SF premiere: let the Lunafest season begin

Posted on September 20, 2014 by Patty

I do not wish them [women] to have power over men; but over themselves.
– Mary Wollstonecraft, 18th century British writer, philosopher, and feminist, from A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

The Palace of Fine Arts, host of the Lunafest premiere.

This past Thursday marked the start of the Lunafest 2014-2015 season, with the premiere being held at the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco and six members of our Lunafest East Bay Committee in attendance. LUNA, makers of the Whole Nutrition Bar for Women, established the film festival in 2001 to “simultaneously promote women filmmakers, raise awareness for women’s issues, and support women’s nonprofit organizations throughout the U.S. and Canada.”

Kit Crawford, co-founder of Clif Bar & Company with her husband Gary Erickson, co-chief visionary officer of the company, president of the Clif Bar Family Foundation, and strategic advisor to Lunafest, welcomed a full house to the film festival, whose tagline is “a film festival by, for, about women.” Kit entreated us to “celebrate women in film and stories that connect us all” and called the collection of eight short films “intelligent, funny, and thought-provoking.”

The all-female mariachi band Flor de Toloache, which is the subject and title of New Yorker Jenny Schweitzer’s short film, serenaded the audience.

Six of the Lunafest East Bay Committee members: so this is what it feels like to have a “red-carpet moment.” I’ll take it!

As special guest, award-winning filmmaker and former Lunafest filmmaker Jen McGowan gave a spirited presentation. McGowan studied as an actor at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts and as a director at USC’s MFA program. She has won awards for her short films from Women in Film and the Caucus Foundation, and was a nominee for the Clint Eastwood Filmmakers Award. Her first feature-length film, Kelly & Cal, which stars Juliette Lewis and Cybil Shepherd, won the Gamechanger Award at the South By Southwest (SXSW) Music Conference and Festival. IFC Films released the movie in select theaters September 5th. We were treated to a trailer, and the film – with its tagline of “outcasts in life, allies in suburbia” – looks like a good one to catch when it expands to other markets.

A full house attended the premiere!

As part of USC’s First Team Project, which fosters projects for their alumni, Jen had received positive response for her work. But it was an “out of the blue” phone call from two producers who were looking at indie film festivals and saw her short film from Lunafest 2011 that helped propel an already-rising career. Despite the accolades, Jen lamented these facts, reported by Indie Wire: independent films make up only 10 percent of films made today, and only 5 percent of indie films are directed by women. She called the low percentage of female indie directors, despite women being the majority in our population, “stereotypical.” “It’s bad for our culture, and it’s bad for women and men,” she declared.

“Expectations come from our stories,” she told the audience. Jen pointed out that we need to rewrite the narrative and change the story arc, and just as important, “we can all contribute in a unique way.” Women writers need to tell a good story, film directors need to seek out those stories, and producers need to fund those films and get them in front of audiences. And we, Jen emphasized, need to respond to women filmmakers’ work. “We need your support,” she said. “We filmmakers don’t work in a vacuum.” How we, the audience, responds, will help rewrite the narrative. Heed this call to action!

We were treated to a spread of wonderful finger food and wine.

A spread of wonderful finger food and wine awaited us upon our arrival.

Jeanne Rizzo, RN, president and CEO of the Breast Cancer Fund, also spoke. The Breast Cancer Fund is the major recipient of Lunafest’s fundraising efforts. Jeanne, who is so full of energy, gave an uplifting presentation. “Have confidence that stories are legitimate,” she told us. She also inspired us to be proactive and to demand change, wisely noting that “you never get what you don’t ask for.” Jeanne pointed out that the word “no” is not negative but represents the status quo. “Keep searching for yeses,” she proclaimed, which will aid in rewriting the next pages of the story.

Jeanne encouraged all of us to be successful without sacrificing our values and be self-sustaining and be good for the people with what we do with our lives. “We all have the capacity to change the story that we live,” she insisted. “Your name is on this moment. Step up or walk away.”

Filmmaker Susana Casares of Los Angeles poses by her film poster for Tryouts.

Filmmaker Susana Casares of Los Angeles poses by her poster of her film Tryouts.

Of the eight filmmakers, two are from the United Kingdom, one from Spain, and five from the U.S. (Los Angeles, Palo Alto, New York, Cambridge, and Kansas City). I’ll profile the eight short films when we host our East Bay Lunafest on Saturday, March 21st. Save the Date! Having seen five of the films during the screening and selection process in late spring, I noted that while the surprise factor – which is often accompanied by a sense of wonder and magic – had been erased, I caught little moments that I had missed the first time, which enriched my experience with the films.

Filmmakers Emily Fraser and Katherine Gorringe pose with their leading lady in their short film Lady Parts.

Kansas City filmmaker Lyn Elliot discusses her film A Good Match with one of our committee members.

This season’s Lunafest will be shown in 170 cities, with an anticipated 25,000 attendees witnessing and sharing stories by women storytellers. As our Lunafest program noted: “We all have a story. Film is an inspiring way to bring those stories to life – to connect and build community. Lunafest is a film festival by, for, and about women dedicated to building community through the power of film and through the power of story.”

Join us for our magical evening on March 21st!

Good night, Palace of Fine Arts! Thanks for a great evening of artistic expression, storytelling, community, and empowerment!

Good night, Palace of Fine Arts! Thanks for a great evening of artistic expression, community, and empowerment!

