Relationships – Jadi Campbell

Red, Red Roses

The International Human Rights Art Movement has published my short autobiographical essay “Red, Red Roses” in their most recent quarterly.

Here is The International Human Rights Art Movement mission statement:

“The IHRAM uses our platforms to give voice to artists and issues around the world. We protect freedom of expression by highlighting those who might be suppressed or oppressed in their home countries.

We bring together all members of society through our programming, from artists-in-exile and at risk; to activists on the front lines of the struggle for rights and justice in their own country; to creators working in all media; to national and international politicians, government agencies, social leaders and celebrities.

We believe that creative engagement with all members of the society is the surest path toward social justice and positive change.

The IHRAM magazine was created with a simple goal: to celebrate and uplift up-and-coming authors from all over the world; each of the authors in this anthology contend with their identities in the context of their environments, providing readers with their unique perspectives on issues of human rights.”

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“The pieces featured in this quarter’s magazine explore themes of economic parity, workplace equity, and the ongoing pursuit of gender equality. IHRAM Magazine proudly advocates for peaceful feminism through creativity that sparks dialogue and promotes unity. Through poetry, prose, and visual art, we delve into not only the challenges but also the triumphs of women worldwide, amplifying voices often marginalized and celebrating the resilience found in shared stories.

Thank you for being part of a greater cause.”

BUY YOUR COPY Go their website to find your home country and purchase a copy of the 2023 Literary Magazine. If your home base is not listed, don’t worry! CLICK HERE OR THE COVER IMAGE TO VIEW ONLINE.

I wrote this essay several years ago to read at a fundraiser during VDays, hosted by New English American Theater. All profits were donated to two Stuttgart organizations that assist women and children in need.

NOTES: ©Jadi Campbell 2024. My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, Grounded, and The Trail Back Out.

Tsunami Cowboys was longlisted for the 2019 ScreenCraft Cinematic Book Award. Broken In: A Novel in Stories was semifinalist for the international 2020 Hawk Mountain Short Story Collection Award from Hidden River Arts and Finalist for Greece’s 2021 Eyelands Book of the Year Award (Short Stories). The Trail Back Out was the 2023 San Francisco Book Festival Winner for General Fiction, American Book Fest 2020 Best Book Award Finalist: Fiction Anthologies, Runner-Up for the 2021 Top Shelf Award, 2021 IAN Book of the Year Award Short Story Collection Finalist, and awarded a 2021 Wishing Shelf Red Ribbon. The title story The Trail Back Out was longlisted for the 2021 ScreenCraft Cinematic Short Story Award.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

Today’s Birthday: John Maurice Hartman

Johnny Hartman was born July 3, 1923 in Houma, Louisiana. As a jazz singer Johnny Hartman is most famous for his 1963 collaboration with saxophonist John Coltrane on the sublime album John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman. Also playing on the album are McCoy Tyner, Jimmy Garrison, and Elvin Jones. (This was John Coltranes’s only album with a singer!)

Hartman was a crooner par excellence. Frank Sinatra’s name might be more famous, but from the first time I heard Hartman singing a song I knew who I’ll forever prefer. I discovered him late in life, the soundtrack to a film perhaps, or playing on a jazz radio station. In any case, I promptly bought three of his CDs. When I’m in a mood for love or my spirit needs soothing, I listen to his voice. In his honor here is a post I wrote about romance. How can I not honor him? Hartman’s kind of music will never go stale. – Jadi

For twenty-five years (minus a day) I had a memory of rose-colored glass. Uwe and I got married over a quarter of a century ago. Aside from thinking Yikes, how did that happen?!, I have sighed Awwww. Not many things last this long, especially when we’re talking about human beans….

You know how some couples seem to glide through life without ever having a disagreement?

We aren’t that couple.

walking around a town with even more history than we have

But I distinctly recall that the hotel room where we spent our first night as husband and wife had old-fashioned windows with glass panels in various colors. I can remember looking at those little panes and thinking, How wonderful to begin married life looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. That first image has comforted me countless times. It’s provided me with endless inspiration, and I love telling friends the story of those old windows that shimmered and glowed like gemstones.

