Still Peace in My Heart

Internet Comes to Youth Health Centre, Mont Fleuri, Mahi, Seychelles, Fall '97

Once again it's Peace Corps Week!

The Peace Corps Mission is to promote world peace and friendship by fulfilling three goals:

• To help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women
• To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served
• To help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans

 On March 1 1961 John Fitzgerald Kennedy signed Executive Order 10924, establishing the Peace Corps. The first group of  51 Volunteers arrived in Accra, Ghana, to serve as teachers. Since then nearly 225,000 Americans have served overseas. And as the independent federal agency now boasts on its website, www.peacecorps.gov, although times have changed since the Peace Corps' founding in 1961, the agency's mission—to promote world peace and friendship—has not.

When I first joined in 1987 some of my family members were mystified. They thought I was being offered an administrative job with the agency itself, and couldn't understand how I'd contribute as a hand-on Volunteer. The early '60s picture of Volunteers digging pit latrines and supervising school construction still predominated the public view. But Peace Corps had expanded beyond basic physical infrastructure programs, or teaching English as a second language. Now Volunteers were involved in youth development, small business enterprises, information and communication technology and public health projects.

Apparently even now not everybody understands this. Some still think Peace Corps is a parachute-in and parachute-back-out program...show up for a few weeks and then be on your way. This kind of misunderstanding is perpetrated even by such novelists as John Grisham, in Skipping Christmas. Here's a review I posted on Amazon on November 29, 2001, not long after that book's debut:

Peace Corps closed its program in Peru in l975, an essential fact that Grisham never bothered to research. Additionally, Peace Corps Volunteers attend stagings in the U.S. and leave as a group for their assigned countries, where they begin a two-to-three month training period, living with host families before beginning their assignments. They aren't escorted to the airport by parents on Thanksgiving weekends nor are they ensconced in grass huts with coworkers immediately upon arrival. These may seem quibbles, but any journalist will attest to the importance of getting the facts straight to lend authenticity to a piece of work. Though I'm enjoying the Kranks as I Metro from Silver Spring to Peace Corps headquarters here in D.C., I have a tough time suspending disbelief.

Similarly, Rita Goldman Gellman, in her memoir, The Female Nomad, alludes to "an American couple just finished with their Peace Corp (sic) duty in Peru." This was in the mid-'80s, again over a decade after Peace Corps had left that country, and years before it reentered.

As an editor myself, I wonder how such inaccuracies can slip by unnoticed. Again, perhaps these are minor errors, but ones I suspect irritate many a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer. Some more egregious myths contribute to more persistent misunderstandings about the Peace Corps:

• that it's a branch of the State Department (it's a freestanding agency), 

• that it's a kind of a covert program of the CIA (nobody who has worked for that program is eligible for Peace Corps service),

• that there's an upper age limit (there's none, and many Volunteers serve as seniors),

• that it's a suitable place to send delinquent adolescents to shape them up (no kidding...I heard this from my hairdresser last year), 

• that it's a place for recent college grads to waste time until the job market picks up again, 

• that Volunteers need to pay their own airfare and living expenses in their assigned countries. (Airfare, medical costs, and a living stipend are all provided.).

Here's the current fact sheet on the ever-evolving Peace Corps:
http://files.peacecorps.gov/multimedia/pdf/about/pc_facts.pdf


 My personal story about why I joined and what I did can be found here: http://www.atouchoftarragon.blogspot.com/2013/11/to-give-peace-chance.html



Life is calling...how far will you go?

A Role Model for Life

A Facebook friend posted today that she and her sister were named Amy and Beth, after characters in her mother's favorite book. The book, of course, was Little Women. No wonder her mother loved it...her name was Jo! But what surprised me was that Amy had never read it herself, but plans to. I can't imagine surviving childhood without reading this classic. Jo inspired me in so many ways.

Here's a story I wrote several months ago about how Jo shaped my life.

