Love Makes A Family
(Part I)
I moved to LA in May, 1978, when I was 28. After spending 4 years working at Timberlawn Psychiatric Hospital in Dallas, I was not ready to just jump into another high pressure, high responsibility job. I wanted to explore the megalopolis and enjoy the natural wonders and exciting night life available in SoCal. I intended to get a job for a while as a bus boy so I didn’t have to think; just work, sweat, and make enough scratch to pay rent and buy enough gas to get to the beach.
I was a little disappointed when after only one shift as a bus boy I got “promoted” to server. Apparently, a couple of the servers quit the day before I started. So much for totally mindless hard labor; now I had to actually think and be organized. It all worked out for the better because by agreeing to take over some shifts immediately, I got to pick my schedule, plus the money was better. I worked Thursday, Friday, and Saturday dinners, and Sunday brunch. I would drive to Laguna Beach on Sunday after brunch, and stay with my friend Andy (also a Timberlawn ex-employee) till Thursday morning and then return to LA to go back to work. It was a really wonderful, carefree, dark-tanned life I was leading. It only lasted 3 months.
I met Michael in August that same summer when he walked into the restaurant and stood at the opposite end of the bar from the waiter’s station. Dean, the bartender walked over to me and handed me a note with a phone number. It was Mike’s. Believe it or not, I used to get a lot of unsolicited phone numbers handed to me. I hardly ever dialed any of them. I had a method to see if the person had more than one night intentions. I walked over to him and handed the note back to him and told him if he was serious to come back in two weeks. I would still be working there and if he was truly interested, he’d come back. To his credit, he came back after one week, but didn’t approach me; he just watched me work. Then he came back the second week, and as they say, the rest is history.
To give you a historical perspective, this was around the time that word about some new kind of gay cancer was just beginning to circulate. It wasn’t for a couple of more years that our understanding of what it was, evolved into what we now know as AIDS. We had no idea how devastating HIV and AIDS would be to our circle of friends. Our early years together were blissful, carefree, and somewhat reckless. We had both been in one other failed “LTR” and knew what we weren’t looking for. In the long list of things we did want, we agreed that we had an inner need to raise and nurture something, and ferns and ficus trees would not suffice.
(In 1981 as President of WHOM (West Hollywood Organization of Men), a loose association of gay sports leagues, Michael got the idea to organize a bowling tournament to raise money to support AIDS research and assist AIDS victims. The Strike Out AIDS bowling tournament was born, and as an annual event, it has raised over $150,000 since then.)
After about 7 years together, Mike was running his own small lighting design business with his sister Betty, and I was working at UCLA in the Neuro-Psychiatric Institute & Hospital as a Mental Health Practitioner with inpatient adolescents. We were both pretty busy with other activities as well, but that urge to nurture had slowly grown more intense. We were just beginning to explore our options, but in 1985 it wasn't like today.
Did we want to actually impregnate a surrogate and raise an infant, or should we try to take on a child who was already in the world? Should we go for a foster care license? Maybe we could try this program for mentoring a gay identified adolescent. If we did decide to adopt an adolescent, what about their sexual preference; should we care? We decided we didn’t care about the sexual preference if we were to adopt. We had both felt the sting of discrimination and did not want to perpetrate that on someone in need.
At this time I was 35 and Mike was 39, so we weren’t worried about how old we would be if we raised a newborn to adulthood. But, we also realized that if we took on an infant, we would be a little older than we really wanted to be by the time grandkids might possibly appear on the scene.
We just needed to make a decision. Were we going to fulfill our need to be parents by being a halfway house for kids in transition, with limited time to attach and influence them. Or, did we want a lifelong commitment and kids we could truly call ours. We wanted to really be sure we were doing the right thing either way, but we didn’t want to ruminate until we got too old. Meanwhile, two other lives were developing their own needs and wants.
Anna was born in 1969, Cari in 1970. Their mom was a budding actress whose career in the movies had only just started. Their father was recently home from Viet Nam, a decorated veteran. Their mother’s family had moved from Connecticut to Newport Beach in the 60’s because the matriarch of the family had asthma and was somewhat frail and her husband thought California's moderate climate would be better for her health. But, after settling there, she felt it was too hot in Newport, so they moved after a year to Santa Barbara.
The girls were happy babies and precocious toddlers. Unfortunately, their mother became ill, and her health rapidly declined. Anna was 4 and Cari was 3 the last time she gave them a hug and a parting kiss. Toddlers make simplistic sense of loss of a parent. "Mommy went to Heaven and I will see her again one day." At least they had their father....but only for a few months. The story the girls were told about their father’s demise was sordid and grisly, and only recently evidence has surfaced that he might still be with us. But, there they were; orphans at such a tender age.
The family history at this point is sketchy, but for some reason, no one in the extended family took custody of the girls. The girls were taken into the foster care system, and while their blood relatives dithered, they were left there for three years. They were in over 15 foster homes during that time. Finally, their great uncle in Santa Barbara decided that one of his three unmarried daughters should take them in. The middle daughter had just completed her residency as a neonatologist and while she really wanted to have children of her own, she reluctantly declined. The youngest sister was working on her Master's thesis and while she adored them she didn't think she could take them on. That left the eldest sister. She a reserve officer in the military, and the other sisters pledged to help with caring for their little nieces during times when the eldest sister had to go on maneuvers.
The eldest sister had a condition known as neurofibromatosis; elephant man disease. Luckily, it was controlled and she only had mild disfiguring lumps on one side of her face and on her forearms. Children will see past physical characteristics in order to bond with caregivers who truly care about them. Unfortunately, the eldest sister’s mental condition was of grave concern and it was a closely protected family secret. This was to be the caretaker for Anna and Cari as they reached age 9 and 8 respectively.
