Piping Loud

Meet me on Facebook

2009-08-17T18:18:00.000-07:00

I notice that I'm not blogging here as regularly as I hoped, especially since I'm working on a new novel. There are only so many words I can write in a day! But I am posting on Facebook. Ask to be my friend! (I'm not doing so well updating the fan page either)

Green From Birth to Death

2007-11-18T12:28:00.000-08:00

You must check out my favorite new blog. It's by my daughter and I love how she joins the personal with the political in her struggle to understand her role in the Green movement. Check it out and leave a post. http://greenfrombtod.blogspot.com/

Me and Al Gore and Rachel Carson

2007-08-11T17:43:00.000-07:00

I'm delighted that HOME, AND OTHER BIG, FAT LIES has won another environmental-related award, this one from the Santa Monica Public library.
According to the press release, The Green Prize has been created to encourage and commend authors, illustrators, and publishers who produce quality books that make significant contributions to, support the ideas of, and broaden public awareness of sustainability. Sustainability is defined as “meeting current needs – environmental, economic and social – without compromising the ability of future generations to do the same”.
Very cool, especially since I'm in good company. Check out the list of winning authors:

Youth Non-fiction
Birds of Prey Rescue: Changing the Future for Endangered Wildlife by Pamela Hickman, published by Firefly Books

Youth Fiction
Home, and Other Big, Fat Lies by Jill Wolfson, published by Henry Holt and Co.

Youth Picture Book
Why Are the Ice Caps Melting?: The Dangers of Global Warming by Anne Rockwell, illustrated by Paul Meisel, and published by HarperCollins

Youth Honorable Mention
All the Way to the Ocean by Joel Harper, illustrated by Marq Spusta published by Freedom Three Publishing

Adult Nonfiction
An Inconvenient Truth: The Planetary Emergency of Global Warming and What We Can Do About It by Al Gore, published by Rodale Books

Adult Reference
Worldchanging: A User’s Guide for the 21st Centuryedited by Alex Steffen, published by Abrams

Adult Honorable Mention
Greenopia: The Urban Dweller’s Guide to Green Living, Los Angelesedited by Ferris Kawar and Terrye Bretzke, published by The Green Media Group

Pioneer Award
Rachel Carson

Mommy Brain

2007-05-11T21:47:00.000-07:00

Last night, my friend Kathy Ellison was in town at Capitola Book Café to read from “The Mommy Brain,” her most recent book. I’m so impressed by Kathy’s research and her positive and optimistic message that she gives parents. Kathy and I met originally at the San Jose Mercury News, both of us at the time young, aggressive reporters, unmarried, without kids, and with an attitude that many people, especially career women, seemed to share. The idea of having children terrified us – not the responsibility or the work involved –but what we perceived it would do to our minds. You know the old saying about how the brain comes out with the placenta?

When Kathy had her two boys, she decided to face her biggest fear about her head head-on by talking to doctors and neuroscientists about exactly what happens to a woman’s brain during pregnancy, labor, the many thousands and thousands of hours spent changing diapers, finding pre-schools, breaking up sibling squabbles, helping with homework, being tested by teens. Does a woman’s brain indeed turn to mush? No, she found. Recent scientific research paints a dramatically different and far rosier picture. Raising children may make moms smarter, from enhanced senses, alertness and memory skills, to a greater aptitude for risk-taking and a talent for empathy and negotiation.

Well, that’s encouraging news. But as I considered Kathy’s findings, I found myself getting annoyed with myself, almost angry. How often had I just accepted the negative prevailing view that the pre-parenting me was obviously smarter, sharper, more edgy? From my own experience, in my deepest knowledge of myself, I knew – I KNEW – that mothering was making me “smarter,” especially in ways that I valued most. I was kinder, more intuitive, better at balancing conflicting goals, just better at life in general. Why then was I so quick to discount my own knowledge of myself?

This also reminds me of an article I read recently in the New York Times about “chemo brain”? For so long, many breast cancer patients have complained that the effects of chemo make them fuzzy brained and less-sharp, not just during treatment, but long after it’s been stopped. Until recently, many doctors have discounted these women’s experience because supposedly, chemo doesn’t do that! Only now, recent studies indicate that chemo DOES do that! Seems that the women actually know what they are feeling. Imagine that! I can only imagine the torment of self-doubt that these patients endured.

Why do we so often let ourselves be talked out of what we KNOW we know?

The article, Chemotherapy Fog Is No Longer Ignored as Illusion, is definitely worth reading: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/29/health/29chemo.html?ex=1179115200&en=f7783b8b798469ad&ei=5070

So is Kathy Ellison’s book: www.themommybrain.com

The First of Many College Checks Mailed

2007-05-11T20:12:00.000-07:00

A couple of people pointed out that I promised, but then never posted my daughter's college decision. Oops. This fall, she will be heading across country to Hampshire College in Amherst, Mass. It was her first choice and a good one for her (I think. I hope). Back in the 60s, Hampshire was among the first colleges -- if not the first -- to initiate some innovative educational philosophies and techniques that many colleges and universities have incorporated, including narrative evaluations instead of grades, student-initated projects, cross-discipline studies. While many "progressive" schools from the 60s -- think UC-Santa Cruz, Antioch, etc. -- have grown increasingly mainstream, Hampshire still retains its alternative flavor -- coupled with (we hope) a strong emphasis on academic rigor. Word is that students either love it or hate it, flounder or soar. My girl is aware of all this, and looks forward to the challenge and probably the notorious Halloween Party. www.hampshire.edu http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hampshire_College

On the gorgeous grounds of Hampshire sits The National Yiddish Book Center. The building itself was designed to look like a Polish Jewish ghetto. Sounds weirder than it looks. Strangely enough, the architecture works even in the midst of Hamsphire College's rural farm setting. (Hey, what's higher education without cows and goats on campus?) Coincidentally, a friend from my own college days at Temple University in the 1970s is now program director at the Book Center. Nora and I had our first reunion in 25 years, and Gwen got a future work-study job lined up in the Land of Yiddish Lit. .

SHARED BIRTHDAY -- 30 YEARS APART

2007-04-28T19:11:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday to my dear Gwen and Nancy

Shopping List for At-Risk Readers

2007-04-27T20:46:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago at TLA, I had dinner with a group of wonderful, lively and knowledgeable educators. It was so great to talk books! I mentioned that I had received a grant to purchase books for a writing/literacy program that I help run in Santa Cruz Juvenile Hall. I explained that the students there seem to really like poetry, gritty fiction (both realistic and fantasy) and biographies that reflect their often difficult backgrounds. Did they have any suggestions?
By the end of dessert (Mine was a fabulous crème brulee), the group put together this great list. I can’t wait to do my shopping.

Special thanks to Texas school librarian Susan Geye for taking notes during the discussion and organizing into helpful categories.

Please feel free to add other recommendations!

Poetry
Skin Deep: And Other Teenage Reflections by Angela Shelf Medearis.
Quiet Storm: Voices of Young Black Poets by Lydia Omolola Okutoro
The Rose That Grew From Concrete by Tupac Shakur

NonFiction
Hole in My Life by Jack Gantos
My Life in Prison by Stanley “Tookie” Williams
The Shadows of My Life by Danielle Lessard

Short Story Collections
Who Am I Without Him? Short Stories about Girls and the Boys in Their Lives
by Sharon G. Flake

Series Books for Reluctant Readers
The Bluford Series, Townsend Press
Orca Soundings, Orca Book Publishers

Novels in Verse
Burned by Ellen Hopkins
Crank by Ellen Hopkins
Emako Blue by Brenda Woods
Impulse by Ellen Hopkins
Keesha’s House by Helen Frost
Make Lemonade (Bk. 1) by Virginia Euwer Wolff
True Believer (Bk. 2) by Virginia Euwer Wolff
Street Love by Walter Dean Myers

Fiction (Listed by author in alphabetical order)
Atwater-Rhodes, Amelia, In the Forests of the Night (Bk. 1)
Demon in my View (Bk.2)
Shattered Mirror (Bk. 3)
Midnight Predator (Bk. 4)
Booth, Coe, Tyrell
Coy, John, Crackback
Crutcher, Chris, Whale Talk
Davidson, Dana, Jason & Kyra, Played
De La Pena, Matt, Ball Don’t Lie
Draper, Sharon, Tears of a Tiger (Bk. 1)
Forged by Fire (Bk. 2)
Darkness before Dawn (Bk. 3)
Dueker, Carl, Night Hoops
Flake, Sharon G., Money Hungry (Bk.1)
Begging for Change (Bk.2)
The Skin I’m In
Bang!
Flinn, Alex, Breathing Underwater
E. R. Frank, America
Glovach, Linda, Beauty Queen
Grimes, Nikki, Bronx Masquerade
Halliday, John, Shooting Monarchs
Hill, Ernest, A Life for a Life
McNamee, Graham, Acceleration
Martinez, Victor, Parrot in the Oven: Mi Vida
Myers, Walter Dean, Monster
Porter, Connie, Imani all Mine
Shan, Darren, Lord Loss (Bk. 1)
Demon Thief (Bk. 2)
Slawter (Bk. 3)
Bec (Bk. 4)
Vaught, Susan, Trigger
Volponi, Paul, Black and White
Rueker Park Setup
Rooftop
Whyman, Matt, Boy Kills Man
Williams-Garcia. Rita, Like Sisters on the Home Front
Woodson, Jacqueline, If You Come Softly
Wyeth, Sharon Dennis, Orphea Proud
Zahn, Timothy, Dragon and Thief (Bk. 1)
Dragon and Soldier (Bk. 2)
Dragon and Slave (Bk. 3)
Dragon and Herdsman (Bk. 4)

Make Way for ...

2007-04-25T10:17:00.000-07:00

College Tour Part 2. The East Coast

Gwen and I took the Jet Blue red-eye to Boston for our tour of Hampshire College and Clark University.
Okay, maybe it wasn't the best plan to arrive in Boston at 5 am on a rainy morning without sleep and without a hotel to check into and without any real plan. But I managed to find Cambridge and we sauntered around Harvard.

On the last day of the trip, we spent a few more hours in Boston, happy to join the ducklings in the Public Garden. When the kids were little, nobody could get enough of Robert McCloskey's Make Way for Ducklings.

Coming Soon: Gwen's big college decision. No, despite the t-shirt she's wearing in the picture, she won't be going to Earlham.

TEMPORARY INSANITY

2007-04-23T09:36:00.000-07:00

The past year has been all about the college decision for Gwen. Poring over the Fiske Guide, requesting catalogues, applications, essays, appointments with the college counselor, deadlines, financial aid forms, waiting for acceptance letters.

Our favorite rejection letters came from the most popular UC campuses. Dear Applicant …We received 45,000 applications for 4,000 freshman spots. 45,000! Hahahahahahahah.

Gwen has been a good student in terms of grades, not a great one. Her SATs were good, not great. Her interests have changed; her focus has faltered. There was that 10th grade wig-out; I’ll spare the details here and save them for a future YA novel. (Thank you Gwen and friends!)

In short, Gwen has been – what I think – a pretty typical teenager. Who are these other 17-year-olds who know exactly what they want and go after it with unswerving attention? This kind of competition is a true national sickness – get the public health department involved.

While Gwen was touring some Midwest campuses, this article appeared on the front page of the New York Times. I thought that we had been sucked into the vortex of senior year temporary insanity. Someone please kidnap these kids (and parents) and give them a kitty massage.

By SARA RIMER
Published: April 1, 2007
To anyone who knows 17-year-old Esther Mobley, one of the best students at one of the best public high schools in the country, it is absurd to think she doesn't measure up. But Esther herself is quick to set the record straight.
''First of all, I'm a terrible athlete,'' she said over lunch one day.
''I run, I do, but not very quickly, and always exhaustedly,'' she continued. ''This is one of the things I'm most insecure about. You meet someone, especially on a college tour, adults ask you what you do. They say, 'What sports do you play?' I don't play any sports. It's awkward.''
Esther, a willowy, effervescent senior, turned to her friend Colby Kennedy. Colby, 17, is also a great student, a classical pianist, fluent in Spanish, and a three-season varsity runner and track captain. Did Colby worry, Esther asked, that she fell short in some way?
''Or,'' said Esther, and now her tone was a touch sarcastic, ''do you just have it all already?''
They both burst out laughing.

Esther and Colby are two of the amazing girls at Newton North High School here in this affluent suburb just outside Boston. ''Amazing girls'' translation: Girls by the dozen who are high achieving, ambitious and confident (if not immune to the usual adolescent insecurities and meltdowns.) Girls who do everything: Varsity sports. Student government. Theater. Community service. Girls who have grown up learning they can do anything a boy can do, which is anything they want to do.

But being an amazing girl often doesn't feel like enough these days when you're competing with all the other amazing girls around the country who are applying to the same elite colleges that you have been encouraged to aspire to practically all your life.
An athlete, after all, is one of the few things Esther isn't. A few of the things she is: a standout in Advanced Placement Latin and honors philosophy/literature who can expound on the beauty of the subjunctive tense in Catullus and on Kierkegaard's existential choices. A writer whose junior thesis for Advanced Placement history won Newton North's top prize. An actress. President of her church youth group.

To spend several months in a pressure cooker like Newton North is to see what a girl can be -- what any young person can be -- when encouraged by committed teachers and by engaged parents who can give them wide-ranging opportunities.

It is also to see these girls struggle to navigate the conflicting messages they have been absorbing, if not from their parents then from the culture, since elementary school. The first message: Bring home A's. Do everything. Get into a top college -- which doesn't have to be in the Ivy League, or one of the other elites like Williams, Tufts or Bowdoin, but should be a ''name'' school.
The second message: Be yourself. Have fun. Don't work too hard.
And, for all their accomplishments and ambitions, the amazing girls, as their teachers and classmates call them, are not immune to the third message: While it is now cool to be smart, it is not enough to be smart.
You still have to be pretty, thin and, as one of Esther's classmates, Kat Jiang, a go-to stage manager for student theater who has a perfect 2400 score on her SATs, wrote in an e-mail message, ''It's out of style to admit it, but it is more important to be hot than smart.''
''Effortlessly hot,'' Kat added.

If you are free to be everything, you are also expected to be everything. What it comes down to, in this place and time, is that the eternal adolescent search for self is going on at the same time as the quest for the perfect résumé. For Esther, as for high school seniors everywhere, this is a big weekend for finding out how your résumé measured up: The college acceptances, and rejections, are rolling in.
''You want to achieve,'' Esther said. ''But how do you achieve and still be genuine?''
If it all seems overwhelming at times, then the multitasking adults in Newton have the answer: Balance. Strive for balance.
But balance is out the window when you're a high-achieving senior in the home stretch of the race for which all the years of achieving and the disciplined focusing on the future have been preparing you. These students are aware that because more girls apply to college than boys, amid concerns about gender balance, boys may have an edge at some small selective colleges.

''You're supposed to have all these extracurriculars, to play sports and do theater,'' said another of Esther's 17-year-old classmates, Julie Mhlaba, who aspires to medical school and juggles three Advanced Placement classes, gospel choir and a part-time job as a waitress. ''You're supposed to do well in your classes and still have time to go out.''
''You're supposed to do all these things,'' Julie said, ''and not go insane.''

Stress Trumps Relaxation
Newton, which has a population of almost 84,000, is known for a liberal sensibility and a high concentration of professionals like doctors, lawyers and academics. Six miles west of Boston, with its heavily settled neighborhoods, bustling downtowns and high numbers of immigrants, Newton is a suburb with an urban feel.

The main shopping area, in Newton Centre, is a concrete manifestation of the conflicting messages Esther and the other girls are constantly struggling to decode. In one five-block stretch are two Starbucks and one Peets Coffee & Tea, several psychotherapists' offices, three SAT test-prep services, two after-school math programs, and three yoga studios promising relaxation and inner peace.

Smack in the middle of all of this is Esther's church, the 227-year-old First Baptist, which welcomes everyone regardless of race, sexual orientation or denomination, and where Esther puts in a lot of time.
The test-prep business is booming. Kaplan (''Be the ideal college applicant!'') is practically around the corner from Chyten (''Our average SAT II score across all subjects is 720!''), which is three blocks from Princeton Review (''We're all about scoring more!''). My First Yoga (for children 3 and up), with its founder playing up her Harvard degree, is conveniently located above Chyten, which includes the SAT Cafe.

High-priced SAT prep has become almost routine at schools like Newton North. Not to hire the extra help is practically an act of rebellion.
''I think it's unfair,'' Esther said, explaining why she decided against an SAT tutor, though she worried about her score (ultimately getting, as she put it, ''above 2000''). ''Why do I deserve this leg up?''

Parents view Newton's expensive real estate -- the median house price in 2006 was $730,000 -- and high taxes as the price of admission to the prized public schools. There are less affluent parents, small-business owners, carpenters, plumbers, social workers and high school guidance counselors, but many of these families arrived decades ago when it was possible to buy a nice two-story Colonial for $150,000 or less.

Newton North, one of two outstanding public high schools here, is known for its academic rigor, but also its vocational education, reflecting the wide range of its 1,967 students. Nearly 73 percent of them are white, 7.3 percent black, nearly 12 percent Asian and 7.5 percent Hispanic. Many of the black and Hispanic students live in the Roxbury and Dorchester neighborhoods of Boston, and are bused in under a 35-year-old voluntary integration program.

