tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12843503312037678342024-02-21T01:20:30.788-08:00BETSY W BLOG: My Writing & Life AdventuresBetsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-61735350794046239432024-01-07T08:12:00.000-08:002024-01-07T20:41:26.447-08:00HIs Name was Arvid Lundberg**<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Arvid
Lundberg was a political cartoonist with the Chicago Herald, whom I met briefly
in 1937 and then again in 1940 when I was 26 years old and he was 38. Soon
after we started seeing each other exclusively. Arvid was my first romantic
love. We dated for three years and our relationship ended badly. After that, I
never talked about him, not ever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">When
friends and acquaintance asked me if I had any serious boyfriends in my younger
years, my stock answer was, “I dated around but there was no one special. There
were a few possible guys but I always found something wrong with them or they
found something wrong with me.” This answer seemed to satisfy and they didn’t
ask any follow-up questions.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">But
curiously over the years my older sister Rose, the family gossip, had dropped
hints to her daughters about me dating a cartoonist when I was young. While I
was working on this memoir, one of Rose’s daughters asked me innocently enough,
“Aunt Claire,
what stories are you writing these days? Have any of them been published
lately?” </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">I was always writing stories.
Some got published so such questions were a usual part of our conversations.
This time my answer was unusual. “These days I’m working on a memoir about my
life as a single working girl and the adventures I had. Right now, I’m writing
about a guy I dated when I was in my twenties named Arvid Lundberg.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">I expected a few follow-up
questions, like “Who was this guy? How long did you two date?” or perhaps just
a stunned “Wow, tell me more.” But I was flabbergasted at her response, “Was he
the cartoonist who created the <i>Little
Lulu </i>comic strip? Mom mentioned this but it was all hush-hush. She said you
never talked about it because the guy was
older and divorced and worst of all, he wasn’t Jewish and Grandma LeBrint broke
the romance up and banished you to California.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">“Oh,
your mom, she never was one to keep a secret, but I plan to <i>spill the beans</i> about the cartoonist in
my memoir. Who knows if I’ll ever finish it, so for now I’ll give you the cliff
notes version. I dated Arvid Lundberg from 1940 to 1943 when I was in my late
twenties. He was a political cartoonist with the Chicago Herald newspaper.
Years after we broke up, he became
known nationally for his syndicated comic strip, not <i>Little Lulu, </i>but your mom was close. His comic strip was about a
young girl named <i>Pattie.</i> Comic strips
about adventuresome young girls were the rage in the 1940s and 1950s. Besides <i>Pattie </i>and <i>Little Lulu, </i>there were also the <i>Little Debbie, </i>and ‘<i>nancy’ </i>comic
strips. Arvid was unmarried, not divorced, older than me and not Jewish. It
would have been a <i>shanda </i>if I married
him. So, my mother sent me to Los Angeles to get me away from him and that
ended that.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">I added, “For the rest of the
story, you will have to wait and hope that I complete my memoir, or at least
the story of me and Arvid and the banishment” and I changed the subject.**</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt; text-align: center;"><b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">MY
PURSUIT OF ARVID<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt; text-align: center;"><b><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1937
– 1940</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">I met Arvid
Lundberg in 1937 when he gave at talk at my Northwestern University journalism
class. He talked about Chicago and national politics and the impending threat
coming from Hitler and the Nazis in Germany, illustrating his talk with a few
political cartoons that he projected onto a screen at the front of our
classroom. Looking at his provocative cartoons and listening to him, I thought,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here’s a man with great knowledge of
politics and a wry sense of humor. He’s good looking in a dignified way and I’d
love to get to know him.</i> After his talk, I introduced myself and he said,
“Let’s stay in touch,” or some standard brushoff. I took him at his word and
over the next few years, I was casually persistent, sending him letters
commenting on the cartoons I particularly liked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">Today I’m looking
at the Lundberg cartoons I saved, including one titled “Mayor Smelly’s Machine:
And His Indispensable Team.” It features a cartoon representation of Chicago’s
Mayor Edward Kelly and Cook County Park Chairman Patrick Nash. In the cartoon
they are chewing on raw onions while looking at a statue of themselves standing
on top of a large block engraved with the words “SOMETHING SMELLS ROTTEN IN
CHICAGO.” A few little guys with different skin tones, half as tall as Kelly
and Nash, are watching, looking dejected. They represent the Mayor’s
constituents, the Blacks, Poles, Mexicans, and other Chicago ethnic minorities
who propelled Kelly (and Nash) into power.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">During the 1930’s
and into the 1940’s, the Kelly-Nash Machine ran Chicago and built the powerful
Chicago Democratic party which opened the door for the two Daley mayors
(Richard J. and Richard M.) who ruled Chicago with a few interruptions from
1955 until today. Richard M. has a few sons so I expect the Daley dynasty will
continue to rule for years into the future. Thinking about the Daley’s’ long
reign, in the old-country Jewish manner, I am compelled to say out loud <i>phooey phooey </i>and pretend to spit, to express
my extreme displeasure.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">Paper clipped to
the cartoon is a carbon copy of a typed letter from me to Lundberg, which reads
in part, “Smelly is the perfect name for Mayor Kelly. Thanks for shedding a
light on the arrogance of Kelly and of Nash who is the power behind the throne.
They are gobbling up Chicago’s resources and forgetting about the little guys
who put them in power. They smell to high heaven, and I hope they choke on the
onions (I mean power) they are gobbling up.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">I figured he
wouldn’t remember me from letter to letter, so I reminded him that we met
briefly when he gave a talk at my Northwestern journalism class in 1937. As I
did in all my letters, I asked if I could talk with him about how to get into
journalism. Looking at the letter, I realize how naive I was about Chicago
politics. You can throw <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one set of bums</i>
out and another set gets elected. Kelly and Nash out, then the Daley boys in.
But in the 1930s how was I to know?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">One day in spring
1940, to my surprise and delight, I got a reply from Lundberg. Ma saw the
envelope first, and when I got home from work, she handed it to me and asked, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nu </i>Clara why are you getting a letter
from the Chicago Herald?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was from
Lundberg! His last name was handwritten on the envelope above the Herald logo.
I may have blushed or had a small secret smile on my face but I kept my
composure and answered, “I’m not sure Ma. Now and then I write letters to the
paper responding to some article of interest to me.” She seemed satisfied with
this answer.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">These many years
later I can’t find the letter, but I read and reread it many times. I remember
it was handwritten and went something like this.</p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 9.0pt;"><i>Dear Claire, </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 9.0pt;"><i>Thanks for sending letters now and
then. It’s nice to hear from someone who understands what I’m trying to get
across in my cartoons. You asked if we might get together so I could give you
pointers on how to get into the news business. Sure thing. Give me a call at
(phone number, long forgotten) and we’ll find a time to meet.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 9.0pt;"><i>Sincerely, Arvid Lundberg</i></p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 9.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p>He gave me his
phone number! He wanted to meet me! The next day I called the Chicago Herald
and felt very important asking the switchboard operator to put me through to
Mr. Arvid Lundberg. She asked about the nature of my call. I replied proudly,
“This is Claire LeBrint and Mr. Lundberg requested I call so we could discuss
jobs in journalism.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 4.5pt; tab-stops: 9.0pt;">Arvid seemed
pleased to get my call and asked a few questions: Where I worked. My answer: At
my dad’s print shop on LaSalle Street, across from the Chicago Board of Trade.
What was my job. My answer: Office work, girl Friday stuff. How did I like the
journalism classes, to which I gave a very short answer, “I liked them.” He
suggested that we meet after work, downtown. I answered formally, “Yes thank
you. I would greatly appreciate meeting you.” Arvid suggested we meet at
Eitel’s coffee shop in the Northwestern Train Station just west of the Chicago
River on Madison Avenue. The station was across from the Chicago Herald
building and not far from Pa’s print shop. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;"><i>**NOTE: These chapters are from my book now titled "</i>Twists and Turns: An Imagined Memoir based on the life of Claire LeBrint
Metzger 1914 – 2002."<i> Fictional Clara, the narrator, is 80 years old and is writing her memoir in the year 1994. Claire LeBrint Metzger, of blessed memory, is my Aunt Claire and I have been working on stories based on her life for almost 10 years. Finally all the stories are done and compiled in book form! I plan to publish "</i>Twists and Turns" <i>in paperback and Kindle versions sometime in 2024. Until then</i><i>, I'll post
excerpts from the book monthly on my blog. Enjoy!</i><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;"><i>To access all the stories I've written and posted on my blog about Claire/Clara, <a href="https://betsywblog.blogspot.com/search/label/Aunt%20Claire%27s%20stories" target="_blank">CLICK HERE</a></i></p>Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-59765767074004916132023-11-08T07:57:00.121-08:002023-11-09T06:41:53.235-08:00A Goofy Mistake Vermont 2023<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">It was Spring 2023 and I badly
needed to go on a vacation adventure, after the Covid enforced home-time and
several visits (as usual) to my sisters, Judy who lives in Baltimore and Sue
who lives in Los Angeles.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjY5RKxyOdsHsrzyVXrFjSDsooW1k4cIpCmK7d2VPIvcs81bcKx_obdUmE3DJ-Ojg-XjD3z9DEaDlzgUo4mpJbZYEj_BuIHYrdb9aebd5fQi5RM9HQ9CAS9xUNO3hufM3P1oTfjLkXF9-GIuybSxPuSEBZJvoFIZ_kwWqz70mNxw2dmsSvaJheZYZDnjfLB" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="757" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjY5RKxyOdsHsrzyVXrFjSDsooW1k4cIpCmK7d2VPIvcs81bcKx_obdUmE3DJ-Ojg-XjD3z9DEaDlzgUo4mpJbZYEj_BuIHYrdb9aebd5fQi5RM9HQ9CAS9xUNO3hufM3P1oTfjLkXF9-GIuybSxPuSEBZJvoFIZ_kwWqz70mNxw2dmsSvaJheZYZDnjfLB" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">On the Road Scholar website I found the trip, “Wildlife, Walking & Hiking in the Green
Mountain State," </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 15.3333px;">scheduled for October. Lo</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">oking at the photo next to the trip description, I thought </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">October in Vermont, trees changing colors, what a perfect 2023 adventure. </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Home base, where we adventurers would stay, was the Gray Ghost Inn in West Dover. Vermont. The best way to get there from Chicago (other than driving) was to fly into the Albany New York
Airport (ALB), which was 90 miles from Gray Ghost. Road Scholar recommended the Dover
Valley Cab company for transportation to and from ALB. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> When I called Valley Cab, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Chris the driver/owner confirmed that he
could pick me at ALB, drive me to West Dover, and take me back at the end of
the trip on October 19.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">On October 14, the
first day of my Green Mountain adventure, I texted Chris to confirm my arrival
time. He responded that he would be driving a black “gangster car,” and asked
that I text him after I got to ALB. That I did and Chris showed up about ten
minutes later, in a large black SUV with tinted windows and his company name
tastefully displayed on the passenger side. Off we went to the Gray Ghost Inn.
We chatted some and the two-hour travel time went by pleasantly. When we
crossed the boundary from New York State into Vermont, most trees had lost
their leaves! And the colors on the remaining trees were muted. I was mildly
disappointed, but Chris explained that the leaves had turned a few weeks
before, due to a very rainy summer and fall.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">The Gray Ghost Inn
did not disappoint. The sprawling inn with a wide front porch was painted a bright yellow. Inside was a welcoming entrance area, with comfy chairs and a smiling innkeeper, who introduced herself as Cary and greeted me warmly. I looked forward to our 6:30pm Road Scholar get-to-know-you social
hour followed by dinner. But when I gave Cary my name and asked to register for the Road Scholar trip, she said
that it wasn’t scheduled to start until October 15, and she didn't have a spare room for me that evening . . . and I
wasn’t on the list of Road Scholar attendees for the program starting the next day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Uh-Oh what was I
to do?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Cary found me a room
at the Big Bears Lodge, a half mile down the road and called Chris, who came
back quickly and drove me the short distance to the Lodge. After I got settled,
I looked at the Road Scholar itinerary that I had printed from the computer. It
listed activities for Day 1, Day 2, through Day 6, but I couldn’t find the
start and end dates listed anywhere. I signed into my Road Scholar online account
and under upcoming trips, there it was “Your departure to Vermont <b style="text-decoration-line: underline;">is in a
year</b>” and as clear as could be the dates for <i>my trip</i> Oct 14 to Oct
19, <i><u><b>2024.</b><o:p></o:p></u></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"><i><u><b></b></u></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><u><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZYpIy2EsXWYK4iTlNhD7voJwxjGq1igI7XtMgposfFJj9jzpTcduXUl4Us7CAI6v7tpUXNyWz_tZOp92xHirTfNegXs5muKHf13fqmxsR6i5Nl-1tBXbSTpTxLksPOGFUFxQxY079KcaaU57145GrOLgrsipZy5MGZtEV269gs1ZO2uXonmXoEfcA6nzx" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="232" data-original-width="975" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZYpIy2EsXWYK4iTlNhD7voJwxjGq1igI7XtMgposfFJj9jzpTcduXUl4Us7CAI6v7tpUXNyWz_tZOp92xHirTfNegXs5muKHf13fqmxsR6i5Nl-1tBXbSTpTxLksPOGFUFxQxY079KcaaU57145GrOLgrsipZy5MGZtEV269gs1ZO2uXonmXoEfcA6nzx=w640-h152" width="640" /></a></b></u></i></div><i><u><b><br /></b></u></i><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Oy. Not only did I
arrive on the wrong day, I arrived in the wrong year!</span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">After some panicky
thoughts, I called Cary and told her about my problem. She said she would
contact the Road Scholar Coordinator and see if they could get me into
the 2023 group starting the next day, Sunday October 15. I called my sisters,
each in turn, and wailed away. They listened and that helped a little bit. But
what helped even more was Cary's call back when she told me that I could be
added to the 2023 group and she would have a room at Gray Ghost for me on the
next day, Sunday.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">What a relief! </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">and I wrote in my
journal:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">“A big mix-up on
my part – I signed up for 2024 and here I am in Vermont but mostly it’s fixed
and I won’t miss any hikes or walks. Just a half day walking around West Dover
on Thursday afternoon and a farewell dinner that night (the 19<sup>th)</sup> and
breakfast (the 20<sup>th</sup>).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Sunday around
noon, I got a ride to Gray Ghost from the Road Scholar Coordinator Carina. I registered
with Cary, and got settled in my room. I was tired from my previous day’s
excitement, took a nap and then went down to the common living room. The rest
of the group started trickling in and as we got to know each other, it seemed that
I was the only one there for the walking/hiking trip; the other folks I met had
come for a week of Bridge. I figured there were two groups and asked Carina how many were signed up for Walking/Hiking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">“Oh no,” she said,
“This week is for Bridge-players only. You can stay and join them and we’ll work out a way to have the money you paid for your 2024 trip cover the cost. I’m sorry to
tell you that you missed the Walking/Hiking group by a few weeks. They were
here earlier in October.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">No no no!. How
could this be? I’m not a bridge player and even if I was, I didn’t come to
beautiful Vermont to sit inside for six days.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">“It’s not an
option for me,” I replied. In a kind gentle manner, Carina advised me to make
arrangements to fly home the next day. I got on it quickly and fortunately,
when I called United Airlines and pressed the number that the automated voice
told me to press for transfers and cancellations, I got a <i>real person </i>who
assured me that he would stay on the phone with me until my transaction was
completed. Twenty minutes later, for the cost of $377, I received an email
confirmation for my flight home on October 16 at 5pm. I called Chris and
he was available to take me back to ALB in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">What a relief, but
not really, </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">as
I wrote in my journal:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">“I want to be
home. I don’t like all these complications but at least I get a little bit of
the Road Scholar experience. But what about dinner today and breakfast
tomorrow? And what will the Bridge people think of me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Cary, bless her
heart, invited me to join the Bridge players for dinner that evening and for breakfast
the next day. At dinner I sat with a very nice group, and explained my
situation. A few suggested I consider staying for the week. I politely
declined. After dinner, they went off for their first evening of Bridge and I went
off to bed. At breakfast the next morning, when I once again explained why I
was there and why I was leaving, Bruce, a Bridge-playing breakfast companion, said,
“Betsy you just made a goofy mistake.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">A goofy mistake.
