Thursday, August 30, 2007
the summer of love
The 'Summer of Love' began in San Francisco, unleashing widespread awareness of the hippie counterculture. This refrain, from a song from John Phillips, of The Mamas and The Papas, evokes the mood of that time.
If you're going to San Francisco,
be sure to wear some flowers in your hair...
If you're going to San Francisco,
Summertime will be a love-in there.
This Sunday, September 2nd, there will be a free, all-day concert commerating the fortieth anniversary of The Summer of Love. I'll be there, maybe even with some flowers in my hair. I suppose the flowers ought to be real?
I turned fourteen in August, 1967. My baby sister, my only sister, was born that June. I already had four brothers. I had already lost two baby sisters to infant deaths. All I cared about that summer was Margaret. She and I shared a bedroom. All that summer, every single night, when she awoke in the night to eat, I got up, changed her diapers, took her to my mother's bed and went back to sleep. Then, after a short nap, I reawakened, retrieved my baby sister and tucked her back into the crib in our shared room. My mother never even had to get out of bed.
I started high school that fall, probably in late August, probably forty years ago this week. After less than two weeks of high school, I went to my mother and said that it was too hard for me to do get up in the mornings for school and I was going to stop getting up with the baby. My mother was furious. I was very ashamed of my selfishness. To this day, if you mention the Catholic girls' high school that I attended, Queen of Peace, in front of my mother, even with her dementia, she'll say "Oh, well, Queen of Peace, that is the school where the nuns taught your sister how to be selfish."
I was aware of hippies. I had heard of Haight Asbury. In general, I liked the idea of a counterculture, a peace movement in opposition to the Viet Nam War, free love, flowers and tie dye. But for me, the sixties were about caring for my baby brother Dave, born in 1964 and my baby sister, Margaret, born in 1967. I was aware of demonstrations, riots like the Chicago Democratic Convention (I lived in Chicago!) and Kent State. Me, I lived in a cocoon of loving those babies.
In June, 1971, I graduated from high school. A few days later, my parents had a divorce hearing that they did not tell us kids about. While I was at work at my summer job in the public library, mom showed up at the house with a moving van and took almost all the furniture in our home. And she took David and Margaret. She had told the divorce judge, under oath, that she would not remove them from the State of Illinois. Then, that very same day, she took them, disappearing for the next couple years. She took my babies away.
Mom had gone back to college while I was in high school. She liked to say that by helping her go to college (she could not have done it without my childcare), she would help me. I very seriously believed that I was preparing for my own future when I sacrificed extracurricular activities throughout high school (I would have loved to be in a school play, to be on student council, to work on the school paper but I could never stay after school, I had to get to the babies). I loved them like a mother loves her babies.
And then they were gone.
Just to show you what a dope I am, it wasn't until I was in my forties, my late forties, that I realized that mom had made sure she got her education and her divorce before I left home for college. She had carefully planned her escape on my back.
Oh my god, it damned near killed me the way David and Margaret disappeared from my life. I had never had any adults participating in my life, giving me guidance on how to cope with anything so there was no one around to suggest that my grief was normal, that my loss was real. I lost a couple years to that heartache. It was worse to lose my daughter but not by much.
I am going to the Summer of Love 40th Anniversary Concert in Golden Gate Park this Sunday. The hippie movement kinda passed me by in a blur. I am curious to see who turns up. Will it be old hippies? Young people? I looked at the website and it looks like Cindy Sheehan, the anti-war activist, is going to be there. I was sorry to see that. I just want to hear music and watch people play frisbee.
If you're going to San Francisco,
be sure to wear some flowers in your hair...
If you're going to San Francisco,
Summertime will be a love-in there.
This Sunday, September 2nd, there will be a free, all-day concert commerating the fortieth anniversary of The Summer of Love. I'll be there, maybe even with some flowers in my hair. I suppose the flowers ought to be real?
I turned fourteen in August, 1967. My baby sister, my only sister, was born that June. I already had four brothers. I had already lost two baby sisters to infant deaths. All I cared about that summer was Margaret. She and I shared a bedroom. All that summer, every single night, when she awoke in the night to eat, I got up, changed her diapers, took her to my mother's bed and went back to sleep. Then, after a short nap, I reawakened, retrieved my baby sister and tucked her back into the crib in our shared room. My mother never even had to get out of bed.
I started high school that fall, probably in late August, probably forty years ago this week. After less than two weeks of high school, I went to my mother and said that it was too hard for me to do get up in the mornings for school and I was going to stop getting up with the baby. My mother was furious. I was very ashamed of my selfishness. To this day, if you mention the Catholic girls' high school that I attended, Queen of Peace, in front of my mother, even with her dementia, she'll say "Oh, well, Queen of Peace, that is the school where the nuns taught your sister how to be selfish."
I was aware of hippies. I had heard of Haight Asbury. In general, I liked the idea of a counterculture, a peace movement in opposition to the Viet Nam War, free love, flowers and tie dye. But for me, the sixties were about caring for my baby brother Dave, born in 1964 and my baby sister, Margaret, born in 1967. I was aware of demonstrations, riots like the Chicago Democratic Convention (I lived in Chicago!) and Kent State. Me, I lived in a cocoon of loving those babies.
