Put it Down People

Hi.  It's me.  Your neighborly intermittent blogger.

This week I have health advice: put down your phone long before you get into bed.  Leave it in the other room while you sleep.  Get an alarm clock if you need to wake up at a certain time.  Remember alarm clocks?  As obnoxious as they are, most of us, if we are getting enough sleep and are in touch with our circadian rhythms, will wake up a few minutes before the actual blare of the electronic rooster.  

If you need more inspiration about how vital sleep is to us humans, please check out Matthew Walkers, Why We Sleep- Unlocking the Power of Sleep and Dreams.  The way Matthew describes the symphonic neurochemical dance of how our brains defrag each night practically had me in tears.

We are freaking miracles, people!  And we need to remember that.

Before Bed:

Sleeping with a router and wifi on at night can disturb sleep.  We have been turning off the router at night and both G and I feel more rested.  The science of what Wifi and Bluetooth technology is doing to our brains is so disturbing that I won't get into in here.  Reading about the dangers could cause even more insomnia.

Since the advent of LED lights, which I personally abhor since they are utterly unflattering to women of a certain age, the blue light pollution in our homes is ruining our production of melatonin.  Blue light tells your brain that it is still daylight.  Blue light is toxic.  I miss the gentle aura of incandescent bulbs.  I have not tried Blue Blocker glasses, mostly because I don't want to look like Bono, but they are supposed to help with sleep.  I'll let you all know when I try them.  Another cool trick that I have tried lately is lighting candles before bed.  I heard about "candle hour" on a great podcast called Nocturne. Candle hour is so relaxing.  I feel like Abe Lincoln when I crawl into bed and read by candlelight.  (Just don't forget to blow them out before you fall asleep).  

Avoid scrolloholism, especially in bed.  This is my made up phrase to describe the countless minutes and hours wasted by pushing your thumb upward over the screen of your phone.  I am so guilty of scrolloholism that it feels disingenuous to write this down, but do understand that I write things so that I can work through them too.  Guilty as charged!  But how can we quiet our minds before sleep if we are googling the Staircase Owl Theory or why dogs spin in circles before lying down?  Instead, put the bloody phone down.  Review your day in reverse, starting with what you just did, working your way backward.  I guarantee your mind can't help but drift into a state of relaxation and ultimately, sleep.

And in the morning:

Remember yourself.  Remember the peace of morning without glancing at your phone and seeing all the Instagram notifications?  Instead of bombarding your brain with information within just moments of emerging from rest, lay awake and listen to your inner voice.  Who is there?  What is there?  Some of the best writers used to lay in bed for hours.  Why?  Because they were thinking things through and using their imaginations before they even put down a word.  Try to envision what life was like before these screens, these sirens of seduction, beckoned us to forget who we are.  They distract us most of our waking hours.  Give yourself some kindness and ignore the lure of the screen for just a short while.  See if connection to yourself changes.  If this is tough, start slowly.  Drink your coffee and then look at your phone.  An odd thing to consider, isn't?  What would happen if we stopped the digital noise?  

I say, put down the phone. Drop the distraction because guess what?  Your unique and beautiful essence is still there, buried under the piles of mental clutter.  Quit covering yourself up under tabs and notifications.  Quit compromising your ability to live your one life to its full potential.

Do you have any suggestions for better sleep hygiene or management of technology?  

Fancy A Curry?

Do you ever feel like you ain't got nothing to give?  Well, that's me, blog friends.  I am well and truly in need of a vacation after my husband's birthday.  It's not his fault.  He was born and that wonderful fact is cause for celebration.  But, we had family and friends staying in the house for five days and this Introvert Girl, while loving it, needs her mental batteries charged in order to produce high quality content for "all y'all".  (Sorry, I'm not remotely Southern but that phrase just cracks me up!)

Plus, I'm a little sick.  Sick of Indian food, that is.

For those of you that have never experienced a good Ruby Murray (Curry) let me just say that it is like having a sweeping line of Bollywood dancers in your mouth.  The sensations of spices around the tongue yield a comforting pleasure and a modicum of surprise.   Creamy savory tikkas, the fried pakoras, and the crispy Naan leave one full and yet, tongue on fire, wanting more.  Curiously, it is the only type of food that leaves my dessert deranged palate sated.  After Indian food I don't need "a little something" sweet because I have tasted a rainbow of spices that have exhausted my mouth, making it feel as though it has run a 26 miler.  After Indian, I just want to go home and make sure I have placed the toilet paper in the freezer.

Indian food is a treat and an experience.

And if my husband could, he would eat it every damn day.

It's not his fault his palate is so tainted.  He was raised in England in the 60's and 70's.  Post war cuisine was still extremely limited.  He grew up on overcooked, boiled vegetables and lots of bland white greasy things masquerading as protein.  His palate is as confused as a small child lost in a department store.  It craves sensation to the odd extreme: cheese mixed peanut butter, lemon curd with peanut butter, often topped with milk poured over a croissant.  I know, it confuses me too.

