Erenlai - Robert Ronald
Robert Ronald

Robert Ronald

Bob was among the most prolific writers of eRenlai. He passed away peacefully on January 2 2009 in Taipei. A tribute to his life and his work can be found here on eRenlai: http://www.erenlai.com/index.php/en/focus/2011-focus/bob-ronald-challenged-but-not-disabled

週三, 19 一月 2011 14:50

尋求內心的安寧

內心的安寧是,即使我們正經歷著猶如地獄般的情況,心中卻仍存著平靜與和諧。前提是我們對自己誠實自在,並相信我們在人生裡尚有目標要達成。維持這份安寧是人一生的功課。

 

週一, 27 十二月 2010 18:13

Do you know who you are or what you are? Does it matter?

'Everyone's favorite subject is themselves' so goes the saying. Yet, there is an incredible body of literature from religious figures, social scientists, psychoanalysts, mystics and writers on how to view ones own self and others.

週五, 24 十二月 2010 15:17

My first 75 years: looking ahead

The time for looking back is also an opportunity for looking forward because there is still an uncertain number of years ahead of me yet to come.

週五, 24 十二月 2010 15:15

My first 75 years: the doors that opened and I entered

Living is like traveling down a road crisscrossed with intersections and dividing into forks.  Where I am today was determined by the turns I made or did not make at those intersections and by the routes I chose to follow along the way.

週五, 24 十二月 2010 15:12

My first 75 years: a map

Usually the course of a person’s life follows a common pattern. First there is a period of formation and preparation. Then there are years of productive activity, during which they marry and raise children. Finally, comes retirement and gradual decline until death.

週五, 24 十二月 2010 15:10

My first 75 years: the strands of chance cross in California

[dropcap cap="S"]o far in this epic of my origin, we have a Scottish boy born in England, a poor Irish lass in Ireland, a farmer’s son in Bologna and a pampered little rich girl in Genoa. It took quite a series of chance events that maneuvered them and history itself to bring about my conception and birth in Martinez, California in 1932.[/dropcap]

For reasons I am not aware of Grandpa Bergamini left home on June 3, 1884 and immigrated to California at the age of 29. He traveled on the La Normandie which arrived in New York on June 16 from Le Havre. After some time there he went to Contra Costa County. For a few years apparently, according to my Uncle Turo, he worked at a hay press in Pacheco near Martinez. He was one of the first Italian business men to locate in downtown Martinez. On Wednesday August 6, 1890 he was granted U.S. citizenship.

The same year he opened a grocery store at the corner of Main and Ferry streets, the present site of the Bank of California. It was a gingerbread wooden frame building known as the Bergamini Grocery Store with the declaration “M. Bergamini, Dealer in groceries and provisions, ham and bacon, cheese, fruit, cigars and tobacco.” He also sold fresh, raw, and roasted peanuts, knickknacks and notions.

The store must have prospered because in 1899 he purchased a plot of land on the corner of Green and Court St. and built a two story building there. The Great Martinez Fire of August 1904 leveled a four block area of town which unfortunately included the grocery store. Grandpa let the Bank of California have his corner spot and next to it at 624 Ferry Street build a two story building. Disaster struck again when the San Francisco Earthquake of April 1906 knocked down the new stone façade. This building is now an official historical landmark of the city. A picture taken in 1910 shows the building with advertising on the side: “M. Bergamini, fine groceries, fruit, nuts, candies, cigars and tobacco.”

Why my Grandfather waited until he was 45 to get married is a mystery, but if he hadn’t, my Grandmother who was twenty years younger than he was would never have married him.

My grandmother Adalgisa was born in Sestri Levante on May 4, 1875.  On March 31, 1889, her mother died suddenly when visiting a sick relative. Her father remarried almost immediately and life became very difficult at home, so the next year at the age of only 14 she accepted an invitation of her older sister Aurelia Lambruschini Molteni to live with her in San Francisco. She traveled in the company of an Italian family returning to their home in Petaluma north of San Francisco. She traveled second class, which was comfortable enough, but the ship was beset by violent storms and even reported sunk at sea, before it finally reached New York a couple days late.  She said she managed to remain calm but was praying “with all my faith”. After the processing through Ellis Island, they took the train to San Francisco, finally arriving at the Ferry building ferry terminal on Christmas Day, 1889 at 9:00 A.M.

