Moments from my family history, along with the moments that define us today – with musings on what may one day the history for which we are remembered.
Your author coming home from the hospital, held by my father, March 1958
It’s just about 65 years since I entered this world, and without my planning, but noted nevertheless, this happens to be my 65th post! For some reason, this birthday is considered more significant than 57 or 66 or 82 – but all are cause for celebration and reflection. Perhaps a handful of what I’ve shared here the past three years has had an impact for a few readers along the way, but I’ve accepted that the process of writing my little reflections and observations is alas, primarily selfish. In sorting through the maze of my life, the daily frustrations, the questions that seem to elude answers with any sense of finality, I am looking to just find my way through. My family history explorations remind me that to have made it to this time in my life is a gift many did not have any opportunity to enjoy; and I am aware, regardless of how much I want to avoid dwelling on it, that life is fragile and unpredictable, a delicate mist which might evaporate at any moment, without announcement or forethought. But, this moment in time feels like it deserves a pause, if not to sum up “my story so far” like some Netflix miniseries, at least to glean some insight, feel a momentary glow, and acknowledge the awesome gifts that life offered me, and – to then again, push forward.
We aren’t planning any big parties. I have enjoyed doing that for other events – but it’s not where we want invest our time and resources at this stage; I don’t want to be exhausted! I am looking forward to some special moments with my husband, and we have had a few recent opportunities to see loved ones and hear about their lives, their dreams; more lie ahead. But I do want to let my heart speak to you who read these words, now or at some point ahead, even though our paths may only cross on this digital path through the sometimes confusing, seemingly random or chaotic events that face us as residents of this globe for a short time.
And so – I’d like to sing for you.
Fear not, I won’t subject you to actually hearing my voice, but I can still “sing” with the voice of my heart though my slow fingers tapping on these keys; very different from the black and white keys of the upright piano my grandmother gifted my mother long before birth, these plastic keys are laid out like the heavy metal typewriter of my junior high classes in the 70s where we would tap out letters as the little metal stamps would slam the rolled paper through the ink ribbon. In those long past days I sang in the school choir, and my church; later, decades later, I stood in public with hundreds of men singing in the gay chorus. I treasure those moments as gifts. But today’s song selections will be solos.
Music has always lifted my spirit. I cannot pretend to have that wonderful gift of creating song; matching words and melody to let the colors of my soul rise into the light and burst like a shower of butterflies into the bright sky. But my ears know when the truths others have put to music resonate in pulse with my own heartbeat; too many songs to remember, echoing in my memory, peeking out unexpectedly from years past then fading again like the stack of neglected old photos shoved into a drawer, too treasured to be lost but lacking the room in the gallery of my imagination to have them on permanent display. Perhaps we all have a never-ending playlist stored in dusty mental archives, and a part of us presses “random” to bring them to consciousness when we have those too rare quiet moments to really listen.
“Maxence” as portrayed by Jacques Perrin in “Les Demoiselles de Rochefort“
I made some time to listen in the silence and await whatever lessons might faintly be heard by my waiting ears. My program for you as I take this little stage consists of three songs that say perhaps more about my life, my heart, than any blog post I might ever create. I cannot say exactly why these 3, out of all the intricate melodies that I have heard in six plus decades, speak to me above others at this moment – but somehow, they rise to the front of the line. My first song was not even known to me until my music service “suggested” it a few months back, only to have it haunt me ever since. It’s not particularly famous; more than a bit wistful; it wasn’t originally written as a popular song, but as a film theme for a most unusual movie by French director Jacques Demy, after he had an “art house” success with “The Umbrellas of Cherboug”in 1964. Composer Michel Legrand scored “The Young Girls of Rochefort” three years later, as a follow up of sorts. In the original film melody, “Maxence’s song”, a sailor earnestly seeking the embodiment of his vision of beauty, but those lyrics are not the basis for this English translation, credited to Alan and Marilyn Bergman. The longing expressed in the original music and revised lyrics is most beautifully captured in a musical collaboration between Tony Bennet and jazz pianist Bill Evans from 1976. May I present – “You must believe in Spring”.
When lonely feelings chill The meadows of your mind Just think if winter comes Can spring be far behind?
Beneath the deepest snows The secret of a rose Is merely that it knows You must believe in spring
Just as a tree is sure Its leaves will reappear It knows its emptiness Is just a time of year
The frozen mountains dreams Of April’s melting streams How crystal clear it seems You must believe in spring
You must believe in love And trust it’s on its way Just as a sleeping rose Awaits the kiss of May
So in a world of snow Of things that come and go Where what you think you know You can’t be certain of You must believe in spring and love
“You Must Believe in Spring”, music by Michel Legrand, lyrics by Marilyn and Alan Bergman, 1967.
For my second number, I offer something a bit older, one of many hymns that used to be standard inclusions in church services. I was raised in a small Methodist Christian congregation, but this particular hymn wasn’t one I remember from those days. I heard it later, a world ago seemingly in my 20’s, on an album produced in that time when Christian records became more commonplace after the evangelical movement portrayed in the current film, “Jesus Revolution”. The attributed author of the hymn is a 19th century preacher, Frederick M. Lehman, whose work on it is best described in this blog post. I draw your attention to the third and final stanza as that which speaks to me most deeply, and if you read the previously linked reference which is much more thoroughly descriptive than anything I might research, you will learn that portion actually originated from a form of Jewish poetry more than 1000 years ago! Like many spiritual practices commonplace in our time, was – adopted? Reappropriated? – by Lehman for his heartfelt song because it captured his own sense of truth. Here is “The Love of God” –
The love of God is greater far Than tongue or pen can ever tell. It goes beyond the highest star And reaches to the lowest hell. The guilty pair, bowed down with care, God gave His Son to win; His erring child He reconciled And pardoned from his sin.
O love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong! It shall forevermore endure— The saints’ and angels’ song.
When hoary time shall pass away, And earthly thrones and kingdoms fall; When men who here refuse to pray, On rocks and hills and mountains call; God’s love, so sure, shall still endure, All measureless and strong; Redeeming grace to Adam’s race— The saints’ and angels’ song.
Could we with ink the ocean fill, And were the skies of parchment made; Were every stalk on earth a quill, And every man a scribe by trade; To write the love of God above Would drain the ocean dry; Nor could the scroll contain the whole, Though stretched from sky to sky.
“The Love Of God”, Frederick M. Lehman, 1917 (Final stanza derived from 11th century poetry by Jewish rabbi).
“Nor could the scroll contain the whole though stretched from sky to sky”
My third and final solo is probably the most familiar; I have often told friends and family is my favorite song. Surprisingly, it too was written originally for a film now mostly forgotten – “The boy with green hair” in 1948. Written by “eden ahbez” (his chosen name was in lower case), who reputedly was an early “hippie lifestyle” practitioner, it became a huge hit for my favorite vocalist, Nat King Cole, and has been covered by countless artists; it more recently has been popularized as a featured song in Baz Luhrmann’s “Moulin Rouge” film and stage productions. May I present – “Nature boy” –
There was a boy A very strange enchanted boy They say he wandered very far Very far Over land and sea
A little shy And sad of eye But very wise was he
And then one day One magic day he passed my way And while we spoken of many things Fools and kings This he said to me
The greatest thing You’ll ever learn Is just to love And be loved in return
My musical “performance” has concluded, but we have time for an encore of sorts – my closing monologue. I do wonder if anyone out there has heard all 3 of these before; more likely, some or all are “new” to you, readers. They are all, of course, songs about love; in a way, most songs are ultimately about our shared quest for love. “You Must believe in Spring” captures our deep yearning, our inner drive to believe that in the darkest, coldest time, a season of promise and hope lies ahead, and the possibility of love – a quest our souls share but pursue in different ways, perhaps only fleetingly fulfilled. The closing stanza of “The Love of God” echoes a rabbi’s writings from centuries before, a person of faith looking beyond the known to the immense wonder of that which is beyond our comprehension, beyond measurement – a greater love that shatters boundaries of time, that asks us to simply let it be and to trust that it is, and that we are loved. Finally, “Nature boy” is my heart’s anthem – an expression more of the person I wish I was, my aspiration, and yet acknowledge I will never fully become. In a way, my lifetime has taught me, we try our best yet fail, as we cannot fully embody what somehow our spirits sense. That yearning, woven into our inner spirits from the moment we enter this planet, drives our desires and seeds our dreams – to know that ideal, that ultimate source of all love.
Last week, I sat with my older niece, sharing some of the family stories and mementos, photos and letters that I have inherited over the years. I see some ironic humor in the observation that as a childless gay man, I have been entrusted with the memories and mementos of those who came before, who lived and loved long before my entry on the scene; but their words, their faces full of life, speak deeply to me. These faded artifacts are priceless treasures – witnesses not only to history, but to what it is to live, to be human, to seek answers and hope. Yet, my connection to them, and to others entering into my life for periods short and extended, is deep. I am far from alone in my wondering; humans have over many thousands of years and countless cultures and faiths tried to establish systems and practices to try to “make sense” of life. Although my peculiar little path has been very different from theirs, I am a part of a tapestry whose whole will only be revealed in eternity. But I sense there is an artist there working through each of us; the hues in their pallet used to express the immeasurable expanse of love unlimited. I am in awe when I catch a glimpse of that working in and hopefully through each of us.
Whatever captures our attention and energy in life, brings us delight or promises some relief from the pain of disappointment and exclusion – in the rear-view mirror, what we hold dear is the moments where love carried our spirits to a place beyond. Our hearts long, we awaken, we forgive and struggle to push to a place of acceptance and peace. However varied our upbringing and tradition, we are born with an awareness of the eternal, of something many call sacred or holy, but we each encounter it in different ways, and in this relatively short lifetime perhaps the greatest lesson we learn is indeed how to love and be loved in return. Love has surrounded and embraced each of us from the moment we emerged into light. Today I recognize my shortcomings in living out the love I sense and desire; I have many lessons ahead before I can claim to have any real wisdom to offer anyone , and I know I am graced to have my husband, family and friends continue to share love with me as I work to let that continue on through me. I have come to believe we all have the same questions, the same hopes, ultimately, just in different forms, with mountains and valleys that are uniquely ours. Perhaps we also must discover our own answers which reveal that greater love’s truths to us in each chapter of the journey called life.
The author at the Sea of Galilee, age 25 in 1983 – where did 40 years go???
