Consortium of Seven

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Matriarch Tales, Part 7:   Dorothy Alice Continues– by Saga   Grace and Alice, about 1963 In her widowhood, Alice was pursued (and that is apt description) by several men. She was aware that they were looking for a wife who would cook and clean and do the laundry.   In one or two cases, they were gay men looking for a “beard”, and she was aware of that, too. She never criticized, but rather enjoyed the company of each man, recounting with laughter all the ways they hinted that they needed a housewife. About one of the gay men she said, “He has better taste in clothes than I do.”   A high compliment indeed. After all, she had noticed Bert because of the fine quality of his suit fabric. One day I asked her how she could work all day and then go out for dinner and a concert and get up the next morning to greet a client for a fitting. She was in her sixties at the time. As if it were a secret, she confided that she woke early and dressed immediately. “Never sit around in

Recently, while going through the list of contributors for an anthology of 19th and 20th century authors, I ended up wading through a long list of works by each author. There were dozens and dozens of pieces of fiction, many I'd never heard anything about.  Some writers, in their lifetimes, had published one or two stories in magazines, and then nobody ever heard a word from them again until some literary detective found a 1929 mystery mag and discovered a treasure. For some reason, I especially enjoy the literary version of one-hit wonders.  And when I see one of those stories in a modern anthology, I never think "Why didn't you write more, you lazy bum?" because I assume they were living their lives. They had one or two stories to tell, and maybe would have done more but free hours and other resources were limited.  On the other hand, when author bios list the enormous output of someone who's done dozens of stories or even dozens of books, I find mysel

Like so often happened in my school days, I am just starting this essay that is due Monday, on Sunday morning. Yes, I was one of those students. I would proclaim to my critics, my Mom, that I worked better under pressure. This, of course, was and is not true. Back then it was just plain old procrastination and a desire to ride my bike rather than do some stupid homework.  That is not, of course, the case now that I'm fifty years older and can do pretty much what I want with my time. I guess that's one of the reasons I accepted this opportunity, to write a blog, with as it turns out, six other truly beautiful and amazingly talented people. You all help me to continue to grow mentally and emotionally, even as I enter the Wednesday of my sixties.  So my excuse for my late start is actually a good one. I've been working hard all week on two blog posts. One about the autumn in my first year of high school when I marched in the marching band at football games and p

After work commute: 45-55 minutes, depending on whether I've taken my dog Sandy to my stepdad's for the day. Hot. Sun, sun, sun.  Driving through this neighborhood, a sea of chickens and chihuahuas that surround the trailers-the homes of my students, I have my windows down to let the stuffiest of the hot air escape. Within a few minutes I reach highway 29 and the long stretch home. Humming, I steer the two-lane blacktop. The song, a beautiful instrumental I've been trying to learn since I'd first heard it, thanks to a fellow blogger's post, last week. I'm supposed to hum for 10 minutes a day to help my laryngeal reflux. Driving these roads provides time to think, I love my commute for this reason. An article I'd read that morning before work, "Were you born sad?" Yes, I  answered. I think many of us are, despite being able to feel happiness...The field of epigenetics seems to back this up. Intergenerational sorrows. There is beauty in

How’s that for a catchy little non-manipulative title for a wee bitty blog piece? While I have no pretense of taste or manners in my writings and dealings with the world.  (See Anyone who knows me!)  My attention-grabbing headline is true.  As true as can be.  Honest, not fake news, true.  Well...maybe just barely. (Ha ha!  You’re too far away to throw tomatoes at me!!) It is fairly seriously true that I’ve had a crap week.  This open wound I have and the trying to take care of it has taken a lot of time and energy, most of it wasted.  I’m sickly, poorly, weak, and energy zapped.  I float in and out of sleep spells for a few minutes with aplomb.  I’ve been dealing with high temps and fever--at times.  Plain extra-strength Tylenol has worked assiduously. As bad as all that sounds, I’m not talking about that at all when I talk about ‘dying.’  I have no idea about my exit from life's journey just as much as you don't know about deaths for yourself or the people you

   I t's Friday!     I'm up early to still land my review piece for the week a little later than my usual 3AM auto-publish.  Why?    Something that had limited theatrical release back on October 4th (necessary to let the film be eligible for any awards), but broadly released today on Netlix: Dolemite Is My Name.   ( 118 min., Rated R for profanity, nudity, sexual situations and references)  It dropped at roughly midnight Pacific time, so 3 AM here in the East. It was closer to 4 when I started watching it, having set my Friday alarm a few hours early.   2019 appears to mark the start of a come-back trail for Eddie Murphy. This year will see him begin filming a reprise his role from Coming To America via a sequel (to be released December 2020), and returning to host Saturday Night Live the week before Christmas, all before staging a national stand-up comedy tour next year. Ahead of all this, though, he's gotten to play a role he's reportedly been after f

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Matriarch Tales #6: Dorothy Alice - by Saga I never heard my Aunt Alice say a sharp or unkind word from the time I was born until she died 65 years later.   She was a saving grace in my life, and her kindness and wisdom are still with me. Her sense of humor was delightful and her perseverance through blindness and widowhood, not once but twice, was remarkable. She simply kept going and made a new life for herself. I adored her. She loved pretty things and happy endings and would often wrap her memories in a rose-colored-glasses glow that didn’t match anyone else’s perceptions. It must have served her well, for she sustained a level of serenity and generosity of spirit until she died at age 103. I knew her as Alice, though she had been named Dorothy Alice when she was born in 1904. She talked very little about her girlhood but did reminisce briefly for an interview recorded by family when she was 94.   Her life was disrupted when she was about 17 and her mother, Bertha,