In 2015 the two of us visited India for two and a half weeks.  (We flew coach. Does reading that make your back ache?).  We were with our yoga teacher, Coral Brown in Rishikesh, for a phenomenal retreat experience, but prior to arriving to Mother Ganga and the foothills of the Himalayas, we spent time in Rajasthan, visiting several cities including the glittering city of Udaipur where we stayed in a palace.  Our suite was enormous with a formal sitting room, huge master bedroom and a bathtub so large, that it took an hour to fill.  A five star hotel for a whopping $65 per night!  It had a view of the Lake Palace Hotel which twinkled at night.  Our tour company arranged guides in each city who did their darnedest to get us to buy local artisan trinkets.  After a few days, we were tired of the subtle manipulations and took matters into our own hands, consulting a tattered guide book.  Many offerings beyond fortresses and palaces sounded interesting, but there was one that intrigued us: Mena's Indian Cooking School.  Since I know it is my Husband's secret wish that I put on a sari and slave over a hot tandoori oven nightly, I thought this could be a good choice.  Perhaps I could learn how to make a decent chai.  I pictured the school in one of the finer hotels, a large, well lit kitchen, akin to something on the Food Network.  Our guide, Vikram, was not pleased but he agreed to call the school and after much yammering in Hindi, it was arranged that our driver, Manesh would bring us to the school.

Nearing class time, we headed through the cloistering traffic.  People, this was nothing like the Culinary Institute in Napa.  It was in a private home in a small offshoot of a small vein of a small street in Udaipur.  The street was so narrow that our driver's little Tata could not maneuver in such a minuscule area.  He had to drop us off and so on foot, we walked through the neighborhood to find Mena.  

Mena, was a firecracker of a little woman, an entrepreneur to the core.  She greeted us in stellar English and lead us down the cobblestone street to her house.  The neighborhood was in full party mode. Clusters of people everywhere, congregated in shops doors, while others walked at a fast pace, trying to avoid bumping into everyone else.  Children laughed and cried; music blared from every door jamb. Know this: if you ever visit India, realized that the sensory overload extends to the audible. We entered her house and removed our dusty shoes, leaving them in the marble entry.  It was a cool 89 degrees inside and as the three of us ascended the three flights of stairs, each floor got a little warmer.  Nosy me looked through the open doors and saw neat bed pallets, children's toys and textbooks.  The walls were white, but textiles in hues of saffron and ruby dotted them tastefully.  On the top floor, we entered the kitchen where we met her husband.  The kitchen was no bigger than a matchbox, perhaps 6x9.  The first thing I noticed was the lack of a stove.  There was a hot plate that in typical Indian fashion, was connected to a welder's propane tank.  I noticed electric plugs, emerging from the walls, wrapped near the tiny sink.  And then my worst nightmare was revealed: a tap!  We had been told, under no circumstances to drink any tap water.  We had been brushing our teeth with bottled water and showering with our mouths puckered into tight grimaces, lest a drop of the stuff slip in.  And here we were, looking at a tap that had some type of bulbous cheesecloth filter strapped to the nozzle presumably to avoid cryposporiduim, or some other toxic load.  Neither of us had experienced "Deli Belly", but since India has a way of gifting her friends with many lessons, I surrendered then and there.  I will drink this water.  I will get ill.  I will just let it go. I have medicine back at the palace.

The second surprise was that Mena was leaving us with her husband who spoke NO English and who had never taught the class before.  "I have to bring meals to someone.  I'll be back soon".  Her husband gave G and I a shy smile and began to educate us on proper way to boil a chai.

Now, I want you, my reader to look up from your phone or laptop.  Pause, and see what is 15 feet in front of you.  Okay, picture me, sweat pouring in rivulets down my spine as I looked out of the window and observed an old lady in the apartment across the street in repose, on her bed, wearing a sari, and watching TV.  She was so close that I could hear her television.  She was so close, I could have thrown her one of our homemade Pakoras and she could have popped it into her mouth. I regret that I didn't.

It was a very small space.  The three of us prepped and cooked together for three hours, our bodies bumping  constantly.  We fried pakoras.  We made roti, samosa and channa dal.  All prepared by deep frying in peanut oil.  After each small delicacy, we sat in tiny chairs and tasted our efforts. They were delicious.  Our teacher showed us how to change the intensity of the flavors by adding limes, salt, or masala paste.  It was an education of the senses beyond taste. We got into a flow where the three of us laughed as we tried to comprehend the tasks at hand.  And, yes, I rinsed the food with the tap water, and since we ate nothing that wasn't heated or fried, it was just fine.

Pakora, Pouri, and other yummies

In spite of the kitchen feeling like a sauna we enjoyed our class and were both inspired.  Mena returned just in time to applaud our efforts and sell us some spice blends.  Although the food was satisfying, the value most gained from the experience was cultural.  By immersing ourselves into a home kitchen in Udaipur, another aspect of India was shown: that of a hardworking, enterprising woman. Mena works many jobs to support her kids so that they attend good schools. Mena was a steadfast and talkative hostess who has obviously succeeded in promoting her business, since it was in the Fodor's guide book.

In Mena's kitchen

Gerard left with an Indian spice box called a masala dani, something found in every kitchen there. It is round and has seven containers with common spices that all cooks keep on hand: coriander, garam masala, cumin seeds, mustard, turmeric, red chili powder and green cardamom.  Salt is used sparingly so that the elements of all can be tasted.  They use no measuring spoons, just count "pinches" of spices which, when combined create endless dishes.  With a little knowledge of the basics, Indian cuisine is not as intimidating as it appears.  Besides, doesn't a curry always taste better the next day?  

