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.

Me & Mr. McQueen

Here is a special treat for my blog followers: an essay written by my sweet mom.  Thanks, Mom. 



Sometimes we cross paths with special human beings in this world, not realizing until much later, just how they will touch our lives.

In 1958 I fell hard for Steve McQueen.  He was new on the scene, a young actor playing a bounty hunter on the TV series called Wanted Dead or Alive.  He was 28 and I was 14, half his age, but still old enough to develop a serious crush on the man.  His sultry, sexy look, those piercing blue eyes and his humble shyness spoke directly to my young senses. I was hooked.  Never missing an episode, I watched Josh Randall each week triumph  over evil and round up the bad guys.

Of course I did feel a little disloyal to my first love, Elvis Presley.  Waiting patiently for Elvis, only nine years my senior, I totally felt he was within marital reach.  Elvis rented a house nearby and I knew plenty of people who worked with him.  He played football at neighboring Beverly Glen Park.  It was just a matter of time.  But as I waited for an introduction, young beautiful Priscilla, a girl with big hair and tons of eye makeup snagged him right out from under me.  Bitch!....Oh sorry, have I digressed?

Anyway, to continue...as a high school senior in 1962, I was a member of a club called the Debues, similar to a college sorority.  At the close of every senior year, our club always held a banquet to recognize outstanding achievements, present awards and crown a Queen.  A dinner dance followed the ceremony.  The arrangement committee hoped to find a well-know celebrity to do the honors and this is where I came in.  I was approached to see if I might secure someone recognizable to crown the queen.

At the time, my mother was shooting a TV series at Desilu Studios in Culver City.  I drove over to the set and met with her assistant.  Putting our heads together, we decided to peruse the actor's catalog, a thick book of all S.A.G. members.  Not only were pictures included, but also ages, film credits, agent and manager's names and numbers and best of all, contact numbers!  What a wonderful resource, especially for me!

I opened the book and my finger landed on none other than my crush, Steve McQueen!

"Oh, I love him!" I shouted.  I stared at his home phone number and thought,

"Oh my God, should I call him?  Do I have the guts?  What if he answers?  What will I say.  Ok.  Breathe" I told myself.  I picked up the phone and dialed away. 

He answered.

"Uh, Mr. McQueen? Hello there" I stammered.  "My name is Joanna Haymes.  My mom is Joanne Dru and I'm at the studio with her right now.  I'm a senior at University High School.  Our club is having a senior banquet at the Riviera Country Club before our June graduation.  We would be so honored if you would be able to come and Queen our Crown....oops, sorry, I mean Crown our Queen!  Sorry.  We would be so honored."  I spoke as fast as I could before he hung up- and rambling like an idiot.  God, I was so nervous.  My face burned with embarrassment.  But he was cool.

He asked the date.  I told him.  He asked the time.  I told him.  He asked how long it would take and I told him,

"Less than an hour".

"Well Joanna", he said, "I'm working on a film right now (The Honeymoon Machine).  It is supposed to wrap the week before your banquet.  If it does, Neile and I are going to Palm Springs for a little break together.  If not, I'd be happy to be there and help you out.  I actually live near the Riviera.  May I call you and let you know?"

Oh HELL YES, call me anytime, Steve...I said to myself.  Out loud it was,

"Well of course, Mr. McQueen," and I gave him our phone number.

"Joanna, please call me Steve" he remarked.

OH HELL YES Steve...again, speaking only to myself, and then I said,

"Thanks Steve.  I hope you can do it.  I'll wait to hear from you".  And we hung up.

Whew....it was intense.  I was sweating like a pig (though my mother always told me "horses sweat, men perspire and ladies dew").  Whatever!  I had just spoken to my fantasy man, Steve McQueen...so sorry Elvis.

I'd been around many actors, but could never recall feeling as tongue tied and asinine as I felt that afternoon.  But just talking to him and the thought of meeting him?  Well, you can only imagine.

