Crone, Mother, Maiden


Empowering Passage

We are expecting another grandchild at the beginning of 2018. Thomas Allan Gordon will enter the world into his loving family: Rebecca and Joe and six-year-old sister, Lilah Jean.

Following Lilah’s birth, and for the next six years, Rebecca suffered from Lyme Disease, an insidious auto-immune disease. Insidious because not only is it very difficult to diagnose, but even more problematic is the fact that once diagnosed there are few medical professionals who are Lyme literate and can actually help the Lyme patient recover. But Rebecca is smart and tenacious, and she and the medical team she assembled found their way through the disease with remarkable determination.

One of the deeply held goals Rebecca had throughout her illness was becoming healthy so she and Joe could grow their family. She worked with her medical team to make that happen.

Needless to say, I am ecstatic for all of them. For Rebecca and Joe, a dream come true. For Lilah, a sibling for a lifetime. They have chosen Joe’s father’s name for the baby’s given name and my grandfather’s name, Allan Gordon, for his middle names. This baby is most assuredly part of something much bigger than himself.

I was in awe of Rebecca’s fortitude, dedication, and strength throughout her labor with Lilah. I never experienced labor—my two babies, Rebecca and her older sister Katie, were born through Caesarean Section. Katie had entered the birth canal fanny first, and the delivering doctor said an emergency caesarean was necessary, immediately. I asked to do some movements I knew about to turn her, but the doctor insisted she was already in the birth canal and that wouldn’t work. I went along with the doctor, assuming his ideas for my delivery were for the best. Having delivered my first baby through C-Section, my obstetrician insisted I deliver Rebecca the same way or go elsewhere. I wanted healthy babies. Who was I to disagree?

I was blessed to have been present during Lilah’s birth. Joe and I rounded out the team of midwives who attended to Rebecca during her labor and delivery. Lilah crowned fully inside the amniotic sac. A rare event (1 in 80,000 births), the midwives were excited to witness what is known as being born in the caul. Joe and I were excited just on general principles!

What I now know is that Rebecca and her older sister in their labors and deliveries tapped into an ancient system of knowledge, a transcendent power and wisdom that comes to women who experience labor and birth. They experienced the true capacity of the female body.

I have the privilege of getting to witness this miracle again. I remember my tasks from Lilah’s delivery and know I can do it again. After all, the midwives do all the tricky stuff. I don’t need to know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies!

And then Lilah announced she wanted to see her baby brother being born. So now I will be with my daughter and her husband and my granddaughter to witness and experience this empowering passage with the birth of Thomas. Crone and mother and maiden tapping into powerful, ancient knowledge.

Charleston, The Holy City


In this city—the Holy city—love and forgiveness are the order of the day. Remarkably they have been the order of the day from the instant of the horrific events, through the week that followed, and they continue to this day. Ordinary people did and said extraordinary things to lead the rest of us past the temptation of hate, past the lure of revenge, past the pull of anger. They led us to grace and love. 

As I walk around my adopted hometown, my eyes meet the eyes of those I pass. It has always been that way. Dubbed the friendliest city, I supposed for a long time that I was merely witnessing the politeness and civility of the South. But I’ve come to see that my neighbors offer so much more than that. We in Charleston are united in grace and love. More now than ever before.

Upon first visiting Charleston a few years ago, the architecture, the history, the culture, the geography, even the climate, pulled my husband and I to put down roots and call Charleston home. And then we started meeting the fine people of Charleston, people who are filled with humor, intelligence, compassion, love, and grace.

Our president in his phenomenal eulogy said that grace is not earned, not merited. He also cautioned that we as individuals determine what we do with that grace. Charleston has shown the world what to do.

Sidestepping the Facts for an Image-Based Past


God loves an interesting plot.   —Sandra Cisneros, Caramelo

I was dismayed to read about the dispute between John D’Agata, self-described nonfiction fabulist, and a fact checker by the name of Jim Fingal. Mr. D’Agata wrote an essay about the suicide of a teenager in Las Vegas published in The Believer magazine in 2010 titled “What Happens There” in which he took liberties with facts for the sake of his art, liberties to which the magazine’s fact checker Mr. Fingal took exception. Editors at the original commissioning magazine would not publish the essay when it was originally submitted in 2003 after fact checkers there alerted them to the article’s “factual inacccuracies.”

A collaborative book “The Lifespan of a Fact” followed and chronicles the pair’s prolonged argument. Mr. D’Agata, faculty member in the nonfiction writing program at the University of Iowa, claimed his facts were “image-based rather than informational.” Mr. Fingal’s rather unpleasant response: “What exactly gives you the authority to introduce half-baked legend as fact and sidestep questions of facticity?”

Personally, I agree with Mr. D’Agata. I’ve been working on becoming a woman with an image-based past. Not that I don’t have one, but I’ve got it on good authority that God loves an interesting plot, and I’d sure hate to disappoint when I arrive at the pearly gates. Besides, I figure my chances of becoming a woman with a future improve in direct proportion to every liberty I take in revising my past. What’s more, these delicious creative image-based accounts sustain me in the present.

