A writer's journal ~ Musings
on my muses and meanderings, my questions and quandaries, my fatigues and failures,
and once in a periwinkle blue moon, on that which takes flight.
~ by Tammi J Truax
I have been working with children all of my professional life, and it continues to be important to me. Today I represented writers at the annual career day at the middle school my children attended, and really enjoyed my time with the eighth graders. One young man came up and shook my hand after. I was struck by how polite and engaged they all were. So I am really looking forward to my next gig, one that I've been anxiously waiting to announce until all of the ducks were cued up. I have been asked to be the poet in residence this year at Portsmouth High School. The Buffler Residency in Poetry is sponsored by the Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program thanks to an endowment from the estate of our city's first poet laureate, Esther Buffler. I have a vague memory of Esther Buffler, but know her poems and her reputation. I am honored to carry on her work. I intend to wear a wacky hat when I work with the kids, and hope that they will join me. Read more about Esther here; http://www.seacoastnh.com/Famous-People/Link-Free-or-Die/poet-esther-buffler/ You might be able to hear her on this fifteen year old link; http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1048872
In honor of Bloody Sunday I wrote today in my just-about-finished historical novel about the black man's right to vote.
I had not known when I began my research for this book that the struggle began as early as the time period that I am writing of (1780 to 1850). All of the characters in my book were real people. Every single one of them. Without question the most remarkable life story I have put together is that of William Costin. He is mentioned in an old excerpt below, one of the few historical accounts of this man's so very noteworthy life, in The Freedmen's Book, an abolitionist work originally published in 1865. (That is a worthy read and is available free on kindle.)
Today, I worked the quote by John Quincy Adams into my novel, that it might be remembered.
You will learn all about Costin's contributions to our country in my book. Here is his image, commissioned by The Bank of Washington upon his death, further evidence of his accomplishments.
Page 220 from THE FREEDMEN'S BOOK, byLydia Maria Francis Child:
WILLIAM COSTIN.
MR. WILLIAM COSTIN was for twenty-four
years porter of a bank in Washington, D. C.
Many millions of dollars passed through his hands, but not
a cent was ever missing, through fraud or carelessness. In
his daily life he set an example of purity and benevolence.
He adopted four orphan children into his family, and
treated them with the kindness of a father. His character
inspired general respect; and when he died, in 1842, the
newspapers of the city made honorable mention of him.
The directors of the bank passed a resolution expressive
of their high appreciation of his services, and his coffin
was followed to the grave by a very large procession of
citizens of all classes and complexions. Not long after,
when the Honorable John Quincy Adams was speaking
in Congress on the subject of voting, he said : " The
late William Costin, though he was not white, was as
much respected as any man in the District ; and the largo
concourse of citizens that attended his remains to the
grave as well white as black was an evidence of the
manner in which he was estimated by the citizens of
Washington. Now, why should such a man as that be
excluded from the elective franchise, when you admit the
vilest individuals of the white race to exercise it ? "
Yesterday was Presidents' Day, and the New York Times published an op-ed piece that has been getting a lot of traffic on the world wide web, entitled George Washington, Slave Catcher, complete with an eye-grabbing graphic of the General riding upon an enormous iron-shackled hand, a hand carrying him forward.
It is an important article and I'm glad it is going viral. I admire Professor Dunbar's work. But the article, in its brevity, tells just part of a much bigger, and more important story. Ultimately, it is the story of the making of America.
And since I'm making that claim, I will take this opportunity to officially announce that the life story of Ona Judge Staines, from her birth in a slave cabin at Mount Vernon to her death in fugitive slave cabin at Greenland, NH seventy-five years later is the basis of the 125,000 word novel I have been working on for over two years and am finishing this winter. It truly is a remarkable story, so rich in characters that I had to invent none. Places and events are all real and familiar too, though they are of a long ago that is much less familiar. I so look forward to sharing it with the world.
