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| Performing with Tony Barrand (L) and John Roberts at the 1972 Philadelphia Folk Festival. |
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. HOUSE RULES; THIS MEANS YOU
2. YOU WILL COME THROUGH
3. CONFESSIONS OF A STILT-WALKER, Or A LESSON FROM ON HIGH
4. THE RETURN OF QUACKY
5. HEY GOD! REMEMBERING JOHN PRINE (1945-2020)
6. GARDEN RESCUE, Or THE TAO OF POO
7. BEFORE THERE WAS TV #1; SLATE OF MIND
8. NOBODY’S FOOL: THE WORLD OF BILLY SCUDDER
9. THREE GUYS AND AN ARROW, Or, YOU OK, UNCLE DAVE?
10. ALTERED IMAGES; THE LITTLE TOWN OF UPSIDE-DOWN
11. GROUNDHOG DAYS; NOT LIKE CHICKEN
12. THE TAO OF TURTLE
13. DEAR AUNTIE; A SURPRISING EDUCATION
14. A RARE GESTURE; COUSINS ARE FOREVER
15. SHADOW, SHADBLOW, MULES, RUBBLE & GETTING THINGS DONE
Or
DAD DOES RETIREMENT; PART TWO
16. FAIRIES BY VERSACE; VOGUE MEETS THE EASTER SEALS CALENDAR
17. MICKY; A LESSON IN YOU JUST NEVER CAN TELL
18. BEFORE THERE WAS TV #2; GROWING UP WITH LITTLE MISS SUNBEAM
19. IN ITS OWN MODEST WAY
20. THE REMARKABLE JOURNEY OF KAREN THORSEN & THE PRICE OF THE TICKET
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Or
THIS MEANS YOU
3. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Great Dickens Christmas
Fair, San Francisco, California; 1972-73
CONFESSIONS OF A STILT-WALKER
Or
A LESSON FROM ON HIGH
How, one might ask, does one become a
professional stilt-walker?
I took my first steps on stilts in 1972, at
the Great Dickens Christmas Fair, an annual event conjured up in 1970 by the
Living History Centre, producers of the original Renaissance Pleasure Faires.
Ever a model of spendthrift frugality, the
LHC folks were apparently feeling poorer than usual that year. As Christmastide
rolled around, they let it be known that those of us who could double, triple,
and even quadruple up on roles and entertainment skills would be first in line
to be hired for the Dickens Fair.
And so it was that my juggler friend Ray
Jason and I decided to join forces to help each other develop a few more
marketable talents. After some research, we decided on stilt-walking and
unicycle-riding as being both sufficiently spectacular and realistically
attainable.
The stilts came first, not the
tuck-under-the-arm variety, but the strap-on-below-the-knee kind, with shoes to
hold one’s feet in place on a platform balanced on a narrow vertical stick.
I supplied the pattern from memory, drawing
on an illustration I’d once seen in my father’s 1924 Book of Knowledge,
depicting a jaunty knickerbockered youth maneuvering himself along on a pair of
these devices with the aid of a long staff.
By the process of trial and error, Ray and I
managed to cobble a pair together out of scrap wood, thrift-shop belts, and
some old saddle oxfords (fortunately, we took the same shoe size).
We tried the ungainly things out in a
high-ceilinged rehearsal room with a tall cabinet serving as launching pad. Ray
strapped on the stilts, took a tentative step or two out onto the floor, then
promptly blanched and succumbed to a case of the willies. Sweating, he managed
to stumble back to the cabinet and sit down, saying that perhaps I ought to
take a turn.
Somewhat nervously—after all, Ray was a
seasoned acrobat—I fastened the stilts on, grasped the length of aluminum
tubing we’d provided ourselves for a balance stick, stepped cautiously out onto
the floor—and grinned broadly. I was, it seems, a born stilt-walker.
I would later build my own custom stilts,
taller, with padded straps and shoes that didn’t blister my feet and rubberized
non-skid end-caps. (Ray and I would go on to master the unicycle; I learned to
ride it, more or less; Ray became a one-wheel daredevil and never attempted the
stilts again.)
That first year, however, I made do at the
Dickens Fair with our amateur-hour specials, sprayed red and worn with a
Victorian-era clown suit true to engravings of the period. Even on the slippery concrete floor of that
year’s Fairsite, I found I had a great facility for navigating through crowds,
and only once came close to falling when accidentally bumped from behind. (I
was caught handily by the Ghost of Christmas Past, who happened to be, well,
passing.)
I even learned to counter the inevitable
“How’s the weather up there?” civilly, with “All the better for your asking,
thank you.” (In later years, I was always tempted to emulate my fellow
stilt-walker Bret, who would reply sweetly: “Fine. How’s it down there around my
arse?”)
By the next year, the Fair(e)’s costume
department, with a decade’s worth of design and execution under its belt, had
begun to amuse itself by producing extravagant examples of
clothing-as-spectacle.
Taking a Byzantine-angel design from a
Christmas card, the Yuletide elves created a breathtaking gown of knife-pleated
white organza, its flowing sleeves, skirt and neckline edged and bordered with
gold-spangled lace, brilliants and faux pearls.
This fit over a silver-lamé hoopskirt (to
afford stilt-room), and was accessorized with a sparkling two-foot-wide halo, a
gold wig, gold-traced gauzy wings, and a staff topped with an extravagant metal
starburst.
When I first put on this (literally)
over-the-top ensemble, I felt as over-decorated and unwieldy as a float in the
Rose Bowl Parade, but soon learned to glide serenely above crowd level, smiling
angelically at the blur of faces beneath, dispensing drifts of gold glitter
from a hidden pouch, and maintaining a lofty composure even while unobtrusively
wielding my staff to fend off “Fair brats” attempting to hoist up my skirts for
a peek.
At first, when one of the kids succeeded, he
would usually yell his tremendous discovery triumphantly: “She’s not really
that tall; she’s walking on STICKS!” (Duh.) Then the costumers fitted the
stilts with a pair of boots and padded pantalets, leaving the little buggers
satisfyingly bewildered.
The next year, I was joined in the air by two
more stilt-walkers—a handsome young daredevil named Bret, with whom I paraded
arm in arm, preceded, on shorter stilts, by a charming blond youth named Greg.
The costume fairies, by now in full frenzy,
had decked Bret out in a sweeping green velvet robe with white fur trim and a
holly wreath atop his abundant brown hair and beard; I was again glittering in
full angel drag, and Greg (wearing my original stilts cut down to a foot or so)
had been turned out as a vision in red velvet, crystals, and billowing lace.
Advancing majestically through
the crowd and commanding an outlandish amount of space, the three of us were,
as we could tell by the reactions of the crowds, a sight to behold.
One particular evening, the last before
Christmas Eve, the Fairsite was packed to the doors with a frantically jolly
holiday crowd. For some reason, each successive appearance of the three “High
Spirits,” as some wag had dubbed us, brought a greater crush of adulation, and
it even became necessary for a costumed flunky to proceed us, slowly clearing a
path through the exuberant throngs.
Flashbulbs exploded in our direction almost
non-stop, near-blinding us; parents held their wide-eyed tykes up, thrusting
them toward us, exhorting “Look! Look!” Adults who should have known better
called out inane remarks to us, hoping for a reply or at least a few seconds’
attention.
The waves of light, noise, and adoration were
overwhelming. Our cheeks ached from smiling graciously, and our legs became
shaky from the extended length of time it was taking us to make our way through
our accustomed circuit.
In the midst of all this furor, Bret suddenly
turned to me, his eyes wide with discovery.
“This is what it’s like to be famous!”, he
said with dawning wonder. “This is what it’s like to be royalty! The Pope! Rock
stars!”—and here he shook his head in silent commiseration—”Only they can’t get
off the stilts!”
Mulling this over, we finished our slow,
dazzling, exhausting circuit and, with a last gracious bow and wave, slipped
backstage to shed our finery. Finally able to unbuckle my stilts, I slid to the
ground, took a deep relieved breath, stretched my jeans-clad legs and went out
to slip in happy anonymity through the crowd to obtain some dinner.
Before this experience, like many young
people, I had wanted in some undefined way to be famous someday, to attain real
star status in whatever field. After it, for some reason, this desire to hustle
for fast-track celebrity was considerably tempered, and evolved in time to the
deep pleasure of doing work good enough to be admired by those whose opinions I
respected.
In the course of my adventures with the
Renaissance and Dickens Fairs, I wore dozens of costumes, assumed many
characters, but that particular Christmas season I was lucky enough to try on,
however briefly, the disconcerting mask of fame.
4. THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco, California, 1970s; Interlocken Center for Experiential Education, Hillsboro, New Hampshire, 1980s
THE RETURN OF QUACKY
A couple of weeks ago, (early 2020) I received a kind of early-1970s time capsule in the mail, in the form of a large envelope filled with artifacts that my friend Ben had rediscovered while cleaning out his files—letters, clippings, my original tickets to Woodstock, and various other mementoes.
Including Quacky.
From the state of the Roman capitals, I’d say that I made this poster shortly after beginning to study calligraphy in 1970. The image emerged from an ongoing series of canard jokes and references that began one day when I made a silly duck face that quacked Ben up.
Sometime later, at Interlocken in the 1980s, I created a larger version of this image, which hung on the wall over the toilet in the staff bathroom for decades as a gentle reminder to hard-working counselors, teachers, and administrators. Occasionally, someone in a fraught situation would raise a finger and intone “Quacky sez…” and the atmosphere would lighten.
When the Interlocken property changed hands in the early 2000s, I assumed I’d seen the last of my little ducky friend. But no. After all these years, here he is, as serene as ever, with his sweet little smile and classic advice for all those in anxious times.