In June, 1971, I graduated from high school. A few days later, my parents had a divorce hearing that they did not tell us kids about. While I was at work at my summer job in the public library, mom showed up at the house with a moving van and took almost all the furniture in our home. And she took David and Margaret. She had told the divorce judge, under oath, that she would not remove them from the State of Illinois. Then, that very same day, she took them, disappearing for the next couple years. She took my babies away.
Mom had gone back to college while I was in high school. She liked to say that by helping her go to college (she could not have done it without my childcare), she would help me. I very seriously believed that I was preparing for my own future when I sacrificed extracurricular activities throughout high school (I would have loved to be in a school play, to be on student council, to work on the school paper but I could never stay after school, I had to get to the babies). I loved them like a mother loves her babies.
And then they were gone.
Just to show you what a dope I am, it wasn't until I was in my forties, my late forties, that I realized that mom had made sure she got her education and her divorce before I left home for college. She had carefully planned her escape on my back.
Oh my god, it damned near killed me the way David and Margaret disappeared from my life. I had never had any adults participating in my life, giving me guidance on how to cope with anything so there was no one around to suggest that my grief was normal, that my loss was real. I lost a couple years to that heartache. It was worse to lose my daughter but not by much.
I am going to the Summer of Love 40th Anniversary Concert in Golden Gate Park this Sunday. The hippie movement kinda passed me by in a blur. I am curious to see who turns up. Will it be old hippies? Young people? I looked at the website and it looks like Cindy Sheehan, the anti-war activist, is going to be there. I was sorry to see that. I just want to hear music and watch people play frisbee.
Monday, August 27, 2007
full moon rising
There will be a full moon tonight, with a lunar eclipse around 2 a.m. Sigh. I want to view it from a beach. I hardly ever wish I had a car but I do right now. My walk on the beach in Santz Cruz yesterday has stirred an interest in the beach. There are lots of things I want to see in California. Having a car would enable me to get around more. I want to take long hikes in nature. Most public parks are not readily accessible by public transit.
I am full of unquenched desires today.
I have a growing appetite for walking. In the past year, I have walked a lot as transportation. I am fit enough, now, to walk several hours at a time. I am craving walks in nature. I am going to look for hiking/walking clubs.
I am full of unquenched desires today.
I have a growing appetite for walking. In the past year, I have walked a lot as transportation. I am fit enough, now, to walk several hours at a time. I am craving walks in nature. I am going to look for hiking/walking clubs.
under the boardwalk
I took a day trip to Santa Cruz today. I am a hick tourist from the Midwest.
Santa Cruz has a beautiful beach front. There's an amusement park, roller coasters, a ferris wheel, right on the beach. There is the Pacific Ocean. There is the beautiful beach, which was full of people. People actually in the water. Blankets. Sand castles. Music blaring on bad sound systems. Carnival games. Bad food.
When I was nineteen, I lived in Bogota, Colombia for a year, studying at Universidad de los Andes. For the first several months, each time I tried to imagine where I was in the world, inside my own thoughts, I had to picture myself in Chicago, my hometown and then mentally picture myself being not in Chicago but in South America. I had to 'see' Bogota, Colombia, South America on a map in my head and then place myself 'down' there. For many months, I had to make a mental leap, to know where I was on planet earth. Gradually, I was able to 'know' that I was in South America. But at the beginning, my frame of reference was the Midwest and I couldn't quite picture myself being based on another continent. It was an interesting disconnect.
I have a similar disconnect about living in California. I do live here. I really do. Right? Sometimes, though, I am still 'in' Chicago, as a child, imagining California. Like maybe as a teenager, reading about Haight Asbury District in San Francisco, I would imagine a far-off jewel-of-a-city with what I imagined hippies looked like. Or when I imagined L.A., it was all palm trees with an ocean in the distance. It was all distant, dreamy, unreal.
Well, California is distant, dreamy and unreal to me now, even though I live here. I am pretty sure that this is my true, physical-plane, material-based reality: I live in California. Not that it really matters. Who knows? Maybe I am a pulse of energy, lost in time and space and I don't have a physical existence. How can I be sure?
In my heart, California is distant, dreamy and unreal. But it is real. I am pretty sure.
So. I am pretty sure I really was in Santa Cruz, California today. I am pretty sure I had a great time. We actually did walk under the boardwalk. And I sang the lines I know from the pop song 'under the boardwalk' and I asked my friend to pretend that I was the first person ever to crack such a dumb joke.
Under the boardwalk, we'll be having some fun. Under the boardwalk, out of the sun. Boardwalk!
I had lots of fun today.
Santa Cruz has a beautiful beach front. There's an amusement park, roller coasters, a ferris wheel, right on the beach. There is the Pacific Ocean. There is the beautiful beach, which was full of people. People actually in the water. Blankets. Sand castles. Music blaring on bad sound systems. Carnival games. Bad food.