Your Valentine deserves a copy of this humorous love poem by Longfellow, which I released last year in this beautiful new version brilliantly illustrated by beloved Portsmouth, NH artist Bob Nilson. Contact me or the Portsmouth bookseller you heart emoticon. (The link below is for the eBook.) http://www.amazon.com/Poets-Tale-Lady-Wentworth-Illustrated-ebook/dp/B00G6R06IC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1423683479&sr=8-1&keywords=lady+wentworth+the+poets+tale
Interesting that today I wrote a new poem for the first time in a couple of months, and then received word that I have been nominated to be the next Portsmouth (NH) Poet Laureate. I am a bit like the proverbial bridesmaid, though without a funky dress, regarding the laureateship. This time, though, I no longer qualify as I have moved to the other side of the Piscataqua. Still it is wonderful to be nominated, and I humbly thank whoever took the time to honor me that way.
I went to see and hear Natasha Trethewey speak at my Alma mater this week. I was already a fan of her work, and had been looking forward to the talk entitled "Changing the World One Poem at a Time: Using the arts as a tool for understanding difference and as a catalyst to explore complex topics such as race", so central to the research and writing I have been doing.
But something happened during the talk. I'm not at all sure what it was. But Ms. Trethewey, simply by sharing herself with her audience, became my favorite poet. I realize that sounds silly and simplistic, and will attempt to explain.
My writing, both prose and poetry, is more often than not, an exploration of issues of race. My poetry, like Natasha's, often looks at snippets of history and / or art, to try to make sense of my own life and the America I live in. I have always been more drawn to narrative poetry, and consider myself a story teller, but I aspire to something more. Something she has voiced about herself as a writer as in this quote;
“[I am] a poet interested not only in the sounds of language and in its beauty, but in its ability to help us deal with our most difficult knowledge and help us move towards justice.”
I am especially interested in working with the concept of historical amnesia that Natasha talks and writes about, and much of my own work seems to be an exploration of that.
Her comments on that subject have inspired the following poem from me today. It is brand new so will be reworked several times before it is finished. It occurs to me this morning that this childhood memory, that has always stayed with me, may have been the very beginning of my own excavations of what came before me and what created me. Yet I would not have written this without Natasha's influence on me this week.
Visiting Gettysburg
I was so little
that I remember little.
Only boundless rolling knolls
of luxurious green grass.
A perfect place for family fun.
But I think I had a child’s sense
that the beauty was false.
A sad secret rippled beneath.
Not the green of the grass
or the blue of the sky, but red.
A cold clotted river of loss,
mixed by bayonets and shovels.
Men, women, and children,
black, white, and native,
union, confederate, objector.
All co-mingling together forever…
beneath my skipping Mary Jane’s.
I breathed the false exquisite beauty
of boundless rolling knolls
of luxurious green grass.
Tammi J Truax. All rights reserved.
The favorite writer status she has with me now is not just about me admiring her as a writer. It is at least as much about me seeing her as a teacher. I endeavor to write the way she does; with great honesty and courage, but in stunningly beautiful words and forms. Considering the chasm between our accomplishments in that regard, this is a daunting task, and I have a lot of work to do!
I share this video of Natasha talking about her work on Native Guard which caught my attention because one of the dozens of books I've read this year for research on my historical novel was Dr. Mutter's Marvels by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz. I was not aware of this museum.
Finally here is a video of Natasha reading her poem Incident.
Well, you probably already know I am a serious word counter, and post my daily total on my Facebook page. You may also know that I have become a fan of writing retreats. It has actually been quite a long time (two years, feels like a long time!) since I have had a real vacation (not that I am opposed to that!) as I have been spending any travel money I have on retreats or research trips.
I am happy to announce that I have been accepted into one this winter which gives me something to look forward to as I hunker down here and finish up this first draft of my first historical novel. I hope to head up into the Green Mountains of Vermont in mid-March with a completed manuscript, and begin my revisions there. I think I can do it!
The retreat is called When Words Count and takes place at the farm pictured below.
Here is something I wrote recently following one of my weekends in NYC. This was originally published by Seacoast Media Group (Dec. 2014). I also took all of these photos.
Death Becomes Her
By Tammi J Truax
Vanity Fair called it “… a perfect little
black cocktail dress of a show…”, and I highly recommend it too. Now through
February first there is an exhibit at The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Anna
Wintour Costume Center which I recently visited, and knew many of you would be
interested in it. The exhibit is called Death
Becomes Her: A Century of Mourning Attire.
This exhibit really is a striking artistic as well as cultural display.
