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| Portrait by Sheldon Schoneberg, mid-1970s |
Welcome to my past.
I was born the year before WWII ended, and have since led what many people seem to consider a varied and colorful life.
I can’t remember when friends first started telling me that I should write my memoirs, but in 2015, I began posting brief chapters of reminiscence each week as “Throwback Thursday” essays on Facebook.
Before long, readers started telling me that I should compile these essays into a book. While a nice idea, this was impractical because of the sheer number of photos, many in color, involved in over 200 (and counting) essays.
I next considered a website, but upon inquiry, discovered that setting one up would be a very expensive proposition, and I’d still have to do most of the work anyway.
Since I’ve long been familiar with the elements of the free online tool Blogger™, I decided to turn the memoir essays into linked sections, each containing about 20-30 stories. (Apologies for any disparity in type size as a result of importing material from other sources)
These tales are not in any kind of autobiographical order. Many of them are about fascinating people I’ve known, including members of my family. Some are based on my own artwork. They're all just the tiniest bit outrageous.
Welcome to my past.
(Photo by Laura Goldman)
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. THE ADORABLE STITCHWITCHES OF PETERKIN HILL
2. KENNY AND DOC: BLIND TRUST (A PORTABLE TALE FROM 50 YEARS ON)
3. PLAYING POSSUM
4. WWII IN THE FAMILY
5. TENDING ONE’S PUTZ: A HOLIDAY TRADITION
6 . A JOYFUL NOISE, Or, A TOUCH OF BRASS (TO THE MAX)
7. EARNING MY WINGS: CANDLE, MANGER, DONKEY; Or, AND WHAT, GIVE UP SHOW BUSINESS?
8. A RAFT OF RELATIONS
9. THE FACE OF WINTER
10. BUDDHA POWER, Or,
WHEREVER YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE
11. WORDS TO LIVE BY; A BUNNY TALE
12. GINO SCHIAVONE: THE ZONE OF ASTONISHMENT
13. A MOST UNLIKELY CONVERSATION: MY DINNER WITH PHYLLIS (PATTERSON) AND RICHARD (HERMAN)
14. THE AMANITA FAIRY, Or, STRANGE TIMES ON FALLEN APPLE LANE
15. HILL 15 MPH
16. JAMAICAN ENCOUNTERS
17. HOMELAND SECURITY, 1751; Or, HOW MY MOTHER WOUND UP WITH ONE OF THE WORLD’S RAREST SURNAMES
18. EVERYTHING OLD IS NEW AGAIN II; Or, A BEDSPREAD BY ANY OTHER NAME
19. JANICE? Or, JUST A LITTLE TREAT FOR THE BOYS
20. FLIPPING THE BUNNY, Or, THE GHOST(S) OF PETERKIN HILL
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1. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Peterkin Hill, South Woodstock, Vermont; New York City, 1995-Present
The photo above, of Susan Fuller and little Morgan Fuller Hill, was taken (possibly) by my brother David around 1995, and was probably a good indication of witchery to come.
From the time she was an enchanting toddler, Morgan was supplied with her own artspace, easel, paints, brushes and other art supplies. I remember my dad, on examining her exuberant abstracts and wild splashes of color, muttering: “Well, I hope she’s not expecting to make a living as an artist.”
Infant Fashionista with mom Susan.
However.
Having grown up wearing clothes lovingly sewn by her mom, not to mention watching her dad design and craft one-of-a-kind (and green-built) houses, and her mother working magic in interior design/décor, Morgan inherited a sense of style and humor, not to mention a love of the outdoors and an eye for design, from both parents.
From Teen Vogue:
Morgan Fuller Hill
AGE: 14; HOMETOWN: Woodstock, Vermont
MIXOLOGIST: "My T-shirt is from TJ Maxx, and my gold necklace was my grandma's. My red belt is from a thrift store, and my lip gloss is Burt's Bees."
Morgan Fuller Hill
AGE: 14; HOMETOWN: Woodstock, Vermont
MIXOLOGIST: "My T-shirt is from TJ Maxx, and my gold necklace was my grandma's. My red belt is from a thrift store, and my lip gloss is Burt's Bees."
She first appeared in Teen Vogue in 2007 at age 14; then became a star in fashion design at the Massachusetts College of Art and Design, where she was a teacher's assistant in their shoemaking course, created a "Hallway Style" blog, and curated multiple fashion shows on and off campus.
Morgan's first appearance in distinguished company in a European fashion mag.
After graduation in 2015, she headed for Manhattan, where she worked briefly with avant-garde designers The Blonds, then landed an internship with the Diane von Fürstenberg fashion empire.
Morgan in one of her print designs.
Rooftop fashion: Morgan in another of her prints.
Within three years, she’d risen from that humble position to the job of Design Assistant, then to that of Associate Print Designer, finally becoming Manager of the entire DVF Print Department by age 26.
In late 2018, she was hired by noted NYC shoe designer Sam Edelman as Manager Of Product Merchandising for his “Circus” division, becoming, in 2020, manager of Brand Strategy and Creative Development.
She’s also continued to work independently, in print design for DVF and for up-and-coming designer and friend Christopher John Rogers—a favorite of Lady Gaga, who was featured wearing one of his creations in the latest People magazine’s “Best-Dressed” issue.
Lady Gaga in CJR
(And just for fun, Morgan crafts the polymer clay-and-bling jewelry often paired with CJR fashions in his runway shows.)
Morgan jewelry for CJR.
In spite of all this high-fashion activity, Morgan seems to transition easily from NYC glamchik to Vermont country tomboy, and frequently visits her very cool parents to scale down, chill out, and, just perhaps, to refresh her personal supply of adorable mountaintop witchery.
Morgan in Vermont with Dad David and (below) mom Susan.
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A few years ago, Morgan channeled Dolly Parton for a Halloween InstaGram Interview. Just go to this link and click on the arrow.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BaxK2DXgq1i/...
(And for a look at David and Susan's work: https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/36103144...)
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2. THROWBACK THURSDAY: All over the US and Somewhere in California, 1971
KENNY AND DOC: BLIND TRUST (A PORTABLE TALE FROM 50 YEARS ON)
Not long ago, I received a photo from Harry Liedstrand, brilliant traditional-music fiddler and fellow traveler with the Portable Folk Festival in the summer of 1971.
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| Harry Liedstrand, then and now. |
The PFF was just what it sounds like, a 15-person folk-music-performing unit that traveled all over the country that summer in a 1947 International Harvester workhorse of a school-bus, appearing at festivals, folk clubs, coffeehouses, universities, and any place that offered food, lodging, gas money, a good time, or any/all of the above.
Left to right: Sasha Jako, Cary Lung, Larry Hanks, Ron Tinkler, King (dog) Ellen Tinkler, Sunny Goodier, Tanner (dog), Faith Petric. me, Katy Jako, Jim Ringer, Sheila Cogan, Harry Liedstrand (kneeling), Jon Wilcox, Stephanie Meyer, Jon Adams, Mike Cogan.
(I was not on the full tour, but joined the group for the final month in order to write about it for several publications.)
We traveled as a modest caravan, with a VW bus owned by banjo-player Ron Tinkler and his wife Ellen serving as a kind of “dinghy” for short errands and side trips from the big “mother ship.” It also provided troupe members with an occasional respite from the lively crowd activity on the big bus during long trips.
Jon Adams
The photo below (which immediately brought back the flavor of the entire experience to me) was taken from the VW’s back window by engaging musician and enthusiastic photographer Jon Adams. In celebration of the PFF tour’s 50th (!) anniversary in 2021, Harry Liedstrand made Jon’s shot into a relief print (also below).
Back in 1971, Harry was the fiddler for the Sweet’s Mill String Band, one of several distinct performing entities within the group, with Jim Ringer on guitar, Cary Lung on Mandolin, and Ron Tinkler on banjo.
L to R: Ron Tinkler, Jim Ringer, Kenny Hall, Cary Lung, Harry Liedstrand.
Prominently missing from the Sweet’s Mill lineup on this trip was self-taught mandolin genius Kenny Hall, blind from birth, who had, I assume, decided that the logistics of such a protracted road trip would be too much to handle.
During that Portable Folk Festival summer, however, the Sweet’s Mill boys had all manner of Kenny Hall anecdotes to relate; this one is probably my favorite.
Kenny Hall
(NOTE: As this is told second or third-hand, and took place over a half-century ago, I might not have all the particulars in place; amendments and corrections welcome.)
It had long been a dream of traditional musicians who knew both Kenny Hall and the great Arthel “Doc” Watson (who was blind from infancy), to get the two exemplary musicians together for a music session.
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| Doc Watson |
I can’t remember exactly when or how it finally happened, but after a tentative beginning, as the two sized up each other’s musical abilities, the resulting jam session, in a room packed with other fine musicians, was apparently a rousing success.
