I Finished My First Draft!

        I wrote the last sentence of my memoir, Posing for My Father, this weekend. I had wondered, when I started, how I would end it. John Irving says he knows the end of his story before he begins writing, and writes to the pre-determined end.

        I've written about my life for many years, but mostly in poems. In 2007 I decided to write a prose piece for Valley Writers Read in Fresno. They want half-hour length stories, which meant about fifteen pages. I chose to write about State Beach a unique one-block-long strip of sand in Santa Monica.  I had fun selecting music for the breaks.  When my dad listened to it, he said the music was too loud.

        The next year I wrote about a trip I took with my family when I was nine. I had my tenth birthday in Paris. This became "Europe on Five Dollars a Day" and was recorded in 2008. 

        The next year I took two poems I'd written and expanded them to tell the story of how my mom thought it would be fun to pretend to be strippers and do a dance for daddy, "because he photographed a stripper today."   The story is called "Daisies", which is what my mom pinned on a black velvet ribbon and tied around my six-year-old chest.  That piece aired in 2009.

        In 2010 my father died and my husband and I moved to Texas.  Having so much geographical distance from California gave me a new perspective on my upbringing and I decided to take those three pieces and expand them into a memoir that would end when I left L.A. for the first time, in 1970.

        I am not a "two-page-a-day" writer.  I write in spurts, usually about fifteen pages at a sitting.  The next day I edit what I've written. Then I may not write for a week.  I do research, re-reading my calendars and old letters, looking at pictures, looking things up on the internet.  I love that I live in a time when I can so easily fact check.  I hope this adds interest and dimension to my story. For even though I'm telling a story unique to my life, I know many people will remember where they were when, say, JFK was shot, the Watts Riots happened, or we heard about Charlie Mansion orchestrating the horrible Tate/LaBianca murders.

        Now long ago I went to a writing conference and met my neighbor who has also written a book. We decided to proof reach each other's manuscripts. Her book is a charming story of her parents' courtship in 1926. I'm enjoying it immensely.  But I'm only half-way through because it's over 600 pages.

        My book on the other hand is about 250 pages of text and will include another 100 pages of pictures, I hope.  I'm now trying to find an agent. Today I filled out my first query form, which I think is a terrific idea. It forced me to be succinct and think about why people would want to buy my book over all the others out there.

        This fall I'm offering an Adult Ed class called "Get it done!" about how to finish and submit and/or publish your book.  I should mention that I got my first book published when I was nineteen because my parents took photos to illustrate my poems.  Without the pictures and their connections at Crown Publishers it never would have happened.  I'm grateful to my parents for setting me on my path as a poet/writer. Each of my subsequent books was a very different experience.

        I'm looking forward to seeing my book through to publication, and I'm already thinking about the second part of my three-part autobiography. Many of the people I've loved are no longer on this planet. Writing about them is a way for me to spend time with them again remembering the happy, sad, scary, or weird experiences we had together. 

I Volunteer at Riverside Nature Center

          Third graders from Nimitz Elementary descended from the bus and converged around me. I held a sign with their teacher's name on it. I felt like I was greeting someone at the airport. But as we began moving through the nature trail, I turned into a curious ten-year-old.  The short-grey haired nature volunteer led us to a Bald Cypress, which was about a foot in diameter, the lowest branches just above my head. Around it a circle of bricks indicated the circumference of the largest Bald Cypress in Texas. 

          The nature instructor asked the children to stand on the bricks. Twenty children went about three-quarters around it. I wanted to know how old that big tree is, where it is, and what its diameter is.  She didn't know. I'll have to find out.

          We followed her through the butterfly garden and saw a patch, about as big as bedroom carpet, that had not been watered – see, the drought is still with us.  I took pictures, trying not to let any of the kid's faces show, because we did not have permission slips from parents.

          A plant specialist gave us a lesson in identifying poison ivy. Don't confuse it with baby box elder which looks exactly the same when it first comes out of the ground.

