Month: July 2020

We were invited to the party to celebrate John and Klover’s Golden Wedding Anniversary.  It had been so long since I had seen my aunt and uncle, it was hard to get a picture of them being old enough to have been married fifty years.  While I wondered what an appropriate anniversary present would be, my mind wandered back over the years to those times we got together at my grandparents’ hilltop home among the avocado trees.

We were there for Easter and July 4^th and Granddad’s birthday and Thanksgiving and Christmas, and one or two other times a year.  Our family would get the earliest start because our drive was about two hours.  We passed through Corona and Elsinore and Murietta and Temecula and Bonsall, before the I-15 eventually took away those rural pleasures. The core group was our family, and John and Klover and their kids, and my grandparents; and there were often other relatives and friends.  Over the years we brought along childhood chums, then girlfriends, and the routines of those holidays were always the same.     

My grandmother made yummy “Parker House” rolls, and we spilled the crumbs on her lace tablecloth.  She always made my favorite dessert, lemon bisque, which my grandfather called sour wind or sour shimmy.  When the turkey was ready to eat, my granddad, then later my dad or uncle, and eventually my brothers and me, would carve the bird right at the table.  After dinner, which in those days meant the midday meal, we went off to our various ways of working off the feast. 

It took all the women to do the dishes.  While they washed and dried, they talked about God, and there were occasional raised voices between the Catholics and the Protestants among them.  Long walks took up some time.  My dad always retired for a long nap on the sofa in the parlor, and he was very good at it.  My brothers and I picked up the fallen oranges from the Valencia in the front yard and chucked them at the telephone pole across the way.

As the day wound down, grandad would sit on the porch and smoke a pipe.  As he looked over eight to ten miles of avocado groves between his porch and Oceanside, he would get a faraway look and say softly, “It makes a difference.”  We never knew, nor did we ever ask, nor did he ever volunteer what it was that made a difference to him; but that did not matter.  Sitting on that porch “of an evening” in an Adirondack chair handcrafted by Grandad, sipping iced tea or scarfing the last piece of lemon bisque, catching a whiff of his Prince Albert tobacco, taking in the heady aroma of a million avocado trees; it made a huge difference to me, and still does. 

Before going home, we spent the last hour gathered around the piano, singing hymns, except for grandmother and grandfather who sat in their favorite comfy chairs and listened, quietly mouthing the words.  Aunt Klover was at the keyboard, and John – always resplendent in a starched white shirt and florid tie – would stand at her elbow and be the choir director.  He would say, “Let’s sing this one for Grandpa,” or “Now it’s time for Grandma’s favorite,” or “We’ll have all the kids on this chorus.”  Uncle John was a devout churchgoer; but he had a checkered past before he found religion and came to Jesus.  Old habits can die hard.  One time when Klover was struggling with the fingering, which interrupted the flow of the music, John bellowed out, “GODDAMMIT KLOVER TURN THE PAGE.”  Eyebrows were raised, but not another word was said; that is, until we got in the car.  My dad grinned all the way home; he didn’t really care for John all that much.

Of all the traditions, though, the most memorable was the donut.  It started one Christmas when my mom came up with the idea of a bonus box.  In addition to the gift exchange, there was a box full of individually wrapped presents, and they were all silly, which was the point: a roll of toilet paper, an old toothbrush, one shoelace, a can of tomato soup, one tiny candy cane, and so forth. 

How it was decided who got the bonus box was never really made clear; but it was clearly rigged, because the lucky one was always one of the kids, or grandma. Oh, my grandmother was delirious when she received the bonus box!

With each present in the bonus box there was a short poem that the bonus box honoree had to read for everyone’s amusement before opening the gift.  Part of the game was guessing from the quatrain what was inside. 

One of the presents that first year was a donut, an orange-glazed cake donut with rainbow sprinkles.  Just one little ole donut wrapped in pretty paper with a stupid poem on the outside.  You had to be there to appreciate the funny, but the laughter was shared by all generations. 

For years afterward, the donut kept coming back in the bonus box.  Each year the bonus box was reimagined with new and goofier presents; but the donut always returned.  It got old and crumbly.  We may have run in a new donut somewhere along the years, but a donut had to be there.  We giggled with anticipation to see which package held the ridiculously stale, and wonderfully comforting cruller. 

I had not thought of those days or of donuts for years.  Now here I was, looking at an invitation to my aunt and uncle’s golden wedding anniversary, and looking forward to seeing John and Klover and their kids, and their kids’ kids.  But what do you get a dear aunt and uncle who have everything?

Well, you go to Donut Delite and you ask them to make a huge cake donut the size of a dinner plate.  You go home and leave it out for several days until it turns so dry and hard it will break a tooth.  You go to Home Depot and get a can of spray primer and a can of super glossy metallic gold paint with little gold flecks.  You paint the donut, put it in a gift box, and write a daffy poem of introduction.

To commemorate their Golden Anniversary, you give them a Golden Donut.

