Open Letter to Charlie Rose

Dear Charlie Rose,

Do not delete this, please. Before I die, I want to sit across you.

Now that you have two shows, I feel my chances are better than five years ago when I publically expressed: “My dream is to sit across Charlie Rose someday. Publish another children’s story and another caregiving book.” I did all that with a bonus book called Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii. You’re the only one who can make the remaining dream come true.

Now, why should I deserve a place on your show?

I’m not famous or a household word except in our home. But..but…someday when one of those famous names cancel out on you, I’ll be there to fill in any spot. You can depend on this.

Sometimes, a nobody needs to have dreams fulfilled, and you can do this, Charlie Rose.

I recently published my 10th book called Kapoho: Memoir of  a Modern Pompeii. My family left Hiroshima  before the bombing and went to Hawaii, seeking  an ordinary life. Soon there was Pearl Harbor and  the enemy came wearing my face. We buried all things Japanese and 14 years later, Kilauea Volcano finished the job by destroying my place of birth. Not good enough?

How about my books  on caregiving for caregivers and children?

I give lectures and poetry writing workshops to caregivers of Alzherimer’s  and other dementia related diseases, children and health personnel,  throughout the U.S.  Until there is a cure, caregivers need help that can’t be found in medical offices,  and poetry writing has found a place in their lives to bring meaning and compassion to caregiving.  I have become the conscience of caregivers and the ones being cared  for, and a voice for our children. I presently facilitate a third poetry writing support group for caregivers in Sacramento, Ca.I was a caregiver for my mother who had Alzheimer’s and my own poetry writing took me beyond the daily tasks of caregiving to a higher level of what it means to be human.

 

Still not good enough?

How about being so desperate to fill in an empty slot, you will invite me to your table and I will read poetry to you. I have a few poetry books published.

Miracles do happen, why not today? Forgive my arrogance, Charlie Rose, but I’m a seeker of dreams.

Thank you and readers, if anyone out there knows magic, can you send Charlie Rose to this post?

starlight, starbright

first star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish  I might

have my dream come true tonight.

Farewell to a good friend

I said good-bye to my old professor friend Ted today. His devoted niece Celeste arranged a phone call at his bedside at the hospital where he’s been under Hospice care for a few days. He raised his eyebrows to acknowledge my call and a tear rolled down his face, Celeste said.

I met Ted in the 60′s at the English Institute at the University of Hawaii. I was a student in his linguistics class . “You!” he pointed at me in class. “Speaking of value systems, it’s quite obvious where your values are. Why, even the design of your dress is like the wrapping paper of Liberty House.” ( The Macy’s of today.) I never wore that spaghetti strapped dress to class again. Ted, of course, didn’t know then, who he was dealing with that day.

I raised my hand before he could start his class a few weeks later. “So,” I asked, “Was there a sale at the Sears basement this past weekend?”  He was wearing a new aloha shirt. We sparred for the next six weeks.

One day Ted stood nervously as he announced that his guru master teacher James Sledd, the renown linguist would be visiting our class the following day. He warned us, ” I suggest you refrain from exposing your ignorance by questioning this man. Just listen to him.”

When Mr. Sledd commented on dialects and how dialect speakers do not want to change and therefore, we must not even think of tampering people’s dialects, I raised  my hand and said, “”Mr. Sledd, I disagree with you.” Ted was behind him, motioning me to shut up. “I grew up speaking Pidgin,” I continued, “and at age 6 when I discovered Pidgin was not the standard English found in books or  how others spoke, I was determined to lose my dialect.”

He came toward me and said, “Young lady, you interest me.” I gave the smuggest look  I could muster to  Ted.

On the last day of  class, after the finals, he asked to see me outside. He bent over and told me to look at the label on his new aloha shirt. I saw a Liberty House label.

Twenty five years later, I saw Ted again, in the audience during a conference on writing. My lecture was on Children as Authors project on which I was basing my entire curriculum in my classes.

Ted came to me and said, “The Dept of Educ. ought to put you in a van and take you to every school in the state.”

“You don’t remember me, do you? Summer of 63?”

He pointed his finger at me once again and said, “Liberty House.” That week, he sent me a check for a hundred dollars with a note: Use this for the kids and writing, not at Liberty House.”

And we became pen pals. He never had a computer after he gave his first away to a young student whose story of needing a computer appeared in the local newspaper. Ted unplugged his and took it to him. He once bought a bicycle for a student who was taking a bus to his job while attending college.

In one of his letters, he asked if I knew he was gay.
“OF course,” I wrote back. “When you didn’t ask me out that summer in 63, I knew you were gay because I knew you weren’t married and any man who doesn’t ask me out must be gay.”

Ted lived with dignity. He was concerned that being gay would rob him of his dignity until the day he decided that he needed to write a letter to the editor on the gay issue. And he did and drew a breath of relief when nothing changed in his relationships with his neighbors.

We both had season tickets to the opera in Hawaii when I lived there; he knew more about opera than I did.

Ted was also courageous in how he lived alone and became a cancer survivor. I would have died from the descriptions he sent about what chemo therapy did to him.

We playfully sparred and bantered  a lot, laughed a lot, and we both knew beneath it all was a true friendship. I learned to be generous in helping others  because this is what Ted did. More than anything else, I could do no wrong in his eyes.   He told everyone he met that I was a genius and I should become the next Poet Laureate. In later years, he would recognize me or my name through the word Poet. And I shamelessly greeted him with “This is the genius calling.”

I saw him a few months ago at his nursing facility. Early set dementia was beginning to fog part of our conversations. I kissed him before I left and asked, “When was the last time a beautiful woman kissed you?”

He looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes and slowly said,” I’m still waiting.” I punched him  playfully and left.

About five hours after my phone call to Ted today, his niece Celeste called to say Ted left us.

I will miss him, Ted Plaister.

1-11-12

Watered Down Politicians of 2012

The Tongue Having Wagged, Wags On

May the spirit of the holiday season become a permanent residence and may it not be out-staged by politicians sparring in sand and toy boxes. This poem was generated after reading a post on the following blog site:

Avomnia.wordpress.com

I highly recommend checking out that site to truly understand  why I’m  giving pause to rant on our politicians when the poinsettia is still in full bloom. The post  saddened me in its message that  perhaps  the  eloquence, dignity and style of our founding fathers  have not been inherited by  many of their heirs.

On Politicians

Our politicians have been watered down,

Hosed by those called Constituents.

( We are the creators of Politicians)

Brain is less, soul is less, love of country is less.

The eloquence of Jefferson, Paine, Adams,

Now reduced to LOL & ROFLMAO.

Even the mud they sling

Is watered down, leaving

Muddly puddles betwixt their legs.

Alas, had  they known their heirs

Would be so diluted into crapulous mass,

Thomas, Thomas, and John

Would surely have been cloned.

Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii

Kapoho’s book launch from Hilo , Hawaii

Found our old house lot in Kapoho

It was more than books sold, more than number of people who stood in line at my book signings.  It was, what Kapoho has always been…her people.

Ninety one year old Suzuki,  a conductor on the passenger train we called Motor Car came to both signings. He was a young rascal to us Kakugawa kids who rode the train for free since my father was working for the railroad company. Wilson would ask us, “Where’s your ticket?” As a child, I always  wanted a ticket to be punched like the other kids. Suzuki is now Wilson, he took his mother’s name after Pearl Harbor. He came with a sheet of paper, with most of the names of the families who were living in Kapoho before the eruption. An incredible man and he even wore a jacket!  He told more stories of Kapoho to other people from Kapoho who were in presence.

Suzuki, a.k.a. Wilson, my sister and me.

Jimmy, in his 80′s said, “I read about Frances Kakugawa but you are still Hideko to me.” We were neighbors in Kapoho and bought adjoining lots in Pahoa after the eruption to remain neighbors. I visited him at his home.

The Kapoho Lighthouse: lava stopped a few feet around the lighthouse to keep the light burning.

His sister, Julie, in her 80′s , invited my sister, niece Tammy and me to lunch at her now Pahoa home.  She took us on a tour of Kapoho where we found our old house lot. We had an old Vee apple tree in our backyard and it was still there, growing above the other trees, a welcome home sign. The area is now overgrown with coconut, ohi’a, ferns and other growth. Only the acres near the ocean are black lava.

George, in his 90′s , a  former policeman came with a book in hand to be signed. I’m not sure he was the policeman in my story “The Kindergarten drop-out.”

Misae, classmate from Kapoho, attends all my book signings. Misae and I were neighbors, we played cowboys, baseball and danced Bon dances throughout our Kapoho years. When we quarreled, we still went to school together, each of us walking on opposite sides of the road.

Many of the original residents are now gone but their children or grandchildren or in-laws or relatives came along with strangers interested in a place now under lava rock. And friends from long ago years.

There are still original buildings still standing. We met the New Kapoho residing in these homes. The new Kapoho, I call them, mainland Haoles now living in Kapoho. They came to learn what the old Kapoho was like, they said,  and left with book in hand with a vow to preserve the spirit and humanity that was once Kapoho.

   Kapoho, under lava rock…………

                 The Kapoho Tree created by niece Tammy.

Only in Hawaii…KAPOHO at Barnes & Noble

At Barnes & Noble, Kahala Mall, my book signing posters were in their showcase a week before its date.

David, the Events Manager, greeted  me with an orchid lei and my favorite café mocha drink.

All five of my books were dramatically displayed  on two tables. Dawn of Watermark Publishing was there to assist me.

Within minutes, magic took over. It was a book signing unlike any of my other nine books.

Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii is a collection of stories of my childhood in Kapoho which was eventually destroyed by Kilauea Volcano. My history begins on December 7.

The book cover features a photo of an active lava fountain behind the heart of Kapoho:  Nakamura Store, their pool hall, theater and the family’s residence. This Nakamura Store made the Life and Look Magazines and national TV during the eruption.

The Nakamura family came to my signing. I haven’t seen some of the members since the eruption in the late 50’s. In the top photo, that’s my brother, Paul, to my left, and Shozo Nakamura and his wife, Harumi, to my right. Shozo and Harumi’s daughter, Sharon, wears the bright blue shirt. It was Shozo’s parents that owned Nakamura Store. In the bottom photo are Shozo’s nephew, Ronald, and his wife. Ronald’s parents’ house was under construction when the lava came to consume Kapoho and his grandparents’ store — you can see it in the photo, that building behind the others, standing on its own.

The Nakamuras stood looking at their home on the cover of my book. There are times when silence and tears express emotions better than words and this was one of those moments.

When I told Shozo that I included in the book a conversation between his now deceased mother and myself that took place on the night he was drafted into the army, he responded with tears.

Copies of Kapoho were purchased for every member of their families by the Nakamura family and others who were there. My sister’s high school classmate was there, someone I had not seen since the eruption. It was a reunion of a tiny part of Kapoho with my book cover as a backdrop.

Someone suggested I organize a Kapoho reunion.

It was Kapoho once again, now under lava, breaking through its black crust to bring us all together.

Next weekend, I’ll be on the Big Island of Hawaii and one of the bookshops notified me that books are flying off the shelf even before any news release.

No one has yet read the book. They may tar and feather me out of the Big Island after they read Kapoho, but I’ll be back in Sacramento by then.

If the presence of the entire Nakamura clan is a sign of what this book means, then What Have I Done? may be a question answered with more nostalgic hugs and tears than a pail of hot tar.

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KAPOHO Book Launch Photos and Reviews

Last night, we had the launch for my new book, Kapoho, at the Native Books store at Ward Warehouse. (I’m so sorry; I told some of you it was at Ward Center!) The store set us up in an alcove outside which they dressed up with festive poinsettias and Hawaiianprint tablecloths on the refreshments table.

I read excerpts from “The Enemy Wore My Face” and “Once There Was a Kapoho.” My publisher, Watermark Publishing, brought punch and pupus for everyone to enjoy after the reading.

The gentleman in the picture to the right was born in Kapoho, too! His son saw my book at the store on Tuesday, bought it and brought his dad back to meet me. He’s in his nineties and we both recognized each other’s family name; when I was a girl we used to swim on his family’s property at Pohoiki Beach.

Yesterday, Wayne Harada also wrote a review on his blog for the Star*Advertiser:Excerpts:

[Frances] was always primarily a poet at heart but a storyteller in general, and she lived through tough times, enduring some of the fallout scars of being of Japanese ancestry, in a post World War II era when local Japanese often were maligned because of the bombs that fell at Pearl Harbor.  Over the years, she has evolved as a savvy ambassador of caregiving, conducting workshops for those burdened with the task of caring for a loved one, and writing about her use of poetry to ease the pangs of the grips of Alzheimer’s.

You can read the rest of Wayne’s blog here.

I have one more signing on Oahu this weekend: Saturday, December 10, at Barnes & Noble at Kahala Mall, from 11am – noon. I also have several more events in Hilo next weekend. Read my previous blog post for all the dates, times and locations. I’m even conducting a writing workshop for people who want to write their own memoirs!

And here are more photos from last night’s reading and book signing:

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Book Launch in Hawaii

Join me in Hawai’i or send the news to anyone you know through the Coconut Wireless!

BOOK SIGNING SCHEDULE IN HAWAI’I
BOOK LAUNCH CELEBRATION
Wednesday, December 7 |6pm – 7:30pm
Native Books at Ward Warehouse
1050 Ala Moana Blvd.
Reading & Light Refreshments
(808) 596-8885
Saturday, December 10 | 11am – 12pm ( signing)
Barnes & Noble, Kahala Mall
4211 Waialae Ave.
(808) 737-3323
Saturday, December 17 | 11am – 1pm (reading&signing)
Book Gallery, Hilo
259 Keawe St.
(808) 935-4943
Saturday, December 17 | 3pm – 5pm ( lecture and book signing)
“A Writer’s Pen” Workshop—The Writing Process and Memoir Writing
East Hawaii Cultural Center, Hilo 141 Kalakaua St.
Sunday, December 18 | 1pm – 2pm ( signing)
Basically Books, Hilo
160 Kamehameha Ave.
(808) 961-0144

 

NYC – Denver

Country Mouse in NYC and Denver, CO:

I needed words, more than photo images to capture certain moments on this trip and I share a few with you.

World Trade Center Memorial: friend Charles Pellegrino used his family pass for his first visit to the Memorial and I was honored to be with him. I had my own special moment.

I saw a young man trying to lay a roll of paper on a name so he could trace it with a crayon. The wind was strong after a snowstorm the previous day. I asked to hold the front end of the paper for him so he could rubbed his crayon over a name. I watched  a name slowly  appear…Julie….and I didn’t know what to do. It was more than a simple name, I knew that.  She was a person appearing before our eyes, a person who was a daughter, wife, girl friend, sister, or mother  and I wanted to let the young man know that I knew this. Julie’s name was followed by her middle initial, her last name and ended with “and her unborn child.” I asked, ” Will you tell me something about her?”  He choked and couldn’t speak and finally said, “I can’t.”  I said “I’m sorry” and put my hand on his and left. I looked at thousands of names and knew each was more than a name.

Charlie followed the name of his friend and a family member with his hand, running his fingers over each letter and said, “It helps to feel their name.”

New York City is also subways.

The Subway

Will I ever become one of them?

 

 

She sits and knits without raising her head,

Can she sense by the length of her knitting

When her next stop will be?

Does five inches of knitting equal her stop?

 

 

He sleeps soundly like a horse,

His head upright, his hands on his lap.

Clenching a shopping bag.

Is there an alarm inside his bag?

 

 

She stares straight ahead

Like a robot in space.

Do I hear a silent ummmmm

Meditating her next stop?

 

 

How can they be so relaxed?

He sits, his back straight and stiff.

Ah, is this his first ride, too?

Naah, he’s guarding his Armani shopping bag.

Among the likes of us.

 

 

A man jumps on board, and asks

“Does this take you to J street?”

What an adventurer, I envy him.

Occupy Wall St harmonized in

Built in standing ovation:

We are the 99 % fill the air.

 

 

I sit there. Anxious, a child whose grip lost

Her mother’s hand.

A New Yorker friend sits across me

To accompany me to Brooklyn

With three transfers. I watch her like a hawk

but the crowd soon becomes a wall between us.

I can’t lose sight of her, I panic.

I must get to Brooklyn.

 

 

Ah, I see her shoes between pairs

And pairs of legs. My safety net,

Those tired worn out shoes.

Relax, observe, learn.

 

 

I pretend I’m a native New Yorker

Who’s quite capable of knitting

Or snoring before my stop.

I look for signs on station walls

But they run like subtitles

On foreign films.

I listen to “next stop”

But they sound like voices

At airports, all muffled and dumb.

 

 

I keep my eyes on her shoes.

When they move, I move.

When they stand, I stand.

         Shoes are walking,

         Shoes are walking.

         She motions me toward the door.

         I elbow my way like a New Yorker.

         We run, two short distance runners

         To the next train.

Denver, Colorado:

On the plane from NY to Denver, I arrived with a blank sheet. I still didn’t know how to begin my keynote address at the Brookdale Respite Care National conference, but it was waiting for me in the Renaissance Hotel lobby. I was greeted by nine large flower arrangements of red anthuriums? Anthuriums in Denver?  They gave me moments for pause. My mother grew and sold anthuriums before her Alzheimer’s diagnosis. That night she entered my dream and I had  my introduction which caused many teary eyes in the audience the following day.

A young woman working in the Renaissance Hotel gift shop asked to be my pen pal. “I don’t have any friends to hang out with since I moved here from Georgia,” she said, “and I could really hang out with you.”  How wonderful is that, to hang out together as pen pals between Denver and Sacramento, two friends with eons of age between them?

The world is still a wondrous place if we look for beauty, kindness and humanity.

Kapoho: A Memoir of a Modern Pompeii

NEW BOOK ANNOUNCEMENT

I’m very excited about book #10 coming to you this Fall

Pre-order from : Watermark Publishing : sales@bookshawaii.net

or signed copies from the author herself: fhk@francesk.org

Or meet me in Hawaii and/or  L.A./ Sacramento,  for book launch: Info to follow soon.

Down town, Kapoho, before lava destroyed it all. The billiard pool, the store and theater run by generator.

NYC, Here I Come

Off  to  NYC  and  Denver. CO

The country mouse will be in the Big Apple on the 29th.

It’ll be a treat to see my friend Sets who moved from Hawaii to the big city.

You can see her poetry in Mosaic Moon: Caregiving Through Poetry. Sets is a practicing

Buddhist . She tried but often failed to ground me to reality. I wrote this poem about  one of our ventures:

A Literary Afternoon at Borders

 

My name is announced over the intercom,

Followed by a press release on Mosaic Moon.

Shoppers are invited to join me in reading,

Promising a literary event of magnitude.

 

“Sets,” I say to my partner in reading,

“We will read and give our all

To an audience of one or a hundred.”

 

We settle for one.

We sit facing three rows of empty chairs

Except for one in the front row,

Occupied by an employee of Borders,

Hoping to be honey to ants.

Shoppers curiously walk around the edges,

Sneaking looks at Sets and me.

“It can’t be good if no one’s there,”

Can almost be read from their faces.

 

Soon hard rock music fills the room,

Followed by an aria from an opera,

(Not even my favorite Puccini.)

Drowning out our voices

As we read our literary creations.

 

Empty chairs, an aria,

Poetry without rhyme.

Omar Khayyam, at least

Had bread and Thou

Beside him. And lots of wine.

 

 

Sets, the philosopher, states with conviction,

As I gather unused fountain pens

And clean white blotters,

“I learn something from every experience.”

“Yeah, right Sets,” I mutter,

“Empty chairs don’t applaud.”

 

    Frances H Kakugawa

    ( written after a book signing, 2004)

 

Author, Forensic Archeologist, Charles Pellegrino  promises  me the best cupcakes on 6th Ave.  He is one of the best  writing  teachers ; I read his books of different genres and sit at his feet in awe.  He influences my writing like no other. We hope to pay our respects at the WTC Memorial.

I’m determined to join Occupy Wall St. will take two signs “Occupy Sacramento” and “Occupy Hawaii” , eat a hot dog like those screen detectives,  and  play author whenever called upon. Lunch with former students, now all grown family men. Then to Denver, to give a keynote address at the  Brookdale Nat’l Group Respite Conference.

I promise to send you postcards. Stay tuned.

From Denver, to Hawaii to launch my new book: Announcement  to follow soon.

The Last Train From Hiroshima by Charles Pellegrino

In 1945, I heard my parents discuss the death of their families in Hiroshima. A child, I didn’t know the significance of that day, a day that my ancestors were all destroyed.
I later wrote:

Hiroshima

We cut the chrysanthemum
Off its stalk
And left it naked in the sun.
(from The Enemy Wore My Face,not yet published)

In 1989, Noriyo, a third grader from Hiroshima entered my classroom. Her grandmother, who was child during the bombing, was now dying from cancer. Her entire family moved to Hawaii on their  doctor’s recommendation: Go to Hawaii where it’s warm and sunny for the remaining year of her life.”  I wrote a poem for Noriyo:

44 Years Later

a dark mushroom cloud
follows me across the Pacific
into my classroom.

forgive us, Noriyo
for Hiroshima
and Nagasaki.
( from The Enemy Wore My Face, not yet published)

In 1995, Dr. Jiro Nakano edited and translated 100 tanka poems written by survivors (hibakusha) of Hiroshima in a book called Outcry From the Inferno. I was deeply honored to be one of the English editors.

In 2010, I read Charles Pellegrino’s The Last Train from Hiroshima.
Nothing, not the discussions in our kitchen, my poems, the editing I did to Outcry From the Inferno, nothing is more real than this book. A tanka by  Dr. Nagai, one of the survivors in Pellegrino’s book, is included in the Inferno book. One of the survivors bears the same name of my mother’s family. Mr. Pellegrino, thank you for the open wounds that will never be healed nor forgotten.

Open Letter to Charles Pellegrino: Last Train

Open Letter to Charles Pellegrino of  The Last Train from Hiroshima

Oh no!!!  Mr. Pellegrino, please tell us “they’re” wrong. I don’t care about your Ph.D, but I do care about the authenticity of your story. Did the victims truly experience what you described in detail?  Those victims could have been any of my own ancestors who were killed during the bomb.  Or did you use this human tragedy to advance your own writing?

One of the main victims’ tanka poem is published in  Outcry From the Inferno, a book I helped edit. It meant so much to read of  these poets in your book but now, “they’re” saying  it’s all a scam?  You couldn’t  have done this to your readers and to the victims. So tell us, “they’re” wrong. Inform James Cameron that the names may be incorrect but the story is true so he can go with the film.

You owe us, Mr. Pellegrino. Look at all the excellent book reviews we posted and the book sales.

So tell us.

Author Pellegrino of Last Train from Hiroshima Speaks

Author Responds to my Open Letter to Pellegrino of Last Train from Hiroshima

I am revisiting my initial post on Last Train from Hiroshima followed by my Open Letter to Mr. Pellegrino after the “hoax” was reported in the media. Mr. Pellegrino has responded to my Open Letter. Need I say more? Thank you, for setting the record straight, Mr. Pellegrino, and for assuring me that this book is indeed a legacy of my ancestors who were killed in the atomic bomb.

Email from Charles Pellegrino

I received a personal email from Mr. Pellegrino of Last Train from Hiroshima. He added more plausible explanations of what happened to the “hoax” of Last Train from Hiroshima. It is my understanding that Mr. Pellegrino may have been a victim of an unfair accusation rather than the perpetrator of a hoax. He has given me permission to post his email. See below: In the meantime, this is my reply to Mr. Pelligrino:

Dear Mr. Pellegrino,

You have  a Japanese soul that lives by retaining dignity through silence. On my desk, I have a saying, “You can’t quote silence.”  I write this with deep emotion that you are able to live on “interesting” and ” madness” without needing to blast the media and other people involved, who could set the story closer to the truth. I now question if silence is always good.

I’m ecstatic over your responses and wanted to hear that the story of the victims and survivors was authentic because I wanted so much to believe, that the story of my ancestors was real. Thank you, most sincerely, for giving me this legacy through your book.

Now, what can I do to help undo bad media press and let silence be heard?

frances kakugawa

Dear Frances Kakugawa: A friend just directed me last night to your open letter of nearly a month ago – to which I have just responded on your site.

Please be assured that I have learned more than most people that we must keep a faith with the dead, and this includes never being so arrogant (as one of my archaeologist-teachers once said) to believe that our job makes us “speakers for the dead.”

My job is to get as close as humanly possible to the truth.

When I saw the evidence that one of the aviators had given me an account that turned out to be untrue, I wanted nothing more than to see the book withdrawn and to quickly put out a corrected edition. I argued that technology had the answer and (as Tsutomu Yamaguchi and Masahiro Sasaki would have me do) suggested that my publisher try to build a bridge to its declared enemy, Amazon-Kindle. “We could get a corrected copy out in weeks,” I said cheerily. This went over about half as well as a hand-grenade in a cesspool.

Amid such contention, an anti-evolutionist 9/11 conspiracy theorist named Brennan got to my publisher through the Associated Press with what was essentially a hoax about my having a “phony” Ph.D. I provided the publisher with a (requested) copy of my published Ph.D. Dissertation (having been told that such copy should end the argument).

Meanwhile, the 509th bomber wing (and its descendant family members) started making unreasonable assertions and demands – such as removing or diminishing Charles Sweeney in the next edition (a man who went out of his way to avoid bombing a largely civilian target and who, after Hiroshima, said he needed to go see a priest after being told he was going to have to do this again). By and large, the 509th hate anyone who expressed remorse over the bombings – so (having quickly had a belly full of the 509th) I told my publisher I was now adding Robert Lewis to the new edition (the co-pilot who looked down upon Hiroshima and said, “My God, what have we done?”). I was told that I should not make matters worse because we “need the 509th on our side… we need this dispute to simply go away – quickly” (Steve Rubin, Holt). Very close to the final straw for me had been a claim by the 509th bomber wing that I did not know anything about nuclear physics, that
the bombs were designed to dissipate all radiation at high altitude before it could reach the ground, and that my writings about radiation effects on the ground in Hiroshima were a hoax. The publisher demanded proof of radiation. I presented an extensive list of scientific papers (including our own U.S. Bombing Survey data).