          I helped herd the children into a classroom where a young woman with shoulder length brown hair, from the Upper Guadalupe River Authority (UGRA) talked to us about Aquatic Invertebrates (water bugs).  My favorite has always been the dragon fly.  But I learned about Damsel Flies and other insects that lay eggs in water. Their eggs become nymphs which look nothing like their adult selves. One day they crack out of their nymph bodies and emerge as a completely different looking creature. They pump up their wings and off they go!  Dragon flies live only "one season."  I remember the big-eyed dragon flies in Coarsegold that took drinks from my pool. I loved how they zigged and zagged across the summer sky.

          Then we went outside and looked at actual, real critters captured from the river by a gangly young man from UGRA in ironed jeans and wire rimmed glasses: tiny fishes, crawfish, water scorpions, and even an invasive Asian Clam about as big as a thumbnail. Makes me think differently about swimming in the river. I sure hope I don't get bitten by a "hot fire" bug!

          I conversed with a smart little girl in a pink top and black skirt. She reminded me of Darla from the Little Rascals, with her dark bobbed hair, bright eyes and little button mouth.  She expressed real interest in everything, unlike most of the kids who went where they were told but didn't really engage.

          Our last stop was inside the Nature Center where a dark Latino man with a big belly, wearing a plaid shirt, told us he was with the Parks and Wildlife service. He had set up a long table that held various skulls. Behind it photographs of dangerous wild creatures stared out at us: mountain lion, javelina, wild pig, bobcat, badger, skunk, fox, coyote, opossum etc. One panel had venomous snakes: coral, cottonmouth and two types of rattlers.

          He talked mostly about what to do if you encounter a dangerous animal in the wild – he advised that we use our walking sticks to fight off an attacking beast and if we got bitten by a rattler, stay calm and walk back to where you came, unless you have friends that can carry you.

          The precocious little girl seemed to know most of the answers to his questions. She said she watches a nature show for kids. Hearing information and remembering it are two different things.  The little girl impressed me by how much information she retained.

          Now, remembering my day, I'm ashamed to realize how much I don't remember. This is why I usually take notes. Writing things down helps commit them to memory, and the notes are always there for you to refer back to.

          My two hours zipped by. The rain that had been forecast didn't come till late in the day. The morning was cloudy and mild, a perfect day to learn about plants and critters. I was sad to leave after the school bus pulled away and we volunteers waved good bye to each other and headed for our cars.

          When the rain did come, later in the day, John was out washing the cars. He came inside and said, "Soft hail!" and handed me a white pellet of ice. I popped it in my mouth and looked out the window. What looked like white marbles were bouncing off the vacant lot next door.  It only lasted a little while and by the time I took Walter out for our before-dinner walk, the sun was shining on puddles in the black, steaming asphalt.   

TIRED SUNDAY

Rare for me: got up, walked the dog then went back to bed.  The smell of pancakes roused me.  Threw chopped pecans and banana chunks into the batter John had made. Ate. Read the San Antonio Express. Back to bed. Read for two more hours, my friend Paula's manuscript. She's the woman I met at the writing conference, who lives two blocks from me.  Then got up and edited more chapters of my book, Posing for My Father. Paula has motivated me. Before I met her I wrote when I felt like it, edited or did research when I didn't feel like writing. But now, with her asking for more chapters, I'm pushing myself like a real writer.  

Also tired from the roller coaster ride my team has me on. I assumed the Lakers would get killed by Oklahoma. First game was a total route. Next game they lost by two points. Then they rallied in the third game. Last night they were so hot in the first half.  I willed myself to stay awake until midnight only to have them lose in the last few minutes.

I still miss players who've been traded to other teams: Jordan Farmar, Sascha (playing in Europe), Ronnie now plays for the Heat. Derek Fisher in a Thunder uniform breaks my heart.  Tomorrow night I expect the Lakers to lose, so the season will end for them. Then we have the long boring summer to get through.  Then Dancing with the Stars ends Tuesday. One-two punch. Bye-bye basketball. Bye-bye dancing.

