California Dreamin'

It's a homely purple plastic mug with Target provenance. Most of the year, it is relegated to a shelf in the corner kitchen cupboard where it awaits being plucked for usage. Into the freezer it will go and soon the liquid that resides in its core will harden, the mug will acquire an ice sheen and it will be ready for the owner who's moved far away. Each visit she seems a bit surprised that the faithful mug is ready to be filled with her personal ambrosia, also known as unsweetened iced tea. So it was on Sunday last when a conversation had morphed into a week-end trip so fleeting it felt dreamlike.



Sunshine and roller coasters, Mexican food and a just barely warm enough pool in which to catch a quick tan. How to resist? With relentless rain and daily temperatures stuck in the '60's, a northwest fall season can be challenging for someone whose childhood milieu consisted of plenty of palm trees, mostly brown terrain and an implacable sun.

Dismiss any thoughts of exhaustion and impracticality. Call the parents to see if the guest room is available. What a question!

"You're coming in two weeks?" they ask with smiles you can almost see through the drops.

At her former home, we, the parents, realize that the trip isn't about us. Geographically we just happen to live two hours south and east from the real attraction. Magic Mountain Amusement Park beckons and retains the galvanic magnetism first encountered during her teen years.

The serendipitous journey began during the evening of an especially difficult work day. Houseguest Alex casually mentions that she's pining for the roller coaster nirvana. Almost immediately, her hostess's fingers streak across the keyboard, checking flights, comparing prices. Temptation looms as numbers appear on the screen which can only be described as reasonable, maybe even cheap. She and the husband will travel to SoCal. Tickets are purchased; the itinerary shared.

A simple plan which includes the unnatural necessity of arising at 5 am for a 7 o'clock departure. Adventures always include some discomfort. Fly JetBlue to Long Beach where Alex awaits. Drive north on I-5 and connect with Scott. Arrive at the park entrance not long after Saturday's opening and come prepared to be engulfed in unrestrained fun.

And it nearly happened just like that except for fog which intervened and caused 90 agonizing, frustrating minutes to be wasted endlessly circling Catalina Island. Finally, there's touchdown.

During the time period between discussion and arrival, the parents have been busy. Traditions must be respected for all visits, despite the truncated duration. The purple mug is in place. Two unturkey sandwiches, made-to-order, have been acquired from the local health food store. A newly renovated guest suite gleams with recently purchased bedding, lamps, and towels. She doesn't know about this upgrade and will be astonished at the transformation. We realize she'll loathe the color scheme, shades of sand and dirt. Really, dirt is the best descriptor. Maybe the 500 count sheets will be soothing and the geometric design comforter very satisfying.

Cans of Cactus Cooler,a citrusy soda only available in California, are chilling. Shelf space is shared by two varieties of Coke and just the right containers of vanilla yogurt. A fresh supply of 'fakin bacon' is tucked in the freezer door for the vegetarian daughter.






Faint aromas permeate the rooms. One can detect glass cleaner, Soft Scrub, freshly laundered linens. Glass patio tables glisten with all debris removed. Flowers freshen the tranquil bathroom and adorn the dining room table. Floors are mopped, carpets vacuumed. We're ready and waiting.

At various intervals during the day, there's a call.

"Having a great time, don't plan on waiting up for our arrival."

Really? We were hoping she'd tire of the rides or fill her quotient or want to see us sooner.... Nope, the lure of just one more terrifying trip is too much to ignore.

After 10 p.m., there's another call. They're leaving. Finally, I think. So soon, she laments. Actually, they're still in the park and it'll be quite a while before Alex's car is in our driveway.

Reluctantly, we succumb to sleep. I slumber fitfully, fretting about the long drive and the exhausted occupants.

When I'm fully awake the next morning, I know they're in the house. Perched on my bathroom counter is a green bag. It contains a bottle of my favorite lotion. Bought at the Portland Airport. Sweet girl. She remembered.



Outside the guest room door is a small pile of laundry. She's definitely home. Whenever any of her friends are overnight visitors in this house, she warns them.

"Don't leave anything on the floor. If you do, the next morning you'll find it washed and dried and waiting for you in a neat pile."

I consider such tasks a pleasure, not a burden.

While I wait to see her precious face and lavish her with too many hugs, the laundry is done. I type quietly and peer at the clock. Didn't she say she'd be up by 9? She is. A bit worn but already wearing her swimsuit. That's my girl. Never waste a minute of the sunshine. It's so rare in her life.