Contributing to the conviviality, as I understand, was quite a bit of whiskey, with bottles of Jack Daniel’s and Wild Turkey circulating freely, and Doc and Kenny partaking liberally.
After hours and hours of “Hey, do you know…?” moments and virtuoso playing and singing, all present knew they’d participated in and witnessed something extraordinary.
Finally, well into the next morning, even the legendarily indefatigable Kenny and Doc were ready to call it a night.
This historic session had taken place in a second-floor room above a pub or music store, accessed by a long stretch of narrow stairs set into a hallway leading to the street below. The crowd packed up instruments and spilled down the stairs, milling around, not wanting the experience to end.
All of a sudden, someone in the company on the sidewalk asked: “Hey, where’s Kenny?” about the same time someone else inquired: “Where’s Doc?”
Crowding to the foot of the stairs, they were greeted by an amazing sight—Doc and Kenny, marching confidently down the steps, arm in arm. Each had, as usual, grabbed hold of the nearest elbow, neither, in this case, realizing that the other was blind.
There was a collective holding of breath until the two well-lubricated legends made it safely down to the bottom, where they were diplomatically detached from each other and led away, perhaps to sleep it off, perhaps to continue the session at another location.
Both Doc and Kenny are gone now. They were almost exact contemporaries, both born in 1923. Doc passed away in 2012, Kenny in 2013.
Wherever they are, that memorable session has no doubt continued into eternity, with Doc’s old Gallagher guitar chiming out like a heavenly bell and Kenny, in his accustomed manner, instructing the angel band: ‘Hey, BIG chords now. Bring that E string up a bit. Now take the A string down. Stay off the four chord there – this ain’t Western Swing. Key of D. Let’s go!"
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3. THROWBACK THURSDAY; MAMMY MORGAN’S HILL, PENNSYLVANIA, C. 1954
PLAYING POSSUM
My dad was an avid photographer, so naturally, around age nine or ten, I developed strong objections to having my picture taken.
One evening after dinner, dressed in my cool black western shirt and fringed vest, I was doing homework when I was suddenly overcome by a bout of sleepiness. I put my head down for a moment and drifted off...
As I dozed, I suddenly became aware of a sense of light and warmth behind me, and my dad whispering “Hold it up right there; no, a little to the left!”
Without opening my eyes, I realized that the source of these sensations was one of the tin-shaded photographer’s lights Dad used at night when he wanted a natural effect not distorted by a flash.
My first impulse, contrary little tomboy that I was, was to pop up and ruin the shot. But somehow I didn’t.
More whispers and rustles, and finally the click of a shutter.
“That’ll be a good one.” Said my dad. “Yes,” agreed my mother.
The light went out. I could feel their eyes on me, then my dad’s hand gently on my back.
“Wake up,” he said softly, “Bedtime.”
I sat up and yawned. “Was I asleep?” I asked.
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4. THROWBACK THURSDAY: World War Two in the Family
Uncle Stuart "Wick" Wixon (Navy) and my mother's sister,
Aunt Jean Arnts Wixon (Marines)
My dad's Uncle Charles Elkins (Navy, WWI) and Dad's brother Horace Hill (Navy)
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| Uncles Jim Gillespie (Army; married to my Aunt Virginia Arnts) and Pete Horn (Navy; married to Aunt Kathryn Arnts) |
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| Uncle Frederick "Fritz" Jones (Marines; married to Aunt Janet Arnts) |
Uncle Joe Shanahan (Navy; married to Aunt Betty Arnts)
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| My dad's brother Justin Hill (Army) |
They all came home safely.
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5. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Sebastopol, California, 2000s; Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, 1741-Present.
TENDING ONE’S PUTZ: A HOLIDAY TRADITION
My dear friend Laura Goldman grew up in a family whose everyday conversation was spiced with Yiddish words and phrases.
With Laura c. 2017.
This is perhaps why, a few years ago, she came up to me one day with a newspaper clipping in her hand, and a look of puzzled incredulity on her face.
“You grew up near Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, right?” she asked. I did; the city was about 12 miles as the crow flies from my childhood home, and my dad had lived there for his last ten years.
“So what in the world is going on here?", she demanded, thrusting the clipping under my nose.
The photo on it depicted an ordinary-looking middle-aged man bending over a miniature rocky landscape that featured a small cave-like structure filled with tiny figures and adorned with what looked like live greenery. The caption read simply: “[So-and-So], of Bethlehem PA, tending his putz.”
Now, for such a brief syllable, “putz” is a complex word, to say the least.
Although in German it’s a verb that means “to clean, care for, or adorn,” in Yiddish it’s another matter altogether, rude in all directions.
In that language at its most polite, it designates a lazy, bothersome, and/or generally annoying fellow.
At the other end of the verbal-propriety spectrum, it’s slang for the male member, or a certain part thereof, a slightly dumbed-down version of the Yiddish insult “schmuck” (which in German innocently means jewelry or adornment—when I was an exchange student in Germany, I was startled to see SCHMUCK emblazoned prominently on the front of jewelry stores).
German jewelry store.
There’s also a corresponding verb phrase, to “putz around,” meaning to behave foolishly or annoyingly (as your average putz might), although even very proper folks sometimes use it as a synonym for “putter around.”
Having indeed grown up near Bethlehem, I was able to explain the clipping to Laura: in the Pennsylvania German dialect of the town’s Moravian founders, a “putz” is a small Nativity scene, usually set in a miniature live landscape of rocks, moss and tiny plants, all of which require considerable tending, decorating, adorning, etc., and the name reflects that sense of the word.
An antique Moravian putz.
The Moravians who founded Bethlehem in 1741 were one of the many religious sects who came to the New World seeking freedom from oppression; they seem to have been a people pious and joyous in equal measure, fond of good works, learning, music and celebration.
In the 20th century, as the Bethlehem Steel plant (which opened in 1857, and was once the backbone of the city’s prosperity) began its long decline to its 1995 closure, city officials began playing up the town’s rich Moravian heritage.
Re-branding itself as “The Christmas City,” Bethlehem turned up the wattage (literally) on its annual celebrations, with concerts, festivals, lighting displays (including the city’s iconic mountaintop “Star of Bethlehem”—91 feet tall and 40 feet wide, now equipped with LED bulbs), pageants, street performers, carolers, horse-drawn carriage rides, tours of the town’s beautifully preserved colonial and Victorian houses, and much more.
Tourists from all over the world and visitors from miles around now flock to Bethlehem each Christmastide to see and to take part in all of this over-the-top holidaymaking.
The "Christkindlmarkt"
Which now includes, as I recently learned from Googling, an opportunity to follow Bethlehem’s “Holiday Putz Trail.”
I can’t WAIT to tell Laura.
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6. THROWBACK THURSDAY: The Great Dickens Christmas Fair, San Francisco, California; 1976-Early 1980s; Japan, Scotland, Australia and All over the World, Early 1980s-1994
A JOYFUL NOISE, Or
A TOUCH OF BRASS (TO THE MAX)
One of the great joys of appearing at the Great Dickens Christmas Fairs of the 1970s and ‘80s was the brilliance and inventiveness of my fellow performers. Perhaps the most outrageously irresistible of these was an aggregation calling itself simply “the Brass Band.”
Ironically, they started out in the early 1970s simply as the (lower-case) brass band, a group of straight professional musicians, known from their work at the Renaissance Pleasure Faires, who had been hired to play for dancing, to march in parades, to accompany Christmas carols, etc.
Nobody expected what happened next,
The over-the-top comedy routines, the silly costumes, and the hellzappoppin hilarity of their performances apparently just grew out of a serendipitous mix of personalities and talents, and soon they dominated the Fair’s stages as an act like no other.
Well, yes, they were still a brass band, but the only thing uniform about their appearance was the red-and-white standard-issue marching-band jackets and tall boots they wore; otherwise, sartorially speaking, it was every man for himself.
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| Bobby Leach, Johannes Mager, Jim Aron, George Wallace and Bob Jennings |
There were five of them:
1)“The Captain” (trombonist Bob Jennings), in his plumed hat and epaulets, a deliciously balanced blending of snort-laughing nerd and debonair swashbuckler.
2. First trumpeter “Jimby” (Jim Aron), sweetly fey and slightly daffy in his WWII flying helmet, silk scarf and jodphurs (this non-Dickensian anachronism and several others were only tolerated by the Fair management because of the group’s enormous popularity).
3. In beret and faux-tigerskin trousers, poker-faced second trumpet “Louis Tooloose” (Bobby Leach) with his lightning reflexes and Harpo Marx whistle.
4. Baritone-horn player “Phineas T. Buford III” (my friend George Wallace), a long limber sight-gag noodle of a guy, his glossy curls topped with moose antlers.
5. And finally, on tuba, the irrepressible “Fritz Frümheimer” (Dutch-born Johannes Mager), in battered top hat and plaid trousers, shamelessly exploiting his instrument’s inherent comic properties while conscientiously marking time with his booty.