Newton North has a student theater, winning athletic teams and dozens of after-school clubs (ultimate Frisbee, mock trial, black leadership, Hispanic culture, Israeli dance). There is an emphasis on nonconformity -- even if it is often conformity dressed up as nonconformity -- and an absence of such high school conventions as, say, homecoming queens, valedictorians and class rankings.

'Superhuman' Resistance
Jennifer Price, the Newton North principal, said she and her faculty emphasized to students that they could win admission to many excellent colleges without organizing their entire lives around résumé building. By age 14, Ms. Price said, the school's highest fliers are already worrying about marketing themselves to colleges: ''You almost have to be superhuman to resist the pressure.''
If more students aren't listening to the message that they can relax a bit, one reason may be that a lot of the people delivering the message went to the elite colleges. Ms. Price has an undergraduate degree from Princeton -- she makes a point of saying that she got in because she was recruited to play varsity field hockey -- and is a doctoral candidate at Harvard. Many of the teachers have degrees from the Ivy League and other elite schools.

But the message also tends to get drowned out when parents bump into each other at Whole Foods and share news about whose son or daughter just got accepted (or not) at Harvard, Yale, Brown, Penn or Stanford.

Or when the final edition of the award-winning student newspaper, the Newtonite, comes out every June, with its two-page spread listing all the seniors, and their colleges. For that entire week, Esther says, everyone pores over the names, obsessing about who is going where.
''In a lot of ways, it's all about that one week,'' she said.

There is something about the lives these girls lead -- their jam-packed schedules, the amped-up multitasking, the focus on a narrow group of the nation's most selective colleges -- that speaks of a profound anxiety in the young people, but perhaps even more so in their parents, about the ability of the next generation to afford to raise their families in a place like Newton.
Admission to a brand-name college is viewed by many parents, and their children, as holding the best promise of professional success and economic well-being in an increasingly competitive world.

''It's, like, a really big deal to go into a lucrative profession so that you can provide for your kids, and they can grow up in a place like the place where you grew up,'' Kat said.
Esther, however, is aiming for a decidedly nonlucrative profession. Inspired by her father, Greg Mobley, who is a Biblical scholar, she wants to be a theologian.

She says she is interested in ''Scripture, the Bible, the development of organized religion, thinking about all this, writing about all this, teaching about all this.'' More than anything else, she wrote in an e-mail message, she wants to be a writer, ''and religion is what I most like to write about.''

''I have such a strong sense of being supported by my faith,'' she continued. ''It gives me priorities. That's why I'm not concerned about making money, because I know that there is so much more to living a rich life than having money.''

First Baptist Church counts on Esther. She organizes pancake suppers, tutors a young congregant and helps lead the youth group's outreach to the poor.

On a springlike Sunday afternoon toward the end of winter, Esther could be found with her father, her two brothers and members of her youth group handing out food to homeless people on Boston Common. She had spent the morning in church.
About 2 p.m., a text message flashed across her cellphone from Gabe Gladstone, a co-captain of mock trial: ''Where are you?'' Esther, a key member of the group, was needed at a meeting.
Esther messaged back: ''I'm feeding the homeless, I'll come when God's work is done.''

Fending Off 'Anorexia of the Soul'

On a Saturday afternoon in late November, Esther and her mother, Page Kelley, sat at the dining room table talking about the contradictions and complexities of life in Newton. Esther's father was with his sons, Gregory, 15, who plays varsity basketball for Newton North, and Tommy, 10, coaching Tommy's basketball team.

Ms. Kelley, 47, an assistant federal public defender, and Mr. Mobley, 49, a professor at Andover Newton Theological School in Newton, grew up in Kentucky and came north for college. Ms. Kelley is a graduate of Smith College and Harvard Law School. Mr. Mobley has two graduate degrees from Harvard.

Amid all the competitiveness and consumerism, and the obsession with achievement in Newton, Ms. Kelley said, ''You just hope your child doesn't have anorexia of the soul.''
''It's the idea that you end up with this strange drive,'' she continued. ''One of the great things about Esther is that she does have some kind of spiritual life. You just hope your kid has good priorities. We keep saying to her: 'The name of the college you go to doesn't matter. There are a lot of good colleges out there.' ''

Esther said her mother is her role model. ''I think the work she does is very noble,'' she said.
''She has these impressive degrees,'' Esther said, ''and she chooses to do something where she's not making as much money as she could.''

As close as mother and daughter are, there is one important generational divide. ''My mother applied to one college,'' Esther said. ''She got in, she went.''

Back from basketball practice with his sons, Mr. Mobley joined the conversation. To Mr. Mobley, a formalized, competitive culture pervades everything from youth sports to getting into college. He pointed out to his wife that the lives of their three children were far more directed ''than any of the aimless hours I spent in my youth daydreaming and meandering.''
Ms. Kelley asked, ''Is that because of us?''

''Yes -- and no,'' he said. ''It's because of 2006 in America, and the Northeast.''
The bar for achievement keeps being raised for each generation, he said: ''Our children start where we finished.''

As the afternoon turned into early evening, Esther went out to meet her best friend, Aliza Edelstein. The family dog, a Jack Russell terrier named Bandit, was underfoot, trolling for affection.

''I'm not worried about Esther because I know her,'' Mr. Mobley said. ''Esther's character is sealed in some fundamental way.''
Ms. Kelley, however, wondered aloud: ''Don't you worry that she never rebelled? When I was growing up, you were supposed to rebel.''
But she acknowledged that she had sent her own mixed signals. ''As I'm sitting here saying I don't care what kind of grades she gets, I'm thinking, she comes home with a B, and I say: 'What'd you get a B for? Who gave you a B? I'm going to talk to them.'
''You do want your child to do well.''
Mr. Mobley nodded. ''We're not above it,'' he said. ''It's complicated.''

On a Fierce Mission to Shine
To sit in on classes with Esther in her vibrant high school where, between classes, the central corridor, called Main Street, is a bustling social hub, is to see why these students are genuinely excited about school.

Their teachers are pushing them to wrestle with big questions: What is truth? What does Virgil's ''Aeneid'' tell us about destiny and individual happiness? How does DNA work? How is the global economy reshaping the world (subtext: you have to be fluid and highly educated to survive in the new economy)?

Esther's ethics teacher, Joel Greifinger, spent considerable time this winter on moral theories. An examination of John Rawls's theory of justice led to extensive discussions about American society and class inequality. Among the reading material Mr. Greifinger presented was research showing the correlation between income and SAT scores.

The class strengthened Esther's earlier decision not to take private SAT prep.
In her honors philosophy/literature class, Esther has been reading Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, ''Sophie's Choice'' and Viktor Frankl's ''Man's Search for Meaning.'' Amid a discussion of the strangely unsettling emptiness Frankl encountered upon his release from a Nazi concentration camp, Esther quoted Sartre: ''You are condemned to freedom.''

Her honors teacher, Mike Fieleke, nodded. ''That's the existential idea. If we don't awaken to that freedom, then we are slaves to our fate.''

A few weeks earlier, Esther, taking stock of her own life, wrote in an e-mail message: ''I feel like I'm on the verge. I feel like I'm just about to get out of high school, to enter into adulthood, to reach some kind of state of independence and peacefulness and enlightenment.''
More immediately, she wrote, Mr. Fieleke had told her ''he thought, from reading my papers and hearing me speak in class, that I was just on the verge of some really great idea.''
''I asked him if he thought that idea would come by next Wednesday, when our big Hamlet paper was due. He said I might feel this way all year long.''

The most intensely pressurized academic force field at school is the one surrounding the students on the Advanced Placement and honors track. About 145 of the 500 seniors are taking a combined total of three, four and five Advanced Placement and honors classes, with a few students even juggling six and seven.

Esther's friend Colby takes four Advanced Placement and one honors class. ''I'm living up to my own expectations,'' Colby said. ''It's what I want to do. I want to do well for myself.''
Another of Esther's friends, from student theater, Lee Gerstenhaber, 17, was juggling four Advanced Placement classes with intense late-night rehearsals for her starring role as Maggie, the seductive Southern belle in ''Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.'' It was too much. About 4 a.m one day last fall, she was still fighting her way through Advanced Placement physics homework. She dissolved in tears.

''I had always been able to do it before,'' Lee recalled later. ''But I finally said to myself, 'O.K., I'm not Superwoman.' ''
She dropped physics -- and was incandescent as Maggie.

Esther's schedule includes two Advanced Placement and one honors class. Among certain of her classmates who are mindful that many elite colleges advise prospective applicants to pursue the most rigorous possible course of study, taking two Advanced Placement classes is viewed as ''only two A.P.'s.'' But Esther says she is simply taking the subjects she is most interested in.
She also shrugged off advice that it would look better on her résumé to take another science class instead of her passion, A.P. Latin. Like so many of her classmates, Esther started taking Latin in the seventh grade, when everyone was saying Latin would help them with the SAT. But now, except for Esther and a handful of other diehards who are devoted to Latin -- and to their teacher, Robert Mitchell -- everyone else has moved on.
''I like languages,'' said Esther, who also takes Advanced Placement Spanish. ''And I really like Latin.''

Who Needs a Boyfriend?
This year Esther has been trying life without a boyfriend. It was her mother's idea. ''She'd say, 'I think it's time for you to take a break and discover who you are,' '' Esther said over lunch with Colby. ''She was right. I feel better.''

Esther turned to Colby: she seems to pretty much always have a boyfriend.
''I never felt like having a boyfriend was a burden,'' Colby said. ''I enjoy just being comfortable with someone, being able to spend time together. I don't think that means I wouldn't feel comfortable or confident without one.''

Esther said: ''I'm not trying to say that's a bad thing. I'm like you. I never thought, 'If I don't have a boyfriend I'll feel totally forlorn and lost.' ''
But who needs a boyfriend? ''My girlfriends have consistently been more important than my boyfriends,'' Esther wrote in an e-mail message. ''I mean, girlfriends last longer.''
Boyfriends or not, a deeper question for Esther and Colby is how they negotiate their identities as young women. They have grown up watching their mothers, and their friends' mothers, juggle family and career. They take it for granted that they will be able to carve out similar paths, even if it doesn't look easy from their vantage point.

They say they want to be both feminine and assertive, like their mothers. But Colby made the point at lunch that she would rather be considered too assertive and less conventionally feminine than ''be totally passive and a bystander in my life.''

Esther agreed. She said she admired Cristina, the spunky resident on ''Grey's Anatomy,'' one of her favorite TV shows.
''She really stands up for herself and knows who she is, which I aspire to,'' Esther said.
Cristina is also ''gorgeous,'' Esther laughed. ''And when she's taking off her scrubs, she's always wearing cute lingerie.''

Speaking of lingerie, part of being feminine is feeling good about how you look. Esther is not trying to be one of Newton North's trendsetters, the girls who show up every day in Ugg boots, designer jeans -- or equally cool jeans from the vintage store -- and tight-fitting tank tops under the latest North Face jacket.

She never looks ''scrubby,'' to use the slang for being a slob, but sometimes comes to school in sweats and moccasins.
''I think sometimes I might be trying a little too hard not to conform,'' Esther says.
She says she is one of the few girls in her circle who doesn't have a credit card. But she is hardly immune to the pressure to be a good consumer.

During the discussion around the dining room table, Esther's mother expressed her astonishment over her daughter's expertise in designer jeans. They had been people-watching at the mall. Esther, as it turned out, knew the brand of every pair of jeans that went by.
So what were the coolest jeans at Newton North?
''The coolest jeans are True Religions,'' Esther said.
''They look,'' she said, and here she smiled sheepishly as she stood up to reveal her denim-clad legs, ''like these.''

Aliza and several of Esther's other friends chipped in to buy them for her 17th birthday, in November.

Encouraged to Ease Up a Little
The amazing boys say they admire girls like Esther and Colby.
''I hate it when girls dumb themselves down,'' Gabe Gladstone, the co-captain of mock trial, was saying one morning to the other captain, Cameron Ferrey.
Cameron said he felt the same way.

One of Esther's close friends is Dan Catomeris, a school theater star. ''One of the most attractive things about Esther is how smart she is,'' said Dan, whose mother is a professor at Harvard Business School. ''There's always been this intellectual tension between us. I see why she likes Kierkegaard -- he's existential, but still Christian. She really likes Descartes. I was not so into Descartes. I really like Hume, Nietzsche, the existentialist authors. The musician we're most collectively into is Bob Dylan.''

Sometimes, though, everybody wants some of these hard-charging girls to chill out. Tom DePeter, an Advanced Placement English teacher, wants his students to loosen up so they can write original sentences. The theater director, Adam Brown, wants the girls to ''let go'' in auditions.

Peter Martin, the girls' cross-country coach, says girls try so hard to please everyone -- coaches, teachers, parents -- that he bends over backward not to criticize them. ''I tell them, 'Just go out and run.' '' His team wins consistently.

But how do you chill out and still get into a highly selective college?
One of Esther's favorite rituals is to hang out at her house with Aliza, eating Ben and Jerry's and watching a DVD of a favorite program like ''The Office.'' Their friendship helped Esther and Aliza keep going last fall, when there was hardly time to hang out. Esther recalled in an e-mail message how one night she had telephoned Aliza, who is also a top student, and a cross-country team captain, to say she was feeling overwhelmed.

''I said, 'Aliza, this is crazy, I have so much homework to do, and I won't be able to relax until I do it all. I haven't gone out in weeks!' And Aliza (who had also been staying in on Fridays and Saturdays to do homework) pointed out: 'I'd rather get into college.' ''
By Dec. 15, Newton North was in a frenzy over early admissions answers. Esther's friend Phoebe Gardener had been accepted to Dartmouth. Her friend Dan Lurie was in at Brown. Harvard wanted Dan Catomeris.

Esther was in calculus class, the last period of the day when her cellphone rang. It was her father. The letter from Williams College -- her ideal of the small, liberal arts school -- had arrived.

Her father would be at her brother's basketball game when she got home. Her mother would still be at the office. Esther did not want to be alone when she opened the letter.
''Dad, can you bring it to school?'' she asked.
Ten minutes later, when her father arrived, Esther realized that he had somehow not registered the devastating thinness of the envelope. The admissions office was sorry. Williams had had a record number of highly qualified applicants for early admission this year. Esther had been rejected. Not deferred. Rejected.

Her father hugged her as she cried outside her classroom, and then he drove her home.
Esther said several days later: ''Maybe it hurt me that I wasn't an athlete.''
But she was already moving on. ''I chose Williams,'' she said, with a shrug. ''They didn't choose me back.''
About that thin envelope: Mr. Mobley, unschooled in such intricacies, said he hadn't paid much attention to it. He had wanted so much for his daughter to get into Williams, he said, and believed so strongly in her, that it was as if he had wished the letter into being an acceptance.
''It was a setback,'' Mr. Mobley said weeks later. ''But it's not a failure.''

And Then One Day, a Letter Arrives
Has this all been a temporary insanity?
Esther's friend Colby learned in February that she had been accepted at the University of Southern California. Soon, more letters of acceptance rolled in: from the University of Miami, the University of Texas at Austin, Tulane. With the college-application pressure behind her, she can go back to being the pragmatic romantic who opened her journal last August and wrote her ''life list,'' with 35 goals and dreams, in pink ink.

She wants: To write a novel. Own a (red) Jeep Wrangler. Get into college. Name her firstborn daughter Carmen. Go to carnival in Rio de Janeiro. Learn to surf. Live in a Spanish-speaking country. Learn to play the doppio movimiento of Chopin's Sonata in B Flat. Own a dog. Be a bridesmaid. Vote for president. Write a really good poem. Never get divorced.

In mid-January Esther was thrilled to receive an acceptance letter from Centre College, one of her fallback schools, in Kentucky. But she was still dreaming about her remaining top choices: Amherst, Middlebury, Davidson and Smith, her mother's alma mater.

Esther's application to Smith included a letter from her father. He wrote about how, when Esther was a baby, they had gone to his wife's 10th college reunion. He described the alumni parade as an ''angelic procession of women in white, decade by decade, at every stage in the course of human life.''

He wrote about seeing the young women, the middle-aged graduates and, finally, ''the elderly women, some with the assistance of canes and wheelchairs, but with no diminution of the confidence that a great education brings.''

''I still remember holding Esther as we watched those saints go marching into the central campus for the commencement ceremony,'' he wrote.
''Lord,'' he concluded, and he could have been talking about any of the schools his daughter still has her heart set on, ''I want Esther to be in that number.''
Epilogue: Esther learned last week that she had gotten into Smith. She learned on Saturday that she had been rejected by Amherst and Middlebury. She is still hoping for Davidson.

Classroom Discussion Questions

2007-04-18T10:00:00.000-07:00

I've gotten requests lately for discussion questions about my novels. What an interesting exercise for me. As a writer, I'm motivated mostly by character, so it's intriguing to see what themes emerged during and after the writing.If you're a librarian or teacher, I'd like to know what discussion questions you use. And if you're a student, feel free to post your book reports. I'd love to read them!

What I Call Life

1. The Knitting Lady says that the girls in the Pumpkin House don’t have the same parents, yet she also says that they are members of the same tribe with common ancestors and a shared history. What does she mean by that? Who are some “ancestors” mentioned in the novel? Can you think of any others – from books you’ve read, movies and people you know personally? Have you ever felt as close as family to someone who is not directly related to you? What made you feel connected to that person?