Her shoulders hurt from the repetitive use of harnesses which strapped her to scary (definitely for me, maybe for her too) seats just prior to the jolt of flying through the air. I really don't want to hear about lying face down, dangling above the ground. This is fun? Apparently yes.

She reports that the threesome enjoyed a floor picnic upon arrival around 2 am. With an aqua striped beach towel spread on the carpet, they gleefully dined on unturkey sandwiches. A sublime conclusion to an unforgettable day.

Water can't wait and quickly she's diving. Is the shock of the liquid's temperature less daunting that intense centrifugal force? She embraces both with equal vigor.




Bobby and Alex are awake. Maybe the splashing resonated or more likely, the sunshine could not be postponed. He's suitless so feet and legs are dangled in the water as the outside temperature increases to 109, nearly 50 degrees warmer than his northwest home. Alex joins her friend, Caitlin, in watery paradise.



Breakfast is free flowing, soon to be interrupted by lunch. No matter the compressed visit, it must include Mexican food from Las Casuelas. It's been a favorite since the days when she dined in a high chair and was offered not enchiladas or tacos, but strained peas and peaches. No time for the restaurant scene, however. This order will be take-out.




Post meal, there's time for another dip. A bright pink tube looks enticing. Seems a bit small, a tight fit. Well, of course, it's child-sized. She floats, refuses to wear sunscreen. Tells me she grew up here. I think she wants a bit of a burn to show the Oregon occupants.

I've captured the roller coaster crew. Somewhat refreshed, steeped with stories.




It can't be that the afternoon is fleeting. Erin arrives and the young people talk of growing tomatoes, owning a house, graduate courses. I stand to the side and recall vividly earlier days. Middle school with its traumas, high school with its hopes. Now they know how their futures unfolded.




One more photo before we drive to the airport. This one won't be shared. It's being sequestered and will arrive along with Christmas cards in December. It's perfect. The four of us, smiling on a sunny September afternoon.

Cactus Coolers fit the car's cup holders and soothe the two hour journey. There's no luggage to check. A blue Addidas bag and a backpack. The 'Made in Oregon' bag stuffed with lemon bars. The couple is heavy with matchless memories. They'll return in just 99 days. Am I dreaming?

Personal Appearance

Graduates guide novices and, along with current classmates, share language not found in any catalog or rule book. Live in Callaway. It has history. Served as a hospital during the war. We know which war. It need not be named. Conveniently unshared is the fact that the residence isn't fire safe and any electrical appliance with a heating element must be used in one special designated room on each floor. No hair drying in one's room, no popcorn wafting through the halls. There's a lady who walks the halls every night, alert to any signs of smoke. We wonder what she'd do if any were detected? Fortunatly, we never learn the answer.

Select early morning classes. Why? Isn't an essential part of this new life the luxury of sleeping longer? It takes only one session to learn the wisdom of adjusting the schedule forward into the day.

If nothing else is learned, schedule swimming just prior to P.A. Finally, something that actually has merit. All of us must conquer the water as part of graduation requirements. There are no hand-held dryers. They've yet to be invented, marketed, embraced, considered essential. Only their stationary sisters have been brought from home. There are two basic types. One features a huge hard plastic hood under which you bake. The other allows for a bit more flexibility with its thin plastic bonnet and
cylindrical tubing. The latter is perfect for perching on the bed, perhaps having a snooze while beauty is created. Each apparatus must be plugged in to operate and the process requires between 20 and 30 minutes for completion. Nobody would think of dragging one of these awkward contraptions to class.

Swimmers are handed thin cotton suits in various colors which relate to bra size, not body style. Cringe. No thought is given to the fragile egos of class members. Thankfully only our gender is represented so absolute humiliation is avoided. The enclosed space reeks of super chlorination and wet bodies. When class time has expired, a very quick dry prepares us for the real torture. Try pulling a minute full girdle up over still somewhat damp thighs. Hair continues to drip as hose are affixed to garters and proper clothes are buttoned and zipped. Slip into two-inch spike heels with pointy toes. Wobble your way to the next class.

Maybe it's topic is even more life-saving. We're being taught all the refinements of ladyhood, Southern style. No real crinolines and hoopskirts, but they're there, invisible and inviolate.