Wednesday I make a trip to see my mom. I feel like I've already lost her. She is a shadow of her former self. I dread seeing her in person. At least over the phone I can try to remember how she used to look, my now tiny, frail mama.

But I'll get to see girlfriends, too. I love my friends and miss them. I'll miss my cats when I'm gone and my doggy.  Last night I took him out to pee just as the game was starting.  Bobby, our neighbor, was coming down the block with a flashlight and his two dogs, Midge a wiggly shitzu and River, a docile sheltie. They are the first friends Walter has ever had.  As Bobby and I chatted the leashes got all tangled.  He agreed to take Walter on their walk, so I could go back to the game.  Bobby's going away for three weeks. We'll miss him and his dogs.

As I said, the game was great for the first three quarters. During half-time I flipped over to Saturday Night Live. Mick Jagger was hilarious! When I first saw him I thought he looked like a caricature of himself. He has such a big head, small shoulders, skinny legs and big feet. But he was very funny playing characters and doing various accents.

I listened to an Oldies station tonight, when I walked Walter before dinner. So sad to hear Barry Gibb died, and right after Donna Summer. What fond memories I have of their music. Meet the Bee Gees was the first stereo album I ever bought, in 1967.  When I taught aerobics in 1983 I used Donna's "She Works Hard for the Money" as my opening song.

I hope I have enough years left in me to finish my entire autobiography. For now volume one takes me up to when I left L.A. in 1970.

Wait! I hear cats caterwauling . . . .  Back inside now.  A black and white long-haired cat who I've seen pissing on neighbor's bushes, was lying on the pavement near Jane, who sat by the front door. Inside Walter and Audrey were trying to peer out at it.  I went outside and it got up but didn't go far. I asked what he was doing.

He said "nothing, just hanging out."  I let him sniff my hand. Pink nose. Pointed face. Weird eyes, the "second lid" showing. Sick?  I told him we had enough cats and walked him away from the house. He flopped on the pavement. I petted him. Kind of skinny but not starving.

I picked up Jane and carried her through the house to the garage. Walter and Audrey wanted to get out and check out the trespasser. I had to hold Jane and close the garage door; I didn't want her running away.

There was still food in Jane's dish. So the stray cat can't be too hungry.  I washed my hands and returned to my writing. Whose cat is he? Ours now?

No Bean Sprouts, No Bread, No Butter

Tonight John and I went to dinner at the River's Edge, Tuscan Grill to celebrate my birthday – he was out of town for it last Sunday. The restaurant juts out over Guadalupe River, which after our week of rains, is gorgeously swollen and wide. To our delight, silver, grey and blue clouds obscured the sun so the light was soft and easy on the eyes.

        I was thrilled to see a ginger-sesame salad with bean sprouts, Napa cabbage, etc. on the menu, because I have not been able to purchase bean sprouts in the two markets I frequent. When I asked the produce managers, they both said "We don't carry them anymore, they go bad too fast." 

        This is a major hardship for me, who craves all things Asian, especially in times of stress.  It's true, even in California I had a hard time finding really fresh, crisp sprouts and when I did I celebrated – the white shoot, the firm green mung bean. Yum!

        So I asked our darling young waiter if it was true, were there really bean sprouts in the salad? And if so, could I talk to the chef and find out about his source? Could I perhaps purchase bean sprouts directly from the restaurant?

        He looked at me as if I was crazy but said he would find out.

        The only California Chardonnay on the wine list turned out to be too oaky for my taste and not nearly as good as the Kendall Jackson reserve I have at home. But, oh well.

        John ordered a steak that was supposed to come with a side of veggies.  We drank our wine, admired the view and waited for bread, which never came.  A different waiter brought our meals.  No bean sprouts in my salad.  John got a big square plate with a steak on it and a side dish of zucchini and yellow squash swimming in a garlic cream sauce. 

        "May we get some bread?" I asked the new waiter.

