Lunchtime in downtown Chicago

Visiting Chicago often puts me in a rather historical mood, sometimes a very nostalgic mood. But nostalgia wasn't really the right word today because it implies a sense of longing or at least very fond remembrance of a certain place or event. I didn't feel that way this hot and humid morning as I set out for State Street to do an errand at Macy's, once known as the upscale Marshall Field & Company department store. I was feeling more like a cultural explorer, not longing to relieve an experience, but rather to see how things might be different.

Department stores have passed their heyday--that I knew--and I wondered what I might find there. A teenager when my family moved back to Chicago, I was excited then to learn that I could visit Field's on my own. It seemed like a kind of shopper's Disneyland, with special chocolates made on site (Frango mints) and beautiful packaging on anything you bought. I don't think I bought much in those early days, however, as I didn't have any money to speak of--and I was not brought up among "ladies who lunched" from plates and tea cups on white tablecloths. This was the era of the "tea room", an innovation Field's added to early 20th century department store culture. Apparently, according to Wikipedia, it was unladylike for ladies to eat in public in the late 19th century--a problem for tired shoppers. One day a young clerk shared her chicken pot pie lunch with a customer, and the idea of selling lunch or tea in a posh atmosphere was born.

Though I dressed casually most of the time, like all 60s teens, I absorbed the idea that going to Field's was something you dressed up for--an outing, not an errand. No doubt I got this from my Aunt Steph, who cut a fine figure in heels and a good dress, which I'm sure she wore on all downtown excursions, day or eve. Did I ever have an elegant lunch in the tearoom at Field's? I'm not sure. My memories of the place center on the huge multi-story Christmas tree placed in the atrium every holiday season and the animated window displays that brought thousands downtown in frigid December temperatures. Somewhere I have a picture of myself, dressed in my best coat, walking down State Street with an old boyfriend, having just admired the displays.

I wondered what the tearoom would look like today, so many years later. Field's is now Macy's, and the tearoom is called the Walnut Room, aiming its publicity at theater goers looking for dinner after the show. You can still get chicken pot pie and expect to pay a tab ranging from $11 to $30. It has a lunch service, though, and on this Tuesday morning, around 11:30, I decided to take the elevator to the 7th floor to see what might be happening in the Walnut Room. Here's what I saw:

Wanting to avoid crowds? This clearly is the place to go. Things were no busier at the food court at the other end of the floor. There were a number of food choices here, but perhaps it was still too early or people didn't know it was here or didn't want to take time to wait for the elevator or take the squeaky escalator to the 7th floor.

I didn't stay to see if things picked up later during lunch time. With another errand to do down the street, I took the elevator down and headed toward Wabash Street. Feeling hungry,  I stopped at the Protein Bar near Madison and Wabash. It was doing a booming business. Here's the view from outdoors.

I went in and ordered a spinach parmesan and pesto bowl, after checking the menu on the wall,  which told me the nutritional content and ingredients. I paid $7, and lunch was in my hands just 10 minutes later. Self-service on drinks and plastic ware, plain tables, no tablecloths. Some customers sat at small tables lining busy Wabash Street and others, at tables or a counter facing the street. Some were alone or with their phones, others with friends. Lunch lasted as long as their lunch breaks allowed. Somewhat less than an hour for most it seemed, myself included. I enjoyed this tasty lunch and went on my way. I was tempted to stop in at The Goddess and the Baker next door, with a table of croissants in easy view and a line stretching to the door. An employee moved down the line taking orders, and I resolutely moved on.

Both Field's and the Protein Bar seemed to typify so many of the changes that have happened in the way we eat, from the service to the setting to the food itself. Perhaps more people eat out as well. Were the workers at Field's back in the 60s munching their homemade sandwiches in the employee cafeteria while shoppers filled the Tea Room? Of course, the Walnut Room and the Protein Bar are not the only two ways of eating in Chicago.  I passed many food trucks, and outdoor restaurant patios, and the wonderful Toni's pastry shop on Washington (my destination). I wondered if we could generalize that our food choices have greatly expanded while the lunch hour has gone the way of Field's animated Christmas display.

