Friday, July 21, 2017

Lesson of the Stuffed Bear

Postcard rendering
from early '00s
Once upon a time (OK, it was Christmas of 1984), the oldest son in a family of four siblings was Christmas shopping in Minneapolis. As a sophomore at the University of Minnesota, he was headed home to Milwaukee for the holiday, and hoped to impress his family with gifts purchased at a store unavailable to them in Wisconsin. While at Hudson's Department store, he spied an adorable teddy bear dressed in a bow tie, tweed trousers, and a knitted blue cardigan. No question about it. He snapped it up for his mother who had a teddy bear collection.

The mother's collection had started just a few years earlier when the youngest son in the family purchased a trendy 'pot-bellied' bear in a desperate attempt to buy a memorable gift for his mom, notorious for her "I'd love some note cards" answer to the question of what she wanted for Christmas. When the mother opened the package with the bear, she hugged it immediately, effusing over its cuteness, and named her Deedee. "How do you know it's a girl? asked the giver of the gift. "I just do!" replied the mother.

Jules always sat still
when being painted
There was no doubt about the gender of this newest bear, Jules, on account of his being dressed as a boy. Because he was so smartly attired, she promptly dubbed him Jules, because she had just seen Francois Truffaut's 1962 film classic, Jules and Jim, for the first time. Jules remained a kingpin in the collection.

Fast forward several decades, and the bear collection was overtaking needed space. So . . . the mother sadly weeded all but ten, keeping her favorite bears, the ones with strong sentimental value. Jules was one of the ten (yes, of course, Deedee was too), and eventually made his way into the now-deceased Father's office, a room so empty without its thriving business being operated from its confines that the Mother began calling it the Bare Den. When it occurred to the Mother to set out the remains of her bear collection on the empty shelves in the Bare Den, the name of the room morphed into the Bare Bear Den.

Now it's January 2017 and the Mother has just had surgery. She needs a little pillow to put under her arm to remind her not to fully turn over on that side until healing has taken place. Searching for the right-sized pillow, she enters the Bare Bear Den and picks up Jules. "Ah, maybe you could help me, Jules," she says. She then strips him of his clothing . . . and tucks him under her armpit. Jules turns out to be the perfect size and softness-quotient for the task at hand. Before too many days go by, she begins thinking of Jules as "Baby Bear," a gender-free name reassignment.

As the months of 2017 tick by, the Mother decides that Baby Bear has a place in her life, filling the need of Listener from time to time (and Baby Bear never talks back, a good thing.) She realizes that she doesn't think of Jules as a male anymore. Without clothing, there is no profiling of gender . . . a Jules could be a Julie and, in fact, is known now simply as "Baby Bear."  And this gives her pause. She doesn't want to be flippant about this matter (a stuffed animal most accurately would be described as gender neutral) because she is deeply understanding and compassionate about issues surrounding transgender people. But she realizes how much of our expectation about behavior and propriety has to do with clothing and its encompassing assumptions. Absence of male clothing has completely negated the assignment of a male name.

Underneath that surface judgement we all make is what doesn't meet the eye--the essence of each being, which really has nothing to do with assignment of sex. Even this dear stuffed animal, now a steady bedtime companion for the Mother (who almost never goes to sleep without tucking it under her arm, even though not required for medicinal healing) can teach us that lesson.She wonders what she would have named the bear if it had arrived without it's handsome outfit. Of course, she'll never know, but she loves Baby Bear for this insight.


Sunday, July 16, 2017

Choosing Sides

The phrase, “choose your side” has many meanings and ramifications. When I learned yesterday, as an audience member at the outdoor production of Romeo and Juliet staged by Off-Road Shakespeare, that I would be choosing whose family I was rooting for— whose ‘side I was on’— I was surprised and even a little taken aback. Not only have I seen several full blown productions of this classic Shakespeare, but I acted in a University of Washington production of it (more than fifty years ago). When the director passed a hat with folded papers in it, I hoped I’d be a Capulet—biased, of course, by having played the part of Juliet’s nurse. But I pulled a piece of paper with MONTAGUE written on it and was told to gather with other Montague supporters in the wide circle of audience surrounding the players. So I did . . . and I will never regret it. Instead of seeing the world from Juliet's perspective, I got to see it from Romeo's.
Romeo and friends hanging out and bored

During the show, all the scenes at the Capulet household not having Romeo in them were played in another part of Red Square from where the Montague scenes were playing out. That meant I was seeing the play unfold from a bias. Of course, when there were scenes with family and/or friends of both families—we all came together. I didn’t hear a lot of the dialogue most familiar to me, but it made me pay attention in an entirely different way to the play. I’m not sure the hatred between the two families has ever struck me as this pervasive before. The hatred isn’t just about idle teenagers in Verona with raging hormones—it's a hatred rooted in generations of animosity.