The detail and darkness of the garments are contrasted starkly by the white mannequins
wearing white wigs in the all-white gallery. White curtains and panels add a quiet
and slightly sacred softness to the large open space. There are about thirty
ensembles for men, women and children on display, along with accessories, quotes,
fashion plates and historical photographs.
The
history of mourning attire is fascinating as alluringly alluded to in this
quote from the exhibit’s curator Harold Koda, “The predominantly black palette of mourning dramatizes the
evolution of period silhouettes and the increasing absorption of fashion ideals
into this most codified of etiquettes. … The veiled widow could elicit sympathy
as well as predatory male advances. As a woman of sexual experience without
marital constraints, she was often imagined as a potential threat to the social
order.”
While
the wearing of black garments when in mourning dates back to ancient times,
this exhibit covers only a century of the tradition spanning the years from
1815 to 1915. That century, though was a period of time when mourning fashion,
as a part of grief expression, became very serious in our nation in large part
due to the overwhelming loss of life in the Civil War. While across the pond
all time champion mourner and fashion trend setter, Queen Victoria, donned an all-black
ensemble upon the death of her husband Albert in 1859, which she would continue
to do every day until her own death forty-two years later.
The more
common cultural requirement for wearing black during that century was two
years. These demands were focused on the female, but men had some requirements
to follow too. As evidenced by the elaborately designed ensembles in the exhibit
this must have been more than just an emotional drain on the bereaved, but also
a financial one. A considerable amount of money had to be set aside to have a mourning
wardrobe made, which of course, many war widows could ill afford to do. Poor
people would often resort to dyeing their clothes black so as not to defy
convention. There were stages of mourning dress as well; “full mourning” was
followed in due time by “half mourning” when a woman could begin to introduce
one or two other colors into her black outfits as long as they were not bright or
light. Shades of gray were considered safe.
After
the death of her son First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln was once reported to be
wearing “deep black”, the meaning of which seems inexplicable, but helps us to
understand how society judged the person by what she was wearing. There were
even expectations on the fabrics that should be chosen, with a preference for dull,
not shiny ones, such as crape.
I had
always assumed that a widow’s black clothing communicated only that she was
still grieving for the loss of a loved one. I was surprised to learn that these
costumes were also used to communicate her availability for remarriage, and
that suitors and busybodies could interpret when she could be remarried based
on the stage of dress. Veils, generally only worn when leaving the home, had
another variety of meanings for the onlooker to interpret.
While I
am greatly relieved that such harsh expectations have been eased, I do find the
study of them interesting. Unlike most museum exhibits, this one has a little
something for just about everyone. Death
Becomes Her is an enthralling look at our past that will be of interest to
both fashion and history enthusiasts, as well as all ilk of Goth folks and
ghost hunters. The exhibit can be seen seven days a week at the museum’s 1000
Fifth Avenue location in New York City which charges pay-what-you-can
admission.
Today on what would have been her 85th birthday I pen a tribute post to Grace Paley. A Jewish girl from the Bronx, Grace lived out her later years in Vermont. Shortly before her death in 2007 I had an opportunity to study with her at a New Hampshire workshop, but because of family obligations I didn't. I have not, and I'm sure I never will, stopped regretting that. Regrets torment me sometimes. Writing of them relieves the torment. Sometimes. So I embrace her words, the gorgeous, relivable legacy of a writer. Her prose and her poetry, but more often her advice. This is a favorite; “The best training is to read and write, no matter what. Don’t live with a lover or roommate who doesn’t respect your work. Don’t lie, buy time, borrow to buy time. Write what will stop your breath if you don’t write.” Though we suffered the loss of her, I am glad that she was spared living through recent events in our country which I think would have pained her deeply, as evidenced by the following quote given when she was asked of the world that she hoped her grandchildren would live in; "It would be a world without militarism and racism and greed – and where women don't have to fight for their place in the world." We can do better. We can bring more Grace to the way we live.
Still, we must not give up. As evidenced by these words she also left for us;
"Let us go forth with fear and courage and rage to save the world." And here in a 1992 interview Grace talks about her writing; http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2028/the-art-of-fiction-no-131-grace-paley
This is a painful week of Thanksgiving. The proudly American holiday of counting our blessings and of celebrating and sharing our abundance, occurring at the same time as all of the ugly truths and falsehoods in Ferguson remind us, yet again, of all that we have not accomplished as a nation. An ugly old legacy we just can't seem to process.