Grandma was apparently a very skilled embroiderer and was soon selling her work to the Samuel Lace House, a fancy store on Market Street. She went to school at night to learn English. In 1900 grandma went to Martinez to live with her cousin Catarina Bonzagni. There she was introduced to a Bonzagni friend, who after a whirlwind courtship of only a few months, married her on July 19, 1900 at the old Church of Sts. Peter and Paul in San Francisco. Officiating was Fr. Raffael Piperni, a Salesian missionary who arrived in San Francisco on March 11, 1897 and started courses in English and citizenship in the parish Americanization School. Witnessing the marriage were Catalina’s husband Martin Bonzagni and Aurelia Molteni.  After a small party and reception after the ceremony, they went back to Martinez for another party at the Bonzagni home. Their first residence was grandpa’s apartment near his grocery store.

Grandma told me once, that she wasn’t really in love with Grandpa, but felt pity for him and consented to his proposal. At any rate they produced nine children, of whom my mother was the fourth. So thanks to grandpa’s loneliness and grandma’s kindness, I had a mother.

Here something needs to be said about the little town of Martinez, because just 80 years earlier it hadn’t even existed.

California before the Spanish explorers arrived was a land flowing with milk and honey. Wildlife was abundant. The weather was moderate in the valleys which were watered by many rivers and streams. The local Karkinez Indians of the Costanoan Group were rather primitive, since necessity is the mother of invention and they had few needs to spark ingenuity and development. They were also cut off from the other Indians of North America by the mountain ranges in the north and the east. They lived and died as simple hunters and fishers and harvesters of acorns and local plants, undisturbed by the outside world until the European explorers came. The Spanish missionaries did their best to educate the Indians they came in contact with and put them to work as artisans, laborers, and servants, but they were quickly decimated by the diseases the white men brought, and left behind no buildings, literature or language.

I was born in California on land taken from the poor Indians, who had no way of defending their territory or protecting their lives when the foreign settlers arrived.  In this day and age that pays such lip service to human rights, I find it hard to understand how supposedly enlightened Christians who professed to be guided by the Ten Commandments could so easily kill and steal with the blessings of their governments and the acquiescence of their churches. Had the Indians not been so easily overcome I might not have been born in California.

Christopher Columbus started it by sailing off and discovering the New World in 1492. Like my Grandmother Bergamini he was from Genoa, born there in 1451. If he had followed the wool weaving career of his father and not become a sailor, he would probably never have paid any attention to the rumors and tales that convinced him that the Indies could be reached by sailing west. In that case the Americas would only have been discovered by Europeans in a later century and the territory that is now the United States may never have become the safe sanctuary for immigration in the 19th century that welcomed the arrival of my great grandparents and grandparents.  I owe my birth in America to the adventurers and dreamers who dared to venture into the unknown and to the cupidity and ambitions of the Kings and Queens of Spain, Portugal and England who financed the explorations and colonizations.

In 1579 the Englishman Sir Francis Drake in the Golden Hind sailed along the California Coast along a vast unknown territory he called New Albion.  Whether or not he and his crew even set foot on land at an inlet now called Drake’s Bay is a matter of controversy, but what is certain is that he missed the opportunity of a lifetime by sailing past the entrance to San Francisco Bay without discovering it, quite possibly because it was shrouded with fog as it often is in late afternoons and early mornings.  Had he entered the bay and seen what a marvelous harbor it was, it might have eventually become a British colony. Would it have rebelled like the thirteen eastern colonies in the Revolutionary War of 1776 or remained faithful to England like the colonies in Canada? Would the Italians and the Irish immigrants have been as welcome to come as they were by the Americans?  In any case, thanks to the fog on that day, I was born on American not British soil.

On August 13, 1812 Russian fur traders dedicated Ft. Ross on the site of a Kashaya Indian village 18 miles north of Bodega Bay on the coast of California just above San Francisco.  In those days Spanish expansion did not extend beyond the San Francisco Bay Area.  The settlement lasted only 29 years.  The lucrative sea otter trade was depleted by overhunting and the trappers did not prosper when they set their hands to farming.  Had they stayed and colonized as did the English and Spanish, the territory of Northern California might today be part of Russia or an independent nation, unless of course it ended up like poor Mexico overcome in a war with the aggressive Americans.  So anyhow thanks to the Russians who went home.

From 1769 to 1834 the Franciscan Friar Junipero Serra and his companions evangelized California from San Diego all the way north to San Raphael and Sonoma just beyond San Francisco. Their efforts extended and supported the influence of the Spaniards from Mexico which became independent of Spain in 1821.

In 1824 The Mexican Government presented to Don Ygnatio Martinez a 17,000 acre land grant called the Rancho de Pinole. It extended along the south side of the Carquinez Straight about 25 miles east of San Francisco on the other side of the bay. It included at its east end the present location of Martinez where in 1849 his son Don Vincente Martinez built an adobe hacienda. He did not live there long, but the home remains today as a National Historic Monument.

