a little red hen

"Small Is Beautiful" in my everyday life

Last night we picked up our daughter and went to a downtown movie.  Last show, we were the only ones at Lloyd Center Mall to see "The Informant."  Curious film--glad for lack of violence or gratuitous sex--maybe I missed the point?  Afterwards,  realized I'd dropped my Ron-knit-hat and new gloves.

[Aside:  Minor challenge is adjusting to current Portland weather.  Thought cold times had arrived--wrong.]

Called the Mall this morning, got number for movie office.  "Wait a minute," the woman said, "let me look."  She returned, described my lost articles.  Later today I'll pick them up at the box office.  Meanwhile we had a brief and pleasant exchange about the oddness of being alone at the movies.

Oh, I am liking so much the scale of life here.  Take Sunday morning just passed.   Along with 17 others,

[Aside: Every now and then some of that much-advertised rain appears]

I scribbled away for two hours at a Community Writing Workshop at HOT LIPS Pizza on Hawthorne.  Write Around Portland puts these on to give new and not-so writers the "experience of the transformative power of writing in community."  Very intergenerational--17 on up, one other grandmother, other recent transplants.

[Aside:  Hot Lips' pizza has been a favorite since our family settled nearby...delicious Pear Soda, a new addition...and the jams.  Website text on how they came to add these by accident rather than corporate plan is my notion of  modern Portland-style, as contrasted with old-fashioned.  Again, more later.]

Why the workshop, I hope you ask.  Need a jump start on writing in general plus a push to working more on  my plays about life among the not-so-old  as we get more so. Preferring "old" lately as adjective and noun.

[Aside:  The WAP session was a push.  More came from unpacking another book box (endless), finding books of ten-minute plays.  More later.]

In synch with E.F. Schumacher and the beauty of "small,"  decided to get rid of many more books.  Reading Fran Johns' postings on the True/Slant blog, listening to children of the old talking about the burden of parents' wish for them to receive their "stuff," resonated.  Okay, they really, really live in the here-and-now--a thing or two from Mom and Dad's pile and that's it.

  [Aside:  Our son-in-law cherishes his grandfather's college football helmet, our daughter dresses her children in sweaters I knit for her--and saved.  My daughter-in-law in New York took on this blue baby dress of mine.]

Keeping the flame of  Schumacher alive is a society with a number of programs,  and a blog.  Good ideas do not go out of style.

 

Composting in Manhattan, 1998

DOING FEMINISM: Not so hard*

Many times I'ive tried to do this again-- adapt the little 1977 booklet from my days in Baltimore's NOW (National Organization for Women) to lives of older women.

Several tries--Gray Panthers, The Transition Network-- had not sparked enthusiasm.    Then I saw a notice in the New York City NOW newsletter earlier this year about a group starting with a focus on "senior women."

At the first meeting we talked about why we were there--support mostly.  A couple of us were interested in action/advocacy projects.  Not one to miss an opportunity, I'd brought along the 1977 booklet, suggested we update it.  We have done that.  Questions Women Over 55 Should Ask Their Doctors is a one-page flyer and was featured in the Spring 2008 issue of "WhatNOW," the chapter's hard copy quarterly publication.

The most challenging part?  Locating photos of older women doctors/healthcare providers (not blonde)  to use in the flyer.

We briefly addressed three areas:

-- Preparing for a visit to the doctor;

--Questions to ask during the visit;

--Getting the information you need before you leave.

Finally, we invite women to join our renamed "Boomer and Senior Women's Network," which has a place on the chapter website.  Each of us took copies of the new flyer to distribute--laundry rooms in our buildings, senior centers.  At the meeting this week, a 79 year old actress who described herself as a radical feminist was among four new members. 

Who are we?  Besides the actress and myself, there may be one or two others who'd use the f-word to self-describe.  In many ways we are as varied as women in 1966 when NOW, this very chapter, was founded.  "This is my first time at anything like this," was a comment that surprised me.  Only the actress and I have longtime histories with NOW.  Among the twelve of us we're different colors, transplants to the U.S., former teachers-- of course.  "We need to do consciousness-raising around aging," was a suggestion you would not have heard in the sixities!

*This post is dedicated to Katha Pollitt who this week in The Nation magazine ended her column, with a plea, "Feminism, please call home!"  So glad that I'd had this woman-affirming experience before I read "Backlash Spectacular" on the source of her distress.

