Betsy's Beanery

BLACK

Betsy in her Party Dress

In my second year of art school I found myself at a loft party with the conspicuously arty crown from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.  My hair was quite short and my lips very, very red.  I smoked cigarettes using a quill in order to preserve my lipstick.  A pair of silver, art nouveau-style earrings, a gift from my sister who lived in Paris, dangled from my exposed earlobes, nearly grazing the silky nap of the mink collar on my black, cashmere cardigan (with rhinestone buttons!).  The sweater had been given to me by a fellow deli waitress who recognized that “…it’s more YOU than me” --- and it was.   Tight blue jeans completed the look.

     Igars, a.k.a. “Ike” had a gorgeous, Nordic face and a nearly waist length blond ponytail.  I knew who he was, a fellow art student of some notoriety, so I was surprised when he approached and invited me, a nobody, to dance.  By way of making my acquaintance Ike asked, “You’re from New York, right?”  Hell no, I thought.  For at the tender age of 21 I could not have pointed to NYC on a map.  “Uh, no.  I’m from Milwaukee --- 90 miles north.”  The relationship never developed into much, but a seed was planted that night and about seven years later I moved to the East Village in Manhattan.

     It was the punk rock early ‘80’s and though there were still sparkling shards of the collapsed disco days all around --- Disco Donut, Disco Dry-Cleaning, Disco Five & Dime ---the look and to some extent the mood in lower Manhattan was decidedly black.  Black leather, black sunglasses, black CBGB t-shirts ripped and sometimes pinned, everywhere you looked.  Black silhouettes of bombs, puppies and generic rock stars were stenciled on sidewalks, walls and stop signs.  Keith Haring was working exclusively in black in those days too.  Tight black jeans, dyed black hair, heavy eyeliner and filthy Doc Martens --- all of it so slimming that even overfed teenagers from New Jersey looked homeless and drug addled.

     One night, hoping, of course, to meet men and possibly find true love, I went out with a girlfriend for drinks.  We sat at the bar in a restaurant called “1/5” located at 1 Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village.  The men we were interested in and whom we’d be most likely to encounter at this upscale venue were more likely to be wearing pastel shirts and suits from Brooks Brothers than vinyl pants from “Trash & Vaudeville.”  I had dressed to please that crowd in a summery blue floral ensemble, my unruly hair lacquered into a demure French twist.  The flowery, flowing rayon skirt caressed my long legs seductively as I strolled back towards my First Avenue walk-up at an early morning hour.  I was trying to channel the young woman in Ruth Orkin’s famous photograph, taken the year I was born, of an American girl nonchalantly running the gauntlet of leering Italian men.  My confident stride would not betray the disappointment I’d felt in having to walk home --- alone.  There was no gallant young escort in a 3-piece suit to protect me from harm.  The fact is, I never felt endangered in that part of the city.  For even with its strange inhabitants, including drunks, junkies and vagrants it was my  neighborhood and I belonged there.  It was my home.  However, it was very late and the streets seemed unusually deserted.  I was the sole figure crossing Second Avenue at St. Mark’s Place when out of a dark doorway stumbled a tall, skinny creature.  I probably smelled him before I could make him out to be human under the hazy streetlight.  “Excuse me, “ he said as he staggered towards me.  I ignored him, but he persisted.  “EXCUSE ME.”  God, what does he want?  Is he going to rob me? Rape me? Mess up my hair?  I stopped and planted my feet (shod in the palest lilac colored ballet flats) with a scowl on my face and my arms akimbo I demanded, “What?  What do you want?”

     “I just wanted to thank you,” he explained, “for not wearing black.”

 

 

 

 

le dernier anchois*

Portlanders

*the last anchovy

 

When I’m feeling sorry for myself (and yes, I do, sometimes) it’s usually prompted by a longing for the future I may not get to enjoy.  Cancer has quashed my ability to imagine a life unfurling endlessly ahead of me --- an open prairie of possibility.  Instead I must be content with small dreams of a more immediate future. 

     There will be a picnic next week on Sauvie Island in the periwinkle dusk to celebrate our 23^rd anniversary.  And as summer wanes, there’s the anticipation of Portland’s homey perfection in the fall. Quirky bungalows, their wide, welcoming front porches decked out with jack o’lanterns, corn stalks and chrysanthemums seem to beckon to passers-by to come in for cups of tea, slices of pumpkin or zucchini bread --- home made, of course, the ingredients plucked from gardens planted along the parking strip or wherever the summer sun happened to fall.  The mat says, “welcome” and it is sincere.  A bond of neighborly community forged and fortified during those carefree days lived outdoors on bicycles and skates in summer will serve well to ward off the chill of bleak winter days that might otherwise be spent in solitude.  Come into my kitchen.  Try my blackberry preserves, my cherries soaked in brandy.  I’ll put the kettle on.

