This Monday, December 16, 2013, at 7 pm,  the Blue Thread universe will celebrate the launch of The Ninth Day by zooming down to a single spot on the olam: 732 NW 19th Avenue, Portland, Oregon. JOIN US! It’s officially the Koehler House, named for the German family who first lived there, but for me the angular blue-gray structure is the real-world inspiration for Miriam Josefsohn’s home in Blue Thread, a companion novel to The Ninth Day. And it’s still filled with my imaginary friends.

In the 1912 portion of Blue Thread, Miriam spends about half of her time in the house on 19th and Johnson. She sews money into her petticoats in her bedroom and washes off biblical sand in the bathroom. She argues with her parents in the parlor and disappears from the kitchen to travel back thousands of years through time and space. […]

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Master Interlacer: Einstein

While Florrie Steinbacher has been posting away on my blog, I’ve combined bluethreadbook.com with ruthtenzerfeldman.com to bring you my “new and improved” Web site. From now on, you and I will have one main place to connect and converse. Thanks, Florrie!

I’ve been reading Heretic’s Heart, —Margot Adler‘s memoir of the 1950s through the early 1970s. How I wish I had gone to Margot’s elementary school in Greenwich Village! Here’s how she describes the place:

“City and Country took as an axiom an idea that has been echoed by a host of philosophers and writers from Marx to Muir to Einstein —that when you try to pick out something by itself, you find it connected to everything in the universe.”

Precisely. It’s that sense of connection that compelled me to write Blue Thread and The Ninth Day, and that inspires me to tackle my latest writing projects. […]

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Thank you for listening to my ramblings about my dear Miriam Josefsohn from the moment she stepped off the train in Oakland in 1912 until the day she died just weeks before Little Mim was born. The strength of our friendship gave me the power and determination to stay in your world all this past summer.

Frankly, I can’t stand the thought of leaving you just like that—poof!—and I’m gone. I’ll be on Twitter for now (@florrie_st). A real person named Kate Burkett has compiled my ramblings into what she calls an e-book, which you can have for free. Ruth will tell you how to get it.

Ruth has gone on to other imaginings. Leona and Gabriel tell me that Ruth’s next book, The Ninth Day, picks up the story of Little Mim in 1964, when she’s sixteen. Leona Nash is Little Mim’s best friend. I hope that Leona will have the kind of closeness with Little Mim that I had, and always will have, with Little Mim’s grandmother. […]

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We were in the middle of the twentieth century. Approximately. Henry Friis could have told me the precise middle, but then he would have told me that time, the way I thought of time, didn’t exist. He and Mim (oh, how I missed her!) would have had a lot to talk about.

There was nothing middle-of-the-road about 1950, though. That was the year of taking sides. Joseph McCarthy saw to that. A U.S. Senator no less, and I thought Congress had more sense. McCarthy claimed that the State Department was infested with Communists.

McCarthy played on our fears. The Soviets had gotten the atomic bomb, and communists had taken control of China. Henry was furious —and frightened—, when a physicist at the Los Alamos Labs, —Klaus Fuchs, —confessed to giving secrets about the bomb to the Soviets during World War II.

“Fuchs was the son of a Lutheran minister,” Henry told me at Tilden Park with the children one Saturday, while Rachel was having her hair done. […]

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Miriam Hope (I called her “Little Mim“) became my life for nearly a year after Mim died. I can’t say I was the ideal surrogate grandmother, and, as you know by now, I’m not the motherly type. I’d expected to help Rachel with the baby for a few weeks until Rachel was well enough to handle all three children on her own, but I found I was still spending part of every day at Rachel’s even after Joshua started kindergarten in the fall of 1948, and Dagmar went to nursery school two mornings a week.

Hans and Sidney kept the art gallery afloat, while I drifted through the days. What got me out of bed in the morning was the thought of holding Little Mim. Hans coaxed me into bed at night. Then, in early 1949, two events helped to anchor me back among the living.

