My Earliest Memory

I attended a memoir writing lab last weekend. Here is one of the results from it.

My Earliest Memory

By Joan R. Saks Berman, Ph.D.

We were going to California by train to see Uncle Sol and Auntie Ann. Although I was only about two and a half, I remembered them from before they left Chicago for Uncle Sol to become a Hollywood writer. That was when we lived in the apartment with the Murphy bed that folded into the wall.

            We went by train because it was during World War II and air travel wasn't common yet. I have my own young memories of the trip and some embellishments from storytelling at family gatherings. I remember walking on the platform next to the big, black locomotive at Union Station and seeing re red wheels that were higher than I was. The "We" was my mother paternal Grandma Sarah and me. We had our own compartment, with an upper funk bed that the porter would pull down in the evening—could it be that Grandma climbed up the ladder to sleep there? I also remember the toilet that folded up into the wall. For a long time, I thought that perhaps that memory was an illusion, until, as an adult in my 30's, I visited a friend in ICU and there was one just like it! It was great to be validated.

            During the day we would sit in the coach with other passengers, many of whom wanted to make friends with the cute toddler. The train was filled with soldiers going from one end of the country to the other. My grandmother had carried a shopping bag full of kosher corned beef, salami, and Jewish rye bread. My uncles, her sons, ridiculed her, pointing out that the train had a dining car. Once the train got under way, however, we were glad to be able to make our fragrant sandwiches, because the wait for the dining car seemed interminable to the hungry travelers, and they hovered around us, wishing they had been as smart as my grandmother to bring food for the three-day trip.

            After the long train trip, I remember being in Los Angeles in the sun. in addition to the adult people, there was "Cousin Johnson," a black cocker spaniel who knew a few tricks. One of them, to my delight, was jumping over our legs on command as we sat on the grass.

Lu Gu Lake - The Land of Women

I'm posting this because of a recent Facebook posting regarding LuGu Lake.

September 21, 1995. tape transcription from mini cassette 5, china 1995

After many long hours of riding on unpaved or semi-paved roads
through the mountains in the rain, and having to stop for a tire
change, we arrived at the overlook to Lu Gu Lake. Then we
stopped again at the toll gate entering the village, to buy
"tickets." The village had only been introduced to electrical
power, and therefore to television since July, not more than two
months earlier than our arrival. On the island that you can see
from the road, there's a red©roofed temple, which we were told
that we might visit later. Entering the town on our minibus, we
looped around on a dirt, or rather mud, road that went almost
exactly up to the shore of the lake. At the very end of the road
was our guest house, where our bus drove into the courtyard. The
building had carved wooden doors, brightly painted in primary
colors. We were ushered into the bare dining room, seating
ourselves at the plain metal table for a steaming hot lunch. It
was still raining when we finished eating, so the trip across the
lake to the Buddhist temple was cancelled. Given that the dugout
canoes that I saw at the shore were half©filled with water, I
can't say that I'm sorry.

So we switched to plan B, which was to visit in the home of
a Mosuo woman. We walked down the muddy road with our umbrellas
to our destination. Standing in the courtyard, our Mosuo-speaking guide explained that one section of the building was
known as the Flower House. It is where the young women, the
daughters of the family, receive their lovers. Opposite that was
the family temple, for these people are Tibetan Buddhists, or
Lamaists as the guide referred to them. There was a room with an
altar, and a pad for prostrating oneself in front of the altar.
Also in that section were some small guest rooms, sparsely
furnished.

Between these two wings is the part known as the mother's
room. It is the place where family ceremonies are held. We were
received inside by the mother of the household, and her daughter,
and the daughter's son of kindergarten age. The daughter's nine-year-old daughter was in school until almost the end of our
visit. We were offered seats, low benches and cushions, around
the fireplace in the floor of the room. A tiled altar was
against the wall behind it. On the altar was a bust of Chairman
Mao and several smaller items. We were offered plates of pumpkin
seeds and sunflower seeds, some apples, crackers, and small bowls
of wine made from oats and corn. Ears of fresh corn were roasted
in the coals of the fire and served to us. Two bare electric
bulbs hung from the ceiling, but were not turned on. A skylight
in the ceiling was covered with a translucent, parchment-like
skin. The fire and the skylight were the only source of light
while we sat in the grey afternoon asking a lot of questions.

