When this was written, J and I had been married four years and CD was two, going on three. Looking back, I can’t help wondering if my assessment of J’s restlessness wasn’t pure projection – I was just as edgy and impatient, I just didn’t cop to it. Our role models were better at this than we were. My parents routinely spent similar Sunday afternoons with me and my sisters and if they wanted to be somewhere else, they didn’t show it.
John and I with CD circa 1979
Why weren’t J and I better at this when it was our turn to parent? Arguably, we were too young to be married with a child. While that excuse only goes so far, maturity did play a part. I’d enjoy lazy afternoons like the one described above more today than I did then.
On the beach
As proof, J and I have maintained a family membership at Descanso Gardens for at least fifteen years. Unlike the vanished LA landmarks I wrote about a few days ago (see September 24/73) Descano Gardens stands more or less intact since the late thirties although the camellia named for John’s grandmother has disappeared. The miniature banana-yellow Enchanted Railroad gives toddlers and their parents a tour of the 150 acre gardens. There’s an elegant Japanese Tea Garden and ducks! On some summer Sundays, you can enjoy live music in the ampitheater.
Close-up of a camellia
Admission is reasonable General $9; Seniors 65 and over/Students with ID $6; Children (5 to 12 years) $4; Descanso members and children under 5, free). Parking is free and the gardens are open from nine to five every day of the year except Christmas. If you’re looking for someplace to enjoy natural beauty in LA (especially in the Pasadena/Glendale/La Canada area), check it out. You won’t be disappointed.
Art Everett, the Hostess with Horrible Hair, Russ Carpenter
Amazingly, one of our guests this evening would win his own Oscar ten years from now in the very same venue (the Shrine Auditorium). It wasn’t amazing because he lacked talent, but because Oscars aren’t easy to come by. Our friend Art Everett’s friend Russ Carpenter (pictured, above and below) received the Cinematography Oscar for “Titanic” in 1998. (Cinematography Oscar for “Titanic”)
Sam fascinated by the feathered fan.
Terry McDonnell, Joyce and John Salter
The rest of us are still waiting.
John Salter, Judith Russell, Terry McDonnell, Joyce Salter and Jon Crane (cut off)
When I wrote this, I’d known my in-laws for less than a year but so far everything I knew was fabulous. They’d fit right in at one of Jay Gatsby’s wild parties or a formal meet-and-greet with a sitting US President. (No exaggeration – through them, J and I met Gerald Ford when he was in office.)
J and I with both sets of parents. What’s really scary is the realization that our parents in this photo are younger than we are now.
Other than J’s and my marriage and their own 40-plus year marriage, Chet and Flo had little in common with my parents. No value judgment is implied; they were different but neither one of them was superior to the other. Their strengths were in different areas.
One of my favorite photos of Florence – with Richard and Francie
John’s parents were more sophisticated and cosmopolitan than mine. They had more books in their house. They drank, they smoked, they went out to dinner and threw parties. They played a mean game of bridge. Florence was a joiner, an active voice in clubs and charities throughout Fresno. Born a privileged San Francisco socialite, she was confident with a strong sense of self but never a haughty snob. She could make anyone feel like her new best friend. She was so entertaining, so easy to talk to, even a deeply reserved introvert like myself stayed up till 4 AM because it was fun to hang out with her.
Chet, Florence and their seven children plus some spouses.
John’s father was the ultimate family man, a good thing for the father of seven to be. CD was the first grandchild for John’s parents and mine – consequently, he was deluged by love and attention from both sets of grandparents. Sam and Alex got their fair share, too.
CD and Sam surrounded by both sets of grandparents and parents.
Did CD favor the Rowells or the Knutsens? He looked a lot like John as a baby.
As he grew, so did his resemblance to my father.
But, then again, also the resemblance to J.
And perhaps a smidgen of a resemblance to me.
Which family had the more dominant genes? I call it a draw.
My sister, Janet, on set for the movie, 9 to 5 in front of Dolly Parton’s motorhomeA couple other pictures taken of Janet on movie sets, perhaps Rhinestone and Rocky IV
My sister Janet worked as an Assistant Director trainee on the movie 9 to 5. When they needed children – extras – for the day care scene near the end of the movie, she thought of her nephew CD. I suggested Marjorie’s daughter Jenny, about the same age. I’m guessing Marjorie’s sister Christine acted as guardian because Marjorie and I had both been around enough sets to know how dull they can be – especially if you’re there to chaperone a lowly extra. In retrospect, I wish I’d seized the chance to see iconic actresses like Jane Fonda, Dolly Parton and Lily Tomlin at work even if it meant hours standing around.
