I’m pleased to note Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts has been listed as a finalist in the chapbook category of the 2019 Eric Hoffer Book Awards.
I’m pleased to note Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts has been listed as a finalist in the chapbook category of the 2019 Eric Hoffer Book Awards.
My story, “Mini Escape,” has been published in Calliope: A Writer’s Workshop by Mail.
I’ve been crossing the Yolo Causeway to get to work. It’s a familiar ride—from Davis to Sacramento. I can remember being a kid in the backseat of the family car as one of my parents zoomed over this long viaduct above what is now called the Yolo Bypass Wildlife Area. The original causeway opened in 1916—the current incarnation was built in 1962. I was born that year. I once walked with my late father on a Davis levee as he explained how the man-made structure was protecting the region from flooding. During the rainy season I came to expect the waters that drained down the Sierras and inched up the side of the levee. Whenever this happened, drives on the causeway turned dramatic with glinting ripples on either side of the car.
As an adult, I visited Davis during dryer years, only to ruminate on how all that water seemed to be a distance memory. People were happily claiming Yolo Bypass Wildlife Area for hiking and bird watching. One time I went hiking along a well-established trail down there wondering if the water would ever again be as high as it was during the sixties. Well, it’s relatively high right now. I’ve been enjoying a sense of déjà vu on my commutes to Sacramento City College, where I’ve just begun working as an adjunct librarian.
It’s interesting to work as a librarian in my homeland after being away almost 43 years. Recently, I poked around a Sacramento Bee database to discover a cryptic ad my great-grandfather placed in the Bee back in 1909. This was under “Ready Reference Guide of Leading Superior California Firms.”
“Sherritt House, Leading commercial, reasonable. O. B. Wergeland”
I knew my great-grandparents had run a boarding house in Truckee. Was this the one?
I dug deeper to discover the Sherritt House burned down in 1913.
“$75,000 Fire in Heart of Truckee: Sherritt and Ashton Rooming Houses, Each Three Stories in Hight [sic], Razed, and Two Saloons, Bakery and Barber Shop Damaged This Morning” (September 18, 1913).
“The Sherritt House was a landmark. It was erected more than forty years ago, and at one time was the leading hostelry here.” (September 18, 1913)
More family members showed up to greet me in the Bee. For example, I’m wondering if my grandfather, Irving Wergeland, was out and about in April of 1927.
“H. L. Beabes and I. W. Wergeland surveyed the road from Summit to the head of Donner Lake on skis Sunday and found snow from three to seventeen feet deep, the greatest depth being in the cut west of Donner bridge for a distance of 200 feet.”
My grandfather was definitely a skier and his name Irving, but death records reveal Norman as his middle name.
My grandmother, who went to her grave with the name Merle Hooper, was a contestant in a 1932 beauty contest.
“If Merle Wergeland, above, should be selected queen in the Winter Sports Carnival, to be held in the Sacramento Memorial Auditorium, January 7th, her friends say she will be well qualified for the honors. She is the entrant of the Auburn Ski Club, and in addition to beauty she is a skier of ability.”
A follow-up article announced my grandmother placed third. Meanwhile, Grandfather Irving was also active in the Auburn Ski Club.
“The Auburn Ski Club this week unanimously elected Wendell Robie Of Auburn president of the club for the 1933-34 season. Irving Wergeland of Auburn is the new vice president of the club, and Lane Calder, a past president of the association, is treasurer.”
I read about how my great-grandfather died.
“O. B. Wergeland, 71, a prominent citizen of Truckee, died suddenly from a heart attack in the woodshed of his home.
Wergeland yesterday afternoon was engaged in piling wood in the shed. When Mrs. Wergeland chanced to visit the shed she found her husband’s body sprawled on the floor.
She summoned a physician, who pronounced the man dead.” (August 26, 1938)
Turns out he and my great-grandmother, Anna Wergeland, were residents of Truckee for forty years before he died (I knew they’d lived there, but I did not know how long).
There was more to uncover.
“Summer season students at the University of California at Davis will stage two plays by French Playwright Alfred Jarry July 18, 19, 20 and 21 in the UCD Main Theater.
Alan A. Stambusky will direct “King Ubu” and “Ubu Unchained.
The first play, which follows Ubu’s adventures in Poland, will star Paul Ford in the title role, while Jean Wergeland will play his ‘equally disgusting wife,’ Stambusky said.” (July 7, 1968)
Jean Wergeland is my mother. I remember seeing one of those plays when I was six years old.