The woman told us that she had only one child, her daughter,
because after the one birth she had some sort of sickness which
prevented her from having more children. In the Mosuo language,
there is no word for father. Men are called "Uncle," but now the
small children in the family know whom their father is. The
house had belong to the older woman's mother, and to her mother
before her, and three generations were living in it now. Neither
she nor her daughter had had the opportunity to attend school.
At one point in the conversation, she joked that she didn't even
know how to read the characters for "men" and "women" on the
bathroom signs, but she's glad that her grandchildren are able to
go to school now. A portable radio was hanging on a nail on the
wall. She had heard of the UN Conference on Women on the radio,
so she thought we must be very special people.

We asked her a lot of questions about the matriarchal
culture of her village people. When I asked if it was ever the
case that men forced themselves sexually on women, she said that
before the young man could come to visit the daughter, he must
visit the mother and she must give her approval. When we asked
about fighting and yelling and arguing, she laughed. She thought
that was a very funny question to ask about the relationship
between men and women. She said that there was no violence
between men and women.

The house had two big wooden pillars in it. We were told
that one was from the top of the tree, and represents the woman.
The other, from the bottom, or roots, of the tree, represents the
man. One of the ceremonies which takes place in the mother's
room is the passage to adulthood at the age of thirteen.
Depending on the gender of the child passing to adult, the
ceremony takes place around the appropriate pillar. After the
ceremony, the new adult wears a different style of clothing.
However, it's usually not until age 17 or 18 that young women
start taking lovers.

We were told the story of the creation of Lu Gu Lake, also
known as Mother's Lake: Once upon a time there was an orphan boy
who was mute. He was something of an outcast among the other
children, and they didn't share their lunches with him, so he had
nothing to eat. He wandered off by himself and discovered a
stream with big fish in it. He cut off the tail of the fish and
ate it for his lunch. He returned to the stream every day, and
the fish would always grow back its tail. He would repeat the
process and have his lunch. Finally, the others noticed that he
wasn't lean and sickly any more. He had gained weight and looked
healthy, with rosy cheeks. They followed him and saw what he was
doing. Then they pulled the big fish out of the river, causing a
flood which formed the lake. While this was happening, one woman
was feeding her pigs and the pig trough floated away on the lake.
So now we see the dugout canoes which are the same shape as pig
troughs.

When we left the woman's house, we walked back to the guest
house and finally unloaded the luggage from the bus and checked
into our rooms. These accommodations are what our guide, Ginger,
called "basic," meaning there are not only no private in-room
bathrooms, there are no bathrooms. There is no running water.
There was an old©fashioned pitcher and wash basin in each room
and a latrine down the stairs and outside the courtyard. The
other thing which defined these accommodations as very basic is
that there was no electricity. Probably there was electricity
some of the time, because there were light bulbs and switches in
the halls, but turning on the switch had no effect. Candles and
matches were supplied in each room. Also provided were heavy
comforters to be put over the wool blankets on the bed, because
there is no source of heat at night. At the high mountain
altitude, and with the rainy weather, it was rather cold.

In the evening, after our meal, a bonfire was built in the
courtyard. A group of Mosuo women and men started singing and
folkdancing, wearing the clothing customary to the area. Later
they invited all the guests to join them. After the dancing was
finished, there was a songfest, with the different groups of
guests, including Chinese students and other Chinese tourists,
being to encourage to contribute songs of their own.

(start of tape 6)Other people at guest house: one was a journalist, one was an
artist...unintelligible...(one was an engineer at Shenzhen).
They had gone horseback riding the day before, going out when we
arrived and they came back while we were still eating lunch,
because it was raining and it wasn't much fun. It's been raining
for most of this trip, as a matter of fact. We're getting kind
of water logged.

The next day we left, backtracking over the mountain road to
the town of Fighting River, which we had travelled mostly in the
dark two nights before, after having a Mongolian barbecue dinner.
This time we had lunch in the same restaurant. Then we took off
in another direction for another 50 km. of bad road.
We've come down (in altitude) quite a bit. We're on a better
road, altho there's been rockslides on the road. We're right at
the Yangtze River, it's 5:28pm After crossing the Yangtze, we
made one of our famous combination roadside pitstops and
photo-opportunies, in the rain, of course. But everyone agrees
that the roadside pitstops, even in the rain, are better than
using the outhouses where we've gone in some of the small towns.

