Oscar Night

          The Oscars used to be such a big deal for me. Especially in the 1980s when I bought a gigantic Encyclopedia of Cinema that listed all my grandfather’s films.   He was Gibson Gowland, a character actor in the early days of Hollywood, playing many parts in D.W. Griffith’s huge productions of Birth of a Nation and Intolerance. But he is best known in the United States as the lead in Erich von Stroheim’s Greed.  The film was originally eight hours long, which was extremely rare in 1927 the year it came out.

          Set in San Francisco it is the story of a middle class dentist who marries a woman obsessed with money. I remember the scene where the wife, played by Zasu Pitt, empties a bag of coins onto the wire-frame bed, and rolls around on it, her thigh-long hair tangling around her.  Parts of the movie were shot in Death Valley. These were the days before air conditioning and the parched lips of my grandfather and his co-star Gene Hershel (for whom the Humanitarian award is named) were real.

          Gibson returned to England when talkies came in. He had a thick Northumberland accent that was better understood in its native land. I never knew him.  He died the year before I was born, alone, in a one-room apartment in London, aged 77.

          My father, whose first love – and profession – was photography, worked as a “dress extra” in Hollywood in the 1930s.  He was tall and handsome and looked great in a tux or a military uniform.  His career was cut short by the war. He became a photographer at North American Aviation, before finally being stationed in Germany during The Occupation.

          My sister Ann was destined to be an actress. At the age of three she played the daughter of Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn. She was scheduled for a call-back, when she was about seven, when she disobeyed my mother and rode her tricycle, while my mother was on the phone.  Her friend pushing from behind, Ann tried to break with the pedals but her foot got caught in the spokes and she was thrown from the trike, breaking her leg.

          The closest I got to being in the movies was when my father paid $200.00, a large sum back in 1967, for me to be in the Extras Guild. I was in four movies. The only one I remember was “Airport”, where I got to wear the most luxurious camels hair coat and stand looking out at the runway, in Airport.  In the scene  Helen Hayes passes through the airport.       

          Next, I went on a call that required the prospective extras to stand in a line, in bikinis, by a pool of an indoor set. There were probably twelve of us – eighteen to twenty year olds.  I hated standing in that line being scrutinized and when I was told I should come back tomorrow for the shoot I had a feeling dread. I didn’t sleep that night. In the morning I called in sick, making my voice raspy. Then, panicking I decided to walk to my sister’s apartment on

Ocean Avenue

, at least a mile away.

          Why didn’t I drive? My parents could have thought I was going to work? I’ve asked myself this many times over the years. My only excuse is that I was really scared of my father’s reaction. He had only gotten upset twice in my life – as opposed to my mother who periodically lost her temper and became like a crazed fire-breathing dragon for ten minutes then collapsed in a heap.

          Suffice it to say, this was the end of my movie career. I would go on to community theater both in high school and as an adult, but as for movies: nix on pix.

          However, this did not mean that my connection with Hollywood was gone. My sister married a sound engineer who has three Oscars. My niece was a assistant director before she moved back east. My best friend married a film composer who probably would have won an Oscar if he hadn’t dropped dead at the age of 46. I even got to go to the Razzy's once.

          Plus, I was in love with a line-director (whatever that is) whose Facebook photo has him holding a gigantic, manly cinematography camera. 

          In conclusion: even though I have not seen any of the movies that are nominated for Oscars this year, I’ll watch the show. It’s a family tradition.

Japanese Texas Style

          Tonight John and I went to Bonsai, the new Japanese restaurant about two miles from our house. I’d been there before, for lunch with the Wonderful Women of Unity and liked it. But then we’d sat at the teppan table and enjoyed watching the chef cook our meals in front of us, complete with juggling raw eggs on the blade of his huge knife and bursts of fire.