Of course, after the unimaginable instability they endured in the foster care system, their behavior was not perfect. Asking someone with a thinking disorder and limited mental sophistication to try to handle two rather wild little girls was probably not the best decision their great uncle had ever made.
In a perfect world it would have made great material for a situation comedy. In the real world, it became a house of horrors. Over the next few years, while Anna’s response to the environment was to become overly compliant and dependent, Cari became a problem child; sneaking out, doing drugs and acting out sexually. I won’t go into the details of the emotional, physical and, yes, sexual abuses that the girls suffered at the hands of their deranged aunt, but to give you an idea, when the girls were unceremoniously dumped at UCLA’s NPI and H, Cari, by now 13, was tied up with a rope.
(End of part I)
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Maturing Senior and Crankiness
I think I am becoming too grouchy. Is this part of the “maturing” process that seniors go through? You never stop learning and growing. At least that’s what we are told. I guess that along with the gray hair and the wisdom of age your grouchy gene kicks in. I notice it sometimes with the younger crowd. When I was a younger man I made a promise to myself that I would always be an understanding old man, who remembered what it was like to be young and stupid. See. I just did it right there. Back when I was making this promise to myself it was, “young and adventurous”, or “young and gregarious”, not “young and stupid”. It’s the grouchiness creeping in.
I am also way crankier about political issues. I am a liberal and that’s not going to change. I have dear friends and a whole passel of relatives who are conservatives. I have seen the divisive nature of getting on the opposing side of an argument in my own family and how destructive it can be for a community or a nation. That’s why I will not be espousing any ideologies here. I have learned my lesson. I do not discuss politics with anyone I care about. I limit my political agenda to yelling at the TV set during “Meet the Press” and blocking Fox News from ever being viewed on any TV that I own. See the crankiness here?
Being a grouch comes and goes with the kids and the grandkids, but there is one place where it seems to have really set in on a permanent, full time basis; when I am in my car. When I was younger, I just navigated the highways and byways with good eyes, good reflexes and was very tolerant of slow and indecisive motorists. I could always see a way around them and there was no challenge to getting where I wanted to go. It was, in hindsight, sort of like an arcade game that I was really good at; there was no competition. Now, it is still somewhat like a game, but it’s more like survival, and I am vastly more competitive.
I would be lying if I said I never get frustrated, or even a teensy bit angry behind the wheel. I yell out loud all the time when someone driving near me, usually in front of me, makes what I consider to be unusually stupid or inconsiderate driving maneuvers. I don’t consider this road rage. I consider this to be normal, responsible, venting in the moment, vehicle operation. Usually these verbal outbursts take the form of aggressive encouragement, like, “Come on!!! Move already!!!” I rarely become so incensed that I curse, or wish I carried a pistol. (Does a fantasy that I have turret guns mounted on the hood count?)
Yelling inside the confines of your own vehicle is harmless enough. I sometimes give way to that competitive side in some certain circumstances. It’s when a BMW or the like swoops up behind me and flashes its lights, wanting me to pull over and let it by, when I am already behind a string of other cars. Are we all supposed to simultaneously change lanes and let the Arrogant Ass in the Beamer just speed by? Uh, no; not gonna happen. For me, the gauntlet has just been flung at my feet. I will take extraordinary measures to make sure the AA in the BM doesn’t get around me until I exit the freeway. It gives me huge satisfaction to see the arm waving and finger pointing in my rear view mirror. That’s not cranky, that’s just good, clean fun.
Usually, my frustration is the slow driver, which in California is the driver going the speed limit, in the fast lane. Everyone knows that the fast lane is for those wishing to go a minimum of 10 mph over the speed limit. Speed limit followers should stay two lanes away from the fast lane. I know this will probably offend half of my readers, but I am not a fan of the SUV. I know they have their function in the transportation of a larger group of passengers, and oh yes, you will probably survive a crash and the person in the Prius who crashed into you may not; but do you realize how frustrating it is to be in a normal sedan or a hot little hatchback, stuck behind your gas-guzzling behemoth ass? We can’t see through you or around you; you blot out the freaking sun!
When I am behind you I always cut some slack if there is a full passenger load. You are being greener than I am at that point. It’s these giant Suburban’s driven by a 110 pound woman on her way to the store to get a head of lettuce that I am less willing to let slide. If you can afford a Humvee, you can afford to get a Kia or a Smart for those short pops to the store. You use more gas just backing out of the driveway in your SUV than the whole trip would use in the 4 stroker. Uh oh. There I go again; getting grouchy again. It’s your money; you can spend it however you want. This is a free country after all. Who died and made me director of energy, right?
So, I am not really a road rage type of guy. I yell a little, but who doesn’t? I may be more of a parking lot rage kind of guy. I actually have printed up little notes that I carry in my glove compartment to place on the windshield of careless parkers. You know the kind of parking I am talking about, right? It’s where the person parks with a wheel over the line, or parks with a wheel or two on top of the line. There are no parking police for this. They are all too busy cruising the metered spots and the 20 minute parking only spaces. That’s why I carry my little homemade notes. I am not the parking police. I am the phantom parking conscience and I can strike anywhere.
Where I work there are three different sizes of parking slots; Jumbo for the carpoolers (and they are designated as such with a big green circle painted in the slot), regular size slots (with no designation), and tiny slots (with “compact” stenciled on them). Invariably there will be vans, SUV’s and double cab, dual axle pickups parked in some of the compact spots. What’s up with that? I know we have a very diverse work force with folks from every country on the globe, but I am pretty sure we all know what “compact” means. But really, it’s not even those big pegs using small holes that gets me cranky, because if you need to get to work and there are only compact spots let, what’s a person supposed to do? Park on the street?
