This Spring, I stopped using WordPress as the place to share my writing, and I started posting on Substack. However, it was only this past week when I realized that I didn’t put the new key on the table by the door where you can find it. Here it is.
Please come to visit! You are welcome to let yourself in and look around. Help yourself to some snacks. On Substack, I am particularly fond of “Innocent Abroad” from June 2024 and “Rager” from September 2024 . But, I hope you will enjoy all of my narrative refreshments. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m just out, getting exercise or provisions. See you soon!
Please let me know if you have any comments or questions, or if you just want to shoot the breeze. I would love to hear from you.
So many of you truly deserve the high regard of the world for your poise and the nuance of care you take about your appearance that the rest of the world so envies and admires. Your hair, your fashion, so rich with style choices, and so ahead of the curve. We do not really know how to achieve this easy magnificence, and we are all studying you as you move with an insouciance that is unparalleled. If we look up “nonchalance” in the dictionary, we see your face. Slouching gorgeously in your inimically elegant and economical trimness, you are like a signature by a master calligrapher.
So, it is with the greatest praise and concern that I offer you this portrait, this vision of what could, potentially, be your future.
My mother was born in 1931 and her childhood was informed by the Hollywood films she saw and the glorious elegance of the female movie stars, glowing in black and white. Therefore, as she thought was proper for a self-respecting woman of the world, on her honeymoon, my mother had zippers sewn into her night gowns to reflect the form-fitting fashion of these celluloid beauties. This was an effort she quickly discontinued in her married life as the metal of the zippers dug into her ribs.
Similarly, Mom had started smoking when she was in her teens. Like you, she looked stunning with the poetic wisps curling into the air. Smoldering. She had boys falling at her feet. She was electric. Like you.
My mother married young and had two children, and she smoked throughout our childhood. She smoked about a pack a day. For decades after, I equated the smell of smoke with love. Maybe you do too.
It wasn’t until her friend died of lung cancer when Mom was fifty, that she decided to give it up. This was a time when it was not unusual for lung cancer patients to have the little, precious, indented place between their clavicles carved permanently open to allow a plastic tube to be inserted into their bodies so that they could breathe. These victims would carry a large, metal oxygen tank as a surplus lung on wheels and talk with a raspy, mechanical-sounding voice, forever, or at least for the brief remaining time that these weighty tanks tethered them to earth.
It was just by chance when she went to the doctor for a chest x-ray for a lingering cold that my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer, thirty-three years after she quit smoking. The technology of repair was fluid and evolving and her best option seemed to be surgery. Thanks to my mother’s relative celebrity in her city – she owned a publication in which wealthy people would look for their pictures in fancy dress at parties – the doctor traded his most avid medical attention for a published article to inform people that they should have cancer tests if they met any of the potential criteria, long before they showed symptoms. Catching lung cancer early is the best chance of survival. But, people avoid getting tested because they are embarrassed that they may have “caused” the cancer themselves. They wait until it is too late. And then they race to try to not drown in their lung’s fluid. And soon enough, they die. Meeting the bargain, Mom printed that article.
During the time of recovery the day after the surgery in the hospital, Mom had a stroke. The surgery did help her to survive. But, with the subsequent stroke, she lost eyesight, and she lived in a rehab facility for a month afterwards, where they tested her mind and worked with her body . As her daughter, I spent that month, giving up on my own life, and living by her side. Once she was released from the facility, she continued to have therapies, but for the most part, she seemed restored. From that time on, however, our family’s focus was on her care. This lasted for six more years. Our world was jolted up and down, yanking our emotions and demanding our time and attention.
A year after the “successful” surgery in which the doctor was able to get all of the cancer even at the margins, the fluid on her lungs returned, and she found herself drowning again. As if it were planned by a novice angel, this return of her cancer came happily only one month after an immunological treatment was made publicly available by the FDA and this course of medication was able to be administered to her care. This meant that she would sit for an hour or two in what would otherwise have been a mani-pedi chair, reading the same boring magazines over and over, in a clinical environment, trading stories with her seat neighbors who were also hooked to an IV. They joked. They laughed. Twice a week they would take account of who among them was missing because they had died, and secretly fear they were next.
