Beth Kephart's Blog, page 110

May Congress not forget the heart of Real America

Traveling, interviewing, and photographing these past few days for a client project, I have been reminded, again, how little I know about my world. How others live. What others value. How "home" is a word with manifold meanings.




I value the projects and moments that lift me beyond my immediate and typically small concerns. During the course of a 48-hour period, I met with long-time oil workers, a university president, a civic leader, a man who brings Broadway to his local theaters, the president of a refinery, the leader of a hospital foundation, a young woman planning a wedding. I gained a deep appreciation for people who are doing everything they can to rescue a community, to attend to an environment, to build sacred spaces on a college campus, to bring interest, life, independent films back to Main Street.




Members of Congress have a single day to resolve the crisis our leadership has set before this country.




May they not forget the real Americans they promised, once, to serve.

my bald eagle, my last 48 hours

(because I know you missed me. maybe you missed me?)

(battling the worst pinched nerve EVER. think of me Motrined and iced.)

a few images from my father's house

Where my mother's touch remains.

Going Behind the Scenes at PA Ballet, and thoughts on my journey at the Philadelphia Inquirer

It's been some eighteen months since dear Avery Rome first opened the door to me and so many other talented writer friends at the Philadelphia Inquirer. We were invited to write about the things we loved, the things we saw, the things that we thought mattered. It was a gift. We seized upon it.



Later, under the direction of friend and editor Kevin Ferris, the stories continued. I wrote (for Avery and Kevin) about place—about Eastern State Penitentiary and The Woodlands, Chanticleer garden and Stone Harbor, the Wissahickon and the Schuylkill, the hip hop kids of West Philly and the legacies of Locust Walk, the avant garde artists of East Kensington and metalworkers in Port Richmond, the slant of light in Philadelphia and the chimes above my mother's grave at Valley Forge Park, the Devon Horse Show. I wrote about the city that is my enduring home. I cherished these opportunities.



Last Friday I had the opportunity to go behind the scenes as Pennsylvania Ballet rehearsed for the opening of its fiftieth season. I was there because fate had brought me there—because I had met Julie Diana, principal ballerina, at a University of Pennsylvania Association of Alumnae event (Julie is the president) and because our conversation carried forward.



The story I wrote and photographed is the story that appears in this Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer (in stores now). I held my breath all week long, praying that—in the wake of abrupt changes at the Inquirer—the piece would still be valued. I write these stories in celebration of those who have revived the city, those who live in the city, those who lift and transcend the city. I wanted—very much—to celebrate Julie Diana, her husband, Zachary Hench, and Pennsylvania Ballet.



I am enormously grateful to Kevin Ferris and his team for seeing this story through during a challenging week. I will forever be indebted to Julie, Zachary, Marissa, and the Ballet for a certain Friday afternoon.



The curtains are almost rising at Pennsylvania Ballet. Go. Be swept away.



The link to the story is now live.

The week that was, the events that will be, an A.S. King road trip, and thank you, Library Matters (and Serena)

It has been a remarkable week of sun, then clouds, now storm. In the midst of it all I traveled to Rosemont College to meet with Anne Willkomm's class to talk about the making of Dangerous Neighbors, my centennial Philadelphia novel. (Bonus: I got to see the program's fearless leader, Carla Spataro.)



On Tuesday evening I was at Villanova University, at a program honoring the memory of my mother. (Bonus, Colum McCann was in the house.)



Yesterday morning, I had the great privilege and fun of joining my dear friend Elizabeth Mosier in her Bryn Mawr College classroom to talk about both Dangerous Neighbors and Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent. (Bonus: Any time spent with Elizabeth Mosier is a bonus.)



Yesterday, I was also featured on Book Country, in a discussion about researching memoir.



Tomorrow I'll be at Rosemont College for the Push to Publish event, joining friends on a memoir panel. We encourage you to join us.



Next weekend, two great things are happening: On Saturday, October 19, I'm reading with Liz Rosenberg at the Big Blue Marble Bookstore, in Mount Airy, PA. The event begins at 5 PM. All thanks to Minter Krozer for making that possible. Liz will read from The Laws of Gravity. I will read from—well, I'm still figuring that out. But Handling the Truth will definitely be part of my story. I may debut Going Over, my Berlin novel, just for the fun of it as well.



