Tomato Soup

Okay. Here goes.

This is project #1 of my new endeavor:

Blending my love of writing with my doll making....

"Tomato Soup"

Stan stared at his wife across the table, noticing for the first time that her sweater was on inside out. Every morning he would lay out her clothes on the bed in a specific order, so she’d know which item to put on first. But it didn’t guarantee how Ida would put on each piece. He’d have to pay more attention before they went out.

Their usual waitress, Sarah, appeared, holding a large tray holding two cups of tea. “How y’all doin’ today?”

With Alzheimer’s disease, there were good days, and then there were challenging days. It was a challenging day. Ida was preoccupied, scrubbing a stain on the wooden table with her finger, forgetting it was a permanent fixture of their booth. They’d been lunching at this diner once a week for years. That blemish had been there since day one.

“Today’s actually a very special day for us. It’s our fifty-seventh wedding anniversary.” His wife stopped fidgeting and looked up. “The day you took a chance on a broke, balding fellow by saying, ‘I do,'” he said with a wink in her direction.

“It is?” Ida asked.

“Yep, sweetheart, it is.”

"Congratulations, you two! Elmer fixed up some of his key lemon meringue pie today and I’ll make sure ya’all have a slice on the house before you go. Stickin’ with the Cobb salad and tomato soup?”

“That’s it.” Stan replied.

She nodded and turned, then swung back around. “I just remembered. We ran out of tomato soup about an hour ago. Chicken noodle ok?”

Stan looked at his wife, now scrubbing away at the stain with a napkin.

“Ida?”

“Hmmm,” she said, again focused on the table.

“They’re out of the tomato soup. Do you want chicken noodle? Or a sandwich instead?” She looked confused, so he pointed to the menu and showed her a few other items he thought she’d enjoy, but she was having a hard time picking something new.

Suddenly she began to cry. “I want to go home. Please can we go home?” she begged.

“Honey, Sarah has already brought us our drinks. Don’t you think we should stay a little longer? I know you like tomato soup, but I’m sure their chicken noodle is delicious.”

That only made her cry harder. Sarah apologized on behalf of the restaurant for running out. Other customers glanced in their direction, wondering what was going on.

He sighed and reached back for his wallet, then placed a ten-dollar bill on the table.

“I’m sorry. We’ll catch you next week.”

Sarah gave him an understanding look and told him she’d bring the pie and some to-go cups of tea out to their car. He thanked her as he rose to help his wife out of the booth. He always tried to make their days as stress-free as possible, but sometimes, there just wasn’t any tomato soup.

***

Ida stopped crying on the way home but appeared anxious, and kept asking him what day it was.

He hesitated to say the date, conjecturing that at least part of her current emotional state was because she hadn’t realized it was their anniversary.

“Today is Wednesday.”

She furrowed her brow, a tell-tale sign she was struggling to grasp some distant memory or word.

When she asked what day it was for the third time during their twenty-minute drive, he gave in. “It’s Wednesday, January 7th.”

“That’s the day we got married!”

“Yes, it is,” he said, pulling up into their driveway.

He helped Ida sit on the living room couch before setting up two dinner trays and turning the TV to a re-run of The Price is Right.

“I’ll be right back to join you,” he reassured her.

Once in the kitchen, he walked past the cabinets labeled bowls/plates, mugs/glasses, and cereal to find the one with soup written on it. He’d marked them all to help her stay as independent as possible, especially since she loved to cook. In the past few months, however, he’d taken over the role as primary chef. Relief swept over him when he found some tomato soup in the back-right corner of the cabinet.

With stiff, arthritic hands, he carefully filled bowls with tomato soup before putting Ida’s bowl in the microwave. As he stood there watching the timer count down, the sound of Chopin floated into the kitchen.

Ida had been a music teacher, so they’d always had a piano in the living room. She hadn’t played much lately, though. He suspected it was because she now had difficulty sight-reading the music.

Walking back into the room, he found Ida bent over the piano playing from muscle memory. He was struck at how her fingers, still so capable and sure, glided over the keys. An image of her coming down the aisle towards him in a stunning white dress filled his head, those same lovely hands holding a bouquet of the yellow daisies he’d gathered for her from his garden. It had been a simple wedding, but that’s what they’d wanted.

Stan waited until she’d finished before taking a seat beside her on the bench. Bringing the back of her hand to his mouth, he planted a kiss as she beamed the same beautiful grin she had on their wedding day.

“My favorite song,” he whispered, choking up.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s why I played it for you. I love you, Stan.”

Now it was his turn to cry.

“I can see that.” He nodded. “I love you so much. Now how would you like to share some tomato soup with me?”

Ida's face fell a little. “I was hoping for chicken noodle, but that’ll do.”

 

Virus List

 

Confinement can suck. But being safe and alive doesn't so we deal with it. “First world problems” I tell myself. Having said that, confinement prompts some of us to invent tasks. One of those on my list is dusting a small closet in which I keep my coats, old shoes, and other stuff that I don’t use daily/seasonally. That’s when I saw my travel pouch with all my tiny bottles of shampoo, deodorant, moisturizer, toothpaste etc. There will not be any traveling this year. None of the usual excited planning our annual trip to Catalina. I took out all the bottles and decided to use them. No sense keeping them until . . . the virus is no more life-threatening? I felt quite sad. 