First, I got a letter from my friend Reginald in New York—do you remember that Mim and I visited him in 1934? […]

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I did not allow myself to collapse into despair when Ephraim called me with the news. Rachel depended on me. Mim depended on me. Instead I asked if Ephraim wanted help with arrangements and telephone calls. He said Sidney had volunteered to do all that.

I went food shopping next—can you believe it? I wanted to stock Rachel’s pantry, in case of any eventuality with her pregnancy.

Henry stayed home that day—it was a Friday, so the funeral would not be until after Shabbat, on Sunday. Henry told me later that Rabbi Stern did a commendable job. I had the good fortune to miss the funeral because I stayed with Rachel, who was confined to bed. Truth to tell, I wasn’t ready to watch them lower my Mim into her grave. Sunday morning I put a rose on Rachel’s breakfast tray, and I sat with her while we wept. Dagmar and Joshua were at a neighbor’s house, so it was just the two of us. […]

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Mim and I did bring off the birthday party for Sidney and Ephraim with as much joy as we could muster under the circumstances. Sidney invited a young man to join us—Robert was his name—and Robert helped to liven up the conversation by regaling us with antics from his hometown in Ohio.

“Sidney took a brave step by having Robert come here,” I told Mim later. I was tucking her into bed early, after she announced she had a horrible headache and left Sidney to get dessert for everyone. I knew she knew what I knew about Sidney, although we hadn’t talked about it before. Back then Sidney’s relationship with Robert was considered criminal.

“It’s good that he has someone to care for him,” she whispered. “Especially now.”

Especially now. I can’t tell you how many times Mim used that phrase over the next three months. The specialist confirmed in his medical mumbo-jumbo that a cancer that had apparently started on her ovaries had spread elsewhere. […]

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“I’m coming with you,” I said. Dr. Kravitz was Mim’s family doctor, and mine, too. Bertha Kravitz. Someone who, I imagine, had fought her way to get into medical school and to stay there, and to establish a highly respected practice in a male-dominated world. If Bertha had been our doctor then, Sidney would have gotten better care instead of nearly dying of whooping cough.

So I was there, you see, on December 29, 1947, to hear Mim tell Bertha about her symptoms: bloody discharge, bloating, general fatigue. I was there to read Bertha’s face, which belied her reassuring words. I was there when Bertha wrote down the name of a specialist on her prescription pad and told her assistant to make an immediate appointment for Mim.

“I’m busy all this week and next,” Mim stated, as if she were arranging to go to the beauty parlor. “Any time after January 11th.”

The assistant was about to object, but Bertha whispered, “That’s fine.”

There you have it. […]

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Had I known that 1947 would have the last Thanksgiving that all of us would be together, I would have used one of those new reel-to-reel tape recorders as a centerpiece for the dining room table instead of a bouquet of mixed asters. Well, the world doesn’t work like that, does it? Characters have no idea what’s going to happen to them, just like in real life.

Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom from Want” appeared in the March 6, 1943, Saturday Evening Post. This reminds me of Thanksgiving, 1947. The young man with the dark hair could have been Sidney. The young couple on the other side of the table look like Rachel and Henry. Mim never looked like the woman holding the turkey.

Thanksgiving, 1947, everyone was there: Mim and Ephraim; Paul, Caroline and their boy Benjamin; Rachel, Henry, Joshua, and Dagmar; and Sidney by himself as usual; and my dear Hans. […]

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Do you know how some years it feels like there’s a seismic shift in your universe? So many beginnings and endings. One of those years for Mim and me, after our road trip, was 1947.

First off, Stalin’s Red Army was reshaping Eastern Europe. I remember that Winston Churchill put his finger on it in ’46 when he said that an “iron curtain” had descended, dividing the democracies from the communist regimes. Poland, Hungary, Romania…one after the other. I don’t remember who first spoke about a “cold war” between us and the Soviet Union (now it’s Russia again), but the hostility was palpable. Hans was still working for the OSS, which had changed its name to the CIA. There were nights when he didn’t come home. The world had gone from Allied-Axis to Capitalists-Commies.

Jackie Robinson’s 1947 rookie card

Then there was another shift, this one for the better. […]

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