A few days later, mom and I were at home and the phone rang.  She picked it up.  "Hi, this is Steve McQueen" a man said.  "May I speak to Joanna?" 

"Whose calling again?" mom queried.

"It's Steve McQueen"

With wary eyes she handed me the phone...."Someone claiming to be Steve McQueen is on the phone for you".

With a pounding heart, I casually said,

"Oh, hi Steve".

"Hi Joanna, it turns out that we're wrapping the film on schedule and will be going to Palm Springs after all.  I'm really sorry.  I wish I could be there for you".  He went on to suggest his friend, an actor named Clu Gulager and gave me the home phone number.

Though deflated, I sincerely thanked him for considering it at all, and wished him a happy time in Palm Springs.

And thanks to him, I was able to secure his friend, Clu.  On the evening of our banquet, the queen was crowned by this very nice, good-looking actor.  Sadly, though, he wasn't my first choice, Steve McQueen.

And now the rest of the story, as Paul Harvey used to say.  After Her Highness was crowned and presented a large bouquet of roses, she was handed a long, gold floral box.  Inside, there were two dozen long-stemmed roses.  Nestled among the stems was a card that read, "To the Queen, sorry I couldn't be there.  Congratulations!" and it was signed, Steve McQueen.

Wow!  What a thoughtful thing to do and how very gracious of him.  So you see, in a way, he was part of our evening.  I don't remember who the Queen was, but I certainly hope she appreciated the gesture and that she may still have that card today.  And perhaps a rose, pressed in between the pages of her teenage diary.  I would have done that.  Who knew that Steve McQueen would become one of our biggest and most respected stars?

Years later, I was at a restaurant in Malibu, waiting for a table with a group of friends.  Sitting at the bar, I began chatting with a man on my left.  He seemed ordinary enough; ruggedly good looking with a full beard and those piercing blue eyes.  I don't remember our conversation, only that he was especially nice.  But there also seemed to be a kind of sadness about him.  Maybe it was the alcohol.  About 15 minutes later, when our table was ready, I said goodbye and excused myself.   While walking through the restaurant my husband said to me,

"You know who you have been chatting with, right?"

Sadly, I'm the most clueless of Hollywood star spotters.  Rarely can I recognize a celebrity.  So naturally, I didn't realize who the man was.  Had I known, I would have said, "Thank you.  Thank you for the roses.  Thank you for your thoughtfulness.  Thank you for the work you've done through the years.  Thank you for being such a special guy.  You couldn't possibly know how, many years ago, you touched the life of a young girl.  You're a true gentleman, Mr. McQueen, and I'm glad that our paths have finally crossed."

The End

I Hate Nature Part III

I’m Sure

It took two days for Jen and I to drive from Santa Monica to Arcata.  The yellow Tercel was laden with clothing, Top Ramen and twin bedding, every cubic inch put to use.  My dad wore the half smile he used to avoid crying while Judi looked visibly relieved.  Like the Joads of Santa Monica, we drove off in anticipation.  We broke up the drive midway by staying overnight with Jen’s aunt in an old Victorian home on Potrero Hill.

Jen and I alternated between mixed cassette tapes; our styles of music so different it inflicted mutual audible pain.  I cringed over Neil Young while she endured the Sex Pistols.

The Eagles.  Hurl!

Sham 69.  Help me.

Crosby Stills and Nash.  This hippy crap is making my ears bleed.

Siouxsee and the Banshees.  How can this possibly be music?

A measure of peace was achieved by our intersecting fondness of The GoGo’s, Quadrophenia and the Tubes.  Though Jen and I had run in the same circle at Samohi, she was decidedly an outdoor chick and had joined Humboldt’s Crew team.  She looked forward to getting up at 5:00am and rowing in the frigid bay.  I’d rather be tied to a chair and force fed my least favorite food, peas.