Friday, September 22

We are in Li Jiang now. In the morning, we went to the Jade
Mountain Summit Monastery, where we saw the entwining magnolia
trees, which were saved from the Red Guard during the Cultural
Revolution, by the Lama throwing himself on it and saying,
"You'll have to kill me first before you cut this down!"

Leaving the monastery, we went to Bai Sha, which means White
Sands.This is where, at one time, was the old capital of the
area.The old house built by Mr. Mu, who became the power of the
area.In that house are frescoes that are 600 years old.There
are over a hundred figures in the paintings, and they show a
mixture of levels of religion, including Tibetan Buddhism,
commonly called Lamaism here, Taoism, Chinese Buddhism, and then
the Four Kings in the 4 corners and there were figures on each
side showing factions that they had split up into. It was
explained to us that the art style of some of the figures show
the different time, because the Sung and Tang Dynasties were
portrayed as fleshier, chubbier--they thought that was good-looking.
The one told us about it is himself an artist, and
he was there with his little girl, who was sort of hanging on to
him. And then we went into their studio, where they were doing
paintings of Dung Ba writing, which is the Naxi pictographs. He
was working there with several artists, painting some scrolls,
which, of course, our people bought. Mona bought one which is
the choreography of a dance.

Saturday, September 23

On the way back into town, (this was outside of town) we
passed an area and off in the distance saw some buildings, which
is Ginger said, where Little Swallow lived. Little Swallow is
one of the characters in a PBS documentary on Li Jiang. This is
the place that the 4-hour documentary was made. Little Swallow
was a blind girl who wanted to become a massage therapist in
order to earn money to go away to school. As a matter of fact,
working in our hotel were two young people who were blind,
working as massagists (masseurs?), and I had a massage from one of them
yesterday, before dinner. Apparently, there is a massage teacher
who is helping these people to become productively employed.

But before the massage, we went for lunch in the old town.
The name of the place was Din-Din. We ate on the second floor of
a room which was, for the most part, open-air and rather chilly.
It has been very cold here. We're at 8000 feet altitude, more or
less, and it has been raining, as usual. What they had was a
brazier, like a deep bowl with a lip. They put burning charcoal
in it and put it under the table to keep our feet warm, and help
dry out our shoes! I feel like I've been walking in puddles of
water within my shoes and that I'm growing webs between my toes.

Then we walked through the old town, did some shopping, of
course. A lovely old town with narrow walking streets, no
transportation driving through it, and canals, with bridges over
the larger canals. The smaller canals parallelled the street,
with little planks or bridges that go from the street into each
shop or home. Among the things that I bought were a Naxi vest
which buttons on the side, and a little jacket with pockets, to
wear like a blazer kind of jacket or suit jacket. Also, at the
monastery, I bought a wall-hanging which shows figures for
longevity and good fortune, and up above are eight buddhist
saints. It's on red velvet background with gold braid sown on to
make the designs and dragons on the side.

In this town, many of the women wear "Mao" caps, supposedly
because Chairman Mao came to visit the town at one point. So we
saw them wearing blue Mao caps and their blue vests, similar to
the one I bought, and a skirt, and wrapped around them a padding
to protect their backs, and then they carry baskets like that,
and carry umbrellas over all of that. I took a few shots on the
street, I hope they came out.

And so now, we're heading to Dali. A few comments on
Chinese society. It seems that no semblance of a classless
society has ever been achieved here, and now the privileges of
class are blooming strong again. For example, some sleeper cars
one the train are restricted to those who have position, for
example an academic position or other kind of important position.
An ordinary person, even if they have the money, cannot buy the
privilege of a soft sleeper. There is also still a heavy system
of guanxi, which is something like obligation with connections.
You use your connections to obtain favors and pay back favors,
and that's how things get done. Sometimes, according to Roger,
our guide in Chengdu and Sichuan province, the favors that you
have to provide somebody to whom you are obligated, is to find a
"beauty," in other words to find an attractive young girl for the
purposes of sex. So you also still have sexism alive and well,
along with the class privileges. The physicist that we met in Lu
Gu Lake, when we exchanged cards, was very impressed with the
fact that we were Ph.D.'s, that we had such a high level of
education. That's part of the stratification.

