The Influence of Popular Culture (Part 2 of 3)

This week I am reading a biography of the songwriter Paul Simon (Robert Hilburn, Paul Simon: The Life, Simon & Schuster, 2018), which has inspired creative thoughts regarding this business of fiction and nonfiction.  In my post yesterday, I suggested that either, or perhaps both, of the following contradictions are true:

Consider the song, “Like a Bridge Over Troubled Water,” with its sad and soothing, and ultimately hopeful, lyrics.  Paul Simon, who was known for being slow in writing and recording new music, describes this song as flowing through him, quickly and beautifully.  

He also states that the opening lines were memoir:  “I like the first lines of a song to be truthful, and those were . . . I was feeling weary because of the problems with Artie [Art Garfunkel, Simon & Garfunkel] and other things.  I was also feeling small.  But then the song goes away from memoir.  It comes from my imagination” (143).  

Simon further describes how his own awareness of himself helps him to be empathetic with others:  “I’ve always been able to feel what it’s like to be on the outside even though I’ve kind of been at the center of things in my own life” (143).  

When you’re weary, feeling small

When tears are in your eyes

I will dry them all

I’m on your side

When times got rough

And friends just can’t be found

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

When you’re down and out

When you’re on the street

When evening falls so hard

I will comfort you

I’ll take your part

When darkness comes

And pain is all around

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

All of this is lovely and perfectly understandable.  But then he describes the third verse, which came to him, also quickly, but much later in time, just as Simon & Garfunkel were in the studio ready to record the song.  This verse is one which has often perplexed listeners.  

In 1970, when I was 12 years old and this song was a hit, I loved Simon & Garfunkel.  I played their music on the piano, and sang (for no one, in my living room).  That third verse, though — didn’t know what it was about, but it was nice, and fun to sing.  

This week, while reading this book, and learning the autobiographical impetus to that third verse, I’ve reread this verse over and over, and spoken it out loud, and shivered, and felt immense gratitude to Paul Simon.  

Here’s what he tells us.  The morning before coming into the studio, Paul Simon’s soon-to-be wife found grey hairs in her head and was deeply upset.  This experience was on Paul’s mind when he wrote these lyrics:  

Sail on, silver girl

Sail on by

Your time has come to shine

All your dreams are on their way

See how they shine

If you need a friend

I’m sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind.  

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.   While I loved the song anyways without knowing this meaning, I love it so much more now.  It has a story!  

Admittedly, I wouldn’t have identified much with that story in 1970, at 12 years old.  However, today, I can’t even begin to describe the beauty.  To think that in 1970, a man would have written a song to an aging woman (or, at least, a woman who felt she was aging) to show her that the best part of her life is still to come — gosh, wow.  

Well, I think I can say that in 1970, this was not an oft-heard message.  And, today, yes, things are much better, but, still, this is a great message to hear.  I’m 62 years old, and I can tell you that Paul Simon was right — Our time has come to shine, and our dreams are on their way, and we only have to allow ourselves to see it.  And we might not be as alone as we think.  

We don’t always need (or have a right) to know the autobiographical underpinning of a creative piece.  But, in this case, knowing it has transformed the song for me.  

But, you might ask:  Lisa, is the song nonfiction?  Is it fiction?  Or is it neither?  Or both?  

And what about our TV Series Fargo (written about in yesterday’s blog post)?  Well, that’s easy, that’s fiction, baby, pure fiction.  Right?  The people are made up and exaggerated; the setting is in a real place but seems fantastical.  The plot is not only made up, but is also, in fact, ridiculous.  Still, it’s well-written and it’s unbelievably well-filmed and acted.  

And here’s what it’s telling us overall:  

This writer (Noah Hawley) wanted to say that; he had a reason to say that; that reason certainly springs from real life.   If we knew more about his life, we would probably understand what he saw or experienced that caused him to want to write a show which delivers this message.  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It’s a silly thing, really, this effort to try to make something this or that, fiction or nonfiction.  And who cares — if we like it, we like it.   

But for those of us writing about real people, it is something we think about all the time.

I’m writing a book about my ancestors in Rochester.  The history of these people, and the places they lived, and the times they lived in, is intensely researched.  The backbone of my book is based upon vast historical records.  Nonfiction.  

However, I’m drawing these people as characters.  I’m attempting to create the characters as close as I can to what I think they were like, based upon the historical information I find.  But there’s always an element of guesswork, especially when it comes to character.  How can I be sure that they were really like this?  Maybe I’ve got it wrong.