Washington University (St. Louis) is about to give Phyllis Schlafly, the anti-feminist, an honorary degree.  Good grief, that awful conservative. Only other place I've seen about it is WomensEnews as one of their Jeers of the week.  WashU was a politically regressive institution in the 1940s and 50s when I lived there; old habits die hard.  Cheers to graduating students and faculty who plan to protest.

   

Word & Image, a new class at Cooper Union

[The room is dark.  Black and white 1940s snapshot on a screen up front. I write.]

I loved him that summer.  Afterwards too but the time we met at camp when everything was secret... it's very hard to describe.  Years later I found this photo when it was too late to ask him why this one.  You cannot see my excitement in being close to him.  I'm surprised I could fall asleep when we were together.

He'd let the boat drift into the middle of the lake.  He didn't know what a bad swimmer I was.  And I'd lied when he asked if I'd be okay if we went out to the middle.

But it turned out that he had lied in a much deeper way to me.

This was the second of six photos shown in "Word and Image," a new continuing education class at Cooper Union. Susan Landry, writer and cofounder of  "Lifeboat: A Journal of Memoir" and Stacy Morrison, photographer and photo artist, who met in a another Cooper class, designed the six-week class for those who want to integrate photography and text.  Among the images we viewed and wrote about were famous, found, and personal photos.

This photo belongs to Susan's family.  Through my lens it became a scene from a play, an exchange years later between the boy and girl. What would you write?   

 

60 On Up, Lillian Rubin's Straight Talk on LATER Aging

The only picture in this book is on the cover.  See?  Down at the lower left is the author--Lillian Rubin herself.  An 80-plus sociologist and psychotherapist, her subtitle is "the truth about aging."  The "truth" is mostly geared to those who are white, middle-class, and educated   Not everyone.

That's fine with me.  Are you surprised?  It would be very presumptious for Rubin to be take on the entire population over 60.  We need more voices to tell us what it's like to be a black man--middle-level, never-married who retired at 64 from a government job, for example.  His life and mine are miles apart.

Perhaps her book will inspire others, to write about aging after 60 from varyious perspectives-- race/class/gender identity.  Some experiences will be similar.  All of us past experiencing these years move uncertainly in a swiftly changing world with few guidelines. 

While she includes problems currently discussed frequently in the media--aging children caring for their parents-- her own anger when her difficult, 85 year old mother on the opposite coast resisted the move to an assisted-living facility.   Rubin was in her late sixties.   She notes:

By the time the leading edge of the baby boomers reaches their seventies and eighties, they'll have 100-year-old parents to deal with...

Though the book is filled with the reality we know--the consequences of often roleless and longer life spans, the loss of social networks--I enjoyed reading it. It was as if a conversation was going on between us.

A sociologist and psychotherapist, Rubin speaks of "age grading" where people separate themselves by age.  My own efforts to point this out among peers is always met with resistance.  Many have commented on the discomfort felt by pre-retirement individuals toward colleagues who have left the work force.  In an ageist culture the next division is the old vis a vis the older.  Personally I feel it in my seventies from women in their sixties.  I sense its their fear about the future.  Very understandable with so much media emphasis on bad news about the elderly.

Rubin is an insightful writer whose articles on race, class, gun control (to name a few) continue to appear in Dissent magazine.  Missing for me in 60 on Up were ideas for how--or if--those over 60 might bring about change for themselves.  Personally she did it by starting to paint after 70.  Would she like my workshop idea, "Blogs and Zines for Geezers" as a way toward both agency and creativity?

Pleased her photo was on the cover--only wish it had been larger.  [Thanks to bloggers Ronni Bennett and Cowtown Pattie for the link to an hour-long interview with Lillian Rubin where she mentioned that her publisher would not put "80" in the title because "...people would not buy it."  More provocative issues like sex and unconditional love are addressed.  Some of her ideas on living a long life surprised me--a good thing!]

Tardy, an explanation

Are you wondering, or is it just me?  My desk piled with half-written posts and lists about adventures  in Portland and ongoing life in the Big Apple, I feel my blog commitment is off.

