Labels = Imposter?

Who is the real Karen Lea Anderson Peterson?

Some thoughts in response to a friend’s lament of losing one’s youth.

“Quite a coincidence that after your comment on youth passing us by, I saw on YouTube a movie called Naked, High and FreeLife Inside Taylor Camp. Maybe you’ve already seen it but it’s about a bunch of hippies dropping out in Kauai and making and living a life there, clothes optional. It was really cool to watch and it made me realize that as much as I thought of myself as a hippie, I never really did drop out. Then a flood of thoughts came about other ways in which perhaps I would not be considered a hippie, or any such thing on which you could place a label”.

Here are some thoughts on my life in no particular order:

I didn’t really protest the war (Vietnam) except in heart and of course, speaking out against it at every opportunity, but I didn’t go out to march. That’s never been my thing and I still don’t participate in marches as deeply as I feel that all war should end.

Another idea, which many associate with being a hippie, is free love. I wasn’t a participant in free love. Though I believed, and still do, that one should love who one loves, not dependent on gender, or any other criteria, marriage included. I didn’t even really believe in that. So why have I always thought of myself as a hippie?

What is hippie philosophy and/or lifestyle anyway? I guess mine was more intellectual in that I was against consumerism and yet I am a consumer. As far as my political views, I guess you could say I am a liberal because I’m certainly not a conservative but I’ve never been political. I’ve even considered myself apolitical. I haven’t ever participated in political activities of any kind. I never lived on a commune or in a community, not even in an urban environment.

I guess I grew in understanding that organic gardening and consuming organic foods were important and I did grow my own organic gardens, beginning in 1969. I read about self-sustaining ifestyles but I never actually did that. We raised chickens and goats and even owned and butchered two steer. We also owned a couple of horses.

I cooked on beautiful wood cook stoves and we heated with wood. I made my own bread, I ground my own flour and coffee. I made pickles and canned fruits and unsuccessfully made wine. I shunned plastics and non-organic materials in clothing and packaging to the extent that was possible. I’ve understood and protested (verbally) against the use of fossil fuels and polluting our environment. I’ve spoken/ voted against the use of pesticides and herbicides in food production and against industrial meat production.

I learned to weave, crochet, embroider, quilt and spin my own yarn and sew. I made some clothes for the children and I even made my own wedding dress.

Speaking of children, I gave birth to my first child but did not raise her. I have written that story in other blog posts. My second child was born in a hospital in the days before it was common to have a natural childbirth without any intervention. I had to fight to have my baby in the room with me for the 3 days that was required internment. I breastfed for 2 years. My third child I had at home and again breastfed for 2 years.

Before settling down and having children, I used weed and psychedelics to expand my mind and decidedly not to party. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy music and light shows and good times with friends, because I did. But as the years went on, more and more people were using drugs, not to necessarily expand their minds and their lives but more liberally defined as recreation.

I studied and practiced Midwifery but without formal training and without certificates or degrees. I would not now call myself a midwife, though I did deliver tens of babies. Without the real training that I should have had, I am fortunate to say that I never lost a baby.

I taught aerobics for years and this also without the formal training that I should have had. Eventually I was trained and did hold a certificate.

I read, but not extensively, Eastern philosophy and dipped my toes in psychology and sociology. I had fully rejected Christianity early and was looking for alternatives to spirituality * thanks to forays into experimentation with LSD and mushrooms.

I believed, and still do even more vehemently now that I have a greater understanding of our history as human beings and more specifically as Americans, in equal rights for every man and woman and child and shunned racism and other negative and evil “-isms’  But I never physically marched against them or took part in a written campaign against them or participated in any other activity against hatred  and inequality.

So what is this label that I have put on myself for so many years? I think if I was to be really honest with myself, I would have to say I was never really a hippie by the strictest definition of what a hippie is. I suppose it would be wise of me in all honesty to not take on any label, whatsoever. I suppose I can only say that I was aware of all of the movements and agreed with all of the movements to one degree or another, even dropping out.

My spiritual seeking was really very shallow. I would say, I read a few books but I didn’t really delve deep into meditation until the last 25 years. I didn’t go on retreats in India, like many of us did at the time and not even to local gatherings with other seekers. And even now my practice is a mishmash of what I choose to participate in and not even socially. I don’t belong to any groups. I prefer my independence. I guess the closest thing one could say is that I have formally been trained in Transcendental Meditation but I don’t even practice that purely. I’ve only been to two TM retreats.

And even though I have been educated as an historian, I don’t believe I can call myself an historian. If what it means to be an historian is to have published books and perhaps been an educator. I have published a lot but I haven’t published a book and I don’t teach on one particular genre of history. I might lay claim as an ethnographer. As that was and still is a major activity of mine.

