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Welcome to my past.
I was born the year before
WWII ended, and have since led what many people seem to consider a varied and
colorful life.
I can’t remember when friends
first started telling me that I should write my memoirs, but in 2015, I began
posting brief chapters of reminiscence each week as “Throwback Thursday” essays
on Facebook.
Before long, readers started
telling me that I should compile these essays into a book. While a nice idea,
this was impractical because of the sheer number of photos, many in color,
involved in over 200 (and counting) essays.
I next considered a website,
but upon inquiry, discovered that setting one up would be a very expensive
proposition, and I’d still have to do most of the work anyway.
Since I’ve long been familiar
with the elements of the free online tool Blogger™, I decided to turn the memoir essays into linked sections, each containing 20 stories. (Apologies for any disparity in type size and/or eccentricities in spacing as a result of importing material from other sources)
These tales are not in any
kind of autobiographical order. Many of them are about fascinating people I’ve
known, including members of my family. Some are based on my own artwork. They're all just the tiniest bit outrageous.
Welcome to my past.
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| Photo by Laura Goldman |
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. PRESBYTERIANS GONE WILD
2. BARING TO BE GREAT; THE ANNUAL SAUCY FRENCH POSTCARDS
Or,
GETTING ZYMED
4. PHAEDRA AND THE FUNNY LADY
5. THE ISRAEL FRIENDSHIP CAMP: REMEMBERING THE GIRGASHITES
6. LOCAL PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH FAMILY: PLAIN, GAY, OR ENGLISH?
8. A FAMILY TALE: THE CURIOUS ACCOUNT OF
THE IRONMASTER’S FORTUNE, SIR HUMPHREY’S BEQUEST, THE CARELESS VALET, THE
GENIUS OF MR. CHARLES DICKENS, AND THE SCAM OF THE (18th) CENTURY
9. THE ACCIDENTAL SUPERHERO
10. GREAT-GRANDPA JIM AND THE BANDIT QUEEN
11. DR. CALIFORNIA’S GOLDEN GATE REMEDY CAST PHOTO
12. GRANDDAD VERNE AND THE ART OF THE PHOTOBOMB
13. DOES ANYONE ELSE HAVE A COLLECTION OF SURREAL STILT-WALKING
PHOTOS?
14. EVERYBODY SHOULD GROW UP NEAR A HAUNTED MOUNTAIN
15. MAD MAUDLEN, THE TREE SATYR, AND THE #7 MARKET STREET BUS
16. RHUBARB
17. I WAS THROWN IN AT THE DEEP END
19. PHOTO: ART IS EVERYWHERE
20. A SEMI-RELUCTANT FATHER CHRISTMAS
21. HIGH FOR A LIVING
21. HIGH FOR A LIVING
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1. THROWBACK THURSDAY: 1990s,
Easton, Pennsylvania and Occidental, California
For nearly half a century, my parents were pillars of the First Presbyterian Church of Easton, PA. My dad was especially active—running the audiovisual and sound systems, taking photos of new members and Sunday-school classes, putting together social events for the congregation, etc.
One day, out in California, I
received a letter from him with an index card enclosed; he asked if I would
render the text on the card into Gothic script, and maybe add a little drawing,
for which he had several suggestions.
I subsequently heard from him that
the poster resulting from our cross-country collaboration was a big hit with
the Presbyterians.
Oh, yes, the sinful occasion? A
benefit chocolate-tasting. When Presbyterians go wild, believe me, they don’t
do it by halves.
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2. THROWBACK THURSDAY: San Francisco, California;
1970s
BARING TO BE GREAT
Or
SAUCY FRENCH POSTCARDS
At that time in SF, a naked body
bouncing and jiggling around in public was strictly licensed and regulated as
topless/bottomless/nude dancing. If the nude body in question held perfectly
still, however, in classic tableau vivant style, it was legally Art, by golly, and have at it.
The first appearance of the
Naughty/Saucy French Postcards Tableaux Vivants (now in their
thirty-somethingth year at the DCF) was as an after-hours entertainment for
cast and crew.
Above: the first "Postcards" backstage for the cast & crew: A saucy maid (moi) spanks a
willing gentleman (Bob Carr), with Rona Elliott providing a poker-faced
lecture-hall narration.
Here, the maid tends a demure
lady (C.G. Sevilla) in her boudoir, with Will Wood narrating.
By the next Fair, held in the Cow
Palace, we were ready for a public, ahem, airing, in a short theater piece called Postcard From
Paris. This playlet depicted (carefully lit behind a scrim) the naughty
daydreams of a respectable middle-class Victorian gentleman (Will Wood again, as"Horatio Puddingforth"),
as his clueless spouse (Judy Kory) nattered on about news and cultural events
of the day.
This produced, among others, such
randy crowd scenes as (frontals here blurred into androgyny to avoid shocking grandchildren): "The
Harem," "Nymphs and Satyrs," "International Friendship," and "Letitia
Puddingforth Among The Gods and Goddesses on Mount Olympus"—the
jest here being that, as daydreamer H. Puddingforth had never seen his wife
in the nude, he simply couldn't imagine it.
The resulting photographs below (taken sans scrim) have an impish old-masters chiaroscuro charm, and the photographer, thankfully, was not close enough to capture the goosebumps that covered us all more thoroughly than any drapery.
The last photo here is the "curtain call," where, hearing applause, we realized that there were indeed people out there looking at us.  Take a bow, Beth, Star, Sandy, Rona, Catherine, David, Aleta, Ray, Amie, Sylvia and Kimberly. ############################## |
3. THROWBACK THURSDAY:
Freestone, California, 1987-1991
3. YOU DO WHAT FOR A LIVING?
Or
GETTING ‘ZYMED; THE BLISS FACTOR
Or
GETTING ‘ZYMED; THE BLISS FACTOR
If I had been a guest on one of
the many revivals of the TV quiz show What’s My Line in the late 1980s, I
would have stumped the celebrity panel cold.
Or, as one of my friends used to
introduce me: “This is Amie; she composts people for a living.”
It all started in the fall of
1987. I had just left the east coast half of my bi-coastal lifestyle, and was
back in Sonoma County full-time and unemployed.
I was discussing this situation
with friends one evening, when one of them said: “You know, Michael Stusser is
looking for somebody to work at the enzyme bath.”
My ears perked up big-time. I had
never met Michael, but his legend loomed large at the Farallones Institute
Rural Center (where I had lived in the early 1980s) as one of its board
members, and as a co-creator of its amazing gardens.
During my stay at the Rural
Center, Michael had been off in Japan, studying zen and zen gardening and
living an austere lifestyle that eventually left him with a near-crippling case
of sciatica. He tried many treatments, and as a last resort visited a spa
offering something called an “enzyme bath.”
Bingo. Michael had found both a
cure and a calling—to establish the first enzyme bath in the US. He called it
“Osmosis.”
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| Michael Stusser cooling of a patron at the first Emzyme Bath. |
Take a large cedar open-topped box
about the size of a double bed.
Line it with copper and fill it with a mixture of powdered high-phenol Port Orford cedar, rice bran, and a secret brew of plant enzymes and water.
Line it with copper and fill it with a mixture of powdered high-phenol Port Orford cedar, rice bran, and a secret brew of plant enzymes and water.
Mix thoroughly, creating a firm,
moist, earthily fragrant and fluffy medium that heats itself up through
fermentation alone to temperatures as high as 140˚ F.
Yes, it’s the same
process that powers your compost heap, but because of the purity and nature of
its ingredients, it’s not only clean but fragrant and therapeutic.
Bury someone in an enzyme bath,
the way you might bury a friend in sand at the beach, and the results range
from extremely pleasant to miraculous.
(NOTE: You may wonder why, if
they’re so wonderful, enzyme baths haven’t proliferated throughout the US.
Well, they require special conditions that are tricky to maintain, some hard-to-find
ingredients that can’t be mass-produced, and a dedication to detail that
borders on the fanatical. (Can you say “Michael Stusser?”)
The burying was just one part of
my job. The rest was a complex dance of: welcoming guests; brewing and serving
a special enzyme tea while explaining the process to the uninitiated; using a
garden fork to prepare a person-friendly space in the steaming bath medium;
covering the (unclothed or bathing-suit-clad) guest; being unobtrusively
available to provide cool cloths and drinks of water and instructions for
self-cooling (take hands and feet out).
Then, after about 20 minutes, helping guest
exit tub and brush off personal layer of enzymes; while guest showers,
smoothing bath medium, sweeping, dusting and restoring order to tub room;
showing guests to “wrap room” to lie down and listen to relaxing tapes, or
introducing them to massage therapist; Smudging the room with burning cedar;
and greeting the next guest to do it all over again.