     Sometimes I feel guilty for having cancer and not appreciating every moment of my life.  I’m one of the lucky ones, after-all, a survivor.  I ought to be acutely aware that I am living a second chance life.  And yet, I bitch at my husband for his sins of omission, insignificant transgressions; rail at the ancient cat for puking on the just-cleaned rug; threaten the ailing poodle “dogs can be put down on a whim, you know!”

     When I’m basking in a swath of time where I feel fine and can forget I have cancer --- even if it’s just a few distracted hours created by some absorbing diversion --- I become reckless and take everything I have for granted.  But occasionally, usually as the day of my quarterly CT scan approaches, if I don’t feel well --- sore neck and shoulders, extreme indigestion (stomach cancer, what my grandmother died from, and didn’t my mother always used to say, “you’re just like my mother”)?  The awareness of my mortality becomes acute and piercing.  “Life is too short.”  My mother used to always say that too.

     Last night, mincing anchovies with my mezza luna, I had such a moment.  The anchovies are a “secret” ingredient in one of our favorite recipes.  I don’t eat them often and I only make this “Pasta Salad with Character” a couple of times a year.  Perhaps, I thought, I’ll never make this dish again.  This could be my last anchovy.  Just then all my cares and worries fell away and life became very simple, very clear.  I prepared the rest of the meal as if in slow motion, all of my senses heightened.  Then we ate the salad with gusto accompanied by a tasty Gruner Veltliner and a lovely piece of grilled Alaskan halibut.

     I awoke at four this morning with terrible heartburn and later went out to buy another tin of anchovies.

Limbo

Mary Elizabeth Betsy Rose

In catechism class we learned about eternal life.  After we died our souls would be dispatched to one of three places for eternity ---

Hell, an unfathomably horrific place, sort of like a fiery cave underground, policed by the devil himself and his horny thugs;

Heaven, unimaginably beautiful, soft and cloudy (the good kind of clouds) in the glorious company of God, the angels, all the saints as well as those worthy friends and relatives (grandparents, mostly) who’d gone before us;  ---or---

Purgatory, a sort of holding pen for lost souls --- unbaptized infants (basically anybody who was not a Catholic) and those who’d sinned, but not too badly (someone who’d stolen candy bars from Winkie’s Five & Dime for example, or called her brothers bad names, even if they so deserved it).  Purgatory was the place where your soul went while God and St. Peter decided what to do with you.  Chances were good that you’d wind up in heaven, but first you had to suffer for a while.  To be honest, as a young child I thought the word was “prick-a-tory” and envisioned the evil being routed from my fluffy little white soul with a safety pin --- poke, by poke, by poke.
     For my first few years as a practicing Catholic (what, exactly was I practicing for?  So many unanswered questions!) I knew for sure that I was headed for purgatory, also known as “limbo,” when I died.  Of course my death was to take place sometime far off in the future; for death was something that happened to old people.  Great aunt Thecla was 96 when she died (an Old Maid!) and I’d already figured out that in the year 2000 I’d be 49 --- old, but not that old.
When I was 12 I was to receive my third sacrament --- Confirmation --- the one where the archbishop slaps your cheek to make sure you’re strong enough to become a “soldier of Christ.”  The two appealing aspects of this sacrament were that first of all you had to have a sponsor --- sort of like a godparent, someone who would look out for your spiritual well being and give you a nice present on this momentous occasion.  Whereas godparents could usually be counted on to honor you on your birthdays and remember you at Christmas (and mine still do even though “aunt” Peggy is 87 now and “uncle” Frank is 91 and completely blind) a Confirmation sponsor could only really be expected to come across with a nice gift just the once --- on your Confirmation Day.  I chose my sponsor carefully.  She was a distant relative on my mother’s side (through marriage) who had good taste and a bit of money.  Her present to me was one of those shoulder bags, popular in the ‘60’s, that looked like a fisherman’s tackle basket.  I was delighted! 
     The other cool thing about being confirmed was that you got to choose a saint, as another sort of sponsor, and add that saint’s name to your own.  A couple of years earlier my sister, Jennifer Ann, had chosen the exotic St. Philomena --- a virgin martyr at the age of 14!  I was impressed by Jenny’s daring, but felt smug about my more ordinary choice when in 1969 the Catholic Church tried to purge certain “folk” saints like Philomena (along with other, better known saints like St. Christopher.  We couldn’t bear to part with him and so we kept him on as “Mr.” Christopher after that) from the ranks of “real” saints.  I believe we hid the gorgeous statue of Philomena in a closet while waiting to hear what her status would be.  I always felt that getting rid of all those saints would be a big mistake on the part of the church --- they would take away the fun part of being a Catholic and the prettiest and most comprehensible prayer book, “The Lives of the Saints,” would become redundant.  My decision was between St. Rita and St. Rose --- and it was not an easy one to make.  I wanted my protectress to be a beautiful woman who had suffered mightily and both those lovely young ladies had.  In the end, St. Rose of Lima won out.  Her self-imposed penance was a to carry a huge wooden cross around on her shoulder. St. Rita flogged herself daily and it occurred to me that some days she might go easy on the flogging (which could possibly be a sin like pride or something) but the burden of St. Rose’s cross was the same day after hot and dusty Peruvian convent day.  And that thrilled me.  Thus I became Mary Elizabeth “Betsy” Rose with a stylin’ new purse on my way to purgatory (and I don’t mean the ski resort).
     However, I suddenly got re-routed by a creepy old priest who heard my confession on the eve of Confirmation Day.  He warned me that if I did not divulge to him the lascivious details of my impure thoughts and then went ahead and received the sacrament the next day I would have a mortal sin on my soul and that if I died suddenly I would go STRAIGHT TO HELL.  In my 12 years I’d only heard of one child who’d died (a boy we knew called Randy who went to the zoo with us one day and threw up after eating one piece of candy.  I knew then there was something wrong with that kid) so I took my chances with the “bad confession”--- mortal sin and all --- hoping to make up for it with novenas, indulgences and penance possibly involving crawling up Holy Hill on my hands and knees someday before I died.  I went through with the face slapping --- it was actually a mere, gentle flick on the cheek and, bless me father for I have sinned, kept the tackle basket.
     I’m still alive so I don’t yet know if the priest was right about my final destination and I long ago stopped caring about what will happen to my soul after death.  I believe that our creator wants us to be happy, to learn something in our lifetimes, to use our talents, to expend our energy and to love one another.  That’s my “religion” now.  As far as purgatory goes --- I’m already there.  Every time I have a CT scan I spend the next week secretly hoping I’ll hear the words “cancer free” or “remission” when I see my oncologist.  Last week she said, “You’re doing great!  Your cancer is very stable.”  I straddle that line between heaven and hell trying to keep my balance.  Just like you do.
    

