I’ve been summoned for jury duty many times but never selected to serve. During voir dire, when I reveal I’m married to a lawyer, one side or the other – the prosecutor if it’s criminal, which is weird because I’m slightly pro-prosecution – kicks me. Usually, I’m relieved but sometimes I think it might be interesting to serve on a jury and observe group dynamics.
Lucky me! I might be Juror #9!
That said, the way we report for jury duty today is far preferable. I’d much rather phone a recorded message in the morning and – more often than not – find out I’m free yet get credit for a day of availability.
Even luckier me! I got kicked!
The closest I came to a high-profile case was while visiting a lawyer friend in Orange County. Richard Ramirez (the Night Stalker) was on trial there so I braved the metal detectors and popped in to check him out.
J and I before August 24, 1985
At the height of his killing spree, we lived on one of the freeway off-ramp streets the Stalker favored. According to newspaper reports, he disabled and killed the husband first. If J was drinking and something went bump in the night, he made me investigate because “he always kills the husband first, remember?” I must’ve been drinking too because this made perfect sense.
It’s probably no coincidence J and I quit drinking the week before Richard’s capture. When things get that scary, it’s time to get straight.
J and I sometime after August 24, 1985
Finding myself in close proximity to the Night Stalker’s courtroom, I vividly recalled how I crept through our house alone and unarmed at 3 AM, expecting Richard to leap out of a closet any minute. I needed to look in his eyes. If he’d pulled into our driveway, his face would’ve been the last thing I saw.
He looked every bit as terrifying as he did in my imagination. I didn’t stick around.
Me, with my father and his parents when we still lived in Iowa – early fifties.
I wasn’t as lucky as my Iowa cousins or my children – they grew up in close proximity to at least one set of grandparents. Since my sisters and I lived within five miles of our parents, all of our children spent a lot of time with Grandma and Grandpa. I saw my grandparents once a year at most when we went to Iowa or they came to California.
My father with his grandchildren.
Consequently, while I have vivid impressions of my grandparents, I can’t say I really knew them – certainly not as well as my cousins did. My grandmother was particularly elusive – quiet, sensitive, soft-spoken and introverted although in fairness most people would appear quiet in the shadow of my extroverted grandfather R.S. He was so gregarious and entertaining it was only natural that she let him do most of the talking.
My sisters and I with parents, grandparents and parish worker Marion Voxland – probably 1964 or so.
I see elements of both my father’s parents in my father. Like RS, he was comfortable talking to others and easy for them to talk to – because, like my grandmother, he listened more than he talked. His gentle nature and sensitivity resembled his mother more than his father but he was very much his own man – as he had to be, to leave his family roots in Iowa to move to California.
My dad and I with Chris and Alex. It was great they lived close enough to go on fun outings together.
What I like about this diary entry is the way Grandma spoke up for herself in a clear but non-confrontational way. She didn’t disagree or contradict RS often, but on the rare occasions she did, what she said was worth hearing. I wish I’d written more of it down.
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.
John and I in Mexico-themed photo booth with Co-hostess Anne Kurrasch
The invitation for this party (reproduced above) explains it all. I wore the dress I actually wore to real proms in the sixties when I thought it was the most beautiful gown I’d ever seen. The style failed to age as well as I hoped – the dresses worn by most of the other female guests fared better (but I still got to be Prom Queen, an opportunity denied me in real life)
Kirk Hulstrom and Arthur Everett in character.
In this case, the photos are worth a thousand words so here are some of my favorites.
Ceiling stars and disco ball were more effective live than they appear in photos – I guess you had to be there.Joyce and John Salter (one of few people who look young enough to actually be in high school)Bennett Traub with JJ Johnson – JoAnn Hill and DannyKim Mistretta and Karen Hermann, the future Mrs. Art Everett (this was the night they met) & Ken Millikian and Steffani GrahamSome girls campaigned shamelessly to be elected Prom Queen (Anne Kurrasch and Bill Connell)Don’t judge Mr. Hulstrom too harshly. You’d be drinking too if you had to chaperone this thing. The photographer gets frisky with Joyce Salter and Denise Gail Williams.You didn’t hear it from me, but something’s fishy with the Queen of the Prom ballots! (Diane Larson, Joyce Salter, Steffani Graham)Somebody dropped something! (Kathy Williamson, Kirk Hulstrom, Sharon and Russ Carpenter )Karen Hermann, Russ Carpenter, ??, Vicki Hill – Waiting to learn who will be crowned Prom Queen (me, Michael Wasserman, Melanie Sayler, Diane Larson plus people I can’t identify)I was as surprised as everyone else when Mr. Hulstrom announced I was Prom Queen.When you’re a winner, you have to deal with the envy of others. (Sharon Grish, Father Dan) – Denise Trette, Gail Williams – a good time was had by all Joyce Salter, Michael WassermanGoodnight, John. Goodnight, Kathleen.