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| Osmosis Bath Attendants and Massage therapists in the 1990s. Michael Stusser is front row center; I'm second from left at the back |
If there was a gap between guests,
it was spent answering the phone; booking appointments and massage therapists;
tending the Japanese-style garden and garden-sized bonsai in containers; vacuuming; cleaning
windows; or mending the Japanese-style cotton robes that guests frequently
seemed to mangle when putting on and removing them.
At the end of the day, I would add
water to the tub and use the garden fork to turn several cubic yards’ worth of
enzyme-bath material completely over, leaving it smooth and ready to reheat
itself overnight. Luckily, the job of mixing, emptying, and re-filling the tubs
was done by big guys with strong backs.
If I’d thought all this was a complex undertaking (with only occasional back-to-back and multiple-guest appointments), imagine my befuddlement when, in 1989, we left our tiny temple-like building and isolated wooded valley and moved to a much larger structure in the nearby historic-district village of Freestone, just off a busy highway.
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| Massage therapist at the original Osmosis. |
If I’d thought all this was a complex undertaking (with only occasional back-to-back and multiple-guest appointments), imagine my befuddlement when, in 1989, we left our tiny temple-like building and isolated wooded valley and moved to a much larger structure in the nearby historic-district village of Freestone, just off a busy highway.
| |
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| A happy Bath Attendant |
I also painted and spackled walls,
raked patterns in gravel, repaired cushions and screens, designed labels for
the house brand of teas, edited newsletters, and, yes, repaired robes.
That first year was a challenge
for everyone, but the routines and job frustrations eventually smoothed out.
Even so, it was nonstop and demanding work. Why did I keep at it?
Well, the pay was fair, the tips
excellent, the co-workers wonderful, the guests often fascinating, and the
workplace simply beautiful. Not to mention the very tangible perk of ending a
late shift by “getting ‘zymed”—one’s very own session in the bath.
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| "Zymer," one of the two resident bliss-kitties; the other was "Osmo." |
And then there was what we called
“The Bliss Factor.” It was very easy to get hooked on being part of the
constant transformation of people who arrived stressed, unhappy, grumpy,
apprehensive, tense, and/or in pain, and left smiling, relaxed, glowing, and
euphoric.
On more than one occasion I actually failed to recognize a person leaving as the uptight soul who had arrived earlier, almost as if they’d undergone a change at the cellular level.
On more than one occasion I actually failed to recognize a person leaving as the uptight soul who had arrived earlier, almost as if they’d undergone a change at the cellular level.
| |
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| The Tea Garden |
I was serving tea to a guest, a
hard-edged guy from New York City, a lawyer or stockbroker or some other
cutthroat profession (heaven knows how he found his way to us).
“So what do you do for a living?”
he asked me.
I told him that this was what I
did for a living.
“Oh, come on!” he protested
indignantly,” This isn’t a living! People don’t live this way! This isn’t real
life! Jeez!”
I changed the subject.
Later, during the course of the
enzyme bath, I watched his face smooth out, his jaw unclench, his breathing
slow down. As I tucked him, post-shower, into the wrap room, he was oddly
silent.
When I went to knock softly on the
wrap-room door, I found him outside, sitting on edge of the deck in the golden
late-afternoon sunlight, wearing his soft cotton robe, his feet bare, his
expensive haircut damp and rumpled, staring out over the lovely wooded valley.
He turned to me with a bewildered expression on his face.
“Wh-what happened?” he asked.
I couldn’t resist. “Real life,” I
said.
(Translation: you got ‘zymed,
buddy.)
################
CODA: Osmosis, now Osmosis Day Spa
Sanctuary, has since grown by leaps and bounds, with national and international
media coverage and numerous awards, including “Most Spiritual Spa in America,”
and one of the “Top Ten Spas Worldwide” (see also photos below). It was also
named one of the “Healthiest Work Places in Sonoma County.”
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| A ceremony in the Meditation Garden |
Over the years, Michael and crew
have added a spectacular meditation garden; creekside massage “pagodas;” giant
outdoor hammocks; additional services like facials and specialty massages;
sincere community involvement; retreats, special events, workshops…well, read
(and watch) for yourself:
###############################
4. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Occidental, California; April 2nd, 2011
PHAEDRA AND THE FUNNY LADY
Occidental’s FoolsDay tumbled into the first decade of the new millennium like a runaway Technicolor whoopee cushion.
First held in 2004, when a collection of local artists, musicians, and other fools decided to revive a short-lived 1970s village event called Silly Day, it proved to be an idea whose time had come.
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| A trio of Fools in 2011 |
As years went by, the whole thing got bigger and sillier, and began to involve food and music and special performances, live radio interviews, and “SO West County” TV coverage.
Now it’s a major event in the Sonoma County calendar, annually filling the tiny village of Occidental to the brim with foolishness, and at the heart of it all is always the parade.
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| The Hubbub Club Marching Band rocks out. |
part of it.
I caught her eye and held out my hand. She glanced up at her hip young mom, who surprisingly said eight magic words:
“Well, go ahead, Phaedra, if you want to.”
She came winging over to me like a princess butterfly. She hadn’t realized, however, that the inside of the parade would be a lot noisier and crowded than the outside, and she clung to my hand nervously at first, going a little shy when my friend Michael popped up to take our photo. Soon, however, she was waving, smiling and skipping along to the music like a born fool.
Since Occidental’s main
drag is only two blocks long, the parade traditionally makes a number of
circuits of the route, allowing everybody to see and be seen before heading
down the road to the Occidental Center for the Arts for further festivities.
I caught her eye and held out my hand. She glanced up at her hip young mom, who surprisingly said eight magic words:
“Well, go ahead, Phaedra, if you want to.”
She came winging over to me like a princess butterfly. She hadn’t realized, however, that the inside of the parade would be a lot noisier and crowded than the outside, and she clung to my hand nervously at first, going a little shy when my friend Michael popped up to take our photo. Soon, however, she was waving, smiling and skipping along to the music like a born fool.
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| Parading with Phaedra (still a little shy). |
After one or two circuits, Phaedra’s mother appeared and waved her in. The little sweetheart hugged me, whispered a tickly “thank you” into my ear, and went running to Mom to tell her all about it. Then, just as I raised my camera, she turned back and gave me the smile of a lifetime.
I smiled back, welcoming her to the sisterhood of Little Girls Who Finally Got To Be In The Parade.
5. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Interlocken Center for Experiential Education, Hillsboro, New Hampshire, 1981-1989; Israel, 1987-1989
(A Jewish friend of mine later explained that one of the biggest facets of being Jewish was arguing about what it meant to be Jewish.)
When Yahweh your God brings you into the land that you are about to enter and occupy, and he clears away many nations before you—the Hittites, the Girgashites, the Amorites, the Canaanites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites, seven nations mightier and more numerous than you… then you must utterly destroy them. Make no covenant with them and show them no mercy. (Deut. 7:1–2)
And hell, they're still at it.
My dad appears to have been in a waggish mood when he captioned this photo of my mother, my sister Susan and me (the toddler in the bonnet) in the spring of 1946.
The German religious sects—primarily the Amish and Mennonites—who dressed in simple prescribed garb and held to strict religion-dictated behaviors, were known as “plain Dutch.”
My mom’s family would have been referred to by them as “English Dutch” or “gay Dutch.”
This had nothing to do with dual nationality or sexual orientation; it merely meant that their religious affiliations (if any) didn’t keep them from participating in the fashions and behavior of the general populace.
Although surrounded by farmers of German descent, our family didn’t see much of the plain folks, who tended to cluster in communities south of us in Bucks and Lancaster Counties.
I do remember a crowd of Amish workmen (Yoders and Stoltzfuses) that descended on us to attach a silo to the stable that my dad was converting into a rental apartment. (He built a spiral staircase inside it for an indoor connection between the two floors.)
I, by the way, am a true mutt, according to AncestryDNA and 23&Me. The disparities in the results come from the fact that each of these companies have more samples of, and thus more information, on, slightly different population groups.
My DNA also contains a wash of Neanderthal markers.
Neanderthals; Homo neanderthalensis or Homo sapiens neanderthalensis): an extinct species or subspecies of archaic humans who lived in Eurasia until about 40,000 years ago . They lived and interbred with homo sapiens for awhile.
Who knew?
7. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan's Hill, Pennsylvania; Sometime around 1957 or 1958
SNOWMILL
Brother David and I were going for the world's largest snowman—and then things took a turn for the architectural. (Photo by Howard Hill)
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And organize it he did, enlisting the help of administrators, counselors, and fellow campers. Soon realizing that not everyone would want to run 5.5 miles (even to end up at a popular roadside drive-in called Diamond Acres for ice cream), they made provision for timekeepers and water-station-minders, traffic directors, sag-wagon drivers and cheerleaders, eventually finding an appropriate role for every single person in the camp.
The start of the 1988 Andy Upton Classic
And just like that, the “Andy Upton Classic” became a beloved annual July event at the ISC, always with a hard core of serious runners out front, followed by a pack of giddy-but-game first-timers and a gaggle of ever-evolving new twists—walkers, costumes, piggyback, blindfolded, grandmas pushing strollers, three-legged, backwards—everybody winding up sweaty, elated, and full of ice cream.
After a year of panting through the race as a runner, I formed the "Turtles" (slow and steady does it) for others inclined to walk the race. (Decoration by an impish friend.)
Over the years, long after Andy had gone on to study law and to be named a “Massachusetts Rising Star” by Boston magazine, newcomers to the ISC were still posing the question “Who is Andy Upton, anyway?”
The answer began to take on on a life of its own. With a little help from puckish staff members, “Andy Upton,” in the minds of generation after generation of ISC kids, became a mythical Forrest Gump-like über-runner, criss-crossing the world in search of...something.
An odd look came over his face; he went over to a display cabinet and removed a worn star-shaped badge and a watch-fob shaped like a Colt .45 pistol. “These were my great-grandfather’s,” he said, “He was the sheriff who arrested Belle Starr.”
I’ve always wished I’d known my maternal grandfather Verne Arnts (1888-1941), who passed on before I was born. Although his father was a rugged Civil-War-vet teamster/farmer, Verne seems to have made the decision early in life to go white-collar.
As a young
man, he opened an insurance agency in Bangor, Pennsylvania, and made a
prosperous living out of it, enough to raise a family of ten in solid
middle-class style.
A good time was apparently had by all, especially my distinguished granddad, who was, after all, once just a kid himself.
13. THROWBACK THURSDAY, Renaissance Pleasure Faire, Novato, California, and San Francisco, California; MID-1970S
ANYONE ELSE HAVE A COLLECTION OF SURREAL STILT-WALKING PHOTOS?
This spooky double-exposure, by or of somebody named Megan, appears to include a somewhat dissipated but benevolent "Ghost of Harvests Past."
ON TOP OF HEXENKOPF,
Or
Originally a Lutheran-based faith-healing practice (and I was amazed to discover that pow-wow is still practiced as a branch of Christianity today—go ahead, Google it), pow-wow doctoring had evolved, in this tiny isolated place, into a potent combination of Indian healing lore, herbalism, laying on of hands, charms, incantations, a touch of hypnotic suggestion, and a large helping of practical witchcraft.
For instance, if you went to a
pow-wow doctor, or “Braucher,” especially in the tiny town of Raubsville, PA, he or
she was likely to use Hexenkopf as a kind of medical lightning rod, deftly
sending your disease or demons into the rock, to be conducted safely into the
earth beneath.
Some maintained that the evil remained in the rock itself, causing it to glow in the moonlight (another explanation was its high mica content).
By the 1950s, the woods had grown up around the base of the crag, and it was effectively hidden from the public. Even so, it continued (and still does) to attract believers in the miraculous, faerie, pagan, and/or satanic.
The present owners (two college professors who have since written extensively about it) purchased the land on which it hulks, never knowing at the time of purchase that their woodland concealed a kind of magical mecca until the first time a group of pagans showed up to respectfully request permission to use it for their Walpurgisnacht observances.
15. THROWBACK THURSDAY, San Francisco, California; late 1970s
16. Throwback Thursday: Mammy Morgan's Hill, Pennsylvania; Late summer, 1956.
17. THROWBACK THURSDAY; Renaissance Pleasure Faire, Novato, California; Fall of 1969
Carol bustled back in: "Can you dance on a table?" WHAT?
It seemed that more press persons had shown up for the luxurious dinner than had been expected, and there was no room on the floor for anything more sedate than a foxtrot. "I'll try," I quavered.
So that's how it came about that I found myself, dressed in clothes the likes of which I'd never worn before, dancing down a long table in a raucous room packed with people (half in Renaissance costume, and half nicely stuffed and toasted members of the press who had lost their inhibitions two courses ago), to music I'd barely heard before, played by someone I'd just met, dodging napkins and dessert plates and bowls of trifle, teasing strange men (who were grabbing at my ankles) with witty comments in a saucy pseudo-French accent, and suddenly knowing, to the depths of my being, that I had come home.
Following my impromptu "audition," I then was invited by Carol LaFleur to join the Faire cast, I showed up, but had no idea what to do until Carol came up to me, towing Jim Kahlo, who was a little tottery on the forest floor because of his arthritis, and said "Here, James needs someone to escort him around." So we became a Faire item.
Then one day the young girl who had been elected Harvest Maid failed to show up. (The choosing of the HM was done by the Faire crew back then.) This young girl was ethereally fair, but much preferred being on the garbage detail and would kind of slouch in the hay cart, scowling, instead of smiling and waving at those along the procession route.
When she failed to appear, Carol grabbed me and said "Get in the hay cart! Smile! Wave!" The rest is history.
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I smiled back, welcoming her to the sisterhood of Little Girls Who Finally Got To Be In The Parade.
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5. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Interlocken Center for Experiential Education, Hillsboro, New Hampshire, 1981-1989; Israel, 1987-1989
THE ISRAEL FRIENDSHIP CAMP
Or
REMEMBERING THE GIRGASHITES
I'm no Biblical scholar, but a
childhood spent attending church, Sunday school and Bible school, as well as a
brilliant college-English course that required a careful cover-to-cover reading
of the King James Version (the only deathless work of art ever produced by a
committee) gives me some game.
Or
REMEMBERING THE GIRGASHITES
I'm no Biblical scholar, but a
childhood spent attending church, Sunday school and Bible school, as well as a
brilliant college-English course that required a careful cover-to-cover reading
of the King James Version (the only deathless work of art ever produced by a
committee) gives me some game.
That said, Interlocken in the
1980s was an exciting place to be. In 1981, the newly opened People’s Republic
of China invited our little organization to create the US-China Friendship
Camp, which, from 1982 until the Tienanmen Square riots in 1989, brought
together American and Chinese kids in mainland China for a summer camp-style
program of travel, adventure and cultural exchange.
This very successful and
groundbreaking venture created a lot of positive international publicity and
led directly to Interlocken’s Next Big Adventure, the Israel Friendship Camp.
Here I quote myself from a 1998 book, The Interlocken Difference:
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| Richard (back, second from left) and Susan Herman in China to set up the US-China Friendship Camp |
“The Israel program was wacky from
the beginning, when Edgar Bronfman, an impossibly rich and influential New York
person who was head of the Seagram’s Corporation, summoned [Richard Herman,
co-founder and -director of Interlocken] and told him that Interlocken had been
chosen to realize a very personal project for him in Israel.
“We all got rather pumped-up and starry-eyed, although from the beginning there was a serious dichotomy, with Richard seeing it as a great peace-and-brotherhood-in-the-Middle-East opportunity, and [Co-founder and –Director] Susan Herman quite rcorrectly divining that what Bronfman really wanted, in spite of what he told Richard about peace and brotherhood, was a Jewish camp to teach Jewish kids how to be Jewish.
“As the writer of the IFC catalog, I wound up one day in a meeting with Michael Paley, who was then the resident progressive-mystic rabbi at Dartmouth, and a Bronfman person who was a Holocaust survivor, and several big-city lawyers and assistants who worked for Seagram’s, and Richard and Susan and other people of various Jewish attitudes and persuasions, all trying to make the camp into what they personally thought it should be.
 | |
| Edgar Bronfman: rich guy and grandson of a bootlegger |
“We all got rather pumped-up and starry-eyed, although from the beginning there was a serious dichotomy, with Richard seeing it as a great peace-and-brotherhood-in-the-Middle-East opportunity, and [Co-founder and –Director] Susan Herman quite rcorrectly divining that what Bronfman really wanted, in spite of what he told Richard about peace and brotherhood, was a Jewish camp to teach Jewish kids how to be Jewish.
 |
| Rabbi Michael Paley |
“As the writer of the IFC catalog, I wound up one day in a meeting with Michael Paley, who was then the resident progressive-mystic rabbi at Dartmouth, and a Bronfman person who was a Holocaust survivor, and several big-city lawyers and assistants who worked for Seagram’s, and Richard and Susan and other people of various Jewish attitudes and persuasions, all trying to make the camp into what they personally thought it should be.
 |
| Me, about then |
“And then there was me, who’s not
Jewish at all, trying to make some kind of written sense of it—every word in
that brochure was queried and discussed and argued about ad nauseam.”