When I was nineteen, I lived in Bogota, Colombia for a year, studying at Universidad de los Andes. For the first several months, each time I tried to imagine where I was in the world, inside my own thoughts, I had to picture myself in Chicago, my hometown and then mentally picture myself being not in Chicago but in South America. I had to 'see' Bogota, Colombia, South America on a map in my head and then place myself 'down' there. For many months, I had to make a mental leap, to know where I was on planet earth. Gradually, I was able to 'know' that I was in South America. But at the beginning, my frame of reference was the Midwest and I couldn't quite picture myself being based on another continent. It was an interesting disconnect.
I have a similar disconnect about living in California. I do live here. I really do. Right? Sometimes, though, I am still 'in' Chicago, as a child, imagining California. Like maybe as a teenager, reading about Haight Asbury District in San Francisco, I would imagine a far-off jewel-of-a-city with what I imagined hippies looked like. Or when I imagined L.A., it was all palm trees with an ocean in the distance. It was all distant, dreamy, unreal.
Well, California is distant, dreamy and unreal to me now, even though I live here. I am pretty sure that this is my true, physical-plane, material-based reality: I live in California. Not that it really matters. Who knows? Maybe I am a pulse of energy, lost in time and space and I don't have a physical existence. How can I be sure?
In my heart, California is distant, dreamy and unreal. But it is real. I am pretty sure.
So. I am pretty sure I really was in Santa Cruz, California today. I am pretty sure I had a great time. We actually did walk under the boardwalk. And I sang the lines I know from the pop song 'under the boardwalk' and I asked my friend to pretend that I was the first person ever to crack such a dumb joke.
Under the boardwalk, we'll be having some fun. Under the boardwalk, out of the sun. Boardwalk!
I had lots of fun today.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
King Oscar in a can
Thinking about my dad and a joke he played as a boy on Chicago's South Side. Dad grew up in an Irish ghetto. His very first job, which he quit after a day or two, was delivering milk from a horse-drawn wagon. He had to get up at what he considered an godawful, early hour but he quite, he told us, because he had not anticipated that he would have to clean up horse dung. The combination of very early rising and cleaning up horse shit was too much for my adolescent dad.
Anyway.
Before he was old enough to get paid employment, dad ran loose in his tenement neighborhood with his 'homies', other Irish-American, Catholic lads. Good kids, basically, but, boys. They needed to stir something up.
One of my dad's first displays of poor public behavior involved going into a local shop and asking the shopkeeper "Do you have King Oscar in a can?" King Oscar is a brand of canned sardines. When the shopkeeper would say 'Yes, we do!" dad and his cohorts would squeal "Well, then let him out!" and rush out of the shop, thrilled at their own bravado.
I loved listening to my dad tell me any stories about his boyhood. He didn't tell many. Dad had beautiful blue eyes that never twinkled enough with happiness. His eyes had a happy glow when he recalled his rebel days and King Oscar.
I believe there was also a brand of canned tobacco named after a king. Dad also liked to go into tobacco stores and ask for the canned, king tobacco.
Yesterday, I spotted King Oscar in a can at Trader Joe's. I suppose Trade Joe's sells King Oscar all the time but I rarely shop for canned fish. When I saw King Oscar yesterday, I bought one can. My dad has been with me, smiling and happy.
Maybe I was thinking about my dad before I saw the sardines. I've been recalling an unhappy story about my dad. Which came first, the happy or the sad story?
My dad was a gambler. Every once in awhile, in the fifties and sixties (I was born in 1953), dad would blow his whole paycheck on the ponies. Harness racing. If ever there was a chump bet, it's harness racing. My dad was a chump gambler. When I was five years old, we had a baby girl, Mary Ann, who only lived two months. On the morning of her funeral, unable to cover the entire cost of the funeral, my dad stopped by my grandpa's house, the same tenement where dad had grown up, and grandpa gave him the money for the funeral home. Then dad went to the tracked and put the entire amount down on a horse, losing, of course. Dad said that he couldn't believe god would let him loose on the day he had to bury his baby daughter. Oh my gosh, the day of Mary Ann's funeral was awful. None of the adults in my orbit ever told me much of anything. Even Mary Ann's death was treated a bit hush hush, like the grown ups wanted me to pretend I didn't notice that my baby sister had ever lived or something. I sure wasn't supposed to act sad or anything and be a burden to my folks.
I was floundering with the loss of my baby sister (I had two brothers, thank you very much, I took the loss of my sister very deeply, sure that a sister would somehow bring me happiness)
trying to hide my sorrow as I was pressured by various aunts and uncles to do. We were all waiting at the house to head to the funeral home, waiting for dad to come with the money to pay the funeral home. We couldn't go without the money. How mortifying to not be able to pay to bury our baby. We kids weren't supposed to know about the money but we did, of course.
Dad was expected home long before he arrived. Then he walked in and ushered mom into the bedroom to tell her what he had done.
What a weak, foolish man.