Coming home, we were motivated and now make our own masala chai.  We make kitchari, an Indian comfort food, and add coriander to just about everything.  I don't cook in a sari, usually just an oversized Warriors T shirt, much to G's disappointment.  But, going to India did little to dampen his cravings for the cuisine.  He's on a first name basis with all of the staff at our local Indian restaurant, Aabha  In fact, the day it opened, G was the first customer! The owner, a young guy, makes him special dishes that aren't on the menu, and while G can easily down six cups of chai at one sitting, they never charge him extra.  They are like family now, which is why we celebrated his birthday there.

Will we go back to India someday?  I'm not sure, though I hear the cuisine in the south is delicious.   Goa, I hear your beaches calling.

The Bastard Line

While all of you may be excited to watch the Royal Wedding tomorrow, I am quite cross about it.  I'm not sure if I will wake up in the wee hours of the morning to view a wedding that I should be attending, even though as an American I wouldn't be caught dead with one of those bird's nests on my head.  (Sidebar: If you ever go to a wedding in England you can spot a Yank girl, by her garish bareheadedness).  Attending weddings in England has been de rigueur in my life lately.  Little nieces and nephews are taking the plunge in droves.  Even my sis-in-law has decided to get into the action for the third time, this coming autumn.  (Since I missed her first two, I'll be damned if I'll miss the third).  But, back to Harry: shouldn't family members, like me get an invite?  It's just good manners Haz and Megs!  Come on, Megs, we are both California girls with only the Malibu Canyon separating our childhood homes.  

In order to explain, let me introduce you to my late Irish great grandmother, Marguerite Wilson Haymes.  Oh Marguerite,  your Christian name must have been Margaret, don't try to fool us.  I've been researching family history for years and the facts of your life remain stubbornly mysterious.  The branches of your line have been sheared away by many myths and tales of your own making.  Your early life, tough to pin down is an enigma.  To quote your son, (my grandfather) Dick Haymes,

"My mother has that unique ability to tell a story the way she wants to believe it and that eventually becomes fact, so my mind isn't totally clear about my earliest beginnings"

Here's what we know:  You were born in Dublin to an English father and an Irish mother.  You were raised in Santa Barbara...umm, really?  How did you get from Dublin to Santa Barbara in the late 1800's? According to the biography, The Life of Dick Haymes by Ruth Prigozy, you did.  But in the short memoir of Dick's brother, Bob, you went straight from Dublin to London.  

Now I know memoir writing can be subjective, hello...that's what I do.  I'm the Queen of Subjectivity.  Even so, I found Bob's account of you slightly more plausible:  beautiful teenager arrives in London in 1913, gets lucky and lands a spot in the chorus of a West End musical produced by Charles Dillingham.  During the run of the play, Marguerite claims to have: 

"been taken to a very exclusive party to meet Edward, Prince of Wales.  They hit it off immediately and spent many an evening together as well as Sundays in the country.  Among her friends at the time, most believed that Royal Tradition had been uninterrupted".   

So, my great grandmother, Marguerite entertained  Edward the Prince of Wales.  A question remains; just how entertained was he?

Now, I am not one to dig into the (ahem) "primal relations" of my ancestors.  Having said that, I'm grateful to them for their rolls in the hay.  Otherwise, I wouldn't be here.

The fact is that Marguerite was a beautiful woman who was playing the field and had many beaus.  Bob Haymes' memoir says that she met "a quietly handsome gentleman from Argentina, supposedly in London on business who soon made Marguerite his sole occupation".  He was 20 years her senior and he brought her to Argentina where she gave birth to Richard Benjamin Haymes 11 months later.  The cunundrum is that I'm a clone of my mom who is a clone of her dad who is a clone of...you guessed it: Edward Prince of Wales.  

Prince of Wales

The "Haymes" look consists of fair skin, light eyes and a turned up nose.  Slightly, elven in appearance, often freckled, these Haymes genes are like bamboo in a garden.  Something you can cut back, but never entirely eradicate.  The musical talent strain has thinned out through the years although all six of Dick's children can sing.  Exceptionally well.  And all of the grandchildren, heck, even the great grandchildren are purveyors of music.  I don't know if Edward Prince of Wales,  was musical but Marguerite was.  She was a vocal coach in New York City for many years.  And she did prefer to be called Tutti by her grandkids; an Italian musical term which means, "all together, voices and orchestra".

So are we really related to the Prince of Wales/Duke of Windsor?  Who can say?  

Prince of Wales

There is a strong resemblance.  It could be coincidence.  It feels good to think I'm related to someone who would give up the throne for true love.  It also feels good to know that these days, even Royals can marry whom they choose to love: divorcees, commoners and Americans. 

The alternative scenario is that Benjamin Haymes of Argentina is my great grandfather.  In which case, I'm descended from Robert the Bruce of Scotland.  Braveheart?  Not too shabby of a lineage.  Now that is something I can wrap my kilt around.