(A Jewish friend of mine later explained that one of the biggest facets of being Jewish was arguing about what it meant to be Jewish.)
I eventually did produce a
brochure that seemed to work for everybody, but at that meeting, so incongruous
at free-and-easy Interlocken, overwhelmed by vehement arguments and stances and
rebuttals and proposals flying back and forth between the Hermans and Michael
Paley and all the NYC people with their power-shark suits and attitudes, I felt
as if I might as well not have been there at the table at all.
That is, until the moment when Michael Paley, excitedly describing a potential program, said: "—and we could have the kids follow in the footsteps of Joshua, at the places where he defeated the enemies of Israel, the, the…” He stopped, and it was evident that his mind had gone absolutely blank.
 |
| Richard Herman with Edgar Bronfman in Israel |
That is, until the moment when Michael Paley, excitedly describing a potential program, said: "—and we could have the kids follow in the footsteps of Joshua, at the places where he defeated the enemies of Israel, the, the…” He stopped, and it was evident that his mind had gone absolutely blank.
At approximately the same time, my
automatic brain/mouth reaction kicked in, and I heard myself saying clearly: “…
the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Hivites, the Perizzites, the Girgashites, the
Amorites, and the Jebusites.”
Jaws dropped. And poof! Just like that, I was suddenly at the table.
Jaws dropped. And poof! Just like that, I was suddenly at the table.
The IFC was no King James Version;
in the end, nobody arguing at that table got exactly what he/she wanted. All
three summers were a hard and bumpy ride for the grownups involved, an uneasy
hybrid of Bronfman and Interlocken styles, punctuated by the sometimes
literally explosive realities of life in Israel.
But the campers, by all accounts,
had a marvelous (and eye-opening) cross-cultural time of it, experiencing
firsthand both the deep history and the modern tensions of an endlessly
fascinating part of the world, and probably learning more about the Girgashites
than I ever did.
Oh, and here's the relevant scripture:
 |
| Richard Herman leads Arab and Jewish students in "Down by th Wadi Side" in a Bedouin tent. |
Oh, and here's the relevant scripture:
When Yahweh your God brings you into the land that you are about to enter and occupy, and he clears away many nations before you—the Hittites, the Girgashites, the Amorites, the Canaanites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites, seven nations mightier and more numerous than you… then you must utterly destroy them. Make no covenant with them and show them no mercy. (Deut. 7:1–2)
And hell, they're still at it.
###########################
6. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy
Morgan’s Hill and Easton, Pennsylvania, April 1946 and Summer 1955
LOCAL PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH FAMILY
Or
PLAIN, GAY, OR ENGLISH?
Or
PLAIN, GAY, OR ENGLISH?
My dad appears to have been in a waggish mood when he captioned this photo of my mother, my sister Susan and me (the toddler in the bonnet) in the spring of 1946.
In actuality, my mother is the
only true Pennsylvania Dutch person in the shot, most of her ancestors having
arrived in the state as German immigrants in the 1700-1800s.
The Pennsylvania Dutch, by the
way, had nothing to do with Holland. The term “Dutch” was merely the (then)
English-speaking majority’s ongoing misperception of the adjective “Deutsch,”
meaning “German.”
The German religious sects—primarily the Amish and Mennonites—who dressed in simple prescribed garb and held to strict religion-dictated behaviors, were known as “plain Dutch.”
My mom’s family would have been referred to by them as “English Dutch” or “gay Dutch.”
This had nothing to do with dual nationality or sexual orientation; it merely meant that their religious affiliations (if any) didn’t keep them from participating in the fashions and behavior of the general populace.
Although surrounded by farmers of German descent, our family didn’t see much of the plain folks, who tended to cluster in communities south of us in Bucks and Lancaster Counties.
I do remember a crowd of Amish workmen (Yoders and Stoltzfuses) that descended on us to attach a silo to the stable that my dad was converting into a rental apartment. (He built a spiral staircase inside it for an indoor connection between the two floors.)
My most vivid and telling
recollection of the plain Dutch, however, occurred in the summer of 1955, when
two hurricanes, Connie and Diane, careened simultaneously into our area,
dumping massive amounts of rain and causing ruinous flooding in the town of
Easton (about four downhill miles from our place) at the joining of the
Delaware and Lehigh Rivers.
My dad took me downtown after the
floodwaters had receded enough to begin the enormous effort of clearing thick
gluey deposits of mud from the streets. As I watched some men laboring to
scrape up the stuff from the street in front of our church, a cattle truck with high wooden sides pulled up. Standing
in it was a crowd of Mennonite women, in their delicately starched-and-pleated
translucent bonnets and pastel summer dresses, looking like a bouquet of
flowers.
It wasn’t until the tailgate was
let down and they spilled out of the truck that I saw that each of them carried
a sturdy shovel, and that those dainty dresses were tucked into waist-high
fishing waders.
They got to work clearing muck, and were as efficient as the male crews, though they kept their eyes modestly cast down to avoid contact.
They got to work clearing muck, and were as efficient as the male crews, though they kept their eyes modestly cast down to avoid contact.
There were no Mennonite
communities near Easton, so they must have ridden miles in that open truck from
either Germantown, near Philadelphia, or the equally distant Lancaster area.
They may have looked like flowers, but, believe me, these were some tough
ladies.
I, by the way, am a true mutt, according to AncestryDNA and 23&Me. The disparities in the results come from the fact that each of these companies have more samples of, and thus more information, on, slightly different population groups.
My DNA also contains a wash of Neanderthal markers.
Neanderthals; Homo neanderthalensis or Homo sapiens neanderthalensis): an extinct species or subspecies of archaic humans who lived in Eurasia until about 40,000 years ago . They lived and interbred with homo sapiens for awhile.
Who knew?
 |
 |
 |
I highly recommend the following
wonderful video on the power of DNA testing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tyaEQEmt5ls
############################
7. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan's Hill, Pennsylvania; Sometime around 1957 or 1958
SNOWMILL
Brother David and I were going for the world's largest snowman—and then things took a turn for the architectural. (Photo by Howard Hill)
#####################
8. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Warwickshire, England, 17th and
18th Centuries.
A FAMILY TALE
Or
THE CURIOUS ACCOUNT OF THE IRONMASTER’S FORTUNE, SIR HUMPHREY’S
BEQUEST, THE CARELESS VALET, THE GENIUS OF MR. CHARLES DICKENS, AND THE SCAM OF
THE (18th) CENTURY
In 17th-century Warwickshire, my 10X great-grandfather,
“Ironmaster John” Jennings (or Jennens) (1579-1675), was a really, really rich guy.
Both his income and his unofficial title were derived from the fact that he
owned and controlled numerous mines, smelters, smithies and ironmongers—all the
necessities for the manufacture and distribution of all things iron.
The Ironmaster passed his large fortune intact to his heir, Sir
Humphrey Jennings, who proceeded to increase and multiply it even more. By the
time of his death, Humphrey had not only become one of the wealthiest men in
England, but had gone about acquiring land systematically and with a passion,
including thousands of acres and no less than 14 towns or villages.
These included his hometown, Nether Whitacre, of which he called
himself the Earl (if you owned half the county of Warwickshire, you could call
yourself whatever you darn pleased), and a little village called Birmingham,
now England’s center of iron and steel.
After Sir Humphrey’s death, the Jennings fortune barreled on until
it reached his grandson William, who never married, but instead devoted his
life to increasing the family’s wealth, until he became known as “the richest
man in England, “or “William the Rich.”
With neither wife nor obvious designated heirs, a nice specific
will was certainly in order, and one day in 1798, at the age of 97, William finally trotted off to his
solicitor’s to make one.
According to popular legend, however, his valet had forgotten to insert his master’s spectacles into their accustomed waistcoat pocket. William thus carried a copy away to peruse at home before affixing his signature, and in a plot-twist no one would even consider if you submitted it as a screenplay, he died suddenly later that day with the will in his pocket—unsigned.
According to popular legend, however, his valet had forgotten to insert his master’s spectacles into their accustomed waistcoat pocket. William thus carried a copy away to peruse at home before affixing his signature, and in a plot-twist no one would even consider if you submitted it as a screenplay, he died suddenly later that day with the will in his pocket—unsigned.
William’s untimely death, with neither signed will nor obvious
heirs, launched what was to become the longest and most notorious Chancery
Court case in British history, dragging on for 135 years, as claimant after
claimant showed up, all demanding a piece of the fabulous Jennings fortune,
which amounted to about £40 million (perhaps over a billion USD today).
