To say my sisters and I adored my father would be a huge understatement. In our all-female household, he was the sun we all orbited around. The reason I started writing stories in the first place was to please him. Before I trotted off to school in second grade, I placed the latest pages of my first novel – printed in pencil on lined paper –on his pillow. It was titled “LOST” (yeah, the TV series stole it from me.) It told the thrilling tale of twelve children of a “steamstress” (ibid), all kidnapped by two evil guys. Instead of escaping however, these children opted to convert their kidnappers to Christianity. Yes, I was definitely the daughter of a Lutheran minister.
I’m not sure which Bible story this is, but Jani and our dog are getting a ride.
We used to act out Bible stories for entertainment. The Good Samaritan was a favorite. Daddy played the victim on the side of the road. I must have been a Pharisee since Janet was definitely the Good Samaritan. Daddy was hugely amused when – after retrieving a glass of water from the kitchen to save his life – she invariably stopped and drank half of it herself before offering it to him.
sANDY + Kathy = KANDY
The more worldly side of my life at school was all about me and Sandy. We combined our names and gave our friendship a name – Kandy. We loved to create things, in this case our own dictionary, although I’m pretty sure we never used a single word from it in real life. In addition to our dictionary, we made drafted plans for an elaborate campaign to make ourselves popular – needless to say, a total failure – but I’ll get to that in another diary entry.
Before CD could apply to UCLA, he had to survive California’s community college system. PCC (Pasadena City College) is one of its best schools – but not one of the easiest. When the state cut its budget, Chris had to battle for even his most basic courses.
For his language requirement, he chose Chinese. Unable to take Chinese 3 at PCC (due to budget cuts, not low grades) he completed Chinese under stiff competition at UCLA. This summer when we toured Russia, he astonished a group of Chinese tourists by talking to them in their language. They were so awed by the tall Caucasian speaking Chinese that they asked for his autograph and insisted on having their photos taken with him.
His accomplishments would impress me even if I didn’t know how far he’s come. He dropped out of high school halfway through his sophomore year when he turned 16 and passed the GED. We’d exhausted every educational alternative. From private school to public school – where they whisked him into the “At Risk” program for potential drop-outs – then on to boarding school followed by another private Lutheran school.
Chris was fatally shot in the play. Note bullet hole in forehead.
We sent him to private therapy and participated in family therapy. I read books about how to motivate kids determined to fail. My breaking point came when I conferenced with his math teacher to supervise every homework assignment. I verified he completed every single one correctly. Each morning I reminded him not to forget his homework. At the end of the week, his teacher informed me he hadn’t turned in a single page.
That’s when I gave up. I couldn’t read his failure to turn in completed assignments as anything but the finger. Short of going to school with him every day to ensure he handed in assignments, there was nothing I could do.
The applicable cliche here is you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink. CD’s will to fail was stronger than our will to prolong this futile battle. We felt like we just failed parenting. When friends bragged about their kid’s early admission to Yale, then asked about CD’s college prospects, it painful to admit he didn’t get through his sophomore year.
Given all this, we didn’t expect him to perform in a college play or speak Chinese, let alone win a place in UCLA’s Film School, graduate first in his class and give a speech as Valedictorian.
I claim no credit for his miraculous transformation. He figured out how to change his life and followed through. His father and I always believed he was smart despite his early academic performance. Much like he opted to learn Chinese instead of Spanish, CD chose the hard way to obtain his education and succeeded against all odds.
Forgive me for bragging; I waited a long time for this. I couldn’t be any prouder of his unique journey to become the man he is today.
Even now, decades later, it’s easy to visualize this. In eighth grade, I played second oboe in band – and yes, there were two of us. Mike Moxley played first. There I sat at 7 AM, bored out of my mind, probably daydreaming about the Youth Center Dance and idly twisting my music stand without realizing what I was doing.
It was neither my first nor my last mortification in band. I had no innate talent and no hope of developing any since I hated to practice. I’m not sure why I didn’t quit in 7th grade; perhaps Mr. Royer persuaded me to stick it out because Mike Moxley and I were the only two oboe players at Jefferson. I knew my tenure at second chair would terminate should another oboe player appear. This was hardly an imminent threat. Oboe wasn’t my first choice either but I was even more hopeless at flute.