California had Mexican Governors until 1847 when Mexico was defeated in a short-lived war with the United States and was forced to give up its California territory. At that time there were 150,000 Indians and 14,000 European and Mexican inhabitants. In one of his last acts before leaving office, General Mariano Vallejo, Commandante of the Presideo in San Francisco, permitted Dr. Robert Semple, a dentist from Kentucky, to initiate a ferry service from the waterfront near the mouth of Alhambra Creek (in present day Martinez) to Benicia a mile away across the water.

Then on January 24, 1848 John Marshall discovered gold in the South Fork of the American River at Coloma where he was inspecting a sawmill built there by his partner German-born Swiss Johann August Sutter, by far the most prosperous European settler in northern California.

Dr. Semple’s ferry became very important as the only crossing across the Straight to the gold fields for miners and goods coming the San Francisco and points south. The ferries continued in service until 1962 when the George A. Miller, Jr. Memorial Bridge was completed from Martinez to Benicia. My brother and I used to get on the ferry with our bikes for a dime each and go to explore the countryside on the other side of the water. My mother told us that when she was small, she used to go swimming in the bay, but that would certainly be impossible now. Too much pollution and the water has receded. Originally it came almost up to the railroad tracks, but tulles started to take root along the shore and slowly pushed the shoreline out. Nowadays the edge of the water is several hundred yards away from the train station.  While I was growing up there was still an old sailing ship anchored on the shore about a mile away from the train station. We sometimes went along the tracks on our bikes and climbed aboard.

Warehouses and trading posts soon sprang up around the ferry dock and in 1849 an enterprising Col. William M. Smith who had married into the Martinez Family persuaded the Ygnacio Martinez heirs to capitalize on the business opportunity and accept his detailed plan for a township west of Alhambra Creek and the Welch Family expended it east of the creek.

So thanks to the Mexican Governor who gave a 48,000 acre grant of land to Johann Sutter in 1839 and to John Marshall’s sharp eye that noticed the gleaming gold, causing a population avalanche that descended on California eventually bringing my Italian grandparents and to the dentist who started a ferry and an army officer who envisioned a town, there grew up a community for me to be born in.

In 1850 when California became the 35th state, Martinez was the only town in the District of Contra Costa, so in 1951 when the county lines were drawn, Martinez was named the County Seat of Contra Costa County, a distinction it still holds today. But since it lacked the required 200 registered voters, it was not incorporated until 1876 and reincorporated as a sixth class city in 1886. In 1880 there were only 875 people in Martinez. There were around 3000 or 4000 when I was born. The present population is around 38,000 and city has grown in size to over twelve square miles.

The ferry wasn’t the only thing that attracted people. The climate, the fertile soil with a long Spring and Summer growing season attracted farmers. The first crops were wheat, but orchards were planted of pears, peaches, figs, cherries, apricots, and walnuts.  When I was growing up Castro Street where we lived was lined with walnut trees. We had two in the front of our house and another in the back together with a fig tree and an apricot tree. There was an almond tree next door. I remember going with my dad to the Swett Ranch and the Bartlett Ranch to buy pears and peaches for my mother to preserve in vacuum bottles and make jam. There were warehouses and a railroad siding with refrigerated train cars waiting to be filled with produce. The orchards and tracks are now all gone replaced by residences and businesses.

In the beginning the market for produce was limited to the bay area. But in 1869 Dr. John T. Strentzel developed a special process for preserving the freshness of fruit so it could be transported great distances and soon there were ocean going vessels at the Martinez wharf loading produce for ports all over the world. In 1890 the famous environmentalist John Muir who had married Strentzel’s daughter Louie, built his home in Martinez and took over management of his father-in-law’s orchards and vineyards, though his continuing travel and environmental advocacy often kept him away. I remember as a boy riding my bicycle into the countryside and discovering his grave back under some trees surrounded by a low metal fence near the Alhambra Valley Road. His home is now a museum, but I have never been inside it.

In 1877 the Central Pacific Railroad (now the Southern Pacific) reached Martinez and in 1879 connected with the transcontinental line. At Port Costa near Martinez trains going north had to use a ferry to cross the Straight. The two ferries were then the largest in the world. It wasn’t until 1930 that the ferries were replaced by a train bridge from Martinez Since the bridge was low, the central span has to be raised every time a large ship has to go by on its way to the Avon Refinery near Martinez or to Stockton on the San Joaquin River or Sacramento on the Sacramento River. When we were kids we used to enjoy watching the bridge go up and the ships pass underneath. Sometimes trains would have to wait.