By 1821, the succession had been essentially settled, English law
decreeing that William’s immense fortune should be divided among his first
cousins, in other words, all the direct descendants of his granddad Sir
Humphrey.
But that didn’t stop the lawsuits, which came first from British
and Irish claimants, then, beginning in 1849, from America. At various times
there were 17 legal proceedings in operation, the last being filed (and thrown
out) in 1934. According to one account, the Bank of England had to employ seven
clerks just to handle correspondence related to the claims.
In short, the “Great Jennings Case” became so complex and so
celebrated as a symbol of legal frivolity and nincompoopery that Charles
Dickens himself based a novel, Bleak
House (where the case appears as “Jarndyce
vs. Jarndyce) on it. The novel was published to great acclaim between
March of 1852 and September of 1853 in 20 serialized parts.
 |
| Charles Dickens |
Besides a major literary work and a humongous pain in the
collective arse of the British judicial system, the case also produced a
persistent and pernicious cottage industry, especially in America, where
lawyers preyed on the greedy and the unwary with an earlier variation of the
Nigerian email/fax/internet scam of our current past decades.
In essence it went “Mr./Mrs./Miss Jennings, I (lawyer) have
determined that you, as a descendent of the Jennings family, are entitled to a
part of the vast Jennings Fortune. In order to prosecute your case, however, I
shall need at least $1000 ($2000, $5000) from you for legal expenses.”
This ploy successfully bilked entire families out of tens of thousands of dollars, the last known attempt being made by a fellow calling himself Lord Beecham, in 1942 (it didn’t work).
This ploy successfully bilked entire families out of tens of thousands of dollars, the last known attempt being made by a fellow calling himself Lord Beecham, in 1942 (it didn’t work).
And no, my family didn’t benefit. My 9x great-grandpa, another
William Jennings (b. 1676), a captain in the British army, received 4000 pounds
from his dad Sir Humphrey, was posted to the Virginia Colony, married one Mary
Jane Pulliam [1704-1776], sired10 children, served as Governor pro tem, and
died in 1775 at the age of 97.
His will was perfectly clear.
####################
9. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Interlocken Center for Experiential Education, Hillsboro, New Hampshire; 1978
AN ACCIDENTAL SUPERHERO
AN ACCIDENTAL SUPERHERO
Looking at a current photo of Andrew
F. Upton, Esq., mild-mannered specialist in government relations and
administrative law, you’d never credit him with a secret identity as a
superhero. Oh, but he’s got one.
Back in the 1970s, you see, young
Andy Upton attended the New Hampshire-based Interlocken International Summer
Camp, which in years to come was to expand into the groundbreaking Interlocken
Center for Experiential Education.
 |
| Andrew Upton |
Based in part on the Danish
Folkschool system, which recognized that almost anyone has something to teach others,
the ISC fostered independence and initiative, making it a learning experience
much different from the average summer camp of the time.
One day in the winter of 1978,
15-year-old Andy got the idea that the ISC should hold an all-camp footrace,
with training programs and carbo-loading and some serious distance involved. He
wrote to Interlocken Co-Director Susan Herman with the idea, and true to form,
she replied: “Sure. You organize it.”
The lad on the right in this dignified photo has been tentatively identified as the secret identity of Andy Upton. — with Henry Alford, Mike Stasiuk, Renee Blinn, Shira Saperstein Dan Zanes and Andrew Upton.
The lad on the right in this dignified photo has been tentatively identified as the secret identity of Andy Upton. — with Henry Alford, Mike Stasiuk, Renee Blinn, Shira Saperstein Dan Zanes and Andrew Upton.
And organize it he did, enlisting the help of administrators, counselors, and fellow campers. Soon realizing that not everyone would want to run 5.5 miles (even to end up at a popular roadside drive-in called Diamond Acres for ice cream), they made provision for timekeepers and water-station-minders, traffic directors, sag-wagon drivers and cheerleaders, eventually finding an appropriate role for every single person in the camp.
And just like that, the “Andy Upton Classic” became a beloved annual July event at the ISC, always with a hard core of serious runners out front, followed by a pack of giddy-but-game first-timers and a gaggle of ever-evolving new twists—walkers, costumes, piggyback, blindfolded, grandmas pushing strollers, three-legged, backwards—everybody winding up sweaty, elated, and full of ice cream.
After a year of panting through the race as a runner, I formed the "Turtles" (slow and steady does it) for others inclined to walk the race. (Decoration by an impish friend.)
Over the years, long after Andy had gone on to study law and to be named a “Massachusetts Rising Star” by Boston magazine, newcomers to the ISC were still posing the question “Who is Andy Upton, anyway?”
The answer began to take on on a life of its own. With a little help from puckish staff members, “Andy Upton,” in the minds of generation after generation of ISC kids, became a mythical Forrest Gump-like über-runner, criss-crossing the world in search of...something.
Tales of his presumed adventures
and impossible exploits permeated the days before the race, laced with the
breathless almost/maybe/if-we’re-lucky possibility that Andy Upton himself
might just be on his way, skimming cross-country to grace the day in person.
(Alas, there was inevitably a thrilling superhero emergency that called him
away at the last moment.)
The intensity of the tale waxed
and waned over the years, but, like the race itself, maintained its own goofy
impetus. In the early 21st Century, the ISC became Windsor Mountain
International Summer Camp, a change of name and ownership, but certainly not of
philosophy or tradition.
 |
Posing post-race in Turtle Tee next to a life-sized cutout of the idealized Andy Upton, mid-1980s.
|
 |
| Three little Andy Upton Classic participants at Windsor Mountain International c. 2014. |
To this day, the Andy Upton
Classic continues to be held at WMI each July, and the improbable tale of Andy
Upton has continued to grow, pretty much unknown to the man himself, who, when
recently informed of his legendary status, had this to say:
“It’s humbling.”
Way to maintain that secret
identity, Andy.
##############################
##############################
10. THROWBACK THURSDAY, Oklahoma and Surrounding States;
1880s
GREAT-GRANDPA JIM AND THE BANDIT QUEEN
GREAT-GRANDPA JIM AND THE BANDIT QUEEN
My great-grandfather James
Franklin Elkins (1859-1932) was, as a young man, manager of the only drugstore
in the tiny Ozarks town of Magazine, Arkansas. His nearest source of supplies
was in Ft. Smith, a daunting 92-mile round trip through rough country by
horse-drawn wagon.
 |
| James Franklin Elkins at about the time of this story. |
A buying excursion for Jim back then was a
two-day-two-night proposition, with a stop each way in a wagon yard outside of
a little town called Jenny Lind. (Wagon yards were the 19th-century equivalent
of RV parks—a place for drivers to circle their wagons, feed and water their
horses, and gather around a campfire for food and company.)
One night in the Jenny Lind yard,
a bunch of drivers, including G-Grandpa Jim, were sitting around the fire when
they became aware that a band of menacing armed riders had entered the camp.
Taken by surprise, they froze, not daring to make a run for it. Then, to their amazement, a woman dismounted and stepped into the firelight.
Now, Jim had seen the newspaper stories, the wanted posters, the dime-novel covers; he realized that he was staring open-mouthed across a campfire at none other than the notorious Belle Starr.
For those unfamiliar with the
name, a little background: Myra Maybelle Shirley Reed Starr (1848-1889) started
out as a little rich girl who loved to hang out with bad boys.
Taken by surprise, they froze, not daring to make a run for it. Then, to their amazement, a woman dismounted and stepped into the firelight.
Now, Jim had seen the newspaper stories, the wanted posters, the dime-novel covers; he realized that he was staring open-mouthed across a campfire at none other than the notorious Belle Starr.
 |
| Sweetheart of the dime novelists. |
 |
| Little Myra Maybelle |
The fact that
she grew up playing with neighbor kids like Frank and Jesse James and the
Younger brothers, (essentially embryo teenage outlaw gangs) probably had
something to do with her life choices, but by her own late teens, she had truly
gone over to the wild side.
Her impressive string of lovers, husbands,
baby-daddies, buddies and followers over the years was entirely composed of
outlaws. She acquired her picturesque surname with her second (or possibly
third) marriage, to an Oklahoma Cherokee badass named Sam Starr, with whom she had a daughter.
 |
| Maybelle as a teenager |
Once her career as a bandit queen
was up and running (rustling was her specialty; she never met a horse or cow
she didn’t want to make off with), she became a natural subject for wild
newspaper tales and dime novels.