And, I have no problem with people who carry at least one passenger to and from work having those big, wide spaces reserved for them. And, it doesn’t matter what size car you have if you are a car pooler, you get to use those humongous spaces to park your Civic as long as you carry a passenger. And, it isn’t just that the space is jumbo, the lines between the spaces are outlines of a line, so they are triple the size of a regular line! And, if you arrive at work after 10AM, you are allowed to use the carpool spaces. It’s cool. I support the carpoolers getting all that space. My problem remains to be people not knowing how to park; or really, not giving a crap that other people have to park there too.
Here you have a larger than usual parking space with a mini-van in it, with both left wheels on the line. I mean, really? You could park it in the center of the spot and have 3 feet on both sides from your car to the line, but you can’t manage to stay off the line?!? So, if I was to park there, I have to risk the door ding because you suck at parking? My blood pressure starts to go up when I see vehicles parked like this even if I am not trying to park in the adjacent space. It’s like, WTF, where did you learn to park? Are you from this planet? Didn’t your mother teach you about courtesy and kindness to your fellow man? Really!
Yep. I am wayyyyy too grumpy. I really need to work on it; and I will. I am still going to pass out my little notes though.
I am also way crankier about political issues. I am a liberal and that’s not going to change. I have dear friends and a whole passel of relatives who are conservatives. I have seen the divisive nature of getting on the opposing side of an argument in my own family and how destructive it can be for a community or a nation. That’s why I will not be espousing any ideologies here. I have learned my lesson. I do not discuss politics with anyone I care about. I limit my political agenda to yelling at the TV set during “Meet the Press” and blocking Fox News from ever being viewed on any TV that I own. See the crankiness here?
Being a grouch comes and goes with the kids and the grandkids, but there is one place where it seems to have really set in on a permanent, full time basis; when I am in my car. When I was younger, I just navigated the highways and byways with good eyes, good reflexes and was very tolerant of slow and indecisive motorists. I could always see a way around them and there was no challenge to getting where I wanted to go. It was, in hindsight, sort of like an arcade game that I was really good at; there was no competition. Now, it is still somewhat like a game, but it’s more like survival, and I am vastly more competitive.
I would be lying if I said I never get frustrated, or even a teensy bit angry behind the wheel. I yell out loud all the time when someone driving near me, usually in front of me, makes what I consider to be unusually stupid or inconsiderate driving maneuvers. I don’t consider this road rage. I consider this to be normal, responsible, venting in the moment, vehicle operation. Usually these verbal outbursts take the form of aggressive encouragement, like, “Come on!!! Move already!!!” I rarely become so incensed that I curse, or wish I carried a pistol. (Does a fantasy that I have turret guns mounted on the hood count?)
Yelling inside the confines of your own vehicle is harmless enough. I sometimes give way to that competitive side in some certain circumstances. It’s when a BMW or the like swoops up behind me and flashes its lights, wanting me to pull over and let it by, when I am already behind a string of other cars. Are we all supposed to simultaneously change lanes and let the Arrogant Ass in the Beamer just speed by? Uh, no; not gonna happen. For me, the gauntlet has just been flung at my feet. I will take extraordinary measures to make sure the AA in the BM doesn’t get around me until I exit the freeway. It gives me huge satisfaction to see the arm waving and finger pointing in my rear view mirror. That’s not cranky, that’s just good, clean fun.
Usually, my frustration is the slow driver, which in California is the driver going the speed limit, in the fast lane. Everyone knows that the fast lane is for those wishing to go a minimum of 10 mph over the speed limit. Speed limit followers should stay two lanes away from the fast lane. I know this will probably offend half of my readers, but I am not a fan of the SUV. I know they have their function in the transportation of a larger group of passengers, and oh yes, you will probably survive a crash and the person in the Prius who crashed into you may not; but do you realize how frustrating it is to be in a normal sedan or a hot little hatchback, stuck behind your gas-guzzling behemoth ass? We can’t see through you or around you; you blot out the freaking sun!
When I am behind you I always cut some slack if there is a full passenger load. You are being greener than I am at that point. It’s these giant Suburban’s driven by a 110 pound woman on her way to the store to get a head of lettuce that I am less willing to let slide. If you can afford a Humvee, you can afford to get a Kia or a Smart for those short pops to the store. You use more gas just backing out of the driveway in your SUV than the whole trip would use in the 4 stroker. Uh oh. There I go again; getting grouchy again. It’s your money; you can spend it however you want. This is a free country after all. Who died and made me director of energy, right?
So, I am not really a road rage type of guy. I yell a little, but who doesn’t? I may be more of a parking lot rage kind of guy. I actually have printed up little notes that I carry in my glove compartment to place on the windshield of careless parkers. You know the kind of parking I am talking about, right? It’s where the person parks with a wheel over the line, or parks with a wheel or two on top of the line. There are no parking police for this. They are all too busy cruising the metered spots and the 20 minute parking only spaces. That’s why I carry my little homemade notes. I am not the parking police. I am the phantom parking conscience and I can strike anywhere.
Where I work there are three different sizes of parking slots; Jumbo for the carpoolers (and they are designated as such with a big green circle painted in the slot), regular size slots (with no designation), and tiny slots (with “compact” stenciled on them). Invariably there will be vans, SUV’s and double cab, dual axle pickups parked in some of the compact spots. What’s up with that? I know we have a very diverse work force with folks from every country on the globe, but I am pretty sure we all know what “compact” means. But really, it’s not even those big pegs using small holes that gets me cranky, because if you need to get to work and there are only compact spots let, what’s a person supposed to do? Park on the street?