We just had lunch in a little neighborhood restaurant, Jian
Chuan, and took some pictures of the open kitchen and sat at
little tables with little benches, sort of your
local.........try again to decipher this phrase.
This trip is much different from my previous trips,
where we always ate in hotel restaurants and other kinds of fancy
restaurants. This is eating where the real folks eat. Last
night at dinner we had what we called french-fried potatoes, and
the flavor brought up the memory of when I was at Peterson
School, and we used to go to the Chinese takeout restaurant on
Bryn Mawr and buy a box of French fries, and pass the good-tasting french fries around and enjoy the salty taste/

Passing a brickyard where they have big stone ovens that are
making bricks and roof tiles, and some other kind of ceramic
shape, obviously also used in housing construction somehow.

We arrived in our hotel in Dali around 4:30 or quarter to
five in the afternoon. It's a charming hotel in the sense that
we're in an old-fashioned courtyard, with lovely designs on the
building. However, the rooms all open out on to an open©air
balcony, and, it is once again, icy, damp, cold, and there's no
heat in the rooms (sniff) and it's raining. Although the view is
nice, it's very uncomfortable. My shoes are soaked again. Last
night in Li Jiang, they gave us electric heaters, but there are
no heaters here, so we have electric blanket pads to go under the
sheets, so you're fine as long as you're in bed, but it gets cold
when you get out of bed. And it's raining, raining, raining....
We're going to have to cancel the trip to Tiger Leaping Gorge,
because the rain has washed out the road, making it dangerous to
travel. I'm not sure what's going to happen with our boat ride
on Erhou Lake, which we're supposed to do tomorrow. We will be
going to the place where they make batik. I'll talk more about
that later. Meanwhile, I've been spending the evening after
dinner...Oh we ate dinner at a place called Salvador's Dali,
which is sort of a cute little play on words...and then I've been
sitting in the room, writing postcards and watching Chinese TV.

My photos may be posted later. Meanwhile, for those who want to see what LuGu Lake looks like, go to

Fidel Comes to Dinner

This is something I found in the files on my computer:

FIDEL COMES TO DINNER

Dream Journal, November 1, 1997

This must be a good omen, to be dreamt on the night of my last official day as an employee of IHS. I suppose it was suggested to me by reading the flyer about the potluck for the Caravan which is coming to New Mexico on its way to Mexico and Guatemala. Or maybe it was all the news about Zhang Zemin, from China, visiting the US, and ringing the opening bell at the Stock Exchange, amidst a week of wild ups and downs. In any case, I was sitting at home with a few friends on a sunny fall Sunday afternoon. There was some kind of flower festival going on outside, or a few blocks away, a big event that a lot of people were coming and going for, but in a relaxed Sunday afternoon kind of way. We knew that Fidel was in town for various events, and while we were chatting came up with the idea of inviting him over for a visit. I guess there was going to be a potluck for him later in the evening, but luckily there was a slow spot in his schedule where he had time to just kick back for a while. Another thread of my life which might have suggested this was that Thursday nite, at El Grupo, the Spanish conversation group I attend every two weeks, we were visited by 15 teachers from Bogota, Columbia. They’re in town for a couple of months to attend intensive English classes at the University, part of the LAPE program. I spent the evening talking to Gilma about her life in Bogota, and the contrasts she finds here.