Writers were utterly fascinated by the idea of
a lady outlaw, and she encouraged their fancies by riding sidesaddle, dressed
in an elegant habit draped with bandoliers and topped with a plumed hat.
Imaginations at full throttle, reporters began to attribute all manner of
crimes to this “glamorous adventuress.” Like Jesse James, she acquired a Robin
Hood-like “rob-the-rich-give-to-the-poor” reputation.
 |
 |
| Wild-West Cosplay: Fostering The Legend |
 |
| Early and more elegant days. |
In truth, she was probably
innocent of anything except bad judgment, consorting with known criminals, and,
oh yes, rustling. Her life, as her later photos attest, was probably more
hard-bitten, dirty, and day-to-day exhausting than glamorous.
 |
| Near the end of a hard life |
In 1883, she was finally arrested on a
rustling charge, convicted in a Ft. Smith court, and sent up for two
consecutive six-month terms. Her life after that was apparently more of the
same, growing even more chancy and desperate, until she was gunned down in a
gangfight in 1889 at the age of 41.
Meanwhile, back at the campfire:
Ms. Starr looked closely at the wide-eyed teamsters for a moment, and then
said: “Don’t be afraid; we don’t rob honest working men like you.”
Everyone relaxed, and Belle even took a handful of .45 cartridges from her gun-belt and distributed them as souvenirs. The outlaws watered their horses and rode off, and (according to my dad) Great-grandpa Jim carried that bullet in his pocket for the rest of his life.
That should have been the end of
the story, but in the late 1980s I was talking to my landlord, an Oklahoma
native, and, as we got onto the subject of the “wild west,” I told him the
essence of the above tale.
Everyone relaxed, and Belle even took a handful of .45 cartridges from her gun-belt and distributed them as souvenirs. The outlaws watered their horses and rode off, and (according to my dad) Great-grandpa Jim carried that bullet in his pocket for the rest of his life.
 |
| Great-Grandpa James Franklin Elkins with family in the early 1900s. Back row: Marvin, Clara (my grandmother), Claud (Clara's twin), Guy, Lee. Front row: Vera, James Franklin, Anna Eliza Anderson Elkins, Charles, Vance (Vera's twin). The two sets of twins were born 20 years apart. |
An odd look came over his face; he went over to a display cabinet and removed a worn star-shaped badge and a watch-fob shaped like a Colt .45 pistol. “These were my great-grandfather’s,” he said, “He was the sheriff who arrested Belle Starr.”
…which should REALLY have been the
end of it, but in the late 1990s, I was working on a book of Western Sonoma
County stories, and happened to tell a friend about the exploits of
stage-robber Black Bart, who had begun his life of crime here.
“You know,” she said, “My great-grandmother was an outlaw, too. Have you ever heard of Belle Starr?”
“You know,” she said, “My great-grandmother was an outlaw, too. Have you ever heard of Belle Starr?”
Well, yes.
##########################
##########################
11. Throwback Thursday: 1975, somewhere in San
Francisco
DR. CALIFORNIA GOLDEN GATE REMEDY CAST PHOTO
DR. CALIFORNIA GOLDEN GATE REMEDY CAST PHOTO
I‘ve written frequently about the
adventures of the circus-vaudeville troupe called Dr. California's Golden Gate
Remedy. This is an early publicity photo of same (thanks, Nate).
Left to right we have: Marc Ramos (who ended up opting out); rope-walker Sando Counts. Ruth Barrett; Sandey Grinn (on ladder, with top hat); Hilary Carlip (horizontal stripes and juggling clubs); Amanda Peletz (gown and fetching fool's cap); William Q. Barrett (under ladder, with beret) Jeffrey Briar (clinging to back of ladder); Nate Stein (striped pants and unicycle); above him Kalisa Beagle, daughter of fantasy writer Peter S. Beagle (she also opted out); Lisa Corbin (in derby), sitting on the lap of Marque Siebenthal.
I'm standing on stilts behind them. Missing are singer/instrumentalist Doug Whitney and driver John O' Donnell.
Left to right we have: Marc Ramos (who ended up opting out); rope-walker Sando Counts. Ruth Barrett; Sandey Grinn (on ladder, with top hat); Hilary Carlip (horizontal stripes and juggling clubs); Amanda Peletz (gown and fetching fool's cap); William Q. Barrett (under ladder, with beret) Jeffrey Briar (clinging to back of ladder); Nate Stein (striped pants and unicycle); above him Kalisa Beagle, daughter of fantasy writer Peter S. Beagle (she also opted out); Lisa Corbin (in derby), sitting on the lap of Marque Siebenthal.
I'm standing on stilts behind them. Missing are singer/instrumentalist Doug Whitney and driver John O' Donnell.
Forty-five years ago, I traveled
8000-plus miles in a converted schoolbus with this gang. And survived.
######################
12. THROWBACK THURSDAY: BANGOR,
PA, EARLY 1920S
GRANDDAD VERNE AND THE ART OF THE PHOTOBOMB.
I’ve always wished I’d known my maternal grandfather Verne Arnts (1888-1941), who passed on before I was born. Although his father was a rugged Civil-War-vet teamster/farmer, Verne seems to have made the decision early in life to go white-collar.
 |
Although I’d seen numerous photos
of Verne looking chamber-of-commerce-ready in a suit and tie, it wasn’t until I
saw the goofy collection below (thanks, Sister Sue) that I encountered his
well-developed puckish side.
It appears that he was always game for herding his wife Clara and kids into the backyard with a camera-toting friend and a bunch of props to snap some family portraits. These particular pics, taken in October of 1929 and a year or so later, feature the first five of 10 kids: my mother Barbara, John, Kathryn, Betty and Madeleine. My grandmother was probably pregnant.
It appears that he was always game for herding his wife Clara and kids into the backyard with a camera-toting friend and a bunch of props to snap some family portraits. These particular pics, taken in October of 1929 and a year or so later, feature the first five of 10 kids: my mother Barbara, John, Kathryn, Betty and Madeleine. My grandmother was probably pregnant.
A good time was apparently had by all, especially my distinguished granddad, who was, after all, once just a kid himself.
 |
| Grammy Clara and Verne (holding Madeleine) with (from left): Kathryn, Barbara (my mother), John and Betty. |
 |
| "5 Bad Steps:" Madeleine, Betty, Kathryn, John, and Barbara. |
 | ||
| With hats and props. |
 |
| Verne sneaking up on Barbara |
 |
| Photobombing Barbara, Kathryn and John. |
 |
Several years later, young "scholars," with spectacles and books: John, Madeleine, Barbara, Kathryn, and Betty. And what does a dad do to get his family to react like this? |
##########################
13. THROWBACK THURSDAY, Renaissance Pleasure Faire, Novato, California, and San Francisco, California; MID-1970S
ANYONE ELSE HAVE A COLLECTION OF SURREAL STILT-WALKING PHOTOS?
 |
| This was taken at the Northern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire in the early 1970s. I was standing next to my friend Gino Schiavone's pocket-sundial booth when someone called my name and I turned around suddenly. |
 | ||||
 |
| Here I appear as a faceless apparition on a stick. The bouquet on top of my staff was later replaced with a large crescent moon. Cue the "moon over my Amie" jokes. |
 | ||
| At a Haight-Ashbury street fair: "Look, Mommy, That lady's walking on STICKS!" |
###############################
14. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Mammy Morgan's Hill, Pennsylvania, c. 1952
ON TOP OF HEXENKOPF,
Or
EVERYBODY SHOULD GROW UP NEAR A
HAUNTED MOUNTAIN
Ours was called "Hexenkopf," meaning
“witch’s’ head” in Pennsylvania Dutch. It wasn’t actually a mountain, more of a
giant toothy crag shoved up out of the earth by some forgotten geological
event, but it was no ordinary chunk of rock. Let me explain.
 |
| The Witch's Head |
The rural area where I grew up in
Pennsylvania was settled in the 1700s by poor German immigrant farmers,
relegated to a ridge-top nobody else wanted above the rich Delaware Valley.
For a century or more, because of its inaccessibility, this farming community, known as Mammy Morgan’s Hill, was pretty much a world unto itself. For their medical needs, its inhabitants turned to German (not Indian) practitioners known as “pow-wow doctors.”
For a century or more, because of its inaccessibility, this farming community, known as Mammy Morgan’s Hill, was pretty much a world unto itself. For their medical needs, its inhabitants turned to German (not Indian) practitioners known as “pow-wow doctors.”