When I was little my parents would often take us to the train station at night with a big jug of milk shakes and cookies and we would watch the big steam engines and count the freight cars as they passed and watched the conductors helping passengers on and off the coaches and the porters pulling the heavy wagons loaded with baggage. It was a thrill to stand next to the big wheels of an engine that were almost as high as we were. And then there was the noise of the steam engine and the billows of smoke as it huffed and puffed pulling its heavy load. If you were lucky the engineer might even wave at you as he went by. There were almost always a few cars lined up next to the station facing the tracks filled with children like ourselves eager to watch and enjoy the spectacle.

In 1879 the Christian Brothers built a school on a hill in Martinez on seventy acres of land. Since they had 12 acres free they put in a vineyard and thus began the famous Christian Brothers’ Wine which was produced in Martinez until the brothers moved away to Napa in 1932. When we were small, my brother and I used to play around all that was left of the building foundations and a small grotto that had some bamboo trees.  It wasn’t until the late 1940’s that the property was subdivided and roads were put in. My parents bought a lot at the bottom of the property where the brother’s cemetery had been. I remember once finding in the dirt something we thought had been part of a casket.

The ferry and the agriculture were not the only attractions for immigrants. The waters of the Straight were rich with fish and by the 1870’s there were Italian and Portuguese fisherman. In 1882 two of the twelve canneries on the Pacific Coast were located in Martinez. Thousands of tons of salmon and other fish left Martinez for export around the world. In 1957 the bay area was closed to all commercial fishing, but when I was in grammar school there were still the mothers of some of my classmates who were working in the cannery.

The availability in Martinez of a deep channel for ocean going ships as well as the presence of the railroad was undoubtedly an important factor that influenced the decision of the Shell Oil Company in 1915 to locate its west coast refinery and chemical plant on a big parcel of land right at the outskirts of the town. From downtown it does not visibly dominate the town since it is largely out of sight just on the other side of a small hill, but its presence is inescapable. When the wind blows right the town is filled with the strong odors of the refinery. I grew up with these fragrances and I like them. Every time I go into a gasoline station and smell the fumes, I take a deep breath and think of home. I am forever grateful to whoever it was who suggested Martinez as the site and to the board members in a conference room somewhere who eventually made the decision to construct the refinery in 1915.  Without it my dad would never have met my Mother.

The first Italians arrived around 1858 to work in local mines near Mt. Diablo. From 1880 onwards peaking in 1905, many Italian fishermen, followed by farmers and merchants arrived for fishing, growing wine and as merchants.  A flourishing Italian section grew up with bakeries, pasta shops and grocery stores.  It was during this period that my grandparents arrived. So thanks to the friends who invited my grandfather to Martinez and to the cousin of my grandmother who asked her to visit, my mother was born in that small community.

In 1900 my paternal grandparents were married in New York and all my father’s younger sisters were born in New York, but my father was born in North Plainfield, New Jersey on Sept. 9, 1901. He must have had a high IQ and good grades because he won a scholarship to the most prestigious Jesuit Regis High School in New York City.  He is probably one of few graduates who never went on and distinguished themselves in college. His family was too poor, so he went to work for a trading company as accountant.  He also did a stint in the National Guard.  Had my dad gone to college, he would probably never have ended up in California to meet my mother, so thanks to his humble origin.

Finally in 1926 or 1928 my father decided to leave home and go west.  Together with a friend he packed his few belongings into a Model T Ford and looked for jobs along the way to support himself.  Their destination was the state of Washington, but it so happened at that time that there was a huge forest fire somewhere ahead and when they finally saw the smoke on the horizon, they turned south because they did not want to be pressed into service fighting the fire.  One of my dad’s relatives had given him a five or ten dollar bill for emergency use only. By the time they reached California and were nearing the bay area, they were down to that last bill when they heard that the Shell Oil Refinery in Martinez was hiring and my Dad got a temporary job as account clerk in the refinery office and ended up working there the rest of his life.

When my father started to work at the Martinez refinery, my Mother was already working as a stenographer in the same office. It also turned out that the room he rented in a boarding house was right across the street from my Mother’s home. So thanks to that forest fire in Washington, the running out of money, the opportune job opening and the empty room in that boarding house, the paths of my parents finally crossed and I was born.

週五, 24 十二月 2010 15:06

My first 75 years: my Celtic and Italian forbears

I am descended from several branches of humanity which eventually settled in Europe, specifically the British Isles and the Italian Peninsula.

