Friday, December 15, 2023

Pushcart Nominations Are Pleasant









































Thank you to Heather Cuthbertson and Gold Man Review for nominating my story "Ghosts, Talking" for a Pushcart! 

The story is about -- what else? -- a brother and a sister. It also features their maniac of a father. Not to be confused with my brothers or with our father, who was a sweetheart. 

 If you'd like to buy the latest issue of the journal, you can click here.

Monday, December 4, 2023

Emily and Me

My son and I in 2011
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 experience, too, I thought I understood her complaints about Washington. I wasn't half as far with my writing work as I'd like to be,  but I knew that was nothing compared to the frustrations of 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, September 19, 1864.

[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.


Monday, November 27, 2023

Ghosts, Talking

 



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!

Friday, November 24, 2023

A Funny Story (sort of)

In the creative writing classes I led this month, we took inspiration from Anne Carson's Short Talks. Here are a couple of freewrites/short talks I came up with.


Some Thoughts on Radiation, part 1

My final dose was on Halloween. The staff had been excited about their costumes for weeks. One of the nurses planned to come as a shark. She had her nails specially painted (gray with black teeth). Surely the therapists (the team that positions you on the table then delivers the dose) won’t be in costume, I thought. My therapists on that last day were a powder blue bear and a white unicorn with a silver horn.




Some Thoughts on Radiation, part 2

Outside the thick-walled radiation room, with its red light and yellow and black warning sign, is a bell. Probably for emergencies, my husband and I thought.

Chernobyl, Three Mile Island, The China Syndrome, Me.

After my final dose on October 31, the therapists gave me a certificate of congratulations printed on pale pink paper. The staff’s signatures were copied and pasted at the bottom. The doctor didn’t write her whole name, just her initials: K.C.

The therapists were beaming and clapping. One of them threw confetti. They also invited me to ring the bell. 

Sure, I said and rang that bell so hard the stones buried beneath hell shivered in their flaming beds.

As I was leaving, an octopus hugged me.


Tuesday, November 21, 2023

awe/struck

 























Here's my Willamette Week review of the world premiere of Christopher Oscar Peña's awe/struck at Profile Theatre.

Sunday, November 5, 2023

Getting to Know You

 












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.

Friday, November 3, 2023

Meet Me at the Fair!






















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.



Thursday, November 2, 2023

Blood Wedding























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.

Monday, October 23, 2023

Hair Today

 


Thank you, Willamette Week. You can read my full review by clicking here.

Tuesday, October 17, 2023

Lucky 13

 























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.

Monday, October 9, 2023

Women, Before and After -- Creative Nonfiction by Anonymous

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.


Wednesday, September 27, 2023

Kisses on the Back Porch -- Poetry by Liz Samuels

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



About the Author
Liz Samuels has been writing from Linda Ferguson's prompts for about eight years, as therapy, and for entertainment. This poem was written during an unexpected turn of events when her husband threw out his back and she found herself alone on a Central Oregon porch. She immersed herself in the beauty of the sights, smells, and sounds surrounding her. Sensations emerged  from her teacher's hint that contained the word "kiss." Here she shares the  welcome calm that began to envelop her.

Thursday, September 7, 2023

Apple Is Good























Thank you to The Opiate for including my story "The Gospel According to Naomi" in their summer issue. 

Saturday, August 26, 2023

Brief Candle

 























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.

Friday, August 4, 2023

A New Anthology!

 






















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.

Saturday, July 29, 2023

Red Velvet






















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.

Thursday, June 22, 2023

Let's Read Together!

How lucky! I get to read with Sam Rose Preminger next Tuesday. Won't you join us and read a poem, too?





Tuesday, June 6, 2023

Lost in Cyberspace

This one was a good challenge to write for Willamette Week. Thank you, Shaking the Tree Theatre for a stimulating production!




Sunday, May 21, 2023

Jem in Love























One last flash fiction piece in The Opiate Magazine. You can click here to read the whole tiny story. More thanks to the editors! 

Monday, May 8, 2023

Diary of a Dissatisfied Character

 






















Many thanks -- again -- to The Opiate Magazine! Love the art! To read the whole story you can click here.

Saturday, May 6, 2023

Marilyn Monroe at 97









Many thanks to The Opiate for publishing my flash fiction piece "Marilyn Monroe at 97." You can read this shorty-short here.

Thursday, May 4, 2023

You're in Print, Kid

Thirty years ago I was writing for small newspapers and taking care of my young son. Now he's an assistant editor at Willamette Week, and I'm writing for him. You can read the whole review here.



Saturday, April 29, 2023

Columbine

Yesterday in class, one of my husband's high school students said she's always wondering what if it happens here, now.




Thank you to The Poetry Box for publishing this in 2018. 

Wednesday, April 26, 2023

Little Darlings -- Creative Essay by Deborah Lee

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:

Deborah Lee is a writer, baker, singer, and avid reader.

She works in a kitchen in a club downtown.


Monday, April 24, 2023

Smoke and Angels

We recently played with blackout poetry in my online class. Here's what I came up with:




Thanks to Linda Ann Fraser for the suggestion!






Saturday, April 22, 2023

Mimics -- Poetry by Linda Ann Fraser

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.