And, I have no problem with people who carry at least one passenger to and from work having those big, wide spaces reserved for them. And, it doesn’t matter what size car you have if you are a car pooler, you get to use those humongous spaces to park your Civic as long as you carry a passenger. And, it isn’t just that the space is jumbo, the lines between the spaces are outlines of a line, so they are triple the size of a regular line! And, if you arrive at work after 10AM, you are allowed to use the carpool spaces. It’s cool. I support the carpoolers getting all that space. My problem remains to be people not knowing how to park; or really, not giving a crap that other people have to park there too.
Here you have a larger than usual parking space with a mini-van in it, with both left wheels on the line. I mean, really? You could park it in the center of the spot and have 3 feet on both sides from your car to the line, but you can’t manage to stay off the line?!? So, if I was to park there, I have to risk the door ding because you suck at parking? My blood pressure starts to go up when I see vehicles parked like this even if I am not trying to park in the adjacent space. It’s like, WTF, where did you learn to park? Are you from this planet? Didn’t your mother teach you about courtesy and kindness to your fellow man? Really!
Yep. I am wayyyyy too grumpy. I really need to work on it; and I will. I am still going to pass out my little notes though.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Orphaned Birds, Grandkids, and the Need to Nurture
About a year ago I was walking Marco and Polo, our Italian Greyhounds, in the park near our house when they found something on the ground at the base of this big pine tree; a baby crow. She (don’t ask me why I knew it was female, but I knew it was female) had obviously been blown from the nest during some intense Santa Ana winds. She had pinfeathers just beginning to open and still had some down under her wings. Her little black beak had a yellow border. I contemplated trying to set her on a branch so maybe her Mother could grab her and take her back to the nest, but she was too weak to even stand on a branch. I couldn’t just leave her there.
I took her home and made a little cardboard box nest and fed her with an eyedropper. I think I called her Gabby, because she never shut up. She seemed to be doing fine, getting stronger and more demanding at each feeding when after about a week, she died, and then went to crow Heaven. Even after only one week, I was so invested in getting her through her childhood safely, I secretly wept in the garage; but just for a minute. I have a tendency to go to the garage if I feel a good cry coming on; not sure why. Maybe because I cry so rarely that it feels like I should do it with the stuff I rarely use. The next day I was glad I had taken some photos of her with her big mouth agape, waiting for the next worm.
Like déjà vu, this morning I was walking the hounds again when we noticed a small pigeon on the ground under the pine trees, near the fence that separates the park and playground from the school soccer field. Polo walked up to it and sniffed it and it didn’t fly away, just waddled off down the fence line. I pulled the leash back on the dogs so they weren’t tempted to play tug-o-war with him (Don’t ask me how I knew it was a him, I just knew). I was a little pre-occupied with the amazing, gloriously sunny, breezy, Southern California morning. Still, I noticed the little pigeon was a little short on tail feathers. Perhaps they had all been pulled out by a predator? Oh well, there were three little boys playing nearby. Surely they would come over and catch it and take it home or maybe toss it in the air to help it fly away.
The hounds and I strolled on into the open area of the park and with no other dogs in sight; I let Marco and Polo off the leash for a run. I am always impressed and amazed at how sleek they look, effortlessly bounding across open space; like little canine Olympic track stars, greased lightening, poetry in motion, all muscle and bone, born and bred to run like hell.
After about 10 minutes of chasing each other and marking all their favorite posts and tree trunks they rallied around me, as I lounged in the shade on a bench. All manner of kisses and licks were exchanged and then the leashes went back on and we headed back from whence we came.
As we crossed the open area back toward the pine trees I started looking for the little pigeon. I could see the same three little boys and other children were still near the playground but no one was holding the pigeon. When we got closer I spotted it; still there by the fence as if it hadn’t moved since we last left it. I wondered if the kids’ Moms had told them not to touch it because it might have a disease; “Pigeons are just rats with wings!” Don’t Moms always say that, and don’t all little boys and most little girls, try to pick them up anyway. When is the last time you saw a headline, “Children Touch Pigeon, Emergency Room Overrun”.
I never met a hog-nosed, or garter snake that I didn’t try to adopt. I caught my share of lizards, horned toads, and ground squirrels, too. Scared the bejeezus out of Fern Pittman one day when a itty-bitty hog-nosed snake slinked out of my shirt pocket while I was talking to her on her front porch. She jumped quite high for a short woman, and I think she peed a little.
So, back to our little pigeon, still sitting there not flying. As we approached it this time, I got closer and inspection revealed that it was no more than a large squab. It couldn’t fly because it was not yet developed and hadn’t experienced that incredible feat that we all have as a favorite dream. Don’t you just love it when in the middle of your dream you start to run down the street, with steps getting bigger and bigger, and then your feet leave the ground and you soar up above the landscape and sail off into the sky?
Our little pigeon, not being flight worthy, was easy to catch. I held him in one hand and the dogs' tandem leash in the other and walked home, wondering how I was going to make this little rat with wings live longer than a week. Why not leave it in the park and let nature take its course? Some predator would come along, or it would die of starvation and become fertilizer for the pine trees and the grass. Why do I put myself through this? Why, indeed. I’m not a veterinarian. I guess in this case maybe I was trying to be the avian version of a Good Samaritan. I don’t care if it’s just a pigeon and not a scarlet Macaw or a Malaccan Cockatoo, I needed to help it. I am just a huge sucker for an injured animal, even when it’s a human animal.