Such a nice way of looking at this experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And on the plus side (and I always look for the positive in situations),
I fell in love with Vermont and the Gray Ghost Inn, and I still have my 2024
Wildlife, Walking /Hiking trip to look forward to. Another positive: though it was
too late to see the trees changing colors during my short stay in Vermont, the
trees in Chicago started changing colors just as I got back. This year, they
were glorious, as was the weather in the days after I got back, and I was able
to get in some walking and hiking in Autumn 2023 here at
home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; tab-stops: 305.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">However, positive
spin or not, I’m sad and disappointed about my mistake, and there now is one
more thing my 79-year-old brain has to watch out for and double and triple
check -- dates of upcoming trips. That is of course, in addition to trying to
remember where I put my glasses and keys in my small one-bedroom condo, and
confirming several times over dates and times of zoom gatherings I sign up for
and these days, the many IRL (in real life) activities I am delighted to be
able to I enjoy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-27598445576645046782023-01-20T08:17:00.008-08:002023-01-24T06:49:50.777-08:00The Best Advice: CALM DOWN PATSY<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggiU8RHRz5jyvXTpS24NIF3iyTVu1tBRx380b56hQoFaWsC3ifyvWUN0QFP5NpV3rDZrlMqbgMQNz3Da9ebg81GVoFlALi2usLelHvzbz8kcipGfdEh5ndO3jlM04N16UuQlLdvnNQHORo4UzwhVMdfUenxQMntPwVKdZE6rWXIAAIvCBEBoi0lb6sIQ/s1963/street%20of%20by-and-by%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1963" data-original-width="1664" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggiU8RHRz5jyvXTpS24NIF3iyTVu1tBRx380b56hQoFaWsC3ifyvWUN0QFP5NpV3rDZrlMqbgMQNz3Da9ebg81GVoFlALi2usLelHvzbz8kcipGfdEh5ndO3jlM04N16UuQlLdvnNQHORo4UzwhVMdfUenxQMntPwVKdZE6rWXIAAIvCBEBoi0lb6sIQ/s320/street%20of%20by-and-by%20001.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>FROM MY MOTHER:</b></span></span><b style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> </b>Mom had a small 4” x 6” picture frame that contained a colored poster with the words “By the street of by-and-by one arrives at the house of never.” After mom's death, I got the framed poster and for years it had a prominent place among family pictures on a shelf in my house.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>These were words Mom and I took to heart and most times whatever we were thinking of doing, we would “Do it now” and not procrastinate. Good advice for me for many years.</p><p class="MsoNormal">But... now that I'm old and tired more often, I'm OK with putting things off. And sometimes I get to them and other times not. This is true even though I know my days are numbered and I know that if I don't do :whatever" now, it may never get done. I'm OK with that too.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvFYml51L6CRIwfkiFIo8zI4ZSyE5lWj7ZheIfDaT0ZE4qbkZatNijL0egfyClXZjBQnU_JGQ7i9G6H_YezQg02vgGPeQLzjEb2NI35lGeCy1LCBPZcTylC_zkygEEI4uCjbrnuk7lO0jHc7rAILa_SGgDA8apUPdEvWZ6mQ6-sQX6M-pNVHt3N8HzGw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="298" data-original-width="322" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvFYml51L6CRIwfkiFIo8zI4ZSyE5lWj7ZheIfDaT0ZE4qbkZatNijL0egfyClXZjBQnU_JGQ7i9G6H_YezQg02vgGPeQLzjEb2NI35lGeCy1LCBPZcTylC_zkygEEI4uCjbrnuk7lO0jHc7rAILa_SGgDA8apUPdEvWZ6mQ6-sQX6M-pNVHt3N8HzGw=w200-h186" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>FROM MY FATHER: </b></span>Dad carried a small silver triangle with the words “This too
shall pass” in his pocket for as long as I could remember. I don’t know what
happened to the pocket piece but during his life, Dad showed it to me frequently.</p><p class="MsoNormal">These were not words for me to
live by. Not at all. Never. I was born in 1944 and all my thinking life I knew
about the Holocaust and about the Jews and others who were rounded up by
Nazis and Jew-haters and for them the horrors <i>would not pass. </i>Their inevitable end was death.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>So much for Dad’s advice.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>However, I recently heard a Rabbi tell this story that involved Dad’s favorite saying. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>A powerful king asks his assembled wise men to find
something that will make a happy person sad and a sad person happy. The wise
men traveled the country far and wide. Finally, one came upon a peasant who told
him to return to the king with these few words: “This too shall pass,” meaning
when you are feeling happy or experiencing happy times, know it won’t last, and
conversely when you are feeling sad or experiencing sad times know that also
won’t last.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>“This too shall pass” is true under normal circumstances.
But under major terrible irreversible circumstances, these words were and still are useless as words to live by.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Curiously Mom and Dad's favorite words to live by are opposite. From Dad, "Just wait it out, whatever bad circumstances happen. Things will change." From Mom, "Get going. Time is passing. Don't wait. If you don't do it now, you may never do it and you'll be sorry." But most curious of all, the best advice for me today came
from an unusual source many years ago.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh33iiEYBp06COz8vr1sbeZRCY7UrYB_vx6moE9lHIIlhwNKgtcpffJZz1ps50jPn3ozTHpSERIabwWJKYPF5CwgpgAZzt19k4gsoaG0nnPAaytNZ7ad_TU7H8LJZLqapw88H1voXop-9B-xCbuaDokbrEQbaqybVInncr7LZG65tJfjxGF94fn5HlNzg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img data-original-height="204" data-original-width="225" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh33iiEYBp06COz8vr1sbeZRCY7UrYB_vx6moE9lHIIlhwNKgtcpffJZz1ps50jPn3ozTHpSERIabwWJKYPF5CwgpgAZzt19k4gsoaG0nnPAaytNZ7ad_TU7H8LJZLqapw88H1voXop-9B-xCbuaDokbrEQbaqybVInncr7LZG65tJfjxGF94fn5HlNzg=w200-h181" width="200" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">THE BEST ADVICE </span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">FROM 4-YEAR-OLD MARGRETTA</span></b></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">About forty years ago, my partner Cheryl and I were at
dinner at the home of friends who had a four-year-old daughter named Margretta. </p><p class="MsoNormal">The conversation was lively. All four of us were talking
about this and that and suddenly Margretta interrupted us saying loudly and as
forcefully as an insistent four-year-old can “CALM DOWN PATSY!” We looked at
her and looked at each other and didn’t understand what she meant, so we continued
talking. Again, Margretta said even more loudly “CALM DOWN PATSY!!” This time
we stopped talking and all of a sudden it came to me that she was addressing
me, meaning to say <i>to me:</i> “CALM DOWN
BETSY!”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I have been known to talk loudly and insistently and
must have been annoying Margretta big time. I shared my insight with Cheryl
and Margretta’s parents and we had a good laugh. Over the years I’ve told this
story many times.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>But why, you might ask, today would I identify Margretta’s
directive from so many years ago as the best advice? Today at age 78, if
I do things that take too much energy, if I walk too fast for example, or try to
do too many things at once, or maybe get too excited about this or that, I get
out of breath and my heart feels like it is beating too hard. When this
happens, I say to myself “Calm down Patsy” which amuses me greatly and reminds
me that I must slow down and remember to breath. </p><p class="MsoNormal">If I can, I will stop
what I'm doing and sit down for a while and breathe, just breathe until I --
“PATSY” -- am able to calm down and resume what I was doing at a more reasonable pace. And I send thankful thoughts to forty-plus year old Margretta wherever she may be.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-11605115293149636622022-04-09T08:14:00.004-07:002022-04-10T11:23:54.217-07:00Clara Stories: 1937 War Postcards from My Spanish pen-pal Jesus*<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">My correspondence (since 1931) with my Spanish
pen-pal Jesus was interrupted by the Spanish Civil War which started in July 1936. Thou</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">gh there were no
letters from Jesus that year, I continued to write to him infrequently. I hoped
to hear back even though I understood that the war slowed down (or stopped)
mail between America and Spain. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Then
one fateful day in 1937, a postcard arrived. Today, many years later, I I'm looking at the
postcard dated May 1937. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3aqnjFcaVXbnwHIenOWGX3gzqGeQsr4Yt_2gRbJHszP20Zm62qO2dkfM8vD3yWnfytaQb1ReDK1W7aLoqqpMFSE_AXs1V280OfpGWMEQFUU39u1lAJal9jyzwm7IJ0PycIhNeYI4Uf9MvXR7Um7iAAizcccEUvoitag1RVcPB2bMflvte2a5WxwC2A/s1748/Trajeta%20postal%20de%20compana%20May%201937%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1748" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3aqnjFcaVXbnwHIenOWGX3gzqGeQsr4Yt_2gRbJHszP20Zm62qO2dkfM8vD3yWnfytaQb1ReDK1W7aLoqqpMFSE_AXs1V280OfpGWMEQFUU39u1lAJal9jyzwm7IJ0PycIhNeYI4Uf9MvXR7Um7iAAizcccEUvoitag1RVcPB2bMflvte2a5WxwC2A/s320/Trajeta%20postal%20de%20compana%20May%201937%20001.jpg" width="176" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I see its provocative drawing of a red hood (which looks a lot like a white
KKK hood) plus a flag displaying the Communist Hammer and Sickle, the encounter
between me and Ma comes back in vivid detail.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ma
and Pa were immigrants from Russia. Ma came to America in 1905, from a small
town near Odessa in the Ukraine. Ma
was sent here by her mother to get her away from the frequent and ferocious
pogroms against the Jews. For Ma anything and anyone Russian (except Jews from
Russia) was bad and dangerous to our well being. She despised the Soviet Union (which included the Ukraine) and by extension Communism. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Pa was from the cosmopolitan
city of Kishinev, Bessarabia Russia, and like many young men at the time he had
been conscripted into the Tsar’s army for fifteen years of service. By 1907, Ma and her American cousins in Chicago (on her mother’s side) raised enough money
to pay the required ‘”ransom” to get Pa out of the army and bring him to the
U.S. This arrangement was contingent on his agreeing to marry Ma, </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> his </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">first cousin (on their father’s side). Before
Pa’s conscription, he had been active in one of the many Jewish Socialist
organizations in Kishinev. Pa was sympathetic to Communism, and after the fall
of Imperial Russia, he hoped that the Soviet Union’s noble experiment with
Communism would make a better life for all who lived there.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Pa wasn’t alone in his
sympathies. In the 1920’s and 1930’s there was a strong Socialist movement in
the U.S. and a smaller but devoted membership in CPUSA (Communist Party USA).
Also, some Americans, including my sister Rose and her husband Len, supported
the Republicans (“Reds”) during the Spanish Civil War. Support for Socialism
and Communism all but disappeared in the U.S. when the world learned of
Stalin’s ruthless totalitarian rule and when the Red-scare perpetrated by
McCarthy happened in the 1950s.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The
red postcard arrived during the day while I was at work, and Ma saw it first.
When I got home that evening, she was at the door waving the postcard at me,
yelling, “Clara, Clara why are you making </span><i style="font-size: 10pt;">tsuris
</i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">for our family by still writing to </span><i style="font-size: 10pt;">that
man, that</i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><i style="font-size: 10pt;">goy</i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> who I see now is a
Communist and a Russian sympathizer?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I
grabbed the postcard from Ma, excited to get something from Jesus, but like Ma
I was shocked by the drawing. I knew that <i>Trajeta
Postal de Campa </i>translated to “Campaign Postcard.” On the back of the
postcard there was a pre-printed section on the top which started <i>Condiciones Para Ganar La Guerra, “</i>Conditions
to Win the War” and ended: <i>Del </i></span><i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Manifesto del
C.C. del Partido Comunista, “</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Of the
Manifesto of the Central Committee of the Communist Party.” I’m sure that Ma
looking at the postcard knew what Jesus was mixed up in, what with the Hammer
and Sickle on the front and <i>Manifesto</i>!
<i>Partido Comunista</i>! on the back.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Ma was pacing back and forth and said in a
trembling voice, “Wait til Pa comes home and we will put a stop to this thing
you have with </span><i style="font-size: 10pt;">that man</i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">. You told me
you were no longer writing to him and now, he writes about being a Communist.
You must burn this postcard. It’s </span><i style="font-size: 10pt;">gerferlekt</i><span style="font-size: 10pt;">
(dangerous) for us to have it.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I snuck a quick look at what
Jesus wrote. His brief message contained the usual chiding and questions and
reminders: “I haven’t heard from you lately… Write soon… How is your writing
going? Send me something of your work…” Nothing about the war. But there was a
censor’s stamp on the front of the postcard, so all he could write was pleasant
innocuous things.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Pa came home, late as usual.
He worked long hours at The Central Press which was located near the Chicago
Stock Exchange. During the Depression, especially after Franklin Roosevelt
became president, Pa and his Swedish-American business partner LeRoy Dickenson
got lots of work from stock brokers. Then as now, except at the beginning of
the Depression stock brokers make out like gang-busters. I wish I had been
more of a risk taker and had invested in the stock market during my lifetime. I
could have made out like gang-busters too, or I could have lost my small
financial nest egg. Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Water over the dam, as they say
and in the 1930’s I was glad to be working, contributing to the family’s
finances, with a little money left over to buy a pretty dress now and then and
to pay for my evening journalism classes at Northwestern.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Ma gave the postcard to Pa
and shared her fears about Jesus, not ever calling him by his name. Pa looked
at it carefully, quietly. Pa was always quiet when Ma began ranting. He was
mild-mannered by nature and kept his opinions, this time about the Soviet Union
and Communism, to himself.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">As always Ma’s word – along
with Pa’s silent assent – was final in our house. Like Pa, I stayed quiet. But
I continued to write to Jesus. Our correspondence made my life interesting and
his flattery and support of my writing nourished my spirit. And I was intensely curious to learn more of his experience in the Spanish War.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Perle, who was four years my
junior, listened to Ma’s ranting from her room. Perle was quiet like Pa and often
stayed out of sight. Perle was about to graduate high school and would be
helping Ma around the house during the summer. She never went against Ma
directly, but agreed to be my co-conspirator and intercept any additional mail
from Jesus.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">One month later a second
postcard arrived. Perle set it safely aside for me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2HUSKeEkmmXkxhXbaTFLsbZ_eDTRYG4UPsMCNTAS2npRI8j7SX8fbw3Cdrj-N7ZtzjgRDl1fESwsxPAipgI8JHscFMwPe0KiQUqzcgLjqUYHYhMhFPVbJN5_4mEoa4yPs7Z_SwFelFNAo1YmP247SFLOTf_6cj2CRChRXvtin1MK_WjIyt40R6oR7g/s1823/Trajeta%20postal%20de%20compana%20June%201937%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1823" data-original-width="1008" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY2HUSKeEkmmXkxhXbaTFLsbZ_eDTRYG4UPsMCNTAS2npRI8j7SX8fbw3Cdrj-N7ZtzjgRDl1fESwsxPAipgI8JHscFMwPe0KiQUqzcgLjqUYHYhMhFPVbJN5_4mEoa4yPs7Z_SwFelFNAo1YmP247SFLOTf_6cj2CRChRXvtin1MK_WjIyt40R6oR7g/s320/Trajeta%20postal%20de%20compana%20June%201937%20001.jpg" width="177" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 10pt;">This postcard was dated June
19, 1937 and I am surprised that what Jesus wrote about the war got past the
censors.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Esteemed
friend Clara: Taking advantage of a forced rest by means of an inopportune gunshot
wound to my arm, I hasten to reply to your letter. I don't ask that you pardon
my tardiness since you will understand the circumstances we Spaniards find
ourselves in, and I do hope you will not blame me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">You
needn't be distressed for the fact that it takes me longer to respond to your
letters than I </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">would
like, but given that, don't cease sending me letters which I await anxiously.