What is it about a donut or a bonus box or an avocado or an orange or sitting on a porch or singing “Living for Jesus” that is so comforting?  Why does this reminiscence make so much difference in the arc of my life?  Why do these otherwise simple moments comfort me so?  I believe it is the ordinariness of it all.  It is the aloe of familiar things.

Notes

This story is an expanded version of the one I wrote and read to my aunt and uncle at their anniversary party in 1984.  

Leona Johnson’s Lemon Bisque Recipe

The zest of one lemon…¼ cup lemon juice…12 graham crackers, crushed…½ cup sugar…One 6-oz pkg lemon Jello…One 16-oz can Pet or Carnation condensed milk (not Eagle Brand)…1 cup boiling water

Chill the condensed milk in the fridge for 24 hours.  An hour before making, put a mixing bowl and the beaters in the freezer.  Put half of the crushed graham crackers in the bottom of a 9 x 12 baking dish.  In another mixing bowl combine the lemon juice, zest, sugar, Jello and boiling water.  Stir until dissolved.  Put the condensed milk in the cold bowl and beat until it is stiff with peaks, about four minutes.  Put the mixer on low speed and slooooowly pour the lemon mixture into the whipped milk.  Use a rubber spatula to finish the folding to make sure that none of the lemon mixture stays on the bottom.  Slowly pour the bisque into the baking dish, using the spatula to smooth the top.  Put the dish in the fridge for 5-10 minutes, take out and sprinkle the rest of the graham crackers on top, and return to fridge.  It takes two or three hours for the dessert to completely set.

Licking the spatula and the beaters is optional, but highly recommended; and when you serve up a piece, a raspberry drizzle is neither necessary, nor awful.

A Birthday Greeting

November 2015

Another Love Letter to Liza

When someone asks me to describe you, I tell them, “She’s such a girl scout,” which is a high compliment, largely because of my fond remembrances as a Cub Scout.  Our Den Mother was Mrs. Smith, who led us on many adventures and taught us invaluable lessons in citizenship.  I know you were also a Brownie. You surely had similar fun and experienced many of the same character-building activities.

As an example of good works, we learned to “be prepared” at all times to help an elderly person to cross the street.  The girl scouts must have taught the same lesson, Liza, because there is so much kindness in your character. 

I began this thread of thought about you and scouting when I walked out of Von’s and found a group of young ladies selling thin mints.  I asked them what else they did besides cookies, and that conversation prompted an internet search on my part to determine if I have pegged you correctly, calling you a girl scout. 

The answer is yes. 

Here are the descriptors of a Girl Scout from my research into girl scout lore, the Girl Scout Motto and the Girl Scout Law.        

A Girl Scout…

…is faithful to God and country.  Yes indeed.  Your devotion to God runs deep; and you are politically engaged, never failing to vote, poring over the candidates’ statements and the ballot propositions.  And your ability to eschew party doctrine especially makes you a patriot.

…is helpful.  When we recently disagreed on a matter of memory, you checked my cancer book which you have lovingly kept and kept up to date.  I didn’t like losing the bet, but I like how you help me and others.  Our whole extended family honors you for the way you took care of my mom in her dotage.

…is honest.  Sheesh!  Your integrity is unassailable. 

…friendly, considerate, and caring.  Your longtime dedication to the group of women who have studied the Bible around our dining room table every week is just one example of your caring spirit.

…respectful of others and respectful of authority.  One of the classy things about you, Liza, is your respect for people of every stripe.  And you play by the rules.

…makes the world a better place.  In the movie “As Good as it Gets,” Jack Nicholson says to Helen Hunt, “You make me want to be a better man.”  You have made my world a better place, and me a better person, and I thank you for it.

…is a sister to every girl scout.  When I think of the women who cherish you – your sisters, your daughters, your sisters-in-law, your dynamic cast of friends – it is obvious that you are a loyal girl scout to every sister.

I believe you need some renewed recognition for your good works; the last time came as a 13-yar-old with your keepsake sash, loaded with merit badges.

When I think of all you have achieved since then, it is time to update.  Just as the straw man had a brain, but lacked a diploma, or just as the lion had courage but lacked a medal; you are the once and always Girl Scout who lacks the public symbol of your many years of service to your family and your community.  .        

The Los Angeles County Girl Scout Council has a store.  Hundreds of iron-on merit patches!  I went crazy, because…well, you have earned so many in the time I have known you. 

Unwrap your present to find your fully loaded, modern-era girl scout sash, so all the world may know what I know.  You Are Such a Girl Scout.

     

It was the summer of Waldo.  I was 15. 

My oldest brother was 25.  He had been to college and the Army and was about to start law school.  He came home for a few months and adopted a little brown Dachshund puppy, Waldo, who was friendly, frisky, and playful and seemed to enjoy every minute of every day.  He chased birds in the back yard and greeted every stranger with a face full of licks.  Waldo had joie de vivre!