Thank you, friends, for taking time for my musical musings as I pause to look back and forward from this birthday pause. If I could create a song of exultation that could somehow capture the multicolored hues of emotions and memories, hopes and regrets that make of 6.5 decades of life so far, I would dance in the sunlight and say to the stars, I am thankful, I am blessed, the dark and the light, the bitter and sweet all blending into a waltz of forgiveness, acceptance and an emerging joy. I invite you to join in the dance, with those before and yet to come. This birthday anniversary, this moment of awareness as time continues to flow through me and all of us towards some amazing future we cannot see, is just a moment to catch my breath and be thankful, and humbled, for the amazing gifts I have received and those that await me – and all of us – every day, anew. I’ll see you along the way.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, hearing a train whistle was not an uncommon event for those in big cities, or small towns scattered in remote areas. To some, trains are like noisy, dirty animals … great hulking monsters spewing smoke, crushing what lies before them; but they are also friends, like Thomas, that little boys play with, dreaming of being big boys. I had those dreams once … and I had a train, too. Of course, I thought of it as a magical train – the first memories of it are gone, it is more like echoes of my childhood thinking of putting the metal track pieces together in living room on special occasions. Those echoes are like the steam whistle, and the memories of Judy Garland singing “On the Atchison Topeka and the Santa Fe” while the engine roared into town bringing the Harvey Girls to tame the wild west – all wispy fantasies that fade like the smoke into the sky, but the echoes reside in my soul, with others.
Judy Garland leading “On the Atchison Topeka and the Santa Fe” in “The Harvey Girls – 1946 – All Aboard!!!
I have written before about my Mom’s tendency to, well, hoard. She kept things that had value – and things that had no meaning at all. It took me years after returning to my childhood home to sift through it all – there were treasures to be found among the trinkets. I had never forgotten the train set – it was a happy memory, like playing children’s records and lying in the bedroom on a quiet afternoon reading. When I found the box, at first I didn’t realize what it contained, because she had literally kept the shipping box itself, a plain cardboard box which I opened to find another “sleeve”, and under that, the carefully preserved decades old Lionel engine, and accessories – dusty, unused, kept in darkness … it had been years since it ran around the small oval, years since the farm animals had been let out of the barn. Years in which a large part of my own life too had been put away, kept in darkness, waiting.
The dusty box with childhood treasures, buried but not forgotten
Memory is an odd creature, too – it moves in ways unpredictable, little eruptions now and then emerging, and the emotions tied to them still. My mother had always said that I had won the train set from the toy store in Vacaville, California, where a drawing had been held; I would have been 2, so I remember nothing but my brother, 30 months older, retained the memories more. We would play with it together, and alone; we had those moments of shared joy as children, but they were fewer to be found as the years grew, and we grew apart. Our home was not the one shown on TV – not the one shared apparently by our classmates in the small town where we moved when I was 5; it was in that house I learned to be alone, to hide my feelings, to put them in a box like the train and put them away.
Like many brothers, we are very different, and it has not been easy or really entirely successful to bridge the differences between us – a distance greater than a train, toy or otherwise, could shorten. We shared our younger years but had very different hearts – and diverging paths ahead. He went to live with our father, and was less present in my life, ultimately marrying and having children out of state, with occasional return visits. In my mother’s final years, spent in a care facility near our childhood home, I returned to that house to deal with those challenges – a single man, in what was probably the loneliest time of my life, not yet having the footing to stand and say who I was, what I felt, who I wanted to be and to love. I returned to a home without friends, finding pieces of my family, and in a way finding pieces of myself as I tried to bring what had been forgotten into the light – to renew the small tract home my parents bought for our future, before the family picture shattered and the curtains closed. It was in some ways a chapter of renewal for us both.
Some of the other artifacts that were buried in boxes, and in books, revealed that trains were more a part of my past than I could have imagined. I remembered the whistle in the night going through the Corona orange groves – the smell of the smudge pots on winter nights to preserve the fruit – that heritage has been replaced now with distribution centers and tracts, and the citrus packing houses remembered by fewer as the years move on. I discovered my great grandmothers handwritten journal describing her son’s birth in the Corvallis, Oregon train station where his father was the station master; I found photos of my father’s grandfather standing by a steam locomotive somewhere in the desert of Arizona, or Mexico, with antlers on the front as he worked with Santa Fe to build a rail line to the coast near Guaymas, where he found his bride. I learned of my other family lines who came west by wagon train, seeking gold, seeking new homes – seeking opportunity away from the farms and everything and everyone they knew for the chance for a better life; some were lost along the way. These were the seeds of my interest in family history – me, a lonely boy, a “gifted” boy but an invisible child, realizing that others before him had faced challenges, failures, obstacles but continued to dare to hope, to dream. Somehow, their spirits out there, somewhere, were still connected to me – outside of time, speaking to me in words and old greeting cards and photos with scribbled names, some still mysteries even now. Their secrets, their dreams, their passions were waiting to be unearthed, revealed – like the train.
My great Grandfather in the Sonora Desert in the late 1800’s – the wild West.
I decided it would be worth the effort to see if the train had any value – after all, it had to be unusual to find an intact set, in the box, with all the accessories and the vintage catalog and more! 20 years ago, I found an Ebay listing that seemed to be the identical set – which had sold for over $1700! It was known as the “Halloween set” with the “General” engine – due to the orange and black colors, I am guessing. And mine was in better shape! It was not until after my Mom’s passing in 2006 that I finally sold the home and turned over the keys and closed the door for the last time, leaving what had been the core of my upbringing forever. In the months before and after her passing, time also took from me my father, his wife who had become a part of my life decades before, and his cousin Bill who I cared for in his final years. My own heart was still in a box of its own – I was still shut away, like the train, like the boxes of memories and old toys and photos that I put first into storage, and then into my new, “dream” home, closer to work, big and spacious and sunny. A new chapter was being written, and the light began to break through my own closed doors, and I pulled out the train as I prepared for a Christmas where I could welcome friends … setting up the track again, connecting the frayed wiring and … finding the train would not move. It needed repair. It needed help to function; help from someone who knew how something old and broken could be brought to life again. I didn’t know it at the time, but so did I. And I found it – for both of us, eventually.
Instructions, and even “billboards” (although from a VERY different era!)
I reached out for help – I found someone out of state, online, and shipped them the engine and the electrical parts. There were not many resources to be found with that knowledge; it was not easy. Some online sources indicate the set was only made in 1960 for distribution at independent retailers, with 7300 produced; for some, it is “legendary”. Bringing something back to life that is neglected takes special care. It did not run that Christmas, of course – but it did come back in time, if not “restored” – at least, able to run. I found others to help me learn to run, too – finally, in my fifties, finding the strength and support to not hide in the closet of secrecy and shame. It’s been a little over 10 years now since I started to tell others that the Norman they knew had never been able to fully share his heart with them, or anyone; looking back, I can see it has been a long and hard journey which still stretches ahead, unlike the metal track sections that form a loop to nowhere – my track is being laid in new directions. You have to travel down roads you don’t know to get to a new destination, of course – and my wanderings brought me here to SF and to my husband, and the train came along, buried in the basement – something of value, to be treasured, along with so many little pieces of my past, and my family.
Yes, the farm was included – along with a little “station” and more.
More than a half century has passed since I won that drawing; my brother’s children are grown; he is divorced, and recently retired, about to turn 68. He has mentioned the train set over the years; first when his children were young, but they lived on the other end of the country, and we did not see them often. Now, they are grown – and although I reach out occasionally, they have lives of their own, and we really are not close to one another. Still – I feel a responsibility to preserve the lessons, the heritage that I found in my Mother’s closets – and now that my brother is in a new chapter of his own life, in my heart I sense that it is time to let the train travel east to his home. It won’t be cheap – it is large. I bought a large box and will pack it carefully; it will reach him there before his birthday. He was willing to wait, but I have a sense that the time is right now; time to let go, in more ways than one, and with more than just a vintage train set.
The thrilling accessory catalog – and invitation to become an honorary stockholder – must be under 16! You’ve made an investment in happiness!!
And yet – letting go is freeing, too. I want to believe, to hope at least, that his children’s children will play with the train, and keep it; and perhaps some will retain the knowledge of how trains changed their family’s lives, and futures. I accept that, like most old relatives in photos, particularly those who never had children, my name will be mostly forgotten, my face a new mystery. But in a way, that little train carries generations of love, and history – not just my memories, or my brothers, but those of our parents whose not fully successful dreams of a happy family gave us life; their parents whose work and sacrifices gave us opportunities many in our world would never know. The little train will go around it’s track, and as I say farewell, I look ahead toward the future which still holds promise, and discoveries to be shared, free of the restraint of tracks, awaiting my steps on a road that daily winds ahead.
See the old smoke risin’ ’round the bend I reckon that she knows she’s gonna meet a friend
Time to disembark, folks – hope you enjoyed the trip – watch that last step! Thanks for visiting – always appreciate chatting with friends and strangers! Oh, and don’t forget to subscribe – it’s complimentary with your paid first class ticket today!
To start our new year, my husband and I travelled across the continent to Florida, celebrating his 75th birthday. We had a wonderful time – and like all of our adventures in recent years, took a lot of pictures. Recently, I had sorted through my mac photo library for all the pictures that need “tagging” and organization; as I renew my documentation of piles of family photos and letters, documents and memories, it becomes even more critical to, well, not get so far behind. Easier said than done! It’s hard to press “delete” on that 5th picture of the trip to such and such; it’s even harder, for some reason, to put an old print in the trash (either after scanning, or after giving up on figuring out who and what is in that picture!)
As we wandered through two wonderful museums – the Ringling in Sarasota, and the Museum of the Arts and Crafts Movement in America in St. Petersburg – I admired the art of displaying, curating, and describing the works that have been preserved. When I started this blog, I had created a page (as opposed to a post – one of those things I had to learn) with a few pictures. Since the blog “premiered” almost two years ago, my library of images has been expanded – including those in posts here. And I was inspired to do a little bit of “urban renewal” on that gallery of my life, which you can find here …
In revising that page, I realized that the images themselves had no context, no description or setting to explain why they mattered enough to me to share with the thousands of strangers around the globe who might, one day, stumble in to my little blog – and hence, this post. So, without further ado – here are the images in that gallery, a little tour of sorts for you to amble through – those who know me, and those who do not.
My mother shortly before her 1954 marriage, and my father and brother welcome me home in 1958. Their lives were not easy – but they loved me with their best love, as they knew how. Just as I am learning, still. Even from them – although they have passed, learning about my family history – and it’s place in so many changes in our world and nation – has helped me find my path ahead.
For much of my adult life, my getaway, refuge and place of renewal was Disneyland. Even though I grew up less than an hour away, our financial resources didn’t allow for regular visits until I finished school and started working. I was lonely and isolated – the happiest place on earth became a second home. I loved the artistry, the music, and I met many creative giants. I felt less alone there for a while – but in time, I knew I had to make a choice. Here I am with my favorite character, Pinocchio – I wanted to be a “real boy” too! And, in 2006, at the inaugural half marathon weekend – I trained for 9 months just to finish the course (this is from the 5k run). I still love Disneyland – but mainly the one of my memories, rather than that which remains.