I had never driven farther north than Mendocino and what struck me about the drive was the way 101 transformed.  It became staggering in its beauty; much scarier than Sunset Boulevard.  There were so many enormous trees.  Passing the little Toyota were huge logging trucks stacked with enormous freshly chopped redwoods. With fernlike leaves swatting at the windshield, I hugged the road carefully, trying to see through the spitting rain. I was terrified of this type of vehicle next to mine.  I thought for sure, my little tin car would be swallowed whole.  With visibility at an all time low, I concentrated on the yellow lines of the road, windshield wipers on the fastest speed.

When we arrived, I drove Jen to her dorm, Sunset Hall.  Sunset Hall was closer to Founders Hall in another area of the campus.  It mirrored Redwood Hall, with a grassy quad in the middle.  It was a coed dorm that housed freshmen.  We could see other students carrying in their belongings.  I helped Jen unload and we met her roommate.  She was a small dark haired girl whose body was covered in burn scars.  She was upfront about her appearance, telling us that she had been in a house fire when she was three.  She was a nursing major, kind funny and upbeat. I admired her immediately.

I left there and drove to my apartment complex, the Colony.  Because the dorms were full, I was waitlisted for a room.  In the meantime, I lived with two upper classmen:  Paul and Bunyan.  Each had a full beard, wore flannel shirts and probably wielded axes or practiced logrolling in their spare time.  In the three months that we lived together we exchanged seventeen words.  I decorated my room with concert memorabilia and play lists that I had snagged off various stages in Los Angeles. It was there that I cooked my first meal by myself: a pan of Rice O Roni. It tasted like crap.

The first few days of class were uneventful; I have very little recollection.  I stayed in my little room at the Colony, writing letters to friends at home, frustrated that I was missing out on “The Scene”. Skies became grey with regular morning rain.  In vain, I carried an umbrella to shield my vertical coif from imminent hydration.  Walking to class, my feet were constantly damp.  I speculated about whether mold would grow between my toes.  Was that a scientific possibility?

One Saturday, I climbed to the third floor of Sunset Hall to look for Jen.  Knocking on her door, to no response, I remembered that she had an afternoon crew practice.  As I turned to leave I noticed Scott, the obnoxious guy from orientation, at the end of the hall. 

“Hey” we both said at the same time.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I didn’t know you lived on this floor.”

He nodded, thumb pointing to his room.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Jen but I don’t think she’ll be back for a while.   I’m gonna walk into town.  I need to buys some cloves.” I hesitated then asked, “Do you want to come?”

“Sure.” He said, and I saw the hint of a smile on his face.

Clouds did not part, but I see now that the universe had conspired to bring us together.  From that moment, Scott and I began a  deep friendship.  The love of clove cigarettes and all things Southern California bound us.  We had much in common: both raised in beach towns, both had divorced parents.  Both had younger brothers.  And both had an inordinate amount of insecurity that was alleviated by extreme sarcasm and the cultural sport of putting other people down.  Rapidly, I learned Scott’s favorite phrase:  I’m Sure.

“Jen and I hung out in the same group.  We called ourselves the Mickey Mouse Club” I told him.

 “Mickey Mouse Club?  I’m sure”.  Said Scott, laughing.

Returning to the dorm, we smoked a clove and Scott confided in me.

“There’s something wrong with my roommate”.

“What is it?” I asked.

“He doesn’t talk.  Like, I’m sure.  He won’t say a word.  Come look at this”:

We walked into Scott’s room where he showed me the corkboard over his roommate’s bed.  While most corkboards had photos of friends and bands, this board had only one sentence, written in large letters.

“The Lunatic is in My Head” I read aloud.

“I’m sure”, said Scott, falling into a fit of nervous laughter.

“What the hell does it mean?” I asked, genuinely perplexed.

“You think I have a clue?” he said.

“You’d better be careful.  He might try to smother you will a pillow.”

“I’m sure.”

