I'm getting together a group of pictures for the wall behind my desk at the office. It's been a deeply moving, startling, illuminating, reassuring experience.

Not too long ago, I came across a picture of my great aunt, a Christian missionary in Africa in the early twentieth century. She and her husband, the Reverend Smith, stand tall in the jungle among the bare-chested natives; he in a wool, three piece suit with the stiff Victorian collar of the day and she in a long white lace trimmed dress with a lace trimmed picture hat, reminiscent of suffragettes of the time. As I looked at her and the steely resolve of ambition clearly in her eyes, I thought of the picture of her youngest sister singing at the Met in New York, fifty years later. I couldn't help but think of who lay between. And beyond.

Certainly, their sister /my grandmother and their mother/my great great grandmother, came to mind. I recalled that great picture of Grandma Belle hanging diapers on the line in front of a magnificent pepper tree, grown only in Southern California. She was smiling delightedly. I thought of that picture of mother's grandmother and her sister looking exactly alike in their middle age. They were short, petite women yet had the huge hands of bale buckers and were not slim-hipped by any definition. They stood side by side, holding immaculately swaddled twin grand daughters. Grandma and her sister wore mutton-sleeved blouses, white, long, crisp, lace-trimmed aprons and high button shoes, and stood on a muddy dirt road in front of a house with a picket fence and a palm tree. They were laughing and happy, these two sisters.

My Aunt Winifred flashed into my head; she was that grandma's granddaughter and a Red Cross nurse in the 1930s. She smiles proudly in her graduation picture, jaunty in her cap and pin. It was with her that the women in this family began to become educated. These days Aunt Winifred's granddaughter has a PhD from a highly prestigious medical school and works with the criminally insane. She does emotional, important work with people that no one even wants to think about. Another niece of mine is the director of one of the largest heart and lung transplant programs in this country. Her job each and every day is death and life, life and death. Somebody dies. Somebody lives. Every day. All the women of this part of my family, then and now, are faithful, devoted and determined.

I thought about Nana who washed my father's diapers in the icy cold waters of the St. Joe River. Nana was a woman who literally could do anything: she could paint with exquisite technique and interpretation; she could oh Lord could she cook; she could sew clothing that was wondrous in every stitch; she could hunt and fish and laid hardwood the entire length of her upstairs when she was in her 60s. I thought about my Great Aunt Clara, who kept books for the family's business as she became of age, a proud first generation German American. She says in one of her letters, "They told us they did business with us because we were German and they could trust us; besides, they knew we would work hard for them."

And so it is. This part of my family has been in business on the main street of one downtown or another in this country ever since they came here; wide ribbons of hard work, trustworthiness and ambition swirl in our gene pool yet. We are tradesmen and vendors, purveyors and proprietors, blacksmiths, merchants, architects, engineers, accountants. I realize it's not something we aspire to be, it's simply who we are.

My grandmothers all bathed and fed their babies; taught and disciplined their children; kept house, cooked for, and nurtured their families following their deepest desires and strongest convictions. My great great great grandmother moved her family here from Prussia despite her mother's and sister's heartfelt protestations. She never saw them again but as she did not want her five sons to be "fodder for the czar's war", moving to this country gave her assurance of her sons' futures. A tough, fiercely courageous, principled housewife and mother.

I am amazed and humbled because I do not see myself as a part of this line up. I see myself as diligent, sturdy and average; certainly not determined, sterling and astute. And yet, as I study the pictures of these determined, sterling , astute and accomplished women and read their letters, I know that these are my people and that I am them.


It's cloudy and cold today and a dozen shades of gray softly stripe the sky outside my window. I sit at my desk and wonder about the latest conundrum or the latest crisis as a part of my job here and I wonder, too, about the past and present women in my family. I realize they literally have my back.

Life is unbelievable sometimes.


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

I'm thinking about those funerary urns in which the Etruscans buried their cremated dead. They move me deeply and I can't say why exactly. These urns are like small sarcophagi, carved from alabaster. The scenes of the departed entering the underworld, saying goodbye to their families, or triumphing in their earthly life startle me, they are so vivid and graphic, if two thousand years old.