 In addition to doll-making, sewing handbags, making jewelry and painting landscapes by numbers, I now make To-Do Lists every day with nonsense tasks such as: water the plants just to remain relevant to myself!? I laughed, because I had been doing that too! I am finding many of my friends – especially old ones like myself – are doing the same just to remain motivated and sane! It is sad and funny at the same time, since during our busy non-virus days these To-Do items would have had no need for written reminders! Here are samples of entries on my list:


1. Change Sheets.

2. Wipe down Fridge/Reorganize Freezer

3. Reorganize Closet

4. Reorganize Pantry

5. Dust Bookshelves (And remind myself of all those delightful books that I have read!)

6. Sauté Cilantro and freeze ( It always comes in handy for that dish, or soup that needs it)

7. Check in on my sons. Remind them of when they used to......... (I am always talking to my children in my head anyway)

8. Comb the kitties with their special comb.

9. Tweeze eyebrows (it seems that the older I get the more facial hair I grow, and the more men age, the more their ears grow! What’s up with that?)

10. Prepare Menu/Shopping List for next week (that’s always a fun task to do.) For others, it is a ritual in which they relate what were their thoughts that day and how they were feeling)

11. Clean bathroom (on almost everyone’s list!) 

12. Making meals and freezing them.

13. Wash Masks!!!

14. Another No Makeup Day! Yay! So do either a deep moisturizing or a mud mask!

15. With a backdrop of disease, raging fires, hurricanes, joblessness, poverty, homelessness, insecurity, and peaceful protests. We all know that this upcoming election can go either way. The dangers in this election are obvious, terrifying and dangerous for the whole notion of Democracy! I am just praying for people’s common sense and hoping that they won’t succumb to their base emotions, zealous instincts, or tribalism. Sadly, the world's prophets, philosophers, poets and may not be able to put us together again. Yes, we are the proverbial Humpty Dumpty trying not to fall. Can we will correct course?

16. Hope! Hope! Hope! 

What's on your list?

Remembering Amy

 

Often, when it's late at night when no one is around, I travel back in memory to less complicated times with my older sister Amy. I don't have a lot of scenes to chose from because she first left my life when she was thirteen. In my mind, she was like a super hero.

Let me back up for some context. It was the mid 60's and the most stable thing in our lives at that time, were the two TV shows we watched together no matter what: “American Bandstand” and “The Smothers Brothers”. They gave us a chance to laugh. Even at seven, I was somewhat able to grasp the dry political humor coming from these “folk singers” Brothers.

With “American Bandstand”, Amy and I would literally roll on the floor laughing. Why? Let me explain. My furthest memory of when we'd watch ABC together I suppose it was like any other teenager and little sister throughout America would watch; to hear the new singles coming out and to, of course, critique the dancing girls' outfits, boots, hair styles and dance moves. But then, my sister got this crazy idea to turn the sound off and just watch them dance in silence. It made us laugh for some reason. Sometimes, Amy would turn her transistor radio to a Spanish music station and that would put us in stitches.

But life doesn't stand still. As time went by, Amy would butt heads with my mother more and more often. My mother didn't like being a mother. Most narcissists don't make good parents. But she tried the best she could. She was an interior designer by trade and was moving up. As for Amy, even at that young age, she was able to absorb the outer societal rebellion going on around us as her own. In 1967, Amy tried to shield me from another hanger spanking just to have it hurled across her face. So, at thirteen, she just left to God knows where.

The next time I saw Amy was during, what I can see looking back, were the happiest days of her life. It was 1975 and this time I was the teenager and she was twenty-three. I went to visit her where she lived in a place called Inverness. It is located in northern California about 30 miles northwest of San Francisco. Amy was staying in a cabin in what seemed to be a tropical rain forest. It was beautiful. I hadn't seen her in almost a decade. I was excited. I felt free and ready for adventure.

She picked me up at the airport in her boyfriend's beat up 1963 Porsche convertible. I couldn't make out the color because of the rust but if I had to guess, I'd say at one time it was red. She had wild raven hair and bronzed skin. She lifted her Aviator sunglasses and smiled that sideways Amy smile, “Well, are you just going to stand there or are you getting in?”

I could barely hear over the engine but when she swung open the passenger door, I knew an invite when I saw one. Off we went on highways, byways and freeways. She hated to come into the big city (San Francisco). The whole way, she complained about about smog, the people and the rat race. She felt she had beat the system in bypassing the norm by making jewelry in her little cabin. As we got farther away from the congested city, she became much more relaxed, playful even happy. I hadn't seen her that happy since I was very small.

We made our way through the city portion of Inverness and passed through it's one stop light. From there, we glided passed the west shore of Tomales Bay then wound and wound our way through the hills. Everything became greener and greener. I could feel fresh moisture on my face. It was so liberating.