A Role Model for Life

By Terri Elders

“The creative mind plays with the objects it loves.” –Carl Jung

As a child I’d often curl up on the sofa and watch Grandma create pretty dresses for me on her treadle sewing machine. All through elementary school I’d dream of the day when I’d be creating my own wardrobe. I’d clip drawings of countless gowns from her dog-eared Sears and Roebuck catalog, and then flip through its pages in search of matching accessories. I’d imagine designing an outfit for my high school prom. Maybe even my own wedding gown.

Then, when I got to junior high, I nearly flunked my seventh grade sewing class. I couldn’t sew a straight seam, no matter how hard I tried. Stunned, I realized I’d never be clever with a needle like Grandma. I lacked whatever skill that pursuit seemed to require.

Some dreams, though, die hard. My dreams had always involved succeeding at something that I loved doing. I’d love sewing, just like Grandma. But struggling with unraveling crooked seams began to feel like work, not play. When the school year concluded, I decided I’d spend my summer seeking another endeavor…and another mentor.

Soon, after reading a book about Anna Pavlova, I began to dream anew. I longed for a tutu and ballet slippers. After I stumbled through half a dozen lessons, I realized I couldn’t hold an arabesque without toppling over. Next I raced through a book about women athletes, and stared, fascinated, at a photo of Gertrude Ederle, the first woman to swim the English Channel. It took nearly the entire summer for me to accept that if I couldn’t manage ten laps across the Harvard playground pool without becoming winded, I’d never churn my way across the English Channel. It didn’t matter how cute I thought I’d look in swim goggles. It wasn’t going to happen.

So…if I couldn’t be like Anna Pavlova or Gertrude Ederle, not to mention my own grandmother, who could I emulate? Where could I find someone to model my life on? Then, one afternoon as I reread my favorite book, Little Women, it became clear. I caught my breath when read Jo March’s ringing affirmation in Chapter 14. She’d just sent off some stories to a potential publisher.

 "There,” she proclaimed, “I've done my best! If this won't suit, I shall have to wait till I can do better."

I smiled. Maybe a role model didn’t have to be an actual living person. Maybe a fictional character would do. I certainly could identify with Jo’s initial hesitation and subsequent bravery. I, too, had attempted to write stories, but aside from a letter on the children’s page of the Portland Oregonian, I’d never been published.

But it might not be too late, I decided. When school began again in September, I asked my counselor if I could take journalism as an elective. I’d always enjoyed writing essays in my English classes. Maybe I could become a reporter for the school paper, The Naturalist.

This time I met with success. I appeared to have the aptitude to pair with the attitude. I particularly relished taking my turn at writing the continuing column, “Silhouettes.” These were profiles of teachers and student leaders. I’d try to flesh my stories out, to make my subjects appear to dazzle, like the characters Jo and her sisters admired in Charles Dickens’ The Pickwick Papers. If my teacher or fellow students criticized my stories, Jo’s words would echo in my mind…”If this won’t suit, I shall have to wait till I can do better.”

I never had to wait long. If I reread my own work a few days later with a critical eye, I’d almost always be able to do better. That’s when I realized that the secret to good writing, as Jo knew, lay in rewriting.

In high school and college I continued to write, never failing to delight in playing with words…like Jo. When I transferred from a community college to a state university, somebody scribbled in the upper right hand corner of my transcript in a space for comments, “Said to be creative.”

Over the years I’ve wondered who it was that wrote that cryptic comment. It’s always been a mystery. Nobody ever used those words to my face, not a teacher or a counselor. I wonder if that anonymous annotator realized that all I’d ever wanted to do was to succeed at something I loved, while I played. Like Jo, I’m convinced that writing involves play, playing with ideas, playing with words, playing until I can play better, arranging...and then rearranging.

Unlike Jo, I’ve never written a play or even a novel. I’ve stuck to shorter pieces, essays, commentary, reviews, and true stories for anthologies. Writing remained my lifetime avocation, my source of joy, with a blank page always my playground.

