American Grafitti comes back to town

There is a “Salute to American Grafitti” planned in my hometown next weekend. It is three days of nostalgia. There will be Classic cars, 50s costumes, cruising, music, and more. It is a celebration of the innocence of the post World War II years, before JFK and King and Malcom X and RFK were assassinated. Theirs were deaths that would change the nation for generations. This party will be about the decade before all hell broke loose.

Yes, by all means, let us celebrate a decade of oppression, conformity, and the ever-present, underlying terror of nuclear war. Let’s root for Joe McCarthy’s Communist hysteria, black-listing, and the loss of civil liberties. We should dance with joy in celebration of our country’s first “police action” in Korea, that lovely warm-up to Vietnam and Iraq. Everyone was supposed to fit into neat little boxes. Giving birth was practically a national pastime and mom stayed at home taking good care of those babies as they popped out, and found immense satisfaction in caring for her home, washing dishes, scraping shitty diapers and waiting on her husband hand and foot. Dad was at work; the kids were at school or playing nicely in the front yard on the newly mown grass. The teen girls were readying themselves for matrimony, and hey, if they don’t find one by the time high school was over, college might be a good place to fsnag a man. There was even a box for a rebel, as proven so well by James Dean. More than one at a time meant gangs. Come to think of it, even gangs were conformists; they all wore the same cool clothes.

No one was gay or unhappy and certainly not different. It was just normal to practice bomb drills, and build fallout shelters.

An all out salute to the 1950s lifestyle depicted in the film American Graffiti is really ironic. It is a film that takes place in 1962 and was filmed in 1972, but the style is all 1950s. The need to alter our perception of history is palpable. The need to believe that we once truly lived in a simpler time is understandable. It may have been simpler then, but it certainly wasn’t safer. Not really.

But I suppose that there were good things to remember, even if we have to squint to see them, to make the frame as small a possible to keep the ugliness out of our line of sight. There is joy in most every sorrow; somewhere in there we humans have managed to survive, in part I believe, because we can find enjoyment, laughter and love. And I suppose that as much as anything, the salute to the movie and that time in history is really a salute to the good that did exist.

Isn’t that, after all, what nostalgia is?

Favorites

In the move "High Fidelity," John Cusack's character has running lists of favorites: five most memorable breakups, top ten songs in some category–you get the idea. There are so few things in my life that rank as the number one favorite of anything, that I have often felt left out or discussions or a sense of camaraderie with folks.

I remember trying to pick a favorite color, I must have been 12-years-old. Lots of girls around me chose blue as their favorite color, that choice was made especially easy because we all wore jeans most everyday, and jeans go with just about anything, especially other blue clothing items. This was long before I understood how to listen to my own heart or head about what I really wanted, but I did know that it wasn't a good idea to pick blue just because the majority did.

I chose orange, not because it looked particularly good on me, not because I had tons of stuff that I had collected in my life that were all orange, not because I truly believed it was the prettiest color around. In fact, I think the only reason I chose orange was because I owned a T-shirt with a clever saying on it that happened to be orange. This was long before I understood that some colors work better with my complexion than others. Regardless, it wasn't long before I gave up orange as my favorite. I eventually understood that greens, reds and blacks look best on me. I love the deep green hills of my hometown in the winter, most reds look great with my complexion, and while whites make me look pale, blacks accentuate my positive physical attributes.

For a time my favorite movie was the most recent Star Wars film. Then my favorite was the Rocky Horror Picture Show; the fact that I saw it twice a weekend for more than a year had some influence on that decision.

I have had crushes on famous folks, some lasting longer than others. There was the long term obsession with Bobby Sherman, the occasional actor. Who didn't like Sylvester Stallone right after Rocky, or Mark Hamill in 1977? Although and as I matured I preferred Harrison Ford. But no one person or place or movie or color or food has managed to find a way into my regular thoughts and stay there for any length of time.

This is an advantage on occasion: I gave birth to 2 children, they are both my favorite.

There is the occasional exception: I am married to my favorite husband. I live in my favorite house.

I love a good steak, and the minestrone soup at Negri's in Occidental. I thoroughly enjoy my extended family and most of my kids' friends. But no real favorites.

My daughter once asked me when I was the happiest. My reply was right now, right this moment. I am happier now than I have ever been. Each day is better than the last. I suppose that means that my life right now is my favorite. That is a distinction that I can live with.

