My father rarely talked about himself; he preferred listening. He had a gift for asking questions people wanted to answer (maybe all clergymen or psychology students master this technique).
Invariably, when a boy came calling he found himself seated opposite my father, awaiting my entrance. My dad charmed them all. “Your father’s a great guy!” they’d enthuse – surprised, because he was so much more amiable – so much easier to talk to – than they assumed a religious figure might be.
None of them realized how skillfully he drew them out, inspiring them to excited monologues while he revealed nothing. I like to think I learned from his example, although self-publishing my diary entries argues against it. If this isn’t talking about myself, what is?
He didn’t dwell on himself at home either, preferring to draw my sisters and me out about our feelings and interests. On those rare occasions when he did, I wrote his stories down in my diary. This one had a profound effect on me.
I miss his calm wisdom and understanding more than I can express. Publishing my memories of him is as close as I can come to letting him live again.
By “one big pregnant blur” I meant seven more months. Little did I know it would be fourteen more months. What the hell happened?
A month prior, I took a pregnancy test at Verdugo Hills Hospital as opposed to a do-it-yourself pee stick. Why? Because I didn’t trust my ability to read the results accurately. I wanted professional eyes.
After the positive test, I packed on pounds like a sumo wrestler.
I quit nursing Sam to ensure adequate nourishment for the new baby.
Sam contemplates munching on her rag doll some more.
Let’s back up. Three children weren’t part of John’s or my master plan. We were satisfied (and exhausted) by our current two, a boy and a girl. We convinced ourselves this third child was meant to be.
Delighted CD meets his little sister Sam – two children, a boy and a girl. Perfect.
Our childless friends mocked us mercilessly. “What did you do, mount her on the way out of the delivery room?” they taunted John. Truth be told, back-to-back pregnancies struck me as a tad trailer-trashy and unseemly but I waddled on.
John, CD and Uncle John Salter
In March, at my monthly appointment, my OB couldn’t find a fetal heartbeat. (This was the first time she tried.) Alarmed, she ordered an ultrasound and – surprise!
Despite looking ready to drop, I wasn’t deep in my fourth month – not even close. I was two weeks pregnant. In other words, months ago – when I fretted about how 1984 would be one big pregnant blur – I wasn’t even a little bit pregnant. Instead of giving birth in July, as everyone I knew now expected, I’d deliver in October.
Sam with Aunt Joyce Salter
How could such a mix-up happen? The hospital stood by their initial positive pregnancy test, suggesting I subsequently miscarried (without noticing it) and promptly conceived again. I thought it far more likely they screwed up the test and – under the delusion I was already pregnant – I quit nursing after which I conceived for real.
My father stands behind my sister Janet
Ultimately, it didn’t matter. By now, John and I were fully adjusted to the prospect of three children. The fact he or she would be a Libra rather than a Gemini was no reason to reconsider.
I have another more fantastical theory about what happened. It has no scientific basis in fact. In my myth, Alex and Sam knew each other in previous incarnations, different lifetimes. Maybe they were lovers, maybe one parented the other, maybe one saved the other’s life. Regardless of what bound them, their connection ran deep. In this lifetime, Alex wanted to be close to Sam – this time, to watch her grow up. The strength of his love and the sheer force of his will powered him through time and space and created that magical mishap with my pregnancy test all to bring them together again – this time as siblings.
Sam and Alex reunited in this lifetime as siblings.
Watching them grow up together might make you a believer too. I never want to spend two years pregnant again, thank you very much. But if I was required to be pregnant for ten years to bring Alex into the world, I’d do it. No regrets. It was meant to be.
Michael Wasserman, fellow winner of the first Jim Morrison Memorial grant for his Film Project 1.
This was so unexpected it was hard to believe. The debacle of my last film (at UCSB – see diary blog May 28 1971 link) seared itself on my psyche and lowered my expectations to the point where merely passing would’ve felt like a triumph.
At my screening, when the first ripple of laughter landed it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. I loved it. To my surprise, what I considered huge success was just as disorienting as massive failure. For the first time, I leaned toward taking film production instead of film writing.
