San Francisco Municipal Railway Bus Transfer, 1968-1969

San Francisco Municipal Railway Bus Transfer, 1968-1969
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I can't believe that I saved this old bus transfer from San Francisco and still have it, but here it is, photo of front and back.

Outtake Moved to Madness Memoir

A Cautionary Tale: At 18, Did I REALLY Say That?

For the past month or so, I have been going through Memoir Madness with a fine-tooth comb, tightening up the text (I have a tendency to overwrite) and fixing minor flaws.

Essay revised and moved to WhyIWrite.com

Outtake: Jane and the York YWCA

*


Thursday, May 8, 1969

(York, Pennsylvania)

After spending a chilly night in Jeff’s old Valiant, I check into the YWCA.

My roommate is kind of cool, though she guzzles a lot of beer. She looks a bit like Mom--hell, she reminds me of Mom, right down to the red hair...

Excerpt moved to Memoir Madness

Outtake: More Snippets

*

(East Berlin, Pennsylvania)

January 28, 2005

Visiting Jeanette my ex mother-in-law, I give a Jeff a first-draft copy, on CD. I have read horror stories about writers publishing memoirs and not even revealing to the major players that such a book was in the works and then are shocked when the repercussions roll over them like swift flows of boiling lava.

I don’t conduct my life that way; I try to do unto others as I would wish for me. Besides, there’s too much at stake here: our friendly relationship, our current spouses, our son, and our granddaughter. It’s only fair that Jeff knows how his life might be changed by what I have revealed about him and our past together. I am, perhaps, harder on myself than I am on him, but I chose to reveal my past.

He has not.

I usually don’t allow people to read my first drafts, but, in this case, I need to know now if (1) I have to make major changes, or (2) If I have to abandon the project entirely. I hope I don’t have to do the latter. A lot of sweat and a few tears have gone into this memoir.

I’m nervous--how will he read this book? Will he cringe in utter horror? Will he yell and scream? Will he threaten to sue me?

These are worst case scenarios; I suspect his reactions about having a part of his past laid bare will fall somewhere in the middle of total horror and utter ecstasy.

(York, Pennsylvania)

January 31, 2005

Jeff calls; we talk for three hours. Over the weekend, he read the book and has reacted as I had hoped: as a trip back to another time, a nostalgic glimpse into a past long gone.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he says. But he is quick to point out that he might not be a good judge of the book’s readability--he is, after all, a major supporting character, so, of course, he would find the events compelling and interesting.

Later, I will need a more dispassionate reader to offer content and stylistic feedback.

Jeff does feel some unease about what I have revealed about both of us, mainly our drug use; he’s slightly uncomfortable at having that chapter opened at this late date.

“But it’s a necessary part of the book,” he says. “It has to be in there. So I have been overruled.”

One writer respecting the needs of another, even at some personal cost. I owe him. Maybe this is my reward for not writing this book twenty years ago when our son was only 14.

For me, the unease has always been about the opening of my past sexual experiences, but, again, it’s a necessary part of the book.

I, too, have been overruled.

(Skopje, Macedonia)

February 4-July 7, 2005

To leave Cherokee behind, once and for all, I had to journey, via Skopje, Macedonia, through those eight months between October 1968 through May 1969–revisit 18-year-old Jennifer, and attempt to make sense of my grandparents’ and the state of Iowa’s actions.

Memoir titles that were ultimately rejected:

• Via Cherokee Way: memoir of a detoured life



• The Road to Cherokee



• Byway to Cherokee: a Detoured Life



• By the Way, Cherokee: memoir of a detoured life

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"More Snippets" is copyright 2008, Jennifer Semple Siegel.

This text may not be republished or reposted without permission.

_______________________________________________________

Outtakes: Snippets Here and There

Skopje, Macedonia: Rainbow Over Mt. Vodno

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September 22, 2004-January 19, 2005

(Skopje, Macedonia)

I’m in a foreign land, looking back at what has become a foreign landscape.

How do I explain my writing time here in Skopje?