She introduced me to the new context of her life as if to say, “See, I did what I wanted in spite of Mom.” For me, it was a time of firsts. It was the first time I ever saw a man wear and earring except for the pirates I saw in cartoons. Her boyfriend Gil wore a small stud which glistened between his head full of black hair and the bearded cut of his jaw. He was a musician...of course. His dad wanted him to follow in the family business of being a carpenter. But, like Amy and a lot of young people of that time, he rebelled. Those days, if anyone over 30 had an idea, i.e.,”Plastics”, then any self respecting young rebellious person would zag instead of zig. However, he did built a cabin for my sister. Even the cabin fought against the establishment, it wasn't built under code. Gil ran the electricity from his home up about a quarter mile to her cabin. That's love for you. The cabin was very small but seemed larger because it had high ceilings and was set up as a loft. I liked visiting the cabin except for the part when I had to pee outside.

That night she took me to the (only) bar in Inverness. They didn't seem to notice or care that I was only fifteen. Wearing a tube top and worn out jeans Amy walked inside and lifted everyone's head. It seemed that someone turned up the lights but it was her.

“Are you going to give me a chance to win my money back?”, laughed a very large man with a pool stick.

“No way!”, Amy smiled and said. “I don't need anymore money from you, Ted.”

For a moment she was absorbed into a small crowd. I stood. Then she came and grabbed my hand and introduced me. They were very nice. I was now famous there and called "Lil' A". I couldn't be further from home. It was another first;the first time I felt unconditionally accepted.

We left the bar and hopped into the car. She lit up one of her Canadian “Export A” cigarettes, and turned to me and said, “You know Maria, there are more choices in this world than you've been exposed to. But I don't recommend that you grow up too fast like I did. There's time. I've just always felt bad that I left you alone to deal with Mom. For that I'm sorry.”

“No, that's okay. I...”

“No. Really. I am sorry. We just have today. I just want you to know that there a whole world out here. My way won't be your way. But I can't wait to see what you do! Now put your seat belt on and be ready for a ride!”

As she started the engine and within it's loudness, I wondered if she meant get ready for my life or for adventurous car ride. It turned out I got both.

All the next day, were more firsts for me. The biggest was when we laid topless at the edge of the bay. I remember hoping that things would develop as nicely as hers did. For lunch we had, what she would call, “moonshine-whiches” which was sprouts and avocado on soy bread. A first I didn't really care for. The rest of the day we spent at the cabin where she taught me some basics as to how to make jewelry; mostly wire wrapping. I loved it way more than the macrame I was doing at home.

Life, for the most part didn't work out that well for my sister. The anger that was our mother's legacy, was absorbed deeply by Amy. She had trouble trusting and getting close to anyone beyond a superficial level. She eventually pushed me away. She called me a sell out because “my way” was having five kids and not having a dream that was just about me. She said I was weak.

By the beginning of the new millennium, Amy was diagnosed with von Hippel-Lindau disease. She developed internal tumors and cysts all over her body, including her spine, kidneys, pancreas, liver and lungs. She was in constant pain.

Her disease eventually took her life last March. 

I miss her. I think about the better times.

Coping With Covid - Hint: Nostalgia

Long ago, in 1973, there was a movie called “The Way We Were,” starring Barbara Streisand and Robert Redford. Cinematically, it was not a hit. But musically, it marked the first time Streisand notched a No. 1 song on the charts.

Originally a song about college love, today its opening lyrics can read like a reflection of the effect of COVID-19.

Here is the opening:

Memories light the corners of my mind

Reading those lyrics now, it’s easy to understand the appeal of the times that came before the world was overtaken by the novel corona virus, which has now infected more than 17 million people worldwide and killed more than 150,000 Americans.

Perhaps you’ve picked up a favorite old novel, or streamed reruns of “Cheers,” “Little House on the Prairie” or even “Family Affair.” Or, like a high school friend of mine, made her grandmother’s beloved strawberry shortcake recipe that transported her back in time to the summertime church socials of her childhood.

A wave of nostalgia is coursing across the country, and it’s no coincidence. Memories are deeply embedded and recalling them can bring people peace of mind.

Long fully appreciates why people are reaching back in time, to the days before wearing face masks and distancing 6 feet were the norm. Experiences and memories seem to be linked to each other. If you were to go back to high school, you’d be transported back to other experiences you had while you were there much like smores brings fond summer memories of my day camp.

We are prediction machines. We like to be able to predict what’s going to happen. With all of the uncertainty in the world right now, it makes sense that we would want to retreat into something that we’re familiar with, because we can predict it. There’s no surprises. There’s nothing that is going to come up that’s going to be uncertain if we revisit something that we’ve already experienced.

My favorite go to show was aired before I was even born!

1956 "What's My Line?"

                                   How do you cope with Covid??

Stranger Than Fiction - A Nod To My Father

In, 1982 when my after died, some of my relatives went through my father's ranch in Washington state. There in a study was a roll top desk In that desk was a middle drawer that was locked. After some effort, they they managed to open the drawer. But wait…let's take a look back.

