Lisa

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my older sister turning 56.  I spoke of remembering that day and what was going on in our lives at the time.  We were waiting for a baby.

We were living in a basement apartment in Salt Lake City, Utah at the time.  I have no idea what we were doing in Salt Lake.  I remember the apartment well.  The windows were very high.  You walked down the stairs from the front door to one large area - the kitchen, eating, and living room were all one big space.  Linda and I shared a bedroom straight off this room.  And what I remember most were the water pipes that ran all over our ceiling.  My mother was 24, my dad, 29.

There was a lot going on around that little apartment in Salt Lake.  Once, a little girl on our street was abducted and returned within a short time.  I remember being right there watching as the mother, on her knees in front of her little girl, kept alternating between holding her daughter away from herself to see her face and clutching her close.  And I remember the urgency of panic and concern and relief on her face.  I think I knew this kid but that is a detail I can't remember well.  The police were there.  They wore hats at the time.  My mother told me later that she talked to Linda and I after the incident, warning us of the dangers of talking to strangers.  After serious counseling she asked us: "So now, what would you do if a stranger offered you candy to get in the car with him?" and apparently I quickly answered: "I'd take the candy and run!"  I was four.

My mother started a little theatre group in that basement apartment.  (I heard somewhere a long time ago that it still exists.)  But a group of their friends would meet in the apartment and read plays.  I didn't understand it at the time.  I just thought they were talking.  Linda and I were in bed so we only knew what was going on by what we heard through the door.  One night they were reading "A Streetcar Named Desire".  My mother was either playing Blanch or Stella but my dad - my dad was playing Stanley.  In life, my dad was a yeller.  He had a horrible temper and he could get really loud and it could be scary.  So when Linda and I, lying in our beds, heard my father roaring "Stellaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" we thought all hell had broken loose and started screaming for my mother.  She came running to the door and I do remember her quickly whispering to us: "It's okay girls.  Your daddy's not mad.  It's just pretend".  But it didn't sound like pretend.  We didn't believe her.  That night was crazy scary.

At Easter time, I was in the bathroom with my sister and discovered the Broadway soundtrack album of "The Sound of Music" with Mary Martin hidden in the clothes hamper.  I went running out with it to my mother - to show her the "miracle" of my find.  I remember her saying that the Easter Bunny must have come early.  I seemed to have a knack for ruining surprises.

My point in all these stories is to say that there is so much I remember of that time surrounding Lisa's arrival.  My nearly-five year old life seemed already full on the morning of May 21st, 1962.  It was the middle of the night I guess because when we woke up, my grandmother was there.  I can't remember if it was she or my dad who told us that we had a sister.  But I do remember being there in that little basement apartment and learning it for the first time - and being very excited.  And then my grandmother made us oatmeal.  It was also strange to think there was someone new coming into our world.  I do not remember seeing her for the first time.  I don't remember her as an infant at all.  I do remember my mother watched us carefully to make sure we wouldn't try to hurt Lisa.  (My mother had been 5 years younger than her sister, Barbara, and Barbara used to bite my mothers fingers when she was a baby.) But my memories of our family in that apartment stop after the morning of May 21st.

Soon after Lisa was born we moved back to El Paso, Texas and lived for a brief time with my paternal grandmother until finally settling permanently in Fremont, California.  (That is where my mind pick ups again.)  But it was in El Paso that Lisa took her first steps and I remember that vividly.  We all sat on the floor in a circle - arms held straight out - calling for her to come to each of us.  She excitedly waddled from one of us to the other and we were all so thrilled - happily watching our smiling, pretty baby, on her feet, enjoying all the attention and love literally circling her.  In her cloth diapers and plastic pants.

Now she is a grandmother.  I can't reconcile these two images.

Lisa has dyslexia - school was very difficult for her.  Being the baby had its drawbacks.  She was separated by years from Linda and I and grew up at a time when there was a lot of turmoil between my parents.  She was always trying to find her place.  It sometimes led her to the wrong place.  She has not always had an easy life.  I have spent a good deal of my adult life worrying about her.  But at 50 she is beginning to realize and experience some of her untapped potential and that is a wonderful thing to see.  She has lost over 100 pounds and has started to paint.  Beautifully, I might add.  She is a gifted writer.  She was recently baptized.  She is working and making plans for her future.  Happily, her plans involve moving out of god-awful Modesto.  It seems she is learning to walk.  And like watching her the first time around, I couldn't be happier.