In a sense, I have embarked on two journeys: the actual journey across the ocean, and my return journey into the past. Ironically, the journey to Skopje is also a journey into the past because Jerry and I were here 16 years ago when Macedonia was still a republic of Yugoslavia.

Yes, we have reconnected with many of the same people, but it's as if they have all moved to somewhere else and we have come to visit them.

Skopje, with all its new buildings and changed landscape, feels like a new place with a renewed energy.

For me, the idea of a journey is both metaphorical and actual, and sometimes both.

*****

Letters versus e-mails, instant messaging, and cell phones.

I don’t think e-mails, cells, and instant messaging would have yielded the same kind of Cherokee story.

In 1969, there was something intense about waiting in a mental institution for an answer to a question via the postal service; from postmark date, letters took 2-3 days to complete their journey. Daily, anticipation electrified the air as Jeff (in Pennsylvania) and I (in Iowa) waited for the postman to arrive, disappointment palpable if nothing arrived that day. Often, we, at any given time, were at different emotional stages as our letters cris-crossed across the country.

Electronic devices would have given us instant access to each others’ feelings, and, perhaps, our responses would have been more impulsive and heated. The act of physically writing a letter with pen and paper seems to have had a more equalizing effect on the psyche than an instant message or phone call, an opportunity to “consider” or even “reconsider” a reaction, which is not to say that we weren’t impulsive--a few letters got sent that should have been iced, but, for the most part, we “censored” ourselves. I suspect that many romances conducted through the web fizzle rather quickly.

Letters, even as they age and turn yellow, are tangible relics from the past. More people, I suspect, saved old love letters than will have save old love e-mails, but time will prove or disprove that theory. Even if old lovers do save their e-mails, the words will look the same on the electronic page 10, 20, 30, 100 years from now.

Also, handwritten letters are especially revealing about their authors, disclosing mood, personality, intelligence, and education--in e-mails, one does not get the characteristics and idiosyncrasies of handwriting.

But the truth is, had the electronic age been upon us 35 years ago, Jeff and I would have used any device that would have put us in quick contact, just like young people do now.

In Jeff’s home, the family would have had a computer, hooked up to the internet, and the mental institution would have had some stations available for patient use.

No doubt, I would have had a cell phone--I’m not sure about Jeff.

*****

I have no pics of that era. [Most of the illustrations on this blog are symbolic representations of that other time.] I e-mailed Nancy Seaman of Hollywood Hangover about posting The Mission section, and when she asked if I had any pictures, I realized I had none. I also have no pics of my time in the institution.

Cameras, I suspect, were not allowed there. It never occurred to me to “sneak” pictures--

I wonder why?

*****

Jeff, 1970
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Even though our marriage did not work out, this is what I have learned from Jeff:

• To look at the world from different angles--there is no one right way to see and do things.




• In the darkest of day, humor always uplifts the spirit.




• To read, read, read. One does not have to be a college graduate to be well-read and educated; in fact, some college graduates are quite ignorant because they don’t look beyond the mundane and the ordinary and they don’t read great literature.




• To embrace abstract thought--I’ll never be a great philosopher, but I can appreciate their ideas and open my mind to ideas not my own.




• Closely related to the above: not to take life so literally--to think in terms of similes and metaphors.




• That living life should not be a linear journey--that backtracks, tangents, switchbacks, and side landings are not only okay but vital.




• That having a “big career” does not necessarily make one happy; it is better to take life slow and enjoy the small pleasures: a gorgeous day, a flower at peak, ordinary rocks, lackadaisical moments (preferably with coffee or a beer, depending on mood and moment).




• To play--of all the adults I know, Jeff plays the most like a child. He likes doing kid things. When I was a young wife, it kind of embarrassed me, but now I think it’s great to witness such exuberance.




• To look at life through a prism instead of just a window. Through a window, you will see what is; through a prism you see what could be, many times over, the permutation of possibility.