I don't want to add to the divisiveness, which is so severe, that maybe, just maybe, some good can come from it. So I'm not blogging on the subject to engage in debate, simply as a bit of reflection.
I just keep thinking of the Mom. Michael Brown's mother, Mrs. Lesley McSpadden.
I have a son who is 6.4 and 250 lbs. too. I've had some fears for him since he achieved that size. My son, too, did some stupid things when he was a teenager. Mine too had several "brushes with the law", (though his were for marijuana and nothing violent). And the law where I live always allowed, even encouraged, me to throw wads of cash at them as a resolution. Which I always did. I have never had to worry, or even contemplate, that he would be shot six times. Shot dead.
Sadly, I know many people will annihilate my analogy to justify the death, saying it was necessary and/or deserved. I have heard the arguments. They have accepted the old-as-the-Emancipation Proclamation self-defense testimony of a white man of equal size calling the suspect a hulk and a demon. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that that were true (though I don't find it all credible or even remotely believable in this case), we should still ask, we should still care, why? Why would any of that behavior have occurred? If the suspects were white youth what would have been different?
What if he were your son?
I'm going to share again the poem I wrote after the Zimmerman verdict, and am so sorry for the Browns. I wish them peace and comfort this week and always. What I know for sure is that while I can sympathize I cannot know their sorrow. I simply cannot know it. I can imagine it is unbearable, but I will never know.
My son and a friend in the back of my car a few years back.
Lastly, since my blog is supposed to be about writing, I leave you with this excerpt from a 1960 American masterpiece of literature;
“The one place where a man ought to get a square deal is in a courtroom, be he any color of the rainbow, but people have a way of carrying their resentments right into a jury box. As you grow older, you’ll see white men cheat black men every day of your life, but let me tell you something and don’t you forget it - whenever a white man does that to a black man, no matter who he is, how rich he is, or how fine a family he comes from, that white man is trash.”
~ from To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee.
For the Other Parents
Since the year 1863
there has been a talk many American parents
have to have with their American sons
at just about the time that their son’s
voices begin to change, and their muscles
harden into impending manhood,
at just about the time that referring
to the boy as boy becomes something else.
They say things like these,
things I have never had to say to my son,
nor have any of my ancestors
since the year 1863.
***
There will be times, from now on
when people will be afraid of you.
You have to be aware of this at all times,
to develop a sense for it, to feel it
before it turns bad, because
very bad things can happen to you
when people are afraid of you.
You can’t play with toy guns anymore,
or swords, or pick up pipes, or even sticks.
Always be aware of your surroundings.
Try not to go anywhere alone,
especially at night.
If you’re being followed try to find someone
so you’re not alone.
Cooperate with authorities even when
your dignity makes that hard.
Don’t do anything with your hands but put them up.
Yesterday when I heard that the major television networks were not going to air the President's address to the public, on the public airwaves, as they have always done, I felt my proverbial camel's back snapping, breaking sharply but completely. The attacks on our rightfully elected (twice) chief, attacks both overt and covert, are so shameful that I barely recognize my own nation. And no doubt, President Obama will be blamed for that too.
He wanted to talk to us about immigration. A strangely volatile subject. Strange, because if you are living here and are not an immigrant, that is because you have quite literally been grandfathered in. We are a nation of strangers, yet our fear of "the stranger" is intense.
The gravest stranger now, it seems to me, is the democracy that we are supposed to be. The founding fathers, I am sure, would be appalled at the way the "POTUS" has been maligned. The man who in their day they called "His Excellency" has my complete support to restore the great experiment, and he has my support based on philosophy and politics, as well as honor and tradition.
I share a multimedia poem I recently exhibited at a local art gallery, on the subject of immigration, and I share a quote from the President's speech last night. Words that are far more poetic than my own.
Assimilation
I dreamed of coming
to America, Land of the Free.
Longed, needed to come,
yearning to breathe free.
Tired, poor, and wretched
I left the home I knew well,
where the land I was one with
flowed familiar, never to trip,
where the words I was one with
flowed familiar, never to trick.
I came to these teeming shores,
arms held out to the Mother of Exhiles.
