The Stuff of Dreams

The great odometer rolls over once again and we find ourselves in 2010. A nice even number, and the start of a new decade. It is time for celebration, a time to begin again.

Ryan Seacrest, co-host of "Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve" for the last five years, described the feeling of being in Times Square at midnight when the ball drops. "It's about the most unbelievable feeling you can ever have," he said in a recent Parade magazine interview. He's especially taken by "the look of happiness on everybody's faces. Whatever is bothering them, whatever personal nightmares or financial problems they're having, it all just escapes from everybody's faces at that one moment."

At just 34, Seacrest is one of the most successful talents in broadcasting. His other gigs include a morning radio show and American Idol, the most popular t.v. show in the U.S. As a child he dreamed of being a broadcaster like Dick Clark. "From the time I was 15 or 16 years old, every single thing I did, every day of my life, was to get closer to that dream."

Unlike Seacrest, many of us drift away from our childhood plans. Instead of traveling or writing or being an astronaut, we are too busy working and raising children, or taking care of our elderly parents. But then the ball drops, and it is January 1, and this could be the year that we finally get serious about some of those dreams.

*****

I have been incredibly unfocused in both my personal and professional life for the past few years. In an effort to get myself back on track, both mentally and physically, I joined the Y over the holidays.

I haven't received training on any of the equipment yet, so for now, I just run on Y's wooden track. It's on a balcony overlooking the basketball court, and you can glance down and watch players throwing free shots if you get bored. You have to go around 19 times for a mile. I usually keep count by repeating the lap number over and over in my head.

When I get there, someone is usually already on the track, and I just fall in place behind them. Walkers, inside lane; runners, outside lane. The other day when I arrived, an older man was running counter-clockwise around the track. Hey buddy, I wanted to say, you're going the wrong way. Instead, I decided to just join in. It felt funny at first, but eventually I was running counter-clockwise with ease. A few laps into it, I noticed a sign that clarified things for me:

The schedule made sense. It probably ensured a proper wearing-down of the track. But there is also both a mental and physical benefit in changing your direction, and breaking old patterns.

*****

Sometimes we put off the things we really want to do because we worry that we are being selfish, or because what we want to do involves some risk. For years, these two worries used to gang up on me everytime I made travel plans. I used to stress out that I would pick the "wrong" flight--the one that would crash. This fear followed a particularly frightening flight experience that ultimately ended up o.k. (For some reason, I always overlooked the "o.k.")

I sucked it up for visits to family, weddings, and funerals. But the fear led me to curtail what I felt were "unnecessary trips." As a result, I had put off visiting the place where I spent what were probably the two of the most idyllic years of my childhood: Newport Beach. My family had lived there when I was in third and fourth grade, and I had it so good. I was excelling in school and was, for the first time, popular. I had a fort in the bushes behind my house, a best friend, and a nearby canyon supposedly filled with arrowheads (I never found one but it was fun looking). I had a t.v. in my room and a babysitter who gave me all of her Barbie dolls. On top of that, day after day, there was the amazing California sunlight--so bright, with such sharp shadows.

Two years ago, I resolved to get over my fear of flying by taking more trips. Last year, I am happy to say, I was a relaxed flyer on our cross-country trip to California. I finally got back to Newport Beach. I found our old house, and was surprised to see that the walk to Eastbluff Elementary was not as far as I remembered. Winding through my old neighborhood streets, I could almost see myself as a nine-year-old, riding around on my pink, banana-seat bike with my best friend, Muir. I remembered all those endless sunny afternoons, when I had nowhere special to be.

We looked for my favorite old beach in Corona del Mar, following directions from my mom. When we got there, and I couldn't find a place to park or a way down to the beach, I began to question my mother's ability to remember directions from 30+ years ago. We kept driving. Eventually I saw an entrance to a beach parking lot. One look and I knew the beach wasn't the right one.

"The cliffs were bigger," I insisted to my family. Yet, as I said this, I worried that I'd gotten fooled once again by my memory. Things often take on such a dramatic scale when you are a child.

I got out of the car and asked for some help. A local told me to turn around and go back the place where my mother had directed me. "You just park on the street," he said. "When you get out, you'll see a path you can take to the beach."

We drove back and parked. We walked to the end of the street and saw a path that we had somehow missed when we were driving. As I neared the path, I looked down and saw the cove that I remembered. "That's it," I said, excitedly.

It was the perfect beach, surrounded by rugged cliffs and crashing surf. The afternoon sunlight glittered on the water.

What a thrill to spend a day again on my childhood beach. My kids played in the surf and looked for sea creatures in the tidal pools. I had a flashback when I saw a large boulder in the surf with a distinctive hole in the middle. I'd forgotten all about the rock but remembered it in an instant. I knew that it would still be there for many years after I was gone.

*****

May 2010 find you well, whether you are chasing your dreams, taking a wonderfully unnecessary trip, or doing whatever is the grown-up equivalent of riding on your banana seat bike with your best friend next to you, a long afternoon before you, and nowhere special to be.

More creepy wallpaper

My 13-year-old read my last post and said, "That wallpaper at Mandarin Palace reminds me of an OK Go video." I hadn't seen it, so she zipped through iTunes and pulled up the "Do What You Want" (wallpaper version) video. Like everything else that I've ever seen from this band, this video looked like it belonged in the portfolio of some hip kid from Parsons. It was perfect; I had to have it.