We wanted to return to the little town in Alsace where it all began. We booked the same hotel and both of us think we may even have been given the same room. We drove over a day before our anniversary and checked in as it began to rain. The sight of the rain on the windows was get outta here romantic.

I took some pictures. But later, checking to make sure my photos turned out, I was puzzled. The views of the village outside the windows had stayed pretty. But, wait a second: where were the colored panes of glass both of us are sure we remember?

Had my mind and emotions played tricks all these years, keeping me roped in with a faulty metaphor? Or is my eye sight seriously that bad?

The mystery was solved by a friend who reminded me that hotels – especially old ones – spend money on renovations. So, along with the elevator that was not there when we checked in 25 years ago, the windows were probably recent too. The glass in the windows is now textured, maybe ‘pebbled’ is the word I want. The view is still ever so slightly wavy and distorted…

We had three gorgeous days in one of our favorite regions in Europe. Yes, it remained romantic. As you can see from the photos, with rain or without, the views from the windows are lovely.

And, in the right light, my world as a married woman still looks rose-colored.

no my vision wasn’t impaired by the wine we bought at this winery, founded in 1728…

In memory of Johnny Hartman, 3 July, 1923 – 15 September, 1983

NOTES: ©Jadi Campbell 2024. Previously published as My Silver Wedding Anniversary, or, The Rose-Colored Windows that Weren’t. I dedicate this post to Uwe, my wonderful, long-suffering spousal unit. 30 years and counting! To see his photos from our trips go to viewpics.de.

My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, Grounded, and The Trail Back Out.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

An Unfamiliar Sense of Optimism

I keep posting about the trip to southern Africa that Uwe and I made in November 2023. I’m doing it to share Uwe’s breathtaking photographs, and to share with you what we experienced.

The act of blogging reinforces my memories. Writing these posts helps me recall where we went and what we did.

But there’s something else going on here. In the months since we returned home I’ve created post after post after post after post after post, as if nothing can shut me up….

They aren’t just for the followers who stay with me as I tell tales. I write to keep reminding myself of how great I felt about the world during that entire trip.

The feeling came to me as a revelation. When I climbed shakily out of what I considered a toy tin helicopter after our ride over the Okavango Delta, I was startled to realize I was feeling something unfamiliar:

Optimistic.

I don’t know about you or everyone else, but it looks to me like ongoing world events are grim. Wars, climate change, mass extinctions, corrupt and greedy politicians destroying democratic governments to hang onto power…. It’s a long, depressing list. So to feel unequivocally GREAT about a spot was wonderful.

Thanks to all of you for reading, liking, and commenting on my endless flow of stories about southern Africa. I want to spread my sense of optimism. Let’s share some hope for a change!

The Trail Back Out was the 2023 San Francisco Book Festival Winner for General Fiction, American Book Fest 2020 Best Book Award Finalist: Fiction Anthologies, Runner-Up for the 2021 Top Shelf Award, 2021 IAN Book of the Year Award Short Story Collection Finalist, and awarded a 2021 Wishing Shelf Red Ribbon. The title story The Trail Back Out was longlisted for the 2021 ScreenCraft Cinematic Short Story Award.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

Family Myths

I wrote Family Myths after my father died. It’s the true story of one of the worst conversations in my life. Almost fifty years passed and neither of us ever mentioned that conversation again.

The University of Colorado Boulder’s Program for Writing and Rhetoric did me the incredible honor of accepting Family Myths for publication in Hindsight Journal, their annual publication.

Hindsight Journal has just come out. Click on this link to read the magazine on line for free. Hindsight Journal 4

For any readers out there who have words etched in your brains, this story is for you.

My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, Grounded and The Trail Back Out.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

Today’s Birthday: Valerie Jane Morris-Goodall

Dr. Jane Goodall was born on April 3, 1934 in Hamstead, London, England. She is a anthropologist and primatologist, acknowledged as the world’s expert on chimpanzees. In 1960 she went to the Gombe Stream National Park of Tanzania to study the Kasakela chimpanzee community. That study is still going, making it the the longest continuous study of animals in their natural habitat [1]. In her honor I give you the post I wrote after we visited the orangutan rehabilitation center on Borneo. – Jadi

In 2019 we saw our first free roaming orangutan.