On Sunday, October, 20, I'm participating in the Memoir Summit at Rosemont College with Linda Joy Meyers, Robert Waxler, and Jerry Waxler. This event, featuring four free workshops, is free and open to the public, and according to Fearless Carla Spataro, registrations are coming in from all up and down the east coast.



Finally, on Monday, October 21, the amazing A.S. King and I are taking a road trip to western Pennsylvania, where we will have a chance to meet with the wonderful librarians of Pennsylvania. Amy won the Carolyn W. Field Award for her fantastic Ask the Passengers. My Small Damages was named an Honor Award recipient.



There's a client trip in the middle of all this—a chance to learn about a part of the world I've never seen. Think of my hair blowing in the wind.



Finally, today, I am heartened by these words in the Library Matters , in the Greene County Record, about Handling the Truth. Serena Agusto-Cox let me know. What a fine friend she is.

If you’ve ever thought of telling your life story but aren’t sure where to start, pick up a copy of Handling the Truth: On the Writing of Memoir, by noted author Beth Kephart.






This beautifully written volume offers advice on finding your
voice, framing your story and developing themes. Kephart, a National
Book Award finalist for her first memoir ... and a teacher in the University of Pennsylvania’s creative writing
program, is a capable guide on the challenging path to finding your
truth.

 

Memory is more than perhaps. Thoughts on researching memoir, in Book Country

Readers of this blog know that I spent part of this past Saturday with my niece, reviewing old things in envelopes, old things stored away for countless years in my father's attic.



Funnily enough, I came home from that adventure with Julia and sat down to meet a deadline from Book Country, which had asked me to write about how memoirs can be researched.



It was a coincidence. I took advantage of it. I wrote the piece that begins like this below and can be found in its entirety here.

Earlier
today my niece, Julia, and I opened the door to my father’s attic, where
a single box among many boxes bears my name. I had agreed to help Julia
with a school photography project—to search, with her, for elements
from my past that would somehow explain who I am.



Letters were there—old boyfriends, a marriage proposal, a key-sized
envelope containing the dust of some prom flowers. A postcard upon which
each hand-inked letter was no larger than a sugar ant. Names: Tanya,
Steven, Pierre, Rob. An evaluation from the library where I’d worked as a
University of Pennsylvania student; the supervisor noted, in square
boxes, that I’d been “excellent” in all things. I also read, however: Although
Beth chats to her friends at the checkout desk for long periods of
time, she seems to be able to continue working and be accurate.

Honoring my mother at Villanova, and how I came to own three copies of Colum McCann's novel, Transatlantic

We honored my mother last evening at Villanova University—the Lore Kephart '86 Distinguished Historians Lecture Series being one of my father's lasting gifts in her memory. Ray Takeyh, PhD, Senior Fellow for Middle Eastern Studies, Council on Foreign Relations, spoke brilliantly (and with appreciated sparks of humor) on "Iran in Transition." An early meal with Paul Rosier, who chairs Villanova University's History Department, Paul Steege, who helped identify Dr. Takeyh as a speaker, the wonderful Reverend Kail Ellis, and so many special Villanovans got the evening off to a fabulous start. My sister came with her dear daughter Claire. My blue-eyed brother arrived and entertained. My father wore one of his many beautiful ties and was the elegant man that he is.



And then there was the moment, early on, when Father Peter M. Donohue, the charismatic president of Villanova, mentioned that there was a certain writer also in the house last evening at Connelly Center. An Irishman, he said.



Not Colum McCann, I said.



Yes. Colum McCann, he said.



A raised eyebrow. A rapidly beating heart. A blurt: Colum McCann is my third favorite writer, I said.



Which would sound like a compliment to anyone who has seen the hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of books in my house. There's a lot of competition. Only Michael Ondaatje and Alice McDermott stand above.



I had read McCann's newest, Transatlantic, the week it came out, and had written of it here. That didn't matter. A young man named Daniel disappeared and returned with a copy of the novel, signed Colum McCann. Later, Father Peter himself greeted me with a second copy of the book, this time signed specifically to me.



I told him he is your third favorite writer, Father Pete said.



You didn't, I said.



Oh yes I did.



A good man never lies. A good reader should never rank.



Thank you to Villanova University, Father Pete, Reverend Ellis, Paul Rosier, Paul Steege, Diane Brocchi, Ray Takeyh, and everyone else who made last night a success. Thank you to my father for having this idea in the first place.



And special thanks to Elizabeth Mosier, Chris Mills, and Nazie Dana, who made the night even more glorious.