          Tonight was a completely different experience. We sat at a table, side by side on the banquette.  At the table in front of us was a young couple with an infant, a toddler and a little boy running around the table with red lights on his sneakers.  To our right were three-generations: grand parents, parents and tiny youngsters.  The rest of the tables were occupied with couples in their seventies, or fifty-ish couples of extra large size.

          Through a pretty window etched with the image of a Japanese maiden, we could see flames from the teppan tables erupt. Straight ahead we could see into the kitchen. Diagonally to our right was the long sushi bar. As people left the restaurant they could bang a big gong or taiko drum. So, with the sounds of crying babies, screeching children, doting grandparents, gongs, drums and chatter, we ordered our meal.

          I chose seaweed salad and tempura appetizer. John selected chicken-steak combo.  He had chardonnay. I had pinot grigio.  It took a long time to get our drinks and even longer to get our dinner. I didn’t particularly mind, as I was enjoying observing the large man in his black cowboy hat and blue jeans, as he got up to go to the restroom, leaving his wife to text on her smart phone.  The couple to the left of us seemed in their mid-seventies. They had ordered a whole bottle of red wine.

          Since it was taking a while for my seaweed salad to come, the young male waiter offered me free soup.  A moment after our soups arrived, a waitress brought my seaweed salad in a martini glass with shredded carrots underneath.

          John’s dinner arrived and was overcooked. I pilfered some of his chicken. Finally, after a very long wait my tempura arrived, way too hot to eat.  I scooted next to John and put my arm around his shoulder. You’d think, that because he works at home we’d be touching all the time. But this is not the case. He gets up in the morning when I’m out with the dog. By the time I’m back he’s made his coffee and ensconced himself in his office.  I get only glimpses of him when he’s passing by my office.

          Today he disappeared. I thought he’d taken a drive and was glad, thinking he needed to get out of the house. After all, I’d been out every day this week: senior writing class, my class at Tom Daniels Elementary, my class at Club Ed, two yoga classes.  I planned to spend the morning typing up the article on Augie and Bonnie Bering, who I interviewed last Tuesday, and welcomed being in the house alone. I could do laundry and juggle cats: on Saturday Jane gets upset by the trash trucks so wants to come in; but Audrey was already in my office. I’d have to wait till she woke up, transfer her to the bedroom, so Jane could be in the office. . .     Well, John had not gone for a drive. He’d  gone to buy planters and soil.  Because we’ve sold the truck, he had to make several trips. He ended up with sixteen 18-gallon blue plastic tubs and numerous bags of potting soil.

          I snuck into his office and got his camera and took a photo of him without his knowing.  I chuckled to myself.  I’d thought his gardening days were behind him. I often wonder if the new owners of our house have torn town “Fort Knox” or will use the planters we left. Oh, how I loved my Japanese Eggplant, basil, tomatoes, potatoes, zucchini, peas, beans. . . but that life is gone. Or is it?

          Later I found John in the kitchen looking at packets of seeds and on his work table in the garage, small tomato plants.  At the restaurant we toasted and I said, “Here’s to your new garden!”  as out glasses clinked.

          When dinner arrived he said, “I’m not planting carrots,” and I remembered the sweet carrots he grew at our house in YLP, almost nineteen years ago.  Nineteen years!

          I’m rambling.  I wanted to say that I wore my new thrift store top ($1.50) and Bangladeshi gray jeans ($12). I think it’s okay to buy things made in Bangladesh. Remember George Harrison’s concert for Bangladesh?

          Over the coming weeks I hope to hear back from the Kroc Center (after school program), the Nature Center (spring break camp), and Fredericksburg School District (summer camp). As I cast my seeds, so John will plant his. Only by doing will we see what grows.

Sweetheart Weekend

Finally we catch a break: the moon moves into chatty Gemini and the afternoons warm up. Yay. Finally.

My days have been so full! Wednesday I didn’t get to teach, on account of school being closed due to icy roads; likewise the weekly meeting of library volunteers was called off because it was just too darn cold in the library basement!