We were at Semenggoh Nature Reserve, just south of Kuching in the Sarawak state on Borneo. Semenggoh is also a Wildlife Centre, established in 1975 as a rehabilitation sanctuary. They take in injured, orphaned, or rescued orangutans. The sole goal of the centre is the rehabilitation and gradual return of animals to fend for themselves in the wild.

Orangutans are endangered, rare, marvelous. They’re native to only two places on the entire planet: Borneo or Sumatra. Our chances of running across them in the wild were pretty much zero, but at Semenggoh maybe we could watch them feeding.

Our individually booked, guided visit conjoined with the larger international tourist groups. The centre gives educational lectures. We learned the rarity and habits of these giant primates. Orangutans spend at least 60% of their waking time looking for food. “Their diet consists of 300 different kinds of fruit such as barks, honey, young shoots, insects and occasional bird egg and small vertebrae. Fruits make up 60% of the orangutan’s diet.” Also (this fact surprised me), “a 1-mile square radius of rainforest can only support a low population density of about 2.5 orangutans.” [2]

The centre maintains a feeding platform. Orangutans are called back for lunch if they want it. But the jungle vegetation fruited a second time last winter, and we were informed that if the orangutans didn’t show, this was a sign that they were fending successfully for themselves in the thick woods. And indeed, none of the creatures responded to the rangers’ calls. [3]

We waited patiently for the tardy luncheon guests. Then suddenly walkie talkies crackled. The seemingly relaxed park guides sprang into action, urging everyone back towards the entrance. A ranger had spotted an orangutan!

The matriarch was in a tree near the parking lot and ironically closer and easier to observe than if she’d come to the feeding platform. It was Seduku. She’s nicknamed the ‘Grand Old Lady’, born in 1971.

Seduku could be aggressive towards tourists, our guide said. But the morning we ‘met’ her she was mellow (and almost seemed to be showing off). All I can say is that she had a conscious dignity. Kudos to the great work being done on behalf of orangutans at the Semenggoh Rehab Centre!

NOTES: [1] Kasakela chimpanzee community [2] Semenggoh Wildlife Centre [3] Not getting to see the endangered animals at a feeding station means that they’ve rehabilitated into their natural habitat. Not seeing them is a good thing. This is an ironic moment for any tourist. To learn more about the rehab center, go to their website at https://semenggoh.my/ ©2024 Jadi Campbell. Previously published as Borneo’s Wild Orangutans. All photos © Uwe Hartmann. To see more of Uwe’s animal photos and pics from our trips go to viewpics.de.

My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, Grounded and The Trail Back Out.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

11 September

I first published this post almost a decade ago. I reprint it as a prayer for our world. —Jadi

The anniversary of 9/11 is here.

I was back in the States when the attack occurred. When I returned to Germany a few weeks later, I was in turmoil. I felt all the contradictions of my life. I’m a resident alien on another continent. I’ve been the target of instant hate when someone found out I’m American. This only has to happen once to convince you that prejudice is awful. What the hell was I doing so far away from my own country? What was going on in the world, and could anywhere feel safe? It seemed like everything was getting sucked into a swirling vortex. My identity as a US citizen, as a foreigner, as a human being, came crashing down.

A few months later my epidemiologist friend Elena came to Europe for a conference. I took an unplanned trip to Amsterdam with her. Maybe 2 days away would give me a break from how heavy life felt. Below is the account from those 2 days and how they affected me:

Friday Buddha, Schwedagon Pagoda, Yangon Burma — Friday planetary post, Schwedagon Pagoda, Yangon Burma

“I people-watch as we travel to Holland. On a German train near the border, the train car is full of local residents heading home. An African couple talk over their baby. Another young couple sit by me with their own child. The wife’s exquisite black scarf frames her face. Her husband reads from a small leather bound Koran. Both of them keep an eye on the baby carriage. The rest of the car is full with the usual students, professionals, commuters.

An old man goes into the WC. Later the door slides open without his realizing it. He stands helpless, then fumbles at the door. We all see the prosthetic leg strapped to his upper thigh. Everyone looks away. The door slides open again and he looks up, stricken. I rise and go to the door and close it. When the door inevitably opens again a few minutes later, the man with the Koran closes it for him.