CODA: After I posted the above, Melissa Herman, daughter of Interlocken co-founders Richard and Susan Herman, revealed that she'd rescued the original Quacky, who was now hanging on her wall, breathing, no doubt, deeply.
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5. THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco, California; Toronto, Ontario, Canada; Early1970s
HEY GOD!
Or
REMEMBERING JOHN PRINE (1945-2020)
I first encountered legendary singer/songwriter John Prine in passing. I was just leaving the 885 Clayton St. folk-club house for an appointment when he arrived in the company of another fine singer-songwriter, Rosalie Sorrels, who had been raving about him to us for months, and was thrilled to be finally sharing a bill with him at one of the top San Francisco music clubs.
My impression was of a cute shy country boy (his mother was from Kentucky, and he’d spent a lot of time there) on his best behavior. It wasn’t until 1971, when his self-titled record album came out, that I really got to hear why Rosalie was so smitten.
John's first album cover, 1971.
That was the year John’s songs exploded onto the folk scene. I had just begun traveling the summer east-coast folk festival circuit with British singers John Roberts and Tony Barrand, and we began to encounter John in various backstage areas and got to listen to him perform live.
Wow.
It quickly became evident that that self-deprecating, rough-voiced country-boy manner hid a vast imagination conjoined with the heart of a poet, a wry and soulful romanticism, and, seemingly, a direct line to the human psyche.
Kris Kristofferson called his work “Nothing
short of genius.” Bob Dylan enthused about John’s “Proustian existentialism.” Bonnie
Raitt, who met John in the early Seventies and first covered his song “Angel From
Montgomery” (check out this great performance) in 1974, told Rolling Stone:
“The combination of being that tender and that wise and that astute, mixed with his homespun sense of humor — it was probably the closest thing for those of us that didn’t get the blessing of seeing Mark Twain in person.”
John would go onto be nominated for eleven Grammy Awards and win three, including the 2020 Lifetime Achievement Award; become the first singer/songwriter to read and perform at the Library of Congress; and (from Wikipedia) receive six Americana Music Honors & Awards, including the Lifetime Achievement Award for Songwriting (2003), Artist of the Year (2005, 2017, 2018), Song of the Year for "Summer's End" (2019) and Album of the Year for The Tree of Forgiveness (2019). In 2016, he won the PEN New England Song Lyrics of Literary Excellence Award.
In 2019, he was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame.
But that was all ahead of him in 1973, when I was assigned by Rolling Stone to do a story on another wonderful singer/songwriter, Steve Goodman, who was riding a crest of acclaim following the top-20 cover of his song “City of New Orleans” by Arlo Guthrie.
Steve's first album cover, 1971.
(“City” was recorded and performed by Joan Baez, Judy Collins, John Denver, and others, including Willie Nelson, who would win a “Best Country Song” Grammy with it in 1985.)
I caught up with Steve at the storied Mariposa Folk Festival, held that year on one of the Lake Ontario islands offshore from Toronto. Both Steve and John were headliners at that year’s festival, and I quickly discovered that, if you wanted to hang out with Steve, you frequently got John as well.
Friends
They were a bit of an odd couple: the sweet middle-class- Jewish city boy and the hard-drinking blue-collar country stoner, but they were best buds, frequently traveled and performed together, and, backstage, batted guitar riffs, song lyrics and one-liners back and forth ceaselessly.
It was Steve who had arranged the impromptu after-hours audition that got John his first recording contract, and Steve who was characteristically and genuinely happy for his friend when John’s first album vastly outsold his own.
That Rolling Stone Article; if you wanted Steve, you often got John as well.
There are a lot of great John Prine stories; here’s a pretty good one:
On one particular festival night at Mariposa, I was part of a group (as were John and Steve) that had stayed so late making/listening to music on the island site that we missed the last performer-shuttle boat, and barely made it onto the last public ferry of the night.
At the other end of the ride, we wound up, exhausted and laden with instruments and other festival impedimenta, huddled against the Lake Ontario night wind on a deserted ferry slip. A departing ferry employee told us that there was a hotel a few blocks away where we could get taxis.
Groaning, grumbling and shivering, we were starting to gather up our burdens, when we heard a voice call out in that distinctive, gravelly drawl:
“Hey God!”
We turned around to see John standing, flanked by instrument cases.
“Hey,” he continued, addressing his remarks skyward, “Y’know, Steve here and I are stars. We’re headliners! We’re tired, and we’re just not used to haulin’ our own stuff around.”
Ignoring a snicker-snort from Steve, he continued: “So how about sendin’ a couple of spare angels down here to carry our gear and fly us back to our hotel?”
Silence, then that irresistible Prine grin ‘n shrug. “Hey, it was worth a try, wasn’t it?” He bent to pick up his instruments, straightened up and headed out, stopping to fling one parting shot at the Almighty:
“Y’know, Y’all are gonna be real sorry next year when we’re playin’ stadiums!”
John Prine, having heroically come back to perform again after surgeries for cancer in 1998 and 2013, died of complications of Covid-19 on April 7th, 2020.
Johnny, wherever you are, I hope there’s Steve, and great music, lots of laughs, and enough love to give your sweet heart ease.
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6. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Interlocken Center for Experiential Education, International Summer Camp; 1980s
GARDEN RESCUE
Or
THE TAO OF POO
During my years as an Interlocken employee (1980-1987), I taught a class called “Garden Rescue” at the International Summer Camp. This is how it came about.
The first garden was planted in 1961 or so by the original summer-camp cooks, a sturdy couple named Ken and Bertha. It was next to their cabin, which was located on an isolated edge of the property, in a kind of limbo out beyond the tennis courts and the sports fields, and overlooking the Black Pond Cemetery, which housed the remains of local people from the Revolutionary-War era to the early 20th century.
(One subsequent cook actually refused to live in the cabin because, she maintained, the “Haints” [ghosts] next door bothered her at night.)
Thus it became traditional to have a garden in that spot, though it was essentially out of sight and mostly out of mind. Even after its vegetable-producing limit was outstripped by the camp’s growing summer-camp population, it looked great in the brochures, and someone like me could almost always be coaxed into managing it.
To digress: never a fan of cold weather, snow, or winter sports, I was essentially bi-coastal during my Interlocken years. Although the organization’s work hummed along all year (program setups, student and staff interviews, school programs, etc.), I had negotiated a yearly hiatus from the New Hampshire winters.
This allowed me to take off for California at the beginning of February and return at the beginning of June, when preparations for the summer programs began to gear up in earnest. In that era, the garden was planted in spring by maintenance-staff members, who then routinely became overwhelmed by other tasks.
Each June, I would return, plunge immediately into administrative work, and, like the maintenance crew, only occasionally have a few moments to weed or water. As a result, by the time the camp sessions started, the garden was truly in need of rescuing.
If you’re wondering where the garden produce
ended up, some of it was shared with local staff who cooked at home, or by
special request from folks who loved fresh vegetables. This included the Garden
Rescue kids, who would leave laden with snack-sized veggies (cherry tomatoes,
peapods, snap beans, baby carrots) to share with like-minded friends.
Now, aside from a few lovely kids who had grown up gardening with parents or grandparents, and loved the idea of rescuing a garden (and one offbeat child who just liked to pick junebugs off of plants), Garden Rescue was a classic “Third Choice” for many who found themselves assigned to it.
(See the Sample Daily Program and brief explanation of the Interlocken “Directed Free Choice” system below.)
Each Wednesday and Saturday there was an all-camp Program-Planning Meeting, where sheets like the above were distributed, and those offering each class would get up and describe or “sell” the class.
For each period of the day, students, with help from their bunk counselors, would circle and number their first, second, and third choices on the program sheet, which were then approved, signed by the counselor, and collected.. (Swimming was mandatory for everyone, as were ESL classes for students like Kenzo.)
Programming was done (by humans rather than computers) working from complex wall charts with the ideal of giving each student all first choices (impossible because of limited class size for most of the popular offerings), or a mixture of first and second choices.
Third choices were usually a worst-case fallback, and those who received too many got put on a “raw deal” list for preference in the next programming cycle. Somehow, it all worked out.
In other words, for kids who had expected/hoped to be assigned to a favored first-choice class, or, at worst, a second choice, it was a kind of booby prize—often only chosen out of desperation to finish choosing, or at the suggestion of a counselor in the face of a child’s paralyzing indecision. People would frequently ask: “Where is the garden, anyway?”
As a result, the class was always small enough to be manageable, but I found myself having to adopt a kind of “Ms. Green Jeans” host personality in order to keep the bewildered newbies occupied and interested.
This was especially challenging since the class entailed physical labor, dirt, and somewhat repetitive tasks, and unlike the farm or craft programs, lacked perks like cuddling and feeding animals or creating a nifty take-home item to show parents.
All I could offer was—vegetables.
I often found myself spouting colorful plant lore and garden aphorisms, and inventing and singing appropriate ditties, all the while orchestrating and switching tasks to head off kid boredom.
“Unusual and interesting things can happen in a garden,” I would enthuse: “You might plant snow peas and get sweet peas; your squash might invade your tomatoes; your tomatoes might develop an attitude and start intimidating your cucumbers; your scarecrow might fall in love with a bunny.” And so forth.
On one new class day, four kids showed up. Two of the three girls were lovely little enthusiasts who frequently signed up on purpose; the other confessed she was homesick and missed her mother’s garden. The fourth was Kenzo.
Kenzo was one of a number of Japanese students that year. 12 or 13 years old, he was a shy, handsome little fish-out-of-water urbanite from Tokyo who unfortunately spoke little or no English.
Always immaculately and fashionably dressed, Kenzo always seemed bewildered by his fellow students’ desire to participate in activities that left them rumpled, sweaty and/or dirty, and by camp life in general.