Labor Day Weekend: you can go home again

Posted on September 13, 2014 by Patty

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.
– Pascal Mercier, pseudonym of Peter Bieri, Swiss writer and philosopher, from Night Train to Lisbon

For years, we have traveled to my hometown of Terra Bella to celebrate the San Esteban Circle’s Labor Day Weekend festivities. My late father and his cousins – my uncles – hailed from the coastal village of San Esteban, which has a view of the South China Sea and is part of the province of Ilocos Sur on the Philippine island of Luzon. My father’s cousins settled in Terra Bella, a rural farming town in the Central Valley of California, in the 1950s after World War II. In 1955, they founded the San Esteban Circle, a club that offered social activities and financial and other kinds of support for its members. Our family moved from Los Angeles to Terra Bella in 1965 after my father’s doctor recommended that he leave the city for the country for his health.

Lechon – traditional spit-roasted suckling pig – is a staple at Filipino banquets.

The Filipino community in Terra Bella has always been a tight-knit group. Most of my aunts and uncles picked grapes in the summer and in the wintertime the women packed oranges at the local packing house. We were a small band of kids attending the elementary school and trying to fit in. On Saturday – after everyone came home from the fields or packing house – and Sunday afternoons, my relatives congregated at one home to play mahjong and card games and eat an abundance of Filipino food. The host house rotated every week.

On Labor Day Weekend, the San Esteban Circle hosts luncheons and a big dance, which raises funds and concludes with the coronation of a queen and her court, at the local Veterans Memorial Building. As kids, we were forced to attend the long evening in starchy dresses, but I admit that I was fascinated by my relatives’ supreme confidence on the dance floor with ballroom dances such as the cha-cha-cha. They transformed themselves, changing out of their farm worker attire and into their embroidered barong Tagalog shirts and traditional gowns with butterfly sleeves. As teenagers, we participated in the “box” dance fundraisers, in which long lines of relatives would dance for two seconds and deposit a cash donation with the treasurer at the front of the main hall. The girls and later women got half of the proceeds. Not a bad haul for dancing for 15 minutes!

As an adult I came home Labor Day Weekend because aside from Thanksgiving and Christmas, it was the only time I could see my relatives and catch up with my cousins in one place. We took the kids, though their connection to the community has always been tenuous because I didn’t bring them down as much as I should have, in retrospect. As a family we went to one dance, which was fun. Imagine older Filipinos doing the line dance to Bill Ray Cyrus’s Achy Breaky Heart. But then the next year the kids and David begged off, so Janet and I only attended the luncheons from then on.

The dance in 1997. My mom is sixth, from the right. I'm next to her, and Janet's mom, Auntie Virgie, is on the other side of me.

The dance in 1997. My mom is sixth, from the left. I’m next to her, and Janet’s mom, Auntie Virgie, is on my left.

Two years ago, we celebrated Janet and Tim’s anniversary in Cambria, on the Central Coast, where they were married over the Labor Day Weekend. While everyone had a great time, I secretly missed my once-a-year touch with my Filipino heritage. However, I also had a reason to not go down, especially that year, as I’ll explain later. In 2013, we didn’t visit because Janet and Tim were dealing with family matters. When we came down this year, I wasn’t planning on attending the luncheon. When my mother passed away in early January 2012, in our grief, my sisters and I failed to let our relatives in Terra Bella know in a timely way many decisions we had made concerning our mother, most notably our decision to release her from her excruciating pain and have her remains cremated and honored in a quickly put together memorial – not in our hometown but in Folsom, where she lived the last of her 15 years of life. Another decision that our relatives were upset about was having her remains rest in Folsom, rather than in Porterville, the next town over from Terra Bella, where our dad’s remains have rested since he passed away in 1995.

At the time, the anger from our relatives confused and upset me. We were grieving and our grief clouded our decisions. Why were they not honoring our wishes and decisions? They clearly had their own ideas of how things should have been done. Not too long afterwards, I looked at the situation from their viewpoint. Even though my mother married into my father’s family, she was embraced by the community. While not one of the first to settle in Terra Bella, nonetheless we were one of the original families. At the time of her illness, my mother was one of the last remaining members of the community’s generation, although she no longer lived in Terra Bella. (She came down for the festivities nearly every year, as my sister and I took turns driving her down.)

One of our aunts was especially angry. To appease our relatives, who were too frail to travel and especially on such short notice, we put together another hasty memorial for our mother at the church where we were baptized and held our first communion and confirmation. Our aunt sat in the back of the church, on the opposite side of the pews where my sisters and I sat. She came late to the luncheon. She did not look at us and when she had to respond to us, she was stony faced and curt. We sat uncomfortably among our relatives during the luncheon, watching the slide show that my nephew had created for my mom’s memorial, unsure of what they were saying about us because our parents never taught us Ilocano and we just never picked up the language to understand the spoken word. Our relatives thought it wrong that we had cremated her and were horrified to learn of our intention to scatter her ashes, which they felt was akin to separating parts of her body. We learned that the Catholic Church, while it recently accepted cremations, requires internment of the ashes.

50th Anniversary of the San Esteban Circle in 2005. My mom with her walker, recovering from back surgery, and Auntie Berta next to her.

My Auntie Leonore, who was once married to my mom’s brother, hosted the first anniversary luncheon in January 2013. We sat through the luncheon, awkwardly trying to make conversation with our relatives. We just had nothing to say. After that, I thought to myself, I can no longer come home again. I will never attend the festivities now that my mom is gone and we are not members of the San Esteban Circle. We are not really part of the community anymore. Two years passed.