Oddly, the answer to these papers and to the copy of my Ph.D. Dissertation were the same: “This is all too scientific.” I pointed out that we were in New York City and that we had the American Museum of Natural History (where Niles Eldredge was a supporter of my Ph.D Dissertation) and Columbia University, all within a quick subway ride. We also had Jim Powell (of Brookhaven National Laboratory), a polymath who was familiar with my history and who could answer to both issues. (They never bothered to call Powell, or to check with anyone at AMNH or Columbia.)

But… we needed the 509th on our side. And so, my agent pointed out, “You will never get them on our side. This is an anti-war book.”

Madness. Madness. It was like the old Chinese curse that at first glance is meant to look like a blessing: “May you live in interesting times.” This has been a month far too interesting.

- – Charles Pellegrino

Note to Readers: Mr. Pellegrino’s initial response is found under my Open Letter to Mr. Pellegrino under comments.

From the Beginning: Exchanges with “Last Train from Hiroshima” Author Charles Pellegrino

"The Last Train from Hiroshima" by Charles Pellegrino

Over the past few months, there has been quite a controversy boiling over Charles Pellegrino’s book The Last Train from Hiroshima. The public has been waiting to hear from Pellegrino. Good news! He responded to my open letter. We exchanged a few emails and he asked if I would post those emails on the blog. It’s causing a stir!

Here’s a little background: Pellegrino’s publisher, Henry Holt, stopped printing and selling Last Train because it was discovered that one of Pellegrino’s sources was a fraud. I was very upset to hear this news because this book meant so much to me. To even consider that the entire book might be a fraudulent work was devastating.I feel especially close to the subject since my parents’ families died at Hiroshima, and also because I had the opportunity to help edit a book, Outcry from the Inferno, which contains a poem written by Dr. Nagai, a Hiroshima survivor who is in Pellegrino’s book.

Author Charles Pellegrino (photo by Sarah Shatz; from the NYT book review article)

In response to my March 2, 2010, post “Open Letter to Charles Pellegrino,” he writes:

There is no hoax in in my book with regard to anything involving the Hiroshima and Nagasaki survivors. I did not make anything up. One of the men who claimed to have been aboard the photographic escort plane during the Hiroshima mission made something up (backed by such documentation as a letter from President Truman, flight logs, photographs of himself on Tinian Island under the nose art of one of the contested planes [Bad penny], etc., etc.) – and I, not believing that a veteran and a firefighter would make something like this up, believed him. I did not invent a hoax. I was given one (and it’s my fault that I did not catch this before it went to press).

Click here to read the full blog post and his entire reply (it’s the third comment down, below the original post).

We have exchanged emails, and I have posted a full account of our exchange in my post today, “Email from Charles Pellegrino.”

Here is a quick excerpt from his email to me:

Please be assured that I have learned more than most people that we must keep a faith with the dead, and this includes never being so arrogant (as one of my archaeologist-teachers once said) to believe that our job makes us “speakers for the dead.”

My job is to get as close as humanly possible to the truth.

When I saw the evidence that one of the aviators had given me an account that turned out to be untrue, I wanted nothing more than to see the book withdrawn and to quickly put out a corrected edition.

The atomic bomb blast over Hiroshima, Aug. 6, 1945. (photo by United States Military, from the NYT book review article)

In his email, he addresses other controversies that have come up, including the debate over the authenticity of his PhD. You can read his entire email and my response to him by clicking here.

My original post about his book, which I wrote back in February, can be found by clicking here. I’m pleased to have heard from Dr. Pellegrino and feel reassured that his book is indeed a legacy of my ancestors who were killed in the atomic bomb.

Dr. Pellegrino will be on the John Bachelor Show with some regularity
will be interviewed again on NPR and Coast-to-Coast, etc. He is presently
working on the updated version of the book.

A Fountain Pen, Wet Ink on Real Stationary

April 5, 2010 by franceskakugawa | Edit

A Fountain Pen, Wet Ink on Real Stationary

I revived an old practice of mine last week. I took one of my fountain pens out of my collection, filled it with ink and went to the mall to look for elegant, real stationary. At Hallmark Cards, the cashier said, “No one writes letters anymore so we don’t carry them.” I found a box at a specialty shop. I had hoped for paper, thin enough so they would rustle in your hands, my words delivered in a gentle breeze. I found a box with each sheet of thicker stock,  smooth at all the edges except at the bottom, as if it had  just come off the bark of a tree.

Beginning a letter with a fountain pen has its own rules. Salutations such as Hi, Hey, Hello, or Whats’up won’t work. It has to begin with that four letter word Dear.
I sat in front of an Espresso shop with a cup of latte. In the hive of the mall, I felt alone, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning or Emily Dickinson in her attic. While others around me had their ears stuck to a cell phone or their eyes glued to a laptop, I wrote. I knew the person receiving my hand-written letter would receive each word as it was being written, deliberately and carefully , each stroke carefully made with person in mind. I could see my thoughts flowing out  with each word. There is no delete key on my pen. It was an act of pure romance.

The letter was received as expected when the following was emailed back:

“ It was a wonderful experience to read it, a true step back to a kinder time, when people put thought and vibrant content into their letters. Scenes from a mall….”

There is something romantic and very personal even in folding the paper, licking the envelope and placing a stamp for the postman.
I’m still looking for stationary that will rustle in the breeze.

(Since that letter, I have taken my collection of pens out of storage. I had some of the nibs replaced. I recommend Colorado Pen if you can’t find a local pen shop. Helpful and wonderful personnel on the phone, beautiful catalogs and immediate service.)

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Letter of confirmation on Last Train from Hiroshima

Letter from brother of Sadako of the  thousand paper cranes

The following letter was sent to Charles Pellegrino by Mr. Sasaki, brother of the little girl memorialized in the l977 young adults book, Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes by Eleanor Coerr and by author Pellegrino in The Last Train from Hiroshima. I’m sure we were not the only ones who  folded origami paper cranes for Sadako when we first read her story in our classrooms. Mr. Sasaki’s letter is printed here with permission from Charles Pellegrino.

March 1, 2010

Dear Charles Pellegrino,

I hope this note finds you in good health.  I remember your visit to my rural town, outside of Fukuoka City in Kyushu, Japan on July 18, 2008 and your thorough, detailed questions about my sister Sadako, down to the type of kimono she was wearing. I knew your questions did not arise out of mere curiosity.  You conducted the interview without revealing the fact that you were a well known, best selling book author. You were the only (first) one from overseas who came all the way from the U.S for an interview.

I shared a story with you about a boy who asked me a question after I gave a talk in Vienna in Austria in 2004. His question was “which country dropped the bomb?”  My response to the boy was “the name of the country no longer remains in my memory – it has been 60 years since the bomb was dropped and I believe God helped me erase all sorts of feelings that harbored and stood between us through all of these years.” The most important thing is to spread the heart of Omoiyari (Compassion towards others) among children and for their bright futures.

I had never told this story to visitors from overseas before I met you.  Not only did you listen to this story but also wrote about it.  Your sincerity deeply impressed and touched me and my family.  I’ve come to entrust to you with my hope that you will write about Sadako and possibly help turn her story into a film.

I am also aware that you paid a visit to comfort Mr. Yamaguchi on his deathbed, an A-bomb survivor who survived the 2 bombings dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Your visit and caring for a survivor really touched the hearts of many people.

I would like to express my gratitude to you because I was touched by our meeting in 2008 and to extend my sincere consolation to you during these trying times.  It is my sincere hope that you will be able to resume your writing as soon as possible.

I would like to conclude my note with a message to your three children, which is this – I want them to be proud that they have a great father! I have my trust in you, your strength and resilience, no matter how rough the situations you face.

JMasahiro Sasaki, Sadako’s brother.

Translated by Kazuko M.

It Must Be Spring

Cherry blossoms fall,

Break stillness of early morn.

Red koi surfaces.

****

Steam from my green tea

Disappears into pink clouds

Cherry blossom day.

***

Giant ikebana

Showers  me with  sweet rain.

Ah, it must be Spring.

Celebrating April as Poetry Month

Artichokes were selling for less than a dollar yesterday. Reminded me of my Artichoke poem: Artichoke Did it grow Layer on layer Leaf upon leaf Only for this? With two fingers he took the first, Hanging loose from the base. He dipped it twice in hollandaise sauce, Rake it once through his teeth. He took what little was offered him On the tip of that leafy green. Then dropped it carelessly Into a bowl. Around the base he took it by number, One by one, as with the first. He ran each skin between his teeth Until he came to a tighter fist. He found the petals too soft to take The mark of his teeth, the pick of his hand. He scooped the petals, laid them aside, He took his knife to scrape it clean. Sliced it into fourths to fit his bite, He stabbed each part for the rite: Consummation of the Heart. from Golden Spike by frances kakugawa

Caregiving Through Poetry

Alzheimer’s Association presents: Frances Kakugawa “Caregiving Through Poetry.”

Santa Cruz  Cable TV

Channels 27/73

Thursday/Saturday at 6 p.m.

May 27/29

June 17/19

This is a half hour version of the presentation Frances gave at the Santa Cruz Alzheimer’s Association.

Celebrating Poetry Month

Sounds of Old Plantation Days

I miss the sound of the cane trucks tonight
Hauling cane through old sugar towns.
Not the bounce and rattles of the empties,
As they head back to the fields
Over the twists of narrowing country roads.
It’s the dull muffled thump of trucks
Laden with tons of fresh cut sticky cane
That pass my silent, sleepless nights.
I’m not alone on these nights,
In company of faces sitting high
In darkened cabs, the glow of half-burnt cigarettes
Hanging from their lips like summer lanterns.

Allen Ginsberg for Poetry Month

My reference to Ginsberg’s burlap bag is taken from his poem “A Shrouded Stranger.”

   Ginsberg’s Burlap Bag

I want to make love

On Ginsberg’s

Burlap bag.

I want to feel the weaving

Of coarse threads

Against my skin.

I want to suck

Juices out of every word,

Feel it dribble…down

To my breasts.

I want words

To shrivel in my mouth,

Taste each word.

Dried leaves embossed

With the drawing of a stranger’s face.

Like death. Or something.

Georgia O’Keefe for Poetry Month

               On Georgia O’Keefe’s Calendar and my Tulip

Your brush strokes

     Alluring
          Caressing
                    Quavering.

How many men, Georgia,

Suck into your art?

     Two Calla

     Lillies on Pink

     Purple Petunias

     Oriental Poppies

     Red Canna

     Blue Morning Glories

Who gave you entry

Into the pink

Of secret places?

Bravo, Georgia.

Sunday Afternoon

    Sunday Afternoon

Silence grows louder,
Raindrops fall longer.
Clouds drop lower,
Winds sing gentler.
Rooms feel emptier,
The heart aches deeper.
Petals look softer,
The grass stands colder.
Steps walk slower,
The sun sets longer.
It’s Sunday
In the afternoon.

( from Golden Spike by frances kakugawa)

Writing in Men’s Bathroom

    How Do I Write?

Here’s my answer to a few question asked at the Sacramento CA Writers’ Club meeting on Saturday. I may never be viewed the same again by men in public bathrooms.

“How do you write? When do you write? Do you schedule yourself a few hours a day to write?”

No, I write when things come to me to be written and I sometimes make things happen because writers are people who are happiest when there’s writing to be done.
I very seldom face a blank sheet of paper. I do all my writing in my head and when it’s ready, I take rough drafts from my head and write them on paper with my pen, usually at the same table at one specific coffee shop. The computer follows. For me, doing my first drafts on a computer somehow mechanizes the process and my voice is not deeply heard.

Writing in the head causes certain problems. If my mother were here, she’d enjoy telling you how I passed her on the sidewalk in Hilo once, without recognizing her. ‘I was thinking,” I defended myself when she repeated for years, “ She didn’t know her own mother!”

Not too long ago, I went into the restroom at Barnes & Noble. I walked through the door and met a man coming out. He jerked his head toward me before hurrying out. I walked in and saw the stall doors closed so I did what women usually do, stand and patiently wait with our handbags hanging over our shoulders. Yes, I had walked into the men’s bathroom by mistake.

I stood there waiting, in my own world, or shall I say I was writing Pulitzer level lines in my head, staring into space. Finally a stall door opened and a man walked out of the stall and he, too, jerked his head to look at me, washed his hands and hurried out as fast as he could. Only then did I realize I was in the wrong room. All this time, there was a man standing frozen over the urinal.

“Oops!” I said, “Wrong bathroom!” and walked out. It was a good thing I had my sun glasses on.

Yes, certain writing processes can become hazardous to men over urinals.

(To teachers out there, remember, writing doesn’t always occur when a child is writing words on paper. My students often sat at their desks and said, ‘I’m thinking,” for the whole period and I knew they were writing. They brought in their writings later when they had time to put it down on paper. And gentlemen, should you ever find a woman in your bathroom, it could be a famous writer, writing. )

A Mother’s Day Poem

    A Mother’s Day Haiku

A caregiver called from out of state saying he needed help.
I instantly prepared myself to give counsel to handle some caregiving problems regarding his mother who is in her advanced stages of Alzheimer’s.

“Help me write a haiku,” he said. “I’m trying to write a haiku poem for my mother for Mother’s Day. Is it 17 words per haiku?”

He had a 3-line poem addressed to his mother.
“That’s a beautiful poem,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave it as it is?

He wanted to write a haiku in its purest form so we both worked on the 5-7-5 syllable haiku form.

I sat there awhile after he hung up. His mother’s illness has stolen her use of language and she seldom responds to his voice. So much love, dignity and honor from son to mother. Of course it had to be in its purest form.

Men as Caregivers

Sons as Caregivers for Mothers

Someone recently asked me whether I knew of sons who are caregivers for their mothers.
Let me introduce you to three male caregivers through their own voices.

Red Slider, poet/writer, was the sole caregiver for his mother Isobel for over ten years. The following excerpt is from his ‘Notebook #1′.

…Half-past-three-with-searchlight: Even so, she warns from somewhere in the lightless muddle, Don’t hurt me! I check my defenses. Mom, I’d never hurt you. But I know I do,
a hundred times every day. Pouring her hand into the sleeve of her robe, patting her on
the shoulder after pushing the chair up to the table, a sock-snag on a toenail (and when,
I wince, should I treat her to the agony of cutting them?). A simple difference, the
gradient a couple of molecules make scurrying one way or the other over open skin
registers like a shard of ice drilled through her chest, my fingers just grazing her throat
throws her head back against the chair, the last button on her blouse is lost and I will
have to start over…

by Red Slider,
first published in Andre Codrescu’s _Exquisite Corpse _, issue 4, April, 2004.
His entire Nightbook #1 and #2 will appear in my forth-coming book: A Caregivers’ Voice: Breaking the Silence Through Writing.

The Day You Became Isobel

Not on the days you lost your keys,
or the words you couldn’t quite recall,
or the puzzles unsolved in the Sunday Times;
nor, when the refrigerator got lost,
or the steps home unretracable,
or the faces of your children unrecognized.
It was on the day I returned to your name
for the sake of my memory as much as yours.
I said, ‘Isobel’ to remember the you of you,
and whenever I spoke about you to them,
or to myself about you; or called out to you,
“Isobel, it’s time for lunch. Isobel, I’m here.”
That was the day you become so much more
than the ghost of a ‘changed person’,
a ‘she was’ stuck in my native thought;
more than that, so much more than ‘mom’.

By Red Slider

(From my soon-to-be-published book, A Caregiver’s Book: Breaking the Silence Through Writing)

Rod, is also the sole caregiver for his mother. He warned me before my session that he doesn’t write. Yesterday, he emailed over 30 poems written during a span of 3 months. Rod’s poems tell a story of his own development as a caregiver son. “What Do I Feel?” is the first poem he wrote at one of my workshops. “To My Mother” is one of the 30 poems he recently sent me.

What Do I Feel?

What do I see?
Do you see what I feel?
I feel more than you can ever see.
It hurts to feel,
I feel too too much,
Minutes become hours,
Hours become days,
Days become years,
Years become a lifetime!
So sad to see,
So sad to feel,
I wish to feel nothing!

To My Mother

So many years ago
You gave me life
And the bond was made.
This life to see, to hear,
To taste, to touch
But the greatest gift,
You allowed me to feel.
,strong>
Through this deepest darkened night
I will hold the light
To take away all your fears.
Just know I will always be near
Through this tangled webbed maze you travel.
Have no fear, I will always be near.
I will hold this light steadfast
To make everything clear.
Just know I will always be near
Always near, no fears.

By Rod Masumoto

Caregiving takes on such an intimate role that for many sons, the act of bathing mothers are very difficult.

Steward, whose name I’ve changed, felt a lot of anxieties when he had to bathe his mother for the first time. “I discovered my sexuality is in the mind” he said. “ I was so scared I would be sexually aroused. Do you know what beast that would turn me into? When it didn’t happen, I felt such relief.”

I sent the following email to a bachelor son, caring for his mother.

“You need to relax and just think of her private parts as just another part of her body…like her hands or face. It’s all very natural. I know you feel uncomfortable about all this and it’s understandable but see if you can reprogram your mind and detach your thoughts from any sexual innuendos. She’s a woman who needs to be bathed and cleaned. If you feel uncomfortable, those feelings may be transferred to your mom.”

(I gave him specific instructions on bathing and cleaning a woman.)

I have seen sons openly weep for their mothers out of love and helplessness. And I have seen them take full control and become competent  and compassionate caregivers.

Mother Into Child, Child Into Mother

The same umbilical cord

That once set me free

Now pulls and tugs me back

To where I had begun.

There must be hidden

Somewhere, a gift very divine

In this journey back.

frances kakugawa from Mosaic Moon: Caregiving Through Poetry

There’s a Wart On My Face!

Toad Princess

I thought it was a gigantic freckle on my face, until I looked into a magnified mirror. Good grief, I’m turning into a toad. Yes, it’s a wart!!!  I pictured it covering half my face in a year or two, with strands of hair hanging from it as  on witches faces. A fate worse than a toad face.

“Apply apple cider vinegar,” someone suggested. So I applied vinegar and began smelling like a pickled toad. Mix that with my favorite Opium and you don’t want to be near me.

I made an appointment with my physician. “I’m turning into a toad,” I said.

She said, “Stop looking into magnified mirrors. This is why nature has us losing our eyesight as we age so we can’t see all these flaws.”  She sprayed stinging nitrogen on my wart and assured me the wart should fall off  in a few days, if not, I’m to return for more nitrogen sprays.

While I wait, here’s a bedtime story for you. Perhaps if you read this over and over, my wart will fall off.  Vinegar takes too long.

The Toad Princess

Once upon a time, there was a girl who wanted to become a beautiful Princess. But alas, she had a wart on her face and princesses do not have warts on their faces. So the poor girl called on a Fairy Godmother, the same Godmother who had helped Cinderella eons ago. If she could turn pumpkins into carriages, surely this Godmother could take her wart away and turn her into a princess.

Alas, the Fairy Godmother was not having a good day and was a bit confused and turned her into a toad. What a tragic turn of events. To make a long story short, she did have half of her dream come true. She turned into a Toad Princess  because warts are considered beauty spots in the amphibious world of toads. Whether the Toad Princess lived happily ever after has not been recorded, and whether a Toad Prince ever awakened her with a kiss is also not known. But wait, wasn’t it a frog who got kissed?

All that is known is she longingly croaked to the very end.

Alas, alas. Good night.

How to Rid Snails and Slugs

Organic Killer of Slugs and Snails

They finished off the fourth dill plant last night and most of the marigolds and sweet basil are gone. It would give me undeniable pleasure to feed them the deadliest poison but we don’t do that in an organic garden. So how do I organically kill each one slowly and let each feel pain and agony for eating my vegetables and flowers?

The problem is, I’m the only organic killer around. So at midnight, I’m out there in the front garden, in my old pink bathrobe with dark pink snowflakes,  a flashlight in hand, looking for snails. Last night I picked up about 60 snails. I dropped them into a container filled with, yes, organic  salt. They deserve the cheapest salt but such things don’t exist anymore and that’s all I could find in the kitchen. I wish I knew of a worse way to kill snails…they deserve a death slower than a salt bath.

Snails were imported from France in the 1800’s for food. I’d like to stuff that person’s mouth with snails. Escargo on the rocks.

For the slugs, I  throw a beer party every night. There are no cheap beer around either so I use bottled Michelob Ultra, one bottle a night. I open my bar at sunset every night by pouring beer in empty tuna cans. I take a sip or two to check the beer out, ala Julia Childs. By morning, I feel a glee in my heart when I see all the drowned slugs. What a way to go. A few snails manage to enter the bar, too.

Sometimes I think I hear the grandfather snail calling a meeting of all the snails:
“That killer is out again so be careful. When you see that flashlight after midnight, crawl under a lettuce leaf. She’s squirmy about slimy things so she won’t turn leaves over. And smell that wonderful aroma? It’s a trap for slugs and us. So stay away from the bars.”

The good part is, no one has yet called 911 about the ugly pink robe burglar in our front yard and neighbors have not yet started a petition to evict me from the neighborhood. Economy’s too bad.

No, one does not grow enough veggies and flowers  to share with our slimy friends. It doesn’t work that way.
With you, yes, come on over for some organic veggies.
Bring some ideas on how to kill these slimy stuff, too.

Bar opens at sunset.

Sago Palm, Flower Lei, Memorial Day

Memorial Day, 2010

Memorial Day must be near, ads for grills and recipes for ribs are filling up pages of the Sacramento Bee.

A few days ago, we bought a Sago palm. My parents’ house always had a Sago Palm in the front yard. It was a plant nourished and cherished by my father.  I grew up thinking it was a plant to be spiritually honored because it was referred to as a thousand-year-old plant and my child’s mind believed it had lived for a thousand years.

When eruption forced the evacuation of our village, I was not there and no one thought of saving my shoe box of childhood secrets and poems hidden in my closet, but the Sago Plant was dug and taken to the next relocated home site. And there it grew above my height.

The house and palm are no longer there but another now grows in our front yard.

Putting aside grills and hot dogs, this is a weekend for remembrance and honor. During my 6 years in Hawaii’s  schools, I, along with all the students in our elementary schools, sewed a fresh flower lei and took it to school on the Friday before Memorial Day.  These thousands of leis were flown by the National Guard  to the  National Memorial Cemetery at  Punchbowl on Oahu.   Boy Scouts in crisp uniform placed a lei on each grave site of each fallen soldier. I imagine children taking  leis to schools today as they have done traditionally since 1949.  May the number of leis not be increased beyond the over 30,000 grave sites today, as we live with hope for peace.

To all my ancestors from Hiroshima to Hawaii, each new leaf of the Sago Palm will bear your name.

A Salute to a Soldier

Patrick Yoshida

I met Patrick through his caregiver wife, Setsuko. Setsuko was a member of my writing support group for caregivers.  I walked into their home and Patrick gave me a shy smile and a strong handshake. “He knows I’m here,” I thought.

He looked straight into my eyes and asked, “Are you married?”

I teased him, “No, I’m not married. Nobody wants to marry me, Patrick. Don’t you think that’s terrible?”

He smiled and concealed a chuckle. His wife  added, “But Patrick, she had many lovers.” He looked at me, smiled and deliberately said, “Good for you.”

Before I left, he gave me a strong handshake. When I told him I would return again to see him, he said, “Good.”

His words were few but he had said all the right things to me. And I felt like a woman.

I attended his funeral services at Punchbowl Cemetery where he was given full military honors. I wrote this poem for him:

A Salute to Patrick at Punchbowl Cemetery

The soldiers stood cemented to the grassy ground
Like statues, while Buddhist sutras filled the air.
Movement would dishonor the man who once stood
In his uniform, like his comrades today.

The three-gun salute, the wailing taps,
The precision of the folding of the flag,
A salute purified by white gloves
For the presentation of the symbolic flag.

Each step of ultimate precision, a tribute to dignity,
Honor and respect for the fallen soldier,
From the country whom he had served
With love, dignity and honor.

Whatever Alzheimer’s had stolen from him,
All was returned to him today.
Whatever memories, forgotten,
The country that he loved, remembered.

A final rest in peace.

(from Mosaic Moon by Frances Kakugawa
Sets’ poems are also included in Mosaic Moon.)

Conversations Between Charles Pellegrino and Frances

Our Conversations on Last Train from Hiroshima

This is an update on the status of Charles Pellegrino’s book,  Last Train from Hiroshima. We both decided to share our latest emails to keep you abreast of what’s going on over the controversy that arose after the book was released. Mr. Pellegrino is revising the original for publication.

From: Charles Pellegrino: ( He wrote this email to Mr. Henry Alter after reading my book Mosaic Moon.)

Dear Henry:

Naturally, I’ve been very busy with radiation-deniers from the 509th, the Air Force, my publisher and the N.Y. Times being fooled by someone pretending to be a Los Alamos physicist, New Zealanders reaching out to help me (like Dr. Ken Goldie, who was there when all the trouble began) and revelations that the ad hoc tribunals of the 1980s were more extensive and secretive than anyone imagined.

But I haven’t forgotten you and Orion.

In fact, I’ve been reminded of all of you in elder care advocacy by having finally taken an afternoon to have a few cups of tea and read some poetry.

Which brings me to a book of poems that is hard to describe but which is helpful to anyone who has dealt with or is dealing with a friend or family member living with Alzheimers, late stage Parkinsons, etc.  It’s called “Mosaic Moon: Caregiving Through Poetry, by Frances Kakugawa, Watermark Publishing, Hawaii (now in its second printing). I’ve CCd the author. You may want to get in contact.