Forty years ago: The Big Mama Rag newspaper collective

Forty years ago this fall I moved to Denver. In love with the natural beauty of the West and hoping to continue my fledgling feminist work in a newspaper collective, I joined the staff of Big Mama Rag in the fall of '76, just weeks after I moved here from Chicago. Ah, what a time it was! First of all, I was 29--gift enough, isn't it? And I wanted to live away from the Midwest where I had grown up, to start a new life in this high altitude city with its thin air, impossibly blue skies and open spaces.

I was still smoking then, often hand-rolled cigarettes. Here's what I looked like, circa 1980. Note my unlined face, blond hair (natural color!) and aviator sunglasses. Still fond of that style.

Within weeks of getting my first apartment, a studio at 16th and Marion, I was sitting in the basement of a large brick house on Gaylord Street, committing myself to working with women like me, those who saw second-wave feminism as the movement we wanted to join and grow. Big Mama Rag was a monthly newspaper, covering a wide range of feminist issues. We talked and wrote about so many things: the growing challenge and inclusion of women in many fields--law, literature, religion, politics; sexuality, violence against women and what should be done about it, racism, reproductive rights, a blossoming culture of art and music....So many others. We saw that patriarchy had controlled every aspect of women's lives for centuries, and we were determined to explore every aspect and to change it.

There were other feminist newspapers across the country, and we had exchange subscriptions with them, along with our sub to Liberation News Service, a wire service covering a range of progressive issues. We were part of a network, we felt, part of a growing movement that could make a difference. I have pictures and notes from that era, not yet organized, so let me share with you a photo retrospective of Big Mama Rag (BMR) by Julie Enszer, one that conveys the flavor of those change-driven days.

Here's what the paper looked like. An array of them, on display at a reunion of second-wave feminists in Denver this weekend:

Though we published just once a month, we met regularly, planning and writing stories. We kept prices low; we were all volunteers and we sold ads (usually from other movement groups and businesses) to cover costs. We were also a collective, which meant that we were committed to sharing power equally, although we all had different jobs, such as ads, the books, or distribution. It was the pre-Internet era, so once as month, we had a long production evening and night, cutting and pasting and huddling over the strip printer, a little machine that made headlines. The following morning, off it went to the printer.

Here's one photo from a late-70s production night; Vickie Piotter (looking quite alert despite the hour) with Deb Taylor in the background.

What made all of this possible was our youthful energy and the fact that one could live fairly cheaply in Denver then on a part-time or temporary job. (For a few years I did typing and reception for C. Gerald Starbuck, a lawyer. It was a laid-back office, and I remember having time to write stories for the paper between job tasks.) I stayed on the collective for about 18 months, then left, remaining a contributor.

I had friends on the collective, and by the early 1980s when the paper closed after 10 years of publishing, I had become disillusioned with BMR. Too much quarreling in the collective, I thought, and an increasing ideological rigidity that drove newcomers away. In retrospect, I didn't acknowledge the larger context: the Reagan years had begun, we were getting older and looking for new ways--more stable and responsible ways--of earning our living and making change; the well-known difficulties of attracting and keeping volunteers.

This weekend I had a chance to think about all of this again when Jackie StJoan, one of the first collective members , hosted a reunion of women who had worked on BMR or been friends in Denver during the late 70s. It was wonderful to see them again! I didn't know everyone well, as our time on BMR or other projects didn't always overlap, but there was such a shock of recognition. We had shared a common time and lived through decades of change. We were all older and wiser, quicker to praise than condemn.

Near the end of the evening, the poet Chocolate Waters, who had been part of the founding collective, cornered several of us to talk about our feelings about our movement work, then and now. She's thinking of doing a documentary, and this discussion was a kind of warm-up for that possibility. We had different memories and feelings about that time, of course, but a common thread it seemed to me was a kind of awe and pleasure that we had been active during this amazing time. For me, my criticisms of our mistakes or excesses took a back seat to our hopes and accomplishments.

Here are some photos from the reunion. Enjoying the company and potluck feast we created, from left:  Chocolate Waters, a long-time resident of New York City, continues to write and perform poetry; her best-known work from back in the day was a poetry collection called To The Man Reporter from The Denver Post. Next to her is Tea Schook, who did BMR finances in the late 70s and has been active in Democratic Party politics for many years. Third from left is Janet Yench, poet and initiator of Womanthology (1977), an anthology of Colorado women poets that she and I co-edited. At right is Gayle Novak, who lived with me in 1976-77 and patiently accepted the many hours I spent away from home and in the BMR office.