Coming out, later than most, in 2012 opened new doors in my life, and new frontiers. Here I am with the Gay Men’s Chorus of LA, “Indoor skydiving” with my family in Perris, CA, and on the glacier of Alaska. I began to travel, and to understand who I was, and who I could be others – being authentic and loving without shame.
But I never imagined I would become a “biker” – albeit only marginally. Getting my 2001 Centennial “Indian Chief” was a real step outside my comfort zone. But it brought me new friends, new confidence, along with a lot of bills! It was big, beautiful, loud – and unreliable. But I rode it to the Satyrs Motorcycle Club “Badger flat” run in 2012, to Vegas, in Long Beach Pride, and to that mecca of gay history – San Francisco. It was my faithful steed, carrying me to new adventures.
As I child, I found comforts in the stories of old – and in the teachings of my faith. Believe it or not, for most of my life we did not have a TV in my home growing up – but going to the movies, and escaping the reality that I could not then change, opened my eyes to new dreams. Two of my favorites, that still touch my heart after decades, in sense represent the same them – that there is always hope. Seeing George Bailey discover that his life had meaning even though his dreams were not fulfilled; and seeing a child who felt different and longed to belong could learn to choose and through that, have some dreams come true – these moments echo in my life daily.
This year, 2022, marks 10 years since I “came out” to family and friends – sometimes with tears; some, followed by goodbyes. More importantly, I came out to myself – discovering much that I had believed and been taught was not true. And the greatest miracle of all – that something unimaginable to me for virtually all of my life could happen – Love found me, and brought my husband into my life. We were married in 2018 surrounded by family and friends – present and absent – and we continue find new happiness together, sharing joy with others. Is there a greater gift in life? Yes, like a boat out of the blue, fate steps in and sees you through.
So, here we are at the last display area in my little gallery. From this picture of me, nearly 40 years ago – standing on the edge of the sea of Galilee, seeking answers; today, here in San Francisco; with my father a lifetime ago . Still exploring faith, history – still growing. Hopefully, still giving a little to others around me as I muddle through. Dare I say I am blessed? I am.
Good news, folks – there are no posters in the gift shop on the exit. But there is something I hope you can “take home” from this free tour. I encourage you – some slow afternoon, some rainy weekend, or tonight – perhaps with a family member – pull out a box, or a thumb drive. Look at the images – which bring life to your heart, a smile to your face? Which come alive when you see that moment again?
For most of the memories in your life – the stories of your joys and sorrows, the tales handed down from your family, the misty legends that are still in the shadows of your attic of recollections – and for all the images and scraps that you have stuck somewhere, in boxes or bags, or not even on paper but on that drive you never reference anymore – their shelf life ends with you. You and only you can take steps to share them with others, to transfer the custody of those questionable treasures – or to wipe them from history, never to be seen again. As I scan the stacks of photos I inherited that have no identification, and I see the faces and landscapes, the babies and the elderly looking back at me – their lives are literally in my hands. We don’t, as a culture, keep photo albums much anymore – we have videos and data files – and a time will come, my friend, when someone other than you will open that box, or that computer file, and say – I don’t want to bother with these. So as you see these moments from my life, I challenge you – take the time to do this yourself for those stacks. Make the time – for your loved ones, and for those who will not have memories of you or your grandparents. They are priceless, they are irreplaceable, and they have meaning. We are their archivists – they are the true family jewels.
That’s it for this visit, friends – hope you enjoyed, but more importantly, I hope you get a chance to not only revisit past joys – but create new ones, new images, new memories as our world reopens. Thanks for stopping by – see you soon!
PS – Special New year savings on subscriptions – free! Worth every penny!
This week, we got to attend our wonderful San Francisco Symphony again for the first time in more than two years – it was an unforgettable evening of joy. And our second concert is coming up Wednesday – a holiday musical tribute to the artistry of two giants – Frank Sinatra, and Ella Fitzgerald. I’ve been reflecting on the power of music, universal in its ability to provide a sort of magical ticket away from the daily stresses and rebirth joy – perhaps through remembered moments, perhaps by unearthing some lesser explored part of our hearts, setting energies free to sing and dance, even if only to ourselves. I listen to music constantly – rediscovering songs I had forgotten through streaming services, along with new artists, new voices. It lifts us, it can inspire, infuriate, renew and reveal – artists vocal and instrumental, composers and lyricists whose names deserve more recognition than the performers. Some – a few – are timeless; we can form bonds with music that last a lifetime, that become the soundtrack to our history.
Some of the 1945 fan publications about “The Voice” – for a dime or a quarter!
My Mom loved music too – and as we look forward to hearing the Sinatra tribute this week, I realize how much his music meant to her throughout her lifetime. My memories of her are many, but they all have a common thread – she suffered from debilitating pain throughout her time on earth. Born in 1926, having me as her second child in 1958, she was already developing problems from rheumatoid arthritis after my brother’s birth 3 years prior. She had health problems from childhood, multiple surgeries and hospitalizations, and by the time I was five, separated from my Dad, disabled and raising two boys on minimal child support and alimony. As the years and the deterioration of her muscle strength progressed, she had to have special shoes made for her feet and became dependent on pain treatments that today’s patients happily can avoid. I remember the many nights when she would try to take care of things around the house, pushing through the pain, and the sounds of her distress and discomfort were not easily ignored – nor easily forgotten, decades later.
This is not the “Mom” I knew – but in her day, she was quite the “pin up” girl from So Cal!
But music could somehow transform, or at least diminish, her distress into joy, in moments. She had a pretty large collection of 78’s – big, bulky, scratched, in these sort of cardboard folio albums – along with later LP’s. She also had held onto an upright piano, gifted from her mother who passed before my entry on the scene – and encouraged me to take piano lessons, which I did for years. She also would occasionally peck at the keys a bit, but more often just turn on the radio. As a teen, I remember digging through the record cabinet, wondering at the names – some I knew, many were unknown. She didn’t listen to 70’s artists; I think her most contemporary albums were by Jack Jones and Rod McKuen (no Beatles, and certainly no rock!) – but there were many scratched 78’s and several 50’s/60’s albums by Frank Sinatra – the “Chairman of the Board”, “The Voice”, the emblem of a generation.
I am fairly certain these small pics were sold to fans in stores. Frank is so young – the pic on the upper left with the two others is particularly curious – did men dress like that back in the day?
It wasn’t until my 40’s, when she entered a long term care facility and I took on the years long task of cleaning and repairing her home, and the many boxes of her life that remained unopened for decades, that I began to see how much Sinatra had been part of her life. By this time, I had become more familiar with the music of that era – certainly loving many of the songs he made popular, especially later when I started enjoying karaoke at the bars in Palm Springs. Frank himself had passed by then – I’d seen some movies and knew a little of his history from the tributes and television coverage. So, when I came across the boxes of photos, and the magazines, and programs – it was like a time capsule of my Mom’s love affair with his songs.
The 1943 Hollywood Bowl program – the first “popular” artist to perform there.
It was during those years, the final few of her life, that she began to share some of her memories of the 40’s in LA – before meeting my Dad, before the ravages of health gnarled her hands and distorted her feet, keeping her in a physical prison and to a degree an emotional one as well. Seeing pictures of her as a glamour teen, in a bathing suit, were kind of astonishing – this was not the woman who had raised me, to my eyes at least. Growing up in Long Beach and working in that area, she had made friends with ties to Hollywood, somehow – after all, as a teenager at the outset of World War II, with so many young men leaving to fight for freedom, young women were exploring new ways of living that their parents never imagined. She had gone on a bowling double date with Mickey Rooney, had lunch at the Paramount studios commissary with Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth one table over, and visited the home of Errol Flynn – a young woman bursting with life, and dreams and hopes of romance. All influenced by the crooner that ruled the radio, and in time movies as well – Frank.
A signed drawing by my Mom, clearly copied (with love) from a publicity photo.
She told me how her father took her to the Hollywood Bowl in 1943 to see Frank break with long held tradition there – somewhat controversially – performing “popular song” instead of the usual classical fare. Years later, visiting the Bowl Museum, I heard a recording of his comments that night – it was the beginning of many ups and downs in his career, but a pinnacle for the scrawny kid from Hoboken. My uncle, a few years her senior, was in England building glider planes for the Allies – he told me later how much all the enlisted men hated Sinatra for staying home, getting all the attention from the screaming fans. It surprised me to see on display at the museum the same program I had found in her belongings, carefully preserved.
A recording of Frank Sinatra’s 1943 Hollywood Bowl appearance … almost 80 years ago. You can even hear the screaming, swooning fans …. including my Mom (but probably not my Grandpa!)
She even shared how, as the president of a chapter of the Sinatra Fan Club, she had attended some of the earlier west coast radio feeds earlier in his career, from LA for the Major Bowes Amateur hour – a few of which I share here – with notations for the timing of the breaks, and songs, on the I imagine now rare scripts. Thinking of her in Los Angeles, occasionally getting to ask for his autograph, long before the realities of life brought her elsewhere with two sons and no husband or job or car – I began to understand her life from a different perspective.
Some pages from the “programming scripts” for Frank’s 1944 LA radio broadcasts.
As I enjoy the recordings of Frank today – and have retained the photos and magazines and other items, despite my brothers encouragement to sell them since at the time of his passing they had more value – I also remember the joy that those songs brought my Mom, a kind of healing, at least for a moment, a respite of sorts for her spirit. Perhaps, when she sang along with those records, or played the radio for a special song while struggling to keep up with the responsibilities that lay on her alone, she was carried back to those moments – those hopes and dreams. But my Mom never expressed regret that things did not work out as she had imagined – she focused on the challenges of the day, caring for us, and trying to sort through the choices we all have to make, in whatever circumstances we face.
3 of Mom’s signed 8 by 10 glossy promotional shots – she must have waited in groups of screaming fans!
Unlike Mom, I never saw Sinatra perform live – at least, not that Sinatra. After my Mom’s passing, a friend and I drove to see his son, Frank Jr., perform in Orange County – sitting a few seats away, his daughter Nancy (without her boots), knowing and reliving their own memories of their father through song. The upcoming symphony performance is nearly sold out – a remarkable testimony to the legacy of Sinatra and Ella, the composers and artists, and the power of music to give us life. Over two years ago, we enjoyed a similar tribute to my own favorite vocalist, Nat King Cole, and Aretha Franklin there – voices that remind us that our humanity is shared, our desires are not so different, and our yearnings unchanged from generations prior. I am glad we can again be gathered together, celebrating not only the season, but the timelessness of music – and of the hopes that it nourishes. My heart will sing along; I will smile, thinking, just maybe, Mom will be listening, too.
The smallest of Mom’s signed pics – and yet, somehow, my favorite.
Wherever your week takes you – I hope you find some joy. It’s there, for the discovery – and the sharing. Until next time – thanks for stopping by to visit. You are always welcome!