        "It's in the oven, almost done," he replied.

        A while later our waiter returned. By now I'd eaten about a third of my salad and John had made headway into his steak.

        "You're right," the waiter said. "The owner's here. His wife ordered the salad last week and asked why there were no bean sprouts."

        "Because we live in a bean sprout free zone!" I replied. "The markets don't carry them."  He didn't know quite what to say to that.  "May we get some bread?" I asked.   He left and I said to John, "Maybe I should become the Bean Sprout Lady of Kerrville. Certainly there's a need. Think of the health food stores and Chinese Restaurants."  But then I thought about my kitchen full of cat and dog hair, and this week, "little anty things" as John calls them, crawling all over the sink.  They're little teeny ants which he says will go back outside once the ground dries up. There's no way the health department would give me a license to grow bean sprouts for sale. Still, I might just start sprouting beans for my own use. After all, we have a whole truck garden growing in our patio . . .

        The waiter returned with a little basket of bread. "I'm sorry but there's no butter. Well, there's butter but we're out of ramekins."

        The bread was good, real sour dough with a crisp crust and warm soft center. I tore of a chunk and shoved it into my mouth.  When he brought take-home containers and proceeded to box our dinners at an adjacent table, I made sure to not let him take the bread away. I opened one of the containers and tucked it into a corner.

        When we left the restaurant, the sun was just setting. A sliver of orange appeared over the river. John drove us a little ways down Guadalupe Street until we came to a small dam. "Stop here!" I said and opened the window. The sound of rushing water filled the car.

        I noticed pretty white wildflowers, long stalks with six pointed petals. I got out of the car and picked one. I brought it back into the car to look at.

        "We have those growing in the side yard," John said referring to the vacant lot next to our house. I don't remember seeing them. I got out and picked four more.  He poured bottled water on a napkin and wrapped it around the stalks.

        Next to the dam is a little park with a path along the river. "The best time to come here is between nine and ten o'clock at night John said."  I have no desire to be out a after dark, but I did think about asking my writing teacher to come here with me after class Tuesday, because it's only a block from where we meet.  I wonder if I'll remember to ask her.

        John dropped me off at home and went to Azul to listen to music and analyze the handwriting of one of the waitresses.  I was bummed out when I found out the Laker game wouldn't start for another hour.  I'm so sleepy, how will I stay awake?

        I trimmed the wildflowers and stuck them in a tall shot glass. Then,

putting the food away, I opened one of the containers and found the bread.  I spread butter on it and stood in our little rented kitchen watching teeny tiny ants meander over the Formica counter top. The bread tasted like San Francisco. Delicious.

FALLING IN LOVE WITH TEXAS

          I, who hate road trips, didn't want this one to end, it was so beautiful. I've missed the California landscape something fierce these nineteen months living in Texas.  Sure, I get to see the ocean on my trips to Santa Monica, but there's nothing I love more than a really broad open landscape with far away mountains containing the vast space in between, such as the Salinas Valley or the San Joaquin Valley when the mountains are capped with snow.

          No snow here, but lovely vistas of rolling cedar covered hills and plenty of yellow and orange wildflowers.  The landscape changed dramatically when I got "way out west" and poor Fort Davis is barren and dry. Two huge wildfires are raging and the air in the evenings smelled of smoke and created eerie sunsets.  I was amazed by the variety of types of mountains – one looks like a loaf of brown bread, then a few rolling hills, then steep bluffs like a thousand Buddhas standing side by side. Then out of nowhere a cone shaped mountain looks like fine black coal poured into a perfect point.  John says it's because the land "makes a transition" there, whatever that means.

          Aside from the beauty of the views I enjoyed the well maintained highway (Interstate 10 most of the way, then south on 17/118). Not one pothole or any cracked pavement the entire way. Every white and yellow line looks as if it were painted yesterday. The speed limit is 80 most of the way (I went 75) and the left lane is for passing only. I bet this results in less wear and tear on the passing lane and saves money on repairs.