Charlie P.

Frances: Thanks for pointing me to page 91. I haven’t had a chance to finish – but on every page I turned to, I found beauty. (That is not my usual experience with books of poetry).

My response:

Wow, this means a lot.

I’m on my third poetry writing support group for caregivers in Sacramento now and we’re still walking out with beautiful poems. The caregivers are getting younger and younger.

Back to your work, I’m feeling good that you’re not going to succumb to all that pressure from the 509th. I’ve been thinking about their threat of having a book burning event when your revised book is out and I thought one couldn’t ask for a better promotional event, don’t you think?  Book burning in the 21^st century will have its consequences.  Truth will prevail.

Thank you so much, Dr. Charlie.

frances

from Charles Pellegrino:

Dear Frances:

I think exactly the same thing about the threat of book burning. Steve Rubin (at Holt) shuddered at the thought of “his” book being burned and shown on U-Tube and he insisted that we had to get the 509th “on our side”… and “make this all go away – quickly.” My response was that he should be thinking of getting more cameras to cover the burning, if anyone in the 509th was extremist enough and foolish enough to go through with a book-burning.

Rubin thought I was nuts.

My agent told him he was nuts, if he thought he could get the 509th on our side because “Last Train” was an anti-war book and the people who dropped the atomic bombs would never be on our side.

Then a blogger punked the publisher with a new spin on a very old story about the New Zealand Ad Hoc Tribunals (an event during which Christian Fundamentalists [in the U.S.] actually did burn the book that was causing all my trouble in New Zealand – “Darwin’s Universe”). The publisher has since looked at the documentation I sent RE my Ph.D. and my ad hoc tribunal experience (including my Ph.D. Dissertation, published in a peer-reviewed science journal; including letters proving that my two labs had indeed been ransacked and that one of the fanatical vandals sat on a self-named “ad-hoc” tribunal against which the protagonist [yours truly] was denied the most basic human right of refuting the charges or even being allowed to know what the charges were in the first place) – to say nothing of the scientists who came to my defense against the ad hoc tribunals (some of whom appear under the “Testimonials” Section on my website).

On Amazon and elsewhere, Holt withdrew its claim about the “phony” Ph.D. They also relented on the story of the two priests (who could be cross-referenced in at least two of my prior books).

About a day later, a revised Holt message appeared on Amazon suggesting that there may be other people (besides the two priests) about whom I was unable to answer questions for Holt management. This is true only to the extent that I then had no relationship with Holt (it took almost all of three months for my agent to get a reversion of rights so that a new American edition can at last be published); and I could answer no further questions because they never asked me anything further. (By the way, my editor at Holt, Jack Macrae, has stood by me this whole time. They’re not all evil over there. Jack is one of the best editors I’ve ever had.)

The 509th probably will not like the new edition. Far from diminishing Charles Sweeney I have written more about him (no matter what the Tibbets camp says, I for one came to admire Sweeney); and I have introduced another that some among the 509th dislike: Robert Lewis (known for the line, “My God, What have we done?”). Robert Lewis and Norman Cousins had befriended one of the survivors who will be appearing in the new edition.

The crazy time is not over. I’ve recently received a letter from the publisher RE a complaint from a reader suggesting that double survivor Tsutomu Yamaguchi was fictionalized, that there was no last train from Hiroshima to Nagasaki (actually, I wrote about two trains); and that the priest who died in Auschwitz in another man’s place (Mr. Yamaguchi’s hero) was also a fiction. I do not understand this emerging pattern of declaring the priests in this story as fictional. I’m counting three, so far. It’s as much a mystery as the dichotomy between Japanese survivors who hid themselves and tried not to let it be known that they had survived the atomic bomb (poor Kenshi Hirata has recently described his surviving both bombs as the great shame in his life), while enough Americans are now known to be falsely trying to claim glory by saying they were aboard the atomic missions that, in the words of one 509th veteran, the planes would never have gotten off the ground if these impostors were all really there.

- – Charlie P.

Stay tuned…as our conversations continue.

frances

from Charles Pellegrino’s teenage daughter

 Truth Matters

How do you know as parents, your desires and attempts to teach your children the values of  being a good human being are being received and nurtured? Often, the most important lessons can’t be measured by test scores or other immediate feedback. Academic learnings, such as math, can be measured through tests or by observing whether those concepts are being applied in their daily living. But what about truth, respect, dignity and standing up for what you believe? How do you teach and measure that? Parents, I believe, can only hope that their role modeling is making a difference, even if the results are not presently visible. Often, these lessons come with a price.

I asked Charles Pellegrino, “How are your children handling this controversy over your book? ( Last Train from Hiroshima). Do they need protecting or are they protecting you?”  His answer came through his junior high school daughter Kelly who wrote an essay in class before the Last Train from Hiroshima controversy.

Kelly is truly her father’s daughter. Once again, a child shows us that if we respect them and allow them to live with the same kind of dignity, honesty, love and trust we wish to nurture in them, they will eventually know this is the way to be.

Kelly, you are totally awesome. You taught me that there is no need for protection where truth prevails. The world’s a better place because of you and your dad. I hope to meet you someday. Thank you, Kelly.

Truth Matters,
by K. Pellegrino, March 2010:

From the time I could talk, I found that lying to my parents, or my siblings, was the easy way out. The littlest details that I spoke were, usually, lies. Claims like, “Kylie did it, not me!” or “No, I did not take your crackers!” were heard every day. I should not have been surprised that by age five I had lost my parents’ trust.

Daddy always told me that truth was golden. “The only exception,” he said, “is to protect an innocent person from harm.” I made no effort to understand. “I do tell the truth! The truth – and nothing but the truth!” I would say, and then dismiss the subject.

I didn’t really learn how important the truth was until I was six years old, when Daddy sat us all down at the table. “I’ve made a decision,” he began, “that is going to affect all of us, and not in a good way.”

At the time, he had been working at Ground Zero [New York] as a forensic scientist. He also made part of his living by writing books. His editor-in-chief had asked him to claim, along with a group of others (among which was a powerful, award-winning writer), to go along with a terrible hoax. According to the hoax, a fire truck (Ladder 4), had been found filled with stacks of stolen blue jeans, and therefore this fire crew had been looting on 9/11, instead of saving lives. The truck, in fact, was found in the middle of Daddy’s section, and he was capable [Dad NOTE: Along with Rhonda Schearer], of proving that it was a hoax. The proof was so strong that the author and editor admitted it was a hoax; but they threatened him. If he did not go along with it, “as a team player,” they assured him that they had the power to damage his career.

“I said no,” Daddy continued. “I couldn’t do that. If I did, how could I face you kids and ever tell you again that the truth matters?”

At the time, I did not fully comprehend what he was telling me. But as I grew older, I noticed changes. Dad could no longer afford to keep my Grandfather’s home. After a History Channel program [American Vesuvius, 2005] featured his forensic investigation and cleared Ladder 4′s name, Dad’s literary agent was forced to fire him, or face boycott of every one of his authors (by an editor).

And I realized, if Dad is willing to sacrifice his writing career for the truth, it must have tremendous importance.

Many parents tell their kids not to lie, but it’s their actions that kids learn from and copy. I’m thankful for my Dad, and how he taught me the importance of truth through his example, and I never would have been able to dedicate myself to the truth without his help.

K. Pellegrino

To My Father

A Father’s Day Tribute

I should have…

I should have invited him out for a drink in a bar in Hilo and told him, over a glass of Primo beer, of my dreams of becoming a published writer someday. I should have asked him of his dreams when he was a young man.

I should have sat with him at the kitchen table with a bottle of warm saké after his hard day’s work  and asked him about his day in the cane fields.  I should not have been ashamed of him during my teen years because he was not like fathers  found in  novels . I should have been the person I am today, instead of that person, too absorbed in her fantasy of an idyllic world where he didn’t fit in. I should have but I didn’t, and I know it was all right. All right, because he was my father.

To my Father

This is my first poem about you.

Was it the umbilical cord

That never existed between us

That I have pages of poems written

Of Okasan* but none of you?

I was young, leaving for Michigan

To a new teaching position.

“If anyone is mean to you, come straight home.”

I bit my tongue, the still rebellious,

You-Can’t-Teach-Me-Anything-Woman-of-the-World,

“I’m not a child.

I can take care of myself.”

Three months later I was on a plane,

Clutching a letter, heading home.

You have cancer and are dying.

That was the meanest thing

I had ever heard.

*mother

July In Hawaii for Caregivers

Lectures and Writing Workshops for Caregivers

I’ll be in Hawaii during July to work with caregivers of loved ones with Alzheimer’s or other dementia-related illnesses. Please join me if you’re in Hawaii. For those not able to be in the islands with me, I’ll keep you posted on my Blog.

July10:Poetry Reading
Alzheimer’s Association: Doc Buyer’s Fund Raiser
Hilton Hawaiian Village Ballroom
5:30-8 p.m.
Registration through the Alzheimer’s Assoc:
Ph: 591-2771

July12:Caregiving with Dignity ( Lecture only)

Japanese Cultural Center, Honolulu
9 – noon
( due to high interest, registration is closed. See July 27th event, open to public)

July 23:A Caregiver’s Voice: Lecture and writing workshop
Maui Alzheimer’s Assoc: Kaunoa Center
10 –noon
Open to the public

July 25: Reading and poetry writing for children
Borders at Maui Marketplace
1 – 2 p.m
I’ll be reading my children’s book, Wordsworth the Poet, and a poem from Wordsworth Dances the Waltz. This will be followed by a poetry writing activity for the youngsters.
Open to the public.

July 27:Caregiving with Dignity ( Lecture and writing workshop)
Alzheimer’s Association: Honolulu
Ward Warehouse Conference Room
4:00 – 5:30
Open to the public

Please get in touch with me for specific details at
fhk@francesk.org

Blogging with Bill Belew

Stop the World, I Want the Good Old Days!

You’d think we were at Dave Letterman’s instead of an 8 hr workshop with Bill Belew.

His straight-forward answers to our dummies’ questions filled the corners of the room with laughter. He ended the workshop only after anyone wanting a site, was connected to a blog site and all questions were answered, even the ones that evoked belly laughs.

Blogging: I want those days back when all I needed was a pen, paper, a stamp and an envelope. There was something intimate about folding a letter, inserting it into an envelope, licking the flap carefully so I didn’t slice my tongue, hand-writing the address, and taking it to a post office for a stamp. The postman had a name and he knew mine.

Followed by days of anticipation and hope for a response as I checked the mail box at the post office. The ripping apart of the envelope even before I reached home.  Rereading the letter before saving it  in a shoe box.

I have a box of letters I wrote to a pen pal in Maryland while I was in high school. Her mother discovered them in her attic some years ago. The ink is still blue and the hand-writing is mine. I revisit the hopes and dreams of a 16 year old living in Kapoho on the Big Island of Hawaii in these letters  written in trust for my pen pal’s eyes only.

Ah shucks, I miss those good old days…even if blogging gets me hundreds of readers per post, I didn’t need a workshop to learn how to lick an envelope.

Aloha Hawai’i

I know I’m in Hawai’i:

Upon arrival at Honolulu Airport, I went straight for the luggage cart with my $4.00 in hand when a local man approached me with , “Don’t waste your money, there are lots of carts on the sidewalk, go get one. ” The sidewalk was empty. So back to my $4.00 to get my cart. He came to me with his cart and said,”Here, use my cart. I’m meeting a friend and I don’t need this. ” I took his cart and said, “I know I’m back in Hawai’i” and thanked him, a complete stranger.

Driving on our freeway at 50 mph speed limit, waving to drivers who allow me space to change lanes, toots from others thanking me for same. We wave a lot of thanks and you’re welcomes on the road.

I know I’m in Hawai’i:

At the formal Alzheimer’s fundraiser event at the Coral Ballroom at the Hilton, the Director of Alz looked at my outfit, chose a red floral lei to match my black and white outfit. I didn’t get a standing ovation but I saw the mayor and U.S. Senator wipe tears from their eyes so I settled for that. At another  session, a person born in my hometown of Kapoho, now covered by lava, sat in the front row. I love the fresh flower leis I’m greeted with at each event.

Only in Hawai’i:

In Hilo, a waitress greeted me with a hug, “I remember you from last year. You’re allergic to MSG.”

I had my nails done and the Vietnamese owner greeted me happily with “Hello Frances,” followed with “Is everyone in Sacramento treating you good?”
I couldn’t remember his name, or the last time I was there.

One night on Maui, my friend Weesie made fresh Maui grown pineapple ice-cream from scratch.

On every island at Safeway checkout, my last name is pronounced correctly when they look at my receipt before handing it to me.

This past week, I had a standing room only session…I had requested a mike and a podium. I got a hand mike but no podium. I can’t handle a hand mike, notes and pages of poetry from my books with two carpal tunneled hands. I need a podium, I said. Person in charge stacked six chairs as a podium. I gulped and said “No, let’s see if you can find me a small table and I’ll look for a box.” Audience kept waiting.  I found an old, dilapidated cardbox box and got my podium.
Only in Hawai’i.

The vastness of space, still untouched by man’s cities and concrete in many parts of the islands arouses that passion that we need to keep our planet as it was at the beginning. Endless blue skies with white cumulus clouds, white crested waves against shorelines, banyan trees too large for my arms to go around, awakened by cardinals and mynahs as they begin their day and mine, plumerias and orchid blossoms waiting to be draped around someone’s shoulders…I sit and feel such  poignancy as beauty and fear intermingle…fear of losing all this beauty someday. Fear that generations from now, people won’t have a clue of what I’m enjoying today here in Hawai’i.
But for the time being, Hawai’i is surely the land of Aloha.

(photo proudly taken at Kahala, Oahu by me.)

Charles Pellegrino & Me

The following emails exchanged between Charles Pellegrino and myself are posted here to update you on the latest on The Last Train From Hiroshima. The new edition of the book will be published in four foreign countries as of this writing.

Dr. Charlie,

I’m still in Hawaii, had a successful lecture tour and have lost my voice so will return to Sacramento on Tuesday, a quiet person.
Hawaii tends to isolate you from all the ills of the world. Let me hear some good news from you.
Do check my newest blog and maybe it’ll entice to you to think of Hawaii someday to escape from it all.
I’m anxious to know how the foreign printing is going ….
Thinking of you,
frances

Dear Frances:

One of my mentors on my first book (Darwin’s Universe, the book that got me in all that trouble in New Zealand almost thirty years ago) – was Clair Edwin Folsome, one of the people who invented the field of astrobiology, at the University of Hawaii.  And of course, a word that got this family through my work in the ruins of the World Trade Center came from Hawaii – Ohana. There is a second word I hope my children will also strive to live by: Omoiyari.

Tuesday I am on my way to Japan, on special invite. I will be meeting with Steven Leeper ( Dir of Hiroshima Peace Movement)  and several other new friends, and a few old ones. I am, for the first time, attending both the Hiroshima and Nagasaki ceremonies (and I fear I will not be able to keep my eyes dry in either place).

The second edition of the book, with the new story arcs and with the bomber crew perspective on the Hiroshima mission complete, is the version that will go out as all foreign editions.
While in Japan, I will be meeting with more survivors – to whom the 65th anniversary of the atomic bombings is of extreme importance, and some are now telling their stories for the first time. Aware that there are biological time-bombs ticking away in the tissues of many of the exposed, they want to get their warnings to the future out because they are not sure they will be around for the 70th anniversary.

So, this week, I begin work on the third edition of a book that is only seven months old. This will be the next English edition – if, in fact, one is allowed. I have heard through a colleague from one of the crewmen on the Hiroshima mission, who has read the first edition, and who is – aside from my error about the Necessary Evil’s flight engineer and a bit of false testimony – approving of how I wrote about the crews and the cities, and agrees with the message that we must use the past as best we can, to teach us that these weapons must never be used – ever again, for any reason.

Omoiyari, Nyokodo, Ohana,

- – Charlie Pellegrino

Dr. Charlie,

Please burn an incense or burn a candle for my Hiroshima ancestors when you are there. I believe all the spirits will embrace you and will end the journey of grief and all will be well hereafter. I’m getting teary-eyed just thinking of you in Hiroshima. Karma, my dear Dr. Charlie. good Karma.

from the land of Ohana, take good care. frances

Dear Frances:

I will burn incense. Are there names of family members that you want written on a floating lantern or spoken.

In Nagasaki the name I will carry with me is Eiko, who is only a very short part of my book, and whose story – a child so badly burned that her mother ran away and abandoned her – that I looked up with tears when I read it in Dr. Nagai’s “We of Nagasaki” and told my oldest daughter I’d just come across something so horrible that I could never put it in a book. Ashley was 14, and she told me that Eiko’s story perhaps more than any other told of the horror of the bomb, and said, “Dad, you must put it in your book.” The children get it more than the adults. They are in many ways smarter, as Masahiro Sasaki has observed, and as I am still learning.

Today, Dr. Nagai’s grandsonson does not know where Eiko’s grave is and does not think anyone knows. He has said he is almost completely unfamiliar with her story, and evidently it was only very rarely spoken about. Certainly, he did not want to talk about it – - another example of the cracks that the atomic bomb makes in the human spirit.

See you later,
- – Charlie P.

Dr. Charlie, if you could say both my parents surnames. Takahashi and Kakugawa, that would be a blessing. Thank you. With Ashley in our next generation, my hope is renewed for the future.Have a safe and beautiful trip.

frances

Dear Frances:

I sent your ancestors’ names out on a floating lantern last night, near the Hiroshima Dome while Yuji Sasaki (Sadako’s nephew) sang his prayer Inori  (now a very popular song here in Japan).  The morning ceremony was not what I expected. As the ringing of the bell approached I was anticipating solemn music from the orchestra; but instead it was a continually and ominously building tone that conveyed the approach of something horrible (they chose music directly reminiscent of Godzilla’s approach to Tokyo, in the original B&W film) – and one of the main images it conveyed for me was the three planes closing in from the west, as the clock ticked down toward 8:15 AM -  and then,  the long seconds of silence as the bomb fell, followed finally by children ringing that huge bell. I knew the names of too many people, and the distances they had been from me, and in which directions, 65 years ago to the moment. One of the most emotionally exhausting moments imaginable.

We must, all of us, do whatever little we can to make sure the world never sees another hypocenter.

None of this has been about the past and who did what to whom, all those years ago. It’s about a future that must be avoided, if we are to have any chance of building a world for tomorrow’s child that is worth having.

Omoiyari,
- – Charlie P.Dear Frances.

Technical Math for Dummies

A Book Review by Frances Kakugawa

Technical Math for Dummies

by Barry Schoenborn and Bradley Simkins

Wiley Publishing, Inc. 2010

What? A math book review by Frances? She, who avoided math her entire life?

She, who got her degree in Pre-school Primary Education to avoid all the math courses in college, thinking she would teach the numbers 1 -10 in pre-school and nothing more?  Oh, is she  Dummie part of this book? Read to find out…

Seriously…and truthfully…

This book is like that first lick off a chocolate mint ice cream cone or the feel of the ocean breeze on your face ; you just gotta experience it first hand to know why I purchased over a dozen copies for every household of my nieces and nephews, friends who help their children with math homework, K-12, and to a middle school math teacher to remind him how math can be taught with meaning and  enjoyment.

This book ought to be next to that  dictionary in every household. It covers concepts from addition to Trigonometry in the most learner/reader friendly way. This book covers all subjects at the most practical level. You won’t need to purchase books on various math topics, they’re all here. And I didn’t think  I’d chuckle  or laugh, learning about math.

Recently a math book for girls was released. What?  Technical Book for Dummies doesn’t perpetuate that myth about girls being less teachable or capable.  This book addresses all people as learners, thus respecting all learners without indulging in gender myths.

I grew up hating and fearing math and avoided all math courses beyond  basic math. This book changed everything. The difference is the humorous and patient voices of the authors. It’s as though they knew they had to be delicate, uncomplicated with their language and funny to hold my attention before they could help me rid myself of past fears.  This they did, without a touch of intimidation.

I highly recommend this book.  You just gotta read a few pages to know why I compare this to an ice cream cone. Besides, I like authors who have confidence in their work. I’ve been promised that if I can’t balance my check book after the chapter on checkbooks, one of the authors will personally come to my door to balance my checkbook for me.

( If you’re thinking, but you can google, remember, someday when you need information immediately and the power is down, or all machines die, what are you going to do? And besides,  don’t you want a friendly, witty,  knowledgeable and patient teacher sitting next to you teaching you everything you want to know about math but are too embarrassed to ask? )

Book is available at http://bookloverscafe.com/technical math for dummies or

www.bookloverscafe.com

Learning to Read by Charles’ Pellegrino’s son

I CAN READ!!!

A reader commented on my Technical Math for Dummies blog that “online tutors are best persons to guide students doing their studies” and I responded:

I’m still stuck in the dinosaur age and after 25 years in the classroom, I choose to be there because I believe the best of tutors is a human one. When students come to need tutoring, it often implies there is a need for additional help. In my experience, I discovered that often, the source of reading or math or any other subject matter problems may not necessarily reside in that particular area of study. And if does, it takes more than textbook guides to get to the core of reading which is magical, enjoyable and meaningful.

I once diagnosed a student’s reading problem being outside of reading. It took a lot of probing and talking story with Spence to get to his source of disliking books. Another student Joey, who was retained in first grade because he couldn’t read and write, had already learned to do both in the parking lot.

In September, on the first day of school,  Destiny brought her 3^rd grade brother to me and said, “He still can’t read and write. You’re the only one who can help him.” And I did.

You can meet these students in my book, “Teacher, You Look Like a Horse.”

Today, I want to introduce you to someone very special, someone who supports my views on having real people as your teachers. Do you think his dad could have been replaced by an on-line tutor with the same kind of result?

A few posts back, I introduced you to one of the daughters of Charles Pellegrino of “Last Train from Hiroshima” through her thought-provoking essay, “Truth Matters.” Today, I bring you his son Kyle – who had to climb over a reading problem, as did many of Pellegrino’s family members. Their stories of triumph need to be shared so I proudly bring you Kyle’s Impressions.

Impressions

by Kyle Pellegrino

written at age 13

As a young boy, I always had trouble reading. I could never put words together; I could never make out sentences. I even had trouble writing. In preschool, my twin sister, Kelly, could write my name before I could. Other children held the impression that I was stupid. I did everything I could to try and catch up to Kelly. Everyone moved so fast, but I was left behind.

My dad went through very much the same thing when he was a boy. He had a severe case of dyslexia and probably had it worse than I. He told me one day as I was struggling to read comics, “It was hard for me too but somehow having to climb that extra hill gave me more of a love for words than I’d ever have had otherwise.” My dad not only grew up to read books, but to write them as well.

Dad told me that comic books had helped him to catch up, so he tried the same thing with me. The pictures helped to explain the words — which removed some of the stress. The sentences were broken up into shorter lines so it seemed that I was making faster progress. My dad would read one line to me, and I would read the next to him. As I gradually progressed, I read more and more of the dialogue and he read less and less. Months passed, and I graduated to more complex graphic novels. By the time I was in second grade I was reading, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, now ahead of my class.

Surprisingly, reading had become fun; I then started to work on my writing. I worked very hard to sharpen my writing skills and still do so. I try to write often and improve my vocabulary, grammar, and spelling. In school, when commenting on my assignments, my teachers like my style but they note that grammar is something I need to work on. I learn from this criticism and change my writing accordingly.

My dad is a person who cares only for the well being of his children; he helped me through my hardest hurdle in life and helps me with the little problems. I remember crying when I couldn’t read anything. I kept telling myself I was stupid as I stared blankly at the page. Since my dad went through the same thing, he told me “I can see and feel it through your eyes.” Now I love reading and I love writing. In addition to learning how to read and write, a greater lesson has come out of this. I can learn and feel what other people are going through. I don’t just take a first impression and judge the person on that. I give them time and try to see what’s going on in their lives. People say first impressions stick with you forever, I beg to differ.

Kyle’s dad Charles Pellegrino’s response:

I knew he’d do all right. Back when he was seven, when I was working on a tomb project so secret that James Cameron had us working simultaneously in Greece and Egypt just to divert attention from the fact that we were really working in Israel, everything on the sample boxes was written in a code of our own creation.

Kyle was looking at the symbols on the boxes one morning and broke the codes – figuring out exactly where I was working and what I must be working on. After that, I built him a genuine mechanical cryptex with clues hidden all over my office. All three kids were racing so hard to break the codes that when they got to the secret hidden inside (and forcing the cryptex rather than entering the three key words really would have released ink-dissolving glycerine from a vial), it was such anti-climax compared to breaking the codes that they lost interest in the real secret, hidden inside. It turns out that about 25% of the specialized HS exam involved code-breaking.

When I read the end of this “Impressions” essay, and what he learned most from his experience – more important than learning to read – wow. All three of them are learning that Omoiyari is not just a word, but a way of life.

Charles Pellegrino

World Peace

Peace

hand in hand we stand.

in silence; a smile, a nod.

peace has no language,

no religion, no race.

frances kakugawa

You Can’t Leave Home

Hey Thomas Wolf

Mr. Wolf, I can’t go home again only if I left home.

Something went terribly wrong with my life. Growing up in Kapoho, a remote little village in Hawaii, I did everything in my power to get out of that plantation village. Away from out-houses, water tanks, gardening, and kerosene lamps. I worked as a live-in maid in college to reach that dream of life in NYC and Paris… a martini glass in my manicured hand at cocktail parties,  driving in my red convertible with the top down, my scarf flying in the air, my eyes shaded by diamond studded sun glasses.

Look at my life today…where is that Fairy Godmother?  I have a few things to say to her!!!

Tomatoes instead of martini glasses.

A pumpkin ( kabocha) instead of  sunglasses.

Tomatoes instead of caviar.

Sacramento instead of Paris!

Ah, Thomas Wolf, it didn’t work.