Ok.  All this talk of lineage and ancestry does inspire my love of family and tradition.  So, out of duty to my future descendants I will get up early, grab a cup of black coffee, put on my Uggs and watch the Royal Wedding.  Fine. Twist my arm about it!  After all, Harry is marrying a Valley Girl.  And OMG, like, who can resist that?

Tutti

Dick and Tutti 1940's

The Futon

Juliet was tired of sleeping on a futon with only a tatami mat separating her from the cold floor.  I can’t say I blame her.  After all, the house she lived in with my son was damp.  Moldy, P.G. damp, and though I never went to the house, its smell wafted toward me every time Ian came over to visit.  The musty, moist smell of an un-insulated house typically graces our Peninsula.  We are lucky to have some of the cleanest air in California with our forest, but there is a trade off.

When Ian and Juliet, after a year after dating, announced they were moving to Portland I nodded my head with a half smile.  My son Ian has always been grandiose about his plans.  His big ideas have ranged from walking the Pacific Crest trail solo, blowing glass art to becoming a dental hygienist   When he was in high school, he told me he was torn about his career: he couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to become a DJ or a Shaman. 

This time, though, he was serious.  He needed to finish his bachelor’s degree and wanted to do it at Portland State University.  He’d been there once, to visit Juliet during the previous summer when she was spending time visiting her aunt.  And so he gave three month’s notice, leaving a technical managerial position in one of our local hotels.  I’d miss him walking through my front door, unannounced, heading straight to the fridge, but I also knew that this was a positive and necessary development.  I believe that young adults should all have an opportunity to live in a city.  Cities can be good teachers and Portland seemed like a reasonable choice. 

The other mitigating factor was housing.  The sponge that Ian lived in came with a roommate and  though Ian and Juliet didn’t mind living with him; they wanted their own place.  Privacy.  Finding a place to rent here with a tiny budget is like finding a shard of sunlight in an underwater sea cave in Antarctica. 

So, being the nurturing co-dependants that we are, my husband and I agreed to drive a moving van full of furniture to Portland.  We were motivated to undertake this task because we like to help, and we wanted to see where they would be living.  We had heard it was a Neighborhood of Transition.  We have lived in more than a few “transitional neighborhoods” which made me nervous.  Plus, I would sleep better knowing I could track Ian on my Iphone along the 13 hour, 740 mile journey.

Ian, Gerard and I left Carmel at 3:00am; Ian, in his little white Miata, and Gerard and I in a large dodge rental van.  Before reaching to Hollister we were separated and with a flurry of tense texts exchanged, Ian was alone, conversing with a homeless man in front of Casa de Fruita while Gerard and I first began suffering through the stench of the furniture.  The musty smell permeated not just the futon, but everything and I told Gerard that we would have to wipe down things before they were brought into the new apartment.

Juliet was already in Portland waiting for us.  She and Ian had wanted to sell the futon, but did not have time and could not leave it at the rental house.  Juliet had been working  eight days a week at a local restaurant and Ian had just survived our Peninsula's Car Week so the futon was loaded up much to everyone’s olfactory distress.

Gerard rigged a nice buffer between and the futon and our nostrils by using bungee cords and some moving blankets.  Gerard is a genius on many levels, and this simple fix was helpful in quelling the distracting smell.

As the sun began to rise we became more alert.  We always have a great time driving together, even when we are bickering and driving together, but all in all, it was a time of laughter, music and podcasts.  We drove through Sacramento with little fanfare.  The I5 is the armpit of California, but the scenery does improve the further north you go.  The best part of the drive was watching the appearance of Mt. Shasta.  It came upon us unexpectedly.  It was majestic and mysterious and I was plummeted into memories of a houseboat trip that our family went on when I was a young child. 

We stopped in Ashland for a late lunch, eating, large deli sandwiches while standing alongside a counter, listening to 80’s music.  Back in the car we watched as the scenery changed.  A curvaceous road emerged with green mountains and low valleys smiling in the afternoon sun.  Everywhere we looked; trees flourished, rivers hugged the van and the air was charged with warmth of an Oregon summer. 

Finally, after dealing with Portland traffic, and a faulty navigation system, which took us in four different directions, we arrived in the Neighborhood of Transition to a bubbly Juliet who jumped up and down in delight.  I forgot to mention that Juliet is a beautiful girl and one of her best features is her laugh that sounds like a small set of chiming bells.  Their reunion was fun to watch, the nectar of a moment, a memory that Gerard captured on his phone.    

The apartment in the Neighborhood of Transition has several requirements for entry: an intercom, a key for the front lobby, a key for each floor in the building, and of course a key to the apartment.  Built in the 1930’s, the place has character.  The kitchen has an old fashioned sink with the faucet attached to the wall, and black and white countertops accented with sea foam green tiles.   In the dining room, cute wooden built in cabinets with Greek key molding.

Speaking of mold, Juliet was not happy to see the futon.  She said,

"Oh let’s not bring that thing upstairs".

Gerard and I exchanged a look and wondered if the valet parkers of our booked hotel would survive.

But, Juliet’s father, (who is employed as baggage handler for a major airline) has razor sharp unloading skills and with the help of him, Gerard, the Aunt, myself and the two small cousins who acted as doormen, the van was unloaded in less than 40 minutes.  Including the large hard bamboo tatami mats for the futon.  Unlucky us, we were stuck with the futon.