About a year later, when this treatment started to lose efficacy for her, my mother was put onto something she referred to as “chemo-lite” for a few months. But according to the regular checkups and MRIs, this wasn’t working well. Then, they put her on full chemo, and it almost killed her. These were the days when we, her family, were on ready alert to run to her side from wherever we were and no matter what we were doing. There were many false alarms. Mom didn’t remember this period afterwards.
Covid hit its stride while Mom was fighting cancer, which isolated her further. During what seemed to be a lightening of the plague, Mom took a risk to travel to Florida to be near her son. She had another stroke which pushed her completely into a living nightmare and, six heinous weeks later, she died.
My mother was glamourous and elegant. She ran in high society, attended A-type parties with the people you read about in news and magazines, and they knew her by name. In her later years, even without smoking, she had finally acquired her lifelong desire to be thin. She loved fashion. She would have admired your style. She had five closets of designer clothes in her San Francisco apartment when she died.
I was lucky to meet Heather Cox Richardson after her talk at the all-day “Ideas Festival” in Seattle.
On stage, prior to this photo being taken, she and journalist Celeste Headlee talked about America. HCR presented the premise that America is now in a war of ideas about the same issue that America has always been dealing with since its inception and that is embedded within the documents created by the founding fathers. That is, 1. Some people are better than others and have a right to rule, or 2. All people are created equal and have a right to be treated equally by the law and to have a say in the government. She suggests that these ideas are buried within the concept of Democracy.
She says that we are in deep doodoo right now and that we are fighting for a right to believe in the history of inclusivity. She says that a nation run by elitists (people who, for whatever reason think that they are better or more deserving than others and who think that only their minority has the right to rule) is a threat to Democracy. Our history / the history of the USA is multi-cultural, multi-racial, multi-gendered…. and, she adds, Democracy is always a work in progress. The presumed Republican nominee says that he wants to do away with the rules of the Constitution. The people who support him, if they are not already in the minority ruling class, have a misguided idea that they WILL BE in the ruling class. And they have a fantasy about returning to a “perfect” past. She wants this country to be a rules-based order in which we all have a say in our government, and a place where ideas are based in facts.
She impresses upon us that Democracy (although it has never worked perfectly) is a great process. Democracy is (still) viable, and we cannot and should not give it up. “To give up on Democracy is to give up on humankind.” She also says that the vast majority of people are good, and this gives her hope. She believes in people and that human beings want to determine their/our own futures. Democracy, she says (as flawed as it is) is the best way to find humanity.
After the talk on stage to hundreds of people, this brilliant, inexhaustible historian stood for hours and patiently greeted her fans, giving space, time, and her full attention to every one. She met each person as if they/we were her friends and her peers. She was interested, engaging, and tremendously accessible. She walks her talk.
I started by thanking her and telling her that I hoped that she would have more talks with Celeste Headlee as the exchange between them was important, vibrant, smart, and engrossing. I told her that I read her everyday, and take immense solace in her writing which puts quotidian events into historical context. (I told her that I also appreciate the days off and Buddy’s photos.) Then, I asked her if she had any suggestions of what to do in the event of things going off the rails. She replied seriously, “Of course, if that happens, I will be among one of the first who will be jailed.” Yes, I said, I understood. I said, “Day one, immigrants. Second day, teachers, journalists, intellectuals, artists, east and west coast urbanites…” “But”, she said, “I will keep writing as long as I can.” And then she added this — giving me the best possible hope and mental life raft, considering the source — “I do not think that things will come to that.” I wished her another 250 years of writing. She laughed and we had our photo taken.