But he did have one aggravating habit. His room was the enclosed porch at the end of the hall, where he had his water dish, his little wicker bed with a cushion, and easy access to the yard; but if he was on the porch and we were home, he scratched the door.  He didn’t whine or bark, just this annoying scritch-scratch on the door separating the porch from the rest of the house.  We tried yelling at him, but he didn’t stop; and we suspected that he knew that he wasn’t supposed to scratch the door, because we could never catch him doing it.

If you heard him scratching and walked down the hall and peered through the window, he was eight feet from the door, reclining in his little bed with his paws hanging over the edge, and an expression on his face that said, “Did you want something?”  If you ran down the hall and threw the door open, he’d be in his bed.  If you tried to sneak down the hall and peek through the window, he’d be in his bed.  You couldn’t get mad at him, because he was so darn cute; and you couldn’t punish him, because you couldn’t catch him.

What started out as an aggravation became a game.  Who could catch Waldo scratching the door?  Everyone tried.  Neighbors and friends came by to play.  We still don’t know how he did it.  What was his early warning system?  We had an older house with hardwood floors and a crawl space underneath; maybe he felt something in the floorboards, or sensed someone approaching with his super canine hearing, that sent him scrambling to his bed without our hearing him move.  It was a memorable competition, and Waldo never lost.

Our Waldo highlight film, however, was dinnertime.  If you did not know he was a wiener dog, you might have thought he was Snoopy the beagle, because he jumped for joy on his hind legs with his ears flying all over the place.  And if Waldo was on the porch when he heard the dinner bell, well…it was a show.  When you opened the door, Waldo headed north up the hall, hell-bent-for-leather, lickety-split, full steam ahead, until he hit the living room and had to make a turn toward the kitchen.

With his motor at the red line and his little legs clocking about 4,500 RPM’s, he tried to make the turn, but lost his footing.  He could not get any purchase on those wooden floors, so he would slip and slide, with his feet churning, drumming out a crazy rhythm with his toenails.  No sooner had he regained his balance and his direction than he had to make another left turn into the kitchen, so he scudded all over again, usually running into the door jamb.  One more time on his feet, and then he would barrel into his dog dish and spill half of his kibble on the linoleum.

No matter, he was a happy dog; and when he finished his dinner, he shook his head and played out a percussion riff, as his droopy ears went flippety-flippety-flap-flap-flap against the top of his head.  What a memory!  Scritch-scratch!  Open the door!  Barrel into the turns!  Wolf down dinner!  Flap the ears! 

No wonder my brother was crazy about that dog; and I realized just how much, on that day he took Waldo out for a walk and forgot the leash.  A while later the front door opened and I heard a very unfamiliar sound, my brother sobbing.  He was gasping for air, pleading, “Don’t die, Waldo, please don’t die.”

But it was too late.  His dog was in his arms, completely lifeless.  Waldo was distracted by a cat and bolted into the street.  He never saw the Buick. 

I had never heard my brother cry before.  He was bigger than life to me, always cool, always quick-witted, always under control.  He was the brother who called me “short strike,” drove me to the beach, took me to see “Shane” at the Fox Theater in Pomona, and sheltered me during days of family turmoil. I was the little brother who shined his shoes, typed his papers, and marveled at the beautiful women he dated, who were a lot older, like in their 20’s.

There would be times when he cried on my shoulder, and the shoulder of our other brother, when we huddled with him in times of personal upheaval and loss; but nothing in my memory compares with the loss of Waldo, and my brother’s inexpressible, gut-wrenching, face-contorting grief!

Years later my wife and I adopted a mutt from a box in front of the Ralph’s Market.  He was a doxy-poodle-terrier-something mix, and we named him Waldo # 2.  He was a great little dog, and we got a lot of enjoyment out of that $4.00 investment.  He loved life just like his namesake, but truth be told he just was not as sharp.  Instead of chasing birds, he chased their shadows.  Instead of scratching the door, he chewed up boxes of Kleenex, and we always caught him.  Plus, he tried to get frisky on my sister-in-law’s knee, which was not nearly as cute as sliding on the hardwood floors.

Our Waldo lived to a ripe old age for dogs, and when he got sick and too hurting for life, we mercifully put him down.  That was a huge loss for us; Waldo # 2 was great company.  We never had another dog that made me smile as much.  He would shake his head and flap out a rhythm with his ears, just like the original Waldo.

We missed him; but when someone asked me if I loved that dog, I said I was not sure if a person could really love a pet.  Then I read Patricia McConnell’s book, “For the Love of a Dog,” and I was sent back many years to a moment of heartbreaking sobs.  Yes, I know someone who once loved a little brown dog with all his heart.  Waldo # 1.

Can you really love a dog?   Oh my, yes.    