In other words, I forgot who I was – again. What saved me was enrolling in a camera class with Michael. One session of brain-numbing technical talk restored me to sanity. Production people rise at the crack of dawn and work long days – 16 hours isn’t unusual – all of it on site (as opposed to at home, where I can write in my pj’s.) Production people are surrounded by other people and forced to endure production meetings.
I couldn’t design a worse job for me if I tried (except maybe military service). I was constitutionally incapable of surviving a week, much less making it my career. To clarify, production is fantastic for people like my sister Janet. She thrives on it. She’d probably be miserable in the solitary confinement film writing requires. No value judgment is implied, neither one is “better” than the other. It depends on who you are.
Janet with Greg Morris on the set of one of the early shows she worked on, “VEGAS”.
Free-lance film writing is not unlike eternal college. The typical time period allotted to write a script roughly corresponds to quarters and the reaction of buyers/producers is like getting a grade. Ninety-five percent of the work is done in solitude, on my own hours, at home.
At UCLA, I discovered a genuine talent for college (this assertion based on graduating summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa). Clearly, film writing was my ticket and I lived happily ever after.
You didn’t buy that, did you? I’m kidding. That would make for a truly boring story. Escalating conflict, big problems and hard decisions keep things interesting – and I was blessed with an endless supply, enough to fill many years of diary blogs.
I met Luke on my first day of classes. Prior to this entry, we’d been together, give or take a few brief break-ups, for 18 months – my longest relationship ever at that time. Our friends expected us to get married. Our parents prayed we wouldn’t. He was so much a part of me, I feared I’d shatter without him.
Although Luke was an art major, he was as much a writer as I was; he kept voluminous journals in spiral-bound notebooks. We talked about movies, literature and life for hours. On the day we met, we talked for 11 hours straight. He was a year ahead of me in school with a natural air of authority. I took everything he said as gospel.
His help with the play was invaluable – there wouldn’t have been a play without him. He didn’t stop there. He had no interest in learning Swedish, but he drilled me on my Swedish vocabulary anyway. He’d already read the classic Greek plays, but he read them again – aloud, with me – which brought them to life. He didn’t write my papers, but he read them and offered suggestions to go deeper.
We were college students with few responsibilities and endless hours to get to know each other. It got harder in post-UCLA real life. It takes time to trust people, let alone get close to them. It’s probably no coincidence I met my husband of 41 years when we were in college (he was in law school, I was in grad school). We were young and free with hours of free time to spend together. With every passing year since then, when hit with life’s inevitable disappointments and betrayals, I bolster my defenses. That’s not to say I’m a rock or an island, as in the famous Simon and Garfunkel song. Family life with three children forces me to be flexible.
Luke and I didn’t have that glue to keep us together. We could walk away from each other and never look back – and we did. We haven’t spoken or seen each other for decades. We loved each other once. How did it go so wrong?
Anais Nin writes,
I don’t disagree – but each death is a little bit different. I’ll dissect this demise in future diary blogs. Do I sound cold and cynical? That’s to hide the hurt. Don’t get me wrong, I believe my life worked out the way it was meant to. I love the man I’m married to and wouldn’t have it any other way. Still, even after all these years, I miss what Luke and I had, I miss the way we were. Maybe I miss the girl I used to be.
Alex demonstrates an early interest in high finance.
I’m not a geneticist, just the mother of three, but watching three distinct personalities emerge straight out of the womb convinced me nature matters more than nurture. Based on my empirical evidence (Chris, Sam and Alex, to be specific) I believe we’re born with most, if not all, of our personalities intact. As the above entry illustrates, from an early age Alex appreciated the value of money and paid attention to it. To this day, Chris and Sam barely give it a second thought.
Alex playing with the bank he got for Christmas.Bree, Carly and Sam dance “The Chicken”. Connor, in walker, doesn’t know what to think.
For a while, Alex and Sam (born 14 months apart) shared the same crib, sometimes in shifts. Sam needed to be surrounded by all of her plush animals. As soon as I placed Alex in the crib, he methodically hurled them out – he preferred a more pristine, austere environment.