In this photo are two women active in promoting women's music and art in the late 70s/early 80s: Ronnie Storey (left) and Lyn Davis. Ronnie is a librarian in Colorado. Lynn was visiting from Vancouver Island, British Columbia, where she lives and teaches.

Here's our Big Mama Rag conversation group: from left, Jackie StJoan, a lawyer and retired judge living in Denver, Linda Fowler, visiting from North Carolina, Deb Taylor, a retired social worker living in Denver, Libby Comeaux of Denver, and Chocolate Waters.

Other women attended too, women who continue to do work that's important and close to their hearts. It was so good to spend Sunday afternoon with them, and as I write this on Tuesday evening, I'm still basking in the glow.

Visiting Africa with Paul Theroux

Afternoon is reading time here at the cabin, and one of my favorite ways to read here is through audio books. Readers are often talented actors, and as I listen, my hands can do other things, like chop the morning's greenhouse foraging. Yesterday I finished what felt like a tour of Angola, Namibia and South Africa, all through the eyes and mind of travel writer Paul Theroux. His book, The Last Train to Zona Verde (2013) was Theroux's farewell to Africa, a continent he first discovered more than 50 years ago as a Peace Corps volunteer. In 2011, at the age of 70, he went again, as the book jacket says, "to explore the little-travelled territory of western Africa and to take stock of the place and himself". At the beginning he sensed it would be his final journey there, but perhaps he did not expect it to end with such sorrow, anger, and often fear.

The book has been described as "depressing yet compelling", and it was to me--though not without much insight and touches of humor. I put one CD in after another yesterday, watching afternoon rain clouds roll by, fascinated, unable to really do anything else. I have never been to Africa, though at one time, about 10 years ago, I thought I might go with a Japan-based group of English teachers called "Teachers Helping Teachers (THT)". It was the inspiration of the late Bill Balsamo, a kind, funny, generous man, who had a knack of talking with English teachers from other countries at international conferences, asking if they'd like our group to come visit them and do workshops for their colleagues. The answer was usually an enthusiastic "yes!" I joined THT for three week-long journeys, one to Laos, another to Bangladesh, and another to Hue, Vietnam, all during school holidays in Japan. We also visited a teachers' conference in Vladivostok, Russia, together.  Bill had a contact in Africa and there was some talk of organizing a trip there, but before any plans could be made, Bill developed an aggressive form of cancer and died within the year. A photo of Bill from our 2007 trip to a school in Laos:

And one more, showing a bit of his playfulness, sitting next to me at a restaurant in Dhaka, Bangladesh:

At this point in my life, I doubt I'll ever go to Africa. Now retired, I have less money, more contentment with being in either of my Colorado homes or with family in Illinois, more motivation to plan short rather than long excursions. Like Theroux, who was my age when he went to Africa for the last time, I'm happy, more often than not, just being at home. In picking up his book, perhaps I'm initiating myself into a future of armchair travel.

Theroux had more substantial reasons for ending his last Africa journey early, and he recounts them after he decides not to get on the train for the zone verde, the open land known as the bush. During the last weeks of the trip in Angola, he continually asks himself, "What am I doing here?" Three people he spent time with on the journey have died, two violently. Boku Haram and al Quaida were active in the direction he had planned to go, as murders and kidnappings filled the news. But more important, was his increasing revulsion with dysfunctional urban slums, full of violence, squalor and human despair. One seemed more like any other, he reports, noting that he never really cared for cities that much anyway; the villages brought him the experiences he was looking for. (In fact, some of the best parts of the book deal with his travels outside cities, in the townships.) Finally, he admits, he just can't stand any more jostling in bus lines, any more jeers from the gangs of young unemployed men loitering everywhere, any more of the relentless poverty.