*

Walter Scott Herndon, I had assumed, was the anti-social type. Even though he left when I was a year old, I didn't start thinking much about him until I was about nine. When I was fourteen, I somehow found my father's address. So I hid myself away and wrote a letter introducing myself and tried to impress him by telling him about my big decision to become a psychologist when I grew up. It seems so funny and sad now. I had always heard about my father's “creative genius”. My mother told me that men like him could not be good father's because the art would always come first. This was my mother's theory, and it made sense to me. It kept away any anger because he obviously had a higher calling. Ridiculous, I know. When I started thinking about who my father was and what he was like, this theory kept me from getting to the why of things. To me, it was as if I were sharing him with the rest of the world.

Later in life, I ran across people who had known my father, most of them worked alongside him in the movie business. One of these was Dom DeLuise. Just by chance, he was dropping off some thing at the back door of the Goodwill near my house. I had heard that he had worked with my father on a movie called “Hooper”. This was my chance. This would be the first time I had ever spoken to someone who knew my father besides my mother. I was pushing my infant daughter in the stroller and navigated my way toward his Roll Royce with the license plate “ILUV28”. He looked up and saw me and I nervously said hello.”Hey there!”, he said through an open, generous grin.

“I have a question for you.” I said. He took a step toward me as his grin fell away. “I was wondering if you knew my father....”

“You're Walter's daughter! You look just like him!”

The initial feeling of relief was dwarfed by the warmth coming from this large man. He smiled again but with sad eyes. Then he wrapped his arms around me. I cried. I felt it to be a hug, by proxy, from my father. Silly. I know. We talked for about and hour before he left me with the confirmation of my father's “genius” and how he didn't get along with Burt Reynolds for some reason.

My father was recognized in the motion picture and television industry as one of the top art directors and screenwriters. Among his notable accomplishments were production design and art direction for the films “Norma Rae”, “Hooper”, “Sounder”, and his last project, “A Soldier's Story”. As for television, he was best known for his work on the “Playhouse 90” drama series.

Movies

Television

Growing up, I didn't know about all that. I only knew that he was in the business “out there somewhere”. It turns out that he did have time to meet and know me. His girlfriend of four years even told me that he actually had the desire to connect with his kids, but that my mother had scared him to the point where he did not even dare try. Did he tell her that so he wouldn't look bad in her eyes? Who knows?

Loss takes many shapes. Sometimes it takes the shape of someone we knew well. It’s tangible and detailed, reflecting many of the specific things we miss about that person, such as their smell, the way they always sang off key, and the corny jokes they couldn’t stop telling. These are the intimate details we grieve when a loved one who occupied a particular space in our life dies.

But I didn’t know Walter Scott Herndon. Shortly after his death, his last movie “A Soldier's Story” was released. I remember going to the theater and trying to drink in all the visuals. He had been in charge of both the indoor and out outdoor sets, as well as all the lighting. Basically, he created a portion of the look of the film as he did in most of his films. I sat in the dark theater thinking that this is as close to him as I'll ever get. Seeing the results of his work at least helped me feel a connection to his thinking, his creating. I was grateful for that.

My grieving process may not be traditional. But is there such a thing? All I know is that I have less than a handful of photos of my father. And I didn't get those until a couple of years ago.

*

They finally got that drawer open. Inside was an envelope. The envelope was addressed to him. It was postmarked May, 1974.The return address was where I had lived at 14. This told me so much but so little at the same time. This adolescent letter that I had written to my father had been important enough for him to not only keep but to put in a drawer by itself and deem it important enough to lock the drawer. Yet the envelope was sealed. Evidently, he had not been able to bring himself to open it. Somehow this gives me comfort.

Happy Father's Day Walter Scott Herndon.

American Failure. American Humility. American Hope.

This year has been a disaster.
We are living through a global pandemic yet have inadequate health screenings, medical equipment or a viable vaccine.
We are witness to public killings of black people at the hands of law enforcement yet our legal system continues to be slow to act if at all.
 Our schools and hospitals are starved for resources yet police have riot gear, tear gas and army surplus tanks to patrol the streets.
 Climate change causes unprecedented storms, droughts, wildfires, hurricanes and other extreme weather yet our policymakers refuse to take any action to change it or even acknowledge it’s happening.
 We’re experiencing record unemployment and a stalled economy yet the super rich loot and pillage recovery efforts to record profits.
 Refugees with nowhere else to go seek shelter at our door and yet we respond by rounding them up like criminals, separating them from their children and caging them like animals…or kick them out alone and afraid.
 Masked as ANTIFA, white supremacists are spreading misinformation online and terrorizing our communities.
Guns are unregulated. Truth is un-celebrated. Fascism re-branded.
 All while America cries....the President hides in his bunker. And the only response is an echo of the past: “When the looting starts, the shooting starts.” Now our president has threatened to unleash America's military on it's own people.
 It’s no wonder, then, that so many folks have taken to the streets to express their outrage and demand justice.
 America is in a failed state. But there is at least two things that gives me hope. The first thing is, we have not lost our outrage. So much happens. Every month. Nearly every day. But we have refused to accept them. We refuse to shrug and let this just become normal.
Another hopeful note is the rush of optimism I feel anytime I see what is new. There have been protests before against the ingrained racism within our government, police and even well-meaning folk. But in this moment, the vast amount of faces lifting their voices to be heard are young and multicultural. Seeing people stream out onto the streets is probably the most hopeful I’ve been since the start of the pandemic. America is experiencing mass death, incompetent and vengeful leadership and economic collapse. Even under these catastrophic circumstances, people join together to demand more and better for themselves. This gives me hope for my children's world.

