I had a chance to visit the Olema Cemetery in August. It’s a place I’d driven by countless times, but never noticed until last summer. After a two night stay in Stinson Beach, I decided to stop at the cemetery on my drive home, since I was alone and in no hurry to be anywhere. Camera in hand, I walked past the No Trespassing sign and the ugly cyclone fence and ventured inside. Although it was only about 11 a.m., it was already hot and the sun was beating down through a flat blue sky. There was not a single cool, shady spot although the whole place is surrounded and nicely hidden behind a ring of aged cypress trees. Old tin garbage cans overflowed with discarded grave decorations. It was quiet and bright and filled with beautiful statues and stones.

Some of the graves were overgrown and untended. The little angel pictured above was totally hidden behind a clump of vines. I just caught a glimpse of white beneath the green and got down on my belly to investigate. Pulling back the vines I found her hiding there.

Other graves were better tended, like Fred’s. I love all the knick-knacks strewn around his stone. I can imagine family and friends coming by and dropping off little things that remind them of Fred and the things he enjoyed when he was living. Fred was born the same year as me, and it looks like he died in 19- something. I wonder how long its been since someone came by to visit Fred.

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I recently found this poem in the back of a Holton-Curry Seventh Grade Reader from 1914. It’s by Max Ehrman, the same guy who wrote The Desiderata. That poem has always seemed a little overwrought to me, but I really love The Prayer, so here it is.

The Prayer

Let me do my work each day; and if the darkened hours of despair overcome me, may I not forget the strength that comforted me in the desolation of other times. May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking over the silent hills of my childhood, or dreaming on the margin of the quiet river, when a light glowed within me, and I promised my early God to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years. Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions of unguarded moments. May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit. Though the world know me not, may my thoughts and actions be such as shall keep me friendly with myself. Lift my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the stars. Forbid that I should judge others, lest I condemn myself. Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my path. Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; and keep ever burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope. And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for life, and for time’s olden memories that are good and sweet; and may the evening’s twilight find me gentle still.

May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit.

The Art of Happiness – Page 45

My summer vacation is winding down. I’m trying to squeeze every last drop out of it. My to-do list has been fairly well completed, but my want-to-do list never ends—it just gets pushed around.

Yesterday I went to school to interview a woman who has applied to teach a history/English combo for 6th, 7th, and 8th grade. It’s a challenging schedule, but her enthusiasm, cheerfulness, and positive attitude about teaching were awe-inspiring. I’m hoping she gets the job and some of her exuberance rubs off on me. After twenty-five years of teaching, I am always looking for new ideas and renewed inspiration.

After the interview, I got my keys and went into my classroom. All the student desks are piled up on one side of the room. I think (hope) they’re getting ready to clean my carpet. I look around, just to get my bearings, and pick up my “First Weeks of School” folder. Time to update my parent/student letter.

The first weeks of school are always exciting. I never fail to get butterflies in my stomach as I begin the first day and see 150 new faces anxiously looking up at me, wondering if my class will be fun and if I will be nice to them. A few years ago I began starting the first day by waiting at the door, shaking hands, and introducing myself to each student. I want them to know that I do care about them and am going to try to make their 7th grade year in English a positive one. When they get into class, I start by reading them the picture book The Teacher from the Black Lagoon. It’s about a boy who dreams that his teacher is a horrible monster, but at the end he wakes up and finds a lovely young teacher there welcoming him. I read it very dramatically (I almost have it memorized!) and I move around the room. I watch to see who laughs and smiles, and who resolves to wear a stony grimace throughout the tale. I know that they are the ones who I will have to work especially hard to win over.

The Art of Happiness – Page 46

The students are on especially good behavior those first two weeks. They’re well-mannered, quiet, attentive. It’s because they don’t know each other yet and are shy about talking. I do everything I can to get them to feel comfortable with each other, and that often becomes my undoing. The more at-ease they feel in my class, the less disciplined they become. They start to talk to each other more, and I find myself having to compete for their focus and attention. I have to start repeating myself and raising my voice to get them to settle down and listen to instructions. The more fun things we do, the more they expect—but we have a lot of serious work to do and I can’t be entertaining all the time. Before I know it, they feel comfortable enough with me to make little comments when something is “boring” (is there anything worse??) I’ve learned that I can’t please 150 twelve year olds all the time, but I do try.