Well, Fidel was charming, but anyone who has seen him in person knows that. I actually did have an experience like that, when I was in Cuba in 1970 with the cane-cutting Venceremos Brigade. He came to our camp to address the 500 of us, and afterwards, sat around the table where we had our meal and talked with us informally. Lowen, then my husband, took some great photos. I wonder if we can find them. The man in my dream didn’t look like the real Fidel; he was much younger, didn’t have a beard, and his hair was caramel-colored and curly. Perhaps, in the dream, I was but younger, too. I remember some difficult scene in my dream when I went to change my clothes, dress up a bit I guess, and had some trouble with the plumbing in the bathroom, while the company waiting in the living room. We spoke in Spanish, but the ideas flowed easily, fluently. In fact, later in the dream, someone asked why we didn’t ask him questions in English, since he supposedly does know the language, but we responded that there was no need, we were doing perfectly well in Spanish, and I think somehow it seemed to be a more intimate exchange. I don’t remember the content of what we discussed, altho we never did get to take him out to see the flowers, since he seemed much more interested in sitting and chatting with us. For a while, I had his full attention, as the others were elsewhere in the room, and he seemed to take a special liking to me, so we were really having a tete a tete. He wanted to get a real sense of the people living in Albuquerque, instead of being dragged around from one formal event to another. For a while, we sat on the front porch, and talked with people as they came by, on their way to and from the flower show. (Perhaps this was my mind’s representation of Albuquerque’s annual international balloon fiesta). No police or bodyguards were present. The sun was the golden color of a warm fall afternoon, and the ambiance relaxed and pleasant, a lazy but exciting Sunday afternoon. I wanted somebody to take my picture with Fidel for a memento (how unusual for me, I usually refuse people’s offers to take my picture when I’m photographing). Everybody else kept trying to get in the picture, for a large group shot, when all I wanted was one of me with Fidel, to show the warm intimate conversation we had had. I think it was about here that I woke up, having to go to the bathroom, about 7:10 a.m. So much for my ideas about sleeping late on Saturdays...

Resistance is Futile

You may wonder why I titled this rant about so-called red-light cameras with a line from Star Trek: The Next Generation, uttered by The Borg. (I started out thinking I would call it "The injustice of the red light camera.") It's because, in my attempt to avoid having to pay the excessive seventy-five dollar fine, I have run up against what feels like the stone, or metal, wall encountered by humans who meet up with The Borg.

I have received tickets from the cameras three times. The first happened when making a right turn on red, which is not illegal. However, according to the camera and the hearing officer, my stop was four-tenths of a second too short, and therefore illegal. The second occurred after making a left turn on an arrow some unknown tenths of a second after it turned red—I didn't request a hearing that time, because I couldn't think of an argument that would win me an dismissal or at least a reduction in my fine. Actually, I don't think there is such a thing as a reduction. There may not even be such a thing as an dismissal. The third, and most recent one, took place at 12:30 a.m. on July 20, 2010.

I was on my way home from working as a grief counselor for the employees of Emcore, where a horrendous multiple murder scene had taken place a few days before. I knew as soon as I went through the intersection and saw a flash of light in the dark night that I had done something to generate a ticket from the camera. I waited at home for the bad news in the mail, even though this date was after cameras were removed from three intersections because they were on state highways. Central Avenue is still a state highway, as far as I knew. When I received the notice of violation in the mail, it stated that I had been going 45 miles an hour in a 35 mph speed limit zone.

The hearings for these infractions take place separate from Metro Court, since the violations are in a different class from ordinary traffic tickets. The cameras are not even owned by the city, but by a private company somewhere in Arizona. I had received and read a humorous article in my French class, Police Checkpoints: how to avoid problems? Translating freely, the three rules are: #1,don't discuss, i.e., don't try to give the officer excuses; #2, don't lie—this is a corollary to the first; and #3, stay calm, above all stay calm.

Aggression will complicate the situation irrevocably. Be polite with the forces of law and order, at least as much as they are with you. Don't believe that a smile will betray you. It won't cost you anything. Follow the instructions that they give you, like a good student, "Your papers, please, and exit from the vehicle." Don't sigh and don't tense up. If you haven't done anything irreparable, there is no reason that the stop will go badly. If you respect these three principles, you will see that even law enforcement officers sometimes have their hand on their hearts.

The only problem with all of this is that there is no traffic stop, and there is no contact with a human being. It's you (or me) against the robot, against the machine. So, skipping these rules, go directly to "jail" and pay the $75 fine. The trouble is, these are administrative processes, not criminal misdemeanors at all. According to my lawyer friend, they are a beast unto themselves, without any real due process, and unconstitutional. Breaking those rules, I wanted to discuss my ticket. In the past, I had often been able to overcome parking tickets and simple moving violations by going to court and presenting my defense.