What an amazing production it was! The sky was blue; the sun was bright; and the actors had the enormous Red Square at University of Washington for their stage. When Romeo was banished to Mantua, the audience supporting the Montagues followed Romeo along the brick walkway all the way to the picturesque Quadrangle at UW—the equivalent of several blocks—all the while being accompanied by melancholy and haunting guitar music as a guitarist and a box-beating-drummer walked with us.

The Balcony Scene setting
Guiding the audience was carefully and expertly carried out by banner carriers—crew members of the Off-Road Shakespeare Company—as efficiently as if they were tour guides leading disparate travelers to interesting sights in a city. Various parts of Red Square lent themselves beautifully to the narrative requirements, such as Friar Lawrence’s cell, which was a cranny below a stairway wall. It allowed both Capulet and Montague audience members to lean over to see and hear the conversations between Romeo and the Friar. And the balcony? It was fabulous!

Not only could I hear every word spoken by the competent actors, I was wowed by their dexterity. Most have learned several parts and don’t know which one they’ll play until character parts are drawn from a hat just before the show starts. Gender doesn’t matter; race doesn’t matter; yes, blind casting works! I was utterly enchanted by this amazing and free production.

Mourning of the four needless deaths
Of course, being in a public square, lots of people wandered by . . . some stopping, some staying, some asking what was happening. In the latter case, a business card announcing the endeavor was handed by a crew member (usually the family-banner carrier) without breaking character or talking.

At one point a Campus Police van skirted the players . . . and squealing seagulls occasionally did their best to obliterate the Bard’s words . . . but they didn’t. I heard it all and cried at the end. The pitiful tally of corpses at the conclusion of the play had a more devastating effect on me because of where they were--out in the open under a blue sky, additional testimony to the horrific loss of young life all because of hatred and misunderstanding. Choosing sides can be deadly.

But I am glad I chose to go to this particular play, pulled "Montague" from the hat, and had the opportunity to think about a well-worn play differently. 

Sunday, June 18, 2017

And the Best Musical 2017 TONY AWARD goes to . . . (my take)

Why do I think the natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 should have won a TONY for the best Musical OF 2017?  I can sum it up in two words: DAVE MALLOY.

OK, I only saw three musicals in May when I was in NYC. But one stood out as a unique and breathtaking production for these reasons:
  • Imaginative adaptation of a tiny section War and Peace conceived of by Dave Malloy
  • Entertaining, touching, and quirky script written by Dave Malloy
  • Lilting music that gets the adrenaline flowing and makes you want to get up and move (or cry) by Dave Malloy
  • Delightful and anachronistic lyrics by Dave Malloy
  • Quirky and haunting orchestrations by Dave Malloy

plus
  • Phenomenal and sometimes breathtaking lighting designed by Bradley King
  • Innovative staging involving the audience by director Rachel Chavkin.

As I told someone the next day, I could have sat in the Imperial Theatre for twelve hours if the production had lasted that long. I felt like I was inside the most exciting world I could imagine—better than being in the middle of a Cirque de Soleil performance, because the story was so ingratiating.

As an audience member, I (and all the rest of the 1400 ticket holders) saw it from the inside out— the immersive experience put performers all around me in the mezzanine—and with wonderfully costumed precision, they played their instruments, danced, and sang. Sometimes they interacted with the audience, but never in a squirmy kind of way—a way that was fresh but not embarrassing.

The star draw of  the great comet was Josh Groban. The night I saw it, he was off—but in his place as Pierre was Dave Malloy, himself! Some audience-goers complained bitterly; they wanted to see Groban! It’s written into the script that Pierre plays the piano in some of the numbers, so we saw Malloy—the man who totally conceived of the work—not just acting and singing, but also playing the piano! I loved seeing the creator of this extraordinary work take on a role and perform it with the ensemble. It was as if I got to see Wolfgang Mozart singing the part of Figaro in “The Marriage of Figaro,” while playing the cello! And, by the way, I have no doubt that DenĂ©e Benton’s Natasha would have won Best Actress in a Musical if she hadn’t been up against Bette Middler for the award.