With my daughter hovering, I looked up her favorite band's official website and emailed to them asking for permission to post. ("OMG you're writing to OK GO?!?") One of their managers responded, and said that I was free to "share it with the world." (I don't think he knows how small this site is!) Nonetheless, I am happy to provide a link to this fun video, which brings creepy, red velvet flocked wallpaper to new heights:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAQZ_uui1SY

My weirdest fortune ever

Last night, our family went out to dinner to Mandarin Palace. We like the food and the people that run the restaurant. Everyone there seems to speak in slightly hushed tones, in true Chinese restaurant form. We like the small tiki bar set into a cubbyhole by the kitchen and marvel that a bartender can fit inside it.

We are always mesmerized by the peeling, flocked red velvet wallpaper that has been there since the restaurant opened in the 1960's. My husband remembers it from when he went there as a child. Perhaps the wallpaper was unconsciously on my mind when I ordered the Chicken Velvet. It was tasty as always.

That should be enough to satisfy any diner, but there was more. After our dishes were taken away, I cracked open my fortune cookie and saw what is possibly the weirdest fortune I have ever received:

(You will read this and say "Geez!! I could come up with better fortunes than that!")

I like to imagine the bored fortune cookie factory worker who slipped that one in. I regret that he or she did not get to witness our family breaking the respectful silence as we laughed hysterically in our booth surrounded by the creepy wallpaper.

Mum's Still the Word in Texas

It's late October, and homecoming season is in full swing. "Are you going to the dance?" is what everyone wants to know. It's time for Friday night lights, and the Star Spangled Banner, and the exciting moment when football players burst through long signs held by cheerleaders. It's time for drill teams stepping in matching boots and bands waiting for their cue, polished instruments raised.

And, in Texas, it's time for the homecoming mum. I wondered if this tradition might have fallen to the wayside, but judging from the photos recently posted by my friends on Facebook, the mum is not only around, but has gotten bigger, bolder, and more pimped out than ever.

For those unaware of the phenomenon, the homecoming mum is a corsage formed around a single flower: a mega-sized chrysanthemum. To the right is a photo of a mum that I wore in 1981 to a Jersey Village High School homecoming game and dance. Hanging from the mum were floor-length ribbons, in my school's colors. My school's name and other various things were written on the ribbons in glitter. And if the visual of the mum itself did not attract enough attention, there was a dangling cowbell to announce my arrival.

The tradition was so widespread that you could actually order your mums in the cafeteria; it was a fund-raiser for the school. You would pick up your mum on Friday, and wear it to the homecoming game and dance that night. At the game, the stadium would be filled with girls picking their way up stadium steps--in high heels, of course--trying not to trip on the long ribbons.

But the mum I wore in 1981 is downright humble compared to the mums of today. Angela Perry, of Mom’s Custom Made Mums in Corpus Christi, has graciously agreed to let me post of few of her creations. The mums, which can range in price from $15.50 to $150 (for the "Cascading Heart" to the left), go a long way to proving the adage that everything's bigger in Texas.

According to Janna Lewis, of the Fort Hood (Texas) Sentinel, "They have been around as long as I can remember and the mums represent the admiration a young woman inspires in people who know her...The bigger the mum, the greater the love."

Doing a little research on the web, I found that you can show your love in a whole host of ways. You can order a single, double or triple mum. You can have a "satellite" mum connected to your main mum (as pictured to the right). You can have your name and your date's written in pre-pressed gold letters or in old-school glitter ("retro lettering"). You can accessorize with teddy bears, feathers, disco balls, battery-operated lights, or just about anything you can imagine. According to the McAdams Floral blog, "For the truly extravagant, florists in larger Texas cities provide 14-karat gold jewelry trinkets."

Trinkets, such as megaphones and musical symbols, identify your involvement in school and personal interests. And in a surprising development since 1982, the guys are now wearing smaller, matching "garter" mums.

Over-the-top? Yes. Outrageously cumbersome? Absolutely. But show up without one for your date and you're toast.

Let the Wild Rumpus Start

The much-anticipated live-action film of "Where the Wild Things Are" opens today. Many critics have already lavished praise on director Spike Jonze's interpretation of the beloved classic. Michael Phillips, of the Chicago Tribune, calls it "a nervy and breathtaking achievement."

Jonze, the director of such offbeat and edgy concoctions as Adaptation and Being John Malkovich, had to take some liberties in turning a 338-word picture book into a feature film. But the movie has earned the stamp of approval from author/illustrator Maurice Sendak, who walked down the red carpet with Jonze and child star Max Records at the film's New York premiere.

The movie has aroused controversy; some charge that it is too scary for young children. "But what if that intensity, that asymmetry, is exactly why children should see Wild Things?" ponders Newsweek critic Andrew Romano (see http://www.newsweek.com/id/217830) "The greatest children's stories are about what happens when we become untethered from authority...to be rid of rules and face a dangerous and exhilirating world alone." Parenting today seems more about structure and supervision, but "the less room we leave in real life for rebellion and abandon, the more kids need stories to make space for those very things."

*****
The Caldecott-winning book also stirred things up when it was published in 1963. "Having a story about a small child throwing a tantrum for the benefit of his mother was not a story you were going to find in children's literature before the 1960s, because children weren't supposed to yell at their mothers," said children's book author and historian Leonard S. Marcus. "The idea that children experience rage and that it's a natural part of their psyche was a new idea to children's picture books."

Then, as today, some found the "wild things" too frightening for children. But exploring childhood fears has long been a preoccupation for Sendak, who at age 13, learned that many of his relatives had perished in the Holocaust.

Sendak grew up in Brooklyn, N.Y., the son of Eastern European immigrants. His "wild things" were based on relatives who frequently visited his family on the weekends and shared meals with them. "Three aunts and three uncles who spoke no English, practically. They grabbed you and twisted your face, and they thought that was an affectionate thing to do. And I knew that my mother's cooking was pretty terrible, and it also took forever, and there was every possibility that they would eat me, or my sister or my brother," he recalled in a recent Newsweek interview.

