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| My son and I in 2011. |
I'm gnashing my teeth. I'm pulling my hair.
On November 26, the television series The Gilded Age introduced a new character: Emily Roebling.
Emily, as anyone who's ever walked across the Brooklyn Bridge may know, was a real person, but that didn't stop the writers of The Gilded Age from making up stuff about her, such as saying she studied engineering in Europe and was secretly working as the chief engineer of the bridge.
No, no, no. She didn't. She wasn't.
I know this because I spent many years researching her life.
Here's the story of how I came to study Emily...and why, although she was neither the congenial character nor the engineering wizard presented on The Gilded Age, I came to love the woman she was.
Time Travels
It all started with a book.
Our son was eight and loved
bridges, so every night our family read about a different span, from the
graceful arch of the Ross Island Bridge in Portland, Oregon, to
the harp-shaped Puente del Alamillo in Seville, Spain. Both our son and his
little sister were in their pajamas, all set for bed, when we read the story
behind the Brooklyn Bridge, the Victorian structure that was once called “the
eighth wonder of the world.”
When Washington Roebling, the
bridge’s chief engineer, became dangerously ill, his wife, Emily, became his
assistant, meeting with engineers and city leaders in an era when women were
supposed to stay home and embroider cushions. In a day of corsets and calling
cards, Emily talked with contractors and politicians, relaying Washington’s
specifications for cutting the stone that would become the bridge’s towers and for making the giant cables that would hold the roadway.
Within days of learning her name, I
knew I wanted to write Emily's biography. I’d recently finished writing
copy for a catalog that sold things like a
cat-shaped clock that kept time by swinging its tail. Reading about Emily was
like receiving a key to a door that could lead to a new adventure. Here was a fresh historical figure to inspire school girls, to remind
them of what women can do and to keep on taking those math and science classes.
Almost as soon as I started,
though, my research began running into roadblocks. For one thing, most of Emily’s
early letters were missing. What’s more, in her surviving correspondence, she
frequently nagged her adult son, John A. Roebling, II, telling him how to care
for his clothing, raise his children, and manage his money. “What you call
grinding poverty…is having to think before hand [sic] how to spend your
money to the best advantage,” she once scolded him.[i] Not
to mention that she supported neither women’s suffrage nor racial diversity in
the women’s groups she belonged to. Did I even like Emily well enough to write
about her?
Washington and Emily’s Civil War
courtship had been as passionate as Victorian etiquette allowed. Recalling
their first kiss, he wrote,
…I remember that first tete a tete
[sic] evening at the signal station when the moon rose…. I merely ventured to
rub my cheek against yours; it could not have been long after that; I know when
the ice was broken there was no end to them.[ii]
Later though, as a middle-aged wife, Emily sounded less affectionate. She told John, “Your father has
taken one of his cantankerous spells again and dies hourly…. I have sent for Dr. Weir to tell us there is nothing
the matter.”[iii] With
different views on money, too, she said their discussions on how to handle
their fortune were like Bull Run, “a battle field that has been fought over
more than once.”[iv]
By the time I’d learned this much,
I’d turned 40. My children were no longer small, and countless hours spent
researching my book were gone for good – hours I could have spent writing a
novel, publishing poems, or at least keeping the house cleaner. Still, I picked
away at my research, heading straight to my desk after dropping my son and
daughter off at school. When I discovered the Roebling family papers were saved
on microfilm at Rutgers University and could be sent to my library, my enthusiasm for the
project rekindled. With this new wealth of later letters, I began to see Emily
as neither a cranky wife nor a feminist heroine; she simply became a living,
breathing human being.
As reels of microfilm spun across a
screen, I read about her interests – bowling, bicycling and horseback riding –
and the quilting party she attended where the guests stuffed themselves
with potato salad. I found a list of Emily’s remedies for common ailments,
which included sipping a glass of hot water for a headache and taking a quarter
of a gram of codeine for a bad cough. I read, too, affectionate letters from
John (“Dear Em” he began one), and a condolence note to Washington after
Emily’s death (“Oh my friend, my friend my heart is with you!”)[v].
Best of all, I saw that Emily could
laugh at herself. When she was elected to Sorosis (a prestigious women’s
society), she joked that now the club
would be considered an intellectually superior group. Likewise, she was amused
when a newspaper article on clubwomen said that “Mrs. Roebling is not half as
disagreeable as we thought.”[vi]
Despite her grumblings about her
husband and son, she also freely expressed her love for them. Even in her
advice-laden letters to John, I recognized the tenderness a mother feels for a
grown son she can no longer hold. From my own frustrations with my writing, I thought I
understood her complaints about Washington, too. I wasn't half as far with my work as I'd like to be, but I knew that was nothing compared to being a full-time care-giver for a chronically-ill husband. In this light, I began to think that Emily’s more querulous
remarks might be the expressions of a smart, energetic woman
who longed to get out of the house and in society. Although
she died almost 60 years before I was born, I felt I knew Emily as well as a
dear friend.