My grandfather showed up with more money. The funeral went ahead. Dad's gambling took the sting out of losing my baby sister. Even though I was only five and I was not supposed to know what was going on, I did know. I remember being very angry at my dad for causing us more pain on that dad. Somehow, in my five-year-old mind, his gambling away the funeral money tore me apart as much, if not more, than Mary Ann's death.
In recent days, I've been thinking about my dad's choice to do something to hurt himself and his whole family on such an unhappy day. Suddenly, I have great empathy for him. Suddenly, I think I understand why he did it. It was weak and foolish. It caused him a lot more pain. But focussing on the pain of his gambling might have taken the focus off the fact that our baby had died. The gambling pain took the focus -- and maybe some of the sting? -- out of our sorrow. I am pretty sure my dad had borderline personality disorder. It is so borderline to cause one's self pain as a way to spare one's self other pain.
I've also been recalling an incident that occurred after Mary Ann died. Maybe I was seven.
On a Sunday morning, as we scrambled to get ready for mass, Mom announced that she had no money and no food for Sunday dinner. She was hurt and angry. Dad had, once again, gambled his paycheck, although this was not voiced out loud by my mom. The fact of dad's gambling was always supposed to be hidden. In actual fact, until I was in my forties, I never once voiced out loud to any member of my family of origin that my dad was a gambler. We never discussed it, not once. The closest it got to being out in the open would be when mom would complain that she had no money for food in front of us kids. I think she was shaming dad. Or something.
Dad said "I have money, Mary Ann. Let me take the kids to mass and then we'll stop at the grocery store."
My dad rarely went to Sunday mass. Me, Chuck and Joe went to church with dad for a change. I don't know about my brothers but I was aware of the tension. I was very anxious that we were going to run out of food. I wanted what my dad had said to be true, that he had money and there was nothing to worry about.
So, we go to mass and then dad takes us to an unfamiliar grocery store, one I had certainly never been in before. He stopped in the meat eye and handled a packaged smoked butt, some kind of pork. I noted that he handled it, taking it up, putting it down. He didn't put it in the shopping cart. Then he bought something, a loaf of bread, I think. I remember eyeing the items he bought and thinking that he had not bought something that would add up to dinner. I dread the fight mom and dad were going to have about food and money. I felt so sorry for my dad, my mom, all of us. I felt so very bad.
I acted like I did not notice the contents of the shopping cart, keeping my eyes averted.
Dad put the grocery bag on the floor behind the driver's seat. We all piled in and went home.
Getting out of the car, dad lifted a smoked butt from the floor of the car and slipped it into the grocery sack. Aghast, I realized my dad had stolen that meat.
"Did you still that, dad?" I asked, horrified.
"No, no, that was already in the car."
It made me sick that my dad had stolen. And what I did might still be making me a little bit sick today. I pretended, right inside my own self, that I believed dad. I pretended I did not think he stole.
Now, in 2007, I don't really care if my dad stole a few dollars worth of meat. A gambler is a dishonest man. My dad would have stolen anything that he could get away with stealing. The thing about these memories that are bruising me even now is remembering how I created a fiction and substituted it for my reality. In order to survive childhood with my parents, I had to live in a world of artificial assumptions, lies, inventions and pretend I believed them to be true. I disciplined myself to belief that black was white, that up was down. In doing so, I built the foundation of who I am on shifting sands of falsehood and, in many ways, I am still living my life from such shifting sands.
I miss
Anyway.
Before he was old enough to get paid employment, dad ran loose in his tenement neighborhood with his 'homies', other Irish-American, Catholic lads. Good kids, basically, but, boys. They needed to stir something up.
One of my dad's first displays of poor public behavior involved going into a local shop and asking the shopkeeper "Do you have King Oscar in a can?" King Oscar is a brand of canned sardines. When the shopkeeper would say 'Yes, we do!" dad and his cohorts would squeal "Well, then let him out!" and rush out of the shop, thrilled at their own bravado.
I loved listening to my dad tell me any stories about his boyhood. He didn't tell many. Dad had beautiful blue eyes that never twinkled enough with happiness. His eyes had a happy glow when he recalled his rebel days and King Oscar.
I believe there was also a brand of canned tobacco named after a king. Dad also liked to go into tobacco stores and ask for the canned, king tobacco.
Yesterday, I spotted King Oscar in a can at Trader Joe's. I suppose Trade Joe's sells King Oscar all the time but I rarely shop for canned fish. When I saw King Oscar yesterday, I bought one can. My dad has been with me, smiling and happy.
Maybe I was thinking about my dad before I saw the sardines. I've been recalling an unhappy story about my dad. Which came first, the happy or the sad story?