Over this past summer, my sister had cleaned out her home and dropped off boxes and bags of items for me to give to Auntie Leonore. We had planned to visit just Janet and Tim this Labor Day Weekend. I called Auntie Leonore the day before we left so I could get her new address to drop off my sister’s things at her house. But she wouldn’t give her address and insisted that I attend the luncheon, where she was going to help with the cooking. She wanted me to be there. I told her I wasn’t sure I would be welcomed, but she insisted that nobody was angry. Come and be a part of the community again, she entreated.

So Janet and I came, with great trepidation on my part. I saw the one aunt who was the angriest of the group. She is 91 and still driving. She is the last remaining aunt of the first generation. I wasn’t sure how she would respond, but when I gave her a kiss and a hug, she held on to me and smiled. We ate lunch with my cousins and spent the next couple of hours catching up. I recognized a few faces, but saw more strangers. Attendance had been dwindling for years, but this year it was paltry, which one of my cousins explained why. Many years ago, after I had left, the second generation created the San Esteban Schools Alumni Association to meet the needs of the younger crowd. The two clubs collaborated and at some point a new tradition emerged, with each club hosting its own dance during the long weekend.

Many of my cousins came for my mom’s memorial in Folsom, January 2012. Isabella’s first photobomb!

Last year, the clubs promoted their candidate. At the conclusion of the dance, the San Esteban Circle’s candidate, who had garnered the most donations, was crowned, but the Alumni protested. Apparently, someone had forgotten to include a donated check so once that check was tallied, the Alumni’s candidate became the eventual winner. The following day, the San Esteban Circle Board met and declared that late donations and checks would no longer be accepted. An uproar ensued. The two clubs split, never to work together again. The Alumni chose a different time of year to have their dance and took the bulk of the attendees with them, with the San Esteban Circle membership dwindling.

We all laughed at the story with knowing glances. Family feuds seem to be part of the culture, with elephant memories feeding the feuds. I was overjoyed to reconnect with my cousins and joke about Filipino stereotypes and reminisce over long ago memories. We all remembered when Uncle Doman – not really our uncle but we called everyone uncle or manong, a term of respect, back then – was chased out of our house by relatives after being caught cheating at rummy. To this day, I remember playing in the front of the house, hearing an uproar inside, and seeing Uncle Doman flying out the door, barely escaping the wrath of my parents and my aunts and uncles. He was never allowed to play again.

Janet and I couldn’t stay the entire afternoon. Before we left we requested a group photo of us cousins. We had Auntie Berta sit in the middle, the centerpiece of the photo. By chance, I ended up sitting next to her and leaned into her so everyone could fit in the frame. As the photographer adjusted the camera, she grasped my hand and gave it a hard squeeze. I kissed her on the cheek, her squishy cool skin. I squeezed her hand, hands that had picked grapes and packed oranges for decades, just as my mom had, and my heart danced.

My cousins and Auntie Berta at the San Esteban Circle luncheon, 2014.

A Vintage Labor Day Weekend

Posted on September 10, 2014 by Patty

To travel is to shop.
– Susan Sontag, literary theorist, novelist, filmmaker, and feminist activist, from The Volcano Lover: A Romance

For years we have spent Labor Day Weekend traveling to my hometown of Terra Bella, attending our Filipino community’s festivities and celebrating my cousin Janet and her husband Tim’s wedding anniversary with a gourmet dinner prepared by David. Two years ago, we broke tradition and celebrated their anniversary in Cambria, on the central coast of California, where they were married 14 years ago and Jacob attended his first wedding at age three months. Last year, due to family issues, we stayed home. This year, we happily returned, stuffing our dog, Rex, and his dog bed in the back seat of the car with the kids for the 4.5-hour trek.

A scene from the mural “Orange Harvest” of the 1930s by Colleen Mitchell-Veyna and Morgan McCall, 1996, SE corner of Pine and E Streets, Exeter, CA.

Among the many reasons we enjoy going down to my old stomping grounds is immersing ourselves in a bucolic existence. Although this visit David had to bring his technical drawings with him, we usually leave our work at home. We are far removed from the urban/suburban world and, while unwinding and relaxing, we revel in the small-town environs – slower pace, quiet. Through the years, we have established traditions and with this visit we added a new destination point.

Detail from mural “Packing Ladies” by Colleen Mitchell-Veyna, 1997, 119 S. E. Street, Exeter, CA. This is what my mother used to do for decades at our local orange packing house in Terra Bella.

The mural “The People Behind the Label” by Chuck Caplinger, 2000, 251 E. Pine Street, Exeter, CA. My mother also picked grapes in the summers.

The Orange Works in Strathmore, just up the road from Porterville.

Good eats
Growing up here, I never sought out good restaurants that best reflected the local culture. Now we rely on Janet and Tim for best places to eat. Chaguitos (1393 West Olive, Porterville, CA 93257, 559.782.1230), a favorite Mexican restaurant and panaderia, serves authentic Mexican food. Janet introduced us to Chaguitos’s tres leches cake, a sponge cake soaked in evaporated milk, condensed milk, and heavy cream. Unfortunately, when we swung by to pick up dessert for Sunday’s dinner, they had sold out. We were denied tres leches cake this time around, but we made sure to not miss another favorite sweet treat.