Maybe they make me wonder: what's next?

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

The Chows are a little testy because we have been spending a more time than is usual at the office. Been regrouping down there and everything is now in place, mostly, as we swing into a busy production time.

I have a smaller office but same view. Easily the most beautiful view in all of The 'Kan. I boast this fact regularly and with absolute certainty but no one really believes me until they come by. Then it's WHAT A VIEW YOU HAVE HERE. yup.

Because my new office is smaller, some of my really cool art has gone outside in the halls and other public areas. I lost 'Humpty Dumpty' to the lobby, where he resides with grace and authority. Or uncertainty, I guess, as Humpty Dumpty would. I lost the 4' x 4' piece of handmade paper to the outer office of the big corner office I vacated. So it's like those special people you meet and work with from time to time on a big project or in a big effort of some kind: after it's over, you still see 'em here and still love 'em, but it's not the same.

These days I am cultivating new lovers. My father was in business for himself, too, and in the early 1950's, when he needed the all important sign that's critical for retailers, he didn't call the sign shop and say, hey bring over something that will give me curb presence and appeal, that will generate foot traffic and will make me a beacon on the shopping ave. And make it nice but not too expensive either, will you? No, when he needed a new sign for his business, my dad made his own sign. He got together a mighty stack of two by fours and fashioned them into the name of the store and then wrapped each letter in tin that he carefully bolted to the wooden letter carcass. He then primed the tin letters in yellow paint, curious, and finished up with bright red. Those letters he made in the adolescence of his business life served as his only sign for almost 40 years.

When he retired, the sign came down as the business sold. I was there the day that truck loads and truck loads of a bygone career were taken to the dump. A huge pile of the big red letters were in line, en route to their own private Auschwitz at the county landfill. I reacted in instant horror, pleading with my brothers for a stay for the noble letters. But to no avail; of what possible value were these letters to any of us now? Undaunted, I was able to furtively get the letters back to The 'Kan in time to avoid their certain demise and for no one to know that they were being mothballed at the storage facility of my business, their future certain but with an uncertain destination.

I don't remember when exactly I realized that the time had come for the red letters to light up the skyline again but it was with sheer glee, and pride, that I spied one of the big red letters on my new office floor last week, the movers having executed the procurement request from storage. I wanted just one, one special letter, to hang in my new office with the perfect view of a most beautiful world, a view and world that feeds my soul as my mind spins out solutions and solves complex problems.

That one special letter hangs on my wall now and I think of my dad. Proud graduate of IDAHO, Harvard Business School, Navy veteran with war service on the Pacific, father of four children, son, brother. I am proud of my dad and proud of his store in my beloved hometown and proud of the contributions that he made to our community. But that's not what I think of when I stare at the letter as I am on the phone or thinking about something problematic.

I think about my dad and know that we are each responsible for our own well being. My dad had never made a sign before. Apparently he couldn't afford to have a sign made. Neither stopped him. I wasn't there but I guarantee you he laid it out with pencil and paper, got together two by fours and tin on a Saturday morning and by Monday noon, was hanging letters on his store front. Didn't use a graphic designer. Didn't use an engineer. I don't even know if he used new two by fours. He needed a sign and so he made one.

We all make our own way. Some days it goes a little faster than others. But ultimately, our journey will be complete, and successful, when we can look back and know that we responded with ingenuity, desire, and tenacity and never gave in to boredom, skepticism, despair or defeat.

You've been gone seven years now, Dad, and I still think of you every day. I hope you are better. While I didn't know you when you were young, I bet I would have liked and respected you. I hope you can say the same about me.



JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

The Cereal Box Series

not so random lessons that came from people along the way

Father Tom Lamanna, S.J.

I first knew him when he was the Christ Child's freshmen football coach. The school is pretty careful who they put in that position because the year is about absorbing tradition and creating norms as much as it is about the tactical ins and outs of football. If they lose and look good and act like gentlemen and are generous in all things, then it's been one heck of a freshmen football game at G Prep.