Portland is hot in August and it was 86 degrees that evening.  Gerard and I had done our due diligence and left to check in to the downtown Marriott off the Morrison Bridge.

The adorable young blond valet attendants were gracious about the van, which was covered in nutshells, water bottles and brown bags filled with empty wrappers.   We walked into the refreshing air-conditioned lobby and dragging our suitcases upstairs, proceeding to get cleaned up for dinner.  We had been awake for hours and our bodies still hummed with the vibration of a 14 hour car journey.  Deciding to eat downstairs we headed to the hotel restaurant where we ordered burgers from a sweet 20 something covered in tattoos and body piercings. 

We were shocked at how delicious our dinners were.  The burgers, covered in melted Tillamok cheddar, were cooked to perfection.  The side salad was so fresh, its phytochemicals created a symphony of tongue and plant.  Everything about this meal screamed Organic, Farm Raised, Grass Fed and GMO free. 

The next morning, after a refreshing sleep we headed back to the apartment where we encountered a neighbor, Poppy, a wisp of a mom outside of the building smoking a cigarette, or maybe a joint.  She had in tow, two small children.  One was an infant, the other about 3.  The disheveled children danced around her as we conversed and we told her about the futon and the tatami mats.  She told us she had met Ian and Juliet and that they “seemed cool”.

Juliet and Ian were glad to see us, but Juliet did not want the tatami mats in the apartment.  So, we hauled them back downstairs to the van, Poppy, observing us. 

She thought the mats “seemed cool”

"Oh, you don’t want them", I told her.  "They are really green underneath". 

"That’s okay.  I can clean them.  They would be fun for the kids to play on.  I can take the futon off your hands too".

"Poppy, I don’t think that’s a good idea.  It might be hazardous to your children" I said, genuinely concerned.

"How much do you think they want for the mats?" she asked.

"Nothing!" said Gerard.

"That seems cool.  I’ll take them, but I’ll need your help getting them into my place".  Poppy drove a hard bargain.  So, after loading the tatami mats into the van, we unloaded them and brought them into Poppy’s apartment where they would live out their usefulness.

It was then that Ian and Juliet told us that they wanted to go to Ikea to pick up some things.  As I walked into Ikea it started to dawn on me that the demographic of Portland was markedly different than Carmel.  Everyone here, including the employees, looked 12 years old.  People our age were the exception. (And many of them ignorant of hair dye, poor souls.)

After an hour of listening to ruminations of bed frames, mirrors and hand towels, Gerard and I sat down at the Ikea café for some caffeinated and chocolate driven reinforcements.  The children were at the registers paying which was in itself, a grand phenomenon to behold.

Sweaty, disheveled, and physically sore, I turned to my husband and said,

"I haven’t seen anyone over the age of 30 in the last 24 hours.  Who is in charge of this place?"

He laughed and said the average age of a Portland citizen is 30.

"I’m serious, Gerard.  How do they manage to get things done?  It’s like being dropped into a college campus.   And there are so many homeless people here, under the bridges.  They all seem to be Ian’s age.  Where are their parents?  What happened to them?" 

He reminded me that eventually we would have a millennial as our president. Before that thought began to percolate in my brain, the kids were back, pushing a giant flat bed cart.  They were ready to go home and build a bed, so could we please back up the van into the loading zone?

That night, Gerard and I had a long think about the futon.  We knew our nostrils could not stand another 13 hours with that thing.  But, we didn’t know what to do with it.  Gerard wanted to drop it under the Morrison Bridge for a homeless person to use.  His brazen plan was to stop abruptly, mid traffic, and have me push the thing out at the first person I saw.  Absolutely not an option, I told him.  The homeless in Portland are aggressive.  It could be dangerous.

In the early morning, our plan was to meet the kids at Voodoo doughnuts and head back to California.  Climbing back into our spore-laden purgatory and glancing at the heavy white futon in the back, I knew that we had to do something.  As we drove through the streets of downtown Portland on a Sunday morning, all seemed calm.  The homeless were not visible, but their things were and as we parked the van I noticed a small collection of belongings near a corner: a blanket, a crate and a canvas bag.  That’s when I had my idea.  Gerard left the van and wandered up the street to look for the Pay and Display machine (yes, even on a Sunday), while I climbed into the back of the van.  I looked around and saw no people.  The shops were closed.  I opened the van door, jumped out and with all of my weight training might, pulled that heavy smelly cumbersome futon out on to the sidewalk.  Quickly I closed the door, resuming my position in the passenger seat.  Gerard walked toward the van: disbelieve, then laughter spreading over his face.

"Come on, let’s go try these famous doughnuts and find out what the fuss is about"  I said, nonchalantly.

And we did.  In front of Voodoo doughnuts we watched, amused, as the homeless ran circles around the cops.  They obviously had the control.  The cops, who again, looked 12, enforced them much like a set of Playmobil or Lego Men would.  They stood, hands on their hips, with vacant smiles, nodding and trying to keep a buffer between the homeless and the tourists.

Just as I was finishing my chocolate old fashioned a young homeless man approached me.

"Got have any money?" he asked. 

"I already donated today," I told him, nicely. Because, technically it was true.