In the hearing room on the date assigned, I listened to the procedure of the victims before me, as they presented their thinking to the police officer conducting the pre-hearing counseling. He spoke of having the laws for reduction of risk and preventing accidents. He mentioned something about nuisance control. You may have heard of the city's task force on nuisance abatement which sometimes results in old hotels on Route 66 being torn down because of their unsavory clientele, and old ladies being evicted from their homes. The officer succeeded in discouraging several people from going to hearing. A couple said they just came to hear the explanation of why they got their tickets. One woman was upset because it was ruining her perfect record of no tickets in 40 years. The officer spoke as if from a scripted response sheet of talking points.

Finally, just one man and I were left wanting a hearing. Then the judge came in. Only she's not a judge, but a City Administrative Hearing Officer. She seemed warm enough, in a formal kind of way, as if she, too, were pre-programmed. When it came to my turn I told why I was on the street after midnight, returning home from doing grief counseling. The hearing officer told the police officer to look up the dates of the Emcore incident, and he apparently did an internet search on his laptop verifying that my violation was within a couple of weeks, but not the day following the incident. Therefore, I wasn't overcome by emotion because of the intensity of the event, she concluded. So, now she's doing mental health evaluations as well! I didn't say anything, but I thought it wouldn't have been in my favor to be driving if I were overwhelmed.

I pointed out that there were no other cars or people on the street at the time that the camera caught the alleged speeding, and therefore, it was unlikely that I would have caused an accident. I wasn't causing a nuisance or safety hazard of any kind. The police officer was in the role of prosecutor, and apparently had a close relationship to the "judge." He pointed out that there was no way of knowing that a pedestrian wouldn't suddenly dash out into the street. He went into his talking points again, regurgitating the general case of accident prevention and nuisance control being the reason for the law. The "judge" again asked me why I had mentioned where I was coming from and what I had been doing, trying to determine if there was another aspect of my thinking that I hadn't brought out. What I didn't think of saying at the time, but only after the hearing was over and I had walked out the door and onto the elevator, was that my intention was to throw myself on the mercy of the court.

As I was handed my paperwork, an order to pay the fine within 35 days, with payment instructions, I was told that if I desired, I could appeal the judge's ruling. On my way out the door, I turned to the third page of what I had been handed. Browsing down to statement number 2, I read: "THE FILING FEE OF $132 will NOT BE REFUNDED IF YOUR PETITION FOR WRIT OF CERTIORARE IS NOT GRANTED [sic]". So, this is where the Catch-22 comes in. You may appeal to District Court. Up until now, we've been operating within S.T.O.P. That stands for Safe Traffic Operations Program. However, it will cost you $132 even if you win, and if you don't, it will cost you that as well as the $75 fine. There is no way to come out ahead in this scenario. Why bother to appeal? Is this justice? The driver is warned , before paying a filing fee that it can be very helpful to discuss your rights and options with an attorney. In other words, if you haven't figured it out by yourself, your attorney will tell you, "Resistance if futile. You will be assimilated."

* * *

Ironically, the day after I wrote this, the contract for the "Photo-Stop" cameras expired, and they were turned off. A study made by the University of New Mexico showed that the cameras did not decrease the rate for accidents. However, after consideration by the mayor, as well as the city council, the contract for the cameras will be extended and they will be turned on again at the end of this week. However, they will not target speeders, only those who go through red lights.

"The Help"

I wanted to tell you about the delicious novel that I just finished last night, one of those that kept me up reading late into the night. The title is "The Help," and it was on the Los Angeles Times best seller list for over a year. Interestingly,the novel is Kthryn Stockett's debut. It took her five years to complete the book, which was rejected by at least 45 literary agents. Just goes to show, you should never give up.

It takes place in Jackson, Mississippi in the early 60's, just as the U.S. is getting into the midst of the civil rights movement. It's told in rotating chapters through the eyes of a young white woman just graduated from Ole Miss and two Black women who work as maids in the houses of her friends. I thought that it would make an interesting movie, and then I saw in Wikipedia that it was scheduled to start filming in July. So, you'll get a chance to see it in that form, if you won't read the novel. It's not as dense as the "Girl With the Dragon Tatoo," so maybe it would be worth the effort. One of the things mentioned is that the Black women aren't allowed to withdraw books from the white folks' public library, only from the library for the colored.