All of the Knutsen cousins grouped together.
Sam and Chris bear a strong physical resemblance – some people mistakenly assume they’re twins – although she’s much closer in age to Alex. While Chris is close to his siblings and cousins, the seven-year plus age gap between him and them kept him out of most of their fantasy games. Of course, I’m prejudiced, but IMHO all three of my children are brilliant and beautiful, as are their cousins Caitlin, Connor, Bree and Carly. (This is not to dismiss their Fresno cousins Jeffrey, Michael, Martin, Mark and Aida – but since my sisters and I live within a five-mile radius, they see a great deal more of their cousins on the Knutsen side.)
The cousins love this “Arm in the Air” salute; it shows up in a LOT of photos. I still don’t know what it means. From left to right Sam, Bree, Alex and Carly.
This little coterie of cousins shares a strong creative streak. Tucking scarves in back of their jeans to serve as tails for a game of cats provided hours of entertainment. One year, Sam flew home from college with a scarf-tail tucked in back of her pants. It delighted her when little kids in the airport spotted her with excitement. “Look, Mom, that girl has a tail!” She’s more concerned with looking interesting than she is afraid of looking weird. (And by now it should go without saying, looking “interesting” does not mean fashionista-interesting. Quite the contrary.)
Not likely to be on the cover of VOGUE anytime soon.
It’s difficult to reconstruct my thinking that fall because it was – to put it kindly – demented. I was assigned to the dorm I requested – Hedrick. The first night, I went to a barbeque with my new roommate. From the bleachers, we watched people below line up for food. My roommate and her friends playfully paired strangers – the ugly guy with an ugly girl, fat guy with a fat girl, etc.
Granted, it wasn’t nice but given a sliver of self-awareness I might’ve remembered I wasn’t always nice myself. Instead I unleashed my judgmental, self-righteous inner judge and jury. How could a sensitive soul like myself co-exist with such dreadful people? I needed to move out of Hedrick – now! This was brilliant reasoning compared to my next brainstorm.
My problem was finding someplace to live. My inspired solution was – go through Greek “Rush Week” and pledge a sorority!
What I usually wore to school.
Whaaaat? At UCLA in ’69, frats and sororities were as cool as Nixon and Goldwater. Inexplicably, it slipped my mind I wore jeans to school every day. I pictured myself 30 pounds lighter, in cashmere twin sets and designer suits with shiny straight hair and perfect make-up.
Closer to the correct “Sorority Girl” look for school (a slight exaggeration but not much)
What’s wrong with this picture?
I hate groups, especially those that burst into song for no discernable reason.
I hate dress-codes and pantyhose (sorority girls had to endure both).
I hate setting tables, washing dishes and making my bed – chores pledges were required to do.
I hate sharing my space. Pledges shared a tiny room with six other girls as well as a communal bathroom.
I hate committee meetings, especially when they involve ritual.
Did I mention I hate groups?
Spotting a couple kinks in my plan, my parents urged me not to act hastily but – blinded by my vision of my secret sorority girl self – I plunged forward. Yes, I said, I’ll pledge your sorority! My new sisters sang a secret song of welcome.
“What do you mean, this doesn’t qualify as a natural look?”
I moved my earthly possessions into the sorority. As I unpacked, sanity returned. With mounting horror, I remembered who I was – and who I wasn’t.
I told my sorority sisters I’d made a terrible mistake. They didn’t sing; they were too furious. I didn’t blame them. They kept their part of the bargain. I was the crazy flake who forgot who she was and what she wanted.
They were clear about what they wanted – me out of there. I got my eviction notice the same day I moved in. Luckily, Mary Bennett – my roommate from the prior quarter – needed a roommate. We arranged for me to move back into Sproul Hall – the same funky dorm where I started my college education.
I’m not suggesting my experience merits lines as profound as those T.S. Eliot wrote in “Little Gidding” but I’m going to quote them anyway.
Baby Boomers approached the SAT exam far more casually than millennials or gen-Xers. We didn’t hire tutors or spend Saturday afternoons in training seminars practicing multiple choice questions. We faced the exam armed only with our sharpened #2 pencils and took the darn thing cold.