• That art isn’t necessarily about execution, but, rather, about the concept behind the work. Great artists employ both technique and concept--which is why they are great--but if I had to choose, I would choose a well thought-out concept over lifeless perfection (For example, Adolf Hitler’s perfect, yet soulless, city-scape watercolors).

One of Jeff’s early paintings comes to mind. It was rather crudely done, almost in a primitive style, but the idea behind it imparted a somewhat gloomy, existential outlook on the human condition, the repetitiveness of human tasks, many of which are quite pointless.

The perspective:

An observer (unseen) is (presumably) sitting high up in a tree, looking down, between two or three leaves, in various fall colors, at a middle-aged man, balding, working hard at raking leaves into a huge pile.

No title or caption needed.

*****

Rhia Alden Brown (above), our new granddaughter, born December 3, 2004, at 1:22 p.m EST (7:22 p.m. Skopje time). She came into this world while I was writing a draft of this memoir.

It felt strange writing this book as I awaited, from afar in a foreign land, the birth of a grandchild that Jeff and I share; on the one hand, our romance probably should have never evolved into a full-blown relationship and our eventual marriage, and, yet, as I look at the pictures of the lovely Rhia Alden Brown, our path back then was exactly right.

A coincidence:

Jeff and I had planned on naming Eric “Eric Alden Brown,” but, at the last minute, decided on “Nicholas” instead--we thought the name sounded “too old” for a baby. We were so young that we couldn’t quite grasp that our baby would grow up and into the name. Eric and Priscilla chose the name because she’s a direct descendant of John Alden (of Mayflower fame), and, in her family, at least one child of each generation assumes “Alden,” usually as a middle name.

*****

A note on the first page of the first draft of my memoir:

"Current events, September 1968 to May 1969."

I had decided that this would be part memoir, part history.

To that end, I spent three months surfing the internet, searching for interesting historical events to weave throughout the book .

What I found: too much of a good thing--it was the 1960's, after all--swelling the first draft of the book to almost 800 pages.

Lovely material that ended up on the cutting room floor.

Perhaps I'll post some of those historical snippets on this blog.

No promises, though.

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"Snippets Here and There" is copyright 2008, by Jennifer Semple Siegel.

Text may not be reposted or republished without permission.

___________________________________________________________

Outtake: And be One Reluctant Traveler...

*

(September 3, 2004 - September 21, 2004)

(York, Pennsylvania)


The Road Not Taken

--------------------Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
--------------------And sorry I could not travel both
--------------------And be one traveler, long I stood
--------------------And looked down one as far as I could
--------------------To where it bent in the undergrowth;

--------------------Then took the other, as just as fair,
--------------------And having perhaps the better claim,
--------------------Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
--------------------Though as for that the passing there
--------------------Had worn them really about the same,

--------------------And both that morning equally lay
--------------------In leaves no step had trodden black.
--------------------Oh, I kept the first for another day!
--------------------Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
--------------------I doubted if I should ever come back.

--------------------I shall be telling this with a sigh
--------------------Somewhere ages and ages hence:
--------------------Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
--------------------I took the one less traveled by,
--------------------And that has made all the difference.

–Robert Frost

Source: Bartleby

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I moved to York on May 6, 1969. Except for a few years abroad and one year in Gainesville, Florida, I have lived in York ever since, longer than anywhere else, including Sioux City.

In 1969, I had but one road in mind: to Jeff. If not for Jeff, I might have stayed in Sioux City or tried California again, but York simply would not have been a place on my map.

But here I am, the course of my life determined by a single-minded decision by a young woman determined to escape her grandparents, to live with a young man she barely knew.

Do I ever wonder how my life might have turned had I not borrowed Eleanor’s transistor radio and sat down next to Jeff Brown on the wall outside of Wallich’s Music City in Hollywood?

Every day.

But without regrets.

Times have not always been easy, but I would have had hard times, no matter where I eventually settled.

Actually, I feel fortunate; via circuitous and often dead-end roads, I found Jerry Siegel, my life companion.

Certainly, throughout the York years, I have experienced minor detours–-though not enough to base entire books–detours of my own making.