When friends inquire about “writer’s block,” I claim I’ve never really encountered it. Jo’s spirit always remains with me…she never thought of writing as work, as something to suffer through, as something to be endured. Oh, no! For her it was always play.

Jo never doubted her ability. She never hesitated to retreat to her attic, assemble her words, and enjoy herself. She remains my inspiration. Her playful spirit never deserts me.

So early on I’d been forced to set aside the dreams of sewing my own prom dress, dancing in the chorus of Swan Lake, and coating myself with oil to cross the English Channel. Nonetheless, I’d never allowed defeat to discourage me from trying something else. Through trial and error, I’d finally found where my talents lay…in persistently playing with words.

Oh, sure, there’s been times when I’m trying to write a story and the patterns fail to form, or the message remains elusive, or I begin to feel too frazzled to dazzle. When it doesn’t feel like play, I put the piece away. I owe myself a break. I take that tip from Jo. I wait until I can do better. It’s the best advice I ever came across.

It’s never a very long wait. And when inspiration strikes again, I remind myself that I owe it all to Jo.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

Natty and Tsunami, April 2013

This has been a sad week for me, since Tsunami crossed the Rainbow Bridge last Wednesday. Natty gallantly holds forth as an only dog now, but the three cats continually remind me that we're not alone...hopping on the computer desk at the most inopportune times.

Whenever loved ones die, which doesn't seem infrequent these days, I find myself distracted by memories...and I find myself dreaming of them when they were much younger and our friendship had just begun. So it is with Tsunami, when Ken used to call her The Great Who-Nami. I memorialized those moments a couple of years ago...and here's her story on Pawprints on My Heart, including my favorite photo of her as a puppy.    http://blog.handprintsonmyheart.com/the-great-who-nami/

There's another story on my mind, as well. And that one involves my son, Steve, who celebrates his birthday tomorrow. I've been remembering what this day was like for me 56 years ago...culminating in a midnight trek to St. Mary's Hospital in Long Beach, CA. Steve and his wife, Mari Lou, were here for Tsunami's 5th birthday party in 2007. I haven't seen my son on his own birthday in decades, though, since we've lived so far apart, often thousands of miles while I worked overseas for a decade. But I'd written at the beginning of this year that I'm California-bound...if I can sell this house and get moved before the next winter. I plan to celebrate a few holidays with my son once again.

Stephen Paul Elders, age 8 months

Life goes on. For Steve, and for Tsunami, here's the Beatles:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRtAO-nffz0

It Was 50 Years Ago Today!

Where were you? What were you doing? What did you think?

So often such roundups focus on historical events that bring back painful memories. Those of us old enough remember where we were other dates in the '60s on when JFK, Bobby and Martin Luther King were assassinated. I even remember a date from the '40s, when Pearl Harbor was bombed. Most who read this will recall the Challenger disaster, Princess Diana's death and 9/11.

But remembering what happened 50 years ago today brings me joy. Yes...I watched the Ed Sullivan show with son Steve, who, though only six, instantly became a fan. His joy in the Fab Four has lasted a lifetime...and we've shared many memories of those early days of the British Invasion. And thanks to Steve, I am lucky to own the boxed VHS set, "The Four Complete Historic Ed Sullivan shows featuring The Beatles." Yep, that's what it says on the box, bold face included. The set includes not only the February 9 breakthrough, but additionally February 16, February 23 and the following year's September 12 show.

I'm tickled by the legend that follows The Beatles: "And other artists including the original cast from 'Oliver!', Cab Calloway, Cilla Black, Frank Gorshin, Soupy Sales, Gordon & Sheila MacRae and many others..."

Do you remember them? 