My dad was a gambler. Every once in awhile, in the fifties and sixties (I was born in 1953), dad would blow his whole paycheck on the ponies. Harness racing. If ever there was a chump bet, it's harness racing. My dad was a chump gambler. When I was five years old, we had a baby girl, Mary Ann, who only lived two months. On the morning of her funeral, unable to cover the entire cost of the funeral, my dad stopped by my grandpa's house, the same tenement where dad had grown up, and grandpa gave him the money for the funeral home. Then dad went to the tracked and put the entire amount down on a horse, losing, of course. Dad said that he couldn't believe god would let him loose on the day he had to bury his baby daughter. Oh my gosh, the day of Mary Ann's funeral was awful. None of the adults in my orbit ever told me much of anything. Even Mary Ann's death was treated a bit hush hush, like the grown ups wanted me to pretend I didn't notice that my baby sister had ever lived or something. I sure wasn't supposed to act sad or anything and be a burden to my folks.
I was floundering with the loss of my baby sister (I had two brothers, thank you very much, I took the loss of my sister very deeply, sure that a sister would somehow bring me happiness)
trying to hide my sorrow as I was pressured by various aunts and uncles to do. We were all waiting at the house to head to the funeral home, waiting for dad to come with the money to pay the funeral home. We couldn't go without the money. How mortifying to not be able to pay to bury our baby. We kids weren't supposed to know about the money but we did, of course.
Dad was expected home long before he arrived. Then he walked in and ushered mom into the bedroom to tell her what he had done.
What a weak, foolish man.
My grandfather showed up with more money. The funeral went ahead. Dad's gambling took the sting out of losing my baby sister. Even though I was only five and I was not supposed to know what was going on, I did know. I remember being very angry at my dad for causing us more pain on that dad. Somehow, in my five-year-old mind, his gambling away the funeral money tore me apart as much, if not more, than Mary Ann's death.
In recent days, I've been thinking about my dad's choice to do something to hurt himself and his whole family on such an unhappy day. Suddenly, I have great empathy for him. Suddenly, I think I understand why he did it. It was weak and foolish. It caused him a lot more pain. But focussing on the pain of his gambling might have taken the focus off the fact that our baby had died. The gambling pain took the focus -- and maybe some of the sting? -- out of our sorrow. I am pretty sure my dad had borderline personality disorder. It is so borderline to cause one's self pain as a way to spare one's self other pain.
I've also been recalling an incident that occurred after Mary Ann died. Maybe I was seven.
On a Sunday morning, as we scrambled to get ready for mass, Mom announced that she had no money and no food for Sunday dinner. She was hurt and angry. Dad had, once again, gambled his paycheck, although this was not voiced out loud by my mom. The fact of dad's gambling was always supposed to be hidden. In actual fact, until I was in my forties, I never once voiced out loud to any member of my family of origin that my dad was a gambler. We never discussed it, not once. The closest it got to being out in the open would be when mom would complain that she had no money for food in front of us kids. I think she was shaming dad. Or something.
Dad said "I have money, Mary Ann. Let me take the kids to mass and then we'll stop at the grocery store."
My dad rarely went to Sunday mass. Me, Chuck and Joe went to church with dad for a change. I don't know about my brothers but I was aware of the tension. I was very anxious that we were going to run out of food. I wanted what my dad had said to be true, that he had money and there was nothing to worry about.
So, we go to mass and then dad takes us to an unfamiliar grocery store, one I had certainly never been in before. He stopped in the meat eye and handled a packaged smoked butt, some kind of pork. I noted that he handled it, taking it up, putting it down. He didn't put it in the shopping cart. Then he bought something, a loaf of bread, I think. I remember eyeing the items he bought and thinking that he had not bought something that would add up to dinner. I dread the fight mom and dad were going to have about food and money. I felt so sorry for my dad, my mom, all of us. I felt so very bad.
I acted like I did not notice the contents of the shopping cart, keeping my eyes averted.
Dad put the grocery bag on the floor behind the driver's seat. We all piled in and went home.
Getting out of the car, dad lifted a smoked butt from the floor of the car and slipped it into the grocery sack. Aghast, I realized my dad had stolen that meat.
"Did you still that, dad?" I asked, horrified.
"No, no, that was already in the car."
It made me sick that my dad had stolen. And what I did might still be making me a little bit sick today. I pretended, right inside my own self, that I believed dad. I pretended I did not think he stole.
Now, in 2007, I don't really care if my dad stole a few dollars worth of meat. A gambler is a dishonest man. My dad would have stolen anything that he could get away with stealing. The thing about these memories that are bruising me even now is remembering how I created a fiction and substituted it for my reality. In order to survive childhood with my parents, I had to live in a world of artificial assumptions, lies, inventions and pretend I believed them to be true. I disciplined myself to belief that black was white, that up was down. In doing so, I built the foundation of who I am on shifting sands of falsehood and, in many ways, I am still living my life from such shifting sands.
I miss
Friday, August 03, 2007
you can always go downtown
Seventies pop music is zinging through me. Yesterday, it was Dionne Warwick singing 'Do you know the way to San Jose?". Today, Petula Clark is belting out 'When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can always go, downtown!".
Maybe I could turn back the hands of time, go back to when these songs were on the radio and make different choices for my life. Gee whiz.
I am going downtown tomorrow. San Francisco. The city!