The 2017 Best Musical TONY went to dear evan hansen. Don’t get me wrong; I loved dear evan hansen, and if anyone else had won the top award for best actor in a musical, I never would have watched the TONYs again, ever! Ben Platt was phenomenal in the role of Evan Hansen, and the work itself is exquisite. But in this woman’s opinion, natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 represented the best of the best in 2017.


Saturday, June 3, 2017

Model Citizen

 At the risk to tooting my own horn (what's new?), I'd like to announce that I am a model citizen! I have the passport to prove it.

When I was in New York a few weeks ago, I treated myself to a visit to the newly opened Gulliver's Gate Museum in the theater district. It was every bit as fun as I'd hoped, and I succumbed to the lure of ordering a souvenir of the visit--a model of me, based on a 360 degree photo and created by a 3-D printer! The result arrived yesterday, to my delight. I promptly placed the likeness of myself on the top of furniture and snapped photos to send to my granddaughters. Of course, the pictures received immediate reactions. No one else (they know, anyway) has a grandma who can daintily stand atop her own mantel.

This little reminder of my trip to NYC wouldn't have come about if I hadn't told Rebecca, a neighbor friend, all about Gulliver's Gate, which I was hoping to visit on the last day of my visit. (It seemed like the perfect way to fill the two hours between checking out of the hotel and leaving for the airport.) As she heard me describe the museum, which I'd read about a few weeks earlier, Rebecca became even more enthusiastic than I about the prospect of seeing some of the world's greatest buildings and monuments miniaturized. When I explained how visitors could purchase a tiny-scale model of themselves to be placed in an exhibit and even bring home a model of themselves, she  shrieked. "You HAVE to do that, Sallie! It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"

Later, as I thought about it, I had to agree. I might never be back to New York, and certainly there will never be a statue of me in a city park. However, I could be a six-or-seven-inch figurine on my own dresser top. By the time I was halfway through the museum, I'd decided to go for it. I chose where the tiny replica of me would be standing in the museum exhibits, as well. The 1:87 model of Sara Glerum will be found at Stonehenge.

Gulliver's Gate had been open for "preview" for several weeks prior to its official opening May 9. My visit there on May 10, was a highlight of my week in New York, and is memorialized in the passport I received along with my mini-me.


Saturday, May 20, 2017

Middle Schoolers Who Mock

That term doesn't mean what you might think. If you’re imagining middle-school aged students making fun of each other, their teachers, or their curricula—you’re wrong! 

When a young teenage living in Greater Minneapolis says to her mother, “I’m going mocking with friends,” the mother is probably going to smile. She might ask, “Where,” but she doesn’t have to know more.

Mock is short for hammock, and probably should be spelled ‘mock. Take a look at friends of one of my granddaughters in a park near the home of my son and his family. Doesn’t this look fun?  Mentally, just contemplating this scene, I’m settling in for breeze as I snuggle down comfortably—breeze, as in ‘shooting the . . .’ and what happens when gently rocking between trees. 


I understand that the thrill of mocking fades once the mocker is obtains a driver’s license. But when you’re fourteen, that’s a long way off and mocking is NOW.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Curtain Call