Chivalry is not yet Dead!

Lee on Christmas morning in his new Obama hoodie

Here's the latest on Lee's fractured tibia.  He'll have surgery to install a metal plate and screws next Thursday,
May 7th.  Fortunately the MRI showed no damage to the soft tissues.  He'll be off his feet for eight weeks.
This means he will not be mowing the lawn, cleaning the cat box, riding his bike to the grocery store, doing
the heavy lifting, washing dishes, digging holes for the plants I bring home almost daily...and no doubt, lots
of other things he's always done and I may not have noticed.

The World Turns on a Dime

Last spring's lilacs. Photo by Linda Ilsley

After a full and satisfying weekend, we faced Monday with resignation.  The geraniums, herbs and vegetable starts we’d bought on Sunday were huddled, still in their little plastic pots, on the back porch under the eaves --- outside, yes, but protected from the elements.  Novice gardeners, we couldn’t resist the foot high “Early Girl” and “Sweet 100” tomato plants at the greenhouse sale. The advised date for planting tomatoes here is Memorial Day weekend --- a month from now.  And, in fact, another week of mediocre weather had been predicted for the upcoming week.  But we are so eager to plunge our hands into the soil and to make things grow that we threw caution to the wind, rain, hail and possibly snow.
     We set out on our morning walk a bit later than usual when the heavy clouds made way for a bit of sunshine.  The air in our neighborhood is fragrant with masses of blooming lilacs.  Tulips are still blazing and the sidewalks are now carpeted with fallen pink and white petals.  The great magnolia extravaganza, alas, is over but in a week or so a rhododendron riot will erupt.  Life is good and springtime is life.  About a mile from our house, ambling with our two dogs and no destination, our peace was disturbed by the very loud barking of what sounded like a very large dog.  He was behind a fence about five feet tall and made of worn vertical wood planks.  I commented to my own dogs in my sweetest doggie-talk voice, “Oh, that sounds like a BIG doggie.”  And just then, as he charged the fence forcing one of the planks out towards the sidewalk we saw the big doggie’s head.  With his second rush he completely dislodged two of the boards and was out of his yard and on my dog, Marge, a 64-pound labradoodle.  Most of what followed felt like watching a horrific newsreel.  Lee went after the big, black dog, kicking him and trying to pull him off Marge.  I scooped little 8-pound Lucky into my arms.  As I watched in terror I thought I’d grab one of the fence boards and try to whack the attack dog with it.  I bent to pick up the slat, tripped or lost my balance and tumbled to the ground tossing Lucky from my grasp.  He landed, stunned, on his back and lay there for an instant with his tiny, pink tongue hanging out.  I thought I’d killed him.  Seeing Lee defend Marge my instincts battled each other.  One side said, “Please, please save her!” and the other “Don’t get in the middle of a dog fight!”  It wasn’t really a fight though, because Marge, the sweetest and prettiest dog you’ll ever meet, submitted immediately as she was rolled onto her back in the dirty street and savaged by the angry brute.  Lee pulled him off Marge several times but he went for her again and again.  Finally Lee was successful in his attempt to grab the perp by both sides of the scruff of his neck.  The dog gave up at last.  Marge limped over to me and I led her away from the scene of the crime.

