Tidings from Tim

A Love Letter to Liza

Saturday afternoon. October 1966. Claremont, California. 

The day we met! 

Growing tired of the study carrel in the library, I wandered down to the stadium where our fierce Fighting Sagehens of Pomona College were facing off against the Occidental Tigers.  Fall was in the air, sweater weather.  Some students still had the sweaters thrown over their shoulders with the sleeves tied in a loose knot across the chest – the uniform of the day. 

I ran into my dear alumni friends, Don and John, back on campus to celebrate Homecoming Weekend.  They were standing with Linda and Nancy, current seniors and their affianced.  With them was this other girl.

“Tim, this is Liza Bean.”

“Liza, this is Tim Piatt.”

How do these things work?  What chemical or electrical impulses go off like fireworks, causing your brain to explode, causing your pulse to accelerate to Mach Four, causing your heart to meltdown?  All I know is that the punch in the chest started with: “Nice to meet you, too.”     

Years later at our reunions, these friends of ours would remember that moment, because of the way we ignored everyone and everything around us … and stared at each other.  And I remember that moment, because of the way we ignored everyone and everything around us … and stared at each other. 

At class the following Tuesday, Linda sat down next to me and asked, “Sooo, what did you think about Liza?”  That was the only thing I had done for four days – think about Liza.  While I was wondering if your desire to hear from me was as strong as my eagerness to call you, your co-conspirator Linda gave me your number.  You told me later that you ran the cord under your dorm room door and left your phone in the hallway with a note:  “If a guy named Tim calls, PLEASE tell him to call the front desk,” where you were working the evening shift on the switchboard. 

As we began our dating dance, we drove along Foothill Boulevard, and the aroma of the blossoms was intoxicating.  I told you about the groves in my life – my granddad’s avocados and the oranges that surrounded our house when I was just a little kid.

You told me of the considerable ribbing you took over your name.  Oh, how you wished your family had held on to the name of your ancestral Scottish clan, and you could have been Liz McBain instead of Liza Bean.  But right from the first, you were a rose by any name to me, and not in name only. 

We had been dating about two weeks when I went to my brother’s law office and told him I had met THE GIRL I was going to marry.  You came to dinner with my brothers, their wives, their kids, and our parents.  They teased you and it was bedlam, and you loved it.  They loved you from the start, and you found the welcome embrace of another family – a family whose name you would take, into whose tree you would be grafted, and all of whom love you still. 

You told me about being governor of Girls State, and how you informed your father that you were the most important girl in all of Arizona.  You have been living that down for years, but you are still and always my most important girl.

We shared our exchange-student stories about France, spoke in French, went to the Village Theater to see Les Parapluies de Cherbourg; and afterwards, we danced in the street.  We went to The Huddle, where we closed the joint, dancing to the music of Teddy Buckner and his band.  We went to Disneyland, took the cruise on the Mark Twain riverboat, and slow danced to sweet and plaintive jazz, played by the elegant black octogenarians known as the “Young Men of New Orleans.”   

The dance has been lovely, Liza, for fifty-two years. 

Years ago, there was a TV offering of classic films every Saturday night called “The Fabulous 52.”  Fifty-two weeks a year of the best of movies.  Fifty-two weeks a year — for the last fifty-two years — of the best of wives.    

Fabulous 52 indeed!  Happy 52^nd Anniversary.

August 17, 2020

Love you!  Love, Me!             

From time immemorial there has been a thing in American schools called a “dress code.”  In the student handbooks there are lists of DOs and DON’Ts.  Historically the rules were strict and numerous; but it didn’t matter how many rules you had, you still could not anticipate all of the emerging fads and fashion statements from pop stars and athletes, whose sartorial choices were widely adopted by the student population.  Nobody has ever liked the dress code. 

#1       Kids hate it.  They see their wardrobe and grooming choices as personal expression, their free speech, their identities – and not just as individuals, but as groups as well.  The skaters, the bikers, the jocks, the goths, the soshes, the hippies, the band kids, the choir kids, the drama kids, the regular kids, and all the other sub-cultures on campus have their uniforms, all of which have unique challenges to the dress code.     