     My recent trip to NYC was gratifying, to put it mildly. I’d received a flyer about the excursion in January, but because of health concerns knew I couldn’t commit to something five months out. The flyer was sent out through the auspices of ACT Theatre in Seattle and advertised four Broadway plays, several theatrically oriented tours, and visits to several tourist attractions I hadn’t seen, such as the 911 Museum and the Lower Eastside Tenement Museum. It sounded perfect, but I tossed away the brochure and told myself I’d look for a similar trip next year.
     Then in April I received an email from ACT telling me there were still a few spots available for this year. The timing was perfect—I was feeling optimistic about a healthy future and my body-parts that frequently slow me down, such as my knees and feet, were feeling pretty darn good, too. On impulse I called the number on the brochure and within the hour, I’d signed up for the trip.
     Not without some trepidation, I will admit. Age can be a stickler in a group where others are younger or more agile. I worried that I’d be exhausted by the time I’d done all the activities included. But something much more troubling lay underneath my concern—one so personal and egotistical, I was embarrassed to share it. As the widow of Jay Glerum, this would be my first trip to NYC in which I wasn’t riding on his coattails. Indeed, I had only to take my husband’s arm to be instantly an insider in the theatre district . . . the wife of a man whom stagehands revered, a man who was routinely invited backstage so stage crews could show off  their expertise to ‘the man who wrote the book.” The thought of going to Broadway shows as an ordinary audience member—not one who got to see the stuff and meet the people that made the shows so spectacular—made me sad. I’d be a nobody in the audience, when only a few years before I’d been a ‘somebody’ just because of my marriage.
     To my delight, the tour was wonderful!  I loved my six days in the city and successfully overrode sentimental memories about being there without Jay. I got up early every morning to roam the West
Unlike most productions where photos are strictly forbidden,
an announcement was made before "Natasha, Pierre, and
The Great Comet of 1812" began saying photos
BEFORE the show started were OK. Thus, this picture
of The Imperial Theatre with its fabulous, immersive set.
40s, marveling at the hustle and bustle of commuters amidst the stumbling gawkiness of tourists like me who were taking pictures, watching Good Morning America through the street-level windows, sipping Starbucks, or munching bagels, as we all walked through Times Square and its environs. 
     On the last morning before breakfast I walked back to my hotel along West 43rd  between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, passing the Lyric Theatre where I noticed its stage door was wide open. I peered in as I walked by, then paused and turned around and approached the entrance to the stage. I could see multiple stagehands loading out equipment. One hand stood by the door. “Can I just watch a minute?” I asked.
     “Yup, look all you like. But  you can’t come in.”
     “Oh, I only want to look,” I responded, feeling a surge of nostalgia. After a minute, I couldn’t resist and asked, “Does the name Jay Glerum mean anything to you? I’m his widow.”
      “Nah.”
     Immediately another stagehand appeared. "Jay Glerum? JAY O. GLERUM? Yeah, it does—it means a lot!” then chided the man standing at the door. “You do too know that name!” he scolded. “Jay O. Glerum wrote the book! He wrote Stage Rigging Handbook!”
     “Oh, yeah . . .  I shouda known . . . I have that book,” said the first stagehand seeming somewhat embarrassed, while the other one extended his hand to me for a firm and enthusiastic handshake. “Jay was great—GREAT—he taught me in two classes. I’ll never forget him!”
      We chatted for a couple of minutes, and even though I was invited inside, I declined. The spark of recognition for Jay and his work was like frosting on the cake for me. I felt immeasurably happy as I headed back to the hotel to finish packing for the trip home later that day. And I felt emancipated from what had been my crippling concern. I wasn’t in New York without Jay; he is there—backstage with stagehands who are maybe just a little more careful because of his legacy. I could almost feel him walking beside me.



Sunday, April 9, 2017

Canadian generosity toward ordinary people


My Canadian daughter-in-law, Denise Kenney, was involved in the creation of a film interviewing several Syrian Refugee families living in Kelowna, British Columbia, where she and her (also my) family live.

I found this film to be immensely interesting, as well as heartbreaking. Being able to sit vicariously in a living room with people whose lives have completely turned upside down is something most of us don't have the opportunity to do. If you have forty minutes, this is a way to discover information not just about refugees, but about yourself, too. I guarantee one thing: watching this film will have you assessing your own capacity for compassion and that of your government, as well.

 Hover over, or click on, this title to access the link:  Interviews with Syrian Refugees

Denise has given me permission to put the link on my blog and encourages anyone who wants to share it to do so.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

What the Smithsonian and I have in common

Even though I still miss my husband enormously and sometimes even get maudlin because he's gone, occasionally there is a reason to smile about his absence. Imagine me opening my e-mail this morning on my iPad and seeing this message from the Smithsonian Magazine (it's been at least five years since he stopped subscribing to it, by the way).

My response, shouted across the room, was "ME, TOO!" and then I had to smile . . . I am not alone in missing him.

During the past two (almost three) years, Jay has received periodic junk mail based on some very old lists. During the past election cycle, he was invited many times over to cast his vote for particular candidates. Of course, he didn't receive a ballot, despite some of the recent accusations about deceased people being on the voting roles. Not in my county! In fact, to King County's credit, even the very first election after his June 2014 death, which was held in August that year, no ballot was sent to him. (All Washington voting is done mail-in only.)

It's unfortunate that list-sellers get paid for providing seriously out-of-date data. I was really shocked when Jay was called for King County Jury Duty a year after his death! Obviously, King County doesn't update all of its divisions about the permanent departure of its residents. However, a quick phone call elicited an apology and assurance he would never be summoned again.