And my late father appeared in the Sacramento Bee to answer a few questions.
“The University of California in Davis old book sale to buy new books will be held Sunday starting noon in the tree-shaded courtyard of the Shields Library at UCD. Wayne Wergeland, general chairman, and his committee have 9,000 books, something for everyone who reads. There will be an informal auction of about 40 rare and unusual volumes beginning at 1:30 p.m. ‘All books will be moderately and even cheaply priced, encouraging all who attend to buy at least one book,‘ Wergeland discloses.” (May 16, 1975)
Last weekend a friend and I took the California Zephyr across trestles running parallel to the Yolo Causeway over the water-filled Yolo Basin—and then on to Truckee. We enjoyed some fine views as the train wound its way into the Sierra Nevada foothills, shooting past Auburn, birthplace of my father. Before long the scenery out the window turned white, and we looked over the snowpack that had been there a while, though fresh snow adorned green conifers. As we lunched in the dining car, our ride in this new dimension remained enchanting. We stepped off the train into snow flurries, marveling at the snowbanks along the tracks. Truckee streets had clearly been tended by snowplows all winter, so it wasn’t difficult to get around on foot.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to walk far to get to the historic Truckee Hotel (formerly the New Whitney House, which barely survived the fire that took out the Sherritt House. I’ve come to discover the Sherritt House was once situated across the street from the New Whitney. A former Bank of America takes up that corner now. It has morphed into a saloon fondly known as Bar of America.
We checked into our second-floor room with plenty of old world charm and views of the town (the bathroom is down the hall, thank you very much!). I could imagine what Ole and Anna Wergeland’s world must have been like. Truckee exists at 5,817 feet, not far from Donner Pass, where the famed Mormon pioneers underwent their terrible ordeal. I’ve heard my great-grandfather helped build snow sheds covering the train tracks in those parts. Perhaps he turned to this line of work after the Sherritt House was destroyed. Now Truckee is an enjoyable getaway with a number of worthy eating establishments. Most had waiting lists the night we went in search of food.
For my students working on research papers—here’s my Works Cited list:
Arden, Tom. “Tom Arden’s Town.” Sacramento Bee, NY Stocks Final ed., 16 May 1975, p. 32. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-15D61E8A36BCDD3F@2442549-15D607B511F674BF@31-15D607B511F674BF@. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
“Auburn Beauty.” Sacramento Bee, One Star ed., 26 Dec. 1932, p. 7. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-15319E9795C77513@2427068-15319D0F5E8345FA@6-15319D0F5E8345FA@. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
“Davis Students Will Stage Alfred Jerry’s UBU Plays.” Sacramento Bee, Home ed., 7 July 1968, p. 115. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-16F1EC96F5591436@2440045-16F1E6B7EDB4F8B6@114-16F1E6B7EDB4F8B6@. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
“O. B. Wergeland Dies Suddenly in Truckee.” Sacramento Bee, 26 Aug. 1938, p. 8. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-16474658B575138C@2429137-16473C7CC4B0801C@7-16473C7CC4B0801C@. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
“Pioneer Truckee Hotel Razed by Fire.” Sacramento Bee, 18 Sept. 1913, p. 8. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-14F2556E689C754E@2420029-14EF343BF58DC23B@7. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
“Ready Reference Guide of Leading Superior California Firms.” Sacramento Bee, Two Star ed., 8 May 1909, p. 15. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-14EFADF16600576F@2418435-14EFA8E85A041C07@14-14EFA8E85A041C07@. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
“Robie is Again Ski Club Head.” Sacramento Bee, One Star ed., 10 Nov. 1933, p. 8. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-1536E9558310FE00@2427387-1536835EF99091DA@7-1536835EF99091DA@. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
“$75,000 Fire in Heart of Truckee.” Sacramento Bee, 18 Sept. 1913, p. 1. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-14F2556E689C754E@2420029-14EF343B8B3BAEF6@0. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
“Snow 3 to 17 Feet Deep on Road Near Summit.” Sacramento Bee, 27 Apr. 1927, p. 24. NewsBank, infoweb.newsbank.com/apps/news/document-view?p=WORLDNEWS&docref=image/v2:144FDEA786229ACC@EANX-NB-14FD542766BD4319@2424998-14F39F6BA84ED2F8@23-14F39F6BA84ED2F8@. Accessed 29 Mar. 2019.