This Guy Walks Into a Bar …

I once had a friend who called me everyday at work and began the conversation with the opening line of a joke. The joke was always the same, "This guy walks into a bar…" He never got passed the opening line, however, because I would start to giggle, which made him laugh, and we went from there. I never heard the entire joke, he had begun it once while sitting in a movie theater during the movie Re-Animator as a way of helping me cope with the disgusting and highly stressful moments at the climax of the movie.

Yes, I was younger; back in those days most things that made me laugh were some version of an inside joke, a shared experience. You know, those moments where something quite ordinary is funny as hell, and you can recreate the humor of the moment with a friend, even if you can't recreate the story for someone else, they to be there.

The laughter that is the byproduct of inside jokes, shared experiences and all things silly is what keeps us alive. If we have no other fun at all at high school reunions, we enjoy rehashing four years of the teacher who sat in the back of the classroom in the dark sipping from his flask while the history students watched yet another boring and historically accurate movie. Or the day at lunch when my best friend and I "shared" orange drink for a makeshift marriage ceremony as a response to reading Henlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. This was not the same lunch period when the above mentioned orange drink came out my nose, the direct result of a clever quip made by the boy I had a crush on. Many times a laughing jag was sparked by a burrito that I couldn't get into my mouth passed the rubber brands on my braces.

Lately the folks I share laughing experiences with include my own kids. They are making their way into young adulthood, and the hubby and myself are blessed that they are including us in their journey.

For her 17th birthday party, our darling daughter requested a dinner party–a complete sit down at the diningroom table with plates and silverware and beverages kind of dinner party. AND Mom and Dad were invited.

The guests began to arrive around 6pm, we served dinner shortly thereafter and proceeded to laugh ourselves silly for the next four hours. Solid. The one liners were zinging across the table ("That's what she said!") along with stories, banter, laughter, presents, cakes and condoms. Yes, condoms. The girls were putting them on their heads and blowing them up. Those things really do "swell" to quite a size before popping. Knowing that actually makes me feel a bit more secure about the statistics of failure. So does the fact that the kids are so comfortable with condoms before putting them to the intended use, that they can play with them without embarrassment or the need for disgusting or overly graphic jokes. Yes, I have pictures. No, I'm not posting them here. The pictures don't do the evening justice. You had to be there.

Memories, Out of the Corner of My Eye

There are some memories that creep into the psyche, that seep like water under a door and into the carpet of consciousness to become a part of who we are and insinuate themselves into the shape of our daily lives. Memories of cooking with my grandmother–putting dishes together for special occasions, for BBQs or Christmas or Thanksgiving–include not only the knowledge of the ingredients, the order they are added or mixed, the the timing for boiling, baking, but her movements as well. Cooking often takes the form of ritual in the way we chop, the way we season, the way we smell and taste our creations. I find myself searching my memories for the subtleties that aren't written down, that aren't included in the handwritten notes in Gram's old white cookbook. Each time I recreate a recipe from the holiday traditions of my childhood, I remember my grandmother's mannerisms, her voice inflections, the way she held the knife, or the point when she gave directions.

Recently I was putting together a BBQ sauce for chicken–not a tomato sauce with a special blend of seasonings–a wine and olive oil based one with a special blend of vegetables and seasonings. It calls for chopped celery and green onions, rosemary, oregano, worchestershire sauce, garlic and "italian seasonings." In the cookbook Gram wrote "slice garlic," but when I was a child and we made this sauce together, she always made me crush the garlic, clove after clove of these masses of garlic crushed to nearly a paste, plopped in with the wine and oil. When I am prepping the garlic, I search the periphal vision of my memories to watch her hands carefully put the garlic into the press and close it firmly before scraping the garlic off the outside of the press and scooping any pod leavings from the inside of the garlic press out to join the rest in the liquid.

I also strain my peripheral vision for the look on her face, the face I love and miss and see in glimpses in my mind's eye. I can see her lean on the sink as she does some sort of prep work into a container in the sink, although I can't recall what she was doing. Sometimes I can see a cigarette in her mouth, as much as I loath that visual memory, it is a visual nonetheless, so as much as I despised the ubiquitous cigarettes, it gives me another glimpse of her face.