It’s the season of giving – at least, it is when I post this! But, whenever you may read this, subscriptions to new posts is still a bargain – at nothing! Worth every cent and more … hopefully!
Sometimes, our family history has loose ends – blind alleys, unsolved mysteries. Perhaps you took advantage of the post Thanksgiving “Black Friday” sales which offer DNA tests to reveal our hidden secrets – or at least that appears to be the appeal for many. An easy way to find out where we are from, and what our ancestors were like. Sometimes, it is easy – but not always.
The “percentage match” we get from online sources gets rapidly smaller by generations
The “matches” that flood our email for tiny percentages of DNA connections are dependent on so many moving pieces – who submits a test, the “odds” of shared segments, and how each testing company samples from your own submissions. The databases are constantly changing; the “ethnicity estimates” are only as good as the data that the company uses which can be misleading. Think about it – even your “full” sibling – a brother or sister from the same two parents – will never have more than 50% shared DNA “markers”, much likely less – and with every generation, the percentage declines.
My great grandfather, James Grey/Gronso – building the railroad in the Sonora desert
When it comes to researching my own heritage, I was fortunate, in a way – my father had written a letter to my brother and I with his notes on various family members. Dated April 16, 1965, shortly after my parent’s divorce, and during a period that he was facing many uncertainties, it offered some facts on his mother and father’s heritages, with scribbled notes and typos – but it was at least a jumping off point for my journey. Another page appears to be a request for further information from perhaps a distant family member; and, as I would learn in time, it was not entirely factual. As you too may discover in digging into your ancestry, the “family lore” is often vague, rife with errors and misspellings, and incomplete or shaded by time.
Because I grew up so isolated from most of my family – and because I was not in a home where there was a lot of visits from friends or neighbors – when I started to dig through boxes and found the diaries and letters, I felt like I was discovering family I never knew. In time, my new “family” members became more real, with each new revelation, or old photo identified. On my Mom’s side, there was a lot of documentation – less on my Dad’s. I had known his parents only when very young – but now, as an adult, I found gaining an understanding of their lives to be very meaningful, and I wanted to learn more. I sought out cousins, and using websites like Ancestry, found distant family on both sides around the world.
Christmas time in the 60’s – with my paternal grandma Bela, daughter of Jim Grey (I’m with Santa!)
But one branch of the family remained a mystery – the parents of my paternal great grandmother. My father’s great grandmother, Ramona Pereida had married my great grandfather – alternately referred to as James Grey, or Jim Grey, or James Gray in various documents; in fact, on her death certificate, even her husband misspelled her maiden name as “Perryda”. They had met in southern Mexico when he was working on (no music, please) the railroad – he had been born James Gronso Jr., but changed his name when he left his parents (purportedly after fathering a child out of wedlock) to seek his fortune in the expanding west. I had been able to find his family’s descendants – they were thrilled to learn what had happened to him, lost to time – but in Arizona territory, and Mexico itself, records of family were not as extensive in the late 1800’s, and I had little to go on.
My father’s letter described Ramona’s parents briefly; Lorenzo, her father, “lived in Nogales; his father or grandfather came from Spain and was executed during the reign of Maximilian”. Her mother was “Ligrada Corrella De Pierada”; they had “married in Hermosillo Mexico”, and supposedly had 13 children, practiced medicine, but “was not a doctor”. Other “facts” about siblings and history were scant – and in time, I realized, erroneous. But I was fascinated with the old pictures of Jim Grey on a desert landscape, and his wife and two older daughters, Dora and Bela. I never was able to talk with my grandmother Bela about her knowledge; she passed when I was quite young. But, I am sure some if not all of the notes my Dad made were from her memory.
The only photo I have of great grandma Ramona, and her daughters Dora and grandma Bela – c. 1894
Fortunately, in time – thank you Ancestry and the Internet – I found a Pereida relative (and the correct spelling!) and through him, a distant cousin – descendants of siblings of James’ wife, Ramona. Like many Hispanic families, they had named children after parents – and so, there were records for a Lorenzo Pereida in Arizona – just not “mine”. Together, we visited Nogales, and found the gravesite of his wife, Librada (not Ligrada) – or, “Liberty” – and other members, neglected in a long forgotten plot. And, another cousin – descended from my grandmother’s sister Dora – had a video recording of the youngest sister, Aunt Monie – in which she made a startling claim that Lorenzo had come to San Francisco from not Spain, but Portugal; returned there, and then emigrated to Mexico where he met Librada and married her.
The 3 adult daughters of James and Ramona – Dora, Bela and Monie
So many questions – where did this Lorenzo come from? Was he indeed somehow a practitioner of medicine, and did he cross the ocean multiple times? Had he emigrated to San Francisco prior to the gold rush (I would love that, as it would make me eligible for some rather distinguished associations here!), and if so, why did he go back? What if any was the family connection to Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico, killed in 1867? My hope was that if I could find even more living descendants of Ramona’s supposedly dozen siblings, they could provide some answers. And, yes, secretly, I harbored a hope that there would be a chest of rubies and gold that was being held for my share of the family (well, one must dream, sometimes!)
As of today – I don’t have those answers. The DNA tests that I purchased through 23 and me, Ancestry, Family Tree DNA and My Heritage sometimes provide “connections” that seem promising – I write, but there have been few responses and no real information. I am glad I connected with the cousins that I did find online – we have shared what little we know. I search the archives of the Newspapers.com website occasionally finding Pereida references, sometimes to a sibling, but mostly of dubious shared heritage; there is evidence to suggest that the family name has closer ties to Portugal than Spain, but I have found no contacts there as of today.
The Nogales, Arizona Pereida plot, with the grave marker of Librada – but no Lorenzo
There were two “finds” in the past year, courtesy of the indexing and online references provided by the Latter Day Saints FamilySearch.org website. It is free to all; and because their faith tenets emphasize the importance of tracking down family, they devote many resources to indexing and sharing records from around the world. Being “trapped” – oops, sheltering in place – gave me more time to poke around, and I was very excited to finally find a formal record naming Lorenzo Perieda and his wife Librada Corella de Pereida – from July 26, 1887. The civil registry of Nogales recognized that James and his wife, Ramona, brought their 3 children (!) of varying ages to be formally recorded as legitimate offspring (I guess people weren’t in a big rush back then!)
The two documents I found through FamilySearch.org, referencing Lorenzo and my family
A friend in LA and his friend who was more familiar with “traditional” Spanish handwriting and language helped translate the wording – which revealed that by that point, Lorenzo was deceased. And just last week my sister in law helped me “walk through” a marriage record of “Santiago” Grey and Librada Pereida, in Spanish of course, from the civil registration records of Sonora Mexico. It states, among much “legalese” (yes, even back then) that they wed in her mother’s Guaymas home on February 6, 1882, with witnesses present – including Librada. But there is no mention of Lorenzo. From the Nogales gravesite and other records, we know that his wife, Librada, passed in 1908; my father’s letter only mentioned that Lorenzo died in Ures, Mexico – whether his grave exists today, I do not know.
I found this 1851 illustration of Ures, Mexico, by John Russell Bartlett from the “John Carter Brown” library online in Rhode Island …. this is the life my great grandparents would have known.
Why does any of this matter? I cannot answer that, other than a sense in my heart. Perhaps it is because I, as a childless man, know the probability that I will be forgotten in time; I would like to preserve the memories of Lorenzo, his family and more relatives for my nieces and nephews, and their children – hoping that they will find some value, as I have, in understanding what our forebears went through for us to have our lives here today. I had this interest long before Pixar’s “Coco” used the Day of the Dead to urge us to “remember me” for our lost relatives; I can almost relive sitting in my mother’s bedroom, going through boxes, and the sense of wonder I had at the old pictures and letters, and the lives of those who came before. I wanted so desperately to have a sense of belonging as a child; to have the family that my schoolmates talked about; perhaps in a sense I am still trying to rebuild what was lost. And, maybe, in a way, I will save a little bit of me for those who remain after I am gone – just as those who wrote the letters, took the photos, and saved the family Bibles did from decades past.
A few years back, with my Pereida cousin Rudy, when we visited Nogales in search of heritage
I would love, one day, to visit the point where Lorenzo began his own journey – to know why he made the life changing choice to board a ship and cross an ocean, perhaps more than once, and how he came to Hermosillo, and where Librada came from, and her parents. The DNA tests might one day provide, if not a connection, a clue or a confirmation – or it might just be luck. But I do think I will stand there, and be in awe again at the mysteriously woven tapestry of my life – all our lives. I hope my own digging inspires some of you to consider what you can do to preserve your stories, your ancestors, for the future generations; their voices speak to us, their wisdom and their sacrifices, their love and their hopes. We may not seem them clearly – but they are worth remembering and honoring, and from that, carrying forward in our own lives. I wish you well in your quests.
If you haven’t seen Pixar’s Coco, it is well worth a visit …. and remembering ….
Act quickly – a free subscription to “The New NormL” is the perfect holiday gift!
Well, friends, it’s our first February of Covid – more than 11 months since our initial shutdown here in San Francisco. Of course, this is the month of Valentine’s candy and cards, so I wanted to share some discoveries about love echoing in faded words and forgotten names. But this is not your Hallmark card valentine – so it will take a while to get to the heart of our tale; over a century, in fact. In “real time”, not “reading time”! Come to think of it, it has taken me 20 years to write these words.
Aunt Monie was the crazy relative. Of course, that’s probably what some of my family say about me – they have a point. But Aunt Monie – technically my great aunt, being my paternal grandmothers younger sister – she did it with gusto. The youngest of 3 surviving sisters, born in Nogales, Arizona in 1902, where her father worked with Santa Fe. Not long after, the Grey family moved to Needles, California and her oldest sister Dora was one of the famous “Harvey Girls” there.
Crazy Aunt Monie as I remember her, under her portrait
Monie was the only one of the 3 sisters that I have actual memories of – my grandmother Bela, the middle sister, passed when I was quite young, and there are fragments of moments, feelings really, that remain – probably inspired by the handful of photos. But Monie lived into my young adulthood – showing up occasionally, sometimes without notice, and always full of life. Perhaps a bit like “Auntie Mame” but only popping into my life every 5 years or so.
She was a personal care nurse, and a single mother – having married 3 times – and from what everyone says, being very comfortable in intimate relationships (short term and long) well into her 70s. At one point in her life, she operated a kind of roadhouse/bar in the Fortana/Rialto area of Southern California’s “Inland Empire” with an illegal “one armed bandit” slot machine in the back room. And yes, she loved to drink!
Monie and her second husband had a son – Bill – who I saw rarely. I knew from comments my Dad and stepmother made that he was different- not realizing what that meant, as a teen in the 70’s – Bill was a homosexual (this was before “gay” was in common use, and the other words were far less polite). I just knew that everything was a little different on those few occasions we visited – and, in time, both Monie and Bill moved to Hawaii, so I didn’t see them for several years.