Janet and I headed up Highway 65 to meet Tim, David, and the kids at the Orange Works Café (22314 Avenue 196, Strathmore, CA 93267, 559.568.2658), a very popular roadside café right off Highway 65, on the way from Porterville to Exeter. The Orange Works Café is part gift shop, offering jars of jams, jellies, honey, flavored butter, seasoned olives, and other edibles made from locally grown produce. They serve sandwiches for lunch, with the tri-tip being one of the most popular, and an equally popular iced tea with a twist of orange flavor. But that’s not the prize in our eyes – it’s their homemade ice cream, a winning combination that’s part soft ice cream and part sherbet. The café is closed on Sundays and Mondays, so if you’re in town on the weekend, you have to endure the long lunch lines and get there before they close at 4pm. I’ve not had their strawberry, ginger, peach, or mango ice cream because I am so over the moon with their trademark orange ice cream, which is made with fresh, sweet local oranges – think natural orange creamsicle. I’m told they make pomegranate ice cream in the fall.

Gone in 60 seconds!

The Orange Works Café’s Facebook page alerts fans to what new concoction they will served on that day and future days – pumpkin, Almond Joy, grape, cinnamon, pineapple, lime, cantaloupe, and confetti birthday cake are just a few of the creative choices. You don’t have to trek 250 miles to experience orange ice cream or any other flavored ice cream, however, because they ship! I don’t know what the rates are, but rest assured I will definitely find out this fall. I may end up finding another favorite flavor or two. If you happen to sample their soft ice cream, let me know what you think. If you do make the trek, bring a cooler and buy dry ice for your drive back to enjoy the ice cream long after your trip to the Central Valley.

This old barn – Good Goods’ main building of antiques and vintage goods.

Vintage shops: old and new
Every time we come down, we make a pilgrimage to Good Goods (30924 Road 168, Farmersville, CA, 559.594.5765 or 559.280.2498) to see our friend Jim, proprietor of this wonderful vintage and antique shop. Through the years, we have bought some great finds, including an 1880s walnut dresser and mirror, a mannequin that shows off my necklaces, jewelry stands, 1950s sterling silver tray, circa 1950s coasters, and more. If I had room in my house, I would have bought one of his reclaimed vintage tables – the tops, made from thick strips of wooden lanes from a shuttered bowling alley in Fresno, resting on antique or vintage industrial metal bases such as 1930s school lockers. Jim was making these tables long before they were chic. He remembers us and the fact that I’m on holiday over Labor Day Weekend.

From Good Goods, we made our way to another traditional vintage stop, By the Water Tower Antiques (141 S. B Street, Exeter, CA 93221, 559.594.4060), which is jam-packed with such items as fruit company labels and signs, kitchen utensils, tools, garden art, and furniture. The shop is located in downtown Exeter, which features numerous murals depicting agricultural workers in the vineyards and orange groves, women working in the packing houses, cattle drives, poppies and lupines, local Yokut native Americans, harvests, food labels, old downtown, and other scenes from a bygone era. You can take an informal walking tour to see all 29 murals (three of which are shown above).

The inviting entryway to Rose Petals and Rust.

Janet then introduced me to a fairly new shop that she discovered in downtown Exeter. Rose Petals and Rust (158 E. Pine Street, Exeter, CA 93221, 559.592.3960), which offers vintage and new home décor and gifts, and refurbished furniture and custom-painted pieces, is now on our must-visit-when-we-are-in-town list. We met co-owner Jodi Giefer, who graciously let me take pictures of her beautifully curated shop and with whom we had a terrific conversation around the love of vintage and antiques.

I was smitten with the reclaimed vintage jewelry made by Laura Mason Borum, a jewelry designer from Exeter who specializes in pearl and vintage spoons. A big rack displays her necklaces, charms, and bracelets. Janet was patient with me as I admired many of her creations. You will want to carve out an unhurried afternoon to spend at Rose Petals and Rust to check out all the treasures and decide which ones you will be taking home with you. I’m looking forward to coming back again. Thanks for a great welcome to your store, Jodi!

Scented candles, soap, and potpourri.

Variations on a glass pumpkin for fall.

Mannequin love.

Rose Petals and Rust’s inviting French country ambience.

My treasures - vintage silverware with intricate scrollwork and drop pearls.

My new treasures – vintage silverware with intricate scrollwork and drop pearls.

September 8, 1965: 49th anniversary of the Delano grape strike walkout and an excerpt

Posted on September 8, 2014 by Patty

September 8, 1965. That was when about 1,500 Filipinos went out on strike against the grape growers in Delano, California.
– Pete Velasco, Filipino-American activist and Treasurer of the United Farm Union

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

One of my aunts picking grapes, summer 2005.

Today marks the 49th anniversary of the walkout of farm workers from the vineyards in Delano, California. It is a historic day not just for Filipino Americans – whose forefathers struck for better wages and working conditions – farm workers, and the labor movement, but it’s a historic day for every American. The day before, September 7th, members of the Agricultural Workers Organizing Committee (AWOC) took a vote to strike and in the early morning of September 8th, AWOC members sat down in the fields, walked out, or did not go to work.