*****
Reflecting on the Wild Things, I remembered a great story that Sendak once told in an interview, that really demonstrated his appreciation for children. With a little searching, I found the interview, which was conducted by NPR's Terry Gross a few years ago. Sendak described how he had received a card with a charming drawing on it from a little boy. "I loved it. I answer all my children's letters--sometimes very hastily--but this one I lingered over," he said. "I sent him a postcard and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, `Dear Jim, I loved your card.' Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, `Jim loved your card so much he ate it.' That to me was one of the highest compliments I've ever received. He didn't care that it was an original drawing or anything. He saw it, loved it, he ate it."

My Parents Were Awesome

A new website is looking for photos of your parents from their "Mad Men" days--when they were young, beautiful, and having the time of their lives. The website celebrates the days "before the fanny packs" when parents "were once free-wheeling, fashion-forward, and super awesome."

The photos on http://myparentswereawesome.tumblr.com/ are mainly from the 1950s to 1970s. A journey through the site confirms--yet again--that people were simply more glamorous pre-1970. The fashions of the 1970s, combined with drinking, were not a good mix. But see how the elegant mid-1960s lady pictured below deftly manages her cigarette, cocktail, AND bridal veil.

The first names of the subjects in the photos are given, but no other information is provided. We are left to imagine the stories behind them. There's "Dan," a young man from the 1950's, sitting astride his motorcycle. I think he's just gotten his diploma and he is done with his small town. "Magali," a beautiful blonde with Britt Ekland bangs and a confident smile, poses in front of a plane. She's a future Pan Am stewardess who one day just might marry that millionaire.

In the picture to the left, "Renato" holds "Isabel" in his arms and kisses her on a rooftop. I imagine they are backpacking through Europe and have stopped in Italy. They are young and just starting out. They are poor, but very, very happy.

White lace and promises. A kiss for luck and we're on our way...

As my husband looked through the photos he was charmed by them, but a little wistful. "It's such a brief time when we are young," he said.

We've got talent!

Last Wednesday, I saw someone that I knew performing on a reality t.v. show. The show was America’s Got Talent, and the performer was my stepbrother’s wife, Barbara Padilla. It was a surreal and exciting experience, to say the least, to watch Barbara sing Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro” on a show with over 10 million viewers.

On the day of the show, we learned that Barbara was going to be part of the televised Houston auditions that night. We immediately got the word out through Facebook and phone calls. My 13-year-old excitedly text messaged the news to her friends.

As the show began, we had to sit there on pins and needles, watching a mix of weird and wonderful performers step up to the mike. The first act, the charming “Texas Tenors” got the crowd warmed up. We laughed at the raunchy but surprisingly funny Grandma Lee, and were grateful that the relative we were waiting to see was not the circus dude who stapled things to his forehead.

We waited nervously for Barbara to come on, baited by the commercials that hinted at her story. Finally, it was her turn. A short bio introduced her. “Last to perform is a stay-at-home mom who’s hoping to impress the judges by dusting off her lifelong dream,” said the host in a voice-over. My girls cheered when they saw her being interviewed in the clip, along with their uncle Kyle and little cousin Elizabeth.

Then it was show time, and Barbara arrived on the stage in an elegant white dress. After a few notes, we could tell that the judges were surprised, as we had been once, that such a tiny lady could have such a big, operatic voice. Barbara gave an beautiful, moving performance and ended the song on a soaring note. The crowd roared and gave her standing ovation.

The first judge to speak, Piers Morgan, told her, “You have an amazing voice.” He asked her what it felt like to have performed like that.

Clearly touched by the response, she joked, “how long do I have to answer that question?” Then, she shared some of her story. “I’ve lived through miracles, and this is one more miracle because I’m a cancer survivor. I was sick for five years, and I’m in remission, and now I’m here. What a dream!” she said, with a big smile.

Barbara had first come to Houston from Guadalajara, Mexico for treatment for Hodgkins lymphoma at M.D. Anderson Hospital. While in Houston, she also auditioned for a spot in the master's program of the University of Houston's music school. Weakened by radiation, and weighing about 90 pounds, she tried out. The faculty, clearly impressed, awarded her a full scholarship.

The first time that I heard her sing, I was having dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Houston with Barbara and Kyle, along with my dad and stepmother. The mariachis came by, and Kyle asked if Barbara could join them in a song. When she hit her first high note, everything in the restaurant stopped. Waiters paused to listen. Afterwards, as the dining patrons cheered, one woman came over and praised her. “You made my mother cry," she said.

Whether performing before a few dozen in a restaurant, or before millions on t.v., Barbara gives an emotionally riveting performance. As judge David Hasselhoff told her, “What you did is, you showed us your heart.”

The judges voted unanimously to send her to the next round in Vegas. May Lady Luck shine on you, Barbara!

You can watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wDRsxMMqAEU

Surrogate Fathers

We hold our holidays to impossible standards. The right gifts must be chosen, the food must arrive on time, and everyone must get along. But celebrations like Father’s Day often fall short of our expectations. For those who are physically or emotionally separated from their families, they are often a crushing reminder of loss.

Our Sunday paper was filled with memorials to fathers and grandfathers, their pictures lovingly displayed along with special notes written by loved ones still grieving.

In our hearts your memory lingers, sweetly tender, fond and true. There is not a day, dear father that we do not think of you.

Another: Papa it's been 17 years sense (sic) you been gone. I still miss you Papa.