Theroux zeroes in on the causes, a major one being the corruption of the government and exploitation of foreign companies. Angola, with a population of 25 million in a land area twice the size of Texas, is actually a wealthy country, a major exporter of oil and minerals. Yet, none of the benefits were apparent in the cities he visited. In Angola, the few at the top enjoy ostentatious wealth, and the expatriate community--largely oil companies and Chinese business investors--live in their own enclaves. Did Theroux believe once, as I did, that Africa's future would be a bright one, once the shackles of colonialism were thrown off? That was the dominant ideology among those of us on the Left in the 1960s; "the people united will never be defeated." Yet....Angola won independence from Portugal in 1975 after a long liberation struggle. Then a nearly-30-year civil war ensued. Since that war ended in 2002, Angola's economy boomed, thanks to its vast oil and mineral reserves. But the majority of the people continued to suffer. Life expectancy and infant mortality rates are among the worst in the world. If Theroux had visited in 2016, he would have certainly written about climate change as well. Drought has produced the worst food crisis in 25 years. Malnutrition rates have doubled and food prices are soaring. Reading Zona Verde, I find it hard to believe things could have gotten worse, but they have and will continue to deteriorate through the end of the year, according to a May article in The Guardian.

Theroux's anger and frustration are apparent in this book, as are his fears that the world will become more and more like this, as globalization progresses. Most people in the world now live in cities, and the pattern is so often the same, he reminds us: slums develop as rural people can no longer live in their home communities, and then squatter camps develop around the slums. No doubt this pattern is evident to some degree in Rio de Janeiro this summer, as complaints of crime, pollution, and poor preparation for the Olympics continue to come in.

But the real story behind these stories is the globalization story, including trade agreements. Theroux's book inspired me to do a little checking today, as this African journey is still very much on my mind. The US signed a Trade and Investment Framework Agreement (TIFA) in 2009 with Angola, and not surprisingly, there's a trade deficit: we buy twice as much as we sell. The US imported $2.7 billion worth of mineral fuels in 2015 from Angola and another 66 million in diamonds and precious metals. (Total imports: $2.8 billion) While our election rhetoric focuses on free trade, especially, the TPP, as it affects this country, our focus needs to be a lot broader. I think Theroux would agree that if we tied human rights to our trade agreements, we'd be contributing to a much better and fairer world.

No doubt Theroux needed a healing experience after his Africa sojourn, and perhaps he found it in the U.S.,  his home country, as reported in his 2015 travel memoir, Deep South: Four Seasons on Back Roads. Healing, in the sense that he turned away from megalopolises in favor of small communities, yet "unflinching", as the amazon blurb reports. His many readers, now including me, would expect no less. It's on my list.

Western Wildfires: Smoke gets in your eyes

It was a wet spring when I opened the cabin in early June this year. I didn't think about wildfires very much until after a week-long stay in Denver the following month. Returning to the cabin in mid-July, I discovered that seven fires were burning in Colorado, bringing a smoky haze to the horizon some days and worry that this summer would bring more fires, more smoke, and possible evacuation. So far we've been spared, but the summer is just at the midway point. The environment continues to dry as we move farther away from spring snowmelt and the July monsoons, which were very sparse this year. The causes of fires are diverse and unpredictable: lightening strikes and careless campers being at the top of the list.

When I moved to this rural area 6 years ago, I had to readjust my concept of fire. To a person like me who has lived most of her life in cities, a fire means a kitchen accident, a forgotten cigarette, or a burst pipeline--occasionally arson. Usually the fire department arrives promptly and puts it out. Larger fires, part of riots ensuing from injustice, euphemistically called "civil unrest", happen too sometimes, and they also are contained, usually within a day or two. The massive fires of yesteryear--the Great Chicago Fire of the 19th century and the ones that nearly destroyed Tokyo after the 1923 earthquake--seem consigned to history, unlikely to repeat with modern building codes, alarms and well-equipped fire departments.

I've been fortunate in that I've never suffered a home fire; nor have I been evacuated because of one nearby. When I was a child I remember seeing the burned shell of a house a few blocks from us in Hammond, Indiana, and shuddering with a kind of dread--that something so big and solid as a house could be vulnerable, could be destroyed.

