January 21, 2005
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Chapter 8 – Flower Children (cont.)
(See sidebar for previous chapters)
By Thanksgiving Felix was gone again, traveling with Tinguely on an art tour through Canada. My mother went home to Oregon and Jane and I holed up in our little apartment. Jane smiled in her sleep and in the hall outside the cat warmed her three kittens who smiled in their sleep. At Christmas we traveled home to Oregon where Jane was pressed to the heart of the family. Back again to North Beach, where I nursed her through colic and introduced baby food. This began the period of my life when we were on welfare, applied for after Jane was born at the suggestion of a hospital social worker so that I could stay home with her. This kind of assistance has become reviled in recent years; at the time, there seemed to me no question that I must be able to nurse her and care for her myself through her infancy. Felix had actually gone to their office with me to say that he was not a citizen, would not be staying, and was not going to be able to offer financial support. That summer I turned 27. I had friends, but I was lonely and adrift. In the fall, after a last summer visit to Oregon and the farm before my parents moved into town, I left my North Beach cubbyhole to share a little house on Russian Hill with a friend, who was also a single mother, and her baby who was just a little older than Jane. (to be continued tomorrow)
Deep Thought: “Like jewels in a crown, the precious stones glittered in the queen’s round metal hat.”
Today I am grateful for: A.N.S.W.E.R. Coalition who worked their butts off in the protests yesterday in D.C.
Guess the Movie: “Okay, look, here’s the deal. Man, you were gonna drive me around tonight, never be the wiser, but El Gordo got in front of a window, did his high dive, we’re into Plan B. Still breathing? Now we gotta make the best of it, improvise, adapt to the environment, Darwin, shit happens, I Ching, whatever man, we gotta roll with it.” Answer: Collateral, 2004
The Inaugural Ball: Dancing with Wolves
by Susan Lenfestey
It’s time to party.
As the families of bomb-flattened Fallujah huddle in make-shift refugee camps, drinking from sewage-filled streams, Iraqi policy mastermind Paul Wolfowitz fastens the last stud into his starched collar.
As the Iraq Survey Group ends its search for WMD, concluding that there was no imminent mushroom cloud or even a smoking gun, Condi Rice draws herself a hot bath. (Rest of article here.)
End of Day: Oops, forgot to sign out last night.
Comments (12)
“This kind of assistance has become reviled in recent years” so true and so sad. The proof that we’re not a generous society is in how grudgingly we give help to those who need it, and how filled we are with phony moral contempt. That first year of life is so challenging: if it was up to me the government would make it possible for both parents to spend the year at home. But then, Americans only care about the “unborn” variety of children. Once they breath on their own they can starve for all the average American citizen cares. (Sorry, post inaugural bitterness)
Just wanted to say that I just love your site. I always enjoy reading your entries and the photos are wonderful. Thanks for brightening my day.
I love the pictures. I love reading your writing about your life story.
Yes, my son is in high school and all of their grades are available online. Yes, you do need a password to access the information. I, of course, think it is wonderful. He didn’t think so at first. Not only does it show the grades of the completed assignments but it shows pending assignments as well. It forces accountability but at the same time I can find out when he does well on a test and shower him with praise.
Happy Friday!
I love the pictures!
What sweet pictures…. Today is the 28th birthday of my first little miracle, Heather.
It’s tempting to think that life was better then than now; I’m not always so sure.
Life is the hand you get dealt and how you play it no matter what generation you’re born into.
Indeed, there is a stigma attached to welfare these days. It is too bad, because it was specifically dreated to help those in need, but abuses over the years by those who are not really that needy have tainted it.
And I know what you mean about cruising along with your story. I have a basic outline of my life in my head and probably should commit it to paper–or Xanga. But I feel the need to provide details, because at my advancing age–I’ll be 50 this year–I’m afraid I’ll forget them soon. By the same token, I find my self getting stuck on one idea and getting bored with it. This leads to incomplete stories… I have a story of my summer trip through the wetern states in 1965 that I began writing in the end of July/beginning of August, but quit in about a week or so. Just didn’t feel like finishing it. Of course, if i wasn’t working and could simply write all day long, then maybe I’d accomplish more, but, well, life isn’t perfect… Keep writing, details or no. I’ll keep reading. But I will tell you the details from yesterdays story was a really interesting read.
Mmmmm I’m just so sad to think of a time when you were lonely.
Thank you so much for sharing the pictures. You are both so lovely. I remember dreaming about a better life, one in which I lived with another mother. My husband worked in Seattle so every week for three days I was alone with the girls. When they were small, and then when I needed a second driver, as they got older, I thought it would be so much easier sharing my life with another mom.
Love your story and pictures. I understand personally the stigma of welfare/benefits. I felt the sting back in ’75 when my son and I were alone. I remember ripping out my paper food stamps at the grocery store, and getting glowering stares. I even get some of the sting now-receiving food stamps and medical assistance. Some people seem to mock me, wondering why I’m not working. I will work again–the depression and waiting for a disability hearing wear on me. Some people are so quick to judge, without trying to understand.
Have a great weekend!!
In such few words, with the skill of a poet, and that only a poet has, you convey an entire story, all the edges and all the beauty…the photographs are woven into that poetry, too, offering us yet another glimpse…many thanks for sharing with us. xo