9 to 5 daycare scene – Jenny being held, CD to the far left
Marjorie Arnold and I shared an apartment for a couple years while we were both at UCLA. She was an aspiring actress who landed commercials as well as parts on shows like “Room 222” and “Marcus Welby”. She was (and still is) a beautiful woman; some people described her as a “young Natalie Wood”. She was talented, too, and took her career very seriously.
Marjorie Arnold, 1972, when we were roommates
Living with Marjorie, I grew grateful I wasn’t an actress. If you’ve seen La La Land, you’ve got some idea how brutal and demeaning auditions can be and how rarely people realize their dreams and become big stars.
Marjorie with her little dog Pepe
While rejection is equally pervasive for fledging writers, it seems to me – and I could be wrong about this – rejection is less personal for writers. A producer says no to my script, not to me as a person – or so I tell myself. I’ve never auditioned as an actress, but I suspect rejection in that capacity would feel more personal – as if they rejected me – even though, in reality, it’s probably not personal. They’re just looking for a different type.
The night before – my 22nd birthday – the guy I was dating took me to see Rudi Nureyev in Sleeping Beauty with the National Ballet of Canada at the Shrine Auditorium. Jani’s boyfriend from Irvine took her to the ballet too so we met them at intermission – Jani’s 20th birthday would be the following day. I don’t know about Janet, but this is the only professional ballet I’ve ever seen. The lavish fairyland sets were amazing, as was Rudi in his prime, but the truth is ballet doesn’t hold my interest. I pretend to be interested, because I feel like I should be, but I’m bored. I don’t blame ballet – I’m well aware it’s my own attention span that’s deficient. (Yet another reason I failed to realize my early dream of growing up to be a ballerina, see November 7, 1966)
Jani and I might not have been ballet dancers, but we choreographed a mean routine to “Ain’t No Mountain” (See September 23, 1972)
Jani’s comment – “Did you try and do any of the ballet steps when you got home?” – got to me. It was so spontaneous, so in the moment. Obviously, she paid attention, so much so that she was moved and inspired to try to do the steps at home. I envied her enthusiasm then and I still do today. I’d love to be that kind of person but it’s impossible to be somebody I’m not.
CD and Geo in ballet class (not their choice – but they made the best of it).
The closest I’ve come to ballet since then is taking my kids to ballet lessons. CD and his BFF Geo Ackles took ballet as toddlers. It was a great excuse for the boys to get together and for me to chat with David Ackles but neither lad looked like a future Nureyev.
With the other dead ballet dancer, waiting.
Sam was more interested in climbing than ballet although she did play a dead ballerina in one of my television movies, Friends to the End. She and a dead male ballet dancer haunt the villainess in the final scene. Her blue costume was the reason I wanted to be a ballet dancer in the first place – the gorgeous fantasy clothing.
Why can’t people wear clothes like this in daily life?
Alex was spared ballet, to his great relief, so no embarrassing photo ops of him.
Early Sunday morning Yolanda Hernandez, originally from El Salvador, died in my home where she lived for 32 years, When I hired her to help with a newborn, a one-year old and general housework, I never imagined she’d die surrounded by me and our adult children (the newborn is 32; the one year old 33). (Click on this link to get an explanation of the babies born so close together).
Yolanda with my sister Janet’s son, Connor McCann. She was close to all of Joyce and Janet’s children; they all called her Nana.
Yolanda moved in with us in 1984. She loved Chris, Sam and Alex with everything she had – especially Sam, although she never admitted favoritism. The tip-off? She always referred to Sam as “the princess.” Alex was Ahni and Chris was Goose because that’s how the princess pronounced their names. Yolanda balked at calling us John and Kathleen; we were forever Mr. John and Mrs. Kathleen.
J, Uncle Matt, Yolanda, The Princess and GooseRecent shot with Janet and me.
She confided her cancer to the princess, who stepped up. She drove Yolanda to all of her doctor’s appointments, sat by Yolanda through every chemo, visited every day when Yolanda was hospitalized. The rest of us pitched in but the princess earned Yolanda’s second nickname for her – my angel.
Yolanda and the princess in Park City, Utah
On Friday February 10, Yolanda’s doctor estimated she’d live thirty days. She had thirty hours. When she drew her last breath at 1:30 AM, we all understood it was for the best. Her pain was excruciating, cancer terminal, death inevitable. No surprises. We knew where this road led.
Yolanda’s first party after starting to work/live with us – with John
Except we didn’t, not really. We’re in shock. All day I shushed our dogs so they wouldn’t awaken Yolanda – as if anything could. Three fat cats looked increasingly concerned – where’s our Fancy Feast? ‘Where’s the human who opens cans?