I wonder what kinds of dishes that I have made for my family (and my very picky children) that they don't like know, but will learn to love later as I did. I used to hate the Christmas sandwich loaf, a behemoth of a project that involved no less than four different types of fillings, layered between slices of bread cut the long way unlike a traditional sandwich slice and held together with gravity and toothpicks. I hated this meal growing up. Gram made it every year for Christmas Eve dinner. It was serve along with sliced salami and cheese, sweet and dill pickles and olives, and some weird pickled vegetables like cauliflower and pepperoncini. I went for the dills, the salami and the cheese. And then waited impatiently while the grown-ups lingered over their loaf slices extending dinner out impossibly long, keeping me from opening presents.

Will my kids ever learn to like my homemade spaghetti sauce? I know they would like my chili recipe, and my son would like my lasagna recipe, both would like my enchilada recipe. Neither would likely care much about chicken or beef stroganoff and they can both make the breaded chicken that they love so much.

I suspect that even if they don't learn to love some things, if either is ever forced to make dishes they don't like, they will also find that the memories of cooking together are more important than taste of the food. And who knows, maybe they will appreciate my spaghetti sauce the way I now appreciate the sandwich loaf.

One Long Process

Anyone who has lived through the death of a loved one knows that regardless of what a company policy may be, there is really no finite time limit that grief fits neatly into. Bereavement leave at work may be three days, or three weeks, but the process is as individual and unique as the life that is lost. A few days of utter sadness and pints of ice cream may be enough to allow day-to-day functioning. A few weeks in bed, unable to attend to regular daily responsibilities or personal hygiene may be the norm. Months and months of a low steady hum in the ears might create a nearly impenetrable barrier between living and grieving. Or a heaviness might slow down every movement, every thought, every memory.

And what if there are multiple deaths, one after the other? Is it possible to separate each from the other, to compartmentalize, prioritize? In my case, there is the occasional glimpse or sense a deceased loved one, a few moments or hours of thought directed solely at one soul. Most of the time one thought leads from one to another. I don't feel that I am doing any of them justice, that I am mourning each in turn, respecting their individuality in life and death. But the timing makes it nearly impossible to separate them in my head and in my heart.

Most recently is the lost grandchild. His name was Rowan. He was inside his mother for nearly five months before his heart stopped beating. When I think of him, when I allow myself a few moments of focused thought, when I can push aside the pain and numb myself sufficiently, I envision tiny fingers and toes, a face that had begun to take on unique characteristics, a little body that was on its way to becoming plump and round in anticipation of birth. I can't stay in those moments for long, the thought of his being lost is too overwhelming. When we found out he existed, and I was facing grand parenthood, I often remarked, At least it's not another death. And now he is exactly that.

When I think of the loss of Rowan, I wonder how I can still inhale with the weight of his death on my chest. I wonder how any of us can survive another loss. I remember when I found out that my dad had died, how I felt that I couldn't cope, couldn't live through another parent's death. My mind goes back one more step to my mother, knowing she was dying so soon after Miriam, feeling angry that mom's death intruded on the great grief I was feeling for Miriam. I go back at the beginning, to the loss of Miriam, to her illness, sitting with her at the end feeling the dichotomy of the pain and the great comfort in the gifts she left us.

I had originally meant this posting to be about lost possibilities, but that would infer that I was far enough along in my grieving process that I could systematically outline exactly who left behind what potential. Instead I realize that I am still facing my grief, still processing–and it is one long process.