San Francisco Chronicle writer Bernard Weiner, in the course of a rave review of an SRO performance in 1984, described them as looking like “rejects from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”
Weiner then goes on to describe their performance (which he’d just seen for the first time) in excited detail:
“They enter running and never look back. They’re in constant motion, sometimes playing in ungainly positions, sometimes playing with one hand (you try the slide trombone that way some time).
“At times they break out different instruments of speciality—a tiny piccolo trumpet taken from a lunchbox, or a flute played while shoved up a nostril. At other times there will be an entire stageful of trombones or tubas playing at once.
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| On the Merv Griffin Show: Bob, Jim, Bobby, George, Johannes |
“They’re always engaged on some form of horseplay, whether visual (slapstick shenanigans) or aural (musical puns).
“Their eclectic repertoire includes everything from Dmitri Khachaturian’s “Sabre Dance” (enlivened by Bobby Leach’s sudden appearance in rainboots, a pink tutu and leopard-skin undershorts) to ‘Onward Christian Soldiers;’ ‘The William Tell Overture;’ ‘Flight of the Bumblebee;’ ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra;’ ‘The Poet and Peasant Overture;’ and ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’
“If it weren’t for the fact” Weiner gushes, “that these guys are consummate musicians, their act would be just ordinary silliness, but the five members of the Brass Band are experts on their instruments. Indeed, they’re so polished that they can switch instruments constantly with each other with no loss of quality.”
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| Merv Griffin interviews Phineas T. Buford III. |
This last observation underlines something that always astounded me about the Brass Band—their ability to execute their outrageous comedy and daft/deft choreography without missing or fluffing a single note, unless intentionally.
That, and no matter how often you saw them, their routines always seemed fresh, laced with that magical ingredient of all great comedy—you never knew what was going to happen next.
As described by the Los Angeles Times: “It’s as if the Marx Brothers, stoned to the gills on laughing gas, decided they’d have a stab at playing a transcription of a Bach toccata. While dancing."
Having had so much fun enjoying word-pictures, I was going to close with a lament that, since the BB’s heyday pretty much fell before the advent of YouTube and cellphone cameras, the only visual record of one of their performances seemed to be a set of murky videos taken by a fan at a show in Germany, with baritone-horn player Kevin Linscott filling in for George Wallace. (This incarnation of the group toured through 1991, with a brief reappearance in 1994.)
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| Taking a bow; there are no words. |
Then I hit YouTube paydirt: a 1980s Brass Band appearance on The Merv Griffin Show, with two full routines, not to mention a goofy chat with Merv.
This is how I remember them, hilarious, balletically acrobatic, musically impeccable and politically incorrect, with only a few slight tonsorial/sartorial alterations from their Dickens days.
A visual in this case being worth many thousands of words in this case, I can only conclude by saying:
Ladies and gentlemen, the Brass Band!
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7. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Easton, Pennsylvania: 1751-1954
EARNING MY WINGS: CANDLE, MANGER, DONKEY; Or
AND WHAT, GIVE UP SHOW BUSINESS?
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Early in 1951, the Easton, Pennsylvania Chamber of Commerce voted to turn the city’s Civil War memorial into a giant candle.
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| Saturday farmers' market in Easton |
A little backstory: Easton, which was founded and laid out around 1751, had a history, apparently dating back to Colonial times, of decorating its downtown area lavishly for the holidays, long before that became a thing. (It also claims the first Christmas tree in the Americas, erected by German immigrants)
By the 1950s, however, the custom had lapsed, and my mother’s bridge-club cronies, the formidable Mrs. G. Hutton (Virginia) Hughes and Mrs. Douglas (Virginia) Purdy, thought this was a shame. They noodged the Chamber into providing funds, and came up with the candle idea.
This was no small undertaking, as the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in question consists of a 91-foot-tall column topped with the figure of a bugler, and surrounded on four sides by statues representing the Union Army’s’s Infantry, Cavalry, Artillery And Naval branches.
Since 1888, this impressive chunk of granite has towered spang in the middle of Centre Square, also known to locals as “The Circle,” for its configuration: a circle (monument and park) inside a circle (an absolutely hellish traffic roundabout) inside a square (of buildings).
Centre Square was formerly the site of the Northampton County Courthouse, from the steps of which, on July 8th, 1776, Easton became one of only three towns in the entire colonies with the guts to read the treasonous document aloud in public. It’s also the site of the country’s oldest (since 1751) continuously operating farmers’ market.
That first candle, apparently a comedy of errors in its construction, topped out at 106 feet tall, 15’ of that being the “flame” that enveloped the bugler. The surrounding statues were covered with smaller candles, and the whole banked with evergreens.
This colorful tangle of marine plywood, steel girders, wire mesh, plastic, and lightbulbs actually did serve its purpose of reviving the downtown’s holiday spirit, increasing shopping revenues, and providing a locus for caroling, musical ensembles, choirs, bell-ringers, etc. to perform.
Making up for lost time; a candle-lighting ceremony in the 2000s.
Now known as the “Peace Candle”—for ecumenical reasons having to do with 1970s protests—it’s currently in its 70th year and third incarnation (in its first year, the painted scrim constituting its “flame,” actually caught fire at one point, but was quickly extinguished).
In 1954, after the candle had become an established tradition, the Virginias (Hughes and Purdy) came up with a new wrinkle: a “living crèche” at the foot of the Candle, in other words, a still Nativity-scene tableau peopled by actual humans, a realistic baby doll, a donkey, and a few sheep.
This is where I come in. The Virginias were members of my family’s church, Easton’s First Presbyterian, so it was no accident that our Sunday school was chosen to create the first tableau at the official Candle-lighting.
Since this entailed standing or sitting completely and adoringly still for a half-hour, the main roles of Mary, Joseph, shepherds, and kings went to older children, most in their teens.
I, however, at age 10, was chosen to be an angel. I tend to believe that this piece of casting resulted from a reputation for aplomb earned by my performance in First Presbyterian’s in-house Christmas pageant the year before.
Not the actual creche that I was part of, but similar configuration.
I should note that even at this young age, I was more or less a pageant veteran, beginning with an Easter production at the small country church our family had attended before becoming Presbyterians.
In this humble show, at age three or four (and suiting the action to the word) I lisped: “I put on my bonnet/as yellow as gold/for Easter is coming/or so I am told.” (Who writes these things?) Cue a chorus of delighted coos from the congregation; I was hooked.
In First Presbyterian's previous (1953) Christmas pageant, I was cast as the Littlest Shepherd Boy (I could pass); not only was I given a line to say, but a technical assignment as well.
As we gathered around the manger, Charlie Gibbs, one of the other shepherds, was to say: “Look, he’s smiling at us.”
To which I was to reply: “And see, there is a light about his head,” while simultaneously switching on the Baby Jesus.
To explain: since we were performing slightly above the eye-level of the congregation, the manger was occupied only by some straw glued around its edges and a small but versatile piece of professional lighting equipment, a metal cube with a large lens on one of its faces, and a bewildering array of switches on an adjacent side.
As I spoke my line, I was supposed to flip the switch that would produce a soft halo-like glow, as opposed to one of a number of other functions that included a piercing searchlight beam, a roving spotlight, a spooky shimmer, and a pulsing strobe-like effect.
The lighting person had kindly stuck a small square of tape on the appropriate switch, and we practiced several times until I could coordinate the line of speech with the requisite warm glow.
Came the night of the pageant, and everything was going swimmingly as we shepherds gathered around the manger and my cue approached.
When I looked down, however, I saw to my dismay that the manger had apparently been jostled, and not only was the lens on the box now pointing sideways, but the square of tape had fallen off and was lying uselessly next to it.
My cue approached, and, while attempting to look adoring, I reached down and rolled the box right side up. Then Charlie Gibbs said: “Look, he’s smiling at us.”
As I ran my fingers over the switches, probably hoping for some kind of muscle memory, I ad-libbed frantically: “Isn’t he a pretty baby?” I asked, and (to account for all the hand activity) “Oh, his skin is so soft!”
Suddenly my fingers grazed a spot that was slightly tacky, perhaps from where the heat of the lamp had melted some tape adhesive.
Hoping against hope, I took a deep breath and flipped the switch, thankfully producing the appropriate soft halo rather than a Hollywood-premiere or disco effect.
“Oh see!” I squeaked loudly, “There IS a light about his head!.
At which point, the rest of the cast, who had been following my fumblings with a kind of horrified fascination, nearly disgraced themselves by cracking up.
I should mention that this was my first, (but certainly not my last) experience with improvisational theater.
Not the actual creche that I was part of, but similar configuration.
Compared to that little scene, the Centre Square angel gig was a walk in the park—perched on a rickety first-night scaffolding camouflaged by evergreens, eyes watering from the glare of the spotlight, nose itching from musty straw and a whiff of donkey doody (which I’d stepped in in the dark as we got in place), feet freezing in inadequate rubber boots, and having to pee for the last ten minutes—I smiled sweetly and stayed still as a mouse, bathing in the spotlights and enjoying the delighted coos.