Later, we found out that it was a lyric from a Pink Floyd song.  There was a lot of Pink Floyd music wafting through those halls, in conjunction with the skunk like smell of weed.  I was not a pot smoker.  It made me too paranoid.  Anyone could get a contact high most days though, just by walking through Sunset hall.  The potheads had different energy: slow, turtle like responses.  Most had long hair and glazed red eyes.  They were quiet.  We were not.

Mid Quarter, the Resident Advisors organized a social event: the Dead Celebrity Halloween party.  Scott and I started preparing our costumes immediately.  He would be Sid Vicious and I would be Edie Sedgwick, an obscure Andy Warhol Factory Model.  I helped Scott dye his hair ink black and using all of my best styling tools, gave him the spikiest "do" that his fine hair would allow.  I placed him in a trench coat and ripped T-shirt, wrapping a thin spiked belt around his neck.  I wore the white go-go boots that my grandma had given me, combined with a black mini skirt with zippers on the sides. I added large plastic mod earrings and painted exaggerated cat eyes on my lids. Getting dressed was half of the fun.

The Dead Celebrity Party was our unofficial coming out party.  We got obnoxiously drunk on Mickey’s Big Mouth malt liquor, racing through the halls, dominating the turntable at the party where we protested what we deemed as deplorable pop music. Asia and Loverboy didn’t stand a chance.  Forcing our will upon the partygoers we put on the Clashes Combat Rock album where we did lip sync to the song, “Know Your Rights” on the dance floor.  We terrorized most of the kids by our extreme behavior.  But we ingratiated ourselves to many.  We bonded to a sweet girl from Walnut Creek named Katie, who was the first person I knew who used snuff.  We became friends because we both avoided the football games.  She put Scott and I in her student film.  In the film, I strutted down Sunset Hall like it was a catwalk to the music of Funboy Three.  It was an imaginary ad for jeans.  Katie captured a close up of Scott, who on the reverse angle looks at me, feigning surprise over the designer jeans, and drops the clove cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the dimple poignant on his chin.

I’m sure, Scott said as we filmed.

Having an inborn flair for the dramatic, I could make Scott double over in fits of laughter by doing a hammed up pretend music video to Christopher Cross’s song Sailing.  Jen had that cheesy song among her mixed tapes and we teased her about it.  When things got too serious and we all needed a study break I’d say,

“I can do Sailing”.  All I had to do was look over at him and we’d die over what we discerned as the song’s ridiculous sentimentality. Even Jen couldn’t resist the hilarity and it cracked her up.

We made fun of people because we were insecure.  We teased Jen and her friends for their choice of Tie Dye shirts.  We called them Trail Mixers.  We made up songs about them.  Despite Scott’s academic probationary status, he was very clever at making up lyrics to our songs.  We were badass legends in our own minds.

Scott had been accepted to HSU with a one point something GPA. 

“I’m on Academic probation, I’m sure!”  He’d say but with a note of worry in his voice.  Winter quarter, we signed up for, and finally passed, Algebra II.  It was a class we had both failed in high school.  We worked hard over the equations and felt good about our comprehension of the subject.  It was my one and only mathematics class in six years of college and I earned an A.

That Winter I watched on television as the Santa Monica Pier collapsed into the ocean.  It was a symbolic gesture on the Pier’s behalf; the crumbling of my childhood and the tumultuous emotions I felt as I grappled with my new surroundings.

One Friday evening, Scott and I were scoring our weekend’s provisions of alcohol through Carmen, who, at the ancient age of 22, could legally enter Redwood Liquors.  Jen and some of the Trail Mixers stopped us in the hall.  They were heading to the beach to watch the sunset and asked if we wanted to come along.

“Go and watch the sunset?  Um, no thank you.” I said

“Come on, why not?”  Jen asked.

“I hate Nature!” I said emphatically.

The trail mixing hippy chicks looked at me and gasped.

“You hate nature?” one of them asked bug eyed.

