THE LATE GREAT BRILLIANT WRITER & MUSICIAN, DAVID ACKLES
Chris met his future BFF when he was two; he and Geo Ackles both attended the Church of the Lighted Window’s Montessori School. I noticed that whenever I picked CD up, he was with the same boy who – at that time – bore a striking resemblance to CD. Unfortunately, one of them (I don’t remember which) moved to another pre-school. As these two-year-olds lacked the social skills to exchange phone numbers or arrange play dates, a beautiful friendship almost died before it began.
But fate intervened! My in-laws stopped on their way to Temecula and took CD and me out for lunch at Bob’s Big Boy.
By miraculous coincidence, David Ackles was there with his son George. Our two-year-olds were delirious with joy. They leapt across the restaurant to greet each other like long lost brothers. David and I exchanged phone numbers and promised to get them together.
I assumed we’d facilitate play dates but otherwise pass like parental ships in the night. I was astonished to learn David was a fellow WGA member as well as a talented singer/songwriter who recorded for Electra (check out Road to Cairo – my favorite of his songs – if you haven’t heard it).
DAVID ACKLES SINGING HIS SONG,”ROAD TO CAIRO,” IN 1967
Not only that, he was witty, charismatic and just plain delightful – and although it almost seems impossible – it gets BETTER! His wife, Janice, was just as quick, hilarious and fun as David.
Before long, we were dressing up and role-playing mystery games with Joyce and John Salter, Terry McDonnell, Matt Rowell, Anne Kurrasch, Jake Jacobson and others. I wish I’d had the foresight to tape or film a few of those sessions. We laughed until it hurt.
The world lost a great artist and we lost a great friend when David died of lung cancer on March 2, 1999 but his music lives on – as does the friendship between Chris and George.
PLAYING A MYSTERY GAME – Top row: Joyce Salter, John Salter, Anne Kurrasch, Terry McDonnell, David Ackles; bottom row: me, Janice Ackles
Judging by the October 1955 photo above, even at four I wasn’t a “thank god I’m a country girl” type. Still, I couldn’t help wondering what my life would be like if I’d grown up in Missouri instead of Silicon Valley.
Fishing with some of our relatives in Iowa.
Most of my cousins – almost all of my extended family – lived in the Midwest in 1968. Every other year, our family loaded up the station wagon and drove to Estherville and Graettinger in the northeastern corner of Iowa. There are aspects of Iowa that are buried deep in my subconscious, images that are inscribed on my brain – brick or white houses, humidity and mosquitoes, dinners with fresh buttered sweet corn and strange puffy homemade bread. The smell of coffee wafted through the day – coffee and musty old books. The basements, which all contained a washer, dryer and toilet were damp and a little bit scary even though that’s where we always played. It was cooler down there even though sometimes it was still so hot all we could do was breathe and sweat. I hate to sweat.
With adult cousins on my father’s side
My grandfather, commonly referred to as R.S. by all grandchildren, was a real go-getter, a non-stop talker. Even after retirement, he didn’t quit; he took volunteer work in a funeral parlor, probably to remind himself on a daily basis of how much more vital he was than the average man. In a box in his basement, he stored the obituaries of all his friends. The basement also held a pool table and assorted recreation equipment but my cousins and I enjoyed the obits most. I suppose our fear of death – and its imminence for all the aged people of Estherville – made it an object of high hilarity.
With adult cousins on my mother’s side – at the tiny (very tiny) Spencer airport
Let’s just say, I don’t have piles of “Employee of the Month” awards hoarded in a drawer – for starters I was rarely employed for a full month. Outside of academia, I was successfully challenged by the concept of a work ethic. I tried to get the hang of it, kind of, but I am what I am, I can’t deny it. I’ve got a real affinity for sloth. My mother complained I was lazy and inept about helping her with housework. (An effective combination. It was easier to do the dishes herself than enlist me.) Exasperated, she warned me to get rich because I’d need a maid. She intended it as a threat but I heard a swell idea.
During my high school and college years, I worked at various part-time jobs. Bulletin-folder for my father. Neighborhood babysitter. Corn dog cashier at the Santa Clara County Fair, salesclerk at San Jose State bookstore and UCLA bookstore – perfect, except when I had to wait on customers. Paper slicer for two days. UCLA Med Center OB/Gyn ward clerk. Typist at the naval base on Coronado Island.
When I graduated, I figured my days of dead end jobs were behind me. I was eager to launch myself into a fun career like Mary Tyler Moore did on her show. Something in the entertainment business with a warm family atmosphere and witty supporting characters like Mr. Grant and Murray.
At my first employment agency interview, I took a typing test and dazzled the room. (I was not Outstanding Typist of the Year at Wilcox High for nothing.)