In honor of that day, I offer an excerpt from my novel, A Village in the Fields, Chapter 11: Empty Fields, Empty House (Delano, September 1965-May 1966):

“Friends, come out of the fields! Join us in our struggle! We must all be together to succeed!” Fausto shouted from across the road. When the workers didn’t respond, he cupped his hands to his chapped lips and repeated in Ilocano, “Gagayem, rumuar kayo amin! Masapol nga agtitinulong tayo! Tapno makamtan tayo ti karang-ayan!”

Benny grabbed Fausto’s arm and squeezed it. Fausto imagined that his own face mirrored the mix of surprise and giddiness on his cousin’s face as they watched their fellow pinoys drop their clippers and slowly stream out of the fields. The sun was rising, though the air was cold and the sky tinted pink. Fausto stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. Benny stamped his feet to keep warm. By midday, the sun’s full strength would scorch the earth. When their countrymen crossed the road, Fausto and Benny threw their arms around them, congratulating them for their bravery, but the look in their eyes told them they were not yet convinced they were doing the right thing. None lived in the Cuculich camp or had attended any union meetings. Fausto recognized a handful as regulars at the pool halls and barbershops in Delano; they were local workers, some with families—not the migrant pinoys who had struck down south.

“You heard about the strike in Coachella, eh?” Fausto asked the group of men. “Our countrymen struck for ten days in the spring and the growers gave in. Some of these pinoys have come to Delano expecting the same wages. But the growers here are only paying a dollar ten. Is that fair to any of us?”

All eyes were on Fausto as they shook their heads.

“Then we must fight back!” Benny said. “We must strike for what is fair.”

“But what if the growers doan give in?” an elderly pinoy with milky eyes asked. “I seen what happen in the lettuce fields when nobody backs down.”

“The pinoys who struck down south don’t live here like we do,” another one said.

“Delano is our home. We don’t want our town mad at our families.”

“I have a wife and four kids,” a man in the back called out. With his gray hair, he looked to be the same age as Fausto and Benny. “We cannot feed on uncertainty.”

“Can you guarantee us the strike will end soon?” a stubbly faced pinoy demanded.

“We make sacrifices now to secure our future, manongs.” Fausto hoped that by using the term of respect manong to mean brother they would be more comfortable around him. “All we are asking for is decent wages and a union contract. If we can get all our brothers out of the fields—maybe a thousand today, two thousand tomorrow—then we have power. The strike cannot survive more than ten days. The growers cannot afford to lose their whole crop.” As the men looked at the vines thick with leaves, the ripe berries pulling down the branches, Fausto said, “Two years ago, these growers paid more than any other place in California. This year they are paying less. Do you have such short memories? They are paying less because they can, manongs. Ai, think with your heads!”

“We want the growers to sign contracts to guarantee us fair wages,” Benny said, when the men stared at Fausto in silence. “We are asking for one forty an hour and twenty-five cents a box. This is what you all deserve, manongs. Please listen to us.”

“Then what do we do now?”

“Where do we go?”

“My boss, Mr. Radic, will kick me out of camp,” the milky-eyed pinoy said.

“Manong, how many years do you have left in the fields?” Fausto asked in a gentle voice. When the old man shrugged his shoulders, he went on, “I heard Radic kicks out old pinoys when they can no longer work. He tells them his bunkhouses are not retirement homes or hospitals. He’s not keeping you in his bunkhouse out of charity! He has been overcharging you for years, making money off of you! Will it matter if he’s angry with you?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Manong, Radic has deducted ten cents every hour you worked in his fields for how many decades now? You own that camp!”

The old man began to weep in his hands, the dirt on his fingers turning muddy. Fausto pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the old man’s eyes.

“I don’t live in Radic’s camp,” the man with the family spoke up, “and I got years of work ahead of me, but I cannot afford to have Radic mad at me.”

Fausto told them thirty farms were being picketed. “Go find work for the growers who are not on the list,” he said. “When the strike ends, then you can go back to Radic.”

So far, he and Benny had avoided scouting and picketing the Cuculich farm. As owner of one of the largest farms, Mr. Cuculich employed hundreds of workers. If all of them left, Larry Itliong told Fausto, the strike would end sooner. Fausto argued that Mr. Cuculich was not like John Depolo, who had a reputation for having the most workers suffer from heat exhaustion and heat stroke. But to Larry, all the growers were the same. Larry advised Fausto and the other pinoy AWOC members to picket the farms of other growers to avoid being punished by their long-time bosses once the strike ended.
The idle workers shifted their feet, hands deep in the pockets of their jeans, waiting for Fausto to speak. “With your help, the strike will end soon,” he assured them.

“Go! Go now!” Benny said, and waved his arms to shoo them away.

They herded them toward the small lot of cars by the shoulder of the road and stood there until everyone piled into their cars and the caravan drove away.

“Can it be this easy?” Benny said to Fausto, as the last of the red taillights disappeared around the corner of the road.

“Ai, nothing worth fighting for is easy. This will be a long journey,” Fausto said.

Down the road small bands of picketing AWOC members—all pinoys, including Prudencio, Ayong, and Fidel—hung around Frank Radic’s property, but Fausto wanted to head back to the Filipino Hall, AWOC’s headquarters. The morning of the strike, Ayong told them the hall was filled with veterans—elderly pinoys who had weathered strikes in the lettuce and asparagus fields since the nineteen-twenties—and farm workers, many with families, who had never engaged in strikes or other union activity. The newcomers were eager to help, but they needed to be educated. Even Fausto didn’t know what to do beyond picketing farms and getting his countrymen and strikebreakers out of the fields.