Some spent Father's Day coping with emotional separation from their families. Yesterday, I received an email from a friend in Los Angeles whose family cannot accept the fact that she is gay. “On a sad note," she wrote, "I was not invited today for Father's Day."

She called her dad to wish him a happy Father's Day and asked when she could see him and give him his gift. Her stepmother told her to stop by after 8 p.m., because they would be busy before then. They had already made plans to go to the beach with her brother and his family. “I said nothing and waited. I was not invited,” she said. She later left the Father's Day gift on her parents' front porch.

After talking it over with a supportive friend, "I realized my real family is all my amazing friends. I have to start making the distinction if I am ever going to get over this and be happy," she said. "The fact is, since I'm not living the life they have chosen for me, my parents are not supportive. I must let go.”

*****

On Saturday, while watching my children at the pool, I heard a relentless, high-pitched scream. I turned and saw a small crowd moving quickly from the playground. In the front, a man comforted a small boy in a towel who had received some sort of terrible injury. The boy cried as blood dripped from his mouth. He had taken a tumble off the slide and bitten through his tongue.

The man helping him began giving directions in a surprisingly calm voice. “Can someone get some ice?” he asked. "Does anyone know his mother?" To the boy he said, “it will be o.k.”

The woman from the snack bar rushed over with ice. A lifeguard ran over with his first aid kit and wrapped up the boy's tongue. Someone grabbed a pediatrician who was doing laps. Another found the boy’s mother and little sister. The little sister was so upset that she started crying and ended up biting her own tongue, which also started bleeding. Everyone was taken care of, the situation calmed, and the mother and her children headed towards the parking lot.

Over the Father’s Day weekend, I reflected upon the man who had helped the little boy. By his care and concern, I had assumed he was the father. Apparently, they didn’t even know each other. How reassuring to know that there is within us something instinctive that enables us to care for one another as a parent, when the real parents can’t be found.

*****

Over the weekend, people around the world began receiving the shocking images from Iran of a young woman shot to death at a rally. According to reports, 27-year-old student Neda Soltan had been attending a protest on Saturday when a sniper shot her in the chest. I haven’t watched them, but understand that cell phone videos capture the horrifying moments as two men gently help her lie down on the sidewalk as they try to stop the bleeding. One of the men, since identified as her music teacher, was at first believed to be her father. On one video, as she begins to lose consciousness, he is heard offering her comfort in her final moments.

"Neda, don't be afraid…"

The world grieves for this young woman, whose death has become a galvanizing force for Iranians opposed to President Ahmadinejad. Protestors around the world now hold posters with her image and name, which means “the call” or “the voice” in Farsi.

As the world watches and waits, in the White House, another father, one who seems an exceptionally moral and intelligent man, contemplates the extent to which we are our brother’s keeper.

Happy Father's Day and Bon Appetit!

I was blessed to spend the week before Father's Day with my dad and stepmom, who were visiting from Florida. During that time, my dad (with my stepmom and youngest daughter, the patient co-chefs) insisted upon making dinner every night. My dad is an amazing cook who enjoys preparing meals for our family. Even before he packs to come up here, it's on his mind. My dad once hauled a 10-pound hunk of prime rib in his luggage.

Eating a nice meal is important to him, perhaps because he grew up with the poverty and rations of World War II Aberdeen. He views food as a necessity for which you should always be grateful.

Voilà! Garlic chicken.

When visiting us, my dad goes with the flow during the day, but when mid-afternoon approaches, it's time to get down to business. Around 2 or 3 p.m., he will begin to show a little antsiness in his manner and assume a look of focused intensity. He will begin opening cabinet doors in the kitchen, and peeking in the refrigerator. If I haven't picked up on what's going on, if I have missed the signs, he will ask me directly, "O.k., NOW--what are we going to have for dinner?" Because I am usually a last-minute, fling something together type of cook, I usually have no idea. I usually haven't given it the first thought.

Ah, amateurs. He comes up with a plan for dinner and, before long, he is pulling out pots and pans and organizing any necessary runs to the grocery store. A couple of hours later, things are really happening around the kitchen. Ingredients are being mixed, steam is rising, butter and garlic are crackling from the frying pan. My stepmother darts around the kitchen, moving boiling things. My dad, his face now sweating, takes a brief sip from a glass of wine before deftly chopping some herbs. The door swings open, and who is there standing before him but his adult child.

"Need any help?"

*****

Father's Day was fast approaching and we were running out of time. My girls wanted to find something special for their dad, who they both love so dearly. Though he works such long hours, he still finds time for swim meets and basketball, teacher conferences and just hanging out with his family. One of the things he enjoys doing most is making spectacular meals for us.

Thinking about that gave my youngest daughter an idea. "He's been looking everywhere for a crepe pan," she said.

A challenge! We went to the mall and, after looking around a bit, struck gold at Crate and Barrel. The next morning, we gave my husband breakfast in bed and showered him with an array of small gifts. Among them, the little round pan that had so eluded him.

He had not much time to lounge about aimlessly when our youngest asked if he could show her how to make crepes. Soon, he was in the kitchen, stirring batter and then warming it up in his new pan.

I watched as, with a spatula, he expertly folded the thin pancake over some strawberries. "You're not supposed to be doing all this work on Father's Day," I said.

"This is how I wanted to spend it," he said.

Within a couple of hours, he had to head to the office again--though we all knew he'd much rather be at home with his girls, flipping crepes.

*****

Happy Father's Day to our family's two special chefs!