Bill Rennie as a child in California
Then, shortly after I graduated college and began my professional career, I was selected for an assignment in Hawaii. I had actually never flown in a plane until I got out of college. My assignment was on Maui, so I spent a few days ahead in Oahu – my only visit there, now nearly 40 years ago. As it turned out, that remains my most vivid memory of our visits before her passing at age 93. Monie drove me around, meeting a friend who was well known in the indigenous people community and famous for her ukulele singing, but her son Bill was not there – and I was a bit relieved. By this time I knew he was “gay” – and so was I – but there was nothing I wanted to do with him, or that part of myself.
Of course, as I have shared in other posts, life had a plan other than the one I sought to cling to – and in the process of exploring my family history, I learned Bill, “Cousin Bill” as my Dad called him, had actually moved to Palm Springs from Hawaii. Anxious to quiz him about some of the family lore, I convinced my stepmother to drive out to see him – more than 30 years after my last encounter with him as a teen. Over the 4-5 years since that visit, I learned a lot about him and my family – and in time, I became involved in his care. Sadly, my father, bitter from disappointing memories of encounters with his aunt and cousin over the years, refused my request to bring Bill to visit for Thanksgiving 2005. He pass in October 2006, preceded that year by my mother and stepmother, and followed the following year by my father. It was a time of loss and learning, slowly, to journey through grief.
As I dealt with Bill’s estate and personal effects, being greatly helped by his neighbors Jim and Niles who cared so lovingly for his needs in his last years, there were many possessions in his ramshackle mobile home and storage unit. He had lived a flamboyant life, and was for many years a very sought after hairdresser, in California and Hawaii – even taking care of Betty Ford’s styling when she and the President would visit Honolulu. One painting he had always told me had been a gift to his mother, Monie – an oil painting, of what he said was the old harbor there before the hotels starting getting tall. In fact, supposedly this was the very site of the hotel made famous in the TV credits for “Hawaii Five O” where the camera zoomed in on Jack Lord weekly to that famous theme music.
You can see the hotel, and the yacht club, in this famous TV opening.
Bill, and Monie before him, had a reputation with my Dad and family of … exaggerating, to be polite. Dad called her Phony Aunt Monie! So it didn’t entirely surprise me when I looked into the history of that hotel – the Illikai – opened in 1964. Back then, it was the first “high rise” hotel in Honolulu – Which wouldn’t really be relevant, except – he had said this was the boat harbor, before the skyline was altered by construction. and as near as I can determine this would have been the Ala Wai yacht harbor, also the site of the Waikiki yacht club. But ….. the mystery arises from inscription on the back of this painting.
It’s faded, understandably – partly in English, partly in French. On one side, the words are printed “The Yatch (sp) Club”, Honolulu, September 60 and the artists name – seemingly, Giordani. The style of signature matches that on the lower left of the oil painting itself, but for years I had been unable to find any reference to an artist by that name. On the left reverse of the frame, in French – “A ma tres cheri ami Mona, en hommage et sincere amitie j’ai de tout coeur”. Now my junior high spanish was 50 years ago, but with slight uncertainties about the handwriting, that basically says – To my dear friend Mona, in homage to the singer friendship I carry in my heart”. Signed, seemingly, as on the front – Giordany? Or … Giordani; and dated May 19th, 1965, Honolulu Hawaii.
Or is it September 66? Hard to say, but by then, the artist would have to be painting from memory if in fact this was near the site of that famous Jack Lord hotel shot seen for many years. The Yacht club still exists – but is not in proximity to the hotel – and so, it would seem, the story about this being the the “site” of that hotel before construction is, like perhaps many of Bill’s stories … exaggerated.
Still it is, I think, a lovely painting – of a time gone by – and I had always been curious about the identity of the artist. Not being a student of art personally, I cannot say that it is particularly remarkable, although certainly well beyond anything I could ever produce. And having seen episodes of Antiques Roadshow where seemingly common items turn out to be worth untold amounts of riches, well, one has dreams. But I could never be sure of the spelling of the name – not knowing if it was a first, last, or other kind of signature. My google searches turned up nothing; when I recently took it to get reframed, as it is, other than photos and letters, the last piece of the legacy of Monie and Bill that I have – I decided to try again to see if, somehow, this work of art was by a well known artist.
But my initial 2021 web searches did not turn up any results that seemed to match any artist working in Hawaii in that era; and there were many names with life spans that did not correlate. That is, until I decided to search images and … eureka. A photo of a painting by an Aldo Giordani, with the same unmistakeable signature and similar style. Was he famous? Was I going to be rich? How to find out more? I realized my subscription to Newspapers.com might shed some light, having used it to find out some amazing, sometimes shocking, stories about family events – and, indeed, there were some articles that finally gave me some insight into the artist behind the painting.
Aldo was born in 1914, from a family of generations of artists, including his father, Italo Giordani. According to one article from the Austin Texas American Statesman in 1974, he studied at the Eclose des Beaux Arts in Paris, working in both oil and sculpture. He traveled extensively, and according to that same article (pictured – screen shot) he was captured by French forces while serving in the Italian military in Algeria – and served 3 years in prison. From there, somehow, he made his way to Polynesia; then to Hawaii; from there, at some point after his dedication to Monie, to Canada, Mexico, Montana, and Texas. A 1972 Billings Montana article quotes him as saying, explaining that he never married – “I can’t deny I’m attracted by women. But I look for something besides the physical, the sex. I look in a woman’s face, her eyes. That tells much. Women are very emotional”. Ah, Italians. Apparently, he also loved to cook, and hosted parties and receptions with international cuisine from his many travels. But after the several articles from all these locations, Aldo seems to have, like so many, trailed off in time. I found a reference to him passing in 1980, and another to a lawsuit in Taos for unknown cause, as well as a notice to auction off an unpaid storage unit in Hawaii.
1972 article about another Giordani artwork – I wonder if it still is on display?
So, like Monie, and to a degree Bill, Aldo was a bit of a gypsy, a bit of a showman, and perhaps a scoundrel – a colorful man with colorful art, who enjoyed life. What their story was together, is lost. You may well ask why I would put time into researching something so seemingly obscure and meaningless, but as I have written in the past – there is something about these moments in time, these artifacts of mostly forgotten lives, that speaks to something more timeless. Love, intimacy, yearning; hope, inspiration and the quiet corners of our hearts that we sometimes turn off the lights and shut the doors to, forgetting they existed. Monie touched many lives with her caring for patients, Bill with his lovers, friends, and styling conquests, Aldo and his apparently profuse creations of art, now probably mostly gone. I cannot hear the ocean when I see this painting, but I remember Monie and Bill, as do my brothers – and probably few, if any, others. But I feel the colors, of the caked oil strokes, and of their energy, their laughter and their love.
Bill was always gracious, loving – and mostly, outrageous. He was, himself.
Whether we all pass into something once we leave this earth, the reality is, most of us, our lives and our longings – will fade and be forgotten. Walk through any old cemetery and reflect on the struggles and triumphs of all those lives, now for the ages, and the immediacy of our seemingly insurmountable crises will possibly feel a little less weighty. I am glad I have this painting and hope one of my nieces or nephews will one day ask me about it, and when the time comes, hang in in their home. Like many who will pass without children, I wonder what they will remember of me. For you, dear readers – if any – think about, in this digital age when so many pictures and films, thoughts and hopes, songs and tears have no long term physical existence – what pieces of your life will survive your time on this earth? And, answering that question – what can each of us do with the days ahead, whose number is unknown, whose opportunities to feel the sun and the ocean breeze, or the touch of a loved ones hand, will not always be ours to treasure anew, only to remember.
Mahalo, Aldo Giordani; Aloha, Monie and Bill – until we meet again. I treasure your love, and am reminded the love we receive is mean not to hold within our hearts forever, but to give anew.
Thanks for visiting, friends. You all stay safe, and keep on keeping on.
We’d been exposed to COVID courtesy of a visiting home repairman whose brief stop to pick up a check led to receiving a call less than 48 hours later, courtesy of SF city health. We were to quarantine with testing and daily monitoring by phone for two weeks. Happily, our initial tests were both clear, and again just before our ultimate release. I chose to celebrate by daring to indulge in an experience few else were pursuing these days.
I’m calling to your memories. I’m asking you to think back as far as you can — a moment long ago when you sat with a roomful of mostly strangers, and the lights dimmed to darkness, and the room hushed as everyone around you became quiet. Perhaps you heard a fanfare, the curtains opened – revealing a shiny silvery screen, and beams of light bringing to your eyes a vision.
No one reading this today was present 125 years ago when, shortly after Christmas, two brothers created a public gathering that transformed the world. Louis and Augusta Lumiere charged one franc each to 33 Parisians to watch less than 10 minutes of silent film. They had not invented the film process but did create their unique mechanism for projection to a paying audience. This very first commercial film screening soon resulted in their opening a chain of local “cinemas”, and in time to the world.
Moments from a century of film magic, in less than 5 minutes
Although I do not think it was my first movie, my first movie memory was going to the old Corona theater in 1966 with my older brother, I was 8, he was 10 and the scenes of the fire engulfing the forest ignited not only the screen but my imagination. In the more than 5 decades since I have no idea how many films I have seen; many in the theater, but also on Tv, or college retrospectives, then in time VHS rentals, laserdiscs, and DVDs – but always, always I knew movies were their best in a dark cinema.
The visions, dreams, stories and songs, were a place I could escape. Where I could find hope, joy, and worlds of adventure for a dollar matinee and a bike ride. In time, I would attend previews, revivals and world premieres; visiting Grauman’s Chinese, the movie palaces of downtown LA built by Charlie Chaplin and countless visits to multiplexes, many now converted to retail or RV showrooms or torn down.
A 1953 movie premiere at the Chinese – the “golden age” – before my time.
I was often – correction, nearly always – alone, even in a crowded theater. Sometimes I would chat with strangers about the film as we waited, but most were with others, and I was more comfortable waiting for the lights to dim and to leave my neighbors behind. I learned about the artists of screenwriting, direction, production design, editing, scoring and of course the stars. My parents in shared their memories – my Mom of trips to see musicals (and going on a bowling double date with Mickey Rooney), my Dad of being terrified by Karloff as the Frankenstein monster. In time I took my younger brother to Superman and Star Wars; and his first R rated movie, Die Hard; more recently, with his wife and kids, and now my husband, to see even more Star Wars. Funny how I can remember many of these screenings, theaters, and those times when others enjoyed or hated the film along with me as we chatted after some blockbuster or art film. Too many memories to begin to share – and in recent years, new memories with my husband, a reality beyond even my own romance inspired imagination that no screenwriter could have sold to a studio.