• I saw a revival of Oliver! in London a couple of years ago, but can't recall who was in the original London cast. I'm as big a fan of Charles Dickens as I am of the Beatles, so I've seen this show several times. Who remembers any of the stars of the Broadway original cast, though? Davy Jones is the one people remember, mostly because he later fronted The Monkees, the group loosely based on the Beatles. Those lucky enough to see the first Sullivan Beatles show in person grew impatient with the opening acts. Jones, however, was tolerated because he spoke with an English accent. http://www.cnn.com/2014/02/07/showbiz/beatles-ed-sullivan-four-lives/

• My dad admired Cab Calloway, a jazz singer from New York's Cotton Club days, whom I suspect might be the inspiration for the black bandleader on this season's Downton Abbey.

• Just last year English singer Cilla Black celebrated her 50th year in the entertainment industry, which Britain's ITV commemorated with a show, The One and Only Cilla Black. Did you know she was born Priscilla White? She was featured in an article in the first edition of the local music newspaper Mersey Beat; the paper's publisher, Bill Harry, mistakenly referred to her as Cilla Black, rather than White, and she decided she liked the name, and took it as a stage name.

• Actor and impressionist Frank Gorshin was a frequent flyer on both the Sullivan and Steve Allen shows, and gained greater fame as The Riddler in the live-action TV series, Batman, starring Adam West.

• Comedian Soupy Sales had a children's television show, Lunch with Soupy Sales, that I enticed Steve, around 4-years-old, to watch. Steve hated it. Sales featured comedy sketches frequently ending with somebody heaving a pie in his face, a trademark that my son abhorred. It scared Steve, for some unknown reason.

• Gordon MacRae had been one of my favorite movie musical stars of my teen years...especially in Oklahoma! and Carousel. He'd also appeared in a 1958 series I liked, The Polly Bergen Show. Sheila was a British actress who played Alice Kramden on the Gleason show, before Audrey Meadows took over that role. The two may be remembered as the parents of actress Meredith MacRae, who played Sally Ann on My Three Sons (1963–1965) and as Billie Jo on Petticoat Junction (1966–1970).

Fifty years from today, it's my bet that the only names from the historic Sullivan series that will be remembered will be John, Paul, George and Ringo. What do you think?

Star Struck

Actor Ronald Colman, but if you squint it could be Paul French

Last night, as I watched the Screen Actors Guild awards, I scanned the audience, hoping to spy a bona fide leading man...somebody suave and tall with a mustache. Yes, there were some handsome actors in the audience, but I couldn't pick out anybody who resembled the classic male stars of the '40s. I'm star struck, but particular. I've not given up...there's still the Academy Awards!

George Clooney, but if you squint, it could be Paul French

I wrote this story a few years ago about my fascination with a certain Hollywood type.

Paul, Paul, Suave and Tall

By Terri Elders

“The person who makes a success of living is the one who sees his goal steadily and aims for it unswervingly.” –Cecil B. DeMille

Today I opened the entertainment section of my Sunday paper and glimpsed a photo of actor George Clooney in an ad for a new movie. I had to catch my breath. With the mustache he’d grown for his role in The Men Who Stare at Goats, he looked drop-dead gorgeous, and…just like Daddy.

Back in 1950 both Daddy and most of Hollywood’s leading men indeed were tall, dark, and handsome, and all sported mustaches. So when Daddy announced one night, over Mama’s pineapple upside-down cake, that he was looking around for a second job, we had definite ideas of what that should be. Living in Los Angeles, the females in our family were hopelessly star struck.

I still remember eying Daddy across the kitchen table. “I think you could get a job as a stand-in for Ronald Colman,” I ventured. Though Colman played a college professor on the radio show, The Halls of Ivy, I had no problem whatsoever picturing my father, a high school grad, stepping into that role. Daddy possessed enough roughhewn elegance to make the character believable.

My big sister sized Daddy up. “No, he’s more like William Powell,” she said. Patti loved the Thin Man movies. She kept well-thumbed copies of Photoplay and Silver Screen on her bedside table. A Jeannie Crain look-alike, she dreamed about breaking into movies herself one day.