To me it seems like a natural instinct to adopt orphans, although I am pretty sure it’s not a natural instinct to everyone. When we got ready to start a family, adoption was the way we thought we could make it happen. We started off by getting a foster care license and were allowed to assist two teenage sisters, who became our daughters; their kids, our grandchildren. (A longish story, see "Love Makes A Family").
For now, let’s just say I am not the leave-it-for-nature-to-handle kind of guy when it comes to wounded or orphaned animals. I am the rescue and nurture type. So, I will soak, mash up, and dilute Grape Nuts cereal so it will pass through an eye dropper so I can feed that little rat with wings until I can set it free. If he thrives and flies away to a life filled with defecating on statues, then I will feel a great sense of accomplishment. Well, maybe not a great sense of accomplishment; but even just a little sense of accomplishment beats weeping secretly in the garage.
This sort of relates back to family and having grandkids for me since grandkids are like little baby birds in a way. When they were really little they used to believe I knew everything and could do no wrong. They felt that way because I told them that I knew everything and could do no wrong. It is so wonderful when they are toddlers because they believe whatever Grandpa says and they are totally dependant on you. They have depended on me, at times, to feed and shelter them, to patch them up and teach them. I have been there to drive them, carry them, wash and pack and deliver them. All this caretaking has a huge payoff if you are the rescue and nurture type. It has given me some of the biggest laughs and the most poignant moments of my adult life when my grand kids said things to me like, “Grandpa, you would make a really great Dad”, or “Grandpa, why don’t you run for World Leader”, or “Grandpa, the Beatles really are the best”, or simply, “Grandpa, I love you”. That last one can send me running to the garage faster than finding out another orphaned bird just died.
I took her home and made a little cardboard box nest and fed her with an eyedropper. I think I called her Gabby, because she never shut up. She seemed to be doing fine, getting stronger and more demanding at each feeding when after about a week, she died, and then went to crow Heaven. Even after only one week, I was so invested in getting her through her childhood safely, I secretly wept in the garage; but just for a minute. I have a tendency to go to the garage if I feel a good cry coming on; not sure why. Maybe because I cry so rarely that it feels like I should do it with the stuff I rarely use. The next day I was glad I had taken some photos of her with her big mouth agape, waiting for the next worm.
Like déjà vu, this morning I was walking the hounds again when we noticed a small pigeon on the ground under the pine trees, near the fence that separates the park and playground from the school soccer field. Polo walked up to it and sniffed it and it didn’t fly away, just waddled off down the fence line. I pulled the leash back on the dogs so they weren’t tempted to play tug-o-war with him (Don’t ask me how I knew it was a him, I just knew). I was a little pre-occupied with the amazing, gloriously sunny, breezy, Southern California morning. Still, I noticed the little pigeon was a little short on tail feathers. Perhaps they had all been pulled out by a predator? Oh well, there were three little boys playing nearby. Surely they would come over and catch it and take it home or maybe toss it in the air to help it fly away.
The hounds and I strolled on into the open area of the park and with no other dogs in sight; I let Marco and Polo off the leash for a run. I am always impressed and amazed at how sleek they look, effortlessly bounding across open space; like little canine Olympic track stars, greased lightening, poetry in motion, all muscle and bone, born and bred to run like hell.
After about 10 minutes of chasing each other and marking all their favorite posts and tree trunks they rallied around me, as I lounged in the shade on a bench. All manner of kisses and licks were exchanged and then the leashes went back on and we headed back from whence we came.
As we crossed the open area back toward the pine trees I started looking for the little pigeon. I could see the same three little boys and other children were still near the playground but no one was holding the pigeon. When we got closer I spotted it; still there by the fence as if it hadn’t moved since we last left it. I wondered if the kids’ Moms had told them not to touch it because it might have a disease; “Pigeons are just rats with wings!” Don’t Moms always say that, and don’t all little boys and most little girls, try to pick them up anyway. When is the last time you saw a headline, “Children Touch Pigeon, Emergency Room Overrun”.
I never met a hog-nosed, or garter snake that I didn’t try to adopt. I caught my share of lizards, horned toads, and ground squirrels, too. Scared the bejeezus out of Fern Pittman one day when a itty-bitty hog-nosed snake slinked out of my shirt pocket while I was talking to her on her front porch. She jumped quite high for a short woman, and I think she peed a little.
So, back to our little pigeon, still sitting there not flying. As we approached it this time, I got closer and inspection revealed that it was no more than a large squab. It couldn’t fly because it was not yet developed and hadn’t experienced that incredible feat that we all have as a favorite dream. Don’t you just love it when in the middle of your dream you start to run down the street, with steps getting bigger and bigger, and then your feet leave the ground and you soar up above the landscape and sail off into the sky?
Our little pigeon, not being flight worthy, was easy to catch. I held him in one hand and the dogs' tandem leash in the other and walked home, wondering how I was going to make this little rat with wings live longer than a week. Why not leave it in the park and let nature take its course? Some predator would come along, or it would die of starvation and become fertilizer for the pine trees and the grass. Why do I put myself through this? Why, indeed. I’m not a veterinarian. I guess in this case maybe I was trying to be the avian version of a Good Samaritan. I don’t care if it’s just a pigeon and not a scarlet Macaw or a Malaccan Cockatoo, I needed to help it. I am just a huge sucker for an injured animal, even when it’s a human animal.