Delete Housework

California Needs a New Law

If I were running for Governor of CA, I would run on one platform only:

Women, on the day after retirement, will no longer do housework.
Along with retirement benefits, every woman will have a housecleaner for as long as she wishes.

The minute I could reach the kitchen sink in our plantation home, I began doing dishes. My sister loved to bake with Crisco and we had no electricity so I, being the younger slave, washed those pans and bowls by first heating water over the kerosene stove. I mopped the wooden floors and cleaned grease off the stove.

I started college by working as a live-in maid for room and board and since then, I get nauseated whenever I plug a vacuum cleaner into the socket or the word “housework” comes to mind.

And I haven’t  stopped doing all of the above. There is electricity today and I do enjoy trying new recipes so the kitchen is not a problem but a vacuum cleaner, toilet bowls, dust rags and Windex are worse than a toothache. Housework has always sank to the bottom of my To-Do List.

Last month, we hired a house cleaner. She does windows, screens, floors, counters, stoves, lifts everything off the floor and waxes and scrubs. The house is clean for the lst time in eons. And I sit at my computer. read novels, or even sit with a cup of coffee and watch her. I no longer need to think, “This weekend, I need to clean house. AAAGGGHHH.”

What a load off my shoulders. Last week, she even cleaned all my cosmetic brushes, jars and bottles that are increasing in number as I age. She also sews and does carpentry work.

Most women live in every room of the house since birth and by living, I mean they do chores in every  room. When women become caregivers, they continue to live in all those rooms in addition to being a caregiver. But this is for another blog.

Women, if you don’t have a house cleaner, vote for me if I’m running for governor. You don’t know what life is when Housework is deleted from your list of chores.

An Evening With Writers

CA Writers’ Club, Sacramento Branch

Please check my Events calendar for An Evening with Writers, CA Writers’ Club.

I’ll be reading from my poetry books along with Bob Quinlan, Kiyo Sato and Susan Osborn. President Margie Yee Webb will lead a panel discussion based on questions from the audience. The panel is open to anything you want to know about us as writers. If you can’t join us and you have a burning question, post it and I’ll be happy to respond.

I’ll look for you in the audience at Luna’s Cafe & Juice Bar…

On September 21st, 6 p.m. – 8 p.m.

Fall Equinox

End of Summer

Speak not of

Broken promises,

Of drifting sand

And waves,

For time was all

That was granted us

That endless

Summer day.

from Sand Grains

by frances h kakugawa

The Perfect Caregiver

Mistakes in Caregiving

“Did you ever make a mistake?”
I looked at the caregiver who asked me this at
my last lecture. I was stunned for awhile.  Why was he seeing me as
a  perfect caregiver?

I told him about one of my giant-sized mistakes:

I looked at all the dresses and suits hanging in my mother’s closet and knew she would no longer be using them now that she needed help in dressing. Her closet  looked like springtime because lavender, pink and light blue were her favorite colors. Most of the dresses were sewn from all the floral printed material I had bought from fabric shops before her Alzheimer’s. She was a dress-maker so like her vain daughter, she enjoyed the latest in fashion.

Black was for funerals so she had a few funeral dresses. Brown was for old people
so she didn’t have any browns in her closet.

I was now dressing her in  elasticized pull –up pants and blouses
that buttoned all the way down in the front.  So I took all her dresses off the hangers and folded them in boxes. I planned to give them  to our neighbor for her family in the Philippines.
I left the boxes in her room, thinking I’d finish the task the next day.

The next morning I saw all her dresses hanging on the hangers in her closet.
I felt the splinter in my heart.

As a result of this incident and many others, I wrote the poem “Emily Dickinson, I’m Someday” which appears in Mosaic Moon. I quote the last stanza from the poem:

“Yes, I am still here.
Help me keep my dignity.
Help me remain a human being
In this shell of a woman I have become.
I beg that you not violate the person I still am.
In my world of silence,
I am still here.
Oh, I am still here.”

From Mosaic Moon: Caregiving Through Poetry
and soon to published: Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice

 

I understood why he saw me as a caregiver who didn’t make mistakes.
Perhaps he saw, after I read this poem, that some  mistakes no longer exist if they teach us to not do the same act twice and if we use that mistake to teach others.

The Front Porch

Birthplace of Writers

I remember the first story I wrote. It was on the front porch of the house where I was born. I wanted to feel and look like a real writer and used Grace Metalious on the  back cover of Peyton Place as my model.
Dressed in a sweat shirt, I lit a cigarette and typed on a portable typewriter. I used an empty tuna can as an ashtray. I may have added a glass of wine to perfect a writer’s world. That story is forgotten but that day is still etched in my memory. I made a lot of smoke. I was a writer.

I thought of that porch when I rode through a neighborhood in the Bay area a few days ago: beautiful homes with well manicured front lawns but not a sign of humanity in sight.

Our  porch, two steps from the ground, was the gathering place for neighborhood kids and adults. We sat and talked story until the sun went down. Many bottles of beer were emptied by my father and his friends after work. Sometimes we just sat in silence and watched the day end. Then everyone returned home for supper.

It was my porch until I left home at age 18. During that year, the house was split in half by earthquakes. Before the lave flow could reach the house, the Red Cross took the house out in two parts and after a year, it was relocated to a new site. The Red Cross did what needed to be done without input from my parents. It was a time of disaster.

The Red Cross built a porch nine steps from ground level and gave us a panoramic  view of  Ohi’a trees and rooftops. Someone knew the porch had to be retained. That house no longer exists and I live in a different state now.

The  other evening I observed people  with  electronic gadgets attached to their ears, each in his or her own world,  walking past our house. I thought of our porch.

Bullies in School

Was She a Bully?

 

She threatened to put Kahuna, a Hawai’ian spiritual curse on me if I didn’t do her math homework. I  couldn’t avoid her in class because both our last names began with K and  alphabetical seating by last names was the norm during those years.

 

It was in September of my 4^th grade year that she approached me with  her clenched fist and said, “ Do my math homework or else I put Kahuna on you.”  Kahuna was something I highly respected as I did Madame Pele, Goddess of Fire. So I did two sets of math homework for two years. She was of Hawai’ian ancestry and I wasn’t taking any chances.

 

Each time we were given assignments, I felt the magnetic pull of her eyes on me and turned toward her, hoping it would be different that day.  But she always showed me her fist and mouthed, “Kahuna,” which left a lump in my stomach.

 

She stopped her threats in the 6^th grade and I’ll never know whether she found a better mathematician or she felt the end of her schooling was nearing and it didn’t matter.

 

She was kept in 6^th grade until age 16, the legal age to drop out of school. No, don’t even consider that her math homework was her downfall.

 

The seed was planted then for me to become the best teacher possible and to create the safest and  most non-threatening environment for my students. The details are  in my book, Teacher, You Look Like a Horse.

 

The one seed that didn’t germinate  was the one called  math. Even today, numbers make me dizzy.

 

Recently, a local TV station had a segment on school bullies and the question was posed: Were you bullied in school?  Was I?   Or was I just being suckered in by a clenched fist and childhood stories of Hawaiian folklore?

 

November: Alzheimer’s Month

November is Alzheimer’s Month so I’ll be devoting my posts to Alzheimer’s disease, to the courageous men and women caregivers, and to the equally courageous ones being cared for. Nestled between will be a look at some of my own experiences as a caregiver.

The Curtain Rises & Falls

The menu said a lot at Mimi’s restaurant. I noticed a list of mini-sized entrees since my last visit. I also noticed tables being filled by the elderly. While deciding to go with a healthy salad or a cholesterol-filled shrimp entrée, I saw a woman come in with a walker, led by a daughter or a friend. The woman with the walker was dressed in a blouse with a blue scarf draped around her neck with matching blue slacks. Her hair was coiffed as my hair, minutes after a visit to the hairdresser.

I followed them with my eyes, watched the woman’s companion sit the woman gently in her chair, fold and lean her walker against the table. The woman sat without looking at the menu. Her companion ordered for both.

A giant-sized bruise began to spread inside of me and settled at the bottom of my stomach; that same unidentified dull ache that often accompanies quiet Sunday afternoons.

I thought of the numerous times I had played this same scenario with my mother. I, too, used to dress her in her Sunday best after her weekly visits to the hairdresser and we’d dine out in restaurants for lunch or dinner. I knew her favorites so ordered the same Japanese noodle dish or chicken sukiyaki. I ran the monologue.

What was not observable was the pain I felt as I tried to disguise both our lives in an environment that spelled Normal. Look at us, I showed off, two nicely dressed women, like everyone else, dining out. But I knew our lives were anything but normal.

I observe this same drama played over and over again each time I dine out, with under-studies playing my mother. And I am still there, holding the script, with numerous takes.

10-30-02

Signs of Alzheimer’s

First Signs of Alzheimer’s

Gina Kolota of NY Times did a story on how
“new research shows that one of the first signs of impending dementia is an inability to understand money and credit, contracts and agreements.”

Neuropsychologist Daniel C Marson of the U of Alabama states that “confusion over money and finances is perhaps the most important and most predictable early functional changes as people descend into dementia.”

The entire story can be read at: http://topics.nytimes.com/topics/reference/timestopics/people/k/gina_kolata/index.html

My non-researched, unscientific take on this is: Many women display the first signs of dementia at their hair salons. Many caregivers I know received calls from their mothers’ concerned hairdressers. “Your mother came in twice this week.” “Your mother came on the wrong day.” These became the first signs of decline.

Hairdressers have their own stories of clients making bizarre comments about their environment at the salons. Often they no longer recognize their surroundings and question the changes. “You have a new mirror. When did you put this in?”

A few months ago I flippantly told hairdresser Tom, “ When I come in on the wrong day or begin to come twice a week, call 911 and put me away.”

A few weeks ago I went in on my appointed time on Friday and told Tom, “11:30, today, right?”
Without pausing on his client’s comb-out, he said, “Yes, 11:30, yesterday.”

“OMG! It’s happening, Tom. Call 911.” I could still joke about it but later I began to explore that mass of anxiety that had settled in my head. Am I getting dementia? I became more conscious of every detail of my actions. Should I visit my physician? Is it time for Aricept?

It’s been weeks since that day so I let logic replace that mass of anxiety.
I thought of the numerous times I made errors in dates and appointments when I was in my 20’s and 30’s. It didn’t bother me then. Perhaps I’m getting over-loaded with Alzheimer’s research and the media and am living with unfounded fear.

I recently told a woman to live in the present, enjoy what is here. Don’t think Alzheimer’s.
( Well, not totally because I do have long term care insurance, just in case.)

In the meantime, I ought to stick to the experts and their research and just balance my checkbook monthly and do my own hair.

New Book by Frances Kakugawa

Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice

http://www.btsilence.com

Nevada City, CA (PRWEB) November 7, 2010

November is National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month and National Family Caregivers Month. As part of its commitment to support such worthwhile causes, Willow Valley Press (http://www.willowvalleypress.com), publisher of the award-winning book “Dandelion Through the Crack,” proudly announces its newest book, “Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice” by Frances H. Kakugawa. It is scheduled for release November 28, 2010.

Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease. The latest report from the Alzheimer’s Association, “2010 Alzheimer’s Disease Facts and Figures,” estimates there are currently 5.3 million Americans of all ages that have Alzheimer’s disease. This number is expected to increase dramatically in the coming years and potentially triple to 16 million by mid-century.

But Alzheimer’s affects more than just the victims. In 2009, an estimated 10.9 million family members and friend s provided a whopping 12.5 billion hours of unpaid care for a person with Alzheimer’s or similar dementia. Providing this care is often unbelievably difficult and stressful. It can cause financial and employment problems as well as, significantly, physical and mental health problems.

The Alzheimer’s Association report stated that “Family and other unpaid caregivers of people with Alzheimer’s or another dementia are more likely than non-caregivers to have high levels of stress hormones, reduced immune function, slow wound healing, new hypertension and new coronary heart disease.”

Developing strategies and finding activities that provide relief from this stress and its complications are doubly important as these problems ultimately impact their patients too. One outlet that many have discovered is through journaling and poetry. Frances’ book, “Breaking the Silence” will be an important aid for this.

Frances Kakugawa was born in Hawaii in the village of Kapoho. Becoming a teacher, she taught in Hawai´i and Michigan, and lectured at the University of Hawai´i. Frances has authored nine books.

In 1997, Frances became the primary caregiver for her mother, Matsue, who had developed Alzheimer’s disease. Frances found that poetry and journaling helped her to manage the tremendous burden of care. This inspired her to start a journaling and poetry writing support group for caregivers through the Aloha Chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association. The combined writings from her first sessions are incorporated into her book, “Mosaic Moon: Caregiving Through Poetry.”

Frances has now completed her newest work, “Breaking the Silence, A Caregiver’s Voice.” Building on her experience as a teacher and support group moderator, she has written a book that is a thoughtful and honest look into what caregivers face each day, and provides a real value for those who must cope with incredible pressure, anxiety, and difficult decisions associated with Alzheimer’s caregiving.

“Breaking the Silence” is a compilation of poetry, journal entries, and how-to advice. Frances weaves her own poetry and that of six other caregivers together, along with journal entries and advice for the novice poet. It’s a handbook for caregiving survival.

“Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice” is currently scheduled for release November 20, 2010, to coincide with National Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month and National Family Caregivers Month. More information is available at http://www.btsilence.com.

About Willow Valley Press:
Willow Valley Press is a small publisher, located in Nevada City, California and has been publishing books since 1999. Willow Valley Press releases interesting books of all kinds: memoirs, autobiographies, local history, personal growth/self-help, firearms instruction, Vietnam-era accounts, business how-to’s, cookbooks, and humor.

For more information, contact Barry Schoenborn, 530-265-4705 or email info(at)willowvalleypress.com. http://www.willowvalleypress.com

# # #

Contact

* Barry Schoenborn
Willow Valley Press
530-265-4705

Email:For more information, contact Barry Schoenborn, 530-265-4705 or email info(at)willowvalleypress.com.

http://www.willowvalleypress.com

Poetry and Art

Wayne Thiebauld and Bakery Case

Last night I had the honor of joining eleven poets from the Sacramento Poetry Center at the Crocker Art Museum. We were invited by Bob Stanley, Poet Laureate of Sacramento to write and read poems for six of Thiebauld’s work. My poem was on Bakery Case. Enjoy.

Bakery Case

A space
Reserved
For a homecoming:

There are no grubby hand prints,
No saliva, no breath of innocence
Fogged on the case.

Only the aroma of butter,
Yeast, vanilla, baked
Into magic, fills the senses.

There are no voices, except in my haunt:
“Daddy, can I have a cupcake?
Can I, Daddy, can I?”

That same voice in years hence,
Traveled from one end of the case
To the other.

“I’ll have a slice of cherry pie, please.”
“Do I need that chocolate covered doughnut
On my hips? Yes, just one, just one.”

Any minute now the door will swing open.
I’ll hear that voice, filled with joyous song,
“We’re here for the wedding cake.”

And if I know life,
That door will swing again and again.
I’ll hear a voice, similar, but not quite the same,

“Grandpa, can I have a cupcake?”

©frances h kakugawa

Alzheimer’s: the silent prison

Unlocking the Silent Prison

In Parade, on November 21, 2010, Christine Wicker cites Michelle
S. Bourgeois of Ohio State University as an expert at communicating with people who have dementia.

Bourgeois suggests that caregivers communicate with written notes. An example is given:

When a father began asking “Where are we going” repeatedly on a drive, his caregiver handed him a note on which was written their destination and she told her father, “ The answer is on that notepad.” The father looked at the notepad and looked out the window for the rest of the trip without saying a word. I felt such sadness when I read this.

My questions are:

Did the father feel discounted when his daughter handed him a notepad. This is not the normal communication style before he had AD. Could he read the words? What messages did he receive?

Do people with Alzheimer’s repeat questions to have contact with others, especially with the human voice even if meaning is not being transmitted? Would the lack of human voice add to the progressive isolation of human contact?

When I was a caregiver for my mother, I got up every morning and said, “This may be the last day of my mother’s life. How can I not make this the best day of her life?” Each time she asked the same question, I answered it as though it were being asked for the first time.

It became my duty to preserve dignity and the human spirit in both of us.

I agree wholeheartedly with the article that they are all still there until they take their final breath.
I used my mother’s voice in a poem called Emily Dickinson, I’m Somebody.

I share excerpts from this poem:

…My words have all forsaken me,
My thoughts are all gone.
But do not let this thief
Forsake you from me.
Speak to me for I am still here…

…Speak to me and not around me
I am still here…

…I know my repeated questions
Are like a record player gone bad,
But my words are all gone
And this is the only way I know
To make contact with you.
It is my sole way of saying,
Yes, I know you are here.
This thief has stolen everything else.
Except for these questions
And soon they, too, will be stolen away…

…Yes, I am still here.
Help me keep my dignity.
Help me remain a human being
In this shell of a woman I have become.
In my world of silence,
I am still here.
Oh, I am still here.

From my current book:Breaking the Silence: The Caregiver’s
Voice
This poem also appeared in my earliar book: Mosaic Moon:
Caregiving Through Poetry.

I am not a scientist, a sociologist or a researcher. My views are based on my
experiences as a caregiver and my work today with other caregivers using writing as a tool to become one with caregiving and to discover what it means to be human.

As a final note, people afflicted with Alzheimer’s are called patients in this story. The word patient connotes a life totally in the hands of another. A single word can sometimes create a certain attitude and attitudes often lead to behavior that supports that particular attitude.
Our loved ones with dementia are still people just as my mother was a person to the very end.

Last Day of November:Alzheimer’s Month

Did I Tell You I Have Alzheimer’s?

From Frances’ Journal

9-14-10

Is my laughter coming to haunt me?
Is there an Alzheimer’s god that says, “Do not laugh or joke about me.”

I kiddingly told my friend Gwen a few months ago, “I’m going to write a book when I have Alzheimer’s. The title’s going to be “Did I tell you I have Alzheimer’s?”

“My lst and 2nd chapter will begin with “Did I tell you I have Alzheimer’s? “

“No, No,” Gwen laughed. “Every chapter should begin with “Did I tell you I have Alzheimer’s?”
We laughed until the tears rolled down our faces.

I continued my laughter when I told Tom, my hairdresser, “The hairdresser is often the first to know the symptoms of dementia in his clients before anyone else. They arrive on wrong days or even come two or three times a week. Call 911 when I make these errors.”

Laughter.

Not too long after that conversation, I walked in on the wrong day. OMG.
I worried about it for a few days until I thought of the times I did the same error when I was in my 20′s and 30′s. Nothing was wrong then.

A week later I looked at the clock and thought, “My support group begins at noon. I have enough time to go to Peet’s to grab a cup of latte.” The clock read 12 o’clock. I got into my car at noon, looked at the clock and Boing! It connected. OMG! What am I thinking?”

OMG has replaced my laughter. Is it time to start my book?

11-20–10

A friend of mine is no longer able to live alone. He has no family and lives in a condominium in Hawaii. He will not consider a care facility and insists he’s doing fine. When I visited him in July, he could barely walk with a cane. He told me the same story from his past as he has done with each of the phone calls the past year. I will not describe his apartment in deference to his dignity. His prescription drugs are being used before his refill dates. He was found on a different floor, looking for his door. Presently, a niece who lives in another state, his physician, a neighbor and three of his former University students, which includes me, are putting our heads together to help move him from his apartment to a care facility.

When he realized he was having too many fender benders a few years ago, he put his driver’s license away.
“You are so wise,” I had told him then. “I commend you for being so intelligent about this.” But that wisdom ended there and he is unable to recognize the fact that his dementia and frail body have eroded much of his lifestyle of independence.

“He is holding on to his dignity and independence,” I said. “ We need to honor that.” But when I saw his living conditions on my last visit, I began to question the choices we give anyone with advanced dementia. I wanted to bodily take him out of his apartment and say, “Here, go to this facility and reclaim this dignity and independence you’re holding on to, in this new home where help is available. “

Will I be willing to accept the fact that I can no longer
live without help when that day comes? Or will I be like my friend and live in denial and cling on to my bed while neighbors, hairdresser Tom, Safeway cashiers and doctors and nurses helplessly say, “She needs help.”

11-23-10

I thought of my mother today. Sometime during her disease, she decided to sign her name in a notebook. “I need to practice my name so I don’t make mistakes when I go to the bank. So shame if I can’t write my own name.”. Her name was clearly written in two notebooks, cover to cover. She filled five notebooks with her signature. In the last few notebooks, her signatures were mere scribbles. The evidence of her deterioration slowly began to appear in her signature.

11-25-10

The irony of my life would be a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. My mother and her sister both had the disease. There is no record of my grandmothers’ cause of death but my mother told me once how my grandmother, on one of her visits, had faced the wall to pay homage to Buddha. The shrine was on the opposite wall. Perhaps she had AD although Alzheimer’s was not in our vocabulary then.

Alzheimer’s has already arrived in my generation. A cousin is in his last stages of the disease in
a nursing facility.

I plan to be a writer first when that day comes. Yes, I know, it’s so easy to make such plans for the future when it isn’t here yet. I can laugh and joke and even say I have started my final book. I’ll laugh for as long as I can because there will be enough times for tears.

I have no evidence of what I’ll do when that day comes. I may just crawl into bed and begin my dying. Or I might pick up my pen and invite you along.

Until then, I’ll continue this journal but won’t post any of my entries until next November, which will be another Alzheimer’s Month.

Yes, writers tend to be overly dramatic and part of their job is to keep their readers hanging on edges, not that this journal is a cliff hanger. Let’s see where I am a year from now.
Look for the title: Did I Tell You I Have Alzheimer’s?
Just in case, my name is Frances H Kakugawa.

Where is Christmas?

Please click on Xmas. This appeared in the Sacramento Bee two years ago.

Xmas

Pearl Harbor: Dec 7

December 7, 2010
December 7, 1941

Pearl Harbor, 69 years ago in a little village in Hawaii:

   Under the rising sun
   The enemy came
   Wearing my face.

Immediately after, a new word was added to my childhood
vocabulary:

Eh Jap

   It claws my spine
   Tearing skin.
   It enters my body,
   To devour who I am.

   what do you do
   With Eh Jap
   On your face?
   Spit it out! Bull’s eye!

Today, I see myself in the photos of children in the news media. The enemy continues to wear the faces of children who will add new words to their vocabulary. We live our double-edged lives. My face is their face and so it will always be. Unlike my grandmother, who could not separate herself from what had become the face of the enemy, I had a choice to make.

My name is either Hideko Frances Kakugawa or Frances Hideko Kakugawa, depending on what document I am holding. My birth certificate carries the name my parents gave me and tells one story. My Social Security card bears the American name first and tells another. Either way, the history of the young girl I would have become is gone. The only face that was left for me to wear was my own.

Portrait

   A crayoned flag
   Of Red, White, and Blue
   Waves from a chopstick
   Clutched in my hand.

   In the other,
   The Emperor’s chrysanthemum
   On a rice paper fan
   Covering half my face.

from my collection of short stories titled: The Enemy Wore My Face

Looking for Christmas

Where is Christmas?

The crowds of shoppers push and shove their way to the bargain tables on Black Friday. “Where is Christmas?” I ask. Children plead for the latest from the ads on their TV screens as parents dig into their purses for things they can barely afford. Where is Christmas? I, too, return home from the mall on the coldest day of the year, looking forward to chasing away the chill that has settled into my bones. Key in the door, I remember that the heater is broken and the replacement part is held up by uncommonly harsh storms in the east. Even winter has conspired to prevent me from being prepared for winter. Where on earth is Christmas?

Fifty years ago, I spent my first winter in Michigan. I had left Hawaii to live with my pen pal Kay, her husband Gene and their two children while I taught first graders in Jackson. The temperature dropped below 7 degrees that winter, but every morning I began my day climbing into a warm, toasty car with the radio tuned to my favorite station. Gene had gotten up before me and scraped the ice off my windshield, started my car, turned on the heat and left it running before he left for work. He made a gadget that kept the accelerator down until I was ready to leave. This was our ritual every morning until Spring.

But Gene could do nothing about the roads that were slippery with ice. One morning I missed a left turn and my car slid sideways into a snow bank piled up at the side of a barn. A farmer came out, pulled my car from the snow bank and got me safely back on the road. When I pulled up to the school entrance, the entire faculty was there to greet me, applauding and cheering. “Somebody,” I now realize, “must have seen the accident and called ahead to tell them I would be delayed.”

I went inside, unpacked my shopping bag and rubbed my hands over the stove to get warm.
“Where is Christmas?”
“Did I ever thank Gene?” I wondered. I couldn’t recall and decided to phone him instead of just the annual exchange of cards we’d been doing for the past four decades.

“How are you?“ I asked.
“I’ve had a few heart attacks and go in for a blood transfusion now and then, but I’m doing okay,” Gene replied.
“Gene,” I said, “I’ve been thinking of you and how you warmed my car every morning that winter. I just wanted to tell you I haven’t forgotten. It warms me now, just to think about it.”

“Frances,” he said. “I never told you, but that year was the highlight of my life. You made coffee for me every morning while Kay was still in bed. But you know what I remember most? I remember you in your nightgown on that morning of the first snowfall, running outside barefooted. I still think about that.”

We chatted a bit more as I emptied the rest of the shopping bags. After we said good-bye, I looked in the empty bags. Christmas wasn’t in there and the house wasn’t going to get any warmer as the night wore on. But I knew where Christmas was now and I wouldn’t find it in a shopping bag. No, it was something hand-made during that Michigan winter so long ago. Something that had just now arrived, gift wrapped in a phone call.

Christmas Spirit

Looking for Christmas

It enters and exits
Without being seen,
By-passing hostesses
Too busy to free
Eyes from glitter,
Plastic trim.

    Catch it now
    Before it’s gone

    Hold it close
    Hold it fast.

    Make it yours
    Before it’s gone.