I suppose I’ve become something of a fabulist myself in my efforts to become a woman with a past. To Mr. Fingal and fact checkers everywhere who yearn for accuracy over artistry, I say, let the plot thicken.

In my current project, establishing a provocative, mysterious past, a past so tantalizing that heads turn and whispers follow wherever you go, is not as straightforward as merely “sidestepping questions of facticity.”

What gives me the authority to introduce legend as fact as I go about becoming a woman with a past? Simply put, Mr. Fingal et al, reality is overrated, and things just aren’t what they seem to be, nor what they used to be. The secret is not in the details you give. Instead, it is all in the innuendo you produce, the suggestion you make, by not telling it at all. I’m certain Mr. D’Agata would agree.

It is in the extended pause before you finally say in a voice that rises from a hollow place deep within you, “I used to know a man from there. But that was before he…before we…”

Coffee houses, especially those in cooler climates, are the perfect stage from which to live out an image-based past. Sit outside, wrapped in a wool coat, mid-calf length, with a muffler ready at a moment’s notice to defend against life’s next cold wind. You needn’t worry about what you wear beneath the coat; a woman with a past never reveals her soft underbelly.

Drink plain coffee or espresso. Decaf is okay only if caffeine causes excessive nervousness. A woman with a past is not quick to nerves: she’s seen it all before.

Cigarettes, although inarguably bad for your health, can serve as a helpful prop. A half empty pack on the table in front of you is a fair substitute if you can’t bring yourself to actually smoke. A word of advice, do not smoke unless you’re willing to inhale. No one will believe you had a past if you don’t take the smoke all the way in, down to a place deep in your lungs where it would kill you if only you could smoke enough to do the job.

Eyeglasses are impossible for two reasons: one, women with a past have no need to see what is happening in the present. They are, if well-revised, prisoners of their pasts. And two, women with a past obviously weren’t able to see what was coming when they could focus which is, after all, why they qualify as women with a past in the first place. Sunglasses, on the other hand, are always an asset especially when worn on dark, dreary days.

Make-up, yes. And lots of it. Your total make-up look must suggest, “It can be great fun to have an affair with a bitch.” Jewelry. Wear lots, wear none. It’s up to you. It depends entirely on how your unique past is going. But never wear a time piece. Time is always relative to a woman with a past. Carry a man’s pocket watch if you must. It’s best if the crystal is slightly scratched and there is some kind of illegible engraving on the back.

To smile or not to smile. This is a question for the ages. Some options to consider: there is the smile of the damned. A good option, as long as you keep it lopsided and instill a trace of the Buddha’s last teachings: All things are impermanent and everything decays. Another high-dividend smile is the “Breathing in, I calm my body; breathing out, I smile” smile. Always a good choice. Be certain, however, that this smile has not more than the merest upturn at the corners of the mouth. Another worthy option is the unsuppressed chuckle—brief, rare, and poignant.

Lockets suspended on long chains serve a similar purpose. The locket should contain a picture of a man or child; sepia-toned photos have an added benefit of built-in nostalgia. Fingering the locket while staring off into space as you sip a demitasse of espresso, a languid exhalation of smoke encircling your head, will capture the attention of just about anyone, and certainly anyone who is similarly gifted or inclined toward the creative. With some practice, you might choose to blend in a woeful whispered comment such as, The heart has its reasons which reason knows not of.

I have sidestepped, well, really vaulted over, any question of facticity. Like Mr. Agata, I’ve “taken liberties . . . here and there, but none of them are harmful, ” and I am now well on my way to becoming a woman with a past, and I hope you’ll agree establishing an interesting plot.