The road to Cherokee was different, somehow; I was lost, alienated–-I had not chosen that detour for myself. Traveling to York was totally my decision.

In York, positive events came to pass: I bore my son, married Jeff, discovered higher education–-met and married Jerry, far outweighing the negative aspects: divorce from Jeff, some wrong educational and career choices, years of poverty.

Eleanor and her transistor radio has made my life with Jerry possible.

Now, at 53, I stand at the beginning of a new road, although it, too, will lead back to York: to Skopje, Macedonia.

This will be a reluctant journey, one that I would not take on my own; still, I choose to go because it’s important to Jerry. Since 1969, I have come to understand that life often involves a series of compromises–-sometimes, we have to accompany others on their journeys.

We rush around, getting ready. So much to do, to remember, to pack.

I have photocopied 90-plus letters, my hospital and court records, a booklet about Cherokee, and a newspaper, items I will need for my memoir.

I will write a book about Cherokee.

Two weeks before our departure, we encounter a minor detour: Auto Europe informs us that our car lease deal has fallen apart, something to do with the European Union not allowing its cars in Eastern Europe. This snag involves changing, at significant expense, our itinerary, our final Continental Airlines destination Skopje instead of Rome. This also means that we won’t have a car, which bothers Jerry more than me.

Driving in Eastern Europe holds no great charms for me.

By September 21, we have worked out the itinerary problem; Mark, Jerry’s brother, and Missy take us to Baltimore-Washington International, where we catch the first leg to Skopje, via Zurich.

Tucked safely in my carry-on are my photocopies and a Dell laptop--in my head, a lot questions.

___________________________________________

Copyright 2008, Jennifer Semple Siegel

"And be One Reluctant Traveler..." may not be re-posted or republished without permission.
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Read more: Index/Table of Contents

Outtake: "Preparations" (Essay)

*

by Jennifer Semple Siegel

(August 18, 2004-September 2, 2004)

(Sioux City, Iowa)

Summer 2004 has been extremely busy; getting ready for a year in Eastern Europe has been daunting and confusing. Many changes have taken place in Macedonia since Jerry’s last Fulbright there 16 years ago, including its independence from Yugoslavia, but we don’t know exactly what that means, so we’re not quite sure how to prepare or what to bring with us. Our good friend Liljiana Ordev and past Fulbrighters have assured us that most goods are available and that internet connection, while expensive, is up and running, but we keep thinking back all those years when the communists were still in power and about the stark socialist gray of the urban landscape–-when many goods were scarce and inflation 100% a month. So, in our minds, we carry this history.

In late May, after a difficult school year, we went to Daytona Beach for two weeks to read AP essays; in June and July, nearly every day spent doing a task connected with this trip; in mid-July, the Fulbright orientation; in late July, Jerry’s surgery and two weeks for recovery. I have spent January through July getting my short story collection ready for publication, finally released in late July.

“I don’t know if we’ll have time for Sioux City this year,” Jerry said, just before the orientation.

“We’ll have to find time,” I said, slightly pissed off; after all, we have devoted most of the summer to this Fulbright, his Fulbright. I just wanted these two weeks for me.

“Okay, I’ll try to schedule some time in August,” he says, a note of exasperation in his voice.

“I could always go alone.”

“I’ll make the time.”

Don’t do me any favors.

I feel slightly resentful toward Jerry anyway; I need to promote my book, but I can’t really do so until we return from Macedonia, and, by that time, it may be too late. Europe isn’t exactly a hot marketing spot for a collection of short stories about a fat woman.

Also, I will miss the late November birth of Rhia Alden Brown, my granddaughter–that, more than anything else, makes this year away feel all wrong.

But I knew that this Fulbright was a possibility before embarking on publication and certainly before Priscilla, my daughter-in-law, became pregnant.

Jerry does make the time for Iowa–-his concession for dragging me off to Macedonia.

As much as I wanted to escape Iowa in 1969, I need her now, especially since I soon will be living halfway around the world.