Furthermore, I’m creating scenes here and there.  In

Otto center, top row, with his family, circa 1905
(photo courtesy Gary and Jacque Fraser)

fact, I’m creating a break-up scene with Otto and Emma, who had a short-lived, tragic marriage, begun in 1887, and over by 1889.  I don’t, in fact, know where they broke up or how they broke up.  But I know where they lived, and I know what it looked like at that time, and I know the factors that probably led to the breakup (and what happened afterwards), and I know approximately when they must have seen each other for the last time.  And so I’m making up a scene, set in NYC, on a specific street and in a specific building.  It dramatizes them, helps us to feel them as people who once actually lived.  It seems the right thing to do.  

I hope I’ve got it right.  But I might be wrong.

Most of the book will be straight from history — history is so fascinating that you really don’t have to add to it or make it up.  Most of the book is true (hopefully).  But some of it is guesswork.

Am I writing fiction, or nonfiction?  

Have a listen to "Bridge Over Troubled Water," from the 1982 Concert in Central Park. And, btw, I WAS THERE!!!!

The Influence of Popular Culture (Part 1 of 3)

Roger realizes a cherished childhood memory
is actually a scene from an old movie

A couple of years into my full-time pursuit of research and writing about my ancestors and their lives here in Rochester in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, I began to have an idea of what I was about.  I knew that I wasn’t really a good genealogist, but that I was a very good family and local historian, with the goal of becoming a very very very good storyteller.  

To my mind, a genealogist looks for historical records to document the people in their family trees, as especially gleaned from vital records — when they were born, baptized, married, had children, died (and more, of course).

A Family Historian, who is essentially a Local Historian, aims to find the historical records which tell us about what those people did and what happened during their time period and in the places they lived.  

Historical records — facts — are merely fragments, bits of information (which are all too often incorrect, by the way).   As we find these facts, we can’t help but build stories in our minds.  We ask ourselves:   Why would she do that?  Why did they leave Germany?  What was he like — was he a nice man?  

And this movement from genealogy and history towards storytelling causes us to consider the tension between nonfiction (should be true) and fiction (we make it up).  Much more can be said about this, of course.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This week, my husband, Bob, and I are binge-watching the TV Series Fargo, which begins each episode telling us that this story is true, and that it happened in 2006, and that the names of the survivors have been changed, but that otherwise the story is told as it happened.   Of course, as you watch the TV show, you know that this is a lie, that it never, in fact, happened.  But — it’s a good story, anyways.  

Fargo (the TV series) is, in fact, about storytelling itself.  Consider Season 1, Episode 8, and a scene which I call, “How to Build a Story.”  

The new Chief and Molly (Deputy Solverson) are trying to solve several murders, including those of the former Police Chief and the wife of a local citizen named Lester Nygaard.  To do so, they build stories/theories about what happened.

The Chief grabs his theory quickly and wants to believe in it because it solves problems.  He does not enjoy the act of building a story.  He becomes frustrated when presented with evidence which potentially negates his theory, and so he holds onto his story even when it doesn’t make any sense.

His theories are always based upon archetypal stories, which he grabs and misapplies.  

It was a drifter, he says, maybe more than one, who broke into Lester’s house and killed the wife and the chief.  There is not only no evidence to support this, but there is evidence to counter this.  

The Chief likes the drifter story, but, eventually, he has to give in and admit that it was wrong.

What does he do then?  The Chief simply believes other archetypal stories.  He says that Lester’s brother killed Lester’s wife in a jealous rage because they were having an affair.  (The chief just happened to be there, and that’s why he got killed.)  And he continues —  Lester covered for his brother because he was afraid of his brother’s temper. 

Drifter.  Jealous lover.  Brother fearing brother.  Archetypal stories.  

Molly is aghast.  She tries to present evidence; all she wants is to be reassigned to the case.  But the Chief has already celebrated the arrest and so he shuts her down.   

So Molly turns to the other, in her mind related, unsolved case, and asks about it.  The Chief has also attached an archetypal story to this murder:  Sam Hess was killed by his stripper/prostitute’s jealous boyfriend.  It is simply another jealous lover theory, but the problem is that there is no evidence that the stripper/prostitute even had a boyfriend.

Molly is desperate to get back on the case.  Not only is she a good police officer and so wants to do a good job and find the real murderer, but the murdered Police Chief was her friend, and his pregnant wife is also her friend — this case personally matters to her.  She is invested.  