“I do.  Plus, it’s stupid to get all gooey.  Oh, look at the sunset.  How beautiful…” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Besides, I wearing heels” I added.

“You hate nature? I’m sure.”  Scott said, practically falling to the ground and rolling with laughter.

But I could tell that he wanted to go.  And maybe he did go.  I can’t remember.  Maybe this was when Scott and Jen became a couple.  It didn’t last long.  Over Spring Break he cheated on her and it wasn’t with another girl.  He felt awkward about it and I was the only person that he told.  I guarded his secret to the detriment of my friendship with Jen.  Some things were too confusing to laugh about.

 I could not have expressed why I hated nature back then except to say that it made me feel too much and at that point in my life I didn’t want to feel anything.  I preferred numbness.  Nature reminded me of that subterranean spring of emotions which ran beneath my tough exterior.  It could collapse at any time, just like the pier.  I had a great sense of sadness in my life: my parent’s divorce, my grandmother’s cancer and my deep sense of unworthiness.  One could say these are typical trials of the teenage experience but mine felt especially tough.  I was incredibly self-destructive.  Looking back, I understand how pivotal friendships were during those years.  Each of us had struggles, but we connected through a web of caring that, though it was fragile, contained enough strength to hold us within the bounds of sanity.  In spite of Scott’s insecurities, I saw in him goodness, intelligence and the yearnings of a writer’s soul.  I admired Jen for her work ethic and mental toughness; traits that I never could have achieved.  And Katie oozed such naïve vulnerability that being around her always softened one’s heart.  There are many more stories of the shenanigans of Sunset Hall, but these are the most dear to me.  For all of us it was a year of growth.  Freshman year is always a baptism of sorts and I understand now, that there is no way around the woods, only through them.  My emotional growth, unlike the Redwood trees was a slow, slow process that was only beginning.

Last year, wrapped in the warm water of the springs at Esalen I was naked, among strangers, bathing in the light of a full moon.  The ocean was so close and looking down through the crags of the cliffs I watched the waves as they smashed against the earth.  Like they always have.  Like they always will.  Stripped of everything I am humbled by the natural, grateful for the steady heartbeat of this earth.  

All I have left is awe and reverence.

The End

I Hate Nature - Part II

 Orienteering

In Sweden, there is a competitive sport called Orienteering that calls for participants to navigate unknown terrain using only a compass and a map.  If you have been raised in a natural environment and have good sense of direction you may have an advantage.  To the 17 year old me, whose only navigational skills included timing the fastest driving route from Santa Monica to the Beverly Center, the campus of Humboldt State was like an orienteering competition on Mars.

“Welcome to Orientation Weekend; a crash course in this small challenge called life.  You are being forced to attend by your parents”, said the voice in my head.  I rolled my eyes in disdain.  I was still ambivalent over this recent development.

My plane arrived on the tarmac of the Eureka airport before my brain did.  That happens when you are a creature of the night, not used to waking up until the midway point of All My Children.  Bleary eyed, wearing Ray Bans to cover my lack of makeup, I exited the plane.  With only three weeks to go before fall quarter started, I was still in the throws of summer clubbing.  I had spent the prior night, heart rate going 220 beats per minute "dancing with myself" to Billy Idol at my favorite club, the Odyssey.  I was not in good form.  Pulling a red beret across my eyes to shield them from the glare of daylight, I was met by a tubby blonde counselor whose name has escaped me though I feel compelled to call him Thumper.  He was proudly wearing an HSU sweatshirt and had pasty white skin that accentuated the yellow of his slightly bucked teeth.  He guided me, along with a few other strange looking pale children, into a van where we were shuttled to Arcata, the college town that is the home of Humboldt State University.