I didn’t plan on writing about school today, I guess I just have some of that start-of-the-year anxiety. What I really wanted to talk about was the fact that I finished eight more pages in my Art of Happiness book.

I’ve been working on this book in spurts for the last four summers. Usually when I start working on it again, I re-read everything I’ve already done. It’s interesting to me to see how my choice of words for the poetry has changed from when I started writing it. I don’t have dates for when I completed the pages, but I can remember events that were occurring at different times while I was working on it. I can get a good idea of when I was feeling blue or when I was feeling more positive. It all comes through in my color and word choices as they unfold on the page.

The Art of Happiness – Page 49

Once school starts, my art has to go on the back-burner again. That’s one of the things that makes returning to work so difficult. I always have to remind myself that I’m lucky that I got so much time to myself in the first place, it’s just that it goes by so fast. Like the last four years working in this book. Four years! Where did they go?

Those of you who have been reading my blog over the past few years may remember that my mom died two years ago – May 22, 2006 from Alzheimer’s. The summer before she died she spent a lot of her time outside in the garden creating little portraits of nature. She would line up seed pods, pine needles, dried-up flower heads. She would organize twigs, dirt clods, and flower petals. Very little escaped her artistic eye. Two pieces of milky white glass became juxtaposed with a wood chip; a row of tiny rocks stretched for two and a half feet in the coarse red soil. Shriveling succulent leaves were lined-up like soldiers along the edge of the walkway.

Unfortunately, Mom’s seemingly endless organizing of objects annoyed us quite a bit. She would crouch in the hot Sacramento sun, refusing to eat, drink, go to the bathroom, wear a hat or do any of the sensible things that we asked of her. She would spread out her plant fragments across tables where we needed to sit and eat and become angry with us when we swept them into a box to clean up.

Thankfully, by chance or luck, I saw something beautiful in what she was doing, and I started to photograph her little designs whenever I could. I was at her house almost every weekend that summer, and I was always excited to see what she had created while I was gone. Sometimes her artwork was easily spotted near the front door or in the middle of a lawn chair. Other times I had to go a little further into the garden – beneath the peach tree, in the wet dirt, or near a favorite plant – to find them. I tried not to let her see me taking pictures; I’d wait until she went into the house or took a nap, and then I’d run around to all the spots I’d seen and take pictures as fast as I could before she came outside again.

I felt sneaky and excited about what I was capturing, but I never felt that it would end, that she would stop making them. Of course she eventually did, and I forgot about the pictures as her condition worsened and we had to concern ourselves with doing things to keep her alive, like coaxing her to take a few sips of water or a few bites of pudding.

She would sleep in the lounge chair in the dining room, and I, exhausted but afraid to leave her alone in case she woke up and needed me, would sleep on the carpeted floor with a balled-up sweatshirt as a pillow. Sometimes I would wake up and see her awake too, and watching me. And she would smile, and I would remind her of who I was.

Last Christmas I finally took all the pictures I had taken and organized them and made a movie of them using iMovie. There were over a hundred images, so the process was a bit daunting. But going through them made me feel close to her again. I worked on fade-ins and fade-outs and scan and pan settings. This was my first time using iMovie, so I made a lot of mistakes as I worked to get things just right. I added just the right music and burned the movie on cds for my sisters, dad, and aunts. We watched it together at Christmas on my dad’s super big TV.

I don’t know what kind of reaction I expected from my dad, but I didn’t anticipate how emotional he became. I felt bad that I had brought up all these feelings again and I hugged him and apologized. But he told me that he was grateful. He had never realized that I was photographing these things and he said that he never saw them as art, the way I had. It made him sad to realize that he hadn’t appreciated what my mom was doing that summer. But how could he? He was just trying to cope with her illness and keep her healthy for as long as he could.

If you’d like to see the movie, just click on link below and it will open in a new window. The movie is just over fourteen minutes long and can take quite a while to load, so go get a cup of coffee or a glass of wine while you wait. The first time I tried to play it over the Internet I thought it wasn’t working and almost gave up. I started doing some drawing and suddenly I heard the first song start to play, and there was the movie, playing on my computer.

