Beth Kephart's Blog, page 164

choose new words

I will keep this short.



Yesterday morning, early, I went to my friend Betsy and asked for help.  I needed feeling restored to the right side of my body.  I needed not to hurt so much.  Betsy is magical (one of Betsy's favorite words).  I am not one who yields easily, but to Betsy I do.



While trying to release some of the knotted muscles in my shoulders and arm, while trying, indeed, to find a pulse (she finally found one), Betsy talked about language and how the words we choose to think with affect the way we see.  That word successful—how can we use it differently?  How about the word whole?  And what happens when we stop acting like a human doing so that we can be a human being?



I am in favor of humans being.

reflecting on my ballroom dance "career" in today's Inquirer

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In today's Philadelphia Inquirer I yearn toward dance, mourn my countless non-capabilities, and conclude, well — read on.  The story begins like this, below, and can be found in its entirety here.

How I stood, how I sat, how I walked into a room and didn't possess it -
these were concerns. Also: the untamed wilderness of my hair, but we
would get to that. In addition: the way I hid behind my clothes and
failed their easy angles. Most troubling, perhaps: my tendency to rush,
my feverish impatience with myself, my heretofore undiagnosed problem
with the art of being led.



So I thought I could dance.



So I imagined the ballroom instructors leaning in to say - first rumba or perhaps the second - "You've got a knack for this."



What knack? What had I done? Why had I not realized that dancing in the
dark alone to Bruce Springsteen does not qualify anyone for the cha-cha?
That grace is not necessarily an elevated pointer finger? That how they
do it on TV is how they do it on TV? That just because you love to
dance does not a dancer make you?

So many thanks to Avery Rome for making room for the piece, and to DanceSport Academy in Ardmore—and all my teachers—for making room for me.  Thanks, too, to a certain Moira.  She knows who she is.


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the 1871 Philadelphia novel moves into final design, and Dangerous Neighbors prompts an afternoon reverie

I returned from Asbury Park and Bruce Springsteen Appreciators to an email from Quinn Colter, a young friend destined for a big career as a copy editor.  I had invited Quinn to join the Dr. Radway editorial team, and she had—plying my text with wonderful questions and delightful commentary (it seems that Career, one of my primary characters, has won our Quinn Colter over).  Dr. Radway's Sarsaparilla Resolvent, my 1871 Philadelphia novel about Bush Hill, Eastern State Penitentiary, Baldwin Locomotive Works, Schuylkill River races, George W. Childs, and two best friends, now goes into design and will be released next March by New City Community Press/Temple University Press.



I left the desk at last to take a walk.  Meandering through my streets, I discovered Kathleen, a very special green-eyed woman, who had, she told me, read Dangerous Neighbors a few weeks ago.  Kathleen grew up in Philadelphia at a time when circus elephants walked the streets of Erie and Broad, and in Dangerous Neighbors, a book about Philadelphia during the 1876 Centennial, she discovered many details that resonated with her.  Standing there in the glorious afternoon sun, Kathleen told me stories about the Oppenheimer curling iron, the fifteen-cent round-trip trolley, the ferry one took from Philadelphia across the Delaware, and the shore years ago.  Kathleen's grandmother was an eleven-year-old child during the time of the Centennial, and so Kathleen remembered, too, whispers of the great exposition.



I had published an essay about the Jersey shore in the Philadelphia Inquirer a few weeks ago, and that story prompted for Kathleen memories of her own trips to the sea as a child.  We spoke, then, of this, too—this shared geography that has been transformed by time and yet remains a signifier, a home.



As much as I often wish I were back in the city living the urban life, I am tremendously grateful for the streets where I live.  I am grateful, too, for the people who enter my life—for Quinn now on the verge of her career, and for Kathleen with her storehouse of memories.








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Bruce Springsteen, Asbury Park, Monmouth University

As readers of this blog know, it has been a tumultuous time here—a sinking realization that not all the people you trust to get something right (or to do right) do.  A sense of helplessness about a false newspaper claim.  And so many friends stepping in to cry out against the injustice.



And while I will never be able to leave this cruelty behind—for it is not about me (about that I would not care) but about someone I deeply love—I did physically leave home very early yesterday morning to join friends at the Glory Days Symposium, an intelligent gathering of people who recognize that Springsteen does so much more than entertain. (One of my own—many—appreciations of Springsteen is here.)  I was proud to join April Lindner, Jane Satterfield, Ann E. Michael, and Ned Balbo on a storytelling panel, and deeply inspired by the conversations I heard along the way.  I was happy to at last meet Mark Bernhard, an associate provost at University of Southern Indiana, who puts so much of himself into this event.