     Once Lee had him under control the black dog behaved himself.  A neighbor came out with a lead and tied him up on the porch of his house.  His owner showed up shortly, very apologetic.  He’ll be extremely sorry when he sees the medical and veterinary bills that, by Oregon law, he is responsible for.  A house painter who witnessed the melee lent me his cell phone and I called Animal Control.  Officer N. Cherry arrived quickly and after filling out all the necessary paperwork gave Lee a ride home in her official vehicle.  Lee’s knee was badly swollen and he couldn’t bear weight on his left leg.  Neither of us remembered exactly what happened, but abrasions on his hands and knee indicated that he'd hit the ground at some point.  I hobbled home with my physically and psychically wounded pets.  Since Marge was not bleeding and was able to walk a mile I felt reasonably okay about leaving her at home while I took Lee to the emergency room --- where we spent the next seven hours.
     Our emergency room story is, of course, boring.  There was a TV in the observation room and the news was covering all swine flu all the time.  When we’d arrived around one p.m. the waiting room had been fairly empty --- our triage nurse was one “Sarah Milligan” --- but when we left at about eight o’clock the holding pen was bursting --- with victims of too much terrifying TV news watching I suspect.  I took Lee home with his leg wrapped in a knee immobilizer and a pair of crutches --- in the pouring rain, just for the record.  Surgery to insert pins in his fractured tibia will be scheduled once the swelling goes down.
     Meanwhile --- Loulou had treated herself to a whirlwind weekend reunion with friends in New York City and I had agreed to pick her up at the airport late that same night.  That trip provided another adventure.  My usual convenient route to PDX was closed due to road construction and though I thought I could find my way, in my still traumatized state, in the dark and the pouring rain, it soon became apparent that I could not.  I got lost.  I finally stopped the car and input “Portland Airport” into the navigation system.  Soon I was en route --- to Portland, Maine!  When I realized that I was being misled I got off the freeway and pulled into a McDonald’s parking lot in Gresham, Oregon.  “You deserve a break today.”  I certainly did.  But Loulou was waiting so I re-programmed my destination and was soon in her loving embrace.  She’d gotten off the plane with a sore throat, a cough and feet riddled with blisters.  Blisters are not a symptom of swine flu and we are hopeful for a speedy recovery.
     The next day I took Margie to the vet.  One of the punctures was seriously deep so she had to be shaved in spots and anesthetized, have drains inserted and decked out with a hideous plastic “Elizabethan collar” to prevent her from, literally, licking her wounds.  There will be no licking of wounds in this household!
     The world turns on a dime.  The patient has become the caregiver and I am happy to serve.  I’m proving to myself that I still have what it takes.  What it takes is a tremendous amount of love and appreciation for my heroic husband, my darling dogs and my baby Lou.  I invited Mercedes up to Portland to join the sickbay, but she wisely declined.  And so we move forward together.

Left foot.  Right foot.
Right foot.  Thump thump.
Left foot.  Ouch!  Right foot.  Ouch!
Left paw.  Right paw.  Left paw.  Right paw. Left paw.  Right paw.  Left paw.  Right paw.

My Life in Smoke Part two

Betsy in the big kitchen with friends.

 

When I was 15 I got a real job to supplement my baby-sitting income.  Baby-sitting paid fifty cents an hour and, since the family I sat for were heirs to a chocolate dynasty, all the “Blommer Bars” I could eat.  Working in the Food Service at Cardinal Stritch College, a Catholic girls’ school, I would earn a dollar ten.  I distinctly recall the thrill of getting a Social Security card and work permit and especially filling out my first W-4.  As a lifelong Democrat, I reckon that I must’ve been excited even then by the idea of paying taxes.  But more likely it was the prospect of getting a tax refund.  The kitchen at C.S.C. was big, bright and shiny.  One whole wall, probably 50 feet long, was all windows.  Sunlight poured into the kitchen and people passing through the adjacent corridor could observe meals being prepared on a grand, (and did I mention shiny?) scale.  There was a full time staff headed by two formidable nuns, Sister Jonathon and Sister Carol Ann. I never learned Sr. Jonathon’s story --- she may have been a lumberjack before entering the convent --- but Sr. Carol Ann had grown up on a farm.   She instilled in me an enduring fear of geese for she told a tale of once having had her nose viciously tweaked by an angry goose --- an attack upon her sinuses that left her with a decided honk.  I was one of the part time (after school and weekends) crew made up of high school boys and girls.  We girls wore crisp yellow uniforms, white bib-style aprons and hair-nets.  We served in the cafeteria line and assisted with some food prep --- like mixing 20 gallons of iced tea at a time in large steel buckets or making giant vats of Jell-O; separating the yolks from the whites of 500 eggs to be used for cream puffs; we washed deep sinks full of defrosting chicken and all kinds of produce.  Everything the nuns served was fresh, made from scratch and delicious.  The boys wore grey janitorial jump-suits and spent most of their time sweeping or mopping floors; loading and unloading the mammoth dish-washing machine and snapping towels against each others’ butts.  On Saturdays we all were charged with polishing the huge swaths of stainless steel counter-tops, cooler doors and cupboard fronts and with keeping those showcase windows sparkling.  The cleaning chores were unpleasant, but we didn’t mind because we worked shoulder to shoulder with our young comrades and most of the time the nuns weren’t looking.  In fact we got along quite well with our bosses.  They were kind women but "mean" cooks.  I imagine they kept us teen-agers in line, ultimately, by feeding us regularly.