As regards my being able to write to you, now I must limit myself to a brief
reply as they need to use the typewriter.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Continue
sending your letters to my house [in Madrid] as that is how I have been
receiving them in the past. I will always appreciate you. Jesus</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I pardoned his tardiness, but
was distressed about his “inopportune gunshot wound.” I have no other letters
or postcards Jesus might have sent during the Spanish Civil War. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>*Note: This is an excerpt from the book in process </i>Clara's Stories: An Imagined Memoir Inspired by the Life of Claire LeBrint Metzger. <i>Fictional Clara is writing her memoir at age 80 in the year 1994. The real Claire LeBrint Metzger was born in 1914 and died in 2002, and was the beloved Aunt of Betsy Fuchs.</i></span></p>Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-55642411374595644712021-09-29T11:36:00.007-07:002022-04-22T07:35:30.482-07:00Rose "Fewkes," Leonard "Fooks" and me<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYD-UEwXF8din1t_z92y727HVJpTczPPNy5AwMQuLHbiXRwD6z37zuWcHTORGS1FJobnzRbjV074jXcyVWb14DIohkjSo9Px7tIGV-dPj_dYJ8vvZ2x5Ebc4V4hsGWf5qLXRH9uv2MUU6V/s1236/Rose+and+Len+Banff+001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="1024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYD-UEwXF8din1t_z92y727HVJpTczPPNy5AwMQuLHbiXRwD6z37zuWcHTORGS1FJobnzRbjV074jXcyVWb14DIohkjSo9Px7tIGV-dPj_dYJ8vvZ2x5Ebc4V4hsGWf5qLXRH9uv2MUU6V/s320/Rose+and+Len+Banff+001.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My mother and father, of blessed memory, couldn't agree on how to pronounce their last name. I</span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">t is spelled F-U-C-H-S. Mom called herself Rose </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Fewkes </i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">and Dad called himself Leonard </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Fooks</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">. I pronounce our last name <i>Fewkes</i>.</span></div></div><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">One year while attending services at Beth Emet Synagogue (Evanston, IL), I announced that I was saying </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;">kaddish</i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> for my father
Leonard <i>Fooks</i>. Bekki Kaplan, Beth Emet’s Executive Director, apologized to me,
“I’m so sorry I’ve been saying your last name wrong all these years.” “Nope” I
replied. “That’s how he pronounced it, so that’s how we pronounced his last name.”</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My parents agreed to disagree
about their last name. No problem there. But not on political issues. Dad was
the rational one who could marshal arguments based on facts he got from Time
Magazine and from the Chicago daily newspapers. Mom was the opposite. Not
irrational rather she formed her opinions based on her heart and her life
experiences. Dad vocally and angrily tried to get Mom to buy his arguments. Mom
let him know that her views stood and his well-formed arguments didn’t convince
her to change her way of thinking. Here’s one example of how their differences
played out: Mom voted for the “senior” Mayor Richard J. Daley because he was
personable, and she felt he took care of Chicagoans, like he was our benevolent uncle. Sometime
during Richard J’s six terms in office, Dad ran for Alderman of Chicago’s 39</span><sup style="text-indent: 0.5in;">th</sup><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">
ward as an Independent candidate in opposition to Daley’s Democratic machine. (Dad lost, of course.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">What
about me? I learned from listening to their different views on politics that there
was validity on both sides. The senior Mayor Daley was personable and took care
of us White folks in Chicago, but Daley supported policies that kept our city
segregated, kept services unequal and kept patronage strong. Still… the city
functioned.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">For better or worse I see both
sides of the political divide, even today. I know that many Trump supporters
and anti-vaxxers are ill-informed about some things; you may think about all
things. But they are not stupid and I would never call them “a basket of deplorables,”
as Hillary Clinton did. They are our fellow citizens and I believe that many of them
have been hurting financially and have been scared for a long time. I believe
that like you and like me, they want to ensure that their children will succeed
financially and be able to afford a car, a house, and to have children of their
own.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">And I contend that many Americans believe the government doesn’t have their best interests
at heart. Case in point, Congressmen and women who have good insurance, good
pensions, etc. etc. and large “war” chests that keep them getting re-elected. Another
case in point: who in their right mind understands why our so-called great
democracy has the president chosen by electors, not by the popular vote?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Ask me in person to share my political
views, or expect me to join you in your strong and vehement criticism of <i>those others</i> and I often I keep quiet. I don't want to debate you. I have my reasons for not getting involved in the discussions of who is right and who is wrong on major issues of today. Some are rational, Some are based on my heart and life experiences. But writing safely on </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">my blog, I can tell you that my way of thinking, seeing both sides, is still with me even though it’s shaky these days </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">-- what with the Covid Delta variant and
especially since the Supreme Court decision on September 20, 2021 to not hear
the Texas Roe v. Wade case.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Mom called herself <i>Fewkes</i>. Dad
called himself <i>Fooks</i>. They were OK with that difference. But how I wish they had learned to accept each other’s
views, or at least listen respectfully.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">That’s what I try to do.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b>About the photograph of my parents:</b> As they grew older, they lost interest in their political disagreements, and instead were in total agreement about the national and international places they wanted to visit, including to Banff National Park, Canada in 1981.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-42013261645597887062021-06-10T05:28:00.016-07:002022-04-22T07:35:59.545-07:00Talking Back to Myself: How I Learned to Sail and Soar <p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5P89qxb1iokDAEFVQRmpnnlVy51nP-D98Z9OGdlFu4Ra8396IWAYBoMnjeyM2-W1-Wj4HRUkEXKbk3aQZ8zliOm3jZG6ynF2dWFnZvRXXix94VQ5hMAMfCH-QMiMenxeK2m08lJmUP7_/s2048/Heleda.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1443" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY5P89qxb1iokDAEFVQRmpnnlVy51nP-D98Z9OGdlFu4Ra8396IWAYBoMnjeyM2-W1-Wj4HRUkEXKbk3aQZ8zliOm3jZG6ynF2dWFnZvRXXix94VQ5hMAMfCH-QMiMenxeK2m08lJmUP7_/w226-h320/Heleda.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">My dad sailed with his pals on Lake Michigan in the 1930s. I have the photos to prove it. </span><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I inherited his love for sailing and at ten years old, I was sailing alone / on
my own in a small 13-foot sail boat. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My dad taught me during
the summers we spent at Cross Lake just north of Antioch, Illinois. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">He was a
good teacher and the lake was little, but always he or my mom would be on the
shore watching out for me. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I loved being
on my own on the water, gliding along quietly, sailing and soaring with the
wind.</span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">After I graduated college, at the age of
twenty-two, I defied my parent and went solo to San Frsancisco to live and work,
most likely inspired by the song <i>California Dreaming</i> – that was all I knew
about that beautiful city. While there I sailed on Lake Merced in a one person
Sunfish and also sailed a few times on the San Francisco Bay with a youth hostel group. At the end of one year, I returned to Chicago to find a mate, get married
and become a responsible adult.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Soon enough I married a fellow Chicagoan
and we settled down. Now and then I’d meet someone who had been sailing on Lake
Michigan, but in a strident internal voice, I told myself, </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Your time for solo adventures is over, </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">and added apologetically, <i>Sorry. Y</i></span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">ou can’t go sailing. </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I never questioned the voice. I wanted to be a
“good wife,” in the best early 1970s sense: putting my husband’s wants and needs
first, internalizing his unspoken message “You can’t go off on a solo adventure;
it is would put our marriage in jeopardy.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The marriage didn’t last and in the 1980’s
I fell in love with a woman. We would have married if it had been legal. Still
I wanted to be a good partner to Katy, wanted to please and support her, and my
inner voice continued to warn me not to go on solo adventures. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Except once when against her expressed displeasure</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px;">,</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I got up
at the ungodly hour of 5am to take Tai Chi classes at the lake. My
little assertion of independence felt like rebellion. You might be asking:
wasn’t I already a feminist and rebellious, living with my ladylove? Bravery
takes many forms and it took all the courage I could muster to take the classes, going against what I perceived as Katy's wishes. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Katy and I were no longer together when I
found information about Brooke Medicine Eagle’s “Singing the Sacred” camps in
Montana. Attendance at the camps promised excitement, enchantment, a real
adventure. Still my inner voice said, </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">No. You can’t go. </i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">This time I talked back, </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Yes you can. You can go to this camp, on your
own / alone. Remember, you did things like this years ago and you can do it
now.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Twenty-two women attended the camp. We
slept in tents and each day we were awakened by a camper who drummed outside our
tents and sang:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 0in 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Waken, Oh awaken,
from your dreaming, birds are singing in the tree-tops…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; margin: 6pt 0in 0in 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Waken, Oh awaken,
something’s coming, something beautiful for you…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Our days were beautiful, full of singing
and chanting, while we walked to our meals, when we were outside, on rainy days sitting in a circle in a Yurt, and once in a deep dark cave where
our songs echoed against the walls and ceiling. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Sometimes we would sit in the tall grass and drum and sing for hours. In this photo I'm on the far right, playing on a big drum, with a short hair and sun glasses. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Other times </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Brooke would share Native American teachings with us. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtbwFYzi4Eh821q9rc5q9k0iYNgUD92cB9eqnY6f-mzHDfDRxXlzDFMcPysQq2zEjamXptgiUOq_vOpwrBtO49lQQAOy_4XIlWW9eEDSZa_ufkeaKq0QENi-6zIhm59UZoHlgOv5oVMtmk/s740/montana2.png" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="740" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtbwFYzi4Eh821q9rc5q9k0iYNgUD92cB9eqnY6f-mzHDfDRxXlzDFMcPysQq2zEjamXptgiUOq_vOpwrBtO49lQQAOy_4XIlWW9eEDSZa_ufkeaKq0QENi-6zIhm59UZoHlgOv5oVMtmk/s320/montana2.png" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt; text-align: left;"></p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Before camp ended, Brooke gave each of us
a name to reflect our new selves. Mine was “Soars with the Drum Call.” Brook
explained that I could “soar” beyond my life as it had been and the drum call would
remind me to listen to my own heartbeat, to my own true self.</span></span><p></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The name might have been inspired by our
horseback riding experience. I had shared with the group my life-long fear of
horses which went back to a summer at Cross Lake. I was nine or ten years old,
small and short for my age. I had been lifted onto the back of a horse which seemed
very high up and very scary. Right away, I asked to be taken off. My friends
spent the afternoon horseback riding, while I waited in the car.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My camp sisters encouraged me to </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">get back on the horse.</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I was still short
and small; the horse was big and most likely someone had to help me get on up on the horse. I was uncomfortable in the saddle but it
was lots of fun.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I got back on a horse in Montana. It was
time to get back in a sailboat in Chicago. This time my inner voice said
joyfully, </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Yes you can. You can go
sailing.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I signed up for lessons at Burnham Harbor,
just south of downtown Chicago. We would learn to crew with others, sailing on
a 25/30 foot boat. Signing up for the lessons was easy.
Getting to the lessons was hard. My inner self was freaking out, </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">How will I find Burnham Harbor? Where will I
park when I get there? I’ll get lost and be late and they will sail without me.</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
I left home early, found the harbor easily in plenty of time for our first on-shore
class.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I continued to freak out, worrying,
</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Will I ever learn what to call things on
the boat? Will I be able to tie the
knots? I can’t tell which way the wind
is blowing. Will I be kicked out of
class? I’m 55 years old and stupid compared to the youngsters in my class.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I hadn’t even gotten on the boat yet!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Over the course of the eight-week class, I
learned some of sailing terms. I never learned how to tie knots and was never
able to identify which way the wind was blowing but they let me on the boat
anyway. The teachers were at once patient and impatient and never kicked me off
the boats. And I learned to sail! Actually what I learned was to be part of the
crew.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The next summer, I took more sailing
lessons and got a little better at crewing and took part in some evening races
on Lake Michigan.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We never won a race,
but it didn’t matter. We sailed at sunset; all the boats had colorful spinnaker
sails ballooning out, catching the wind, sparkling in the late afternoon golden
sunlight. We were sailing. Soaring. I was in heaven! Later that same summer, I
took private lessons on a Sunfish in Wilmette Harbor. During my fourth lesson, I
sailed by myself, with the instructor nearby. But I was alone / on my own. Loving
it!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I stopped sailing because of health
problems, but kept soaring. In 2001 I went on my first trip out of the country by
myself, to a Yoga retreat in Cancun, Mexico.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">While there, I wrote in my journal: “Action starts with bravery. Bravery
for me at this time is traveling to a new country by myself.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’m scared but I do it.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 6pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I'm 77 years old now. And my heart beats steadily for which I am most grateful. And my inner voice still speaks to me, these days softly and graciously saying, <i>At your age it's perfectly ok to stroll along the lake front with friends and enjoy watching the sail boats. </i></span></p></div>Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-58496019098741309252020-08-09T16:55:00.002-07:002022-01-04T16:00:20.695-08:00Clara's Stories: 1913-21 Early Memories of My Siblings*<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUIP3m652WBhbxYc-X1wfRa6b60nbDZcvmWJVaUeXKjJhSL28AfxR-ph2zIZ8cz3XCLq7YNlmzYjEcyWZKysD9xRbvvUnvwcldgghJGihWS2zTjaamTMI33imFXjVio9H89zx8glL4oCB/s1600/Lebrint+4+children.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUIP3m652WBhbxYc-X1wfRa6b60nbDZcvmWJVaUeXKjJhSL28AfxR-ph2zIZ8cz3XCLq7YNlmzYjEcyWZKysD9xRbvvUnvwcldgghJGihWS2zTjaamTMI33imFXjVio9H89zx8glL4oCB/s320/Lebrint+4+children.jpg" width="234" /></a> </div>
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In the early decades
of the twentieth century, some professional photographers traveled the
neighborhoods, bringing ponies to fancy up the pictures. Families paid extra to
show off the kids on and around the pony. “What a photo to send back to the
family in the <i>old country,” </i>my mother
would say, adding “Won’t they be impressed!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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After our family got
a Kodak camera in 1924, we took our own photos, at home, at Lake Michigan,
anywhere and everywhere. But before then on a few rare occasions, we had formal
photographs taken by a professional photographer. In one, I’m sitting happily
on a pony with a tooth gapped-grin on my face, wearing a long-sleeved slightly oversized
white dress with a peter pan collar. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0in;">
In front of me and
the pony, my older brother George stands, wearing a white shirt, dark colored knickers
and athletic shoes. Next to George are my “twin” older sisters Mary and Rose.
They weren’t twins, but that’s what I called them. They were one year and a few
months apart in age and different in stature and looks, but like twins they
lived in their own shared world, to the exclusion of everyone else, especially me.
The photo isn’t dated but I would guess I was 3 1/2, George 5, Rose, 6 1/2 and
Mary 8. The twins are both in white knee length dresses, with white stockings
and they are holding hands. Around the
same time, the twins, at the insistence of our fully Americanized same-age
cousins, learned how to stop speaking English in a Yiddish sing-song kind of
way. And the cousins taught them how to dress properly for school, in bright
white starched and ironed blouses, clean pressed skirts, with their shoes
polished daily. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7hpqXMLGLTWW3Sw0yh2YTGZXHCfu18do7a2v7noLS3Ty8whb3307ie5vrXnBUT2QLDcdXdsC0idJrM2IJFgCIs-QBPkbCLVF11GOwg1gBYuW-0prkcctXqWd_CpVlVhXUrTb4qxbFE80/s1600/Rose+and+Mary+001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1575" data-original-width="872" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik7hpqXMLGLTWW3Sw0yh2YTGZXHCfu18do7a2v7noLS3Ty8whb3307ie5vrXnBUT2QLDcdXdsC0idJrM2IJFgCIs-QBPkbCLVF11GOwg1gBYuW-0prkcctXqWd_CpVlVhXUrTb4qxbFE80/s320/Rose+and+Mary+001.jpg" width="176" /></a></div>
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In another
professional photograph, taken before I was born, a very young Rose and Mary
stand side by side. Rose has a serious look on her face; Mary’s is more
quizzical. Rose is fair skinned favoring Father’s coloring and has a chubby
baby face and fat arms. Mary who is a bit taller than Rose is swarthy, taking
after Mother and if once she had baby fat, it’s gone. They are wearing not-quite-matching
white dresses that hang almost to their ankles and large white bows in their
hair. Most likely these dresses, and the ones we girls are wearing a few years
later in the pony picture, were bought to last through growth spurts and were
saved to wear only on special occasions. Mary and Rose have almost identical
brown leather high-top shoes and are holding little porcelain dolls, also
dressed in white. Just like the pony, these dolls must have belonged to the photographer.
At home all we had were Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls that Mother made out of old flour
sacks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0in;">
The twins got to
hold the dolls. I got to sit on the pony. Lucky me! Or maybe lucky them because
in 1921 Mary and Rose had a second professional photograph taken of the two of
them, dressed like twins in matching outfits, looking self-assured and a bit
smug, especially Rose with her head cocked to the side.</div>
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Neither George or
I, nor three-year-old Perle had our pictures taken professionally in 1921. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0in;">
The twins had each
other and I had George, who allowed me to tag along as soon as I could toddle
after him. And shortly after George went to full-day school at age six in 1918,
I had baby Perle who was born a few months later. From then on until I went to
full-time school in 1920, I had Perle to play with. When she was a baby, Mother
let me feed her and dress her and rock her and when she got a bit older, Perle
toddled around after me. Perle was so
much better than a borrowed porcelain doll or the home-made Raggedy Ann and
Andy dolls. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0in;">
So, in our family
among the siblings, Mary and Rose made a twosome. And for a time there was me
and George, then there was me and Perle. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 0in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thinking back to
this sibling configuration, I realize this is how we stayed into our adult
lives. Mary and Rose together, the married women with husbands and children.
