This day remains vivid in my memory even after all these years. I kept John company most of the evening. A Lakers play-off game aired on TV– I think it was versus Utah but I can’t guarantee it. I think they won because so far it was a quiet relatively benign evening. If the Lakers had lost a playoff game at least one of us would have been in a poisonous mood.
John in young workaholic lawyer mode
John’s mother called him shortly after 10 PM. (I called them in Fresno and alerted them he was staying overnight at the hospital during my mad dash home earlier.) Everything appeared under control. It had been a long day and both of us were tired. I left him chatting with Florence and headed home to relieve the babysitter.
When he was working a hundred hours a week, John had this vision of the two of us watching a sunset. Kind of like this.
Later I would learn that shortly after I left – still on the phone with his mother – John drifted out of consciousness and coded. His mother didn’t know what happened; he stopped talking is all. Doctors and nurses raced in with life-saving methods. John watched it happen from the ceiling and thought to himself, “That’s what I get for scheduling surgery on Friday the 13th.”
At home, I was probably in bed. That night, I let all three children sleep in my room with me. Meanwhile, my unconscious husband laid under a sheet on a gurney, being raced down hospital corridors to the Intensive Care Unit.
Me with the three kids. We all appear smile-challenged in this photo.
The first I knew about any of this was at approximately 4 AM when the telephone rang beside my bed. Groggy, I answered and John’s physician identified himself. I’ll never forget what he said next. “Your husband is going to live.”
Excuse me? I dropped him off the previous morning for a minor day surgery – now you’re calling me at 4 in the morning, breathlessly sharing the good news that he’s still alive? I wasn’t filled with confidence.
Amazed and thrilled he’s alive and kicking years later.
On the bright side, they got one thing right – John lived and continues to do so today. Generally, I’m not superstitious but after this I’d never schedule surgery on Friday the 13th.
The picture in the front of that diary – still hideous after all these years.
In 1965, I was foolishly over-optimistic about how easy it would be to conquer my tendency to talk like it’s a race to the finish line (and the loser dies) whenever I speak to a group. The larger the group, the faster I gallop.
I call this facial expression “the Silent Scream”.
Obviously, nerves – or more accurately fear – is the root of this malady. A doctor explained it’s due to a primal burst of adrenalin – speaking in public triggers a “fight or flight” response in my reptilian brain.
Given my father, a Lutheran pastor, delivered a sermon to a large seated congregation every Sunday, you’d think I might acquire this skill naturally – by osmosis. I did not.
I made up for it in small groups – such as my nuclear family – where I felt comfortable. There, I morphed into “Chatty Cathy”, a nickname I loathed. It was all Janet could do to get a word in edgewise.
My father recorded us after dinner and doing family devotions. I belted out every verse of every hymn I knew by heart, barely pausing to catch my breath. In my monotone shriek, it had to be excruciating. My father tried to slow me down. “It’s Janet’s turn. Let Janet sing.”
(atonal shrieking)
And on and on, all recorded for posterity. Clearly, I was desperate to entertain them lest they decide I’d become redundant now that Baby Janet was on the scene. Photographic evidence of my terrifying ordeal can be seen in my gallery, “Kathy Vs. the Alien Baby”.
On Sunday, May 7, we hosted an overdue memorial for our beloved Yolanda Hernandez, who passed away in our home on February 12th at sixty-six, thirty-two of those years spent as a member of our family. There were so many things we needed to do first – such as ensure she was at least in transit to her final resting place. This was no easy matter since we failed to secure power of attorney before she died and we were not related. Given my husband’s legal experience, you’d think we would’ve been on top of such technicalities but you’d be wrong.
John and me at the memorial
So, we had to run the minor obstacle course of securing notarized permission from her living relatives in El Salvador who didn’t speak English (and no one in our family speaks Spanish) before we could ship her body to El Salvador as requested. The real reason for the delay was denial. Even today, almost three months later, it’s still hard to accept I won’t see her again this lifetime.
Even today, almost three months later, it’s still hard to accept I won’t see her again this lifetime.
Around May 1, John took charge and declared the memorial would be held on May 7th. That meant massive amounts of house-cleaning (to conceal the fact my natural state is clutter) as well as frantic phone calls and email invitations. (What if we threw a memorial and no one came because we didn’t give them enough notice?)
We blew up a great photo of Yolanda and set up chairs between the bar and the breakfast area. Twenty-one people braved spring rain and drove to Glendale. Father Terry Richie gave an informal eulogy which Yolanda (a devout Catholic) would’ve loved.
J and Father TerryJohn sharing his memories of Yolanda.Mary, Chris and Alex adding their thoughts.
