 |
| 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.
 |
| 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.
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.
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?
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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...
To get in the mood for my Persona Poetry Workshop on April 8, here's my poem that won 1st place in the Oregon Poetry Association's Spring 2021 Members Only contest.
If you'd like to join the workshop, it's free! You can email me at ljdferguson(at)gmail(dot)com to register.
FREE Persona Poetry Workshop
In this encouraging class, we’ll look at a variety of persona poems (poems written from another person's point of view), then try writing our own.
Saturday, April 8, 2023 10:15 a.m. – 11:45 a.m. Taborspace, 5441 SE Belmont All experience levels are welcome. Led by award-winning writer Linda Ferguson, whose most recent collection, Not Me: Poems About Other Women, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022. As a writing teacher, Linda has a passion for helping students find their voice and explore new territory in a supportive community.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
Three deadlines this week – poetry and fiction.
Can she do it?
No, wait. She stops and bakes a chocolate cake.
One prompt, five people.
After teaching creative writing for 25 years, it still amazes me how a group of writers can take an idea and beautifully run with it in such different directions.
Susan Donnelly
The People of the Other
Village
They hand out sweet
smelling lilacs in January;
dance exotic sambas,
pressing their bare feet
into drifted snow,
leaving prints
that look like the face
of God –
or at least the face of
some non-judgmental god
who smiles gently at
everyone –
the beggar, the thief,
the lost and the found.
Dawn breaks a little
earlier in the land of Them;
it illuminates hills and
plains;
golden dustings of faith
gather in gutters
and near the corners of
widely opened eyes.
There is always some
reason to rise –
a rainbow, a hungry
neighbor,
a mewing calico kitten,
a day like any other day,
dishes to wash in warm
water,
bills to pay, floors to
sweep, footsteps to follow.
These people of the
other village quilt blankets
from scraps of worn work
shirts, fabric softened
by sweat and washing and
love -
the stitches are tiny
heartbeats. No one is too old
for a comforter pieced
by caring hands.
These people of the
other village, they know
not
“special." All is now. All is here.
These people of the
other village live inside us.
They are the mirror of
our better selves.
Susan Donnelly, a retired teacher, writes poems, walks her dog, paddles her red canoe, grows tomatoes, and breathes deeply; all practical skills in the autumn of one's life. She lives in Portland with her husband and labradoodle, Cocoluna.
*
Linda Ann Fraser
White Rabbit Bookstore
Small coffee/tea bookstore
Quiet, like a library
Bookcases line walls
and are placed at angles
among shelves of gifts
and journals.
A café in the front.
The soft clink of cups on saucers
as some come for breakfast.
A young man's fingers lightly
click on a laptop keyboard
as he drinks black coffee
while working on his project.
Some older ladies eat sticky
pastry and drink their tea while
quietly discussing their latest
poetry find.
A woman chooses some books
and is heard saying as
she leaves, “Preppy Snobs”
as she runs out
banging the door shut.
Linda Ann Fraser
Feuds
The Hatfields and McCoys
The Irish and the English
How do these feuds begin?
If you read history, it is usually
someone wanting to grasp more
than his share.
Property, horses, pigs, land,
could be anything.
Yet, like Romeo and Juliet,
you find not just bloody conflict
but juicy love stories.
A couple who sees beyond the
petty grievances of old debts
and short-sighted anger.
The lovers look up at the
moon and embrace.
The moon looks down on them
and all with equanimity.
Linda Ann Fraser’s interest in poetry and writing began as a high school senior 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. When grandchildren wanted family stories, she found Linda Ferguson’s writing class.
*
Hariana Chilstrom
The Other Humans
The other humans
Those big people
upstairs
Those people who shouted
and slammed doors
who seemed, at such
times,
to forget we existed—
We the four offspring
We the basement dwellers
We the trouble makers--
since that was all we
seemed to be—
since their complaints
and castigations were constant
since we hardly knew
them otherwise—
We, in defense
We in defiance
We in desperation
Became whisperers
Became liars
Became sneaks
who created what we
could
from creatures falling
into basement rooms
from leftover party
drinks and food untended
from chocolates and cold
cream and turpentine.