Benny slapped his palms together to warm them up. “Maybe later we’ll picket the packing sheds and the cold-storage plants along Glenwood Street.”

As they walked to the Bel-Air, a pickup truck veered onto the shoulder of the road and shuddered to a halt inches from Fausto, who stood with shaky legs. He recognized the man with sideburns who hopped out of the cab as one of Frank Radic’s sons. Benny stepped back as the man raised a shotgun above his head, but Fausto didn’t move.

“Get off my land!” Clifford said, pumping the shotgun like a dumbbell.

Fausto pointed to the vineyards across the street. “We are not on your land.”

“Don’t act like you know more than me!” Clifford said.

“All we are asking for is a decent wage,” Benny managed to say.

“You ought to be working like every red-blooded American in this country!” Clifford swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his skinny neck. “My great grandpa was a sharecropper, but he built this business from the ground up by himself. Now you’re trying to cheat our family without working hard yourself!”

“The government gives growers water for free and these farms live off the sweat of the braceros, Chicanos, Filipinos, blacks, Puerto Ricans, and Arabs.” Fausto spoke in a loud voice to drown out his thrashing heartbeat. “This is how these farms grew.”

Clifford worked his mouth open as if he hadn’t expected an old Filipino farm worker to know anything beyond picking grapes and pruning vines. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” He raised the shotgun high in the air and pulled the trigger.

Fausto shook his head to stop his ears from ringing. Benny grabbed his arms and their eyes met, but Fausto brushed off Benny’s hands and the fear in his cousin’s face. As picketers rushed toward them, Clifford hurled the shotgun through the open window of the cab. He revved up the engine and spun the pickup truck around, spitting out dirt beneath the fat tires, before rocketing onto the blacktop and down the road.

“Are you okay?”

Fausto recognized Ayong’s voice, his friend’s knotty fingers on his shoulder. He nodded, though his numbed neck felt as if the Radic boy had aimed for his throat.

“This is not good,” Benny whispered.

“I’m going to cut off that sonavabeech’s balls off with a bolo!” Prudencio sliced the cold air with his straw hat, as other pinoys gathered around Fausto.

Fausto raised his hands. “They’re angry because they’re scared. If enough workers leave, they will lose the whole harvest. They will not risk such a loss.”

“But even if they raise our wages, they will still be angry and harm us somehow,” Benny said in a quiet voice. “I’m afraid.”

Fausto gave Benny a withering look. “If you are afraid, then don’t show it.”

“Listen to Fausto,” Fidel Europa said, leaning in.

“Listen to us all!” Prudencio clapped Benny’s shoulder. “They can break us if we are weak and scared. So be strong, manong. Let us all be strong.”

The pinoys, grim faced and silent, raised their fists above their heads as they retreated to their cars. Prudencio and Ayong were going back to the Cuculich camp to check up on their bunkmates, who had refused to leave camp for work. As Fausto and Benny left, they passed rows and rows of berries hung low on the vines. Like Mr. Cuculich, Frank Radic would not let his grapes be picked until they were sweet. Let them drop to the earth, Fausto entreated. Let them drop until the growers given in. Let the flies be more plentiful in the fields than the rotting grapes and the vanishing workers.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

Philadelphia’s ‘historic square mile’

Posted on August 25, 2014 by Patty

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.
– Benjamin Franklin, writer, philosopher, scientist, politician, patriot, Founding Father, inventor, and publisher

Majestic Independence Hall.

One of the main reasons I wanted our family to visit Philadelphia was to touch and feel our country’s history. We spent every day of the Philly portion of our trip in what is called Philadelphia’s most “historic square mile.” The first recommended stop is the Independence Visitor Center (1 North Independence Mall W, Philadelphia, PA 19106, 800.537.7676), which opened in 2001. This destination is where you purchase tickets to museums, carriage rides, walking tours, and events. Two theaters and exhibits provide more historical context, and the information center, gift shop, bathrooms, cell-phone charging stations, and cafe fulfill the rest of your needs.

Independence Hall and Liberty Bell
Both exhibits are free, but you have to get tickets to get in. Independence Hall (520 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, PA 19106, 215.965.2305), which is across the street from the visitor center, is called the centerpiece of the Independence National Historical Park and the birthplace of the United States. Here is where the Declaration of Independence was adopted and the Constitution was debated – over which George Washington oversaw – drafted, and signed. A nice stretch of lawn runs the length of the hall to the National Constitution Center, providing a place for people to hang out and protest and to take photos. Construction of the Georgian-style Pennsylvania State House began in 1732, but the building wasn’t completed until 1753. We walked through the hall, learning about the different branches of government (congress was upstairs and the senate was downstairs).

The room where the Declaration of Independence was signed.

The original House of Representatives room.

Liberty Bell, not too crowded but with feet!

As impressive as Independence Hall was, I thought the Liberty Bell was more meaningful for me, likely because it was right there before my eyes (though we couldn’t touch it, of course) and its symbol of freedom rang across time. I thought I knew the history of the Liberty Bell, but I really didn’t. Our Benjamin Franklin walking tour guide told us that he was giving a tour and happened to be near some German tourists who had exited from a short film about the Liberty Bell. He said he was surprised to see one of the men crying and he later came to the realization that he associated the country’s two dark moments in history – slavery and the Holocaust – and the Liberty Bell, with its crack, was a reminder that we came face to face with that ugly truth and keep the symbol front and center so as never to forget. Indeed, it is called an “international symbol of freedom.” The bell was hung in the State House in 1753 and served as summons for the Pennsylvania Assembly to work. It cracked in 1846. It was in the 1830s, however, that anti-slavery groups named it the Liberty Bell. The exhibit that leads you to the bell chronicles the different stories and times where liberty was fought for, including the issues of slavery, voting, even Apartheid.