Coming Of Age In the 70's

In California, where I grew up, we were the generation who watched the phases of life on television. TV gave us a twisted, idealized version of dating from "The Dating Game" and how to treat your siblings or be a parent from "The Brady Bunch". Whether it be Saturday morning cartoons or after-school specials, many parents didn’t feel that they needed to be as involved in their children’s lives as their own parents were in theirs. This freed them up to “find themselves”, leading to the “Me Generation” for the adults of that time. When our parents came of age in the ‘40s and ‘50s, they felt torn between setting limits and setting us free, so we weren’t really sure what the rules were. We were given many opportunities to explore the world on our own. We walked to our friends’ houses or to the store by ourselves, and no one thought much about it.

The 1970s were the height of feminism. I remember sitting at countless kitchen tables while my friends’ mothers lectured us. “You girls need to have your own careers,” they'd tell us. “Don't ever be dependent on a man for money.” And although I took all of this to heart, I was divorced and had five kids by the time I was 31.

Sometimes I would have a job babysitting a kid down the street for 75 cents an hour. One of my mother's boyfriends got me a ten-speed bicycle for my fourteenth birthday, which was a pretty big deal in those days. To have more than one gear! I had a paper route for The Evening Outlook at the time.

I would try to save up money to get cool clothes. All my mom could afford were Salvation Army clothes, even though she worked two jobs. I thought that the clothing of that time had such great colors and patterns. Platform shoes were all the rage. I liked the way they looked so I got a pair. The next day, I twisted my ankle and almost broke my neck. For those who wanted a sophisticated look, it was all about pants suits and scarves, big earrings, and “Farrah Fawcett" hair, which involved creating winged side bangs. Since I kept burning myself on that new-fangled curling iron, I settled for the parted-down-the-middle-and-just-hanging-down look. Primarily, what I remember as fashion in those days were hip-hugger jeans and popcorn leotards that snapped at the crotch. I hated those.

We were just on the verge of technical advances. I distinctly remember when microwave ovens came out. They seemed so “space-age”. I could feel my world getting closer to the Jetsons. Flying cars would be next, I thought. That sounds silly now, of course. But I look back and smile, because I was a person who was ready and open to changes and new ideas.

We thought we were pretty cool for calling "time" on the phone. The recorded woman's voice would say, "At the tone, General Telephone time will be, four thirty-two, and ten seconds -- beep." Also, there were other questionable phone practices such as my mother having the operator break into my calls just to remind me to go to the store to get bread. Remember long distance calls? It always felt like a big deal. Do we accept or reject collect calls? Such power! It usually ended up being from one of my mom's annoying friends.

As far as music goes, I have too many memories to lay them all out in this little slice of nostalgia. However, I remember hearing David Bowie for the first time when I was fifteen, and I was never the same after that. I also listened to the likes of Alice Cooper, Aretha Franklin, Smokey Robinson, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and so many more. Who can forget the song, “I Heard It Through the Grapevine”? Mom loved music too. Some days, she would stop what she was doing and invite me to dance with her in the living room.

Socially, kids my age would hang out at somebody's house, listening to music and drinking Tab and Hawaiian Punch, eating chips (usually Pringles) and dip (usually
sour cream and Lipton’s Onion Soup), and playing Monopoly, Trouble, Sorry, or if we were feeling really wild...Twister!

As far as outside fun, it was just the beginning of the hanging-out-in-the-mall thing. But mostly we spent time at the bowling alley playing pinball and prehistoric video games. In fact, when Pong came out, I thought it was stupid and would never catch on. Has anyone seen a pinball machine lately? Also, the roller rink and the ice rink were good places to meet up. One thing that seems to have lasted through generations is just going to the movie theater with a friend.

In the early ‘70s, there were seat belts, but no airbags. And most cars had bench seats, which we would fill with our friends, without worrying about the seat belts. We would cruise the city of Westwood here in Southern California during the summer to look at people and to be looked at. We wanted fun, and this was fun. It was surprisingly safe too, since we drove slowly, as did everyone else -- the better to see and to be seen.

For some, the 1970s were the peak of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll among high schoolers. "Just say no" was definitely not yet a thing yet. The most common drugs were marijuana, LSD, and cocaine. I was too paranoid to engage in anything but some pot smoking. Some kids took a bad turn with drugs and alcohol, but overall, I can fairly say that most of us eventually realized that lifestyle was self-destructive and we grew into reasonably responsible adults.