My next experience with fire close-up was in 2012. My Japanese sister, Junko, was visiting that June, and I wanted to show her nearby Manitou Springs. We stayed at a motel there, and as we were leaving the following morning, we saw the plume from what became the Waldo Canyon Fire. Manitou Springs was evacuated later that night as the fire spread. By then we were west of the area and were never in any danger, though the air was heavy with smoke when I drove Junko to the Colorado Springs airport several days later. Others were not so fortunate. The fire, which spread over 18,000 acres west of the city, was not contained until 17 days after it began. Nearly 350 homes were destroyed and 32,000 people evacuated. Six were injured and two died. Wildlife suffered. This photo shows one view of that fire.

The cause of the Waldo fire was arson, and the arsonist was never found. I wonder if s/he or they ever repented or even knew of the harm that ensued. Hazards from the resulting burn scar remained for the next few years, causing road closures, flooding, and the deaths of two people--one of whom I knew: John Collins, a much-loved and respected local man. Meanwhile, so many had to start over and live with the feeling I had as a child, that something as sturdy as a home could be gone within hours. You can still see the burn scar as you drive along US 24 west of Colorado Springs, but fortunately, much mitigation has been done since the fire.

The largest fire burning near me now is the Hayden Pass fire, about an hour and a half away, southeast of the town of Salida. Started by lightning on July 8, it's now 50 percent contained, expected to burn until October. October! More than 16,000 acres are involved. Will there be other fires in Colorado? Very likely.

The West has always been prone to summer wildfires, but the problem has gotten worse during the past decade and more. More people, more carelessness, more buildings are here. Climate change has brought damage from insects such as the pine beetle, previously killed off during colder winters, resulting in more dead timber. Underlying it all has been a century or more of misguided land management policy. Unlike Native American stewards who did periodic burns to remove ground-level brush, modern land managers have suppressed fires, resulting in more fuel ready to ignite. Climate change predictions are for a steadily drier Western US.

And so, as I spend another summer here on Linda's land in Florissant, I stay tuned to fire-monitoring sites. One of the best is the Incident Information System. It includes progress reports on wildfires in other states as well as Colorado. Today there are 16 burning in California, one of the most vulnerable states this season. I'm holding all of those affected in my heart.

Older Self and Younger Self have another chat about politics

Now that Bernie Sanders' presidential bid has ended, Older Self and Younger Self are able to sit down  for a real conversation about the coming election. Coming of age in the late Sixties, Younger Self has decided to stay in this century for awhile to see if she can make herself useful. I conjure her sitting next to me, wondering how she might have turned out differently had she been a Millennial instead of a Boomer: a tattoo perhaps or a shock of blue hair.... I digress. Actually, when she first visited the 21st Century,  it took her awhile to get over her shock of seeing how things turned out, nearly 50 years after she first volunteered for Eugene McCarthy in 1968. Surely Power would have returned to the People by now, and the People, now United, would never have been Defeated. Putting aside her huge disappointment in the state of political affairs in 2016, she immediately plunged into working for Bernie's campaign. She still is working for Bernie, having signed up for Our Revolution, which is working to elect candidates committed to Sanders' progressive values.

Younger Self might vote for Hillary ("Another Hubert Humphrey!) Older Self will definitely vote for Hillary. Our enthusiasm levels are considerably different, and Older Self has yet to convince her that Hillary will be a far better president than she expects--provided the electorate really gets behind progressive candidates running for Congress. However, today our conversation is not about Hillary, but rather about Trump. We both agree on the threat Trump's campaign poses to the US and the world, but our emphasis differs.

Younger Self's political science courses have convinced her it's all a matter of strategy and getting out the vote. Trump is just another George Wallace, the segregationist Alabama governor who carried 5 Southern states in 1968. She dismisses my preoccupation with trying to understand how we got to this place or just what motivates Trump supporters. "They're either idiots or people who have never even heard the phrase 'unexamined racism'", she insists. "They're marginal. We're creating a new future. Let's just get down to work--get out the vote, show that the people can act!"

Older Self remembers that she too once thought of herself as a person whose actions--combined with those of others, of course--made a Significant Difference. Older Self seems less sure of anything these days, haunted by memories of unintended consequences of yesterday's decisive actions and victories. Still, Older Self agrees, we must act, always with insufficient information or insight, hopeful we're making the right choice. Understanding why others feel differently seems key, however.