Site of the first White House.

Foundation of the first White House.

President’s House Site
The most interesting thing I learned from the Benjamin Franklin walking tour called “Franklin’s Footsteps” (215.389.8687) was the story of the building of the visitor center. About eight years ago, the site of the first President’s House was discovered when the grounds were being torn up. Further excavation revealed the foundation of the home. But the most astounding discovery was documents and artifacts that exposed the enslavement of at least nine Africans during President Washington’s stay there. At the time, Pennsylvania was a free state and it was decreed that any slave brought into the state had to be freed after the sixth month. Washington skirted the law by sending the slaves back to Mount Vernon and exchanging them for new slaves. An outdoor exhibit features a glassed area exposing the foundation, flat-screen monitors of dramatizations of slaves living at the White House, and detailed timelines and storyboards.

Carpenters’ Hall hosted the First Continental Congress in 1774 and home to Franklin’s Library Company.

The National Constitution Center
The National Constitution Center (Independence Mall, 525 Arch Street, Philadelphia, PA 19106, 215.409.6600), otherwise known as The Museum of We the People. It is the first and only institution in the country established by Congress (and signed by President Reagan) to “disseminate information about the United States Constitution on a non-partisan basis in order to increase the awareness and understanding of the Constitution among the American people.” The “Freedom Rising” theatrical presentation introduces the birth of the Constitution and precedes the interactive and largest part of the center.

The National Constitution Center with the Mendoza Molar, our dentist and friend’s Flat Stanley contest to take a summer vacation photo with the molar.

The exhibit, The Story of We the People, is utterly fascinating, if overwhelming. This exhibit surrounds the centralized theater 360 degrees. A future exhibit on President Obama was currently under construction. The interactive stations provided background on issues that led to the Constitutional articles and amendments being drafted. This can easily take up an entire afternoon, if not day. It’s a lot of information to digest, but if you do deep dives on a handful of issues, you begin to appreciate the power of not only the Constitution but the notion of self-government. Again, I must say that I figured this was another museum where we would power through, but I found myself drawn to various stations, learning things about this precious document. I also couldn’t get the tune from Schoolhouse Rock about the Constitution….

“Slavery at Jefferson’s Monticello” is a sobering exhibit (through October 19th) focusing on, as the guide who greeted us said, a part of history that isn’t typically highlighted in a museum. But, he went on, it is an important part of our history that we all need to know – the disturbing paradox of Thomas Jefferson, who espoused liberty but remained a slave owner his entire adult life. This exhibit is a narrative of six slave families who lived at Jefferson’s plantation. Sally Hemings is the most well-known, but we also learned about the Fossett, Granger, Gillette, Hern, and Hubbard families and the stories of how their descendants fought to bring those stories to bear. Nearly 300 artifacts bring to life the world of these six families and their trades.

Carriage ride of the historic square mile over cloudy skies.

‘Franklin’s Footsteps’ walking and horse-drawn carriage tours
As I mentioned earlier, we took one of the several walking tours available. Our guide, Clark, was quite the character, and that’s not because he dressed the part. We were reminded of Benjamin Franklin’s greatness pretty much everywhere we turned. We toured the first post office, which he established. And a park dedicated in his name with a bust made of keys that were donated by the children of Philadelphia.

Benjamin Franklin bust made of house keys donated by children at a small open-space park, one of many in the city.

Christ Church against blue skies and billowy clouds.

Christ Church Burial Ground where Franklin is interred.

Christ Church and Burial Ground (5th and 6th Arch Streets) is a recommended destination point because it is the final resting place for Benjamin Franklin, five signers of the Declaration of Independence, 10 Philadelphia mayors, early medical pioneers, Revolutionary and Civil War heroes, victims of Yellow Fever, and Christ Church members into modern times. The cemetery was established in 1719 and more than 4,000 people are buried in its two acres. Only 1,300 markers remain, with some marble markers with illegible wording accompanied by plaques with original inscriptions. In 1864, Edward L. Clark, the warden of Christ Church, was thinking of posterity when he compiled a book of the inscriptions. From afar, the thin tablets look like ancient teeth. Because of the rain that fell that one day during our vacation, we had the burial ground almost to ourselves. By the way, grave rubbings are not allowed.

Trees tower above the soft marble tombstones.

Quiet stroll in the rain.

On our carriage ride, we were treated views to Washington’s Square, a six-acre open-space park. Before the Revolution, the park served as a burial ground for the African-American community and after the Revolution, it was the final resting place for victims of Yellow Fever epidemics. A monument to Revolutionary soldiers and sailors was dedicated in the mid-1950s. The Tomb of the Unknown Revolutionary War Soldier features a bronze statue of Washington and an eternal flame. It is not known whether the soldier was British or Colonial. It’s reported that an unknown number of bodies still remain buried not only in the square but in the area, which makes for interesting findings during construction and maintenance projects!

Washington Square’s monument to the unknown Revolutionary soldier.

The house where Jefferson penned the Declaration of Independence.