John shared biographical snapshots from her life. Mary Bennett spoke next. After Sam and Alex went to college, for years Yolanda took care of Mary’s mother (who was in her nineties) during the week and came home to us on weekends. She also helped out with Alicia Curran’s mother when an emergency arose. Yolanda made enough of an impression that Alicia and her mother drove up from Orange County to attend her memorial.
Sam sharing her memories of her Nana.
Sam reduced the room to tears with her memories of Nana. Chris and Alex added their thoughts, as did Eugene Harrington (Yolanda took care of his mother for some years after Mary’s mother passed away.) My sister Joyce said a few words too. Since both of my sisters live within five miles of me, our children saw a lot of each other and Yolanda loved every one of them.
Joyce, Janet and Me
Yolanda touched all of our lives with her boundless capacity for love, her patience and kindness and her childlike enthusiasm for simple pleasures that many people take for granted. Objectively, she led a hard life (emigrating from El Salvador, a brain aneurism and cancer) but she was an intrinsically happy person, so much so that others absorbed some of that happiness simply by being around her.
Yolanda touched all of our lives with her boundless capacity for love
I didn’t trust myself to speak but – once the event was scheduled – Sam and I scanned photos and my dear friend – the very talented Lewis Bell – created a beautiful memorial video, which can be viewed here, https://youtu.be/g5YBloGLMDg.
We ordered food from Porto’s – a truly spectacular local bakery –if you’re ever in Glendale, it’s definitely worth a stop. People ate and mingled. The stark reality that the clock is ticking for all of us made catching up with old friends poignant.
People ate and mingled.
We always say we’ll get together more often but somehow it doesn’t seem to happen until there’s a life-changing event – a wedding (like Chris and Serena in ’12) or a funeral like last Sunday. I can’t tell you how much I wish it didn’t have to be Yolanda.
Jim McCann, Judith Russell, CD Rowell, me and John outside the Great Western Forum.
I rarely watched sports at all (certainly not by choice) before my obsession – some might say my addiction – with the Lakers began. A novice at rolling with the ups and downs of a long season, I took every loss to heart. Viewing the game through the lens of a die-hard fan, I was outraged at how the referees routinely called phantom fouls (and otherwise screwed) my beleaguered Lakers. Did somebody pay them to make my team lose? When obsessed, my thinking gets increasingly deranged.
1985-86 Lakers team
How did this obsession begin? My very first Lakers game – an early round of the playoffs, 1986. The Forum was shaking; Laker fans were confident they’d breeze past Houston on their route to a second NBA Championship. The Lakers led the scoreboard every single second of the game -– until the last one, when Ralph Sampson drained an impossible three and the Lakers were out. Dream over. If they’d won as expected, I probably wouldn’t remember it so clearly. The out-of-nowhere last instant loss was high drama, to say the least. I was hooked.
The Forum basketball court
John’s theory was after a loss like that, they’d come back strong and win the championship the following year so we bought our first season tickets. We were high in the rafters but we made friends with the interesting crew of people who owned the seats around us and it was a great year. They did indeed win the championship. I almost fainted, it was so exciting. We videotaped the games (VHS) so – if they won – we could watch them again when we got home.
Arty night shot of Forum
Yeah. We were really that crazy about the Lakers. And it was a blast to be a fan in 87, 88 and 89 when they won everything. Less so in 90 and absolute misery as I write this. I’ll never give my heart to another team, though. It can only be broken once.
John and me in front of the Forum.
When I wrote I was a “smidge” down, I was trying to manage my emotions. I’d read that using words that minimized pain could actually reduce one’s emotional reaction. It worked, but gradually I slipped back into my catastrophizing ways. This entry is a timely reminder it’s far better to be a “smidge” disappointed than bereft because my life is over.
Daisy’s last day. We had her for ten years, from when she was four to roughly fourteen. She was a PERFECT dog.
After our beloved Daisy (a golden retriever mix) crossed the rainbow bridge, we adopted a terrier mix from a local rescue organization. Before long we discovered Nicky’s head was full of bad wiring (as opposed to any trace of a brain). He’s pathologically devoted to me, so much so that even after two years, he’ll attack John if my husband dares to get too close to me. Then there’s his piercing, ear-shattering bark.
Nicky’s intellectual look.
It was clear why Nick’s two previous owners dumped him; if I followed suit, his next owner would do the same thing. My dog was a lemon but he loved me so much! How could I save my psychotic little terrier? My novel and brilliant solution? Adopt another small dog and hope Nick follows the new dog’s example. I am nothing if not a clear thinker when it comes to adopting more pets.