A cell phone rings. The African man pulls out his phone and answers, then switches to English. I realize they’ve understood every word of the conversations Elena and I have been having about global health issues, world politics, and travel.

The woman in the headscarf looks at me steadily. When she finally catches my eye she holds me in a gaze of tenderness and our connectedness as human beings. We see one another for a few minutes, and then the train stops and they detrain.

The train reaches Amsterdam. I’ve been here before and always feel as if I’m coming home to an old friend. We walk along the canal streets, and brick building facades reflect in the Amstel as it flows under the bridges. The Egyptian bellhop at the hotel asks where we’re from. “I love this city! You meet people from all over the world,” he declares.

In 2 days Elena flies back to the US. Later that morning I stand waiting to catch the tram from our hotel. A dark-haired woman at the street bus stop carries a backpack. I offer her my tram pass; I won’t need it beyond the central train station. She thanks me, but says she’s heading home. She’s an Israeli airline stewardess, in Amsterdam for a few days’ holiday.

“I live in Tel Aviv, and I’m afraid to go out of my house,” she tells me. “Everyone is scared of more terrorist attacks there. The situation is out of control.” I listen to her and say, “The rest of the world says, ‘just make peace!’ If only it were so easy.”

Once I’m on board my train I read a Newsweek, then dive back into a novel. The quiet man next to me asks in English if this train stops at the Frankfurt airport. I offer him the magazine. We begin to talk: he is Iranian, in Germany for an international banking and finance conference. He lectures at the University of Cardiff. His wife is a dentist, he tells me. They live in Britain and go back to Iran, to their home in the northeast by the mountains at the Afghani border, each summer for vacation.

He lifts the suitcase at his feet and sets it on his lap. Opening it, he pulls out framed photographs of 2 smiling boys. “These are my children.” We discuss their names, their ages, their personalities. At the airport station he leaves for his flight, and I wish him a safe trip home.

The woman sitting across from us changes trains with me in Mannheim. We stand shivering in the evening air on the platform. She is a Dutch physical therapist, doing an apprenticeship in Munich. She asks what I think of Holland. We talk about the coffee shops. I mention the small scale that guides decision-making in her country. I give her my leftover Dutch coins and she buys the tram pass from me.

Late that night I finally arrive home. In the space of 48 hours I touched on what seemed to be the entire planet. And I didn’t learn the names of any of the people who talked to me.

Travel isn’t just seeing and exploring other countries and cultures or the threads that weave those peoples’ histories with the present. Travel is the journey we make every day into other people, other lives, other ways of being and thinking and feeling.

Travel is about the interconnectedness of us all. Each person with whom we interact leaves behind traces that can change the world. Travel is about holding onto hope.

A part of me remains in every place I’ve ever stood. My image was impressed in a snow angel I made up in the Arctic Circle, which vanished years ago. But who can say if some part of my spirit still wavers there like the Northern Lights? Or in my interactions with all those people on the trains between Stuttgart and Amsterdam? I don’t know…. but we should live as if every act matters, as if choosing to love and be open to the rest of the world and each other can transform us.”

NOTE: This post originally marked my first year of blogging. I’m still at it, years later. Thanks for your support. — Jadi © Jadi Campbell 2023. Previously published as Amsterdam. All photos © Uwe Hartmann. Uwe’s photos of our trips and his photography may be viewed at viewpics.de.

My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, The Trail Back Out and Grounded.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

Cooking for the Community

This post is an important one.

We all have those special friends who make the world a brighter and better place. I first met Terri Bartell-Cafazzo way back in the 1970s when we were both college students. She’s always had boundless enthusiasm and a lot of energy. We’ve stayed in contact through all the years since, mostly with irregular emails and the annual Christmas card wrap-up. Along with treks and kayaking, teaching yoga and Zumba, Terri’s last Xmas letter mentioned that she cooks for a local women’s shelter in Prescott, Arizona.