Two days after our return Ron got one of those gastro-intestinal things.  Knocked him out.  My turn was this past Sunday morning on my way to more zinedom.  Thanks to "Best Zine Ever! issue five," produced in part by Independent Publishing Resource Center in Portland, I'd found Elsie Sampson who makes art books and delightful zines and was giving a workshop in Peekskill, N.Y.  We exchanged emails, I stuffed some zines she might like to see in amongst the condon amulets.

About to step into the car, I whispered to Ron, "I believe I'm going to faint."  Quick return to the 21st floor: my turn for the gastro thing.  There went this week.  A side effect is it seems to have triggered something I had several years ago, known in the family as  the mystery illness.  Aside from internal hives--which only children usually get--it has never been fully identified nor diagnosed by doctors.  Under control for five years, it was under control until the other day.

So, I missed Elsie's workshop, a lovely day in the country.  She has a beautiful website, www.chinesesweatshop.com where you can see why she is a special zinester. 

On the positive side, worst aspect of "the mystery" occurs late at night.  (What is that all about?)  But leaves me not-too-energetic in the daytime.

Last night I went to a new playwriting class on the lower east side at The Abrons Art Center at the Henry Street Settlement House.  Enthusiastic playwriting (and blogging) instructor and nine students--women and men, range of ages/backgrounds.  Looking forward to chance for more exchange about "Knitting in Public". And what are they writing?

Bookmark above from Oregon Department of Transportation.  "Get Street Smart" is the message on the reverse side.  Picked it up at the Belmont carfree Street Fair.  Even in mellow, we-stop-when-you-want-to-cross Portland,  a Little Red Hen has to watch her step.

A Woman's Bookstore with Zines

Place yourself in this photo and you're walking toward the checkout/cafe counter of Bluestockings, the only women's bookstore in New York City.  In truth, it has expanded from its 1999 beginning as a place for women's books to its current incarnation as a "radical bookstore, fair trade cafe, and activist center" on the lower east side. 

Here's an excellent photo of the storefront by Brian of New York Daily Photo, a site filled with images that have the depth and richness of those on Blogging in Paris.

Various publications can be found at Bluestockings.  I was particularly interested in browsing their zines.  Get ready...click on Microcosm Publishing for a dunk into a world mostly known to people under, uh, 30--maybe 20.  While we elders sleep, there's a throbbing universe of DIY folks who put together under $5.00, limited edition publications to express ideas--personal and/or political.  Above are two zines I especially like.  The front and one inside page of (of course) "Hen Party" and "the war at home:  New Orleans after Katrina" with text plus black and white photos.  The tan one with knit worms on its cover was the free handout for "This Dirt Museum: the ladies' room," my 2001 composting installation 2001. Perhaps, a zine?

Because I am about to co-produce a zine, my frequent Google searches have led to a new development:  ZineWiki.  Go read it; maybe you'll create one yourself.

Also on my list for Bluestockings was the recent anthology, "We Don't Need Another Wave"  The subtitle is, "Dispatches from the next generation of feminists," the editor Melody Berger.  Also found the latest copy of Bitch Magazine, "a feminist response to pop culture."  I am going to subscribe to this one; it's too hard to find uptown.  Also not comfortable to ask the mostly Middle Eastern news sellers if they have a copy of Bitch.

What a pleasure to be in a space where I can linger, sample publications from all over, touch paper, turn pages, think about coming back another time to see what's new.  Bluestockings--sun streaming into its large front windows, cafe tables nearby--feels like a mini-version of Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon.*  Also brought home a copy Herizons, a women's quarterly from Canada.  Thorough and scary article about North American cosmetics, another on Tajikistan, a country in Central Asia unknown to me.   

Oh, yes, about the zine in my own life.  "Knit A Condom Amulet," an online zine with designs and how-tos from other knitters is in the planning stage.

*In Other Words in Portland, Oregon, is the only non-profit women's bookstore in the U.S.

Natural History, the play and the surroundings

Through the magic of synchronicity, Ron and I were invited to visit friends vacationing in what the local library calls the "hamlet" of Cragsmoor, set between the Catskill Mountains and the Hudson River, surrounded by the spectacular Shawangunk Mountains.   It's only a two-hour drive into upstate New York.  At the same time, Natural History, a play we wanted to see, was opening nearby.