Between the language barrier and his general incomprehension, I was sure he had no idea that he’d signed up for something called “Garden Rescue.”
That day, the three little girls set to work happily. I tried to interest Kenzo in weeding the carrot bed, but, since he was loath to allow his fingers to come in actual contact with actual dirt, he proceeded with agonizing slowness.
Then two of the farm-class students arrived, pushing a cart laden with ripe straw nicely intermixed with the end products of animal digestion. I was preparing a new bed, and asked Kenzo if he’d help me unload the cart.
I pressed a garden fork into his reluctant hands, and demonstrated forking up the straw and scattering it over the bed. He approached the cart, nostrils twitching, and delicately thrust the fork in.
Suddenly he leaped back, horrified, flinging the tool away.
“POO!” he yelled.
“Yes, Kenzo,” I said, picking up the implement, “We put poo on the vegetables to help them grow.”
“No!” he said indignantly, no doubt recalling all the vegetables he’d ever eaten. He folded his arms, refusing to take the fork back.
One of the little girls came over and said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll do it.”
Kenzo was not to be shown up by a younger child, and a girl at that. “No,” he said, “I do it!”
Holding the tool gingerly between his thumbs and forefingers, he forked up the tiniest wisp of poostraw and transferred it to the bed.
Just then a family group—mother, father, two children, and a regal white-haired woman who must have been their grandmother—approached, led by a camp director. Such tours were common in summer, families with prospective students wanting to see the camp in action.
The main group stopped to look at a wind-turbine sculpture that had been erected near the garden, but the grandmother came over to where we were working.
Showing the garden and the last of the tomatoes and squash to my Aunt Dortha one September. The wind turbine can be seen at upper right.
“What a lovely garden!” she said in a delightful British accent, “And what are you all doing?
The little girls piped up wonderfully on cue:
“I’m tying up tomatoes!”
“I’m picking string beans!”
“I’m weeding the carrots!”
She turned to Kenzo: “And what about you, dear?”
Kenzo straightened and spoke up proudly:
“I forking poo!” he said.
Bless her heart, the woman instantly replied: “Oh, yes,so I see. Well done, young man!”
She beamed at Kenzo. Kenzo beamed at her. The little girls all beamed at me.
…who was personally was nearly wetting my pants while attempting to keep from laughing hysterically.
Yes, unusual and interesting things can happen in a garden.
No poo.
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7. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania; Early 1940s
BEFORE THERE WAS TV #1
Or
SLATE OF MIND
When I was growing up in the early 1940s, the kitchen in our somewhat dilapidated 19th-century farmhouse was divided into separate sections (cooking and eating) by a large “island,” — a cookstove flanked by small counter/drawer/cabinet units.
I’m not sure whether my dad built this amenity, but I know that he was responsible for the 4’X4’ piece of half-inch slate attached to the solid back of it, near the kitchen table.
Slate was one of the more common finishing materials in our area (our house was roofed in it, and our big porch paved in it), because of our proximity to a 22-square-mile area known as the “Slate Belt,” which at one time produced more of that useful layered mineral than anywhere else in the world.
We would often visit relatives in Bangor and Pen Argyl (pronounced by the locals as “Banger” and “P’NAR-jel”), towns founded by Welsh immigrant miners who were experts at extracting the tricky slate layers.
On visits to my grandmother in Bangor, we became so used to the mountains of discarded slate that hulked around the landscape that we hardly noticed them. My Aunt Janet married a Jones.
For our blackboard, Dad had probably gone to a slate company that specialized in chalkboards for schools and picked up a “second” with one slightly roughened corner.
This was all before I came along, but all through my sister Susan’s childhood, mine, and my brother David’s, the blackboard was our constant resource, companion, and baby-sitter.
We used it first for awkward scribbles, later for attempted drawings; impossible mazes; games of Hangman or tic-tac-toe; spelling practice; arithmetic problems; messages (it was the first place we looked when we came inside); the diagrams my dad inevitably drew when explaining anything; and family announcements such as birthdays, or even when I, a skinny little thing, got my weight up to 42 lbs..
I remember sitting in front of it listening to classical music pouring from our old Zenith radio, and trying vainly to draw the feelings it evoked in me.
I also recall a pre-school occasion when, all alone in the kitchen, I quickly chalked “Clarck [sic] Kent is Superman!” then just as quickly erased it to keep from revealing the S-man’s secret identity, a fact I somehow imagined only I knew.
The blackboard, in our isolated country situation, was an ongoing form of entertainment that was inexpensive (two erasers lasted forever, and we could easily afford all the chalk we could use), constantly accessible, wonderfully down at our level (most adults had to stoop to use it), and required no setup, cleanup, or disposal.
Periodically it would become so fuzzed and gray with constant use that my mother would wash it down, providing us with a working definition of “clean slate.” (And oh, the thrill of putting the first mark on that blank expanse.)
I have no idea what effect that magical piece of slate had on my artistic development, but when I finally went to school, I had no problem getting up in front of the class to write spelling words or figure arithmetic problems.
After all, chalk was my medium, and the blackboard was my friend.
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8. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Renaissance Pleasure Faire, Marin County, California; Great Dickens Christmas Fair, San Francisco, California; All Over California, 1969-Present
NOBODY’S FOOL: THE WORLD OF BILLY SCUDDER
Among the featured acts at the 1969 Northern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire (the first in which I participated as a performer) was a trio of mimes billing themselves as the “Cripplegate Roundabouts.”
Billy (foreground) with fellow Cripplegate Roundabout Kathleen Wells
One of the three was an enchanting young woman named Kathleen Wells. Another was the amazing Robert Shields, who would go on to fame and fortune, first as a solo mime, then as half of the Emmy-winning duo “Shields and Yarnell,” and today as an award-winning visual artist/designer.
Surrounding Faire Co-director Ron Patterson in 1969: I'm in the striped skirt, Robert Shields in black cloak, Billy Scudder
in the red cloak and whiteface. This was before Faire historians
realized that whiteface was totally anachronistic, and banned it.
The third was Billy Scudder.
Although Kathleen and Robert would soon move on, Billy embraced the Faire as a vital part of his own territory. He also discovered new roles, as writer, director and actor in one of the earliest forms of professional theatre.
Gathering together an inspired collection of talented Faire zanies, he created uproarious Commedia dell’ Arte performances with titles like “Il Salami Dell’ Amore” (The Salami of Love).
Il Salami dell'Amore, with Billy Barrett, Marque Siebenthal, Dedra Scudder, Sandey Grinn, Judy Beatrice, and Billy Scudder.
The art of Commedia might well have been invented for Billy; his handsome face, quick wits, and lithe muscularity made him a natural for the traditional role of the rascally servant and lover Arlecchino. It was always interesting watching women in the Commedia audiences, their reactions to Billy caught somewhere between laughing helplessly and swooning.
In 1970, many of us made our debut at the first Great Dickens Christmas Fair, held in a San Francisco warehouse. This was my first experience of performing with Billy (in a Christmas pantomime), and it was always a delight. He was well on his way to becoming a master of versatility, with the ability to immerse himself completely in a role while simultaneously keeping all his wits about him.
1970s Christmas pantomime, with me pushing "Jack" (Billy) back into his box. Other players from L.: Marque Siebenthal, John Green Tree Murphy, Keny Milliken, J. Paul Moore and Susie Marceau.
But the thing was, every time you thought you’d seen every marvelous facet of Billy’s talent, a new one would appear. At the second Dickens Fair, I recall watching his first onstage performance of the 19th-century “Ballad of Sam Hall,” depicting the last ragged and bitter words of a murdering chimney sweep on the steps of the gallows.
Billy's surprising turn as "Sam Hall."
Nothing could have been further from those fanciful mimes, delicate Harlequins and blithe Arlecchinos; he was frankly terrifying. I recall a stunned fellow performer standing next to me saying: “Whoa! Who knew he could do that? And who knew he had that voice?”
A standout at Fair(e)s for years, Billy also has had a parallel professional career in the real world. He’s appeared in feature films like AI, Batman Forever, Batman & Robin, The Grinch (with Jim Carrey), and Pirates of the Caribbean.
He’s also shown up in numerous magazine print ads, and on TV as an actor (The Dom Deluise Show, Days of Our Lives), but it was in 1981 that he elevated TV-commercial acting into Art.
This was when he appeared, effortlessly channeling the great Charlie Chaplin, in a series of TV and print ads that won eleven Clios (Advertising’s equivalent of the Oscar), and for which he garnered two Mobius Awards as Best Actor. (The Mobius is an international competition that recognizes outstanding advertising, design and creativity.)
Watch this to see why:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQT_YCBb9ao
 |
| Billy as a two-timing poet/lover in an ad for sunglasses. |
It was at the Faires, however, that he first adopted one of his longest-lived personae, that of “The Green Man,” an ancient and archetypal figure in British Folklore.
From Wikipedia:“ The Green Man is believed to symbolize the cycle of life, death and re-birth. The symbol of Godhood within the male and its relationship with the transcendent life force our Goddess, the female expression of divinity. He is a Pagan symbol who heralds Spring after a long winter and the renewal of lush vegetation.”
It was as the Green Man that Billy first began teaching folklore to the children of the Los Angeles school system, but as himself, he’s been tutoring and training young actors in Commedia, mime and acting techniques for over 30 years, beginning with Faire workshops, and including sessions at California’s Camp Bravo, where, according to brochures: “High school and middle school students are taught acting, dance, improv, playwriting, stage combat, AND MORE by seasoned professionals.”