If you were born into a family in the 1950s without two married parents, one male and one female, there was a gap with edges sewn, permanently open in the fabric of your identity. You would think that it would work anyway as your life was a perfectly suited and lovely garment. All of the other parts were quite strong. The mother part, for instance, was a powerful and protective aspect of your attire. Your mother worked so hard and adored you so much that the activity and actions of love all around distracted you from the gap in the construction of what you wore. She reinforced so much that it didn’t matter if pieces of your outfit were secondhand. Look into this other place, she would say, and you would look and be amazed by the joy and happiness in there. You also had pockets of family where you could put things like the comfort of familiarity. You would place kin and lineage items into those pockets even if they were slightly broken and even if it was never anyone’s intention to fix them. You just loved them as they were. And, sticking one’s small fingers into a side pouch to secretly confirm that a totem of tenderness was there was enough to give you strength. It really didn’t make sense that things would fall through the father gap. You didn’t know that you couldn’t hold things in that pocket because you thought that it was enough to have the others. You didn’t realize how much you were exposed because of that area and lack of fabric. From your point of view, the embroidery and the gold threads in the front were enough. What could possibly be missing when there was joy in the swirling of your skirt, or in the rustling of your crisp white shirt, or the tinkling of the many shiny bracelets around your tiny wrist? These were so lovely, so sweet. If the wind picked up the lighter hem of your getup, you would smooth it out. No problem. So, it came as a surprise, as you got older, to hear the tearing sounds from time to time when you sat too quickly or stood too tall. It was kind of shocking when you realized that little weaknesses were also showing up in other parts of the clothing. There wasn’t another outfit in your closet. This was it. Not only were you happy, but you were proud of this unique article, this gear that spoke to your individuality. You made the best of it.
Maybe you do not care about climate change. But, here’s the thing. Do you like coffee? I have read that coffee is going to be a rare commodity as the planet heats and dries and has more rampant diseases. What we think and feel about glaciers melting, or stranded polar bears, or distant frogs, or bees, or owls that impede development, those are abstraction and maybe we are acclimating to the warning signs of their demise. I do not keep polar bears or owls as pets. But, coffee brings it home. For real babe. Do you, like me, wake up every morning and get your mind and body motivated and lubricated by the smell, taste, and poetic chemistry of caffeine? To lose coffee, or to make it unattainable, will be the tectonic shift that might push us all over the edge in a domino effect of destruction. It might mean that consciousness will tilt on its axis like a planet out of alignment. The days and nights, shaken like a snow globe souvenir, might never settle, ever, into perpetuity. Coffee. A bean that has an expiration date. I can imagine that in the next stages of the human species, bags of vacuum-packed and yet slightly stale, crystalline caffeine jewels will be handed down and inherited from generation to generation. At a loss for this jolt to our central nervous systems, the interactions between humans will degrade. People like me will become snarly, heavy, and slow. We, now human, will mutate into angry, plodding, vicious animals. We will show no remorse in collecting the rarer and rarer element, and then brewing like witches in our dens. We will become wanting, craving, miserable humanoids, bent entirely on something that we seek but have forgotten. Something with a name just out of our reach. We will wander the earth in search of this unattainable desire, trampling things in our paths. Only the richest of the rich will hoard this magical element. Like fire, clean water, or fresh air, coffee will be a cache kept close. The wealthy no longer able to flash their advantages in the light, will only be recognizable by the cow they keep for the balance of their cup in the morning. A moo in the dawn will be the signal, and the populace will rise up to obtain that poor animal, that sole repository of the crème de la crème, literally. That cow, ever cherished, will live a life of misery. You will have doomed us all. (diabolical laugh inserted here)
The upside of not having had a father when I was young is that I filled that parental blank myself and it made me stronger. When I was seven, I chose to act the part of the “male” character such as the “doctor” (yes, I am sorry, but the doctor role was male when I was seven, and that is one of the points I am trying to make) or the “father” person in role-playing with friends. When I attended a grad school (MIT) where the male:female ratio was 7:1. And, when I was twenty-two and I choose to work as a carpenter in Japan although I had never, and still have not yet heard of another female doing this before. Throughout my life, I have benefitted from not being limited to what was, at any time, considered a “female” identifying occupation or activity. So, that’s cool. Thinking out of a proverbial box was never a problem until and unless someone wanted me to squish my mind or my activities into one.
The downside of not having had a father is that I was always seeking, or at least longing for someone else to fill in that parental blank. This confused teachers who thought I could be guided by their greater masculine advice. It also meant that I, let’s say, kissed a lot of frogs. And, maybe more importantly, it messed with my sense of being a complete human being.