Model childhoods

Not long ago, a story appeared in the Richmond Times-Dispatch about a retired engineer who is reconstructing his childhood neighborhood in miniature. Carl Kersey, Sr., 73, grew up in Happy Hollow, a neighborhood of about 50 homes in eastern Richmond. The homes were bulldozed more than 30 years ago by the local redevelopment and housing authority, but the neighborhood lives on in his mind and in his scale replica.

Kersey's miniature Happy Hollow is rich in detail, from the tiny sheets that flap from clotheslines to the swimming pool that recalls the one that his father made from a fuel tank. In the article and accompanying video, writer Melodie Martin records Kersey's memories of an enchanting, working class community, where children bought penny candy at the corner store, swam in water-filled gravel pits, and whiled away afternoons "in the grassy lots between homes where they played baseball, cows grazed and tent revivals were held."

Reading the article, I feel a nostalgic tug for Mr. Kersey's neighborhood. It is interesting to me that the most modest of living conditions can often glean some of the richest of childhoods.

http://www.timesdispatch.com/rtd/news/local/article/KERS06_20090505-223203/266005/

*****

My 13-year-old was intrigued by the pictures of Mr. Kersey's model of Happy Hollow. "It's like the one in Mister Rogers' Neighborhood," she said. Both of my children have a fond appreciation for that quiet, slow-paced show. One of their favorite parts is the opening, when the camera pans a model of the neighborhood as the themesong begins.

The model is used in other parts of the show. When the kindly Mister Rogers visits his neighbors, his journeys are traced down its orderly streets. Everything that Mister Rogers needs seems to be within walking distance.

I would love to be able to walk a few blocks to check out some books from the library, buy a gallon of milk, or say hello to a friendly fireman. But my neighborhood is considered "car dependent," at least by the folks at http://www.walkscore.com/. Our community is safe, and abundant with natural beauty. The trade-off is that, unlike Mister Rogers, we would have to walk a couple of miles and cross some pretty major roads to get to the nearest store or library.

*****

My grandparents lived in Toronto for most of their lives, and, while there, they never owned a car. Everywhere they wanted to go was either accessible by foot or mass transit. We lived in Toronto when I was very young, and Gram watched me during the day while my parents worked. I still have vivid memories of my time in their very walkable neighborhood. I remember pushing my dolls in a little pram when we went to the playground down the street. On the way home, we'd stop at a corner store where Gram would treat me to a soda, a comic book, and ketchup potato chips. My grandparents lived on the second floor of a three-story walk-up, and the halls and stairwells always seemed to smell like fried food.

My grandparents have been dead for a number of years now, but, last fall, I returned to that old neighborhood. Lacking a child's dramatic sense of scale, everything looked so different. The buildings, especially, seemed so short. I did not recognize the playground down the street where I had spent so many hours. I wondered how many years it had been since they had replaced the swings and slides on which I had once played.

The older I get, the more I miss my grandparents. Perhaps I thought that by going back to their old neighborhood, I could somehow replicate what it felt like to be three years old and walking to the playground with my Gram. I found that I could no longer connect to what was, and would instead have to hold on to the memories of what had once been.

Boo Radley and other childhood mysteries

Early in To Kill a Mockingbird, 10-year-old Jem tells his cousin Dill about his mysterious neighbor, Boo.

“Well, judgin' from his tracks, he's about six and a half feet tall. He eats raw squirrels and all the cats he can catch. There's a long, jagged scar that runs all the way across his face. His teeth are yellow and rotten. His eyes are popped. And he drools most of the time.”

Dill is so enraptured by the story that he is startled when his aunt comes up behind them.

“My Lord, Aunt Stephanie, you almost gave me a heart attack!” he says, rattled.

If you were lucky when you were growing up, you may have had a similar neighborhood mystery to ponder—a neighbor with a secret or a peculiar house that was rumored to be haunted. Such stories likely drew you and your friends together, and added a sense of danger and excitement to long summer days.

Growing up in Houston, I remember a Spanish-style house in our neighborhood with a walled courtyard in front. If you peeked through the gate, you could see that the house had a very large picture window. The window revealed a staircase with a second-floor balcony. Sometimes you could see a ghost there, according to neighborhood lore. The ghost was rumored to be a beautiful woman dressed in a nightgown.

My friends and I would walk by the house at night and peek in. We were in junior high, so even if there wasn't a ghost per se, there would always be some sort of drama--a shadow or a movement of some kind to give us a rewarding scare.

*****

My cousin, Darla, was a master weaver of tales. I’d see her in the summertime, and we would have slumber parties at my great-grandmother’s house in Nova Scotia. After a full day of Barbies and adventures with our other cousins, we’d settle in for the night. We would be tucked under home-made quilts, the moon outside our window. She would begin her tales in a quiet, gather-round-the-fire voice. “A friend of mine told me this story. It happened to someone she knew…”

Darla likely told me about “Bloody Mary,” who would appear in mirrors when you repeated her name three times. She might also have told me the story about the woman in Toronto who was killed by her husband and plastered right into the wall. Today, some of her stories would no doubt be investigated and found wanting by Snopes. But they were riveting…the very stuff of childhood.

*****
One of the mysteries of our current neighborhood is right outside our front door. In our flower bed, we have a small grave. “Andy We Love You,” it reads.

My husband and I have made some dark, Lemony Snickettish suggestions to our children (“Andy was your older brother, who didn’t look both ways before crossing the street…”). But, we’ve all pretty much settled on the idea that the grave belongs to the beloved pet of a prior owner.

My 10-year-old, in fact, is certain about the identity of Andy, whose grave is right outside her window.

“One night I woke up, and there was a black lab at the foot of my bed,” she told me. I asked her about the dog, and learned that he was friendly and had blue eyes. But before she could approach him, she said, he wagged his tail three times and then jumped through the window.