I hadn’t watched the film since December, and even though I watched it at least fifty times as I put it together, I still find it difficult to watch without hurting inside a little bit. Of course I still miss my mom a lot. But some days go by when I don’t, and I try not to let myself feel bad about that.

The reason why I wanted to share this movie I made with all of you is because so many of us have parents, brothers, sisters with this awful illness of Alzheimer’s. Maybe one of them is creating something beautiful and you can’t see it through your sadness and despair and the day to day struggle to survive. We get so busy taking care of this person we love who is disappearing before us, that we forget to see the little joys that might just be found in some tiny thing that person is doing and that we discount because of his or her illness.

In the little cd booklet I made to go along with this movie, I wrote: . . . Mom’s love of nature and her artistic impulses outlasted most of her other memories, even her memory of me. I believe that these portraits of small, fragile, often overlooked fragments of nature were her last great gifts to us. I want to share those gifts with whoever is willing to accept them.

Click here to see the movie.

Music:
“Dante’s Prayer” by Loreena McKennitt
“Watermark” by Enya
“Breathe Me” by Sia

Facsimile of an Original Indian Drawing of a Ceremonial Dance

Drawn with colored crayons and pencils by Big Back, a Cheyenne.
Source: Humfreville

For those of you who are not subscribed to my Yahoo Newsletter, I wanted to be sure and let you know about my new web site U.S. History Images. I started creating it last April. I decided that since I had so many books that focused on United States history, that I would create another site for just those images. It’s a big, long term commitment; it took me almost three months to get the last set of images online. So far I’ve included drawings and photographs from the discovery and conquest of North America and the Native Americans who were there when the Europeans arrived. I’m still deciding whether it’s appropriate to include South American indians on this site or not. I’d love to hear your thoughts on that. I am using a ten volume set on United States history as my outline for time periods and events. I plan on adding images in chronological order as I find time, while still adding images to the Public Domain Images on my other site. I know, I know – I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. That’s what summer vacation does to me; it makes me feel invincible!

I love old postcards. Not just because of the variety of art work on the front, but also because of the little treasures of text on the back. I love looking at what people have written, seeing where the cards were postmarked, where they traveled to. I like looking at the stamps, and the way the words “Post Card” are written. I love to see the way people spelled words and the appearance of their handwriting. So I decided to share with you some little gems from my collection.

It’s amazing how much information people could squeeze on the back of one half of a 3 X 5 inch postcard. And almost without an exception, they’re all written in cursive. In fact, if you think about it, postcards are really the handwritten equivalent to text messaging. There are little spelling shortcuts, the grammar is horrible but understandable, and getting to the point is of the utmost importance.

Below you’ll find scans of the postcard backs. If you click on the pictures, they’ll open up in a larger window. Beneath each thumbnail, I typed out the text to the best of my ability. If something was undecipherable, I put a question mark in its place.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading these as much as I do. They reveal a lot about the people and times, in some cases, of almost one hundred years ago.

To Mrs. BC. Bartlett
Melrose, Wisconsin

My Dear Sister,
Why don’t you write, all I’ve had is that short letter new years time. We are all pretty well now. Jared (?) has the rheumatism quiet (quite?) bad though.

Your loving Sis.
Shell Lake
April 13, 1911

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To Miss M.N. Sullivan
Pacific Gas and Elec Co.
518 13th St.
Oakland, Cal

Dearest Auntie,
Here I am in De Sabla. Went fishing last night with Willis. He is a cute kid. He caught 5 and me 0. Listen dearie will you do something for me? I broke my little barette and my bob is awful. Can you get me one and send it to me as soon as possible. Any kind 50 cents at Maymonts (?) will be great. I’ll pay you when I get home or chg (charge?) to me. Will write today.
Love to all,
Mame

1922
Cal

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To Irene Howlett
Parkville, Mich.
St. Joe Co.

Dear Cousin,
This in haste. We are marketing our Pears and Potatoes now. We had a fine fall. You remember the doily I was working on or finished when we was at your place. Well I have eight to make like six before xmas tow (two?) after. I will have to make my fingers go. Addie adress is 2098 E 93 St. Chevel and ? Sarah. Put our B.D. 33 on my mail. Will get it sooner as there are many Lorvers (?) in Barberton.