Today, Older Self read what she considers a brilliant and incisive article in The Guardian. The author is Dave Eggers, a writer and reporter who covered a Trump rally in Sacramento, California, in June. You can read it here. Eggers, posing as a participant, found the supporters he met to a be a diverse and courteous bunch attending an event as "as peaceful and patriotic as a Fourth of July picnic". Still, he was left with a number of questions, including: (W)hy is it that the song Trump’s campaign uses to mark his arrival and departure is Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer?” Is it more troubling, or less troubling, knowing that no one in the audience really cares what he says? And could it be that because Trump’s supporters are not all drawn from the lunatic fringe, but in fact represent a broad cross-section of regular people, and far more women than would seem possible or rational, that he could actually win?"

Older Self shows the article to Younger Self, and the result is impatience: "Who cares about the song?  Instead of worrying about whether or not he can win, let's get on with a counter-offensive!" Older Self decides this is the time to tell her of some of the changes in getting out the vote since she went to Wisconsin in '68 to make calls for McCarthy: "No one answers their phone anymore; calls are screened, and for that matter, no one comes to the door during campaign season. Too many door-knockers. Some say it's all about social media these days." Older Self takes a deep breath and starts to explain social media. Unnecessary, it turns out, as Younger Self has already opened a Facebook account and joined Twitter. All she needs now are friends who think differently from how she does.

Older Self pulls out another article--another one of the three articles that have helped her understand the Trump phenomenon. Trump Days: Up Close with the candidate and his crowds, by George Saunders, appeared in the July 11 New Yorker. Read it here. Lots of insights in this one, including Saunders' analysis of what he calls RightLand and LeftLand. Essentially, people on the political Right and Left have no common ground, and that's what makes communication challenging at best. "In the old days," Saunders writes, "a liberal ad a conservative (a "dove" and a "hawk", say) got their data from one of three nightly news programs, a local paper and a handful of national magazines, and were thus starting with the same basic facts (even if those facts were questionable, limited, or erroneous). Now each of us constructs a custom informational universe, wittingly (we choose to go to the sources that uphold our existing beliefs and thus flatter us) or unwittingly (our app algorithms do the driving for us). The data we get this way, pre-imprinted with spin and mythos, are intensely one-dimensional." Younger Self stares at Older Self: "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Older Self  decides not to mention the concept of "frames", the concept that all of us filter "reality" through a set of experiences/beliefs/biases. (UPDATE: For an excellent discussion of this, see this article by the linguist who introduced the concept of frames in his widely-read book Don't Think of an Elephant.) We see the same things, yet come up with radically different interpretations. Older Self bites her tongue, hesitating to remind Younger Self of all the debates/arguments she had with Dad, a youthful socialist turned Wallace supporter, debates full of sound and fury, yet ultimately changing neither of our beliefs or votes.

There's one more article I'd like you to see, Older Self says. It's called How American Politics Went Insane, and it appeared in the July/August issue of The Atlantic. Here's the link. Among other things, it argues that political parties played an important role in vetting candidates and that the trend to diminishing their power, in favor of direct democracy, has resulted in renegade candidates like Trump. Younger Self looks aghast. "Are you saying that Daley's Machine (that is, the late Chicago Mayor Richard Daley) was a positive force in the politics of 1968? The guy whose cops bashed the heads of protesters in Grant Park?!" "Well, not exactly," Older Self tries to explain. "It's just that parties played a role, and today without them, we have a different kind of contest...."

Younger Self gulps down the rest of her coffee and says she has to be off. Older Self gives her a hug and wishes her all the best, thinking that communication across generations is not all that easy, but important nonetheless.

Lives in Ruins: my introduction to archaeology

Archaeology is a science that never really appealed to me that much. Every time I saw pictures of toiling students sifting through rubble under a hot sun for bits of bone or pottery, I turned the page. So much toil for such scant reward. This is a review of a book that changed my thinking. It has a title that should belong to the genre of romance novel: Lives in Ruins. Instead it's a wonderful piece of participatory journalism by an author who is responsible for my digging one dusty toe into the field of archaeology this year. Lives in Ruins, by Marilyn Johnson, has a subtitle: Archaeologists and the Seductive Lure of Human Rubble (Harper, 2014). Johnson's repeated forays into this diverse intrigued me even though I never had much interest in it before.