George the only boy making his way on his own. And me and Perle, the two
unmarried spinsters palling around, that is until 1965 when Perle tragically
died too young at age 47 and 1967 when I finally married for the first and only
time at the ripe-old-age of 53. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: xx-small;">*</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><i>Note: This is another story from </i>C<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">lara’s Stories: An Imagined Memoir Inspired by the Life of Claire LeBrint Metzger. <i>At this time Clara's memoir i</i>s </span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><i>an on-going work in progress by Claire's niece Betsy Fuchs. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><i><br /></i></span></span><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13.2px;"></span>
<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt;">The Clara Stories are dedicated to</span></i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt;">Claire LeBrint Metzger, of blessed memory </span></i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.2px;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"></span></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt;">b 1914 - d 2002</span></i></div>
Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-88068149754337964342020-07-09T12:28:00.000-07:002020-07-11T07:36:14.087-07:00The Spaciousness of Books (in the time of Covid)<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Twenty-first century clutter traps me</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">fills my time and in a daze my days disappear<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">What with Facebook and Messenger and FaceTime, </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Twitter Email YouTube Wikipedia
Blogs Podcasts </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Texting Internet Research </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">and now due to Covid Zoom Gatherings and Facebook Events </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Twentieth century paper clutter is still around still abounds </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">mail delivered daily: donation pleas, advertising come-ons</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">-- tossed out<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">magazines mailed monthly: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">AARP</i>,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Consumer Reports</i> and more<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">-- kept in baskets <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">handouts printouts notes from classes, events,
workshops, all on Zoom!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">-- kept in files and piles </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">(like my emails, maybe to read or to need later)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Yet in my house there are books<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on shelves <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on tables <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on night-stands<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">many old </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">a few new<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">some purchased<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">-- before my library re-opened<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">now thankfully some from my library <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
some from friends <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-- cautiously carefully
borrowed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Books with their solid feel</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">and their sometimes temporary status<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I read them now</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">(unlike my Kindle long gone, its electronic books unread)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Books in the twenty-first century are <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">unique<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>a treat<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>rare<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">and when I curl up in a chair<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and hold a book <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and feel the paper <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and turn its pages<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">when I read and reread and mark parts I love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with sticky notes or
paperclips or highlighting <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or when I underline <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">my life is spacious and slow <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">in the old-fashioned twentieth century way<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoFooter">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">This poem published November 2018 at <a href="https://www.poetsandpatrons.net/">https://www.poetsandpatrons.net/</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoFooter">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Revised Summer 2020 to reflect
changes brought on by the Covid Sequester <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-54556423207713588302020-03-10T10:03:00.004-07:002022-01-04T16:01:20.352-08:00Clara's Stories: 1914 Webbed Fingers*<br />
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I was born with webbed fingers and
my immigrant mother was sure she had been punished by the evil eye for having
left her mother Rosa Menkes in the “old country” at age eighteen, to come to
America. Mother believed this even though Rosa insisted that she leave because
pogroms against the Jews were getting worse.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
I was the fourth child born to my
young immigrant mother in six years. Her eldest two daughters, Mary 4 ½ and
Rose 3, were finally able to watch out for each other. But her only son George was
not yet 2. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
I was born at home, in our cold-water
flat on Chicago’s Jewish West side. The midwife announced, “It’s a girl!”
Mother must have been disappointed that I wasn’t a second son, but I was
healthy – wasn’t I? After the compulsory cutting of the cord and the slap on my tiny behind to get me
breathing, the midwife counted my fingers and toes and it became apparent that the evil eye was present.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
My tiny hands might have been closed
into fists and if so, the midwife would have gently opened them and seen a
pinkie finger, a tiny mass of finger/bone/skin and a thumb. The index, middle, and ring fingers were conjoined; the same with my other hand. Conjoined! Even if the
midwife was familiar with this condition, she most likely would not have said
it out loud to my exhausted mother. Perhaps nothing was said and there was some
surreptitious pointing, or the midwife quickly wrapped me up in a blanket and
handed me to Mother and figured that the awful truth would come out later. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
My fingers were joined
each to the next by a thin layer of skin, like the webbing you see between the
bones in a bat’s wing. Each of my webbed fingers had two joints, not the
“normal” three.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
As early as 1902 surgery was being
done to separate conjoined/webbed fingers . Some years later, it became the
practice to do the surgery on children between 6 months and 2 years old. I must
have had the surgery as a young child because my earliest memories, from age
four or five, are of having ten fingers. But on each hand there were three
stubby fingers, a few with nails, others without. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
It was my reality and I never asked nor
did the family ever talk about my fingers. I’m sure the kids in the
neighborhood and at school made fun of me. I don’t remember, or more likely I
repressed the memories. I’d rather imagine that friends and strangers instead looked
away and no one asked due to fear, embarrassment, politeness, whatever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
With my ten fingers, I can do most
everything anyone else can including writing a readable script and typing the
manuscript for this book! And still to this day, no one asks or talks about my
fingers, which I must admit look a bit odd.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
My fingers were the first of many
disappointments Mother had with me. For her entire life I remained a single
working woman and a dreamer, and as Mother frequently reminded me I never did
anything she could <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kvell</i> about to her
family and friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
It was sad very sad for me and
Mother and for our relationship. I’ll get into the details along the way, but
for now I’ll end my finger saga with an assessment of the two of us that I wrote
in my journal in 1982, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;">I inherited my mother’s uncertain
nervous system. In fact, a teacher, in about my second grade told me to tell my
mother I was a ‘nervous wreck.’ And I did.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
Those who have known me a long time
would tell you that I often get “nervoused up” over little and big things. But
please don’t worry. To quote from that wonderful lyricist Steven Sondheim:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good times and bum times<br />
I've seen them all and, my dear<br />
I'm still here<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">Yes my dears, I’m still here!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">I finally married at age 53, two years after Mother died. In
Dixon, Illinois, where I live with my husband Rolland Metzger, I’m a minor celebrity: a
published writer, a newspaper reporter, and a gad-about who tries (and
sometimes succeeds) in helping my fellow Dixonians with their life-problems.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222;">-------</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: xx-small;">*</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><i>Note: This is another story from </i>C<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">lara’s Stories: An Imagined Memoir Inspired by the Life of Claire LeBrint Metzger. <i>At this time Clara's memoir i</i>s </span></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><i>an on-going work in progress by Claire's niece Betsy Fuchs. Claire, the narrator of these imagined stories, writes them at age 80 in 1994 .</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">The Clara Stories are dedicated to</span></i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">Claire LeBrint Metzger, of blessed memory </span></i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222;"></span></span><br />
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">b 1914 - d 2002</span></i></div>
</div>
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Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-30811692673392652982019-12-22T04:46:00.001-08:002020-12-01T06:39:07.443-08:00Solstice-Hanukkah-Christmas Prayer<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Ua8LJCZqEGZCC7A8a4aVNH0bcYdlEZ764xe7-Lcg3jQ1k8WcYqrG4C0GOMIAUlr7zSFCJScm5WenTPMdQrepPPoc0yHTtLEKdzYVM70GAHaTOljNUDXXGJFxDzzUG-Y5w0lSP_IKfyGA/s1600/nicole-y-c-lDJHQp-3AuI-unsplash+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Ua8LJCZqEGZCC7A8a4aVNH0bcYdlEZ764xe7-Lcg3jQ1k8WcYqrG4C0GOMIAUlr7zSFCJScm5WenTPMdQrepPPoc0yHTtLEKdzYVM70GAHaTOljNUDXXGJFxDzzUG-Y5w0lSP_IKfyGA/s320/nicole-y-c-lDJHQp-3AuI-unsplash+%25281%2529.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 13.2px;">Holy one of blessing, God of many names</span></div></div>
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at this time of the winter solstice<br />
at this time of the crescent moon<br />
At this darkest time of the year</div>
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we light lights and give thanks, in our overlapping traditions.</div>
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Strangely and sweetly</div>
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we greet each other in fellowship and friendship</div>
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with wishes for health, merriment, good food, good company and Peace on Earth.</div>
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Strangely and sweetly</div>
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we come together and pray to you </div>
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with thanks for miracles noticed and remembered<br />
At this darkest time of the year:</div>
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for the miracle of the return of the sun</div>
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for the miracle of victories over tyrants</div>
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for the miracle of a small crucible of oil that burned for eight days<br />
and for the miracle of the birth of a baby who brought illumination into the world.</div>
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Holy one of blessing, God of many names</div>
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as we light lights<br />
At this darkest time of the year<br />
generation after generation, year after year</div>
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we ask again for Your help Your love Your comfort Your support</div>
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that we may be partners with You and with each other</div>
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to bring our greatest hope our most desired wish our highest need: Peace on Earth.</div>
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Holy one of blessing, God of many names<br />
May it be so. May it be so.</div>
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<i style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/lDJHQp-3AuI">Photograph taken by Nicole Y-C (from Unsplash.com)</a></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Prayer inspired by “Hanukkah Lights” in the </span><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Unitarian Universalist Hymn Book, Singing the Living Tradition</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in;">You are welcome to print this prayer and/or copy it into a file and share it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in;">This is my holiday gift to all. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in;">Betsy Fuchs</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in;">betsywfuchs@gmail.com </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; margin-left: 0in;"><a href="http://betsywblog.blogspot.com/">http://betsywblog.blogspot.com/</a><br /></div>
Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-72868671181684414692019-10-20T10:11:00.001-07:002022-01-04T16:02:30.410-08:00Clara's Stories: 1930-1941 Jesus Pena de Alonso <div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPimQtwkm43EfoNY8ktnt2eanFcqfYcZm4ffB6k_7B8wpUA6grOyFNqn0krn9T04zgOXeCGdQ_pqoAMKZhaIN3vwiEEdRm3KPJ5EodvBR7o3-2a-T_bs2B7s6vKClGTrlRgnKhL3F-tST/s1600/jesus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1160" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWPimQtwkm43EfoNY8ktnt2eanFcqfYcZm4ffB6k_7B8wpUA6grOyFNqn0krn9T04zgOXeCGdQ_pqoAMKZhaIN3vwiEEdRm3KPJ5EodvBR7o3-2a-T_bs2B7s6vKClGTrlRgnKhL3F-tST/s320/jesus.jpg" width="231" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I find
fifteen letters and two postcards from Jesus Pena de Alonso of Madrid, Spain.
Jesus and I were matched up by our foreign language teachers when Jesus was
fifteen and I was seventeen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jesus’
first letter is dated November 5, 1930, the last March 11, 1941. He wrote in
Spanish and I replied in English. We continued to write on and off after we
both completed secondary school. For eleven years!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
don’t remember my Spanish anymore so I had my good friend and neighbor Alex
Alvarez, a Spanish speaker and an avid student of history, translate Jesus’
letters into English. Alex told me some about the tumultuous history of Spain
in the 1930’s and acted as a consultant to me while I wrote this story. Thank
you Alex.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Just
like in the U.S. a lot was going on in our two countries during the time Jesus
and I corresponded. Of course, lots was going on in our young lives. It makes
my head spin just thinking about it. </span></div>
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In the
U.S, we had the depression and FDR and the New Deal and the beginning of World
War II. And I became a working girl, more interested in having adventures and pursuing
creative endeavors than in getting married. In Spain, political unrest led up
to the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939). Jesus attended University and then went
to work in his father’s factory. He must have witnessed much of the war, since
many of the battles took place in Madrid (the capital of Spain) and the surrounding
areas. Jesus didn’t write during the war, and after our correspondence resumed,
he mentioned the war only briefly. Who can blame him?</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Looking
at Jesus’ letters (and envelopes) today, I am struck by his beautiful script.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOeHwaa5ewR8fK4JmPwgAw4sr5Bm_n8_R-KpGjOHS5gOqcKgsrkjMxopt-EVjo9U12sj0iQj6zXim3yMfntIaVXJMZOPtWx8DfBWncddPLN1yG7S9dOV16WyAEYyfUtogmNyW_5gpZAM3d/s1600/jesus+envelope07222019.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1600" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOeHwaa5ewR8fK4JmPwgAw4sr5Bm_n8_R-KpGjOHS5gOqcKgsrkjMxopt-EVjo9U12sj0iQj6zXim3yMfntIaVXJMZOPtWx8DfBWncddPLN1yG7S9dOV16WyAEYyfUtogmNyW_5gpZAM3d/s400/jesus+envelope07222019.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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In his
letters, Jesus addressed me as Clara, my birth name. I liked that.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For
the first couple of years, Jesus’ letters were friendly and informative. I
don’t have copies of my letters to him, but I can infer some of what I wrote in
his letters to me. We wrote about our interests – his in football (soccer), swimming,
and travel; mine in writing, journalism, and theater. He wrote me about “an
ancient royal castle … converted into a museum” and sent me postcards of the
beautiful salons in the castle. I wrote about the much younger skyscrapers in
Chicago and sent him a postcard of the thirty-four story Tribune Tower. Today
thirty-four stories seems like nothing, but in the 1930’s the new skyscrapers
were amazing, tall, architectural marvels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In
1932, I sent Jesus U.S. currency and he attempted to send me Spanish currency
but couldn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dear Clara,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I had written a letter to you, but
because I had sent along some currency, the Central Post office refused to mail
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Alex explained
that during the early 1930’s the Spanish government forbade sending currency
out of the country due to the on-going political crises.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jesus’
letters continued along this same line, breezy and conversational, until 1934 when
we exchanged photographs. His was a studio portrait and I liked how he looked
with his half smile, bedroom eyes (or so I perceived them), slicked down hair,
and beautifully tailored suit. I was mildly charmed by the inscription that
read (in translation) “To Clara as a token of my admiration and fondness
Jesus.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">However,
Jesus was majorly charmed after he received my publicity photograph taken for an
amateur production of the play <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Death
Takes a Holiday,</i> in which I had the lead role of Graziela. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Wrw6gQ0Ptol4dbrgHwHePTVzR676PKNOzOohud4hM-a4qjBzGjbwbYfQPKyVAbp2ACAims1G8dEV4Zb9HDa7kmJM_8w3T6y8Ozd8TyI6VVBS8sedrB1gsfbbX9rdSkfW23XENkV6PsHm/s1600/clara+portrait++1934.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1302" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Wrw6gQ0Ptol4dbrgHwHePTVzR676PKNOzOohud4hM-a4qjBzGjbwbYfQPKyVAbp2ACAims1G8dEV4Zb9HDa7kmJM_8w3T6y8Ozd8TyI6VVBS8sedrB1gsfbbX9rdSkfW23XENkV6PsHm/s320/clara+portrait++1934.jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Claire LeBrint Publicity Photo 1934</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">From
that point on his letters became romantic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From October 1934<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Beautiful Clara,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I don't know how you dare to call me a
flatterer after sending me a photograph so superior to anything I may have
imagined. Truly, the more I look at your photo, the more difficult it is for me
to believe that you are an American woman, as the beauty of your eyes is not
surpassed by the Grenadine dolls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
letter continued with a brief reference to the trouble in Spain “…the police
have been using my car, they have even requisitioned many automobiles,” and
ended with more affection and devotion towards me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Furthermore,
dear friend, I continue to maintain much serenity, as I have never had the joy
of having at my side someone as precious as you. My most respectful tribute,
Jesus<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Being
compared to a Grenadine doll (from Grenada, Andalusia Spain) seemed a high
compliment. Alex found a picture of a 1950’s Spanish doll and made a Xerox
color copy for me. Color copying – what a marvel of technology. We both agreed
that this must look something like the “Grenadine doll” Jesus referenced. What
a compliment Jesus gave me! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOD4FCr1KjitReE5kEp4IC1Z-daTsoVL59Yj6qCcvi77KJG72pPoO3-MtBZY3M_xHEZaiN12KYPCjJKvBzGactPHr8sEV91vrmHJmveUJ_jKYXJCmaFpd2VSpSAa6hJiEu1r-kRufbDTdO/s1600/grenadine+doll2.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="302" data-original-width="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOD4FCr1KjitReE5kEp4IC1Z-daTsoVL59Yj6qCcvi77KJG72pPoO3-MtBZY3M_xHEZaiN12KYPCjJKvBzGactPHr8sEV91vrmHJmveUJ_jKYXJCmaFpd2VSpSAa6hJiEu1r-kRufbDTdO/s1600/grenadine+doll2.png" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Little
did I know that Jesus’ romantic feelings would grow into an obsession and
possessiveness toward me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From February 1935<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. . . I have a sister who was also
taken with the idea of becoming a writer like you and who now has abandoned
those ideas because she is soon to be married. Has the thought occurred to you
of doing the same?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As you have asked me to advise you in the
past, I hope you will allow me to advise you now not to leave the house, so you
will find no diversions, you will speak to no one, you will be dressed in your
oldest dresses. And if you will be following these suggestions, I believe that
when the time comes, you will be spared the inconvenience of marrying the man
who would have to murder your husband.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I knew
that Jesus’ letters indicated he was “crazy-in-love” with me. But did he really
imply that I should stay home, alone, away from all guys and that if I should
happen to marry, he would come to the U.S., murder my husband and expect me to
marry him? I thought Alex had gotten the translation wrong. “It’s right for
sure,” he told me and added, “I even had a Spanish teacher friend of mine from
Sauk Valley Community College double check my translation and she confirmed I
got the crazy-talk right.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">You might
be asking yourself why I continued writing to Jesus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was
having fun doing some heavy-duty flirting in my letters to him, goading him on,
encouraging his growing attachment to me. We girls did that kind of thing, and
my girlfriends loved to read his crazy letters. It was our own personal soap
opera and I loved being the romantic lead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Besides,
Jesus was far away, as he wrote in another letter when he was again pondering
whether I was married or not, “If it happens that you now have a husband, tell
him that he lives because of the distance between Madrid and Chicago.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There
is so much in Jesus’ fifteen letters, and I was getting tired from reading them
and thinking back to when I received the letters. But before I put them away, I
decided to skim through the rest and a few sections of letters jumped out.