Originally a Lutheran-based faith-healing practice (and I was amazed to discover that pow-wow is still practiced as a branch of Christianity today—go ahead, Google it), pow-wow doctoring had evolved, in this tiny isolated place, into a potent combination of Indian healing lore, herbalism, laying on of hands, charms, incantations, a touch of hypnotic suggestion, and a large helping of practical witchcraft.
 |
| The summit of Hexenkopf, now shrouded in vegetation. |
Some maintained that the evil remained in the rock itself, causing it to glow in the moonlight (another explanation was its high mica content).
By the 1950s, the woods had grown up around the base of the crag, and it was effectively hidden from the public. Even so, it continued (and still does) to attract believers in the miraculous, faerie, pagan, and/or satanic.
The present owners (two college professors who have since written extensively about it) purchased the land on which it hulks, never knowing at the time of purchase that their woodland concealed a kind of magical mecca until the first time a group of pagans showed up to respectfully request permission to use it for their Walpurgisnacht observances.
 |
| A hokey and ignorant YouTube video. |
In spite of ongoing subtle rumors
(witchcraft, hexings, hauntings, flickering lights at night, pagan ceremonies,
etc.), our family always made a yearly expedition/pilgrimage to the top of
Hexenkopf in the late fall, the only time it was at all visible through the
surrounding woods.
Getting to the top, though no walk in the park, was
manageable, albeit with a lot of straggling through the woods, scrambling,
boosting, toe-stubbing, giggling, hoisting little kids over rocky barriers, and
passing toddlers upward from hand to hand. There was a final chimney that made
attaining the summit a minor victory for anyone.
 |
| The book written by the present landowner; Hexerei means "witchcraft" |
The top of Hexenkopf was,
appropriately, hollowed out, cauldron-like, and thrillingly lined with ashes
from the celebrations (we younger ones imagined) of dancing witches.
We would all perch on the edge for a photo, with the generous view, the sunshine, the brisk wind, the happy company of friends and family rendering the sullen gray crag harmless and benevolent.
For the moment.
In the daytime.
Unless you (shiver) really thought about it.
We would all perch on the edge for a photo, with the generous view, the sunshine, the brisk wind, the happy company of friends and family rendering the sullen gray crag harmless and benevolent.
For the moment.
In the daytime.
Unless you (shiver) really thought about it.
 |
| On top of Hexenkopf: Neighbor Myer Myerson, my sister Susan, the Myersons' nephew Richard Kiesel, Anne Myerson, me, my mother holding my brother David. |
(For a fascinating article on
Hexenkopf and its continuing spooky role in the community to this day, I urge
you to go to:
http://www.lehighvalleymarketplace.com/…/the-dutch-art-of-…/ )
http://www.lehighvalleymarketplace.com/…/the-dutch-art-of-…/ )
##########################
15. THROWBACK THURSDAY, San Francisco, California; late 1970s
MAD MAUDLEN, THE TREE SATYR, AND
THE #7 MARKET STREET BUS
For seven seasons of the original Renaissance Pleasure Faires. I played the role of Mad Maudlen, a very strange person from an equally strange Elizabethan song.
(She was once followed around
the Faire for at least a half-hour by two serious visiting psychiatrists, who,
after deliberating her “case” thoroughly, came up with a final diagnosis of
“ambulatory catatonic schizophrenia.”)
For seven seasons of the original Renaissance Pleasure Faires. I played the role of Mad Maudlen, a very strange person from an equally strange Elizabethan song.
 |
Yes, Maudlen was a character
people remembered, and there were interesting occasions on which she/I would be
recognized in places far away from the Faire setting. One of them involved
another equally memorable Faire performer:
It happened on a San Francisco bus one evening, as I headed home
after eight hours of hard work for the Northern California Foundations Group.
Wearily enduring the bus’s stop-and-start along Market Street, I happened to glance across the aisle and saw a sober-looking suit-and-tie-clad young man who looked tantalizingly familiar. It wasn’t until he said diffidently “Excuse me, but aren’t you Mad Maudlen?” that I recognized him as the Tree Satyr.
Wearily enduring the bus’s stop-and-start along Market Street, I happened to glance across the aisle and saw a sober-looking suit-and-tie-clad young man who looked tantalizingly familiar. It wasn’t until he said diffidently “Excuse me, but aren’t you Mad Maudlen?” that I recognized him as the Tree Satyr.
The Tree Satyr was the only
character at the Faire, I had been told, who compared to Maudlen in strangeness
and intensity. Like her, he had one year been a recipient of the coveted St.
Cuthbert’s award, presented each season by vote of the parade and pageantry
guild.
In my role as Maudlen, I had often
seen, and occasionally interacted with, the Satyr, whose habit it was to haunt
the Fairesite’s many oak trees clad only in a pair of swirling white cotton
drawers and a set of goat horns.
These latter were ingeniously attached to a light metal hairband (invisible with his blond fleecy curls fluffed over it), which he could manipulate easily with his scalp to give the uncanny impression that the horns were actually attached to his head.
These latter were ingeniously attached to a light metal hairband (invisible with his blond fleecy curls fluffed over it), which he could manipulate easily with his scalp to give the uncanny impression that the horns were actually attached to his head.
A master of moving invisibly and
camouflaging himself in stillness, the Satyr would shimmer almost imperceptibly
from tree to tree, startling patrons into squeaks of amazement when they caught
sight of his lean washboard-bellied form draped bonelessly along a branch,
smiling enigmatically and eerily waggling his horns at them.
On the ground, he
could move in a mesmerizing slow-motion dance that fascinated all eyes, only to
disappear behind a tree and seem to melt upward into its branches.
 |
| Tree Satyr on the move... |
I was a great admirer of the Tree
Satyr, but could see little of him in the drab and correct little business-suited figure
sitting across from me. He, for his part, seemed to be surreptitiously checking
me out for signs of madness.
The bus chugged on. To break the
somewhat awkward silence, I asked:
“Do you work downtown?”
“Yes, do you?”
“Yes.”
A little more silence.
“What do you do?” he asked me.
“I’m publications manager for a non-profit.” I replied, “What do you do?”
“I’m a CPA.”
We looked at each other.
“Weird.” he said.
“Weird.” I agreed.
“Do you work downtown?”
“Yes, do you?”
“Yes.”
A little more silence.
“What do you do?” he asked me.
“I’m publications manager for a non-profit.” I replied, “What do you do?”
“I’m a CPA.”
We looked at each other.
“Weird.” he said.
“Weird.” I agreed.
############################
16. Throwback Thursday: Mammy Morgan's Hill, Pennsylvania; Late summer, 1956.
RHUBARB
Hey, little brother
Look at these leaves; they're huge!
(Mother's making pie)
I know what to do with them
(We're stylin' now)
Click!
(It's Dad with the camera again)
Can't help but
Smile.
Look at these leaves; they're huge!
(Mother's making pie)
I know what to do with them
(We're stylin' now)
Click!
(It's Dad with the camera again)
Can't help but
Smile.
 |
##########################
17. THROWBACK THURSDAY; Renaissance Pleasure Faire, Novato, California; Fall of 1969
I WAS THROWN IN AT THE DEEP END
In 1969, I was living in San Francisco, at the house of Faith Petric and the
San Francisco Folk Music Club, and working on a graduate degree at SF State.
Faith and a bunch of folkies had, the previous year, dressed up in long skirts and puffy sleeves and sung kind of old-fashioned sort of Renaissance-y music at Northern Faire. I hadn't paid much attention until Faith suggested that I might enjoy participating in this groovy event.
I had been feeling out of place in SF and a bit down in the dumps, so I called the number she gave me. I found myself speaking with the Faire’s no-nonsense entertainment director, Carol LaFleur.
"What can you do?" she demanded, "Sing?
Dance? What?" I allowed as how I'd been a dancer for many years.
"Fine," she said, "Can you be at the Ben Jonson Restaurant at
the Cannery on Tuesday at 6 PM?"
"OK…," I said, and duly showed up at the appointed hour at the Ben Jonson, an actual English Manor house that had been brought over in pieces and re-assembled as a pricey eatery.
There was apparently no one assigned to greet me, so I wandered around until I saw a hand-lettered sign that read "Dressing Room," with a crown crudely drawn on it. I went in, and was promptly frightened out of my wits by actress Julie Meredith standing alone in the shadows in full Queen Bess regalia and mode.
"WHAT," she demanded, in a
voice that made me feel like a cross between Alice in Wonderland and the
smallest bug in creation, "are you DOING here?"
I scurried out, was rescued by Carol LaFleur, jury-rigged into a standard Faire-wench costume and wreath, and introduced to recorder-player Lyn Elder, who tootled a merry little jig and asked if I could dance to it. I could.
"Can you do a British accent?" asked Carol. I couldn't. "Can you
do a French accent?" I could fake it. "OK, you're French….You're a
little French Trifle….You'll be dessert."