     The nuns weren’t looking one New Year’s eve when during our dinner break (we kids all ate together in a small private dining room) Greg asked me who I was going to kiss at midnight.  “I don’t know.  I’ve never been kissed.”  “Would you like to see what it’s like?”  I can still feel that moist, soft, first kiss and though no romance ever developed between Greg and me we remain good friends even today.

     Having made considerable progress since that encounter with Greg in the dining room, one Sunday as I swept my hair up into a ponytail for work a glaring hickey was revealed.  I could not go to work wearing that badge!  So I covered it with one of those skinned-knee sized Band Aids.  When Sr. Carol Ann saw the large bandage she squawked “What’s that?”  I explained that we’d been roasting marshmallows on long sticks the night before and when hers caught fire my sister spun around accidentally slapping the flaming, molten goo into the side of my neck.  “Oooooo,” the nun winced sympathetically, “I thought it was a hickey.”

     Another place we ladies mingled with the gentlemen was in the staff lounge in the basement.  Sometimes on a break I’d sneak into the walk-in freezer down there, pry the lid off an immense tub of frozen, home-made cookie dough, hack off a piece with great effort and slip it into my pocket to defrost a bit before I surreptitiously popped it into my mouth.  While I got some oral satisfaction that way many of the other employees were sprawled on raggedy sofas in the break room or outside on the loading dock smoking cigarettes.  Someone would always offer me a smoke and I’d always decline.  Most of these guys were at least a couple of years older than I.  There was a considerable amount of flirtation going on as well as powerful peer pressure to be cool.  One summer evening after work a group of us piled into somebody’s car to go to Big Boy or to the Milky Way (a Milwaukee hang out said to be the inspiration for “Arnold’s Drive In” on Happy Days).  In the backseat a handsome eighteen-year old named Nick offered me a cigarette.  “No thanks.  I don’t smoke.  I don’t know how.”  “Suck some smoke into your mouth and then take a deep breath.” I nearly passed out at first but once I got the hang of it I kept doing it for ten years.  

     And then, on April 24^th, 1979 I stopped.

    

 

 

My Life in Smoke Part one

Mother, Betsy, Jenny & Jeff on the farmhouse porch

I was just a month old when I inhaled cigarette smoke for the first time.  We lived in an old, rented farmhouse in Brookfield, Wisconsin.  It was a side-by-side duplex and the folks on the other side of the wall were the Finnegans.  All I remember about their family is that the boy was called “Ditto” --- named after his father.  The only livestock on the farm was a cat named Elijah who, legend has it, once got stuck under the screen door and made a terrible racket.  It seems there was a pony living there too, but I may have invented him.  In any case, I’m sure I never rode that pony as we probably moved out of the farmhouse shortly after the fire --- long before I was even able to sit up on my own.
     On New Year’s Eve in 1951 I was slumbering in my bassinet in a second floor bedroom.  This was the same wicker bassinet that my mother had slept in as an infant in the 1920’s as did my daughters and recently granddaughter, Lyric, as well as the babies of some very special friends.  We are all grateful that the wee bed survived that night.  Downstairs in the living room my dad was showing three-year old Jeffrey how to polish his Christmas present, a toy rifle. Mother always claimed that Jenny, not quite two, had received a rifle from Santa Claus as well.  I doubt that.  The family were all preoccupied playing with toys, possibly listening to Christmas tunes on some sort of record playing contraption, basking in the soft twinkle of the tree lights on a frigid winter night --- when somebody smelled smoke.  A small panic ensued as the grown-ups raced around trying to discern where the smoke was coming from.  The door to the back stairway was flung open and smoke crept into the kitchen.  The door had been purposely kept closed so as not to wake the baby upstairs.  The BABY!  The BABY!  As mother told the story “She was so new WE HAD FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE BABY!”  Dad hurried outside to fetch the --- frozen --- garden hose.  Mother dashed --- I hope --- up the stairs and entered the smoke-filled nursery, snatching me from my crib.  I imagine that I was howling, as newborns are wont to do, taking in huge gulps of acrid, smoky air, sucking it down into my tiny lungs as I wound myself up for another shriek.
     It seems the smoldering fire had started in that very room by an ashtray carelessly dumped into a waste-basket.  I never really heard any more of the story than that.  New Year’s Eve.  Toy rifles.  Smoke.  Frozen hose.  And “we forgot about the baby.”  I like to think that’s when my lung cancer took hold --- whether from inhaling noxious smoke or from a child’s despair at being “forgotten” at such a tender age.  I like to think that it's not my fault.