First was the letter Jesus wrote after the Spanish Civil War ended.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From September 1939<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. . . I am sure you can easily
understand the many circumstances which have prevented my writing to you during
these trying times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And
then I found the only letter where Jesus referred to experiencing the war, where
he used the war as a reason to threaten my male friends. In my letters to him after
the war ended, I must have casually mentioned the guys I was seeing (not
seriously) and continued teasing him, flirting with him. No harm done, I
thought. Not so for Jesus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From June 1940<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">. . . As to those two boyfriends . . .
after three years of being witness to war and guns and shooting and killings, they
would not pose the same obstacles as was the case previously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">That
letter frightened and shocked me when I received it in 1940, as it does to this
day. His threats were no longer funny. The amusing soap opera had become a
horror story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
took me a long time to reply to that letter, as Jesus wrote in March 1941, when
he chided me that he “was not able to read (my) last two letters because (I)
didn’t mail them.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True I wrote several
letters that I tore up and I have no idea what was in the letter I finally
sent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But I finally
was done with Jesus and wrote him one last letter. I remember that my message was
short and to the point and it went something like this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jesus, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It is not acceptable that you continue
to make threats against my gentlemen friends. <u>You have no right to claim me.
You are not my boyfriend, fiancé, nor will you ever be my husband</u>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">This correspondence is over. Please do
not write me anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Claire LeBrint<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jesus
Pena de Alonso of Madrid, Spain must have gotten my message loud and clear. He
wrote no more letters and you better believe I was relieved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But,
as they say, it was fun while it lasted. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This story is from C<i><span style="background: white;">lara’s Stories: An Imagined Memoir Inspired by the life of Claire LeBrint Metzger. </span></i></span><span style="background: white;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The novel is a work in progress and Claire, the narrator, writes her stories at age 80 in 1994 .</span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">The Clara Stories are dedicated to</span></i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">Claire LeBrint
Metzger, of blessed memory </span></i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-left: 0in; text-align: right;">
<i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">b 1914 - d 2002</span></i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-81267377855059153692019-05-30T14:25:00.011-07:002023-01-20T09:05:33.720-08:00The Africans, My Summer 1965 Vacation<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face="arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">A young man came rushing into the auditorium and onto the
podium. He wasn’t expected. Prior to his arrival, the audience was busy
chatting and there was a happy buzz in the room. The man stood tall and
dignified and interrupted our chatter, saying loudly in a heavily accented
voice, </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">“</i><span face="arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">I am </span><span face="arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">Enzokee Naidoo and
I am here to talk to you about my homeland, the</span><span face="arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;"> apartheid country
of South Africa.” He stopped to make sure he had our attention. He had it.
We were spellbound by the authority this man conveyed. We knew that what he was
about to say was something we had to hear.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">It was summer 1965 and I was at a conference in Vapnagaard,
a small town not far from Copenhagen, Denmark. I was 20 years
old and had recently received a small inheritance of $2500. At the same time,
I found a brochure about a conference in Scandinavia, with the purpose of
fostering international understanding by bringing together people from many
countries. My $2500 would cover the cost of airfare plus conference tuition. I
decided to go, but this was my first trip out of the U.S. and it took a lot of
courage make this decision. My hopes were modest: to make some friends and to have
some adventures. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">We were 35 men and women of all ages, from the U.S., Norway,
Denmark and Sweden, Pakistan, and England, and there was one young man from
Nigeria who was my same age. His name was Jim and like me, he was shy and a bit
star-struck by the others who seemed to be worldly-wise and socially adept. We
both hung back and observed more than we participated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Xhy-n2yEKc9vg4Qhyphenhyphen9g1gVogcLY0xAtP3znNGcuagfDDur2snqrPzclkKE48w0PpAX29IWrjMfGR_UJUD5wsj27rX8UVKWvZXCXYx94_1iMZWzFDkcYN-jcfiS2WSEz_xTk7m-nYjuvW/s1600/vapnagaard05212019_0001.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1356" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Xhy-n2yEKc9vg4Qhyphenhyphen9g1gVogcLY0xAtP3znNGcuagfDDur2snqrPzclkKE48w0PpAX29IWrjMfGR_UJUD5wsj27rX8UVKWvZXCXYx94_1iMZWzFDkcYN-jcfiS2WSEz_xTk7m-nYjuvW/s400/vapnagaard05212019_0001.jpg" width="338" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some conference participants posing for pictures<br />
In the center: Jim from Nigeria and Mr. Meinke, the Conference Leader<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">This evening like all others at the conference, the group had
gathered at 7 p.m. sharp. Previous evenings we had listened to lectures on a
variety of subjects by course participants and a few evenings we heard talks by
our conference leader Mr. Meinke about his special interests: Soren
Kierkegaard, Nordic folk-schools, Danish farm cooperatives, and international
understanding. Other evenings we had recitals by local Danish musicians.
Nothing terribly captivating and we always hoped the lectures or musical
entertainment would end quickly so we could go out into the warm summer
evenings and sing songs and do folkdances from our various countries.
Even Jim and I got into it as we all messed up the words to the songs in the
different languages and clumsily tried to learn the dance steps. It was very
funny and evoked lots of laughter from everyone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">This evening, we never got out into the summer night.
After <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Enzokee Naidoo </span>got our
full attention, <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">his words spilled out in a
rush. “Dr. Meinke asked that I talk to you. And I agreed though I don’t have
much time. I must talk to you who come from all over the world about the
situation of the Blacks in South Africa.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">We were hypnotized, almost holding our breath
listening to this man, to his words. He continued, “</span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">The situation is
horrible and one of these days it will explode into violence. We
Black South Africans are getting better housing and education and rising
materially, but we are strictly limited as to the height to which we can rise.
And this combination of improvements with limitations is too much for us to
endure.” He told us of the measures taken by the Whites to ensure that the
Blacks would stay in their place. Sadly, with anger in his voice he said, “I
cannot return to my homeland of South Africa. If I return, I will be taken
prisoner for my stand against apartheid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">Enzokee was slowing down and </span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">Mr. Smith, a school
teacher from the U.S, took the opportunity to ask, “Why can’t the Blacks in
South Africa attempt non-violence in their struggle against oppression?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">Enzokee </span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">was in a hurry to leave but he gave Mr. Smith
a pitying look and replied, “How can you know what the situation is
like? How can you know all the attempts we made that
failed? How can you judge when you sit here nice and secure?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">After our speaker left, it was as if an electrical charge had
run through his audience. Many got out of their seats, talking all at once,
talking over each other, some suggesting solutions to the problems of the
Blacks in South Africa. Some crying, some making angry accusations at others
whom they didn’t agree with. Jim and I sat quietly, observing. This was all new
information to me; I was naïve and uninformed. Shockingly I was only vaguely
aware of racial problems and the Civil Rights movement in the U.S. and knew
nothing of apartheid in South Africa.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">Thinking back, I’m sure that Jim must have had thoughts,
opinions, and reactions to Enzokee’s talk and how it related to life and
politics in the newly independent country of Nigeria. However, no one took any
notice of Jim or asked him to speak. Today I wonder: Was this our version of
White privilege? Did we even know of the concept of White privilege in 1965?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">The flurry of conversations continued around Jim and me, and got
louder more out of control until finally Mrs. Johanson, a Dane of about forty,
climbed on a chair and said authoritatively in clear English with her lilting
Danish accent, “Sit down and be quiet. One person talk at a time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">Mr. Keystone from England took the floor and talked for close to
an hour, telling us about the year he spent in South Africa as a reporter for a
London newspaper. We were quiet. We were listening and we took in, as best we
could, the last sentence of his talk, “The solutions you’re proposing for a
peaceful settlement, or for slow progress, they won’t work. The White apartheid
government is entrenched. It is as Enzokee said, ‘There will be a battle to
bring down apartheid, we just don’t know when’.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">Mr. Keystone had succeeded in calming the group down slightly.
At some point Jim left to go to bed but some of us – me included – stayed
together past midnight. The others were talking, trying to adjust their
thinking. I remained quiet, trying to take it all in. In truth I had no idea
what to do with all the information and opinions and strong emotions swirling
around me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">There was no laughing or dancing or singing outside that night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">In the days that followed, </span><i style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">our
normal life</i><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;"> at the course continued, touring during the day, lectures or
music at night. My expectations of having an adventure at the conference were
met. As far returning home changed by Enzokee Naidoo or any of the others I met,
</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">sadly or perhaps to be expected, it didn’t
happen. Before my summer adventure in Scandinavia, I was apolitical and back in
the U.S. I </span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">returned to </span><i style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">my normal
way of being</i><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">: head in the sand, still apolitical. But I was primed for my
next adventure, which happened in 1966 after college graduation when I moved to
San Francisco. That is another story for another time.</span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">---<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>The First Republic of Nigeria was formed in October 1963, barely
two years before the conference. In January1966 a military coup deposed the
government of the Nigerian First Republic. In July 1966 there was a
counter-military coup followed by years of unrest and inter-religious wars.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><i>On April 27, 1994 apartheid ended in South Africa after several
years of negotiations between the governing National Party and the African
National Congress. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%;">POSTSCRIPT: This story had been published on the website <u>Kaleidoscopewojo.com</u> which unfortunately no longer has a presence on the web. I am most grateful that the folks who hosted the site accepted my story and I am sad for the loss of access to the many creative and beautiful and meaningful stories that appeared on Kaleidoscopewojo.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></div>
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Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-85328318744222050692018-09-30T11:13:00.001-07:002022-01-04T16:09:30.059-08:00Clara's Stories: 1950-1962 Becoming a Published Writer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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During the late 1950’s when I was in my mid-30's, I scrimped and saved enough to take
one trip to Europe. We went to Paris, that I remember, and to Switzerland. Probably also to London but I'm not sure. In the postcard, I'm wearing the flowered dress, happily eating with friends I met on the trip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But…my dream of becoming a published writer and my hope of
finding a nice single Jewish guy to hang around with and possibly marry – neither
was happening. That is, not until Rolland Metzger of Dixon, Illinois came
along. He visited Chicago some weekends to get culture and to see if he could
find a nice Jewish woman to woo and marry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In 1960 we two Jewish singles met and started keeping
company. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rolland thought I was wonderful and amazing, talented and
full of life. He believed I could do anything I wanted. He couldn’t convince me
to marry him until 1967, but in 1962 he helped me to follow my dream of being a writer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had discovered the Famous Writers School correspondence
course, founded by Bennett Cerf, a well-known publisher/author, and other "famous" writers. I remembered taking the course, that was all. Then I <span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">found several workbooks from the course and I see the </span>advertising flyer with this Bennett Cerf quote,“Do you have a restless urge to write? If you do, here is an
opportunity for you to take the first important step to success in writing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Even though many years have passed, I remember the excitement I felt when I contemplated his question and my answer, spoken quietly (to myself), a resounding Yes! <o:p></o:p></div>
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I lost my nerve until Rolland held my hand so to speak -- in
reality, he sat next to me -- as I took the big step of enrolling in the
course. I registered with the pseudonym Leva Missman, a very catchy name, don’t
you think? I used Rolland’s Dixon address instead of mine in Chicago. I was
apprehensive about attempting to be a real writer and needed the assurance that
in case I failed, no one, not even the instructors, would know my real
identity. I was grateful to Rolland for going along with my deception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>The first Famous Writers<i>
</i>assignment was to answer the question “Why Do I Wish to Write?” The
instructor returned my essay with some well-deserved critical comments. Oh boy,
it sure stung to read criticism of my work. You writers out there will
understand. Rolland had to hold my hand and sit by my side as I moved from being
a writer-want-to-be to becoming a good, or at least a competent, writer.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The note identified with (1) includes
great advice that I’ve taken to heart and reads:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">“Use some contractions to provide a more
conversational tone.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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Much about the course comes back when I
find a folder labeled “Women’s Angle,” and I see the seven articles published
in the <i>National Informer </i>newspaper<i>.</i></div>
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Here's how it happened. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After my first essay, the pieces I wrote for Famous Writers were
mostly about how women were taken advantage of at work, when shopping, by loan
companies, and even at dancing schools. As I grew more confident in my writing,
my instructor informed me it was time to submit my work for publication. He
suggested I send one of my stories to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National
Informer</i> newspaper for their “Women’s Angle” column. The magazine’s motto
was “Truthful News of All Facts of Life.” It sounded good to me. I submitted
the story “How American Stores Cheat, Use and Abuse Female Shoppers,”[1] under my
own name Claire Le Brint. To my surprise, they accepted it<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>I hadn’t heard of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National Informer </i>and hadn’t seen a copy,
but no problem. I was to be published and paid for my work. I was ecstatic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A check came in the mail along with a letter indicating that my story
would appear in the September 23, 1962 issue. When I got a copy of that issue, I was shocked. The banner headline on the first page
was <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RED CHINESE EAT BABIES!</b> with the
subheading in slightly smaller bold print <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Innocent
Children Victims of Communist Prosperity.</b> I skimmed through the paper. Most
of the articles were patently false like the cover story, or super-trashy like
we find today in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National Enquirer</i>.
But you better believe I was very proud of my article, which was “Truthful News
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one particular</i> Fact of Life.” I
pasted the article on yellow card stock so I could keep it forever and jotted down the
date and name of the publication. On the back, I wrote the
headline and subheading, then I tossed that tabloid paper in the trash where
it belonged.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was
appalled by the newspaper and most of the articles. Rolland and I conferred and
we decided I might as well submit more articles to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Informer</i>. The readers, we figured, needed at least some “truthful
news,” if only they could recognize it. I was being paid and published, no
small feat for a novice writer. Here are titles for the rest of my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Informer</i> articles. [1]<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
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</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Why Are Women Workers Treated Like Dopes?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->How Dancing Schools Suck In the Suckers (wow)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Stupid Store Clerks Gyp Housewives<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Housewives Ain’t As Smart as Retail Loan Sharks<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->FM Radio Becoming Lousy Just Like AM Radio??<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 57pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->How Business Places Hook Women on Free Gimmicks<o:p></o:p></div>
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So I, Claire Le Brint, had become a published writer! That was enough for me for the time being. Over the next ten years I was busy working, getting married, changing my name to Claire Metzger, moving to
Dixon, getting used to Rolland, and traveling to Chicago with Rolland fairly frequently to take
advantage of the city's cultural marvels. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But I will never forget the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National Informer </i>and my first big break. Can you blame me?