But earlier this year, of course, no new memories could be created. Theaters like our beautiful Castro, dark for months for the first time in its nearly century long life. Others closed forever, now; chains in bankruptcy, studios ceasing production and deferring release, selling new films direct to Amazon that had been created for audiences to enjoy in the crowded darkness, their drinks and popcorn left in cases. The seats cold. Like so many lives and businesses – the future uncertain, but the present, silent – more so than any DW Griffith epic or Harold Lloyd comedy. The lights off, the doors locked.
If you EVER get a chance again … go to the Castro Theater. History, magic and more.
Recently, the powers that be in their unknowable wisdom deigned it safe to allow some there to reopen. Sadly, here in SF most remain shuttered; unlike their neighboring cities, they are not being allowed to sell refreshments, which for years has been the only source of profits, especially for independent cinemas; the studios take most of the ticket cut, which is more meager than ever. Somehow, other sources of food and drink are safe, including restaurants recently reopened for indoor service, but that part of the cinema experience is not permitted here – and so our local theaters remain dark for now.
But nearby cities had been screening for a few weeks, and now that I could at last get out, I knew exactly what I wanted to see! With all the closures and delays in movie releases, most of the “summer blockbusters” were, well, either not summer, or bust. But one filmmaker whose works have always been creative, and sometimes breathtaking, insisted his project be released in theaters as planned – if delayed – and I wanted very much to see Christopher Nolan’s “Tenet” in IMAX. A theater nearby, south of the city itself, had it on IMAX matinee for the final day the first day of my “release” – and my husband having opted out, I drove to the BART parking structure adjacent. Usually crowded up to multiple levels, it was nearly deserted – as was the sidewalk past the some open, some closed eateries featuring pizzas, ice cream, sandwiches and more.My ticket was “touchless” with an assigned seat, no adjacent viewers – in fact, only 4 seats were showing as sold that morning out of the entire theater. The concession area was open, but semi deserted – and entering the theater itself, a hand cleansing station greeted me as I found my seat in silence. There was no typical “pre-show” with ads, promotions, etc. – but a few “previews of coming attractions” with dates that have now been pushed into 2021.
This is what a visit to the multiplex looks like in Fall 2020.
You don’t need my evaluation of the film itself – there are plenty of those online. Rather, I invite you to remember what it was like to go, perhaps with a date, or your family, or a group of friends, to see some film you love to watch even today – whether it was Forrest Gump or Star Wars, James Bond or a Disney classic. The joy you felt, or the fear or surprises you shared; the music that soared. These were magic carpets taking us to new worlds in the dark; showing us what life might have to offer, promising us a future we might never know, and for some, the promise of what discovering what it is to love, be loved, and even lose love. We may see ourselves, or perhaps not – perhaps we will get a glimpse of who we want to become. Films are not always a true representation of life, but they capture the energy of our spirit in a way that combines imagery, sound, story and more that is unique to sitting in that dark room, climbing on the carpet, and letting it take us where it will. When the ride ends, and we walk out, we may not remember those moments consciously – but they are a part of our common cultural heritage now.
Perhaps you recall the wonderful, Oscar winning theme music for “Chariots of Fire” created by Vangelis. He also had several albums as part of the team “Jon and Vangelis” – one, “The Friends of Mr. Cairo”, is titled for their evocative, and very lengthy, tribute to how film captures our spirits, our hearts, and creates a shared experience that can last a lifetime. Of course, it refers to “The Maltese Falcon” but moves into other moments that you may recognize as well.
Silent gold movies, talkies, technicolor, long ago; my younger ways stand clearer, clearer than my footprints. Stardom greats I’ve followed closely, closer than the nearest heartbeat; longer than expected – they were great. Oh love oh love; just to see them; acting on the silver screen, oh my. Clark Gable, Fairbanks, Maureen O’Sullivan; fantasy would fill my life – and I love fantasy so much. Did you see? In the morning light? I really talked, yes I did, to God’s early morning light – and I was privileged then, as I am to this day, to be with you.
Closing lyrics, “Friends of Mr. Cairo”, Jon and Vangelis, 1981.
I hope you will take the time to view this in one sitting, quietly – the creator of this video clearly loves the music, and the films, and melded the two into this hymn to how films find a place deep in our hearts.
Turn off the lights, turn off the world around you, and remember what it is to dream.
My wish for you is that one day, perhaps soon but one day, you will again be able to enjoy a movie you love – whether new, or old – in a darkened theater full of strangers, on a screen larger than any in your home, without distraction, and with all the popcorn and soda you have missed. I hope Bob and I, with our friends and families, will have those moments ahead as well, at the Castro theater with it’s beautiful pipe organ and cavernous edifice, inviting passersby “Come, enter the temple – see the light dance and the hear the angels sing”. The flickering spirits are waiting for you to join them again in the darkness. As my old film mentors Siskel and Ebert used to say every Sunday evening on TV as they shared thoughts on what magic film offers us – save me the aisle seat.
As I have written the past few months, I have been gifted with very kind and encouraging feedback. Strangers have started to subscribe to my blog; I hope it is because there is something that touched them or encouraged them. But my family and friends have, at times, expressed concern – that my sharing, my openness and recollection may be stirring more pain within myself. Their words are, I am certain, coming from love, and I appreciate and understand their responses.
It’s absolutely true that writing from the heart is sometimes very difficult; it takes a lot of soul searching, and sifting through repeatedly, trying to determine what is the hoped for “wisdom” that I might share from my experiences. My goal is not to evoke sympathy or pity, but by honestly opening up about some of my history, to provide you, the reader – whether you know me, or never meet me – something that you can grasp and use, that you can say – yes, yes, there is a truth here, a discovery that has meaning, in your life, now. My reward – your gain from the price I paid.
I have realized the past few weeks that one of the most difficult entries I shared needed … a sequel. A follow up to show that what I laid bare in those words back in May led to something better, in my life – peace, in my heart, and hopefully in time through that for others in my circle, through how we care for one another. Ripples in the pond between our joined lives, wherever they may connect.
The title of that May post, taken from one of my father’s letters to my Mom, revealed bluntly some of the less than wonderful, far from ideal facts about my relationship with my Dad. Some aspects, not all – there were chapters to our shared lives that there is no point in shining a light on here, which impacted not only me, but other family members. Our shattered natures often lead to chasms, and in my case, there was a period of several years where, except for my Mom, my direct family was not present in my life. But despite those moments, which were desperately painful in many ways – in time, there was healing. Today, I realize how important it is to share some of how that came about, with you – for whatever meaning it might have in perhaps not your own relationships, but possibly someone you love, or someone you have yet to meet.
We do things to protect our bruised and wounded hearts. We hide, we bury, we put on emotional masks and learn to present the self we want others to see, to love and accept. Yes, in my case there were elements that had not only to do with the deepest parts of how I connect with others, but also very old, and very fully woven into my spirit, habits of thought and feeling. In my work with the first counselor who helped me come to a place of greater acceptance and understanding of grace than what I had been taught, I grew into new freedoms. In time, I sought out another counselor, one who could relate more fully from his own experience and insight to my history; his name was Patrick. He passed a few years ago, but he gave me a gift to share, and I will do my best, today.
I make no apologies for my upbringing in faith, knowing full well that many have different backgrounds, beliefs and understandings – finding comfort in accepting that I will never have all the answers, and don’t need to beyond those which work for me, and bring me to a place of continuing to grow in caring and acceptance of others who enter my life. Patrick was not a particularly spiritual person; in fact, I would go so far as to say he might have described himself as agnostic. But he accepted that a huge portion of the challenges I faced to growth was reconciling what I had been taught, what I desired and felt, and that finding some balance between those was critical for my own peace of mind. He respected what was important to me.
What came as a surprise to me was his insights, in time, into my father’s alcoholism; Patrick was very experienced in addiction treatment, theory and related issues. I did not feel that addiction was a problem in my life; I had been studious to avoid drink for many reasons; I was well aware that studies indicated there were genetic factors that impact predisposition to intergenerational addictive behaviors. Eventually I came to realize that there were other escape routes that I had learned to embrace, that did not provide the answers I sought; they were not to be found in a bottle but had their own power over me. I suspect we all face those illusory mirages of hope at times; our culture, and many others, is filled with stories of miracles and magic that at their best create unrealistic desires for wish fulfillment, and at their worst, deception and destruction. Sometimes even in the “answers” that we turn to for hope, disappointment lurks. Turning from those false solutions to truth is not an easy process.
I did not think that my father’s alcoholism was an ongoing issue for me; by the time I began working with Patrick, it was maybe 6 years since Dad’s passing; I was “out”, I was making friends, and dealing with the stresses of everyday life. But Patrick recognized in me the echoes of the ravages of disfunction, and the coping habits which at the time seemed to protect me, which actually were now working against a fuller life. He recommended an extremely technical volume on addiction, and I am thankful for his faith in my intellect to work through it – I began to see that my own behaviors were built in some ways on a foundation of just surviving those problems that impacted me deeply at a young age, but which I still carried long after those years into my ongoing life – and they were not working for me, but against me.
But what really surprised me was his suggestion that I spend a week at the Betty Ford program in Palm Desert, CA.
Betty Ford, whose Center, now joined with Hazelden, still changes lives
Now, before you jump to conclusions (I sure did, initially), know this – he felt it would give me insight to attend “family week”, not the program itself – a sort of “day camp” for those whose loved ones were in the residential program could learn about their own behavior and how to support their family member after they left the facility. Of course – my father was not in the facility – but Patrick knew the administrator and after discussion with them, I agreed to attend for a 5-day program. We reviewed a lot of material about the nature of addiction, but also heard presentations by experts in the field, about codependence and how the family unit is impacted, short term and long term, by the damage and pain they seek relief from.
I felt out of place; I was newly “out”, trying to deal with a lot in my own personal life, and facing some pretty severe challenges in my career as well. The others in the program, well, they were pretty – “normal”, I guess – parents, spouses, children. I did not feel connected with them at all. And then, there was the fact that I was the only one who had no family in the program itself; once again, in more than one ways, I was reminded of my differentness, my outsider status.
One of the key components of the week, for everyone but me, was for them to sit down with their loved one who was a residential participant, and have an honest discussion – sharing their feelings; being open; being vulnerable; trying to find a bridge ahead for everyone in the family, patient and supporters. I was impressed with the program, and more so with their courage – but again, I felt – weird. The administrator had told me that participating in one of the central aspects of the program was up to me …. Did I want to have an opportunity to talk? Not with the other participants – we did some of that, for sure, in the program; but … with my father. No, not in some “séance”; but in a way that would allow me to express what I felt, what I carried inside, that I never had with him, fully, in real life.
My Dad, in boyhood and his Army WWII service
In the last year of his life, after the passing of both my stepmother and mother, we had built bridges; my Dad had accepted my coming out, and as I will share more fully in another entry one day, he supported me in ways that no one else in my family could, or perhaps would, as we both dealt with our individual grief as best we were able. In a way, we healed together. After his passing, and all that had happened in my life in the years since, I didn’t think there was ground left to cover; but I talked with Patrick – and decided I needed whatever I could get from this program, from this experience, that I could take with me into the future. For me.