It was a sunny day in august, something that I would later find out is/was as rare as the Northern Spotted Owl.  Had the admissions office conspired with the Weather Gods to make us believe that it always looked this lovely?  The billowing clouds and azure skies were tainted however, by a smell in the air; a distinct odor of egg sandwiches left forgotten in a heated car.  Later, I found out that the local pulp mill was the cause of this fetid odor.  In a town with a bad economy, residents tolerated the production of paper, allowing a putrid blanket of old Easter Eggs stench to cover Humboldt Bay.  It reached Arcata occasionally, depending on how the wind shifted.

Both towns being traditional logging towns, they looked similar to any town along highways One and 101 in Northern California.  Tiny dilapidated Victorians, that must have been beautiful once, were nestled next to "large tool" equipment rental stores and truck stops with blinking neon lights.  As we reached the exit for the university the first thing I noticed was how much greenery there was.  Stepping off the shuttle, I was assaulted by giant redwood trees, the sight causing me to catch my breath in dread as I remembered my one and only stint at Girl Scout Camp.  The outdoors was a dangerous place.  I knew that from watching the news.  Weren’t people always disappearing in the Angeles National forest?  Grabbing my duffle bag, I looked around cautiously.  At least the air was better at the campus.  And with the briny scent of the nearby bay, it reminded me of Mendocino, where my mom lived. 

The campus was etched into the mouth of a hilly redwood forest.  I could see signs for hiking trails. (As if, I would hike, I thought to myself).  The dorms were constructed along the escarpments of the forested canyon and had weird names:  Hemlock, Madrone, Chinquapin, Alder, and Cypress, among others.  It was quaint but I couldn’t have identified the differences between a Chinquapin and a ground squirrel under the best of circumstances.  If we had been talking record labels or tracing the nuances and migrations of punk, mod and rockabilly music from the UK to the US I was your girl, but tree names were beyond my sphere of influence.  Climbing what felt like 8000 steps to my dorm room in Madrone, I was nervous.  I didn’t know anyone, of course and so I was my usual silent self.  I saw kids with parents, mostly moms, who walked around with those smiling confident faces that adults usually wore and felt a sting of envy.  As lame as parents were, I wished mine had come with me. Both said they needed to work.  Being no fool to their ways, I knew that they were cohorts who had joined forces to kick me out of my feathered LA nest.  The downy comforts of a concrete jungle: traffic, smog and the cocoon of my car were of no use here.  I stood in front of the guest room suite and opened the door.

“Hi” said a freckle-faced girl with short auburn hair.  She too was from LA.  Her name was Nancy and we had a common friend in the nightclub scene, which put me at ease.  She was hip with an air of confidence and she had... records!  She was a sophomore who had moved in early.  Immediately I flipped through her vinyl collection and we began listening to the Dance Craze album, discussing the superiority of the B-side while she offered me a clove cigarette.

How strange, I thought to myself.  What a small world. I put my things down on the crude bunk bed and looked out of the window.  Redwoods encircled the building, while shards of early afternoon sunlight lit the room.  I had dressed somewhat conservatively on the plane and needed to up my game.  Purple Guess Jeans and a striped t-shirt from Flip of Hollywood would not dress to impress.  Putting on my plaid bondage pants, I mused, would be edgier.  I also added a vintage man’s sweater vest for a touch of androgyny.  In truth, the clothing I wore was armor that I used as a distraction to hide my slightly chubby physique.  Ripping off the red beret I began a typical 80’s hair routine:  wet hair, add just the right amount of Dippity Do, and blow dry upside down.  Using teasing comb, tease hair vertically and apply Aqua Net hairspray, until hair won’t budge.  This coif added a good three inches to my 5’3” frame.  The dyed platinum color would hopefully draw the eye upward.  For makeup, I added some Maybelline black cat eyeliner and some frosted pink lipstick.  I thought I looked fabulous.  Since I was 17, I probably did.