On Thursday, in spite of the early morning frost, nine of my ten adult students showed up. The tenth was called in to substitute teach. The assignment had been “Smells”. Descriptions of Indian spiced stew, Parmesan crusted grilled cheese,  fresh garden vegetables and Grandfather’s golden apples had our mouths watering; plus we were treated to memories of the woods at dawn and all the fragrances experienced by a young girl in a gymnastics studio.

Friday I interviewed an architect for the Kerrville Business News. Building our house eleven years ago gave me better understanding of the process an architect goes through to conceive, draw up and execute a project.

That night I was happy to get national coverage of Lakers at Knicks, and they won! (Unlike today’s loss at Orlando).

I got up extra early Saturday, so I could walk Walter before my appointment at ATEK plastics.  It was fun to be out before sun-up in spite of the frost.   At ATEK I felt like Willie Wonka. I was completely enamored of the magical machines that turn little plastic beads into medical devices for stem cell research and other life-saving advancements.  Plus, it was heartwarming to meet a man who really loves what he does, treats his employees like family and has a 100% on-time delivery rate, with zero defects, four years in a row.  To be in such an immaculate, thriving environment was energizing.

Across the street from ATEK is the new Kroc Community Center. Impulsively I decided to go in and ask if I could propose a class for kids. (The library will be undergoing renovations this year, so there’s no space for me there.)  I left my purse in the car, taking only a business card.

Inside, the building is new, fresh, bright. To the left a big gym with treadmills, bikes, weights, etc. Straight, through a big window is an outdoor pool!  I gathered information on membership rates and class schedules. The two people behind the counter were checking in people for the gym so I went wandering.

I found a fellow in a red polo shirt with a name tag and asked if he worked there. He did but he was in a hurry, an emergency and would be right back, “but here, you can talk to her. . .”  - a lovely woman with an angelic face in a gray sweater poncho: Major Mary something-or-other.

Oh! right, the Kroc Center was opened in conjunction with the Salvation Army. (John and I missed the grand opening in December.) I said I’m a creative writing teacher and would love to work with kids at the Center. Just then another woman appeared:  medium height, short blond hair, polo shirt, khaki pants.  I continued talking and the three of us, plus another, small Latina woman in a gray sweat shirt with a whistle around her neck all headed down a hallway.  The Latina woman took my hands and asked, “Where in California did you live?”

Several times, since I’ve been in Texas women have taken me by the hand, when talking. I felt an immediate connection to all three of these women. The blond and I ended up in a small office.  I told her what I’ve done in the past and she gave me a brochure of existing classes. I was thrilled to see a poetry class for 13-16 year olds.  “You must meet Marcus!” she said. We chatted about poetry, river tubing and what brought both of us to Kerrville. (She came from New England about 25 years ago, ran a successful advertising agency and is excited about her new job as Volunteer and Adult Services coordinator).

Tomorrow I’ll take a yoga class and bring in my proposals for two kids classes (2/3 grade, 4/5 grade). If I like the yoga class, I won’t sign up for the one at the Yoga Studio.

I came home briefly, then went out to lunch with the Wonderful Women of Unity at the new Bonsai restaurant near my house. Delicious scallops teppan style. It was fun and I got to talk to two women I see at church but have never spent time with.

In the afternoon I wrote the first draft of the article on ATEK. Had a nice long chat with my mom. John and I went to dinner at Acapulco, a decent Mexican restaurant and then watched the end of the Wizard of Oz together.

It was such a wholesome day!  Today I went to church, did a second draft of the ATEK article; emailed it off for corrections. Tomorrow I’ll work on the architect piece and Tuesday I have an 8:30 appointment with a businessman.  I don’t usually have to write 3-articles at once, but it just happened to work this way, this month.

John’s right: he knew I’d like it here. One of the women at lunch told me to contact summer camps, too. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities around here!”  she assured me.  Hallelujah!

That Old Aries Moon

          Oh, how I love the moon in Aries! Not just because both my parents are born under the Ram, but because it’s the beginning of a new cycle, and time to embark on new projects.