Billy also embraces the roles of husband, father, and grandfather; his wife, Pam, was a long-time Faire participant, and his three daughters Dedra, Shawn, and Taryn started out as “Faire brats,” and grew up performing, often in their dad’s productions.
1970s dad with Dedra Scudder, Shawn Scudder and Taryn Scudder.
Somehow, in this busy life, Billy also finds time to appear at events such as Faerieworlds, an annual music and arts festival, and an east-coast event called FaerieCon International, where he acts as —what else?—Master of Ceremonies.
Oh yes,he’s also written a book called Pleasure: a Cosmic Current of Spirit (available on Amazon).
You might not believe in magic, or faeries, but, dang, you can’t go wrong believing in Billy Scudder.
#################
9. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill; Summer of 1965
THREE GUYS AND AN ARROW
Or
YOU OK, UNCLE DAVE?
Although they were of three separate generations, my dad (born 1913), my brother David (1950), and my nephew Scott Richards (1962) always seemed to have a deep resonance with one another.
The somewhat eccentric first photo below was taken the day that Dad got ultimately frustrated by a power-pole that kept leaning over (it was located next to our pond, in ground that had grown marshy from an especially wet spring).
Somewhat typically, he suddenly decided to stop trying to prop it up and just have some fun with it. A few sheets of plywood cut into shape, a couple of cans of paint, some fastening hardware, and voilá!
I’m not sure whether my brother David took part in this whimsical construction project, but he did agree to pose, sprawled theatrically at the base of it, for Dad’s camera.
Enter my sister Sue, somewhat with child—my nephew-to-be Kip—and three-year-old Scotty, who, seeing his beloved “Uncle Day” apparently transfixed, rushed over to offer assistance.
David and Scott were remarkably alike in appearance and manner (to this day, I occasionally confuse their childhood photos), and both seemed to have a lovely relationship with my dad, even when giant arrows were involved.
 | |
| I mis-labeled this as David for years; it's Scott with my dad. |
David on the left, Scott on the right. Yeah, hot.
 |
| Dad with David (I'm pretty sure). |
 |
| David with little Scott. |
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10. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Occidental, California, 1989-2009
ALTERED IMAGES
Or
THE LITTLE TOWN OF UPSIDE-DOWN
From the late 1980s to the late 2000s, I frequently held part-time jobs in stores located in the tiny village of Occidental.
This was a strategic move to 1) reliably cover the rent, and 2) Periodically get me away from the computer, where I was busily turning out books and articles as a free-lance writer/editor.
Occidental—smaller than your average shopping mall and entirely surrounded by woods—was an ideal place to work, cozy and picturesque, with a refreshing touch of magical funkiness.
Following a makeover in the 1980s that transformed it from eyesore (declining from a 19th-century railroad/lumbering heyday) to adorable townlet, it had gradually become a popular tourist destination.
 |
| Occidental, east side. |
At the time of which I write, dozens of quaint stores selling crafts, clothes, books, toys, antiques and tchochkes were crowded wall-to-wall on Main Street with galleries, restaurants (five of them within two blocks), and a four-star B&B.
Local hippie-types and entrepreneurs mingled on the sidewalks with tourists from all over, creating an ongoing counterculture dynamic and lots of free entertainment.
From 1995 on, I worked with my friend Lorraine MacKenzie at a store called Natural Connections, which served as kind of a village nerve center, offering FAX, photocopying, and UPS-shipping services.
With Lorraine MacKenzie and a bunch of reflections. Foolsday 2010.
We also sold health and beauty aids—vitamins, supplements, herbal and homeopathic remedies, soaps, shampoos, balms, oils, incense, and “gifts with nature in mind.” These included T-shirts, animal puppets and toys, candles, greeting cards, crystals, wall decorations, mobiles, and, yes, tchotchkes.
Our venerable store building had once been the town butcher shop, built in 1878, and subsequently destroyed and rebuilt in 1899 (fire), 1906 (earthquake), and 1924 (fire), always reincarnated with its function as meat market intact.
In 1988, however, the butcher shop was converted into neutral retail space by new owners, and the large meat locker adjoining it was likewise remodeled and given a separate entrance.
After an upscale clothing store opened and closed in the larger section, Lorraine moved Natural Connections from down the street and took over the space in 1993. I joined her there in 1995.
Inside Natural Connections, with cards and tchotchkes.
Our store was a solid presence on Main Street for years, but during the time I worked there, no less than six gift shops came and went from the adjacent meat-locker space. From 2003 to 2009, it hosted a remarkable business called Altered Images.
Relaxing in a marvelous purple high-heeled shoe chair.
This tiny shop, run by a genial couple named John and Grant, was a crowded treasure-house of antiques, jewelry, statues, figurines, über-tchotchkes, oddities, anomalies, color, light and reflection. New stock was constantly appearing and disappearing, making the entire place a sense-tingling kaleidoscope of where-to-look-next?.
 |
| Grant Nolan & John Iveli, with friend |
 |
| Altered Images window |
Lorraine was perhaps influenced by our neighbors when she ordered those large metal spirals containing a tinted softball-sized crystal sphere that appeared to climb up and down the spiral as it twisted in the breeze.
These items were an immediate hit—with Lorraine, with John and Grant, with locals, with tourists, and especially with me and my camera, as we all frequently took time out of time to reflect on this new and altered —and even more magical—perspective.
Simultaneous street-view and Altered Images window/reflection-view. In other words, a reflection of a reflection of a reflection.
Main Street in perspective.
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11. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania, c. 1944-1962
GROUNDHOG DAYS
Or
NOT LIKE CHICKEN
My childhood was unusually infested with groundhogs.
No, not famed weather-prognosticating celebrity rodents like Punxsutawny Phil, Georgia’s General Beauregard Lee, or Quebec’s storied Fred la Marmotte.
It turns out that groundhogs can be domesticated, if you catch them young enough. Who knew?
Ours were just your ordinary garden-eating-variety Marmota monax woodchucks. (Tongue-twister notwithstanding, the word has nothing to do with wood or chucking; the name is derived from the Narragansett Indian “wuchak,” meaning “digger.”)
Although our local ‘chucks kept pretty much to themselves except for occasional raids on my dad’s produce, we had to stay constantly aware of where they were hanging out, as we rode our horses all over the property, and a hoof landing in a chuckhole was a potentially leg- (and heart-) breaking experience, fortunately avoided during the Horse Years.
 |
| Jumping Tomahawk on chock-hole-free turf. |
This problem was compounded by the fact that the wily whistle-pig constructs its burrow with not only one, but two or three entrances, so that if one is threatened, Brer Marmot blithely escapes out another, no doubt woodchuckling away.
This critter infests eastern North America under a number of other aliases: ground-pig, woodshock, grundsau, whistler (they do that when frightened or courting), thickwood badger, Canada Marmotte, siffleux, moonack, and monax (its Latin name, from the Algonquian/Lenape word “monachgue,” for—you guessed it—“digger.”)
 |
| Seeing the Photographer's Shadow (Thanks, Pat). |
Even more disconcerting to my youth was the occasional close encounter, like the time I walked into the little stone pondside cabin we used for changing into bathing suits in summer and keeping warm in winter, and was frozen to the spot by a ferocious growl from a far corner.
A good-sized ‘hog (they can weigh up to 15 pounds) had somehow got itself trapped inside, and I had inadvertently cornered it. One look at the desperate creature hissing, snarling and baring its teeth at me, and I zipped out of there, stopping only to prop the door open and watch from a distance as it barreled outside and away.
When I reported this to my dad, he recalled provoking a similar standoff 20 years earlier, when, incensed by finding one of the rascals noshing on his broccoli in a fenced garden, he took after it with a hoe.
No groundhogs were subsequently harmed in the making of this anecdote, as Dad, like I, was forced to beat a hasty retreat when it rushed to the attack (those suckers are terrifying when cornered).
Dad and I also had the similar experience, 20 years apart, of seeing a groundhog climb a tree to escape a pursuing dog.
I’m not making this up; turns out they can swim, too.
Most of my close encounters were, however, with recently deceased groundhogs. There were a number of local boys, mostly from poorer families, whom Dad often hired for casual labor.
They all owned .22 rifles, and when they asked permission to hunt our groundhogs to put food on their families’ tables, he was only too happy to turn them loose on the rodent problem.
This came with a strange side effect, something like this: we would be sitting at the dinner table, when, usually mid-meal, there would be a knock at the kitchen door.
My chair was closest to the door, so I would get up and answer the door, only to be confronted by the corpse of a freshly-killed woodchuck, bloodily laid out on newspaper or burlap by one or more grinning hunters, who had come to display it to my dad in a strange kind of lord-of-the-manor ceremony.
Dad would get up from the table, dutifully assess the repellant object, and make some sort of appropriate remark, such as: “Wow, that’s a big one,” or: “Good shot!” Then the lads would triumphantly bear their kill away, to become woodchuck roast, chops, or whatever.
Of course it was only a matter of time before Dad started wondering what groundhog tasted like. He procured one, skinned it, and butchered it into cutlets, which my good-natured and long-suffering mother served at dinner one evening, as I recall, smothered in gravy.
I can report that it did not taste like chicken; more like the “mystery meat” (so-called) sometimes served in the school cafeteria under the guise of “Swiss steak.”
Say, you don’t suppose…
Naah.
As to the weather-prognosticating capabilities of the groundhog, they’re fairly abysmal, well under the statistics for random guesses about the likelihood of early or late spring weather.
In spite of this, and although all participating rodents are probably bored silly with the ritual by this time, humans seem inexplicably wed to it.
Groundhog Day, after all, has ancient roots in both pagan and Christian traditions, in a variety of European countries, where bears, hedgehogs, badgers, foxes, and other hibernating creatures do the job allocated to the North American groundhog by immigrants homesick for tradition.