And so it was that when the Dickens Fair costumers told me about 20 years later that I would be an angel on stilts, I figured I had the chops.
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| Backstage with fellow stiltsters Brett and Greg. |
Sure, I told them. No problem. Warm feet, plenty of coos, and no donkey doody?
Heavenly.
8. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; 1947
A RAFT OF RELATIONS
This idyllic scene was captured by my great-uncle Lee Elkins, who, as I’ve mentioned before here, was a staff photographer for the New York Daily News, back when it was a real newspaper.
The photo may well commemorate the launching and maiden voyage of our newly acquired Navy surplus raft, left over from the recent war (and not yet required for the next one).
This sturdy vessel, constructed of solid cork thickly bound in canvas strapping and layers of marine paint, was of a type that must have saved many a sailor’s life during the WWII years, as it was literally and absolutely unsinkable.
Though not, however, for want of trying; over the years many combinations of adults and kids tried to hold it under water, or at least flip it over. The latter feat occurred only once in my memory, and it took 17 large athletes bouncing on one side of it.
This was only possible, of course, after the top wooden grating (which served for years as a different kind of water toy) had been removed to allow for more access to lounging, slipping, sliding, rocking, diving, and other waterborne activities.
Every year, our hardy craft was hauled out and covered for the winter, and every spring my sister Susan and I were press-ganged into helping my dad apply another layer of marine paint.
When the raft went in, you knew it was summer.
The personnel on this documented voyage were (from left): a neighbor boy; my first-cousin-once-removed Jeanne Elkins; my sister Susan sitting pretty; me, sun-suited and pigtailed, looking dubiously at the water (I couldn't swim); Jeanne’s kind and witty sister Doreen, and, perched attractively at right, my mother.
My dad is in the water, holding the raft in place for his Uncle Lee, with whom he loved to conspire in staging photos.
This one certainly achieved its objective: bringing alive a lovely jolly summer moment in a brief era of peace.
This idyllic scene was captured by my great-uncle Lee Elkins, who, as I’ve mentioned before here, was a staff photographer for the New York Daily News, back when it was a real newspaper.
The photo may well commemorate the launching and maiden voyage of our newly acquired Navy surplus raft, left over from the recent war (and not yet required for the next one).
This sturdy vessel, constructed of solid cork thickly bound in canvas strapping and layers of marine paint, was of a type that must have saved many a sailor’s life during the WWII years, as it was literally and absolutely unsinkable.
Though not, however, for want of trying; over the years many combinations of adults and kids tried to hold it under water, or at least flip it over. The latter feat occurred only once in my memory, and it took 17 large athletes bouncing on one side of it.
This was only possible, of course, after the top wooden grating (which served for years as a different kind of water toy) had been removed to allow for more access to lounging, slipping, sliding, rocking, diving, and other waterborne activities.
Every year, our hardy craft was hauled out and covered for the winter, and every spring my sister Susan and I were press-ganged into helping my dad apply another layer of marine paint.
When the raft went in, you knew it was summer.
The personnel on this documented voyage were (from left): a neighbor boy; my first-cousin-once-removed Jeanne Elkins; my sister Susan sitting pretty; me, sun-suited and pigtailed, looking dubiously at the water (I couldn't swim); Jeanne’s kind and witty sister Doreen, and, perched attractively at right, my mother.
My dad is in the water, holding the raft in place for his Uncle Lee, with whom he loved to conspire in staging photos.
This one certainly achieved its objective: bringing alive a lovely jolly summer moment in a brief era of peace.
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9. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; 1990s
THE FACE OF WINTER
One brisk winter day, my mother was busy in the kitchen when she heard a knock on the window and was confronted by the apparition below.
“Get the camera!” it mimed.
Dad had been clearing our long driveway with the aid of a snowblower, the kind that requires one to walk behind it and steer, and he was visibly wearing the effects of blowback.
When my mother appeared with the camera, he posed instinctively in front of a substantial chunk of granite that had been incorporated into the construction of our house back in the early 1800s; its high iron content inevitably caused the stone to weep rusty tears in wet conditions and glaze over with ice in cold ones.
It formed, along with its adjacent stones and oyster-shell cement, the perfect background for Dad’s ruddy face, rust-colored jacket, silver hair and weeping-icicle eyebrows
Typical Dad: recognizing a great shot, even when he was inside of it.
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10.THROWBACK THURSDAY: Graton, California; Early 2000s
BUDDHA POWER, Or,
WHEREVER YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE
Whenever and wherever my friend Judith Fenley decides to garden, things tend to take a turn for the magical.
This was never more evident than in the space behind the house on Edison Street that I shared with her 20 years ago.
The entire property had literally been carved out of a steep hillside, with the result that the eastern boundary of the back garden’s gentle slope ended abruptly in a high clay wall that extended upwards as much as 15 feet, on top of which was the westernmost boundary of the neighbors’ yard.
The bank seen from my bedroom window.
The Labyrinth
Judith’s garden, in contrast to the strikingly ordered labyrinth in front of the house, was a marvelous entwining of raised beds, vegetables, flowers, terraces, benches, rock gardens, flowering and fruiting trees, arbors, stone-lined paths, and a judiciously unexpected sprinkling of ornaments and garden deities.
Judith surveys her queendom.
These included everything from a mysterious stone known as the “Green Goddess,” to figures of St. Francis, Pan, angels, Eros, and, in the center of it all, almost unnoticed, a serene little Buddha, portrayed as deep in meditation.
One dark and stormy night of gusting winds and slashing torrential rain, Judith and I were jolted awake by an enormous crash and thud that shook the entire house.
Earthquake? We peered out, but could see nothing but rain and dark and thrashing leaves. Since the house seemed undamaged, we decided to return to our respective beds, and wait until daylight to see what was what.
Morning dawned clear and bright, and I went outside to find that a very large portion of the bank-top neighbors’ oak tree had broken off and come crashing down to blanket the entire length of our back garden.
Attempting to assess the damage, Judith and I were somewhat astounded to see the little Buddha, undisturbed in his meditations, seated serenely in the midst of the wreckage.
Moreover, when the tree was chainsawed into firewood, chipped, and/or hauled away, we discovered to our amazement that, except for a single glass gazing globe, there was no damage to the house, decking, beds, trees, arbors, etc. Although there were a lot more wood chips, it was business as usual.
Through rain, sun and roses
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11. THROWBACK THURSDAY, Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; c. 1954
WORDS TO LIVE BY; A BUNNY TALE
I was about five-and-a-half when my brother David was born, and thus had a ringside seat for his early childhood.
Sibling spats aside, he was a great little kid—bright, inquisitive, naturally athletic and curious—but, as one might expect, not given to deep philosophical musings.
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| David (center) in highchair days, with sister Susan on the left, me on the right. |
Oh, except that once…
It was a Sunday at lunchtime, and as usual, we had all been to church that morning. David must have been around three or four—I recall that he had graduated from his highchair and was perched on a neat little spindle-backed seat-with-footrest that allowed him to eat comfortably at table height.
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| With David on top of Hexenkopf. |
As was usual after a morning of being quiet and trying to behave ourselves, chat around the table was lively. At one point, however, as we tucked into our meal, there was a lull, into which David spoke:
“’As Dr. Williamson said in his sermon,” he remarked clearly and conversationally, “'Let Us All Live Like a Bunny, in Justice Foreverlasting, Amen.’”
What?!!!
We all goggled at David as he calmly resumed eating his sandwich. I think we tried to get him to elaborate, but he had said his piece, and apparently saw no need for further discussion.
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| Skating at age four |
Dr. Robert T. Williamson was our minister, a large genial man. His sermons, while not overly long or boring, were not especially child-friendly, and my attention tended to drift, but I like to think I would have noticed any stray bunny references.
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| Rhubarb-heads. |
The episode, and David’s precocious pronouncement, naturally entered family lore (we later deduced that Dr. W. might have preached something about “living in abundance”).
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| Snow day |
Remembering it always made me smile, and when I began learning Gothic script in my calligraphy classes, and was searching for an appropriately important and solemn phrase to memorialize, I hit upon the idea of combining it with a gift to David, who had meanwhile grown up and acquired a house of his own.
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| David and pal Roxy, possibly on the lookout for bunnies... |
I wrote out the saying and surrounded it with illustrations of rabbits engaged in various (G-Rated) activities.
Sadly in all directions, this piece was incinerated in a 1994 house fire that destroyed nearly all of David’s family’s belongings, and I somehow never had the heart to create a new version.
Well, until now, that is.
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12. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Northern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire; Novato, California; 1974-1980; Taos, New Mexico, 1992-present.
GINO SCHIAVONE: THE ZONE OF ASTONISHMENT
I seem to recall that the first time I encountered Gino Schiavone, he stuck his nose into my cleavage.