Speaking strictly for myself, I didn’t even review fundamental math concepts[1] – how to determine the circumference of a circle, for example – even though that’s the kind of information I didn’t retain then, forget now. As Peggy Sue observed in Peggy Sue Got Married, my lack of knowledge didn’t hinder me in “real” life.
I didn’t score a perfect 1600 – nobody I knew then did – but I didn’t embarrass myself. Stanford and Yale weren’t going to ply me with scholarships but UCLA said yes (with no scholarship). My score wouldn’t get me through their door today.
Reading my acceptance letter to UCLA in the fall of ’68.
I was good at taking tests but not great like my sisters, both of whom the state of California deemed “Gifted”. Because of Janet’s and Joyce’s impressive IQs, the Board of Education invested considerable time and resources on the assumption I, too, might be a bit gifted. Alas, at best I was “above average” – which isn’t even in the same zip code as “gifted”.
Two of these three sisters are gifted. Who’s the dummy? Hint – look for a vapid stare instead of a smile.
Did it bother me, being the dumbest Knutsen sister? Not as much as you’d think, since I was the oldest – so by default, the wisest. I suspect my IQ was sabotaged by my abysmal performance in “Spatial Reasoning”. How bad am I at Spatial Reasoning? I rank in the 20th percentile, meaning 80% of the entire USA population is smarter at spatial reasoning than me.
There’s always a silver lining, though. I haven’t loaded luggage or groceries in a car trunk for decades. I smile and say, “I’d love to help but I’m terrible at spatial reasoning – and I can prove it.”
Backstage pass for Motley Crue show – “Theatre of Pain” is an apt name indeed!
This take-away lesson is a good one; unfortunately, I still haven’t mastered it. Maybe my need to be a martyr is just too ingrained. Maybe I harbor an unnatural fear of doctors and hospitals. For whatever reason, I still delay dealing with potential health issues as long as possible.
Much like I minimize my own pain or maladies, I tend to discredit health problems in those nearest and dearest to me. I used to tell my children, don’t even try to tell me you’re sick unless I see blood or vomit. In hindsight, perhaps this was not the healthiest atmosphere.
My mother was the best when I was sick – the opposite of me! She treated me like a princess. It’s a wonder I didn’t get addicted to being ill.
At the time, of course, I was absolutely convinced I was right. Now I wonder if that was something I told myself because I was so terrified of the alternative. The possibility something serious might actually be wrong paralyzed me with fear. In order to stay calm and keep going, I had to convince myself my loved one’s complaints were only in their heads – no serious threat at all.
The “Theatre of Pain” concert program
Of course, pretending serious threats don’t exist in no way minimizes or eliminates those threats. On several occasions – Sam’s surgery when she was six, J’s hospitalizations in the late 80s to name two – I felt the full force of the fear. Fortunately, my skepticism hadn’t caused a delay that jeopardized their health.
A rare photo of me exercising. I avoid doing anything pro-active for my health as much as I avoid going to the doctor.
Maybe writing all of this down will get the lesson through my thick head at last. Don’t play games with your health – you only get one body. If there’s the slightest doubt about whether it’s serious, make time to see a doctor.
She didn’t wait till the next day; she called my father long-distance that night. She made Natalie trade rooms with her and didn’t let me out of her sight. I was supposed to meet Alan for church in the morning so we could exchange phone numbers and contact information but it was impossible. Since he thought my name was Natalie, I figured that was that.
Kathy and Natalie – which is which?
Back at home, my father expressed mild disappointment but he didn’t make it into a big deal. I was home free.
A week later, my father knocked on my bedroom door. “I got an unusual letter at church.”
He unfolded a sheet of paper. “Dear Pastor Knutsen,” he read. “My name is Alan Sorenson.” He glanced at me. A surge of adrenalin left me shaky. He resumed. “I’m a Luther Leaguer from Pacific Palisades Lutheran who recently attended the “Get a Light” convention in Palm Springs. I’m trying to locate a young lady I met there named Natalie. She’s tall, around 5’9”, with shoulder-length brown hair.” He stopped. “Sound like anybody you know, Kathleen?”