So I saw Tom Lamanna out there in shorts and a t-shirt on a hot August afternoon, working with the O line, going play for play with them, mostly because he could: he was fit, athletic and sharp. And they loved him, those half little boy/half grown boy boys of the freshmen class. He knew them, he knew football, he knew Prep and they fell right into line as he played his piper's song of team work, tenacity and faithfulness. As we watched our little boys change and become winsome big boys, practically in front of our eyes, we mothers wanted to go over to the treasurer's office and pay our tuition again. Practically. But I was clear from the first day that I was witnessing the divine, or God's face in our daily life as St. Ignatius would have it. And there was God in smelly, hot, tired boys of an awkward age. But Tom Lamanna saw Him first.

And so we were treated to the wit and wisdom of Tom Lamanna each night at dinner as the leaves turned red and gold, the nights grew colder and the stars multiplied and divided throughout the navy blue evening skies. As the Christ Child was the only kid left at home, he had the floor to himself and expounded at length on the teachings and dogma, The World According to Father Lamanna. Yes, turns out the guy was a Jesuit priest. The Christ Child's father and I both agreed that things were definitely looking up for the Jesuits. The school year was not 3 weeks old when the Christ Child began weaving Father Lamanna's directions and observations into other areas of his school life as affairs of the classroom, food drive, and class counsel began to unfold. The teachings of Lamanna, S.J. were everywhere. What a great year it was going to be. Our youngest child had successfully forded the icy cold middle school/high school creek with Tom Lamanna calling plays from the banks. Deep, blissful grace that parents can't imagine until they are in its midst.

That year at Christmas, the Christ Child had his Eagle Scout Court of Honor. The troop's sponsor was the Presbyterian Church and the ceremony was held there. I'm sure it was the first time in the history of the church that 6 Catholic priests spoke from the altar, such that Presbyterians have. Mostly, the diocesan and Jesuit priests spoke of the Christ Child and how he had grown and flourished in Scouting and church and their hopes for his future. Father Lamanna was batting clean up that evening and spoke about what kind of a football player the Christ Child was; but much of it had already been said. He spoke of his character and that too had been covered. And so he downshifted and drove into the teachings of Our Lord with power and authority. He delivered a brilliant, brief homily on service and leadership, keenly tied to the credos of Scouting. Although it was Scouting event, although it was a Protestant church, although, although, although Father Lamanna did not lose an opportunity to lay out again, who we are and what we do, as a Catholic and Christian people. It was leadership of the finest and first order and we were deeply proud to turn to all and say, Father Lamanna is a teacher at our school. And it was a moment of quiet, crystal-clear clarity; especially for those who really wondered why we were Catholics and how we lived our life as Catholics.

But football was over and Father taught classes that freshmen don't take and that's how we didn't hear or see so much of him after the Eagle Court of Honor. The next year he worked in the school President's office more and spent an increasing amount of time in Portland, working in the office of the Provincial. The next year he transferred to Portland completely.

It was totally random but sometime after he had moved to Portland, we heard that Father Lamanna was pronouncing his final vows that very night in Spokane. We scurried to regroup and reschedule and hustled over to GU early, because we had no idea what time the gig started and we didn't want to miss a minute.

One by one, his family and friends, his Jesuit colleagues arrived. Father Lamanna himself came just on the side of late for a mass being said for him and greeted us warmly. He said, "What are you doing here?"

We said, "We came for your mass and to hear your vows!" He was puzzled as to why we'd brave a cold, snowy winter night on this type of an errand but hugged us and thanked us. I wonder what he thought when he came out for mass and saw a beaming SRO crowd.

The Provincial, Father Whitney, said the opening prayers and led the profession of faith. Then Father Lamanna stepped up to the lectern to give the homily and the room grew perfectly still with anticipation. He spoke about the rigor and regimen of becoming a Jesuit; it takes 17 years. He talked about where he had worked and told a humorous anecdote or two as he laid out his apostolic CV. He was utterly stunning as he recounted his life as a Jesuit-- articulate, keen, handsome, charming. But he did it again: with practically no warning, he downshifted and laid out the blood and guts, the heart and soul of what the evening was about, as far as he could see. He said:

But I would not be here tonight if it wasn't for you and your prayers and prayers of many who are not here. None of this would have been possible for me except for your prayers and your faith, and for that I am deeply grateful.