    Catch it now!

    from “Golden Spike”
by frances h kakugawa

Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice

The Book, it arrived. Stand in line, rush, cut in line, get your copy today.

This review is from: Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice (Paperback)

If you are not familiar with Johann Sebastian Bach’s classical piece ‘Air On The G String’ then I wholly suggest searching it out, or if you have it find a few moments to settle down, close your eyes, and let the music surround and penetrate you. The piece possesses a sonic beauty that tugs ever so gently upon the heart, satin-soft in its melancholy yet inescapably lifting in its hope and depth. An identical stir from within happens throughout Frances Kakugawa’s Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice.

A writer can use words to connect with the reader, to attempt to place the proper words in the perfect order, but often the best stories tell themselves and the writer becomes less a presenter and more of a companion, a guide with a gentle hand upon the shoulder. Kakugawa does dignified service to those who have sacrificed years of their lives to take care of loved ones which Alzheimer’s disease has attempted to steal. Through poetic example and personal stories imbued with gravitas she captures the struggle for both patients and caregivers.

I have been blessed–thus far–to not have had any family ensnared by Alzheimer’s. I had casual knowledge of it, of what ravages it performs on the human brain. But I never had the slightest notion of what its tendrils do to those closest to the host. Ms. Kakugawa draws distinctly with her pen images from her own experience with her mother, then introduces us to several others who share with us their own raw, intimate experiences as caregivers for their own family members. I could scarcely say that I would have understood the behavior of someone so afflicted before reading Breaking the Silence. Now I understand the profoundly important need for both parties to retain their dignity in the face of such adversity.

The book’s true power comes from Kakugawa and her contributors as they divest themselves of shadows and grief long held from view, and through their own stories and poetry bravely stepping into the light to justly show the rest of us what caring for another person is genuinely about. From their examples and words come the same satin soft ripples upon the soul, joyful even in their melancholy, hopeful in their remembrance, respectful and dignified for posterity and for all mortals with a heart.

– J. W. Nicklaus
Author: The Light, The Dark, and Ember Between

Order from Willow Valley Press:
http://www.btsilence.com/

Book Lovers Book Shop
http://www.bookloverscafe.com/

Amazon.com ( and other on-line sites)
http://www.amazon.com/Breaking-Silence-Caregivers-Frances-Kakugawa/dp/product-description/0976269775

Distribution in Hawaii courtesy of Landmark Publishing. Distribution in the USA by Willow Valley Press.

Scholarly review essay by Dr. Singh is here:

http://rksinghpoet.blogspot.com/2010/09/breaking-silence-tribute-to-sufferers.html

First delivery of book by Barry Schoenborn of Willow Valley Press

Peet’s Coffee & Tea in Sacramento (Mgr Tim) where I do all my writing.

Run…don’t walk.

Happy New Year

2011

    a burst of black pine,
    mochi, hot on my tongue
    Akemashite omedeto-gozaimasu

     spray of bamboo leaves
     a shower of new wishes
     Konen-mo yoroshiku onegai shimasu.

     f.hideko kakugawa

Almost Famous

Escalator Famous

Did I tell you how famous I am?
I was on the second floor of Macy’s in a shopping mall on the east side of Honolulu when I heard repeatedly over the PA system: Frances Kakugawa, please go to the Fine Jewelry Department.”

I went down the escalator, thinking oh #*&! I must have left my glasses or credit card somewhere. The saleswoman was smiling when I approached the counter.

“Did you page me?” I asked and before I could identify myself, she called me by name and explained how she saw me going up the escalator and invited me to see the new shipment of diamonds that had arrived.

Is she delusional? Does she think I sell millions of books and can afford diamonds? Didn’t she notice my custom jewelry unless she thought I was trying to pass as just another wealthy woman in disguise? She insisted I try the bracelets and necklaces and earrings so I did.

“These are perfect for book signings,” she murmured.
Diamonds are not my best friends. But my uncontrollable ego did walk away a bit pleased that she had recognized me on the escalator as “that author.”

At the airport, while going down an escalator, I saw a man pull his partner’s sleeve and excitedly say, as he pointed to me, “Mosaic Moon. Mosaic Moon.” ( For those of you who don’t know how famous I am, that’s the title of one of my books). I smiled and waved and mouthed “thank you.”

How can I not come to believe that escalators are the prime sites for recognizing celebrities.
( No, I haven’t checked with Pres. Obama, Oprah or Hilary, not yet).

So I use the escalators a lot at Arden Fair Mall, going up and down to different floors.

What is wrong with Sacramento?

Where is the Paparazzi? No one even asks me if I’m lost or if I have a fetish for escalators. And hard as I pay attention, I don’t hear my name over the PA system. Don’t they know I’m famous?

I beg you from any escalator nearest you, go out and buy my new book so I can hear my name throughout Arden Mall or any mall in your town. I’ve already hired two security guards.

A Gift In Her Memory

It Can Begin at a Hair Salon

I’m off the escalator today because nine years on this date, my mother died.

On Wednesday, I treated a friend to a haircut at my hair salon. It wasn’t just an ordinary act of friendship.

This is about my eighth hairdresser since my move here. That’s how difficult it is to find that perfect hairdresser and I have found him. He not only knows my hair but we both sing the same songs.

I also have my nails done by Carol ( not her real name) , an African-American manicurist at the same salon. When one client couldn’t get an appointment for a manicure, she announced, “This is the first time a N—– ever rejected me.” Carol was also referred to as “that colored girl who must do the towels” by one of the clients of another hairdresser.

For months now, I’ve been observing the clients from my limited point of view, and felt it was time to get on my white horse. I clued my friend in about my intentions and warned her that she may be their first African-American client. She went in for a haircut on Wednesday.

When I was a young teacher in Hilo, I was up for Presidency in this teachers’ sorority. I visited the parent office in Missouri and discovered that African Americans weren’t allowed membership.

I returned to Hawaii and quit the sorority. My then principal told me I was taking the coward’s way out; that I should become President and change the national policy, but I didn’t because I was entangled in my own emotions and didn’t want anything to do with such an organization. And who would listen to a single voice in the middle of the Pacific?

So Wednesday became better late than never…over 50 years later.

My mother is smiling with me today. Her favorite flowers and the cinnamon aroma from the lighted candle give pause while I honor her with my Hairdresser’s story. It was her favorite saying: Everyone is different, meaning we respect all those differences. I also give pause to
Dr. Martin Luther King and to President Obama who reminded us in Tuscon, that if we all return to our own humanity and to that of others, our world will be a peaceful, just and safe democracy as our Founding Fathers had envisioned. Yes, you can all count on me.

The following poem is lifted from one of my books: White Ginger Blossom: Naylor Co. 1971

The Human Race

a grain of sand, a lighted coal
lonely nights, a cup of coffee
stokely carmichael

sizzling sunset
a lava flow
an autumn day
thanksgiving

ginger blossoms
a banana split
lighted candle, a spicy scent
the orient, spring

cotton candy
crested waves
drifting snow in early morn
columbus.

chocolate fudge
a firewood
hawaiian eyes
a glass of beer.

Each a color in its right
Yet not a rainbow in sight
Till each stands hand in hand
Across the cerulean sky.

Mosaic Moon is an e-Book.

MOSAIC MOON: Caregiving Through Poetry, is now available as an e-book! That’s right – now you can read “Mosaic Moon” on your Amazon Kindle. My publisher reports it will be available on Barnes & Noble’s NOOK and the Kobo e-reader (which means you’ll be able to get it through Borders) shortly too.

Mosaic Moon is my first book on caregiving.

My second book on the subject is an illustrated children’s book called Wordsworth Dances the Waltz.

Of course you all have my most current book, Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice, right there by your bedside.

Tiger Mom

Amy Chua and Me

My mother was not a tiger mom like Amy Chua. She left me enough opportunities for explorations, successes and failures so at the end, I had myself to account for all the decisions I made along the way.

I spent hours in the outhouse, reading everything I could get my hands on, to escape household chores and it worked. I sat on the porch with books or a pencil in hand and that also worked. There were no organized sports or music lessons; that was left for the schools. I didn’t need to make all A’s for as long as F’s didn’t appear on my report cards.

There were long periods in my adult life when I sought that self that I wanted to put a name on so I entered and exited many doors. No one told me I had to remain there until I mastered it. My life became one of explorations.

I once walked into a Scientology building and bought books by Ron Hubbard. When the Kennedy’s showed such strength through their Catholicism, I sat down with a Buddhist priest and asked him, “Show me something in Buddhism that is similar to God’s will.” We talked until the sun went down and I didn’t change my religion. Our book shelves included the Bible and The Book of Mormon and I attended churches of different faiths. Sister Katherine ( nun) and I went shopping together.

I once attended a Zen session. We sat on the tatami mat in a circle and I was the only woman. The Zen master walked inside the circle with deliberate steps without making a sound. He held a large wooden paddle over his shoulder. “Empty your mind,” he said. The room was silent except for the occasional creak from the floor under his feet clad in white tabi ( Japanese socks). The silence was broken by a man who bowed and said, “Sensei.” It was a cue for the Master to slowly walk in front of him, raise his paddle and give three heavy whacks on each of his shoulders. The room vibrated with the sound of board against body. The man bowed his head in gratitude.

“Oh my God,” I panicked, “I better empty my mind.” Other thoughts raced through my mind. “ I shouldn’t have come. He’s hitting me next.” I saw his feet in front of me and I shook with fear. “Empty my mind. How do I do that?” I expected his paddle on my shoulders but he walked on. It was the longest and most frightening hour I had ever spent. My mind was frozen like an ice cube. We later sat in the kitchen of the church and were served tea by a young woman.

I didn’t know the rules of the game and over hot tea, asked the Zen Master to explain the whacking. I questioned him further about Zen beliefs and how does one empty one’s mind. I didn’t know that women weren’t allowed to ask questions. The men remained silent.

The Zen master invited me to a separate room and gave me a paint brush so large that I had to use two hands to hold it. He asked me to write a Japanese character so I obeyed. I held the large brush in both hands, dipped it in black ink and stroked the Japanese Kanji character on a large sheet of paper that was spread on the floor. He looked the strokes and said, “What is your favorite flower?”

I trembled and whispered, “Rose.”

“A rose. Of course”, he said. “A rose has thorns. Your strokes tell me you are a strong woman, too strong a woman. You need to become soft like a cherry blossom. I want you to quit your job tomorrow and go to Japan. I will make arrangements for you to join the monks and walk the country with a rice bowl in hand. We must get rid of those thorns. This will soften you and turn you into a true woman. You will destroy any man with all these thorns inside of you.”

That night the quiet woman in the kitchen called me:

“How are you feeling?”

“I feel devastated. I feel the person I am is of no worth.”

“This is why I called you. Don’t let him do this to you. Don’t listen to him.”

She added that I wasn’t supposed to ask questions since I’m a woman, not in the presence of men. She confided that she’s engaged to one of the priests.

“You’re engaged to marry one of those priests? How can you do this?”

“I’m willing to obey him. If he told me to jump in front of a moving train, I will do that.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I love him,” she answered.

During the following weeks I searched for that person that the Zen Master had seen in me and decided she was fine and didn’t need to be reconstructed. I still love roses and I haven’t killed any man yet.

He was a Tiger Master who showed me what intimidation and fear were all about. He was a Tiger Master who froze me into space and left me trembling.

“Karate,” I later decided. “That will help ground me.” I worked myself beyond the white belt and didn’t need to go for the black. I can still kick someone coming at me over a fence. Hah!

I took up guitar lessons, playing and singing, Where Have All The Flowers Gone but I left that career to Joan Baez. When I took up flute lessons, I envisioned myself on top of Diamond Head, playing like Galway and Rampal, sending music down to Waikiki. I played at a shopping mall instead in the back row of a flute choir during Christmas. I bought golf outfits before starting golf lessons and enjoyed many years on the golf course. I never became a Tiger Woods.

I never did master any of those lessons but I was happy. Just an average person, who was allowed to explore life as I saw it. And responsible enough to know I had to have a career of my passion, to be self-supporting, and a credit to my community. I think I still am without having had a Tiger Mom.

Book Reviews on: Pellegrino, Tanemori, Hillenbrand

Cow 1 is not Cow 2

I recently read Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. It wasn’t an easy book to read. Her story of WWII veteran Louie Zamperini’s atrocious and brutal treatment by the Japanese guards in POW camps sent razors up my spine. I wanted to enter the story to stop those guards:” Don’t do this. You are more human than this. Besides, you’re going to let the world hate us Japanese all over again.” In the book, the man of Honor was Mr. Zamperini who sought and found forgiveness and devotes his life to a world without war.

War Dehumanizes

Almost a year ago, on February 24th, I posted the following review of The Last Train from Hiroshima by Charles Pellegrino on a site that carried an excellent review of this book: http://avomnia.wordpress.com.

…”In 1945, I heard my parents discuss the death of their families in Hiroshima. A child, I didn’t know the significance of that day, a day that my ancestors were all destroyed.
I later wrote:

Hiroshima

We cut the chrysanthemum
Off its stalk
And left it naked in the sun.
(from The Enemy Wore My Face)

In 1989, Noriyo, a third grader from Hiroshima entered my classroom. They had moved to Hawaii because her grandmother was dying from cancer. She was a child during the bombing, and her doctor had advised: Go to Hawaii where the weather is sunny for the last few months of her life. I wrote the following poem for Noriyo:

44 Years Later

a dark mushroom cloud
follows me across the Pacific
into my classroom.
forgive us, Noriyo
for Hiroshima
and Nagasaki.
( from The Enemy Wore My Face)

In 1995, Dr. Jiro Nakano edited and translated 100 tanka poems written by survivors (hibakusha) of Hiroshima in a book called Outcry From the Inferno. I was deeply honored to be one of the English editors.
In 2010, I read Charles Pellegrino’s The Last Train from Hiroshima.

Nothing, not the discussions in our kitchen, my poems, the editing I did to Outcry From the Inferno, nothing is more real than this book. One of the main survivor’s tanka is included in the Inferno book. One of the survivors bears the same name of my mother’s family. Mr. Pellegrino, thank you for taking me back to where it happened…”

A few weeks ago, Charles Pellegrino recommended the following book: Hiroshima: Bridge to Forgiveness by Takashi “Thomas” Tanemori.

Mr. Tanemori was a young child when the bomb fell on Hiroshima. His story is as brutally painful as both Pellegrino’s and Hillenbrand’s books. He was ostracized and left on the streets by his own grandparents and his villagers because orphans were considered nothings. They were treated like lepers. His escape to America continued his dehumanization His story lifts the masks of both the Japanese and the Americans long after end of the war. Throughout his journey, he upheld his father Code of Honor and the name Tanemori, and sought and found peace and forgiveness. Today, blind from radiation, he heads the Silkworm Peace Institute in Berkeley, California.

I posted the following review on Tanemori’s book on Amazon.com:

…”Tanemori-san, Mr. Tanemori,

If I were to meet you I would fill your glass with the best sake ́.

Your story took me beyond flower arrangements, tea ceremonies, silk kimonos and koto music of my ancestral land. It also took me into the blind spots of my birth land of hope, humanity and equality here in America.
How one man could have suffered and still stand up to honor his father’s name, and to strive for world peace and love of brotherhood are indeed awe-inspiring. You remind me once again that we need to rise above all cultural, political, religious, racial and social beliefs if they begin to reduce our own humanity toward our fellow human beings. There is a flaw somewhere when our own beliefs and practices in the name of religion and culture dehumanize others. Thank you for not only telling us your story but for making a difference in at least one reader that forgiveness and love of humanity must be preserved by being practiced by each of us.

War does not end. War does not end with peace treaties or withdrawal of arms. War does not end.

Perhaps someday, the word “forgiveness” will disappear from our vocabulary when there is nothing to forgive in a world created by true humanists like yourself ( and men like Pellegrino and Zamperini). I took your “butterfly” and your “blade of grass” and wrote the following:

A white butterfly
Flits from flower to flower
After a rainfall.

****
a blade of grass bends,
raindrops on its back, then springs
in the noonday sun…”

Cut off Pluto, Add a Thousand More

I’m Obsolete

Oh no, how do I retract years of teaching a science unit that is now obsolete?

Recently, Kepler Mission announced the discovery of 1,235 possible new planets.
It was bad enough when they dropped Pluto.

Sorry, former students of mine…you gotta get rid of that Solar System mobile.
One science unit I taught to Kindergarteners and first graders was the solar system. We did creative drama in experiencing the rotation of Earth around the sun while the moon circled Earth as it turned on its axis. Kids were always fascinated how we got night and day.

I was that teacher who incorporated Music and Art with Science. We all sang:

Good morning, merry sunshine,
How did you wake so soon?
You’ve scared the little stars away,
And shined away the moon;
I saw you go to sleep last night
Before I ceased my playing.
How did you get way over here,
And where have you been staying?

I never go to sleep, my child,
I just go round to see,
The little children of the East,
Who rise and wait for me;
I wake up all the birds and bees,
And flowers on my way,
And come to see the little child,
Who stayed out late to play.

Words and music are given in Zuchtmann, Frederick. New American Music Reader. New York: Macmillan, 1903, page 29:

We ended the unit by making 9 paper Mache planets by size and color and a golden sun. They were suspended with strings attached to a paper plate and swayed and moved in the wind, nine planets around the sun. I still see my students carefully and proudly taking their mobile home. And parents of K-lst graders are known to save their art work forever.

When they dropped Pluto, I thought of calling each student : Please snip off Pluto off your mobile.
Can you imagine what my students would have to do now if I were still in their classrooms? Class, we’re making thousands of paper Mache planets for a mobile, and yes, they still revolve around the sun.

I miss those good old days when we could string up 9 planets and a sun.

But this is what science is all about…it has to be written in pencil.

Borders

Borders and Me

Borders, a 40 year old bookstore filed bankruptcy and it’s a sad day. This post is not about a superstore who drove many mom-and-pop bookstores out of business. This is about our changing industry and of a future that may someday not have books to line the shelves of mom-and-pop bookshops. This is about a place in time when I was treated like any other respected writer in the country. Borders, Hawaii held readings and book signings for each of my four most recent books and was always kind and generous to me. As with other bookshops in Hawaii, I was always greeted with a fresh orchid lei, my favorite cafe mocha, bottled water and pens. It was an ego trip to walk toward Borders and see a large promotional poster advertising my event and to be greeted by name by the manager. Thank you, Borders, for helping me feel I was a writer.

Borders

Eons from now,
I will be sitting alone
Under a tree perhaps,
Turning pages of a book.
The sound of paper, delicate
As hummingbird wings, joins the rustling of leaves.
I take the top right corner of each page
Between my thumb and forefinger and savor
The sound now lost to man.

“Why are you weeping?” You will ask,
With Kindle in hand.
“Because this is the last book on earth.”
“What is that?” You will ask.
“This?” I say. “This is a bookmark.”
Then I will turn to the front of the book.
“This is an autograph signed by the author.
She signed this to me in real ink eons ago
At a book signing at Borders.”

“So why are you weeping?” you will ask.

Ghosts of Vesuvius by Charles Pellegrino

A Book Review

I picked this book up because first, it was written by one of the most brilliant and humanistic writer/person I know, and second, because my hometown was destroyed by Kilauea Volcano when I was 18 and I was curious to see if there would be any similarities between Pompeii and Herculaneum and a simple plantation village in Hawaii called Kapoho.

Pellegrino took me not only to the sites of destruction by Mt. Vesuvius but to the Titanic and to the Twin Towers on 9/11, with side trips to Hiroshima. He took my hand and pointed out the incredible similarities in the sciences of how things happen and the strange connections among these sites of destruction. He hid nothing, exposing the weaknesses and strengths of humanity and as a bonus, into his own awesome personal journey . He took me on a time machine, to Mt. Vesuvius in A.D. 79, down to the Titanic in 1912 , to the Twin Towers in 2002, and to Hiroshima in 1945 and dropped me off in Kapoho.

Not being of the scientific mind, (I turn to the comics first on Sunday mornings and prefer to think magic takes care of the unknown), I didn’t expect such a fascinating trip. I wept, laughed, gasped and froze in awe, as I read each word of this genius of a storyteller. The most astonishing thing was, I understood what I was reading. I was stunned at the similarity in human behavior in people of my village to the Romans in A.D. 79, to passengers on the Titanic and the unforgettable people of 9/11.

Aw, come on, you’re probably thinking, how can a little village be compared to such historical events and sites? Because when your own village is destroyed by lava and earthquakes, it is as significant.

I stood in front of my freshman speech class in college during the Kapoho eruption and blasted the students who spoke of the beauty of the eruption while my village was being destroyed. For the rest of the semester, a stranger paid for my snacks and coffee at the coffee shop.

I wrote a paper for my Sociology class about the sudden physical strength of people who could lift stalled cars to help clear the road in the evacuation. I wrote a paper for my English class titled, “In the Base There is Good,” honoring one villager who was labeled the bad egg, and potential criminal of the village. He was the last to evacuate because he remained to help others load their household furniture into trucks.

I created a unit of study for the Hawaii State Public School System Literature Program, on Madame Pele, the Goddess of Fire who is believed to live in one of the craters. My father, out of respect for Madame Pele, accepted the erroneous radio announcement that our house was covered by lava by saying, “IF Pele wants my house, she can have it.” This was preceded by his total denial that it was our house.

My grandmother was the first to lose her house, and stories spread that it was punishment because she must have refused Goddess Pele some fruits from her yard. Why else would her house be the first in the path of the lava flow? The belief in Goddess Pele was stronger than any feelings of sympathy and empathy. The Japanese called it “bachi.”

Goddess Pele was believed to take many forms; often as a white dog or an old woman. Myths, acts of denial and bravery and even strange happenings that can’t be explained through scientific data, were common threads among all of us from Pompeii to Kapoho. We had different names in Kapoho because of our Hawaiian beliefs like Pele’s tears (threads of glass) that also fell on the Roman cities.The howling of dogs in Kapoho were the first signals for disaster just as the cats disappeared from the Titanic.

So how do I draw you into this book? I can’t, except to say, you must experience this yourself, just as I can’t do justice to the first yellow burst of that daffodil in our front yard right now after weeks of heavy fog and rain, by telling you it’s beautiful.

If this book doesn’t humanize you, nothing will.

Ghosts of Mt. Vesuvius DVD and book are also available on the History Channel. I’ve ear-marked over 35 pages because they gave me pause over the author’s story-telling skills, the humor, the language, the poetry, the humanity, the scientific content and people stories. I hope to discuss these pages with you someday which includes author’s own art.

On a personal note, after certain chapters, I returned to my own writing and rewrote or I would like to say, improved my own writing craft. It’s this kind of a book.

I feel way smarter now, too. Come talk story with me after you read this book.

The following comments came in from Red Slider:

fhk – I’d have written more, but I’m out of breath.

 

I give “Ghosts of Vesuvius four stars, based on the small flaws that other reviewers have already treated (some of them arguable). I give it a solid five stars (more if they had them) for entirely different qualities which other reviews have not mentioned and, perhaps, not noticed.

 

When seen through the lens of what Gregory Bateson first called a “Metalogue” (a text or conversation in which the form resembles the content), an entirely different standard of appraisal must be granted this volume. GV, its content, is about nearly unimaginable catastrophic events, the big-bang, the demise of the dinosaur, enormous discontinuities of evolutionary process, the largest volcanic explosions known, the 1.6 kiloton fall of the World Trade Center. And, equally about the storms of debris and ejecta that accompanied these events; not only rock and ash, heat and glass, but the bits of human history, artifacts, culture, reaction, myth and story, horror that were cast out from these blasts and buried deep in the human psyche, as much as on the land and in the skies overhead.

It is a book about blast columns and their collapse, of unbelievably destructive surges and pyroclastic flows, of cataclysms which not only disrupted both physical and biological nature, but which enveloped it, tumbled it, threatened it with extinction, scared it into entirely new directions, humbled it and permanently changed it; from the time of its stellar origins to the texts of its religions and sciences and civilizations and politics.

Viewed from that vantage, GV, begins with the all embracing “Call them Alpha and Omega”. In its own giant blast column it tosses  Fermilab and hadron colliders along with rusticles and proto-humans high into the air of its theme; tumbles ancient religious texts with fragile churches on the circumference of 9/11, fragments human presence in the surges of history with biological flotsam flung over the whole of creation; picks through the ashes of Pompeii and the currents of the deep ocean at the grave of the Titanic and cradles the hearts and tears of first-responders and forensic archeologists as they comb the ruins of 9/11 looking for small shock cocoons in which might be preserved some remnant.Something that might explain, might reveal the true nature of what perished on that day.

It stretches back in time, epoch by epoch, to the unimaginable grand-daddy of all cataclysmic events, the big bang, and then slingshots us forward through the creations of Civilization, the first appreciations that slavery was a shameful and unworthy aberration, the shadowy history of the collision of religions, the clutch of a doll, the heroic sacrifice of a nameless soldier who perished 2000 years ago and one who did the same ten years ago; of the perfectly preserved shadow of an ancient rose and of an equally intact credit card plucked from the dust of complete devastation, still readable.

Some who reviewed Pellegrino’s work were disappointed. It wasn’t about the Roman Empire, or volcanoes and Vesuvius, or Pompeii, or the WTC catastrophe, or their favorite or expected subject. They complain that it “drifted” or “got off topic” or was “stream of consciousness”, “digressive”, “repetitive”.  It seems obvious why some would make such complaint.

 

I don’t believe Mr. Pellegino intended this work to be about any single subject or to fill in anyone’s gap in their knowledge about some specific slice of history or particular event.  I believe he meant for us to come upon it the same way he does, as a forensic scientist examining the aftermath of a catastrophic event: examining, wondering, supposing, connecting small fragments of history and humanity and space and time as he came upon them.