I don't think too many mothers in all of history have sung more to their children than I used to sing to my Katie. Sometimes I would get into a groove in which I would sing-song everything, rhyming almost nonstop for hours. I wrote many songs for her. I changed the lyrics to dozens of pop songs. Lots of parents do this. How I loved to sing to her.
Downtown was our first duet, the first non-kid song she learned. In the beginning, when she was barely two, I would sing 'when you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go . . ." and then I would pause, dramatically waiving her into the act. She would come in on cue and chirp out 'Downtown!'. She was so proud that she could sing a duet with me. At two she could tell that 'Downtown' was way cooler than 'Twinkle twinkle'.
My Katie was a funny kid. She liked to tease me.
One day I was chortling out 'Downtown', with her in a car seat, on our way home from daycare, when she was still two. She warbled 'downtown' on cue for the first couple verses. And then, with no warning, when it was her turn to say 'downtown' she said 'cookie monster'!
It was so funny that I had to stop the car to enjoy my laughter. She was over-the-moon with pride. Oh my gosh, it was her first perfect joke. She was wearing lavendar Osh-Kosh overalls, pink high top shoes and a pink floral print blouse with ruffles on the sleeves. Her hair was up in two tiny pigtails on either side of her head, with pink ribbons bouncing as she giggled. The bells on her shoes tinkled as she kicked in glee. I had to turn the car off and go around to her side of the car and smother her with kisses. To those of you wondering about heaven, this is one way heaven is.
Katie loved her frills and ribbons. I've never been much for feminine things but she always wanted to dress very daintily. As soon as she could voice a preference, she declared that she would only wear pink or purple. And she meant it. I could never figure out how she got her preferences. How did I give birth to such a girly girl?! Years ago, I had a business partner named Lynn. Lynn said that she thought I dressed Katie the way I really wished to dress myself. She said that she 'got' that I am a very feminine woman, even though I don't think of myself that way. High venus, she said. My Katie is high venus, that's for sure.
From that day onward, every time we sang our duet, Downtown, she said 'cookie monster' as one of the refrains. Most kids that entered our orbit learned to do the same, silly thing. In June, I tried to teach my two-year-old nephew Arthur to do this duet with me. And my eleven-year-old niece Isabelle sang 'cookie monster' to show Artie how it goes. It is a family tradition.
As Katie got older, like, she would ask me to tell her stories about when she was little. She loved it when I told the cookie monster story.
Katie must occasionally hear Petula Clark singing Downtown. She must remember our old duet. I can't imagine that she does not love me when she remembers. If I someday learn that my Katie has had children without allowing me to share in my grandchildren's lives, I don't think I would live a moment longer after I learned such a thing. All summer, I have been thinking Katie is having a child now.
We all know love is a risky business but, gosh, back when Katie and I were singing our earliest duets, if someone had suggested she would one day leave me, I would have said pishposh. I could not have believed such a thing could be possible. Tonight, the idea of risking myself to love is making it hard for me to breathe. I don't want to live in the world without love. Sometimes, I have absolutely no ability to believe that there is anything lovable about me. I poured the absolute best of me into my little girl. If that wasn't enough to earn her love, I must be unlovable.
What got me started? Oh, I remember. I'm spending the day in the city with a friend. Downtown. Well, sorta downtown. In the Castro. I'll make a full report. I try to always have a social date on my calendar, something always on my horizon, preciselly to get me through moments like this when I am heartbroken about Katie. Having a date on my calendar, knowing there are, praise goddess, miracle of miracles, actually people on this planet who want to spend time with me, well, it has saved my life, literally, on many occasions.
Note: Everyone, just about, in my whole clan has blue eyes. Katie's are very big and very brown. Until I gazed into her newborn eyes, I had never noticed that the diameters of people's eyes varied from one to another. The size of her browns was, unquestionably, larger than the size of my blues. I had always believed blue eyes to be the best. What a ridiculous notion, eh? But there you have it; I believed brown eyes to be dull. Oh no, No, no, no. Deeply dark, very large, limpid brown eyes are exceptionally fine. I am sitting here enjoying my memory of how happy her eyes were when she first cracked her cookie monster joke. I would give anything to see her eyes lit like that again. Anything. Maybe I am maudlin cause of my birthday. Let's see: there's the Xmas hellhole w/no Katie, there is her birthday in June and my birthday. I really hate myself this evening. Thank goodness I have face time with humans tomorrow. I been alone too long.
Maybe I could turn back the hands of time, go back to when these songs were on the radio and make different choices for my life. Gee whiz.
I am going downtown tomorrow. San Francisco. The city!
I don't think too many mothers in all of history have sung more to their children than I used to sing to my Katie. Sometimes I would get into a groove in which I would sing-song everything, rhyming almost nonstop for hours. I wrote many songs for her. I changed the lyrics to dozens of pop songs. Lots of parents do this. How I loved to sing to her.
