| Perrysburg |
[03 Jul 2010|07:18pm] |
My mother got TB when she was about 13 and spent a long time in quarantine in a TB hospital, very Magic Mountain. I always thought of it as the planet of the little girls, and actually think of Henry Darger paintings from the Baltimore Visionary Art Museum when I think of this time in her life. 
Here is a memoir I made her write about it.
1924 Hospital at Perrysburg
[J. N. Adam Tuberculosis Sanatorium] When I was thirteen, childish and immature, I was ill for about three months. When I began to recuperate and grew stronger I was taken to a hospital about thirty miles south of Buffalo, in Perrysburg.
"Perrysburg" was a large hospital including several buildings on the slope of a hillside. I was put in a ward -- a large light room with five or six other girls about my own age. All suffered from bone maladies, all had been bed-ridden for some time (one for 5 or 6 years).
I think the exposure to light and sun after the very dark apartment in Buffalo raised my health and spirits.
I was in no pain or discomfort. Noone else was.
I spent nine months in this hospital with these girls -- and the nurses (few) and doctors (few) and the patients who passed in and out of our ward by day (teen-age girls on crutches).
My mother and father came to visit me every Sunday but the other girls received very few visitors. (I think transportation to this remote spot was difficult -- and private cars were not -- in 1924 -- as ubiquitous as now). School instruction was offered to some but I had been graduated from 8th grade and was exempted.
Morning and afternoon and night in all weathers except rain the beds were wheeled out onto an adjoining terrace . There was a long view from this terrace. This was called "the cure". We lay naked for two hours a.m. and p.m. with or without sunshine.
After I left Perrysburg, age 14, I was healthier than I had ever been.
Other divertissements there were none.
On the back of my bed hung a shoe bag -- the contents of dressing table, bureau, cabinet and desk. I occupied myself -- and this is the interesting peak in the patient's graph -- with books, magazines (send 10 cents for a sample), catalogs, notebooks, paper dolls, drawings, cutouts, letters, puzzles, manuscripts, etc. etc. etc. </i>without a dull moment.
There was little personal intimacy. We spoke often but there were no heart-to-heart conversations and no interesting projects. The other girls occupied themselves as I did but we didn'tdo anything together.
The satisfied feeling which I had and remember so well must have been a "herd" feeling. Think of a flock of sheep. They each do their own thing. They don't interract but they are together -- always subliminally conscious of the surrounding presence. That subliminal comfort plus the pre-pubescent lack of fear, foreboding and anxiety in most kids, plus the womb-like bodily care and care-free existence of the comfortable convalescent adds up to Nirvana, albeit mindless. And goal-less. There was no temptation to get up and at it. There was nothing going on. There was nothing to be done. Float. Enjoy. Eat. Sleep. Sun. No stimulus. No punishment. Float. Enjoy. (A convent provides this plus work, and purpose -- which we didn't have.)
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| Closure |
[14 Dec 2003|05:39pm] |
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mood |
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 quixotic |
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Ma? Do you think Osama bin Laden is dead?
I never think about him at all.
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| Birthday Interview |
[07 Sep 2003|05:19pm] |
What is your first memory?
I'm walking up a flight of stairs in Puerto Rico. I'm walking up a flight of stairs and my mother is helping me up. Stairs. Just the stairs.
My second memory is of walking six blocks to the furniture store owned by some relatives. I was three. They had a mechanical rocking horse and I wanted to get on it.
About the huge box of chocolates.
When we lived in Buffalo --
What was the address?
227 Anderson Place. I used to walk up to the candy store on Elmwood. The thing of it was, it was homemade candy, you could smell the candy being made in the back room. Chocolates, mostly. They were big ones.
What was the filling?
White cream.
What do you have to say on the occasion of being 92?
I think I have overcome some of the weaknesses of old age.
Like what?
Dependence. I'm able to keep house and conduct myself most of the time. I mean I'm not doing the shopping, but I have you to do that for me.
Complaining. I don't complain, do I? Or whine?
Why not?
It's partly religious. I ask whatever power there is to keep me cheerful and strong. I ask it a dozen times a day.
Does it work?
Most of the time. Yesterday I did all the floors and the rugs. I washed the kitchen floor.
It's good for old women to work.
That's what you say. But it's good if they can, too.
Creativity. And also poems. They come to me and I enjoy flights of fancy like that. I keep a pad and pencil in the drawer in the night stand for those thoughts that come to me when I'm falling asleep at night. If I don't write them down I can't remember them. I usually get one line at a time. I don't marshall that sort of thing as I would if I were a school teacher.
Has your idea of the secret of life changed since last year?
No.