The American myth is probably reinforced by the fact that the groundhog pops briefly out of its winter hibernation in February in order to seek a mate, then goes back to its den until March.
As February 2nd, Groundhog Day, falls exactly between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox, it’s probably no accident that it’ coincides with other ancient festivals, such as the Christian observance of “Candlemas” (blessing of the candles used in church). The lore that a clear day on Candlemas predicts a prolonged winter goes back for centuries.
The Celtic “Imbolc;” and the Roman rite of the goddess Juno Februata or “Juno Purified,” were/are also celebrated on February 2nd, as are (currently) Ayn Rand Day, Play your Ukelele Day, Dump Your Significant Jerk Day, Popcorn Day, and at least another dozen “holidays.” (See below for a complete list.)
The first official Groundhog Day was celebrated in 1887 in —again, you guessed it—Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, and since the eponymous 1993 movie came out, has become increasingly surrounded by parades, contests, craft fairs, and all manner of other hoopla.
All in good fun. Except maybe for Punxsutawney Phil and his celebrity brethren, (they’re all guys), who, if consulted informally, would probably just prefer a little nookie and a nice long nap.
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12. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Interlocken Center for Experiential Education, Hillsboro, New Hampshire; 1981-1987
THE TAO OF TURTLE
One of the major July events at the Interlocken International Summer Camp was the Andy Upton Classic, a 5.5-mile footrace named for its young instigator (now a a prominent Boston attorney).
As a precocious teen, during the winter of 1978, Andy proposed the event to Interlocken Co-Director Susan Herman, who, in typical Interlocken mode, said “What a great idea! Why don’t you be in charge of it?”
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| Conducting themselves with dignity in the Interlocken kitchen are, from left: now-eminent journalist Henry Alford, esteemed artist and designer Mike Stasiuk, Chef Renee Blinn, Shira Saperstein, Grammy-winning- musician-to-be Dan Zanes, and Andy Upton, Esq. |
There were the serious jocks, who started training weeks ahead of time, and the no-way/never-gonna-happen non-runners who elected to participate as water-station minders, timekeepers, traffic directors, sag-wagon personnel, cheerleaders, etc.
In between, there would be a straggling horde of joggers and sloggers, run/walk alternators, and “novelty” participants who ran the entire race backwards, or holding hands, or as a chain with legs tied together, or attired in peculiar costumery.
I well remember the time that a husky counselor ran the whole race with a toddler sitting on his shoulders; another year, Billie Nevitt (in her eighties, a demon knitter and known as the “Camp Grandmother”) pushed baby Hascy Alford the entire distance in a stroller. Everyone got cheered at the end and was refreshed with ice cream.
I ran the entire race my first summer (1980) at the ISC, and wound up seriously exhausted, so the next July I started “Turtling” classes as training for all those who preferred walking to running. (I wasn’t particularly a turtle-totem person, but the metaphor seemed apt.)
These sessions continued (by request) even after the race, and for all my time at Interlocken. Each year for the event I would design a special edition of Turtle badges (each with a sly reference to the WWII-era-founded Ancient and Honorable Order of Turtles), and “First Turtle Across the Finish Line” became an official prize category..
During the actual race, I usually wound up surrounded by a crowd of walkers, mostly the youngest participants, some of whom I had to literally tow across the finish line. As a result, in 1982 I invented the “Golden Turtle Award,” for “The Turtle Most Successfully Overcoming the Forces of Inertia.”
Once I had two girls in the class whom you could tell had never exercised seriously in their lives, and I can only suppose they signed up for Turtling because walking down the road sounded easy.
We used to go at a pretty good clip, and these girls would be dragging their feet and whining, and I’d have to stay in the back of the group and kind of herd them along like a sheepdog, all but nipping at their heels (and feeling a bit like whining myself).
Then one day, I saw a wonderful thing happen: One of those little princesses suddenly GOT it, that exercise could actually feel GOOD, and I saw her straighten up and really begin to step out, her friend automatically tagging right along with her.
They started going faster and faster, and before long they were up in the front with the serious walkers. They finished the session glowing, signed up for every Turtle class after that, and did so well in the Andy Upton that year that they shared the Golden Turtle Award.
A true Turtle lives for such moments.
13. THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco and Other Parts of California, 1972-Present.
DEAR AUNTIE
Or,
A SURPRISING EDUCATION
In my long career as a writer, I’ve had many excellent teachers and mentors, but one of the most influential of these came in an entirely unexpected package.
As I’ve written here before, in the early 1970s I worked in San Francisco’s Chinatown as part-time assistant to Dr. Wu Chie Mei-chuen, a miracle-working acupuncturist and herbalist.
Every few months, Wu Tai-Tai would give me a few days’ notice and disappear in the general direction of Asia—Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, etc.—on various mysterious errands.
On one of these, as I discovered when she returned, she had somehow finagled her way into Maoist China and located a son from her first marriage, now living in a small village with his wife and two children. “Awful!” she sputtered to me, “Live dirt floor. Like animal!”
Several months later, she disappeared again. Some weeks later, I got a phone call. “You come today, Surprise for you!”
When I arrived at her office, I found it crowded with friends, neighbors—and her eldest son and his family, all of whom she had somehow winkled out of Communist China.
Mom and Dad looked stunned, jet-lagged and terrified. There was a cranky toddler who had just been re-named “John,” and a painfully shy 14-year-old girl, now called “Judy.”
It would soon become fairly evident that the parents had only uprooted themselves from their home in China to give John and Judy the opportunities that Wu Tai-Tai had told them were surely to be found in the US.
I greeted them all in my very limited Chinese, and then found a quiet corner. As Wu Tai-Tai and the others conversed in Mandarin about arrangements for lodging, jobs, schools, etc., I began sorting through her accumulated mail, one of my regular tasks.
As I did so, I noticed young Judy quietly edging closer and closer to me. Perhaps she had recognized a kindred spirit, or (more probably) Wu Tai-Tai had put her up to it. She finally came near enough to whisper: “I write you letter, you please fix my English?” Who could refuse?
That was the beginning of one of the most instructive correspondences in my life. Unlike her parents, who took jobs in a Chinese restaurant, socialized primarily with other Chinese, and never learned more than a few words of English (toddler John would grow up a rowdy Americanized kid), Judy was quietly determined to master her new language and environment.
Each week for years, I received a letter from her. It immediately became clear that, dirt floor or no, someone had taught this child to speak and write English to an unexpectedly high standard, including spelling, in which she made few errors.
As requested, as each letter arrived (this was many years pre-email), I would take out my red pencil and make corrections and explanatory marginal notes, then mail the letter back, usually with a personal note and/or a small essay on the grammar in question, for which I found myself frequently and furiously reviewing accurate use of language, punctuation, and parts of speech.
Then the questions began; some were cultural: (“Dear Auntie, Please tell me what is Thanksgiving, and why do we have to eat the turkey?”)
Some were school and classmate-related—fortunately the school she landed in had a large number of Chinese students: (“Dear Auntie, Why is it called ‘going steady?’”)
Still others applied to her studies: (”Dear Auntie, I am not at all understanding the Renaissance. Please explain it to me.”)
Many of these questions (pre-Internet, pre-Google) sent me scurrying to the library to research the material, and then figuring out how to elucidate it simply, clearly, and accurately.
As I was to discover, Judy was both intensely curious and more exacting than any tenured professor I’d ever encountered. If I used the same word in two different ways, she wanted to know the nuances of each. She became a demon (in her gentle way) for word choice, correct use of adverbs, accuracy of similes, and the creation of metaphors.
There was no way I could fake it or get away with glib information, so I had to refine my own accuracy and clarity. (I also wound up learning more about various subjects in her school curriculum than I’d ever expected.)
About once every six weeks, we would meet for tea and a walk through San Francisco neighborhoods, with me doing my best to answer her questions (I’d begun by then to show her how to find her own answers).
On one of these walks, along a bayside fishing pier, we saw a fish lying, apparently dead, on the wood planks, with no fisherperson near it. It was a singularly ugly mud-colored creature, but on impulse, I picked it up and dropped it into the water, where it floated motionless on its back.
Suddenly it came to life, flipped right side up, and disappeared into the watery depths. Judy hugged me in delight, a rare display of unfettered emotion, and would occasionally recall, with that same delight, “that time when we gave life to a fish.”
As Judy became more and more proficient in English (and thanks to her, so did I), our written exchanges became less pupil-teacher and more Auntie-like, though the questions continued.
She graduated from high school, and went on to business college. We corresponded all through her citizenship procedures, college applications, pre-exam jitters. tests for qualification as a CPA (and her joy in passing them). her first job application, first-job nerves. a difficult colleague or two. It was an ongoing education in offering information and expressing written support clearly, with no hint of insincerity or patronizing word choices.
Then Judy met her future husband, who began to show up as a presence in our letters. (Judy and he are still together, and are raising a teenage son.) As we made the switch to email, her life, balancing marriage, child and job, became much more complex and busy. With the advent of Google, there were infinite answers to be had online.
So nowadays our correspondence tends to be in the form of brief notes, with Judy emailing in exquisite English, never about her work, but often about her family, including Wu Tai-Tai, who lives with Judy’s sweet-natured parents. (“My grandmother is now nearly 100 years old. Although her mind tends to wander, she is in excellent health.”)
There are also birthday greetings, holiday greetings, and, just every once in awhile, another question or two on grammar, personal matters, or life in general.
“Dear Auntie,” she writes.
14. THROWBACK THURSDAY: London, England, 2020; The Falkland Islands, 1977; North Richland Hills, Texas; Occidental, California; 1980s-Present
A RARE GESTURE
Or
COUSINS ARE FOREVER
Recently, one of the rarest coins in the world, the Edward VIII Sovereign, changed hands in London for 1.3 million pounds (that’s USD $1,690,390 at the current exchange rate).