These days, we often hear about the hippies, Woodstock, and the Vietnam War protests. We might even have some fumes of memories from when we were young children of that vibe around us and the horrors of Vietnam on the TV news. But by our teenage years in the ‘70s, the drugs were more intense: carefully cultivated pot strains and coke instead of weak, skunky weed. The war ended in the mid-‘70s. Where was our rage? How would we change the world? What did we worry about? Nuclear war? Disco? Becoming our parents?

The generation before us had found their purpose. Their impact was musical, political and initiating change. Our purpose would be more individual. Lonelier and more vague. We would get there, but not as teenagers. Our purpose would manifest itself to those experienced minds who know how to pick up the pieces when life is shattered. That would come later, but first we had to do the business of living.

How It All Started

This is “Miss Spirit”
She is the first doll I ever made.

Occasionally, I get asked about how I got started making dolls. 

In 1981, I had made one rag doll for each of my two daughters who were two and three at the time. They were very simple...not much more than pillowed stick figures really. But they loved them because they were from Mom. Life went on, and on, and on until I had almost completely forgotten about it.

Then, about eight years ago, I was going through a mild depression due to chronic depression and two things happened; the desire to control my own destiny and remembering “the zone”.

I was experiencing a lot of rejection within my journey to employment. I realized that the impact that has would only be equal to my dependency being hired. So, I wanted to carve out my own way of at least creating a stream of revenue until I find something of a “real job”. But could I do? What are my talents? What materials do I have/need? How much would it cost me to get started?

Then I remembered the little rag dolls that I made for my daughters. So I did research on the desire out there for simple rag dolls and I was surprised to see that it was pretty good. The doll examples that I was running across actually seemed like something I could do! So I started to make a doll to see if I could even make something passable after all these years.

So, armed with a zillion YouTube tutorials (none of which I obeyed completely), I made my first doll and was hooked. I worked into the wee hours until Miss Spirit was done. I couldn’t believe that out of fabric and wool and yarn this doll had been ‘born’. Something was ignited that evening. I had discovered “the zone”. I felt as though I was on a high – in a bubble where time and space didn’t matter – in the ‘flow’. It was pure magic. It still is.

Then something really unique occurred to me! What if I made dolls that looked like my friends and family members?

YAY!! WHAT A GREAT IDEA!!

I then made one of Marc and myself then for one friend, then another and another and another. 

Each time trying out different ways; learning something new each time. Eventually, I started to make celebrities to reach more people.

It’s been a long road with lots of trial and error, many cups of coffee and even more tantrums, swearing and giving up. But at the end of the day... many days, I found a path. I found my way of forging out some small but important bit of independence.

I’m not making dolls to become rich. I’m making them because I am compelled to do so. It is in my spirit to create. I make dolls to bring a smile to your face or a friend into your home. I can’t explain it any better than that. I make dolls because I can.

The Wire and the Electricity

I was having a discussion with a creative friend yesterday, and she mentioned that she believes her creativity doesn't come from within herself but that she is channeling a higher power. In other words, she is a conduit for creativity — she is only the wire, not the electricity.

I thought a lot about that. What do I believe about my creativity and where it comes from? What is the source of human inspiration? The ancient Greeks had their Muses — female spirits that whispered in the ears poets, writers, and artists. What do I have?

Like any artist, I have had the experience of going into an almost meditative (or blissful) trance and creating something, a “zone” if you will. I've come out of that mystical place, looked at what I've written, or a doll I've just finished and thought, "Where the hell did that come from?" I didn't know I had it in me. Not a clue. I know I created these works but it seems like the ideas were placed in my head. Creepy? Maybe. It feels more like having a friend inside me whom I collaborate with.

So, how do I explain that experience? How can I create something from so far from my awareness?

All this leads to some questions. Why can't we believe in ourselves? Why can't we believe that we are that creative and that the mystical things we create come from hidden aspects of our inner being. Why can't we believe that creativity is the act of dredging the soul and bringing the beautiful, secret aspects of our humanity into the light?

Sadly, I think I know why this is so hard to believe.

First, we don't think we're good enough. Society, or our religion, or our parents, or our peers have convinced us that we just aren't that amazing. Somewhere deep down, we think we're not quite good enough, so anything good we've done was either a fluke, or someone helped us.

Second, we have had humility beaten into us. We have been trained to not stand out in a crowd, not to brag. Certainly, we shouldn't take all the credit for a creative act that we alone performed. Therefore, we didn't perform it alone. We had help.

Third, we doubt things we can't explain. How could I create something that I never knewI had in me? There must be some explanation.

And I think there is an explanation. I think the very nature of creativity is the act of bringing the unknown inner world of ourselves outward. Creativity is communication between an individual's conscious and subconscious, perhaps even a conversation between the individual and the universal collective consciousness.

Now, I know that's a lot to take in. But I really believe that when we are being creative we are simultaneously processing, discovering, sharing, and absorbing what we know about being human.

This is what I believe about my creativity. I believe it truly comes from within me. My obligation is to do what I love to do. That is the please and the thank you. I am a part of the creative universe doing creative work, just as other artists are doing theirs. My creativity doesn't make me better, but it does makes me unique. No one can express humanity the same way.

I am the wire and the electricity.