The Education of M

Mercedes the artist.

20 March 2009

Mercedes was a precocious child.  At the age of 22 months she shouted from the backseat of the car, “Look mom, a tri-ANG-le!” She was possibly noticing a YIELD sign for the first time although I cannot say for sure.  When she was about two and a half I thought Mercedes was ready for school --- or maybe I was just ready for her to go to school.  She was an industrious girl, very curious and self-directed.  And she had a baby sister now --- wouldn’t she like to get away a couple of mornings each week, to hang out with other big girls and boys instead of always with her bedraggled mother, a slave to that demanding newcomer in the house?
     The earliest memory I have of my own childhood is the day my mother asked me, when I was four, if I wouldn’t like to go to school like my big brother and sister did (by that time there were 2 younger brothers at home as well).  I recall feeling excited at first then immediately cautious and suspicious --- was she trying to get rid of me?  But I went for the bait and started kindergarten soon after.  Thus began my rather rocky early childhood education, which was punctuated by so many, many absences due to fake illness that I landed in the hospital under false pretenses for a week of observation.  The reward for my outstanding performance as an ailing child was many get-well gifts and lots of one-on-one attention from each of my parents, grandparents, godparents and family friends.  The punishment was having blood drawn at all hours of the day and night, peeing in a bed-pan and being held in a ward with a lot of shrieking infants --- most of whom were awaiting repairs to their gaping cleft palates.
     Of course, none of that was on my mind the day I took little Mercedes to check out the local Montessori school.  We lived two doors down from Main Street in an idyllic small town on the Hudson River.  Ours was a modest hundred-year old Victorian farmhouse, complete with white picket fence, a porch glider and towering hollyhocks in the tiny front yard.  The school was housed in a much grander Victorian painted a cheery yellow, garnished with lots of white gingerbread, surrounded by a lush green lawn and yes, a white picket fence.  We were welcomed at the front door by the director, headmistress, commandant of the nursery school.  She was pink and plump and managed to coo in a way that left no doubt who was in charge here.  We followed her into a small parlor --- notably away from the other children --- where she had set up a little easel, a large pad of white newsprint, 3 or 4 pots of paint, a big brush and a cup of water.
“Do you like to paint, Mercedes?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.  Then you can stay here and make some nice pictures while your mom and I go into my office to talk.  Would that be okay?”
“Okay.”
“Just remember, Mercedes, that when you change from one color to the next you have to rinse out your brush.  If you’re painting with red and you want to switch to blue, first clean the red paint off the brush.  Then if you want to paint with green, clean the brush again before you put it in the green paint.  You don’t want to mix up the colors, do you?”
“No.” was her timid reply.
We retreated to the principal’s charming office (how many parlors does a Victorian house have?) and chatted about the school, our village, Mercedes.  I was psyched.  We appeared to be a perfect fit!  When we’d finished the interview I went to fetch Mercedes my face aglow with anticipation of the many joy-filled, carefree hours my darling would be spending in this wonderful haven.  There she stood in a pool of sunlight on, I am imagining, an Oriental rug, exactly where we’d left her, her smock un-splattered, before a large, blank sheet of paper.  None of us said anything except good-bye and thank you.  Of course, we never enrolled.
     Instead I sent Mercedes to a twice-weekly playgroup for toddlers supervised by the blessed Mrs. Timmons.  Her house was a rambling, kid-friendly farmhouse in need of, but not soon to be receiving, a great deal of repair, updating and general TLC.  Children and parents alike loved this place and I really had only one complaint about it, which I documented in Mercedes’ baby book ---

Life’s little ironies --- Mercedes goes to day care and gets germs which develop into a cold and so the next week she has to stay home from day care (we still have to pay the $35 “tuition”) and go to the doctor ($50) and so, instead of my getting a “day off” I pay $85 for a day that’s more difficult than usual!!!!!