An historical oddity, the coin depicts Edward, the uncle of Queen Elizabeth II, as king, before he relinquished the throne of the British Empire in 1936 to marry American divorcee Wallis Simpson. The coinage was a jump-the-gun mistake, and only six were struck.
The buyer, says BBC News, wishes to remain anonymous.
Buyer X might be secretly chagrined, however, to learn that he/she doesn’t actually own the world’s rarest British coin.
Because I do.
Let me explain: my Texas cousin Ken Hill is a brilliant artist and poet who earns his living as a master goldsmith. Although the last time we saw each other in person was as small children, we re-connected in the 1980s and began a correspondence that continues to this day.
On occasion, just for the fun of it, we’ve sent each other collections of small and unusual objects, and one such package from Ken contained several foreign coins, protected by plastic sleeves.
I almost missed it, since I was in a hurry, but as I was putting the coins aside to examine at leisure, an odd little twinkle caught my eye through the thick plastic. I opened the sleeve, examined the coin, and my jaw dropped.
Cousin Ken, for his own amusement and mine, had added his own distinctive touch to one of 100,000 commemorative 1977 50-pence pieces issued in the Falkland Islands on the occasion of Queen Liz’s Silver Jubilee (25th year on the throne).
The coin bears a flattering portrait of the young Elizabeth, and my cousin had impishly augmented Her Majesty’s necklace and tiara, setting into them eleven tiny diamonds, for a casual touch of royal bling.
So, sorry, Buyer X. This is the only coin of its kind in the world. And it’s not for sale.
15. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Easton, Pennsylvania, Late 1970s to 1990s.
SHADOW, SHADBLOW, MULES, RUBBLE & GETTING THINGS DONE
Or
DAD DOES RETIREMENT; PART TWO
My dad always loved a good project. So he took on an entire city.
In the late 1970s (he retired in 1975), having more or less whipped our 25+ acres of property into shape, My dad began to turn his considerable energies to civic projects in the nearby city of Easton, Pennsylvania.
Dad up a ladder getting ready to “point” the stones on our rubble-built ( i.e. made of stones picked up on or dug out of the building sit)e and surroundings) farmhouse, which had been completely covered with tar-paper shingles..
“Pointing” is the term given to the “finish” between the bricks or stone used to build your house. Depending on the age of the building, the mortar used to lay the stone or brick will either be made from lime, or more recently, cement. Incorrect pointing causes irreparable damage to older buildings.
Founded in 1752 at the junction of the Delaware and Lehigh Rivers, Easton in the 1970s was, like many other municipalities at that time, dying at its center.
It was also, Dad realized, wavering on the edge of gentrification, rich in Colonial history, and dotted with memorable buildings and sites (According to a survey, Easton had retained over 65% of its original Colonial architecture, even if much of it was hidden under fake brickwork and aluminum siding.).
Dad’s first enthusiastic enterprise post-retirement was a taped self-guided walking/driving tour of the historic but under-appreciated burg.
Then, in the late 1970s, he became a prime mover in the creation of the Hugh Moore Parkway, a jewel of a greenbelt fashioned by the clearing and restoration of a picturesque stretch of the Lehigh Canal that once connected Easton with Philadelphia. This update/retrofitting included a restored lock-tender’s house, a working lock and the commissioning of a reproduction mule-drawn canal boat, the "Josiah White,"which still offers rides to tourists.
Dad had an interesting ally in this project—fellow canal buff Walter Gibson (1897 –1985) an American author and professional magician, best known for his work as creatior/writer of the pulp fiction character THE SHADOW.
(Gibson, under the pen-name Maxwell Grant, wrote 282 of 325 SHADOW novels published in the 1930s and '40s, and introduced into the American radio lexicon the meme: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!”)
One of Dad’s pet projects, the tiny original canal museum in the lock-tender’s house, has now been expanded into the National Canal Museum in Hugh Moore Park.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Canal_Museum
Then there was the Shad Festival he helped found in 1983, centering around the yearly spring migration of that humble fish down the Delaware River. Dad provided a lot of the enthusiasm and momentum for this event, even dragooned me into designing a commemorative shoulder patch for the winner.
The Shad Tournament (biggest fish, biggest catch, youngest and oldest successful fisherpersons, etc.) is still a big event in Easton, with many auxiliary events and parades surrounding it.
Early in its history, the event's founders proposed holding a beauty contest, the winner to be crowned in celebration of a quaintly named tree that fluffs into beautiful white blossom each year around the time that the shad run. (I may have been the one that pointed out that, with only bragging rights as reward, few young women might care to vie for the title of “Miss Shadblow.”)
https://traveltips.usatoday.com/shad-festival-easton-pennsy…
In the early 1990s, Dad got together with four other members of his church to compose a booklet called BEST-KEPT SECRETS of EASTON, PENNSYLVANIA, filled with stories of residents describing their favorite places in the town.
I did the original cover design, which featured the Quaker Oats guy holding a finger to his lips; this was changed when the General Mills Company took strong exception to it.
Entries to the booklet, solicited citywide, included such items as: a house that was, for some reason, built as a mirror image of the one where Abraham Lincoln died; a stained-glass Star of David in the 18th-century United Church of Christ, in memory of one Meyer Hart, a Jewish man who donated the nails for its construction; the source of he best macaroons in town; and a building with a secret escape tunnel for runaway slaves.
Dad’s last major project concerned what was then called the Easton House Tavern, the ancient (1753) but historic shell of a building more or less constructed of rubble, ignored and decaying on an out-of-the-way street corner.
Possibly since the original part of our own house was rubble-built, Dad conceived an affection for the old wreck, and became convinced, against all opposition, that it was restorable.
I remember going with him when he and several other like-minded citizens were allowed into what had been the downstairs tavern room, and being utterly appalled at its gloom and decay.
The floor was composed of soggy uneven dirt, and the walls (windowless, because boarded up) were of slimy blackened crumbling stone. Any paneling or floorboards that had once made the place at all welcoming or convivial had long since rotted or been looted away.
It looked like something one might find in a Neolithic archaeological site in the Outer Orkneys. And there was no, repeat, no money in the city’s coffers to restore such a forlorn hope.
The city had not, however, reckoned with my dad and his friends, a combination of enlightened civic leaders and feisty retirees who just wouldn’t go away. Though Howard never lived to see the restoration to completion, here is how the Bachmann House is described today:
“The 1753 Bachmann Publick House is Easton's only surviving 18th-century tavern and its oldest standing building. This beautifully restored original three-story stone building was constructed in 1753 by Jacob and Katrinna Bachmann.
The restored Bachmann Tavern interior.
“The building was once the home to Northampton County's Court and is the only colonial courtroom remaining in the county today. Famous persons such as Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, General John Sullivan, William Ellery and William Whipple (signers of the Declaration of Independence) were guests and visitors to the Bachmann.
“In 1761 George Taylor, Easton's signer of the Declaration, purchased the place after the mortgage was called, and owned the inn for several years before selling it. Eighty percent of the building is original, with exceptional care taken to match the reconstruction perfectly. “
The center of Easton is now thriving, with a major theater, trendy shops and restaurants, and a flourishing farmers’ market,
Yep, my dad always loved a good project.
Dad (with my mother Barbara, center) receiving congratulations from the president of Lafayette College in Easton for his work with Lafayette's Alumni Association.
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16. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Sebastopol, California, 2018
FAIRIES BY VERSACE; VOGUE MEETS THE EASTER SEALS CALENDAR
The "Yeah, my five-year-old dressed me this morning. So what?" Fairy.
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17. THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco, California, c. 1969
MICKY: A LESSON IN YOU JUST NEVER CAN TELL
Reading the recent obituary of a beloved figure in the musical world, I had a sudden vivid flashback.
It was the tail-end of the Sixties, and I was attending a music-industry record-release party. The room was packed with promoters and local musicians, plus the band of the moment and their hangers-on, and a few odd bodies like me. (It was probably in connection with Rolling Stone, although I recall that I was still free-lancing at the time.)
In the midst of all the noise and networking, I happened to notice, sitting morosely in a corner, a drab little bespectacled guy with a face like a Dickensian accountant. Thinking he looked a bit lost and lonely, I went over to talk to him.
His name was Micky. He was British, he was a drummer, and he was in San Francisco, he said, in hopes of “putting together a band with some guys.” I had never heard of the purported band, nor of any of the musicians, but at that time the city was awash with wannabe rock-stars of all nationalities, of which he appeared to be just one more.
He seemed glad to have someone to talk to. Apparently his bandmates had left without him (apparently not an uncommon occurrence), and would I like to go get some dinner?
Although he seemed a bit of a sad-sack, he was also a quietly interesting guy, the antithesis, I thought, of the usual careening-over-the-edge-on-two-wheels rock drummer. He didn’t talk a lot about the music scene, preferring to tell me about his beloved dogs, left at home, his girlfriend (who had just left him), his favorite pubs in London, etc.
Over the next week, at Micky’s request (when he wasn’t off trying out arrangements with his prospective bandmates), I showed him around the city—the Haight-Ashbury scene, Golden Gate Park, a streetcar ride out to the ocean—and we shared a few meals. (He did ask if I wanted to hang out with the band while they rehearsed, but I’d gotten my fill of such activities early on, and politely declined.)
On our last sort-of-date, he asked diffidently if I minded if we stopped to deliver a tape to his friend Richard. No problem, I said. We went to a cheesy Marriott Inn on Market Street, and knocked on the appropriate door, which was opened by… Little Richard!!!!