What is the secret of life?
I'm not sure I can explain. But if we hold on to spiritual causation, spiritual power can be achieved. Not always. Not completely, but some. Sometimes it works well. Not 100 per cent, but it's better than nothing.
What is the purpose of life?
Life exists and we're here to express the best of it. Flowers and animals are nice but we're the best. We're the highest.
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| Birthday Poem |
[07 Sep 2003|05:16pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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 grateful |
] |
Now comes 9/7/03
For 92 times I agree
Its significance fails
When you count all the sails
Of the ship that is happily me.
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| Floating |
[18 Aug 2003|08:29am] |
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mood |
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 satisfied |
] |
Would you like me to come over tomorrow?
No.
You don't have to entertain me. I could read the newspaper.
No.
I could come over for breakfast. Or lunch or dinner. I could bring breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
No. I like to be alone. It makes me feel more...floating.
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| How Poems Come |
[24 Jun 2003|10:42pm] |
Thanks, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1) katia.
I am reading a novel or washing dishes and something at the back of my bain says "Air" -- air is so useful, so beautiful, and we pay so little attention.
Ideas about air begin to swarm and rhyme and climb and shine.
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| Blue |
[23 May 2003|10:37am] |
You sound down.
Oh, no! What?
YOU SOUND BLUE.
Oh, darling I'm so sorry.
NO, YOU SOUND BLUE.
Me? Why am I blue?
I DON'T KNOW. YOU SOUND BLUE.
Me? Oh, not at all. I'm quite happy. I have lived a long life with plenty of activity and lots of friends. It could have been different for a crippled girl. God has been very good to me and I am very grateful. I'm very happy.
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| A Message |
[20 Apr 2003|10:17am] |
"What? Immortality?
Those postured jestings
are World's Wisdom?
the buffoonery?
all that crap I
scribbled in the wings?
Immortality!
Of course I like it.
Here I am --
with Willie H (you
should have guessed)
O Hamnet
and here is you-know-who
and even Anne.
Kiss me, all.
By the way, my hair's grown in again."
Yrs.
W[illiam]. S[hakespeare].
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| what is the meaning of life? |
[20 Apr 2003|10:12am] |
I think it is to take responsibility for the little things that come your way. Like to step aside in the hall when your neighbor wants to pass by. Be available if they want to borrow a cup of sugar or if your daughter needs consolation or money.
And for spiritual, I think it means listen to that voice which gives you the first line of a poem [to write].
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| Peace |
[19 Mar 2003|03:32pm] |
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mood |
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 determined |
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Extra! Extra!
What is so important this fine April morning?
The news is disastrous. Headlines have shouted
God is dead and the stock-market's falling
But! The daffodils have sprouted!
There are earthquakes in Chile
Somebody's having a flood
Contribute today -- but worry tomorrow: --
Look! The daffodils are in bud!
Who cares if Europe is fomenting?
Russia's always plotting, we assume.
The news, the wonderful news of the day
Is -- The daffodils are in bloom!
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| Peace |
[23 Feb 2003|02:11pm] |
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mood |
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peaceful |
] |
There's gonna be no war. Since 1945 and the end of the Great War, there has been a moral step upward, although undeclared, which is going to resist, successfully, any more global wars.
It's a spiritual, not a material, step of mankind. Because the 1940 war was so bad.
The spirit of man said to itself, "No more, no more."
What should Bush do to get out?
Waffle. Which is what he's doing.
In World War One, they had songs. Over there, over there! [She remembers watching the parade of the doughboys through downtown Olean, N.Y., circa 1915.] Who is singing a song about going to war now? And that fellow kissing that girl, remember that famous picture? Fun! An outing! Nobody feels that way anymore. Aaaaaaa 'tall.
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| Liberia: December, 1952 |
[24 Dec 2002|06:49am] |
| [ |
mood |
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hopeful |
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Since I went to a high church service at Cuttington last Sunday, I thought I'd go over and attend church with my friends the Baptists, a friendly young couple with five little kids, who have a mission just down the road.
So many things in West Africa have been more refined and civilized than I expected, that I was unprepared to walk straight into a pre-conceived notion. Here at last, was what you and I have always thought of as "The African Mission." A small white-washed hut with high thatched roof. The doors and windows were decorated with fresh leaves and flowers. The floor was of packed earth and the benches were bamboo stems, roughly lashed together and laid across mud bricks. Inside, it was dimmish. The chapel was about half full of young men and boys listening to a sermon by Mrs. Luyben who stood, dressed in blue cotton, behind a beaten-up deal table covered with a worn white tablecloth. Upon this was a vase of hibiscus blossoms and a Bible. Beside her stood an impassive Kpelle black who was as good an interpreter as they have at the UN.