As being of both Scottish and Irish descent, the ancestors on my father’s side were mainly Celts with a few Vikings or Norsemen thrown in as well.  The Celts were a powerful group of Iron Age tribes speaking Indo-European dialects first found in Southwest Germany and Southern France in the early part of the second millennium B.C. They were warriors who often made excursions into neighboring and distant lands.  They lived in fortified settlements. Their chieftains wielded the power of kings and the Druids the power of the priestly caste to control the forces of nature and educate the youth to keep traditions alive.  By the 4th century B.C. the Celts were being forced out of northern Europe or assimilated by the rise of the Germanic tribes, but their power continued to flourish in Ireland, Scotland and Great Britain though the Celts were eventually pushed out of England by the Anglo-Saxons.

The island of Ireland was separated from the rest of Europe after the last Ice Age. According to tradition it was successively invaded by four Celtic groups, first the Filbolgs and Fomers, then the Tautha De Danann (People of the Goddess Dana) who brought skilled artisans in all the then known arts, and finally around 1000, B.C. the Milesians, who became the ancestors of the present Irish people. It is said the Milesians came from Spain and before that from the Middle East, but neither claim has been proven.

Until the 8th century A.D. when Ireland was invaded by Norsemen, the Irish enjoyed independence from foreign incursion and a rich culture and literary tradition developed there especially after the conversion of the whole island to Christianity by St. Patrick in the 5th century. The Romans never reached Ireland and this isolation from the rest of Europe meant that the Dark Ages, which descended upon Europe after the fall of the Roman Empire, never touched Ireland.

It is said that after the victory of the Milesians two brothers, Eber and Eremon, divided most of the island, Eber taking the south and Eremon the north. When the wife of Eber coveted a beautiful hill that had been given to the wife of Eremon, war broke out, which Eber lost, so that the north became the dominant power.  Irish genealogies trace two main royal lines, that of Eremon and that of Eber. My Rodgers ancestors were descended from the Eremon line (also the Scottish MacDonalds and Ronalds). My Connors ancestors from Eber.

The first settlers in Scotland arrived probably from England around 7000, B.C. in the Mesolithic Age living mainly along the coasts. In the Bronze Age the Beaker people arrived, so-called after the fact they buried their dead with metal beakers. The Gaelic speaking Celts arrived around 1000, B.C. in the Iron Age. They eventually pushed out and assimilated the Picts who were descendents of the original inhabitants, who got their name from their pictorial symbols. The Romans never succeeded in subduing the fierce tribes and built Hadrian’s wall in 122 A.D. to keep them out of Roman territory.

In remote times some ancestors of the Irish Clan Colla surnamed MacDonnell went from Ulster in Ireland to Argyle and the Hebrides in Scotland where they became the most numerous and powerful clan in the Scottish Highlands where they were generally called MacDonalds. In 1140 in the time of King Malcolm the Fourth of Scotland Samhairle MacDonnell was the eighth and greatest Thane (Baron) of Argyle, lord of Cantyre, lord of the Hebrides, Founder of the Kingdom of the Isles. He married Sabina the daughter of the Norseman Olad, King of the Isle of Man. He died in 1154.

Randal, the son of Samhairle was also the lord of Oergeal and Cantyre as well as the Founder of the Cistercian Monastery and Benefactor of the Abbey of Paisley. His sons, Domhnall, Alexander, and Rory invaded Ireland in 1211 in the territories of Derry and Donegal with seventy-six ships and settled in Antrim, where they became very powerful and intermarried with Irish princes and masters of Ulster.  Alexander is the ancestor of the present MacDonnells of Ulster.  Rory is the ancestor of the MacRorys, whose name was anglicized as Rogers, Rodgers, Roger, and Rogerson, which makes him a likely ancestor of my grandmother, Mary Rodgers, who in 1877 was born in Balla, a small town in County Mayo on the west coast of Ireland. Life was very hard in Ireland in the 1890’s, so she migrated to New York while still a teenager and married my grandfather in 1900.

In 1866, my great grandfather, Robert Thomas Ronald, born 1844 in a place as yet unknown, arrived in the United States. He was nationalized in 1872. According to the 1880 US census for New York City, he was born in England of a Scottish father and Irish mother and employed as a baker. In 1873 he had a son also named Robert T. Ronald, who by 1900 was employed as a clerk in a furniture factory. He married Mary Rodgers in 1900 and my father, Robert Anthony Ronald, was born in New Jersey in 1901, but raised in Brooklyn, New York.

Both my mother’s parents came from northern Italy. My grandfather from Bologna, my grandmother from Genoa.

The area around Bologna was first inhabited in the Bronze ago about 3000 years ago by a people called Villanovese, who were conquered by the Etruscans, who were in turn pushed out by the Celts, who had to finally give way to the Romans, who occupied the city for 400 years giving it the name Boronia. With the decline of the Romans came a succession of barbarians hordes, the Visigoths, Huns, Goths, and Lombards.  So who knows what mixtures of  blood flow in my veins? With the defeat of the pagan Lombards, the Christians began to fight over Bologna in a series of struggles between the Holy Roman Emperors and the Popes.