What a story that is!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">This story is from C<i><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">lara’s Stories: An Imagined Memoir inspired by the life of by Claire LeBrint Metzger. </span></i></span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The novel is a work in progress and Claire, the narrator, writes her stories at age 80 in 1994 .</span></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Clara Stories are dedicated to</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Claire LeBrint Metzger, of blessed memory </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">b 1914 - d 2002</span></i></div>
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Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-60565084092264674422018-08-19T17:41:00.000-07:002019-10-14T05:28:05.949-07:00Clara's Story: A Working Woman's Dream (The Painting Went Up)<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Aunt Claire's portrait hangs on my living room wall. </div>
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Claire was a single working woman when the painting was done, by her friend Yasha Kaganov.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyB72WK0GuKwT1AhyphenhyphentLoYhLCskSmr9wuSn0rMPifTexjmD-_j2nFqyFC0lpp122I7fseEJdEHMTgHRhNFIae2MVFspKA8sYP8GIIxQUamr3XVbfjb5gwu2-l38v2RlFTmBau6ZNEIAuRkl/s1600/claire+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1496" data-original-width="1332" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyB72WK0GuKwT1AhyphenhyphentLoYhLCskSmr9wuSn0rMPifTexjmD-_j2nFqyFC0lpp122I7fseEJdEHMTgHRhNFIae2MVFspKA8sYP8GIIxQUamr3XVbfjb5gwu2-l38v2RlFTmBau6ZNEIAuRkl/s320/claire+painting.jpg" width="284" /></a></div>
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Along with the painting, I framed an article written by Claire about Yasha's portrait. I don't know where or when the article was published. I often look at the painting and contemplate what she wrote about her life in the article. I invite you to join my contemplation by considering the questions Claire posed and her reflections about "our working lifetime."</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Did (Yasha) see me as creature made for sunlight and open places?<br />What am I doing in a closed-up little office and a tight little career girl apartment?<br /><o:p> </o:p>I reflected. We are caught in the trap of the city, for years, for our working lifetime, but there is still hope, says the painted canvas, if we don’t forget there once was a dream.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYC708zgTYgS3SGmhejXmIWH1zXV6IB_WAl6A2A1r_l2s0Qf_PbSdPcqZ43JRxXuz2ah_WqFS8NZvTHcJHcQUexk0Q9fsXdUiGKCe5_b0hhJEZCii20p4hzWBpBEphvHSdTq3D8m5a8pY/s1600/claire+painting+original+article.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="240" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifYC708zgTYgS3SGmhejXmIWH1zXV6IB_WAl6A2A1r_l2s0Qf_PbSdPcqZ43JRxXuz2ah_WqFS8NZvTHcJHcQUexk0Q9fsXdUiGKCe5_b0hhJEZCii20p4hzWBpBEphvHSdTq3D8m5a8pY/s640/claire+painting+original+article.JPG" width="280" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Aunt Claire was my mother's sister. Claire was b</span><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">orn in 1914 and died at age 88 in 2002. </span>She was single until she finally met the right man, Rolland Metzger, and consented to marry him in 1967, after a long courtship. </div>
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Claire was 52 years old and I was 23 when she married Rolland. From then on, until she died, we were close and she was a big part of my
life.</div>
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I knew of her life with Rolland but I knew nothing of her life as a single working woman, until Claire died and I inherited the painting, along with many
published and unpublished articles and stories written by Claire. Among them was the undated, unattributed newspaper article, "The Painting Went Up." A better title might have been "A Working Woman's Dream."</div>
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Claire's life is a story worth telling, with many ups and downs, or as Claire put it, "(My) life is so full of twists and turns." </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="color: black;">The novel in progress "Clara's Scrapbook" </span></i></span><br />
<i style="font-family: times, "times new roman", serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">and this reflection are dedicated to</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="color: black;">Claire LeBrint
Metzger, of blessed memory </span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="color: black;">b 1914 - d 2002</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br />Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-57114716205776494662018-02-09T13:42:00.000-08:002018-10-30T16:39:09.239-07:00First Prayer: Asking for Rest and Comfort<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -.05in;">
In 1995, I started to write prayers in my journal. They sometimes comforted me. Here is the first prayer I wrote, along with the journal entry that inspired its creation.</div>
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<i style="font-weight: normal;">November 1995 -- </i><i style="font-weight: normal;">My 86 year ol</i><i style="font-weight: normal;">d father is staying with me, I hope temporarily. He is sleeping in the living room of my one bedroom apartment. My father is very depressed and is sleeping 24 to 36 hours at a time. I need something to get me through this difficult time. The idea comes to me that I need to pray and I write this prayer to the universe, hoping God or the universal spirits will help me.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRuyoxbOUBdkqoa1e9Bvd-xCCtnw-9etqml9Wyh-2GO3dttEBnGmoxlxrGSeiD2TPKHf5H2T_5DOw_7LObJ8PgwX4yM2LizIiNZ6_rjdM2jJGyaFx1ZGF5t3E32quG73pvw0qb67XJfjw/s1600/tree+in+winter.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXRuyoxbOUBdkqoa1e9Bvd-xCCtnw-9etqml9Wyh-2GO3dttEBnGmoxlxrGSeiD2TPKHf5H2T_5DOw_7LObJ8PgwX4yM2LizIiNZ6_rjdM2jJGyaFx1ZGF5t3E32quG73pvw0qb67XJfjw/s200/tree+in+winter.JPEG" width="148" /></a><u>Take it Easy Today</u></div>
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Spirit of the Sun and Moon –<o:p></o:p><br />
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Help me. Remind me that this is a new day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I open my eyes, help me to see the colors and objects I enjoy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Remind me that Lizzie my cat and my family love me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I get up remind me that I can take it easy today<br />
I have done enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The trees rest in the winter,<o:p></o:p></div>
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the leaves which have fallen become nourishment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let me get nourishment back from the universe today.<o:p></o:p><br />
And give me comfort today.<br />
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I pray to be open to receiving on this day. And direction comes:<o:p></o:p><br />
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Keep trudging – if that is all you can do.<o:p></o:p><br />
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May I walk the beauty way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lead me to the pastures where I may rest.<br />
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Amen<o:p></o:p><br />
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Regarding the last three lines of my prayer<br />
"Keep trudging..." is of unknown origin (the Universe?)<br />
"May I walk..." is from a Native American chant.<br />
"Lead me..." is a riff on the 23rd Psalm.<br />
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<span style="text-align: start;">For additional prayers and to read about my prayer journey, go to </span><a href="http://betsysprayers.com/" style="text-align: start;">http://betsysprayers.com</a></div>
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Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-41067974020612059152017-08-28T08:49:00.001-07:002018-08-19T17:41:44.080-07:00Let Me Introduce You to My Dear Ones, Now Departed<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Some talk to the living and get wisdom. I
talk with the dead and imagine the wisdom they would have imparted to me. I
bring questions to them and also present them with problems and challenges I
face in my life. And I gain wisdom from what I imagine to be their different
perspectives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://betsywblog.blogspot.com/2012/06/conversation-with-my-parents-and.html"><span style="background: white; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">My
first imagined conversation with my parents and grandparents</span></a><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">, <i>Zichronam Livracha</i>,
of Blessed Memory, took place in October 1999. The subject was God and Prayer
and since then we have other conversations on a wide range of topics. After
my Aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger and Uncle Rolland Metzger died, I expanded the
conversation to include them along with my Aunt Perle LeBrint. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Let me introduce you to my loved ones, now dead,
who participate in conversations with me, along with a few snippets of wisdom from other conversations I've had with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">My mother, Rose LeBrint Fuchs</span></u></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">, who died in January 1991 and <b><u>my father Leonard (Len) Fuchs</u></b> who died in March 1997. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<i style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">Wisdom from Rose: "</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">On the street of by the by, one comes to the house of never."</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Wisdom from Len: "</i>This too shall pass."</span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Z7YEt32fsKjxMYpXgHXHVQ6eeUxGheg60AwVln-10uE1HKO-661GdAujIi60csTODCm7yIfBxUb3nITK9-Vn7X9CHVZ1olq5CH7hgoNla1zm_n3GJmH6mR118cCpdksKRXzkUtvYoWa1/s1600/rose+smith+with+len.png" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="536" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Z7YEt32fsKjxMYpXgHXHVQ6eeUxGheg60AwVln-10uE1HKO-661GdAujIi60csTODCm7yIfBxUb3nITK9-Vn7X9CHVZ1olq5CH7hgoNla1zm_n3GJmH6mR118cCpdksKRXzkUtvYoWa1/s320/rose+smith+with+len.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Leonard and Rose, date unknown<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background: white;">My
grandfather, Henry Fuchs</span></u></b><span style="background: white;">, my
father Len’s father. Henry was a wise and gentle man, who had strong faith in
God. Henry was married to Anne Fuchs (my father’s mother) for over 50 years.
When Anne died, he made a second marriage to Bea Winston. </span></span><br />
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;"><u><span style="background: white;">My
grandmother Anne Fuchs</span></u></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">, my father
Len’s mother. Anne had a heart condition that severely limited her ability to
function. Preparing a Sabbath meal for our family tired her out. My two sisters
and Ihad to be very quiet and good when we were around Grandma Fuchs. When I
was 10, Anne had a stroke that paralyzed her right side. She walked with a
brace and she could not speak except in jumbled up words. Because of her health
problems and to my great regret, I hardly knew her. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /><span style="background: white;">Anne and Henry had only one child, my father Leonard.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Wisdom from Grandpa Henry </i>"You are in the thick of it and that is a good thing, but it is hard. Pray to God and write to God and talk to us. We are your inner resources. We are inside you." </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Wisdom from from </i></span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Grandma Anne:</i> "I am an observer from all these years of not being able to talk. Sometimes it is good to observe and to take time to listen and to breathe." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Anne and Henry 1955 with their granddaughters Betsy, Judy,
and Sue</span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background: white;">My
step-grandmother Bea Winston Fuchs</span></u></b><span style="background: white;">.
To Bea, my sisters and me were accepted as if we were her own granddaughters. Bea
and Henry were married almost 20 years. They both died in 1979, Henry in March
when he was 99 years old and Bea at age 80 two months later in May. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="background: white;"><i>Wisdom from Grandma Bea: </i>"Embrace and love your family and your step-family equally. Much joy came to me and your Grandpa Henry from joining our families together." </span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Grandpa and Bea 1965 (as we called them)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">My grandmother Anna LeBrint</span></u></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">, my mother Rose’s mother. Anna and my grandfather Abe had
five children within eight years. She felt that having so many children was a
burden. In addition to being a mother, she was a business woman, buying and
selling two flats and three flats in Chicago’s Albany Park neighborhood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />
<b><u><span style="background: white;">My
grandfather Abraham (Abe) LeBrint</span></u></b><span style="background: white;">,
my mother Rose’s father. To quote my mother, Abe “had a love affair with
America” and had a successful printing business in partnership with an American
born friend.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">My aunt Perle LeBrint</span></u></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> was the
youngest of Anna and Abe’s five children. She lived with and was financially
dependent on her parents her entire life. Perle was diagnosed with type 1
diabetes at age 27 in 1945. Anna watched out for Perle after the diagnosis,
ensuring that her daily insulin was administered safely and correctly. Perle
died in 1965, four months after Anna died.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Wisdom as told by Grandma LeBrint to her daughter Claire: </i>"I want my children to do well, take vacations, have careers, and marry well."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Wisdom from Grandpa LeBrint: </i>"Dare to take advantage of all the opportunities our great country offers and to step out of your comfort zone. In my life, I didn't have the nerve to follow this advice as fully as I might have, but you can do it."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Wisdom from Perle:</i> " Mine was a comfortable safe life with no complications so it seemed. But safety and comfort are overrated. Get out there and keep taking chances. I wish I had." </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">Anna LeBrint 1961, Abe LeBrint, date unknown</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Perle LeBrint, date unknown<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">My aunt Claire LeBrint Metzger</span></u></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">, the fourth child of Anna and Abe. Claire was a single
working woman in Chicago until age 53 when she married Rolland Metzger and moved
to Dixon, Illinois,.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Uncle Rolland Metzger</span></u></b><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"> came
into my life after he married Claire in 1967. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Claire and Rolland had one house in Dixon and a
second house in Chicago. I was very close to them and would sometimes drive to
Dixon to visit, but frequently they came to Chicago to go to the theater, their
favorite restaurant Ann Sather’s and also to join us for holiday meals at my
house. Claire and Rolland survived my mother and father. Claire died in 2002;
Rolland in 2005. They were like parents-contemporaries- friends to me. They had
a young attitude and enjoyed keeping company with me and my husband (when I was
married) and my friends. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Wisdom from Claire:</i> "My philosophy was 'Life is full of ups and downs,' but I didn't always remember this philosophy when I was in a down period. I hope you will do better at remembering."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13.3333px;"><i>Wisdom from Rolland: </i>"Put your money in Roth IRAs." <i>and by his example: </i>Diversify your career skills and find new ones after retirement. (He became a computer expert and tax consultant after retirement.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; text-align: center;">Claire and Rolland 1979</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-86724776769499367402017-08-01T10:15:00.006-07:002022-04-22T07:34:43.096-07:001966 San Francisco Working Girl Among the Hippies<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Perhaps the Mamas and Papas song <i>California Dreamin’</i> gave me the idea to
leave Chicago and head to San Francisco, after I graduated college in March
1966. Or it might have been the taste of freedom that I got during my 1965 solo
trip to an international course in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I did no research and no pre-planning. I
had some money to cover expenses for a few months, but I had no job lined up
and knew no one who lived in San Francisco. I didn’t know about the hippies and
flower children who were flocking to San Francisco. This wasn’t surprising.
During my college years 1962 to 1966, I paid no attention to the “outside
world.” In fact, I wasn’t even aware of -- and I don’t remember to this day – where
I was and how I felt when JFK was assassinated (on November 22, 1963).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My parents were dismayed and worried
about my going alone to a new city and they demanded that I write them weekly
once I got there. In 1966, long distance telephone calls were expensive and
considered a luxury so requiring that I call regularly was not an option. My
mother visited me once and decided I was doing OK.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Unlike the hippies, I was a working
girl, earning a living at a series of 9 to 5 jobs. I had three clerical jobs in
one year; they were easy to find and easy to leave. I moved three times in that
same year, from a rooming house in Pacific Height to an apartment with
pot-smoking roommates in Haight Ashbury and then to a studio apartment on 7th
Avenue, just south of Golden Gate Park. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I had a wild time in my own way. But
certainly not as wild as the hippies I wrote about in this January 4, 1967 letter
to my parents. At the time, I had a clerical job with the American Red Cross
and was making plans to find an adult profession, either in social work or as a
teacher. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Hi Mom and Dad:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You asked about
the hippies of San Francisco, the gypsy beatniks who abound in this city. I
used to live in the Haight Ashbury neighborhood, on Cole Street with a few
roommates. One of the reasons I moved from there was that I didn’t like the run
down condition of the neighborhood due to so many unemployed kids who crowded
into apartments and hung around on the streets.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Last weekend, I
spent a few hours at a festival of sorts in a long grassy strip between Haight Ashbury
and the Golden Gate Park. There were some folk-rock groups and some weird
musical groups playing far out instruments, and throngs of people milling
around. There was a group of Hell’s Angels, and they were fascinating as were the
hippies. These kids, most are in their late teens and early 20’s, are a modern
day version of gypsies, with their weird dress (ranging from rags to vintage
clothes from the 1920’s and earlier) and their raggedy kids, and their
uninhibited ways. Many are on pot (marijuana) much of the time and LSD is widely
circulated. When I lived in Haight Ashbury, I felt threatened by the hippy life
style. They seem to live from day to day in a way I couldn’t stand, because I
need security.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I admire their
freedom though. They improve on a lot of petty things that the well-fed
middle-class in the U.S. is obsessed with. In some ways, I want to be like them
– to be part of that cult.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My job plans
are taking form. I’ve applied for a welfare job. If it comes by next September,
I’ll take that job and see what I think of “social work.” If I don’t get the
welfare job, I will go to San Francisco State and work on my elementary school
teaching credential.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Had a New
Year’s party with Peter, who is a grad student at State, working on his
master’s degree in set design. He is very creative in the use of wild unusual
materials. We had a good punch and everyone got high, though no one got drunk
or sick. Most of the people I invited didn’t show up, so it was mainly Peter’s
drama friends. But it was fun, and I never lacked (for) someone interesting to
talk to. A college classmate of mine was up from San Diego State, where he is
studying biology, and he came to the party. He was very “out of it.” I think he
is not used to mixing with offbeat characters. I knew no one except Peter, my
college classmate and a friend from Cole Street, but I drank enough punch and I
suppose I’m quite outgoing when the choice of people looks interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I can’t say it
enough, I’m so proud of you both and of our family, for we are all interesting
people who don’t stagnate, that’s for sure.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Love, Betsy<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">P.S. Got your
annual New Year’s letter (pictured below). I didn’t like it because at the
moment I’m not “planning for a social work career,” as you indicated, and
somehow the whole thing seemed braggy (sic) and very smug. We have reason to be
smug about our successes, but it makes the possibility of setbacks, which
always come, very hard. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How can the
Fuchses fail or have rough times? Kind of inhuman picture of us.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><u>Achievements reported in the Fuchses 1967 annual New Year's Letter:</u></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Susan - eldest daughter: Married to a doctor, home-maker, new mother.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Betsy - planning Social Work career.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rose - mother: back to college (at age 60), all A's so far.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Len - father: nominated to Chicago Board of Education, moved to larger office.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Judy - youngest daughter: National Merit Finalist. Freshman at Cornell (University). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Great Grandfather Henry and charming wife Bea (step great-grand mother).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The P.S. in my letter foreshadowed my setbacks
in trying to find a profession suitable for a woman college graduate in the
1960’s. At the time, there were only
two: social work and teaching. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In spring 1967, without much thought or
planning, just like when I made my decision to go to San Francisco, it came to
me that it was time to return home to Chicago. I was frustrated with the
routine job at the American Red Cross and with my boss who gave me what I
considered “make work.” I felt like I couldn’t continue working at The Red
Cross and stay sane. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I didn’t have the patience to wait
until September to learn about the Welfare job.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And I missed the seasons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And I missed my parents. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I got a job as a recreation/social
worker at Chicago State “Mental” Hospital and took teacher certification classes
at night. But I didn’t have the maturity to keep the Chicago State Hospital job
and couldn’t control the seventh graders in during four weeks of student
teaching. So for me social work and teaching were out and instead, I took a
nice safe job as an office clerk. Nothing for Mom and Dad to brag about in their
next New Year’s Letter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Eventually, with loads of on-the job
training and the help and support and encouragement of great bosses and
work-colleagues, I found a profession that suited me in the field of System
Analysis/Information Systems. By then, my parents were retired and traveling
the world and were grandparents, so they had other things to report in their
New Year’s Letters and they no longer needed to report on my career. Or maybe
they didn’t because they never could figure out what I did as a Systems Analyst/I.S.