Nov 3, 1914
Barberton, Ohio

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To Miss Mary C. Lenig
Ickesburg, Pa.

Well Mary, was disiappointed again. This morning Harry was watching for you. Have you got the mumps yet? Wesley has them and Serilda. Thomas thinks he is getting them & he is ordering fish. Don’t know how he will distribute them. Your Pa & Ma was to Markleville yesterday. StellaNoll and her mother started for the west this morning. Aunt Harriet T. fell on Sat. & nearly broke her nose. You ought to see her . . her face is as black as a stove. Her nose is like a rainbarrel. Ha. Ha. Dont laught. Shell (?) said you diden’t get up in time to go along this morning. Harry is crying to go to Gammas(?).
From Mary

April 4, 1910
Wila, PA

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To Mrs. Anna Smith
Woodland, Mich

Hellow anna
John & Clara B. hope you are all well. Marian is about the same not able to do any thing.
love to all.
Ruland

Feb. 19, 1917
Fort Recovery, Ohio

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To Miss Florence Shafer
Sparta, Wis.
329 North L. St.
c/0 C. W. Hubbard

Dear Sister Florence:
I will send you an Easter card to remind you of next sunday. I don’t think I will come down saturday. I can’t stay down at nite. If I do come . but don’t think you will see me this saturday. You want to know how you are going to Catarrah(?). I just can’t wait until I can get down town to stay, but I won’t stay in this town very long. I got Mamies letters yesterday. I didn’t go over to help her wash this week. I guess it made her mad becasue I wouldn’t get out of the wash tub monday and go over and help her but I don’t care about scrubbing her old carpets and how so you see it dont hurt me. I couldn’t work around that mut any how. Answer Soon. I am same as B/4.
Your Loving Sister M.E. S.
I have sent 7 Easter cards and another one besides. Home (?) writing today.

April 19, ‘16
Sparta, Wis

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To Mr. Chas Rice
Pontoosuc, Illinois

Now Charle Please don’t be so mad at me we got a man to work for us this morning we are all well will send Earl a card some of thse days have 25 Banties
Aunt May

June 4, 1908 (?)

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To Mrs Ora Wickett
New Virginia, Iowa
R.F.D. #

Mrs Wickett,
I think the 26 is your birthday am I right about it? Just thot I’d remind you of it and wish you many more such days. how is baby Ashton our baby Raymond is doing fine. I haven’t any little chickens yet & only 6 hens setting, have some garden made come over & stay all day all of you. With best wishes your friend Ella Kimmer (?)

April 24, 1909
New Virginia, Iowa

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To Oscar Rowlett
Kempton, Ind.
Tipton Co.

Did you read all of that long letter I wrote you?

Dear Papa: I was glad to hear from you and I think that card is real cute. I hope you are having a good time and you must have a good time. Thanks—giving for me too. We are all well.
Your loving daughter,
O. Irene R.
70 D.E. Smith
R.F.B. No. 2

Nov 22, 1910
Maysville, [Indiana]

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To Mrs. Mae Thompson
Samoa, Cal

Dear Mae
How are you when you come out we will play you the song silver bell. Ruth got from Anita (?). It for the phonograph. It is a dandy.

Dec. 12, 1910
??tuna, Cal

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To Mrs. Gustaf Asherooth
Milnor
Sargent Co (?)
R.R. #3
N. Dakota

Dear Laura.
At last I am going to write you a few lines to let you know we didn’t quite freeze up. for all we have (?) had such a long winter. I was sorry to hear Emma lost her little girl she surely must miss her. What ailed her. I suppose you have all your summer sewing all done. I am just in the middle of mine. I wish I could run away from it too. Now write soon.
With much love and Best wishes to you, Minnie

April 4, 1912
Fairview, Mont.

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To Miss Cementine Meyers
1163 Turk St.
San Francisco, California

Can you decode it???

March 29, 1911
Bakersfield, Cal

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To Ernest Patterson
[I can’t read the address]

Uncle Ernest
I will send you a card with the rest of them I would like to come down to give you a thrashing.
Walter

Dec. 16, 1908