On my last visit to the USA I was stunned by the tents and tents and tents and tents of the homeless EVERYWHERE I went on that trip. Programs to assist the needy had been gutted. And this doesn’t include the women trapped with their abusers thanks to COVID, or the job options they’d lost in the lockdown. I was beyond appalled. Clearly, people are suffering.

Then I remembered Terri’s letter. I asked if she’d let me interview her about the work she does at the shelter. She agreed, and I hope my readers will feel as inspired as I am by Terri’s work. We should try to be part of the solution.

What led you to cook for a shelter? I was introduced to providing meals for the local Women’s Shelter over a decade ago when the Prescott Unitarian Fellowship needed volunteers for their commitment to provide a dinner one day per month.

Providing a warm healthy dinner for women and children in need was a huge draw as I love to cook. I believe ‘you are what you eat’ so bringing heartfelt prepared food for individuals needing a sense of comfort in their life is exactly where I want to contribute to my community.

My continued involvement comes from a deep reward in the demonstrated appreciation from the residents of the shelter. I feel these women and children benefit in experiencing our contributions as positive role models in how community extends help to those who need it. That in itself is a strength which helps build the inner attributes needed to create a solid foundation in their lives.

How did you learn about the position? After becoming a round robin shelter meal volunteer through the Prescott Unitarian Church, it came to my attention that there were other days in the month when they had no coverage on a regular basis. I left the occasional Unitarian monthly date and became available for those holes in the meal schedule. I’m contacted at the end of the previous month about the dates and sign up for those that work in my schedule.

How great is the need for Women’s Shelters in your area? The need is great. We’re the only one of this kind providing temporary and emergency shelter in about a 100+ mile radius. First, women must apply. Once admitted to the program they’re given temporary overnight accommodations (4:00 pm-8:00 am) for 90 days with warm meals. They receive life skills resource case management to help them transition into a more permanent setting.

Did your interest tie in any way to the awful increase in homelessness in the USA? The increase in homelessness has grown. This shelter is a wonderful leg up to help women and their families move into a better lifestyle. Helping make our local communities a better place to live is the seed that it takes to grow a greater world. It starts in our own backyards.

In Prescott, many of these women and their children find themselves on the street or living in their cars for various reasons: lack of funds or job, physical &/or mental health issues, unforeseen life changes, domestic challenges, etc.

How many women can the shelter support? The shelter has a dormitory with cots and bunk beds including bedding for 19. Also, they have an annex for women who have young boys 12 years old or older. This organization opened February 2009, serving over 3,000 women and children, providing more than 105,000 bednights with an 81% transition rate to permanent homes.

Is the shelter funded privately or through donations? The Prescott Women’s Shelter is a non-profit backed by United Way, and many significant corporate and private donors with countless individual/local charitable contributors. Local realtors have stepped up to assist in helping find affordable housing for the women in the program.

Who owns the property? I’m not sure how the property is held in title. It has an active Board of Directors with an amazing committed paid and volunteer staff. It’s in a well-kept residential home that has been greatly remodeled to meet the needs of a shelter. During COVID, a variety of landlords donated the use of their rental homes to help create necessary separation while the shelter’s organization continued to serve our women and children. During that time, as Meal Providers we brought sealed store-prepared foods at a greater expense, dropped them off on the doorstep, and left after ringing the doorbell to alert the women the meals had arrived.

Do you have to work in secrecy? Women’s shelters are often at undisclosed addresses to protect women from their abusers. Discretion is key but there is a Facebook page and website with its location and services. It takes a cast of 1,000 to make this place happen on a daily basis so it is no secret. Men aren’t allowed in the facility without special clearance. Security measures are in place.

How often do you cook for them? I fill in the dinner schedule anywhere from 1-3x per month. Menus are affordable, balanced, and baked/presented in something recyclable/disposable so we don’t have to chase after our kitchen ware. We prepare food in our personal kitchens; this gives us the liberty of designing a menu, shopping and purchasing out of our own pocket for 20+ people. Meals are delivered by 5:30 pm that day. Since they don’t have onsite cooking facilities for liability reasons, everything has to be brought through the door ready-to-serve. We are considered an invaluable large portion of their services.