Molly builds her stories from evidence, from the record of facts, for which she doggedly searches.  To make sense of her facts, she draws the evidence on white boards (or windows), with boxes and arrows and notes and pictures.  And when she tries to explain the evidence, we can see how difficult it is to create a story from fragmentary facts, how to find the relationships, the cause-and-effects, the motivations — the plot that should naturally result from the evidence.

Over time, we see how Molly builds a  “working story,” but when presented with new facts which counter, she then has to look again at all the evidence, draw new arrows and boxes, make sense of it all.  Bit by bit, she will get to the truth (or at least to a better truth than the Chief’s).  

And one more interesting scene follows in which Molly is with her friend, the wife of the police chief who has been killed.  The wife has been depending upon Molly to “stay on” the case, to make sure that the killer has been found.  

 The chief is still celebrating his recent arrest of the alleged murderer, and the wife expresses her relief to Molly that it’s all done now.  Molly is frustrated and mutters, “But . . . the evidence . . .”  She wants to say more, but she sees in her friend’s eyes that her friend needs this story, feels better believing that her husband’s killer has been found and will be punished.  So Molly holds back.  

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Let each of us consider this business of storytelling — (1) how we build our stories, and (2) what these stories mean to others.   

When we write our family stories, we want them to be true; we want to tell what really happened (a goal that perhaps can never really be reached, by the way.)  

But we also want them to be good stories — entertaining stories, stories with morals perhaps.  

The more I immerse myself in history (nonfiction) and stories (fiction), the more I think that nonfiction either doesn’t exist at all, or that perhaps the opposite is true — all fiction is nonfiction.   

  But that’s another story.  

Invitation - Join us at Rundel Library, Saturday, November 9, 1-3pm

Let us take a moment and notice these photos.   Photos of beautiful people.   Proud people.  Our fellow citizens.  

These are members of, and relatives of, the Dinkle family, an African-American family who has lived in Rochester for 150 years.  And they are the subject of a current exhibit — Everyday People:  The Dinkle Family and Rochester’s African-American Past — at Rundel Library’s Local History Department.  

In my most recent post (too long ago -- I apologize -- I'll try to do better), I told you about this family, and this exhibit, and my connections to them and it.  Read the blog again, won’t you?  Just scroll down a bit and you’ll find it. 

And, then, after you’ve read it, make plans to join us for a Reception celebrating this Exhibit — it is this Saturday afternoon, November 9th, 1-3pm, on the 2nd floor of the Rundel Library.  Everyone is welcome!

I’ll be there, and my friends Karen Dinkle Bunton and Jerry Bunton will be there, and members of their family and the wider community.  

Consider this:  the stories of the lives of African-Americans in Rochester over the past 150 years are, sadly, stories that are not told often enough, not recorded often enough, in local histories.  It's time for this to be remedied.  

Come and join us — for fun! — and to experience the Dinkle Family and their part in the history of the City of Rochester, NY.   Everyone is welcome!  Make sure you say hello to me!  

Everyday People -- Exhibit at Rundel Library

It is the 1910s, and these boys have recently won cross-country races sponsored by the YMCA.  The Rochester photographer, Albert Stone, working for the Rochester Herald at this time, has lined the boys up and taken their photo, and it will be printed in that week’s paper.  

   Notice the proud boy in the middle, standing so straight and tall, looking directly into the camera, looking directly at us.  He is Jonathan Theorius Dinkle, and he has won the 1-1/4 mile race for the No. 3 School.  

What will happen to young Jonathan Theorius as the years unfold?  Well, I can tell you.  In 1918, he will be awarded the Silver Marksman Medal from the Winchester Junior Rifle Corps.  In 1919, he will enlist in the United States Navy, probably lying about his age, saying he was born in 1901, making him 18 years old — his birth certificate shows that he was, in fact, born in 1903.  Jonathan wanted to serve his country, and to travel, and he didn’t want to wait.  

Jonathan T. Dinkle, 1930s

In 1923, he was living on Turpin Street and married Aldean Clemons.   Here is Jonathan T. Dinkle in the 1930s — a handsome fellow, to be sure.  

        By the 1940s, he had set up a taxicab business on Clarissa Street, the first such business by an African-American in Rochester.  And then, in 1968, Jonathan Theorius Dinkle passed from this world.   But he left behind his children, who have also passed from this world, but who also left behind their children.  One of them, a granddaughter of Jonathan Theorius Dinkle, is my friend, Karen Dinkle Bunton.  