 

It is not for its author to put it all together into one neat narrative, complete with its beginning, middle and end.  Rather, I believe he leaves it for us, the forensic reader, to take these pieces, splayed out into the book like the surge of some original catastrophe. The text as metalogue.  It is our job to examine the pieces, to ask, “what does this thing found over here have to do with that thing over there? Indeed, the author cannot tell you what narratives, insights, understandings a reader will find in the debris of GoV, any more than the dead of Pompeii will tell you exactly what was going on at the moment they were buried in 60 feet of hot ash – what was going on, what the different objects scattered around mean or how they relate. He couldn’t even predict what you might find, as reader.

 

Only that if you just see it all as unrelated scatter, it will look like a mess, a drift, a fragmented work that digresses and goes “off topic.”  But if you dig and examine and wonder and imagine, then perhaps you will arrive at something resembling the same joy he experiences when he digs through the ruins of who we are and what happened to us along the way.

 

There is one serious shortcoming of the work, about which Mr. Pellegrino could do nothing.  It was published long before March 11, 2011. The tragic catastrophe of the Japan tsunami and earthquake certainly need to be included to finish the work. But it is an error that can be corrected, provided Mr. Pellegrino’s publisher will insist that he revise the work for a new edition.  It won’t be an easy task. He can’t simply tack on a chapter at the end of it and call it done.  He will need to sift and scatter the experiences of that catastrophe, its sorrows and heroics,  throughout the book in keeping with the metalogue that it is. Nothing less will do.

Gender Free Caregivers

The Art of Caregiving Begins in Kindergarten

I must be getting old. My mother never said she was old, it was always, “I must be getting old.” She said this  right into her late 80′s. We eventually turn into our parents and I’ve arrived. I’m not 80 yet, but I’m quoting her. I must be getting old to be reminiscing my early years of teaching.

I was thinking of caregivers and how my Kindergarten classroom would have been a good training center for caregivers. No, stay with me,  I’m not hallucinating.

Each morning, when my Kindergarteners entered my classroom, they greeted me,  (one even told me I looked like a horse*),  put their school bags away, then went to the Activity Chart to select two activities for the day.

During Activity Period,  you would have seen the following:

Doll Corner: Both boys and girls cooking make-believe food, setting the table, doing dishes,  dressing dolls, burping them on their backs,  caring for the sick, taking dolls for a ride around the classroom and if a House Doctor was in the house, surgery right there in the Doll Corner. Doctors and firemen went off  to work, both males and females.

Woodwork Center: Children using hammers and nails, building things with lumber, painting their airplanes and boats. I did the sawing to avoid missing fingers. ( The Doll Corner Doctor was not quite up to reattaching fingers.)

Blocks Corner: Future engineers and architects building skyscrapers, barns and trains and anything imaginable.

Art Corner: Children painting on easels, drawing , or doing finger painting or collage.

Library Corner: Children lying on soft carpet looking at books or  writing their own at their desks.

It was a gender-free environment.

Caregiving  is gender free.

Imagine this: If my Kindergarten classroom became the environment for all of us, we would not be separated into doing male and female chores or be taking on female and male roles. The kitchen, the bathrooms, the living rooms, bedrooms, yard, garden, and every part of our household would be  gender free. Feelings and thoughts would be openly expressed. They would not be categorized as a man or female thing. And when we are all called upon to become caregivers, many of the present obstacles would be non-existent.

“Hey,” a male caregiver might be heard to say, “Cooking is no problem. I’ve been doing this since Kindergarten. Hey, I have no problem dressing my mother or giving her a bath. I’ve been doing this all of my life. I know how a male and female anatomy works.”

“Hey yes,” a female caregiver might be heard to say.”I may not have the physical strength at times, but I’ve installed all those safety bars and  have changed door locks.”

They both weep with grief and joy, fill the house with laughter over the inane, revel over the self-discoveries of what it means to be human,  and feel deeply about the new role given them as caregivers. They would become a community of the best of caregivers, don’t you think?

(*Teacher, You Look Like a Horse is the title of one of my books on how children best learn. The French braid was in vogue that one year so I woke up early to French braid my hair. Feeling very Parisian, I walked into my classroom and sat at my desk. One youngster ran in, stopped abruptly before me and exclaimed, “Why Teacher, you look like a horse!”  I was a  24 year old teacher  then and had the wisdom to burst out laughing.)

Eavesdroppping on Charles Pellegrino and Steve Sittenreich

Poetry and the Sciences

My brain feels as though it has gone through a dozen mammograms, squeezed to its limits.And I deserve this for eavesdropping on two scientists, renown in their fields.

Charles Pellegrino ( see my book reviews on two of his dozen and more  books on my blog) responded to a question by Steven  Sittenreich, who asked, “Please tell me what you think of this note on Leonard(Susskind.” I found Pellegrino’s answer stirring and beautiful. I can’t explain why, maybe it was because it was so simply stated like a haiku poem.

“DNA does not care whether it lives in you or me or in a bacterium. The Earth has evolved the perfect parasite. If we disappear utterly, it will still be dreaming at the hydrothermal vents, waiting to pass down through the next chain reaction of diverging lineages. You are just one of the temporary masks that DNA wears.

Men die, cattle die, termites die. All that truly lives on are bacteria (immortal fission) -  and, perhaps, our deeds.

Pellegrino’s response aroused my curiosity to the question being asked. As I eavesdropped further, I was fascinated to hear the poetry in  both these men of sciences. I always pictured Scientists to be that dull body of intelligence, alive only to facts, deaf to the arts.

It  was the poet in both men that glued me to their conversations. Scientists and Poets as One. Wow. These two poet scientists bring scientific knowledge down to the humanitarian level. When there are no answers,  there must  be poetry.

Science & Poetry

A black and a white swan

Send ripples across the lake.

Their dance soon becomes one.

by  frances ( well, you didn’t expect me to remain just an eavesdropper, did you?

They continued to destroy my myth of scientists by being human.Here are some snippets from my eavesdropping. (  I’ll bring you Sittenreich’s question later.)

Sittenreich’s response to Pellegrino when my request for permission to use Sittenreich’s comments was sent to him.

Sittenreich: I am just curious as to why this particular note appeals to you. After all, I have sent you half a book of these tidbits over the past thirteen months.

Pellegrino: Who knows why a particular passage suddenly stirs something? Could even be just the right combination of words  you used (compressed, like Haiku-perfect), combined with yet another recurrence of Ground Zero  lung, …your writing…hmmm…time for another cup of Frances’ tea.

Sittenreich: When I was sixteen I used to think that the world was a boring place and the two most  boring things in it were physics and chemistry. How could I have been so woefully misguided? I started off my academic studies at Queens College with two consecutive Ds in chemistry and a C in philosophy. Mathematics and music was only slightly less boring to me. Economics and accounting were also deadly boring and computer science and programmming were sickening.

The mind has to grow up just as the body has to come to maturity.

God has made the world in the most bizarre possible way and that is because she is God and doesn’t think like us.

Pellegrino: So, you too, poetic?

And now back to the sciences. This is where my eavesdropping began. Sittenreich asked Pellegrino what he thought of his comments:

Sittenreich on Leonard Susskind’s “The Black Hole War”    (2008)

Susskind, on page 282, expressed dismay that Darwinian natural selection should not have screened out such irrational and superstitious practices as religion.The Modern Synthesis in biology reduces living things such as humans to (as he said)  information sequences transmitted by chemicals. The very same introns found in mice also appear in humans as do some of the genes in bacteria. There is good reason to say that all of life is descended from acommon ancestor. This is what is called in logic a necessary condition. But a necessary condition may not be a sufficient condition. Something is missing in the Modern Synthesis and that something is entirely consistentwith the informational system of nucleotide sequences in a 3.5 letter alphabet.

Now it would not be correct to say that the power of living things to adapt and grow is rooted in the intrinsic combinatory properties of the chemicals of life such as nitrogen, carbon, oxygen etc because it is entirelyimpossible to imagine how life got started in the first place. Paul Davies in the Fifth Element put the odds of life forming on this planet  at 1 in 10**40000– and that’s probably too generous. Either conditions on the early earth were different or there is an unseen hand involved. As Alan Butler puts it, this unseen hand could be

a) a supernatural being,  b) a member of an alien civilization, or c) ourselves from the future (I know that he  thinks time travel into the past is a no no).

Additionally, the roots of life are also somehow related to certain parameters of the carbon atom and, at a deeper level, to a perfect balance of universal constants such as h, c, the anti-gravity constant Lambda, the balance of the gravitational and the electrostatic forces, and the Sommerfeld fine structure constant Alpha. Fred Hoyle who was twice the atheist he is, said that the elements that make up life have the “look of having been tampered with.”  All this, I realize, rehashes the Weak Anthropic Principle but we are mostly quite limited to the  point of view of this universe

The presence of the religious instinct in all human cultures extending back to the Neanderthal, is the result of some special tampering of the human genome by someone or something. That’s why it is there even though, as Susskind pointed out, it is counterproductive for survival. Someone or something wants us to bow to him or her or it. David Icke captures this idea in the title of his latest (otherwise crazy) book *Humans, Get Off Your Knees.

What do you think, Mr. Evolutionary Biologist? Have we been genetically engineered to fear the Lord?

I heard on NPR a few days ago, that we need to surround ourselves with people who are more knowledgeable than we are so we can constantly expand our minds and our own humanity. Charles Pellegrino and Steve  Sittenreich, thank you for allowing this eavesdropper around your distinguished company.

Japan’s Disaster

Being Japanese

Shikata ga nai.

Gaman, Gaman, Gaman.

We are Japanese.

During my high school years, my Japanese girlfriends and I tried so hard to not be or look Japanese  after Pearl Harbor.  We thought getting rid of our slant eyes would do the job.  And besides, all those Hollywood stars had “double eyes” without our  epicanthic folds. How did we change the shape of our eyes without plastic surgery?   We cut a thin strip of transparent  tape and taped it over the eyelid  near the eyelashes  and voila, we  had instant “double eyes” or  Haole (Caucasian)  eyes.  Of course if the tapes were not the same size, we’d have uneven “double eyes” but,  we didn’t  look Japanese, or so we thought.

After the disaster in Japan a few days ago,  journalists are reporting  the Japanese character:

There are no looters and street crimes  in the streets , unlike other disaster places in the past so there is one less problem  for the government.

When food is brought into a room filled with hungry people, the Japanese quietly form a single line, without being told,  and patiently and quietly wait  their turn.

One woman in her  80′s escaped on her bicycle and later commented:  My home and village are all gone but I’m grateful  to be alive. I wonder what my daughter will do because she always wanted to be independent.

A businessman, who sold wood stoves in his shop, packed his truck with his stoves and distributed them to the survivors. ( Since Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Japanese refer to themselves as survivors and wish not to be called victims.)

Charles Pellegrino sent the following thoughts of the Japanese working at nuclear plant:

The people actually working to save the sites are the ones in real danger, being exposed to (for example) rare isotopes of nitrogen that last only a few seconds to a minute… but they may be exposed (presently) to constant streams being renewed every few seconds. They know this; and to me they are like the firefighters running up the stairs in the Twin Towers while everyone else was running down. There are real heroes out there who need to be in our thoughts – and some of them were almost certainly killed in the external containment shell explosion. And yet the rest have gone back in, giving it everything they’ve got.

The behavior of the people in Japan is an example for the world. Maybe one of  the good things that will come out of this is a lesson – by actions and not just by eloquent speech – that Omoiyari is not just a word, but a way of life.
And maybe, just maybe, we can hope that the way will spread, outward and outward.

These  stories of the Japanese remind me of the two words I was raised with,  in our  family.

Shikata ga nai: It can’t  be helped. This is how it is.

Gaman: quiet endurance, embrace it and rise above it silently

Today, that young girl who didn’t want to look or be Japanese  realizes  she was wise in not letting go all things Japanese. It’s a blessing to know, part of that so-called Japanese character has not been taped away.  It’s a good thing those scotch tapes weren’t permanent.

Yes, I am Japanese . And my heart is there in Japan today.

Omoiyari

The New Cloud from Japan

Charles Pellegrino ends all  his correspondence with “Omoiyari” and he has good reason to adopt this Japanese word.

Dear Frances:Omoiyari: To think of the other person first. The great hope is that such thinking becomes contagious. In America, a variation on the theme is called the “pay it forward” principle. (To think of others, to live in service to others, hoping that [rather than paying back a favor] each person will pay it forward to someone else.) Although it is an improbable hope, the hope is, nevertheless, that in unexpected ways, a ripple effect might reach into, and change the lives of people who might otherwise, perhaps as children in war and occupation zones, think there is no good in the world and otherwise grow up wanting to do something evil. Tsutomu Yamaguchi was one who lived by this principle. Dr. Nagai of Nagasaki and Sadako of Hiroshima – and Takashi “Thomas” Tanemori – are other examples. What’s important about this is that it does not leave all hope in the hands of government leaders around the world, but empowers even children to bring about change.

See you later,

Omoiyari,

…Charlie P

Dear Dr.Charlie:

Acts of “Omoiyari” have become the new cloud from Japan, not the fear of radiation, but inspirational stories of “Omoiyari.”   A Nisei friend of mine told me yesterday, “I am so proud to be Japanese after all these years.”

“Yes,” I told her.” Pearl Harbor took this away from us, it’s been a long wait.”

“Omoiyari” is already happening as seen from these stories out of Japan. frances

from Japan:

Utterly amazingly where I am there has been no looting, no pushing in lines. People leave their front door open, as it is safer when an earthquake strikes. People keep saying, “Oh, this is how it used to be in the old days when everyone helped one another.”

And the Japanese themselves are so wonderful. I come back to my shack to check on it each day, now to send this e-mail since the electricity is on, and I find food and water left in my entranceway. I have no idea from whom, but it is there. Old men in green hats go from door to door checking to see if everyone is OK. People talk to complete strangers asking if they  need help. I see no signs of fear. Resignation, yes, but fear or panic, no.

I am blessed in that I live in a part of Sendai that is a bit elevated, a bit more solid than other parts. So, so far this area is better off than others.  Last night my friend’s husband came in from the country, bringing food and water. Blessed again.

. My brother asked me if I felt so small because of all that is happening. I don’t. Rather, I feel as part of something happening that much larger than myself. This wave of
birthing (worldwide) is hard, and yet magnificent.

Last night when I was walking home (since all traffic had stopped), I saw an old lady at a bakery shop. It was totally past their closing time, but she was giving out free bread. Even at times like this, people were trying to find what they can do and it made my heart warm.
In the supermarket, where items of all the shelves fell, people were picking up things so neatly together, and then quietly stand in line to buy food. Instead of creating panic and buying as much as needed, they bought as little as they needed. I was proud to be a Japanese.

When I was walking home, for 4 hours, there was a lady holding a sign that said, “Please use our toilet.”

At Disneyland, they were giving out candies. High school girls were taking so many, I was thinking, “What???” But then the next minute, they ran to the children in the evacuation place and handed it to them.

My co-worker wanted to help somehow, even if it was just to one person. So he wrote a sign: “If you’re okay with motor cycle, I will drive you to your house.” He stood in the cold with that sign. And then I saw him take one gentleman home, all the way to Tokorozawa!

A high school boy was saved because he climbed up on top of the roof of a department store during the flood. The flood came so suddenly, that he just saw people below him, trying to frantically climb up the roof and being taken by the flood. To help others, he kept filming them so their loved ones could see. He still hasn’t been able to reach his own parents but he says, “It’s nobody’s fault. There is no one to blame. We have to stay strong.”

There is a lack of gas now and many gasoline stations are either closed or have very loooong lines. I got worried, since I was behind 15 cars. Finally, when it was my turn, the man smiled and said, “Because of this situation, we are only giving $30 worth gas per each person. Is that alright?” “Of course its alright. I’m just glad that we are all able to share,” I said. His smile gave me so much relief.

I saw a little boy thanking a public transit employee, saying, “Thank you so much for trying hard to run the train last night.” It brought tears to the employee’s eyes, and mine.

A foreign friend told me that she was shocked to see a looong queue form so neatly behind one public phone. Everyone waited so patiently to use the phone even though everyone must have been so eager to call their families.

The traffic was horrible!! Only one car can move forward at green light. But everyone was driving so calmly. During the 10 hour drive (which would only take 30 minutes normally) the only horns I heard was a horn of thank you. It was a fearful time — but then again a time of warmth and it made me love Japan more.

When I was waiting at the platform, so tired and exhausted, a homeless person came to us and gave us a cardboard to sit on. Even though we usually ignore them in our daily life, they were ready to serve us.

Suntory (a juice company) is giving out free drinks, phone companies are creating more wi-fi spots, 1,000,000 noodles were given by a food company, and everyone is trying to help the best way they can. We, too, have to stand up and do our best.

Whenever there is a black out, people are working hard to fix it. Whenever the water stops, there are people working to fix that too. And when there is problem with nuclear energy, there are people trying to fix that too. It doesn’t just fix itself.

While we are waiting to regain the heat in the cool temperature or have running water, there were people risking their life to fix it for us.

An old woman said, on a train: “Blackouts are no problem for me. I am used to saving electricity for this country, and turning off lights. At least, this time we don’t have bombs flying over our heads. I’m willing to happy to shut off my electricity!”

In one area, when the electricity returned, people rejoiced. And then someone yelled: “We got electricity because someone else probably conserved theirs! Thank you so much to EVERYONE who saved electricity for us. Thank you everyone!”

An old man at the evacuation shelter said, “What’s going to happen now?” And then a young high school boy sitting next to him said, “Don’t worry! When we grow up, we will promise to fix it back!” While saying this, he was rubbing the old man’s back. And when I was listening to that conversation, I felt hope. There is a bright future, on the other side of this crisis.

Dr. Pellegrino’s reference to Takashi Tanemori   book, “Hiroshima: Bridge to Forgiveness” appears in one of my blog posts. I also posted reviews on two of Pellegrino’s books.

Shikata ga nai….Gaman….Omoiyari

Censorship

Double, Double, Toil of Trouble

 

I saw something a few cars ahead of me this morning  that took me back to my youth. I didn’t think such things existed any more, especially in the city of Sacramento. In Hawaii, yes, where we’re pretty isolated in the rural areas.

 

No, it wasn’t a bird, it wasn’t a plane. Not even Superman.  It was the Bookmobile!!!

 

The Bookmobile was my savior in Kapoho where I grew up because  libraries and bookshops we nonexistent.  In high school, our school library was sparsely filled with dictionaries and the Encyclopedia. Remember those? When I was an eight grader, I borrowed a book called “Office Wife.” My Social Studies teacher confiscated the book saying it was too advanced for me. I shouted to her, ” I got this from the Bookmobile. I can borrow any book from that bookmobile. Otherwise, they shouldn’t have these books on the shelves.”

 

A few days later the PE teacher called me in for counseling. That Social Studies teacher had taken “Office Wife”  to their faculty meeting and it was decided that I had too advanced interest in sex and needed counseling. I was embarrassed and mad.

 

Thereafter, whenever the bookmobile drove up to our school, a teacher tailed me to censor my selections. I was not allowed to borrow books from the very top shelves. No one had bothered to read the book. It was a Hallmark type of story of a secretary falling in love with her boss. There were no sexual scenes. Just a reference to a kiss. So during high school,  I read Lady Chatterley’s Lover at home and played the censorship game in school.

 

Because of that incident, I became a better teacher. I defied a school librarian when she told my third graders, they were limited to two shelves of books designated as third  grade level of reading. My 3rd graders read books designated as 6th grade reading levels and beyond. I taught Shakespeare in 3rd and 6th grade. They loved it when I said, “This is usually taught in high school or college.” They dramatized Caesar’s “Et tu Brute?” and memorized the witches’ brew from Macbeth at Halloween:

 

Fillet of a fenny snake,

In the cauldron boil and bake;

Eye of newt and toe of frog,

Wool of bat and tongue of dog,

Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,

Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

ALL double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

 

 

The best feedback was from a parent whose 3rd grader nonchalantly asked during dinner time: Would anyone care to hear Shakespeare?

 

It has always amazed me how we put age levels to books and once we leave high school, that age level disappears. We don’t have books designated for  20 year old or 40 year old reading levels.

 

So you know my stance of censorship. And I’m NOT a sex maniac.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Japanese

Images from Japan                                    

Man-made clouds hover

Over rice fields, paper cranes,

Green tea, once again.

Omoiyari

Half a rice ball,wrapped in seaweed,

Is shared; steam from a tea cup

Rises to the cloud.

She lifts her chopsticks

To the hungry, while her stomach

Growls in hunger.

Gambatte!

Poetry Month: April

A Poet’s Declaration on Editing

This  poem has a special place in my heart. I wrote this while I was teaching third graders.

I had a special Editor’s Chair, a plush, red velvet, ornate arm chair that was used only  by writers who wanted their work edited by the class. This chair had quite a history but to shorten its history, it was donated to our class by Wayne Harada, the then Entertainment Editor of the Honolulu Advertiser  because we were both deeply involved in the state Children As Authors* program which was created by Dr Vi Harada. Whenever students wanted editors, they  would ask to sit in the Editor’s chair and we gathered at their feet to listen and critique.  We did a lot of writing in all subject areas and the reason might have been an opportunity to sit in the Editor’s Chair.

I took the chair one day to read my poem.  I expected an  unanimous nod because wasn’t I the teacher,  but one student said, “I like the poem to end at “I am! I am!” I would suggest that you drop the last four lines?” What???

(We were not allowed to use “ought” and “should” during our editing process because the final decision was the writers’ and we were not to impose our  ideas on any writer. We could only suggest.)

“Okay,” I said rather defensively, ” Let me read this again without the last four  lines. Then I’ll read the poem as I wrote it and let’s see what you think.”

I wasn’t play acting at this point. I was fighting tooth and nail for my poem. I read the original with expression and drama and sort of read the edited version without much flair.

“How many of you think I need to drop the last four lines?”

Without looking at each other, the majority of the class raised their hands. What? I have over- taught these kids!.  A couple of  loyal Kakugawa fans kept their hands  clasped on their laps.

“Okay,” I said, “Let me think about your suggestion and I’ll get back to you.”

I later showed  the poem to a professor friend and he said, “The kids are right. You’re over talking.”  I still tend to over talk today, thinking I need to hold the reader’s hand a bit closer to my work. Mark Arax of “West of the West” asked me once, of my short story, “Do you need that last line?”

So here is that poem without the last four  lines

A Poet’s Declaration

I am a star

In the Milky Way.

I am the crest

On emerald waves.

I am a dewdrop, crystal clear,

Capturing moonbeams in the morning mist.

I am that dust

On butter fly wings.

I am that song

Of a thousand strings.

I am that teardrop

You have kissed.

I am a poet!

I am! I am!

I am that rage

In the thunderstorm.

I am that image

Of a thousand forms.

I am magic on each page.

I am a poet!

I am! I am!

(this poem appears in two of my books: Mosaic Moon: Caregiving Through Poetry and Teacher, You Look Like a Horse.)

*Children as Authors Program:

I took my students through the entire writing process.

1.Rough drafts

2.Editing and Revising

3.Final editing by Publisher ( teacher)

4.Final copy ( text, cover, dedication page, about the author, illustrations)

5.Book release at Authors’ Autograph party. Special invitation to parents, administrators, press.)

6.These books were added to the school library and put into the system. All were available to be borrowed as any other book in the library.

I also used this program in all subject areas so their books covered all parts of the curriculum. I miss those years.

Birth of a Poem

My Name is Me

Sometimes a  poem patiently waits to  be written from the most ordinary places.  A few days ago I sat in my office,  staring at the bookshelves, reading book titles and names of authors. My eyes stopped at one of those black and white composition notebooks tucked somewhere in the mess.

That notebook reminded me of something my mother did after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.

How could I have missed the significance of what she did?  Why did it take me nine years to become aware of this? The following poem easily flowed out of my pen:

Matsue Kakugawa

How could I have missed this?

Soon after she was diagnosed,

She began to fill a composition notebook

With her signature.

“So shame,” she said, ” if I can’t sign my name

nicely at the bank.”

It became her favorite pastime:

Matsue Kakugawa, carefully written

Page after page after page.

As her disease progressed, Matsue Kakugawa

Began to lose a letter or two, and soon,

She was reduced to scribbles and lines.

Five notebooks, one hundred sheets,

Two hundred pages, twenty two lines per page.

Twenty two thousand Matsue Kakugawa.

How could I have missed her

Twenty two thousand attempts

To save herself from the thief?

Dangerous Women

Poetry to Music

UBerDavid of Oregon
set my Dangerous Women to music.

Check this out…wow…

Just click here and play!
Dangerous Women

Here are the lyrics – You can Sing Along!

(or Karaoke good, too!)

Dangerous Women

We are the dangerous women…
Who never say no to sunsets, sunrises,
Evening strolls or double martinis.

We are the women who speak to you
In supermarkets over apples and cabbages.
Making you wish you could follow us home.

We are the women taught by mothers,
To make you feel we could be yours
No matter what your age, color or size.

We are the women who seek
Extraordinary days out of the ordinary
Leaving aches and joy and empty spaces.

We are the women who write poems
And send you copies without permission
Capturing moonbeams in your name.

We are the gatherers of dreams,
Fantasizing scenes
In private places where secrets live.

We are not easy to be with
After sad movies, romantic novels,
And on Sunday afternoons.

We are so damn demanding
You wish we had never met,
Yet you know, we are the poetry of life.

Yes, we are the dangerous women: vulnerable,
Ageless, poetic, passionate, living life with two feet
Slightly off the ground.

We are the women you should avoid
If you don’t believe in Peter Pan, Never Never Land
And the first star of the evening skies.

But pour us wine, as the sun sets low
And we will hand you the key
To our inner souls.

- fhk

(UBERDAVID is a techno-acoustic music duo. They are David Rolin…(drums, percussion and vocals) and David White…(keyboard/synth).”*

Breaking the Silence in Chinese

Review of Breaking the Silence Published Internationally

Anyone read Chinese? This is perfect for Poetry Month.