What do you cook? I try to share a main entree, salad, fruit, and dessert. Italian and Mexican cuisines seem to be what many Meal Providers bring. I like to mix it up in the summer with hoagie sandwiches, chips, pickles, coleslaw, jugs of apple juice, a clearance sheet cake from the bakery and watermelon when they are in season. Let’s not forget Swedish meatballs/pasta, Hungarian goulash, and sweet-n-sour Chinese stir-fry/rice. For a fun Saturday party splurge, I’ll make chili cheese fries with everything on them!! Watch out for the holidays as I like to add special napkins and seasonal favors. My list goes on…

How is the food donated? At times, friends have handed me a grocery gift card they won in a raffle. I’ve been gifted a giant bag of extra veggies from someone’s freezer. After a big potluck, people load me up with food to share with the shelter. I talked Walmart into gifting a sliced ham one year when I was in charge of Easter Dinner at the shelter!

Is your work connected in any way to a food bank? Most Meal Providers come from churches and philanthropic organizations. They bring meals from their own cupboards. Storage is paramount for my contributions. I have an extra refrigerator/freezer and shelf unit for can/dry goods in my garage that I’ve devoted just for the shelter meals. I purchase when I can get the best deals or buy something on clearance. It’s so worth it seeing the transparent looks of awe on so many of their troubled faces when these great smells and volumes of food come pouring onto the big community table. It noticeably makes their day a little brighter. You’re showered in songs of sincere ‘thank-you’ and ‘bless you’ as you leave through the door.

I can’t think of a better way to spend part of my time in retirement.

Online: https://prescottshelters.org/

Phone: 928-778-5933

Mail: Prescott Area Shelter Services

336 N. Rush St.

Prescott, AZ 86301

PS:Terri also taught classes at Yavapai College. She was recently honored at a catered gala for her 15 years of service!

Click here to read my post Food Bank about Food For Lane County [FFLC] in Eugene, Oregon.

My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, The Trail Back Out and Grounded.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

Today’s Birthday: Maurice Bernard Sendak

Illustrator/author Maurice Sendak was born on 10 June, 1928 in England. In his honor I give you the post I wrote upon hearing that he had died. – Jadi

My Sister & Maurice Sendak

Our first experiences learning to speak seem to involve rhymes. [Twinkle twinkle and Dr. Suess, anyone?] We recite as children, loving language’s sing-song chants.

One of the very first pieces I memorized as a child (to this day I can recite it) was ‘The Cow’ from A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods by Robert Louis Stevenson, printed in 1913.

The Cow

The friendly cow all red and white
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart.

She wanders lowing here and there,	5
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;

And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,	10
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.

Can’t you see her?? In my child’s brain she was white and a funny shade of red. (Who ever heard of a red cow? I mean, really.) She was named Flossie, or Maisie, or Bessie. Placid Maisie meanders in a huge field, chewing her cud and surrounded by fairy rings of little flowers.

I have to be in the right mood for poetry, but I still have the used copy of The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry from my college days of long ago. (How long ago? Decades. A couple of ’em.) My edition of Robert Frost’s complete works came to me when my mother died. When I read Frost, his poems of New England keep me linked to her, too.

Emily Dickinson still knocks me out, and every word Shakespeare penned is poetry in exalted form.

Poetry is emotion and experience expressed in crystalline shapes, no matter whether it’s metered or free verse. Prose works by poets betray themselves through the beauty of the writing. Think of The English Patient. I read that book slower and slower, and found myself rereading pages over and over, savoring Ondaatje’s mastery with language. Or anything by Ray Bradbury: each of his strange magical visions contains a goodly dose of poetry.

Hmm. I just went back and read what I’ve got here so far… Scratch the comment about needing to be in a certain mood to read poetry.

***

The Muses pay a very special visit on those they gift with the ability to speak through poems. For me it’s the hardest of all forms of writing. Sadly, the poetic Muses Erato (love poetry), Calliope (epic poetry), Euterpe (songs and elegiac poetry), and their sister Polyhymnia (hymns and sacred poetry) just don’t knock on my door more than once a decade or so. An impulse to even attempt a poem is the sighting and citing of a rare bird. The last time, and it came over me in a total rush of surprise and inspiration, was the death of Maurice Sendak.