          I started the day off in a most unusual way: I got a good night’s sleep and woke up on my own!  I got to complete an elaborate dream that took place on Santa Monica Beach. The room was bright with sunlight. It was almost eight o’clock! Where was the cat?  And the room was just the right temperature. Amazing.

          What I did differently was this: I turned the central heat down to 60 before going to bed. When I got up to pee at 1:00 the room was getting pretty cold, so I turned on the space heater to low.  The cat slept on top of the covers on the side of the bed by the heater, so she was near but not smothering me.  The absence of hot air blasting made it easier to breathe.  The cat could get to the kitchen by going through my bathroom into the hall, so I didn’t hear her crunching food in the middle of the night. And I no longer have to hear her scratching in her litter box either. Yay.

          I stretched and was just about to get out of bed when Audrey jumped on the bed. I gave her a big “thank you” hug for letting me sleep in. She rewarded me with some kneading and a sweet expression that made me squeeze her cheeks and kiss the top of her head.

          With the scent of Santa Monica still in mind, I greeted Walter. He’d pooped on the floor, but so what. He just needed to pee.  By the time I got outside the sun was high enough to not be right in my face, like it has been when I’ve gone out at 7:30. And I didn’t encounter anyone else.

          After breakfast I went online and applied for Social Security. Everyone says, “Wait! Your payments will be higher.” But here’s the thing: the total amount you collect is the same, whether you start taking it at 62 or wait.  The payments are just smaller, per month, if you start earlier. Since we need money now, it better to begin as soon as possible.  Because I never earned very much, even when I worked part time, it won’t be a lot of money, but will certainly help.  One can earn up to $14,000, too, before it’s taxed. Since I make between $5-7K teaching and writing, I don’t think that will be a problem.

          Next, I left a message for the librarian asking for an appointment to discuss After School Writing Clubs at the library.

          Then I called the Yoga Space and signed up for a beginner class, that starts a week from Thursday.  I haven’t done yoga for. . . five years? so I figure I better start slow. My right hip is screwy, sometimes it sticks; and my shoulders still crackle and crunch from having been frozen in the past.

          I mentioned, when I called, that I had been to the Matrix Energetics website and had seen that The Yoga Space had information on this.  Turns out the instructor for the beginner class is the same person who facilitates it.  Coincidence?

          Now I’m going to the health food store and buy something for my stuffy head. I’m feeling a bit better but my nose is still running and I’m still coughing. Everyone I talk to says it’s Mountain Cedar allergies and that there’s a homeopathic remedy that will clear it up. Imagine, being about to sleep and breathe!

         

Compromise

          Following up yesterday’s blog: I didn’t have the heart, or desire, to kick Audrey off the bed last night.  But I did keep her at arm’s length. Not an easy task. But I was steadfast.  I thought if I covered her with a little blanket she’d be warm enough.  It’s so dry, with the heat running all night, that the blanket crackled and snapped and sparks flew when I pulled it over her. (I know, I should get a humidifier.) When she got up in the night and jumped up on the bathroom counter I told her if she was hungry she had to go in the kitchen. So, like in all relationships, com-promise is important and I think we’ve reached an agreement we both can live with.

          The best thing that happened this week was my new adult class. Eight had signed up but two more showed up, so we had eight women and two men. I had them do an alliteration exercise, ten minutes of writing, then reading aloud. I loved hearing everyone’s unique voice. Then they got to tell why there were here, what they want from the class. It’s a diverse and interesting group, from a bow-hunter who wants to write articles, to a woman who has never written but was told by a psychic in Croatia that she should start.  Several of the women write regularly in their journals.  One woman was a journalist all her life and now wants to write her life story. One man is a songwriter. I’m constantly on the lookout for new writing exercises or ideas that will spur them on. Already, after only one meeting, I’ve developed a fondness for them and want to nurture their talent.