Gathering with others like me, yet
strangers to me, we huddled in masses.
We too cried with silent lips
but we changed …
our clothes,
our
speech,
our
names.
Tossed our differences into the
pot to melt into cultural compost,
until at long last
we became one with America
calling those that come
strange.
by Tammi J Truax
reprint with permission only
"... Scripture tells us that we shall not oppress a stranger, for we know the heart of a stranger –- we were strangers once, too.
My fellow Americans, we are and always will be a nation of immigrants. We were strangers once, too. And whether our forebears were strangers who crossed the Atlantic, or the Pacific, or the Rio Grande, we are here only because this country welcomed them in, and taught them that to be an American is about something more than what we look like, or what our last names are, or how we worship. What makes us Americans is our shared commitment to an ideal -– that all of us are created equal, and all of us have the chance to make of our lives what we will.
That’s the country our parents and grandparents and generations before them built for us. That’s the tradition we must uphold. That’s the legacy we must leave for those who are yet to come.
Thank you. God bless you. And God bless this country we love."
Today I'd like to give a shout-out to one of the several writing organizations that I maintain membership in. Even though I have recently moved to a neighboring state I am unwilling to relinquish my membership in The New Hampshire Writers Project. The professional support I have found from this group, the personal connections that I have made at their events, and the lessons I have learned from their speakers and workshops are just too important to me to leave behind. If you live in New Hampshire, or even if you don't, check them out. I know you will find it worthwhile too.
In August of 2013 I was honored to be chosen as one of the women writers who were invited to gather at Ghost Ranch in the northern hills of New Mexico by the wonderful women of A Room of Her Own Foundation. We created many things while we were there; written and visual works of art, both solitary and collaborative, visions of ourselves and our projects, and perhaps more importantly, we created bonds of encouragement that continue long after we left the desert. And that has fed the fire in each of us that continues to burn from places all over the planet. It is a beautiful thing.
Here is a link to one of the very first gifts that we created together.
I need to go west … To bathe in bold colors; turquoise and topaz orange and amethyst. To warm my marrow, chilled and chafed in darkened places. To lie in the sun, feigning death, lizardlike, surrendering to stillness, surrounded by space to run and roll should the mood strike me. To let my hair go white. To let my words go wild. To let my voice echo in canyons, ad infinitum.
It was a thrill to be invited to participate at a recent reading at Book Culture in Manhattan, a book shop known to be very poetry friendly.
The reading was for The Widows' Handbook: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Survival, edited by Jacqueline Lapidus and Lise Menn (Kent State University Press, 2014). While I have met many of the other poets included in the anthology who are from New England, the opportunity to meet several others from the greater NYC area was a privilege. The book is doing fairly well, and has gone into a second printing. As you prepare for holiday shopping, consider buying a copy for someone on your gift list who is dealing with loss. It really is a special collection.
More info can be found here: http://www.widowshandbookanthology.com/
Here I am taking my turn at the podium, with the panel of contributing poets seated behind me.
I knew that I would find some great books to assist in my novel research at Book Culure, and I was right. Here they are, and they made the long bus ride home enjoyable.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
I wrote this article for The Portsmouth Herald's publication called Seacoast Seniors, which is not available online so I am posting it here for those who did not see the hard copy published earlier this week. It is reprinted with a few minor changes, and including a quote that didn't get into the magazine.
Liberty Trees Must Always Exist
By Tammi J Truax
If you have been to Portsmouth, New Hampshire you've seen the massive tree that towers over the relatively massive Moffatt-Ladd Mansion. Her real name
is Aesculus hippocastanum, commonly known as a horse-chestnut tree, and
sometimes, a conker tree. There are several theories about why the
horse-chestnut is so-named, too many to list here, and many of them sound
plausible. While grown all over the temperate world for centuries the
horse-chestnut seems to have been native to a
small area in the Balkan forests of Eastern Europe. The motivation to carry the
tree to other parts of the world was to spread beauty. The horse-chestnut is
primarily an ornamental tree, and if you've seen ours even once, this you
understand. It grows large, providing a gorgeous canopy, which in spring blooms
in copious candle-like flowers. Other uses have been fully explored and are not
significant. The wood isn't desirable for building, and the fruit (the conker
which is not really a chestnut) is not edible (to some species it is toxic)
unless processed, though that was done during the Great War in Europe. At times
the conker has been used as an insect repellent in the home, and it is thought
to have some medicinal properties that are still being studied today. The bark
was used to make a yellow dye. Mostly though, the conker has been used for
child’s play, the game of conkers having been very popular in the UK, did come
to the US, and was taken so seriously that world championships were
established.