Nicky and I before Zelda.
Enter http://lhasahappyhomes.org and a lhasa mix named Xyla (now Zelda). Her previous owners surrendered her because she needed eye surgery, which the rescue organization provided. They were honest about her flaws (she was a chewer but that’s over now). On the plus side, she was smart – dolphin smart, as opposed to Nick, no brighter than the average mollusk.
The beautiful regal and QUITE entitled Zelda.
Zelda watches television like she’s following the plot but she’s actually watching for the appearance of a dog (or cat, pig, horse – any four-legged creature). Then she goes bonkers, barking and launching herself at the TV, frantic to vanquish the intruder in our home. If Nick tries to assist, she lunges and growls at him.
Nick and Zelda share space.
Zelda’s more into food than Nick, as you might surmise from her chunky physique. If Nick doesn’t finish his food, she drags a piece of paper on top of it with her nose (she’d be unstoppable if she had opposable thumbs) and then nudges it from Nick’s side of the room to hers. She’s adept at distracting him, stealing his treats and hiding them to enjoy later – usually in the corner cushions of my sofa. I once found a square of cheese waiting there.
Zelda loves to read.
They were both about a year and a half old when I adopted them which makes them roughly three now. They still act like silly puppies which is fine by me; the rest of my family is less enthusiastic. Sure, pets are work but I can’t imagine a life without animals around me. Our current crop is Fitzgerald-themed – Carroway, Gatsby, Wilson (the cats) and Nick and Zelda (the dogs). I talk to them like they’re people because to me – given their wildly different personalities – they are.
It was thrilling to explore a legendary venue like the Hollywood Bowl. Actually, any casual visitor to LA can explore its exterior – the site is neither gated nor guarded. Tourists can park in the lot, stroll up and down the shell, even take the stage if they choose on off-season days when no one is doing a sound-check or performing.
Backstage, of course, is off limits. That and its exclusivity endows it with irresistible mystique, at least to me. I’ve been backstage at a few rock shows (notably Bruce Springsteen, Motley Crue and Kiss) but on those occasions I was so in awe of the performers that specific details about the surroundings were a blur.
Dressing room, Hollywood Bowl
The tour Michael arranged was perfect. Our guide, who’d worked there for years,entertained us with anecdotes about the rich and famous and we could take our time. I took a lot of photos, many already in the clubs and venues section of my site, some reprinted here.
View from the stage of the Hollywood Bowl
Why my interest in the inner workings of the Hollywood Bowl? I’m writing a novel about a defunct rock’n’roll band, famous in the sixties. One member went on to success beyond his wildest dreams. My hero did not. The book – half of which takes place in the 60s – is about their attempt to reunite 25 years later. Will the secrets and betrayals that shattered them in the seventies resurface in 2000? Have any of them really changed?
Mary and Jack’s wedding was fun, which isn’t the first word I’d use to describe most weddings. Beautiful, moving, magnificent, and interminable, sure. In my experience, relatively few are fun.
Joyce and John Salter, John and I dance
As a pastor’s daughter, I was privileged – or required, depending on your point of view – to attend more weddings than most people see in a lifetime. My father married hundreds of couples and our family was usually invited.
The groom, Jack Denove
I wasn’t one of those little girls who dreamed about my future wedding day. Bridal magazines bored me even when I prepared to be a bride myself. Although there was zero possibilitiy my parents would divorce – divorce was almost unheard of on either side of the family – I would have predicted I’d get divorced and remarried several times.
Why? Because at the age of ten or twelve, fifty years of marriage sounded like an eternity. I was becoming aware – not proud, but aware – I could be capricious (all right, fickle) in matters of friendship and, later, romance. It wasn’t always a liability. I dodged some bullets and learned a lot from failed relationships.
Robert Lovenheim, Joyce and John Salter at table #6
By the time I married at a relatively young (for today) 24 – I was beginning to understand what makes a relationship work. (In a nutshell, it takes work.) The multiple marriages I imagined in my future never materialized. In a real sense, given the changes John and I went through in our 42 years together, we experienced mutltiple marriages with each other. Some better than others, of course. But we never wanted a divorce at the same time, so we went the distance.
Wilkie Cheong, far left, Mary and Jack Denove
So did Mary and Jack. Happy anniversary, Denoves. It’s been a blast.
Jack and Mary Denove, my sister Janet, me and John
I met Mary Bennett my first quarter at UCLA, when we both snuck into an encounter group for depressed Sproul Hall residents. (Neither of us were depressed enough, according to their survey – we must have hidden it well.)