Mid-afternoon I slipped away to Asbury Park and walked the boardwalk alone.  Sea and salt and time to be.  A quick but essential exchange with my editor, Tamra Tuller.  A funny, I-am-the-luckiest-mother-on-earth text carnival with my son.



Monmouth University, where the Glory Days Symposium was held, is a green campus, architecturally cohering and whole.  At its center stands Wilson Hall, a Horace Trumbauer designed mansion originally built, in 1929, as the private residence of F.W. Woolworth Co. president Hubert Templeton Parson.  In the summer of 1916, in a building lost to fire on this same site, Woodrow Wilson worked through his presidential campaign.  If this Trumbauer building looks familiar to you, that's because it served as the set for the movie, Annie.



I share above some images from the day.[image error]

a caution, and—opening words about Springsteen's river songs

My friends, the time has come.  Tomorrow I will join April Lindner, Jane Satterfield, Ned Balbo, and Ann Michael for "Springsteen and Storytelling," our panel discussion.  We're one of many Bruce conversations that will be going on this weekend at Monmouth University as part of the Glory Days Symposium.  And I'm so grateful to be given a chance to break away from my world for a moment, and to delve into this one.



Bruce and my bruised heart today have nothing to do with each other, but I feel the need to say this just now, while I have your attention (and I suspect that The Boss himself would agree with me on this one).  For any one who might be checking in on this blog, for whatever reason you may be checking, please trust me on this:  Not everything journalists write—however well meaning those journalists may be—is true.  And sometimes, even if we try very hard to get the record corrected, even if we cry, stomp, and offer to drain our bank accounts in the endeavor, we fail.  We cannot achieve the only right result, which is the truth.



For now, I am sharing this—the opening words of "Raw to the Bone:  Transported Toward Truth and Memory by Springsteen's River Songs," the paper I'll deliver tomorrow.

Might as well start with “Shenandoah,”
the old pioneer song that Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band transformed
into sweet bitters in the living room of Springsteen’s fabled New Jersey farmhouse.   “Shenandoah,” the tenth song on the We Shall Overcome/Seeger Sessions album, is music being made, as
Springsteen himself has said.  Music
created in the moment, held between teeth, conducted with the frayed bracelet strings
of an uplifted hand.  It’s music
hummed, hymned, and high in the shoulder blades, deep in the blue pulse of a
straining vein.  Patti’s lighting
candles in the darkening farmhouse, as the band tunes in.  The antique clock ticks.  The thickly framed mirror doubles the volumes
of sound and space.  And now the Sessions
band is elaborating, confabulating, and the Shenandoah roves. 

Oh Shenandoah,

I long to see you,

Away you rolling
river.

Oh Shenandoah,

I long to see you,

Away, I'm bound
away,

'cross the wide
Missouri.

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humbled, and grateful.

For reasons too complex, too personal to render fully here, yesterday was a day of deep emotion.



There were, however, friends all along the way.  Elizabeth Mosier, the beauty in the dark gray dress, will always stand, in my mind, on either side of the day—at its beginnings, at its very late-night end.  For your mid-day phone kindness, for your breathtaking introduction of me at last night's book launch, for the night on the town, for the talk in the car, for the bounty of your family—Libby, I will always be so grateful. 



To Patti Mallet and her friend, Anne, who drove all the way from Ohio to be part of last night's celebration, I will never forget your gesture of great kindness, your love for green things at Chanticleer, and a certain prayer beside my mother's stone.  Patti and I are there, above, at the pond which inspired two of my books.



To Pam Sedor, the lovely blonde in violet, a world-class Dragon Boat rower recently returned from an international competition in Hong Kong, the librarian who makes books happen and dreams come true, and to Molly, who puts up with my techno anxieties (and who, recently married, has a new last name), and to Radnor Memorial Library, for being my true home—thank you, always.  (And to Children's Book World, for finding us books in time.)



To my friends who came (from church, from books, from architecture, from corporate life, from the early years through now)—thank you.  Among you were Avery Rome, the beautiful red-head who edits Libby, me, and others at the Philadelphia Inquirer, and Kathy Barham, my brilliant and wholly whole son's high school English teacher, who is also a poet (shown here in green).  To the town of Wayne, which received our open-air tears and laughter late into the night (and to Cyndi, Kelly, Libby, Avery, and Kathye who cried and laughed with me)—thank you.