With Age Comes…

I have reached a point in my life when I am concerned about certain aspects of aging. From very early on in my life, I received comments about my maturity level; I appeared to the outside world to be older than my years. This was cool when I was 15 and thought to be older than my 22-year-old co-worker. It was even cooler at 17, 18 and 19 when I wasn’t carded at bars or restaurants or liquor stores. The only thing I lacked was life experience.
Now that I am mature in years and life experience, I no longer want to look/act/seem older than I really am. I in fact, to appear younger would be better. So I worry about things like wrinkles, and spend maybe too much money on over-the-counter face lotions to reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. I was one of those unfortunate girls who could find gray hairs amongst the darker ones early in my twenties and often joked that I would have so many white hairs by the time I was 50 that I would be naturally blonde. I started playing with hair color cause it was fun, and at some point it became, well, necessary.
I’m not to 50 yet (despite what the AARP thinks with their stupid mailers and offers of free copies of their magazine), and have had to make the tough decision whether to continue to color to cover the encroaching gray, or let it all hang out and to hell with what the world thinks. I didn’t like the look, so I chose to go back to chemical additives and continue to be a brunette for a couple of more decades.
Many women and men of my generation, choose to follow in the steps of the younger generation who have made adorning the body with tattoos a mainstream hobby. I’m not there yet, but I do like some more adventurous piercing beyond the earlobes. So after seven years of hemming and hawing, I had my nostril pierced. I love it!
Now my hair color is from a bottle, and I am sporting an opal on my face, I’m feeling okay about my age. Hell, who has to go quietly? There’s no law, right? People these days live so much longer, so it naturally follows that what used to be considered middle age is still ramping up.
Then my son goes and decides to make me a grandmother.
My twenty-one-year old son and his twenty-year-old girlfriend are working (all too) quickly towards parenthood. They are due in mid-March. I’m not ready for this. I am delighted to have a baby in the family–I’m just not thrilled that he or she will call me Grandmother. Maybe Nana, or Grammy or Nona or Grandma Ginger, or Mamaw. Definitely not Granny or Nanny or Abuela. I have a friend whose response to the news was, “Are you even 40, yet?” God, I love this woman, she always knows exactly what to say. And the best part is–she was serious!
So I’ve said it. I’m going to be a Grandmother. I’m very glad that I decided to color my hair and get my nose pierced BEFORE I found out. Not because.
Maybe it’s time for a tattoo.

The Weight of the Dead

More than one person has said to me that when a loved one dies, it brings up the memories and feelings of every other death you have experienced in your life. No one said, however, that those loved ones would take up residence in my life, intruding in my thoughts and feelings even more so than when they were alive.
My grandfather and grandmother, who have been dead three and fifteen years respectively, are perched one on each shoulder, taking full advantage of their renewed place in my consciousness, dispensing tidbits into each ear on a continual basis. I hear things come out of my mouth that I know are not my ideas. This goes far beyond turns-of-phrases. Comments, lectures and arguments that I know they would have made when they were alive, in fact probably did, are spewing out of my mouth much like, yeah I’ll say it, projectile vomit. My son and his girlfriend are struggling with life decisions and I hear myself telling them that what they want won’t work, they can’t afford it, it isn’t practical, etc. Argh! This is not the kind of mother that I am. I’m a shoot from the hip, tell it like I see tempered by love and understanding kind of mom. I try not to tell anybody how to live their life. And here I am doing just that. Get off my shoulders, get out of my head!
Meanwhile, my recently deceased mother and father can’t find room on my shoulders, so they have settled in mid-chest. They don’t say much; just make sure that I know they are there. When they were alive I always felt a kind of psychic connection, I could feel them out there somewhere in the cosmos and assumed that when they died, I would feel their absence. There were actually about five days just before my mother actually passed that I couldn’t feel her. Well, I was wrong about feeling an absence. They are with me stronger now that they are dead than they ever were when they were alive. It’s as if they decided that since they were absent the bulk of my life from my life that they are going to stick around in the afterlife and make up for lost time. To their credit it feels as though they have left the pain and other crap from their lives on earth behind, and are now more interested in offering love and companionship. If I was willing to let down the boundaries, brick walls, and various other kinds of defense mechanisms that I was forced to erect over the years to protect myself, their intentions might have some positive effect. But I’m not, so they don’t. They are offering me exactly what I wanted, but not offering it when I wanted it. And that knowledge brings up all the pain I have felt in my life, and it sits on my chest beside my parents.
My beloved Miriam, also recently deceased, my surrogate mother/aunt/loving friend, hovers off to the side, not out of sight, not out of mind, and never irritating or painful. She was no saint when she was alive, and let’s be honest, who would want a saint in their life? Not me. I like deep complicated people with flaws who offer me unconditional love. Her physical absence from my daily life is the most painful of all. With her help I found so much of myself…I don’t know how to explain…I don’t have words. I love her. I miss her. It hurts. Yet I can still feel her.
And these celestial bodies; ghosts; impressions; remnants of memories; whatever they are, they are damned heavy. And their weight hurts. Logic says that the pain will subside, as I move through my grief the strong sense I have of each of these people will slowly drift farther and farther away. Never so far that I won’t feel them, or remember them, but the pain will abate enough to function and continue to live my life. And when that happens, I will still miss them. I will even miss the pain.