“Do you think it was…” I started.

She nodded her head solemnly.

*****

I have seen my littlest one pointing out Andy’s grave to her friends. Although I am older now, and no longer privy to secret childhood conversations, I hope that she is carrying on the tradition set by my cousin Darla and the other storytellers in our family. I hope she is scaring the heck out of them.

Communication Breakdown

A few weeks ago, I did the modern-day equivalent of throwing away my 13-year-old's entire record collection. I washed her jeans, not realizing that her iPod was still in the pocket.

The destruction was amazingly efficient. Her collection was gone in one fell swoop. Replacing it all proved to be surprisingly effortless as well. Although we had to replace the iPod, she had most of her music on back-up. We averted what would have been a disaster in the '70s.

Back then, in the era of monster stereos, you had to make a serious space commitment if you wanted to listen to your own music. Stereos came in several parts: turntables, equalizers, and waist-high speakers. Albums were lined up in crates.

In middle school, with very little homework or planned activities, my friends and I had lots of music and too much time on our hands. We played our records forwards, backwards, turned up, and slowed down, often looking for "clues."

Did they say the "f" word on "Flashlight"? Had the woman who screams on "Love Rollercoaster" really been murdered in the studio?

There seemed to be something ominous about '70s music, and one of my friends had an older brother who seemed unusually in the know about it all. He was in high school and hung out with the kids in the smokers' corner. He usually kept his door locked. He had an amazing stereo, including an equalizer that, with all of its switches, apparently required the fine motor skills of a surgeon to balance.

His record collection ran down the length of one wall. When he wasn't there, his sister and I would sometimes sneak into his room and rifle through his albums. As we sat on the floor of his room, we would fold out his Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd double albums and contemplate their weird covers and lyrics. We unzipped the zipper on his Stones' "Sticky Fingers."

Today, the world of music seems less about mystery and more about marketing niches. The only thing that creeps out my 13-year-old is Pandora's amazing stealth at targeting her listening habits.

The Bad Mommies' Club

A decision to while away the late afternoon and early evening with friends bumped our dinner time w-a-a-y back. It was close to 9 p.m. on a school night when we finally arrived at our neighborhood grocery store and picked up a pizza. Usually, I see people I know at the store. But this late, the crowd was thin; the faces, unfamiliar. Nobody waved or chatted. Everyone went quietly about their business.

When we got home, I described the scene to my husband. "I guess it was the Bad Mommies' Club," I said.

"Mom," my 13-year-old corrected me, "they were college students."

KC and the Sunshine Boys

As I watched K.C. on "Americal Idol" with my girls last night, I said, "I promise you--this guy used to be cute."

My 13-year-old looked up an old picture of him on her iPod touch. "I guess he was cute...for the '70s."

"Gather ye rosebuds..."

We are stardust

Reflecting upon "The Walk to Paradise Garden" (see story below), I remember an interesting biographical note that I recently read. Twenty-three years after taking the photo of his children in "Paradise Garden," Eugene Smith was at the original Woodstock music festival, snapping pictures. His daughter, by then a young woman, was also there. Neither realized it though, and they didn't run into each other. I think about the little girl in the photo, and wonder how she might have changed by the time she got to Woodstock. How did being part of such an beloved, eternal image of childhood influence her life?

Thinking about this connection to Woodstock, I remember Joni Mitchell's great line, "and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden." As a parent, those words strike a chord with me. I think about the short but magical time that children have in "the garden" that is childhood. I worry that we are cheating them out of this time by pushing them too much and too fast. I appreciate the growing movement in our country focused on getting our children back outdoors again, building forts, catching fireflies, and squeezing out every last moment of their childhoods.

The Walk to Paradise Garden

I am haunted by this picture by legendary photographer W. Eugene Smith, "The Walk To Paradise Garden." Taken in 1946, the subjects in the photo are Smith's own children. He took this photo after he was wounded in World War II, where he took compelling pictures on the front lines. He had returned to his family in upstate New York and, in his words, felt he "needed to make a photograph that was the opposite of war."

There is so much to say about this photo, which so beautifully conveys the innocence of childhood, our spiritual connection to nature, and the eternity of the moment. For now, let me focus on something simpler, the shoes that the little girl is wearing.

© The Heirs of Eugene W. Smith

I wanted to get some clunky, old-fashioned shoes just like these for my youngest daughter. I wanted red ones, because I think they are the most special. But I had a hard time parting with the money (they're fairly expensive) and kept putting it off. Finally, I decided to take the plunge and took her to the shoe store. I learned that they only went up to a certain size, and that her feet were already too big to fit into them. For me, this photograph reminds me of those shoes, and the evanescence of childhood.

*****
Thinking about your children and your loved ones growing older is enough to cause a grown woman to break down in a dressing room at Macy's when "Toyland" comes on the radio. Yes, I was that woman this past Christmas while visiting my mom. We were in the Houston Galleria, a place more abundant with fashionistas than sentimental train wrecks. My mom, returning to the dressing room with a new outfit for me to try on, was surprised to find me in tears.

With mascara streaming down my face, I laughed as I tried to explain what had caused me to fall apart. "It's the line--`once you pass its borders you can never return again.'"

She just didn't get it. "Do you want to go back to `Toyland?'" she asked me, with a bemused smile.

Virtually popular table

Apparently, if you didn't get invited to sit at the popular table while in high school, you now have another chance...on Facebook. People who didn't give me the time of day when I was 16 are now offering me invitations to be their friends. Apparently, at age 43, I am finally sitting at the popular table. (YESSS!!)