Well, technically, I’ve never had much cleavage to speak of, and technically, it wasn’t his nose, but that of a long-snouted Commedia dell’Arte mask he was wearing at the time. And, as it turned out, he was only trying to kiss my hand. All in all, it was a charming moment of confusion.
I soon discovered that the mask served as a distancing/empowering disguise that allowed Gino—in civilian life a shy, dreamy, science-nerd artist-craftsman with a vast creative imagination and a face straight out of a Renaissance painting—to become a bold hawker of wares and accoster of young ladies. (This was not an unusual type of Faire transformation.)
The year was 1974, and this little scene erupted as I passed a booth that divided the path leading to the Witches’ Wood; Gino shared this rambling tent-like structure with his marbled-paper protégé, Kate Christoon, and a boxmaker, Steve Long.
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| A strange stilt-walking photo taken next to the sundial booth. Kate Christoon is at lower right. |
His own specialty was—wait for it—pocket sundials.
Gino had actually begun his Faire career a few years before, as one leathersmith among a gaggle of same at the Southern RPF, held in Agoura, CA, in the spring.
One day, as he tells it, he was in a library looking for new designs, and stumbled upon a book illustrating an early pocket sundial; it was love and inspiration at first sight.
He had, after all, nurtured a long-held interest in astronomy, and had studied drawing, painting, and bookbinding at LA’s Choinard School of the Arts (now the California Art Institute).
“I could do that!” he thought.
And indeed he could. The captivating little sundials, the size of a slim wallet, beautifully crafted, useful, interesting, and affordable, became an instant RPF hit.
At this time I was acting as the Faire’s Mistress of Revels, and between parades and other performances, I often found myself dropping into that welcoming little booth, where I could always find a friendly greeting, a seat on a hay-bale, a drink of water, and some unusual conversation.
Gino and I began to gravitate towards each other, not so much boy-girl stuff as a kind of subliminal ongoing mutual astonishment: his perhaps at my transformation (over several seasons), from flower-crowned cheerleader type to fey child-like madwoman, and then to somnambulant sybil Mad Maudlen; mine at his ongoing creativity and capacity for re-invention.
He learned woodworking and metalcrafting and began turning out pocket sundials and jewelry in fine woods and etched brass; his study of etching also produced several wonderful portraits of the original long-haired Mad Maudlen.
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| "Three Times 'round the Moon," the early Mad Maudlen by Gino Schiavone. |
He embraced technological advances and began using the same techniques invented to produce printed circuit boards to create even more exquisite pictorial jewelry.
Tarot images
While amazed at his artistry and versatility, I also came to appreciate Gino’s bone-deep decency, his original mind, his sly humor and his almost preternatural attention to detail.
As years passed, he and Mad Maudlen formed a unique and almost mystical relationship. And when, in 1980, I left the Faire to work in New Hampshire, it was to Gino that I entrusted Maudlen’s staff of strangely twisted sassafras wood.
Then, in 1982, a young woman named Judith Harriman stopped at Gino’s booth to purchase a piece of jewelry. It was the pocket sundial all over again: he was instantly smitten.
For the next four decades, until Judith’s passing in late 2021, the two of them were well nigh inseparable, sharing the same work-space, sometimes pursuing individual projects—Judith became a visionary jeweler and painter—and sometimes combining their talents into a single creative entity.
"Goddess of the Sea," by Gino Schiavone and Judith Harriman
In 1992, they moved to Taos, NM, but continued their relationship with the Renaissance and Dickens Fair(e)s with the help of artist Heidi Barthelme and her website: https://cosmiccollabco.squarespace.com/search?q=Gino%20Schiavone (Click on the name of a jewelry piece to view it.)
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| "The Gathering," by Gino Schiavone and Judith Harriman |
Over the years, Gino’s love affair with sundials would expand from the pocket variety to a number of large civic projects in Taos and Santa Fe, NM and in Bowie, MD. This last impressive structure, the "Bowie Portal," as documented on YouTube, illustrates Gino and Judith’s collaboration on its creation.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JObNHNf3-E (The Bowie Portal Sundial; PS: Gino made this documentary.)
These days, Gino and I stay in touch by phone, our long-ranging discussions full of memories and new ideas in equal proportion.
During our most recent conversation, he was occupying his hands by meticulously setting tiny silver stars into an ebony medallion to form the Pleiades Constellation, as usual expressing both the macro- and micro- of things while happily working the uncharted territory between between art, science, and mysticism.
You know; that sweet spot where astonishment hangs out.
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The Icarus Sundial Gino and Judith and the Bird of Time Sundial   Official Dickens Fair pin  Gino's response to the Renaissance Faire's cancellation in 2021 due to the pandemic: the character on the left is wearing a "plague doctor" mask (worn by physicians and thought to prevent infection), while on the right a merry dancer wears a surgical mask.   Memorial pins; those at left and right honor Fair(e) co-founder Phyllis Patterson after her passing. The center one was created after the death of co-founder Ron Patterson. Its text is from Shakespeare: "Merry meet and merry part and merry meet again."  No comment.  @@@@@@@@@@ 13. THROWBACK THURSDAY; Agoura, Novato and San Francisco, California, 1963-?; Windsor, New Hampshire and Worldwide; 1961-?; Sonoma County, California, c 1990 A MOST UNLIKELY CONVERSATION: MY DINNER WITH PHYLLIS (PATTERSON) AND RICHARD (HERMAN) One day in 1990, I received a phone call from Richard Herman, co-founder and -director of the Interlocken Center for Experiential Education in New Hampshire, where I had worked as a staff member from 1980 to 1987.  Richard Richard was traveling in the area, and asked if he could stop by my cabin near Occidental and take me out to dinner. Since he was and is one of my favorite people, I was delighted. We were catching up on each other’s lives when my phone rang. The caller was Phyllis Patterson, co-founder and -producer of the original Renaissance Pleasure Faires, the Dickens Christmas Fair, and numerous other themed events (in which I'd performed from 1969 to 1980). She, too, was in the area, and wondered if she could stop by for a visit.  Phyllis When I relayed this to Richard, his response was typical: “I’d love to meet her; ask her to join us for dinner!” I don’t recall now what we ate, or even where we ate, since I soon became entirely absorbed in this unexpected convergence of two figures from what had been, up to now, entirely different parts of my life. They quickly warmed to each other, and, rather than boasting about their own not inconsiderable accomplishments, each was genuinely fascinated by the other’s. They soon found common ground in a shared passion: education. Then the stories began, at first dealing with situations in common: hiring practices, insurance issues, transportation challenges, administration. On Richard’s part, there were tales of the potential logistical nightmare of sending out multiple groups of teenagers on adventure-travel, cross-cultural, and community-service programs across the US and to Europe, Asia, and the Middle East (including “friendship camps” in China, Israel and what was then the USSR), all the while creating and growing a model teaching/learning community at Interlocken’s International Summer Camp in New Hampshire. Phyllis could relate; she trotted out some of her own organizational comedies and perplexes: erecting, dis-assembling, transporting and storing the miles of rope and acres of burlap shade cloth for what was then the largest tented entertainment event in the world; cat-herding multiple costumed-to-authenticity troupes of actors, musicians, and extras, many with larger-than-life personalities and egos to match; dealing with rough-diamond security details; insuring knights fighting in full armor on horseback. All in all, Phyllis and Richard found much common ground, humor, and fascination in each other’s company. Both, after all, had started small, and at about the same time— Richard with a little summer camp for boys in 1961, Phyllis with a modest backyard medieval fair in 1963. Both had dreamed big, Phyllis supported by the artistic vision of her husband Ron, Richard by the organizational wisdom of his wife Susan. As the behind-the-scenes tales continued, I was suddenly jolted by a realization: these two sweet-natured people laughing and swapping stories over cups of coffee had, coming from two radically different concepts of education, and pre-online social networking, between them, entertained, educated, and transformed literally thousands of people. The Renaissance Pleasure Faires sparked a true modern renaissance of craftsmanship and theater arts throughout the 1960s and beyond, influencing dress, forms of entertainment and personal style, while spawning hundreds of imitators nationwide. The Living History Center workshops that grew out of the original events brought school groups by the hundreds to “Workshops in the Woods” to experience the hands-on realities of earlier times. Interlocken, meanwhile, had provided a template for new directions in education, taking it out of stuffy classrooms, and legitimizing the power of cross-cultural experience, fun, and imagination in learning. It occurred to me that I knew an amazing number of people whose lives had been changed for the better by Richard’s and Phyllis’s creations, and many who considered themselves to have found a true home as part of the Fair(e) or Interlocken communities. It seemed as if, almost without trying, these two people had, in the name of education, attained a level of influential power (fortunately of a benevolent and fun-loving kind) to be envied by political or religious figures. As we all went our separate ways with warm goodbyes, I was left feeling a bit rattled, as if I’d accidentally facilitated a summit between Gaia and Gandalf. Whoa. @@@@@@@@@@@@ 14. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Forestville, California; 2007-2010 THE AMANITA FAIRY, Or, STRANGE TIMES ON FALLEN APPLE LANE In 2007, I moved 10 minutes down the road from my friend Judith’s house in the tiny wine-country town of Graton to the outskirts of only-slightly-larger Forestville. The reason for the move was the prospect of sharing a place with an old and dear college friend.  The house was one of a cluster of tidy singles and duplexes built in the 1960s near the entrance to Fallen Apple Lane, a dirt-road tributary of busy Route 116, on a parcel surrounded by orchards and vineyards.  Though pleasant enough, light and airy, with a pretty fenced backyard and garden, the house exhibited, over time, a somewhat strange housemate juju. 1. My college friend (long story short) developed visa problems and abruptly left for Australia. 2. My second housemate was a lovely vibrant woman from Washington State; she needed a quiet place to live while seeing a local cancer specialist. (I wasn’t her caregiver; a friend who stayed nearby fulfilled that role.) Sadly the move had stressed and exhausted her so much that she went into a decline and passed away in an ambulance less than six weeks later. 3. Next was a robust young man who was taking time off from his work as a sea-cook. After a few months he received an offer he couldn’t refuse—to be galley-chief on a Merchant Marine vessel—and sailed away.  Slumbering sea-cook 4. Technically, the next woman didn’t actually move in. She backed out after, hearing one of the neighbors criticizing Obama, upon which she concluded he (neighbor) was a racist (he wasn’t). Lucky for her, she missed the whole drama of the neighbor on the other side being tried and imprisoned for vehicular (drunk driving) manslaughter. 5. The next guy didn’t move in either; he backed out after learning that I occasionally earned extra cash by trimming (perfectly legal) medical marijuana. He by golly wasn’t going to live with “someone who worked in the drugs trade.” OK. I should mention that all this to-ing and fro-ing also coincided with some medical treatment that required me to rest a lot. Netflix had just begun its streaming service, and I wound up watching the entirety of Lost, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Wire in the Blood, Glee, Angel, Dexter, and Heroes, so real-life events of the time were somewhat dreamily conflated with vampires, blood splatters, castaways, show choirs, malefactors and transformations I did, however, manage to get out of the house at times, somehow holding down a part-time job in Occidental, and taking walks down Fallen Apple Lane, which, as advertised, was littered with apples each autumn.  Tootling down the lane. One day I strolled out to the mailbox to find that a large juicy Amanita muscaria mushroom had thrust up out of the earth next to it.  Obviously desperate for diversion, I photographed the flamboyant ’shroom with a kitschy little fairy figurine, and did some primitive photoshopping on it. Ho-hum.  The next year, however, brought a gloriously unexplained explosion of amanitae, constellations—over 50 of them, some as large as dinner plates. By this time I was no longer surprised by weird manifestations.    In 2010, I Finally found a lovely housemate (that’s you, Deb), a brilliant artist and a joy to live with.  However, when she had to leave (for reasons unrelated to our compatibility), I threw in the towel and moved back to Graton and my friend Judith’s single-occupancy rental cottage.  Despite the lack of mushrooms, I was happy to be back and living blissfully on my own with congenial neighbors. Well, until Frank Zappa's former percussionist moved in next door. But that's another story. @@@@@@ |
15. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Somewhere near Big Sur; May, 1974
HILL 15 MPH
Portrait with Sign
by Roger Steffens
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JAMAICAN ENCOUNTERS
One of the joys of an Interlocken International Summer Camp season was that you never know who was going to turn up as “enrichment staff.”
This was the umbrella term for individuals or groups who showed up with unusual talents and capacities, or from entirely different cultures. Back in 1975, for instance, I arrived with an entire busload of circus performers.
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| The 1975 Dr. California's Golden Gate Remedy troupe. |
Some enrichment staff that I can recall: Mpete Ole Surum, a Masai warrior in full regalia; singer Bessie Jones from the Georgia Sea Islands; esteemed British theater directors Roy and Maggie Nevitt; New Hampshire State Storyteller Odds Bodkin; Joseph Somp, a New Guinea tribesman; Santos Hawksblood, an Apache shaman—you get the idea.
Fascinating visitors like these might stay anywhere from a day to an entire summer.
The latter was the case with Surtey Holmes, known as “Anive” (pronounced “Ah-NEEV’), a soft-spoken young man encountered and “recruited” in Jamaica by Interlocken founders Richard and Susan Herman’s son Tom.
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| Anive |
It was a wonder how gracefully Anive, coming from a simple and isolated life as a drummer/drum-maker/drumming teacher/farmer, managed to negotiate his way through the complexity of the ISC’s multicultural creative community, coping with staff and students from many different cultures and social strata, complex class schedules, and unexpected activities.
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| Anive as captured at Interlocken by Russian artist Vlad Zadniprianski. |
From a later interview with Anive in a book called The Interlocken Difference, published in 1997:
“It took me two weeks about to open to the accent here. It’s funny, such experiences, like in school, trying to learn
“In my culture in Jamaica, it was so limited, so I try to open myself. I wouldn’t get such experience in Jamaica. Foreigners there, they just come to enjoy their vacation, so you don’t get people telling you about their cultures. This is like a college to me.”
Once Anive got more accustomed to the daily unexpected, it became clear that, although he then had none of his own, he was a natural with kids, and their mutual curiosity became an all-around teaching/learning experience:
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| Anive (second from right) teaches drumming at Interlocken with Richard Ehui (L) from the Ivory Coast. |
“Some kids, if I’m reasoning about my culture, they would ask me some question like: ‘In Jamaica there’s a lot of drugs like marijuana?’, and make jokes, so I change the subject and tell them about my personal life there.
“I tell them about domestic science, and that I prefer more natural food. I don’t use a washing machine and dryer; instead I do hand laundry. I tell them that I don’t use a blender, just a knife.
“I make my own cheese, and I keep my own cows. I make my own bread, and I try to grow as much food as would support me. I could live six months without spending a dollar.
“The kids say, ‘Wow, that’s nice, but we can’t live like that now.’ And I say, when you give up everything to a material power, to technology, then when the material power gets weak, then you will get weak also.
“Sometimes we hold spiritual conversation, and when they say: “I don’t believe in God,” I say ‘Look at the amount of good thing that nature has to offer, and you want to say you don’t have a God?’
“I’m learning here how to deal with such unexpected questions. With kids, it’s very important to be open to them, to leave your ego and your selfishness and your bad ways. It’s very necessary; these kids are the future.”
That year, having relocated to California from New Hampshire, I was on the roster of enrichment staff as a visitor for several weeks, teaching some classes, and doing interviews. I had my own quarters, and tended not to socialize after hours, so I was by no means acquainted with all of the staff.
One evening, during the weeklong staff orientation, Anive and I both independently volunteered (volunteering: a major element at Interlocken) for pots-and-pans cleanup duty in the dining hall, after all the others had finished washing their trays and tableware.
The two of us trudged into the kitchen and gloomily surveyed the greasy sinkful, reluctant to start. Suddenly Anive grinned, held up a finger to signal “wait,” and disappeared. He returned with a superb collection of reggae tapes, one of which which we popped into the kitchen boombox and danced our way through that entire pile of nasty cookware, ending with a triumphant high-five.
Anive in his drum workshop
Not long after that, I went to a movie night held by another staff member in quarters shared by two or three people. The film was the outrageous Australian drag-queen road saga Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Anive and I wound up seated about a foot apart on a wide bench-like chair.
During the film, I noticed that he kept glancing at me a bit nervously. When it was over, I asked: “Was the movie a little too wild for you?”
“No,” he said, “it’s just—well, if we were in Jamaica, I would have to call you ‘Miss Amie,’ and we could never sit on the same seat together like this.”
“Well,” I said, after a moment, “that’s really stupid.” He stared at me, then a wonderful smile dawned.
“Yes,” he said, “it surely is, isn’t it?”
The next year, on the first day of staff orientation, I was seated alone at the Hermans’ kitchen table in the late morning, drinking a cup of tea and idly watching a broad skylight sunbeam tracking across the floor.
I glanced away for a moment, and when I looked back, there, standing in the sunlight as if beamed down from Planet Reggae, was a beautiful dark-skinned man in a black turban and white robe, with a dreadlock beard that reached his ankles. I thought I was hallucinating.
“Tea?” said Maroghini hopefully.
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| Maroghini |
I later learned that Maroghini Moro is kind of a big deal music-wise, and as a sound therapist who speaks five languages, but he never condescended to the kids, and seemed delighted to work with the other drummers and musicians at Interlocken, his presence at once calm and invigorating.
Maroghini in his younger days. And no, I wasn't exaggerating about the beard.
Along with his friend Anive, Maroghini became one of a protean contingent of Jamaicans who arrived every year to lay down a firm Reggae foundation beat to the schedule of classes.