My real expertise, if you can call it that, is in the preservation of history in physical form. The preservation of documents, photographs, publications, artfacts, etc., etc., has been my passion. My career in research, documenting, describing and giving access to those materials, was my field of expertise, and in this field, I am not an imposter. But in nearly everything else, I am, if I claim to be the conclusive and precise definition of those things.

Yes, I was a professor at OHSU. That is true based on the three/four criteria of research, teaching, publishing and serving on committees. Of that, I can lay claim, as well.

But if I were to be quizzed on what I learned in 11 years of University training, I would fail miserably. Only in the field of archival management would I exceed expectations.

But in all other areas of my life it would not be unreasonable for people to point a finger at me and cry: “IMPOSTER”. You be the judge if you want.

And now that I am an old woman, what do I say of myself? Generally, when people ask me about myself, I say I’m an old hippie but I wonder now if that is really an accurate label? If I shun labels, maybe I can simply say that I’m an old woman who lived her life the best way she knew how. I have loved and have been loved. And there’s not a soul on Earth that can dispute that, not even myself.

I’m fine with Watching the World Go By

I’m Fine

I’m fine with watching the world go by.

I don’t feel the need to have ideas, projects and goals.

What could possibly be wrong with just sitting and staring out the window,

And enjoying a hot cup of anything for hours on end?

What interest have I in your wars, in your criminal activities, in your hatred and your lies?

What care I for your struggles for wealth and domineering power?

In what interest do I share with you for  generations of ownership of property and land?

I’ve had a pleasant life of accomplishments, work and study, love and family,

With never a desire or intent to hurt a living soul, without hatred for anything.

And now I am content to sit and watch the world go by.

Do your worst because, I will no longer participate. I will no longer try to save you or try to change you.

It’s my time to rest and reflect. And so that is what I will do… like birds of a feather.

My protest in silence.

I Don’t Want to Live Long… Unless:

What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?

Unless you’re physically and mentally in good health, it is my opinion that one should, as well as might be accomplished, pass on gratefully and peacefully.

When I say, ” in good health”, both physically and mentally, I am aware that good health is relative to each individual. I intimately know what it means to me. I have been nigh unto death twice in my life.

As for me, I do not want to live disabled,  physically confined to a wheelchair nor in a bed nor in a nursing home staring at the walls. Nor would I want to live with dementia. My grandmother had dementia, and it was torturous, more so for her, but also for those of us who loved her dearly.

As my mom used to say when she was dying on hospice, I do not want my heart to keep on beating when my mind ceases to function. I am in complete agreement with that sentiment.

Many members of my family have lived very long lives, some even passed one hundred years. When I was younger, I thought I wanted to follow in their footsteps. I no longer have that wish.

Now that I’m nearing 80, I know what pain is. I know what it is have your organs begin to fail. I know what it is to feel myself getting weaker, though I work on my physical body constantly.

I know what it is to be disrespected by those that are younger. I know what it is to be disregarded, though I am educated and my intellect is still intact. I make an effort to learn new things every day.

But in spite of all of that, I love my life. I enjoy my memories. I love each season in turn. I have had an adventurous life. I have been loved good and bad. As I like to say, “I have been ridden hard and put away wet”.  And I have no regrets. I can say with a keen certainty that I fear life more than death.

For now, I will live my life just as I wish… anyway, as well as my diminutive finances will let me. I am satisfied with what I have. But I don’t wish to live without my health and an ability to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.

When I was younger, and my life was full of new experiences, I often said, “Leave when you have to; stay as long as you can”. I realize now that wasn’t always the best advice. But it sure made for an interesting life.

Things he said to me

Some things he said to me left deep footprints in the mud part of my mind.


This is not love. It’s a neurotic attachment

You’re more stupid than my mother

You are stupid, shallow and ridiculous

You’re cold

And why did he say those things?

Was it revenge? A payback for hurting him?

He hated my fat and insulted me in front of friends, family and visitors.

He even ḥit me a few times and pushed me and then wanted me to make love.

I couldn’t, though I loved him and I tried but I drew back,  repulsed, not by him but in defense, I suppose,  I really don’t know.

Probably not Presentable

I’m truly turning into that stereotypical old woman.

I wear the same clothes every day for at least a week, unless they’re too dirty to be seen in public. At home dirty clothes are all right with me.

I don’t change my underwear every day unless they smell.

I only change my sheets every couple of weeks, sometimes, only once a month.

I don’t wash my face every day. I don’t like to shower except after I’ve been in the pool for aquafit classes, and so I don’t.

I’d rather eat a hamburger out every day than cook. I rarely eat salad. I want cookies and/or candy every day.

I wish I could get away without brushing my teeth, or ever going to the dentist. The same goes for visiting the doctor.

I don’t really ever want to leave the house. I’m happy with staying home with my knitting; nothing could entice me to travel.