Our carriage took us by the house in which Thomas Jefferson penned the Declaration of Independence, which is a very narrow but tall brick structure. Our carriage guide informed us that fees were assessed by how wide your property was – but not how tall. Also, many of the charming colonial homes’ three stories represented the Holy Trinity. Many brick homes boasted window boxes overflowing with flowers and plants, brightly painted doors, basement doors in the front, and metal signs indicating that they were insured for fire damage. William Penn and his surveyor Thomas Holme designed the grid system and strategically placed public squares with wide streets. Penn had witnessed the damages to the London fires and wanted to ensure that Philadelphia, which means in Greek “brotherly love,” did not share a similar fate in case of fire.

Alas, we bypassed going into Betsy Ross’s house. Our guide told us that her son began telling stories about his mother, leading all to hear that she designed the country’s first flag. On the contrary, our guide noted, Betsy Ross sewed the first flag but did not design it. Somehow that was the deciding factor in just taking a photo of her house from the inside, especially when we had to decide what sites we could reasonably see in our time here.

Betsy Ross’s house.

Our zany guide, Clark.

We learned so much I’m sure I’ve not retained as much as I can remember. I leave you with this one funny story that our guide, John, told us. Atop City Hall is an enormous statue of William Penn, whom King George granted 45,000 acres in the New World for 16,000 pounds to retire a debt to his father. Penn didn’t want to name the colony after his father, but King George demanded him of it. At 548 feet, City Hall and statue combined was the tallest habitable building in the world from 1901 to 1908. Penn’s statue alone is 37 feet. A gentlemen’s agreement forbidding the Philadelphia Art Commission from approving any skyscraper to exceed the height of City Hall was defied when One Liberty Place went up in 1987. Up until that time, the City had enjoyed numerous championships by the Phillies, Flyers, and Eagles. However, after the agreement was broken – called the Curse of Billy Penn – all three teams experienced years of failure. In June 2007, a small statue of Penn, along with a miniature American flag and evergreen tree, were placed atop the newly built Comcast building, which then became the tallest building in the City. And in October 2008, the Philadelphia Phillies won the World Series – many players of whom we saw play just a few evenings before.

The 700-room City Hall with William Penn watching over the city.

Westbrae Nursery and Flowerland: flowers and treasures

Posted on July 11, 2014 by Patty

A garden to walk in and immensity to dream in – what more could he ask? A few flowers at his feet and above him the stars.
– Victor Hugo, French poet, playwright, novelist, essayist, visual artist, statesman, human rights campaigner, and leader of the Romantic movement in France, from Les Misérables

I have been going to Annie’s Annuals (740 Market Avenue, Richmond, CA 94801, 510.215.3301) exclusively to purchase my flowers for a few years now. Looking for new inspiration, I decided to go to a couple of nurseries that I hadn’t gone to in a long time and ones that are much closer to me than Annie’s Annuals. Good thing. Not only did I find healthy plants at good prices, but I also found garden treasures.

Westbrae Nursery is tucked away in a mixed residential and business district.

Westbrae Nursery
Westbrae Nursery (1272 Gilman Avenue, Berkeley, CA 94706, 510.526.5517) is located in north Berkeley and a short 10-minute drive for me. The nursery has a great selection of bushy, healthy-looking plants. Scattered throughout the lot is beautiful pottery for container gardens and inside is a great selection of wall art and artistic gifts. The staff is friendly and helpful. And I found lots of big dahlia plants.

A colorful and welcoming entrance.

Westbrae has a nice selection of annuals and perennial plants.

Flowerland
While I have been to Flowerland (1330 Solano Avenue, Albany, CA 94706, 510.526.3550) before, I never paid much attention to the inside shop of the nursery. Surely I would have noticed such a well curated shop before, so maybe it has been renovated since I’ve been there years before. At any rate, what a wonderful surprise from the inside out.

One side of the store front of Flowerland – plant a rainbow, indeed!

Colorful bistro tables and chairs welcome you to Flowerland.

Vegetable plants are housed in the top right of the nursery under strings of light.

Beyond the grasses is the vegetable area of the nursery.

First the garden part of Flowerland. I remember Flowerland to be much smaller, so what a pleasant surprise to see the vegetable section, a wide array of terra-cotta pottery, brightly colored bistro tables and chairs. And a retro airstream trailer that has been converted to a café called Local 123 that serves coffee, tea and ice pops.

A sleek silver retro travel trailer is parked in front of Flowerland, serving ice pops and beverages.

Rusted retro chairs invite gardeners to sit for a spell and enjoy an ice pop.

An uber cool retro travel trailer.

The shop itself is charming, reminding me of the eclectic shops in places like Wicker Park in Chicago and Brooklyn. Earthy jewelry, terrariums and succulents, vintage-inspired toys, garden books, greeting cards, miniature garden accessories, gardening tools, vases, and more! My photos don’t do the shop justice, so you’ll have to go in and take your time in the tiny but packed shop. My only complaint is that staff could have been friendlier. But when you find unexpected treasures, once you’re home with them and have found a place in the garden for your gem, that’s all that matters.

The find – a carved ring (displayed on a candlestick) with a smooth wooden band. And also (not shown) a vintage-inspired tin wind-up toy of a carnival airplane ride.

Rustic shop with nature’s gifts.

An inviting shop filled with garden décor and garden-inspired gifts.

A cabinet full of earthy jewelry.

The Dress at 50

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