#2       Teachers hate it.  Every staff member is to uphold the dress code, and report violators to the office; but they do not always agree.  Students quickly figure out which teachers could not care less what they wear to class and which teachers are dress code hawks

#3       Parents hate it.  Some think the rules are just stupid – not the school’s business!  Other parents want to support the school, which means that shopping with their kids for back-to-school clothes can become a battleground.  And what no parent wants is to get a phone call at work about skirts too short, hair too long, inappropriate words or pictures on shirts, or bare midriffs.  Never.  Ever.  Ever.         

#4       Administrators hate it.  It is a nightmare to enforce, the push back is constant, and at the end of day, they do not want to spend their time there. 

As we are all aware, changes have taken place.  Numerous lawsuits challenged the legality and the inconsistent applications of the rules.  As a result, dress codes have been altered, or gutted, or in some places have disappeared altogether.

But they still exist, and whatever form they take, the rules need to be enforced, and that is where my friend Joe came in.  He was an assistant principal in charge of “student discipline” — the “hard guy.”  He had a tender heart for kids, and it pained him to deal out consequences; but he had a job to do, which he did with diligence. 

Joe was a man of keen intelligence, a shrewd observer of student life, and something of a philosopher.  He was a mentor and shared a couple of keen observations, learned in his many years in the education business, and which had direct application to the business of the dress code.  Once he said to me, “Timothy, my lad, the revolution takes place at the point of the law.  They don’t destroy it; they eat away at it.”

For example, back in the day, if the code called for “dresses below the knee,” girls came to school with their hems just above the knee.  And when the rule was relaxed to the “top of the knee,” there came the miniskirts.  When the hair rule was “to the collar,” the boys wore it to the shoulder.  The rules became simpler and fewer in number.  After a few years there was not much in the way of rules for student dress; except that the State of California required footwear, and with that kids went barefoot.  Finally, the collective view among educators was, “Please wear something!”  That was the dawn of the “Streaker Era.”

But for all the rule changes in all the dress codes in all the schools from coast to coast, there has always been the one rule that never goes away and always leads to confusion, resentment, and unfairness.  You can never have enough regulations to address every possible infraction, so there is the catchall phrase, the omnibus rule in the handbook which reads, “Students are not to dress in a manner that may be disruptive to the educational process.”

Joe did amaze me with his clear headedness, his kindness, his equanimity, and his uncanny ability to salve the feelings of angry students and their parents.  But there was that one day!

The girl was sent to the office by her math teacher, and Joe pronounced her appearance disruptive.  She was in bare feet, wearing loose bib overalls, no shirt, and the skimpiest under garment.  Her pulchritude was on display, and Joe really berated her and said that she was making a disgrace of herself.  Told her how inappropriate she was and that her mother would have to take her home.  She burst into tears.  He called the mom and told her to come right down.  The mom was aghast and apologetic, saying that when she sent her daughter out the door that morning, she looked fine.  “What had happened”?  

While waiting for the mother to arrive, Joe rehearsed in his head what he would tell her.  When the intercom beeped to announce that the mother was there, he collected his notes and his thoughts.  The mother came in with a fury toward her daughter, then looked at the daughter, and then turned to stare at Joe with a quizzical expression.  As Joe stared back at the mother, and then again at the daughter, he was seeing double.  Mom was dressed just like the daughter.   Bare feet.  Bib overalls.  No shirt.  Skimpy bra.   

He told me later that the mom gave him an earful, but in the end, she was gracious as he uncomfortably explained the perceived violation of the dress code.  He also imported to me another gem of wisdom on school life: “Timothy, my lad, the apple surely does not fall far from the tree.”

Note

This topic of what to wear to school may seem completely irrelevant as our kids and grandkids prepare for distance learning, because they may in great numbers attend class at home in their PJ’s.  We will not be dealing with bare midriffs.  But when they return to campus, we will have a new dress code issue, which is what reminded me this week of my late friend, Joe. 

Masks!

Already there are sides being drawn.  For the sake of my grandsons, students everywhere, my former colleagues, dedicated teachers all over, and all of us at home; I pray fervently that everyone will put aside personal considerations and make this one dress code rule a thoroughly expected practice.        