(Photo from Wikipedia)

Mr. Sendak accompanied my childhood and probably yours, too, and he was particularly part of my sister Pam’s early years. I remember his Nutshell Library books, extra small to fit the hands of children. There were 4 of them: Alligators All Around, Chicken Soup With Rice, One Was Johnny, and Pierre (A Cautionary Tale). Pammy read them repeatedly, relating especially to the contrary Pierre. A few years ago I spotted an interview with Sendak in The New York Times (click here for the interview).

The article brought back those little books and how much my sister loved Maurice Sendak. I promptly sent the link to Pam and we spent several weeks emailing back and forth about his wonderful art and our childhood memories.

In May 2012, Maurice passed away. My sister was teaching in Japan; had she heard yet? For some reason I wanted to be the person to break the news to her. I debated how to contact Pam and gently let her know.

The next morning I awoke preoccupied with way too much to do. I began my tasks with the radio on. NPR mentioned that Terry Gross was doing a special Fresh Air show in honor of Maurice Sendak’s passing (a much older interview with Sendak and a more recent one recorded not long before his death). Despite really having no time to spare, I sat down to give 5 minutes to Sendak.

An hour later I still sat. By now tears were streaming down my face. Sendak’s wise, sweet old voice came over the airways, speaking of the secret fears of children, of his inability to believe in God after the horrors of the Holocaust (he lost his entire extended family), his more than half a century with the man he loved, Dr. Eugene Glynn, a NYC psychoanalyst his parents never knew about… Sendak told his story as the tears continued to pour.

I forgot everything, the chores that had seemed so important that morning, the things I had wanted to cross off my to-do list that day. The interview ended, I got shakily out of my chair, found some tissues and blew my nose, wiped my eyes, and sat down to write my sister. “Pam,” I said, “I just heard an incredibly moving interview with Maurice Sendak. He’s died, and I wanted you to get the news from me…. but really you need to hear this interview and listen to his voice.”

And as I sat, a Muse spoke. I wrote the first version of the following poem in one take.

Maurice

Maurice Sendak

Your words and drawings,

depictions transcribe

the soul&depths

of my sister, Pammy.

You died yesterday,

83 years old and not a day

older than the children now grown

adults weeping, mourning

your passing theirs passing

something of childhood gone beyond

retrieving.

Maurice.

I listen to recordings of your voice

You speak, the New Yorker

in you so obvious

I love your sense of place

your first generation voice

of Polish immigrants

of your humanity

your humility

your atheism

your embrasure of

a definition of the world

in which God is

everywhere

in the Wild Things

where they are

My Wild Things salute you.

My Wild Things weep.

Gnash our teeth.

Our King has left us.

Our island, and not just New York

is so much smaller with your passing.

We will cook a meal

Eat a supper and

wish

You were still with us.

In loving memory of Maurice Sendak, June 10, 1928 to May 8, 2012

My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, The Trail Back Out and Grounded.

Broken In: A Novel in Stories was semifinalist for the international 2020 Hawk Mountain Short Story Collection Award and Finalist for Greece’s 2021 Eyelands Book of the Year Award (Short Stories). Tsunami Cowboys was longlisted for the 2019 ScreenCraft Cinematic Book Award. The Trail Back Out was American Book Fest 2020 Best Book Award Finalist: Fiction Anthologies, Runner-Up for the 2021 Top Shelf Award, 2021 IAN Book of the Year Award Short Story Collection Finalist, and awarded a 2021 Wishing Shelf Red Ribbon. The title story The Trail Back Out was longlisted for the 2021 ScreenCraft Cinematic Short Story Award.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

My Imaginary Friends: #13 Cowbells in the Fog

Objects appear in my books. This is never random. Items can have numens, just like places do.

Take, for example, the cowbell.

When my mother died, Barb and Dad and Pam and I spent some sad days together in Asturias where Pam was teaching. It was a miserable time. All four of us were in deep shock. But there were moments of intense magic amidst all that grief. One of them came on a late spring afternoon, punctuated by the continuous music of unseen cowbells just over the foggy hills. We were alone, just my family minus Mom, and the air reverberated with grazing cows we couldn’t see, wearing metal necklaces that called to us.