Arrive at the classroom where a set of steps anchors the middle section. Its purpose is to teach young ladies the proper way to ascend and descend and how to stand with grace and aplomb. Clusters of desks accommodate girls prepared to be molded. Most of them are totally dry, unlike me.




Leading us to perfection is someone, maybe several someones, whose beauty, poise and sheer genteelness most of us likely will never attain. Even worse, all the assistants are members of the Modeling Squad. Each and every one of these pluperfect women could be runway models or grace the cover of multiple magazines. Such a collection of blondes or striking brunettes who are lean without being emaciated, tall without towering, possessing flawless skin to which just the right amount of discreet unnoticable make-up has been applied. They brandish smiles from lips an actress would envy. These are the people who walk unerringly around the classroom, clipboards in hand, grading each student. They're dressed always in basic black which only serves to enhance their inherent impeccability. Not one of them has recently emerged from the swimming pool. Certainly a fashion photographer could fill a portfolio with candid shots merely by attending one class session.



We're here to learn, many of us reluctant, a few enthused. It's a legacy from generation to generation. Produce the 'W' girl. The one each young woman yearns to be. Well, I'm not so sure. I think I'm not good material for this distinction. Lessons start with basic hygiene. Here's how you take a bath--the proper way. Showers are never mentioned. I suppose they do not conjure up the right image at all. For young women whose fate is steeped in the traditional roles, it is incongrous that there'd ever be time enough for a bath. Yet that's the skill we're learning. Never mind reality. We're creating an ambience, an ideal.

Soaps are discussed at length as is deoderant. We're taught how to sit. Never, never, never cross your legs. Very unappealing. Instead, cross you ankles and then turn your whole body ever so slightly. A beautiful body line is thus created.

What do you do with your hands? Don't fidgit. A lady never would do so. Place both hands in your lap utilizing a gentle motion. Open the palms. Lay one hand atop the other casually. So chic. Are you comfortable with your crossed ankles, tilted body, clasped hands? Well, no, but that's not important. You'll look terrific! That's what really matters. People will notice. Think you're a lady.

It's critical that you learn the appropriate way to enter and exit a vehicle. Don't just plop. Lower yourself to the seat of the car in one fluid action. Keep your knees together at all times and then swing your legs into the vehicle. Repeat this motion when you reach your destination. Clean lines. Perfection achieved.

Try not to concentrate on the Modeling Squad members who've spent part of the summer touring Paris fashion shows. Forget that several of them have been named 'Most Stylish'




or, gulp, 'Most Beautiful.'



Remember that each student is provided with an individual hair and make-up strategy session. Maybe there's hope for you, too. Maybe all these beauties have been transformed by this very class. Maybe you're dreaming.

I arrive hesitantly at the appointed time. I sense immediately that my mentor believes my hair isn't worthy of discussion. Long, dark, somewhat thin, it just "is." There's nothing special, no remarkable quality. I pull it back into a ponytail. Sometimes perched high and saucy. Other days, close to my neck and rather lank. Servicable, sensible. I suspect that many of the ideal women do the same but I don't share these thoughts.

We concentrate on my face. Lots of questions. "What foundations do you use?" Answer, "I don't own any." Grimace, ever so slight.

"OK, how about mascera? eyeliner? eye shadow? blush?"

Again, the "none" response.

Grimace is growing, barely contained.

"Well, what shades of lipstick do you prefer?"

I realize immediately that this model is desparate. She's absolutely sure that there is not one young woman at this institution who is lacking lipstick. Multiple tubes, various shades. She is wrong about me.

I'm almost afraid to answer this latest inquiry, but I do. "I have no favorites and only wear lipstick on very special occasions." I dare not mention that generally I borrow somebody else's tube.

I can feel the thud. I know she thinks I am hopeless. This interview will affect my grade. It'll be on my transcript, permanently. Will I be mortified? Can you fail this class and have to repeat it? An ignoble event. Branded for life.

Have I just failed Personal Appearance? Is that possible? I'm not sure. I'm only seventeen, no lady yet. Maybe never.

There's silence. She's considering me and finally she shares perhaps fatal words. I wait anxiously and then I hear, "You have beautiful skin and really don't need make-up."

My heart starts again. I breathe and maybe I glow just a little, without the assistance of any blusher. It's then that I know I'll pass. Not as a model, but as me. That's more than good enough.