2. When the book opens, Cal Lavender says that living in a foster home is not her real life. How does that change by the end of the book? What does she learn about her own life and life in general from the girls in the Pumpkin House?

3. The Knitting Lady says that she can “read” people by their knitting. She can understand their personality and traits by the tightness or looseness of their stitches, by the colors and designs they choose. Describe or draw what your knitting would look like if it reflected you. How about the knitting of your favorite teacher? A relative? Your best friend? Someone with whom you often clash?

HOME, AND OTHER BIG, FAT LIES

1. What are the different ways that the new foster kids in Forest Glen try to fit in to their new community? How does Termite act? Honeysuckle? Josh? Why do they act the way they do? How do you act when you are in a new situation with new people? Do you act the way you feel inside? Give a specific example.

2. Whitney and Striker take an immediate dislike to each other. Why? And what changes between them? What circumstances and personality traits eventually bring them together?

3. Did you ever have a secret place like Striker’s spot in the forest and Whitney’s space at the top of the stairs? What drew you to it? What did you do there? Describe your secret spot using all of your senses?

Crazy Buildings of San Antonio

2007-04-11T14:47:00.000-07:00

Those old-style Texans sure knew how to keep the whimsy in architecture. It is easy enough to ignore the spectacularly ugly Hyatt and Marriott because there are so many other visual feasts of brick, stucco and tile.
Today, after my presentation (more on that later), I followed the River Walk south and quickly got out of the Texas "theme park" clutter of souvenir t-shirt shops and Mexican restaurants (In one, I ate the WORST Mexican food I've had in my life. I mean, how to do they screw up chips and salsa? Well, this place did. Okay, bitching over).
A little south of the main downtown area is the King William Historic District where the trees are big and leafy and the homes big and southern and slightly demented in their size and homage to Europe. Italian meets Greek meets German meets Texas moneyman.

The River Walk becomes double fun when you look up from the water and spot evidence of an architect who had a swell time designing pillars.

Texans take their justice seriously and are known for their intimidating county buildings and courthouses.

To get out of the hot sun -- must have hit 85 today -- I headed into the San Fernando Cathedral, shut my eyes and listened to my breathing. Okay, I kept peeking out at this amazing gilted Jesus.
On a busy corner sits a landmark. William Sydney Porter -- O. Henry --lived in this ramshackle place and set several of his 400-plus short stories in San Antonio--before he moved to Austin and was busted for embezzling. I love O. Henry, even though his reputation isn't so stellar among serious literary folks. I love his wit and wordplay and those twisty endings that are criticized for being corny and not like real life. But who says? From my experience, life hands out one corny twist after another.
In the conference today, I was asked for my literary favorites and mentioned a handful -- Flannery and Raymond, usual suspects. I also threw in the author of Nancy Drew, the series that got me reading in the first place as a kid. I want to go on record here paying homage to O Henry. Oh boy, when that last leaf stayed on the tree, I knew what writing could do.

Deep in the Heart

2007-04-10T19:49:00.000-07:00

Here I am in San Antonio for the Texas Library Association Convention. My talk -- writing about kids with special needs -- takes place early tomorrow. I'm especially looking forward to meeting a co-panelist Matt de la Pena, who wrote a novel that combines foster care, basketball and OCD disorder, my kind of characters.
Fresh off the plane, I walked and walked this afternoon and into the evening. San Antonio is a great strolling town, especially in April when the temperature is mild with a touch of coolness. The last time I was here, it was June and 100-degrees of non-stop sun. Better this time.

I'm staying in this great hotel called the Emily Morgan. Open the curtain and here's the view:

Yes, it's the Alamo, laden with tourists yet still chillingly evocative. The Alamo at night

Some baby mallards along River Walk. Tomorrow, I'll have time for a longer walk and more pictures.

All Things Bunny Day

2007-04-07T23:02:00.000-07:00

A movie: www.angryalien.com/0204/exorcistbunnies.html

A game: www.killerbunnies.com/

And for science fair fans, the Marshmallow Bunny Survival Test: www.keypad.org/bunnies/index.html

Pictured: The Laser Test.

Magnificent Trees

2007-04-05T10:16:00.000-07:00

Saw this link on another blog and needed to share it. Today, as I'm stuck inside tinkering with commas and formatting type faces, my soul seems to be demanding -- SCREAMING! -- for a new life goal. Yes, to seeing each of these trees in person before I die. Interesting. I already have a good start.

www.neatorama.com/2007/03/21/10-most-magnificent-trees-in-the-world/

Favorite Books about Foster Kids -- HELP!

2007-04-04T12:36:00.000-07:00

Next week, I'm traveling to San Antonio for the Texas Library Association convention. I'm really excited to be on a panel with some interesting writers (Diane Gonzales Bertrand, Lee Byrd and Matt de la Pena) to talk about writing for and about kids with special needs and disabilities. I've been asked to put together a recommended list of children and young adult titles that deal with foster care (in addition to my own).

I get asked that a lot and have been intending to post such a list for awhile.

The Great Gilly Hopkins, of course.

And Where I'd Like to Be and Ruby Holler.

But please, help! I'd love to create an extensive and interesting list that will be helpful to teachers and librarians. Give me your suggestions that include books for all ages.

Home

2007-03-28T16:18:00.000-07:00

I’m so glad to be back in California. After only two weeks away, so much has changed. It’s that time of year, spring making its splashy debut. While I was gone, the mustard greens in my garden sprouted their tall spikes of yellow.

Screaming orange poppies are everywhere.

Only a month or so ago, this fancy perfumed showgirl looked brown and withered in the pot on my deck. Look at her now.

I took a break from work today and biked out to Wilder and all along my beloved coastal trail. Spring on the Central Coast. It was all so familiar, exciting yet comforting. The wild afternoon wind bringing the heavy scent of freshly fertilized crops all the way from Davenport. The hemlock with its “bloody” stalk, the wild radish taking over the bike path and getting in the way of any ant trying to walk a straight line. The sun was warm enough to lure a 3-foot-long snake from under a rock. The red-tail hawk with lunch in its talons and the wind chopping up the water of an extra low tide. Naturalists hate the non-native Scotch Broom with its proliferation of yellow flowers. They call it a noxious weed. But honestly, who can blame the plant for wanting to live here?

During my ride, I felt an idiotic grin on my face, like a drunk. No, more like a little kid who hasn’t yet discovered that the world of spring also contains war and suffering and cancer and death and pain and confusion and blight and heart break and bone break and petty meanness and profound wanton destruction and child abuse and animal abuse and ...okay, enough.

After more than 25 years in California, 10 of them by the ocean, this finally feels like home. I realized that during this past trip to Philadelphia. I no longer felt in tune with the geographic and human landscape of Langdon St. where I grew up, and downtown Philly where I spent my college and early working years, and New Hope, where I was married and where my sister still lives.

I didn't know the names of the trees there. The air felt and smelled foreign to me. I didn’t sense the subtleties of climate change as 80-degree weather turned overnight into an ice storm; the snow and sleet came out of nowhere. I felt like a tourist in my own past. Nothing wrong with that. It's just good to be home.

Legacy

2007-03-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

There are some nice messages of condolence about my dad:
www.legacy.com/SunSentinel/GB/GuestbookView.aspx?PersonId=86790045

Feel free to leave one. My family will enjoy it.

Semper Fi Father

2007-03-25T13:46:00.000-07:00

Every family has its recurring and unchanging stories about its members, the shorthand for summing up who’s who and why they behave the way they do. My mom is a master at that, and honestly, it drove me crazy while I was growing up. I felt trapped by her version of me and of everyone else.
For example, my dad was a Marine who served in WWII and then worked for the Marine Corps after returning from overseas. His “Marineness” came to be the explanation for so much of his behavior: Dad’s insistence that dinner be on the table at 5:30 sharp. His politics during the Viet Nam War. The way he didn’t really have conversations with his children, but barked out opinions and interrogated. What I saw as his stubbornness and rigidity, my mother explained as “He was a Marine.” What I saw as bordering on obsessive-compulsive disorder, she admired as “his Marine training. He likes things precise.” It was enough to make a teenager scream, which I frequently did. Semper Fi my foot!
Even though I heard “He was a Marine” ad nauseum, I really never heard any of the details of his time in the service. It wasn’t that dad didn’t like telling stories. With the slightest prompt, he would go on about his boyhood growing up in South Philly, the crazy stunts he pulled, the way he did anything to make a buck to help support a sister and single mother (Dad was a rarity of the time; a child of divorce).
But when it came to the war, I don’t recall him ever going into any details. For a long time, I figured it was me, that in my snotty judgmental way, I tuned him out, or that he suspected that I didn’t want to hear, so he stayed silent on the subject. But even my mom admitted that he didn’t talk much about the war, and that it was out of character for him to be so reticent about an experience that clearly shaped and defined him half a century later.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I heard vague mention of his heroism as a member of the famous 5th division at Iwo Jima. It wasn’t until this latest trip home for his funeral that I came across dad’s scrapbook of his Marine years and took the time to go through it. There are photos from Japan and China and the Islands. A handsome, unbearably young soldier smiling with my dad’s distinctive underbite. This same soldier with his arms looped around a fellow soldier. Holding a weapon. Arms playfully around a Japanese woman.
There were also copies of several articles, including a long, detailed one written by a Marine Corps combat correspondent. In the Philadelphia Inquirer appeared the following brief article headlined Courage in that straight-forward, enthusiastic 1940s newspaper style:
Pfc. Gilbert Wolfson, 268 S. 5th St., was one of a group of volunteer litter-bearers whose courage resulted in the rescue of 28 wounded Marines on Iwo Jima. The Marines had been isolated almost three days and nights in an enemy dominated pocket.
More than 40 Marines had been killed or wounded in unsuccessful attempts to rescue the 28 men. The wounded had been without food, water, or medical attention. They lay under a constant cover of Jap fire, unable even to sit up. One very accurate Jap sniper hidden in a maze of caves used the wounded as a lure, and is credited with hitting 15 Marines and Navy medical corpsmen
Shortly before dusk on the third night, the volunteer stretcher-bearers moved out beyond the front, and crouching low, ran across the open stretches. The rescue work was doubly difficult, for the wounded were spread out over a large area, making it impossible to provide protective fire for the litter bearers.
By 8:30 that night they walked back through the lines. They had succeeded in evacuating the 28 wounded, nine of whom were in serious condition.

This story doesn’t mesh with the dad who raised me. As a snotty, know-it-all teenager and young adult, I so often criticized him for being so tame, so 9-to-5, so unadventurous, and so fearful of upsetting the status-quo blue collar life that he went on to establish with my mother --the life of 55 years in the same marriage and same house, the life of eating in the same restaurants and working at the same job and vacationing in the same spot decade after decade.
So, who was this fearless guy of Iwo Jima? Who was this dashing, wild, reckless hero who defied the odds of war and lived long enough to return to Philadelphia, to meet my mom, to marry, to become the only dad I ever had?
I’m so glad to have this new puzzle to puzzle over, to keep me from smugly thinking that I really know who’s who and why they behave the way they do.

Funeral for the Unknown

2007-03-21T19:18:00.000-07:00

My sister’s house sits across the road from Washington Crossing State Park. You walk through her horse pasture, cross a road and you see the great Delaware River, warm and gentle in summer, but during this ice storm, a brown torrent with a steady flow of chunks of ice rushing south. The day the big storm hit, all the kids and I took a cold, slippery walk along the tow path that runs aside the canal. Alex tossed in a heavy branch and cracked the ice that had started to form. It’s a 60-mile path from Yardley to Easton that I want to walk some spring. Wouldn't that be a great adventure? Even with McMansions going up along the river, even with cars whooshing by at some points, you can feel the history in every step. I loved the Canadian geese – those bossy crotchety cranks of the bird world -- that quacked at our intrusion in their domain.
Not far from my sister’s house along the path, there’s a memorial and graveyard with a line of identical tombstones. Unknown soldier, Unknown soldier, Unknown soldier, Unknown soldier. 22 Unknowns, only one stone with a name. No gold here, no carefully chosen wooden coffin, only a line of small white markers like giant Chiclets in the snow. I so hope that some shabtis were buried along with these forgotten men. Buried on Christmas Day 1776, victims of sickness and exposure before the Battle of Trenton.

My kids and nieces and nephew ran along the line of graves, trying to get out energy before the brunt of the storm hit and we would be housebound for the next 24 hours. Even with L.L. Bean down parkas and snow boots and hats and gloves, our fingers tingled with the cold, our toes and noses in serious danger of going numb.

Funeral for a God

2007-03-20T16:38:00.000-07:00

A few days after my father’s funeral, after the three days of sitting shiva, my mom, kids and I headed to the Franklin Institute in downtown Philly for the King Tut exhibit. We were looking for something fun to do, and I guess my mind was in such a swirl that I didn’t recognize the irony of our choice of “fun” until I set foot into the exhibit.

The replication of the tomb itself, the incredibly ornate coffins stacked one inside of another like Russian nesting dolls, the golden treasures placed upon the dead body of the 19-year-old king who the people saw as an intermediary between the gods and ordinary man. The bejeweled necklaces, the golden dagger placed on his chest as protection during the dangerous journey through the underworld. The gleaming amulets and startling animal fetishes. The representations of food that would spring to life all juicy and tasty to nourish the boy king. The jars of viscera, the golden crown, the throne of ebony. The glittering statues of the mighty Horus and the elegant Isis. The 22-pound solid gold burial mask. It was all so gaudy and ghoulish and astoundingly hopeful in its vision of a perfect life beyond.

When Tut’s tomb was uncovered, archeologists found hundreds of doll-like figurines called “shabtis,” which Tut would be able to summon as servants if he felt like slacking off when called upon to cook or garden or clean in the kingdom of the gods. To keep him company too, I suppose.

It reminded me of a few days earlier, looking down at my lifeless father in his coffin, his skin yellowed, his distinctive mustache that tickled his grandchildren during kisses now without its incessant twitching. My daughter Gwen had brought along a small white Beanie Baby seal that she had sent to him a month earlier for comfort when the cancer had spread into his brain and he no longer had words or much memory. My mom said that when it arrived in the mail, he placed it under his chin and fell asleep with it there. Now Gwen handed the soft, soft toy to my mother who placed it on his chest. Dad and the seal seemed to be eye-to-eye, a Beanie Baby shabti to do his tidings. My 9-year-old niece Brianna placed into the coffin a piece of paper with a poem she wrote. The part I remember most: My pop-pop taught me to never cry if you lose at poker. I love my pop-pop.

My mother, married to dad for 56 years, leaned over the coffin and left the scent of the perfume that he always loved. “He never called me his wife,” she said. “I was always his bride.”

Graves and Coffins

2007-03-18T10:48:00.000-07:00

My week has been populated by graves and coffins, large and small, simple and elaborate, final place of the Gods and the unknowns, coffins filled with gold, filled with bones, filled with trinkets worthy of a museum, filled with a toy stuffed seal, filled with probably nothing extra at all.

Gravesite #1. My dad. It fell to my sister and me to pick out the "box" for my father. We stepped into the funeral home "shopping area," a set right out of 6-Feet-Under and perused the options, from ridiculously gaudy and ornate to the chillingly simple pine box used by the most strict of Orthodox Jews.

What standards does one use to make such a decision. What would my dad want? My mom? The small crowd that would gather to toss a handful of dirt on top and then watch it being lowered into the ground? My sister and I ran our hands along wood polished and unpolished, along brass handles and various cloth linings. What were we feeling for? Who would be feeling the high quality silk? Were we looking for wood that would withstand the harsh Philadelphia elements or that would deteriorate as quickly as possible, releasing my dad's flesh and bones into the soil, adding nutrients, adding life.

At a loss, we decided on the same coffin that my cousins Mark and Cindy chose for their parents and grandmother. Tradition seemed as good a standard as anything else.

Post Ice Storm Photos in New Hope

2007-03-17T19:33:00.000-07:00

Here are the horses at my sister's farm. The larger of the two (white face) is Aibrean, which is Gaelic for April, and the other feisty girl is Crystal Beach.

I took a lovely St. Paddy's Day walk on the tow path that follows the Delaware Canal.

Here's my nephew Sean with awesome dog Chester picking up the mail.

Cover of White

2007-03-16T09:34:00.000-07:00

For the past week, I've been in Philadelphia. After a year-long illness, my father died last Thursday night and I haven't begun to find the words to blog about it. Two days ago, it was 80-degrees here and it was easier on everyone, especially my mom, to think of him in the ground, spring with its promise of rebirth on the way.

Today, a late season ice and snowstorm hit the East Coast and we are all together in my sister's house in the northern suburbs. My California kids are thrilled for the beautiful snowed-in experience. There's a lazy, cozy feel, but also something unspoken. We are all aware of the extra finality of a grave being pelted by ice and covered with a 5-inch wet, heavy blanket of white.

The pictures show my sister's lovely home and grounds and also Alex and Brianna (13 years apart but two of a kind) engrossed in a computer game.