Mary Bennett, Cowgirl. in the Sand, circa 1969
Ten minutes into group, we cured our depression by deciding to be roommates. I did take the precaution of checking out her LP collection first. When I discovered that – like me – she owned Mason Williams’ obscure first album, it was a done deal. I’ve never regretted it.
Mary (bridesmaid) and Jack at my wedding in 1975
Mary met future husband Jack Denove before I met John but they married five years later. Apparently they weren’t quite as impulsive. Since Mary and Jack went to Loyola Law School and J was in law school at USC, they were one of the first couples we socialized with. Mary and I served as bridesmaids in each other’s weddings and John eventually joined their law firm – now Bennett, Cheong, Denove and Rowell.
I didn’t know Karen Stuart well but I liked her. John worked for her husband, Tony Stuart, before joining Mary and Jack. In this instance, my first instinct was correct. I shouldn’t have let Karen read my book without doing a rewrite. Since writers generally get only one shot – one read – I should have made sure it was as good as it could be. This is Not My Beautiful Wife, the novel in question (title taken from the Talking Heads song Once in a Lifetime) wasn’t ready. Karen was kind and gave me useful notes, but this once in a lifetime opportunity was over.
John, Jack, Mary, Becky Miller Cheong (Wilkie Cheong’s wife – Wilkie must be behind the camera – me)
Maybe one of these days I’ll pick it up and try again.
It’s difficult if not impossible to convey what life was really like in 1968 to people who weren’t even born then. IMHO, most films set in the sixties are cliched embarrassments. The best was “The Big Chill” but even that was nothing like my reality.
I never considered running away. My father made a concerted effort to stay close. He would sit beside me and listen attentively to both sides of a new Beatles album – not to censor my music but to stay connected to my world. He took me – my opinions, my passions – seriously. Since I was still a self-involved child, it never occurred to me to exhibit similar interest in his music. My loss.
My father and I on my Confirmation Day.
Baby boomers like me – teenagers in the late sixties – weren’t all about sex, drugs and rock’n’roll although “revolution” was in the air. My friend JoAnn, an aspiring model, had been obsessed with appearances – her personal revolution was reflected in a new craving for more authentic relationships.
My friend JoAnn
The times exerted a powerful effect on Tal Pomeroy, who drew a high number in the draft lottery. One of the smartest boys at Wilcox, he was successfully challenged in his efforts to help me grasp the periodic table of the elements. He didn’t take a traditional route to his eventual M.D. like he might’ve in the fifties. Instead, he criss-crossed the US, worked all manner of jobs and got to know all kinds of people. Along the way, he handwrote long beautiful letters which could never be condensed to a text or tweet.
Tal Pomeroy
I’m grateful I came of age in the sixties. Were they better or worse than other times? I don’t know – but I doubt any other era could be as interesting.
J settles down after the shock (talking to Jake Jacobson)
For John’s 30th birthday, I threw him a genuine surprise party (with a little help from my friends). I’ve never done it for anyone else and no one has ever thrown one for me. I’m not sure how I’d react. Given my social anxieties, probably not well.
Anne Kurrasch and future law partners Mary and Jack Denove
There were a few logistical hiccups. We were leaving for Hawaii in a few days but – to avoid going to work – J told his boss, MPR, he was leaving today. I couldn’t advise him against this without spoiling the surprise even though – since I’d already invited his office staff including MPR – everyone knew he lied. Fortunately, they had a sense of humor.
J with his boss MPR
The party lasted well into the following morning, as most did back then. Turning thirty was a big deal. Only yesterday “Don’t trust anybody over thirty” was a catch phrase. How could people as young as us turn thirty? What happened to our twenties?
Mary Bennett Denove, Anne Kurrasch, me, Joyce Salter
Decades later, thirty no longer sounds old and the question is different. What happened to our thirties, our forties, our fifties? Before long, we’ll know what Paul Simon meant when he sang “How terribly strange to be seventy.”
J and I with Joyce and John (forever young) Salter
I don’t feel like I’m fifty, let alone sixty, so I can’t possibly contemplate seventy. I doubt I’m alone here. Almost everyone my age eventually says something like, “I know I don’t look my age.” I assure them it’s true even though it’s patently false and they do the same for me. In my mirror, I don’t look my age either but it’s meaningless. In my own eyes, I never will.
J doesn’t seem to age either, at least not until I see him – or myself – in photographs. There, the truth is revealed. Sometimes I don’t spot myself at all because I’m looking for someone younger. Sometimes I wonder how my mother snuck into the picture. Why are photos so much crueler than the mirror? Someone out there knows the technical reason. Maybe they can also explain where my thirties and forties went.