Professor R.K. Singh’s insightful article on my most recently published Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice has just been published in Research (Vol. 10, No.2, Autumn 2010), a respected journal published from Patna, India.

His article was also translated into Chinese to appear in The World Poets Quarterly (Vol. 061, February 8, 2011), a journal based in Chongqing, P.R. China.

Professor Singh is a noted Indian scholar and poet who has authored over 150 articles, 165 book reviews and 34 books. His article on Breaking the Silence provides a thoughtful critical analysis of the poetry and themes in Breaking the Silence:
Read Professor Singh’s article at:

http://www.btsilence.com

Safest Place on Earth

In the Sacramento Bee a few days ago, two children were removed from their home because of being sexually abused by their parents. Children deserve the right to be safe and happy. Parents owe this to their children. Our children’s voices ought to be of laughter and giggles instead of being silenced into fear and confusion.

I was reminded of this one night when I was a guest in my niece’s house.

Overnight Guest

i am an overnight guest
  in their brand new home,
   both girls, instead of pulling straws
    sleep with me
     on a king-sized bed
      with me sandwiched in the middle.

giggles, giggles, betwixt the sheets,
  “go to sleep!” “stop poking me!”
   bring more giggles
    but even giggles soon get sleepy.

brandi is sound asleep on my right,
  nicole on my left slide to the edge,
   proclaiming, “I love to sleep near the edge.”

i curve one arm around nicole,
  holding her in before
   she falls like icarus
    into total darknness.

i lay awake, thinking of life,
  how some of us live near the edge
   taking risks, pursuing dreams, living
    outside of little white boxes,
     often teetering on one foot.

only in childhood do we know,
  someone’s arm is always there,
   holding us in from over the edge.

and this is how it ought to be
  when we are young and trusting
   in our parents’ home.

The Toothpick That Broke a Camel’s Back

A Box of Toothpicks from Diamond Co.

Let’s forget poetry for awhile.

I’m at war with Diamond Toothpicks. I bought a box last week, against my basic instincts when I saw Made in China stamped on the blue box. I usually avoid certain products manufactured in certain countries.

The toothpicks, all 740 of them, were splinters. And I mean splinters. Each toothpick was covered with wooden splinters.

I stabbed a toothpick in each of my dainty little sandwiches to keep them from toppling over and guess what. Yes, when I pulled a toothpick out, half of it was left in the sandwich. And it wasn’t a sandwich with concrete filling. I even found pieces of splinters loose in the filling. Aaaagggh.

Okay, there are larger problems in our world right now instead of complaining about splintered toothpicks but this was the toothpick that broke the camel’s back.

What made it worse was trying to find a contact address or phone number for Diamond Co. After spending too long on-line, I finally found an email address and wrote the following to get their attention:

Do you ever use your own products? This product is asking for a lawsuit!

I should have added, “How do I get a splinter out of my gum?”

Anyone for a box of splinters? I ought to feed these to those irritants in the garden who dined on my basil and chiso plants a few nights ago. Dawn of Watermark Publishing suggested a year ago, when I was battling snails and slugs, that I use crushed egg shells around the plants; a sure way to rip apart those slimy snails and slugs as they crawl over them. I took her advice and saved empty egg shells for a year and guess what, they didn’t work. Sacramento snails and slugs are either smarter and tougher than those in Hawaii, or perhaps snails and slugs in Hawaii have more Aloha and will appease hard-working gardeners.

I wonder how crushed toothpicks will work?

This is how I orchestrate my life…always leave a carrot dangling in front of you…adds a touch of anticipation in one’s daily life. So now I await to hear from Diamond Co ( surely they’ll send me golden toothpicks) and see if toothpicks work better than eggshells.

My “bachi” would be if Diamond Co sends me a ton of toothpicks, delivered over my tomato plants.

Saga of the Toothpicks con’t

As kids we played this game where we pinched someone and said, “Pass on, no pass back.” Little did I know then, that was the Bureaucracy Game created to pass on the buck. Oh Harry Truman, wherefore art thou? Diamond Co. emailed back saying I sent my email of complaint ( see previous posts) to the wrong dept and they included another email address.

Stay tuned and see the roundabout journey these flat, rough, splinters will travel in the next few weeks. I’ll keep adding new developments on this post.

Hawaii Lecture/Book Tour

From : Watermark Publishing/Willow Valley Press

The following seminars and events with Frances Kakugawa are opened to the public:

Those with loved ones suffering from long-term illness and dementia don’t often speak of the toll caregiving takes on their lives. Many find it difficult to express their complicated feelings. “Alzheimer’s caregivers must cope with incredible pressure, constant anxiety, and difficult decisions,” says author Frances H. Kakugawa.

Her new book, Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice, is a thoughtful and honest look into what caregivers face each day, her third title advocating the power of creative writing as a therapeutic tool for those with loved ones suffering from Alzheimer’s disease or other long-term illnesses. During her years as a caregiver for her Alzheimer’s afflicted mother, Kakugawa found that poetry and journaling helped bring dignity to the caregiving experience.

Frances will offer the following readings and workshops in May & June:

1. Breaking the Silence
Friday, May 20; 11:00am
Reading and book signing
Book Gallery
259 Keawe St., Hilo

2. Thursday, May 26; 2:00pm – 3:30pm
“Dignity in Aging” presentation
Aging & Disability Resource Center
1055 Kinoole St., Hilo
Call (808) 935-1144 to register

3. Saturday, June 4; 1pm – 2pm
Reading and book signing
Barnes & Noble, Ala Moana Center

4. Tuesday, June 7; 4:00pm – 5:30pm
“Dignity in Caregiving” presentation
Alzheimer’s Association Honolulu Office, Ward Warehouse, 2nd floor
Call (808) 591-2771 for more information

Continuing Saga of Toothpicks

Toothpicking

Do we need this silliness about toothpicks during these times of Fukushima, tornadoes, Bin Laden and personal losses? Yes but…don’t we need a respite for a chuckle now and then…isn’t this why some of us turn to the comic section first?

Corporate Toothpicks responded. Okay, they changed my gender but I’m pleased they care for their products and a disgruntled customer with this response. I won’t get a
box of golden toothpicks but still….

Mr. Kakugawa,

Jarden Home Brands appreciates you contacting us regarding the poor quality experienced when using Diamond Flat Toothpicks. We regret they did not perform as expected. Your report will be forwarded to our Quality Assurance and Manufacturing Teams so that they can take the appropriate steps to prevent a recurrence of this issue. We would like to send you a product coupon under separate cover as replacement for the toothpicks you purchased.

Please provide us with the following:

1. Your mailing address
2. The retail location that you purchased these toothpicks from
3. The Alpha-Numeric Code from the box
(it will be printed in black ink)

Thank you for assisting us in maintaining the quality of our Diamond products.

Sincerely,
Jarden Home Brands

Can Caregivers Divorce their Siblings?

I’m off to Hawaii for a lecture/book signing tour but before I leave, a last minute word of support to caregivers who often have no alternative but to “divorce” siblings during caregiving.

During the past two weeks, I consoled four caregivers whose grief came more from their sibs than from caring for the their loved ones with Alzheimer’s disease.

When we say family, we think of oneness, support, and love. But families are made of individuals, each with their own set of values, relationships and character. To expect every family member to rise to the occasion of caregiving may not be a reality. To expect equal participation may not be a reality. Caregiving is long term and many may choose not to participate. It may be more beneficial to the loved ones if these family members did not become caregivers.

From past experiences, I have seen siblings communicating through their attorneys. I’ve seen siblings filing suit to break their parents’ living trust. I’ve seen siblings quarreling over finances. I’ve heard siblings insinuate, “Since I don’t want to become a caregiver, none of my sibs should be one…they only make me look bad…”

I have seen greed, lack of compassion, and fear. This is just top of the iceberg when it comes to families breaking apart when caregiving is needed.

I posed the following suggestion to four caregivers recently. If you took away the label “brother” or “sister”, would you still want a relationship with that person? We are very selective when we hire professional caregivers for our loved ones. Shouldn’t we do the same with family members? Sometimes, we have no alternative but to cut ties with siblings who, through reasons of their own, destroy relationships during caregiving.

Caregivers need support and understanding; they need respite care for themselves, they need to be surrounded by people like themselves, who believe in preserving dignity in their loved ones. They deserve to be among people who do not see a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s or other forms of dementia as a death sentence or a burden. There is still time for living, re-establishing relationships and caring. Caregivers have a choice to have such an environment for their loved one and for ourselves.

And if it means to cut ties with siblings or other members of the family, so the best of care can be given, so be it.

My focus on my lectures in Hawaii will be on preserving dignity in our loved ones and in ourselves for whatever we do to our loved ones, we do to ourselves.

I’m about packed. It’s a good thing I’m not an octopus because with only two feet, I’m packing 4 pairs of shoes. That kid who ran around bare-footed in the isles, now lives next to DSW ( Designer Shoes Warehouse) near Arden Faire Mall. I’ll be posting from Hawaii…stayed tuned. Aloha.

Hawaii Tribune Herald

Features

Kakugawa to give lecture workshop in Hilo on Thursday

Discussion focus is on aging, Alzheimer’s and her new book, ‘Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice’

Published: Tuesday, May 24, 2011 9:19 AM HST

Kapoho-born Frances Kakugawa, educator, poet and published author, has a new published book titled “Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice.”

“Breaking the Silence” is her third book on caregiving and the elderly. Her other books on this subject are “Mosaic Moon: Caregiving Through Poetry” and an illustrated children’s book called “Wordsworth Dances the Waltz” that won Best Children’s Book from the Northern California Publishers/Authors.

Kakugawa will be at the Aging and Disability Resource Center at 1055 Kinoole St., on Thursday, presenting a lecture workshop, “Dignity in Aging: A Caregiver’s Voice.”

To register as a participant and find out program details, please call Services For Seniors at 935-1144.

Kakugawa will take participants on her own personal journey through poetry and experiences, on how she rose above the burden of care while caregiving for her mother who had Alzheimer’s disease.

She will discuss lessons learned, and the choices confronting caregivers to either succumb to the realities of caregiving or “to live with that small light of our own humanity by offering our loved ones the dignity in living.” She will work with participants who are interested in bringing dignity and understanding in caregiving through writing.

Kakugawa was named one of the outstanding women of the 20th century in Hawaii and received the Hawaii Pacific Gerontology Society Award for her work with the elderly.

She lectures and gives workshops throughout the United States.

THE MAGICAL WONDER OF CHILDREN

May 23, 2011
Waiakea Elem
Hilo, Hawaii

I wish this day on you. It was that kind of a day.
I spent 7 hours at a school, speaking to 800 students, one grade level at a time in their auditorium. Was met with a thermos filled with hot coffee, thermos was mine to keep. Only in Hawaii, I’m greeted by beautiful floral leis with a kiss and hug.

Wordsworth the Poet was selected their May book-of -the- month. I read the book to grades K, 1, 2 and discussed writing and authoring to 3rd, 4th and 5th graders.

Enjoy some of their comments.My responses in ( ).

Kindergarten:

“You have a pretty face.” ( smart kid)
“How old are you?” ( Old, very old, I said.)
“Why did you write this book?”

1st Grade:

“What’s a poet?”
( I asked the classes to answer it and one child said, “A poet writes poems.”
I added, “Yes, and a person who paints or draws is an artist, a person who writes music is called
a musician,etc.)

“Are poems rhymes?”

2nd Grade:

“How did you think of those beautiful words in the book?”
( I read, read, read a lot and wrote as much to see how language works, etc.)

3rd Grade:

You must be very rich.

What’s your favorite book?

4th Grade (Publishers, please read this twice)

“You must be very rich. Do you get all the money from your book?”
( No, when you publish a book like this, the artist and the publisher get a certain percentage and I get paid a certain percentage.)

“ Oh no, the publisher should give you all the money because you write good books.”

Fifth Grade:

Before I began, a boy raised his hand and asked:

“Can you read your books without looking at it since you wrote it?”

“How many books have you written?”
“What is the point of view of WW the Poet?”
“How old were you when you wrote your first book?”

( I published my lst book, Sand Grains, while teaching at this very school. I was very old.)

“Do you have other books about Wordsworth?”

“Where can I buy WW books?”
“Are you writing more books?”

How did you name the characters?
( They gave a loud groan and moan when I told them why WW’s best friend Emily will be gone
In the 3rd book. One child asked me not to get rid of her)

I have a title for another book. Call it “Wordsworth Makes a Difference.”

Why don’t you let Wordsworth marry Akiko, the new character?

Are you going to write until…you know, the end?

( Good question, yes,I hope I can still be holding a pen as I take my last breath)

One of the things I spoke about was the process of writing…how imagination gives us permission to be as honest as possible in our writing, how only the author knows his or her source of writing. They said yes, they censor a lot because they don’t want teachers and parents to think they actually experienced some of the things they write.

“Just having a dream and wishing for it to happen,” I told them, “doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. We need to work to make it happen.”

A Chicken Skin story:

A woman called to say her granddaughter heard me in school today. The 8 year old told her “An author spoke to us today” and handed her my business card. The woman (Leiko) called me and what a magical moment. Her family, a very generous Hawaiian family, and we were extended families in Kapoho. They were my source of learning about ancient Hawaiian culture. We spent all holidays together and slept at each other’s homes. Her brother Sonny and I were the best of friends. We made a pact that he would marry me if by age 25, no man married me.

I told Leiko, I had spoken to over 800 children today and only one child came to ask me for a business card. What are the chances that this 8 year old kid would be her grand daughter. Leiko thought my card was given to each child.

Another poignant interaction:

A fifth grader came to see me after the session. She asked, “You talked about how you kept your dream of becoming a writer since you were in the lst grade. How did you do that?”

She left with tears glistening in her eyes and said,” I understand. I’m going to keep my dream just like you.”

(I told her my dream became a tool for forgiveness when people treated me unfairly and were mean to me…and when there was nothing I could do. I merely told myself, “That’s okay. Someday I’m going to be an author and you’ll be buying my books. She thanked me saying she will work on becoming a singer/musician and will not let her dream go. That she understands about being treated with meanness but her dream will help her, etc.”)

Walking to the parking area at 2:30, kids began running to hug me from the back, from the side and front. They stood there just holding on without a word. I understood. This happens with poetry and writing, even with adults.

Wayne Harada Reviews Breaking the Silence

From Hawaii:
Wayne Harada, columnist for Star*Advertiser, posted this review of my newest book, “Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice. This is followed by reader Red Slider’s comment. Both men expressed my efforts beyond my own.

Book review: Tips on surviving caregiving
June 5th, 2011
By Wayne Harada
Columnist: Star/Advertiser

Caregiving for a beloved elder or an ailing kin or friend is no picnic.
It’s hard work — and a two-way street, for both the caregiver and the recipient of the
care and attention — and help is on the way.

“Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice” (Willow Valley Press), the latest book by Frances H. Kakugawa, is “the” book to ease you through the process. Kakugawa, an award-winning former Islander, speaks with the voice of experience, fueled by her passion of writing poetry and honed with the skills of a school teacher, her one-time profession. She also cared for her dying mom — the catalyst for her to help fellow caregivers in the tough process.
Now a resident of Sacramento, Calif., Kakugawa has been visiting Hawaii this month to present workshops and give talks, on her experiences in dealing with caregiving, notably with loved ones who also have Alzheimer’s Disease.

She’s also on the book promotion trail — and her volume is inspirational and instructional, insightful and inventive, and surely should be a talisman for anyone involving in or eventually will be a caregiver.
OK, you can’t wear a book like a good-luck charm, but if you have this within easy reach, you’ll get by the good days and the bad days of caregiving. There’s so much wisdom and wonder here.

In what is both a confessional (Kakugawa cared for her mom, till she passed on) and a manual (you can learn how to express your thoughts by putting pen to paper), she brings light where there was darkness, hope where there was chaos, and assessment where there was confusion — not only through her personal experiences, but with the kindness and support of caregiving individuals and caregiving groups.
As they shared, she learned; as they discovered courage, she found empathy — a bonding of two communities, one helping the other.
Her bottom line: You cannot do it alone, and a day of frustration and defeat will ultimately bring a glimmer of compassion and understanding in the journey of sharing and caring.

In plain talk, she tackles tough topics with candor and honesty; with her roots in education and her livelihood as a poet and wordsmith, the book absorbs and addresses the paths and journaling of others who shared the experience of dementia and determination — folks like Red Slider, Kakugawa’s companion in Sacramento, who was caring for his mom when she entered his life. He also has helped her nurture her writings and her life as an inspirational speaker.

Other brave and proud caregivers who share their stories, about dealing with their respective moms — Jason Y. Kimura, Eugenie Mitchell, Linda McCall Nagata and Elaine Okazaki — and they reveal there are textures and gradations on how to handle the chores, deal with the grief and move on … enlightened and enriched.

Their vignettes, and of course Kakugawa’s, will touch the gamut of emotions — laughter, tears, recollection, reward. All part of life, all real, all individual.
In a word, “Breaking the Silence” is golden. And a treasure, especially for those in the initial phases of facing caregiving.

1. red slider:
June 6th, 2011 at 1:25 am

Wayne, Thank you so much for your understanding of the importance and humanity of Frances’ work. You couldn’t have gotten any closer to its true meaning than when you wrote, “‘Breaking the Silence’ is golden.” ‘Silence’ is, indeed, the most formidable challenge any every family caregiver will ever face.

I’ll tell you a little story about Frances. My first contact with her came in the midst of my long ordeal caring for Isobel (my mother) and from a shear accident of my own curiosity. I am a poet and writer, by trade, and I’d written a couple of poems about my caregiving experience. So, it was natural for me to wonder if anyone else related caregiving and poetry as I did. On a lark, I googled the terms ‘caregiving’ and ‘poetry’. At that time, only a single entry came back; Frances’ Kakugawa’s “Mosaic Moon”. I bought a copy and read it at once. It so inspired me, and encouraged me to keep writing about my experience, that I sent a note of thank you via Frances’ publisher.

A few weeks later I got a wonderful email back from Frances and the two of us began corresponding. As time went on, caregiving became more and more difficult for me. Though I tried to conceal this fact in my correspondence, I think Frances sensed that I was approaching the point of having to throw in the towel, despite the fact that I’d promised Isobel I would care for her at home. Sleep deprived and in ill-health myself, the task was becoming impossible.

Almost at the end of my rope, Frances appeared at my door on some pretext about having a book-signing in California or something. She took one look at me, sent me to bed and took charge of Isobel’s care until I had fully recovered and was able to return to caring for Isobel.

Not only had Frances made it possible for me to fulfill my promise to Isobel, but the she and my mother formed a wonderful relationship and bond. From then until Isobel’s death a few years later, I believe Isobel’s last few years were fuller and more rewarding than I could have ever provided alone. The rest, as they say, is history.

I can say, the day Frances appeared at my door was the first time I believed that there might actually be life after caregiving.

What I learned, from Frances is that caregivers are not only confronted with the diminishing ability of their loved ones to speak and express themselves, but are thrown into a world of silence themselves as their old friends visit less and less often; their nights-out to enjoy the sounds of conversation and laughter of others become fewer and fewer, and their contact with the world is reduced to exchanges on the medical condition of their loved one and terms like ‘respite’ and ‘hospice’ and ‘septicemia’. After a few years, caregivers often find themselves confined to a world as silent as the growing silence of their loved one. This takes a toll on caregivers, greater even than the physical demands of the job, which are hard enough.

The tools which Frances, through her books and workshops, made available to me were much more than a few valuable how-to’s to help make me a more efficient and effective at being a caregiver. Writing and expression are at the heart of what caregiver’s need to do if they are to keep themselves healthy and in the world, even as their loved ones recede from it.

To reach for one’s feelings and thoughts and self-presence during the experience, I learned, is as important as reaching for medications and Depends and doing visits to doctors and applying wound-care bandages and making day-care appointments.

To keep expressing oneself is the ‘golden means’ that Frances has been providing for her readers and audiences and members of her support groups for many years. Caregivers who retreat into the silences that surround them are ever in danger (as I was) that they, as well as those they care for, will become casualties of this cruelest of all diseases – Alzheimer’s, the thief of life.

“Breaking the Silence” and her earlier work, “Mosaic Moon” not only have something of value to offer to everyone who reads them – about life and the dignity of life – but something very special for caregivers who not only read her work, but find themselves inspired to pick up pen and paper and give voice to their own experiences, whether through journals or stories or poems or simply jotted thoughts. For them, the answer to the question, “Is their life after caregiving?” will almost certainly be a resounding, “Yes!”

best to you, and many thanx for the review of this important work – red

Aloha, Hawaii

Hello, Sacramento!

I must be back from Hawaii after that 6-week book signing/lecture tour.
How do I know? Because once again I’m back in a place where we all look alike.

The baggage boy at Raley’s followed me out asking, “Are you in Congress?”

Me: Am I in Congress?

Lad: Yes, are you a Congresswoman?

Me: What if I said yes? ( I suspected he was mistaking me for Rep. Doris Matsui as did that elderly
woman at Crocker Museum who insisted I was wrong when I told her I was not Matsui.)

Lad: My friend got appointed to West Point by Doris Matsui and I thought you could do the same for me.

Me: What district are you from? Do you know who your congressional representatives are?

Lad: No, but I’m from the Sixth District.

Me: You can’t do this alone. Are you in high school?

Lad: I’m a Junior.

Me: You need to see your counselors and let them know of your interest. You can’t do this alone. You need to go through your school. Will you do that?

Lad: Yes, thank you.

Scene II: I walked into a doctor’s office in Sacramento and the specialist assigned to run me through some test began with:

You look familiar.
Are you????

I quickly told her I wasn’t Doris Matsui or any other Asian woman she knows. That this was my first visit to her office. She chuckled and suggested that I need to work my resemblance to Rep Matsui to it’s full potential…that I could have the best seats in town if I used a blazer jacket and pretended to be her.

Yeah, I must not be in Hawaii any more. Drivers no longer wave me “thanks” when I give them space to cut in, nor do they wave me “you’re welcome” when I wave my thanks to them. No one gave me their luggage cart at our airport as that local Hawaiian did when I arrived in Hawaii. “Save 4 bucks,” he said, “Here, use my cart.”

When I called for a cab at a Waikiki hotel, the Valet asked me, “To the airport? What? Don’t you have any friends or family to pick you up? You gotta take a cab?” I knew then, I was not a Hawaii local, having to take a cab to the airport.

I’m confused, folks. Who am I? Where should I be?
Doris Matsui…how about lunch one day so we can compare faces?

The Alphabet of Life

What’s Your Name?

Learn your ABC’s, kids. Never question why you need to learn the Alphabet Song to know A comes before B all the way to XY Z. Listen to your parents and teachers and just learn your ABC’s because someday, when you’re my age, you will want to kiss the feet of those who taught you the alphabet.

It probably won’t get you into the best colleges in the country or it won’t take you to the White house, but  there will come a day when you will go through the alphabet many times a day to uphold dignity, friendship and your memory

During my five weeks in Hawaii, I went through the alphabet each time someone whose name I couldn’t recall,  approached me at my book signings or lectures, and that was a zillion times.

What is her name? I know her face but her name…what is her name?  ABCDEFG….ah, Gina, she’s Gina from high school. “Hi, Gina, of course I remember you, you haven’t changed at all.”

Of course it takes longer when I need to go to W to get to William or Wendy and often, it’ll take two or three rounds of the alphabet. Don’t you hate people who say, “Hi, remember me?”

ABCDEF..F..F

I wish people would do a John Kennedy Jr,  each time they see me. John always took his hand out and said, “Hi, I’m John Kennedy,”  to everyone he met. His friends and acquaintances didn’t need to go through the alphabet, ( I’m sure they knew the alphabet backwards)  with someone so thoughtful and humble.

So kids, learn your ABC’s …and parents, name your daughters Ann and your sons Albert so recall will take a second…and people, I’m not that famous where I’m not supposed to know you even if you know my name.

Women’s Soccer World Championship

Dilemma time.

The U.S. Women’s Soccer team will be playing against Japan  tomorrow for the World Championship. What flag should I be waving?

I can almost hear President  Obama’s  voice:

“Come on, Frances. We were both born in Hawaii. You gotta go with me on this one and take the American flag out.”

But what about my grandparents who were all born in Hiroshima? What about my roots and I don’t mean my grey ones.  They’ve buried their flag so many times, isn’t it time for a world high flagpole with their sun rising to the top to renew their  hope?

Since this is the World Championship, shouldn’t  I rise above my own country and feel and think more globally? Japan needs this win more than we do after the tragedy that still continues after Fukushima, don’t you think?  Won’t I be that bigger-hearted American who puts world-wide  humanity before country?

Yes, what do you think?

Kindle vs. Real Books

Sorry, Mr. Kindle, You’re Not My Type

Who has a loving relationship with their Kindle out there?

I’m still trying to work out a positive relationship with Mr.  Kindle, but I see the handwriting on the wall; this isn’t going to work. I’m reading “Unfamiliar Fishes” and “Leaving Van Gogh” on Mr. Kindle. Sometimes I switch to Biography of Mark ( Twain ).

The other day at the gym, I asked a woman for the title of the book that she was reading on her Kindle, after she said how she loves her Kindle. She was sitting on the sidewalk, too involved in her book to go into the gym.

She didn’t know the title of the book, had to return to her main menu to find out what she was enjoying so much.

Ah ha, I thought…that’s exactly my point. I often return to Home to see what I’m reading…and there’s no way of knowing how many pages are left in the book; that little bar at the bottom of the screen with the percentages tells me little.

When I’m reading a good book, I ration my reading and save the last few pages for a particular time. I’m not going to finish the ending of a good book sitting in doctor’s waiting rooms, they deserve a better setting.  Not with Mr. Kindle. The ending comes abruptly without any warning.

I just like to hold a real book in my hand, look at the author bio and marvel at his or her craft and even hold silent monologues:  “Wow, you’re really good.” “Now, that’s a terrific sentence.”