My father surprised me with an old and well-used cowbell for Christmas the following year. When I rang it, the sound of that bell transported us right back to a remote Spanish hillside. He told me he got it in memory of that day.

It is one of the few gifts for me he ever picked out himself.

Later – many year later, when I wrote my first book, that afternoon of sound made a special guest appearance. When I began to write the scene I rediscovered all the details, with perfect clarity.

“When he first met Naomi, they hiked to a pilgrimage point in northwestern Spain up in the startlingly verdant Asturian hills. They ate a picnic lunch in a field filled with small wild irises and tea roses. At the end of the day it grew colder and fogs blew in. They gathered up their blankets and basket to the clanging of cowbells someplace off in a valley in the mists, heard but not seen.

The next day they returned to visit the shrine. The altar overlooking the valleys was busy with worshippers and a statue of Our Lady of Covadonga. But the narrow neck to the cave at the back of the sanctuary literally glowed with thousands of votive candles. They crouched in the cave in wonder. Whatever incarnation of the mother of God they honored up in front, her older chthonic image ruled undisputed within the earth.” – from the chapter Waiting in Broken In: A Novel in Stories.

A few years ago my friend Nancy gifted me with a Tibetan singing bowl. It keeps company with the distinctive clank of a cowbell from northwestern Spain. I’m not sure which item possesses the more powerful numen.

My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, Grounded and The Trail Back Out.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

May You find the Castle in the Middle of Nowhere, made of Sand and Magic.

Some twenty years ago I was having a bad visit with my dad. Bad. My thoughts were dark, and my mood was gloomy. I was filled with the kind of despair that only a fight with a family member can give you. Like, stabbing-knives kind of misery. To escape for a few hours Barb and I took our nephew and the canoe out to an island on the lake. We camped on it every summer as children.

We discovered that someone, now decamped and nowhere in sight, had built a magical sandcastle and town. Suddenly the black clouds lifted and I felt as filled with wonder as my nephew Niko.

one of my favorite photos of a young Niko

The paths of the sandcastle town were lined with wild mushroom caps, still fresh and unblemished. Someone made the sandcastle just hours before we got to the island.

My photographs are decades old and pretty grainy. But you can see the sandcastle is truly in the middle of the Adirondacks wilderness (i.e. the middle of nowhere)… Only the shores of Cranberry Lake are all around.

Who built it? What whimsy inspired the person or persons to erect a fairy town on the waterfront of an island that few people ever visit?

The memory of that discovery and its gift of magic in the middle of a very hard place have remained as detailed as every bit of love and care that someone spent building it for us to find.

For those who want to know what happened next: Dad and I resolved our differences and grew closer again. I never found out who built that fairy town. But I still wonder why it appeared in my life at just that point and I remain grateful and filled with wonder that it did.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, WITH MY DEEPEST THANKS TO MY READERS AND FOLLOWERS. MAY THE COMING YEAR BRING ALL OF YOU DISCOVERIES OF SANDCASTLES WHERE YOU EXPECT THEM LEAST AND WHEN YOU NEED THEM MOST.

NOTES: Text and Photos ©2022 Jadi Campbell. The township of Cranberry Lake has a whopping total of 126 inhabitants. Finding a fairy castle and town built on the island there was nothing short of a miracle.

My books are Broken In: A Novel in Stories, Tsunami Cowboys, Grounded, and The Trail Back Out.

Tsunami Cowboys was longlisted for the 2019 ScreenCraft Cinematic Book Award. Broken In: A Novel in Stories was semifinalist for the international Hawk Mountain Short Story Collection Award from Hidden River Arts and Finalist for Greece’s 2021 Eyelands Book of the Year Award (Short Stories). The Trail Back Out was American Book Fest 2020 Best Book Award Finalist: Fiction Anthologies, Runner-Up for the 2021 Top Shelf Award, 2021 IAN Book of the Year Award Short Story Collection Finalist, and awarded a 2021 Wishing Shelf Red Ribbon. The title story The Trail Back Out was longlisted for the 2021 ScreenCraft Cinematic Short Story Award.

Click here for my author page to learn more about me and purchase my books.

Category: Relationships

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