What a whiner I was!
     Around the same time Mercedes signed up for a gymnastics class.  It was held in a huge space and as it was for very young children there were un-intimidating balance beams, tiny hurdles and several pits full of soft, foam balls for the tots to jump or dive into.  When I was a child this would have been called a “tumbling” class --- but this was the late eighties and things were taken more seriously.  These tykes were in training --- for what? The Olympics?  And, they were expected to follow orders.  Mercedes thought she was there to have fun.  She often strayed out of line and if she happened to like some activity --- flinging herself into a ball-filled pit for example, she did it more than once.  This, of course, was frowned upon and I watched from the bleachers as my intrepid daughter was time and again led back into line by one of the assistants.  One day it was announced that the following Tuesday would be “visitors’ day” and we were allowed to invite grandparents, friends, anybody we’d like to come and watch a “performance.”  Maybe dad could leave work early that day to attend.  When class was dismissed the teacher approached me and suggested “I don’t think Mercedes should participate in “visitors’ day” considering that she doesn’t follow directions very well and she might disrupt the show.”  Needless to say we skipped “visitors’ day” and every Tuesday thereafter.
     Once when she was still small but already wise beyond her years I asked my daughter incredulously, “Mercedes, how do you know these things?”  “Mom.  I watch T.V.” was her matter-of-fact response.
     Many years later I sat with Mercedes in the high school guidance counselor’s office.  While my miserable daughter slumped, looking defeated, in her chair, I listened as the counselor suggested various options --- advanced placement classes, college level courses, independent projects.  At sixteen Mercedes had already experienced and accomplished so much --- public school, Waldorf school, public middle-school, home-school, horseback riding, vaulting (this sport is like doing gymnastics on the back of a moving horse, so there, mean gymnastics teacher), Shakespearean acting, writing plays, excellent grades, amazing artistic feats and kick-boxing.  Now, nearing the end of her second year of high school she had clearly had enough!  I looked at my caged beauty with my heart outside my chest and when the counselor mentioned the California High School Proficiency Exam I said, “BINGO!”  Mercedes straightened a bit in her chair.  “That’s what we want, right, Mercedes?  What does she have to do?”
     It was a scary choice for parents of a brilliant young woman to make.  Would it be a mistake to let her go through life without finishing high school?  But from the day we met Mercedes we recognized her as a remarkable individual and whenever possible we allowed and encouraged her to make her own decisions.  Taking the CHSPE was her choice and it was absolutely the right choice.
     Today Mercedes will get on a plane in Los Angeles and fly to Hong Kong to represent Animation Magazine (where she is the Editorial Assistant) at the Hong Kong International Film and Television Mart.  She’ll arrive tomorrow.  When she returns to L.A., on the day before her twenty-second birthday, she will arrive at  exactly the same time on exactly the same day that she left Hong Kong.  But she will be a different person.

YEEE - Ha!

My mother the cowgirl.

                                              
18 March 2009  for Carol


I was startled to see Peter Jennings’ face staring up at me from a stack of magazines in my doctor’s office.  The serenely handsome portrait was accompanied by a glaring headline --- “LUNG CANCER Who's at Risk?”  The teaser copy in smaller letters below, read something like “What can we learn from the deaths of Peter Jennings and Dana Reeve?”  Of course, if that issue of Newsweek had come out last week instead of back in 2005 it would’ve added Paul Newman and John Updike to the list.  Lung cancer is a disease with a certain stigma.  It’s generally believed that its victims “asked for it.”  But celebrities put a familiar, human face on lung cancer and we can forgive them for smoking, if they did --- usually when they die.
     I normally try not to read about lung cancer.  I don’t want to know about the numbers of people stricken or the survival statistics.  But if there’s a celebrity angle to it I’m like an arsonist at a bonfire.  I cannot look away.  Like most Americans I suppose, I take a sadistic satisfaction in seeing Hollywood idols tumble --- their tragedies, their divorces, even their simplest disappointments make for a good, gossipy read.  But, “WHOA!”  I say.  That’s my Peter Jennings you’re talking about and regrettably, that’s my disease.
     Long before Keith Olberman and Rachel Maddow, Peter Jennings was my news anchor of choice.  It was his comforting, steadfast voice I wanted to hear when I was affixed to the TV during times of crisis like the presidential election of 2000 and the terrorist attacks of 2001.  Little did I know that my hero was, according to Newsweek, sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom to calm his jagged nerves during those extraordinary times.  I once had the thrill of seeing Mr. Jennings dashing through Heathrow Airport in London.  He had that serious, confidence-inspiring look on his face, his trench coat flapping in the wake of his determined stride.  It’s possible that if he’d known then that his life would be cut short he might have slowed his pace, perhaps even flashed an avuncular grin at me and the baby I was holding in my arms.
     In fact, I relate more closely to a decidedly minor celebrity I encountered one night in Los Angeles.  The company my husband works for (they make video games) was having a holiday party at “Saddle Ranch” a fancy country western bar in West Hollywood.  The barbeque was sloppy and delicious, the beer and tequila flowing and small herds of young cowgirl starlets were just the thing to please a workforce of mostly 20-something dudes.  But the greatest attraction of the venue was the irresistible challenge of riding a gonad-crushing mechanical bull.  It was heartlessly amusing to watch these inebriated young (and some not so young) men get tossed from the back of the daunting beast one after another.  No manly man could resist its allure.  Then she appeared --- the show-stopper, the princess of the rodeo.  Wearing poured-on jeans, a ten-gallon hat and half gallon breasts held in place precariously by nothing more than a glittering tube-top, a young woman nonchalantly approached the bull.  She mounted him.  At the first gentle rocking motion she grasped the saddle horn, leaned back into her seat, threw her free hand up into the air and flashed a million dollar grin at her audience, the hushed crowd.  Never since the onset of puberty, I imagine, had these boys felt such mixed emotions --- how they wanted this wonder woman to succeed, but oh, how they wished that her tube-top would fail.  As the pitching momentum increased she rocked and rolled with it, one graceful hand sweeping the air above her head, her capable thighs gripping that monster like her life depended on it.  Suspense held the throng breathless, anticipating the outcome.  Chances were good that her breasts would escape the spandex costume, satisfying the salacious crowd with bawdy spectacle.  But she did not have to fail.  She rode with such discipline and aplomb, her free hand cutting through the dustless, anxiety tinged atmosphere --- like another sort of royalty greeting her subjects from a passing motorcade --- not once fluttering to her bosom to assess the security of the situation down there.  Her knowing smile never faltered.  She beat the bull.  The crowd whistled and cheered as she dismounted, straightened her Stetson and strode away from the spotlight.  That gal is my role model.  She knows how to ride.