To me it seems like a natural instinct to adopt orphans, although I am pretty sure it’s not a natural instinct to everyone. When we got ready to start a family, adoption was the way we thought we could make it happen. We started off by getting a foster care license and were allowed to assist two teenage sisters, who became our daughters; their kids, our grandchildren. (A longish story, see "Love Makes A Family").
For now, let’s just say I am not the leave-it-for-nature-to-handle kind of guy when it comes to wounded or orphaned animals. I am the rescue and nurture type. So, I will soak, mash up, and dilute Grape Nuts cereal so it will pass through an eye dropper so I can feed that little rat with wings until I can set it free. If he thrives and flies away to a life filled with defecating on statues, then I will feel a great sense of accomplishment. Well, maybe not a great sense of accomplishment; but even just a little sense of accomplishment beats weeping secretly in the garage.
This sort of relates back to family and having grandkids for me since grandkids are like little baby birds in a way. When they were really little they used to believe I knew everything and could do no wrong. They felt that way because I told them that I knew everything and could do no wrong. It is so wonderful when they are toddlers because they believe whatever Grandpa says and they are totally dependant on you. They have depended on me, at times, to feed and shelter them, to patch them up and teach them. I have been there to drive them, carry them, wash and pack and deliver them. All this caretaking has a huge payoff if you are the rescue and nurture type. It has given me some of the biggest laughs and the most poignant moments of my adult life when my grand kids said things to me like, “Grandpa, you would make a really great Dad”, or “Grandpa, why don’t you run for World Leader”, or “Grandpa, the Beatles really are the best”, or simply, “Grandpa, I love you”. That last one can send me running to the garage faster than finding out another orphaned bird just died.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Nostalgia - Is there bad nostalgia?
What is it about nostalgia that is so appealing to people? I receive several emails a day loaded with reminiscing about how much better it used to be. It’s not just about the old days either. Sometimes it’s about the idyllic life those of us had that were raised in really small towns. It usually goes like this.
• We used to wallow in the mud out back after a rain storm, but we never got colds.
• Mama never washed the lettuce because we didn’t know what a pesticide was.
• Vaccines? What for? We believed that if you expose yourself to stuff, then your body will build up its own disease fightin’ arsenal.
• If I did something bad and my momma wasn’t home, then the neighbor lady would give me a lickin’ and it was just fine. No one got sued for child abuse.
• At school, the first thing you did was pledge allegiance and say a prayer. You didn’t worry if there were Buddhists, or Jews or Muslims or freakin’ atheists in the class you just bowed your head and did it.
• You could drive down Main Street drinkin’ a cold one, and if the policeman stopped you, he called your folks and confiscated your beer. You got a beatin’, but rarely arrested.
• We used to make out in the back seat of a car and if we were lucky we got a hand under the sweater. We didn’t have sex on the first date, film it, and show it off to the whole town!
• If someone did get knocked up, they did the right thing. They either got married or went to Edna Gladney’s for a few months.
• If somebody got a little rambunctious and broke someone else’s nose or window, nobody called in a psychiatrist. You just taught the one with the broken nose to fight better.
I get it. It used to be a lot different, and seemingly less complicated than the world we live in now. How could it not be with all the technological advances in just the last 20 years alone, much less in the last 40 years? The changes have been staggering when you start looking back. TV remote controls have been around a long time, but I remember always laying on the floor fairly close to the TV in our den, because I was the remote. Cell phones? What about dial phones? I remember picking up the phone and waiting for the operator and telling her, “this is 74J, can you connect me with 64F?” And away we go! See, how easy it is to slip into nostalgia mode.
Even my grandsons, who are both 14, were talking at their 8th grade promotion about how much had changed since they were in grammar school. “Remember when we could only talk on our cell phones and not even text or down load videos?” We start reminiscing very early in life apparently. Shouldn’t there be an age limit for engaging in nostalgia? I guess it feels good no matter how old you are.
But these walks down memory lane tend to be very selective. These “good old days” lists are by nature very linear and narrow. Somehow all the negative experiences are filtered out by our longing to go back and feel those simpler, carefree feelings.
I remember at 14, driving my aqua and white '55 Belvedere down the lake road, with the windows down, on a sunny summer day with the Beatles harmonizing with my day. It was a little bit of heaven.
I remember lying out down in a furrow between rows of cotton at night, watching the sky and wondering what all that vastness was and how did it all fit together. Some of my best sense-memories are of laying in a cotton field with a couple of friends in the adjacent rows echoing or maybe challenging my musings about the universe. They were truly wonderful times. Of course, when you are young, so many things just seem to be there explicitly for your pleasure and enjoyment.
But for a lot of the recollections on the “how it used to be” list”, it seems a little revisionist. Often times I look at the distribution lists for these type emails and some particular memories come back to me that are not pleasant at all. Some of the memories elicited by some of those names make me wish there had been psychiatrists involved; for them and for me.
I remember the trauma of learning that one of the kids that rode the school bus into town from County Line had been hit by a car, speeding down the farm road. He was killed instantly. I didn’t know him well, but I still wept uncontrollably at his funeral. Dying so young with so much potential seemed like it should be impossible. God should have made a rule. No really young, really smart, really loving child shall die. When you’re young, hell even when your old, the mysterious ways of a Creator are really confusing sometimes..
I remember seeing some of the senior boys on our football team one fall Friday, during lunch break, capturing a cat. We were in a car behind them. The next thing I knew they had thrown the cat out the window over the top of the car into a ditch. They did this several times. The cat just seemed frightened, not hurt. No harm no foul; until one of them jumped out and stomped the cat to death.