But do these people really want to hear all about the minutae of my day and the results from my "What rock star are you?" quiz? Or am I just part of their "collection"? Another name to add to their friendship tally?

Or were we all a little more lonely than we realized?

Clowns to the left of me

I thought Quentin Tarantino was a terrific choice for a mentor on American Idol this week. He always seems to put a great deal of thought in choosing the music for his movies. In an interview once, I remember him talking about how he absolutely had to use "Stuck in the Middle With You" in "Reservoir Dogs." He said he wouldn't have made the movie without it. His music choices may be too memorable. Can you hear that song without thinking of the "ear" scene?

Did your little sister cut your Chrissy doll's hair?

www.feelingretro.com is a great place where you can go to reminisce with others about your old Dawn dolls, Rock'Em Sock'Em Robots, and Mystery Date games.

Kiddles From My Youth

Here's one of the teeny-tiny "jewelry" kiddles that I won on ebay and introduced to (ie. forced upon) my girls. If you want to be sent back in time, check out this Liddle Kiddle video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5HL1ar41wU. The children always look so sweet in these older commercials.

I am heartened that Mattel is now making Liddle Kiddle-type dolls again, the "Peek-a-Boo Petites." One of the collections features dolls from around the world. My favorite is the British mod, who wears a bobby's hat and has charms that include an umbrella, the Union Jack, and Big Ben. Cue up Pet Clark's "Downtown" and we're ready to go.

Then there are the rest of us, who can't remember why we walked into rooms...

In the news lately has been a fascinating woman. Jill Price, a 43-year-old woman from L.A., has a perfect autobiographical memory.

When asked to name the date of a specific event, Price is able to not only recall the exact date, but also provide other details, such as the weather or what she ate or watched on t.v. that day.

In remembering dates, "I relate it to where I was and what was going on in my life," she told Diane Sawyer in an ABC News interview (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAbQvmf0YOQ). In the interview, Price astonishingly provided accurate dates to each of Sawyer's questions--from the date t.v. viewers learned who shot J.R., to what Price ate for lunch on May 27, 2006 ("a BLT and tomato soup").

Sawyer asked her to describe what's it's like to be inside her brain. "Right now I'm in the present moment talking to you," said Price, "but I have a split screen in my head, where I have a loop of memories just free flowing all the time."

Yet while Price's memory of her own personal history is "extraordinary," she only performs "a little above average" on standard memory tests, according to cognitive psychiatrist Gary Marcus. "Price remembers so much about herself because she thinks about herself--and her past--almost constantly," said Marcus, who wrote an article about his meetings with Price in the March 23 Wired ("Total Recall: The Woman Who Can't Forget.")

In the article, we learn that she has every stuffed animal she's ever received; over 2,000 videotapes and countless audiotapes; 50,000 pages of journals kept for every day of her life; and, until recently, every TV Guide since 1989 (she's an especially avid t.v. fan). Her detailed memories begin just after what was for her a painful childhood event--her family's move from South Orange, New Jersey to L.A. on June 29, 1974.

In L.A., she lived with her parents until 2003, when they decided to downsize. Price, 37 at the time, found it traumatizing to leave her home. She took out a razor blade and, against realtor protest, stripped off a special piece of wallpaper that contained nearly 30 years worth of personal notes. "I have OCD of my memories," she admitted to Marcus.

One of her biggest regrets, she told Marcus, is that no one followed her around with a microphone during her childhood.

I find her story mesmerizing, because I always love reading about people with extraordinary gifts and also those who are obsessively drawn to the past. I would wager that there are many others who are intrigued by Price's story. I know that I'm not the only one who has reclaimed their childhood toys via ebay!

Latch key kid part deux, a cautionary tale

The freedom of being a middle school latch key kid in the '70s occasionally had its consequences. I did nothing to jeopardize those freedoms in sixth and seventh grade when I was a clueless nerd (6th grade) and a nerd who, at least, washed her hair regularly (7th grade). But by 8th grade, I'd finally gotten my wings to "work" (ie. my Farrah Fawcett hairstyle feathered back successfully). I had my Dr. Scholl's and my satin roller skating jacket. I was on the margins of popularity; not quite there, but it was within reach.

Hoping to clinch the deal, I threw a party. My mom was home, but stayed upstairs because she trusted us. Big mistake, as it turned out. The popular kids showed up, some of them already intoxicated, and I stood idly by while they raided our bar. My logic: If I did nothing while they drank all of my parents' alcohol, maybe they would invite me to sit at the cool table at lunch.

After Billy, one of the cutest guys in school, threw up all over our couch, I finally went to get my mom. Of course by then I was all, "hurry! hurry!" Mom made Billy clean up the couch, called everyone's parents, and I was not allowed to have another party again until my senior year in high school...I'm still waiting for the invitation to the cool table.


Popular kids displaying items from my parents' bar.

Fred on I-Carly tomorrow

I guess it had to happen sooner or later. Fred's made it big-time.

My 13-year-old's going to watch Fred on Nickelodeon tomorrow, but I can tell it all feels a little bittersweet for her. After all, she has been watching 15-year-old Lucas Cruikshank on Youtube even before there was a Fred. Back in those old, pre-subscriber days, he was "retainer boy" and a kid hamming it up in a sequined jumpsuit to Miley Cyrus's "Nobody's Perfect." My daughter had received the "Nobody's Perfect" video as an email attachment from a friend. She'd done her part, virally, by sending it all her friends.

If she feels a little Svengalian sadness about Fred's celebrity, it's understandable. After all, she helped make him.

Hackin' good times on Youtube

I know who Fred is, and it’s all because of my oldest daughter.