Jonathan Dinkle, 1960s

In 2013, shortly after I moved to Rochester (that story and the strange coincidence involving my apartment is told in this earlier blog posting Living in the Past) with the intention of researching and writing about my ancestors, the musical Dossenbachs, I met Karen’s husband, Jerry Bunton, at a Memoir Writing Course at Rundel Library.  Jerry read stories to our class about his African-American family, who had arrived in Rochester during the Great Migration of the 1950s.  Jerry told me about his wife’s family, who had lived in Rochester from the 1870s, the same time my own family had settled here.  

Soon, Jerry and Karen talked to me about their family stuff — papers, photos, artifacts — which they had packed away in tubs in their cellar.  For the next year or so, I badgered them, yes, I did, I badgered them about getting their stuff out of the cellar and letting me look at it with them, so Karen and Jerry could share the stories which their stuff told about the Rochester that I wanted to learn more about.  

In 2015, we began our two-year journey of meeting weekly (mostly), and taking the stuff — we now called it “archives” — out of the tubs.  We organized it; I photographed it and catalogued it.  Bit by bit, piece by piece, I learned the story of the Dinkle family in Rochester.  And a grand, marvelous story it was.   

It is a tale well told at a current exhibit on the 2nd floor of Rundel Library, called “Everyday People:  The Dinkle Family and Rochester’s African-American Past.”  And this is what this blog post is all about.  I urge all of you to visit Rundel Library, which is always a pleasure in and of itself, and to see this exhibit — the posters, the printed information, the photos and artifacts in their glass cases. 

Exhibit at Central Library, 2nd floor Local History in Rundel

The Dinkle family was connected to many of Rochester’s important historical events  — Rochester servicemen in WWII, the Boy Scouts in the Third Ward, the first bookstore dedicated to selling African-American books, the FIGHT organization, Malcolm X’s visit to Rochester shortly before he was killed, and the silent march after Martin Luther King’s assassination.  

Add Exhibit at Central Library,
2nd floor Local History in Rundel

While you ponder the Dinkle family, consider your own family, and the stuff that you or other relatives have stored away somewhere, in boxes or tubs or file cabinets, perhaps in the attic or basement or junk room, perhaps in a rented storage facility.   And remind yourself:  it isn’t merely “stuff”; it is, in fact, archives.  And these archives tell stories not just about your family (although I can guarantee you that your family members did marvelous things, accomplished much, survived tumultuous times), but they also tell stories about places, cities, time periods.  Your family archives are the evidence of what happened, what it was like — they remind us of worlds long gone.  (Consider this:  even our own childhoods happened in worlds long gone now, right?)  

        In 2018, I showed the photos of the Dinkle/Bunton archives to Christine Ridarsky (City Historian) and Michelle Finn (Deputy City Historian) at the Central Library, and, shortly thereafter, introduced them to Karen and Jerry Bunton.  Christine and Michelle were thrilled and fascinated.  Since then, Michelle has worked with Karen and Jerry to understand the artifacts, and to clarify the details and the people’s relations to each other, all leading to the current Exhibit, and soon Christine will consider how to store and preserve much of the Dinkle family archives for future historians.    

Jerry and Karen Bunton at Lake Ontario in 2014

Many thanks to all of the good people — the Dinkles and the Buntons and your relatives and my relatives — who lived and who left behind evidence of their lives! 

Thank you to Karen Dinkle Bunton and Jerry Bunton for lovingly shepherding their family collection and for all their ongoing efforts to remember their relatives.

And a great, big thank you to the historians, librarians, and archivists at the Central Library at Rundel for presenting to us the Dinkle Family, everyday people who were part of history.   The exhibit was curated by the Local History Exhibits Team:  Michelle Finn, Emily Morry (who has written a lovely blog post on the exhibit which you can read at Local History ROCS!), Veronica Shaw, and (formerly) Amy Pepe. Corinne Clar (Library Graphics) created the design, and additional support was provided by Arianna Ackerman (Library Graphics), Christine Ridarsky and the library's Local History & Genealogy staff, and Wheatland Town Historian, Barb Chapman.   

        Bravo!  Bravo!  

        Go see it — today!  (You don’t want me to badger you about it, now do you?  Because I will.)  

Selfie Autobiography -- Abstract Portraiture at the MAG

Well, let's begin with a simply humorous caricature -- May 5th of 2019, Bob Jordan (my husband) and I, on the Massachusetts Turnpike, on our way home from a visit with my daughter and her family.  