Happy Birthday, Lisa.  If life begins at 50, the best is yet to come.

Required Fakeness

I am on my best behavior.  For three months.

Recently, Sharon the Wonder-Woman (see "A Tornado Hits My House" April 21, 2011) pulled me aside at her house and in her own inimitable way, had me convinced that I needed to take in an international intern from France.  The whole conversation lasted less than 5 minutes.  (How does she do that?)


Sharon and Tim have taken many foreign exchange students over the years and have found it to be a fun and rewarding experience.  We certainly have the room now that our older three are in college.  So, she explained,  a neighbor of hers had hired two international interns to work for his company for the summer.  All that was needed was a place for them to stay.  The choice was between a young girl from France and a young man from Japan.  Having no experience with men in my house (as Bob is really a man/boy), I opted for the girl and besides, I really do want to learn French.  So once I knew she had medical insurance, we were in and within three weeks, Joanna arrived.

Bob had spent the week prior getting a room ready for her.  We put her in Jennifer's room.  It was mostly empty anyway but he shampooed the carpet and moved some of the things Jennifer had in storage into Christine's empty bedroom.  I too was trying to get ready - doing the heavy cleaning, kitchen, bathrooms, pantry, dusting, vacuuming.  It was exhausting.  By the end, I found myself opening drawers and asking myself: "What is the likelihood she will ever look in here?"  Suffice it to say, there are several drawers and closets that still require armor to take on.  I just hope she never needs to go looking for band-aids or cold cream or anything from a drawer in my bathroom.  (If I actually saw her moving in that direction I'd have to tackle her in the hallway.)

The whole week before she got here felt like I was waiting to have a baby.  The night she was to arrive Bob, Grace, and I sat staring at the door like we were waiting for the doctor to appear and tell us she had ten fingers and toes.  Finally, we heard the knock and immediately my feelings shifted from those of waiting for a baby to those of going on a first date.

Would she like us???  In that moment before I opened the door I was suddenly flooded with the reality that we were going to have to be nice.  All the time.  Oh my gosh.  What a Herculean challenge.  


"Wait a minute," I thought. "What if we don't like her?  I mean, she's from Paris.  Isn't there some sterotype about aloofness and rudeness?  Maybe we can be ourselves after all."  


No such luck.  We opened the door to gorgeous, gracious, polite, and friendly young woman who has been nothing but agreeable and accommodating for the past three weeks.


So - we have been nice.  We do not yell.  We do not swear.  We use the manners we were taught growing up.   We exhibit patience.  We are kind to one another.  Even when we don't want to be - especially when we don't want to be.   We yield to one another.  And we keep the kitchen clean.  All the time.   And we do this because we don't want her to think poorly of us.  We do it because we want her to like us.  We do it because we don't want her to tell her friends and family back in Paris - people we will never meet in a million years - that we are pigs.  We do it because we must.  We cannot be ourselves.  And it turns out - it isn't that difficult. 


I hope she stays forever.

Gardens Grow

I own three pair of prescription glasses.  The primary reason for this is not fashion - it is because I am constantly losing them.  I am annoyed and a little frightened about how easily I seem to forget things as I get older.  Names, faces, details -  things that used to come second nature and stick like flypaper, fail to adhere at all.  They are more like post-it notes.  The ones you forgot about.

So it is surprising to me that I can recall, with tremendous detail, things that happened 50 years ago.  My mind is a virtual garden of sweet days from long ago.  Yesterday was such a day.

Yesterday, my sister Linda turned 56.  Naturally, I had forgotten her birthday.  I was reminded when I checked into Facebook and saw all the birthday greetings littering her page.

It was hard to imagine that Linda, Linda the popular, Linda the boy magnet, Linda the wild child, was 56.  But she was - and it offered another excuse to take that familiar trip to the past.  The vivid, technicolor past, the 50-year-old-past that seems so close I can almost touch it.