Mama spoke up. “Paul’s the spitting image of Clark Gable…no ifs, ands, or buts!” After she’d seen Gable cast as a race car driver in To Please a Lady, Mama had decided she looked quite a bit like Gable’s co-star, Barbara Stanwyck.

Daddy shook his head. “I don’t even know what a stand-in does.” He glanced around at our three faces lit up with excitement. “Don’t they have to leap from trains and halt runaway horses?”

“No. Those are stunt doubles,” Patti explained. “A stand-in just has to have the same skin and hair color and be about the same height and weight as the star. Daddy, with your dark hair and mustache, the studios would be grateful to get you.”

“It’s not hard work,” I jumped in. “I’ve heard that stand-ins just kind of hang around while the crews set up lights and camera. It gives the stars a chance to rest.”

“We’ll see,” Daddy said, “but for now I’m just interested in doubles on this cake.”

Mama picked up her serving spoon, and cast him a sultry Stanwyck smile. “I bet you’d be able to halt runaway horses, Paul,” she said. He laughed.

After dinner Daddy dragged out the Yellow Pages from the phone stand. “I’m going to be calling to make some appointments for interviews,” he told us, “so don’t go tying up the phone line for the next few nights.”

When we tried to draw near to see what phone numbers he was jotting down, he waved us away. “Go do the dishes,” he ordered, in the authoritative tone that always set us scurrying.

“Do you think he’ll really call for an audition with a studio?” I asked Patti, as we finished tidying the kitchen.

She hesitated, and then finally shook her head. “Don’t get your hopes up. Daddy would never settle for being a stand-in. You know he’d want to be the director.”

Patti was right. If Daddy ever did set foot on an actual movie set, it wouldn’t be minutes before he’d be ordering costume changes and adjustments to the lighting. Daddy, the younger brother of three sisters, was used to running the show. Those aunts, plus grandma, were always calling up to ask his advice. Even at home, Mama would have to exercise her womanly wiles to get to choose where to place her own hooked rag rugs.Patti and I exchanged rueful smiles and hung up our dishtowels.

So the two of us idea set aside the notion of Daddy entering show business. Mama, though, didn’t give up so easily. “Paul, have you contacted any of the movie studios yet?” she asked one evening, handing him a dish of his favorite strawberry shortcake.

Daddy frowned. “Studios?”

“Don’t you remember that we all talked about your wanting a second job? And that the girls and I thought you’d be great as a stand-in or double?”

“I thought you were joking,” Daddy said, putting down his fork. “But now that you bring it up, I did find a second job, and I’m starting Friday evening.”

We waited while Daddy passed his plate for a second helping of dessert.

“I’m going to be selling shoes at Sears. The store’s a five minute drive from here, and I’ll be able to get an employee’s discount on the girls’ back-to-school shoes.”

We congratulated Daddy on landing his job, but expressed our sorrow that we wouldn’t be hearing first hand tales about life in Tinsel Town.

“Girls, I’ve never been one to hold with razzle dazzle,” Daddy pointed out. It was true. A diesel mechanic by profession, he appreciated a well-oiled and smooth-running machine. He used to remind us that the best way to get through life was to remember to pick a car for its engine, not for its paint job.

A few weeks later when the family visited Sears to be fitted for new shoes, Daddy pointed out how he’d reorganized the department. Everything seemed more orderly and accessible, with Daddy in charge. And he already led the staff on Saturday sales. Mama joked that rumors had floated around the neighborhood that some movie star now sold shoes at Sears, so ladies were flocking in to try on the latest stilettos and Cuban heels.

So, sadly, Daddy never became a stand-in for Colman, Gable or Powell, though I’m convinced to this day that with his stunning good looks he would have been perfect.
 

Nonetheless, I’ve heeded his advice about life. Thanks to him, to this day I’ve never picked a car, a job or a mate just for the razzle dazzle.

But star struck still, I admit I admire those actors who can wear a mustache well. So I’ve cut out the photo of Clooney. I plan to mail it to my sister. I’ll enclose a note to ask her if she’s reminded of anyone at all, perhaps someone from our youth who was suave and tall.