Books for "Bad" Kids -- Advice Needed

2007-03-07T08:33:00.000-08:00

Each year at its Otter Award dinner, the Northern California Children's Booksellers' Association (NCCBA) gives out Literacy Grants to various organizations and people who work with kids, the goal being the promotion of literacy.

Months ago, I picked up an application and last minute on a whim decided to fill it out. I won! For many years, I've volunteered with an amazing organization called The Beat Within, which started as a single writing workshop in San Francisco juvenile hall and has since spread into juvenile halls and prisons all over the country. Each week, trained leaders help the "bad kids" put down their thoughts, ideas, poetry, drawings and life stories. The work -- You never know what to expect -- is then printed in a weekly newsletter that's sometimes 60 pages thick.

The best testimony comes from a participant named Nick: I thank the Beat Within for helping me find something that I didn’t know I had, which is the power to step up and be a good writer, which has helped me free my mind and soul.

You can read more about The Beat at www.thebeatwithin.org/news. I've also written on Salon.com about my own experience as a Beat workshop leader. Those essays are posted on my website at www.jillwolfson.com/journalism/pen.html and www.jillwolfson.com/journalism/mother.html

In my application, I said that I hoped to use the grant to make quality age and developmentally appropriate books available to incarcerated youth who do not have access to such material. I’m disappointed -- okay horrified -- by the selections on the prison bookshelf. It mostly holds well-used, poorly-written paperbacks in the action/horror/crime genres. Lord knows that those kids have enough of that negative energy in their lives. Also, over and over, I have been amazed at the positive response when I actually bring in a specific book for a specific student and give it to him or her. Many of these kids have never had the affirming experience of being handed a book and being told: “I got this with you specifically in mind.”

Sooooo yippee. Now I have $500!! to spend over the next 6 months in the children/YA department of my local independent book stores.

But help, I need lots of input on what to buy. As I said, the kids gravitate towards high action. I have nothing against a good horror or crime story, but I'd like to offer something exciting without all the gratuitous slashing, raping and gutting. They like poetry as inspiration for their own poems to girlfriends and for raps. There are a lot of minority students, no surprise given the hideous ethnic make-up of the prison system, so stories and biographies that reflect cultural diversity are must. Age range is 13-17; reading level spans elementary school through college. Lots of gang members, lots of kids with learning disabilities and histories of physical, emotional and sexual abuse. Honestly, I'd love to see them laughing while reading a book.

So please, post your suggestions. Books need to be in paperback. Hardbacks -- not the words, but the weight itself -- have be used as weapons. The kids have also opened their own skin using the edge of a cover. There's a metaphor there somewhere.

ON THE BOOK BUS

2007-03-06T13:34:00.000-08:00

Janet of Capitola Book Cafe asked if I wanted to participate in this C-Span event this Friday night. Since I don't have TV, I've never seen the show but supposedly it's pretty popular or at least it runs again and again and again and again. Could be fun.

C-SPAN2’s BOOK TV BUS TO EXPLORE
THE MONTEREY BAY LITERARY SCENE
Bus to visit libraries, bookstores and interview local authors

WASHINGTON, D.C., (March 2, 2007) – C-SPAN2’s Book TV Bus, a 45-foot mobile television production studio, will travel to Monterey, Santa Cruz, Capitola, Sand City and Aptos as it continues its nationwide tour promoting Book TV's unique nonfiction book programming. The Book TV Bus, hosted by Comcast Cable, will visit libraries and bookstores and interview several local, nonfiction authors. A visit includes a tour of the state-of-the-art studio, a demonstration about Book TV programming and the opportunity to learn how a television show is produced.

Come see the Book TV Bus during the following dates and times:

Wednesday, March 7 in Monterey and Sand City:
1:30 - 3:30 pm Monterey Bay Books, 316 Alvarado St., Monterey
**Local author Zachary Shore, Breeding Bin Ladens, will be interviewed **

5 –7 pm Borders Books & Music, 2080 California Ave., Sand City

Thursday, March 8 in Salinas:
12 – 2pm National Steinbeck Center, One Main St.

Friday, March 9 in Capitola:
2 – 4 pm Capitola Public Library, 2005 Wharf Rd.
6:30 – 8:30 pm Capitola Book Café, 1475 41st Ave.
** Local author Jill Wolfson will be interviewed**
**Local author Michael Wolfe will be interviewed**

Saturday, March 10 in Aptos and Santa Cruz:
1 – 3 pm Bookworks, 36 Rancho Del Mar Center, Aptos
5 – 7 pm Bookshop Santa Cruz, 1520 Pacific Ave., Santa Cruz

Sunday, March 11 in Santa Cruz:
11 am – 1 pm Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk

About Book TV
Every weekend starting Saturday, 8 am ET to Monday, 8 am ET, Book TV airs 48 hours of non-fiction book programming on a variety of topics including history, biographies, politics, current events, and the media. Book TV features author interviews, readings, and panels at bookstores, libraries, and book festivals across the country. For more information, visit the Book TV Web site at www.booktv.org.

About C-SPAN
C-SPAN, the political network of record, was created in 1979 by America's cable companies as a public service. C-SPAN is currently available in 90 million households,
C-SPAN2 in 82 million households and C-SPAN3 in more than 12 million households nationwide.
Visit www.c-span.org for more information.
###

Care for a Chicken Leg(ging)?

2007-03-06T13:30:00.000-08:00

KNITTING PROJECT OF THE WEEK

Broken Hearts

2007-03-05T11:06:00.000-08:00

Here it is, the dreaded post that I vowed not to write, the excuse post, the why I haven't written in a long time post, the lazy me, why-am-I-such-a-pathetic-poster-post, the when-I-can't-think-of-what-to-write, write-about-why-I'm-not-writing-post. It happens sometimes, not when nothing is going on, but frequently when too much is going on and trying to put words to it all seems like such a sham and such a bother. Father dying, weather changing, daughter getting ready to go off to college, chemo pending for Nancy, stuck in my writing, Helen's mother dying, every conversation I have carrying a weight that sits on my heart like an elephant.

Best to post pictures. I'm researching a novel about a teenage girl waiting for a heart transplant. The wonderful social worker at Lucile Packard Children's Hospital has given me such access to kids and to her own formidable experiences. Last week, I joined three children post-transplant as they got to hold their old, removed hearts in their hands.
I put on purple gloves as the pathologist placed Juan's former heart in my palms. It felt like a rubber ball. It looked like something my grandmother might have tossed into a stock pot.

I'm glad I have a long time to think about this experience, to try and understand what my characters will make of it.

SPRING CLEANING

2007-02-08T15:30:00.000-08:00

Warning to you more delicate readers and those of a sensitive nature. This entry contains references to drugs, fecal matter, violence to the intestines, but unfortunately no reference at all to sex.

The year I turned 50, my life fell into chaos. Marriage disintegrated, career tanked, children went bonkers. So when my doctor mentioned that the AMA recommends a colonoscopy at age 50, I ignored her. I didn’t need one more thing – pardon the expression -- stuck up my butt. Same the next year and the next. But this year, I decided I was ready for the big probe. Life was more settled, and the recent death of a dharma sister was more than a little shove. Gail had died of colon cancer and as I helped prepare her body for the service – washing her thin, thin legs that had once held her up on her windsail – I promised myself that I would get the test. Damn, I don’t even let my kids miss a dental appointment.

Everyone assured me that the preparation was the worst part. On Tuesday, in a 4-hour period, I drank 4 liters of what tasted like polluted ocean water, feeling my stomach bloat and bloat until I thought I would puke up the stuff. Finally, release out the other end. My bottom burned. Preparation also required a 24-hour fast, which I actually looked forward to, hoping to experience a yoga high or a sensation of lightness and purity. Nope, I felt heavy and sloshing, like those miserable occasions when I’ve swallowed mouthfuls of the Pacific on my boogie-board. The only enlightening moment was the realization that I am a whiny, miserable patient; a spoiled baby who doesn’t like to miss a meal. At 3 am, I woke up nauseated and thirsty with a powerful headache, and spent the hours until morning tossing and groaning in bed.

At 9:30 am, I arrived at the outpatient surgery center, filled out forms and followed the nurse to my bed. The experience felt both strange and so familiar to me. I’ve been through so many doctor and surgical visits with my friend Nancy, but I’ve always been the “patient’s friend,” the name on the admitting slip as “person to contact in case of emergency.” Now, I – who have been blessed with great health; this was my first surgical experience – was the one slipping on the gown that ties in the back and the little booties, the one tucking my hair into the cap with the smiley face pattern. I had the odd sensation that I was dressing for Halloween.

In the bed next to mine, separated by only a thin curtain was one of those happy, jovial patients. He kept making the same joke in the same way. He told the same joke to every nurse, doctor and orderly who looked his way. He repeated the joke when his wife came in to visit and then she told the joke to a doctor. The joke went like this:
“I thought about putting a piece of paper between my butt cheeks. And on the paper, I wanted to write, `If you’re reading this, you’re performing the wrong surgery on the wrong person.’
Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Didn’t one of the nurses think to tell him to shut the hell up because several people within ear shot are about to have their colons probed via the butt?

I admit that I was happy to hear the buzzing of an electric razor on the other side of the curtain. His surgery required shaving of the pubic area. His pubes will be growing in itchy and red when my colonoscopy is mere memory

That's Katie Couric -- not me -- smiling for her colonoscopy.

My head continued pounding. I didn’t want to complain to anyone because I have this fear of medical personnel, of being tagged as the annoying, problem patient. I have images of what they can do to you while you are “under” – the surgical equivalent of the chef who spits in the soup of the finicky diner. Please, please let them like me, and if they don’t like me, at least let them NOT not like me.

The OR nurse introduced herself, making hard eye contact, which I think she must have learned in some course in patient-nurse relationships. I finally decided to tell her that I had a throbbing headache and felt nauseated. Her smile froze as she said that she’s heard of such side effects of the preparation, but it wasn’t common. My smile froze. Please, please, don’t think I’m a bad patient. Then, she told me about the drugs I’d be getting. I was really looking forward to the drugs. I wasn’t going to be knocked out completely. I’d be in a twilight state. I’d hear everything going on around me. The doctor might ask me to move a certain way; the nurse might ask me to take a deep breath. Twilight state sounded lovely.

At 11 am, she administered the first dose of the fentanyl. At 1:30, I woke up in the recovery room. I bet they could have cut out my kidney and I wouldn’t have felt it. The experience made me feel better about being an organ donor. My surgeon – large in body and large in voice – gave me a thumbs up as he walked past. “Your colon sure has a lot of twists and bends. We really had to get in there. In and out, in and out with the probe. . See ya in 10 years.”

The nurse gave me some apple juice. I threw it up. At home, I slept the rest of the day. This book was not on my nightstand.

Branching Out -- The Finished Story

2007-02-08T14:18:00.000-08:00

As promised, here's my "Branching Out" scarf. Lovely and not hard at all. You can't even see all the mistakes. I'm searching diligently for my next lace project -- maybe a shawl. Anybody have a suggestion for something gorgeous that won't give me carpal tunnel?

Bragging Rights

2007-02-06T14:25:00.000-08:00

I received some great new book honors this week: HOME AND OTHER BIG, FAT LIES is a 2007 Green Earth Book Award Honor Book in the Young Adult Fiction category. The Green Earth Book Award honors books that celebrate nature and "promote an inspired understanding of the environment and an awareness of environmental issues." Chosen books encourage the concept of environmental stewardship and the importance of the role each of us can play in nurturing, protecting, and defending our environment. To learn more about the award, you can go to www.newtonmarascofoundation.org/programs/a_ge.cfm.Winners will be announced in April at Salisbury University in Salisbury, Maryland, during their Children’s Literature Festival.WHAT I CALL LIFE has been nominated for the 2007-2008 Pennsylvania Young Reader’s Choice Award in the Grades 6-8 category. Students across my home state will now read the 15 nominees and vote for their favorite. Winners will be announced in the spring of 2008. Additionally, all books will be displayed at the Pennsylvania School Librarians Conference this spring. www.psla.org/association/committee/mediaselectionandreview/pyrcamenu.php3.

Iron Poet

2007-02-06T12:53:00.000-08:00

I was hesitant to go hear Robert Bly read at the Attic the other night. The whole Iron John, Iron Poet thing. The funny vest and huge mane of white hair. The whole he’s-more-than a-man-he’s-a-catalyst-for-a-sweeping-cultural-revolution thing. I get a little – okay a lot –judgmental, when a writer’s persona inflates to the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. It becomes hard to hear the words in all the hot air.
But Bly turned out to be a real treat, messy hair, strong stage presence and all. He felt very present with the audience, with the musicians and with the words themselves. There was a kind of Middle Eastern beatnik feel to the event. I felt especially drawn to his ghazals, a form of poetry new to me, but then I’m pretty clueless when it comes to formal forms. Bly explained that the ghazal, based on the Urdu form, usually contains from three to fifteen stanzas, and the poet can change the landscape in each stanza, leaping from topic to topic. The same single word ending each stanza ties the poem together. The whole effect is playful and wicked, simple in its complexity, wild within strict formality-- my kind of writing. Actually, my kind of everything.

I want to post one of the poems he read. I will when I find it.

More on Bly by local book reviewer and pal Chris Watson:

http://www.santacruzsentinel.com/archive/2006/February/12/style/stories/03style.htm

Do NOT Let Me Borrow Your Books

2007-02-03T21:57:00.000-08:00

I found the perfect table outside at the Bagelry. The sun was shining, the coffee hot, the bagel shmerred. I had brought along a new book, My Name is Red by Orhan Pamuk -- new in the unopened, paid full price sense. Actually, it was a gift from a good friend, one of those no-occasion presents that came at the exact right time and made me feel loved and princess-like. I ran my hand over the cover -- Stunning! -- slowly opened without breaking the spine. At page 6, I gently placed the book on the table while I took a sip of coffee.

Shit! The page got wet. I swear I checked and the table was dry, but ....Why am I such a pig with books? I break the spines; I somehow manage to get ink, cream cheese, mustard, fill in your favorite food group on the pages. Long ago, I stopped borrowing books from anyone who doesn't owe me big time because I know -- I know! -- I'll never return it without some kind of stain or rip or smear. Library books are pretty much out of the question.

I once had a friend who was utterly appalled at the way I kept my books--tossed here and there, some covered with dust, dust jackets ringed with a coffee cup stain, spines broken, blotches of ink bleeding through a page. My friend had grown up very poor in Mexico and thought of books as privileges and luxuries, objects to be treated with respect. She was so disgusted with me. One day when I wasn't home, she appeared like the Book Fairy to dust, order and line up my books by size and color until the shelf looked like a movie set bookcase.

Are my piggish ways really a sign of disrespect? Or maybe, it's the biggest testimony to a book to take it into the bathtub with you, to jam it into your purse leaky pen and all, to fall asleep with it and crush its pages, to need to underline some sentence because if you don't you'll forget something that you desperately need to remember.

So, this is your official warning. Do NOT lend me a book, unless you don't mind having it returned with some remnant of me. Oink.

Lunafest

2007-01-27T22:45:00.000-08:00

I just got in from attending Lunafest, a festival at the Rio Theater billed as films for, by and about woman with proceeds to women's center, women's cancer organization, etc. More like Depression Fest with films about a woman leaving her abusive husband, a Chinese woman poisoning her baby because the newborn was yet another girl, a woman with breast cancer who gets a mastectomy while her baby is still nursing and the baby screams her head off and ... ugh. I'm ready to get into bed and start eating a lot of rich, gooey comfort food.

There were a few lighter moments, including a short by Shaz Bennett who is an LA performance artist. By lighter, I mean the film brings together her cat, gerbils, sugar cookies and Bacon Bits and made me laugh even though it's basically about the death of her mother. If you need someone to share a deathbed vigil, Shaz might be a good choice.

I found the short film, Top of the Circle, here : http://medialab.ifc.com/film_detail.jsp?film_id=451

Okay, off to bed with me.

Cooking with Florence and Isa and Terry

2007-01-24T12:54:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by TV cooking shows -- obsessed actually -- especially by one in particular. There were many Wednesdays when I faked being sick so I could stay home from school, blanket to my chin, cup of tea on my nightstand, to watch Florence Hanford's TV Kitchen. It was one of the nation's first cooking shows.

There was something so comfortably Philadelphia and still so otherworldly about Florence P. Hanford-- her tightly-controlled hair -- no strand ever getting into the food -- and constant fast patter, her seriousness about the perfectibility of a meal.

And the dishes she created! It wasn't that my mother was a bad cook; she was just such a predictable cook. Chicken, always broiled, on Mondays. Spaghetti and meatballs on Tuesdays, etc. Mom was also "modern" in that early 1960s sense, meaning that so many of her ingredients came out of cans and the freezer.

Not Florence! Chatting away with her viewers, Florence diced and stuffed and chopped and mixed and whipped and poured and rolled and used so many fabulous utensils that I never knew existed - lemon juicers and garlic presses and wire whisks. I practically swooned over her rubber spatula, the slurping, sloshing sound it made while moving viscous cake batter out of the metal bowl into the cake pan -- a pan that had already been buttered by Florence's confident and efficient hands.