It’s been eerie to move back to my hometown after being away for over forty-two years. I haven’t been here long, and it has taken virtually no effort to slide back into a familiar groove, a visceral knowing of this place. And yet, I am well aware I’ve missed entire novels describing the time between 1976 and today. Most people I once knew remain frozen in their teen visages. I probably won’t recognize many, even if I walk past them in the grocery store. When I do bump into a Davisite from my youth, their childhood photo tends to pop up. This doesn’t happen with other people I went to school with—the people I watched grow into adulthood. Their adolescent faces faded long ago.
The novel that is my own life moved into the Pacific Northwest. After spending some twenty-five fulfilling years up there, I returned to California to work as a librarian for Cuyamaca College in San Diego County. During that pivotal year it actually felt like I’d moved to a brand new state. I’d relocated to Southern California, not the California that houses ghosts of my ancestors.
One line of my family has particularly strong roots in Northern California. My great-great-grandparents emigrated from Ireland. Their daughter, Katherine (my great-grandmother), was born in California in 1866. She actually spent time in Red Dog. For those not in the know, Red Dog is no longer a town. It’s a graveyard and a monument. I still haven’t figured out if my great-grandmother was actually born in that gold mining camp, though I have evidence she once lived there. Three more of my great-grandparents settled in Northern California. Two emigrated from Norway, and one moved out west from Rhode Island. This is a heritage that refuses to be ignored—it doesn’t care that I moved on to other regions. Yet I do feel completely chopped up by place—Oregon, Washington, Southern California. I guess you could say, I’m a veritable West Coast mutt.
Still, I was born Davis. Well, I was born in Woodland. There wasn’t a hospital in Davis back in 1962. I was born in Woodland, but my parents took me home to Davis. I lived in Davis from birth to fourteen, enough time to absorb what this city was. Davis has continued to be my core, even as aspects have faded from memory. For me, a new story began at the age of fourteen—in Southern Oregon. Other stories followed. And now I’m beginning yet another one that will play out in a town where certain buildings, certain trees, continue to trigger flashbacks. I’m not sure how long I will stay. I’ve moved back to Davis to tie up loose ends, keep an eye on an aging parent, as I also take advantage of my free time the way I once did when I was kid. Yes, I have returned to my hometown a card-carrying member of the AARP, though I recently decided to call myself a tweener.
After retiring from Cuyamaca College in 2017, I got a taste of full retirement. While those months were good for my health, it wasn’t long before I began feeling too young to be hanging out at home 24/7 (though I did get a lot of writing done). I found myself missing my profession. I was conflicted, because slowing down felt right for my recent breast cancer survivor status. The solution: I’ve just been hired to work as an adjunct librarian for Sacramento City College. This should afford me time to work on my writing and my health, while also giving me the opportunity to continue contributing to my profession. I should add, it’s great to be back at work—wonderful to embark on a new adventure in a familiar land.
I just scrolled through my own Tweets to revisit “2018 in the Life of Kari Wergeland.” As a breast cancer survivor, I have vowed to live as fully as I can, to refuse to “go gentle into that good night.” Well, it’s been a good year. I launched my first “real” poetry chapbook—I published a handful of other poems in journals and anthologies. I received acceptances on two short stories and one essay (due out in 2019). I sang in a holiday concert with the Central Coast Chorale in Lincoln County, Oregon. And I joined the Porthole Players in conjunction with the Newport Symphony Orchestra to perform as a soprano shepherdess in Amahl and the Night Visitors.I also landed some adjunct librarian hours with Sacramento City College. This will allow me to move into a swan song phase of a career I’ve loved and participated in since I first took a paraprofessional position in the Ashland Branch Library (Ashland, Oregon). I was still in high school at the time.
I must confess, Amahl and the Night Visitors takes the prize in terms of personal satisfaction. I worked with a vocal coach (Rhodd Caldwell) and a director (Bonnie Ross) who were upbeat, supportive, and instructive. I shared this experience with an enthusiastic cast and a group of fine musicians, people who were kind, talented, professional, and a whole lot of fun. We performed to a full house both nights. It felt like we burst to life on opening night. I suspect our troupe came away feeling pretty good about the whole thing. If I never get to do this again, I can now say I checked that box. This was a bucket list item for me.