It's a tribute to Johnson's writing that she made me take more than a second look. And probably it's her book that encouraged me to say yes to an invitation to become a site steward in Park County, Colorado. Working with a partner, site stewards volunteer to visit places in the county where remains of early human habitation or migration have been found. The idea is to document any change or damage--human or natural--to that site. Volunteers agree to visit 2--4 times a year, carefully looking at the land and taking photos. I'll have more to write after I get started this summer. So far I have a modest weekend of training behind me and a practice visit coming up next week when I return to Florissant for awhile.

This photo was taken during our training session last month. Diane Parisi (second from left), a field coordinator with the site steward program in New Mexico, explains an aspect of a stone fragment.

Will I find a "seductive lure" in the whole thing, as Johnson did during her years of research and participation in this field? That remains to be seen, but after reading her book, I could see how others have found a kind of seduction in the dust or watery depths of the past.

Johnson takes us around the world with her as she joins digs or visits projects in the Caribbean, the Mediterranean, South America and the US East Coast. She interviews archaeologists, attends conferences and reflects on what she is experiencing. She has that rare gift of enjoying her subjects’ eccentricities while never mocking them, as well as giving the reader an understanding of issues in the field of archaeology today.

Some key insights: Archeology is a field where jobs are scarce, deadlines often dictated by developers ready to excavate, and devoted practitioners face less financial security than fledgling artists. Much work depends on volunteers. Many sites are not protected, and as Johnson writes, “The tension between keeping a site secret so it won’t get looted and publicizing it so it can be preserved and appreciated is a constant in archaeology.” Furthermore, archaeology is much more than a retrieval process. Even when a team is ready to dig or resurrect (as in the case of Revolutionary War ships still sunk in the harbor of Newport, Rhode Island), other essentials may not have been funded, such as a place to store and preserve artifacts and a team to do the work. Twenty-plus years after sensors first located the fleet in Newport harbor, those essentials were still not available.

Although archaeologists may be hired by owners or developers, their first responsibility is to the site and its resources. If a proposed project may cause harm, they have to “mitigate”—record and rescue what they can. For example, when surprised archaeologists discovered an 18th century wooden ship in a Manhattan landfill in 2010, they had to scramble to protect the giant timbers, which began to disintegrate the moment they were exposed to oxygen.

Two of the most fascinating chapters deal with forensic archeology and the protection of humankind’s cultural heritage during war. Forensics deals with buried bodies, and Johnson takes us through efforts in Fishkill, New York, to protect the Fishkill Depot, the graveyard of America’s first veterans—soldiers who died during The Revolutionary War.  Protection and development of the site is still not assured.  My favorite interview in the book is with Laurie Rush, an archaeologist with the U.S. Department of Defense. (That was news to me--that the D.O.D hires archaeologists.) Rush’s job is to make sure that past military mistakes are not repeated. A prime example: in 2003 US troops, assigned to protect Babylon, put their base on top of the ruins and bulldozed ancient temples into helicopter pads. Rush, the cultural resources manager at Fort Drum, has supervised much and built excellent relationships with Native American tribes, Johnson reports. She has also designed one of more creative teaching projects I’ve encountered: a deck of Iraqi and Afghan Heritage playing cards, teaching soldiers what they need to know as they play poker or solitaire.

Marilyn Johnson wrote two other fascinating books, both about people documenting the past in one way or another. One is about librarians and the other about obituary writers: This Book Is Overdue! How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All (Harper Perennial, 2011); and The Dead Beat: Lost Souls, Lucky Stiffs, and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries (Harper Perennial, 2007) You can find out more about her and her work at on her website.

While I enjoyed Johnson's stories immensely, I also need to keep in mind this quote from her in a Daily Beast interview. "We’re conditioned by narrative to expect some resolution, whether it’s answers to our questions or solutions to a mystery. We expect a neat wrap-up to the story, but in fact there are many things we don’t understand and might never understand."

At our site steward training, we got a list of the top ten things archaeologists never find. Tops on that list were buried treasure, mummies, and secret tunnels. We all laughed. No expectations there! For those things, rent an Indiana Jones movie.

Still, we hope to find something. Yet, prehistoric people have been gone so long and so much of what they used has been lost. Will I find any identifiable rubble at all as a site steward? Perhaps not, but at the very least, I hope to learn to see and recognize more than I can today.