Checking myself in the mirror, I did my best pout and nodded in approval.  I picked up the Xerox copy of the day’s events and saw that I need to be at a group orientation in Founder’s Hall in five short minutes! Shit!  I thought to myself.  Throwing on my Ray Bans, I quickly dashed out of the building, wondering how long it would take to walk there.  I was no good at calculating foot time, only driving time.  As fast as I was going, clomping along in uncomfortable vintage heels, by the time I reached the top stairs at the opposite end of the parking lot I was 3 minutes late and had started to sweat.  Where the hell was Founder’s Hall?  I saw a few people streaming in one direction so I followed along.  Eventually I came upon Founders.  It was a beautiful old building, but my god, there were even more steps to climb.  This place was the freaking Alps! Blisters were starting to form on the backs of my feet. I entered the building.  High heels clicking along the tiled floor, I glanced at my wristwatch.  I was almost 15 minutes late.  Damn!  I found the room number but the door was already closed.  I would have to open that door. I would have to disturb the professor.  I would have to be mortified. 

Steeling my nerve, I swung the door open with a bit too much force causing it to bang against the wall.  Everyone in the room turned to look at me.  The professor stopped talking.  Sorry, I said, as I scanned the room for an empty desk.  I could feel eyes upon me and was flushed with embarrassment. I sat down and took a note pad out of my plastic Fiorucci purse.  Years later, my college boyfriend admitted to me that he had been in that room when I’d walked in late had been impressed by the oddity of my appearance.  I was a creature from the L.A. Zoo, a different kind of wild animal; something he’d never seen before and it had intrigued him.

The rest of the weekend was spent, walking around the campus, and visiting the cafeteria and common areas.  I was grateful that I had brought a pair of Keds.  My legs were sore from all of the walking.  Although I kept to myself, I found out that most of the kids at the orientation were from the Bay Area, which explained their pastiness.  More than a few were on the earthy side of the fashion spectrum.  The Grateful Dead skeleton logo emblazed many shirts.  Lots of them were in tie-dye clothing and wore Birkenstock sandals.  Birkenstocks made Ducks rainboots look like Guccis.  Seriously, they were; and still are, the most ugly shoes ever constructed and to this day I have never refuted my staunch aversion to those stinky leather excuses for foot cover.  But I digress…

Sunday graced us with more sunshine and a final event: the family picnic.  I attended though it was optional and I had no family.  I had failed to connect with anyone so I wandered the food line alone and picked up a hot dog and some chips.  I settled myself on the damp grass and after eating, leaned back, letting the warm sunshine caress my cheeks.  Eyes closed, I sighed.  At least I had the sun to warm my spirits.

“I like your nail polish” a female voice said from behind me.

I opened my eyes and turned around.  It was one of the moms.  She was pretty, with a poodle perm and a warm smile.

“Thanks.  It’s Factory Fuchsia”, I told her.

“I’m Penny”, she said.

We started talking and I learned that she was from Manhattan Beach.   She was there with her son Scott, who had just graduated from Mira Coast High School. 

A few minutes into our conversation Scott made his appearance.

“Here Mom, I couldn’t find any chocolate ones”, he said as he handed her an oatmeal cookie.

“Scott, this is Dru.  She says she goes dancing in Hollywood too”.

Scott was slight of frame, with chestnut colored hair and an adorable dimple in the middle of his chin.  He had on Levis, cuffed at the hems.  He wore a vintage 1960’s plaid shirt but more outstanding was the large smirk he wore on his face as he surveyed me.  What a jerk, I thought to myself.

“Oh yeah, which clubs?” he asked in a snotty voice.

I smirked back, lowering my Ray Bans and said, just as rudely,

“Unless I’m going to a live show, pretty much the Odyssey”.

Again Scott checked me up and down assessing my choice of dress. Narrowing his eyes he said,

“Well I go there all the time. I’ve never seen you there”

I gave him my most dramatic eye roll and shrugged,

“Well I’ve never seen you there”.

“Well maybe you will both see each other here when classes begin” offered Penny.

"Maybe" we answered in unison.

End