"Well you didn’t donate to me" he said, storming off in a huff.

Our time was up. We said our tearful goodbyes to the kids and wondered just how they would cope.  Neither had a job yet, but while they may have lacked income, they were rich in optimism, the value of which is priceless.  Knowing that the world is an imperfect place, but also knowing that we can’t protect them forever, we walked back to the van arm in arm.  To our delight, the futon was nearby, folded neatly with someone’s belongings.  It had been claimed!  What a perfect start to the day.  Besides, if it made someone on the streets of Portland feel a little more comfortable on a hot summer night then that alone was worth it’s 740 mile delivery service.

The Magic Maid

In the 70’s my mom and dad had a traditional marriage.  They were not hippies.  They preferred scotch to marijuana, and Nixon over McGovern.  They stayed within the boundaries of their upbringings, rarely questioning the status quo.  In fact, when my mother got pregnant with me while she was in college, my father immediately married her.  Had Roe vs. Wade been established, it’s very possible that I would not be here to write this essay.  In short, they were good people who did the right thing 99.9 percent of the time.  Was their marriage happy?  Not really.  Even so, they both knew how to get what they wanted from one another, even if on the sly.

The house in Malibu my parents purchased in 1971 had cost them 66k, a huge stretch.  They were nervous about such a large mortgage.  It seems laughable now, that people spend more than that on a kitchen remodel.  Inflation is a baffling concept that requires the passage of time before its full effect can be appreciated.

My father commuted to Downtown LA five days per week, working well over the 40 hours his salaried position paid.  He was one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known.  He left for the office early in the morning to beat traffic and arrived home roughly 12 to 14 hours later.  We only had family meals on the weekends.

My mother, so young and restless (come to think of it, that was her favorite Soap Opera), stayed at home.  What she got up to during the day, I’m not sure.  But she was always pulled together, manicured and coiffed to perfection wearing her rhinestone covered T-shirts and her Chemin de Fer jeans.  She has always been hip and beautiful, so this is no great revelation.

My mom’s job was to “keep house”.  Our house was the jewel of the street.  My aunt christened my mom the “Better Homes and Garden Sister” a term bestowed with some envy.  But hey, my mom had style and flair.  She loved to decorate and was always moving furniture around, (still one of her favorite past times).  She created terrariums out of Sparklett’s water bottles and had our entire entry hall covered in cedar shingled paneling.   Any time a guest entered, they would remark that our house smelled like fresh pencils.  It did.

Still, my mom got frustrated at times, having to keep a 3000 square foot house clean.  It had a huge entryway, formal living and dining rooms, a large kitchen with an attached family room, a lower level den with a spare guest room, and three other bedrooms along with three full bathrooms.  The Brady Bunch abode had nothing on our tri level 1970’s beauty in Sunset Mesa.  

I wonder if Mom was fed up, having to follow us kids about, picking up our messes.  You know how it is with children: the minute they see a clear space in a room, like homing pigeons, they gravitate toward it, ready to create a new hurricane.  Board games and blanket cities made alongside the ambient music of the Partridge Family on a portable record player, dragged from the bedroom, and a round of “52 card pick up” flying toward the ceiling, just to finish off the disaster.   In short, my friends and I were always busy, always creative.

In the kitchen we painted, sometimes by numbers and sometimes just on rocks.  We did wood burning with pyrography pens, making peace signs and daisies on pieces of pinewood.  We crocheted yarn into long chains for no purposes, beyond tying our younger siblings to chairs.   And we’d steal away into our parent’s walk in closets for darkness, to use a Ouja board, or a Lite Brite. Naturally, we never put things away unless threatened with death or no dessert.

We lived with typical American excess, game boards crashing on our heads as we tried on tippy toe to retrieve things off tall shelves in our bedroom closets.  And, when my friends and I got bored, we’d just move to another house and create mountains of destruction in a different setting.

We were not a dirty family, just messy.  Some houses were a lot worse, but still, my mom was drowning in housework and childrearing.

My dad, the progeny of people reared during the Great Depression, was a chronic worrier, especially about money.  Thus, he had placed my mom on a strict budget.  It pissed her off.

So when she asked my dad if she could hire a cleaning lady once a week he said,

“Absolutely not.  We cannot afford that”

A few weeks later my dad asked my mom to pick up his custom made suits from the Wilger Company in Westwood.  The total for three suits was over $900.  It was a revelation; the life vest she needed in her drowned sea of toys. 

And, I can’t afford help, she thought.  Hmmm

So, she hired Leticia. 

Leticia came to clean with her long glossy black hair tied into a ponytail, her small shy smile revealing white teeth.  She was eager and sweet, her brown doe eyes shining as she gloved up, ready to attack our large house.

Coming home after school on a Wednesday, my nose would fill with the scent of bleach and Pine Sol.  I’d enter the house and feel the calm and order of her visit.  Charging up to my room I’d see that she’d made my bed perfectly, aligning my stuffed animals into a little semi circle around the pillows, like they were having a weekly Stuffed Animal Convention.

Post Leticia: no wet towels on the bathroom floors, no slimy dishes in the sink and the piles of our shag carpeting standing with military precision.

My dad would come home from work and would admire what he thought was my mom’s homemaking genius.