NOTE

Dr. Patricia McConnell is a highly respected animal behaviorist and a terrific writer.  Read the above-cited book as well as two others: “The Other End of the Leash” and “The Education of Will.” Go to patriciamcconnell.com to read her weekly blog and to learn more about this internationally renowned author, teacher, trainer and speaker; and to check out her self-published instructional manuals on dog training.  You’ll be glad you took the time.    

We drove up from Ventura County, and they drove down from the Bay Area.  My wife and I met my wife’s sister and her husband at a state beach campground on the Central California coast.  It was late October, and the weather was turning, so we had the park almost to ourselves.  The wind was up and cold off the water, so we had bluster as we put up our tents, built a bonfire, and settled in for a couple of days of camping and conversation.

On the first full day, our ladies decided to warm themselves with sisterhood and nearby shopping, while my brother-in-law and I lugged down to the seashore in our warm clothes, determined to catch some dinner right out of the surf.  We had fishing poles, bait, sand chairs, and sandwiches.  It got chilly out there, between the wind and the waves and our stumbling in the water.  By the time the sun was fading, we were soaked and shivering.  What made it tolerable was the gallon jug of Pedroncelli “red” with the screw-top cap, which some would consider fine wine in much the same way that some would consider Carl’s Jr. fine dining, and which we had used for our medicinal purposes throughout the day.   

Through it all we managed to hook five or six medium sea perch, a triumph for these intrepid hunter-gatherers, and which turned out to be good eating.  We were looking to clean up and made our way to the bathhouse, only to find that there was no hot water.  Even worse, the showers were outside.  What’s a guy to do?  Well, there weren’t more than two or three other campsites in use, so maybe no one was looking.

We stripped, streaked to the showers, hurriedly washed off in an icy torrent and streaked back.  As we were drying off, we were joined in the bathhouse by two high-school-age lads who came in passing back and forth a quart of Thunderbird, which some would consider fine wine in much the same way that some would consider Sonic fine dining.  When we told them about the shower situation, they decided to emulate us and streak on their own.  Only not as quickly as we did.  We were nearly dressed when two things happened at the exact same time. 

Number 1:  Two underage, noisy and very loopy kids came stumbling back from the showers, pushing and shoving, laughing and swearing, still tag-teaming on the Thunderbird, dripping and shuddering in their altogether nothings.

Number 2:  The park ranger walked through the door.  What a sight he was, right out of central casting for a hapless “smokie” in a cross-country car-chase film:  wide flat-brimmed hat, shiny badge, gun on hip, big ole “stache,” broad belly, and an end-of-the-shift attitude. 

It didn’t take him long to size up the scene.  To his left he saw two adult males fully dressed, with their tackle, string of fish, folding chairs, benign smiles, reasonably sober, nodding respectfully to the officer and ready to return to their campsite; and to whom he nodded respectfully in return.  To his right he saw two half-in-the-bag, belligerent, profane, uncooperative and bare-bottomed kids, too young to be legally sharing a bottle of rotgut, giving him lip, and on whom it was gradually dawning that they were in very, very deep — especially when the officer spoke for the first time with a question. 

To this day I believe that if that ranger had actually been in a movie, and had actually uttered the following question, it would have gone down as one of the most memorable lines in the history of filmdom, right up there with “What we have here is a failure to communicate,” and “He’s only mostly dead,” and “Leave the gun; bring the cannoli.”

He roared, “AWRIGHT, WHO’S BEEN TAKIN’ NUDE SHOWERS?”

When you think about it, it is a weird inquiry, right?  Who doesn’t take a nude shower?  On the other hand, in that setting the question had a certain logic to it.  Still, you had to be there.   

We slipped out, and the last thing we saw was two half-naked boys being stuffed in the back of a cop cruiser.  They might have gotten off with misdemeanor stupidity, but Oh, their felonious tongues really provoked the fish-and-game fuzz.      

As we dined that evening on our fresh catch, we regaled our wives with our beach adventure and pondered the bitter irony for those two teens, because it was probably the two of us who were originally seen in the buff by a camper, and not them; but they got busted.  However, we salved our guilty consciences with the knowledge that my brother-in-law had offered a piece of good advice to the boys as we were leaving which, to their grief, they ignored.  He whispered, “Hey guys! When you’ve had too much up your snoot, keep your big mouths shut.”            

When I answered the phone, I would know right away if it was Ed Sheehan on the line.  His voice was easily recognizable, because he called once a year, every year, on his very own birthday; and this annual phone ritual had taken place all my life, and long before.      

“Is Teddy there?”

“Sure, I’ll get him.  Hey, Dad, it’s Mr. Sheehan.”

When my dad came to the phone, we all got quiet, because we knew he was about to sing.  Many years before at a birthday party for Ed, Ted’s present for him was a song.  Mr. Sheehan once said that the only thing he ever wanted for his birthday was to hear the song again, and each year we listened as our dad serenaded his lifelong friend.          