Below, L to R: Patti, Luella, Terri and the real Paul French, c. 1940

A Rich Year in Reads

I've been making a list...and checking it thrice to make certain I've not left off any of my favorite books of 2013. I have made a point not to include any of the ones that include my own stories, though ALL of those from Not Your Mother's Book, Tending Your Inner Garden, Chicken Soup for the Soul and assorted indy publishers have been close to my heart as well.

The Colville Branch AAUW (American Association of University Women) stages a popular annual event, BookShare. We bring our lists and our books and devote an evening to discussing what we would recommend to our fellow members.

This morning I made my list for the upcoming event. I belong to two local area book groups, but only included one of last year's selections from the two dozen I read for that group...and it was, I confess, my own choice, an Edith Wharton classic.

So  here's the list I'll present to the group later this week:

• Jacqueline Winspear, the entire Maisie Dobbs mystery series (England, the first third of the 20^th century) 10 books so far.)

• Margaret Drabble, The Pattern in the Carpet: A Personal History with Jigsaw. (Memoir about an 20^th century English childhood and a fascination with puzzles.)

• Donna Trott, The Goldfinch (Everything about this novel is golden, beginning with the glimmer on the wing of the brave bird it celebrates.)

• Kate Atkinson, Life After Life (Covers the same period of the Dobbs mysteries, first half of 20^th century in England…Groundhog Day without the farce. And darkness fell.)

• Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth (Women’s options in America’s Gilded Age.)

•  Henry James, What Maisie Knew (A child’s view of marital strife at the turn of the 20^th century, and the master could have written this last week.)

•  Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (An enchanting adult fairy tale set in the English countryside.)

•  John Schlimm, Stand Up! 75 Young Activists Who Rock the World and How You Can, Too!

I'll be recommending the last book as this year's choice for AAUW Colville Branch Scholar Recognition Night, when the organization honors local high school junior girls who have been nominated by their high schools for outstanding achievement in math, science and technology.

Would love to know what you'd include! 
 

May I Have a Word?

Recently a writer friend posted on Facebook that rather than make a resolution each year, she chooses one word that she keeps focused on each day as she turns the pages of her desk calendar. My calendar this year, a gift from another writer friend, is a Downton Abbey one...and I can't think of one special word that will relate to the Crawley family and British country manor house trivia I'll be treated to throughout 2014. I look forward to Season 4 of this quirky soap opera for adults...and welcome time traveling to1922 in Edwardian England.

I also look forward to is the possibility I'll be able to celebrate the beginning of 2015 in my home state of California. I grew up in Los Angeles, and eventually settled in Long Beach, where I lived for 32 years. I left  in 1987 when I joined the Peace Corps. Since that time I've lived in Belize City, Belize; Antigua, Guatemala; San Juan de la Maguana, Dominican Republic; Victoria, Seychelles; North Little Rock, Arkansas; Silver Spring, Maryland; and now, of course, in Arden, outside of Colville, Washington. But my heart is still in Southern California, especially when these long northeastern Washington winters roll around.

For the past seven and a half years I've been serving on the Washington State Medical Quality Assurance Commission, appointed by Governor Christine Gregoire. My second term as a public member with this Commission ends this coming June. Consequently, there's no reason for me to remain here. I'm putting my house up for sale in the spring.

So this year, I believe my best choice for a word is "California." To me it's home. Always has been, always will be. I hope each day to move forward with plans to move...clean out a drawer, a cupboard, a shelf. Sort through old business papers and shred. Decide what to do with my late husband's dozens of paintings. Choose what books to keep and which to donate. The tasks to prepare to move, after nearly 10 years here, sometimes seem overwhelming. But I've decided that if I keep the goal in mind, I can fly through the to-do list. I'll adopt the attitude of my favorite Downton Abbey character, Anna Bates, and keep plugging steadily ahead.

California, here I come.

Sweet Home California

Home Sweet Home...