Left:  Bob Jordan and Lisa.
Right:  Lisa in the NYS Thruway restroom, surprised and pleased with the fresh flowers on the sink.

We weren't even trying to look funny, well, maybe Bob was (because he is really funny), but I doctored the photo, overwhelming it with some color and contrast.  

And there we are -- two happy, goofy old people.  

Why shouldn't we all have a hearty laugh at ourselves? 

Laugh at us; laugh with us; it's all good.

    But now for a little science fiction, in the form of modernism.  At the end of April, I went to the Memorial Art Gallery with my good friend, Paula Marchese.  And a trip to the MAG always means a selfie in the blue glass (Josiah McElheny's "Blue Prism Painting I," 2014).      

                               

     Gazing at this selfie, for the purposes of this blog, has been a treat because I noticed what I hadn't noticed before, that the mirrors within this art cause pieces of me to appear here and there.  

     On the left, there are my hands around the camera, inverted from the way they are at center.  And in the center, there I am, like an angel (or Iago perhaps), hovering over Paula's shoulder, still clinging to my camera, the instrument of vision.  And there I am at far right, with my glasses, another instrument of vision, peeking out from the top of my head.  And look above in the center lines, and also at the corners -- my hands, always cradling the camera, dot the blue landscape.  

            

      Cubism, anyone?  What began as a simple selfie, turns into abstract portraiture, and I, lucky girl, become the subject of a cubist interpretation, in an art piece reminding us of a blue period, and reflecting art's past with the stained glass (on the right above) reflected from the opposite wall (I think).  

      How thrilling.   I imagine that I've been a subject for a Picasso painting, without ever having known Picasso.  (And not having known Picasso is not such a bad thing, for those who knew him did not always fare well in the aftermath.)  

     The places I have been, the things I have seen.  You too -- go to the Memorial Art Gallery.  Slow down and gaze.  To gaze is to see.  

      I'll leave you with some earlier visits to the MAG, with the ubiquitous selfies in the blue glass mirror art:  

Left:  in August of 2018, with my cousin Barbara
Right: in January of 2016, the Carl Peters Exhibition on display behind me

Selfie Autobiography: What the Selfies tell us

    In my last post (yesterday), I admitted to having become a rabid selfie-taker, and I also committed to posting some selfies every day, going backwards in time, and seeing what kinds of stories they tell -- perhaps creating a kind of Selfie Autobiography.

Lisa's female lineage:  great-great grandmother, great-grandmother, grandmother,
mother, me, daughter

    Selfies are, in fact, self-portraits, aren't they?  (Okay, it's true, sometimes they are merely, "look at me, look at me, look at me." It is not this aspect of selfies that fascinate me.)

   Consider this:  My selfies (and I presume yours too) fall into genres -- shadow selfies, merging-with-the-art selfies, seen-in-reflections-of-buildings selfies, abstract portraiture.

   And this:  the setting of selfies -- the background, the place -- is often more important than the visual they offer of the person.

Lisa in 2009 in Worcester, MA

    Consider the photo I posted in my previous blog, the first photo I dared to take of myself, a leap of faith at that time.  I placed myself in the corner of the photo and made sure that the living room was prominent.  I knew exactly why I was doing this -- all of the objects in my living room were expressions of new interests which were taking me in a different place than I had been.  In this photo, I'm not only telling the viewer, "here's what I look like at 51 years of age," but also, "I am a flea marketer; I like vintage objects which tell stories of the past; I love art, and I am just starting to love to paint."

    The following selfies, all taken in June of this year (2019), tell a story about that month's Rochester experiences.  And this is what is most essential about my selfies -- they are autobiographical; they are a map, a diary of what I have done here in this city which is most important to me.  Rochester is my fresh start, my second life.  Rochester is where my relatives, the Dossenbachs, lived, where they walked, where they played, where they laughed and cried.  Everything I do in Rochester has some relation to them.

6/19 Lisa and Kahlua at Ontario Beach Park

    Here is a shadow selfie, my dog Kahlua and I at Ontario Beach Park.  The Dossenbachs and their bands played at Ontario Beach Park from 1902 and throughout the next four decades.  In my book, I will tell many marvelous stories of their times in this park, back when it was known as the "Coney Island of the West."

    Above is another shadow selfie, a video.   I am in Fairport, a village on the Erie Canal, with a fascinating history.  Of course, the Dossenbachs played here (they played everywhere!).  In the video, I am walking towards the Perinton Historical Society, where I gave a talk last March, and where I intend to look more closely at their fascinating exhibits and a gorgeous Carl Peters mural.