          I’ve got two more interviews lined up, too, for local magazines. I’m doing research on the subjects beforehand so that I can ask pertinent questions. Now that these are ongoing gigs I want to be professional and prepared.

          My 4^th grade class will end in a few weeks. I sure wish I could keep working with these kids! I’d really love to do an after-school class but the principal didn’t like the idea when I first proposed it.  I’ve made up a resume and a list of more schools to contact. But I’m thinking maybe I should see if I could do After School Writing Club at the local library. 

      It’s a beautiful, clear Saturday. 20 when I took Walter out but now at 10:30 it’s already up to 42.  Jane kitty is acting squirrelly from being in the garage so long. I brought her in the house but she just growled at Audrey, so later today I’ll bring her out and sit with her in the sun.

          I’m so happy I hung my Indian tapestry in my office. It is so beautiful. I just love looking at the beadwork, how the light sparkles in the little mirrors, the deep rich greens, purple, magenta. In Coarsegold it hung over the tall fireplace so I never got to see it up close.  I think it will inspire me. Each section complete and self-contained, yet part of a bigger whole. Like the memoir I want to write about my interesting life growing up a Gowland Girl.

 

Divorcing My Cat

          Audrey must know something’s going on. She’s sitting on

my desk, facing away from me, her face almost touching the

mirror that rests against the wall, the mirror that used to hang in

my beautiful Coarsegold bathroom: carved sandalwood. I bought

it at Cost Plus, 11 years ago, when we were building our house.

          I haven’t been sleeping well in weeks. It’s Audrey’s fault. She didn’t used to be like this. I remember when John rescued her, in 2005. She was a scrawny 5-month old cat, with a disfigured nose. I thought it was a harelip but the vet said it was probably a wound, from sleeping under the hood of a car: a clean cut from her nostril to her mouth, so that I could see her teeth and gums. It’s better now, her nose is russet and wet and the slit is smaller, barely revealing her tiny front row teeth.

          Back then she lived in the screened in garden. In the house was Lydia, our Abyssinian. In the garage was Jane, another rescue. When Lydia got sick and decided to sleep in the newspaper basket in the kitchen, instead of coming to bed with me, I brought Audrey in and she stayed in my bedroom-bathroom.  When Lydia died, the next April, Audrey had the run of the house, but her litter box was still in the bathroom; and food was kept up on the ½ wall between the tub and toilet, so Walter couldn’t get it.

          When we moved to Texas, I assumed we’d stick to the same routine. I no longer had my luxurious big, bright, carpeted bathroom with that huge window looking up onto the hill.  I had a teeny bathroom with a stall shower. I stuck the litter box in a lower closet. I put her food on the small sink. I got used to leaving the water on each morning, after I’d I brushed my teeth, so she could drink – she only likes moving water.

          Things went pretty well, until recently.  Instead of staying down by my feet at night, she’s been getting under the covers, like Phoebe used to do. But Phoebe was an 8-pound Burmese, whose small curled up body fit perfectly against my stomach. When I’d turn over, she’d get up, walk around my head, and get back in the other side. We slept like this for 19 years.

          Audrey is twice as big. When she presses against me, she shoves me, nearly off the bed. She’s hot. I sweat. I feel like I’m being smothered.

I end up sleeping on my stomach with my head twisted, my neck aching, but at least I can keep her away with my elbows. Then, before first-light, she presses her cold wet nose against my nose, to wake me up.

          Thus, I woke up today before I should have and have been tired all day. Plus, when I went to clean her litter box, I discovered she had peed all over the newspaper underneath, and pee had soaked through into the closet. That was it.

          I took her litter box into the laundry room. I sprinkled baking soda over the wet pee.  I took the food bowl into the kitchen and dumped it in with her plastic margarita glass on the counter.  Then I did a major over haul of the bathroom, and took down the Indian hanging that was blocking the entrance from the hall; it’s hanging in my office now and can be seen from the kitchen and living room, when my office door is open.
          My friend Barbara recommended Major Pettigrew . .  something-or-other, so I ordered it for my Kindle and will read it in bed tonight, before I go to sleep. The first night of my divorce.