There was one time that I can see now, in retrospect, might have been residue of the latter condition.
In college (at BU), English was a required course. I was attending art school where the assignments were generally to draw or paint or sculpt, and where there was no homework, per se, and that fit me well. Still, I was eager for the types of expectations that would improve my ability to communicate. This class entailed reading and writing, and was taught by a tall, thin, white man with a thick brown mustache not unlike a Victorian dandy. Or like Ned Flanders on “The Simpsons” who might have aspired toward Victorian dandy-ishness, but who didn’t meet the required sense of independence and only emitted a whiff of aloof, haughty, stylish disregard. As I recall, he dressed in pale button-down collared shirts and khaki pants that were neatly ironed, and carried himself stiffly. He toted a thin leather folio in which there were several yellow lined pads. And, he never looked me in the eye.
I also had the impression that he did not like me. I was a keen student, and, as has always been characteristic of me, willing to participate in discussions, which was generally an asset and welcomed by teachers. The last time that served me poorly, however, was in high school when the teacher was having an affair with my boyfriend, or perhaps I should say “allegedly” to avoid a slander suit. But in college, and in this particular class with this particular teacher, it backfired again. The dandy fop with the poor fashion sense would never call on me, or only rarely and reluctantly.
So, one day, when I was walking into class to take an open-note test, another student, a male, told me that he had rarely been to class because of some personal issue or another, and he asked me if he could copy my notes to use on the test. I remember quickly flipping through the pages of my internal integrity dictionary and wondering if it was better to say “no” and let this fish dangle on the line, or to extend a helping hand in camaraderie. I gave him the notes. Anyway, I reasoned to myself, if this guy hasn’t been to class, he will have to deal with it, and reading my notes during the time of the test couldn’t possibly help much anyway.
The teacher gave me a C- on that test. The classmate who used my notes got an A. Maybe my fellow student was much smarter than I was.
Then, we were assigned a paper. I do not recall the prompt for the work. It was in 1973 after all and, to be real, I have embellished the details of my memory here in the earlier paragraphs. But I do know that I chose to write a comparison about D.H. Lawrence and an Impressionist painting. Through the decades, I have lost the string that connected me to which D.H. Lawrence piece I picked, or which Impressionist painting it was, but it was. My idea was to bring two disparate parts of my life together. I wrote with a slight lack of confidence, but also with honest intentions.
The teacher gave me a D on that paper.
Now, I suppose that you could say that I am a liberal and have always been one. I can cite sustained evidence and hundreds of examples of my extreme tolerance and sense of inclusivity. So, please do not take it wrong when I point out that this teacher was gay. If I could, I would instead prefer to say simply that he was misogynistic, because that was true. He never called on the females in the class and, when I took an informal poll, it turned out that all of the female students were graded lower than the males. In that way, I was not alone. I mention that he was gay only because I am trying to understand him better and because this might point to a bias on his part. Is that a cop out for me? Perhaps.
Upon receiving that mark, I was distraught. At that time, I was dating a guy who went to the school down the road (Harvard), and, upon my request, he introduced me to his English teacher there. That teacher kindly read my paper and let me know that in his class I would probably have received a B-. It wasn’t a brilliant paper. But it certainly wasn’t a near fail, or at least by the semi-objective measure that I was able to drum up at the time. I considered going to the BU college administrators and tattling on this teacher. But, I didn’t.
It is only now that I wonder if I was trying to please him – a male — and if that is why this sticks with me so resolutely.
I do not want to end this story with the sour taste that, even now, this recollection brings up for me. So, here is this. The following year, I took a writing class led by a man with a wild head of hair, a twinkle in his eye, a strong, dry wit, and high expectations, tempered by the inclusive sense that we were all in this together. A smart, articulate man who seemed to have the pulse of literacy and literature in his veins. The class was met in a small room with an intimate group of about seven people. And, in that class, there was a fellow student writer – a male — whose capacity to turn a sentence inside out and to entice you along for a literary ride was for me, in relationship to my peers and to that point in my life, unsurpassed. I was in awe of him, and I respected the teacher. It was a treat to be there.