"I'm sure that at this happy Christmas time --" said Mrs. Luyben, her thin yellow face intense with animation --
Before the word "time" had ceased to sound, the chanting Kpelle rolled forth from the expressionless lips of the interpreter, sounding like, "Bom walla loo ba nante pelle loo," he intoned.
"-- that Christ was born --"
"-- ga Je Kri nan --"
"-- but we must remember that he was born to be sacrificed --"
" -- lalla um shu bah gamma niente can fa duhba gazzi --"
" -- and we are cleansed in the blood of the Lamb --"
"-- amfa rama karoo na fa babage de salla."
Mrs. Luyben and the black man carried on their duet, tossing phrases to each other, like a ping-pong game, while I sat wishing desperately I could understand Kpelle especially the words the interpreter used for "sacrifice" and "blood of the Lamb." I had a horrid feeling this talk of sacrifice hit all too close to home, and that a vision of reeking stone altars, the smell of smoke and blood, and the sound of drums arose, instead of the proper picture of purity and righteousness.
The members of the Sunday school were then called on to give Bible verses in Kpelle or English, and there followed some hymns mostly in Kpelle. One very interesting song was antiphonal with the leader (Mr. Moore, the interpreter), calling out a line and the whole room shouting it back at him. It was lively and syncopated, unlike Sunday school where I come from.
As Sunday school drew to a close others began to assemble, including several turbanned women with little children. Behind me alone on a bench sat a fat tyke about three. I turned and smiled at him, he smiled back very small. Finally everyone sang, "Jesus loves me," in which he and I joined. This was sweet and brought tears to my eyes.
The Mid-Liberian Baptist Mission residences are, however, an attractive setting; grass and flowering shrubs surround their rathyer large white-washed aluminum-roofed houses (aluminum reflects the heat, keeping the interior cool). Mr. and Mrs. Luyben and their five children live in one, and across the way, two old maidens live in another. They too, were thin and yellow and eager; their house was homey with white curtains, slip-covers and Bible mottoes on the wall, a good cup of tea and slightly damp Nabisco wafers. They were very solicitous of Rev. Luyben, who is tall, good-looking, and boyish [reportedly a class mate of Billy Graham], and seated him almost in the center of the room in a new chair, and we all found ourselves hanging on his every word and laughing at his slightest sally.
...Our Christmas was notable for two things. The first was our Christmas tree. It was tall enough -- nearly to the ceiling. It was beautifully decorated with glass balls, and tinsel borrowed from our neighbor; it had, as al proper Christmas trees should, some homemade ornaments, in this case candy-wrapping tinfoil stars; and, unlike most Christmas trees, it didn't shed ary a needle. It had no needles to shed, because it was in fact a palm tree, four palm branches actually, lashed together at various angles [by Jim] to give a 3-D effect. I loved it, I adored it, I never loved a Christmas tree more, because it was so unexpected, and so gallant and really so pretty.
After trimming our tree [icicles needed to be paper-clipped to slippery palm fronds] we went to the Baptist Mission for a Christmas service. We sang all the carols in English, and then in Kpelle, and then one of the young lady missionaries gave a "flannel-gram" of the Nativity. A flannel-gram is a sheet of cotton flannel with a background scene upon which the narrator slaps the figures of the protagonists. They stick like magic and peel off easily. It was very good for the children, especially siunce the young lady missionary spoke in simplified pigeon English used by the native Liberian.
Our children, that is, most of the children from the [experimental station] were sitting on a front bench with the sons of the missionary, who had been trained to give a special performance of "Away in a Manger." Rev. Luyben announced somewhat ambiguously that "Our children will now sing" -- and what to his and our wondering eyes appeared but the entire row of about ten children rose as one and faced the congregation and rendered "Away in a Manger" as though they'd all rehearsed for weeks.
Meanwhile Mrs. Luyben was pumping away vigorously on a teeny parlor organ, which kept getting a stop stuck -- when she and the Rev. would pull and push in whispers while the rest of us sat in polite, nervous, silence. Every once in a while Rev. would interrupt the service to pump up one of the [kerosene] lanterns, or find some laggard child a seat, but no Christmas Eve service was ever more devotedly presented or more gratefully enjoyed.
The serious little faces singing so earnestly in the flickering light framed by earthen walls and dry palm thatch came very close to the spirit of lowliness and innocence of the first Christmas, and strangely suggested a manger and shepherd boys and angels a long long time ago.