Here's a typical menu that Florence prepared each week -- without ever burning a thing:

Rib Roast of Beef

Milk Gravy

Browned Potatoes

Peas and Carrots with herbs

Cucumber Tomato Aspic

Nippy Mayonnaise

Chive Bread

Chilled Fresh Fruit Cup

Wonderful Loaf Cake

I found this link, where there's an actual clip of Florence in action: http://broadcastpioneers.tripod.com/kyw/hanford.html

Plus, a link with actual Florence recipes, such as her All-in-One salad:http://www.ichef.com/recipe.cfm/recipe/All-In-One%20Salad%20Bowl/category/Salad%20Recipes/itemid/109991/task/display/recipeid/95255/recipecategoryid/61

There's also a tell-all interview with Florence in 2002, still living in the Philly area. She talks about the early days of cooking shows, how she had to use gelatin at 7 times the usual amount so her Jell-o mold wouldn't melt under the hot lights. I never suspected a thing!!!!www.geocities.com/bpofphila/hanford1.html

I never actually wanted to BE Florence. She was too old, too motherly. I wanted to grow up to be her assistant, the lovely young woman in wool skirt, cashmere sweater and heels, who walked the finished dish out of the kitchen and placed it on the perfectly-set table for the end-of-show presentation. Over the years of TV Kitchen, the girls changed. Invariably polite, Florence always addressed them by name. I so envied the Bev or Judy or Darleen or Barbara -- these slim-ankled, pert-breasted home ec majors -- who did the brisk walk, camera following, of taking the Skirt Steak Roll-ups to the table.

Enter ISA AND TERRY with their delighful baked goods. I am so glad to see this tradition of the womanly art of cooking continuing on the Internet. Now I want to trade places with Florence's tattooed, kick-ass spiritual granddaughters -- Isa Moskowitz and Terry Romero --the two culinary stars of Post Punk Kitchen, which can be seen on Brooklyn cable and right here on the Internet.

Thanks to my friend Susie who shares my love of all things domestic (except bathroom cleaning) for sending me this link. http://www.theppk.com/ These vegetarian, guitar-playing, fun-loving girls can really whip up a cupcake (and sushi and matzo ball soup sans the chicken).

Check out their show and recipes. Whip up something wonderful and then invite me for dinner. I'll even help walk the dishes from the kitchen to the table.

AT A PODIUM NEAR YOU

2007-01-21T11:32:00.005-08:00

Book Passage, an independent book store in Corte Madera, Ca. has got to be one of the best places for a writer to hold a book reading. Before such events. I tend to get kind of cranky. Not only do I have to write the book, but I also have to stand before a bunch of strangers and talk about it. Despite a lifelong dread of public speaking, I’m getting a lot more comfortable with public readings. They should all be like my experience at Book Passage this Saturday. Despite the 10 am time slot (their usual time for “kid” events), I got a nice turnout, thanks to the store’s excellent publicity and my friend Kathy calling out all of her Marin County friends. Hannah, the young woman who introduced me, obviously read the book and was gracious and welcoming.

While reading sections from Home, and Other Big, Fat Lies, I kept an eye on the kids in the front row and was delighted to see them engrossed. The Q & A sessions was especially fun – from the third grader who asked the intriguing question -- “Do you like all of your characters?” -- to the woman from Oakland who asked – “Do you have a writer’s group?”, which emphasized to me how much I need some ongoing feedback as I make my way through this next novel. The group was lively, but small enough for me to ask a question that has me really concerned. My current novel-in-progress opens with a 12-year-old girl dying and her organs being donated. Is that too much? Would you read a book that stared with something so upsetting and graphic? I was thrilled to look at a row of 14-year-old girls and seeing their heads nodding in support of the idea.

As people came forward to have their books signed, my eye caught the eye of a middle-aged woman who was smiling at me. Something about her looked familiar, and for some reason, my mind leaped back to my high school in Philadelphia and came up with a name: Janet. I hadn’t seen Janet since we were both 17. She recognized my name in the Book Passage newsletter and wondered if it was the same "Jill Wolfson". I'm so glad she decided to come. We both definitely have more wrinkles and more gray, but I recognized her anyway. My Philly accent confirmed I was the right Jill.

Janet and I were never friends, but she was certainly part of my landscape at Northeast High. I remember her as being especially beautiful with a serenity that stood out in a sea of teenage chaos. Janet was popular – That enviable word! -- in a way that I never was. Class secretary, that kind of thing. As she complimented my reading, I laughed to myself about how – admit or not – this was part of every writer’s fantasy – maybe in some cases, the initial impetus to publish. To stand all grown-up and successful before the former high school princess who once seemed to have it all.

But of course, chances are that Janet felt as miserable and insecure in high school as I did. We hugged, exchanged contact information. I hope to get the chance to hear her own story – her 30 year-plus journey from an entrenched Jewish neighborhood to Marin of all places, a path that I’m sure is as interesting and compelling as the path our grandparents took out of the shtetl.

Book Passage offers an amazing number of literary events -- more than 400 each year - in both the Marin and San Fran. locations. www.bookpassage.com

What's Art Reading?

2007-01-17T10:43:00.000-08:00

When I was a young-ish reporter writing a profile of someone, famous or not-so-famous, I frequently checked out the subject's bookshelf to get a quick "read" of them. Kind of cheesy, I know, but I figured it would tell me something if they had the complete works of Tolstoy rather than the Complete Set of Reader's Digest. Since those days, I've concluded that "you are more than what you read," just as I look back with a bit of embarrassment how my teenage self harshly judged others on whether they preferred the Beatles or the Rolling Stones.

Still, I find myself fascinated by what people are reading. Obviously, so do others, hence the list of "Books I'm Reading" on so many websites and blogs. Perhaps, you've been wondering what Art Garfunkel has been reading lately. I know I have. Turns out that Art is a passionate reader who's kept a list since 1968. His favorites? Plenty of Tolstoy and others, from the Tao Te Ching to Stephen King. http://www.artgarfunkel.com/library.html It's an intimidating list that makes me wonder just how many of these hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of books Art can actually remember.

The Big C

2007-01-17T09:12:00.000-08:00

In today's news: "Cancer deaths in the United States have dropped for a second straight year, confirming that a corner has been turned in the war on cancer. " http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070117/ap_on_he_me/cancer_deaths

It definitely doesn't feel that way in my life. Two of the people closest to me are dealing with cancer right now. My dad, soon to be 86, has advanced lung cancer. My beautiful, wonderful, amazing close friend Nancy has been dealing with metastatic breast cancer for the past year and a half. I'm so glad that she started blogging about her experience. I don't know anyone who can write about wretched chemo and CT scans and the painfully exotic language of oncology with more honesty, anger, humor and full-blown insight than she does.

http://nredwine.blogspot.com/

As I read her blog this morning, I was pulled back into my childhood, a time when the word cancer wasn't even said aloud. Aunt Viv "wasted away." The closest the grown-ups came was referring to someone having "The Big C." When my mother first told me about my father's condition, she said, "The other shoe has dropped." My emotionally fragile Aunt Molly was never even told what her "sickness" was and my mother -- her sister -- frequently wonders if "not knowing" allowed her to work and socialize until she died. I don't think so. I just don't believe that innocence is any kind of bliss.

I have been around cancer a lot recently--talking on the phone to my parents, accompanying Nancy on doctor visits. But still. Still, sometimes when I say the word Cancer, I feel it heavy and uncomfortable in my mouth, like a naughty phrase that I let slip out.
Maybe I need to say it more often -- cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer -- in the mistaken hope that I can make it be just another word.

Branching Out

2007-01-12T20:55:00.000-08:00

After making countless socks and scarves, I decided to tackle a new knitting project -- lace for the first time. I'm intimated, but my local yarn shop guru assures me that it's fairly straightforward and incorporates all the most common increase and decrease techniques. It will be especially challenging, since I'll be following a chart for much of it. Being a "word" person, I'm more comfortable with written directions.

If you want to knit along, you can find the chart on the web site of my favorite local knitting store:

www.thegoldenfleece.com/free_patterns/show.php?katalog=Leaf%20Lace%20Scarf

For written directions: www.knitty.com. Click on archive and in the pattern file, enter the name of the scarf, which ironically for my first lace experience, is called Branching Out.

I've uploaded a photo of the completed scarf from Knitty. I'm working with a silk-mohair mix in dark blue with highlights of yellow, red and orange.

Wish me luck.

Star with Hair

2007-01-12T20:28:00.000-08:00

I was biking home from Wilder Ranch late today, enjoying the orange sunset against the steel gray surf, when I noticed a larger than usual number of people staring at the last bit of day's light, many of them with binoculars and cameras focused on the horizon line. Somehow I had missed the news that a comet was scheduled to put on a show in the western sky. Nearly 10 years after comet Hale-Bopp led to a strange suicide pact, another bright comet would be gracing the early evening sky.
I pulled my bike over to the railing and joined the crowd staring with expectation at the horizon line. According to the buzz, Comet McNaught would be visible any second very low in the western sky shortly after sunset . The night before, some said, it was bright enough that observers could see it with the unaided eye.

Yes! There is was, and then it was gone. After that glimpse, I don't think I've ever witnessed a more spectacular sunset, the sky turning a deeper and deeper orange until I felt myself practically vibrating under its spell.

A comet is a small body in the solar system that orbits the sun and at least occasionally exhibits an atmosphere and/or a tail — both primarily from the effects of solar radiation upon the comet's nucleus, which itself is a minor body composed of rock, dust, and ices. From the Greek word komē, meaning "hair of the head," Aristotle first used the derivation komētēs to depict comets as "stars with hair."

There are some terrific images at this site:

www.spaceweather.com/comets/gallery_mcnaught.htm

THE SUCCESS OF FAILURE; THE FAILURE OF SUCCESS

2007-01-07T12:23:00.000-08:00

For many years, my meditation practice was centered around Kannon-Do Zen center in Mountain View, CA. I so admired (still admire!) Les Kaye, the teacher there, for his straight-forward teaching style. Les has a shaved head and wears traditional brown robes, but he’s very much of this ordinary and extraordinary everyday world. While heading Kannon-Do, Les worked at IBM, maintained a marriage, raised children, grappled with his version of the traffic snarls and life snarls that certainly define my own life. Over the years, I’ve been so grateful for his simple teaching to “Keep showing up.”
I remain on the mailing list for Kannon-Do and receive the periodic newsletter. In the most recent one, there’s a transcript of a talk given by Les, entitled “The Problem of Success,” in which he makes this very intriguing statement: “I have come to believe that the fear of death is a result of a mind in panic over the loss of opportunity for success in a future that is no longer available.”
I’ve been mulling this over for a while now, watching my own fear and panic over letting success elude my desperate grasp.
I also laughed when I paired Les’s comment with a quote by writer Tillie Olsen who I blogged about yesterday. Tillie, an activist until death, wrote: “Well, I'm going to be one of those unhappy people who dies with the sense of what never got written, or never got finished”.
I love the crazy truth of these two seemingly opposite world views. But beneath the surface, I feel that Les and Tillie are actually talking about the same thing. At least that’s the message I get from two people who have earned their wisdom badges on the frontlines of life. I hear them telling me to let go of the desperate chase for success, but at the same time, I must aim for success, putting my heart and 100 percent effort into everything I do.
In this way, I’m sure to succeed, along with failing every step of the way.
The question to keep in mind: What is success?

www.kannondo-org
Book by Les Kaye www.kannondo.org/site/books/zaw.html

Tillie Olsen

2007-01-03T21:08:00.000-08:00

I'm on an email newsgroup for women writers in the Bay Area and yesterday, there was a posting from one of the members, Ericka Lutz, announcing the death of her grandmother Tillie Olsen at age 94 in Oakland. Here's what Ericka wrote:
Dear Friends,

My grandmother, Tillie Olsen, passed away last night, January 1, at 11:40 p.m. The end was peaceful -- my mother, father, and my Aunt Kathie were there with her. Other family members had attended to her round-the-clock in her final weeks. My Grandma will be deeply mourned both publicly and privately by the many people she touched with her words, her deeds, her ideas, her humor, her intelligence, her dramatics, her kisses, her love of life and humanity, her belief in justice, and her fierce blue eyes and loving hands. She is, and will be, deeply mourned by me. With love,Ericka

I emailed condolences to Ericka and it was odd to think of myself as one step removed from Tillie's actual granddaughter. Even though I never had the privilege of meeting her, she was an inspirational grandmother figure for me, for many women, I imagine. Jewish, feminist, social and labor activist, writer of short stories and essays, mother. So much of her writing grappled with the conflicting pulls of art and motherhood, of finding a way of giving of her words and giving of herself in the most basic sense, as diaper changer, cook and breadwinner.

For me, her most memorable short story begins, "I stand here ironing, and what you asked me moves tormented back and forth with the iron." What a line. I wish I wrote that.

I no longer keep a lot of books in the house. A long time ago, I got tired of carting them from move to move, so every year I go through and sell even my favorites to the second-hand store. But tonight, when I looked at my bookcase, there was the worn cover of a hardback of "Tell Me a Riddle," the survivor of many cullings.

Tillie's output as a writer was meager, but only in the physical sense. A collection of short stories, essays. That's because she was also busy raising four daughters, working as a waitress, being a wife, a hotel maid, a factory worker, a grandmother, joining the Young Communist League and organizing packinghouse workers in Kansas and Nebraska.

* Here's what the obit in the New York Times said about Tillie: In 1933, she moved to San Francisco, where she would live for more than 70 years, and resumed her pro-labor activities. During the 1934 San Francisco general strike, she was arrested, and promptly chronicled the strike in The New Republic and The Partisan Review.

* Here's what the Santa Cruz Sentinel said: Politically active, class conscious and joined to the world as if every soul were a soul mate, Olsen countered the literary myths of her male peers. She immortalized the woman who stayed home, carried an emotional burden and held things together for her family.

* Here's what Tillie said about herself in an interview: Well, I'm going to be one of those unhappy people who dies with the sense of what never got written, or never got finished.

I hope I can do my small share as writer, mother, advocate and soul mate to the world by moving every day towards that ever-moving finish line that inspired and motivated this amazing woman.

For more on Tillie -- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tillie_Olsen

Ericka edits Literary Mama, a literary magaine for the "maternally inclined." www.literarymama.com/

Welcoming in 2007

2007-01-01T08:27:00.000-08:00

When I search my memory, I can recall only a few memorable New Year's Eves. The teenage one when I emptied my father's liquor cabinet, smoked weed and spent the next few days puking. The first New Years in love with the man who would later become my husband. The raw, dazed and crazed New Year's eve when I knew for sure that the marriage was over. The first New Years as a new mom and the one a few months after we moved to Santa Cruz. The city used to have a First Night with all sorts of musical and theater events taking place in the downtown area. My last few New Year's Eves have felt frantic as I've attempted to come up with distractions that keep me from obsessing about what my teenagers are doing out there. Are they being safe? Are they using good common sense?

But most of the Dec. 31st of my life have blurred together as a night to get through, a night of feeling unsettled and disatisfied. I know a lot of people feel that way, that no matter how we say "it's just another night," it remains a touchstone of where we are and where we want to be and where we have been.

Last night, I turned down a few invitations and spent the time alone. It felt right to give in to my sense of aloneness around this particular holiday. During the day, a few friends gathered at a local cafe to write what my daughter dubbed our New Year's "evolutions." I like the term better than "resolutions," in that it honors the process of change and the decision to point life in a particular direction and then to see what happens, or what doesn't happen.
Maybe New Year's Revolutions? Or Convolutions? Or Restitutions? I wonder how those phrases would alter and shape my own formidable list.

I was boogie-boarding in the ocean as darkness fell and the moon came up, and I stayed in the waves until dark, finally making my way through the kelp and around the rocks to get out of the water. Luckily, it was a low tide. As I pedaled home, my fingers and toes lost all feeling and I swear I could feel ice flakes forming on my wetsuit.

I spent an hour or so cleaning house, no metaphor, real scrubbing and dusting to welcome a new year. Then, I bundled up and took a long walk along West Cliff accompanied by Michael Pollan www.michaelpollan.com on my iPod. I've been listening to his incredible natural history of food and the food industry, The Omnivore's Dilemma, and feel both sickened and empowered by his findings. It was an odd--or maybe perfect--choice for New Year's Eve reading, since so many people were no doubt filling up on corn-fed beef and salmon and high fructose corn syrup in its many disguises. Everyone should read this book. It may -- it should -- change the way you eat-- or at least change the way you think about what you eat. One more personal "evolution" for the year--to be more aware of the connections between the earth's plants and animals and what I put in my mouth that keeps me alive, to really understand and accept my place as a predator, even a vegetarian one.

At midnight, I was warm in bed, connected to the firecrackers and shouts and drunken, happy cheers by a half-remembered dream.

DAY IN BIG SUR

2006-12-29T22:13:00.000-08:00

Is there a more beautiful and magical place on earth? Words fail it, as do these photos of our outing today.