My daughter is 13 and a fan of Fred Figglehorn, a fictitious six-year-old who has anger management problems, an alcoholic mother, and a crush on a girl named Judy. She's been following Fred’s trials and tribulations on Youtube for some time now. Or should I say, we’ve been following Fred.

I know about Fred and all of her other favorite videos on Youtube because I’ve always kept close tabs on her internet usage. I am usually not far away when she is online, so I often get a “Hey Mom—you’ve got to come see this” call. I’m sure she would rather have someone her own age to share it with. But sometimes, you have to take what you can get—even a forty-three-year-old woman with a dish towel in her hand.

As a result, I’ve gotten to know my daughter better. In the way that I used to connect with my grandparents when we’d sit around the kitchen table playing cards, I’ve connected with my oldest daughter through Youtube. We’ve learned that we share the same warped sense of humor.

Together, we’ve marveled over the popularity of the “Numa Numa” video, in which a chubby guy enthusiastically lip synchs to the now-ubiquitous Euro-dance hit.

We’ve been charmed by the two British tots of the widely viewed “Charlie Bit My Finger” video. We love it how the big brother puts his finger in Charlie’s mouth—a total set up—and then is shocked by how hard his baby brother chomps down on it. We love Charlie’s gleeful laughter, and the bitter tagline: “Charlie bit me—and that really hurts!”

Then there’s the other Charlie—“Charlie the Unicorn,” which gets better with each viewing. We love Charlie’s fat, scowling eyebrows, his crankiness, and his New Jersey accent. We enjoy the deceptively cheerful unicorn duo who leads him on a variety of adventures on the way to candy mountain. We love, “Oh, God, what’s that?” “It’s a neopluradon, Charlie. A magical neopluradon.”

As a sign of his popularity, they’re now selling Charlie the unicorn t-shirts at tween superstore, Hot Topic.

Wait a minute, I knew about something before it was in at Hot Topic? A few years ago, I wouldn’t have even gotten the reference on one of their t-shirts.

We were watching the Fred videos long before CNN finally got around to breaking the story about them. The last time I was half this edgy, I had an asymmetrical haircut and Modern English was playing on my cassette deck—not serving as background music for a hamburger ad.

My daughter knows all about Modern English, the B52s, the Cars and the other bands of the late ‘70s to ‘80s when I came of age. We watch their videos on Youtube as well. She is appalled/mesmerized by the over-the-top theatricality of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which I told her that I once went door-to-door singing with my best friend. I like to show her the odd ball things that somehow help define an era—like the dancing dwarf dream sequence on Twin Peaks, a show I adored as a young married.

At 13, my daughter has entered the demographic that advertising execs in trendy glasses are paying millions to understand. And I’m right there—me, middle-aged bag with the dish towel-- totally getting it.

Are we having fun yet?

My 9-year-old gets upset when she hears about all of the great playgrounds of the 1970's. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a rocketship slide, a maniacally whirling merry-go-round, or a swing that can zoom sky high. Hot summer days are just not the same without a triangular, metallic slide to burn your behind on.

I am looking for examples of these lovely-but-potentially-dangerous classic playgrounds. In the meantime, I have found one to drool over: the adventure playground at the Berkeley marina, where kids pick up saws and hammers and build their own jungle gyms and swing sets. Check it out at:

http://www.ci.berkeley.ca.us/Marina/marinaexp/adventplgd.html

Confessions of a Latch Key Kid

My oldest daughter is in 7^th grade. Often, I hear grown-ups complaining that children in today's generation grow up too fast. But by comparison to my 7^th grade, growing up in Houston, my daughter's living the life of an overly chaperoned Jane Austen character.

I was a latch-key kid in middle school and I loved every minute of it. After we got off the school bus, my friend Lynda and I would walk up to the U-Totem. We would play pinball for awhile, then walk home, usually eating a candy bar and drinking a Dr. Pepper. As we walked around the neighborhood, we saw kids we knew. Sometimes we would say hi, other times—when cute boys were involved—we would wait to see if they would say anything. Everyone in our neighborhood went to the same school.

We hardly ever had homework, so we had a lot of free time on our hands.

As we got older, a couple of times we played Spin the Bottle with some neighborhood boys. Or Spin the Comb, or whatever spin-able object that we had on hand. The first alcoholic beverage that I remember drinking was a mixture of Nesbitt's orange soda and some whiskey pilfered from my parents' bar. Lynda was with me, and neither of us knew anything about making a mixed drink.

We also smoked a "Texas-sized" cigar, which Lynda had purchased at a local amusement park called Astroworld. In the summer between 7^th and 8^th grade, we had season passes to Astroworld. One of our parents would drop us off in the morning, then another pick us up at night. We would wait just outside the gates.

There is very little in the above narrative that I would let my child do today. I even cringe at the simultaneous Dr. Pepper and candy bar (think of the sugar!). As a parent, I'm happy she's safe. But looking through the lens of a 13-year-old, I feel bad for her, because she's missing out on a lot of fun.

I can't imagine her having the opportunity at any time in the near future to play "Spin the Bottle," for instance. The events she attends are over populated by parents. Yet, as these children's exterior world has been restricted, they are meeting electronically.

The other day, my daughter said a boy in her class asked her friend for her phone number. "That's silly," I thought, "He could find it in the school directory." It wasn't until later that it occurred to me. It was her cell number that he wanted—a fact that she confirmed. Because of our need to always keep tabs on our children, they are all equipped with cell phones. Now, apparently, they are using the phones to have secret conversations, text, and, in later years, plan spontaneous parties.

Good for them for doing something sneaky.

Astro world circa 1978: Candy cigarettes, new friends, and the Texas Cyclone.