J and Yolanda assembling Christmas toys with Sam and Alex supervising
The light is on in Yolanda’s room. For a second, I think she’s there. I haven’t been in her room alone in years. Everywhere, pictures of our children – framed on her bureau, taped to the wall, stacked in photo albums. She carried their photos in her wallet. She loved it when strangers thought they were hers. Was I jealous, did I worry she’d spirit them off to El Salvador? No. If anything, it endeared her to me. If I couldn’t be there, who better than someone who loved them like they were her own?
Yolanda in Park City with Goose, the princess and Ahni
On a sheet of paper tacked above her bed she drew a cross and scrawled, “Please god please god no cancer. Please god no cancer.” A purple spiral notebook was scribbled with recipes. She saved expired coupons for things she didn’t buy. A few of her clothes trailed price tags, waiting to be worn. Whoever clears my room when I’m dead will find comparable artifacts.
The Princess finds cotton candy less delicious than she hoped it would be.
The photos we leave behind show what we did. Fragments of incomplete projects remind us of all left undone, bits and pieces of Yolanda. I should have known her better, more deeply, sooner. I don’t know her sister’s name or phone number in El Salvador and I don’t speak Spanish even if I did.
Young Yolanda, far left, with her two brothers and sister
So what did I know about Yolanda? She made the LA Times her own personal illustrated blog. She drew devil’s horns on basketball players she hated, basically everyone but LeBron and the Clippers. She trapped a rattler outside our door by slamming a concrete slab down on its head. (I would’ve been dead from heart attack.) She didn’t drink, smoke or party. Her modesty did not permit her to wear shorts, swimwear or sleeveless blouses – ever.
Always there for every birthday, every celebrationYolanda at Chris’ wedding
She loved our forays to Costco – “the big store” – but recently I was too busy to take her until she was too weak to go. There are so many things I meant to say – should have said – but didn’t. I hope she knew – I think she knew – how much her kindness meant, how her patience and loyalty changed our lives, how many others – my sisters, parents and friends – grew to love her like we did and always will. How much we’ll miss her smile, her red coat, her curly hair, her commentary on current events (you thought she’d stop at sports?) in the LA Times, all part and parcel of the boundless heart and infinite capacity for love we knew as Yolanda Hernandez.
With Bill Connell, Sam and Alex
We’ll meet again, Yolanda.
We’ll meet again, Yolanda.
(I’m not trying to make a political point about immigration. However, since Yolanda was an illegal immigrant when I hired her, here are the facts. She always worked, either caring for the elderly or children. She neither asked for nor received welfare. She became a US citizen in the early 90s. For the next twenty years plus, she paid taxes like everyone else. In other words, she writes checks to our government without cashing checks from them. Our country gave her something more valuable than food stamps – a chance at a better life. The way I see it, she was lucky to get into our great nation – but not as lucky as we were to get her into our family.)
Standing between her brothers. The three of them traveled to the US together.
This decision was a turning point in my life – so it surprised me that until I re-read my diary entry, I remembered it wrong. The big beats – the struggle and the decision – remain essentially the same but over the years, I romanticized the fight. In my mind, it became a testament to J’s belief in me as a writer. While in essence this remains true, his willingness to bet on me didn’t come easily or with his whole-hearted support.
Me in 1976
And in retrospect I can’t say he was wrong to have reservations. Neither of us knew that a month later, around the time the health insurance my job provided terminated, I’d discover I was pregnant and we’d pay 100% of all the ensuing medical bills. Most of the free time I envisioned after quitting my job would get eaten up with taking care of our infant son.
Surprise! I’m pregnant. Writing will have to wait.
While I did develop a successful career as a writer, it would be three years before I earned a penny writing – seven or eight years before I’d earn enough writing to support myself, let alone our growing family. If I’d kept my job, those breaks on our tuition and medical insurance would’ve come in handy, particularly since I didn’t accomplish anything much during that interval anyway.
“I’ve got plenty of time to get some writing done while I’m pregnant…. I’ll do it later today…or tomorrow…or years from now.”
Betty Friedan was right – work expands to fill the time available. Later in life, when I worked forty plus office hours a week co-producing a television show, I got more writing done on other projects at home than I ever had before. When my time is limited, I use it more wisely.
J and I with my sisters Joyce and Janet sometime in ’76 (before pregnancy).
So, quitting my job to provide me with unlimited free time wasn’t our best decision although it was good for our relationship. It meant the world that J believed in me but I probably should’ve believed in his judgment and stayed employed.
Matt, Alex, John and Sam in outdoor hot tub in the snow.Chris and Alex catching up with school work at night.
When I started to write this diary blog I realized this was the last time my family and I skied. How could 23 years fly by so quickly? Why did we stop? We didn’t make a decision to give up the sport, it just happened – like far too many of my relationships (and in some cases, obsessions) end, arbitrarily and without warning.