I remember being so furious, I was shaking. But I went to class in sort of a robotic stupor; Mrs. Williams’ 11th grade English class. She looked at me and asked me, “What’s wrong”? I looked up from my desk and said, “Why”? She said, “Because you’re crying”. I was so freaked out I didn’t even realize I was crying.
I remember another lunch a couple of days after I had gotten my ride repainted. My Uncle Floyd was a great mechanic. He loved cars and engines. He built a dragster from scratch once. That’s how cool he was. The only thing I had ever built from scratch was a chocolate cake. (Of course I was 9 at the time, so I was definitely a cooking prodigy).
Anyway, I had bought this really ugly ‘62 Plymouth Plaza. The color was sort of a cross between beige and Pepto-Bismol. I took it to my My Uncle Floyd and said, “What do you think”? He went down to the Chevrolet dealership and got some Aztec Bronze paint and two weeks later I got back a bitchin’ two tone paint job that drew gasps and jealous stares from the parking lot crowd at school.
Two days later when I and some friends came back from lunch, those same cretin cat killers called me over. They made some disparaging remarks about my car; something really intelligent like, “you think you’re hot shit? See how hot this is.” Two of them held my arms while one smeared a crushed jalapeno pepper on my face and in my eyes. There I was again in Mrs. Williams English class crying. But this time it was not because I was in shock. It was because of the damn jalapeno. It’s a wonder I still like Mexican food, and I do like it spicy. When I walked out to my car after school that day, someone had carved in very small letter, “Fuck you” on the left rear fender. I took it straight to Uncle Floyd and he patched it. But the damage was done. Sometimes, you are in the sights of a particularly warped individual and there is no escape.
You know that saying that in a small town everybody knows your business. I think some of the families in our little town were lucky to be in our little town where everybody knew their business. It may have been that hometown surveillance that kept them being merely dysfunctional and not criminal. Without community supervision, I think some of our citizens would have ended up in prison, instead of detention. I know some of them could have benefited from a locked mental facility and some good psychotropic medication.
Oh well. Never mind. Wasn’t it great back then?
• We used to wallow in the mud out back after a rain storm, but we never got colds.
• Mama never washed the lettuce because we didn’t know what a pesticide was.
• Vaccines? What for? We believed that if you expose yourself to stuff, then your body will build up its own disease fightin’ arsenal.
• If I did something bad and my momma wasn’t home, then the neighbor lady would give me a lickin’ and it was just fine. No one got sued for child abuse.
• At school, the first thing you did was pledge allegiance and say a prayer. You didn’t worry if there were Buddhists, or Jews or Muslims or freakin’ atheists in the class you just bowed your head and did it.
• You could drive down Main Street drinkin’ a cold one, and if the policeman stopped you, he called your folks and confiscated your beer. You got a beatin’, but rarely arrested.
• We used to make out in the back seat of a car and if we were lucky we got a hand under the sweater. We didn’t have sex on the first date, film it, and show it off to the whole town!
• If someone did get knocked up, they did the right thing. They either got married or went to Edna Gladney’s for a few months.
• If somebody got a little rambunctious and broke someone else’s nose or window, nobody called in a psychiatrist. You just taught the one with the broken nose to fight better.
I get it. It used to be a lot different, and seemingly less complicated than the world we live in now. How could it not be with all the technological advances in just the last 20 years alone, much less in the last 40 years? The changes have been staggering when you start looking back. TV remote controls have been around a long time, but I remember always laying on the floor fairly close to the TV in our den, because I was the remote. Cell phones? What about dial phones? I remember picking up the phone and waiting for the operator and telling her, “this is 74J, can you connect me with 64F?” And away we go! See, how easy it is to slip into nostalgia mode.
Even my grandsons, who are both 14, were talking at their 8th grade promotion about how much had changed since they were in grammar school. “Remember when we could only talk on our cell phones and not even text or down load videos?” We start reminiscing very early in life apparently. Shouldn’t there be an age limit for engaging in nostalgia? I guess it feels good no matter how old you are.
But these walks down memory lane tend to be very selective. These “good old days” lists are by nature very linear and narrow. Somehow all the negative experiences are filtered out by our longing to go back and feel those simpler, carefree feelings.
I remember at 14, driving my aqua and white '55 Belvedere down the lake road, with the windows down, on a sunny summer day with the Beatles harmonizing with my day. It was a little bit of heaven.
I remember lying out down in a furrow between rows of cotton at night, watching the sky and wondering what all that vastness was and how did it all fit together. Some of my best sense-memories are of laying in a cotton field with a couple of friends in the adjacent rows echoing or maybe challenging my musings about the universe. They were truly wonderful times. Of course, when you are young, so many things just seem to be there explicitly for your pleasure and enjoyment.
But for a lot of the recollections on the “how it used to be” list”, it seems a little revisionist. Often times I look at the distribution lists for these type emails and some particular memories come back to me that are not pleasant at all. Some of the memories elicited by some of those names make me wish there had been psychiatrists involved; for them and for me.
I remember the trauma of learning that one of the kids that rode the school bus into town from County Line had been hit by a car, speeding down the farm road. He was killed instantly. I didn’t know him well, but I still wept uncontrollably at his funeral. Dying so young with so much potential seemed like it should be impossible. God should have made a rule. No really young, really smart, really loving child shall die. When you’re young, hell even when your old, the mysterious ways of a Creator are really confusing sometimes..
I remember seeing some of the senior boys on our football team one fall Friday, during lunch break, capturing a cat. We were in a car behind them. The next thing I knew they had thrown the cat out the window over the top of the car into a ditch. They did this several times. The cat just seemed frightened, not hurt. No harm no foul; until one of them jumped out and stomped the cat to death.