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| O Tannenbaum |
[20 Dec 2002|06:36am] |
Growing, living
lacy, green, sharp green thrusting
gnarled twisty humble twigs
upturning smiling branches
pop pop pop
joy and sparkle
-- a thousand closed pink silver sapphire plumes
glow
shimmer
Trailing light
Sheer sweet floatbubble
Tinkling fingers ring frosty rounds
Close your eyes
Open your eyes
Is there such gaiety in heaven?
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| A Tropical Nap |
[20 Dec 2002|06:34am] |
"Snakes, leeches, bats."
"Rats," they said, "rats."
"A man and a woman
Flinch from inhuman."
But I was loved.
Asleep the clean hot afternoon
He crossed the bed and me
And there he took my fingertip
...like a lover...in his mouth
moist and sweet --
a feather touch
teeth and tongue, --
a love lick
Lover Rat.
-- Suakoko, 1952
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| sunshine |
[05 Nov 2002|10:42am] |
| [ |
mood |
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determined |
] |
I have laid down some rules for myself, uhm, as an old person who is handicapped and housebound and, uhm, has some drawbacks. You have to remember that and act and conduct yourself accordingly.
1. No complaints
2. No whining for attention
3. Accept that old folks are not as popular as formerly
4. And listen intelligently when other people talk
5. And don’t give advice.
That’s it.
What are you doing today?
Oh I’m reading books today with nothing to do. I’m reading an old Nicholas Freeling and Jared Diamond’s Guns Germs and Steel. I read a couple of chapters here and there. And I sent away for a mmm-mmm and a mmmm-mmmmm for Christmas. I like to do my Christmas shopping early ‘cause then you don’t have to worry about December delivery.
What are you going to have for lunch?
For lunch I’m going to have some of those darling leftovers you left me, the vegetables, and stuff. My life is fairly dull.
What’s better about it than your previous 9 lives?
I think that accepting what there is and being happy with what there is is something that everybody has to learn to do. Wishing for something else or something more or something something. Being happy with my flowers. My rugs. Sunshine coming in the window. Things like that. That old Robert Frost thing. The road less traveled.
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| a girl of 91 |
[03 Nov 2002|02:42pm] |
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mood |
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 awake |
] |
apropos whitelinefever's wonderful entry on being a boy of 60, purejuice asked me what, beside the palm of my hand, never ages or changes.
Is happiness the same for a child of four as it is for a girl of 91?
I think there's no comparison, because a baby is born yelling for its mother's tit. A child of four is eager for infantile needs to be met which fade away after a few years.
No, I'm talking about that Freud definition of happiness -- that which you did when you were six. Obviously that precludes breast-feeding. And also drinkin', smokin', and mufki-pufki.
Well, say -- spontaneous interest in everything. Life as it goes by. Other people. Other things. Weather conditions. The sky. Cloudy today? Look at the clouds. Sunny today? Look at blue. Trees. And the leaves. Surrounding nature. Carpe diem is lo diem. And a child of four does that too. He doesn't look forward to a damn thing. At 91, you may not have four years left to look around.
And carpe diem is the secret of happiness. Because that's all you've got, really.
You once told me that the most beautiful thing you had ever seen was a flock of flamingoes taking off against the profile of the Andes. What is the most beautiful thing you can think of?
There's a lot of stuff that I find beautiful and I realize it and I feel thrilled with it. My pictures. My flowers. My books. The sky. My daughter's [bare] feet. All kinds of stuff. Everything.
Why is it still thrilling? Why aren't you jaded?
An artist's eye -- a person who is in the least artistic would say that they look at nearly everything with the assessment of beauty.
Is that what four-year-olds do when they're happy?
I think so. But their values are different. They find their mother's hair beautiful. Little stuff. Little children like little stuff.
How does one keep an artist's eye awake for 91 years? Have you done anything to cultivate it or protect it?
No, I haven't. It's just awake. The less busy you are the more time you have to ruminate on the beauty of small things. If you're busy, you're busy cutting stuff up and washing your hands.
What's the most beautiful thing you can think of?
What comes immediately to mind is Niagara Falls as seen from the base of the falls. Its grandeur. Its noise, and the power contribute, I guess. I think everybody would say the same.
Not necessarily. Some people would chose man-made things, or men, or a silver tea service or an Aztec feather cape. You chose nature?
Yes. I think nature would get my first attention over anything man-made.
What is your first memory of beauty?
Mmmmm. Very dull. When I was three, we lived in the suburbs outside Olean, N.Y.. It was countryside. Climbing over the trellis on the front porch were two roses. One pink. One red. I can remember their names. Dorothy Perkins was the pink one. Crimson Rambler was the red one. Children are aware of much more than we give them credit for.