Dad’s voice was neither strong nor well-trained; nor did he have a big range.  Nor did any of that matter; his voice was just naturally and effortlessly beautiful.  There was a soft, tenor lilt to it; and because Spanish was his second language and nearly his first, I have lovely memories of him singing Mexican ballads while in the kitchen, crafting his coveted spaghetti sauce or pies and cakes from scratch.  I grew up on “Alla en el Rancho Grande” and “Cielito Lindo” and “La Cucaracha.”  But the song he had sung in Spanish at a long-ago birthday party for his buddy, and the one that the buddy called every year from wherever he was, just to hear Ted sing it over the phone, was “La Paloma.”

Una cancion me recuerda aquel ayer   (A song reminds me of that yesterday)

But one April evening when I picked up the phone and realized Mr. Sheehan was calling, I froze.  What were we to do?

The previous November Dad checked into Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital for a surgery to remove his larynx.  Months of chemotherapy had not eradicated the cancer as hoped, so he went under the knife.  The operation was successful; that is, they got the cancer.  But the unintended consequence was costly.    

When they did this procedure, they removed the cancerous larynx and surgically separated the esophagus from the trachea, leaving a stoma (little hole) in the front of his neck, where he would thereafter breathe directly into his lungs.  No more breathing through his mouth or his nose!  As a result, he could no longer speak.  So how does a salesperson go back to work and ever communicate again without a voice box?

Una paloma blanca me canta al alba   (A white dove sings to me at dawn)

After the post-op healing, Dad enrolled in a class at Cal State L.A. to learn “esophageal” speech, which is something every kid who ever attended junior high knows how to do, although they probably could not pronounce it.  In brief, you swallow air, and burp up the words.  In junior high? Often bad words! 

Over time Dad built up strength in his diaphragm, like a professional singer; and within a year he could “burp” up a long sentence, maybe 10 or 12 words.  There was no inflection, but he was clearly understood.  After several sentences he would routinely build up extra air and had to offer up a wordless belch to relieve the pressure, like a steam engine blowing its whistle.  On one occasion he blurted out a huge one, no doubt overheard by the ships at sea.  When he had everyone’s attention, he croaked, “There goes the Gettysburg Address.” 

Ted showed real courage and went back to work.  He was an inspiration to many, and his innate sense of humor kept it in perspective.  Not one to draw the spotlight, he didn’t like it when people fussed over him, and many did.  When he returned to the office, and a huge crowd of colleagues gave him an ovation, he brought the house down with this gravelly response, describing his view of cancer and their adulation, “This is a buncha bull s—.”        

But this new way of speaking, this courage and this comeback were not yet in evidence on that fateful evening when the phone rang, and it was Ed’s yearly birthday call. Even if Dad had already been able to speak, it was that phone call from his old friend that made us realize that he would never sing again.  Not to us, not to himself, and certainly never again to Mr. Sheehan, who sadly never called again.

Yes, Ted could talk.  Yes, he could go to work.  Yes, he could do granddad.  Yes, he could do almost anything as before.  Except sing! Oh how Ted loved to sing. He was really sad about it, Mr. Sheehan’s birthday was forever changed, and the kitchen was never quite the same to me. 

Donde va que mi voz ya no quiere escuchar (Where does it go to, that it doesn’t want to hear my voice anymore)

The thing is, my mother and I had this thing, and my brothers joined in. It was a thing!  And it involved chocolate!

If you wondered what to get our mom for a present, a one-pound box from See’s was always well received.  She preferred the “nuts and chews,” but she wouldn’t turn up her nose at a box of assorted creams, nougats, mousses, truffles or toffees.  A real big deal for her was when one of her more spendy friends would give her a two-pound box.  Heavenly!  Of course, Christmas was especially bountiful, for it did bring her more than the usual satisfactions; but she did not mind if you did not wait for the holidays.  Nope!  You could swing by the See’s outlet in the mall anytime of the year and for any occasion, or no occasion.

Now you may be thinking that Audrey was a chocolate junkie with a bad sugar habit and a soft belly as evidence, but your thinking would be wrong.  She was disciplined.  She was measured.  She was frugal.  She would have three or four bites every two or three days, and she held steady at five-two and 105 pounds. And since she only pecked away at it, there were always a few pieces around; and that is why the pirates  – in the form of three strapping sons, alone or in packs — would invade her apartment, come to visit their mother in search of buried booty.   Audrey did not take this lying down, and that is “thing” of the title.

Hiding chocolate from the jackals!

Her place wasn’t too big, so it didn’t take too long to conduct a search; and eventually we would uncover her treasure.  In retaliation she devised increasingly clever strategies to fool us.  On one occasion when she knew we were coming, she took her chocolate stash down the hall to the apartment of her buddy, Ruthie.  Mom loved pulling one over on us, watching us dig in vain for something that was not there.

Eventually she ratted herself out and admitted to the scam with great delight.  She chuckled right out loud.  She wanted us to know – that she knew – that she fooled us.  Frankly, we thought it was poor sportsmanship.  Chocolate cheating!  Just imagine it.  An eighty-five-year-old lady depriving her offspring of sweet pleasure and jeering them in the process.  What kind of mother does that? 