Juvenile Justice in Africa

2006-12-27T21:31:00.000-08:00

The front page of the Sunday New York Times had been sitting on my kitchen table for a few days as I built up the emotional fortitude to read the article about the juvenile justice system in Africa. As someone who's reported on jails, prisons and the system in this country, I've heard my share of horror stories. It's an outrage how we treat our most vulnerable, and demonized, section of the population.
As I expected, the situation in Africa is, if possible, even more shocking. Given the poverty, political corruption and social chaos of those countries, how could it be otherwise? In the jails, no electricity, no food, no separation of children from abusive adult prisoners. Kids are imprisioned for years without due process, without even getting to see a lawyer. "Defilement" -- sex with an underage girl -- is a frequent charge. The penalty, in theory, is death, unless the young man can come up with about $40 to pay off the girl's family.
The article portrays a situation that is infuriating, terrifying and very, very sad. Least we in this country feel self-satisfied, the reporter rightly points out that even with the abuses, "African nations sometimes hew closer to United Nations standards than do parts of the United States."
Shame on all of us.
You can read the article at www.nytimes.com/2006/12/24/world/africa/24africa.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

CHRISTMAS BY THE NUMBERS

2006-12-25T22:56:00.000-08:00

1 sunrise in my purple chair, enjoying the simple peace
1 orange sweater perfect for Nancy
3 hours chopping onions at the Vets Hall for the meal for the homeless
1 Christmas eve movie, Night at the Museum
2 hours hunting for presents, Alex saying the search is the best part
3 CDs in the new Tom Waits
2 shiny hoop earrings with orange beads
12 hours leaving the wrapping all over the living room
73 years of life for James Brown
4 mile bike ride with Gwen
50 stones tossed into the surf at Waddell
12 months in the traditional photo calendar I made for my parents, the first calendar in many years
40 minutes of surprising laughs with Gladys and Steve
30 minutes with South Park Merry Fucking Christmas
1 slice of homemade banana bread
3 pomegranates
10 golf balls hit down the railroad tracks
6 people around the fireplace at George's house
1 bowl of tofu, vegetables and rice with onion rings at Santa Cruz Diner
$10 bill handed to a homeless man
1 woman eating alone rescued by a friend
1 spectacular sunset
Countless blessings of family, friends, health and the awareness to appreciate them

THE SUN STOOD STILL

2006-12-21T23:11:00.000-08:00

The word solstice comes from the Latin sol (sun) and sistere (to stand still). Twice a year, the sun stands still as it reaches its maximum or a minimum arc.
Today was as the late December solstice should be, cold and windy, wet with a minus low tide, red and orange sea stars littering the beach.
So, winter begins.
By 5:30, Alex and I were both saying how sleepy, almost dreamy, we were, how it felt so late. But like so many others, we ignored nature's invitation to stay home to rest and pushed ourselves out into the noisy, electrified and very busy downtown. We both noticed how the garbage can outside of Bookshop overflowed with empty coffee cups-- an entire culture determined not to live with the flow of seasons, to be blind to the parallel gifts of short winter days and long summer ones. Alex recalled that for the Navajo, it was taboo not to be awake for the sunrise and the sunset.

I hope someday to live more in tune with the ever-changing light and gift of the seasons, to experience a quieter existence with less pushing against the natural ebb and flow. I love waking with the sun. But at night, I'm full of resistence. Even as a little girl, I always fought going to sleep. Now, even when I'm tired, my body and mind resist letting go and saying good-bye to the day. I've always had trouble with endings. I hold on to things longer than I should. Maybe it's fear. Maybe greed. Something for me to think about.

So on this solstice night, I'm still awake at midnight, warm in a bathrobe, listening to a blues CD that I bought Alex for the holidays and watching the Hanukah candles burn down. Maybe today is the night of the Hanukah miracle and the candles will keep burning. Maybe the shortest day of the year will miraculously become the longest.
Maybe.
Maybe.
No, not tonight.

Latkes and Harmony

2006-12-19T16:22:00.000-08:00

My annual latke party (this year for about 20) was a lot of fun, attended by some regulars, some newcomers including a delightful baby, some landesman from the East Coast and some heimish honorary Jews. With six menorahs glowing, there was a spontaneous hora around my too-small living room, a hot game of dreidel and lots of interesting music. Mitch on guitar; Alex on drums; Moreah with great vocals. My friend Helen recently found an old Hanukah 45 that she played as a kid during family gatherings. Another friend brought an amazing record that spoke to Hanukah's theme of political oppression. The Comedian Harmonists were a German singing sensation of the 1920s and '30s. Celebrated today as Germany's first "Boy-Group," the Comedian Harmonists'close-harmony sound brings to mind the Mills Brothers. I learned more about the group on the web site noted below. The elegant sextet, five vocalists and a pianist all dressed in tails, had a repertoire that encompassed styles ranging from folk songs to sentimental hits, all of which was accompanied by silliness on stage and vocal imitation of musical instruments.
Their songs -- most by Jewish composers -- were criticized by the Nazis as early as 1932, when they were not yet in power, as "Jewish-marxist noise." Indeed, three of the group -- Frommermann, Collin, and Cycowski -- were Jews. Cycowski's wife Mary had converted to Judaism, and Bootz's wife Ursula was Jewish. The popular, politically naive musicians ignored all the warning signs. But then in 1934, the unapproved Jewish members of the group were forbidden to perform, and the Comedian Harmonists split up. They gave their last concert in Munich on March 25, 1934. You can learn more about them at www.geocities.com/Vienna/Strasse/1945/WSB/comhar.html
There is also a movie about the group that's now first up on my Netflix queue.

So, let me know if you want an invitation to next year's latke fest!

Poetry Week

2006-12-17T09:19:00.000-08:00

I went to two poetry readings this week. Poetry Santa Cruz, organized by my pal Dennis Morton, is really quite an enterprise, with readings by some terrific poets, local and nationally-recognized, taking place at least monthly. Every time I attend readings, I get inspired by the amazing talent in Santa Cruz and the drive of so many people to work in a genre that doesn't exactly rake in the big bucks.

The first reading at Capitola Book Cafe: Gary Young, David Swanger and Joseph Stroud, three local poets with national reputations. My daughter Gwen, not the biggest fan of middle-age parents, paid them the highest tribute: "I want to be a middle-aged man!" What I think she was responding to--what I responded to-- was their self-awareness that rang with humor and insight into the human condition. All three were such generous readers -- to the audience and to each other. I loved seeing men being so encouaging and appreciative of other men, hanging on to each other's words.

Joseph Stroud, author of "Country of Light, "among other works, struck me as the most classically imaginative. Here's the blurb from Amazon: Whether trekking through Mexico or Vietnam, living in the High Sierras, or "painting paradise" in the voice of Renaissance painter Giotto, Stroud's lyrics, prose poems, elegies, and odes articulate a journey of uncommon attention and startling perception.

David Swanger read from his newest book, "Wayne's College of Beauty," which I was eager to hear since it was inspired by the beauty college on the corner of Walnut and Center Sts. I think only the walking dead could pass by the building and not be inspired in some way by the mirrors, swivel chairs, mannequin heads with wigs and white-robed young women who spend their days with hair dyes and curlers and pedicure clippers. I didn't think Swanger's title poem was the strongest thing he read (maybe because my gut reaction to Wayne's is so different than his). But overall, I loved his humor and strong imagery. His short poem about visiting his son in Tassajara (Zen Buddhist retreat center where I've spent many countless, silent hours)cracked me up.

I attended the reading primarily to hear Gary Young, who was Gwen's poetry teacher at Kirby last year and who remains an inspiration to her. Most recently, Gary, who is also a master letterpress printer, helped Gwen put together a gorgeous book of her photos as a gift to a friend. This was my first time hearing Gary read and I fell in love with his ability to say so much with so few words.

Coincidentally, the second poetry reading this week was a Community Read, where various people (this time in Davenport) were invited to read a poem that is particularly meaningful to them. My friend Peggy picked a Gary Young poem that she keeps by her computer at the local newspaper. Peggy talked about how the poem speaks to her as a journalist, whose work is ruled by the disasters of life, rather than by the simple, profound everyday occurances.
I also now have this poem by my computer, a reminder to keep my eyes and heart open.

Two girls were struck by lightning at the harbor mouth.
An orange flame lifted them up and laid them down again.
Their thin suits had been melted away.
It’s a miracle they survived.
It’s a miracle they were ever born at all.

WAVES

2006-12-10T17:49:00.000-08:00

With today's big rain storm came a huge swell with some crazy waves. Here's the view along West Cliff near the Lane. There were a handful of surfers out there, some of the infamous big wave riders.

Coincidentally, this morning's New York Times had a front page story about surfing Lake Erie in Cleveland. "It was the kind of day that lives mostly in Cleveland surfers’ fantasies. Pushed by the storm’s winds, water the color of chocolate milk rose 10 feet in the air before slamming onto a beach of boulders and logs....“Surfing Lake Erie is basically disgusting,” said Bill Weeber, known as Mongo, 44."

You can read the entire article at http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/10/us/10surf.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

FESTIVAL OF SCHLOCK

2006-12-06T14:02:00.000-08:00

Inflatable dreidels
Chanukah X-Mas Stocking and Micky Mouse Tree Ornament. Tinker Bell Jewish?

Chanukah chew toy for fido

That Holiday Spirit

2006-12-05T16:29:00.000-08:00

I got into the spirit of the season by checking out the seasonal tchotchkes available for the right price on Ebay. So many must-haves, like this Ducky nativity scene. Or this:

And wait! There's more creche kitsch from the North Pole:

And to give equal time to dogs, thanks to my friend Carol for sending me this other link: www.goingjesus.com/cavalcade.shtml

Captions welcome! If you share this kind of holiday spirit, feel free to send anything else my way and I'll post it.

Coming Tomorrow: Equal time for Chanukah

Capitola Book Cafe

2006-12-04T14:49:00.000-08:00

What fun yesterday to read aloud a few sections of my novel at Capitola Book Cafe. I'm pretty shy when it comes to public readings (okay, near phobic), so it's a treat to stand before my local audience of supportive friends and readers. I read with another writer of young adult fiction, Ann Jaramillo (middle), who's written a terrific novel about a young Mexican boy trying to make his way north to the U.S. to join his parents. As I listened to her read, I realized that both of our novels revolve around children who have been separated from their parents and families and are dealing with the ensuing swirl of emotions -- fear, anger, and yes, excitement.

I'm always happy when CASA (Court-Appointed Special Advocates) co-sponsors my readings because it's an opportunity to get a public discussion going about the plight of foster kids and parents who, because of drugs or their own mental/emotional limitations, are at risk of losing their kids to the system.
Coincidentally, the local alternative paper ran an article this same week about a recent rise in the official child abuse numbers in Santa Cruz, which are higher than the state average. I always caution audiences about the meaning of such numbers. Yes, the numbers may be high because of drug use and the high cost of living in Santa Cruz (two risk factors). But ironically, high numbers can be good signs -- that people's eyes are open and they are reporting more often. It can also mean that our community takes a broad definition of abuse that includes not only physical abuse, but the more insidious incidences of neglect and emotional abuse. To me, it's a positive that Santa Cruz is a rare county that considers exposure to ongoing domestic violence as a form of reportable child abuse. There may be no physical scars, but the most current brain studies warn how early childhood trauma actually rewires the brain in ways that can cause lifelong post-traumatic stress syndrome, which in turn can contribute to learning disabilities, drug dependence and a whole array of physical and emotional difficulties.

Thanks to Book Cafe, Ann and Joanne Sanchez of Santa Cruz CASA (left in above photo) for making yesterday such a meaningful community forum.

ELLA'S BELLY

2006-12-01T22:24:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, my friend Sara's wonderful dog Ella died. I haven't had any dogs of my own, and I consider myself lucky to have had Ella in my life. Named for the great jazz singer, Ella the dog was big, happy and furry, plus kind of nutty in that big, happy, furry dog kind of way. Loud noises terrified her and much to her family's frustration, she was always breaking out of the garage and finding her way into the backyards of strangers who instantly fell in love with her friendliness. She would greet visitors to the house by flopping on her back and making sure you rubbed and rubbed and rubbed her belly.

Walking with Ella along West Cliff Drive felt like walking with a celebrity, a world famous comic. People couldn't pass her without breaking out into a grin. I think they were most struck by her tongue which was ridiculously long and bounced along as she walked.

When Ella developed a tumor, the vet didn't give her long to live, but she survived longer than expected, continuing to demand belly rubs almost to the end. I will miss Ella and send condolences to Sara, Rich, Ben, Max and Jesse.

The picture shows Sara with Ella in her favorite position.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY WENDY

2006-11-28T13:44:00.000-08:00

Today is my "little" sister's 50th birthday. We have an oft-told family story about how she was named. My mom's name is Lil, dad is Gil and I am -- yes, groan -- Jill.
My parents were pushing for perhaps Phyllis (Phil). But as a bossy and Peter Pan-obsessed preschooler, I insisted on Wendy and they relented -- smartly (to my mind at least) and putting a cap on the "ill" family.

The photos are of my sister and her three great kids, taken this summer when we all went biking in Jim Thorpe, Pa.

Happy Birthday, Wendy.

KUDOS IN TEXAS

2006-11-28T10:45:00.000-08:00

Home, and Other Big, Fat Lies was just selected to be on the 2007-2008 Lone Star Reading list, which I'm told by those in the literary know is a pretty cool thing. Compiled by the Texas Library Association, the books were selected in hopes of motivating young adults to become life-long readers and to participate in the community of readers in Texas. Details at www.txla.org/groups/yart/lonestar.html

I haven't read most of the books on the list (okay, I haven't read any of them yet!), but coincidentally, I'm doing a book reading/signing this Sunday at Capitola Book Cafe with Ann Jaramillo. Her book, La Linea, another Lone Star honoree, is right by my bed for tonight's reading.

There are two other books besides mine on the list with foster care/social services themes. A lot of classic children's literature focuses on orphans or children otherwise separated from the adults in their lives. I suppose it's a way for young readers to be freed from the often overbearing influence and boundaries set by real world adults. Reading offers the adventure and delicious freedom of a world without grown-ups, but without the reality of danger.

If you're looking for a meaningful holiday gift for a 5th-9th grader, this is a good shopping list. Comments are not mine, but that of the Texas Library Association.

Lone Star Reading List 2007 - 2008

1. Buckley-Archer, Linda. Gideon The Cutpurse: Being the First Part of the Gideon Trilogy. Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing. 2006.
In 1763 pickpocket Gideon Seymour is hiding from Tar Man when Peter and Kate, two timetraveling children from the 21st century, fall from the sky and into his life.
2. Bunting, Eve. The Lambkins. Joanna Cotler. 2005.
After being kidnapped by the lonely widow of a brilliant geneticist, Kyle finds himself shrunk todoll-size and living with three other children in a dollhouse from which there seems to be noescape.
3. Cabot, Meg. Avalon High. Harper Collins Publishers. 2006.
Having moved to Annapolis, Maryland, with her medievalist parents, high school junior Ellieenrolls at Avalon High School where several students may or may not be reincarnations of KingArthur and his court.
4. Carter, Ally. I’d Tell You I Love You, But Then I’d Have to Kill You. Hyperion. 2006.
As a sophomore at a secret spy school and the daughter of a former CIA operative, Cammie issheltered from "normal teenage life" until she meets a local boy while on a class surveillancemission.
5. Chima, Cinda Williams. Warrior Heir. Hyperion Books for Children. 2006.
After learning about his magical ancestry and his own warrior powers, sixteen-year-old Jackembarks on a training program to fight enemy wizards
6. Enthoven, Sam. Black Tattoo. Razorbill. 2006.
A sprawling fantasy epic set in modern day London, about a fourteen-year old boy, Charlie, whothinks he's been given superpowers, but in fact has been possessed by a demon. The adventurebrings Charlie--as well as his friend, Jack, and Esme, the one girl raised to stop the demon--from the streets of London into Hell itself, as they prepare for a battle with ultimate stakes.
7. Han, Jenny. Shug. Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers. 2006.
A twelve-year-old girl learns about friendship, first loves, and self-worth in a small town in theSouth.
8. Harkrader, Lisa. Airball: My Life in Briefs. Roaring Brook Press. 2005.
Uncoordinated Kansas seventh-grader Kirby Nickel braves his coach's ire and becomes captain of the basketball team in order to help him prove that NBA star Brett McGrew is the father he has never known.
9. Jaramillo, Ann. La Linea. Roaring Brook Press. 2006.
When fifteen-year-old Miguel's time finally comes to leave his poor Mexican village, cross the border illegally, and join his parents in California, his younger sister's determination to join himsoon imperils them both.
10. Korman, Gordon. Born to Rock. Hyperion Books for Children. 2006.
High school senior Leo Caraway, a conservative Republican, learns that his biological father is apunk rock legend.
11. Lisle, Janet Taylor. Black Duck. Sleuth/Philomel. 2006.
Years afterwards, Ruben Hart tells the story of how, in 1929 Newport, Rhode Island, his familyand his best friend's family were caught up in the violent competition among groups trying tocontrol the local rum-smuggling trade.
12. Lupica, Mike. Heat. Philomel Books. 2006.
Pitching prodigy Michael Arroyo is on the run from social services after being banned fromplaying Little League baseball because rival coaches doubt he is only twelve years old and he has no parents to offer them proof.
13. Mass, Wendy. Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life. Little, Brown & Company. Everything changes when the box arrives. Jeremy's father, who died five years ago, left behind a box for Jeremy to open on his 13th birthday. According to the writing on the box, it holds themeaning of life! The problem is, the keys are missing, and the box is made so that only the keyswill open it without destroying what's inside.
14. McKernan, Victoria. Shackleton’s Stowaway. Random House. 2005.
A fictionalized account of the adventures of eighteen-year-old Perce Blackborow, who stowedaway for the 1914 Shackleton Antarctic expedition and, after their ship Endurance was crushed by ice, endured many hardships, including the loss of the toes of his left foot to frostbite, during the nearly two-year return journey across sea and ice.
15. Meehl, Brian. Out of Patience. Delacorte. 2006.
Twelve-year-old Jake Waters cannot wait to escape the small town of Patience, Kansas, until the arrival of a cursed toilet plunger causes him to reevaluate his feelings toward his family and its history.
16. Murdock, Catherine Gilbert. Dairy Queen: A Novel. Houghton Mifflin. 2006.
After spending her summer running the family farm and training the quarterback for her school's rival football team, sixteen-year-old D.J. decides to go out for the sport herself, not anticipating the reactions of those around her.
17. Papademetriou, Lisa. The Wizard, the Witch, and Two Girls from Jersey. Razorbill. 2006.
Two mismatched teenage girls must find their way back home to New Jersey after being zapped into the pages of a fantasy novel.
18. Sonnenblick, Jordan. Notes from the Midnight Driver. Scholastic Press. 2006
16-year-old Alex decides to get even. His parents are separated, his father is dating his formerthird-grade teacher, and being 16 isn't easy, especially when it comes to girls. Instead of revenge though, Alex ends up in trouble with the law and is ordered to do community service at a senior center where he is assigned to Solomon Lewis, a "difficult" senior with a lot of gusto, advice for Alex, and a puzzling (yet colorful) Yiddish vocabulary. Eventually, the pair learn to deal with their past and each other in ways that are humorous, entertaining, and life changing.
19. Van Draanen, Wendelin. Runaway. Knopf Books for Young Readers. 2006.
After running away from her fifth foster home, Holly, a twelve-year-old orphan, travels across the country, keeping a journal of her experiences and struggle to survive.
20. Wolfson, Jill. Home, and Other Big, Fat Lies. Henry Holt. 2006.
Whitney has been in so many foster homes that she can give a complete rundown on the most common varieties of foster parents—from the look-on-the-bright-side types to those unfortunate examples of pure evil. But one thing she doesn’t know much about is trees. This means heading for Foster Home #12 (which is all the way at the top of the map of California, where there looks to be nothing but trees) has Whitney feeling a little nervous. She is pretty sure that the middle of nowhere is going to be just one more place where a hyper, loud-mouthed kid who is messy and small for her age won’t be welcome for long.