Crevalcore, the home town of my Grandfather Massimiliano Gaetano Bergamini, is by car about 45 minutes northwest from the city of Bologna.  He was born on the family farm there on July 29, 1855.  A famous Italian photographer of the late 19th century published a book in which there is a photo of my Grandfather’s parents and his brothers and sisters in their Sunday finery posing in front of their farm house. My grandfather was already gone when the picture was taken.

The name Genoa comes from the Latin “genua” for “knee’ or “jaw” for mouth of the sea. The Phoenicians originally from Tyre in Phoenicia went to Genoa from their settlement in Corsica around 2000, B.C. where they joined with the local inhabitants, the Pagu or Tribe of Ambrones, a Celtic people originally from Iberia.

Those ancient Phoenicio-Celtic settlers, also called the Ligures, from early times  formed bands of pirates all over the Mediterranean much feared by the Greeks who called them Thyrrerioi. They likewise often served as mercenaries, even being mentioned in the Greek legend of Hercules (as Ligures) and often joining Carthage to fight its many wars.  There were 4000 Phoenicio-Celtic soldiers in Hannibal’s army when he was defeated by Rome in 218, B.C.  On the home side, the Ligures were famous for the fine olives they cultivated and the olive oil they made, which were exported all over the Mediterranean and to every part of the then known world.

According to Plutarch, it wasn’t until 102, BC. that Genoa finally fell under the control of the Romans, who made it the Province of Gallia Cisalpinis (Inside the Alps Gaul).  Octavianus Augustus made Genoa his hometown in 18, B.C.  It wasn’t until around 300, A.D. that the Church finally took hold. One of its earliest Bishops was St. Syrus (324-384).

After the Romans lost control of Genoa in 401, A.D. the region fell in and out of independence many times over the next 1450 years.  But whether free or dependent the Genoans managed to build a mighty maritime and mercantile empire.  They conquered not by military might but by economic prowess and financial clout.  Their fleets were the first to use modern compasses and sextants. Around 1100 they established the first commercial bank (Banco di San Giorgio) offering merchants and traders the first known bills of exchange and other financial services. They developed the first insurance system.  It was Genoa who organized and led the First Crusade in 1098 and the Third Crusade in 1190.

Present day Genoa lies atop the Gulf of Genoa at just about the center of the Italian Riviera. Near the lower half of the eastern Riviera is the little town of Sestri Levante, where my grandmother Adalgiza Angelina Carmelina Lambruschini was born in on May 4, 1875 into a prosperous noble family that traced its ancestry back to a legendary pre-Roman King and a Roman Senator and was proud of its relationship to my grandmother’s granduncle, Cardinal Luigi Lambruschini who had been Secretary of State of the Papal States and reportedly lost being elected pope by a single vote in the conclave that chose Pope Pius IX. In 1890 when only 15 years old my grandmother joined her sister who was living in San Francisco. She married my grandfather in 1900 and my mother was born in 1906.

And that is how I ended up half Italian, three-eighths Irish and one eighth Scottish. But it still doesn’t explain how my parents got together and I was finally born in the little town of Martinez in 1932.  There are still many elements of chance that need to be explained.

Painting by Bendu

週五, 24 十二月 2010 15:02

My first 75 years: my roots and my branches

On August 1, 1931 in Martinez, California, St. Catherine of Siena Catholic Church, one Robert Anthony Ronald from New York married Hazel Ritha Bergamini. From that union I was born. For those two persons from such different backgrounds to have met requires a staggering mind boggling amount of chance events.

週五, 24 十二月 2010 14:58

My first 75 years: looking back

On October 1, 2007 I will celebrate my 75th birthday. As I look back over these years, I am filled with many feelings. For one thing, the time has gone so fast. The years that looked so far away when I first started out are already far behind me. For another, so many things happened along the way that had not been anticipated, some good, some bad. But overall, I am amazed to still be alive, to still be able to work and play.

週四, 23 十二月 2010 17:12

The quest for inner peace

Inner peace is the presence of calm and harmony within ourselves even when all hell is breaking loose around us. This supposes that we are comfortable with ourselves and true to ourselves and that we have a purpose in life that we believe in. Preserving this peace is a lifetime task.
週四, 23 十二月 2010 17:09

On taking a good look at yourself

One day I opened up a magazine. What I saw was a big picture of a teacher sitting in front of his class apparently holding his students spellbound. So I started to read the article to find out what was so special about him. To my surprise it said he was disabled from polio. Looking again at the picture I realized he was sitting in a wheelchair. The first time I looked, I had failed to notice this.