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| Anive and Maroghini (who had finally trimmed his beard). |
Even when the camp changed hands in the 2000s and became the very Interlocken-like Windsor Mountain International, they were (and still are, I believe) very much a part of the summer curriculum.
Enrichment indeed, and, hey, with a beat you can dance to...
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17. Throwback Thursday: City of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Commonwealth, Wednesday, September 25th, 1751:
HOMELAND SECURITY, 1751; Or,
HOW MY MOTHER WOUND UP WITH ONE OF THE WORLD’S RAREST SURNAMES
In 1715, my 5X great-grandfather, Michael Ernst, his wife Christina, and their two children disembarked from a ship called the Phoenix as brand-new immigrants to Pennsylvania from the village of Eningen unter Achalm in Germany.
Along with the other 180 grown men on the ship, Michael was immediately herded by British soldiers into the Old Philadelphia Courthouse to take an "Oath of Allegiance."
The text here is a transcript of the Oath, but Michael Ernst's signature is a true facsimile. (What's remarkable to me is that a simple weaver from a small village knew how to sign his name, with flourishes, even.)
BACKSTORY: This was a mere six years after the famous "'45," the last desperate Jacobite uprising in the British Isles. (The term "Jacobite" came from "Jacobus" [Latin for "James"], and referred to the Catholic king James VII of Scotland, who became James II of England in 1685 when his roistering brother Charles II died without a legitimate heir.)
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| Yo, James II. Get over yourself. |
James II unwisely decided that Britain should be as Catholic as he was, and began to implement policies and persecutions that ignited a firestorm of rebellion; this resulted in his being deposed in 1688.
He fled to France (pettishly dropping the Great Seal of England into the Thames on his way out), and was replaced with his safely Protestant daughter Mary, and her husband, William of Orange.
In spite of this (or because of it), the seething political ferment of conspiracies and uprisings in support of James's son James Francis Edward Stuart (“The Old Pretender”) and grandson Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart (aka "Bonnie Prince Charlie" or “the Young Pretender”) extended through the reigns of William and Mary, Queen Anne, George I, and George II, culminating in the 1745 massacre of Scottish clans by the British at the Battle of Culloden, and the bringing of Scotland firmly (for the moment) under English rule.
Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart (aka "Bonnie Prince Charlie")
So what, you may ask, does all this have to do with my 5X great-grandparents, let alone my mom’s last name?
Over the years, many dispossessed Jacobites had fled the country to wind up in Canada or the American Colonies, where they continued to fulminate and conspire.
The Brits, at this point fed up with the whole mess, decided to make swearing that very specific Oath of Allegiance (See photo above) to king George II a requirement for entering the Colonies.
In spite of the fact that he wouldn't have known King George from a hole in the ground, or a Jacobite from a jackass, Michael duly swore and signed.
Homeland Security, y'know.
CODA: Michael Ernst and his family prospered in Pennsylvania. Michael Junior took up farming. His son Henry misspelled his name as “Arnst” on official records. Henry's son Jacob apparently thought it was spelled “Arnts.” And Arnts it's been ever since.
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| A passel of Arntses. My uncle John (at left) was the only boy Arnts in the family, but passed the name to cousins Bob and Jim. My mother is in the center here, wearing the coat with the dark collar. |
That single transposition of letters changed a merely uncommon European surname to one of the rarest anywhere, borne by (according to the website FOREBEARS), fewer than 640 individuals in the entire world.
Although the name is most common in the Netherlands, (I was unable to discover if it resulted from a similar spelling error), and there’s an unrelated-to-us cluster of late arrivals from the Low Countries in Iowa, the FORBEARS site puts the current number of US Arntses at 154
If you're curious, Cousin Bob Arnts is seated, top row with kid on lap, below red-shirted second cousin Creed (in shorts with kid on shoulders). Bob's dad, Uncle John Arnts, the only guy in a family of ten, and thus the only passer-on of the family name, is in white shirt, fourth from right, second row down. I'm fourth from the blond guy in the red shirt on the left. The gallows-looking contraption holds a lamp, not a noose.
Every Arnts I've ever met was related to me. They tend to be good-looking, good-natured, solid citizens (and not one of them to my knowledge has ever fomented, or participated in, a Jacobite rebellion).
The information above thanks to my cousin Bob, fifth in a line of grandfathers of the Arnts-spelling persuasion.
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| With Bob and Jeanne Arnts @@@@@@@@ |
Back in the early 1970s, when I was living the freewheeling-yet-frugal San Francisco lifestyle, I had two main sources of wearables:
1. Those I obtained from one of Haight Street’s two excellent thrift stores (Salvation Army and Goodwill, having sniffed the patchouli early on, had quickly gotten with the program); and 2. those I made myself.
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| Close up from Dr. California's Golden Gate Remedy tour poster. |
Back then, yardage- and bang-for-the-buck-wise, you couldn’t beat your classic block-printed cotton Indian bedspread, imported by the bale, reeking of Nag Champa incense, and readily available at several Haight Street shops flogging cheap exotica.
These items were ubiquitous in Hippieland, serving not only as bedspreads, but as curtains, wall hangings, room dividers, and, above all, clothing.
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| Clare Francis (foreground) and I in Indian prints, photographed by Roger Steffens. Note also the curtains. |
For a pittance I could purchase a king-sized spread that would yield a long flowing skirt, a gathered peasant-style blouse, and maybe a belt or scarf, with fabric to spare.
One year in the early 70s, an organizer for the annual Haight-Ashbury Street Fair asked if I would appear at the event in the capacity of stilt-walker, a skill I’d picked up several years before.
I agreed, only to realize soon afterwards that, up to that point, all of my stilt-walking costumes had been provided by others—the Renaissance Pleasure Faire, the Dickens Christmas Fair, and, on at least one occasion, the San Francisco Ballet, which dressed me in a gorgeous Cirque du Soleil-type getup that was as inappropriate for stilting as it was uncomfortable (I survived).
Upon realizing that I was on my own for a street-fair costume, I pulled out my stack of Indian-bedspread remnants, fired up my trusty sewing machine, and, building on an existing jumper and trousers, created a celebration of patchwork that was colorful, comfortable, and, oh yes, cheap.
Funny thing, though, I recently saw a Spring 2022 catalog for the creations of hot n’ trendy designer Johnny Was.
Wait, is that Nag Champa I smell?
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| Coincidence? I don't think so. |
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19. THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco, California; 1969-70
JANICE? Or, JUST A LITTLE TREAT FOR THE BOYS
One September night in 1970, I was awakened by a phone call at about 11:30 PM.
“Amie?” said a sweet, slightly raspy voice, “This is Janice; Lyle asked me to call you and tell you about my tattoos.”
Janice? JaniceJaniceJanice? Did I know a Janice? Lyle? Lyle Tuttle? Tattoos? Suddenly my brain lurched into gear: not Janice; JANIS! As in Joplin! I scrambled for writing materials.
We chatted about Lyle a bit (“He is such a cool dude; I want to see him naked!), and about tattooing, then got down to her personal ink.
This was, you understand, back in the days when tattooing was still, in the public mind, associated mainly with biker gangs and drunken sailors. Janis, at this point, was the most flamboyant of the high-profile showbiz types who had just begun to exhibit Lyle Tuttle tattoos as a sign of coolth.
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| Janis shows off her tats. |
I’d been assigned to write a Rolling Stone story on Lyle and the emerging celebrity-tattoo phenomenon, and although I’d been scooped by Dick Cavett the week before, when Janis displayed her tattoos on his show, I was delighted to talk to her.
“It was just a trip,” she said, “I just wanted some decoration, so I got a bracelet on my wrist, and a heart—well, the one on my wrist is for everyone; the one on my tit is for me and my friends, just a little treat for the boys, like icing on the cake.”
When I next spoke to Lyle, he told me that Janis had recently thrown a party at her house in Mill Valley, with him as the main attraction, invited to tattoo any of her friends who wanted some ink.
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| Lyle on the inside front cover of Rolling Stone; no idea whom the tush belongs to. |
“I thought for sure they were going to pants me,” he said, “Janis has a lot of big good-looking girlfriends, and they all sort of run in a pack. They got really curious about what I have on the lower half of my body, and they just wouldn’t let me alone.” (Lyle, who died in 2019 at the age of 89, was, of course, tastefully pictorial from stem to stern.)
He escaped with pants and modesty reasonably intact, I got my quotes, and the inside-cover story appeared in the October 1st issue of Rolling Stone.
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| Me in my RS days, from an article on Lyle in LIFE magazine. |
In 1969, I was working part-time at a classy Haight Street boutique called “The Righteous Rag,” which showcased the creations of local designers, and frequently provided stagewear for San Francisco’s growing population of rock musicians.
When a small, plain, bizarrely dressed woman came into the store one day, I didn’t recognize her until Corky, one of the store’s owner/designers greeted her effusively.“Janis!” he gushed, “Your dress is ready; you’re gonna love it!”