The Dharma Gate of Bobby

2006-11-27T09:28:00.000-08:00

This morning, I read a friend's blog in which he wrote about his experience in seeing the new film Bobby about the assassination of RFK. Hearing about my friend's reaction -- his tears in the darkened theater, his willingness to allow grief of the past to leap so quickly to his present -- touched me deeply. He spoke of leaving the film feeling as if his life has been cowardly and renewed his committment to truth at the cost of personal satisfaction.

What struck me most personally is my friend's apology to those around him, and to himself.

Every morning for the past many years, I've recited a Buddhist prayer that somehow points me in the right direction in the face of life's frequent encounters with seemingly inconsolable grief or insurmountable private and cultural obstacles.

Beings are numberless, I vow to save them
Delusions rise inexhaustably, I vow to end them
Dharma Gates open endlessly, I vow to enter them
Buddha Way is beyond attainment, I vow to become it

I love these words in all their confusing, straight-foward, and contradictory glory.
What chutzpah for a single human being to vow to save numberless sentient beings! I certainly see delusions rising inexhaustably and have a fine time pointing them out, especially when they arise from others! How do I even begin trying to end them?

In grappling daily with these four lines, in saying them aloud, I usually take them as a challenge and encouragement to be ever more present and to live as much as possible with courage, passion and compassion.

But today, I am seeing the apology in the familiar words. Apology to all the beings I'm unable to save. To all the delusions rising up in myself that I'm unable to even see. To all the available gates of wisdom and truth that I turn my back on out of greed, fear and sheer stubbornness.

I'm not talking about the kind of apology that makes a person buckle under a sense of personal failure. This apology feels very life-affirming -- to apologize for being human with all its limitations. Then, to use the energy of apology to try and connect with everything that appears before me. To live with the hope and exhilaration that RFK's words inspired in my friend, to come at life not just from the mind and heart, but from the soul.

THANKSGIVING ROUND-UP

2006-11-23T21:58:00.000-08:00

Like most people, I've had a tortured history with holidays -- the memories both sweet and painful, feeling their draw or bristling with all the personal buttons they can push. I think Thanksgiving 2006 with its gentle and profound simplicity will stay with me for a long time.

The weather was crisp and clear, perfect for the long walk along the beach -- from Rio Del Mar to Pajaro Dunes and back -- that I took in the morning with Gwen, Alex and Lauren.

We had several invitations for dinner and planned to do a tour of the various potlucks, but we wound up staying at one friend's house. With the table laden with all the usual dishes, we started the meal with one of my family's long traditions -- going around the table and each person telling something they are thankful for.

Lord knows, each one of us there had something NOT to be thankful for. One friend lost both of her parents this year. Another has been battling metastasized breast cancer. Another woman just moved out of her home and is reeling from the end of her 20-year marriage. But as I listened, I was so moved by each deeply felt expression of gratitude. My sick friend's thankfulness for enough health to allow her to eat this meal. Appreciation for the beautiful town we live in. For old friends and new ones. For airplanes that bring us home. For the three kinds of cranberry sauce available that night.

For me, my daughter Gwen made the most poignant comment of all. She said something like, "I'm thankful to be having Thanksgiving dinner with people who know how to be thankful."

Amen.

This is a picture of the gorgeous persimmon tree that I can see from my deck -- for which I am grateful.

Thanksgiving Sing-along

2006-11-23T08:13:00.000-08:00

It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without it.

Alice's Restaurant
By Arlo Guthrie
This song is called Alice's Restaurant, and it's about Alice, and the
restaurant, but Alice's Restaurant is not the name of the restaurant,
that's just the name of the song, and that's why I called the song Alice's
Restaurant.

You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track

You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant
Now it all started two Thanksgivings ago, was on - two years ago on
Thanksgiving, when my friend and I went up to visit Alice at the
restaurant, but Alice doesn't live in the restaurant, she lives in the
church nearby the restaurant, in the bell-tower, with her husband Ray and
Fasha the dog. And livin' in the bell tower like that, they got a lot of
room downstairs where the pews used to be in. Havin' all that room,
seein' as how they took out all the pews, they decided that they didn't
have to take out their garbage for a long time.
We got up there, we found all the garbage in there, and we decided it'd be
a friendly gesture for us to take the garbage down to the city dump. So
we took the half a ton of garbage, put it in the back of a red VW
microbus, took shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed
on toward the city dump.
Well we got there and there was a big sign and a chain across across the
dump saying, "Closed on Thanksgiving." And we had never heard of a dump
closed on Thanksgiving before, and with tears in our eyes we drove off
into the sunset looking for another place to put the garbage.
We didn't find one. Until we came to a side road, and off the side of the
side road there was another fifteen foot cliff and at the bottom of the
cliff there was another pile of garbage. And we decided that one big pile
is better than two little piles, and rather than bring that one up we
decided to throw our's down.
That's what we did, and drove back to the church, had a thanksgiving
dinner that couldn't be beat, went to sleep and didn't get up until the
next morning, when we got a phone call from officer Obie. He said, "Kid,
we found your name on an envelope at the bottom of a half a ton of
garbage, and just wanted to know if you had any information about it." And
I said, "Yes, sir, Officer Obie, I cannot tell a lie, I put that envelope
under that garbage."
After speaking to Obie for about fourty-five minutes on the telephone we
finally arrived at the truth of the matter and said that we had to go down
and pick up the garbage, and also had to go down and speak to him at the
police officer's station. So we got in the red VW microbus with the
shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed on toward the
police officer's station.
Now friends, there was only one or two things that Obie coulda done at
the police station, and the first was he could have given us a medal for
being so brave and honest on the telephone, which wasn't very likely, and
we didn't expect it, and the other thing was he could have bawled us out
and told us never to be see driving garbage around the vicinity again,
which is what we expected, but when we got to the police officer's station
there was a third possibility that we hadn't even counted upon, and we was
both immediately arrested. Handcuffed. And I said "Obie, I don't think I
can pick up the garbage with these handcuffs on." He said, "Shut up, kid.
Get in the back of the patrol car."
And that's what we did, sat in the back of the patrol car and drove to the
quote Scene of the Crime unquote. I want tell you about the town of
Stockbridge, Massachusets, where this happened here, they got three stop
signs, two police officers, and one police car, but when we got to the
Scene of the Crime there was five police officers and three police cars,
being the biggest crime of the last fifty years, and everybody wanted to
get in the newspaper story about it. And they was using up all kinds of
cop equipment that they had hanging around the police officer's station.
They was taking plaster tire tracks, foot prints, dog smelling prints, and
they took twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy photographs with circles
and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each
one was to be used as evidence against us. Took pictures of the approach,
the getaway, the northwest corner the southwest corner and that's not to
mention the aerial photography.
After the ordeal, we went back to the jail. Obie said he was going to put
us in the cell. Said, "Kid, I'm going to put you in the cell, I want your
wallet and your belt." And I said, "Obie, I can understand you wanting my
wallet so I don't have any money to spend in the cell, but what do you
want my belt for?" And he said, "Kid, we don't want any hangings." I
said, "Obie, did you think I was going to hang myself for littering?"
Obie said he was making sure, and friends Obie was, cause he took out the
toilet seat so I couldn't hit myself over the head and drown, and he took
out the toilet paper so I couldn't bend the bars roll out the - roll the
toilet paper out the window, slide down the roll and have an escape. Obie
was making sure, and it was about four or five hours later that Alice
(remember Alice? It's a song about Alice), Alice came by and with a few
nasty words to Obie on the side, bailed us out of jail, and we went back
to the church, had a another thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat,
and didn't get up until the next morning, when we all had to go to court.
We walked in, sat down, Obie came in with the twenty seven eight-by-ten
colour glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back
of each one, sat down. Man came in said, "All rise." We all stood up,
and Obie stood up with the twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy
pictures, and the judge walked in sat down with a seeing eye dog, and he
sat down, we sat down. Obie looked at the seeing eye dog, and then at the
twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy pictures with circles and arrows
and a paragraph on the back of each one, and looked at the seeing eye dog.
And then at twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy pictures with circles
and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one and began to cry,
'cause Obie came to the realization that it was a typical case of American
blind justice, and there wasn't nothing he could do about it, and the
judge wasn't going to look at the twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy
pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each
one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us. And
we was fined $50 and had to pick up the garbage in the snow, but thats not
what I came to tell you about.
Came to talk about the draft.
They got a building down New York City, it's called Whitehall Street,
where you walk in, you get injected, inspected, detected, infected,
neglected and selected. I went down to get my physical examination one
day, and I walked in, I sat down, got good and drunk the night before, so
I looked and felt my best when I went in that morning. `Cause I wanted to
look like the all-American kid from New York City, man I wanted, I wanted
to feel like the all-, I wanted to be the all American kid from New York,
and I walked in, sat down, I was hung down, brung down, hung up, and all
kinds o' mean nasty ugly things. And I waked in and sat down and they gave
me a piece of paper, said, "Kid, see the phsychiatrist, room 604."
And I went up there, I said, "Shrink, I want to kill. I mean, I wanna, I
wanna kill. Kill. I wanna, I wanna see, I wanna see blood and gore and
guts and veins in my teeth. Eat dead burnt bodies. I mean kill, Kill,
KILL, KILL." And I started jumpin up and down yelling, "KILL, KILL," and
he started jumpin up and down with me and we was both jumping up and down
yelling, "KILL, KILL." And the sargent came over, pinned a medal on me,
sent me down the hall, said, "You're our boy."
Didn't feel too good about it.
Proceeded on down the hall gettin more injections, inspections,
detections, neglections and all kinds of stuff that they was doin' to me
at the thing there, and I was there for two hours, three hours, four
hours, I was there for a long time going through all kinds of mean nasty
ugly things and I was just having a tough time there, and they was
inspecting, injecting every single part of me, and they was leaving no
part untouched. Proceeded through, and when I finally came to the see the
last man, I walked in, walked in sat down after a whole big thing there,
and I walked up and said, "What do you want?" He said, "Kid, we only got
one question. Have you ever been arrested?"
And I proceeded to tell him the story of the Alice's Restaurant Massacre,
with full orchestration and five part harmony and stuff like that and all
the phenome... - and he stopped me right there and said, "Kid, did you ever
go to court?"
And I proceeded to tell him the story of the twenty seven eight-by-ten
colour glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and the paragraph on
the back of each one, and he stopped me right there and said, "Kid, I want
you to go and sit down on that bench that says Group W .... NOW kid!!"
And I, I walked over to the, to the bench there, and there is, Group W's
where they put you if you may not be moral enough to join the army after
committing your special crime, and there was all kinds of mean nasty ugly
looking people on the bench there. Mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father
rapers! Father rapers sitting right there on the bench next to me! And
they was mean and nasty and ugly and horrible crime-type guys sitting on the
bench next to me. And the meanest, ugliest, nastiest one, the meanest
father raper of them all, was coming over to me and he was mean 'n' ugly
'n' nasty 'n' horrible and all kind of things and he sat down next to me
and said, "Kid, whad'ya get?" I said, "I didn't get nothing, I had to pay
$50 and pick up the garbage." He said, "What were you arrested for, kid?"
And I said, "Littering." And they all moved away from me on the bench
there, and the hairy eyeball and all kinds of mean nasty things, till I
said, "And creating a nuisance." And they all came back, shook my hand,
and we had a great time on the bench, talkin about crime, mother stabbing,
father raping, all kinds of groovy things that we was talking about on the
bench. And everything was fine, we was smoking cigarettes and all kinds of
things, until the Sargeant came over, had some paper in his hand, held it
up and said.
"Kids, this-piece-of-paper's-got-47-words-37-sentences-58-words-we-wanna-
know-details-of-the-crime-time-of-the-crime-and-any-other-kind-of-thing-
you-gotta-say-pertaining-to-and-about-the-crime-I-want-to-know-arresting-
officer's-name-and-any-other-kind-of-thing-you-gotta-say", and talked for
forty-five minutes and nobody understood a word that he said, but we had
fun filling out the forms and playing with the pencils on the bench there,
and I filled out the massacre with the four part harmony, and wrote it
down there, just like it was, and everything was fine and I put down the
pencil, and I turned over the piece of paper, and there, there on the
other side, in the middle of the other side, away from everything else on
the other side, in parentheses, capital letters, quotated, read the
following words:
("KID, HAVE YOU REHABILITATED YOURSELF?")
I went over to the sargent, said, "Sargeant, you got a lot a damn gall to
ask me if I've rehabilitated myself, I mean, I mean, I mean that just, I'm
sittin' here on the bench, I mean I'm sittin here on the Group W bench
'cause you want to know if I'm moral enough join the army, burn women,
kids, houses and villages after bein' a litterbug." He looked at me and
said, "Kid, we don't like your kind, and we're gonna send you fingerprints
off to Washington."
And friends, somewhere in Washington enshrined in some little folder, is a
study in black and white of my fingerprints. And the only reason I'm
singing you this song now is cause you may know somebody in a similar
situation, or you may be in a similar situation, and if your in a
situation like that there's only one thing you can do and that's walk into
the shrink wherever you are ,just walk in say "Shrink, You can get
anything you want, at Alice's restaurant.". And walk out. You know, if
one person, just one person does it they may think he's really sick and
they won't take him. And if two people, two people do it, in harmony,
they may think they're both faggots and they won't take either of them.
And three people do it, three, can you imagine, three people walking in
singin a bar of Alice's Restaurant and walking out. They may think it's an
organization. And can you, can you imagine fifty people a day,I said
fifty people a day walking in singin a bar of Alice's Restaurant and
walking out. And friends they may thinks it's a movement.
And that's what it is , the Alice's Restaurant Anti-Massacre Movement, and
all you got to do to join is sing it the next time it come's around on the
guitar.
With feeling. So we'll wait for it to come around on the guitar, here and
sing it when it does. Here it comes.

You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant

That was horrible. If you want to end war and stuff you got to sing loud.
I've been singing this song now for twenty five minutes. I could sing it
for another twenty five minutes. I'm not proud... or tired.
So we'll wait till it comes around again, and this time with four part
harmony and feeling.
We're just waitin' for it to come around is what we're doing.
All right now.
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Excepting Alice
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Walk right in it's around the back
Just a half a mile from the railroad track
You can get anything you want, at Alice's Restaurant
Da da da da da da da dum
At Alice's Restaurant
©1966,1967 (Renewed) by Appleseed Music Inc. All Rights Reserved.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY LIL AND GIL

2006-11-19T12:36:00.000-08:00

Today is my parents' 56th wedding anniversary. There are a lot of Hallmark sayings tossed about regarding long-term marriages; my parents' union -- a true through sickness and health -- is the kind held up by family values types as the dinosaur of relationships, killed off by rampant cultural narcissism.