I have to keep Jay's e-mail account open because mine is a sub-account and I don't want to lose it. As a consequence, he continues to get junk mail. I have unsubscribed his account from a lot of e-mail ads and industry lists. When I have the opportunity to comment (I love the question "Tell us why you're leaving") I write "I'm dead!" or something equally bratty. It's perverse, but true; I smile about that, too.

Back to the Smithsonian Magazine. I'm glad I got the e-mail today because it was fun writing this post.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

Enrichment that comes from travel

Lesser known pyramid
Today I am going to toot my own horn. Having been made aware of an acquaintance's eagerly anticipated first trip to Egypt, I couldn't help but recall the thrill of visiting Egypt and, in particular, being for the first time in a country whose predominant religion was not Christianity. When I re-read my two articles written in reflection of that trip, I was impressed. I want to boast a little, so I have included links to those articles at the end of this post.

Sphinx of Memphis
Ostensibly we were visiting to ooh and ah over the ancient sites of Egypt, and it was a bucket-list trip for Jay. He had wanted to see the pyramids ever since I met him in 1961. Just three years into my retirement (2008), the serendipitous arrival of a brochure for travel there with University of Washington Alumni brought everything together for us. Although Jay was still working, he had the flexibility as the sole proprietor of Jay O. Glerum & Associates to be gone for a three-week trip. But it was impression of current-day Egypt that has stayed with me all these years.

Neither Jay nor I would ever be the same again. Not only did we make some wonderful friends on the
Donkeys and cars share the roads
trip and learned an enormous amount of ancient history from Eman, our impressive Egyptologist, but we saw modern-day Egypt as it was crumbling under the control of Mubarak. Subtle and not-so-subtle unrest was recognized by the University of Washington professor, Jere Bacharach, who traveled with us. As a person who had lived six-months of each year in Cairo for more than a decade, he was highly qualified to answer our questions posed 'out-of-earshot' of locals during evenings when we were 'on our own.' Not only was he fluent in Arabic, but he was savvy regarding what was in the hearts and minds of the citizens of Cairo.

Eman was our knowledgable
Egyptologist who accompanied us
for three weeks in 2008
After Arab Spring, Jay and I repeatedly voiced how grateful we were to have seen Egypt when we did. We both knew we would not get back there again, but today I was reminded of its profound impact on me as I re-read these two articles I wrote (and which are still carried on the Web site of the Seattle Times). For that reason, I'm sharing them today with both humility and pride.    
Call to Prayer by S. Glerum published in the Seattle Times
Transcending Differences by S. Glerum published in the S.T.
     




Sunday, February 19, 2017

Recognizing greatness without an expert's opinion


The question of recognizing quality—whether it be discerned through taste buds, ears, or eyes is always an interesting topic. Yesterday I had reason to think about a radio interview I heard not long ago on NPR about a PhD researcher who studied how people perceive wines in blind taste tests. Although I am remembering only the main conclusions, they were—in a nutshell—both surprising and (from a cynic’s point of view) predictable. When stripped of its label, connoisseur descriptive, and price tag, an expensive wine more often than not ranks lower than one from the same grape but priced affordably and packaged inexpensively. 

I’m not talking of comparing a $12 wine to a $15 one, either. I’m talking a $12 wine compared to one in the neighborhood of $60 to $100 per bottle. The radio interviewer found the research wonderfully ironic, but concluded that it didn’t much matter—if people loved the tasting and describing and uncorking and sniffing and rolling around  the wine in their mouths—who cares, basically. It’s the fun of the ‘knowing,’ the fun of the snob appeal that can, in and of itself, create quality. It’s not that different with music, or art, or anything that involves the senses and a subjective response.

A number of years ago, violinist Joshua Bell played at the entrance to busy metro station in Washington DC. He posed as an ordinary busker, with his violin case open for donations.  I read about it when it happened—the results were surprising, but also predictable. Unrecognized by anyone except one woman, train catchers rushed by him, most without pausing or acknowledging his superior musical talent or his Stradivarius instrument. Just another component of a busy commute. The initial reports mentioned that a ticket to hear Bell in a concert could be upwards of $100, but apparently had little value when unannounced and free. Donations in his violin case amounted to just over $30 in an hour-and-a-half.

The purpose of this post isn’t to debate the question of perceived quality, but to share my discovery of a wonderful children’s book—but there is a Joshua Bell connection. Yesterday I was at our symphony hall to hear Bell—a musician I admire as much for his crossover mastery as his golden tones. I’d seen him play with Edgar Meyer a number of years ago, and was eager to catch his performance of  Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto. I had no idea this particular book existed until yesterday when I browsed the Seattle Symphony’s counter of merchandise marked “Artist Will Sign at Intermission.” Generally there’s an assortment of CDs that a visiting artist has recorded, but yesterday there was also a book. I read it over and needed to get my hanky out of my pocket to dab my eyes. It's gorgeous!