To this joke upon her sons, there was a filial repercussion.  A few days later, brother Jim arrived with what he described as a peace offering.

“No hard feelings, Mom.”

It was a two-pounder, half nuts and chews, half soft centers!  Audrey was delirious; but her macular degeneration being what it was, she did not notice that the box did not have the normal plastic shrink wrap, nor that it was a little underweight.  She tore into it and discovered that the box had been previously opened by my brother, who had taken a bite out of each-and-every bon-bon in the box.  Every!  Last!  One! 

Mom snorted with disgust over those half-bitten morsels, but it did not stop her from eating them.  You see, Mom may have taken umbrage over chocolate petty theft; but this Depression Era girl with legendary thrift just could not stand any kind of waste.  It took her two or three months, but she finally ate them all.

And she did it without any pilfering from us.  Until she announced that she had finished off that box, there was no searching, nor any discussion of chocolate when we visited, because of the elephant-sized peanut cluster in the room – our brother had behaved in an unseemly manner.

The thing is:  on that occasion we just had to give Audrey the win.    

A Love Letter to Liza

August 2018

On one of our anniversary celebrations I wrote you a love letter, a checklist really, in which I gathered as many things I could think of that I love about you; and the most amazing thing happened.  When I counted them up, there were thirty-nine of them, thirty-nine things I love about you; and coincidentally it was our Thirty-Ninth anniversary.

It pleases me occasionally to re-read some of these love letters to you, chronicling our affections in prose and poetry for over 50 years, since you were living in Paris the year before we married.  They remind me just how great you are, with titles like The Rose, The Swan, The Sapphire, Noble Girl, You’re a Gem, Red Letter Gramma, She’s Such a Girl Scout and My Most Important Girl.  What strikes me is that this list of wonderful gifts, attributes, talents, traits, and those things you do, has grown way beyond thirty-nine.      

Which brings us to a recent visit to the home of our daughter and son-in-law and our ridiculously cute grandsons.  I was listening to your conversation with Clark, as the two of you were parked, facing each other at either end of the sofa.  He announced a crisis!  The television was melting, and he needed help, and you should call the Fire Department. 

He picked up a plastic telephone from a toy set, held it upside his face, and gave to you a telephone receiver that was strangely in the shape of a 16-ounce water bottle; and you held the empty Aquafina upside your own head, spoke to him and asked why the two of you should call the firefighters.

“Because we need some tape, Gramma,” he cried.

It was not clear what kind of tape was required – cellophane, masking, electrical, painter’s blue, duct, clear-packaging or bright yellow caution – or what value some kind of tape would have in stopping the TV from melting.

But no matter, because it also became clear from your continued phone conversation that the fire department was out of tape.  Then I heard the two of you conspire to call the Police Department. 

Why the Police Department?  Why the Fire Department?  Why the tape? 

Why not?  It was a wild and wonderful rabbit trail, a silly adventure that featured the meanderings of the imagination of a three-and-a-half-year-old.

And Liza?  You joined, you signed up, you were all in, you took your own delight in playing the game of make-believe with a little boy who always looks for a friend, and has most assuredly found one.  It was a thing of absolute beauty, Liza; but there was more.

Moments later you were thoroughly engaged with Clark’s little brother, Calvin, talking to him not in baby talk, but ruffling him, nuzzling him, capturing his attention and bringing that smile and the sounds of pure joy to that moment, and to his life.  Oh, how those little boys love you and your upholstery!

Yes, my love, I have long lost count of all the things I love about you, because you keep growing and getting better in so many ways. I am truly grateful that you keep the hits coming.  This newest thing I love about you is one of the best of all time and could only have occurred after all these years of our time together.

You do know what I love about you, right?  Practically everything! But today what I love about you is that you can enthusiastically talk to a water bottle.

Why not?

You do Gramma Magic!

Happy Anniversary.  Love you.  Love, me.

Do you remember when you were in high school and you had to take P.E.?  Do you remember how you hated it?  Among my reasons was an allergy to toe-touches and jumping jacks; I broke out in sore muscles. 

You could only avoid regular P.E. if you played a school sport, and that was not gonna happen, because when we were young and chose up teams, I was always the last kid picked.

 “You take Piatt.”

“No, you take Piatt.”

However, college was a wonderland, a smorgasbord, where the P.E. choices were numerous and varied.  Not only that, they were generous, allowing us to create our own diversions, on or off campus, like ice-skating or golf or hiking Mt. Baldy.  So it was, in the spring of our junior year, four of us got an OK for our own off-campus escape from the books.  We arranged our schedules to avoid any Friday afternoon classes, and by noon we were in the car for the 45-minute drive to our physical education destination, Newport Harbor; and by 1:00 we were aboard the sailing vessel that would be our P.E. classroom for sixteen weeks.    