That's what I believe.

What about you?

Dream Identity

“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

 Edgar Allan Poe

I'd say in about one third of the dreams I remember, I'm somebody else in the dream. Like, I'm in their body, I know who they are and it feels totally normal... and it's not me. For reference, I'm 60 years old. In my dreams, I've been men and women of all different ages, races, etc. This is just a normal thing. I don't generally remember their names, and the dreams are pretty standard dream stuff - sometimes it'll be a fun "wow, I can fly, let's glide over this lake!" dream, sometimes it's an awkward "I really have to pee and the only toilet is in the middle of this crowded cafeteria for some reason" type thing; sometimes it's mundane, sometimes it's wild, sometimes it's scary, sometimes it's funny.The only weird thing about it is that the person I "am" in the dream, is not who I am in my waking life.

It's never anyone I recognize, and I don't think it's ever been the same person twice. Oh, and when I'm someone else, nobody from my life appears in the dream - it's other strangers. When I'm myself, the dream will frequently include people I know.

As I said, I always figured this was something that happened in everyone's dreams. But whenever I've mentioned this to people in my life, they say they've never had any dreams where they wern't themselves. Some seem to think I could be "dropping in" on other peoples' dreams. LOL!

So how about you guys? Are you always "you" in your dreams, or do you sometimes find yourself playing someone of a different age/race/gender?

Just wondering.

Anticipating Another Mother's Day

Mom was is dying. Slowly disintegrating into an unknown existence. First her mind, then also her body. All she remembered was her name.

She was elderly and had dementia for at least her final 5 years, probably even longer the doctors said. It got very bad between us once the paranoia of the dementia became very strong. Unfortunately, I was the only one she had to which to focus all of her fear, her anger and understandable confusion.

She would've be horrified by the wicked games of the dying brain and the dependency on the others. In the end she was just an old fragile woman who wanted peace. In the whispers of her ultimately foggy mind, her love broke through like a flower breaks through the asphalt; briefly piercing through the dementia and always unexpected. I wish I could've given that to her.

I knew Mom too well.

At the time I did not even know what narcissism was. I just thought I wasn't good enough to love. If I would have known what narcissism at that time, I definitely would've understood how my mother was no doubt was a card carrying member. But until your mother tells you that you are, in fact, worth loving, you can only believe it intellectually. It is actually thee most personal and soul validation there is. Without it, we are faking it.

I can take solace in knowing things intellectually but integrating it with my heart has been a slow arduous effort, to say the least. I think as a result, I did not feel grief so much as relief.

I know where she’s buried, but I have no desire to visit her grave. I haven’t resolved the question of whether or not I can forgive her. All I can say is I hope she rests in peace. I’m glad I’ve finally found a bit of my own.

The New Age of Dying Alone

Across cultures it is accepted that it is a terrible thing to die alone. During the present Covid-19 epidemic there are visions of refrigerated trucks on TV. It's all so sad and tremendously disturbing to say the least. Of course it is tragic when large numbers of people die. It is also frightening. There is a real human fear of being unknown and alone when you are dying or have died. It feels as if that life is un-celebrated...discarded and unmourned with no funerals.

What about their families? Loved ones can't visit those who are sick and dying. I don't know if it's sadder for the dying or the one's left behind. I would imagine that for those who, for whatever reason, have not made it to the death bed in time may be crippling.

During this pandemic, the escalating fear of the unknown spreads like the virus itself. Responses to the horror of the hard to predict scope of Covid-19, the uncertainty of who dies next, and visions of people seeming to be abandoned and discarded has stirred up and understandable terror.

Life’s events are uncertain. The truth is, as we all know, the events of life and death have always been uncertain.

I don't have any answers. But if I were to get anything out of this it would be the power of love. Hold on to your loved ones. Tell them you love them...a lot. Stay in the moment...always.

Funny thing is that this should have always been our beacon.

In life, periods of solitude were blessings. Dying alone was a bitter curse.

Faye Kellerman 

Alone Together

So this is week…four (I think?) of self-isolation. The days blend in together. I watch the news to see when this will all pass but there are no clear answers. Lately, a small part of me fears that we won’t ever go back to “normal” again or we'll forget what normal is. But when you think about it, isn't that life anyway?

Life keeps moving along changing everything. It's just in these strange days, everything is more stark. But actually, that can help us see everything more clearly as to what our choices are...of who we want to be in all this. There is no mistaking that this pandemic, our political polarization, and even climate change exhibited in near biblical proportions, has re-prioritized everything in each of our lives.

As for me, this last month has been wonderful therapy. Before this pandemic I rarely left the house. Part of that was due to being broke but truth be told, a lot of it was depression. Now, the weird thing is it's as if all of you are along with me. Weird. I know. I suddenly crave people and the idea of going out to lunch seems like heaven. In some ways this forced lock-down has given me time to take a deep breath and assess. I suspect many of us are like this.

We are all fighting and failing. We are all thriving and barely surviving and then starting all over again. Some see the rest of the world suddenly struggle and realize that this can bring empathy in some ways. When the time comes I will begin the forever-work of being human. Just like you. Just like all of us.