That class, and that teacher, in that proximity to the work of a uniquely creative young writer cemented, for me, the powerful urge to write better. And to write and to write. And I do not know why I am including anything about that class here, except to say that my experience in writing classes as an undergrad spanned the range of horrible to worthy, but always memorable. Also, in a few weeks, I will be in Paris, attending a writer’s workshop led by two women and for which there is a prerequisite homework assignment. The assignment is to read “Out of Sheer Rage” by Geoff Dyer in which he describes his trying to write about D.H. Lawrence and not always succeeding. Dyer’s book is full of anxieties and emotional conflicts. It is familiar to me.
Downtown Seattle as a body or entity seems to be slowly reviving like a plant that was severely cut back by an overly earnest amateur horticulturalist, or that has lived through a drought. Some have wondered if our beloved organism has died. We have been staring at it, and watering this dry, pathetic flora, with a practical optimism born of nostalgia buttressed by experience, hopefully and almost superstitiously watching the dry stems to see if there will be any new green growth or not. And, miracle of miracles, unlike the proverbial watched pot that will never boil, this downtown is starting to bubble and grow with little leaves of light and sound. Although it may be anecdotal, or perhaps it is only the misleading throes of a last hurrah, I – an earnest over-waterer — have seen hopeful moments of regeneration.
Before riots and during pandemic, and again now since these have stopped or quieted down, Max and I have been in the city. He and I live in the Pacific Northwest for its access to nature, among other things, and we hike in the woods with extreme pleasure and frequency. But we also love the lively evolutions that take place within urbanity. Despite the fact that our daughter (whose profession is not merely metaphorically the outdoors) makes fun of me when I refer to walking in a city as “hiking”, Max and I recently hiked over one hundred and twenty miles, all over Manhattan, in slightly less than a month. Similarly, closer to home, we have always been drawn to Seattle’s downtown, heralding, celebrating, and patronizing the establishments, going to theater, to museums, to Nordstrom, for doctor’s appointments, to meet friends for meals… And, in the past few months, I have seen more people on the streets and in the restaurants and shops that managed to hold on, or reopen, than I have seen since March 2020. Temporary plywood boards that aggressively, hastily, and reflexively, had covered windows with what might appear to be a building’s skirt of modesty, are now being removed or least upgraded to a finer and more intentional graphic presence. The new and expansive convention center is complete. An arts center, between downtown and Seattle Center that has been in the works for the past few years, is now set to open in 2025 and is getting press. There are ice cream shops! Things that seemed to be sleeping are awakening and stirring with life. It is literally Spring in the city.
So now, while this season of reborn romantic potential ushers in its longer days, it is time to push again for a downtown cultural center. At first, a few years ago, I suggested that the historic Macy’s building with its 80,000 square foot floor plates and exterior expanse resting literally atop a train station, was a pivotal place of potential for a cultural center between the mecca that is Seattle Center and the great hope of the new Waterfront Park. That historically significant building is so vast that it has its own zip code. But then, at the same time, the sparkly Pacific Place was emptying out. And beyond the extensive floor areas, this newer structure comes equipped with double pane windows, contemporary building systems, and a public layout and location that would set it up perfectly as a cultural center, as though it were the building’s destiny. You know, many of us tried various jobs throughout our lives. Pacific Place has gone through its adolescence and young adulthood too. Now, as a mature and well-situated persona, it can develop a full and successful career.
Pacific Place is ready. For the past two years, I have been shouting about how we need a downtown cultural center, and I have recommended that it be a place where tourists can get an introduction to the multi-cultural richness that is scattered throughout the city and region, and also get information and access to resources that can lead them around town. The old Barnes and Noble space at Pacific Place is ideal for just such a tourist hub. That space sits directly and visibly adjacent to the busy Pine Street corridor, and encompasses two internal floors with escalators and plumbing that could be put to perfect use as a tourist center and café/gathering space. The center could offer informational resources and access to an array of tours with a variety and choice of transportation types. Within the building, visitors could sample various cultural offerings and from here they could expand their experiences through visits to places beyond. Other aspects of this vast building could intersperse maker’s spaces with retail that could remain (or, as this place is now emptying out, return) and thrive in a lively and symbiotic relationship alongside of the cultural offerings.
