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