The man himself, big as life and in full plumage, resplendent in a powder-blue spangled jumpsuit, makeup, and Jheri-Curled conk, and positively incandescent with jewelry.
He received Micky and his “lovely companion” (me) effusively, expressed eternal gratitude for the tape, and said he was sorry to leave us, but he just had to go and “astound the population of this fair city” with his show. A limo pulled up, and, blowing kisses, he hopped into it and was gone.
A bit stunned, I asked Micky, “How do you know Little Richard?” “Oh,” he replied, “I played drums for him awhile back.”
Well, I thought to myself (in retrospect, a bit patronizingly):
maybe this nice nebbishy little guy actually has a chance at a music career after all.
Micky left the next day, and the last I heard from him was a call from LA, tentatively asking if I wanted “to fly down here and hang out with the Rolling Stones.”
Yeah, right, I thought, and again politely declined.
After that, I really didn’t think much about Micky, except to wonder occasionally if he’d ever gotten a band together. (The San Francisco venture had resulted in a single album that went nowhere.)
Then, upon reading of Little Richard’s passing: that flashback.
Curious, I went to Google and typed “Micky Waller” into the search bar.
Oh.
I found numerous entries, including, sadly, several obituaries. Here’s an excerpt from THE GUARDIAN, one of Britain’s most prominent newspapers:
September 6, 1941-April 29, 2008
“Micky Waller, who has died of liver failure, aged 66, was a ubiquitous face on the 1960s music scene in London, a superb jazz-trained drummer who played with a merry-go-round of bands, dating from his first gigs as a 19-year-old.
“He was much in demand as a session musician, and eventually became Rod Stewart's sticksman of choice, appearing on the majority of Stewart’s albums.
“He also worked with (among others) the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, the Jeff Beck Group, John Mayall's Bluesbreakers, Chuck Berry, Long John Baldry, Little Richard, the Walker Brothers, Cat Stevens, Eric Clapton, Bo Diddley, Tex-Mex accordion player Flaco Jimenez, Dusty Springfield, and Paul McCartney. In 1968, he was co-musical director of the rock musical Hair in London.
“In 2016, he was rated #78 on ROLLING STONE’S list of The Best 100 Drummers in Rock and Roll.
“Reserved and unassuming but quietly tough and always his own man, Waller was sought after for his individualistic heavy-drumming style, known in the rock world as the ‘Waller Wallop.’
“A highly intelligent man, he later took a law degree in his spare time and used his knowledge to win claims for various unpaid royalties. But he was pleased to say that he always made his living through music.”
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Well, I guess so. Cheers, Micky. I’ll just be over here eating a little humble pie.
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THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan’s Hill, Pennsylvania, c. 1949-1950s
BEFORE THERE WAS TV #2; GROWING UP WITH LITTLE MISS SUNBEAM
The Diane Arbus-like bit of childhood surrealism below was taken by my dad around 1949. The subjects are (l to r) me, my sister Susan, and our neighbor/playmate Peggy Mayberry, each of us wearing a novelty “Little Miss Sunbeam” promotional mask.
These unintentional grotesqueries were issued by Schaible’s Bakery, the local franchise for a product called Sunbeam Bread, which came in waxed-paper-wrapped units of uniformly sliced (and additive-laced) doughy whiteness, suitable for toasting, sandwiches, and rolling into gummy pellets for flicking at one’s schoolmates at lunch- hour.
Little Miss Sunbeam, designed by children’s-book illustrator Ellen Barbara Segner in 1942, was a constant presence in my childhood, appearing larger-than-life on the side of the Schaible’s delivery truck that brought the bread down our country lane, as well beaming from the wrapper of each loaf.
Back then, I was somewhat ambivalent about her cheery omnipresence: On the one hand, she apparently got to slather her bread with an impossible amount of butter, and gobble it whole directly from her hand instead of cutting it into finicky quarters, the way my mother insisted we do.
On the other hand, she looked like kind of a goody-pants in that stupid dress (I lived in overalls except for church), with her perfect blonde hair ribboned and curled (mine was mud-brown and always seemed to be full of rats and tangles).
At the time that the "mask" photo was taken, Little Miss Sunbeams’s biggest career moments were still ahead of her; she would go on to appear on billboards and in extensive ad campaigns, and star in her own storybooks, comic books, calendars, paper dolls, and greeting cards.
In 1955, she even achieved her very own avatar, in the person of a precocious tot named Patty Michaels, who had begun her modeling career at the age of five months, and was the top baby model at the prestigious Harry Conover Agency before being booked to shill for Sunbeam as a five-year-old.
Her job was to look and act adorable for promotional tours and special appearances. She was frequently accompanied on these junkets by a clown with the dreadful name of “Sir Clacky Wack,” of whom, she revealed in a later interview, she was terrified.
After two years of clown-dodging and sucking up to celebrities, Patty began chafing at her handlers' strict oversight of her public image, and quit being Little Miss Sunbeam after her manager yelled at her for eating chicken with her fingers at a restaurant. (She continued modeling, and went on to have a minor-league but persistent singing career, recording her first LP at the age of 15.)
Exit Patty, but her popularity was to spawn an ongoing nationwide series of Little Miss Sunbeam look-alike contests. I vaguely remember Peggy Mayberry’s mother dressing and curling Peggy’s little sister Kathy, a sweetly blonde tyke with a severe finger-sucking-and-blanket habit, and entering her in one of these. She didn’t win.
Now that, my friends, is an advertising icon.
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HISTORICAL NOTE: US soldiers in Vietnam, If they had no wounds, would state that they were members of the "Little Miss Sunbeam Club,"referencing the "batter-whipped" bread's promotional claim of "no holes, for freshness and firmness."
FYI: Sunbeam Bread ingredients list: unbleached enriched flour (wheat flour, malted barley flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamin mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid), water, high fructose corn syrup contains 2% or less of each of the following: yeast, wheat gluten, salt, soybean oil, dough conditioners (contains one or more of the following: sodium stearoyl lactylate calcium stearoyl lactylate, monoglycerides, mono - and diglycerides, distilled monoglycerides, calcium peroxide calcium 10date datem, ethoxylated mono - and diglycerides enzymes ascorbic acid), soy flour, soy lecithin, monocalcium phosphate, calcium sulfate, calcium carbonate, calcium propionate (to retard spoilage).
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19. THROWBACK THURSDAY: 1970s-Present in Vermont, New Hampshire, and California; Things Found in an Old Portfolio #3
IN ITS OWN MODEST WAY
Sometime in the mid-1970s, I walked into a Vermont country store (the kind that sells everything from hardware to haberdashery) and bought a hat.
As I did, I was suddenly overcome with an odd feeling of appreciation, and, as I sketched, began to mentally compose what can only be called an Ode to a Hat.
Then, a bit later, needing to practice my incised Roman Capitals, I surrounded my drawing with that verse. The hat’s outline created a somewhat odd configuration, so in case you have trouble deciphering it, here it is:
THIS IS MY HAT * NOT TOO ROUND * NOT TOO FLAT * NOT TOO SILLY OR SOBER * TOO JUNE OR OCTOBER * A SIMPLE CHAPEAU * FREE OF BUTTON OR BOW * UNEMBARRASSED BY LACE * KEEPS THE SUN FROM MY FACE * AND MY COWLICK IN PLACE * IN ITS OWN MODEST WAY * MY HAT IS OK *
Little did I know that this basic piece of headgear would stay with me not only through the remainder of the 70s, but through the 80s and 90s, and on into the second decade of the 21st century, always crisp, serviceable, uncrushable, water-resistant yet somehow washable, never in or out of fashion, and worth every penny of that begrudged $15.
And then some.
THE REMARKABLE JOURNEY OF KAREN THORSEN & THE PRICE OF THE TICKET
In 1967, when I traveled 3000 miles to attend graduate school at San Francisco State, I was not a happy camper. I’d arrived physically and emotionally run down, only to run smack into the culture-shock-wave that was San Francisco in the “Summer of Love.”
Everything was disconcerting and strange—the climate, the architecture, the assault of psychedelia. It didn’t help that SFS (which I’d chosen for its excellent creative writing program) was located in the city’s “fog belt;” that its buildings were mostly anonymous gray concrete bunkers; that, it was essentially a commuter school with no significant campus life, no student union, and a dissatisfied student population that would erupt into rioting within a year.
In short, I was feeling a bit Cinderella-like and in need of a Fairy Godmother.
And then, well, I kind of got one.
One day, consulting the campus jobs board for a way to supplement my teaching-assistant salary, I answered an ad looking for a writer for the San Francisco portion of a proposed Simon & Schuster guidebook called Where the Fun is—USA (I was not blind to the irony).
Truth to say, throughout our work on this project, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to show a streak of ruthlessness, selfishness, ego-inflation, or even just pettiness. Never happened.
When she came to SF to consult on the guidebook, we clicked immediately and, captivated by her genuine, effervescent, and seemingly effortless interaction with the world, I developed the beginnings of a serious girlcrush,
As the 1960s rolled into the 1970s and our friendship continued, I also found myself a bit in awe. After all, here I was poking along in grad school, then taking nowhere part-time jobs while attempting to freelance, and Karen’s star just kept ascending, from the book-publishing world into a position as reporter/editor at LIFE magazine (then still a media powerhouse); then traveling Europe as a foreign correspondent for TIME.
Her interests shifting to film, she went freelance, joining a French team for a feature film shoot in Asia; organizing a Super-8 film festival that played in New York City, Houston and Paris; then following a twice-optioned screenplay to Hollywood (the film’s producer died, and the option with him).