And also, finally, to Heather Mussari—my muse (along with Tamra Tuller) for the Berlin novel, a young lady so wise beyond her years, and a cool, cool chick who (along with Sandy) does my hair—I arrived at 11:15 at your shop inconsolable.  You listened.  You said all the right things by telling the truth and telling it kindly.  I adore you, Heather.  I hope you know that.



After I posted this, my dear friend Kate Walton (who was there with our friend Elisa Ludwig), sent me this link to last night's party.  Kate—whose kindness is so clear in her post—preserved the night for me in photographs.  I will always be grateful. [image error]

The Small Damages party (and a recipe card)

Tonight I'll officially launch Small Damages (Philomel) in my hometown library.  I'll be sharing images of the research process, snapshots of Spain, and a glimpse of my Estela's cortijo kitchen.  I'll also be giving those who come this recipe card, featuring one of Estela's favorite easy desserts.  Now, Estela is Estela, and pears are pears—so many different textures, so many degrees of firm.  You have to mess with temperature and timing, therefore, but if you wait until the pears are truly cooked through, you'll have a sensational little treat on your hands (plumped raisins, Malaga- and orange-flavored pear flesh).



I am looking forward (so much) to this evening.  Among other things, the talented, generous, whollly literary, wholly real and dear Elizabeth Mosier will be introducing me.  I learn so much from Libby, whenever she talks (about books, about anything).  I am so honored that she is taking the time to do this.  And, of course, a giant thank you to Pam Sedor of the library, who makes everything so special, and to the good people of Children's Book World, who always go the extra mile.



Please come if you are near:




September 12, 2012
Radnor Memorial Library

114 West Wayne, Avenue 

Wayne, PA
SMALL DAMAGES launch party
7:30 PM


This just in: I was in the midst of posting this when I learned about this incredibly beautiful librarian review of Small Damages by one Lauren Strohecker.  Lauren's post is made especially meaningful by the way her blog begins—with words about and by my friend A.S. King.  I'm hugely indebted to you both, and a little misty eyed.[image error]

the sunflower portrait

As those of you who have been receiving too-short emails from me lately know, I've been hampered once again by all kinds of pinched-nerve problems in the aftermath of a tad too many consecutive corporate stories. 



And so I have limped around the house, worn a heating pad like a housecoat, and tried to trick my body into forgetting the inflicted pain.


A few days ago, I decided to pick up my camera, click the macro lens into place, and use my nerve cells differently.  Photography is pleasure, pure and simple.  It forced these old bones into new alignments.  It eased some of the fire.



I think of this sunflower as being a yellow-lashed eye.  I think of it as dreaming.[image error]

the Small Damages cake, from Ruta Sepetys

I have written many times on this blog about the exquisite writer and human being, Ruta Sepetys.  I am lucky to know her—it's that simple—and the gift of our friendship is a gift that Tamra Tuller, our Philomel editor, gave.  Tamra sent Ruta a copy of Small Damages a long time ago, and Ruta not only lent her voice to this story, but she stayed in touch, sending notes from all around the world as she met with teachers, parents, and children to discuss her international bestseller, Between Shades of Gray—and, later, to prepare us for the February 2013 release of her absolutely lovely second book, Out of the Easy.



Home for Ruta is states away from here.  Life for Ruta is many obligations which she, with all the grace of a true diplomat, seamlessly fulfills.  Still, on July 19th, the day Small Damages was released into the world, Ruta thought to send me a gift.  Enclosed is a little cake, not quite full of taste, but certainly full of love, she wrote.



It had been my son's birthday, and then my husband's.  There was endless corporate work to do.  My party for this little book was two months away.  But there Ruta was, reminding me to take a moment for this book that had consumed ten years of my life and almost (so many times) vanished.  Her cake will always sit among my treasured things, a reminder:  Take a moment.



Today, taking a page from Ruta, I stop to remind us all.


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small damages: the food photo essay (in anticipation of the launch party)

And so I realized that my Small Damages launch party (at Radnor Memorial Library, this Wednesday night, 7:30) is but a few days away.  And so I began to tremble.  I hadn't prepared.  I hadn't sat down and thought it through.  I have nearby friends coming, not to mention a certain Patti Mallett, who is making the journey from quite a long way away.  I could not afford to get up there and wing it.



I dedicated this afternoon to making sure that I didn't wing it.



There will, as everybody knows, be cake.



But there will also be a tour of my Estela's kitchen.



Can you guess what this ingredient is?[image error]