The tree was most desired throughout
time for the same reason that General Whipple brought it to Portsmouth; it looks
lovely when mature, and lining an avenue. During the colonial years it seems to
have been popular for stately men to plant stately trees outside their stately
homes. Fancy trees were another way of displaying status. While often called a legend,
and it is so amazing that it sounds like one, the story that museum docents tell at The
Moffatt-Ladd House about the majestic horse-chestnut in the side yard is
credible. It goes something like this;
Whipple and his enslaved manservant,
Prince, were in Philadelphia for the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
While there they may have collected a handful of horse-chestnuts, the fruit of a
tree new to Philadelphia. More likely William acquired seeds, or even saplings,
from John Bartram’s Garden. Bartram was a Quaker and a botanist and the garden
he started in 1728 is the oldest surviving botanical garden on this continent,
where three significant historical trees still grow. By the time of the
revolution it had become a thriving nursery business that the founding father/farmers
would have sought out.
Descendants recorded that Whipple planted
the horse-chestnuts along the front of the house to commemorate the signing. It
is more likely that one of the enslaved men living there did the dirty work.
Quite possibly, Prince. Stolen as a boy from the gold coast of Africa, Prince was
purchased by William Whipple upon his arrival at one of our eastern seaports. While
still a teenager, Prince served beside his master in two battles in the
American Revolution, and did ride with him to Philadelphia in 1776. In 1779
Prince would sign a petition of independence of his own, though it would not
result in his freedom. There is no question when reading it that he had
embraced the cause for which he had fought. Somewhere along the way the last surviving
horse-chestnut was named The Liberty Tree. Arborists, who come to the Moffatt-Ladd
House regularly to provide care and guidance, have verified her age, and she is
on the National Register of Historic Trees.
photo by T Truax
Until four years ago our Liberty Tree had
a sister tree 3000 miles away in Amsterdam. She was known as the Anne Frank
Tree and grew outside the secret annex. Anne mentions the horse-chestnut tree
three times in her diary. By 1944 it was full grown, though considerably
younger than ours having been planted around 1840. Having suffered fungal and
insect damage, she was condemned to death. In an outcry familiar to many locals
the townspeople flipped out, and a judge granted their tree a stay of
execution. Of course, she couldn't really be saved and storm winds toppled her
in 2010. Her offspring though, were sent off around the world. Eleven of
her babies came to the US and, after a three year quarantine, have recently
been planted. The closest to us was ceremoniously set into the Boston Common at
the request of another teenage girl who thought the site most appropriate and
somewhat coincidentally named it The Liberty Tree.
The devoted Moffatt-Ladd gardeners ensure the continuance
of our Liberty Tree too, and as many saplings as they can establish each year
are sold to visitors as a fundraiser, but we seldom know where they end up. I
propose that the city of Portsmouth plant one on public land where it can be
watched over by all, perhaps near the Liberty Pole in the park. It would be a
good way to prepare for her demise. It is nothing short of remarkable that she
has survived this long. The day cannot be far off when, like the Anne Frank
Tree, our old horse-chestnut will no longer grace the waterfront.
Until then, come and see her. Appreciate
her. Touch her if you’d like. You won’t regret it. I will always be grateful
that I got to see both of these trees in the glory of their golden years, and that they let me
feel a connection to Anne and Prince. I think of them … looking out at a tree
that meant something to both of them, something that we can never know. ... Looking
out at a tree heralding the passing of one season after another, of time being
lost. .... Looking out from the confines of their attic prisons where they could
only dream of the liberty we enjoy each day.
photo by T Truax
"From my favorite spot on the floor I look
up at the blue sky and the bare chestnut tree, on whose branches little
raindrops shine, appearing like silver, and at the seagulls and other birds as
they glide on the wind. As long as this exists, and it certainly always will, I
know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the
circumstances may be." ~ Anne Frank, February 23, 1944