Of course, my parents' marriage-- a living, breathing, flawed thing -- has been infinitely more complex. For me, it has always been and I suspect will always be a touchstone-- a place that I inevitably return to in order to test my own concepts and perceptions of relationships -- what I want, what I don't want, the powerplay (sometimes thrilling, sometimes devastating) between men and women, what people are willing to give up in the name of security. Where is that fine line between opening yourself to another person and closing yourself to yourself?

Perhaps, that's how we all grapple with these perplexing questions, as close witnesses to the way our parents did and didn't work things through.

Thireen Moons

2006-11-17T09:15:00.000-08:00

I'm just about finished listening to the audio book of Charles Frazier's Thirteen Moons. I know it has best-seller status and has garnered so many great reviews. But I think that if I had been reading it, rather than listening to it, I would have put it aside after the first 200 pages. Yes, it tackles a fascinating piece of history and no one denies that Frazier can turn a lovely phrase. There's a sense that things are happening plot-wise. But at heart, the book strikes me as empty, in the same way that Cold Mountain did.
In Thirteen Moons, we hear the voice of the narrator for hundreds of pages, from his boyhood through old age, and still I feel as if I really don't know him. He's the same feisty, fine-phrase-turning individual throughout, with no character development, no arc to lead the reader along. Same for the portrayal of American Indians (The character Bear is wise and honest and story-telling, the way Indians are meant to be?). The main female character Claire? There's no real there there, except for her mysterious feminine ways and of course, a body lovingly described. Who is she really?
I listen to audiobooks as I take long walks in the hills or along the ocean. Ultimately, this was like strolling with a companion who goes on and on and on. I found myself frequently tuning out the repetative stories and just letting the soft North Carolina accent of the narrator (Will Patton) wash over me.

COLLEGE APPLICATIONS

2006-11-14T21:49:00.000-08:00

A good chunk of this month has been devoted to helping my daughter deal with her college applications. Honestly, I don't know how any young person manages the paperwork (sans paper; it's all on computer) without the direction and hand-holding of a patient parent and also a college counselor. My head is swimming.

Part of the difficulty comes when, like my daughter, the student hasn't traveled the traditional high school route. For her high school experience,my daughter first went to the nearby public high school, home-schooled for a while, returned to public school and then switched to a small private school. What an ordeal trying to make that all fit nicely in the University of California online application. One high school school follows a block schedule; for biology, she went to the local community college. Photography in one of her schools is UC-certified (meaning she can list it on her transcript); in her current school, photography can't be listed. Whew!
The whole annoying and cumbersome process strikes me as the perfect training for following a life that's safe, predictable, and typical. Step outside of the ordinary and pay the price of not being easily classified and understood.

ON ILLNESS

2006-11-09T09:46:00.000-08:00

I've had a more social week than usual, including lunch with a friend whose father recently died. Listening to her talk about memories of her dad and the memorial service was especially meaningful to me, since my dad has been recently diagnosed with cancer. My friend and her dad were extremely close, in that they seemed more like friends and colleagues. I so admired that. He edited all of her books. They had long philosophical and intellectual discussions.
My relationship with my own father has none of that flavor, but as I look back over the decades, I see a fierce loyalty to me even when he didn't understand, and definitely didn't approve of, what I was doing with my life.

My dad's struggle with this disease has been difficult, with so many ups and downs of treatment. He feels rotten most of the time, not at all himself. My mom, who is doing an amazing job as his caregiver, says it's a good day when he's grouchy and critical because she recognizes her husband again. Often, he's spacy and unable to hold a thought for more than a beat. It's especially difficult, because my father has always been intensely independent (okay, pig-headed and stubborn), and it's nearly impossible for him to give up control.
My mom, dad, sister and I are struggling with the question that plagues so many cancer patients: Is the chemo worth it?

Hmmm. I intended this blog to be about my social week, but that will be another time. The picture is of my dad, my daughter and niece during a visit two summers ago to Dennis the Menace Park in Monterey.

KELP AT THE LANE

2006-11-07T09:31:00.000-08:00

I woke this morning pleasantly sore and achy, a reminder that I've gotten into the ocean for the past four days in a row. Yes! I'm determined to start early this surf season when the air is still warm and surf tame, in order to get my body and mind acclimated. Last year, I waited too long and by the time the big waves hit, I felt too intimidated to get in much. This year, I'm aiming for cautiousness and respect of the water, rather than a lump of fear in my stomach.

Yesterday was an amazing time. From the cliff, the waves looked too small for a boogie-boarder and I probably wouldn't have gone at all, but Gwen wanted to get in. So after dropping her, her friend and their two long boards at Cowells (super low tide (minus 1.4), lovely, glassy longboard waves), I paddled around the corner, past the Indicator and into the Lane.

It was an entirely different ocean there -- churned up a little, intensely thick with kelp. Turned out that there was a little break, more suited to a boogie-boarder than a surfer, and I was the only one out there. That had never happened before, to be the only one in the Lane with something to ride. It unnerved me at first. What did everyone but me know? High fecal count? Shark alert (I pictured my legs dangling in the kelp and knew they looked like part of a sick, helpless seal meal.)

But then I figured --What the heck -- and caught many good rides. The break was a fairly steep drop that re-formed slightly before turning to foam. One time, when coming down the face, the kelp wrapped around my fin and nearly pulled me off my board, like some creature from the Odyssey. But it was so amazing to have this rare experience of being able to stay present with the wave -- with its shape and direction and sound and smell -- without having to stay hyper-aware of other human beings. In that short session, I feel like I learned an enormous amount about reading waves and gained confidence.

At 5 o'clock, the bells from the nearby church rang and the sun dropped, turning the water and kelp and me the most amazing shades of blue and magenta. The water vibrated with color. Over the harbor, the moon showed its huge, round full face.

At the risk of sounding like someone stoned on New Age crystals, I truly believe that every moment of our life is one of perfection. But some of these perfect moments, like yesterday in the ocean, are a hell of a lot easier to recognize than others.

THE NOW OF JILL ON MONDAY MORNING

2006-11-06T09:43:00.000-08:00

What I'm Reading Now: Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier

Best Romanian Techno for Driving: Dragostea Din Tei

Some mottos to ponder:
"It is what it is." -- (Various anonymous grandparents)
"I am what I am" -- Popeye
"Be regular and orderly in your life, like a good bourgeois, so that you may be violent and original in your work.”-- Flaubert

LET YOUR JEW FLAG FLY

2006-11-05T10:30:00.000-08:00

For the past few months, I've had the New York Times Sunday paper delivered to my doorstep. I usually read the paper -- or at least scan the headlines -- online each day. But the Times had a special offer and I find that I really enjoy the tactile sensation on a Sunday morning -- the newsprint that comes off on my hands, the snap and crunchy sound of pages being turned as I follow a jump, the sharp creases when I fold the paper to fit on my lap.

Today's A section alone kept me occupied for a good morning:

G.O.P. Glum as It Struggles to Hold Congress (Poor babies!)

The town of Aberdeen, Wa. is trying to become known as more than the place that gave Kurt Cobain his first guitar and a heroine habit.

An article about Legacy.com (the online obituary site where mourners can post memories of the deceased). Paid screeners constantly troll for mean-spirited postings and the airing of dark family secrets. "I think it's true that death brings out the best and the worst in people."

An article on page 3 -- With Jewish Roots Now Prized, Spain Starts Digging -- looks at how cities and towns across Spain are searching for the remains of medieval synogogues, excavating old Jewish neighborhoods, etc. -- 500 years after forced expulsion and conversions. Some towns are even faking old synagogues and neighborhoods, hoping to cash in on the tourism biz (We know how rich those Jews are!). How's this for a quote: "It's the opposite of 300 years ago when people chnaged their last names ...now it's trendy to say you have Jewish roots."

The same appears to be happening in other previously anti-semitic hotspots. The old Jewish Quarter in Prague is now basically a Jewish theme park drawing tourists and young people with its trendy coffee shops, pricey restaurants, and 1,000-year-old graves. Seems that Kafka -- His Eminence of alienation and paranoia -- is to Prague what Frida Kahlo is to Mexico City -- the ubiquitous icon whose compromised image rests on everything from billboards to coffee mugs.
Ironically, this burgeoning of Jewish pride coincides with a burgeoning of anti-semitism in Europe.

I am constantly amused and amazed (and yes, depressed) at the ability of our species to hold conflicting realities in their minds, and their inability to recognize inconsistencies of thought. Reminds me of one of my juvenile hall students, a handsome, agreeable young man with neo-Nazi tattoos. When I took a chance and told him I was Jewish, he really lit up and pumped his fist in the air. "Me, too!" he said. "Jewish power." Then, he asked me to bring him in a dreidel.

YOU CAN TAKE THE GIRL OUT OF PHILLY

2006-11-02T18:46:00.000-08:00

Even though I've lived in California for nearly 25 years, this quiz immediately nailed my accent as born and bred in Philly, home of the liberty bell, cheese steak and corrupt city politics. Give it a try to see if it targets where you first spoke your vowels.
www.gotoquiz.com/what_american_accent_do_you_have

The Philly accent confuses a lot of folks. Sometimes, they guess New York or Boston, but it is actually quite different. Frankly, many people find the accent plain weird. The word "Coke" is pronounced like you have a wad of snot stuck in your nose. Certain neighborhoods, including the Northeast where I grew up, say the word "street" as schtreet.

My California-raised kids find the accent annoying, not at all charmingly working-class urban like the tones of Brooklyn or the Bronx. I've had students in my juvenile hall writing class ask me where I'm from. When I answer "Pennsylvania," they say, "No, what country?" My mother (Still deep in the heart of Northeast Philly) left a message on a friend's answering machine, only to have it erased because my friend thought it was a crank call with someone speaking gibberish.
My biggest acccent culture shock came when watching a documentary film about Louis Kahn, the controversial architect from Philadelphia. During an interview with one of Kahn's friends, the filmmakers actually resorted to subtitles. Friends from the Midwest watching the film with me agreed they needed translation. To me, it sounded like perfectly good Philadelphia English tinged with Yiddish --the lovely, harsh, nasal tones of my childhood.

Interesting film, by the way: In "My Architect: A Son't Journey," Kahn's son Nathaniel examines the life and career of his father, whose work included the Salk Institute and the Parliament and Capitol Buildings in Dhaka, Bangladesh. The elder Kahn died of a heart attack in a Penn Station bathroom in 1974, unidentified and broke despite having been one of the century's most influential architects.

BETSY ISBISTER

2006-11-02T09:28:00.000-08:00

My community lost a wonderful person the other day with the death of Betsy Isbister, a true advocate for families and children. I met Betsy several times through my friend Helen, another social worker who considered Betsy to be her mentor during and after grad school and "the closest thing I've known to a saint."
In my own brief encounters, Betsy was exceedingly gracious, making note of having read my book about foster kids. I definitely felt a special light in her. It takes an amazing person to work with troubled families year after year, decade after decade without becoming pessimistic about clients and the bureaucracy that surrounds them. I feel a personal loss in not having the opportunity of getting to know Betsy better.

In 2004, Betsy received a First Five Children and Families Heroes Award which honors "the generous, selfless efforts of those who work tirelessly to improve the lives of Santa Cruz County children ages 0 to 5 and their families."

Here's what First 5 says about Betsy on their Web site.
When Betsy was 11 years old and living in Europe, she and her family were traveling down a deserted highway in Spain. Through the window, Betsy noticed a number of families who had taken shelter and were actually living in a cave. She decided then that she wanted to dedicate her life to improving the lives of children and families. She asked her mother what type of work helped families and her mother answered, “social work.” That was 52 years ago and to this day Betsy has followed-through with her dedication to families.
In 1966 Betsy received her Masters in Social Work on the east coast. She took this training and her passion to Santa Cruz where she has worked with families for the past 26 years at the Parents Center. Betsy provides counseling to families and children individually as well as leads 2 parent support education groups. Her own three children have been her greatest teachers, and she strives to pass this enthusiasm to the parents she works with and encourages them to take the opportunity to learn from their children. She attributes her compassionate and tireless support for parents to the belief that many parents with courage and determination have the ability to make impressive changes in their lives.

SEDARIS AT THE CIVIC

2006-11-01T08:30:00.000-08:00

Last night, a friend with an extra ticket invited me to see David Sedaris at the Civic. Quite a crowd of costumed fans cheering as he walked on stage. Everyone was primed to laugh. Early in the reading, something went wrong with one of the speakers, so Sedaris excused himself to the audience and called off stage to see if he could get it adjusted. A huge percentage of the audience found this hilarious for some reason! If Sedaris is funny, this must be funny, too. Our culture's obsession with one-dimensional celebrity unnerves me -- gives me the creeps actually.

I did appreciate Sedaris' low-key demeanor as he read several stories, most of which I had heard before on This American Life or had read in The New Yorker. "Cat and Mouse" is an amusing parody of prison AA meetings and his story about a cab ride took some risks of offending PC sensibilities. Over all though, there's such sweetness to Sedaris, his tales always ending with some minor epiphany or bittersweet moment of self-revelation.

During his tours, he always recommends a book other than his own, in this case Susan Sheehan's 1983 "Is There No Place on Earth for Me." He read a section of the nonfiction account of a young New York woman suffering from schizophrenia and her grueling path through the public health system.

Interesting choice of reading material for Sedaris who has such a definite persona in his writing. Sheehan is old school journalism and tackles complicated social issues straight on -- no clever, lovable narrator; no tinkering with the facts to lead the reader to a satisfying conclusion. The book, which I read when it first came out, has masterful reporting and clear writing. Who can ever forget Sylvia Frumkin once they read her story? She's as powerful a character in her way as Raskolnikov. Still, it takes committment to get through the often agonizing material.

For me, Sedaris' most insightful moment last night came when he finished reading the section, looked right at the audience and said something like, "This is what I like about books, rather than life. When the story gets too much for you, you can take your bookmark like so, close the book and then go out and buy yourself something fun, like new shoes."

That got a big laugh of course. It strikes at our middle-class American hearts. We want to ease the suffering of others. I have to believe that we do; it's too paralyzing not to believe that. But we also want those new shoes.

GOOD BYE TOMATOES

2006-10-31T09:26:00.001-08:00

On Saturday, I pulled up most of my tomato plants for the season, leaving only the orange cherries that are still producing. One of my personal tomato goals is to be able to pluck a ripe one from my garden for the Thanksgiving Day salad. It's such an annual rite of passage for me to pull up the drooping, brown, dusty plants and heap them into the green-lidded compost bin. This season was probably my best tomato year since I moved into this house. All 7 of my plants, many of them fragile heirlooms, produced lots of gorgeous fruit. Statice, Black Krim, Early Girl, Purple Cherokee, Sungold cherries. So many that I had to oven dry tomatoes at the height of the harvest.
Now I have chard growing and will plant some onion, garlic, maybe shallot soon. I love looking at them in the winter and to smell their powerful scent with the first hints of spring.

DEATH BED

2006-10-31T09:26:00.000-08:00

I came across this quote today: "I'd hate to die twice. It's so boring." Supposedly, it was said by Richard Feynman on his deathbed. Death, boring? Really? It seems like it could be many things-- terrifying, enlightening, confusing, a lesson in letting-go. But boring? I can't imagine that.
Right now, I'm working on a novel about organ transplant. One of the characters, a teenaged boy waiting for a liver transplant, has a hobby of writing his own obit. What would his deathbed words be? How about mine? Hopefully, a deep, contented sigh.

SHORTBUS

2006-10-31T09:25:00.000-08:00

Last night, a friend and I decided to go to a movie. We didn't have anything in mind and neither of us had read any recent reviews, so we met at the Nick and took a chance on Short Bus. The people in line behind us said they heard good things about it. It was directed by John Cameron Mitchell, who directed Hedwig and the Ugly Inch, a really wonderful movie. The movie opened with a scene of a naked guy twisting into yoga positions, followed by a couple having sex in lots of positions and places.
The movie could have easily been a disaster, but it was truly terrific -- warm, frequently hilariously, genuinely touching. I really loved my friend's description: It was like Cheers at a group sex club. The opening and closing of the movie -- a digital aerial view of New York/Brooklyn -- made great use of technology, and I'm not easily impressed by digital images. I frequenly find them to be a substitute for plot and character development. The movie was a love poem to New York and made me miss the East. Plus, great music by Yo La Tengo.

IN THE OCEAN

2006-10-31T09:24:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since I've been in the ocean and I always forget what a miracle it is out there, a whole different world just a few feet from the cliff. Yesterday, there weren't any waves, so Gwen and I just paddled out on our boards. Lots of kelp off the Indicator, a light but steady wind, lots of sun. About half way to the wharf, a sea lion surfaced on one side of Gwen and really checked her out, dove and resurfaced on the other side. It was amazing and unnerving at the same time. Just a few more feet away, a pod of dolphins. We sat and watched their frolicking. Made me think about sharks, which usually isn't something I think much about. I'll try to keep sharky thoughts out of my mind. There's enough to worry about out there -- waves, testosterone-laced surfers, etc.
Out of the water, I told Gwen about my shark thoughts and how my mind created a whole scenario-- what I would do if the shark attacked me, if it went after her. Amazingly, she also had shark fears that she decided not to talk about (she is typically fearless in the water). She imagined the shark ripping off her arm, and how embarrassed she'd be because she's not even a great surfer like Bethany Hamilton, the young surfer who lost an arm three years ago today (Oct. 31.) Creepy.