A salute to the Dalai Lama's mother and reflections on Grandmother Bogdanski

It's the Dalai Lama's birthday today--he turns 81--and through serendipity, I watched a film about his mother's life: Women of Tibet: The Great Mother. Known to Tibetans as Gyalum Chemo (or Great Mother), she gave birth to 16 children, three of whom were recognized as incarnate lamas. In this film, the Dalai Lama talks of his love and respect for her, as well as his belief that a mother's love is the basis of compassion, the wellspring of a person's health and well-being. He brings his characteristic humor to his reminiscences, laughing as he remembers going to her after difficult school lessons. It seems there she was there with her wisdom for all of her children--sewed their clothes, including shoes. She was not in an egalitarian marriage during all of that; apparently her husband was from a wealthy family and "spoiled", one descendant recalls.

A picture of Gyalum Chemo and her most venerated son:

On learning this, my first thought, before wandering into thoughts about my maternal grandmother, was the poetry of the late Pat Parker, who wrote a poem with a line like this: "Doin' like mama did will do ya" or something like that. Wish I had a copy. It was a tribute to all the work that mothers and grandmothers did, especially those who were African-American and lived in pre-Civil Rights America. It was work most of us today cannot even imagine getting done. Is each generation progressively softer than the one before? Or does it all balance out when you consider all the multitasking and networking we feel compelled to do these days? I wonder.

I think of my own grandmother that way. I never met her; she died 9 years before I was born.  Her name was Barbara Bogdanski, and she emigrated to the US from Poland in December, 1910, along with her husband and infant daughter, Marie. I heard a lot about her from my mother, who adored her, and was only 21 when she died. My mother's name was Angeline, and I wonder if she ever felt like Pat Parker, despite her own accomplishments as a mom. Like the Dalai Lama, she'd no doubt credit her mother for being a role model for the best in her.

Grandmother Barbara gave birth to 8 children, the oldest of which--a baby christened Casimir-- died on the ship crossing. After Marie, 6 others followed, and as if that weren't enough, she babysat for another child, Lily, whose mother worked all day. The family lived in an immigrant neighborhood in Chicago, and it was Barbara who kept things together. She learned English, cooked healthy and delicious food--including homemade Polish sausages, scrubbed floors part-time for a dentist, and coped with a husband who never quite adjusted to life in America. I have only two photos of her. The first, taken behind their apartment, circa 1935, shows Barbara in the top row, next to her daughter Stephanie. She's holding young Lily, I believe. On the bottom steps are Angeline (left) and her cousin, Evelyn.

At least once in her life, she went to a photo studio and this portrait was taken.

There are many things I don't know about Barbara, who died when she was only 53. Who was she apart from being a mother? Did she laugh often? Could she sing? How much education did she have? Was it her idea to come to America? Did she ever regret it? Did she ever have what we call "spare time" and how did she fill it? I wish I had asked more of Angeline and her siblings before they all passed away. As it is, I remember bits and pieces of my mom's memories, the ones she repeated to my sister and me. I know she had standards in speaking Polish, insisting on speaking something called High Polish. (Was she a bit elitist--or just proud of speaking well?). She had a few sayings which could be translated as: "The cow does not remember when it was a calf". Or "too soon old, too late smart."

The most chilling memory to come down to me was her reaction to a fortune teller's prediction that she would die "before the snows came".  She came home crying that day, Angeline told me. Soon afterwards, she was hit by a bus in a freak accident. She was not seriously injured. However, because the company's insurance covered the bill, the doctor suggested that he fix her hernia while she was in the hospital. She agreed. Soon after, she died of a post-surgical blood clot. That was in September, 1938, and that year it snowed that month, uncharacteristically early for Chicago.

My mother and her siblings all grew to be up to be fine people, or if they weren't, that was never apparent to me at family reunions. They were kind and indulgent to children, and for the most part with each other, despite boisterous behavior from time to time. Perhaps, like my mom, they would thank their own "great mother"for the nurture they received.
NOTE: Dates have been changed since this blog was written in 2016. New genealogical research suggests that Barbara was born in 1885, not 1889, as reported on her death certificate.