I continue to think about my bucket list, because my days seem permeated with more intensity than the life I lived prior to breast cancer treatment. It’s been over two years since my last radiation zap, and I’m still finding a heightened sense of meaning in almost everything I do. I don’t want to waste another minute. I try to toss out anything that feels extraneous. I continue to feel gratitude for the opportunities that come my way. Maybe I’m more often noticing what is worth living for at all. Small things like how the ocean looks silver beneath the midday sun. Or how a muted winter landscape reveals its own kind of magnificence. As we were preparing for Amahl and the Night Visitors, our director Bonnie made a point of telling us that people sometimes ask her, “Why do you direct plays?” She said she did it to put some beauty into the world. She followed that thought with another one, “The world really needs this right now.”
Aesthetic considerations may seem inconsequential in the face of political turmoil, wildfires, floods, war, and famine, but I’m with Bonnie on thinking about how we can achieve acts of beauty in a troubled world. As a writer, I continue to ponder the purpose of my voice. What do I need to say? How should I say it? All sorts of thoughts come to mind—some are on my bucket list. Yet no matter how I end up answering these questions, I’d like Bonnie’s sentiment on beauty to be amongst any other reason I might have for writing or singing (or Tweeting or dealing with the public from the reference desk). How a person chooses to use their voice – even in the face of terrible conflict – can potentially move us all toward that fabulous choir sound, which can include major dissonances and minor chords, even as it transcends stalemates born of cheap lines.
I’ve been calling myself semi-retired, from the library world anyway. I’m not completely ready to stop working. A community college in Northern California interviewed me last summer, before putting me on their adjunct list—they may have some hours for me spring semester. If all else fails, I can always work part-time for my old school in San Diego County. Meanwhile, I’ve been taking a breather in my cabin on the Oregon Coast, working on my health, and getting a lot of writing done. I’ve certainly begun promoting my new chapbook, Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts. And I’m back in the Central Coast Chorale. We’re preparing for a series of holiday concerts slated to take place in Lincoln County, Oregon, this December.
I was waiting for our second rehearsal to begin when one of my sister singers told me about another coastal production scheduled for December, Amahl and the Night Visitors. This was going to be a joint effort between the Porthole Players and The Newport Symphony Orchestra. The people sitting near me continued to natter on. Apparently, there is one day where individual performances of Amahl overlap with the choir concert—somewhat. “No matter,” one singer said. “We’ll run up to Lincoln City to perform the matinee concert, and then we’ll return to Newport to get ready for Amahl.” I must have looked interested, because she went on to tell me when auditions were (that same weekend). Then she informed me where I could locate the music online—for the audition.
I found myself mulling the possibility over. I’d performed in the chorus of Amahl and the Night Visitors in 2010. This was a student production, directed by my voice teacher, Esther Jordan. I actually outlined my road to this unlikely opportunity in my memoir-in-verse, Voice Break. I decided I could probably remember my old part for the audition—get it ready for the next day.
It felt a bit eerie to enter the smaller performance studio in the Newport Performing Arts Center, a room rimmed with black curtains. While I’d auditioned for three choirs in the last ten years (a process that generally consists of singing scales and exercises revealing how well a singer sight-reads), I hadn’t tried to audition for a show with a prepared song since the age of 25 (and for the record, I’m now 56). However, I had been working on my singing. Before leaving San Diego County, I studied with my voice teacher for more than seven years. And I now have almost five years of choir singing under my belt—time with the three different choirs.To repeat, I had not tried out for a musical theater production since my twenties (and by the way, I was never cast in a musical back then). I did get to taste a small speaking role in The Taming of the Shrew at Lane Community College (in Eugene, Oregon). And I appeared in a few dance concerts, but I never sang on stage during my initial tango with the performing arts. My passion for all of this eventually fell by the wayside when I became serious about my library career. I began working for the Seattle Public Library in the late eighties—my first librarian job—and this took up the bulk of my time.
But now I’m a retiree!