He bundled her and a covered garment on a hanger into a dressing room.That evening, I encountered a friend whom I knew was a huge Janis fan, and told him about the visit.
“Really?” he enthused, “What was she wearing? How did she look?”
I flashed back to the outfit Janis had on when she arrived: scuffed, spike-heeled, pointy-toed black shoes; ripped fishnet tights beneath a worn velvet skirt about the size of a lampshade and barely covering her assets; a faded and ripped blue University of Ohio sweatshirt; hair stuffed up under a truly ugly black wool hat with large flapping paillettes; all this accessorized by huge eye-concealing sunglasses and a worn old-lady purse.
Then I remembered how she’d emerged from the dressing room, transformed, her new raspberry-colored crushed-velvet minidress hugging her curvy body, hair tumbling around her shoulders, flushed, barefoot, and giggling.“How do I look?” she’d asked Corky and me.
“Radiant.” I told my friend, “She looked radiant.”
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| An outtake from the cover session for Janis's final album. |
CODA: Less than a month after I’d interviewed her, Janis was gone, at the age of 27. Lyle was besieged for awhile with mourning fans demanding copies of her tattoos. Knowing his limitations, he was wise enough not to attempt what became a small cottage industry for some skilled artists—tattooed portraits of Janis.
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| Janis tattoos |
Toward the end of her too-brief life, Janis had started asking her friends and lovers to call her “Pearl,” because, she said, she was "tired of being Janis."
From Wikipedia:
“Her second solo album, Pearl, was released in January 1971, just over three months after her death. It reached number one on the Billboard charts.
She was posthumously inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1995. Rolling Stone ranked Joplin number 46 on its 2004 list of the 100 Greatest Artists of All Time, and number 28 on its 2008 list of 100 Greatest Singers of All Time.
She remains one of the top-selling musicians in the United States, with Recording Industry Association of America certifications of 18.5 million albums sold."
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20. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Peterkin Hill, South Woodstock, Vermont; late 1970s-Present
FLIPPING THE BUNNY, Or,
THE GHOST(S) OF PETERKIN HILL
My brother David and his wife Susan are perhaps two of the least woo-woo people I know.
Susan is descended from generations of down-to-earth native Vermonters, and David might as well be, having emigrated to the Green Mountain State nigh on half-a-century ago. They’re both hardheaded business-owners.
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| David and Susan with daughter Morgan, c. 2000 |
So when David casually mentioned their resident ghost, it caught my attention, to say the least.
“Ghost?” I inquired.
David and Susan live on an upland known as Peterkin Hill, along an ascending stretch of unpaved, tree-shrouded road, up from a covered bridge across the Ottaqueechee River, and south of the picturesque village of Woodstock. From their property you can see many trees and exactly no houses.
According to David, the haunting actually began in their 200-plus-year-old farmhouse, which burned to the ground in the mid-1990s when their daughter Morgan was a toddler.
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| The old farmhouse |
The ghostly phenomena first manifested in Susan’s dawn sighting, from their bedroom window, of a lone woman in a long dress, with her hair in a braid, carrying a basket of eggs. Susan assumed it was a neighbor, or perhaps a former resident of the house who was known to favor long dresses, and sleepily forgot about it.
Some days later, David wrote:
“Susan woke up in the early morning and this same woman was standing at the foot of our cannonball bed with her hand on the post, calmly looking at her. Susan couldn’t read her expression but she didn’t seem menacing—just sort of passively curious. Susan turned to wake me up and when she looked back to where the woman was standing she had disappeared.”
After the house fire, this apparition was never seen again, but when the new house was being built in 1996, a middle-aged woman stopped by the construction site.
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| The new house under construction. |
David again:
“The woman’s name was Jessie, and she said she had grown up in the old house, and, much to Susan’s consternation, remarked that she was relieved that it had burned down, because of the bad memories that came with it.
“It seemed that when she was a young girl she had been asked to hold her baby brother while her mother attended to some chores, and without warning her brother died in her arms (sudden infant death syndrome?)
“Jessie was so distraught and felt so guilty that she wasn’t able to save him, so she became a nurse when she grew up so that she could hopefully keep other people from suffering the same fate.
“When Susan quizzed her for more details Jessie said that she had been standing in that same back bedroom when her brother died in her arms.
“Susan described the ghost she had seen with the old-fashioned dress and the black braided ponytail and it fit the description of Jessie’s mother to a T.”
Got chills yet?
Jessie’s mother was/is not, however, the house’s only resident spirit. A cluster of poltergeist-like activity—untouched doors opening and slamming, thermostats turned down, radios turning on and off on their own—seems to have survived the conflagration, continuing to this day so routinely that David and Susan mostly just ignore it.
The ghost(s), according to David, seem to ramp up their activity when change is happening around the place, such as the time when David’s business partner Kenny was living at the house and doing remodeling work in the downstairs bedrooms.
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| David, Susan and Kenny in a New England Life Insurance ad. |
“On a number of occasions” David says, “he heard talking and laughing when no one else was in the house. Kenny was known to consume all manner of mind-altering substances, but these events happened while he was working and cold stone sober.”
“There was also the time when, during a lunch break, the crew that was building our new house saw a photo of the old house jump off of the fireplace mantle and crash onto the floor. This same photo has jumped off the wall a few times again when it was hung in a hallway.”
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| The new house. |
And what of little Morgan, born in 1992?
“When Morgan was just a couple of weeks old,” David wrote, “she slept in a crib in the small back bedroom and Susan and I slept in the adjacent larger one. Susan would tuck her in with a pillow on one side and a stuffed bunny on the other. One morning she asked me if I had moved the bunny because it was turned 180 degrees away from Morgan.
“At that point I didn’t even know the bunny existed and I assured her that I hadn’t. The next morning she confronted me and said that I was messing with her, because the bunny was flipped over again. Again I assured her I hadn’t moved it.
“Morgan was only a week or so old so she couldn’t even roll over by herself, let alone flip over a stuffed animal that weighed more than she did. That night I snuck into Morgan’s room and made sure that the bunny was properly facing her.
“The next morning I was the first one up and, yup, it was flipped over. Of course I accused Susan of messing with me, but she assured me that she hadn’t.”
After reading the above, I couldn’t resist emailing Morgan, now a successful New York City fashion and print designer, to ask how she had experienced all this. I mean, were there REALLY ghosts?
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| Morgan, then and now. |
Her reply:
“Oh yes...at night I intentionally used to build pillows around my head when I was sleeping so I wouldn't see any ghosts.
“I also used to listen to the radio all night so I wouldn't hear them (eventually replaced this with a fan).
“Because of this I didn't personally experience much, except for the following:
“- Occasional radio coming on when it shouldn't.
“- My closet always smelled like a dead animal, for pretty much the whole time I lived in that room. Some people said they could smell it, some couldn't. I got so used to it I just started to assume some closets just smelled like dead animals and totally stopped questioning it.
“- An animal would jump on my bed at night and spring around. Everyone told me it was my muscles twitching but it definitely wasn't. This would happen many nights in a row. At one point it happened most nights.
“There’s definitely a ghost cat around to this day. We used to hear it in the top of the garage, and my dad at one point felt something weave around his feet in the driveway, when he went out early to get the paper.”
Oh.
I was, of course, prompted to do some research on ghosts and how they might manifest.
From what I can tell, the woman in the long dress might be an example of a “revenant ghost,” a spirit tied to a place by trauma or unfinished business. They’re mostly not harmful, just sad.
Poltergeist activity, as described above by David and family, is not uncommon around young people, especially young girls. Poltergeists (their name means “noisy ghost”) can, according to researchers, be quite nasty, but the Peterkin Hill trickster fortunately seems merely prankish and persistent.
Animals, too, apparently can haunt, although their spirits tend to hang out in places where they were comfortable, rather than where they died.
(See the link below for more on ghost types.)
I’ve been in both houses; the old one, built to the proportions and uses of an earlier age, with remnants of primitive construction, was admittedly a tad unnerving, but I experienced no ghostly manifestations.
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| With Susan and Morgan in the early 1990s. |
In the new one, the only thing that ever jumped on my bed was Morgan.
So I guess I’ve never actually seen a ghost…well, except for maybe once, in 1954.
But that’s another story.
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THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part One
https://amiehillthrowbackthursdays.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Two
https://ahilltbt2.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Three
https://amiehilltbt3.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Four
https://tbt4amie-hill.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Five
https://ami-ehiltbt-5.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Six
https://am-iehilltbt6.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Seven
https://a-miehilltbt7.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Eight
https://a-miehilltbt8.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Nine
https://amiehilltbt9.blogspot.com/
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Ten
https://amiehill10tbt.blogspot.com
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Eleven
https://11tbtamiehill.blogspot.com/2021/02/w-elcome-to-my-past.html
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Twelve: https://tbt-adventuresamiehill.blogspot.com/2021/05/with-my-friend-wol-c.html
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Thirteen: https://13tbtamiehill.blogspot.com
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