I’d rather concentrate on memories than making plans. Dying doesn’t scare me but living does.

But in spite of that, I went to the “Christmas Revels” last night, and it was wonderful. I put on clean clothes, brushed my hair and my teeth and washed my face. I had aquafit in the morning, so I had a shower.

I was, for a night, what you might call, presentable.

On This First Sunday in June

The day has started so cold. It’s in the 40s, but promises to be in the 70s by day’s end. Satisfying weather for a spring day, I think.

But for now, mid-morning, I’m still in the bed with the blankets pulled up to my hips to keep my legs warm and so as not to disturb the cat lying between my feet.

I awoke to gray skies, but slowly the light has brightened the clouds making me aware of my hunger.

It’s pancakes with eggs, sweetened with maple syrup, I’m thinking. A steaming cup of black coffee. The thought of breakfast, if nothing else, will get me out of my bed, however lazy I feel on this first Sunday in June.

To Remember

Many, many years ago

I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.

My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.

There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.

My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.

He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.

He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.

He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.

But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.

Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.

And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.

Brogues, Metal Cleats and Family

Dad wore large metal cleats on his expensive brown leather Florsheim brogues. These shoes were weekly tended to until they were softly polished to a warm, soft sheen. Even without the cleats, they were heavy. I can still remember the smell of shoe polish and the soft cloth and brushes in Dad’s kit.

Wingtip leather dress shoes

Every day, after he was done with work, we could hear him coming home from the bus stop around the block before we could see him. The large cresent shaped cleats on the heels of his shoes rang out on the concrete sidewalk. We ran to meet him as he rounded the corner of our street.

Cleats

It was a comforting sound that we waited for, even though Mom warned that he would soon arrive and we were to put our toys away and clean up our projects and to clear the walkway of bicycles, scooters, pogo sticks and such.

Mom was usually cooking dinner at this time of day, so she had food ready for him, knowing that he would be tired and worn after a long day. Us kids were to make way for him, so it was a peaceful and relaxing place for him to unwind.

As soon as he removed his shoes, he would put his shoe trees inside to stretch and maintain the elegant shape of these expertly designed and sewn shoes. The cleats were not only music to our ears, they were practical.

Shoe tree

The cleats prevented the heels from being worn down. When the cleats themselves wore down, the edges were  thin and sharp as knife blades. New ones were applied by the neighborhood shoe repairman.

Shoes in those days that had worn out heels and soles were not disposed of but were repaired. My great Uncle Curt had a shoe repair shop where every morning he opened the door knowing that customers would be coming to drop off or pick up shoes. That was when shoes weren’t disposable.

Uncle Curt’s shop smelled of tanned leather and shoe polish. Behind the counter stood a huge black sewing machine and a workbench with neatly arranged hammers and cutters and other tools of his trade and bins of nails and threads and cords of all types and cleats, of course.

The shelves lining the walls were filled with every type of shoe from heavy work boots and workshoes to dainty women’s high heels. He also repaired purses, belts, suspenders, and anything needing his handiwork. There were also a couple of chairs for customers to wait if they just needed a quick fix, like having to replace worn-out cleats.

Dad took care of what was important to him. I remember the smells of banana from the oil when he cleaned his guns and how his tackle box smelled when he cleaned, rearranged and prepared the hooks, the flies, the bobbers, the sinkers and spools of fishing line… and little jars of florescent fish eggs.

When Dad brought out his shoes, guns, tackle boxes, and other stuff to clean and care for, it wasn’t in the basement, not in the garage and not even in the kitchen. It was in the living room where he was in the middle of his family, in the midst of the most important things in his life… in his heart, where he tinkered.

We loved to watch him and ask him this and that while he taught us the value of our belongings and the importance of what we had. But mostly, he taught us to love family.  And we do.

I wish I could hear him coming down the street today. He left us way too young. He was only 52 years old when he passed away. But he left an indelible mark on us all. I insisted on wearing taps/cleats on my shoes, too, just like Dad. I wanted to be just like Dad… I hope I am.

Poet… Why?

Why do you write in words and phrases that hide in dark obscurity.

Is writing plainly so unappealing?

Unless my mind short circuits are you less profound?

Is it because your search for strange bedfellows in metaphors makes you feel more like your imagined idea of poetry?

I would rather that your words conjure visions and not a puzzle to interpret falsly or incidentally incorrectly?

Don’t you want me to peck and find and gobble your meaning like birds hunting seeds among the tall grass, the pebbles and dust?

I don’t mind the work, but at least make it worth my while.

Winter is for Rest

Off to the pool.

Home for lunch.

Now it’s time for sitting, knitting, snoozing, tea, and small snacks.

Right Fran Ham?

She agrees.

Fran Ham on the toasty spot