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| grace |
[07 Oct 2002|11:20am] |
| [ |
mood |
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 lonely |
] |
What are you up to?
I’m taking a nap I usually lie down between 10 and 11 I don’t sleep I just lie here.
Glad to have somebody to talk to.
What did you have for breakfast?
I had one of those pop tarts you brought me and coffee.
What are you thinking about?
I was thinking about a deprived fellow who got put in prison for some small events and he might do well there. He was at a terrible job indoors at a desk sorting fish hooks or something – so in prison he’s put out to dig up the garden. He was with a cell mate and he had always had slight homosexual leanings and here he had a cell mate who liked him.
The point is that his prison life is much happier than the one he had before. Its’ possible because some prisons offer work. It had digging and gardening and the guy enjoyed it.
And also there’s an unexpressed idea that someone is caring for you even if it’s to correct and reform you .
It’s not exactly masochism, but the point is that instead of just being out there lonely somebody is caring enough to keep you and feed and keep you. Somebody is caring what you do rather than not caring. That might possibly be a source of unconscious comfort to some people. Some homeless orphans who are street people, I mean they feel cozier. It’s nothing but punishment. But there are elements of it for certain people that are not bad. It’s interesting. To a normal person prison seems awful. It’s supposed to be a punishment.
I tell you I pray for prisoners and then in the news a group was released a group of wrongly sentenced people were released on DNA evidence – I have luck with this, not prayers to make me young and beautiful, but with other stuff.
Today I’m going up to X’s apartment to take care of Lucky.
Well I'm reading that uhm that book on the Indian – Rohinton Mistry – just a story of a lower class Indian family and it’s um just what they do and they get married and the kids grow up. It’s just daily life of a lower caste Indian family. Very conversationally told, sweet and nice and I like the people. I’m also reading Dombey and Son. Dickens is good because he’s a very artistic writer and even his descriptions of the street are worth reading because they’re clever and artistic. Clever and beautiful.
Did you watch the Forsyte Saga last night?
No there was a CSI on that I wanted to watch and The Practice. I turned to it a couple times. There were two other programs on which are my favorites.
Lunch? I think ill have the rest of that stew because that was awfully good that stew, I’ll put a little bouillon in there and have it with toast or something.
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| immanence |
[05 Oct 2002|11:26am] |
| [ |
mood |
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awake |
] |
I am the rug.
No, carpet is that other. Big, uncouth, uninteresting, dull, unresponsive, flat-faced and pale.
I am smaller and special-er.
I am the most beautiful thing in this room (except the flowers, which are always the MOST, and the glass lamps). And perhaps the most expensive, except I was a bargain due to my non-deforming deformity (I am smaller at one end because my weavers were children whose fingers I love and remember -- little slaves -- I hope they took some joy in my jolly colors and design).
Of course I am -- and was created to be -- completely supine -- evenly supine. If I lift my head, of course someone trips and scuffs and curses and jerks me flat. I love this -- it is like dancing with my love.
Nobody but me (and my brethren -- a few of the other Rugs) knows the pathetic chilodren who worked us. Some weren't healthy, one even died, a little girl, God bless her. Only I remember her (she worked on the third square).
I feel especially happy when my roommate is watching news; my roomie punches MUTE and turns her eyes from TV to ME -- enjoying my everlasting beauty and irregularity.
The Heater, on the other hand, is like a repair man.
"Good morning, ma'am," (as he comes out the closet). "Where is the problem? Oh yes. We'll have that right in no time."
He flips the On button (on his forehead) and blows out his hot black breath, squatting there on the floor, round and solid, doing his job.
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| Tourist |
[15 Sep 2002|12:32pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 sad |
] |
I stood in the chapels of Oxford
And saw on the marble wall
All that was left of the young men
Edward and Percy and Paul
-- Beauty, vitality and vision,
the progress of mankind
Compressed and squeezed and hardened
Each into one chiseled line.
(Oh, if the letters were a little deeper, said my tears.)
I stood in the churches of Munich
And saw on the wall's expanse
The lists of the youth of the nation
Friedrich and Pieter and Hans
-- Beauty, vitality and vision
the progress of the race,
Hundreds on the bronze panel
-- so easy to efface,
(Oh, if the panel were a little
thicker, thought my tears,)
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| September Tea Party |
[08 Sep 2002|03:00pm] |
Thin infusion of sunlight
plugged into summer
Simmer and hum as last
lees in the kettle
The air is brittle brewing essence
Drawing the green life
Drink! the amber fields spill over.
Taste! and feel the spreading
warm along your ribs.
Forget the tarnished spoon
Forget to draw the curtains
against the snow.
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