And the house we shared
became a battlefield
of our evasions to their
volleys of anger:
Where the hell have you been?
Why did you embarrass us like that?
What makes you think you’re so smart?
And our bedrooms
became bomb shelters,
muffling shouts beneath pillows and blanket forts
became hidey-holes,
stashing food against the night’s locked kitchen door
became secret shelters,
hiding fallen creatures and precious things prone to theft.
And we learned
that only big people
were allowed anger and
blame
were allowed to take
what they wanted
were allowed to breach
boundaries most parents respected.
And we, in defense,
created secret worlds
And we, in defiance,
tore down their secrets
And we, in desperation,
began to tell our secrets.
Hariana Chilstrom is a science educator and visual artist
who is passionate about pollinators and other (mostly spineless) creatures. She
has written for the Pacific Horticulture Journal, several natural history
associations, and the Seattle Aquarium. Many of her current creative
non-fiction pieces have been spawned by experiences on city buses.
*
Ron Smith
I Loved to Learn
Freedom, Early
improv,
Zoom, 1/21/2023
The eight-a.m. buzzer buzzed, we scrambled for our desks,
All lined up in rows, east to west.
Of grade-school I recall blackboards and erasers,
And our liberty-loving teacher, 'Sadie' Kaser.
She hadn't carried a gun, or fought overseas,
But Miss Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three,
Hated Communism, dictators and tyranny.
"They are enslaved, but we are free,"
Declared 'Sadie' Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three.
She opened a small red book upon her desk,
Then quizzed us what we'd eaten, and if we'd gotten rest.
"What did you have for breakfast?" she asked Candace
Sutter.
"Why, teacher, I had waffles, hot-cakes, syrup, and
butter."
"Ah, Candace," said Miss Kaser, "such a mistake,
You should have had fruit juice and corn flakes."
Now, soon, maybe by ten, you'll be drowsy,
With attention wandering, and penmanship
lousy."
She placed a mark against Candace, in the red book,
And resumed her interrogation with a sour look.
"What time last night did you retire?" she asked a boy
named Ken.
"You know, Dad's a nightly preacher, so I was up until
ten."
Said 'Sadie' with a frown, "You're Up Too Late!"
And gave Ken a demerit, with decision, with haste.
"Now, people, let's go watch a film in another room,
Line up single file, no talking, or gum chewed.
They are enslaved, but we are free,"
Declared 'Sadie' Kaser, pedagogue of grade-three.
RGS
Ron
Smith has
been playing drums and been in bands for as long as he can remember. His
attempts at songwriting led to prose. He loves reading fiction, history and
biography and specializes in writing short fiction. His favorite book is Thomas
Mann's Buddenbrooks. He shares a Woodstock cottage with numerous
musical instruments and hundreds of books, vinyl records, and CDs.
*
Linda Ferguson
Dancing with Myself
They
are dressed in skirts
– purple skirts –
how strange!
How can they work?
Or do they?
Maybe they have servants –
or slaves!
Here, we wear pants
in sensible earth shades.
We chop and haul. We plant
seeds and grow new trees. We
think of everything.
And how do those other
people spend their days?
Dancing, of all things!
See how their skirts
twirl about their knees.
Not at all like me, who
gets the muck shoveled
and the porridge bubbling
while they go like this:
Forward, forward, round and round, hands up, cupping clouds,
sway, sway, sway.
Very pretty
pretty easy
easy enough
for me to try
and still have time
to toss the slops
sweep the floor
shake the rugs –
but
first, a bit of color
might be nice –
not purple (purple
is too much) –
but a little blue
could be alright
(if no one here sees?)
I could wrap
some cloth around my hips
like this, and then take a step
and another –
oh –
swish, swish –
my skirt is a bird
with wings dipped
in exotic ink
Is this how the other people feel?
Hush, hush,
perish the thought!
Everyone knows
they are nothing
like us, and your
porridge on the stove
is about to burn.