This building can be alive again, day and night. There could be exhibits and pop-up shops for cultural entities as well as opportunities to share office space, equipment, staff, and assembly areas where they can rub elbows with each other and the public. Restaurants and cafes — now empty and waiting – can be locations for weekend music events to bring in a young crowd of local and international socializers. There can be a kid’s learning lab with classrooms and exhibit spaces and a senior center with the same. The floor plan of this building that takes up an entire city block and rises to seven stories with a full multi-story underground garage, could also possibly allow for a sanctuary for the unhoused population (a place with separate egress, segregated by loading dock and parking entrance from the other uses and egresses of the building) that could have lockers, showers, advisories, and offer rest from extreme weather. There might even be a rooftop farm that would supply a food court. All of this would reside over 1,200 parking spaces, and be situated at a central position where city streets reach directly out like spokes toward Seattle Center and the Waterfront Park. I am an architect and I have drawn plans for these uses in this building, indicating layout and proximities. Pacific Place is a spacious, accommodating structure that is just waiting for the city and the owners to shake hands and work together.
Friends of mine have suggested that the east side is where it’s at; that a multi-culti presence with money has made itself known there. I see that too and I can imagine that presence welcomed into Seattle’s downtown core through the Cultural Center. If people living in Bellevue and Kirkland claim to their remote friends that they “live in Seattle” (and, yes, they do), then let them have a real presence in Seattle. Keep thriving on the east side. Also, be here now. I believe in Seattle. I love Seattle. What do you think?
It occurs to me that I recently missed a chance to celebrate. April 10 was the anniversary of the day I returned from Japan in 1979 when I was twenty-three years old. I had left the states, auspiciously on Independence Day the year before, clutching a letter of introduction like a bouquet in the sweaty hand of a teenager at a first dance. The letter addressed a hypothetical foreign carpenter and was in a language I could not read. All I knew was that, in Japan, it would be impossible to obtain a job without introduction, especially a position for which I had no training and for which my gender rendered me incapable by tradition. But, I also knew I would, even with my gender, be safe in Japan. At that stage in my life, I could thrive on mere determination alone.
Still, after about ten months in Kyoto, I was lonely and homesick. Hearing John Denver while I worked “…take me home, country road…” didn’t help. It felt like a personal notice, and it sunk me into a maudlin loneliness and insurmountable homesickness. Thanks to selling a painting that was gifted to me by my carpenter boss who was then my friend, I was able to afford to return to the states.
I walked through US customs in California on April 10, 1979 (fifty-five years ago!) and was met by two adventurous friends. We immediately took off by car to the opposite coast. During the next ten days, as my sight adjusted, we leap-frogged between places across America where we had other friends or family. I had lived in Japan long enough to acclimate and to begin to observe details and nuance so that I saw many distinctions in faces there that had at first seemed monolithically Asian. People in Tokyo and Kyoto appeared as a rainbow of diversity to me. But, when I reached The Melting Pot of the states, the rainbow burst forth with blondes and redheads, white, brown, black, relatively pale or dark, freckled or clear skin types, and a mad range of heights and body types. Also, after living among a finite landmass measured in tatami mats, the vastness and scale of, for instance, the windowpanes in St Louis were as astonishing to me as Oz was to Dorothy. We danced all night to “…we are family…!” at a gay disco in the Midwest. And my culture-shocked self finally arrived in Massachusetts like a pilgrim on the Mayflower.
I was a traveler seeking the unfamiliar. I longed for it, I found it, and it took some getting used to. But that was nothing compared to how foreign and shocking it all feels today. In what isn’t distant enough, a hurricane of extreme Republicanism in the US and the worldwide rise of fascism (hiding like a wolf in the raw sheepskin of Populism and often clutching a hymnal) has reshaped the country of my birth into an unrecognizable mass, leaving a multitude of victims in its wake. Now, in what is “home”, I am feeling a homesickness which is not lonely. In fact, it seems impossibly collective. I have thought of leaving and looking for shelter, but at this point I think that I will stand and let the world move around me. I will hold on with hope (and resistance) until this whirlwind calms down so that we can all go dancing in that nightclub again and our kids can freely go on walkabouts of their own.