So I said “yes”. After the other “family sharing” times were pretty much complete – I sat down, surrounded by a circle of strangers who knew a little, but not much, of my life and challenges – facing an empty chair. I cannot tell you today exactly what came out of my mouth, or shall I say my heart – it was painful; there were tears. There was release. But I promise you this – for me, my Dad was sitting there. He heard me; we connected. As I told him from those deeply wounded parts of my own childhood spirit still hovering inside me, as they do for us all, the pain of what had happened began to be, somehow, released; and being surrounded by, as some might say, “clouds of witnesses” whose own journey might be not entirely similar but not entirely different – I knew, finally – I was not alone. There was nothing wrong with me, back in those years, or in that moment where we connected, somehow, even across the barrier of eternity.
And from there … I moved on; I grew, and still am. I tell you honestly, even just in writing this to you – there is healing. There are still tears, but I know now tears are not my enemy.
At the time, I did not talk of these events with hardly anyone in my life; family reading this now, may be disappointed I did not share with them. But I am sharing with you because …. In writing about my father’s pain; his issues, his failures – first, it was important to say there was more to him than those disappointments. There is more to all of us, even though we too have let others down; we have caused our loved ones disappointment. I was given a chance to find some peace in a way I would never have thought possible. Yes, there were moments of reconciliation while he was still living; but in a way, I believe, my experience illustrates that it is never too late to reach into our own hearts and search, through sludge and mire, through all the lies we embraced and the shadows we hid behind – to walk forward, in forgiveness.
As I get older, retired now, much of my life now consists of quieter times, especially staying at home and not seeing our family and friends as much; perhaps particularly because I am somewhat the family historian, and going through old papers and photos brings up memories. I appreciate the loving concern of those of you who read some of my entries and wonder if sharing these moments might not be worth the cost, emotionally, to me in writing them. My answer is a resounding YES – if only one person out there finds some encouragement, some hope in what you are facing today because my words somehow ring true for you – yes, yes yes. I did not always have someone in my life at the darkest times; I know what loneliness and desperation are. There is HOPE. I found it – believe me friends, you can too. It is there, waiting.
One does not have to be a member of the Christian faith, or part of that heritage that has become buried under countless traditions, arguments and myths – to see the wisdom of the words that have been called “the beatitudes”. I am sure there are similar passages in other faiths, perhaps some that have meaning for you that I will never hear. Those words, spoken on a hill to a crowd that came with their own hopes of miracles, freedoms, or promised deliverance – that did not, for most, come to pass they way they expected, and for the Teacher, led to a painful end of life – they hold for many a kind of mystical poetic power beyond understanding. This is why I am reminded of the passage in the gospel of Matthew, chapter 5, verse 9 – “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God”. These few words are quietly nestled between similar blessings for those who are pure of heart, and those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness. And yet – of all these words now called the “sermon on the mount”, of all the characteristics that are described and the outcomes promised for those who embrace them – I only now realize that only the peacemaker has the blessing of joining in harmony with the very nature, the essence, of God. Children, of God.
Over the years, I, like you perhaps, have questioned most of what I was taught to simply accept, including translation, historical accuracy, documentation and the impact of mostly now forgotten ancient traditions in interpreting what we call “scripture”. But for me … I believe there is a special kind of peace in seeking reconciliation. With those in our life now; with those no longer in our life; and with that Power, however we define it, that exists outside the scope of our comprehension and understanding, for now at least, perhaps forever. We may sense those aspects of a larger spirit that we struggle to put into words, in whatever language – faith, hope, love, forgiveness; reaching out, to make peace, when we can – in what little way we are able.
We cannot always reconcile, or find peace, with everyone in our life; it’s not fully within our power. But our willingness to seek it out, is. The realization that the making of that effort is of itself a reflection of the very nature of the Eternal, of our spirit, and that which exists outside time itself – came to life for me, facing a seemingly empty chair, in a room filled with strangers I never saw again. Perhaps there is a chair you need to face – even if, like mine, empty for now.
Today I know and appreciate the love – imperfect but real – of my father in a way I was unable to grasp before those moments of healing. We each have our own seasons and paths in life; we must choose for ourselves as best we can and trust that in time good will come of it. I know there remain bridges to be built, and I have hope they can and will be. Thank you for taking the time to listen to this moment of my journey, as I continue hopefully to grow. Perhaps my words will give you hope, as well. Blessed be, indeed, the peacemakers, all of us, children of God.
It’s never too late to say thank you. Even when it might appear to be well overdue.
There are all kinds of ways to create families, to love others and to have a sense of belonging and connection. From a traditional perspective, I did not really have any kind of relationship with my natural grandparents; my fathers parents passed before I was 10, and although I have some pictures, they did not live nearby and we saw them rarely, especially after my parents separated. Today I know them probably better than anyone else alive – but through their letters, photos and diary, not my memories. My mother’s mother passed before I was born, and my mothers father remarried and live out of state; her economic and physical circumstances and own broken relation with him kept him farther away than the miles themselves.
With my paternal grandfather on the beach at their Oceanside home c. 1963
But looking back I can see that our neighbors in many ways filled the gap. Here, I do not share the names off the living, or their pictures – except in the case of myself, and occasionally my husband. In fact, sorting through my family records and the literally hundreds of photos from my parents, their parents and before, is going to be a very long term project. Still, when I ran across a portrait of our next door neighbors from my childhood, I feel that sharing their gifts to me might have meaning for you, distant readers. It’s my pleasure to introduce you to them, today.
We moved to our amazing all electric “Medallion home” in 1962 – there actually was a large gold emblem in the porch – it was one of the last sold. I was four, my brother 7, and my parents marriage would be over not long after. On one side, the Burchetts lived with two daughters, and across the street, the Millers with four children, three older than me – and these were not large homes. But next door, it was just the Milbrats. I had no idea of their age, of course – to me, they were just old. Even as I grew into my college years, I really didn’t know much about them, except that they had grown children – and that they were exceedingly kind. In some ways, they were angels in our lives.
Yes, that’s our then future president shilling Medallion Homes!
I remember, after my father left and we struggled financially, it was Mr. Milbrat rather than my Dad who taught me how to ride my bicycle, encouraging me. He lent us yard tools so that my older brother and I could try to keep up with all the work – they had a beautiful backyard, and a neatly trimmed lawn out front. But perhaps most importantly, they welcomed us into their home on very special occasions – to watch television. For most of my upbringing, due to broken TV tubes and limited funds, we did not have a functioning TV in our home, which definitely accentuated my sense of differentness from the families around us – no father, no car, no income really and – no TV!!! That was certainly a reason I rode to the library a lot.
This sure looks familiar … it took courage to climb aboard!
This was the era of Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color, preceded by Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom with your host, Marlin Perkins. The Milbrats welcomed us in every Sunday night to watch thrilling shows like Zorro and The Horse without a head, that I remember so clearly. And, at Christmas we would watch the specials – I particularly loved “The little drummer boy”, since we sang that song in my elementary district wide choir led by Mr. Farmer – that show, narrated by Greer Garson and animated by the famous Rankin Bass Studios, still moves me to this day. On New Years day, we would head over to watch the Rose Parade; and, historically, it was in front of the Milbrat’s tv that I saw the Apollo moon landing. Oh, but, we also had to endure neighbors gathering to watch slide shows of their travels, and weird documentaries like “If these walls could speak” hosted by Vincent Price, and of course – National Geographic specials featuring Jacques Cousteau, back when there were an astounding 7 channels on TV.
I still love watching this program, and hearing “One Star in the Night”
They were very involved in out local church as well, the Methodist church, where Mrs. Milbrat would donate her knitted goods and baked treats – always delicious! We would see them at the seasonal bazaaars, and annual Christmas nativity programs that we participated in, as well. Mrs. Milbrat was particularly sweet and kind – I remembers being fascinated by her stamp collection (yes, I was truly that nerdy) from I think her mother who had served as a postmistress decades before – I am sure it was quite valuable, even then. I think occasionally they would give us a lift to the doctor, but we mostly relied on taxis, or on my Dad’s weekly stopping by to pick me up to shop at the Alpha Beta not too far away – sending me in to the liquor store next door sometimes to pick up cigarettes or beer, as well.
I think after my father remarried that he and my stepmother, partly motivated to perhaps reduce the amount of time I watched tv at their home after junior high, which they lived nearby, and things like “Seymour presents” on Saturdays, gave me a small black and white portable TV. I would watch in my bedroom for hours, catching up on reruns of Get Smart and beginning my love of old movies – to escape the loneliness of the house, now holding only my mother and I. And I drifted away from youth group and choir at church, starting to attend the more modern “Cross roads” that was large, new, and had guitar music and a popular pastor who appeared with his family on “Family Feud” in my teens. The Milbrats were always there next door – my mother would talk with Mrs. Milbrat, and her other friends from bible study, on the phone for hours. But they slowly became less of a presence in my life.
Oh Skylark … Have you seen a valley green with spring?
And then an amazing thing happened, in 1979, the summer after my third year in college – my Mom presented me with my first car. She said she realized my father was never going to help me get behind a wheel – my brother had left to live with them in part so he would be able to drive once he was licensed in high school. Of course, my Mom had not worked in all the years since they first married, and her income was limited to a small alimony and disability payments from the state; but, the Milbrats daughter had decided she was finished with her 1965 Buick Skylark, and I think out of the kindness of their hearts, they sold it to my Mom for a mere $350. It was somewhat beat up, and my father immediately found many things that were wrong with it. But, it ran – and I finally had “wheels”, and no longer needed him to give me a weekly lift from Corona to my Cal Poly campus and dorms. A year later, after graduation, I remember distinctly a co worker at my first job, with a San Bernardino CPA firm, ridiculing it as the “Jupiter Two” from Lost in Space – but it was, nevertheless, a thing of beauty (in function if not form), to me.
There was one other “gift”, in a way, that came from the Milbrats, and remained in our lives, for a while. She made wonderful stuffed toys, dolls, and puppets – and when my younger brother was born in 1971, I bought her handmade “Raggedy Andy” doll as a gift for him. He had it for years, calling it “Baby Andy”. In time, my mother bought two more – one for my older brother and one for me, to give to our children. What happened to my older brother’s Andy is unknown to me – perhaps one of his kids, now grown, has it stored away – but I kept mine in a drawer with my own childhood mementos for many years. Because, of course, I knew – as did my Mom in time – that I would not be having any children to pass it on to. Five years ago, I had the joy of giving it to the daughter of a dear friend who was expecting her own first child, and sharing with them what it meant to me, and knowing it too would finally become a beloved companion. Another enduring gift of love.