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, John, Jim McCann and me (Janet no doubt behind the camera)A rare sighting of Janet (with me) in front of the cameraA rare sighting of Janet (with me) in front of the camera.
This was John and my first trip to Europe. We went with my sister Janet, her husband Jim McCann and John’s brother Matthew. It didn’t start out well. Our van broke down halfway up the mountain road to our lodge forcing three jet-lagged American boys to brave the icy night and push the van up the hill. Sometimes it’s especially nice being a girl.
If you’ve seen the film “Don’t Look Now” (Donald Sutherland/Julie Christie in Venice), it’s hard to miss the creepiness of the costumed little person staring at John from the side.
For some reason, Janet and Jim didn’t join us on our day excursion to Venice – probably because it was a long drive from where we stayed in Neustadt. They would’ve if they’d known it was Carnival – we didn’t know it either. We arrived as falling snow dusted gondolas, surrounded by people in masks, capes and Renaissance regalia; music and bells rang across St. Mark’s square. The spectacle was as surreal as it was magnificent.
Lady in red with umbrella in otherwise empty snow-covered gondola.Carnival costumes
One mundane memory remains (that I didn’t write down). Like every other day on that trip, the weather was arctic – subzero cold and bitter winds cut through to our bones. Even so, John and Matt didn’t complain (much) when I dragged them up and down narrow streets on a quest for Italian leather boots. Hopelessly lost by the time I scored “the pair”, we ducked into the nearest restaurant for warmth as much as food. The menu was in Italian with no accompanying translation to English. We threw caution to the winds and ordered entrees with appealing words (but no concept of what we’d be eating).
Musicians in costumeMore elaborate costumes
I got a sea creature with massive tentacles served with black ink, enough to make me hurl. Once again, it paid to be the girl. John graciously traded with me. To this day, he swears he got the best of the deal.
Matthew and I dance in the square – one of my favorite photos.John and I (in Zurich I think but not sure)
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.
There were no smart phones or Sony PlayStations – We played board games.
I had no idea my guilt about dropping Kessler’s class would far outlast the relief. While I’ve got bigger regrets in my life, this one stays with me. Here’s why.
Kessler taught Poetry Writing, a small exclusive class for juniors and seniors. He only accepted ten students per quarter and you had to audition – present a piece of writing – to be considered. I gave him the play Luke helped me write – “The Lowlands” – and won a place. Even though it wasn’t a poem like most applicants submitted, he thought I had a “voice” and gave me a chance. I was thrilled.
Happy to get this great opportunity.
Then I found out the class functioned like a writing work shop – I was unfamiliar with them then. Students were required to read their poems out loud to the class and then listen to everyone’s feedback. The prospect of reading one of my poems out loud petrified me. I knew from past experience that when I read out loud for others, a fight or flight response takes over and it turns into a race to the finish. My speech pattern is fast under the best of circumstances. I’m all but unintelligible if asked to read for an audience.
But that wasn’t the only thing that terrified me. Our first class made it obvious my fellow students knew a lot more about poetry – both reading and writing it – than I did. Consequently, I feared writing a bad poem as well as making stupid comments about other people’s poetry. I was so scared I dropped the class.
Afraid of looking and sounding stupid.
If I had it to do over again, I’d face my fear. Even if I’d been the weakest in the class, I would have learned something – maybe even made a few strides toward learning to read my work in public. Chickening out made me feel more like a failure than actually failing the class.
My regrets about this flooded back when I came across Kessler’s obituary in the LA Times, several years later. Some doors and windows open only once. I wish I’d summoned the courage to go through all of them. This wasn’t the only one I missed.
Usually, I don’t realize a particular day or night was auspicious – in terms of exerting a major influence on my life – until long after the fact. Not this time. Everything about meeting John for the first time felt intense, heightened, dramatic. At the same time, there was a quality of recognition – like, “There you are. I knew you were coming into my life.”
Not the real Law House – but kind of like I remember it looking. Formerly a fraternity house, it stood on Fraternity Row, within easy walking distance of the campus.
I have some corroborating evidence for my romantic premonitions. The next day I met my friend Denise Gail Williams for lunch. She said I looked happy, glowing. I told her, straight-faced, “I met the man I’m going to marry last night.”
Me in 1975John Rowell
I can’t explain how I knew this with such certainty and – in the interest of full disclosure – I must add that John did not know any such thing. He was in his first year of law school at USC and marriage was not on his mind (although it would be, a mere six weeks later when we got engaged, and six months later when we got married).
Around the time we got engaged
None of our fellow residents at Law House gave us a chance. Someone started a betting pool about how long we’d last. No one predicted forty-one years and counting. And after all these years – he’s still the One.
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.)