Three of us knew nothing about sailing; didn’t know a mizzen mast from a kiss-my-grits.  However, Andy was an experienced sailor.  For years he had “crewed” on the very boat we would sail, which was owned by a friend of his dad, and which he could borrow.

Think about that! 

Would you let your friend’s son borrow your Bentley?  And would you allow him to drive it around every week, and especially if you knew that your friend’s kid was planning to “cruise” PCH with three of his college buddies?

The reason for the Bentley comparison is this:  this boat was no Hillman Husky.  When we three rookies took our first look at this masterpiece, we were awestruck, nothing like we could have imagined.  She was forty-six feet in length, way bigger than we imagined; and she was very high-end, with polished teak decking and fittings of gleaming brass. 

We stepped aboard to begin our nautical education; and before setting sail on our first three-hour cruise, we spent a long time getting used to the boat and its rigging, which is the configuration of her masts and sails.  We learned about sheets (ropes).  We learned that she was a ketch, a boat with two masts, the main mast which rises a bit forward of amidships, and a mizzen mast, smaller and farther aft (in the back).  Each mast has a boom (horizontal beam) that anchors the bottom edge of the sail, and which swings back and forth to allow for the direction of the wind.

On a ketch, the helm is between the two masts.  The helm is where the pilot (captain, helmsman) stands with his hand on the tiller, steering the boat.  He is also responsible to keep his eyes on the sails and shouts at the crew when it is time to “come about” – to turn the boat to the other side of the wind by swinging the booms to the other side of the boat.  And when that happens, you gotta duck, because the sail swings fast when it catches the wind; and the boom can cool ya.

The boat carries three sails:  the main sail and the mizzen sail — each attached to its own mast — and the jib, also known as a genoa or a spinnaker, which balloons out in front of the main mast. We had a crash course in boating safety and boating etiquette.  We were awestruck at Andy’s knowledge and experience and his seeming eagerness to make good sailors of us.  Great for us, and great for him too; because he loved to sail, and you cannot take this boat out without a crew.

When we finally got under way, we were in the harbor for ten or fifteen minutes, being propelled at 4 knots (about 5 mph) by a small engine; because you don’t want to raise the sails on a boat of this size in the narrow confines of the bay.  As we passed by the ferryboat that connects the Newport Peninsula to Balboa Island, we gave an “Ahoy” to the captain, and got his name.  When Coach Dan approved our plan, he required of us to get the name of the ferry skipper, and that was how he took roll for our P.E. class; because Coach was a beach bum on the side and knew all the names of the ferryboat crew.    

After passing the Island, we entered the channel which takes us out into open waters.  The channel is about one-half mile long and bordered with two enormous jetties made of huge boulders.  As soon as we escaped civilization and the boulders, the water was choppy, and the wind was up.  We had practiced the raising of the sails by the dock, but out here we showed our inexperience; but with Captain Andy at the helm, shouting instructions, we managed to raise the mainsail and the mizzen sail.  We didn’t raise the spinnaker until later voyages, because that much sail area collecting that much wind requires surer and more experienced hands.

But even our lack of skill could not diminish the thrill of the moment, the WHY of sailing, that exhilarating moment when the boat heaves to one side and is scudding close to the wind, and the wind and the salt are in your face and the sea gives you its best shot and throws its spray over the boat and soaks you to the bone and your fingers get numb from the cold and it hurts to haul the sheets and trim the sails; and it is easy to be thrown off-balance and you have to barf away from the wind and it takes everything you have to keep her on course.  When you are cruising at 11 or 12 knots, and the wind is against you, it feels like you’re going sixty in wet weather in your roadster with the top down and no windshield. 

For all the work and the salt spray and the rope burns, it was like the time you went to the beach as a kid, and when you got home your mother asked about your day.  You told her about the sand in your sandwich, and the sand in your shorts, and about the body surfing that went wrong and smashed you into the sand, and how you got completely sunburned.  Your mom said how sorry she was about your miserable day, and you said, “Oh no, Mom, the beach was great.”

We would experience that bracing assault from the sea week after week, and deeply love it.

Over the course of our semester we learned so much about seamanship and how to manage the boat under full sail and rigged for racing, and the care and feeding of a boat, and about teamwork, and how not to take the ocean for granted, because you can never own the sea.  You can only borrow it for a while.  Our three-hour cruises became four and five and six-hour cruises as we got stronger and the days grew longer.   

One great advantage of a boating P.E. class is that you can have guests.  One Friday, we each invited a girlfriend to come along.  These guests of ours were treated to the whole experience, from boating safety to handling the tiller, from hailing the ferry boat to navigating the channel, to the open sea and the wind; and they especially enjoyed our end-of-the-sailing-day routine.