At my dad’s retirement party, a longtime colleague and crony named Harry came up to him and asked, “So Teddy, what are you going to do now?”  And Ted answered, “I’m going home.”  Ted really was a homebody.  Others wanted to get out, jet off to Europe, see the Grand Canyon, play golf, experience the things they missed along the way.

Not Ted.

He just wanted to spend his retirement continuing to do the same simple things that granted him pleasure.  He visited the grandkids; they could always count on him to have a ‘nilla wafer in his pocket.  He puttered a bit.  He did most of the shopping and the cooking, and the dinners he prepared were like his approach to retirement – simple.  Ham and limas.  Baked beans with a hunk of salt pork.  Day-long spaghetti sauce, always with the addition of a 5-oz can of Las Palmas red chili sauce for a little extra “bite.”  He listened to the Dodgers while he was making his pies and cakes from scratch, and he took three or four naps a day.

Yes, when Ted retired, he went home and stayed there.  He wanted to live and die there.  Neither Harry nor anyone else realized just how much he loved being home; and no one knew just how prophetic Ted’s parting shot was when he said, “I’m going home.”

It was not long after the retirement party that a regular checkup revealed a new cancer diagnosis.  He had fought quite a battle ten years before.  He lost his larynx and his voice.  He lost most of his neck and half a shoulder.  Several surgeries and some powerful chemical therapies seemed to chase the cancers, and he learned to talk again with esophageal speech and returned to work.  It was a clean bill of health at that time, but the cancer had only gone into hiding.

It took Ted a year and a half to die.  My mother was his ministering angel.  She had no medical training, but she was committed to his wishes to be at home.  She seemed to float through those days of his agony without complaint and a will to do whatever she could to make his departure as peaceful as possible.  She did it because Ted wanted to die at home.

It wasn’t long before they started him on chemotherapy once again.  In those days the drugs were nearly as bad as the cancer.  His hair fell out.  He was violently nauseous at times.  He lost weight.  They said he should be in the hospital, but Audrey was steadfast because she wanted what he wanted — and he wanted to die at home. 

As the cancer invaded his lower intestinal tract and colon, they dragged him in for more surgery.  Father Casady sat with Ted to pray and share the rosary and came out saying, “God is good, and Ted is tough.”  Ted came home from the hospital with a bag on his side and more pain in his belly, defying the practitioners who wanted to keep him in the hospital.  After all, he wanted to die at home. 

To give Mom a break from the vigil, one of my brothers or I would come to help him in and out of the tub or just sit and read to him.  We read him the sports page and stories by Damon Runyon, which brought a welcome smile to his face.  His favorite poem was the “The Incredible One Horse Shay” about a buggy whose time is up.  We could see him fading almost daily, and there were days when it seemed right to give ourselves a break and put Dad in the hospital.  But he wasn’t ready to give up just yet and he wanted, by God, to die at home.

In this time of pain and weariness, when a pall hung over the house, there were some lovely moments that stick with me.  One day I dropped by and found my mom sitting at my dad’s bedside, and they were sharing a beer.  That was a bit shocking, because for years Audrey had gone on search and destroy missions for hidden bottles of cheap wine — my dad’s preferred form of oblivion when he was on a bender.  But that hardly mattered anymore, because Ted’s time was short, he was bed-ridden, and for all the destruction it caused, cancer was the catalyst that slaked my dad’s commanding thirst for alcohol.  Ted and Audrey, just like anybody else, sipping on a long neck.

My dad reached up with a frail hand and patted my mom on the cheek.  She had been a loyal and loving wife for 44 years, sticking with him through some tough times.  A simple pat on the cheek expressed what he could no longer utter, because he was too tired to swallow enough air to burp up even a single word.  I felt like an intruder but was grateful for that moment.

Yet an even greater moment of privilege for me came just a few days later.  Mom had reached the end of her strength, and Dad needed more than we could provide.  He couldn’t lift his head off the pillow, and the catheter wasn’t working.  It was time for professional care.  Dad did not want anything to do with a hospital room and all the attendant tubings, but he was able to understand the need.  We called the doctor who ordered the ambulance.

