Atomic Town Dad: T.A.Welton

It was 1968 and I was home from college on spring break, speaking with my Dad in the living room. I with my jeans and long hair and newly-pierced ears, I was going to help stop the war in Viet Nam. My blue-eyed, black-haired theoretical physicist father spoke of the nature of humanity as he knew it, insisting that war among humans is inevitable. Bursting into tears, I left the room saying, "I believe peace is possible!"

A few years before that I had happened on a copy of John Hersey's HIROSHIMA. Reading through it I was horrified and deeply disillusioned, seeing that my Dad and his fellow scientists - all atomic pioneers I'd been brought up to revere - had participated in the horrendous pain and slaughter of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I never brought it up with him. The knowledge was buried deep, like atomic waste in some cement tomb far beneath the surface of the earth.

I think of my Dad now, white-haired, in his wheelchair. Last time I visited him when he was still at home, I helped him clean up after sudden diahrrea, helped him with his diapering, helped him get from wheelchair-to-car. I cooked him things he liked, especially greens with a little vinegar. We spoke of Tom Sawyer visiting his own funeral, and, laughing still - relaxed - we spoke of Dad's wishes for his own remains whenever that time should come.

Now Dad is in a nursing home. The nursing home music volunteer leaves her electronic keyboard in his room. Before I left to go home several states away, Dad played some slow Wagnerian chord progressions for me - the same ones I remember him bumbling through when I was very small. They hadn't improved a bit, but they were none the worse for wear. I'm more impressed with my Dad than ever. Sometimes when there's a little down-time at the library I google up his name. There's an article he wrote, "Memories of Feynman,"* which I read now and then, to recapture the excitement of growing up in a town and a household full of scientific curiosity about the wonders of existence.

I remember Dad as I knew and adored him when I was very young: the Dad who came home late from the Lab and played Beethoven - my Moonlight Sonata lullabye; the Dad who taught us four children the names of the stars and constellations late at night under brilliant skies; the Dad who loved to travel, and took the whole family on vacations to the sea, to the desert, to the mountains....The Dad who once laughed at a thunderstorm, encouraging the four of us tiny ones to dance naked in the pouring rain. The one who, with our Mom, brought us up in Los Alamos and Oak Ridge, in Berkeley and Brookhaven; the one who talked about Oppenheimer and Feynman, and who scribbled theories in peacock blue ink when he worked at home on Saturdays.

I'm outlasting his belief in the inevitability of warmongering among humans, I think - or rather, perhaps I'm coming to some understanding of the spiritual physics of peaceful warriorhood. The alchemy of human consciousness. He doesn't see angels or talk with trees, and I do. I don't grok quantummechanics and he does. Never the twain shall meet - except, and only, in the heart. He's my Dad whom I've always adored.



*Physics Today, Feb. 2007, p.46: "Memories of Feynman" by T.A. Welton can be found online as a PDF file.

Meet The Hoozits - Autumn 2005

As I walked past a little recycled children's clothing and toys store in Oak Ridge, Tennessee one day, I saw the most wonderful being posed in the window, looking right into my eyes. I couldn't get over this creature: a plushy light green long-armed big-eyed orangutan. I had to have it. My first thought was, "I'm going to have to get back into puppetry! This one belongs on stage!"
I went into the store and before I could reach for the orangutan, another being caught my eye: it was a hard plastic green alligator-xylophone on wheels, with big eyes looking - yes! - looking right at me! This one had a moveable jaw, and a pull-string. I could not resist. Now I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'd be getting back into puppetry. How not?
In the next aisle there was another being - a floppy green-and-blue plush plaid dog. Of course this one was a member of our troupe, too. By the time I was finished in that store I had acquired Dr. Orangy-tangy, Music Al the Xylogator, and Nursie Nosey-Dog. There were several more to come. Within a few days we were joined by a very colorful McCaw; and then by Bunnee Rabbat, the long floppy-legged (knots for knees) fat-bodied lady rabbit made of an old chenille bedspread and big bright buttons. I'm still looking for her "Majeek Hat," her magic hat, where I am sure she lives. When we find it she will make her entrance before the audience by being pulled - and pulled - and - eeeeeeeee - pulled - POP! - from the hat. "Oh, my goodness! My Majeek Hat 'as shrunk! Eet ees too small for my skinny leetle self! Tch tch!" and like that.
As I gathered member after member of my new puppet troupe, I knew we had to have just the right name. Years before, when my daughter and I puppeteered together (she was seven; now she's nearing 30, and she's a professional actress and a new mom), we called our troupe "Pumparilla Puppets." I knew, now, that I wouldn't re-use that name; and I was waiting for just the right inspiration. Finally one morning I had the strongest sense that the spirit of Jim Henson was with me. I received some great hints and ideas, and very soon our name was apparent: The HOOZITS.
Every now and then The HOOZITS and I put on a little show. There's always a lot of audience participation: Dr. Orangy-Tangy likes to swing through the trees, so children and parents get to be her trees. Party-Hardy McGraw, the Real McCaw, loves to get audience members echoing his wild jungle sounds. And Music Al the Xylogator has a song to teach. He woke me up with it one morning, and now every show we do, Music Al insists on getting the audience to sing along while I play accompaniment on his little rainbow xylophone spine. Al's song goes like this:
Once upon a time, there was a Xylogator.....
His name was Music Al
And he was everybody's pal.

Visiting An Old Puppeteer-Librarian: Anna Cebrat of Oak Ridge, Tennessee - 1985

When she was our high school librarian I was afraid of her. She was large and territorial, and I didn't need any more terrifying women around me - my mom was enough. I spent most of my time around "Doc," our hilarious big-hearted band director.
Years late, though, I made a visit to Anna Cebrat, because I'd become a puppeteer and so had she - and she was known around the country, through Puppeteers of America. I was curious.

On a visit to my dad and stepmom, I called ahead for a time to visit her. She let me into her house, which was filled with stacks and stacks of newspapers and magazines, with a narrow maze of a path leading from front door to chairs and sofa. I knew how to show respect and avoid even looking uncomfortable....But after she'd been kind enough to show me some of her puppets and share some of her experiences with me, she mentioned the mess around us, wanting to know what I thought.

I saw there was no way out of commenting - and it had to be the Truth, whatever I said - because we were talking Truth. Puppets are all about Truth. So I grinned at her and pretended to scold as I looked over the mess, saying, "And YOU, a librarian!" That was enough. We both enjoyed a good laugh - because, from the way I said it, she could see that I loved human foibles and that she was loveable.

When the visit felt over and I got up to leave, she heaved herself up from her seat and I really saw how terribly she struggled with overweight and arthritis, bless her heart. I'm glad I got to visit and learn from her, and give her a little joke on herself to chuckle over from time to time. Perhaps it went into one of her puppet shows, who knows? She passed away quietly a year or so after that visit, and I hope her old dog, just as overweight and arthritic as she, passed away first. And I've often wondered what the folks who came to clean out that house might have found, stashed among all the newspapers and magazines.