I’ll never forget what my recruiter said next.
“Honey, if you learn shorthand, you can rule the world.”
Hmm, a lack of shorthand didn’t hurt Mary Richards. Why is it a problem for me? In a moment of clarity, the illusion of living Mary Richard’s life dissolves. I face a future as a secretary in a coma-inducing office devoid of wise-cracking curmudgeons.
I know what I have to do. There’s just one place I function slightly better than average instead of below the mean and I can stay there forever if necessary. Grad School, here I come!
Have you ever noticed how in virtually every fairy tale since the beginning of time, the oldest sister(s) are ugly harpies and the youngest is so clever, kind and beautiful – so gosh darn special – that she always wins Prince Charming’s heart? Sometimes older siblings have no plot function or personality at all – they exist only to make the hero a youngest child.
This blatant favoritism for the youngest sibling didn’t die with old-fashioned fairy-tales like Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast. It’s alive and well in contemporary fiction – Ron Weasley is the youngest Weasley brother and Ginny (the youngest) becomes Harry’s wife in Harry Potter. Ender is the youngest of three in Ender’s game. Alyosha, the youngest, is the most morally pure of the Brothers Karamazov.
The purpose of fairytales and myths is to teach children about life. What lesson is an oldest child supposed to take from this bias? No wonder I look so ticked off in childhood photos of the three of us. The subliminal message in myth and lit was I didn’t count in this story. I was a stage prop, meant to do something venal and stupid and exit to make way for the chosen one, the good one – my youngest sister Joyce.
UH-OH. LOOKS LIKE JANET JUST FIGURED OUT SHE’S GOT A SHIT PART TO PLAY TOO, SINCE SHE’S NO LONGER THE BLESSED YOUNGEST. HURTS, DOESN’T IT?
If you’re interested, there’s a list and explanation of this trope at
And if you’re in the mood for some sisterly snark, follow these links to either or both of these photo galleries – My Two Years and Two Days of Bliss (link) and Kathy Vs. the Alien Baby. Pictures don’t lie!
Naturally, I swore my close friends to secrecy which ensured the sordid truth spread quickly. Some people said I was stoned, drunk or dangerously disturbed. Oddly enough, many of them were the same people who used to say I was a dull, goody-two-shoes brain. Was it possible to be both?
The goody-two-shoes preacher’s daughter Kathy (in confirmation white)
A preacher’s daughter is supposed to be a good example. I should’ve been getting A’s in summer school or reading great literature at home, not sitting in a police station signing a confession like some juvenile delinquent.
The smoking sociopathic lunatic Kathy who doesn’t know when to shut up, appropriately clothed in black.
Fifty years later, it’s safe to say I’m more the preacher’s daughter than I am a smooth criminal. But it would be a lie to say there isn’t a trace of the social misfit (I’m loathe to use the word sociopath) that I repress. It’s the part that seeks out gory true crime books in an attempt to learn why they do what they do as if by understanding the dark motivations in others, I might understand the dark corners in myself.
Is that my Shadow? Like I said, I don’t really know him that well.
Jung referred to this as the Shadow. A crucial part of the process of individuation is coming to terms with your Shadow. I’m still getting to know mine.
Less than ten days prior, I endured graduation from Wilcox High – so how did I wind up here?
Reading my acceptance letter to UCLA.
On a rainy Sunday afternoon, months after my acceptance as a fall English major at UCLA, I got bored and flipped through the UCLA Catalog of Courses. It changed the course of my life.
UCLA General Catalog – No Math – No Science – Sign me up!
That afternoon, in a burst of clarity, I realized that simply by switching my major to Film (College of Fine Arts as opposed to Bachelor Arts), I could jettison every single math and science class – for the rest of my life! And that was just the beginning, once I viewed college like an academic Chutes and Ladders. I didn’t have to land on boring chutes like Shakespeare (I confess, not a fan) and Milton – I could climb crazy ladders instead. In addition to a smorgasbord of fantastic film courses all I needed to win a degree was a few English department creative writing courses and my choice of esoteric lit classes.
First thing Monday morning, I was on the phone with the UCLA registrar to change my major from English (already sounding dreary) to Film Writing (until now, who knew that anybody actually wrote films? Not me, but it sounded more entertaining than Chaucer in the original Middle English.)
Disclaimer: Don’t bother making the same request today. For starters, you must be a junior to apply. Once a year, the Film Department admits 15 juniors from disciplines within UCLA and 15 juniors from outside institutions. To compete, you must submit a creative portfolio, envelopes stuffed with cash (that’s a JOKE) and pray. Sixty out of thousands of applicants are selected for an in-person on-campus interview. Thirty of them move on to become next year’s film majors.