The Lead in Your Pencil

Nowhere in the natural world is the concept of yin and yang more manifest than in the pencil. One end sharp, long and lean, and capable of writing 45,000 words. The other, compact, pink and pearl, and capable of correcting one’s mistakes.
But the pencil has something for everyone, not just the spiritual among us. For example, you may have wondered just how long a pencil can write before the lead (which is not actually lead but rather graphite, from the Greek word grapheim meaning to write) is down to the nub, or technically down to the ferrule, that metal contraption that fastens the eraser on the end. You see? Right there, something for the mathematician, the engineer, and the etymologist.
Back to our question: solving for P where P is the distance the pencil can write. We know from John D. Barrows of 100 Essential Things You Didn’t Know You Didn’t Know that the computation involves nanometers, the width of carbon atoms, and the radius of the pencil lead. Again, not really lead. The answer might surprise you, especially if you’re not a mathematician. P = 150 π / 4 x 10-7 mm = 1,178 kilometers. That’s about 732 miles. Mr. Barrows hasn’t tested his formula — to this day it remains an essential thing he doesn’t know.
I cannot abide a dull pencil, and I’m not alone in my intolerance. I’ve heard author Roald Dahl lined up six sharpened pencils before he began writing each day. Not to compare, but John Steinbeck used as many as 60 pencils a day. I can imagine all 60 pencils lined up, and when one became too dull to carve out a character or a scene, he would toss it aside for the next. The other possibility is that each day he wrote 60 times 150 π / 4 x 10-7 mm. But I seriously doubt that.
Canadian novelist Margaret Atwood’s first rule of writing: “Take a pencil to write with on aeroplanes. Pens leak.” The fact that she is Canadian explains why she misspells “airplanes,” but it doesn’t explain why she doesn’t bring her laptop. Personally I take more than one pencil on the plane. I’ve raced to the lavatory one too many times with ink exploding out of a pen onto my hands, my clothes, and the people sitting in the aisle seats.
That lead thing, seems we can’t let go of some antiquated ideas. History tells us the pencil was first used by farmers in northern England in the 1500s. Apparently a storm toppled over a tree, and the farmers thought the black substance that was exposed underneath the roots was a form of lead calledplumbago. But it was actually a form of pure carbon, and combined with clay, it makes a dandy pencil. Again for the etymologist, here’s a nod to plumbers everywhere.
The English farmers used the stuff to mark their sheep, but it turns out — and this is for historians — the Aztecs used pencils as markers long before the Brits. The Aztecs didn’t have domesticated sheep until Hernando Cortes arrived in 1519, so they must have been marking other things, like the number of days until the arrival of the god Quetzacoatl. Unfortunately for the Aztecs, they mistook Señor Cortes for Quetzacoatl and welcomed him without guile. Turns out, Señor Cortes brought plenty of guile to the New World.
Which brings me to another question. Most European pencils are manufactured without erasers. Does this mean Europeans are less likely to make mistakes? Or less likely to admit to them? I’ll leave this question to Eurocentric historians.
So we have the sheep-marking Brits — make that the Aztecs — to thank for inventing the pencil. Saying it was the Brits is a little like giving credit to Columbus for discovering the New World. But it is the military we must thank for the modern pencil, specifically a scientist in Napoleon Bonaparte’s army. During Bonaparte’s large-scale blockade of Britain, pencils became scarce and threatened his campaign to conquer Europe. Enter Nicholas-Jacques Conte and his invention of graphite. Closer to home, pencils were popular with Union and Confederate soldiers alike — easier than carrying quills and ink bottles apparently. So a big thanks to the military-industrial complex.
It was Dwight Eisenhower who coined the phrase “military-industrial complex,” but I have no idea who said the following: “Erasure is about the correction of one’s mistakes — a lofty goal in life. Yet . . . the effort does not always succeed.” Who knows, Eisenhower could have said that, too, but this brings me to another question. Just how did erasers end up on the tops of pencils?
Turns out the first erasers to erase graphite markings from paper was bread. Yes, long before rubber erasers were invented, a loaf of bread was an essential office supply. A chap by the name of Hymen Lipman probably preferred his bread toasted and smothered with a layer of freshly churned butter. I’m just guessing about that, but Mr. Lipman definitely was the first to attach a rubber eraser to the top of a pencil. He was even awarded a patent for his invention in 1858.
Enter a German pencil manufacturer who used the ferrule to attach the eraser and challenged Mr. Lipman’s patent. Their claim was Mr. Lipman invented neither the pencil nor the eraser, he merely combined them. While the Supreme Court agreed with the Germans and revoked his patent, I choose to think Mr. Lipman was still quite proud of his accomplishment. After all, he must have been an optimist — he added a ¼ inch eraser to the top of a nearly eight inch pencil.
This brings me to the Dixon Ticonderoga pencil. While Mr. Lipman was unable to hold on to his patent, Dixon Ticonderoga Company was able to trademark the green ferrule that holds its celebrated pink pearl eraser.
The Dixon Ticonderoga pencil, by the way, was the favorite of Roald Dahl. He used a lot of them. Not, however, as many as Steinbeck. I can’t say for sure whether Ms. Atwood took Dixon Ticonderoga–brand pencils on her aeroplanes, but it’s entirely possible. And for me personally, there simply is no substitute for the long, lean lines of the Dixon Ticonderoga, America’s best-selling pencil. I might be making that last part up.
And this brings me to Lee Corso, the ESPN college football broadcaster and the director of business development for Dixon Ticonderoga. I’m not sure how these ventures are interrelated, but I’ll bet it’s a yin-yang thing. If you’ve ever watched ESPN, you’ve seen Mr. Corso emphasize his commentary with a flourish of the iconic yellow pencil with the green and yellow ferrule. I think that’s how Mr. Corso got the job at Dixon Ticonderoga.
I was a fan of Mr. Corso’s until I heard that the company no longer manufacturers its pencils in the United States. I would like to ask Mr. Corso what kind of business development this is. After all, the Dixon Ticonderoga Company and its quintessentially American pencils were named for Fort Ticonderoga, the site of one of the colonists’ first major victories in the American Revolution. It seems rather un-American to manufacture these all-American pencils elsewhere. But I’m not here to tell Mr. Corso how to run a business. I might be wrong. But there it is: something for the student of business development.
Little did those Aztecs know that their invention of the ubiquitous and ever-optimistic pencil would be such a marvelous thing . . . a little something for everyone.
A final note: Forbes ranks the pencil as the fourth most important tool of all time. I’m pretty sure it’s ahead of duct tape, and I know it’s mightier than the sword, which pencils in at number eight.
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