The only song I recall from our limited repertoire was my favorite, The Green Leaves of Summer. I can still picture the sheet music and hear the melancholy chords.
“It was good to be young then – to be close to the earth”
It wasn’t so good to wear Peter Pan collars and ankle socks. No wonder I’m not thrilled to preserve this look for posterity.
At thirteen, mourning my lost youth brought tears to my eyes. Then again, it didn’t take much. I’m surprised I didn’t break down when I toppled the top of my music stand.
Sandy wasn’t a friend who’d waste a day bronzing in the sun or swimming. We were always playing some kind of fantasy game or plotting an adventure whether it was leaving different footprints in the sand or talking to the ouija board at midnight on my front lawn. If a spectral car didn’t hurtle out of the night, we’d find another way to terrify ourselves.
Our ouija board told us his name was Rehsi and he was from the planet Asteron. He wasn’t exactly a gifted, fast-tracked ouija board. He was probably held back a few years. I don’t think he ever answered a single question correctly but being clueless didn’t keep him from making dire predictions.
I know some people think ouija boards are scary and demonic but for Sandy and me it was a fun spooky game. Not for an instant did I believe that we were summoning dark forces to serve the devil. Maybe I would’ve been more scared if I’d seen The Exorcist.
STRANGLING EACH OTHER WAS ALWAYS FUN WHEN WE RAN OUT OF OTHER IDEAS.HMMM. SANDY SEEMS MORE SERIOUS ABOUT STRANGLING ME THAN VICE VERSA.
Cousin Connie at Janet’s left w/her two little sisters and my Grandma O
Here’s a tip for anyone asked to read a piece of creative writing by anyone else – a relative, friend, co-worker, neighbor. No matter how savagely the writer deprecates their own work, in their secret heart they believe it is a masterpiece. They don’t want your nit-picking notes, your criticism or your suggestions for cuts and improvements. As they see it, no improvement is possible. Every word is perfection precisely as placed. So why did they give it to you to read and ask for your “honest opinion?”
What they’re looking for is love, unconditional love and approval for their very existence. Anything less than a flood of admiration will, at best, fail to satisfy. You don’t want to be responsible for “daunting a dream,” do you? It was more than a little galling to be so cavalierly dismissed by a cousin at least two years younger.
Perhaps the need for validation is more pressing for amateur (unpublished or unproduced) writers. Professionals like myself have learned to suck it up, absorb a torrent of “notes” from well-meaning but clueless production executives and remain standing. No one survives in this business without a thick skin.
Who’s kidding who? Professionals yearn for love and approval every bit as intensely as my 6th grade self craved it from my cousin Connie. A little love and approval goes a long way.
My family with Connie’s family except – where’s Kathy? Hiding and crying her eyes out, that’s where. Is it my imagination or does Connie sport a self-satisfied smirk?
Case in point. I did my best work – above and beyond the call of duty – for a producer who started every conversation with five minutes gushing about the brilliance of my last draft before easing into that minor matter of a few “tiny” fixes. His praise was so addictive, so intoxicating – and, at least for me, so unusual – I’d hurl myself into yet another unpaid rewrite just for another taste of the sweet stuff.
Just to be clear, I do not advocate manipulating writers. But Thumper’s mother got it right in Bambi – especially when dealing with the tender heart of an amateur. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.
Three days before she died, I received a letter from Natalie. Uncharacteristically, I wrote back immediately. I don’t remember what I said but at least I wrote back. Her brother found my letter, unopened, on the kitchen counter, when he arrived in Ukiah after she was dead. My name was on the return address. That’s how he knew where to contact me and let me know she was gone.
Fall, 1961. “A family with a daughter your age is joining our church,” my father says. Natalie is short and round with blue eyes and blonde hair in a Prince Valiant cut. I’m the fourth grade giraffe, tall and skinny with wavy brown hair. She’s an outdoor-oriented extrovert, a born entertainer. I’m a sullen sedentary introvert longing for center stage despite my lack of talent.