When the light is fading and you enter the channel from the open ocean, one crewman is at the helm, while everyone else is striking the sails, securing the booms, putting everything in its proper place; and again you are slowly cruising under power.  If you look at a map of Newport Harbor, you notice that the peninsula has a south facing beach, and the channel lies east to west.  Entering the harbor, you are sailing a little north of west into the setting sun, which is significant to these intrepid sailors who follow a beloved custom of many bygone seamen.  It has to do with the location of the sun in relation to the yard arm. 

The yard arm is a seafaring term for a horizontal wooden spar that is attached to the main mast.  The mast and the yard arm look like a cross; and at either end of the yard arm is a stay (heavy cable) which fastens to the boat deck and helps to steady the mast.  It was said of ancient mariners that when the rising sun rose above the yard arm, it was time for the first grog of the day.  For us, the yard arm is there to mark the setting of the sun.  We were waiting for that moment when the sun dipped below the yard arm from the point of view of the helmsman, when it would be our time for grog.

There would still be work to do when we nestled up to the dock — hose the salt off the decks, spread the protective tarps and tie down the boat; but those last few moments on calm water were special.  As we cruised slowly up the channel, we were bedecked in yellow slickers, because at sunset on the water, it can get chilly.  We got the announcement from the helm that the sun had peeked below our yard arm, and we broke out the grog, which for us was a thermos of martinis.  We had tunes; because one of the crew got a great Christmas present, a portable and battery-operated record player, which was hip technology for the time, the time being the spring of 1964.  What better soundtrack to the setting of the sun on the water than “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” and “Please, Please Me”! 

Four young salts and four fair maidens, laughing about our adventures at sea, passing around the thermos, waving genially at the other boaters in the bay, feeling just as cool as cats, feeling the nip of the evening breeze off the water, feeling the warmth of our bonhomie.   

All things considered, it beat the heck out of jumping jacks, wouldn’t you say?        

She is a former student.  From the time she walked on the high school campus the fall of her freshman year, she was the “go-to-girl,” a leader and tireless worker, including being class president her junior and senior years.   

One day at lunch, the principal and I were on the Quad; and she stopped to chat us up with her usual enthusiasm, cheerfulness and some paperwork requiring our attention or approval. As she sped away, the boss quipped that he could probably retire and let her run the school.  For four years this girl had her hand in – and left her mark on – one prom, homecoming, class dinner, fund-raiser, canned-food drive, winter formal and community service project after another.  She was also a straight-A student.

She was also an unsung hero.  This is a story that demonstrates her skill set, her work ethic, her leadership, her attention to detail, her ability to see the big picture, and especially the “content of her character.” 

In the fall of her senior year one of her classmates fell gravely ill with two pernicious forms of cancer, and by the middle of September he was at UCLA, where they strove to stem the hemorrhaging caused by a lack of platelets, which are the elements that allow your blood to coagulate.  Without them you cannot stop the bleeding.  He needed platelets badly.

A platelet drive is different from a blood drive.  When a bloodmobile shows up on campus, students and staff make appointments for the 20-minute procedure. To donate platelets; you had to drive to UCLA, submit to a screening process, and if approved, undergo a procedure of several hours. 

For our students to donate, they had to get parent permission, and we had to find adult drivers who would fill out the appropriate insurance and hold-harmless paperwork required by the school district.  It was an enormous undertaking.

Enter our former student.  To this day I am stunned that she was able to manage her school work and senior-class-president responsibilities AND find the time to recruit enough students and staff and others – AND find the drivers – to accomplish the collection of enough units of platelets to supply the young man’s almost daily need for transfusions.  She developed an Excel spread sheet to keep track, and two or three times per week she showed up in the Attendance Office with the necessary forms and the list of students who would be absent that day.

There was a great deal of attention in the community and in the media about this young man’s plight, his grittiness, his courage.  There were fund-raisers and contributions to assist the family, and the school received many phone calls from perfect strangers wanting to pitch in for a young man they had never met.  It was a wonderful testament to the goodness and generosity of the village.

Sadly, there was not a happy ending to the young man’s journey, because he passed in January, never having left the hospital.

Yet there was also a touching denouement to this sad story.  Among the phone calls we received was one from the director of the platelet treatment center.  He wanted to know about the young woman whose name kept being mentioned by the donors from our community.  He had never seen anything like the response from our town and school.  Over a four-month period, the young man used 149 units of platelets; the drive produced 151.  As a result, they did something that was theretofore unprecedented.  They waived all the normal transfusion fees, saving the family untold thousands of dollars.   

Later in the spring of her senior year, this seventeen-year-old girl was recognized in a ceremony by the American Cancer Society for her service to her school, the community, and the family of the young man.

When I asked her where she drew the strength to do the work, and especially how she handled the crushing disappointment of her classmate’s passing; she said it was her deep reservoir of faith in Christ, which was also the driving force for her to do the work, and to love her neighbor.      

She and I have graduated from student and advisor to cherished friends.  When she granted me permission to post this story, I was reminded of the passage in Philippians, Chapter 2, regarding humility.  She asked me to say that all the glory belongs to King Jesus, and not to her.