          My favorite sign is triangular shaped and says, "Drive Friendly."  Instead of "$500 fines for littering" (or more) which I saw all over California, here a simple "Don’t Mess With Texas" or "Littering is unlAWFUL" seem to get the message across because I saw no litter the entire way there and back again – 770 miles round trip.  

          I liked everyone I met at the conference. Thirty-six attended.  I'm thrilled that a dynamic woman, originally from Minnesota turns out to live two blocks from me! We're going to proof read each others' manuscripts.

          I had many deep conversations on topics of religion, philosophy, the state of our schools, books, writing and personal tales.  Writers love to share ideas so there was never a lack of topics to discuss.

          Of the three presenters my favorite was Mike Blakely, singer, songwriter and historical novelist. He's married to a beautiful, graceful young woman (horse-woman, hunter, yoga teacher) who sings with him. They're an adorable couple. I fell in love with both of them and danced to Mike's music, the last night, under the stars, after our dinner and reading.

          The emphasis on sell, sell, sell by one of the presenters I found a bit off putting, especially since her genre is true crime.  The third presenter writes mysteries so there was way too much death for me.  I found our "Haiku Hike" Sunday morning to a local Catholic cemetery enlightening. I've never walked around a cemetery before. Turns out many writers get inspiration there.  The contrast between a well maintained grave with elaborate, shiny marble headstone, festooned with artificial flowers and messages like "we love you grandma" contrasted with plots that were completely neglected.  One couple, born in the mid 1930s both died on 1-1-70. Car crash on New Year's Eve?   It's always sad when a child dies before their parents.  One big family plot had grandparents, parents, sons and then "Baby Grace now an angel." The cool desert air seemed full of grief from all the tears shed in that dusty graveyard.   

          The grave I liked best consisted of a mound of real purple flowers book-ended by two small trees. In the middle, a small white statue of Mary and a simple marble slab with the woman's name.  Except for a few lone wild flowers poking out of the dirt, these were the only live flowers there.       

          Most of the people at the conference live in Alpine, a small town about 25 miles south of Fort Davis.  Fort Davis, Alpine and Marfa (which I did not visit) are "artsy" and are served by a great public radio station that I got to listen to for two full hours on my drive home.  If it weren't so damn far from everything I'd like to live there, but the closest airports are seven hours away and the same goes for big hospitals.

          Now, writing this close to Midnight on Sunday, with my dog dozing at my feet, Audrey snoring under the dining room table, and John fast asleep, I feel like Coleridge who wrote, "the inmates of my cottage, all at rest, have left me to that solitude that suits abstruser musings. . ."         

          Perhaps a crossword will slow down my brain. Or maybe I'll just go to bed and lie still, letting the images of the vast Southwest play behind my eyelids. In my imagination I'll stretch my arms all the way from horizon to horizon touch those bizarre, beloved mountains.

READING POETRY AT RIVER POINT

        I volunteered to read poems to the residents of River Point, a new assisted living facility just a mile from our home. At one time I'd thought about bringing my mom from Santa Monica and situating her there, so I could visit her every day, not just talk to her on the phone. But that's not going to happen. My mom is living at Ocean House in Santa Monica, across the street from the beach, where she can feed the seagulls every day.

        So today when I arrived at River Point I went into a small activity room, with a lovely view of acres of wild green grass bordering the Guadalupe River, and spent time with two new residents: Louis, 96 years old, the same age my dad would be if he hadn't died two years ago, and a woman in wheel chair whose name I forget.

        Both had just moved in three weeks ago. They participate in any activities that get them out of their rooms. Louis was dressed all in blue. Until a few months ago he was still golfing, then suddenly his left leg got weak and he couldn't walk. He uses a wheel chair now and asked for a pillow, to sit on a regular chair. "Because you're bony, like me," I said which made him laugh.

        The heavy lady was on the phone, so I waited until she was done, and leafed through a magazine. I have trouble focusing my ears when there are other sounds going on around me.  Louis waited patiently. When the lady hung up she apologized, saying there had been "another death in the family."