Not Mrs. Milbrat’s Andy, but … a friendly face, even now.
Then, in May 1980, shortly before my college graduation, Mom called my dorm room to let me know Mrs. Milbrat had died; and, the family was asking me to be a pallbearer. At this point in my life, I had never even been to a funeral; well, probably to my fathers parents services, but not in my memory. I was shy and reluctant to be around so many strangers, but I remember driving to the chapel in Loma Linda and then to the cemetery, and returning to campus. I know that my presence meant something to Mr. Milbrat, but to the rest I probably seemed like an outsider – and, I guess in many ways, I was. After I began my job in San Bernardino, he moved away, and eventually word reached us a few years later that he had passed.
Presenting – my best neighbors ever … Oscar and Beatrice Milbrat
When I came across their picture in my endless sorting of faded documents and forgotten faces, I reflected on how much the simple kindnesses of these “chance” neighbors had touched my life, in ways that at the time I did not appreciate. Of course, as a child, I always thanked them – especially when they bought one of the many fund raisers I had to tramp through the neighborhood hawking, like seed packets, cans of nuts for cub scouts, or engraved Christmas cards for church youth group. But I was a child, and as I grew, I became too busy to appreciate all their kindnesses, busy with work, career, and trying to make my way through my own life with it’s challenges that I mostly bore alone.
So, this week, I delved into the amazing online resources available through services like Ancestry, Newspapers.com, and other resources that until now I had only explored for my own family of birth – realizing that in many ways, the Milbrats were my grandma and grandpa of the spirit. What I found was a bit surprising. Oscar, born in 1893 in Alabama, had been a grocer in Orange county – and had been married previously, in Yucatan Mexico in 1925. (It really is remarkable the information one can find on these services!) Apparently his first wife had unsuccessfully filed for divorce, according to a short newspaper article in Santa Ana that she had filed a police report for her husband being too noisy in repairing her roof! She passed in 1957, and two years later he married Beatrice – he was 66, she was 51, and the daughter I had thought was theirs, was only his. After he passed in 1985, he was laid to rest back in Orange County, beside his first wife, not Beatrice – and so, childless, she perhaps today is largely forgotten. But, not by me.
There are all kinds of angels in our lives, you know. Not like Clarence from “It’s a Wonderful Life”, necessarily – not even people whose names we know, perhaps. They may just pass through, but they give us moments of grace, love, encouragement and hope. Even better – we can be those sources for others – it doesn’t really cost us much, if anything, to take a moment to be kind, to listen, to smile. And I think, despite the fact that the tract home neighborhoods of the past don’t exist for us all anymore, we still have neighbors, just in a different way – online, social networks. Our need to connect still drives us deeply within, and there are days when I lie in bed thinking – did I touch someone today? Did I take a moment to show them care, to be as the best neighbor of all, Mr. Rogers, would – just be present with them?
To me, the Milbrats were like Mr. AND Mrs. Rogers, right next door
Is there someone who touched your life like my neighbors? Perhaps someone who in the past, or now, is making a difference in your life that you have never really acknowledged or expressed? Perhaps you’d like to take a moment to reach out and check on them, and say a heartfelt thanks. Or, if like the Milbrats, they have moved on – then the best way to thank and honor them is to share what they gave you, with someone who crosses your path soon. Yes, indeed – what the world needs now is love, sweet love – for and from each of us, especially this very moment.
I thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Milbrat – Oscar and Beatrice – Grandpa and Grandma neighbor – for your love. Your caring, acceptance, and giving spirits. I have to admit – I don’t measure up, by a long shot. But perhaps, sharing their lives with you today, will help us all remember – we have the power to touch lives, moment by moment in small ways – that echo through those lives in ways we will never know. We can reach out and together – rise. Let us do so, today.
It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of … let’s change that!
These days, when many of us are spending far more time at home than we might have planned – it’s an opportunity to clean up, sort through and toss out. I can attest that not everyone embraces this vision with vigor, but there is something about digging into old boxes that has always held a sense of adventure and discovery for me. Growing up, my Mom had a bedroom that was basically “off limits” – filled with boxes and old furniture, but more importantly I think for her, filled with memories she did not want to be reminded of, yet could not find a way to let go.
When her lifelong health problems ultimately reached a point where she was unable to care for herself safely, she seemed to be at the end of her days – and I went through a period of desperation to find a housing and care facility. Ultimately, she improved – and I felt the “right thing” to do was to sell my home and return to that childhood tract house, where so many of my formative years and experiences still hung in the air. Being raised by a disabled single parent who had no earnings, no car and little interaction with the outside world had shaped me in many ways, so returning to living alone in a home drenched in memories was not much of a change.
Surprisingly, Mom hung on for eight more years, and during that time, I took on what I came to view as a “redemption” of the house, which had always needed much in the way of repairs and care that was never without our means. I wanted it to be a home that someone would be delighted to call their own, knowing the time would come that she would move into eternity, and others would make the house their own. As I began digging through the closets filled with old clothes and more, I began to uncover something I had not expected – shadows of the past that had not been viewed in decades.
There were photo albums from my parents, grandparents and boxes containing images from unknown ancestors. I unfolded faded letters dating back decades (including my father’s as shared previously), greeting cards, travel brochures and more. Going through them with first my parents, then in time other cousins and family members, opened a window to my heritage but, in time, also to a fuller realization of my own worth, and hope.
But today I am sharing about a member of the family in particular who met me in my infancy and passed not long after – my maternal grandmothers second husband. Grandma Jean had divorced my grandfather Richard before WWII – a pretty uncommon act back then. High school sweethearts in Denver, they’d both lost their mothers as teenagers, and after marrying in Oregon, raised her younger brother and sister and had two children – my uncle, and then my mother. Sadly, Jean passed a year before my birth. My mother had issues with her father until his passing – he lived out of state, and I never knew him either. But Mom loved her mother dearly – in fact I am named for Jean’s younger brother Norman who died during the 1918 flu epidemic.
My mother’s parents – teenager in love a century ago
Mom had told me that at some point grandma Jean had remarried, and they were seemingly quite happy until her own passing in the late 50’s. As with her not so socially acceptable in those days divorce, she again made a choice that in her time was rare – as an Episcopalian, she married a man of the Jewish faith. There were photographs, and even color slides, of their many trips together and with families – including strangers that were apparently his own. Other than a few unfamiliar names mentioned in passing in those old letters – there was only one other fact that many in my extended family recalled quite clearly. And it was not a pretty story.
Grandma passed in spring 1957, and he remarried shortly thereafter. Following my own birth in spring 1958, he had stopped by my parent’s home in Vacaville, near where my father worked at the state prison. Less than six months later, at the mountain cabin where he, my grandmother, mother, cousins and other family members celebrated summer vacations and winter getaways, my mother’s uncle found his body, dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. My mother’s cousin David, still alive today, clearly recalls the incident, but with more expressive verbiage.
It was just one of those family stories, about people I never knew. But I looked through the photos and slides to see strangers faces from 50 years ago or more, and wondered what had happened to them. Now, after retiring, and in this time of isolation where I finally am trying to piece together so many little fragments of my heritage, my family’s journeys, for those who will follow – I came across those color slides with strangers faces and unfamiliar names again. I thought of another cousin who maybe 3-4 years back had gotten a call from descendant of his 3rd wife – they had found some of our grandmother’s items in boxes and wondered if we wanted them. To my ongoing regret, that never led to us reconnecting and recovering those pieces of the past.
With all the amassing records and resources available to us online today, you’ve probably seen programs on PBS or elsewhere about “discovering family”. Well, perhaps at least part selfishly – knowing that it might possibly reconnect me with other records from my grandmother – I decided to see what I could learn about this gentleman and track down someone who might want to preserve these photos of strangers that I had found, who might be their ancestors. At this point, I should explain I am taking care to not mention names, due to privacy – I generally do not share photos of living persons other than myself (with one exception). However, I do feel the photos of those long gone, in many cases of family I knew little or none at all while they lived, bring the stories and discoveries that I share here a little bit more “to life”.
As I scoured Ancestry.com and Newspapers.com and other site, knowing little more than his name and profession, to see if I could find reference to my grandmother’s second husband, some interesting facts appeared about his subsequent marriage and death – social notices, mainly, but then – an obituary. And in time, another article – describing his death, not from self-inflicted gunshot wounds, but – “an overdose of pills”? I was not surprised that the harsher truth of his passing had been softened, but i was not expecting another revelation. The memorial service article mentioning and naming children from a prior marriage – one that neither my Mom, nor her cousins and family, ever knew of.
Among them, a son – and from the date, and with his name (because, of course, the daughters might have married, and I would not have as great a likelihood of finding their “trail”) – I found a high school yearbook from southern California with his picture. From there – articles about his life, incidentals really – and with a bit more digging, I find several addresses. I realize some percentage, maybe a high percentage, of you might think why I am doing this – reaching out to a stranger who is not a blood relative, may not even know my grandmother married his father, and that I might be opening doors that he or his family prefer to leave shut?
I can’t tell you for sure that I know reaching out is the right choice – but I did. I wrote a letter; I made a call. At this point, there has been no response – possibly by choice, maybe by chance. But I do know that if someone were to reach out to me with an offer of photos of family that I had never seen, and maybe to learn a bit about their lives from someone who knew them – I would jump at the chance. Would I bring up the circumstances of his father’s passing?No, I would not – but if he asked, I would share what I knew.
Because in my life, at least, learning the truth – the facts, the hard history rather than the pretty fairy tales – has given me strength. Courage – to accept myself, and others, imperfect as we are – working on that every day, believe me. Knowing that those who came before experienced not just joy and summer vacations and new cars and baby showers of the photos now faded, but also disappointment, uncertainty, and yes – failure – gives me hope, because I face those, we face those – every day. Especially now.
There is a conflict erupting in our communities, country and world, between so many fragments over so many divides. I understand, in part, the rage of those who see the emblems of a past that brings pain even now and want them to be gone. I can listen to the words, the hearts of others who truly believe that it is better to bury the past. Yes, the dead are gone from us- but while we have their memories, their past remains. We each must decide – for ourselves, and for those who follow, in our family whether of blood or of choice – what memories will we preserve. What steps will we take to pass on those pieces of the past – whether in our garage in a crumpled box, or in a remote corner of our memory? Will we decide to let them go? Or will we choose to let those who follow make that decision for themselves.
I am not ready to throw away these pictures of stranger just yet – but the time will come. It does not cost me to save them still; it is not a burden. But their knowledge will end with me, I am certain. My focus must be on preserving the lives, hopes, dreams and memories of those truly dear to me, for those who like me, one day, will look at them perhaps with a sense of awe, and wonder. Perhaps in time, even the lessons of my life will somehow speak, after I am gone, and as was the gift to me, provide a doorway to a greater faith, a stronger hope, and a deeper love.
The New NormL 