And then left the lectern. There was no intellectual rendering of the call to serve others; no revelation of a powerful Ignatian moment; no righteous exhortation of what Christ would do in any instance. He simply told the truth of where he was and what he really was thinking and the strength of faith in his life and then had the courage to know it was more than enough. Tom Lamanna is a deeply humble man whose only need at arguably the biggest moment in his life was to say

I owe this all to you and Our Father.

He then made his final vow of obedience to the Holy Father, recalling his earlier vows of poverty, chastity and obedience made fully 15 years previously. I will always remember the light of that dark winter night and how it illuminated having all that you need, giving without counting the cost and showing courage and truth any moment, big or small.




Pure and unfettered humility is potent and powerful antidote for the treachery and despair of the dark and that's what Tom Lamanna taught me, when he nor I were barely looking.


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

omigosh! where to start. Becks and Posh moving to LA?!

Thank God. THANK GOD. We will now have a man unafraid to exhibit style, grace and discretion in this country. I am so overtaken by the development that I am going to forsake my initializing Cereal Box Series entry until tomorrow and default into my post for today with a picture of la vita dolce. Enjoy.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

The Cereal Box Series

It happens just about everytime I come back from vacation: I have newspaper overstimulation. It comes as a result of reading volumes and volumes of newspapers, delighting in the endless supply of hours a vacation brings. I easily read over 200 newspapers these last several weeks and loved every second of it and every single article.

We were all newspaper junkies back on 10th and Penn, where I grew up. There was a distinct hierachy that was strictly observed: first my father read the paper, then my mother, then each child in turn, according to the age. Since I was next to the youngest, I always had to eat breakfast and wait for my turn. So I turned to reading the cereal boxes with great diligence and discipline and came to appreciate them as treasure houses of random information as I waited for my two older brothers, surely the slowest readers in the history of civilization, to hand over the Spokesman-Review.

As a grade school child, besides being quite conversant on the nutritional attributes of oats, I became aware of a certain geographical entity by the name of "Puerto Rico" as a result of studiously examining the entry forms that are inherent to every cereal box. I was sufficiently curious about this Puerto Rico, knowing full well that it was not among the 50 US states, that I looked it up one time when I got to school. So then I knew exactly where it was but was still puzzled as to why most offers were void in Puerto Rico. Didn't matter though. It was all part of my morning routine and my morning kick start to the thinking day. I learned, by myself, in the early mornings at 10th and Penn that you don't have to have all the answers to everything. You just have to think about what any of it, or some it, might mean on a regular basis. So it was quite a surprise, along about the 5th grade or so, to have Puerto Rico come up as a tie breaker in a Social Studies compeition. What's tricky enough about Puerto Rico soas to separate the men from the boys? Curiously, I was the only one to correctly respond to the Puerto Rico challenge which made me the undisputed Social Studies champion of the 5th grade at Central School. The things that you don't really know but find out when you read the cereal boxes.

The next time Puerto Rico came up was in the 7th grade spelling bee at the South Junior High. It was down to the wire and all 3 of us had failed the same word, twice. Then came the tie breaker: guess. yup. Puerto Rico. What is tricky about that? I couldn't spell 'cafeteria' but I could spell 'Puerto Rico': has every vowel except A. I won the 7th grade spelling bee based on my initmate relationship with the Hispanic arrangement of vowels of a certain port, lying in the Carribean Sea. Life is so wonderful and so random sometimes! Cereal boxes. There's a lot there than can escape your eye and your ear, except when you're frantically searching deep in the data base for that one key thing that critically matters.