Once, he peered into my three-year -old brother’s closet and noticed all of his little shoes: Keds, sandals, slippers and Stride Rites, lined up along the doorjamb, their heels equally spaced. 

“Wow, Jason – your shoes look so orderly”

“My maid did it” my brother replied.

Jason’s lack of elaboration must have reinforced my father’s admiration for my mother’s housekeeping.  He left the house in spiffy suits; and she (with the help of Leticia), left the linoleum floor spiffy. 

Leticia was with us for a long time and my dad didn’t have a clue.

I see my mom now, cooking at the Gaffers and Satler mustard yellow electric stove, phone crooked at the side of her neck as she stirred beef stroganoff and gossiped with her friends.  She’d flit about the kitchen, always with that long phone cord stretching from the cupboard, to the fridge, to the dishwasher and the dryer.  That cord was a part of her, chronically wrapped around her body and she did a clever choreographed dance to untangle herself multiple times in one conversation.  The cord was long enough so that she could reach just beyond the kitchen to the hall and holler our names for dinner.

Was it the phone with the long cord that betrayed her secret, or her gift of gab?

There was no call waiting feature in the 70’s and unless one wanted to conduct an “emergency breakthrough” with a live operator, all one would get was a busy dial tone.  In hindsight, the only people that I knew who utilized emergency breakthroughs were teenagers.  After all, isn’t everything an emergency to a teenager?  I hardly think that my Dad would have wanted to talk to my mom that much though.  Still, Dad, frustrated by the constant busy signal, had a second line installed.

One day, when she was upstairs gabbing yet again to another friend, the second line rang and rang and rang and rang.

Leticia, who happened to be mopping, couldn’t take it.  She picked up the phone

“Bueno”

“Hello, I am looking for my wife, did I dial the wrong number?”

“Momento”

Mom got on the phone with Dad.

“Who was that?” he asked

“That was Leticia, our maid”

“We can’t afford a maid!”

“I think we can.  She’s been with us for three years”

The gig was up. Leticia stayed.  My mom came clean, and the house remained clean too. 

As for us children, we never learned how to pick up after ourselves.  We relied on Leticia to pull us together, if only once a week.  I wonder where she is now?  I’m hoping that today that she is resting in a lazy boy chair somewhere gloves off, margarita in hand, and that her kids and grandkids staunchly refuse let her lift a finger. 

Relevé, Plié

Woody, my grandfather was a showman.  He grew up in Oklahoma and was a champion trick roper.  I remember him, after tossing back a few bourbons at one of the crazy parties on Carla Ridge, jumping in and out of a twirling rope, fiddle music blasting and cigarette dangling out of his mouth.  He was good at everything; at least, that’s the impression that he projected to the world.  If you asked him, on any given day how he was, the answer was always the same:

“Ain’t never been stronger”

Growing up poor, he managed to escape his humble roots.  I don’t know much about his early life.  He was a trained engineer; one of his most notable feats was purchasing and transporting the London Bridge from England, granite piece by granite piece and reassembling it into the middle of the desert town that he created: Lake Havasu City, in Arizona.  Before he came into our lives, he was very close to Walt Disney and helped plan Disneyland.  Apparently, he gathered data like population density and the projected growth of certain LA hamlets and they decided on Anaheim.   He carefully chose, not only the location of the park, but the ley lines on which attractions were placed making sure the very center was King Arthur’s Carousel.  A ley line is a supposed area where energy is concentrated geographically.  King Arthur’s carousel, located at ley line 33 was the epicenter of the park, a portal to fairyland, out of which all the magic would hopefully be dispersed.   Club 33, the only place in Disneyland where alcohol was served is named after that ley line.  After having a falling out with Walt (he claimed it was because of the jealous younger brother, Roy), Woody could only legally claim that he developed and designed Disney’s Main Street.  But Disneyland was his original baby, and his influence was scattered throughout the Magic Kingdom.

Woody (center) with Walt Disney and Buzz Price

     

Woody had also worked for the SRI, the Stanford Research Institute group that studied remote viewing; he was fascinated with the power and potential of the human mind.  It was not uncommon, in the 1970’s to have all types of characters at the house on Carla Ridge: Uri Geller, bending spoons, or some psychic who would tell your fortune just by grabbing a lipstick out of your purse.  One of his best friends was Peter Hurkos, a Dutch housepainter who had fallen off a ladder, landed on his noggin and become extremely psychic. He was part of the regular circle and gatherings throughout the years.  Once, he shook my dad’s hand goodbye as my parents were leaving Carla Ridge and whispered into his into his ear solemnly, “Don’t take the Freeway home”. 

“When Peter Hurkos tells you not to take the Freeway, you go Sunset” said my normally pragmatic father.