Natalie and Kathy – which is which?
Uh-oh. He called me Kathleen, not Kathy. “A little like me, maybe?”
“That’s what I thought – but your name’s not Natalie.”
I couldn’t concoct a plausible lie. “All right, Nat and I wanted to try being someone else. But it wasn’t to be mean.”
The right corner of his mouth turned up. He wasn’t angry – he was amused.
Although I was and still am the pastor’s kid, I couldn’t help getting my halo slightly tarnished now and then
Alan was not even slightly amused. He was mortified that he addressed his letter to my father. He didn’t appreciate being lied to, especially about being a PK, the likes of which he’s not really into dating. Tough luck for him, I’m a PK for life. So what if league sponsors spied on me and concerned parishioners gossiped? As long as the pastor in question was my dad, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hi, my name is Deeter. I like to play with small animals.”
I used to have this theory that everyone has one Great Love in their lifetime. A Great Love is not necessarily who you end up with (in fact, more likely not IMHO) but it’s someone who changes you profoundly. Author Andrew Sean Greer (“The Confessions of Max Tivoli”) takes it a step further. “We are each the love of someone’s life,” he writes. I love the quote, but I question the math. What if one gorgeous man or woman is the great love of five people’s lives? Doesn’t that leave four people without an available great love?
“Want to come out and play? I’m exceedingly good at hide’n’seek. Just try and find me.”
I believe that in addition to a Great Human love, people with animals also have a Great Dog or Cat Love. Sure, I know you love all of your pets, but wasn’t one just a little more special? Didn’t one of them speak to you, make you feel like you and he/she forged an almost mystical connection?
“These are no fun at all to hunt. They don’t run, they don’t scream.”
Deeter was my Great Love in the feline world, high praise indeed as I’ve had a lot of great cats. Deeter was different, though. We could communicate. He shared my loathing of all things rodents and like the ruthless assassin he was, he racked up an impressive number of kills. His homicidal instincts were not restricted to rats. A friend of Sam’s brought a kitten into our house when she came to visit. Deeter went ballistic, stalking and terrifying the little intruder so much it chose death-defying leaps from one outside balcony to another rather than face Deeter’s wrath. Eventually, Deeter’s patience was rewarded and he trapped the little girl downstairs when no one was watching. He slashed her stomach so badly she required surgery (which I felt required to pay for. Not such a cool move, Deeter.) Don’t worry, the kitten survived and – equally important – Deeter made his point. No new cats would be moving in, not even on a temporary visa, not under his iron rule.
“I’m just a sweet little pussycat when you get me alone.”
Deeter was a character, a personality with a strong life-force (read death force for rodents, birds and lizards.) According to my next-door neighbor – not one of Deeter’s fans for reasons which will soon become apparent – Deeter heroically held a rattlesnake at bay while my neighbor sought help.
“This is quite comfortable, really. Thank you for asking.”
For a merciless killing machine, Deeter had a surprisingly babyish side. He loved to toss rubber bands in the air and then pounce on them. He loved to lie beside me and knead my flesh. He loved to jam his head deep into J’s smelly tennis shoes and inhale deeply. He loved howling cat fights with our next-door neighbor’s Russian cat Micki, a psycho KBG agent (I can’t prove it, but strongly suspect.)
“What I need now is another hit off this smelly shoe.”
For weeks after Deeter died, Micki wandered by our windows like she did every day to tempt Deeter into a frenzy. Now, though, she was searching for Deeter – and she looked sad. Well, as sad as a psycho cat can look. Beneath their violent vicious hatred, I believe they were deeply in love. I guess we’ll never know.
“Oh, the indignity! The insult! Did she have to get me a GREEN cast?”
I have another terrific tuxedo cat now – Gatsby (below). I’ll always have a tuxedo cat in my life, in memory of Deeter but there can never be another feline Great Love for me. I’ll miss Deeter till the day I die.
Gatsby the Goofball lacks Deeter’s aura of building menace.
If you had a Great Love – Dog or Cat – please post a picture and their name. Surely I’m not the only one.