Support Technician. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-26192455699868039992016-01-17T15:17:00.006-08:002022-04-22T07:37:01.442-07:00Like a Circus Parade<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRDYwpit8KIX2L_3vlYxk6gDcwDNd1m70QVtBru94w_D3uG5dkqqhFfc8_S-wzweAH1LEYPtRo9IWi5QwZ79IRFoK0c-5Qlr7ZdcFYy0OM7WJVzNHZ9e8i1qsOAqFd_DYSj2YDYwzWA91/s1600/bb-snow+2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRDYwpit8KIX2L_3vlYxk6gDcwDNd1m70QVtBru94w_D3uG5dkqqhFfc8_S-wzweAH1LEYPtRo9IWi5QwZ79IRFoK0c-5Qlr7ZdcFYy0OM7WJVzNHZ9e8i1qsOAqFd_DYSj2YDYwzWA91/s320/bb-snow+2014.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<b>January 5, 2014</b></div>
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Bea and I are sitting on the couch in her living room, in
our pajamas, looking out of the big plate glass window at the snow coming
down. As usual she has her Android and I have my tablet and we are both on Facebook. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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She posts this picture with a comment:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="background: #edeff4; color: #333333; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">“Welcome to the south suburbs winter
wonderland. I saw a snow mobile going east on one of the larger roads. I'm
lucky a neighbor blew out my sidewalk. Hopefully, I'll make contact with a snow
removal guy tomorrow! I'm sure not going anywhere today.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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I add a comment on her Facebook timeline:<span style="font-size: 9.0pt;">: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 9.0pt;"> “</span><span style="background: #edeff4; color: #333333; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Sitting
across from you seeing the same thing. LOL”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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And we giggle. </div>
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We
share pictures and stories about the Chicago snow storm that our friends are posting on Facebook
and the time goes by, and the snow keeps piling up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But underneath our lazy amusement and Facebook
fun, we worry – when will we get plowed out and we are restless – we want to
take a walk in the beautiful snow. It’s
Chicago. It's winter and the snow is deep on sidewalks and streets and the
temperature outside including what they call “real feel” these days is 30-40 degrees
below zero. Schools are closed. We know
we must stay in.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m staying with Bea for a
week as she recovers from major laparoscopic surgery. Our cars are snug in her two-car garage, which
is unfortunately at the end of a long driveway.
We have plenty of food, we are enjoying each other’s company, and it is
very beautiful outside. It’s only one
day of snow and cold, but we are already tired of being snowbound.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>January 6, 2014</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Bea gets the name of a snow plow outfit and calls them. Nope. They are not taking any new
customers. She mentions that she is
recovering from very recent major surgery and they take pity on her and soon we
see a big snow plow truck and three men at her house, ready to tackle the
snow.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It is just like a circus parade coming down the
street. Something is happening!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bea has recovered amazingly well and is able to be up and
about, moving more slowly than usual.
We are so excited about the snow plow that we are on the move, from
the front of Bea’s house to the back,
looking and snapping pictures out of the front window, the side windows along
the driveway, and the back window by the garage. Back and forth, again and
again we go, reporting to each other on the progress. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“The two guys are
shoveling in the back.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“The truck with the plow is going down the driveway.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Now it is backing up!”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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“See how they are piling up the snow.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You can see the pavement.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
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We marvel at how coordinated the guy in the truck is with
the two guys shoveling. They each do
their part; they know what they are doing and never get into each other’s
way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Finally they are done. The driveway is clear, the sidewalks
in back and front and the stairs are shoveled.
After Bea gives the guys a generous tip, we fall down on the couch and
of course we post our pictures of the guys and their truck and the plow on Facebook
. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bea adds this comment with her pictures <span style="background: #edeff4; color: #333333; font-family: "tahoma" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt;">”Found a wonderful snow removal company! What
a marvelous job! Whew!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8DRxgsvDvRe3vepa8XKG8GovUt7FeHh1JcCN2nhpi_jxEMtnf8mUZLGd7zvyYPPqNMzyemXWRd1-g2fBMs13qv8mqxSlX8L_zJQuPM1uGIyYe9bXqQoiIWSIgwu6TPTjVxgeATWEtkTXE/s1600/bb-snow+bea+pix.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="540" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8DRxgsvDvRe3vepa8XKG8GovUt7FeHh1JcCN2nhpi_jxEMtnf8mUZLGd7zvyYPPqNMzyemXWRd1-g2fBMs13qv8mqxSlX8L_zJQuPM1uGIyYe9bXqQoiIWSIgwu6TPTjVxgeATWEtkTXE/s640/bb-snow+bea+pix.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p>My pictures are slightly different and I include this comment </o:p><span style="background: rgb(237 , 239 , 244); color: #333333; font-family: "tahoma" , sans-serif; font-size: 9pt;">“Rescued by great team. Great relief. But still
staying inside today”</span><span style="background: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMl0z9BWItrTcm4rOUHRFiV7EtRUeVi-ES5wfiKeMAiBov6gY1A7-6mkrCkcxNpvXRi9WgwQfgm4LXulLaLL_NUIXztaq4P0OkIhv3azM8Phao__14gnPmW2HyKguh0xpW16kVMwuIaN6j/s1600/bb-snow+betsy+pix.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="540" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMl0z9BWItrTcm4rOUHRFiV7EtRUeVi-ES5wfiKeMAiBov6gY1A7-6mkrCkcxNpvXRi9WgwQfgm4LXulLaLL_NUIXztaq4P0OkIhv3azM8Phao__14gnPmW2HyKguh0xpW16kVMwuIaN6j/s640/bb-snow+betsy+pix.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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We are out of breath from the excitement of it all and we
are exhausted. We no longer have to go
anywhere on this cold snowy day. We are
satisfied that we had our own version of the circus parade coming through town.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZY00OoyAbZPREKcsTypUjK355UItreyQ8giktrGnl98OxE8a1DJasUFZQHcn8gx_wFCWcKvZ3CnaXbo9MScfDukLs3_nsVgWEbO71e5BakxnS5moqLhHVmJ4P1XEe8A-9oBuKXrACJ84x/s1600/bb-and+Betsy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZY00OoyAbZPREKcsTypUjK355UItreyQ8giktrGnl98OxE8a1DJasUFZQHcn8gx_wFCWcKvZ3CnaXbo9MScfDukLs3_nsVgWEbO71e5BakxnS5moqLhHVmJ4P1XEe8A-9oBuKXrACJ84x/s200/bb-and+Betsy.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Beatrice Friend, of blessed memory, died on January 6, 2016. She was a loving and wise friend, the sister of my heart, and this story is posted as a reminder of how full of life she was and of how many wonderful memories we made together. </span></i></div>
Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-49989925640385223212015-08-30T15:08:00.001-07:002020-11-16T13:13:47.734-08:00Henry Darger, My Down-the-Hall Neighbor<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew Henry Darger, the reclusive outsider artist. He was my neighbor. He lived down the hall
from my ex-husband David Berglund and me and we shared a bathroom!</div>
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<br />
David and I lived in a three room apartment on the
second floor of the building at 851 W. Webster Avenue in Chicago and Henry lived in
a room at the end of the hall. We were neighbors from March 1969 until November
1972, a few months before his death. Henry was a legacy tenant from the 1930’s
when 851 Webster had been a rooming house.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhauwx_cewHoHiXiP6iFbV9N1bqYHKbBWDq-3PpqMD9epjI0Hdi-1GWUmBGRU6iPDavIWc0YWgrmJhz9CqOEHVoq8UyHcd1GCg57mvYFFBR3diHfAPlZSch836BfziPu4P0RvpVqpG19kPU/s1600/henry+darger.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhauwx_cewHoHiXiP6iFbV9N1bqYHKbBWDq-3PpqMD9epjI0Hdi-1GWUmBGRU6iPDavIWc0YWgrmJhz9CqOEHVoq8UyHcd1GCg57mvYFFBR3diHfAPlZSch836BfziPu4P0RvpVqpG19kPU/s1600/henry+darger.jpg" /></a></div>
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We didn’t know Henry was an artist, nor did our landlord and
landlady, Nathan and Kyoko Lerner, nor did any of the other tenants in our
building. Henry’s work was discovered after he died: over 15,000 pages of a
fantasy novel illustrated by hundreds of water color paintings and a large
number of 30 foot wide murals. Henry Darger’s work is exhibited all over the
world and has been valued in the millions of dollars. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In 1971, David took this photograph, the only one of Henry
Darger in his later years. As he often did, Henry was sitting on the front
steps of our Webster Avenue home. You will find this photograph in most
publications about Henry Darger. You will also find my formerly married name
Betsy Berglund and David’s name in books and articles about Henry. We were sometimes
interviewed about our interactions with Henry when he was our neighbor. David died a few years ago, but I am still
asked about Henry by authors and film producers now and then.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjONyEHxiyTu0PFbggib8h9_qNaQGe5xxpY0gieBXzCj4N985-1XXb-7EJ5Qkk0fMZdTFOzJ-QMX1zR_HTpEGZHHFtAYq6IpEz4AXsvHuqTqAmjnCl_w0JKvi8JVGNNCI0MAJj8ZMzBdCW/s1600/henrys+room1.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjONyEHxiyTu0PFbggib8h9_qNaQGe5xxpY0gieBXzCj4N985-1XXb-7EJ5Qkk0fMZdTFOzJ-QMX1zR_HTpEGZHHFtAYq6IpEz4AXsvHuqTqAmjnCl_w0JKvi8JVGNNCI0MAJj8ZMzBdCW/s640/henrys+room1.png" width="292" /></a></div>
I recently read an article about
Henry that indicated he lived in an apartment at 851 Webster. Not true! He had one room, with a small closet
containing a sink (no toilet), at the end of our common second floor hallway. And he shared a bathroom (toilet) with us. As
you can see from the layout drawing of the second floor at 851 Webster, we
accessed the bathroom from the hallway. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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David and I were hippy-want-to-be’s. We went camping
frequently. We didn’t mind sharing the bathroom and we didn’t mind going out of
our apartment to get to the bathroom. It
was an unconventional arrangement but we wanted to be, we hoped we were, an
unconventional couple. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Henry had his own sink and he
must have washed up there because to the best of our knowledge, he didn’t take
baths or showers. So we rarely had to negotiate who would use the bathroom at
any given time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There was one time, however, when Dave gave Henry a bath. It
happened when Henry was sick and very frail, shortly before he had to be moved to
the Saint Augustine's Catholic Mission home in Chicago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Quickly while Dave bathed Henry, I took his clothes and bed
sheets to the laundromat down the street and washed them. His clothes had layers of dirt on them and
the bed sheets were gray from ground in dirt. The primitive tent-camper in me
was able to handle the grime – though his clothes were much dirtier than our
clothes when we would return from a week of back-packing and camping. <o:p></o:p>Kyoko Lerner, our landlady, wrote in the introduction to the
book <i>Henry Darger’s Room </i>(published
by Imperial Press 2007) that Henry looked
like a homeless person, dirty and uncared
for, as was the too-long and greasy-looking coat he wore. The same could be said
about the clothes I washed; they were dirty, greasy and certainly uncared for.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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During this time Henry stayed most of the day in bed. Daily I
took him breakfast, toast with butter and jelly. I crossed his room to get to
the bed, past piles of stuff. Papers and magazines and unidentifiable clutter were
piled high on the big oval table in the center of the room, and were stuffed
into cabinets and bookcases and were lying on the floor and in the closet. The
room, like Henry, looked very dirty and uncared for. The walls were gray from years of neglect;
the piles were dusty and disorganized and looked like they hadn’t been touched
in years. Intuit: The Center for Intuitive and Outsider Art in Chicago has recreated
what they call the “Henry Darger Room.” See photos and more information at <a href="https://www.art.org/henry-darger-room-collection/">https://www.art.org/henry-darger-room-collection/</a> The Intuit room is clean and the “clutter”
while coming from Henry’s room on Webster Avenue, has been artfully
arranged. It is very different from the
real Henry Darger room that I saw when he lived in it.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Henry’s door was often open and we could hear him talking to
himself. Once or twice I heard two distinct voices. Henry’s regular old man
voice, soft and unassuming, was answered by a higher pitched child-like voice.
The conversations were muted and I couldn’t catch the content, but Henry’s
voice seemed contrite in response to the other voice which was strong and
aggressive and seemed to be scolding Henry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Before Henry got sick and we got personally involved with
him, Dave and I would sometimes peek into his room. We were put off by the papers
and stuff piled up and the dirt and by our sense that we were trespassing. Perhaps a tenant in our building, or maybe a
visitor, must have gone into the room and looked closely at the few of Henry’s
drawings that were hung on the walls. I don’t remember who told us, but someone
reported that Henry had "dirty" (obscene) hand drawn pictures in his room. Later after Henry
Darger’s work was discovered and studied and displayed, all could see that the
little girls in a number of his drawing and paintings were nude and had penises. Our thought at the time was that Henry was
strange and these particular pictures were harmless and strange, just like Henry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Henry came into our apartment only once, on Christmas day 1971. Though we were Jewish, our custom was to have
dinner with my parents on Christmas day and that year, Dave invited Henry to join
us. A Valentine card addressed to David was
found among Henry’s treasures and odds and ends. Included with the card was a hand-written note from Henry <i>"For Christmas presents I would like what I need most... ivory soap... shaving cream... and something to eat Christmas afternoon chicken no turkey I hate it."</i> Henry joined us for our "Christmas dinner." He
came on time, sat with us at the table and ate what we served. I hope we didn't serve turkey! He didn’t engage in conversation with Dave or
me or my parents. After dinner, he
quietly and quickly left and went back to his room.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTSc-msyYU6x39N_tGe5yixVoqbeiZLDcRvLrVeFz-YwcdrqKynR_m58THSbKeuzFjZYNfIklOGb-X2h8cwWhUa94uCnmqSqCku1Qg2DXRsdghWXSDPWC_x0-E_g6kEA_7QsFwd_h6PII/s1600/Series+2074+a+LR.Jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTSc-msyYU6x39N_tGe5yixVoqbeiZLDcRvLrVeFz-YwcdrqKynR_m58THSbKeuzFjZYNfIklOGb-X2h8cwWhUa94uCnmqSqCku1Qg2DXRsdghWXSDPWC_x0-E_g6kEA_7QsFwd_h6PII/s400/Series+2074+a+LR.Jpg" width="313" /></a></div>
Many have seen Darger's paintings and
drawings; some have studied his written works. There has been much about Henry Darger the person in books and articles and films, quite a bit of it speculation. The last time I visited the Intuit Center for Outsider Art and viewed
Henry’s room, I realized I had another perspective on the Henry Darger Story. <span style="background-color: white;">Hence I'm sharing my remembrances of Henry, when he was the Berglund's down-the-hall neighbor. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
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I end with a picture of the hippy want-to-be's David and Betsy Berglund in our Webster Avenue living room. Behind us is a white blow-up couch and to the left of David is a black bean bag chair. The doorway behind Dave led to our walk-through closet and gave us access to the kitchen and bedroom. Not pictured but to the right of me was the door to the hallway which gave us access to the shared bathroom.<br />
<br />
<i>For more information about Henry Darger and his paintings and writings, refer to the many websites that describe his work in detail.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I recommend two books that discuss Henry Darger's life and attempt to give the reader perspectives on Henry's very difficult upbringing, his high intelligence, his limited socialization skills and how these and other factors affected Henry's life and art. Each author has his/her own theories which you the reader can accept or not. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone</b> by Olivia Laing, <i>specifically the chapter "In the Realms of the Unreal" about Henry Darger and his upbringing and his solitary life in Chicago.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>Henry Darger, Throwaway Boy: The Tragic Life of an Outsider Artist </b>by Jim Elledge</div>
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Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-89323672939774475052015-07-22T13:58:00.000-07:002017-11-12T09:57:39.858-08:00Alex 2.0 "Becoming the Man I Am Meant to Be"<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="background: white;">My family includes those related by blood and
those related by love and choice. In 2010 my nephew-by-choice and by heart
Alexandyr Reid-Watkins told me he was transgender and would transition from female to the male. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white;">Alex has become the man he always was and I am learning from him what it is to be transgender. </span></i><i><span style="background: white;">I invite you to learn along with me through an </span></i><i><span style="background: white;">essay Alex published June 12, 2015 on a GoFundMe page he set up to raise money for re-assignment surgery, as well as through our subsequent on-line conversations. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="background-color: white;"><i>Alex has graciously allowed me to post to my blog his essay along with our Facebook conversations. </i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="background: white;">Thank you Alex! </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<b><span style="background: white;">Alex writes:</span></b><span style="background: white;"> I
came out as trans in early 2010. This was something that was 20 years in the
workings. Coming out certainly liberated me. </span><span style="background-color: white;">However, I did not feel
complete. I started hormone therapy in May of 2012. That helped me feel more
whole. I believe top surgery is one of those things that if completed will
combat my dysphoria with my chest. I am not a small chested individual and I am
saving up money on the side. It has been a slow process.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white;">I've recently decided to embark
on a personal mission: Alex 2.0. The time that I've given myself is 1 1/2 years
to become the best possible person I can be. I fell into a depression and let
myself go a little bit, but now, I'm working on my physical fitness, as well as
saving for surgery and becoming the man I know I'm meant to be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white;">I am always educating people on
trans issues and have no qualms about any trans-related questions, no matter
how personal, so long as they are respectful and coming from a place of genuine
curiosity. I have lost some friends in the process, but I have also gained tons
more and so many friends and family have been supportive of me throughout my
transition and for that, I have been eternally grateful. I thought about doing
some sort of fundraiser and people recommended that I try gofundme, so, here I
am. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white;">I also wish to thank everyone
in advance for helping me achieve the one thing that will make me finally feel
outwardly how I feel inside. Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of
my heart. I am planning on having surgery done by a doctor who comes highly recommended to me. $6,000
is his current price for Double Incision method (the procedure I would need to
have done). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i>Betsy’s
comments:</i></b><i> All
this is new to me and I am grateful for how open Alex is about himself and Alex 2.0, his process of becoming. And I am grateful for his
challenge to me and all of us to go beyond “accepting a trans person because he
(she) is your friend.”</i></div>
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<i>I have
a lot more to learn and to assimilate <u>and to accept</u> about transgender
individuals. And Alex continues to teach
me (and others) through his Facebook posts which I share now with you. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #141823;">June 5, 2015 Alex posted on Facebook:</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #141823;"> So, in light of this Caitlyn Jenner story, I
have seen both sides of the spectrum as far as acceptance goes and I have seen
a lot of trans phobic rhetoric as well. Being an ally is not just accepting a
trans person because they are your friend. You can't accept one person as trans
and somehow deny other trans people because of certain stipulations you have
placed on said friend, i.e. "Well, I don't mind that you're trans, but I
don't like other trans people because (insert excuse here)". You'<span class="textexposedshow">re either supportive or you're not. That's it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #141823;"><br />
<span class="textexposedshow">Another thing is, I have finally made a GoFundMe
website for people who have expressed interest in helping me achieve my goals
can support me financially, if they have the means to do so. </span></span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #141823;"><span class="textexposedshow"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background: white; color: #141823;"><span class="textexposedshow">Lastly, as always, thank you all for your continued support. It seriously means the world to me.</span></span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: #141823;"><span class="textexposedshow"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background: white; color: #141823;"><span class="textexposedshow"><i><b>Note from Betsy:</b> Unfortunately, Alex was not able to raise enough money through GoFundMe and his website was shut down. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #141823;"><br /><b style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #141823;">June 12, 2015 Alex posted on Facebook:</span></b><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #141823;"> I know that there is a lot more research out
there nowadays than before. Just note that Google is not always accurate and
people's trans experiences are not all the same. Something that may hold true
for one trans person may not be the same for another.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #141823;">For me, no question is
off-limits. I do not get offended when people ask personal questions when they
are genuinely curious about something. Times are changing and people are
learning a little more about trans people, but there is still a real stigma
about it. Especially with all the media hype and negative publicity. I
personally believe that nowadays, it's probably the hardest person to be (as
far as the LGBT spectrum goes anyway) because a lot of people are still really
not knowledgeable enough about it or are just too uncomfortable with the notion
all together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #141823;">June 18, 2015 Alex posted on Facebook:</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #141823;"> I was reading something today and it led me to
a series of thoughts. I have often wondered why people associate gender
identity with sexual orientation, and then I realized, even though it's an
umbrella, LGBT (and all the other acronyms) are all bound together, so I can
clearly see now how people who are unfamiliar with that world confuse them so
often. Not saying anything bad about it, but, it does make much more sense now.