Nearly five decades later, I recently checked my transcript. There it was, indelibly typed. My Personal Appearance grade. I got a 'B.' Definitely good enough.

Street Solace

For forty years the sign stood silent. Some knew its story but didn't share it widely. Those truly connected became unlinked by time and sorrow. Life intervened as decades multiplied and the sign became weathered, was replaced, and then continued its quiet mandate. Houses appeared, followed by families. A yellow sign reads, 'Careful Children Playing.' A neighborhood, a sylvan setting with tall trees, colorful flowers, and the occasional geese wandering into the road. A tranquil place whose name evokes memories of home.





But this sign is not ordinary for it honors a hero. A young man who lived barely a week after his twentieth birthday and died in a violent world which he never created but wasn't destined to survive. Yet the legacy of his bittersweetly short existence transcended the consummate tragedy of his loss.

Picture a young man bursting with joy, growing up in a nearly perfect small New York town in the 50's and early 60's. He's the center of all activities, equally adept at football, basketball, and baseball. His physical skills are more than matched by a personality that engages all whom he encounters and the effect he has on classmates, family and teachers remains potent to this day. Everyone, truly everyone, loved him. Stories of his kindnesses, his tremendous heart, his love for his little sisters are legion.



Nearly 43 years have passed since his loss. Years of grieving, tinged with anger and disbelief. How could someone so vital, so loved and loving be gone? There are no answers. Family and friends never forget and his presence remains etched within their hearts. When classmates are together, there's always a story in which he has a leading role. Laughter erupts with the telling and then the reality returns. He's not here to share the memories. He never reached his twenty-first birthday or any of the other milestones enjoyed by so many of his contemporaries. It is a sadness that won't stop.

Perhaps the emotion has been assuaged somewhat by a momentous recent gathering at his sign. The one named in his honor. The one with the star signifying that he died in combat. A simple green sign, marking the way to a peaceful neighborhood where he might have lived someday. He's there as a sentry, watching over the residents.

Nearly 120 people stood together closely and immersed themselves in a celebration of a colleague, a comrade, a brother whose spirit flitted among the crowd. He was felt through the tears of men and women whose hair is grey or gone, whose faces he might not recognize with slight lines or deep furrows, whose bodies are mostly no longer supple and in some cases are quite broken. He'd look within their souls and see their own sorrow attached to parents who've departed, spouses or children who've been relinquised unwillingly. There'd be disappointments and regrets but more than a measure of satisfaction at a life well lived with people who are tremendously loved. Beyond the individual stories, he'd sense an overwhelming connection which can only be described as love.



He'd immediately recognize his very best friend, Bill. He'd notice his younger sisters, JoAnn and Debbie and marvel at their grown-up selves. Surely he'd reach out and touch their tears and enfold them in one of his special hugs. He'd chuckle as Bill stands behind the podium and recounts some of their exploits, realizing perhaps that he hasn't shared everything with the group.



He'd remember another classmate, Henry, and know that he'd applied his faultless organizational skills and determination to this re-dedication ceremony. He would have expected nothing less and maybe, just maybe, he, the absent honoree, helped a bit along the way. After all there was that cancelled trip to Europe which resulted in a visit to his street and the incubation of an idea whose fruition far exceeded the expectations of anyone. Except, perhaps, he knew it all along.



There's a bronze plaque to unveil. The sisters will reverently unwrap the green and white scarves, representing his high school colors. He'll remember and be pleased. The crying is increasing, it can't be staunched. Everyone understands and those who are dry-eyed have internal tears.



With his usual eloquence, Bill has honored the Vietnam-era veterans. They stand as a group, associated forever by their military experience. Some have arrived in full regalia but with no memory of the cherished classmate. They just know that he's a brother and are compelled to participate in this memorial.



I, too, am one of those unfortunate few whose life has only been touched by his ancedotes, not by knowing him. There's always another story to be told, a moment to share. I've had my own losses. A classmate who perished in that steamy country, just twenty-two. The wrenching pain of a phone call, deep into the night, with the dreadful words, 'Brother's gone.' My only sibling, my Brother, at thirty. I know the searing throb that lingers decade after decade and the uncontrollable desire to share events like the birth of our daughter who carries his name. The stories help balance my sanity and there's a profound belief that Brother's spirit remains ever-present. So it is with Teedie. There's solace now, thanks to a street.