Row, Row, Row Your Boat

The Wait

In May we celebrated Lee’s birthday at a wonderful restaurant called “le Pigeon.”  It was a petite boite with only three communal tables that seated anywhere from six to twelve orphanage-style and about eight others at a sort of bar that surrounded the tiny, open kitchen.  Our dear friends, Linda and Roger, visiting from L.A., dined with us as did our “new friends” Dallas and Mark the total strangers next to whom we’d had the good fortune to be seated.  My thought in choosing a restaurant with this type of seating was that it would be convivial and that we’d feel like we actually knew people in our new hometown, Portland.  At first everybody’s reaction and comment was, “I feel like I’m in an airplane.” because of the close quarters and the way we sized up the other diners at our table as we took our seats.  Those already seated had that look of “Please don’t sit here.  Please don’t sit here.”  Even though everyone is informed --- or shall I say warned --- of the seating arrangements when they reserve, the patrons approached their seats with trepidation --- their worries soon dispelled by the outstanding cuisine.
     I’m not a food writer or critic so I will not attempt to describe the summery perfection of my grilled Romaine and Parmesan salad starter or the practically squealing delight with which our neighbor, Dallas, greeted her warm, garlicky noodles with snails.  The food was superb.  That’s all.
     No, this is a confession, perhaps an apology, regarding my observation of a 30 something couple who joined our table as the evening progressed.  They walked in looking very Portland-ish and captured my attention.  She was a willowy wisp with long expressive arms shown off by a recycled 1950’s sleeveless sundress that fit her like butter melting over pancakes.  She was completely unadorned by make up or jewelry.  There was no ribbon in her casually knotted hair.  Her face was plain, scrubbed, open and excitable.  Someone noted that the young man (did they ride over tandem on his skateboard?) with his tee-shirt, ruddy face and hair that really did look as though it had been groomed with an egg beater, could’ve been an extra in the HOBBIT movie.  The waif ordered a split of Champagne.  A bit later, requesting a nice bottle of wine, she invited the waiter to, of course, pour himself a glass too. When it was time to order food she shaped a box with her hands around several items on the (not very long) menu, this time instructing the waiter to make the choice for her --- any one of those 3 or 4 entrées would be simply wonderful! “Oh my!” thought I.  I could barely contain myself --- what posturing!  After that last display I decided to mind my own business.  However, when Lee’s chocolate, cherry “Church of Satan” birthday cake arrived with a single candle aflame the twosome offered salutations.
     Later that evening I was still feeling bothered by what I’d witnessed and even more disturbed by my own disapproving reaction to it.  The young woman had, after-all, done nothing more than show a sincere generosity of spirit in sharing her wine --- and in fact the entire dining experience --- as well as an admirable almost childlike trust in the waiter, the chef and the entire universe when ordering her meal.  These are qualities I heartily approve of and aspire to cultivate in myself.  I think that evening’s experience will stay with me forever.  It was a vivid illustration of letting go, relinquishing control and really finding the joy in the experience.  This woman let her meal become as easy and airy as her well-worn sundress ruffling in a soft evening breeze and I had placed far too much importance upon mine. 

Row, row, row your boat gently

Down the stream.

Merrily.  Merrily. Merrily.  Merrily.

Life is but a dream.