Though we live on a high floor in a Manhattan apartment in an area known as Morningside Heights, our panoramic view of bridges and buildings is less awe-inspiring than this one from the porch of Mike and Mary's rented cottage.  Well, perhaps if you were very accustomed to natural history, our brick and steel scene calls up a "Wow!"  But there is something about hills and mountains and lake that speaks to that side of me longing for a more untouched environment.  Mike burst that bubble when he pointed out that  much of the landscape has been entirely changed from the time it was first encountered in earlier centuries.

Okay, but I'll stay with my fantasy.  And the quiet.  The City has become noisier over the ten years we've been back.  With greater prosperity there are more vehicles--so many tour buses in Harlem-- and car horns.  I am typical of very urban types who long for respite elsewhere.*

Cragsmoor is one of several late 19th century artists' colonies upstate.  (Sketchy Wikipedia link does not include painters and artisans for whom the area is famous.)  On our way into town, we visited its famous "Stone Church," a small, pretty structure (photo in above link) begun in 1895.  Even quieter within than outside, I especially admired this stained glass window from the Tiffany Studios.

Shadowland Theatre in Ellenville was our destination for Jennifer Camp's play, Natural History.  It's a compact downtown in what was once known as the "Borscht Belt." In the summer, early 20th century immigrant Jewish families took long bus rides for escape from the crowded tenements of New York City.  Abandoned, then revived, this former movie house showcases up and coming playwrights.

Imaginatively staged with a simulation of the American Museum of Natural History entrance lobby, the four separate scenes--three actors playing nine roles!--also effectively used video on large screens.  Each scene centered around romantic relationships-- hilarious, hesitant first meeting, anxious couple's struggle to conceive, youthful, tragic loss of a partner, and divorce.  The four of us were enthusiastic about the work.  I was struck by a dark undercurrent in each story that contrasted with comic moments and fast-paced very New York exchanges. 

The actor Anthony Blaha impressed me.  He projected convincingly in a wide range of characters-- a young man triangulated into his parents' dysfunctional marriage, a gay man who has lost his partner, and a romantic medical student in pursuit of a much older woman physician.   In that last one, "The Big Bang," all three characters were doctors. I'm not sure you'd be drawn to any of them for health care once you knew their personal stories!  A local reviewer offers more details about the play and actors. 

[Another disclaimer: Jen Camp was the excellent teacher who challenged me to finish my first one-act play .]

*Note:  Unfortunately these areas are not amiable places for older Americans.  Each year there are fewer doctors outside large metropolitan areas as this New York Times article makes painfully clear.

Actors! Reading My Play!

It had taken a few months but, after all it's New York City, I finally found my second playwriting class this past semester.   About my first class, a bad TV sit-com could be written.  It was at the New School, taught by a burned -out adjunct, populated by a curious collection of folks most of whom were writing plays that made me want to go home and take a bath. 

But I got lucky this time.  Jennifer Camp, a young playwright herself, has been a terrific teacher to our small group at Makor, the west side outpost of the 92nd Street Y.  Last night three of us had the thrill of having our work read by genuine actors, friends of Jen's who appeared gratis.

The man at the left in the photo read my stage directions, the other five did the characters for "Knitting in Public."   A one-act play with knitting,  of course,  it's message (you knew there would be one) is we can relate to one another across the generational divide--in surprising ways.  Two of the characters are women over 60, and I was delighted that one of the actors was a truly older woman.  She was pleased too.  All of them read with skill.  It was a very satisfying experience... more work ahead.

At the end,  we vigorously  thanked our actors.  I offered each one a tw0-pack of New York City condoms from my large collection.  The quiet crisis of HIV among women over 50 was the other message in my play.  Once again,  surprising information for all.

MAY 20 is AIDS WALK in New York City.

    

The Desparate Deck of Cards

Yes, necessity is the mother of invention.  That's what gave birth to a handmade deck of cards.  Though I have prettier objects that form memories of  our 1999 trip to Mexico, these little pieces of paper are special.  It began bumpily yet ended with an expansion of my creative work.