The other thing that comes up this morning is the thought that substantive conversations come in detailing ideas, things and people, in that order. I don't believe I buy that fully. I learn so much from the people I meet along the way. Mostly not at the time, either. It takes me awhile to fully appreciate and extrapolate the lessons of a particular person and their journey. So in 2007, I will introduce my new blog feature, The Cereal Box Series, lessons that came from people along the way. And after fully considering it, I don't believe I will offer apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer, either. Can't say why fully but I know it will come to me along the way.


JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

I've gone the usual round of what's working for me in my life, what isn't. What I value, what gives me value. So the resolutions that are culturally appropriate this time of year came pretty easy to me--be sure to get to the gym at least 5 times per week. Examine my personal efficiency at work. Think about leaving work everyday at 4:30. Eat out less. Only go somewhere I really want to go instead of going somewhere with people who want me to go with them. Almost the usual. Still, it didn't feel routine to come up with the list and it all felt entirely useful going the circuit of evaluation necessary to be resolved.

And then a few days ago, it hit me. About 10:30 at night, while reading the New York Times European Edition. I do not even remember what I was reading. Nothing related. But my real New Year's Resolution popped into my head with absolute certainly and peace.

In 2007, I will not buy any new clothes, shoes, handbags, scarves, jewelry or anything that I will wear. I will allow myself a non-North American, non-European exemption, if I absoolutely need it. Only I will know what I really need. And I will not be hard on myself as my needs arise. But while I am in North America and Europe, I will buy nothing new to wear.

There. It's done. It's cool. I need this.

JBelle
On Location
Southwark, London

I"m back in London, shaking off the last of the la dolce vita before I head back to The 'Kan EWA and all those year ends waiting for me. We left the Amalfi coast after an utterly delightful respite there; we did get to Naples to see thee Museo Archeologico and it was all worth it and more. You want to vacation and fill your soul and texture your spirit, head to Italy. la dolce vita. It's real.

After several days in Amalfi, Positano, Sorrento and Pompei, we buzzed up to Roma, where we left exactly half of our gang at Fulmincino, they themselves having prior commitments back in the USA. Not us. We headed to Tuscany.

Base camp was in the Etruscan hill town of Fiesole. This allowed us site visits to the other Etruscan hill towns, an absolute extraordinary way to spend a week. We had such a delicious time, wandering around the green hills and valleys, eating pici pasta with wild boar's head sauce, roasted hare and bread soup, pondering those cinerary urns. I love the Etruscans. Smart, sexy, sassy people. Hey, actually, just about the antithesis of the Romans, who wiped them out because...the Etruscans were vicious. sigh. DH Lawrence is a must read on the subject.

But the thing about any international travel and any study of another culture is the keen insight you gain about both your nationality and cultural heritage. On New Year's Day, we went to Assisi to San Frescesco. This is the church built in 1228 as a memorial to St. Francis. (I think, this time, that San Francesco, the Cathedral at Amalfi and the Cathedrals of Volterra and San Gimigiano are the most beautiful
churches in all of Italy. ) Instinctively I guess, I didn't expect anything in particular out of Assisi; I have visited the church several times and as we approached, I was thinking about the crypt and the frescoes, particularly the Slaughter of the Innocents. I was looking forward to it all and was excited to be back. I wasn't really prepared to step up and face the 20,000 people that visited the church that day. That's right. 20,000 Italians were at San Francesco, high in the Umbrian town of Assisi, paying homage to St. Francis as 2007 surfaced. They held their children's hands, they prayed, they helped their aging parents light candles, they exercised reverent appreciation of the magnificent frescoes. They walked in the church in contemplative thought, their hands folded in supplication.



This was a spiritual, contemplative, reverent experience with the Italian people that I will always remember. On New Year's Day. Couldn't help but reflect on the walk back to the car that on the same day, most Americans were parked in front of the box, completely absorbed by college football and NFL play offs. Them. Us. Suddenly the cultural predispositions that each of our countries brings to the table, say in talking about Iraq or global warming or whatever, were crystallized.


What a gift. la dolce vita. Buon Anno, indeed.



JBelle
On Location
Southwark, London