STUDENT ID CARD FRESHMAN YEAR (going for the popular Serial Killer look)
To be sure, it was not exactly a cake walk in 1969. The registrar said, “Here’s the thing, Miss Knutsen. You can do it if you start this summer instead of in the fall.”
I relate to a sculpture in the wonderful Sculpture Gardens conveniently located in front of the Theater Arts and Art buildings.
This might have given me pause had I not been paralyzed by self-diagnosed severe clinical depression. With no rainbows on my horizon, what could I lose by sacrificing a final Santa Clara summer for a new start in LA?
So I said YES and it changed my life. Plunging into college that summer opened the door to a perfect career (for me) in a field I literally did not know existed until I noticed the difference in basic course requirements between English and Film. Was it serendipity, fate, luck or the hand of God? It depends on your point of view, I guess. All I know for sure is I wasn’t searching for my purpose or a path – but it was waiting for me to say yes and leap.
Was I an optimist or what? From the sound of this entry, I sincerely believed that merely winning the outstanding English student award in 9th grade would be enough to give me confidence when my faith in a writing career – always a risky endeavor at best – faltered. Even my father, possibly my staunchest advocate, regularly handed me clippings he just “happened to see” about expanding career opportunities in library science among other liberal arts fields besides creative writing. It’s not that he didn’t believe in me, he just thought it would be prudent to have a real job to fall back on. To his credit, he never pressured me to choose a more sensible major than film-writing but that’s another story.
Apparently, I believed the 7th grade and my freshman year of high school were the nadir of my existence. Little did I know that all the things that made me so “neurotic” and turned the year “hideous” were trivial beyond belief compared to some of the real life problems awaiting me down the line.
Two of three female students in photo above (Literary Magazine) are named Cathy/Kathy. Cathy Hoover and Kathy Knutsen. Also pictured, Tal Pomeroy, Erin Heinlein and Gail Kaiser
Minor note, but one I couldn’t help but be cognizant of in those days – whenever I mention a girl named Kathy/Cathy, it’s accompanied by a surname. That’s because in every single class in my public school Santa Clara life, there were at least five Kathys – me, Kathy Kerr, Cathy Hoover, Cathy Silva, Kathy Kane, Kathy Scott, Kathy Reid, Kathy Locey, Kathy Kramer or some similar combination. I envied girls with unique names like Krystal Woodward and Joell Funkhauser. Today, while Kathy and Kathleen have fallen below the 500 most popular name mark, Krystal and Joell are on the rise. What’s in a name? Nothing, really, but I would’ve preferred something more distinctive.
Three of the six female students pictured above, myself included, are named Kathy (Kathleen or Catherine) – Myself, Catherine Kramer and Kathy Locey.
Sandy Walker (Hegwood), on her apartment balcony in her yellow polka-dot bell-bottomsMe in another original hand-made dress – pink paisley or polka dots – in what I thought was a cute pose – on a day I’d be well-advised to duck into a store!
Sandy’s bell-bottoms were yellow with white dots – it’s odd the details that stick in one’s memory. I think mine were pink. I have no recollection of the day the Lovin’ Spoonful descended on Valley Fair but I assume it did in fact happen as I was nothing if not painfully accurate in my somewhat reportorial diaries. I confess to lingering curiosity about what the “Dutch Masters” hearse might be – it sounds kind of cool but knowing me and Vania, fishing for dimes with gum on a pen, maybe not.
In 1966, Valley Fair – an outdoor mall – was the daylight weekend spot to run into people from high school or meet new people from other high schools. More often than not, I ran into someone I didn’t want to see – a guy who’d just broken up with me, for example, with his gorgeous new girlfriend on a day when two new pimples popped out of my nose and my hair looked like a Brillo pad – at which point I’d duck into the nearest store and play hide and seek (some people call it “Stalker” but I think that’s unkind).
I don’t live in Santa Clara anymore so I don’t really know – did Valley Fair survive the 70s, 80s, 90s, and the millennium? Is Macy’s still the anchor store? Does anyone else recall the Lovin’ Spoonful at our very own Valley Fair?
This was a huge day for me – literally, the first dollar I ever earned from my writing. It was thrilling to hear my name called and walk onto the Villa Montalvo stage/podium to accept my prize – even better when the lady who read my poem sobbed. In retrospect, though, she was a pretty soft touch when it came to tears. Misty hasn’t stood the test of time quite as well as I might have hoped.
(In the interest of full disclosure, the beautiful white cat pictured is not Misty – there never was an actual Misty although Whitey and Calico were real cats (such clever names!) The picture is of the beautiful and much missed Skywhys.)
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.