We had visited Oaxaca in southern Mexico the year before for ten days, spent some time with a weaver in the town of Teotitlan. and decided to return for a longer time.  Oaxaca, the big city center, is surrounded by small Indian villages famous for various crafts.  Our guide had been Susan, an American woman who ran a coffee and bagel (yes!) shop.  After seeing all the area had to offer, we learned she could arrange for us to learn natural wool-dyeing with indigo and cochineal, the brilliant red color.  We'd return to stay with a weaver we'd met in Teotilan who had given a good introduction to dyeing and could teach us off-loom weaving.  ins Teotitlan, the village famous for its woven rugs.

By the time we were ready to return the following winter, Susan had had a falling out with the weaver we'd visited with the year before.  Not to worry, she'd found "Raul & Beatriz and family," as she drove  us to their home in the town.  One thing:  we would not be staying with them for the week but in a home they'd built outside the village.  They would pick us up for breakfast and the afternoon meal. 

We never met Raul (and did not dye or weave.)  Their teenage daughter, who unlike her mother spoke English,  drove us us from the town center to a very large house in the middle of nowhere.   She'd return in the morning.  There was no phone, no windows, no locks on doors.  When evening came, we realized we should have bought food for dinner.  I'd brought along a small flashlight used for "Moonsnail Saves Planet," the opening night performance of my last exhibit in Maryland.  It's little beam made it possible to find the way to the main road where we'd noticed a restaurant on our way in. 

Genial man came onto the second floor balcony, "Sorry, we're not open tonight.  Come back tomorrow!"  As we wondered what to do next, a pick-up truck stopped pulled up.  Spanish and a little English got across the idea that the elderly couple in it were the parents of Beatriz--and the restaurant owner.  They took us back to the village where a wonderful street cart served up hamburgers.  Our meal provided the surrounding community a chance to observe the "locos Americanos" stuck in the Mexican boonies.  All very gracious; the pick-up returned to take us back.

And the deck of cards?  We had a room with a couch and a bare lightbulb overhead.  Reading as long as we could, after several days--we were there for Christmas week--something else was needed.  We made the cards and played gin rummy. 

Better adventures awaited us at breakfast.  We'd first go to the market, shop for our dinner, take showers, sit at the family table in Beatriz' home-plus-studio.  I stared at the skeins of yarn hanging from the ceiling--indigo blue and . The color, in all its variations everywhere, and I began to think what I could do with this vibrant cochineal dyed yarn.

This is how I came to knit interpretations of red wiggler worms. 

I digress for background info.

Kitchen composting and the worms had become my art form soon after our 1995 move to New York.  My life as a public artist has not followed a tidy path. Back in the City, I found a brochure in the laundry room of my building.  Writing the Personal Essay, a weekend class at the nearby YMCA.  There I wrote "Composting in Manhattan," a slightly embroidered telling of our life with red wigglers.  The title seemed right as a metaphor for our return and our stage of life.  In various unlikely venues I performed my tale, made art books.  (Posted about it here on the blog.) 

A couple of artists encouraged me to apply for an art grant to mount something more ambitious, to reach more people about the need for urban dwellers to dispose of food waste by bringing einsenia fetida into their apartments. An immodest proposal, yes, but an engaging one.

A grant?  I'd never written one.  Who would give money to an old lady who'd never been to art school?  After dragging my feet for a couple of years, I finally took the application material--very uncomplicated--with me to the airport as we started this trip. With my WormWare box, world's smallest composter, beside me, I did the unthinkable:  wrote it by hand on lined notebook paper.  Described how I hoped to find a group of "seniors,"--yes, that's who we are to the world--who would join me in kitchen composting, then form a troupe to celebrate the scheduled closing of the City's enormous garbage dump, Fresh Kills in 2001.

Back in Oaxaca City, I bought knitting needles, found a wonderful studio in a new, art school, Sachmo Centro de Arte.  I did a one evening performance, "Agua y Abono," at the end of our stay about the connection of water to compost.  On the wall behind me are rubbings of water meters; another time I'll post some.  Ron took Spanish classes. It was on this trip that he became interested in weaving, a craft he's only recently reconnected with. 

Puffin Foundation gave me the modest grant.  Again my friend, Miriam Schaer, advised, "Apply for your next one...a bigger one!"  I did, got it too. That is the why and how of my knitting 150 red wiggler worms for "This Dirt Museum:  the Ladies' Room," an art installation with three working compost bins, compost education, activities for all ages in Spanish, Mandarin, English.  It opened in October 2001 at Queens Botanical Garden.  [More at Cityworm, my website.]