06/2016 Lisa at the
Perinton Historical Society

    I also used the restroom in the Perinton Historical Society, and this is another selfie genre -- restroom photos.  These are great, because all restrooms have mirrors, but they are also tricky, because you can only get the photos if there is no one else in the restroom (otherwise, it is decidedly weird).  The Perinton Historical Society restroom is a treasure in and of itself, with a gorgeous hanging lamp and a vintage toilet paper holder; I've attached these to the selfie, for your viewing pleasure.

06/2016 Lisa reflected at bottom
of photo in the Powers Building

   Earlier in June, you could find me getting a tour of the Powers Building, where my Dossenbachs gave concerts and played for important meetings and dinners -- here I am reflected in the glass of a framed photo.  Now this is an unplanned selfie in that I only discovered afterwards (and, in that sense, it perhaps doesn't really qualify as a selfie at all, but then, there I am in the photo, anyways).

   Jazz Fest in June, and Bob Jordan and I were downtown.  I can prove it because of the photos (below) I took of us reflected in the glass of buildings .  (And for the life of me, I can't remember the name of this important building -- please tell me in your comments.)

06/2016 Lisa reflected in a downtown Rochester building
-- the insert at the bottom enlarges the Lisa part,
which is seen in the photo just above the right side of the insert 

06/2016 Lisa reflected on the right
and Bob on the left
during Jazz Fest downtown Rochester

 





      So this was part of my life last June, as viewed through the selfies I took, a month given towards dogwalking, history-searching, and music.   It is a wonderful life, to be sure, for this lucky and grateful local history researcher and writer, living day by day, in this place we call Rochester.

    More tomorrow.
 

A Facebook Beginning

    The story, as I've always thought it to be true, is that I never liked having my picture taken.  As an adult, I mean.  Avoided the photo opportunity, and hated myself in the picture when it couldn't be avoided.  Avoided the camera.

   That is, until digital photography, with its ease of picture-taking, so inexpensive.   At that point, I avoided being in the photo by becoming the picture-taker, being behind the camera.  A way to see the world.  A way to be in the room without being noticed or called upon for that dreaded small talk.

   When facebook came around, which, for me, was in 2009, selfies came with it.  What a horrid idea, I thought, how ego-driven, how vain.   But, then, I "friended" (how strange it was then to use this word in this way, but how natural it is today) a former college photography teacher, who couldn't quite remember me, and wanted to see what I looked like.  Why don't I post a photo of myself, he casually suggested.

   Alone, in my living room, I froze.  A photo of myself.  Well, even if I was inclined to do so, which I was not, I simply had no recent photos of myself.

   But, daily on Facebook, people were posting their selfies -- eating food, waiting in line at the movie theater, partying with friends, sitting on the couch with their dog or cat.  Daily, I gazed at these photos people had taken of themselves and shared with others.

   And, so, I found myself doing this extraordinary thing -- taking a photo of myself.  Planning the photo, thinking about the lighting, and my hair, and should I wear my reading glasses?  Turning the camera around and aiming it at me.

   And, then, this extraordinary thing happened.  I liked the photo.   It was me, this is who I was, me in my 50s in my living room.  I posted it to my facebook.  My first selfie ever (or so I thought, but that's another story).

   Well, that turned out to be a Pandora's Box.  I began taking selfies here and there, eventually everywhere.  Mirrors, glass, reflections in puddles -- there were selfie opportunities wherever I went.  Selfies are our "Kilroy was here" expressions.  We are here!  We are living day to day!  We are not ashamed.

   Today, I had this idea.  An autobiography by selfie.  What do the accumulated selfies say about me?  Am I really there?

   So, every day, for as many days as it takes, until there are no more left, I will post a selfie.  And, just for the fun of it, I'm going to go chronologically backwards in time, starting with today, and then finding myself here, there, in the yesterdays of yesterday.

   It's going to take a while, I warn you, so I will also occasionally post the Local History stories too.

   And so we begin at this beginning.  Below is the selfie that I posted that day in 2009 . . .

Lisa in 2009 in Worcester, MA

. . . along with some selfies which I took this morning (before I thought up this blog posting).

   Here's who I am.   Here's my barbaric yawp.

Above Center:  2019-07-21 Lisa reflected in a puddle in the parking lot of Mel's Diner
Above left and right:  2019-07-21 Lisa reflected in the car door