My enthusiastic nature has caused me problems. Students often called me the TV Romper Room ‘Miss Nancy,’ because they didn’t like the way I expressed energy and drive. Family members order me to ‘relax’ because they tell me I’m high strung. Enthusiasm and being high strung are not the same. Continue reading “in the edges” »
roots of confusion
My grandmother Brown was in her eighties when she moved from Baltimore to live with us. She had nowhere else to go. Neighbors helped my mother convert our garage into her bedroom, with a portable heater. My grandma shipped her stuff in moving crates to Tiburon, and somehow I was in charge of unboxing, deciding values of things I knew nothing about. Continue reading “roots of confusion” »
loose cannons
Lindy was my best friend in junior high and I spent the night with her almost every weekend. Her room had double French doors with brass handles opening onto a tiny porch, enough for two sleeping bags. I memorized the sparkling Richardson Bay skyline looking out toward Sausalito streetlights. Standing like the Supremes, we practiced Stop In The Name Of Love, moving in unison like we were on stage, synchronizing arm movements, making stop, like Diana Ross. Continue reading “loose cannons” »
what is coming?
William Butler Yeats wrote The Second Coming in 1919 in the aftermath of World War I . Continue reading “what is coming?” »
change
I thought Beatniks of the 1950’s and 1960’s were the most creative nonconformists in the world. Hanging out in coffee shops with friends, sharing political and artistic efforts that changed the world was important in New York’s Greenwich village. As a kid, San Francisco’s North Beach expanded my desire to create beauty, and tell the truth. I was a fourteen year-old hippie and I sang folk music during the “Summer of Love.” It was the year before my father committed suicide.
Pete Seeger was a brave role model, and I memorized Turn Turn Turn and the time for every purpose under Heaven. My friend’s brother in-law Earl was the first Marine I knew who was killed in Vietnam, leaving his widowed young wife and two baby girls. Singing Dylan’s Blowing in the Wind reinforced my belief that I did not want any more people to die.
Courageous ideas were changing America. African Americans were marching for equality. My Episcopal minister in Mill Valley divided members of his congregation because he marched in Selma, Alabama.
In college, I protested against Plutonium and the proliferation of nuclear weapons. I do not want more bombs dropped on this globe.
I believe the adage, “Think Globally, and Act Locally.” I want artists to continue believing in causes, organizing fundraisers to make the world better. I taught in public schools because I love young people, and I want to empower them.
We can inspire each other. We have a history of music inspiring hope. Listening to the old folksongs continues caring.
Each generation includes people who want change. Long live activists who strive for change. Long live vibrant young people.
commemoration
I’m emotional because of this horrid anniversary day. Forty-eight years ago my father put a gun to his head and died. It’s irreversible. I’m the last family member to endure this day. Anyone who copes with suicide understands the devastating rip of losing our love. Continue reading “commemoration” »
bagpipes, love and loss
My brother played the bagpipes with The Prince Charles Pipe Band. He walked Ring Mountain playing his pipes at sunset, as if he belonged in Scotland. Neighbors remind me of his haunting silhouette during those years. Since he didn’t live to be an adult, bagpipes remain for me as a symbol of love and strength and loss. Continue reading “bagpipes, love and loss” »
Darling Dora
Lisa and I met in high school freshman PE and we clicked, so I went over to her house and met her parents, Charles and Dora, who made me feel like a movie star. Lisa’s house was an animal rescue shelter, and I loved meeting their dogs and cats, especially Pierre, the black standard poodle, and Bismark, their great dane. Continue reading “Darling Dora” »
wack
Lindy’s house felt like vacation every seventh grade weekend, and kept me away from my family. She and I wore paisley print dresses and mock turtlenecks with semi-short skirts to our knees, hooked sandal toe nylons onto garterbelts, wore straight hair, imitated Cher, with thick “I got you Babe” bangs that squared off our faces, striving to look like that perfect blonde girl on Breck shampoo bottles. Continue reading “wack” »