Was that good or bad? It was good, I suppose, to the extent that I had focused on what he was doing rather than how he was doing it. But it was also bad because I had overlooked an important part of his reality.

I don't mind it at all if you can accept me and listen to what I have to say forgetting that I am in a wheelchair. But I will mind it very much if you invite  me to a  party  upstairs where  there  is  no  elevator because you  forgot that  I am  in  a wheelchair.

Whether I like it or not, my disabilities are an inseparable part of me. I don't want to be judged by my limitations, but neither do I want these limitations ignored.

After 49 years in a wheelchair it is hard for me to imagine what life would be like without my disabilities. I'm not  even  sure I would  want  to  be  free  of  them, since without  them I wouldn't  be enjoying my present job and without them I would have missed  out on almost every  important  event and exciting adventure I have enjoyed over these many years.

Therefore, if I am going to live well, then I must learn to live well with my disabilities. And if others are to go on living with me, then they, too, will have to learn how to live well with my disabilities.

I cannot control how others react to me. I can only control how I interact with them. The more comfortable with my disabilities that I appear to be, the quicker that others will learn to be comfortable with me.

I cannot have contentment in my life without making peace with my disabilities and limitations. I do not have to want them or like them, but I have to be determined not to let them interfere with my living as full a life as possible. I acknowledge and respect my limitations and needs, but I refuse to let them be the center of my life. I live with my disabilities, not for them.

Peace comes when there is harmony between what I am and where I am going and what I want to be. My life has value, because it is going somewhere. It is not there yet, but every day it edges a little closer. Keeping peace with myself means keeping active. Even rest chosen and enjoyed is peaceful activity.

 

Ronald’s Rules for Contentment

Rule One: Don’t make your happiness depend

upon conditions you cannot control.

Rule Two: Always look for the bright side of things.

If there is no bright side, then turn on a light.

Rule Three: Hope for the best, but don’t deny the worst.

 

There is a verse I like to quote:

Two men looked through prison bars.

One saw mud, the other stars.

Both men were right. Each of them saw what was there. But they saw only a part of what was there. If you only look up and admire the distant view you are in immanent danger of tripping on a rock or trampling in the mud. If you only look down you are in danger of overlooking many of life’s opportunities. Life is a mixture of mud and stars. To lead a happy life       means to find happiness with both.

We have to learn to see and try to enjoy the whole of life, not just the parts we want, because whether or not we like it we have to live through the whole of it, not just the days of sunshine and roses. We have to make up our minds: not to shy from our troubles, but to face them; not to run from difficulties that will hit us anyway, but to work them out; not to close our eyes to the mud, but calmly put on galoshes and continue on our way.

 

Photo from Ronald's archives

週四, 23 十二月 2010 17:07

The anatomy of an event - how you can help me survive

Our lives are nothing but a series of events, one after another, that mold us into the persons we become. Actually, it is not the events that define us, but how we react to whatever happens.

Every event follows a pattern of stages as follows:

1. First there is a triggering event. Something happens or is experienced that starts off the reaction: such as the advent of a disability or some consequence of it, the person meets with an accident, experiences something pleasant or unpleasant, learns some bad news, etc.

2. The event is interpreted. The person responds to the event only according to what he/she thinks happened. An event does not become a personal event until it is invested with personal significance. Such events are seldom viewed objectively or dispassionately.  They are first understood in terms of what the person thinks about them.

First, the event is identified in terms of what it seems to be ("I am dying", "I’ve become a cripple", "I am lost"), which may or may not be true, and according to how it is experienced ("painful", "cold", "pleasant").

Then it is understood in terms of the person's previous factual or erroneous knowledge and former experiences and attitudes (what the person thinks the disability is going to be like or what kind of attitudes he/she has already about persons with disabilities), which may or may not be factual or realistic. For instance, if the only disabled person the person has encountered before is a crippled beggar on the street, that’s the way the person views himself/herself now. If, on the other hand, the model of disability is President Roosevelt in the White House in a wheelchair or some successful artist or musician then the interpretation will be quite different.

Finally, it is evaluated in terms of standards of reference ("it is good or bad", "it is expensive or cheap") or its supposed import for the individual ("it means I will never walk again"). The judgment can be    simply informative ("this is like what happened to Uncle Harry") or imperative ("this is dangerous and should be avoided"). The evaluation may or may not be objective or realistic.