Upside Down in the Middle of Nowhere/Julie T. Lamana (Chronicle Books): Reflections

Earlier this year I went to New Orleans to visit a loved former student and see a city I'd always wanted to see. It was three hot days of swirl and color, music and sweet agitations, and on our final morning, Katie drove my husband and me to the Ninth Ward where Katrina had done so much of her damage. We saw vestiges of wreckage. We saw the gleam of the new. I thought a lot about the victims of the storm, and wondered again what they had lived through.



This morning I finished reading Upside Down in the Middle of Nowhere, Julie T. Lamana's debut middle grade novel, set to be published by Chronicle Books and my own dear editor Tamra Tuller next April. Anyone of any age who wishes to understand what it is like to be inside a terrible storm, to feel guilty about losses, to wonder where a family has gone, to lose and to gain, must read this story. Lamana was working as an after-school literary specialist when Katrina struck. She was there. She knows, first hand. She has produced a captivating story about a girl who proudly turns ten when we first meet her and then wishes, as the storm blows in, that she could be but a child again, a girl not so responsible for making such impossible choices.



Lamana writes with richness about the color of the sky, the sound of wind, the smells of despair. She gives us an up close look at a family we love from the start—and we root for them, we ache for them, we cry. Lamana writes magnificently about friendships, too, and about sitting with a grandmother upon an old swing porch, and about little girls who love their fathers:

I ran to Daddy and wrapped my arms around his waist, grateful to have him back inside with us. As I hugged him, I could see that the outside world had took on an orangey-pink look. It was a color I ain't never seen in no crayon box before. It was beautiful. The half-gone trees, the sky, the beat-up houses, even the people I seen roaming around outside—everything had took on the swirly orangey-pink color. I stepped to the side of Daddy with my mouth open wide, just gazing at the sight of it all.

I can't wait for all of you to have a chance to read this book. I post these reflections early, to put my own claim to its glories out among you first.

Celebrating Ready for Air: A Journey through Premature Motherhood/Kate Hopper

In the fall of 2008, I spent time with the doctors, nurses, parents, and babies of a nationally ranked neonatal intensive care unit in Philadelphia. I had traveled there at the request of a client, a generous not-for-profit called St. Christopher's Foundation for Children. I was in the company of a handful of young people who were learning about the world around them and the institutions that mattered in their own neighborhoods. It was a journey of exceptional proportions—the tiniest fingers, the most vulnerable dreams.



There was so much pure fragility in those rooms that day. There was also so much hope, thanks to the groundbreaking science that continues to get done on behalf of babies born too soon. Last week I was brought back to this sacred day of many years ago—the harrowing smallness, the breath-giving possibilities—as I read Kate Hopper's intense and intensely involving memoir Ready for Air: A Journey through Premature Motherhood. This is Kate's story; it is her family's story. It is the sequence of events that leads this first-time mother from simply dreaming about her baby during a warm Minnesota summer to fearing for her life—not just the baby's life, but Kate's own.



Some half a million babies are born prematurely in this country each year, Kate tells us. The costs—physical, emotional, financial—are staggering, and even when the child is finally able to come home, this tiny bundle represents challenges no parent ever sees coming. Isolation. Doubt. The challenge of bonding with one so very tiny, so still too new.



Kate, whom I have been privileged to know for a long time now through the ether of this internet world, has written the details of her harrowing journey down. We meet her husband, her sisters, her parents, her friends. We see what it is—feel what it is—to be subject to so many unknowns, and we lean forward with Kate, hope for all that she hopes for, celebrate all she finally has to celebrate.



It's personal. It's honest. It's compelling.





Ready for Air, written in the months and years after Kate's baby comes home, is a triumph, and I encourage you to get a copy of your own. I also invite you to participate in something very special: a chance to suggest NICUs where a free copy of Kate's book might be sent. For more information about that NICU giveaway, please click on this link.



Thank you, on behalf of Kate and of all babies, big and small.

At the Scuola del Cuoio, in Florence, Italy

When the days go all hurrying by, like they do, when I wonder if I've ever actually stood up and walked away from this desk in the last, say, months or years, I play a little game with myself.


Where was I this time last year?



The answer this time is Florence, Italy, at the Scuola del Cuoio, in the bowels of the Santa Croce Cathedral, where I was learning how to make a leather book from one of the masters of the craft.



There he is, toward the end of our process. And here the book is today, on my desk, with my certificate.



It makes me happy to remember.