Downtown was our first duet, the first non-kid song she learned. In the beginning, when she was barely two, I would sing 'when you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go . . ." and then I would pause, dramatically waiving her into the act. She would come in on cue and chirp out 'Downtown!'. She was so proud that she could sing a duet with me. At two she could tell that 'Downtown' was way cooler than 'Twinkle twinkle'.
My Katie was a funny kid. She liked to tease me.
One day I was chortling out 'Downtown', with her in a car seat, on our way home from daycare, when she was still two. She warbled 'downtown' on cue for the first couple verses. And then, with no warning, when it was her turn to say 'downtown' she said 'cookie monster'!
It was so funny that I had to stop the car to enjoy my laughter. She was over-the-moon with pride. Oh my gosh, it was her first perfect joke. She was wearing lavendar Osh-Kosh overalls, pink high top shoes and a pink floral print blouse with ruffles on the sleeves. Her hair was up in two tiny pigtails on either side of her head, with pink ribbons bouncing as she giggled. The bells on her shoes tinkled as she kicked in glee. I had to turn the car off and go around to her side of the car and smother her with kisses. To those of you wondering about heaven, this is one way heaven is.
Katie loved her frills and ribbons. I've never been much for feminine things but she always wanted to dress very daintily. As soon as she could voice a preference, she declared that she would only wear pink or purple. And she meant it. I could never figure out how she got her preferences. How did I give birth to such a girly girl?! Years ago, I had a business partner named Lynn. Lynn said that she thought I dressed Katie the way I really wished to dress myself. She said that she 'got' that I am a very feminine woman, even though I don't think of myself that way. High venus, she said. My Katie is high venus, that's for sure.
From that day onward, every time we sang our duet, Downtown, she said 'cookie monster' as one of the refrains. Most kids that entered our orbit learned to do the same, silly thing. In June, I tried to teach my two-year-old nephew Arthur to do this duet with me. And my eleven-year-old niece Isabelle sang 'cookie monster' to show Artie how it goes. It is a family tradition.
As Katie got older, like, she would ask me to tell her stories about when she was little. She loved it when I told the cookie monster story.
Katie must occasionally hear Petula Clark singing Downtown. She must remember our old duet. I can't imagine that she does not love me when she remembers. If I someday learn that my Katie has had children without allowing me to share in my grandchildren's lives, I don't think I would live a moment longer after I learned such a thing. All summer, I have been thinking Katie is having a child now.
We all know love is a risky business but, gosh, back when Katie and I were singing our earliest duets, if someone had suggested she would one day leave me, I would have said pishposh. I could not have believed such a thing could be possible. Tonight, the idea of risking myself to love is making it hard for me to breathe. I don't want to live in the world without love. Sometimes, I have absolutely no ability to believe that there is anything lovable about me. I poured the absolute best of me into my little girl. If that wasn't enough to earn her love, I must be unlovable.
What got me started? Oh, I remember. I'm spending the day in the city with a friend. Downtown. Well, sorta downtown. In the Castro. I'll make a full report. I try to always have a social date on my calendar, something always on my horizon, preciselly to get me through moments like this when I am heartbroken about Katie. Having a date on my calendar, knowing there are, praise goddess, miracle of miracles, actually people on this planet who want to spend time with me, well, it has saved my life, literally, on many occasions.
Note: Everyone, just about, in my whole clan has blue eyes. Katie's are very big and very brown. Until I gazed into her newborn eyes, I had never noticed that the diameters of people's eyes varied from one to another. The size of her browns was, unquestionably, larger than the size of my blues. I had always believed blue eyes to be the best. What a ridiculous notion, eh? But there you have it; I believed brown eyes to be dull. Oh no, No, no, no. Deeply dark, very large, limpid brown eyes are exceptionally fine. I am sitting here enjoying my memory of how happy her eyes were when she first cracked her cookie monster joke. I would give anything to see her eyes lit like that again. Anything. Maybe I am maudlin cause of my birthday. Let's see: there's the Xmas hellhole w/no Katie, there is her birthday in June and my birthday. I really hate myself this evening. Thank goodness I have face time with humans tomorrow. I been alone too long.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
the tortoise and the hares at eagle park pool
I don't know why but new signs have been put up at my pool. There used to be two designated slow lanes. Now there are four slow lanes. This small change brings me real joy.
It is stressful to swim with faster swimmers. I don't mind if the fast guys (the pushy ones are always male) pass me but the fast guys aren't satisfied just passing me up. They expect slow swimmers to get out of their way. If they are coming to the end of a length, they expect the slow swimmers to stop and wait for them to finish one length and begin the next. I understand that they get a better workout if they can keep swimming without stopping because, hey, I get a better workout if I keep swimming. I don't mind pausing once in awhile to let someone pass me but when fast swimmers get in the lane with me, I would have to stop quite a lot.
A lap pool is such a pond of humanity. How is it that when it comes to physical exercise that folks seem to assume that the faster athletes have superior rights?
These fast guys really drive me nuts. They are so macho.