Fifty years ago yesterday, the photo above was taken.  That is Linda (on the right) and me with my beloved "Mother", our maternal grandmother.  We were dressed like twins, as we often were despite our 13 month age difference (she's older, regardless of what everyone thinks) and we were celebrating her 6th birthday. We were staying with "mother" and grandpa in their apartment in Moab, Utah because my mother - in Salt Lake - was due to give birth to my sister Lisa at any moment and it was felt that having us out from under her feet would make things a little easier.

The night before her birthday I remember vehemently trying to convince everyone of the logic that Linda would have grown out of her pajamas during the night - having become a full year older.  While everyone told me that it wouldn't happen, I was very disappointed the next morning when I saw that my sister looked exactly the same.

When we were little we both got birthday cakes and presents on each other's birthdays.  I have no idea why.  I remember being disappointed when all that suddenly ended but it was still in full swing on Linda's 6th in Moab.  We both got Beanie and Cecil toy guitars.  They had nylon strings that made no musical sound at all.  Their primary feature was a crank handle that played the Beanie and Cecil theme music when you turned them - like a Jack-in-the Box.  And we got magnets which turned out to be very cool.  They picked up all the little magnetic toys over and over again and grandpa showed us how they repelled each other when Linda and I tried to put ours together.  I'm certain he tried to explain the science behind it but I couldn't have cared less.  Those magnets were just fun.  And while we sang happy birthday to Linda, I got a cake too.  Vanilla.  Linda's was chocolate.  We got to ice them.  We wore our "special" dresses - matching white sailor dresses, with red stripes and red pom-poms.  And if mom packed the frilly panties, we would have worn those too - backward - so that we could see the lace if we lifted our skirts to look.  We played outside in front of the building, and that night we watched "Top Cat" before we went to bed.  I remember what it felt like to be 4-almost-5 in Moab Utah.  It was very pleasant.  I felt loved.  I felt secure.  And a little homesick.  And I had awareness of my existence in the world, and it felt completely unfettered and just fine.

Not an extraordinary memory, but cherished none the less.  As it happened, my mother didn't deliver on time and we had to go back home to Salt Lake before Lisa was born.  She came 13 days later, on the 21st.  And this year she will be 50.  Impossible.

In thinking about our lives since then I was washed with the shared experiences - together and apart - and wondered at the arrival of mid-life.  The dreams that shaped us, some achieved, most cast aside have left us somewhat fulfilled, somewhat disappointed, but certainly wiser.  We still look forward with anticipation but back with acceptance.  We did - okay.  And that's a good thing.

So for her birthday this year, I posted a YouTube video of the finale of Leonard Bernstein's "Candide" on her Facebook page.  The song is called "Make Our Garden Grow" and it is one of my favorite pieces of music of all time.  When the chorus stands to join the song, they gloriously proclaim:

"Let dreamers dream what worlds they please;
Those Edens can't be found.
The sweetest flowers, the fairest trees
Are grown in solid ground
We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good;
We do the best we know
We'll build our house, we'll chop our wood
And make our gardens grow."

Good birthday sentiment.

http://youtu.be/vDETC5HTxvA

The Lesser of Two Evils

So here is how I carry my stress:  I slather it on like hardening clay to my shoulders, neck, and jaw.  For years I have had to make a conscious effort to lower my shoulders.  They are usually found "kissing" my earlobes.  Additionally, I clench my teeth.  Not just in sleep but in life.  Usually the back right molars.  Alternately, I will push my jaw out so that my lower front teeth push up against my upper front teeth as if trying to break them out of my mouth.  When driving, a quick lane merge is dangerous and quite impossible because I need plenty of time to check my blind spots.  A quick glance over my shoulder could result in my head falling off.

When I lay down to go to sleep, I have to think: "Am I totally relaxed?" Typically, the answer is "no".  My head is barely touching the pillow.  Methodically going over a mental check list of muscles, I can usually get my body to sink about three inches deeper into the mattress.  Sometimes I think if I were any tighter I might actually levitate.

As you might imagine, I can be prone to headaches and occasional bouts of vertigo.

Now with all the clenching and hunching and stiffness, you might think I look like a snarling mad dog - but not so.  I wear my stress well.  It just feels like s**t.