WHAT? While we waited for our cue, Lyn kindly explained that this whole bewildering event was a Faire PR dinner for members of the press, complete with ongoing entertainment, including, apparently, me as dessert.
 |
| With Guildmaster James Grant Kahlo in 1969. |
Faith and a bunch of folkies had, the previous year, dressed up in long skirts and puffy sleeves and sung kind of old-fashioned sort of Renaissance-y music at Northern Faire. I hadn't paid much attention until Faith suggested that I might enjoy participating in this groovy event.
I had been feeling out of place in SF and a bit down in the dumps, so I called the number she gave me. I found myself speaking with the Faire’s no-nonsense entertainment director, Carol LaFleur.
 | ||
| Carol LaFleur |
"OK…," I said, and duly showed up at the appointed hour at the Ben Jonson, an actual English Manor house that had been brought over in pieces and re-assembled as a pricey eatery.
There was apparently no one assigned to greet me, so I wandered around until I saw a hand-lettered sign that read "Dressing Room," with a crown crudely drawn on it. I went in, and was promptly frightened out of my wits by actress Julie Meredith standing alone in the shadows in full Queen Bess regalia and mode.
 |
| The marvelous Julie Meredith as Queen Bess in the late 1960s. |
I scurried out, was rescued by Carol LaFleur, jury-rigged into a standard Faire-wench costume and wreath, and introduced to recorder-player Lyn Elder, who tootled a merry little jig and asked if I could dance to it. I could.
 |
| Lyn Elder (about whom I would later write a Rolling Stone article), playing a hurdy-gurdy atop an elephant for some reason. |
WHAT? While we waited for our cue, Lyn kindly explained that this whole bewildering event was a Faire PR dinner for members of the press, complete with ongoing entertainment, including, apparently, me as dessert.
Carol bustled back in: "Can you dance on a table?" WHAT?
It seemed that more press persons had shown up for the luxurious dinner than had been expected, and there was no room on the floor for anything more sedate than a foxtrot. "I'll try," I quavered.
So that's how it came about that I found myself, dressed in clothes the likes of which I'd never worn before, dancing down a long table in a raucous room packed with people (half in Renaissance costume, and half nicely stuffed and toasted members of the press who had lost their inhibitions two courses ago), to music I'd barely heard before, played by someone I'd just met, dodging napkins and dessert plates and bowls of trifle, teasing strange men (who were grabbing at my ankles) with witty comments in a saucy pseudo-French accent, and suddenly knowing, to the depths of my being, that I had come home.
Following my impromptu "audition," I then was invited by Carol LaFleur to join the Faire cast, I showed up, but had no idea what to do until Carol came up to me, towing Jim Kahlo, who was a little tottery on the forest floor because of his arthritis, and said "Here, James needs someone to escort him around." So we became a Faire item.
Then one day the young girl who had been elected Harvest Maid failed to show up. (The choosing of the HM was done by the Faire crew back then.) This young girl was ethereally fair, but much preferred being on the garbage detail and would kind of slouch in the hay cart, scowling, instead of smiling and waving at those along the procession route.
When she failed to appear, Carol grabbed me and said "Get in the hay cart! Smile! Wave!" The rest is history.
Rona (how does
she keep her wimple so clean?) Elliott and friend playing demure for the
magical camera of Robert Altman in the early 1970s.
###########################
18. THROWBACK THURSDAY:
RENAISSANCE PLEASURE FAIRE, Marin County, California, 1969
JIM KAHLO: A PORTRAIT
My first Faire year was 1969, and,
other than being Harvest Maid, I didn't really have much to do.
Jim Kahlo was 60 years old that year,
but already snowy-haired and suffering the effects of the arthritis that had
set in when he was a fairly young man.
Entertainment Director Carol
LaFleur assigned me to help Jim navigate the uphills and downhills and bumpy
terrain of the bay forest, and thus a longtime friendship was begun.
A distant cousin of painter Frieda, Jim had appeared as a child in silent films, and was a seasoned Shakespearean actor. We had many interesting
conversations as we strolled along.
One thing that I found especially poignant was that, as he had started greying in his twenties and developed arthritis in his late 30s, Jim had never really had much opportunity to be the young heartthrob I saw in a few early photos he showed me. So, gallantly making the best of what could have been a bitter life, by sheer courage and grace he turned himself into an ageless heartthrob. (sigh).
|
########################
19. THROWBACK THURSDAY: Great
Dickens Christmas Fair, San Francisco, California; 1970
A SEMI-RELUCTANT FATHER CHRISTMAS
When Ron and Phyllis Patterson
produced the first Dickens Christmas Fair in 1970, there was no question
about who was going to play Father Christmas. With his aquiline features,
bright eyes, and snowy beard, Renaissance Faire Guildmaster James Kahlo was
a shoo-in for the role.
However, there were certain
unforeseen difficulties involved: although Jim had no peer as a visual, his
advancing arthritis prevented him from walking any faster than a funereal
shuffle.
In addition, as a lifelong
bachelor, Jim's interactions with kids tended (especially in the cavernous
warehouse that was the Fair's first venue) to be somewhat inaudible and
existential, and interspersed with low mutterings (between contacts) about
"little buggers" and something that sounded suspiciously like
"Bah, humbug."
My job was to keep the parade
moving and stride in front of the "chariot," ringing a handbell and bellowing "Make way for Father
Christmas!" at intervals.
The second Princess Mistletoe after Susie Marceau, as I
recall, was a very sweet young lady with a sweet tooth; her continuous dips
into her candy basket had her nearly busting out of her spangles and tulle by
Fair's end.
After I had gone to live elsewhere for a
bit, the "Princess Mistletoe" moniker somehow got transferred to
the red-suited "Brigadier," whose costume was faithfully reproduced,
after the old one got tatty. All that remained of the original was the fiendishly uncomfortable hat
(from the film "An American in Paris," obtained at an M-G-M auction, and shown at the top of this blog in a photo by Robert
Altman), which someone is probably still wearing at the current (and
thriving) DCF.
Jim eventually hung up his equally
uncomfortable holly wreath ("my crown of thorns" he called it), and
passed his role on to its present incumbent, Will Wood, who sagely lost the
wreath and acquired a cozy lap.
|
20. THROWBACK
THURSDAY: The Great Dickens Christmas Fair; San Francisco, California, 1977:
THREE HIGH SPIRITS
Here we are backstage at the Cow Palace: me and Bret Kuhne (top R.) and Greg Davies below—the three "High Spirits," as some wag dubbed us.
Underneath those fancy duds?
Grubby jeans and a clumsy assortment of homemade stilts, made of lengths of
wood, thrift-shop belts, shoes screwed to platforms, and improvised padding,
a far cry from the airy articulated aluminum constructions used by most
stilt-walkers today.
Inspired by the wonderful Jan
Munroe (as far as I know, the Faire's first stilt-walker), I built the first
pair—worn here in a cut-down version by Greg—in 1974, from a pattern taken
from my dad's 1924 Book of Knowledge.
I had the the assistance and
encouragement of Ray Jason, who, after one attempt, decided he preferred the
unicycle. Bret Kuhne, on the other hand, caught the stilt bug a year or two later and
became a real daredevil.
The bane of our existence was the
posse of children, “fair brats” and others, who loved to attempt to
lift and peek under our hoopskirts so they could yell "They're not
REALLY that tall; they're walking on STICKS!" (The staffs we carried
were as much to fend the kids off as for balance.)
The second year, I successfully faked
the little critters out by adding false padded "legs" with boots
and pantalets to the stilt bottoms. I only fell once, and was handily caught
by the Ghost of Christmas Past, who happened to be, well, passing.
High old times.
#####################
|
(END OF PART THREE: More to Come)
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.)
My sister Sue's printouts.
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
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part
Two
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part
Three
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Four
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Five
THROWBACK THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part
Six
NEW! THROWBACK
THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Seven
NEW! THROWBACK
THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Eight
NEWEST! THROWBACK
THURSDAYS & OTHER ADVENTURES: Part Nine
*********************************
ILLUSTRATED ADVENTURES IN VERSE
NEW! FLYING TIME; OR, THE WINGS
OF KAYLIN SUE
(2020)
(38 lines, 17 illustrations)
TRE & THE ELECTRO-OMNIVOROUS GOO
(2018)
(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)
**************************************
ARTWORK
AMIE HILL: CALLIGRAPHY & DRAWINGS
AMIE HILL: COLLAGES 1https://amiehillcollages1.blogspot.com/
***********************************
LIBERA HISTORICAL TIMELINE (2007-PRESENT)