It is stressful to swim with faster swimmers. I don't mind if the fast guys (the pushy ones are always male) pass me but the fast guys aren't satisfied just passing me up. They expect slow swimmers to get out of their way. If they are coming to the end of a length, they expect the slow swimmers to stop and wait for them to finish one length and begin the next. I understand that they get a better workout if they can keep swimming without stopping because, hey, I get a better workout if I keep swimming. I don't mind pausing once in awhile to let someone pass me but when fast swimmers get in the lane with me, I would have to stop quite a lot.
A lap pool is such a pond of humanity. How is it that when it comes to physical exercise that folks seem to assume that the faster athletes have superior rights?
These fast guys really drive me nuts. They are so macho.
a sacristy light
In Catholic churches, there is always a lantern lit to represent the eternal, living Christ. I don't know the customs of other Christian denominations.
I like the idea of an eternal flame. I have one lit for my Katie so she will be able to find me.
I like the idea of an eternal flame. I have one lit for my Katie so she will be able to find me.
the way to San Jose
I ran an errand in downtown San Jose today. I very much love the public transit here. Trains and light rail being my favorite. I love taking Caltrain to downtown San Jose. When I leave the station, I always pretend that the characters from East of Eden are sending off all that doomed lettuce. Abra, the sweetheart in the Steinbeck novel, is giving her man a hug. I imagine the rail cars packed with ice and lettuce, already beginning to melt and rot. I imagine the hopes of early agribusiness trying to figure out how to haul California's produce to the rest of the country. I swear I feel human striving as I listen to the train whistles. I wonder if humans were wise to try to ship West Coast lettuce to the Midwest.
My errand complete, I decided to walk to the San Jose Museum of Art. I had a vague idea which direction I should take and then I zigged and zagged my way there. I am curious about San Jose, the tenth largest U.S. city, much larger than San Francisco. Around these parts, when folks speak of 'going to the city', they invariably reference San Francisco.
The Dionne Warwick song 'Do you know the way to San Jose?' always echoes within me when I go to San Jose. I want San Jose to be a happy city.
There is a lot of public art in downtown San Jose. And there are many thoughtful pocket parks, tucked here and there. Many more palm trees in San Jose than in Mountain View. I feel more like I am in California when I am down there than I do at home. I stumble along San Jose streets and think 'gee, I guess I really do live in California now!' Every time I think this, I am just as happy as the first time.
Outside the museum, workers were installing a stage. When I left the museum, a rock band was playing. Rock music at four in the afternoon?! Of course, I swung by and danced a bit. I longed for a companion to hang out with me, to wait for the evening show, to dance with me.
As always, there are interesting, well-curated shows at the museum.
What experiences might I seek out so that I might feel like I have really experienced San Jose? I always feel like a dullard when I am there. There must be all kinds of things to do besides that art museum. But I don't know what that might be.
There's a jazz festival coming up.
Going to San Jose has filled me with a yen for California adventure. I long to go to a beach. I wonder which beaches are accessible to me on public transport? Ocean beaches, not the bay. The bay is just east of my home; I can get there by talking two miles. I want to stand at the ocean and feel queasy (being beside ocean has always made me queasy; the vastness dizzies). I want to walk on a beach with waves big enough to mist me if I walk close enough. I want to feel vaguely afraid of all that water.
And I want my Katie to come back to me. Whenever I remember that I live in California now, I next remember that Katie does not know where I live.
My errand complete, I decided to walk to the San Jose Museum of Art. I had a vague idea which direction I should take and then I zigged and zagged my way there. I am curious about San Jose, the tenth largest U.S. city, much larger than San Francisco. Around these parts, when folks speak of 'going to the city', they invariably reference San Francisco.
The Dionne Warwick song 'Do you know the way to San Jose?' always echoes within me when I go to San Jose. I want San Jose to be a happy city.
There is a lot of public art in downtown San Jose. And there are many thoughtful pocket parks, tucked here and there. Many more palm trees in San Jose than in Mountain View. I feel more like I am in California when I am down there than I do at home. I stumble along San Jose streets and think 'gee, I guess I really do live in California now!' Every time I think this, I am just as happy as the first time.
Outside the museum, workers were installing a stage. When I left the museum, a rock band was playing. Rock music at four in the afternoon?! Of course, I swung by and danced a bit. I longed for a companion to hang out with me, to wait for the evening show, to dance with me.
As always, there are interesting, well-curated shows at the museum.
What experiences might I seek out so that I might feel like I have really experienced San Jose? I always feel like a dullard when I am there. There must be all kinds of things to do besides that art museum. But I don't know what that might be.
There's a jazz festival coming up.
Going to San Jose has filled me with a yen for California adventure. I long to go to a beach. I wonder which beaches are accessible to me on public transport? Ocean beaches, not the bay. The bay is just east of my home; I can get there by talking two miles. I want to stand at the ocean and feel queasy (being beside ocean has always made me queasy; the vastness dizzies). I want to walk on a beach with waves big enough to mist me if I walk close enough. I want to feel vaguely afraid of all that water.
And I want my Katie to come back to me. Whenever I remember that I live in California now, I next remember that Katie does not know where I live.