3. At once there are spontaneous responses: The subjectively interpreted event spontaneously arouses physiological reactions       like changes in heart-beat, the release of enzymes, etc. and emotional reactions like anger, fear, revulsion, desire, love, hate, revulsion, joy or contentment or just apathy, depending on how the event is perceived and understood.

Emotions are important components of behavior. They add energy and intensity to one's behavior and spur on coping activities. But they may also hinder and disrupt, like fear that paralyses or grief that debilitates. The more intense and attention-consuming emotions are, the less easy it is for a person to face problems objectively or move on to other concerns.

4. The next element is tension. The interpreted event infused with emotion impels the person to do something about it. It might be necessary to wait, to ponder the situation, come to a decision first and choose the means before beginning to execute the plan. The strength of the tension depends upon the urgency of the judgments and feelings.

5. Then comes the action response. In response to the tension, the person initiates action of some sort, to either ignore the problem, flee away, destroy it, or face and deal with it.

6. Finally, there is resolution. As the counter action takes place, the tension relaxes or not, depending on the outcome. If the activity produces its intended effect or seems on the way to do so, the tension is relieved and satisfaction, pleasure experienced. If the activity is unsuccessful or produces unwanted results, the tension is prolonged or increased. In this case it is like a new triggering event that can bring on a whole new series of reactions.

At every point in the above process there is the possibility of          mistaken judgments, inappropriate or uncontrolled emotions, faulty decisions or foiled unsuccessful actions. The nature of the disability or problem adds an element of difficulty, because it may disrupt or limit the ways a person can behave by interfering with functional abilities, e.g. blindness, paralysis and mental retardation all interfere with one's ability to interact with the environment and to achieve one's goals. The problems these cause can stir up additional emotional and psychological reactions that may further hinder adjustment.

There is the possibility that you misinterpreted what happened, you misjudged someone’s intention, jumped to wrong conclusions about what or why it happened, are mistaken about what you think is the seriousness or significance of what has happened. This influences how you feel and determines how much urgency you experience driving you to react. Then there is the means you choose to meet the challenge. If you botch the way you react or go down a path that is not effective, perhaps even harmful, then you don’t end up with a solution to your efforts but a new and worse event that needs crisis management.

I suppose in an ideal situation, one could just calmly sit back and analyze dispassionately what is happening:

Something has happened:

What is it: is it dangerous, important, insignificant?

Should it be ignored, monitored, investigated?

Should I run away, attack, do something, or ignore it?

Who is it: stranger, acquaintance, friend or enemy?

What should I do: ignore, run away, defend myself, attack

go on with my life as though nothing happened,

adjust to the new circumstances,

surrender helplessly and suffer the consequences?

What or how do I feel: fear, pain, anxiety, overwhelmed, challenged,

determined, resigned, disturbed, bewildered, joyful, content, at peace?

That is all very nice and easy to say, but if you are like me, you are not going to sit down and analyze what happened or chart your reactions. You will simply react as you usually do to what you believe is happening to you. That is perfectly normal, but a little reflection from time to time might help to handle better what happens next. Is it possible that I might have misinterpreted what occurred or the motives behind it? Is it possible that I could have reacted better or more effectively than I did? What can I learn from this?

That is my problem. I am the principal one involved in my event and I am the one who must respond to it. But if you are my friend, there is much you can do to help me. In the first place, you are in a position to see more objectively than I the nature and the ramifications of my problem, to correct misconceptions and to suggest solutions and offer aid.

Your helpful intervention in the first place would consist of doing something to stop or modify the triggering event, or distract my attention.  It may be necessary to correct my mistaken information or faulty judgments, or counter the prejudices or expectations of relatives and friends that may be unduly influencing me. First try to understand what precisely I am actually thinking. Are my perceptions, understanding and judgments accurate and realistic?  It is sometimes necessary to deal first with my feelings or reactive behavior before receptivity can be created for any change of ideas or attitudes.

Your intervention at this point should also depend upon the kind and the intensity of my emotions. Do they support coping constructively or moving on to other concerns or do they stand in the way? Apart from showing empathy, warmth, and understanding, negative and unruly feelings are best handled indirectly by modifying their cause such as by providing accurate information to relieve fears, introducing new experiences to produce a different emotions or arranging for less disruptive behavioral outlets through conditioning, counseling, or other methods.

Your intervention might be needed if I am reacting too precipitously or am not doing enough, or I am doing something inappropriate or harmful, etc. You must offer me advice about what to do or how to do it, pointing out mistakes or inappropriate decisions, etc.

Finally, when I am on the right track and doing what I can to get back on my feet, your presence, friendship, support, encouragement, warmth, praise, recognition and approval will support and help me over the rough times ahead.

Thank you for making my rehabilitation and adjustment possible.

Painting by Bendu

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