Soaking up knowledge of the movie biz while attempting to get a foothold in Hollywood, she found herself frustrated by repeated encounters with Tinseltown’s old-boy-network-casting-couch mentality, and decided to learn to make her own films,.
Turning to the (slightly) less-sexist world of advertising, Karen spent a year putting herself through a kind of real-life version of film school. She hired on for writing, producing, and/or directing TV ads (including one for Jell-O™ Pudding Pops that featured Bill Cosby, whom she describes succinctly as “difficult”) and short films, including an award-winning annual report for Warner Communications.
Side-stepping again, into the world of documentary filmmaking, she scripted a film called The Fed that won a CINE Golden Eagle Award; her future husband and co-producer Doug Dempsey was part of the production crew.
All during this time, Karen would pop luminously into my San Francisco life at intervals, arriving suntanned and bubbling with stories from a location film shoot to crash on my floor, or, depending on the job, expense-accounting it at high-priced hotels. Either was absolutely fine with her, as we (often hilariously) compared notes on our separate lives and careers (I’d acquired one by then). Over the years, we’d meet up almost any time we found ourselves in the same zipcode.
Then she scored her dream assignment, a collaboration, for PBS’s American Masters series, with one of her all-time idols, the great James Baldwin, on a cinema verité piece about the writing of Remember This House, which was to be his next book.
They must have been somewhat of an odd couple, the earnest New England blueblood and the gay black genius, but, sharing a deep social conscience and mutual love of language, they began to work together companionably.
Then, On December 1st, 1987, the 63-year-old Baldwin died of stomach cancer. (The subject of Karen’s first on-her-own documentary film, financed by her savings, was his funeral.) The cinema verité film project evolved into a tribute to his life and work, and over the next two years, Karen wrote, produced (with Doug and several others), and directed James Baldwin:The Price of the Ticket, which debuted to great acclaim in 1989.
Karen and Doug would go on to form their own “DKDMedia” company, and their collaborations and solo efforts began to show up regularly (collecting awards and accolades along the way) on the History Channel, the Learning Channel, and on National Geographic specials, along with work for the Smithsonian, Mount Vernon, IMAX, the Independent Television Service, the Ford Foundation, the Pilgrim Museum, the National Endowment for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Humanities, CBS Mystery Theater, the New York State Council for the Arts, and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.
In 2012, Karen scripted, co-directed and -produced her second feature-length documentary, Joe Papp in Five Acts, centered on the remarkable Broadway producer of Hair, A Chorus Line, The Normal Heart, and NYC’s enduring free “Shakespeare in the Park” program, which became a showcase for up-and-coming young actors.
The documentary’s cast included “Shakespeare” alumni James Earl Jones, Olympia Dukakis, Martin Sheen, Meryl Streep, Kevin Kline, and Christopher Walken.
Then in 2014, something utterly unexpected happened. About 25 years after its first appearance, The Price of the Ticket, now deemed more relevant than ever, was rediscovered, re-mastered, re-released, and, along with Karen and Doug, sent on a national and world-wide tour of celebration (see below for its impressive list of awards and appearances), which continues to this day, with the film serving as a centerpiece for Black film festivals, studies, discussions, workshops and consciousness-raising in general. It has since deservedly taken its place in the documentary pantheon as a classic.
So here’s a story: one day, back in 1969, when I was briefly living and working in New York City, Karen dropped into the place I shared with two flatmates. I introduced her to one of them, a sharp young lawyer named Bill. We had a lively conversation (during which I somehow learned more about Bill than I had in two months of sharing), then she was off, on her way to yet another production meeting.
I returned from seeing Karen to the door to find a bemused Bill still standing there. “Wow,” he said, looking a bit stunned and not a little smitten, “The world is her lollipop!”
The world has not always been Karen’s lollipop; even the most charmed lives, after all, encounter their share of setbacks, letdowns, no-gos, snafus, and leaky roofs, and hers is no exception.
What hasn’t changed since our first meeting is her inimitable combination of grace, humor, persistence, optimism, and tireless social conscience. She and Doug, when not traveling with the Baldwin film, now live and work in New England. Their son, Dylan Kai Dempsey (another DKD production) is in his turn a Manhattan-based filmmaker and critic. All of them are still very much engaged (as it states in Karen’s official biography) in finding inspiration at the intersection of art and social justice.
Back in 1967, I developed a girlcrush on Karen Thorsen. Now every time I pick up the phone and hear her voice, with its warm lilt of caring, humor and possibility, I realize anew that, by gosh, I’ve still got one.
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https://www.pbs.org/…/james-baldwin-karen-thorsen-bio…/2652/
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5zg1fx8OLI ( The New School presents A special 25th Anniversary screening and discussion of the documentary James Baldwin: The Price of the Ticket (87 minutes) by filmmaker Karen Thorsen.)
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James Baldwin:The Price of the Ticket
Over 50 Film Festivals Worldwide
Dozens of Awards & Honors, including:
United States:
• Academy of Motion Pictures: Oscar Short List –
Number Six of the Top Ten Documentaries
• American Film & Video Festival: Red Ribbon
• Atlanta Film Festival: Special Jury Award
• Black Filmmakers Hall of Fame Award
• Chicago International Film Festival: Silver Hugo
• Chicago Lesbian and Gay International Film Festival of Film
• CINE Golden Eagle
• International Film & Television Film Festival (New York): Finalist
• Margaret Mead Film Festival (New York)
• National Film & Video Film Festival: Gold Apple
• New York International Film Festival of Lesbian and Gay Film
• North Carolina Film Festival: Documentary Award
• On Screen: A Celebration of Women in Film (San Francisco)
• Outfest: The Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Film Festival
• San Francisco International Film Festival: Golden Gate Award
• Seattle International Film Festival
• Sinking Creek Film & Video Festival (Nashville, Tennessee): Sinking Creek Award
• Southern Circuit Tour of Independent Filmmakers (North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky…)
• Sundance Film Festival (1990): Special Tribute (not in competition because it had already been aired on PBS)
• Sundance Film Festival in Tokyo (1991): One of "Ten Best American Independent Films" from the past two years
• Telluride Film Festival (Colorado)
• Virginia Festival of American Film
U.S. Laurels:
• Ten Best Indie Films - 1990
Sundance
• Oscar Short List #6 / Top Ten Docs
Academy Awards
• Golden Gate Award
San Francisco
• Gold Apple
NFVF
• Red Ribbon
AFVF
• Silver Hugo
Chicago
• Sinking Creek Award
Nashville
• Special Jury Award
Atlanta
• Documentary Award
North Carolina
• Black Filmmakers Award
Black Filmmakers Hall of Fame
• Cine Golden Eagle
International:
• Amiens International Film Festival (France)
Banff World Media Festival (Canada): Rockie Award, Finalist
Berlin Film Festival / American Independents in Berlin (Germany): AIB Tribute
Cinéma du Réel (Paris, France)
Dok Leipzig (Germany)
Festival di Populi (Florence, Italy): Premio di Recerca
Festroia International Film Festival (Troia, Potugal)
Hong Kong International Film Festival
IDFA / International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam (Holland)
INPUT '90 (Canada) (international forum held in a different country each year): Special Tribute
International Documentary Film Festival (Vienna, Prague & Budapest)
Istanbul International Film Festival (Turkey): Special Tribute
Jerusalem Film Festival (Israel)
London International Film Festival (England)
Melbourne International Film Festival (Australia)
Munich International Film Festival (Germany)
New Zealand International Film Festival (Auckland, Wellington, Christ Church…)
Nyon Documentary Film Festival / Visions du Réel (Switzerland): Silver Sesterce
Sydney Film Festival (Australia): Audience Award
Torino GLBT Film Festival (Italy)
Valladolid International Film Festival (Spain)
USIA in Japan (Fukuoka, Hiroshima, Osaka, Kyoto, Tokyo, Sapporo…)
Weekly Mail Film Festival (Johannesburg & Cape Town, South Africa)
Yamagata International Documentary Film Festival (Japan)
International Laurels:
• Audience Award
Sydney
• Silver Sesterce
Nyon
• Premio di Recerca
Festival di Populi
• AIB Tribute
Berlin
• Finalist
Banff
• Special Tribute
Istanbul
ALL MY BLOGS TO DATE
MEMOIRS (This is not as daunting as it looks. Each section contains 20 short essays, ranging in length from a few paragraphs to a few pages. Great bathroom reading.
They’re not in sequential order, so one can start anywhere.)
NOTE: If you prefer to read these on paper, you can highlight/copy/paste into a Word doc and print them out, (preferably two-sided or on the unused side of standard-sized paper).
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
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ILLUSTRATED ADVENTURES IN VERSE
NEW! FLYING TIME; OR, THE WINGS OF KAYLIN SUE
(2020)
https://amiehillflyingtime.blogspot.com/
(38 lines, 17 illustrations)
TRE & THE ELECTRO-OMNIVOROUS GOO
(2018)
http://the-electroomnivorousgoo.blogspot.com/2018/05/an-adventure-in-verse.html
(160 lines, 26 illustrations)
DRACO& CAMERON
(2017)
http://dracoandcameron.blogspot.com/ (36 lines, 18 illustrations)
CHRISTINA SUSANNA
(1984/2017)
https://christinasusanna.blogspot.com/ (168 lines, 18 illustrations)
OBSCURELY ALPHABETICAL & D IS FOR DYLAN
(2017) (1985)
https://obscurelyalphabetical.blogspot.com/ (41 lines, 8 illustrations)
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ARTWORK
AMIE HILL: CALLIGRAPHY & DRAWINGS
https://amiehillcalligraphy.blogspot.com/
AMIE HILL: COLLAGES 1https://amiehillcollages1.blogspot.com/
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LIBERA HISTORICAL TIMELINE (2007-PRESENT)
