While Holocaust education will likely always be a piece of the patchwork quilt that is my life, California's sunshine has reminded me that I long to leave life-affirming literature as my legacy. True stories of heroism during those dark days qualify.
But it's not enough.
I've recently started taking inventory of the "other" stories mulling around my psyche. Characters I have enjoyed 'interacting with' as they grow and develop, as plot lines gel and dialog becomes audible. I had been so immersed in research that I had almost forgotten how stimulating the creative process can be.
By the end of this week, I should have chosen one of the works-in-progress below as primary project.
Joanie and Sid. I keep returning to this concept due to the continued and continuing unrest in the Middle East. It's my only sci-fi work-in-progress. The science fiction angle defuses the more sensitive aspects of the plot, permitting Gu-Shalom (peace now) arguments to be viewed from a detached perspective.
The protagonists explore the complexities of war and peace from the POV of high school seniors ~ knowledgeable enough to debate rationally, but idealistic enough to debate passionately. I love this story because it combines the unanswerable questions of the Shoah with the political aftermath we are still experiencing in 2009, and underscores how crucial it is to seek peace with reconciliation in order to break the cycle.
Hansi and Frog. My sentimental favorite, as it is based on the life and (Bavarian) hometown of my real-life friend, Hans Forster. Everyone needs a friend like him. This story encourages young adults to persevere in friendship, not to abandon relationships when they get hard, but to hold true friends close.
Every time I return to Hansi and Frog, I smile at sweet memories. But the danger with this story lies in making it too sweet.
Butterfly Lace. My personal version of Canterbury Tales, again based on my own real-life adventure. In reality, 23 of us were stuck in a hotel in Brussels for three days while our bankrupt charter airlines figured out how to get us all back to Texas. I remember the adventures we related to one another as if it were yesterday. The tales are too good and in some cases, absolutely hilarious!
Postcards. Well, I cannot do this one this week, because "the postcards" are in storage. Perhaps I could do background research in anticipation of retrieving them soon. I like the story, yet another one with basis in real life. Years ago, I bought a postcard collection in a small German town. Turned out that the postcards traced the courtship of a young couple from 1905 to around 1915, from his romantic notes to her as he was stationed in Munich, Bayreuth, and even Oostende (Belgium), to postcards from friends addressed to the newlyweds.
On second thought, while this story is fun to work on, "research" is something I'd rather not do right this minute. Later!
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Stories from China Beach
We had to run errands this week, errands that took us further afield than usual. Still unfamiliar with Los Angeles, we missed a critical turn, and before we knew it, found ourselves near the coast. Which was all right with us!
We decided to use the serendipitous wrong turn to our advantage, and eat somewhere on the beach. Traffic jams in Santa Monica convinced us to keep driving south. We exited in Venice Beach, new to us. A beach is a beach, right? Surely we could find something here.
But that boardwalk was barely half a step above totally disgusting. The air hung heavy with the stench of drugs, cigarettes, vomit, nastiness that would have made it impossible to enjoy a meal, even if we had found a decent enough diner. And we did not find a decent enough diner.
As we were giving up, about to head inland in search of an In-N-Out hamburger establishment, we spied a fellow carrying a load of fresh vegetables into a tiny eatery. Abundance of flowers hid the entrance. Without the vegetable man, we would have thought it was part of the liquor store next door.
China Beach Bistro. Vietnamese cuisine. Not something I am familiar with. How does it differ from Chinese, Korean, or other Asian menus? I didn't know. And didn't care. It was clean, pretty, food!, and at 2 pm on a Thursday afternoon, that was all that mattered.
For the next couple of hours, we were treated to more than a delicious meal. Hiep Thi Le explained La Lot, why lemongrass is considered healthy, and showed us how to use her homemade (not housemade) dressing on the rice noodles. We learned that housin is a sweet soy sauce, nicknamed Asian molasses. And that housin doesn't taste like Kikkoman soy sauce or molasses, but that it's exceptionally good when mixed with Hiep's dressing.
Hiep's mother helps her run the place, and she sat with us for a while, asking how my mother could look so young for her age ("I love you!," said Mom), hinting at life in Vietnam before the war ended there.
We heard the two women tell an impatient diner that China Beach is in Vietnam, not China, and that they did not serve sweet-and-sour sauce. We listened to young Vietnamese voices as they chowed down on Bun Bo Hue and Com Chien Ga, disappointed not at the lack of sweet-and-sour, but at the absence of a WiFi connection. The war in Vietnam was not part of their vocabulary, as it had been for Hiep Thi Le and her mother.
Despite a good two hours eating and listening, we left that tiny restaurant aware that stories abounded behind the smiling faces of the two ladies who cooked and served. Happy stories, and sad, and stories of homelands lost and new ones gained. Was America the Goldene Medina for them that it had been for immigrants of centuries past? I wish I knew.
We should hear all of these stories. They are all part of our wonderful American dream.
We decided to use the serendipitous wrong turn to our advantage, and eat somewhere on the beach. Traffic jams in Santa Monica convinced us to keep driving south. We exited in Venice Beach, new to us. A beach is a beach, right? Surely we could find something here.
But that boardwalk was barely half a step above totally disgusting. The air hung heavy with the stench of drugs, cigarettes, vomit, nastiness that would have made it impossible to enjoy a meal, even if we had found a decent enough diner. And we did not find a decent enough diner.
As we were giving up, about to head inland in search of an In-N-Out hamburger establishment, we spied a fellow carrying a load of fresh vegetables into a tiny eatery. Abundance of flowers hid the entrance. Without the vegetable man, we would have thought it was part of the liquor store next door.
China Beach Bistro. Vietnamese cuisine. Not something I am familiar with. How does it differ from Chinese, Korean, or other Asian menus? I didn't know. And didn't care. It was clean, pretty, food!, and at 2 pm on a Thursday afternoon, that was all that mattered.
For the next couple of hours, we were treated to more than a delicious meal. Hiep Thi Le explained La Lot, why lemongrass is considered healthy, and showed us how to use her homemade (not housemade) dressing on the rice noodles. We learned that housin is a sweet soy sauce, nicknamed Asian molasses. And that housin doesn't taste like Kikkoman soy sauce or molasses, but that it's exceptionally good when mixed with Hiep's dressing.
Hiep's mother helps her run the place, and she sat with us for a while, asking how my mother could look so young for her age ("I love you!," said Mom), hinting at life in Vietnam before the war ended there.
We heard the two women tell an impatient diner that China Beach is in Vietnam, not China, and that they did not serve sweet-and-sour sauce. We listened to young Vietnamese voices as they chowed down on Bun Bo Hue and Com Chien Ga, disappointed not at the lack of sweet-and-sour, but at the absence of a WiFi connection. The war in Vietnam was not part of their vocabulary, as it had been for Hiep Thi Le and her mother.
Despite a good two hours eating and listening, we left that tiny restaurant aware that stories abounded behind the smiling faces of the two ladies who cooked and served. Happy stories, and sad, and stories of homelands lost and new ones gained. Was America the Goldene Medina for them that it had been for immigrants of centuries past? I wish I knew.
We should hear all of these stories. They are all part of our wonderful American dream.
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