Woody’s physical stature complimented his large personality.  He took up a lot of space in the world.  He had a long oval face with sampaku brown eyes and cheeks that drooped like a Basset Hound.  He was often on a diet, but he loved food and had a huge belly.  He was an excellent cook, and being a Creative developed some delicious recipes.  He was most known for the chili he made; and with the help of his friend, Carrol Shelby started the International Chili Society.  Convinced that they both made the best chili (“ain’t real chili if the pot got beans”), they created Chili Cookoffs, which they started in a remote hellish corner of Texas called Terlinqua.  Chili Cookoffs were annual events and you could taste everything from Armadillo to Rattlesnake Chili.  Ernie, Woody's butler, always assisted Woody during the cookoffs, wearing a British bowler hat and bolero tie, drinking the beer that was supposed to be added to the pot between stirs.  At the cookoffs, Woody, dressed in a large red cape with Ermine trim and wore a crown.  Woody’s World Famous chili was a featured dish at the Rangoon Racquet, a restaurant in Beverly Hills.  It was $50 per bowl.  At home, he lumbered about in monogrammed clothing.  He moved slowly, with his girth and had a strong Oklahoma drawl so that when he talked he commanded an audience.  Booming, and large, he dominated a room.

“It would sure make me happy if you lost 10 pounds, Darlin” he told me in front of everyone, as I was tearing into a delicious Tex Mex meal with the family.  I reiterated this once to my therapist who asked me,

“Is Woody fit?  Into jogging?’ 

I laughed and then cried at the absurdity of his comment.

Because of Woody’s illustrious past, anything we knew about him had the potential for truth.  After all, in the hall closet there were plaster of Paris Bigfoot impressions and even scat on the top shelf.

“That was when Woody was hunting for the Yeti in the Himalayas”  said my grandmother, completely deadpan.

In the 70’s Woody worked for McCollough Oil as chairman of the Board.

He was friendly with a lot of movers and shakers, one of which was Don Kendall, the Chairman and CEO of Pepsi Cola.  Don and Woody became so close that Woody was the Godfather to one of Don’s daughters.  Don, an adventurous guy, once invited Woody and Nana to go to Iceland to do a little Salmon fishing.  Nana, who was an accomplished fly fisherman, was game.

When they boarded the small, private Lear jet there was another couple there: Mikhail Baryshnikov and Jessica Lange.  The three couples spent a week in Reykjavik, fishing, huddling against the cold and eating salmon so fresh that it practically jumped off the plate.  (Woody hated salmon so I’m guessing he subsisted on frozen hamburger patties).  My grandmother told us,

“Here we were, trudging along in our thigh high waders through the mud toward the streams and Baryshnikov was leaping over the fences like a gazelle”

I can only imagine the eye candy of Baryshnikov, the famous Russian Ballet dancer, gracefully extending his fishing line into the water, perhaps standing on large boulders en point, the only man who could look sexy in waders.  Misha was the hottest thing at the time.  He barely spoke English and stared at the world through a different lens, having defected from the iron curtain.  He and Jessica communicated in French.  Nana and Woody were social with Misha and Ms. Lange shortly thereafter.  To outsiders, that may seem like an unlikely foursome.  But Woody collected interesting characters so actually, this was typical.

I was young during this time, probably 10.  I never met Misha.   My cousins, Suzanne and Jaime were older, 17 and 23.  I love my cousins and especially Jaime.  Her fun loving teasing of me was merciless.  I was a shy and sensitive child and followed Jaime around like a puppy trying to just grasp a slice of the light she emitted.  She was an imp and a trickster and continues to be one of the funniest people I know.

Once Jaime asked Suzanne how Woody knew Baryshnikov.

“Oh, that’s because Uncle Woody used to be a ballet dancer” Suzanne said, non-chalantley.

“What? No Way!!!!” said Jaime in her loud high-pitched Valley Girl accent

“Oh yeah, he was one of the top dancers at the New York City Ballet when he was younger.  That’s how they met.”  Suzanne was adamant.  Jaime shook her head, but then shrugged it off.

Again, I have to reiterate Woody’s demeanor and physical state.  Woody walked around the house in caftans and lived on fried hamburgers and mint juleps.  He drank Pepsi with milk for Breakfast.  The idea of Woody, pirouetting on a stage with triple relevees was outlandish, preposterous and inconceivable.  But, given all the stories of Woody, not improbable.

Years, later…and I mean years….perhaps 10, we were all at Carla Ridge for yet another gathering.  Who the guest of the moment was, I cannot say.  It may have been Christmas, or Easter, or a Kentucky Derby Party, or just a Sunday football day.  Anyway, the family was gathered and as usual, all of us had brought along friends.  The house had a revolving door and all were invited. 

Jaime was holding court in her own little corner of the giant living room, regaling her friends with tales of the family, perhaps telling them the history of the house or about one of my grandmother’s movies.

“Yeah, and when my Uncle Woody was a ballet dancer….”she bragged

Suzanne hearing her from across the room began her signature laugh; a babbling brook of loud hysterics.

“What did you say, Jaime?”

“I was telling them about Uncle Woody, when he danced for the NY City Ballet” hand raised, shoulders shrugged.

“Jaime, I was joking…have you seriously believed that for all these years????” Suzanne began laughing uncontrollably now.

“What??????” Jaime shrieked.  She was derailed.

“I thought it was true!!!”

“Jaime…how could it possibly be true?”

Jaime had been had by her sister, and knowing Jaime that is a tough thing to do.  

And so the legend of Woody the Ballet Dancer was debunked and filed into the subchapter of our Family Lore section, entitled “Funniest of All”.  It was Suzanne’s private rodeo, and this time, Jaime had been trick roped.