When it was my turn to audition for Amahl and the Night Visitors, I handed the music for Come Ready and See Me to the accompanist and then moved to stand before the director, Bonnie Ross, the producer, Rhodd Caldwell, not to mention a handful of other hopeful performers. They were a friendly bunch—I didn’t feel too nervous. Besides, I’d just run through the one-minute selection twice in my cabin with no wobbles. Yet this time when I sang the first few measures, I immediately felt my start was weak, maybe not a wobble, exactly. The acoustics felt weird. As I continued singing, I strove to focus, work better with the accompanist. I was thinking I was settling into the song. But when I was finished, the director said, “Now sing it like you want to sell it.” An ouch? So this time I tried to put pizazz into my stance and sing with more gusto. After a few seconds she said, “Thank you very much.”
On to the music for Amahl.
The night before, I’d prepared for the chorus, soprano part. That was all I wanted to shoot for—nothing huge. There were two other women in my group, both trying for soprano. First, the director had the three of us sing the soprano line. Then she had me and one other woman sing the alto line. Then she moved me back to soprano. She invited the men to join in. At some point, we all sang as a chorus. After this grand finale, I was able to breathe a sigh of relief and head to Starbucks. They were moving on to cast the leads.
A few weeks later, I got the call. The director offered me the part of singing shepherd. Retirement is an adventure, I guess.
Amahl and the Night Visitors will take place on Saturday, December 8 at 7:30 pm and Sunday, December 9 at 2:00 pm in the Newport Performing Arts Center.
The Central Coast Chorale will be performing their annual Wishes & Candles holiday concert in three locations:
I will be signing copies of my books at the Florence Festival of Books in Florence, Oregon, on Saturday, September 29th between 10 am and 4 pm. The festival will be held in the Florence Events Center on 715 Quince Street.
Last month, I launched Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts in the backyard of my close friend, Patricia Santana, a writer in her own right. Patricia and her partner, Jack Madowitz, went all out with the food and drinks—the ambience. They set up extra tables and chairs. They took charge of my sales so I could mingle. And though it is difficult to relax into a party when you are the planned entertainment, I was able to enjoy the good wishes and hugs, the repast even. I hadn’t seen many of these folks since my retirement from Cuyamaca College, over a year ago, because I left San Diego County to embark on various adventures while also designing my next leg of life. It was nice to catch up—celebrate the summer, not to mention Patricia’s own more recent retirement from the school. Yes, they were expecting me to read—and then sign books. That was whole the point.
I was pretty relaxed as I stood, book in hand, about to deliver sections to an audience for the first time. I felt honored to be introduced by a writer I admire, particularly for her willingness to be honest. I’m certainly proud to be her friend. What I wasn’t expecting, though, was this on-the-spot realization I’d opened myself up for personal questions. In writing the book, I’d had complete control over what I focused on and what I left out. Besides, a book becomes an organic boundary between writer and reader, a place to stow painful revelations that don’t have to be openly discussed.
As I scanned the familiar faces, the thought came to me that anything could come up during Q & A. While this may seem like a no-brainer, I hadn’t contemplated how it would feel to discuss the finer points of what medical personnel did to my left breast—this to a group of colleagues and friends. I made the decision then and there to lean toward openness. I did wonder if I’d regret it later, squelching the bout of awkwardness that flared as I rambled into my “time for questions” line. I found myself signaling a willingness to answer things about my medical situation in order to put people at ease. If a person needed clarification about some aspect of this painful disease, I was going to try and offer it. I was the one who’d opened the door to this possibility.
I was already finding the evening a bit of a balancing act—being sensitive to those I knew had gone through breast cancer (or were going through it) while also responding to those who’d never dealt with the disease. I’m well aware breast cancer victims have varying experiences with their treatment. I also know my situation isn’t the most painful case on record. I didn’t want to upset anyone whose condition was worse than mine.
People went easy on me. Maybe they felt awkward, too. Most questions were of a philosophical nature, “How have things changed about the way you view your life, now that you’ve gone through breast cancer?” Or something to that effect. I was happy to explore this territory instead of inquiries like, “Did chemo make you puke?” Still, I haven’t changed my mind about answering the puke question—or ones like it (though I’m sure I’ll discover where my line falls, should I continue to share this book in person). I don’t want to tuck this side of my life out of public view, because I’ve learned so much from the nitty gritty tales that unrolled before me as I began heading down this road. I’m still collecting anecdotes and probably always will. Some people’s stories allowed me to mentally prepare, some helped me work through specific aspects of treatment, and some diverged from what I actually experienced. All were worthy of contemplation, maybe a stick of incense. There is a certain density to this sort of storytelling that has the capacity to cushion cancer victims, not to mention those who love them.
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