ML on TV

          Last night I watched Invictus.  I love all of Clint Eastwood’s later films and highly recommend it.  It ended at 10:15. I read till 11:00 and went to sleep.

          Woke up coughing at midnight.  Got up to find that John wasn’t back from San Antonio.  Called his cell, got his voice mail. Went back to bed and tried to read but was too worried. What could have happened to him? Why didn’t he have his phone on?  What if the guy from Minneapolis had come to kill him!  Or what if he had gotten in a wreck! Would the cops check his phone and notify me.

          If I’m suddenly a widow, do I move back to Santa Monica? What do I do with John’s business?  My whole life depends on this man!  We have made no Plan B for such an event. The bedroom is hot. I throw off the covers. I open the bedroom door so I will hear him come and then, I hear someone in the kitchen!

          Barefoot I pad out to the living room and there he is! Oh my God, I’m so relieved, “Why didn’t you answer your phone?  Are you drunk?”

          “I told you I might not be back till midnight,” he said. His cell phone was blinking. I must have called when he was in a dead spot. Naturally I could not get back to sleep. I tossed and turned and coughed until after 1:00.  

          I woke up at 5:30. It doesn’t get light until 7:30, so I just laid there, trying to go back to sleep until finally I got up at about 6:30.  Audrey wanted out.  I opened the door and icy air blasted in, but out she went.

          Walter seemed confused that I was up, turning on lights.  I puttered around until it was light enough to read the thermometer in the patio: 26. And the wind was blowing.

          In the living room I heard a meow, and opened the door for Audrey to rush in.  I dressed in layers and out we went. What a rush! Literally!  I felt like Dorothy about to be carried away by the wind. Usually we do a big loop but the wind was right in my face so I turned back after only a few blocks. It was actually kind of fun, to have the wind pushing me toward home.

          I had half an hour before I left for the TV station. My hair looked pretty awful and I had dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, but oh well. I said a quick goodbye to John who was awake but still in bed. I felt like a New Yorker in my long coat, scarf and gloves.

          The keyless entry on my car went crunch, crunch, crunch as I pressed the numbers. The car was dotted with big frozen raindrops. But I had somewhere to go!

          As soon as I set foot in that little TV station I felt at home, I guess because I grew up around cameras.  We have DISH network so don’t get the show, but Time Warner people do.  The hostess is a darling young redhead.  I sat catty-corner to her on a couch, beside the director of Club Ed.

          I caught a glimpse of myself in the monitor – haggard old crone – so kept my attention on Brena. She asked me about my upcoming class and I talked about my teaching technique. I held up Surprise Yourself! and said I’m also teaching a 4^th grade class.

          At the break I asked Brena to ask me how I became a poet. So when she did I held up How to Take Better Home Movies and explained how I grew up in a photography studio; then showed Tender Bough and told how my mom thought it would be fun to do a book, my poems, their photos.

          After the second break we chatted some more and talked about the cold weather. “It’s invigorating!” I said, “And it keeps you young!”

          “It does?” Brena said.

          “Yes, that’s why you put things in the freezer, so they’ll keep longer!”  This cracked up Brena, the camera man and the Club Ed director. I felt I was in my element. My throat did not hurt. I did not cough.

          Afterwards Brena encouraged me to come to the monthly poetry gathering at Schreiner University, and/or to come audit Dr. Hudson’s weekly creative writing class. I’ve heard a lot about Dr. Hudson, a woman who looks (from her website) like someone I’d like to know.

          In the reception area I saw a copy of the Kerrville Business Magazine and made a point to say I’d written the cover article. I passed out my cards to the receptionist, cameraman and another guy in the office and told them I’m available to do freelance writing. Back outside it was icy cold but I was nice and toasty from my twenty minutes on TV.