Life opened up for Emily after the bridge was done. By 1903, she’d edited a book, taken a women’s law class at New York University, served on the board of a woman’s college and been presented to Queen Victoria. She’d also helped organize camps for the Spanish-American War veterans who were sick with yellow fever, traveled across Europe on the Orient Express, and joined thousands of dignitaries and upper-class spectators in Moscow for the coronation of Czar Nicholas II. Her lively lectures about her Russian travels were particularly popular, as she cleverly peppered her talks with detailed descriptions of everything she saw, from the peacock feather in the Chinese viceroy’s hat to the sad, pale face of the last czar of Russia.
On a hot Sunday morning 12 years
after I first heard of Emily Roebling, I rode the subway with my family to the
entrance of the Brooklyn Bridge. Expecting to be bowled over by the moment, I
found myself feeling oddly calm. Up close, the bridge was still beautiful, but
I could see it was a combination of concrete and wires more than a thing of
magic or myth. Yes, I was thrilled to walk beside my tall, 20-year-old son as
we crossed the span Emily had helped her husband build, but it had been just as
exciting to read the words written in her hand, to hear her voice in my head,
to reach across time and see the common ground where she and I both stood.
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| Standing by a plaque that honors Emily. |
[i] All
quotes from letters and scrapbooks are from Roebling Family Papers, Special
Collections and University Archives, Rutgers University Archives. Emily Warren
Roebling (EWR) to John A. Roebling, II (JAR II), April 25, 1893.
[ii]
Washington A. Roebling (WAR) to Emily Warren,
[iii] EWR to
JAR II, May 20, 1894.
[iv] EWR to
JAR II, July 18, 1898.
[v] JAR II
to EWR, April 21, 1898; Letter to WAR in1903 Scrapbook: “In Memoriam, Mrs.
Washington A. Roebling.”
[vi] EWR to
JAR II, March 22, 1896.
Fifteen years ago, my son and daughter were my first audience for this story. I read the beginning to them during a heat wave. We sat beneath a dogwood tree, cooling our feet in a plastic kiddie pool.
Later, they graduated from high school, then college. Then went back to college and graduated again. Got jobs. Meanwhile, I was coming back to this story again and again, believing there was something there. Looking at it from different angles. Shaping it. Trying to decide how it ended. Renaming it.
And here it is.
All that time and thought makes the happiness of seeing "Ghosts, Talking" in the new Issue of Gold Man Review all the sweeter. You can take a look here.
Thank you to the editors!
Thank you, Willamette Writers! What a great time chatting with Francesca G. Varela, Mark Teppo and other writers at The Portland Book Festival.
Photo by Gail Pasternack.
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I'll be at the Willamette Writers booth at the Portland Book Festival this Saturday, November 4, 1 - 1:30 p.m. Come say hello and check out my book Not Me: Poems About Other Women, which was published in 2022 by Finishing Line Press.
My review of Shaking the Tree Theatre's fabulous production of Blood Wedding is online. Director Samantha Van Der Merwe's artistry makes Lorca's poetic play bloom with thrilling life. You can read the whole review here.
I'm so delighted to have one of my poems included in this spellbinding anthology, the 13th issue of The Poeming Pigeon. You can click here to purchase it.
On October 2, 2023, my women's creative writing class took inspiration from Lucille Clifton's poem "Climbing." I'm so happy to share this creative nonfiction piece by one of the participants of that group.
Women, Before and After October 2, 2023
by Anonymous
I am at work in the office at Child Development Center one day when two younger women (by a generation) enter. I catch only a bit of the conversation when one announces the mailman is at the door.
The second young woman remarks, "You mean the mail person?"
"I don't know what the big deal is," replies young woman #1.
I spoke up. The big deal, I stated, is that when I was a girl the word Man was meant literally and completely. Any occupation ending in Man meant I was not to strive to do it. ONLY MEN NEED APPLY.
It was huge that I did become the letter carrier. One of a handful in Portland in the late '70s.
At that time, I was hired as a fill-in. My route could change daily or after several weeks, whichever needed. I would be "casing" a route and hear: "Don't put the girl on my route." I would pay that carrier back, when I did get placed on his route by running it off, finishing my day in under eight hours. A continued performance of this type would open questions as to whether the route needed added addresses. When this and other carriers complained and told me I had to stop, I would reply that I would stop running their route when they stopped running their mouths.
Always remember, I told the young woman, someone fought, so you could question if it is only a word.
A few weeks ago my email prompt class took inspiration from the poem "Kissing a Horse" by Robert Wrigley.
Thank you to Liz Samuels for letting me share her kiss poem, which is a heady mix of rhythm, repetition and vivid imagery. Enjoy!