There’s nothing so real as to turn a page with your fingers.

Not with Mr. Kindle. He’s cold and hard and not very friendly with my carpal tunnel hands and pressing an arrow to go to the next page just isn’t  the same.

I like to own the good books I’ve read;  what joy to see them on my shelf. Sometimes I just enjoy staring at them.

It’s like walking into a wine shop, looking at wine labels, thinking and drooling. Same with books, I love just staring at book titles, anticipating the next read, or rereading.

If I walked into your house and saw real books,  I would feel connected  for that reason alone. Think of the conversations we could have, discussing some of the books we’ve both read. Seeing your Kindle on the couch just won’t do it. Your etchings? Only if they’re a Van Gogh.

Oh Borders, why did you give up so soon?

Two Normal Worlds

What is Normal in Alzheimer’s Disease

What is normal?

Normal is like Beauty, all  in the eyes of the beholder.

When I was a caregiver for my mother who had  Alzheimer’s disease, I saw two normal worlds between us, hers and mine. Once I acknowledged that  her world was as normal to her as mine was to me, I stopped using reason and logic to bring her into my world. I  embraced the new person who was evolving right before my eyes and stopped denying the person that she was. I stopped thinking my world was the only normal one.

When my mother saw a “black thing” coming out of a painting on her bedroom wall, I quickly put it away saying, “I’ll take it away so you won’t see the black thing.”  I dignified her world by not denying what she saw. I had to believe, there is a window to her mind that opens now and then, allowing her to know the world in which she has been reduced to live in, has become strange and scary. To remind her of this can be cruel and dehumanizing.

My mother, like Elaine Okazaki’s mother hallucinated of seeing an infant in bed with her. Look at how Elaine entered her mother’s world from an excerpt described in her poem ” Humph, I Say”

…”she shouted about that girl and that man in bed with her.

“Where’s the man?” I stammer.

“Next to me, Can’t you see?”

“And where is the girl?”

“Can’t you see? Against the wall!”

“Well,” I say, “Let the man sleep against the wall.

And put the girl next to you.”

“Oh, okay,” she utters.

Back to bed……”

from Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice

,

Mary, caregiver for her aunt, discovered caregiving to be a whole different world once she accepted her aunt’s world.

“My aunt has an imaginary lover. We got into many confrontations when I told her, ‘What lover? I don’t see anyone here.’ She’d shout back, ‘Can’t you see? He’s right here?’ And we’d go back and forth like a pendulum, creating such frustration in both of us. Once I accepted her world and told her “Wow, Auntie, he’s pretty good looking, huh?” past animosities ended and we got along fine. Now when I visit her, I also  visit her lover for he’s always there.”

People afflicted with dementia often turn to babbling in later stages of the disease. Have we thought that maybe we are the ones with language deficiency?  Perhaps if we learn to see through their eyes and hear through their ears, we will learn more of their world instead of being stuck in our own. This may lead us to find a way to give care with less conflict. Once we believe both worlds are “normal”, once we open the doors to both our worlds, we eliminate the Tug of War that often erupts between two parties. By doing so ,we  dignify the new person who is evolving and by so doing, we dignify ourselves.

A loved one says, “John came to see me today.” In your world, John has been dead for over ten years. Enter her world and a comment similar to, “Did you have a good visit?” will bring peace and dignity to that moment. To argue and tell her, “John is dead, Mom. You must have had a dream,” drops a jagged rock in the middle of that stream that was flowing so smoothly until you arrived.

But what of our world? Are our loved ones incapable of entering our world? At certain stages of the disease, they will not be able to, not with logic and reason, but there is a place in our world that offers them  a front row seat: dining in restaurants or around family gatherings,  feeling the wind on their faces, hearing happy voices of family, feeling love and affection through human touch,  being connected through  conversations, even if they eventually are reduced to monologues. Our world offers the humanity of what it means to be human.

Enjoy both worlds for we are all as normal as we can be.

Hiroshima-Nagasaki: In Remembrance

Hiroshima Peace Memorial

A candle is lit

For my ancestors

Sixty-six years ago today.

Fountain of Peace, Nagasaki

A second candle

For Nagasaki

August 8, 1945

 

Red Shoes For a Lady

Get Her A Pair of Red Heels Even if She Can’t Walk

I was sitting in a waiting room for my appointment,  when an elderly woman two seats away looked at my red shoes and said, “Those are nice shoes. I always wanted a pair of red shoes. Once I saw this  tall and very attractive woman walk in her red shoes and gosh, she looked so beautiful.”

She was sitting in a wheelchair. I looked at her shoes; she had white socks and a pair of Coach shoes with shoe laces neatly tied in bows.

“I know what you mean. I saw a woman once who looked so good in red shoes that I went out and bought myself a pair. I now have a few red shoes in my closet. I think you ought to have a pair of red shoes. Why not? Where do you go shopping?”

“I used to go to Nordstrom’s but I can’t drive anymore so I order things from catalogs. I always wear Coach shoes.”

“Coach shoes are very comfortable but their colors are pretty conservative, don’t you think?”

“Yes, they don’t make those pretty red shoes. Maybe I can order a pair from some catalog.”

“There are some nice shoes at Arden Fair Mall. There’s the Designer Shoe Warehouse close by, too. With shoes, you may want to try them on because they differ in sizes, and you want them to be comfortable.”

“Well, it’s going to be hard for me to try shoes on because I can’t drive. But those red shoes are so pretty.”  She kept admiring my shoes.

Our conversation was interrupted by her husband who came to wheel her out the door. As they went out the door, I said, “Get those red shoes, now.”

Her husband looked at her, frowning and asked in a gruff voice, “What red shoes? “  She didn’t say anything.

I wanted to tell anyone who’d listen that when a  woman reaches her age, and yearns for a pair of red shoes,  she damn well deserves someone to drive her to a shoe store and have her try all the red shoes so she can find one to her liking. A pair of red heels would make her wheelchair invisible,  and put her on the dance floor, dancing away.

Men, know this about red shoes and women. There is something about red shoes  that spells  “forbidden fruit” and sometime in our lives, we want that  fruit, even at age 90.

This is how I got my first pair of red shoes. I saw, like that elderly woman, an attractive woman walking  in a pair of red shoes. She walked as though she was the most beautiful woman in the world and I said, “I want to feel that way, too.”

I went out and bought a pair of red high heels. I was teaching first graders then, and when I put them on one morning and looked at myself in the mirror, I was shocked at what I saw.

I looked like a prostitute. Now why do I look like a prostitute with these red shoes and that woman at the mall looked dignified and elegant?  It’s all in my head, I said. But it took me over a year  to wear those red heels in public…it took me that long to vacuum out my head.

So I understand why that woman has not had a pair of red shoes all these years and it’s time someone got her a pair.

Poets for Peace

Poets for Peace

Each time a poet

Puts pen to paper,

There is a sliver of hope

For Peace.

 

I was privileged to read some of my war and peace poems at the annual Poets for Peace event for Peace Action in downtown,  Sacramento last night. Here are excerpts from my readings, focusing on our children for they often seem to have a clearer understanding of our quest for the intangible, than adults.

 

FromCharles Pellegrino’s Last Train from Hiroshima with my own notations:

 

Masahiro Sasaki: brother of Sadako and the Thousand Cranes, and a survivor of Hiroshima, gave a lecture in Vienna.

 

A little boy about eleven, asked him: Mr. Sasaki, who dropped the atomic bomb?

 

Mr. Sasaki answered:

 

 It’sbeen more than 60 years since the bombs were dropped. God made everyone equal. So, I forgot who dropped the bomb.

The boy nodded understanding, and gave Mr. Sasaki a thumbs-up.

 

To the adults: It does not matter who dropped the bomb. It’s not an issue. It should never be an issue for any country. It’s an issue for all humanity. If the feeling of Omoiyari…think about the other person first…can be taken to heart and passed down by just a few of you in this room today, it may, in time lessen the dangers in the world. This is my wish: We pass this simple philosophy of Omoiyari to the next generation.

 

Mr. Sasaki looked at the boy who asked the question and said: Children, teach your parents.

 

The following is lifted from my collection of  short stories that will be published this Fall.

In this scene, Sonny and I, both 12, are on our backs, looking up at the sky.

 

 “Eh Sonny,” I said, lying on my back, looking up into the sky, “Did you see Charlie Chaplin last night?”

“No, I’m goin’ this Saturday to see The Lone Ranger.”

“Charlie Chaplin was funny. He was so hungry, he boiled his shoes to make soup. He ate his shoe lace like spaghetti.  They keep showing the same war  news.”

I watched the clouds, white chiffon gowns of the wind, swaying against the clear blue sky, wedding gowns, lacy veils and silk trains, flowing and moving like brides down the aisles.  An ache of unknown source filled me to the brim. Sonny saw faces of fat Churchill and the Lone Ranger.

“Eh Sonny, I bet if Truman and Stalin got on their backs like this and looked at the clouds and the skies, they would think of peace, not war.”

“Yeah, this is better than sitting around a  table, that’s for sure. Hard to make war when you look up to  the sky.”

“Yeah, a Peace Conference outside in the fields or out at the beach. All the leaders on their backs like this, looking up at the clouds and feeling the wind on their faces. For sure, they wouldn’t make war.”

“And they shouldn’t wear shoes.”

“Yeah, and they better not have toe jam.” We lay there, laughing, wriggling our toes in the air, far removed from the war news on screen.

It became obvious as the years went by, that no one heard Sonny’s and my idea of  the “Open Air Peace Conference.” War clouds with different names continued to float past us throughout the years. 

 

My life’s passages are identified by wars for we are still fighting the first war under different names and it’s time for a change.

 

 

When Will I Know Peace?

 

When will I know Peace?

“She is at Peace,” they told me

When my mother died.

Is that the only way I will know Peace?

When I die?  and you will say,

She is at Peace?

 

NO! I want Peace now.

I want to see it on children’s faces

All over the world.

I want to taste it, lick it, swallow it

Like chocolate ice-cream in August.

I want to hear it, I want to hear it.,.what is the sound of Peace?

I want to bathe in it, feel it wrap around me

Like skin. I don’t want  it after I’m stiff and dead.

I want Peace now.

           

 

A Caregiver’s Good-Bye

Genie Mitchell, caregiver, posted this after losing her mother to Alzheimer’s Disease.

My mother, my sweet mom, died today.

Ever since we moved in together eight years ago, I knew – and dreaded – that I would be the one to find her dead, and this morning it happened.  Yet I was still shocked; I had had no clue that this would be the day, or that she was so close to death, even thirteen years after her initial Alzheimer’s diagnosis.

She had a lovely day yesterday, went to a barbecue with her caregiver’s family, came home and got to bed late, with lots of snuggles and hugs and kisses as she fell to sleep.  Then, as she often did after an initial short sleep, she talked and babbled and laughed for more than an hour from the darkness of her bedroom, seemingly having a grand ol’ time with her own figments of thought.

But when I went to wake her this morning, she didn’t move or respond to my singing “Good Mornin’” (a la Debbie Reynolds in “Singin’ in the Rain), and I thought she had suffocated among her piles of down pillows.  I share the experience of what happened next just so that you may add it to your knowledge base in case a similar day comes for you:

I called 911 – my mother did NOT have a do-not-resuscitate order, as we still did not want to foreclose any option and wanted to play such decisions by ear.  The 911 operator had me pull Mom down to lie flat on her back on the floor, check her airway and then perform chest compression, as he coached me by phone until the fire department arrived.

I’m glad I did the chest compression as it gave me a few moments of hope that she was still alive, plus something “helpful” to do until they arrived (instead of just being uselessly frantic).  Alas, the firemen pronounced her dead within only a few minutes of their arrival.  They contacted the coroner and determined that Mom’s death was from natural causes, not from the suffocation that I had, with a horrible feeling of impending guilt, feared.

The fireman took some pains to explain to me and convince me that Mom would have shown other signs of suffocation if that’s what had happened, and that, contrary to what happens in movies, it’s actually rather hard to suffocate from pillows, as air can get through.

I am grateful for his attention to this point, as my  fear of the possibility of suffocation, and my distress in my role in

propping her up with all those pillows, continue to play in my head; I now have the fireman’s “tape” to play in counterpoint.

After I notified my brothers, I contacted a mortuary, which very kindly told me I could call back when I was ready for them to “take her into their care” (translation:  “come pick up her body.”}  And so, amazingly enough, as it was nothing I could ever have planned, I ended up keeping her here at home all day.  Her caregiver, a friend and I cleaned her up and put her back up on the bed, and it was actually a comfort to me to check her every so often and realize that she was still dead.

Oh, of course, I wanted her to open her eyes and to breathe!  But somehow, having her body here helped me adjust to the new reality.  And, isn’t that, after all, what we as caregivers do – adjust to each new reality that comes along?

I did have them come this evening, just after dark, with the caregiver and two friends in attendance. The mortuary people were very respectful of our need to spend many tearful last moments with her.  And it was perfect timing for a quiet send-off of its kind, without any kind of spectacle as would have been during the hubbub of the daytime.

So, tonight, here I am, alone in this house that we rented, my mother and I, expressly for the purpose of my caring for her as she lived through her Alzheimer’s decline.  So many times, I have wanted to be alone, to be able to come and go when I wanted, and every time I have known that to wish for that was to wish for my mother’s death.  And now it has happened.  I am about to have my life back … but I have lost my Mom in the process.

Nevertheless, the best gift I have given myself is the knowledge that I have done everything I could to make these last years of this devastating disease as pleasant and happy as they could have been for the sweet, loving, gentle soul who I am glad and proud to say was my mother.  Oh, how I miss her, but I will always have her with me.

I am doing what I can to grieve in the lovely way that both Mom and I deserve.

( Genie’s poetry can be found in  Breaking the Silence: A Caregiver’s Voice)

Wanted: Friends for Caregivers

A Plea from Caregivers:

Last week I discovered  how easy it is to be friend.

I visited Genie who lost her mother and we just sat in the living room. We spoke if we wanted to, but most of the time, we were quiet. We didn’t need  words  to fill the silence. We didn’t need any  kind of fluff  because our friendship took care of everything. I looked at her books on the shelves and we talked books now and then. But mostly, we just sat.

When I was a caregiver for my mother, the friends who visited us were caregivers. Why do we scare the others away?  

This week, members from my support group and I had lunch together and that feeling of camaraderie was so powerful around the table, had we not spoken a word, conversation would have been heard clearly,  just as the  compassion and love that were so strongly felt.

One caregiver brought flowers from her garden to two of the caregivers who had lost their mothers recently.  There were no fancy words and we didn’t need them. We just needed to be with people who honored the friendship among us all.

Had we not spoken a word

Around the table yesterday,

We would have felt and known

Love, understanding, empathy, appreciation. Friendship.

But being the powerful and fearless woman that we are,

We added words, laughter, tears, hugs, even a toast.

Around the table, holding us close,

The golden thread of our loved ones.

And friendship.

 We were all women  but male caregivers need their friends as much as we women do.

Caregiving gradually isolates us from the world and  it  gets reduced to the same TV shows like Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, the same movies or music of the 50′s or 60′s of our loved ones. I played Japanese songs from WW II for my mother.

A caregiver’s world eventually turns into one of isolation because of the demands put on caregivers. Phone calls become less and less. Our conversations are reduced to monologues. We no longer have the freedom to do what friends usually do. But it doesn’t mean we don’t need our friends.

True, the ones being cared are not the persons you once knew. They may not be able to hold conversations.  But they are very aware of your presence and the conversations in the room, give comfort.

We learn to embrace the new  person who is slowly evolving and we ask our friends to do the same. There’s nothing to be scared of, believe me. Caregiving is not about dying, it’s still about living with dignity.

Friendship, the true ones, are not difficult to nurture. True friendship is for those times when someone needs a little bit of company, a little bit of caring, a little bit of friendship.

Caregivers aren’t asking for much.

1. Don’t wait for a call that will most likely never come. But a call from you saying, “Are you free for company today? I’m coming over for a few minutes” is deeply appreciated.  I felt so much braver and less scared when there was someone with me when I was caring for my mother.

2. Cut flowers from your garden,  plopped in a vase, bring so much beauty  that is often overlooked in the day’s events. I often  just sat and stared at the flowers, saying aloud, “Oh, how pretty.”   And my spirits were lifted.

2. Food. Yes, take a snack or a salad or some of your left over dinner. We are too exhausted to cook real meals so your left overs would be a feast. And don’t forget chocolate  or even a Snicker bar. Our grocery lists are usually limited to those of our loved ones. Caregivers often put themselves off the list. Bring cold beer or something that falls in the “treat” dept.

3. And make us laugh and tell us about the world out there. Tell us a joke and if we don’t get it, we’ve been out of practice. Keep talking to us.

4. Sit with our loved ones and send us to the hairdresser or barber, grocery shopping, or a masseuse. It may be too long for a golf game but it’s still possible.

  If you feel insecure about sitting with a friend’s loved one, bring a friend along for support.

5. If your friend’s loved one  is in a nursing facility, and you know your friend goes daily during  meal times, volunteer to do the same.

6. Leave a note to the caregiver when you visit their loved ones in hospitals or nursing facilities.

    We appreciate , visitors to our loved ones. It means so much to know others care.

( I had a note book for visitors to “chat” about their visits with my mother.. I had a sign on the wall, inviting visitors to “sign in.”  It touched my heart each time she had a visitor.

On behalf of all caregivers, men and women,  and all the ones they are caring for, I encourage you to continue your friendship, especially during caregiving.

100 Thousand Poets for Change – An international poetry event in over 600 cities worldwide

Sacramento events
supported by the Sacramento Poetry Center

September 24, 2011
1:00 to 2:30pm
Old Rose Garden in Capitol Park, 15th and Capitol
Hosted by Bob Stanley and Lawrence Dinkins

1:00 Mario Ellis Hill
1:10 Bob Stanley
1:20 John Allen Cann
1:30 Allegra Silberstein
1:40 Open Mic
1:50 Alexa Mergen
2:00 Sean King
2:10 Open Mic
2:20 Lawrence Dinkins
3:30 to 6:00pm

Fremont Park, 16th and P Street
Hosted by Rebecca Moos and Bob Stanley

3:30 Intro and Open Mic
3:40 Mariam Ahmed
3:50 Trina Drotar
4:00 Susan Kelly-DeWitt
4:10 Emily Wright
4:20 Tim Kahl
4:30 Frances Kakugawa
4:40 Sandy Thomas
4:50 Rebecca Moos
5:00 Open Mic
5:10 Bill Gainer
5:20 Abe Sass
5:30 Capoiera Agua de Beber

for more information on events in other areas, visit 100 Thousand Poets for Change online.

Home Canning Poem

                                                A Michigan Winter

 

 

It was my first Michigan summer.

Kay and I, two mad women,

Turned the kitchen into a canning factory:

 

 

Pickled cucumbers, bread & butter, dill.

Christmas-colored watermelon rind pickles,

Peaches, pears,  corn relish, rhubarb, tomatoes.

 

 

Like two librarians, we filled the basement shelves

Until there was no space for  a salt shaker or

Hemingway’s Old Man and  the Sea.

 

 

 In the freezer, airtight:  strawberries, blueberries, 

Corn, squash, beans,  tomatoes.

Zucchini bread,  carrot  bread, zucchini bread.

 

 

We captured Abundance

To the sound of “Ping!” the High Five

Of  two mad canners.

 

 

Come Winter days, below zero,

I go down into the basement.

With Empty Shelf Syndrome.

 

 

Each time a space appears. Our summer’s work

Slowly disappears,  Old empty shelves

Except for a jar of  watermelon  pickles.

 

 

fhk/9-19/11

Poets for Change

My Professor and Me

An exchange of cards would have made it a Hallmark moment. Instead, we had poetry between us and it came to mean more than all the shelves of Hallmark cards.

I visited an old professor friend  who moved from Hawaii  to a care facility in Healdsburg, CA. I took a linguistic course from him at  U of Hawaii eons ago and we’ve managed to stay in touch all these years. He’ll be moving to the dementia unit next week. I was surprised to see the changes in him since I last saw him in Hawaii this past June. He remembers me only as a Poet.

I read a few poems that I had written and read at our recent 10,.000 Poets for Change event in Sacramento. Ted looked at me intensely, kept his eyes on my mouth as I recited each word.  I saw tears in his eyes.

“You are brilliant,” he said. “You must send these to the White House. You should be our Poet Laureate. How do you write these poems? They are wonderful.”

I wasn’t going to argue with an 88 year old professor. I had done enough of that in his class.

His niece told me later how he brushes off our past Poet Laureate Billy Collins poems by saying, “Frances writes better. She would be our Poet Laureate.”

Before I left, I kissed him and said, “When was the last time a beautiful woman kissed you?”

He  retorted, ” I’m still waiting. IF you see one,  send her to me.”  He held both my hands and said, “You are brilliant and I am so proud of you.”  I had to listen carefully because he was beginning to slur but I heard him all right.

I don’t think these poems will reach the White House, but here  are a few of them.

1.

When Will I Know Peace?

 

When will I know Peace?

“She is at Peace,” you told me

When my mother died.

Is that the only way I will know Peace?

When I die?  and you will say,

She is at Peace?

 

NO! I want Peace now.

I want to see it on children’s faces

All over the world.

I want to taste it, lick it, swallow it

Like chocolate ice-cream in August.

I want to hear it, I want to hear it.,.what is the sound of Peace?

I want to bathe in it, feel it wrap around me

Wet silk against skin.

I don’t want  it after I’m stiff and dead.

I want Peace now.

 

     *******************

          2                  

                   Voice from the Unborn

 

You promised me,  eons ago,

 A world, free of battlefields, soldiers, children

Abandoned  in fear and hunger.

You offered me Hope,  again and again.

A world, you said, where we will stand

Hand in hand, beyond  color, religion, gender, age,

 One race. One humanity.

 

You promised me a world

Free of poison in oceans, earth and air.

“You  are the future”, you told me,

Every election year.

“Come and be born in this world I will

Create  for  you.”

 

My brothers and sisters  who believed you

Are now old men and women, and  still they wait.

They wait.

 

Listen to my voice,  your unborn child.

Turn Hope into Reality,

Future into Today.

 

Stop using me, your  unborn child

For promises and meaningless  rhetoric.

The future is now.  I can’t wait  any longer.

The future is now.  I want to be  born.

Today.

 

 ********

3

Absence of Peace

 

Dept of Education

Dept of Veteran Affairs

Dept of Commerce

Dept of Energy.

Dept of Homeland Security.

Dept of Justice.

Dept of Transportation

Dept of Labor

Dept of Interior

Dept of Defense.

Dept of Defense.

( Peace! Peace!)

Dept of Defense.

***************

4.

Sonny and Me

This is lifted from one of my short stories that will be published this Fall.

In this scene, Sonny and I, both 12, are on our backs, looking up at the sky.

“Eh Sonny,” I said, lying on my back, looking up into the sky, “Did you see Charlie Chaplin last night?”

“No, I’m goin’ this Saturday to see The Lone Ranger.”

“Charlie Chaplin was funny. He was so hungry, he boiled his shoes to make soup. He ate his shoe lace like spaghetti.  They keep showing the same war  news.”

I watched the clouds, white chiffon gowns of the wind, swaying against the clear blue sky, wedding gowns, lacy veils and silk trains, flowing and moving like brides down the aisles.  An ache of unknown source filled me to the brim. Sonny saw faces of fat Churchill and the Lone Ranger.

“Eh Sonny, I bet if Truman and Stalin got on their backs like this and looked at the clouds and the skies, they would think of peace, not war.”

“Yeah, this is better than sitting around a  table, that’s for sure. Hard to make war when you look up to  the sky.”

“Yeah, a Peace Conference outside in the fields or out at the beach. All the leaders on their backs like this, looking up at the clouds and feeling the wind on their faces. For sure, they wouldn’t make war.”

“And they shouldn’t wear shoes.”

“Yeah, and they better not have toe jam.” We lay there, laughing, wriggling our toes in the air, far removed from the war news .

It became obvious as the years went by, that no one heard Sonny’s and my idea of  the “Open Air Peace Conference.” War clouds with different names continued to float past us throughout the years.

from: Kapoho: Memoirs from Modern Pompeii

Occupy Sacramento

Sunday was spent at Occupy Sacramento. I don’t think I did anything world-shaking except to lend my voice and presence to a group of people who were there on our behalf. I felt good, knowing I, too, was showing I care about this country. I felt good, being among such empowered people.

People were of all ages. What impressed me most was the range of age from young children to the elderly who even came in wheelchairs, walkers and canes. I met a couple who looked like people who  had come from church; they were from Citrus Heights. I met another couple from Davis. So if anyone wanted to judge us by how we looked, dressed or sounded, they would have been off the mark. We were all there to be heard as citizens of our country who wished for equality and justice, as perceived by our Forefathers.

A friend told me yesterday how they dressed in pearls and suits in the 70′s so the public would not brush them off as hippies. That era is gone.   Our voices are being heard without being judge by our packaging.

It was most gratifying to see the elderly. What could their presence  mean, but to want  our young people to inherit a better world. They feel a moral obligation and duty to leave a world where our young people will no longer  need to Occupy any city except to celebrate. We have seen it damaged almost beyond hope.  The elderly so want to leave a world that can stand up to our Constitution and they can’t do it alone.  How do I know this? Because I am one of them.

I also applaud the younger generation at Occupying Sacramento and all the cities in our world. To those who judge,  ”the young don’t care.” go down to your Occupy city. It doesn’t have to be at Wall St. and your heart will deeply be touched or even broken to see how the young together with the elderly, joined forces to bring about change.

When I saw people drive by to drop off food and cash, I felt weepy. There are many ways to show support and there are hundreds who are doing just this. There are more than one way to stop the evil and bring on the good. Sometimes we need to begin at the humanity level before we are heard at those places where we chose people to represent us.