We will get through this. This part and the next and the next. And we’ll take what we’ve learned and use it. And that’s how life continues.

It's Moments That Defy Death - Goodbye Amy

It killed her slowly and painfully. Schwannomatosis; Pretty fancy word. Just like my sister, it's extremely rare and never let's you forget it's presence. Her illness was characterized by multiple tumors on nerves throughout her body. She was in extreme intense pain all the time.

My sister was not defined by this war on her body for which she did not enlist.

All the years since, she pushed all that ever knew her out of her life. Sadly, her pain and lack of the ability to really connect deeply with anyone left her angry and bitter. People say that “she's in a better place”. I hope that's true.

Grief registers as experience.

When Death slammed the door with my big sister in tow, internally I beg for another look; beating against the gate for another twinkle I can cherish forever. I am living each day again and again with all the words I should have said. Against my consent, my grief is woven within a global pandemic panic. We are all grieving for something right now; a loved one, our freedom of movement, our security, our direction. If nothing else we are all human beings being forced to get along or prepare for the consequences.

Amy.

That was her name. Amy Scott Herndon. She was born on June 7, 1953.

She was, what she called herself, a tough broad.

She, as all of us, was a sum total of all of her experiences.

Being the oldest of three, she was the one that had to be “responsible”.

Growing up in southern California was fun as I looked back but I was 6 ½ years younger. What did I know. I remember her in those days trying to be a teenage go-go girl.

We were raised by a single mother who did the best she could dealing with the challenges of raising kids ans climbing up the ladder in the interior design world. This was not easy for our mother for she also was a complete narcissist. While Mom would take her swatches up and down Robertson Row, Amy had to look after me. I became a tag-along to her teenage world. I thought it was so cool!. She would put on my mother's fall (hair piece), high white boots, and a mini dress she borrowed from one of her friends and out we'd go. This was what 1967 looked like for me.

We walked the sidewalks of Palms (Culver City), like the city was made just for her. I felt so privileged. Again, what did I know, I was seven. I can still hear KHJ Radio playing The Doors coming out of Amy's little red transistor radio as she held it up to her ear. We would end up at the gas station where she would flutter mom's fake eyelashes at the much-too-old-for-her boy that swept the floor there.

Later that year, Amy turned 13. My mother kicked her out of the house. Or she just decided to leave. I felt conflicted. It was beautiful in one way not unlike seeing a dove released from a cage. Yet, she was the one that took the brunt of my mother's anger, belt, hairbrush, or wire hanger....even when it was my fault. Who would protect me now?

I heard nothing from Amy after that. The years went by yet I had not matured. I had rewritten history to one where she left because I was annoying and that she just didn't care. It took a lot more years before I allowed myself to remember it without my pitying filter.

Finally in 1980, she knocked on my door. I saw her threw the window and marked the surreal moment it in my brain. I invited her in and she smiled that Amy smile. I had almost forgotten. I don't want to ever forget that smile. Her teeth were situated a certain way that was unique to her. It was a little girl smile.

She was talking but I didn't hear any of it because I was taking in the totality of the pure Amy; unaffected by society or family. Her long raven hair, tan skin, athletic build and fire in her eyes was a force of nature. After a she saw my now, two daughters, she gave me a look of pity like had I sold out. After that, we walked out to a waiting VW van. A very hairy gentleman in sunglasses waved at us from the driver's seat. The next thing I remember is waving at the van as it disappeared down the street. My crying two year old came running down the driveway terrified that I had left her. I felt the pull.

Amy was always the brave one who took chances. She loved the thrill of the adventure...not so much the everyday grind of things. As for me, I was on a mission of my own. Mother my children the way I wanted to be mothered and somehow that would make me whole. The jury is still out on that.

The next time I saw Amy was three years later after my divorce. I came up on my own to visit her in a little town in northern California called Inverness. It had a small downtown area with a general store, post office, library, two restaurants, one gift shop/coffee shop and one traffic signal. Amy lived in a little homemade cabin, not under code, way up in a tropical rain forest area. A friend with a house down the hill from her rigged up electricity from his place to hers.

I was only there for two or three days but I am so glad to have that to remember back on – a day in the life of Ms. Amy. We talked about everything. We talked about silly things like when grandma used to fall asleep sitting up watching TV with her mouth open but her dentures closed. We talked about dark stuff too. She said she felt guilty for years leaving me there with mom. She gave me advice about life and love. It was glorious. I had my big sister that day.

She introduced me to all her musician friends as they sat around their studio and harmonized CSN&Y songs. She took me a bar, the only bar. As we walked in, all the heads turned. They all literally stopped what they were doing to come embrace her. I wanted some of that to rub off on me!. She was the happiest I had ever seen her. She is still there...in a happy loop in my brain. Still there.

“No-one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear" - C.S. Lewis

Grief isn't just about missing the person you've lost. It can make you scared for the future. I sometimes wonder if she is watching, and thinking…”Don’t forget me!”.  The truth is, I know she's watching, cheering, and encouraging me from beyond the veil. After all, she's my big sister.