My sister Janet and I taught ourselves to ski as children. I introduced my husband John to the sport around 1980. We invited John’s brother Matt along on our first and subsequent ski trips. In no time at all, John and Matt skied advanced slopes while I stayed stuck between beginner and intermediate. I broke my hand at a Motley Crue concert in 1985 (See November 28, 1985) which didn’t help. It heightened my fear of falling and re-injuring my hand, which made me nervous. A nervous skier is a bad skier.
CD ponderingAlex enjoying a snack
Chris, Sam and Alex surpassed me because by nature children are fearless – and being close to the ground, they didn’t have as far to fall. Other than our final trip, we skied at Deer Valley in Park City, Utah.
Matt, Bryan, Sam, Alex, Chris
On this trip, we skied in Oregon, a vacation arranged by one of John’s high school and college friends Bryan Arakelian. As usual, everyone’s favorite Uncle Matt came along. In addition to being a great skier and musician, Bryan is an all-star chef so it was gourmet dining every night at the condo. Due to deadlines, I stayed home half the time to write which was fine with me since not only was I unable to keep up with the grown-ups, I could no longer keep up with the kids. We had a great time.
Because I’m a pastor’s kid (PK), my father confirmed me – married me – and baptized my children. Every time I stood in front of the congregation and looked into his eyes, tears welled and I teetered on the edge of complete meltdown. I wasn’t sad, just overloaded with emotion. The same thing happens when I think about him now. The memory of my father officiating at CD’s baptism makes me reflect on unique aspects of life as a PK.
CD with my father.
When I was two years old (before the Alien Baby[1] emerged, and ruined my life), my father took me with him to give communion to rural parishioners. Halfway through the ceremony, his communicant’s eyes wandered so he turned to investigate what caught their attention. It was me, toddling behind, imitating his words of blessing and passing out imaginary wine and wafers.
CD with me.CD meets Joyce’s dog Kuala or vice versa.
We acted out Bible stories to amuse ourselves. The Good Samaritan was a favorite. My father played the battered victim near death by the side of the road. I took on multiple challenging roles ranging from a snooty priest to a snotty Pharisee and a self-absorbed Levite. Basically, I pretended not to see the dying man by the side of the road. At this point my sister Janet, bobbing with excitement, took center stage in the starring role of Good Samaritan. Between you and me, a monkey could have played her part. All she needed to do was hoof it as far as the kitchen and ask Mommy for a glass of water. When she accomplished this feat, dramatic tension peaked. Invariably she paused – and guzzled most of the water, saving a few drops for our dying dad. And I’m the one who got typecast as being selfish?
CD finds this all a big yawn.
Sometimes Janet and I played Israelites in search of manna. Confused about what constituted manna – was it vegetable, legume or dairy product? We agreed it probably resembled chocolate chip cookie dough and hid globs of it in the sofa cushions for the Israelites to discover and devour. Who knew about salmonella in the fabulous fifties?
(Future blogs will explore other aspects of growing up P.K.)
I have no photos from the party, alas, so I’m using photos of the people mentioned in the blog taken (I think) in 1986. From l to r, John, Janet, myself, Joyce Salter
I love Art Everett’s observation about how some humans maintain their cock-eyed optimism in the face of certain disappointment. There are plenty of people at the other end of the spectrum – perpetual pessimists – but I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by optimists. I flirted with cynical despair myself in my senior year of high school when I struggled with clinical depression but it’s not my natural inclination. (Senior Year Depression ) If it was, I’d work hard to change as empirical evidence suggests that most people’s happiness meter is set. Basically, we’re about as happy as we expect to be. A sudden windfall or financial disaster might make you go TILT for a moment but your internal happiness meter will reset at its normal level before long. Given this, why not put in a little effort to set that meter as high as possible?
Host and hostess extraordinaire Art and Karen Everett (at our messy Lowell Ave house, not their sleek chic Thousand Oaks pad). The party referenced in diary took place somewhere else entirely – no photos as far as I know. .
What can I say about that mortifying pratfall? Admittedly thin-skinned and over-sensitive about looking stupid, it bothers me more than it should when people laugh at me. Consequently, I rarely tell stories in which I’m a complete buffoon. This pratfall was hard to forget. Years later, whenever I ran into Tony, Laraine or Debbie, we’d laugh about the day I totaled their plant with my fat pregnant butt. On the bright side, I never backed up without an eye to the rear-view mirror again.
Terry McDonnell and John Salter at a mystery party around the same time
I am so embarrassed!
[1] As you may have surmised, when attending a reject gift party each couple brings a newly-wrapped hideous present someone else once gave to them. Hilarity ensues as guests swap one atrocious gift for another. It’s a really fun party and I highly recommend it.
