featured a bluesman I'd never heard of  until that night.  Arthur "BigBoy" Crudup was a Chicago bluesman who had made some recordings in the 30s and 40s.  He was virtually obscure until being rediscovered in the late 60s. That night, in the Ash Grove the house was packed.  In the audience were all manner of young local musicians. many of them currently playing at the many LA venues.  Who was this guy Crudup that they all turned out?  

Arthur Crudup had written and recorded a song in 1946 called "That's All Right." In 1955 an unknown Elvis Presley had taken the song and recorded it in a classic rockabilly style.  The rest is history.  Crudup had never received proper royalties but the young musicians began referring him to the "Father of Rock and Roll." They knew, and they wanted to see this seminal figure.  He died a few years later, but that night, at the Ash Grove, in a small way, he got his due.  Too bad he didn't get the money he was denied.

Time Remembered

 If someone said to me, "You look like you just lost your friend," I'd say you're right.  I wear it on my face.  While I don't like to rate things, especially friends, by comparison, (good, better, best) I did have a very long friendship with my late friend KO who died last Saturday.  60+ years is an accomplishment for loyal friendship.  So, when it ends, there is a hole that goes unfilled.  

Like all human relationships, there were ups and downs.  Not living in the same place since 1970 also threw in a few challenges.  Yet we prevailed.  It helps when a friendship this long features both participants having the same birthday.  We exchanged many fine gifts over the years.  I have books and records and a few other things that will keep KO in my life for the duration.  A note on sharing the same birthday with a friend: it's important not to get so caught up in your own birthday that you forget about the one you share it with.  That's a pitfall that one must be aware of at all times.

We met at 9 years of age during Little League tryouts.  I remember comparing our baseball gloves.  Which brand, what signature, the size and condition.  In full disclosure, I never missed an opportunity to show off my Willie Mays glove.  

Through Jr. High and High School we matured, dated two sisters at one point and survived our adolescence, the Jr. Prom, the Kennedy Assassination and the untimely death of his daughter at age 1.  Ken was an artist and read widely so he was a fountain of knowledge and introduced me to all manner of artists in fine art, music, sculpture, and theater.  He frequented museums.  When I lived in the Bay Area, his trips to visit me always included time spent at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.  

KO introduced me to art and culture and that transformed my life.  I will always recall driving through Laurel Canyon in a VW bug on our way to see some blues or jazz great in the LA clubs of the 60s.  We saw them all.  Lightnin" Hopkins, Howlin" Wolf, Son House, Taj Mahal,  et.al. KO was quiet, introverted, sort of a contrarian, and could be difficult to get along with.  I recall one fishing trip where he couldn't remember his Social Security Number so couldn't get an out of state license in Oregon.  Another time, when fully licensed, he announced that he wasn't going to do any fishing but rather sit outside and watch me fish.  Not my idea of a fishing trip, but then it was nice to have a traveling companion. Another notable example of his contrary nature was his choice of dress for our Jr. Prom.  Our class colors were powder blue and black, thus all the guys wore powder blue tuxedo jackets.  Not Kenny.  He showed up wearing an orange (coral colored) jacket.  He claimed the rental shop was out of powder blue by the time he decided to rent one, but I knew better.

In recent years we stopped exchanging holiday gifts in favor of charitable contributions to organizations that were important to us.  I've lost a few friends and former colleagues these last few years.  It certainly makes for introspection.  I love the metaphor of fingering the jagged grain of wood (Thanks Ralph Ellison) and I find myself doing just that lately.  New insights emerge, names and places fade a bit more each year, but some of the memories remain vivid.