So... recently I took a gift certificate I had to the fabulous Burke Williams for a day of spa treatments and a massage.  My friend Bev and I went together for a girl day.  I typically go for a Swedish massage - something I absolutely love and Burke Williams is the best.  The first time I had a massage at Burke Williams and the masseuse began to massage my face (the signal that your 50 minutes is about to end), I literally started to cry.  I was grieving what would soon be just a memory of one of the most relaxing experiences I had had, to date.  The sorrow was akin to getting dumped by a boyfriend.

But as I had $250.00 on this gift card, I had enough for additional treatments - treatments that promised to turn me into a gelatinous puddle, and because I got to have a water treatment, a facial, and a manicure, I decided to try a "deep tissue" massage.  I had been told that I really should have a deep tissue massage many times before.  I was warned that it could hurt a little bit but that I would feel so much better afterward.

Now I've got to ask here, have any of you ever had a deep tissue massage?  Because if you have, and if you've done it more than once, I don't think we can be friends.

I was ushered into a dark, warm room with the waft of lavender about it.  The well padded massage table covered in soft cotton sheets and blankets beckoned.  I was familiar with this set up.  But here is where it all went wrong.  As I still stood, wrapped in the thick, plush, terry robe, she asked: "What are the areas you want me to focus on?"

That question scared me.  I didn't really want her to focus on my problem areas.  That might be unpleasant.  And totally unfair to the other parts of me that were better behaved.  But there she was, ready to do the job I had asked.  I glanced at her hands.  They were very pretty hands and so, I thought, how bad could it be?  As it turns out, pretty bad.

She began with gentle probes to identify the specific problems.  She found them just under the wings of my shoulder blades.  I asked her if my muscles felt tight.  "Oh yes, very tight", was her reply.  Her answer made me automatically brace myself and for a moment I wondered at the unfairness that I didn't carry my stress in my abs or butt.

So here is what a deep tissue massage feels like: a bony, steel, knuckle kneading relentlessly into a massive purple bruise.  Clutching tightly to the hand rests just below the table I lay on, I began to sweat with the effort of trying not to scream out and knock this woman across the room.  I had to work at relaxing though it, exhaling deep breaths, working against the reflex of tightening my muscles even tighter to defend themselves.  My nose started running.  And again, with tightly shut eyes, tears of sorrow - but not that a 50 minute session was coming to a close, but that it was just beginning.

As if suddenly remembering that "God will never give you more than you can bear", she would occasionally relent and assume the the gentle, relaxing Swedish techniques but it was a trick because the moment I felt I could trust her again, back to abuse.

Once it was over, it was true that I felt much better.  But it was great relief that I felt.  I knew that this 50 minutes of pain couldn't possibly have cured years of muscle knots.  They were still there.  Exhausted, but there.  And I would have to come back many times to get rid of them.

I have decided to think of these muscle knots as old friends.  Like lines on an aging face, I had earned them.   Best to embrace all the anxiety and trouble that built them.  The bitter with the sweet as they say.  And who knows, maybe I will eventually experience levitation.

A Lesson from Steinbeck

I just need to do a shout out for my daughter Amanda, the "problem child".  She just received Dean's Scholar Honors from SJSU.

She has accomplished things I could never dream of.  I am in awe of her discipline and resolve.  And her talent.

As her mother, high school was not a fun experience.  She was wild and rebellious.  She snuck out and partied.  She got very average grades and academic achievement was not on her priority list.  She counted minutes until she could legally leave home and get out from under my strict rule.  (I counted seconds).  We did not get along.  At all.

As it turns out, what she needed most was to get out from under my control.  Once freed, she turned into everything I had wanted her to be.  She is smart and lovely and kind and good.

And I guess what I learned watching this metamorphosis is that she always wanted the same things for herself that I wanted for her - she just couldn't be told that she must.  

Not "Thou shalt".  "Thou mayest".   Amanda got it.  Took me a while.

And the World Goes 'Round

When I first started this blog, my primary objective was to find a creative way to organize my thoughts after my world had been turned upside-down (laid off). The objective has changed over the years. I like that I have a small following of readers who seem to identify and enjoy these essays but now I write for my girls. I know one day they will be interested. I also know that that day might come at a time in my life when I have returned to drooling. Telling stories, let alone remembering them may be too challenging.