“Erika” by Duke Riley, (2021) in his 2023 “Death to the Living” show at the Brooklyn Museum
My birthday is two days after Christmas and has the built-in polarity of being sadly dismissible thanks to holiday exhaustion while also being a time of happy reunion when the family is all together. It was my twenty-seventh birthday, and after what was leading to frustration due to a diminishing list of options that would please us all, my mother took the decision by the neck and decided to treat us to a whale-watching trip. So, we — my mother, dad, brother, sister-in-law, and I — piled into the car and drove from San Francisco to the water’s edge at Half Moon Bay where we boarded an emerald green, flat-bottomed, wooden boat and headed out toward the open ocean.
She must have been desperate. But, looking back, it was an example of Mom’s effective leadership and can-do attitude that she would come up with this and convince us that it was a good idea, or even get us to go along at all. Decades earlier, when my brother and I were about ten and seven years old, she had a similar brainstorm (i.e., momentary and well-intentioned misjudgment) and took us on a fishing boat where we flopped on the deck for a few hours along with the cod dragged to die at our feet, our skin an unnaturally pale shade out of an undertaker’s sample book, and our backs glued to the cabin wall which was the closest approximation to solid ground that we could find at that time out in the choppy water. Nevertheless, I was having a twenty-seventh birthday when we were all gathered in the Bay Area, and we, the family, were going to do something as a group. I can tell you now, it was memorable. The thing about trauma, big or small, is that it is memorable.
It started out with a YO HO HO, each of us climbing aboard, MATEY!, with forced, happy anticipation twisted into a determined pretzel with a salting of emotional anxiety in a suspension of disbelief. Another family had the clairvoyance to don Dramamine patches, and they sat, eating their cheese and meat sandwiches, inside the Wizard of Oz-colored green wooden box that perched on the front of the deck. The waves got higher and higher and eventually the boat was an edamame on a majestic and expansive trampoline of sea. We would rise up on a wave that would quickly disappear and then we would drop down, over and over, testing whether our resolve or any other resolve would long endure. This was so, let’s say, distracting, that we barely noticed that there were whales to be seen. It wasn’t long before my sister-in-law, my mother, and I were leaning over the, what is it called?, starboard bow, generously offering these majestic mammals some predigested lunch, and my brother was curled up in a fetal ball on the bench at the stern, trying to, and almost succeeding in making himself invisible by becoming the same hue of the bench itself. Only my dad, who had been a cook in the Marines, knew to stare at the horizon and miraculously retain equilibrium.
It was hours later when we were discharged from this ordeal, and we crawled back into our car with prayers to our gods that we would be good forever if they never set us out there again. Unperturbed, my dad took out one of his favored tobacco tubes and was about to light up when we all shouted at him like a crowd in “Night of the Living Dead”. He kindly regarded us and removed the Montecristo from the chipped front tooth area where he neatly fit his beloved cigars. It was at that moment that I had the brilliant and lasting idea to grant us all sea names which have persisted for half a century now. My brother, sister-in-law and I became Barfy, Pukey, and Ralph. No eye patches or peglegs were distributed. But the magic of shared memory was tattooed into our family folklore, henceforth and forthwith.
I don’t believe in the literal story of Easter. But, I am into reflection and amends. I do believe in revivals, restorations, regenerations, revitalizations, reinvigorations, renewals, renaissances, metaphorical resurrections, and even comebacks. My family has turned and turned and handed down things to each other through the years; the same things that I turn and turn and have handed to my children. I see batons in the relay of life. I do prefer freedom for all. I cherish celebrating certain traditions; that is, inclusive ones. And I love festivals of light. Duh.
I decided that the idea of Easter aligns with the idea of Passover. They both happen in early Spring, and they are about PEACE. Given this, many years ago for my family, I refer to this holiday as “Peacester”.
The Camerons At Large 