The book could well make you teary, too, when you read it (in less than ten minutes, total). Two gifted people have created a retelling of Bell’s busking experiment in Washington D.C. and drawn a timeless message from it. The book is called “The Man with the Violin” by Kathy Stinson and illustrated by Dusan Petricic. Even if you have no children or grandchildren, the book merits attention for its strong, wonderful message and beautifully powerful illustrations. I’m not going to spoil it for you—check it out from your library or sneak a peek at your local bookseller.

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Way back . . . to December 2016

I have been waiting more than a month to write comments about a memorable experience I had before Christmas. Reason? Photographs ordered, but not delivered until yesterday.

On December 18, 2016, I was a guest at the Bracebridge Dinner at Yosemite National Park, compliments of my California son and daughter-in-law. Just how lucky can one old woman get? Being in the park in winter was enchanting in, and of, itself; attending the dinner was magical.

One of the preliminary (and optional) activities before dinner (we were called by trumpets when the doors to the hall were opened) was to pose for a professional photographer in one of many small alcoves off the large public sitting room in the Majestic Hotel (formerly known as the Ahwahnee Hotel). The photographs took six weeks to be ready, but finally, they are here.

Unfortunately, the pictures of the three of us convey none of the theatricality of the evening. (FYI, the photographer released rights, so there is no disregarding of copyright here.)

To give you an idea of the theatricality, I’m including a YouTube link to a marketing video made in 2016 about the Bracebridge Dinner, which does a great job of conveying the pageantry and fun of the event. Take five minutes to enjoy it. Because cell phones were forbidden during the evening (and what a wise decision to make), the video is an effective means of  transmitting a sense of ambience. The event was truly wonderful—extremely well executed with beautiful food and accoutrements.

So . . . before February arrives, revel in a little look back to Christmas 2016. Life was simpler then, huh.

Friday, January 6, 2017

My dearest values--and I have to dust them!


On the top of my jewelry box there are four knickknacks representing what matters most in my life. If you were visiting my home, you might wonder why those four items are always there--or maybe you wouldn't think twice about them. I do, however . . . I think twice and thrice and sometimes twenty times a day about them . . . in fact, nearly every time I walk into my bedroom.

In the foreground is a four-piece wood puzzle: a tiny wooden man and a woman linking arms. Their heads come off, then their bodies come apart, enabling them to stand alone. The puzzle symbolizes Jay and me and our half-century of marriage. I can't remember when I bought it, but it delighted me at the time. The heads are separate, which struck me as representing two people of very different minds and an appropriate symbol for our relationship. (Several months after Jay died, I removed the head of the man and laid it at his feet--but then I decided that was unnecessarily maudlin and put it back on.) That our marriage endured for so long warrants the puzzle standing in intact.

The red heart stone was given to me by one of my daughters-in-law. Obviously, a heart symbolizes love, and this one represents my own progeny and their families. Sometimes I use the term "my family of choice" to describe this group of now ten people and two generations (as opposed to family of origin), but not to imply I didn't like my family-of-origin. In other words, the heart represents my very own children and their families, near and dear always, and probably my greatest achievement in life.

The funny little ceramic bear was on my father's dresser from my earliest remembered childhood. After Dad died in 1963, I asked my mother if I could have it and it's been on my dresser ever since. When I was little, I thought it was a pig, and never went into my parents' bedroom without checking up on it--wondering why it was there. Did one of us girls give it to him? Was it something he had as a child? I'll never know. Only after I took it for my own did I realize this little statue wasn't a pig, but a bear! Now it represents my heritage and family of origin--the parental love I grew up with, as well as the unknown, unsung ancestors who made me who I am.

I bought the glass egg at the Portland Art museum for my longest-running friend, Karen, (we became friends in sixth grade) after visiting her in the hospital where she was to learn of her terminal illness. Karen and I didn't live in the same part of Washington, so we weren't able to see each other often. The light emanating from the glass felt right to me--reflecting my prayers and positive thoughts for her. After she died in 2009, her sons returned the egg to me, explaining how she had treasured it as a symbol of our lasting friendship. The egg reminds me of my Karen, of course, but also precipitates appreciation for all my friends--they are a lifeline now and always.