On many levels, this trip to Iowa has been important. Aside from the obvious visiting of family, going to casinos and races, antiquing and shopping, and just plain lounging around, this year’s visit feels slightly different. First, I wanted to show off Are You EVER Going to be Thin? (and other stories) to family-–perhaps set up some readings at local bookstores.

The family is only slightly impressed and the bookstores not at all.

Such is the self-publishing life.

I also needed to get my court records; I don’t even know if this memoir is possible at all, but I know it won’t be if I don’t have those records–-I need to know who committed me to Cherokee. For the past 35 years, this has been an unsettling mystery. Mo and Dee Dee would never talk about that time, except, perhaps, in fits of anger, when Mo would flat out say that I needed to be committed and suggested that, perhaps, I had signed myself in.

No way.

Fortunately, the letters, which I have photocopied and brought with me, offer a specific date-–February 19, 1969–-that I was committed, the same day the court papers would have been filed. We arrive in Iowa on the 18th; on the 20th, Jerry and I go to the courthouse, but the records office is closed because of a state budget holiday. We go again on Monday, August 23; now I have to wait a day while they retrieve my records from a vault. I also have to show my passport, proving my identity–-these are not criminal records, and, therefore, are not covered under the sunshine laws. The clerks simply want to make sure that Jennifer L. Semple’s privacy is protected and that I’m really Ms. Semple, who does have the right to see her commitment records. They photocopy my passport front page.

The next day, they call, and I return to the courthouse, have the pages photocopied, and pay a small fee.

What I find in those records regarding my commitment is a complete surprise.

We’re staying with Lyle and Colleen Baker–legally, she’s my sister, but, in actuality, she’s my aunt, my natural mother’s sister–-and they were close.

I have broached the subject of this book with Colleen; I get the sense that she’s uneasy about the possibility. In 1969, we had a falling out because Colleen took Mo and Dee Dee’s side, and I’m not anxious to have a falling out in 2004. But she and other family members need to understand that I must write this book and that I will be harsh in my treatment of Mo and Dee Dee, especially Mo. I will not be kind to my mother, either.

Colleen doesn’t remember much about the events leading up to my commitment. She was overwhelmed with raising her five kids, the oldest five years younger than me; while I was in the hospital, we had no contact, and I don’t remember seeing her during my trial visits home. Lyle didn’t even know about my commitment until I told him, on August 20, why I needed to visit the courthouse.

“This family keeps a lot of secrets,” he said, shaking his head.

“I pretty much kept this one to myself,” I said. “But I thought you knew.”

Lyle shook his head. “No one tells me anything.”

All these years, I have kept my commitment a secret–-I had very good reason to do so. No matter the reason for being committed to a mental institution, it was a black mark, both professionally and socially. In the late sixties and early seventies, every employment application asked, “Have you ever been committed to a mental institution? Explain.”

To answer “yes” would have ended any possibilities for employment–-no one wanted to hire a potential wacko. And to explain would have meant that they could have access to my hospital records, and I had no idea what those records would reveal. At that time, I had no idea that I, too, had the right to a copy of “Mental Health Records: Patient #29109.”

So I always answered, “No,” and kept my fingers crossed, hoping that no one would find out.

Now I tell complete strangers my story–-the short version, of course. If they want the long version, they can read my book.

As we leave for York, Pennsylvania, I feel a pang for Sioux City, a place I will soon eviscerate cruelly with my computer keyboard.

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Copyright 2008, Jennifer Semple Siegel. "Preparations" may not be republished or reposted without permission of author.

Outtake: "Cherokee, Iowa--Three Challenges in Search of a Triumph" (Essay)

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by Jennifer Semple Siegel

February 1969: Woodbury County, Iowa, committed me, an 18-year-old hippie chick, to the Cherokee Mental Health Institute. At a competency hearing in Sioux City, I admitted to using LSD–evidently enough testimony to force an involuntary commitment.

I had not been convicted of a crime.

Post moved to Memoir Madness.