        I told them I was a poet and read several of my students' poems. Then I read them "The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus, the poem commissioned for the base of the Statue of Liberty.  After I read it Olivia, the activity coordinator joined us and we had a discussion about ancestors.

        Louis' great grandparents came from Germany and settled in Texas several generations ago. He had many interesting stories to recount. Olivia added her own story – her father's family included a freed slave and a slew of red-haired Irish; her mother's family is Mexican and part Native American.

        Olivia had to run off to do something and so I told Louis and the lady in the wheel chair about how my parents met and married in 1941. Louis and his wife were married 70 years until her passing last year. 

        Olivia returned and took me into the "Memory Care" wing which is for patients with Alzheimer's and other forms of dementia. There was no small meeting room just a big open space with horrible acoustics.  She situated me in a chair and the residents gathered around me. One woman said she was a retired English teacher, so I said, "Sit by me!"

        One of the women had a caregiver. The rest seemed to be on their own. Some were in their own worlds, but others were able to focus on me. A man in a red sweater rolled his wheel chair up close, as he had a hard time hearing me. I had a hard time too. The workers were talking so loud, I had to practically shout to drown them out.

        I decided to read "The Spider and the Fly" because it's dramatic and I enjoy playing the parts of the spider and the fly. The retired English teacher knew many of the lines.

        Then I read my "Ode to My Stapler" and the fellow in the red sweater said, "I don't understand why you're here and what I'm supposed to do."

        I said, "I'm the entertainment! I'm supposed to entertain you!" and a woman across from me who had been staring vacantly looked me in the eye and chuckled.

        The retired teacher liked my poem but the man in the red sweater asked again what he was supposed to do.  I chose a few poems by students from a CPITS anthology. These were more "poetic," meaning less linear and didn't follow a logical progression. I think the residents liked them.

        But the workers on the phone and talking to each other were just too loud. I got up and told them, "This isn't working out, I can't yell over you."

        I was disappointed that they didn't say they'd try to be quiet. I told the residents I'm going to a writers' retreat in West Texas next week and I'll tell them about it the next time I come back.

        The retired teacher said, "That's lovely." I squeezed her arm and bid adieu to my audience.  Outside the wind was whipping. The last of today's rainclouds were vanishing, leaving the sky a bright, shocking blue. 

Too long since I wrote a poem, days flap by like pages of a book

one night two young men show up and go to work on my computer

like veterinarians about to put my beloved pet to sleep

my presence not welcome as they talk to each other in

words I don't understand, like they've swooped down from another planet

to perform surgery and I'm as embarrassed as if they'd seen me naked

and were repelled, not that they haven't seen this all before

another silly woman wanting to save her emails

documents that should have been deleted ages ago.

I pace the house, try to eat and watch TV but I keep trying to hear

what they're saying to each other. I want to rush in and tell them

to go home, leave everything as it was, and eventually I do, I tell them

I'll figure out the rest on my own.  Exhausted, I go to sleep dreading morning

and sure enough everything's different, I'm lost, disoriented, bravely

sniffling my tears as I navigate the maze of my life in words and numbers.

Unfortunately there is no more Microsoft Money, which for ten years

tracked every cent we've earned and spent. It's gone. Bye bye.

I go to Office Max and purchase Quicken, remembering that I used it

before, figuring it will do, but now I see it connects directly to my bank

sucks up the transactions and categorizes each purchase so

it appears we've spent our entire month's budget on beer.

Perhaps in John's perfect world. I spend several hours

good naturedly correcting the silly mistakes.

I press "save" and yet when I return three days later we're back to

the end of last month, why did all my work disappear?

I want to yell at someone so I yell at my husband who says,

"Welcome to my world" and the napping cat opens one eye, annoyed.

The world is full of danger and disorder. All I want is

for what's in my own, private, personal house to make sense.

Is that so much to ask?