Mom and I decided to take Dad to the ambulance.  I picked him up.  He could not have weighed more than seventy pounds; but before I got to the front door, he seemed to get heavier and heavier.  You know that feeling, when you are holding a little one and she falls into a deep sleep in your arms.  As if she gained ten or fifteen pounds on the spot!  It is called dead weight.  Ted died in the doorway in my arms.   

That moment came back to me on the Fourth of July, prompted by an article about John Adams and Thomas Jefferson who died on the same day, July 4, 1826.  What power of determination drove them to give it up on the exact same day, fifty years to the day from the signing of the Declaration of Independence?  It was more than an astounding historical coincidence.  They willed themselves to last that long, to make that landmark date, each one wondering until the end if he had outlived the other. 

Ted went home, just like he said.     

I spent over forty years in the education business, in the classroom and later in school administration, working every day with other people’s children.  When you do that, you catch a lot of colds and you catch a lot of excuses.  The colds are not so bad.  One day a student comes in with a handkerchief and sneezes on you.  You spend a day or two at home, but it’s seasonal.

Excuses, on the other hand, are year ‘round.  Some kids make a career of giving you reasons not to do the work.  For them it is an art form.  There are the wailers who tell you half their lives, and about the important family events and the visiting aunt from out-of-town last night. Won’t it be OK to hand it in tomorrow?  There are the future farmers whose goat ate it, and there are the future barristers who spend time trying to convince you that the problem was your lack of clarity on the assignment.

Plus, there are the forgetfulness excuses: I forgot … to write down the assignment … to do it … to bring it to school … to hand it in.  And there are time excuses:  I had to go to my job and had to work late … We had a game last night … The library was closed by the time I got there …

Many teachers listen to excuses.  You don’t want to be unfair.  You don’t want to be uncool.  You spend time and energy listening and judging.  You take on a responsibility that belongs to the student, and not to you.  Early on I was like that.

Then Jonathon came into my life.  He was a senior, taking my history class.  He was a good kid, likeable and friendly, and a big kid who played football and wrestled. He was a good athlete, but sports did not consume his life. 

Nor did his schoolwork. In the classroom he was laid back. He showed up almost all the time, caused no trouble, and did enough work to get the job done.  He didn’t burden himself with an overwhelming sense of industry.  He was a “B” student with the occasional “C” who could have pulled straight “A’s” if it had been important to him.  In that regard he belonged to the Great American Academic Majority.

He was like a thousand other kids whom you probably won’t remember. But I do remember Jonathon, and vividly so, because there was something unique about him. He never made excuses.  To him it was a form of lying, which he abhorred.                      

Me:      Jonathon, where is your homework?

Him:    Oh, I decided not to do it last night.

Me:      Jonathon, it appears you didn’t study for this quiz.

Him:    No, I chose to take my girlfriend to the movies instead.

One day when he returned from an absence, I asked him where he had been.  He answered, “Well, next week is Senior Ditch Day.  Yesterday I rehearsed.”

Another morning he appeared in the Attendance Office and handed in his note.  It read: “Yesterday I went to the beach.  The weather was great.  Please let me know what my consequence is.  Sincerely, Jonathon.”

He never asked you to bend the rules, nor begged for mercy. Nor was he ever rude or disrespectful.  He did not fail to do his work so often as get into academic peril — maybe four or five times a semester — and not on the big assignments.

You have heard it said that teachers learn from their students.  I learned a valuable lesson from Jonathon. He changed my whole line of thought.  He taught me something of great value for a classroom teacher, a parent, or anyone else who has some responsibility for the care of others.  He opened my eyes to see that there is no such thing as an excuse.  There is only a choice.  No excuses!  Just choices! 

It is so much easier when the burden of responsibility for the assignment is on the student, rather than the teacher.  When I finally stopped accepting excuses and tightened up on the deadlines, the same kids got the same grades as before; they just handed the work in earlier.

After Jonathon, if a student approached me with a sniffle and no homework, and began to offer an explanation, I would interrupt with, “Please don’t give me your cold, or your excuse.”

Over the years I developed an immunity to both.