J.A. Jance Presentation at the Main Library

9:38 PM

Tonight I went downtown to the main library to attend a presentation by author J.A. Jance. My first thought when she walked out on the stage at the front of the auditorium was, I didn't know she was so big. She said later that she was sux feet tall by the time she reached 7th grade. And, she looked older that her photos on the bookjacket, but of course, that would be retouched. Looking over her bio on her website, I figured out that she's actually about 3-4 years younger than I am.She talked about her personal life, and how it got incorporated into her novels. I tried to record her remarks, but after taking a few photos and less than 15 minutes into her talk, my recorder ran out of memory! Usually, I usually carry an extra memory card and an extra battery, but tonight I traveled light. So, I'll have to remember as much of it as I can. If I forget anything, you probably can find it on her website, since I noticed that her bio contains much of the same information as her talk.

She talked about her first husband, who was an alcoholic who also fancied himself a writer, but in the style of F. Scott Fitzgerald or Ernest Hemingway, with a lot of drinking and little writing. She described an early experience of gender discriminaton when she tried to enroll in the creative writing program at the University of Arizona, only to be refused entrance by the professor, because women were teachers and nurses, not writers. Only men were writers. So she made the mistake of marrying a man who had been admitted to the creative writing program, but who never had anything published. When he was passed out in his recliner, she wrote poetry, and hid the scraps of paper in the strongbox, along with the birthcertificates and other important documents. She found them years later, after she had divorced him, after his death, when she went to look for those important documents of identification.

This was beginning to sound familiar. I was sure I had read it in one of her novels, and a short time later, she revealed that she had written it in Hour of the Hunter, a revised version of her first, unpublished novel, and she made the evil English professor who had refused her admission to the creative writing program into the villain, the serial killer. It was also interesting to know that the story was based on something that actually happened on the Tohono O’Odham reservation in 1970, that had touched her and her husband's lives. They found out that he had been given a ride home by the serial killer just 20 minutes after he had committed one of his murders, and later, that he was captured on July 20, just before he had planned to kill her and her husband on the 22nd, since he always committed his murders on the 22nd of the month. When she wrote all this in a fictionalized version and tried to submit it for publication, the editors who turned it down said that the parts that were real were totally unbelievable, and the parts that were fiction were fine. Eventually, after she had written nine J.P. Beaumont mysteries and wanted to move on to something else, she cut 600 pages out of the manuscript and it got published. Other of her experiences on the rez, working as the school librarian, are included in Kiss of the Bees, and I recognized them as she talked.

The reason she uses her initials instead of her name, Judith Ann, which is the way it's listed in the library catalog, is that editors didn't believe a woman could write police procedurals, so she had to disquise her gender. Even now, after she has her photo on the book jacket, there are some who are sure that they are written by a retired cop, and she's just fronting for him.

That's about all I remember, except that she said that when she heard Janis Ian's song, "Seventeen," she though that she and Janis were kindred spirits, because they had both been rejected by the popular kids when they were in school. Until she found out that Janis is 4'11", compared to her 6 feet, that Janis is a Democrat and she's a Republican, and a few other discordant details. However, she got to meet her at a recent writers' convention and now they are friends. Ms. Jance closed out her presentation, after one of her hearing aids ceased to function because of a dead battery, by singing that song, "Seventeen."

10:46 PM

An evening with Arlo Guthrie & Family

 

I guess only one photo got uploaded. I'll try to upload the rest as an album on Facebook. In any case, the photos aren't very good--they're blurred because I took them from the mezzanine of the National Hispanic Cultural Center, Disney Theater, and couldn't use the flash. And, of course, they were moving. So the white blur is Arlo Guthrie and the other singers and musicians are his sons and daughters and grandchildren. It was a fun concert, except that after the encore song about going from individual peace to world peace, a man who had been sitting a few rows behind me, complained on the way out, that the flashing light (from when I took videos of the last few songs--I hope they come out better; if I upload them to youTube, I'll add it here) bothered him. He called me rude, but I certainly felt the effect ofhis anger as rude. I'm sure there was a nicer way to tell me about being careful about it in the future.

I was disappointed that Arlo didn't sing Alice's Restaurant. I did buy a CD of children's songs to give to my grandchild for his birthday in May, and then on impulse decided to buy a T-shirt, because I don't have a tie-dyed T. It's bright and colorful, good for a nice spring day like today.