Obviously, we’re destined to be best friends.
Natalie far left. Me next to her. Probably.y at Mount Cross Bible Camp.
January, 1967. Natalie and I are sophomores at different high schools. We claim to be cousins and people believe us despite how little we have in common. Natalie’s in Choir and Pep Squad. She’s secretary of the Future Teacher’s Club and wins a speaking role in the school play. The Beatles reign on my stereo while she remains loyal to the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean.
We graduate from our respective high schools in 1969. She and her future first husband Bobby are voted Cutest Couple and featured on a full page in Fremont’s yearbook. I leave Wilcox as anonymously as I served my time. She goes north to college, first Pacific Lutheran in Washington and then Chico State. I head south to UCLA. Natalie majors in PE and Education, I choose Film Writing. We get together briefly every summer but during the school year we forge new friendships.
Natalie and Bobby divorce. The next time I hear from her, she’s engaged to the man of her dreams. She doesn’t ask me to be a bridesmaid in either of her weddings. The outdoor ceremony takes place on a blistering August day at the Ukiah ranch where they live
Summer, 1988. Natalie, her husband and their daughter spend two days with my family on their way home from Disneyland. Natalie’s jumpy, a restless bundle of uneven edges and darting eyes, nothing like the laughing Natalie I remember from childhood. She smells the same, a summer collage of rose-scented soap, saltwater or tears, sunblock, healthy sweat and new mown grass. She tries to hide the small scaly patches engraved on the skin on back of her hands and elbows. She isn’t any smaller, but in some profound way she is fading before my eyes.
JOYCE AND NATALiE DOING RECORD ACTS LIKE IN THE OLD DAYS
Not long after, she gets divorced again. In the spring of 1994, Natalie’s mother – in many ways her anchor – dies. Natalie spirals down, then goes into freefall.
NATALIE AND I WITH HER MOTHER AND HER DAUGHTER
While at work as a kindergarten teacher, she passes out, drunk, in the ladies room. She’s fired from her dream job. Next, she loses her driver’s license. After that she loses custody of her daughter.
Fall, 1995. I hate it when she calls late at night. She rambles, repeats herself and slurs her words. I make excuses to get off the phone.
March 26, 1996. I open Natalie’s last letter. She never learned to type so it’s handwritten like all the others. The round, precise cursive lines of blue ink on the first page remind me of the tight, controlled perfection of her record acts.
Her writing deteriorated with every line, crazily sloping out of control by the time she signed her name. I wanted to believe her but I didn’t. Even so, I never thought alcohol would kill her at 44.
I hope she knew I loved her. I know you can’t save people who don’t want to be saved but I wish I’d tried harder. Whenever her name is mentioned, I still tell people she was my cousin. She’s buried next to her mother in Massachusetts instead of Ukiah. I’ve never been to Massachusetts but one of these days I’ll go.
Transplanted Midwestern sisters in Santa Clara Valley
I’m guessing the end of the year picnic at Blackberry Farm was to celebrate our graduation from 6th grade. (When did Blackberry Farm vanish from Santa Clara? And what about Frontier Village, another hot spot from yesteryear?) The diary entry suggests Blackberry Farm featured a swimming pool but not much else. Does anybody else remember? Please comment if you do! As I realize every time I do one of these diary blogs, if I didn’t write it down, I have zero chance of remembering it.
Politically, this entry is an embarrassment but in my defense I was thirteen and I voted for whoever my parents voted for. In their defense, they started out conservative Midwesterners who gradually became more liberal over the years – although I’d be stretching the truth to call them lefties. The hot dog refers to a Rockefeller fundraiser in the Santa Clara Valley, with free hot dogs as the draw. Free dinner for a family of five? Count us in!
My parents, being relatively open-minded, changed with the times as we all did – but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have predicted that our suburban orchard town would become Silicon Valley or that America would elect a black president and gay marriage would be legal. That’s not to infer they weren’t fine with these changes, they applauded them – I’m just reminding myself that the world we knew in 1964 might as well be another planet on an alien galaxy.