So for purposes of continuity, I am writing today to catch up.

It begins with a new job. In September, I was in hot pursuit of a job that seemed an answer to all my needs. It was sales. It was local. It was an interesting business (education). It had benefits. And it was established. It was a very long process but in November - after a day of stacked interviews - I was offered the position. I would start two weeks later, on December 5th, what would have been my mother's 75th birthday.

So I was saying good-bye to unemployment. It was also my last year in three of being at home. I had a job in 2010 for a new magazine (now folded), but I worked from home. I did a project for a non-profit in 2011 - also from home. So with the reality of having to return to a job - at a location with a desk and specific hours, one where I would be required to shower before I started working, one that necessitated shoes and makeup and hair spray and watching my language - I decided it was time I got started on all the projects I should have done over the past three years. And I had two weeks to do it.

So I ordered new carpet and painted the interior of the house - including the baseboards, etc. and Bob installed new floors in the foyer, kitchen and dining room. But the Herculean effort of the task kept me busy and distracted enough that when Monday the 5th rolled around, showing up to my new job honestly felt more like I was running an errand than starting a new career.

Here's what I will tell you about my new job. It takes me 15 minutes from my front door to get to my desk. The pay is not great. The benefits are. I pay $15.00 a week (unheard of) to get basically 100% coverage for my entire family. There are no deductibles. I go to my own doctors. They cover everything. Even the stuff that good insurance with other companies won't. Like ambulances. MRIs. Preventative medicine. Each member of my family has up to $1,000 a year to spend on massage - for stress management. I am not kidding. And they will pay for my gym membership. And weight loss programs. And they will pay 100% for ANY classes I would like to take to further my education, as well as all of the materials I would need to take the class. And I mean any class. Like I could learn to fly a plane if I wanted to and they would foot the bill. Seriously. AND they pay for all my girls' college text books that get them to their B.A. degrees. And if you have kids in college, you know how expensive those are.

Another perk - every Friday they cater lunch from a different restaurant for the entire company. And the people are nice. I am however, clearly the oldest person on the floor. By a lot. Something I am reminded of daily as I hear my knees sing like crickets every time I climb up and down the stairs to the second floor. (No elevator).

All told, I am extremely grateful.

Amanda and Jennifer came home from school for Christmas and when they left, they took Christine with them. All three girls are away at school now and suddenly the house is bigger. We have Grace still but the three of us seem dwarfed in this place. It is odd. But do I miss them? Well, yes and no.

One of the things about raising children that I am actually good at is recognizing that they are at an age where they are old enough to begin their own lives. I saw it coming. I accepted it. I embraced it. I was ready for it. So were they. So seeing them go has been a little celebratory - not because I couldn't wait for them to leave, but because I really was excited for them to fly. I remember what it felt like and it is a wonderfully adventurous time. So from this perspective, no, I do not miss them.

What I do miss are my little girls. Once, when I was about 25, my mother said to me: "You

know Valri, you don't have to have children." This was her pathetically veiled attempt to tell me that she didn't think I should have children. At 25, that was a pretty strong indictment. Anne told me she didn't think I should have children either, but later, when seeing me hold Amanda, she relented slightly and revised her statement to allow for "maybe one". And I must admit, I am not a natural.

So I look back at so much I missed with my little girls. I mean, I was there, but I was preoccupied - with work, with stress, with depression actually, and I missed much of the experience. And certainly the joy. Look at them. I want those girls back. I remember those girls but I didn't take it in.

And I really do miss those little girls.

Frankly, it makes me a little weepy. It is dawning on me that I really cannot get that back. Not for a day. Not for a minute.

Life is strange.

The Relative Mental Health of 12-Year-Olds

So tonight Grace went to a dance at her Middle School. She is really enjoying her 7th grade experience and I am so glad. I am thrilled that she has friends and she seems well liked. She gets involved and is gaining confidence and independence. All is well - apart from the fact that being 12 is a mental health issue in and of itself.