All moms and dads have a saturation point in terms of numbers of children, beyond which they can go crackers.  You occasionally run into the parents of nine or ten offspring who seem to have all patience.  Then you meet the parents of a single child who could quote Clint Eastwood’s avatar Dirty Harry Callahan, who eloquently summed up parenthood: “A man‘s gotta know his limitations.”

My wife and I decided that for financial, emotional, and other reasons our limit was two.  We came to that conclusion before our third daughter was one week old, and we experienced all over again the thrill of not sleeping through the night.  The big difference being, we were turning forty. 

Of course, we did not think about sending her back — not seriously, and definitely not recently!

We would not be trying for a son, but that was not a big disappointment, honestly wanting a girl every time.  After all, I had been the youngest of three boys, always yearning for a sister.  The thought of little girls running around the house was delightful. 

It was thrilling when Wendy was born.  I behaved as if I had invented childbirth, crowing and cooing, bragging until my friends and neighbors crossed the street when they saw me coming, and embarrassing my wife by taking rolls of film of her nursing our firstborn for the first time.

Before Wendy was one month old, my excitement drove me to the keyboard and a detailed chronicle: remembering the Lamaze lessons, babying out the nursery, our midnight trip to Kaiser, labor and delivery, and how we felt about all this.  It ran to forty pages, and copies were sent to the immediate and extended family and many others, whether they asked or not.  The picture taking continued unabated.  The annual Christmas photo album that year was huge.

I loved every step.  Every first step, every single step, every kind of step.  Every crawling, walking, running, new-word, candle-on-the-cake, mark-on-the-door-jamb, up-on-dad’s shoulder, scraped-knee, kissing-the-owie, falling-asleep-on-dad’s-chest … all those steps.  You know what I mean.  The wonder of it all! We asked ourselves, “How can we match this?”

Then Annie was born. 

How different she was from her sister.  In utero, Wendy rolled around.  Annie did jumping jacks.  When Wendy was nursing and the milk would not come right away, she would fuss a little.  Annie would make a little fist and pound on the container, just the way you would slap a vending machine if it ate your dollar and didn’t give you a Pepsi.

Wendy strolled and skipped; Annie ran.  Wendy read; Annie fluttered the pages and made up stories of her own.  Wendy was a string quartet; Annie was a brass band.  We didn’t take as many pictures the second time around and her story was eighteen pages, but the wonder of it was the same.  We said to ourselves, “The perfect nuclear family, two kids and a dog.”

Then along came Emily.

She was as different from her sisters as they were from each other.  Annie’s early drawings were representational; Emily’s were “music in the air.”  Wendy wanted to postpone “lights out” with stories about Princess Wendymere and her adventures; Emily wanted all the songs from a different “musical” every night.  Her sisters tended to live in the here and now, but Emily woke up in new world every day.  Yet she brought the same wonder — that wonder when your child flops against you and throws her arms around your neck, and you pat her, and she pats your shoulders in return.

Emily’s story was a page and a half.  That caused me to worry if she needed an apology for the brevity of my account of her birth.  Now that she has three boisterous sons, five and under, she gets it.  She barely has time to sleep, let alone write.   

With each pregnancy, friends would ask if I was hoping for a son this time, and the conversation often centered on father-son bonding over sports.  I never pined for a son, but I did get my sports fix.  Oh, how I loved those summer evenings under the streetlamps when Wendy and I played catch; she later played left field on the school softball team.  Oh, how I treasured Annie’s great determination in track and field as she challenged herself with hurdles and the pole vault.  Emily detested sports.  But oh, how I geeked out on opera with a passion equal to her love of “Bring Him Home” and “Un Bel Di.”

They are grown now, but the wonder has not disappeared.  The wonder now is the special relationship with adult children.  The wonder now is the loving attention they give their mom and dad.  The wonder now is the cherished sisterhood they share.  The wonder now is the passion they share for their art, the passion they share for social justice, the passion for the good and altruistic work they do.  They astound me.

I will write of these amazing women in future blogs, probably providing some embarrassment to them from the quill of a proud papa.  I am grateful to be surrounded by these incredible, interesting women — my wife and my three daughters.       

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)