[Food for thought].<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; color: #141823;">June 20, 2015 Betsy responded on Facebook:</span></i></b><i><span style="background: white; color: #141823;"> </span></i><i><span style="background: #f6f7f8; color: #141823;">Thanks
for this. It is confusing I read this and can't separate it all out. Write more
please.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="background: white; color: #141823;">June 22, 2015 Alex’s response:</span></b><span style="background: white; color: #141823;"> </span><span style="background: #f6f7f8; color: #141823;">Well,
I was just meaning how LGB (lesbian, gay, bisexual), all refer to a person's
sexual orientation, whereas T (transgender) refers to gender identity. They
clump all of them together (LGBTQIA - Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender,
questioning, intersex, and asexual) even though being transgender has
absolutely NOTHING to</span> <span style="background: #f6f7f8; color: #141823;">do
with your sexual orientation whatsoever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #f6f7f8; color: #141823;">I think that people confuse
all the alphabet letters and identities often because they are lumped together
and though it is getter better now, people often misunderstand trans people or
think that being trans has to do somehow with being gay or lesbian or something
else when, in fact, your gender identity (as male or female) makes you male or
female. For example, if you are FTM
(female-to-male) and you like women, this does not make you a lesbian because
your gender identity is male and you date or are attracted to women, you are
considered a heterosexual male. And that works all the way across the board.
MTF (male-to-female), if an MTF likes men, they are a heterosexual female. And
so on and so forth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: #f6f7f8; color: #141823;">Of course there are many
other identities now as we see from the current expansion of alphabet
identities: LGBTQIA (lesbian, gay,
bisexual, transgender, questioning, intersex, and asexual) but that is a whole other
conversation entirely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-71180542417113642112014-02-11T07:04:00.000-08:002017-11-03T06:15:33.208-07:00Chicago: Lawn Chair Winter Duties<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
White on white - White on black</div>
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White on white:</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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lawn chairs waiting patiently for their guard-chair duties.<o:p></o:p></div>
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White on black:<o:p></o:p></div>
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lawn chairs bravely-firmly-doggedly holding parking spaces</div>
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wrestled from the snow by hard-shoveling Chicagoans.</div>
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Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-39833904954542384462014-02-11T07:03:00.003-08:002017-11-03T06:18:08.472-07:00In Memoriam: 1960-2013 The Purple Hotel Lincolnwood, Illinois<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div>
In 1960 the “Purple Hyatt” was built</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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on Touhy<o:p></o:p></div>
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in Lincolnwood<o:p></o:p></div>
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in the state of Illinois<o:p></o:p></div>
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The bricks were blue purple<o:p></o:p></div>
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a mistake some claim<o:p></o:p></div>
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in truth<o:p></o:p></div>
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the architect protested<o:p></o:p></div>
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but the owners wanted purple <o:p></o:p></div>
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and so the hotel was built <o:p></o:p></div>
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and called by all the Purple Hyatt<o:p></o:p></div>
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The vertical structural beams <o:p></o:p></div>
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were outside<o:p></o:p></div>
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white in contrast to the purple bricks<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
We loved this building<o:p></o:p></div>
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for its simplicity<br />
for its beauty<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
<o:p></o:p>
It was our landmark and held our stories<br />
from the 1960's and 1970's </div>
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our stories of NOW conferences, weddings, first dates,</div>
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bar mitzvah parties and New Year’s eve events<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the 1980’s the gangsters took over<o:p></o:p></div>
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In 1983 there was a murder in the parking lot<o:p></o:p></div>
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We no longer went there<o:p></o:p></div>
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most of us were too old for NOW conferences and first dates<o:p></o:p></div>
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and we went elsewhere for weddings and bar mitzvah
parties and events<o:p></o:p><br />
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In 2004 a red neon sign appeared on the roof<br />
<b><span style="color: red; font-family: "arial black" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">PURPLE HOTEL</span></b></div>
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<i>Red is not purple!</i></div>
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The sign was so wrong, so very wrong<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The purple hotel stayed open<o:p></o:p></div>
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and a friend attended a New Year’s Eve party there</div>
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a good party, she said<o:p></o:p></div>
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"but we could tell, there were not many more years left for the hotel”</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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In 2007 mold was found in 208 of 225 rooms<o:p></o:p></div>
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at the former Purple Hyatt, the renamed Purple Hotel<o:p></o:p></div>
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and it was condemned<o:p></o:p></div>
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closed<o:p></o:p></div>
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Still it was my touchstone <o:p></o:p></div>
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it was our landmark<br />
when we drove down Touhy<br />
past the building with the vertical white beams and the purple bricks<br />
it told us where we were and who we were<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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In 2013 it ended <o:p></o:p></div>
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In August at the Lincolnwood Fest<br />
and a few purple bricks were available for a donation of five dollars</div>
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people lined up around the block to get a purple brick</div>
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to remind them of the stories of their lives<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t have a brick<o:p></o:p></div>
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a brick is not my touchstone<br />
a brick cannot contain my stories <o:p></o:p></div>
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a brick doesn't recall my memories</div>
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<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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September 2013 demolition started and I mourned and took photographs week by week</div>
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September 25: No Trespassing No Bricks Available</div>
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Bricks carefully removed panel by panel - perhaps for sale or reuse?</div>
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<o:p> </o:p>October 12: East end intact - west end coming down</div>
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November 1: Severe mourning as more bricks come down</div>
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View from east end at Lincoln Avenue, a few purple bricks remain, white structure the last to go<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkZNi1KbZkhri40jL_0eXkQp3mmNGPESvzsfv-jiLh-FD8fom34PJf_qRrZHqHjKIdRyBkFs-GwbvuVPyqC7NsyytMx0yOVWTVysd18XDFJn0DL7JdEP1uQGhDKyketMIqKz25UnafS1hO/s1600/blog+oct+and+november.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkZNi1KbZkhri40jL_0eXkQp3mmNGPESvzsfv-jiLh-FD8fom34PJf_qRrZHqHjKIdRyBkFs-GwbvuVPyqC7NsyytMx0yOVWTVysd18XDFJn0DL7JdEP1uQGhDKyketMIqKz25UnafS1hO/s1600/blog+oct+and+november.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Smaller and smaller, going, gone, almost gone</div>
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My heart is broken: it is only a building but oh how it hurts</div>
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Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-28751925490649996102014-01-03T16:40:00.002-08:002021-12-10T08:39:39.340-08:00W for Wilma<b>W the initial of my middle name Wilma.</b> A name young Betsy thought ugly and kept secret.<br />
<br />
<b>W for Willa Cather, the Great Plaines novelist. </b>My middle namesake. My parents modified it because the name Betsy Willa Fuchs was dangerous if you changed two letters.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>W the initial my grandfather Henry W. Fuchs took.</b> He had no middle name and said “W” stood for Hard Work.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>W an initial I now embrace and Wilma a name I proudly claim. </b>Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-45363131667404022972013-11-22T06:39:00.001-08:002017-11-12T09:30:53.774-08:00Fun with Online Dating at Age 63 and Beyond!You have to be motivated or amused or a little of both to stick
with <i>online</i> <i>dating, </i>especially at age 63 and beyond. I’m now 69 years old and
over the last six years, I was on and off J-Date, Match.com, Yahoo Dating and
OKCupid to find guys with whom I could do some real-time <i>offline</i> <i>dating</i>.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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You probably want to know – was it fun? Was it horrid? Was
the time I devoted to the online search and offline dating well spent? Did I
find my perfect match? The brief answers are – yes it was fun. No it was not
horrid. Yes my time was well spent. Yes I found someone. We have been enjoying
each other’s company for seven months and our assessment is “so far so good.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The fun of it was in the variety of guys I met and got to
know a little bit. Some I dated once or twice; others I dated for a few months
or more. Among them were a professional engineer/diver, a newspaper reporter, a
registered nurse, a nuclear scientist from Fermi Lab, an attorney who did
pro-bono work which included defending arrested Occupy Chicago protestors, a
handy-man electrician who fixed a broken lamp for me, a 70 year old volunteer for
the Israel Defense Forces, a business owner whose business made screws, nuts
and bolts and a college professor who is not a romantic interest but has become
a good friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was not horrid, but it was scary. At the same time that I
was going online to find guys I could meet for real offline dating, I was also
trying to market a book of prayers I had written. In both cases, I was putting myself and my
soul “out there” to be evaluated and critiqued. In both cases, I experienced
rejection, indifference and sometimes confirmation that they (the guys and the
readers) thought I and/or my prayers were “ok.”
I must say, however, that I was amused at how difficult the online and
offline dating rejections were. Always I felt personally affronted by a guy I
never met who would reply to my online query “You are not my type” or “You seem
interesting but I’m dating someone else I met online.” And it was surprisingly difficult
for me to tell a guy whom I barely knew after one or two dates or one phone
call “You seem like a nice guy<i> (said to
soften the blow) </i>but I’m sorry this is not going to work for me.” Except for one guy. On our first date, he said
“My last girlfriend would come to my house and throw out the beer in my refrigerator
to keep me from drinking to excess.” I immediately
got up to leave, shook hands with him and replied “I will never do that for
you.” I had been married to a
non-recovered alcoholic. Enough said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My time was well spent.
I found enough personal “enlightenment” to keep me going in spite of all
the mis-matches and near-matches. I learned a lot about myself as I put myself
out there with guys whose quirks and personalities butted up against my quirks
(yes I do have many) and my not-always easy-going personality. I learned even more through writing and
rewriting and tweaking my online profiles on the several sites. It was like
completing mini-social psychological evaluations. Was I flirty, intellectual,
seductive, athletic, bookish, religious, spiritual? Was I friendly or reserved?
Was I social or a hermit? Was I creative or not? And how did I like to spend my time? And what was I looking for – companionship,
friendship, long-term relationship, marriage? Do I mention my several divorces
or that I write prayers? Are these things that define me? Will any of this turn
off a guy who might be a good match for me? <o:p></o:p></div>
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So now to your most important question: Have I met my perfect match? My answer is a
very tentative maybe. For seven months, I’ve
been seeing a guy I met on OKCupid. We
are of the same generation: I am 69; he is 70.
He is a nice guy, by that I mean: he is pleasant to be with and doesn’t
have any in-your-face negative personality traits. He gets along well with me
and with his kids and grand-kids and speaks well of his ex-wife. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We are not identical in our personalities or interests, yet we
seem compatible. Here are a few things I like very much about him: We both like
to eat at home. He cooks for me; I cook for him. When we occasionally go out to eat, he
shares his food with me. (The pro-bono
attorney did not offer to share his large salad with me after I offered to
share my medium sized pizza with him.) He has street smarts and a witty/sharp
sense of humor. He reads books and has recommended several wonderful reads to
me. After he has talked for a while, he says “I’ve said enough. Perhaps I
talked too long. I tend to go on sometimes” and then he stops talking. After
six years and many dates, possibilities and rejections by the other guys or by
me, I know this guy is a person of substance and he seems to think the same of
me. At 69 and 70 respectively we know
our time on this earth is shorter than it used to be and our mutual assessment
is “so far so good.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Written July 2013<o:p></o:p></div>
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As of November 2013, we are still enjoying each other’s
company.<o:p></o:p></div>
Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1284350331203767834.post-74128688662535256552013-01-26T12:02:00.001-08:002017-08-28T08:36:59.726-07:00Kaddish of Rabbi Levi-Yitzchak of BerdichevIn the
Hebrew Bible, there are many stories of God’s power, and intention, to
intervene to save <i>B’nai Yisrael, </i>the Children
of Israel, God’s people. And these
stories and intentions have caused hope and heartbreak to the Jewish people over
the centuries.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The prayers Jews
say and the Torah Jews read and study, week after week and year after year,
invoke God’s power to save them from disaster and to bring salvation “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">speedily and in our day.”</i> But over the
millenniums of Jewish history, the Jewish people have yearned and waited for
their salvation to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kaddish</i> of
Rabbi Levi-Yitzchak of Berdichev (Russian city) from the 18th century is one
of the most poignant expressions of this yearning. Rabbi Levi-Yitzchak wrote it
as a protest against the Czar. Here is one translation.<o:p></o:p></div>
Good morning to You, Lord of the Universe!<o:p></o:p><br />
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I, Levi-Yitzchak, son of Sarah, of Berdichev,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Have come to You in a law-suit on behalf of Your people Israel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No matter what happens, it is: “Command the Children of Israel!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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No matter what happens, it is “Say to the Children of Israel!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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No matter what happens, it is “Speak to the Children of Israel!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Father, sweet Father in heaven!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
How many nations are there in the world?<o:p></o:p><br />
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Persians, Babylonians, Edomites...<o:p></o:p></div>
The Russians, what do they say?<o:p></o:p><br />
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That their Czar is the only ruler.<o:p></o:p></div>
The Prussians, what do they say?<o:p></o:p><br />
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That their Kaiser is supreme.<o:p></o:p></div>
And the English, what do they say?<o:p></o:p><br />
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That George the Third is sovereign.<o:p></o:p></div>
And I, Levi-Yitzchak, son of Sarah, of Berdichev, say:<o:p></o:p><br />
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“Hallowed and magnified be the name of God!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I, Levi-Yitzchak, son of Sarah, of Berdichev, say:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Lo o-zuz mim-koi-mee! </i>I will
not stir from here!<o:p></o:p></div>
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An end there must be to this. It must all stop!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Yisgadal v’yis-ka-dash shmay rabah! </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Hallowed and magnified be the name of God!” … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Such
yearnings and pleas are not exclusive to the Jewish people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most humans at some time make similar and
fervent pleas. And yet, such requests to the Lord of the Universe, that “There
must be an end to this. It must all stop” (for all humans), are not answered. We
still wait.</div>
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With thanks to my sister Judy for bringing this prayer and the commentary to my attention through a D'var Torah (study of Torah) she led in 2012 on Parasha Va-era, Exodus 3:2 - 9:35. This Torah portion begins with God identifying Moses as the one to "go down to Egypt" and save the Children of Israel from slavery there and ends with a display of God's power when God brings down the first plagues on Pharoah and the people of Egypt.</div>
Betsy Fuchshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00041551562471612862noreply@blogger.com0