Kisses on the Back Porch
A pluck of the guitar, a chime in the wind
a liquid drip falling on rock,
Coos, chirps and trills
random and musical
Sun shining on pebbles
seeming to sleep
all kisses
A bee collecting pollen’s shadow
appearing on a cabin log
The fluttering stinger of a Queen
positioning her eggs
Fragrance released
from a hanging pansy basket
all
kisses
Threading
wicker cradles
completing a container
Quiet snapping of flip flops
as skin meets sand
A puff dot on a netted blouse
whispering “hello”
all
kisses
A peck
to comfort cheeks
red and round
A peacock plume
tickling the air
A pen flowing
ink upon parchment
all
kisses
Whiskers detecting vibration
tasting salt on vial rims
Butterflies
tipping their wings
tapping hither and thither
Seeds sprinkled across fields
for a future harvest yield
all kisses
Thank you to The Opiate for including my story "The Gospel According to Naomi" in their summer issue.
Salt and Sage is one to watch. You can read my full review here.
Sadly, a tragedy has touched the cast and crew of this innovative production. Alexander Buckner, the actor who was cast as Banquo, died just two weeks before the play opened. To read more about him or to contribute to a fundraiser for his memorial service, you can click here.
What joy to have a poem included in this beautiful new anthology! To make things even sweeter, it features work by the incomparable Susan Donnelly!
You can click here to order a copy at a discount through September 15.
What an age for great theater! Red Velvet is playing now at Bag & Baggage Theatre in Hillsboro. You can read my review of Nik Whitcomb's production of Lolita Chakrabarti's play here.
How lucky! I get to read with Sam Rose Preminger next Tuesday. Won't you join us and read a poem, too?
This one was a good challenge to write for Willamette Week. Thank you, Shaking the Tree Theatre for a stimulating production!
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One last flash fiction piece in The Opiate Magazine. You can click here to read the whole tiny story. More thanks to the editors!
Many thanks -- again -- to The Opiate Magazine! Love the art! To read the whole story you can click here.
Many thanks to The Opiate for publishing my flash fiction piece "Marilyn Monroe at 97." You can read this shorty-short here.
Yesterday in class, one of my husband's high school students said she's always wondering what if it happens here, now.
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Thank you to The Poetry Box for publishing this in 2018.
In my last creative writing class at Taborspace, we took inspiration from Nikki Giovanni's essay/prose poem "In Defense of Flowers." My warmest thanks to the big-hearted Deborah Lee for sharing her appreciation of little things.
In defense of stuffed animals, I say, bring 'em on! I have my famous cupboard of little guys, all smiling at me as I reach for a towel or washcloth. These little dolls and toys are so fun.
I love the little peepers, I call 'em, the live guys who fly around the suet block and the bird feeders: bushtits are the cutest birds I've ever come across, with their high-pitched peeps as they move about in their little flocks. My heart lifts to see them gather round our humble home.
Little children are fun too, to look at, at least – maybe not so fun to care for when they're having a tantrum, though. But at play, or even just riding in a Radio Flyer wagon pulled by a parent, their grinning faces and laughter make me smile.
I like little bananas, too. And tangerines. And little cookies, and mini cinnamon buns.
In defense of smaller portions, I am not one to go for gigantic portions, at home or in a restaurant. They are too overwhelming.
I like little flowers, too – carnations, aka pinks; and pansies, and forget-me-nots.
In defense of cups, I believe one should always use a demitasse when drinking espresso, with the little saucer included. Steve, my husband, goes for a mug of the stuff, because he always get a double. Well, that's just not very artistic, is it. We have three or four sets of demitasse cups and saucers – and I say, why not use these cute little darlings?
There's a saying, "It's the little things..." which means it's often the small aspects, the tiny ones, that should not be overlooked.
If you peek closer, you'll see there's magic in there.
April 17, 2023
About the author:
Here's a poem for Earth Day by a wonderful friend and student, Linda Ann Fraser.
Mimics
by Linda Ann Fraser
When you see the eagle fly
and wild cats stalk,
humankind seems out of
place and awkward.
A centipede manages
all his legs with ease,
an iridescent hummingbird
hovers over a scarlet bloom.
Without fur or feathers
humans are dull and
very venerable to
weather and nature
not able to fly or
run very fast.
So they gather fallen
feathers from birds,
shells that wash a shore
and adorn themselves
with natures’ cast offs.
Humans invented the
wheel to move faster
and then they changed
the world, forgetting where
their first inspiration came from.
Forgetting that
birds need fresh clean air and forests.
Fish and sea life need unpolluted waters.
But still with all this inventing,
humans aren’t satisfied with
the simple life provided by nature.
Soon there may not be a nature
for them to improve.
Then every living thing loses.
Linda Ann Fraser
1/12/2023
About the author: Linda Ann Fraser's interest in poetry and writing began as a senior high school student in Ellensburg, Washington. Early marriage and raising three girls took a toll on writing but creativity thrived as she sewed for her daughters. After the girls grew up, sewing merged into cloth art dolls and drawing. She thought the dolls needed stories, and she’s found that writing keeps her sane.
Thank you, Oregon Poetry Association!
This was my first brush with the Golden Shovel, a poetic form created by Terrance Hayes, who used the words in Gwendolyn Brooks' poem "We Real Cool" to end each of his own lines.
To write my poem, I took these words from Gertrude Stein:
A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color...