She is like most 12-year-olds - past and present - who for a season cannot find any peace with the fact they inhabit the same planet their parents inhabit. There is no reaching her. Her dad and I are the catalysts for all the insanity. Were it not for the fact that we breathe the same air, she would be fine - but our mere presence keeps her in a constant state of high anxiety that we might commit the slightest faux pax and reveal to the entire universe that her parents are incurable dorks. You'd think we were Ma and Pa Kettle on the farm. In overalls. With fingers in our noses. Farting.

If we are at the mall, she walks about 5 steps ahead of us - close enough that we won't embarrass her by calling out for her to slow down but far enough away that we won't embarrass her by being directly associated with her at a glance.

She prefer I not speak directly to her friends unless I clear exactly what I am going to say ahead of time. She is so afraid I will ask them if they get good grades or take drugs or just say something stupid like "what are you interested in?" that she prefer I just remain mute. At least until they get to know me a little better and won't judge her by my fuddy-duddiness. (Oh and see? There I go - saying "fuddy duddy" instead of "lame". Its just so -- lame!")

Last week, we attended a mother/daughter function where we had to learn a hip-hop dance. Now you need to know that I loathe all things hip-hop, I have no interest in being able to dance to it, or look good doing it. But I went. Because we are part of a group that signed up for it and because maybe it would be some silly fun. (I'll bet "silly" is on the endless list of lame words I shouldn't use...) Anyway, while all the girls did a respectable job, all but one of the moms were terrible and we nearly wet our pants laughing at ourselves. Still, I paid attention and asked the choreographer questions because, well, why the hell not? If she was going to ask me to do something, it seemed reasonable that I might ask her how. Uh oh. Should have checked with Grace.

When the class was over I asked if she had fun. "Well, sort of", she replied. "You were embarrassing".

"Embarrassing?!?! In a room full of women who were tripping all over themselves, how was I the single embarrassing mom?"

"They were hilarious because they were just goofing around. You were seriously trying."

"Seriously. I was trying. That's what you thought. Like, I thought I was going to be a successful hip-hop dancer. Like I thought I would look good. You are out of your mind."

"Yeah. You kept asking questions and watching yourself in the mirror. You were trying. You were embarrassing."

Yes, my daughter is mentally ill.

So back to the dance. Naturally she needed a ride to the school. So at 6:40 she walked into the living room and asked who was taking her. After both Bob and I waited for the other one to volunteer, we agreed to both go. This was met with stress-filled resistance. I immediately knew the reason. If we both went, she would have to sit in the back. Which is so embarrassing. On the way there, we were instructed to pick her up where we usually do after school - across the street (where our exposure would be minimal). Driving into the school parking lot we saw that we had arrived a full 10 minutes early. With panic in her voice we were instructed to park in the unlit lot and wait with her because she didn't want to be early (something I can honestly relate to). But soon, we were interested in finding out whether the crosswalk lights worked after school hours so Bob commenced to moving the car to the front of the school, where it was lit and other parents were parked , so he could get out of the car and test them.

"No!! Stop! Park the car right now! Don't pull up in front! Stop, dad! I mean it! Stop the car! Right now! Why aren't you listening to me???? Stop it, dad! You're such a jerk! I don't want you to pull up in front. Why are you doing this??"

And the moment he finally stopped the car - in front - the back door flew open and out she bolted without so much as a "good-bye". Clearly, of the two embarrassments presented to her - being early to the dance or being seen in the back seat of a car with her parents - the lesser of the two evils was the former.

I am way beyond taking this personally. This is the fourth time I have been through it after all. But it is amusing insanity she suffers from. The idea that somehow, if she is careful, by keeping us silent and out of sight, she might convince her friends that we don't exist at all. They might think she lives alone in the house on the hill.

Now don't get the wrong idea. She loves me now more than ever. I come home from work and she throws her arms around me and wants to cuddle. She calls me into her room to talk about "personal things". With a little coaxing, she will even confide in me. Its just that she can't take me out in public.

After watching her endure the irrevocable pain of having to be my child in public for the past several months, I felt compelled to remind her that I do, in fact, have many friends and that I am even considered by many people to be "cool". To this she shuddered and begged me not so say "cool" as apparently it sounds "weird" coming out of my mouth.

Who knew? I've been saying it since I was 12.