I remember being so furious, I was shaking. But I went to class in sort of a robotic stupor; Mrs. Williams’ 11th grade English class. She looked at me and asked me, “What’s wrong”? I looked up from my desk and said, “Why”? She said, “Because you’re crying”. I was so freaked out I didn’t even realize I was crying.
I remember another lunch a couple of days after I had gotten my ride repainted. My Uncle Floyd was a great mechanic. He loved cars and engines. He built a dragster from scratch once. That’s how cool he was. The only thing I had ever built from scratch was a chocolate cake. (Of course I was 9 at the time, so I was definitely a cooking prodigy).
Anyway, I had bought this really ugly ‘62 Plymouth Plaza. The color was sort of a cross between beige and Pepto-Bismol. I took it to my My Uncle Floyd and said, “What do you think”? He went down to the Chevrolet dealership and got some Aztec Bronze paint and two weeks later I got back a bitchin’ two tone paint job that drew gasps and jealous stares from the parking lot crowd at school.
Two days later when I and some friends came back from lunch, those same cretin cat killers called me over. They made some disparaging remarks about my car; something really intelligent like, “you think you’re hot shit? See how hot this is.” Two of them held my arms while one smeared a crushed jalapeno pepper on my face and in my eyes. There I was again in Mrs. Williams English class crying. But this time it was not because I was in shock. It was because of the damn jalapeno. It’s a wonder I still like Mexican food, and I do like it spicy. When I walked out to my car after school that day, someone had carved in very small letter, “Fuck you” on the left rear fender. I took it straight to Uncle Floyd and he patched it. But the damage was done. Sometimes, you are in the sights of a particularly warped individual and there is no escape.
You know that saying that in a small town everybody knows your business. I think some of the families in our little town were lucky to be in our little town where everybody knew their business. It may have been that hometown surveillance that kept them being merely dysfunctional and not criminal. Without community supervision, I think some of our citizens would have ended up in prison, instead of detention. I know some of them could have benefited from a locked mental facility and some good psychotropic medication.
Oh well. Never mind. Wasn’t it great back then?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
What's In A Name?
I was named Curtis Lloyd Lebow, after my father Curtis Carlton Lebow, and my great uncle Dr. Lloyd George Hershey. My friend Don wrote about me in his blog “moonerjohnson” and then contacted me by email to ask which name I preferred to be called, Curtis or Lloyd. He knew me in college as Lloyd and had heard that I was now going by Curtis.
He had asked a tough question without realizing it. I was, and still am, Lloyd to my immediate family. This helped to keep the confusion to a minimum in our house since my dad was the real Curtis. Interesting that my sister, Loretta Paulette Lebow (Glenn), named after two Hollywood stars, Loretta Young and Paulette Goddard, was also called by her middle name although there was no competing Loretta in our family at all. But I digress.
Someone else asked me this question recently. I said I was comfortable with either name. People don't seem eager to accept this. Computer programs don't adapt easily to an either/or answer; and I understand people who will be working with you want to assign a name to call you. Answering this question was easy when I was young, having been called Lloyd all my life; now it is not as cut and dried.
Over time, being in situations (college classes, new jobs, seminars, etc.) where not everyone knows you are a "middle namer", you get called by your first name frequently and it becomes tiring to keep correcting folks. Over the years I acquiesced and I have been called both. Sometimes I was known as Curtis at work and Lloyd at home. So, that's one reason.
Then there are the personalities of the two namesakes; two men for whom I have enormous admiration and respect. You have my father: a WWII belly gunner, golden gloves boxer, perfect game bowler, golden rule follower, good humored, compassionate lover of life on the one hand. Then there is my Uncle "Doc": who had great intellect, loved classical and operatic music, fly-fishing, eastern philosophy, and was a benevolent care-giver for low income copper miners, hundreds of which attended his funeral. These are two men who are giants in my psyche and central to who I became as a person.
As I told that person the other day who asked, It's not a cop-out or a failure on my part to be able to decide. I really am comfortable, even honored to be called Curtis or Lloyd.
He had asked a tough question without realizing it. I was, and still am, Lloyd to my immediate family. This helped to keep the confusion to a minimum in our house since my dad was the real Curtis. Interesting that my sister, Loretta Paulette Lebow (Glenn), named after two Hollywood stars, Loretta Young and Paulette Goddard, was also called by her middle name although there was no competing Loretta in our family at all. But I digress.
Someone else asked me this question recently. I said I was comfortable with either name. People don't seem eager to accept this. Computer programs don't adapt easily to an either/or answer; and I understand people who will be working with you want to assign a name to call you. Answering this question was easy when I was young, having been called Lloyd all my life; now it is not as cut and dried.
Over time, being in situations (college classes, new jobs, seminars, etc.) where not everyone knows you are a "middle namer", you get called by your first name frequently and it becomes tiring to keep correcting folks. Over the years I acquiesced and I have been called both. Sometimes I was known as Curtis at work and Lloyd at home. So, that's one reason.
Then there are the personalities of the two namesakes; two men for whom I have enormous admiration and respect. You have my father: a WWII belly gunner, golden gloves boxer, perfect game bowler, golden rule follower, good humored, compassionate lover of life on the one hand. Then there is my Uncle "Doc": who had great intellect, loved classical and operatic music, fly-fishing, eastern philosophy, and was a benevolent care-giver for low income copper miners, hundreds of which attended his funeral. These are two men who are giants in my psyche and central to who I became as a person.
As I told that person the other day who asked, It's not a cop-out or a failure on my part to be able to decide. I really am comfortable, even honored to be called Curtis or Lloyd.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)