Memory-All-Day

Those folks who knew us when…

Do you remember your grammar school buddies? Junior high and high school? Does your recall traverse back only as far as college days? (If so… What were you smokin’?)

Venturing into my High School’s Mega Reunion (classes from ’63 to ’67) last weekend was an exercise in testing my memory and trusting my gut.  Some of these folks and I had the treat of seeing one another five years ago at the same hotel – only the name was changed and perhaps the décor. Other faces I could not place… but one face placed mine!  Yvonne F. looked at my name badge and asked if I lived in Echo Park (I did) and did I do ballet (I did). “Mindy” she exclaimed, eyes wide, “I’m Yvonne! My sister Candy and I lived on Avon Place.”  I gasped and got goose-bumps two inches deep from head to toe. “Yvonne! OMG! How did you figure that out? I always wondered what happened to you two!!” We had lost touch and didn’t even know we were in the same high school until 45 years later! How sweet and somehow important to reconnect after all these years!

Remember those kids whose hands always shot skyward – even for the trickiest answers? Belmont High was no exception. The same hands go up each time- volunteering to get the job done. Marvin from North Carolina and his beloved Ellie, after delegating calling/contacting duties to several of us in L.A. months before the event, drove all the way across country days before the reunion to make sure it happened according to plan. Barbara came all the way from Japan to ensure the entertainment was spot-on. Her beautiful daughter and a couple of the daughter’s dancing friends performed a robot-themed piece fabulously – complete with mid-air flips and impossible-to-hold-poses. Randy made sure the live music was tight using guys from Belmont’s Jazz Band. Great music. I especially enjoyed dancing with Bruce to Mongo Santamaria’s version of “Watermelon Man” and later hearing “Louie, Louie.” Ernie made a perfectly timed and comically adept MC and raffle ticket reader. We all kept looking at our ticket stubs -  willing them to change to the winning number for fabulous door-prizes!

The committee was able to keep costs lower than any other reunion of the same magnitude I’ve heard about… $60 or $70 per person depending on when we signed up rather than $100-$150 range of other reunions.

One of the sweetest treats for me was chatting with Bruce whom I’ve known since kindergarten. He was one of the best tap-dancers in all of Elysian Heights Elementary yet had no clue how totally cool all the sixth grade girls thought he was.  We compared notes on how distressing school dances used to be in Jr. Hi – with the girls all lined up on one side of the gym  and the boys on the other. There was intense pressure by seventh grade to “be cool” whatever that meant! The not knowing what cool was, and whether or not we were, made for PSP (Perpetually Sweaty Palms). Does any one of us have an unselfconscious or compassionate view of ourselves-ever? Or is each of us uniquely and totally un-cool?

The kindergartner’s way of making connection is perhaps a bit like two amoeba bumping into one another, feeling what the other has to offer and either dancing for a while or moving on to find a more suitable encounter. The snot quotient is high; lunch box contents determine cool. In Jr. Hi the stakes are much higher and the element of “cool” is uppermost in everyone’s mind re: “where do I fit in this hierarchy of popular versus nerdy kids?” We daren’t make the wrong move for fear of being ostracized or linked with un-cool elements.

By High School we are slightly more jelled… we know who the Science Club and Leadership Organization kids are, ROTC, Debate Club and Chess Club, Jocks, Musicians, Dancers, etc. Still, our faces, even in our senior photos, are about as doughy as the Pillsbury Boy and so are our personalities… not yet fully jelled.

So here we are 45 years later with features more chiseled by life experiences, our bodies slightly less angular perhaps. We’re certainly seasoned, definitely more discerning. We each carry comfortable automatic “belief structures.” But throw us all together and there’s a magic alchemy that allows us to morph into our more amorphous selves and lets us bend a little further than our “sixty-something” bodies are accustomed to being able to bend, and invites our acceptance factors to soar; our inclusion impulses to multiply as  memory snatches return of sweet encounters with everyone in that hotel ballroom at some point during our (usually) three-year tenure at Belmont. We remember exactly where we were when JFK, Bobby and Martin were shot. We are again an eclectic and diverse group; a mini-United Nations respecting all members of the tribe. This truly is worth the price of admission. It makes us young and idealistic all over again and I want more time to explore this time warp!

And the TEACHERS!!! What a thrill to see so many of them! Choral Director Mrs. Shapiro and her husband even brought stacks of photos from the productions of Finnian’s Rainbow and Flower Drum Song and made available to those of us who were in the shows photos of our young, dewy-eyed, doughy selves. When I saw the photo of me dancing the part of deaf mute “Susan” to Ray Rodriguez’s “Leprechaun” a complete Gestalt washed over me and I could smell the slightly mildewed Paper Mache’ and stinky tempera paint of the scenery – to say nothing of the hormonally-ignited flop sweat with flames stoked by difficult tour jetes’!

Belmont was an inner-city school. Many of our grads and even pre-graduate young men went off to fight in Viet Nam. Too many of them didn’t come home or came in boxes.

This Memorial Day I say,  

“THANK YOU” to all those who went into the service, whether you came back whole, broken, boxed or not at all. Your sacrifice is part of what afforded us one hell-of-a-good reunion. We still miss you and wish you could’ve been here with us.

Rapture, rupture, reunion and "grief-stains"

With apologies to those who expected my presence at Sunday events…

Due to the “rapture” rending the fabric of our family circle, my Monday Muse went awol. If that sounds like “the dog ate my homework…” it is, in a way, and it’s also the truth. So, instead of posting it Sunday night, I’m posting it later Monday. Make me stay after school if you must.

I had been to see Teresita again briefly Saturday afternoon at the Cardiac ICU. That evening, about the time I was registering people arriving at the Kyoto Grand Hotel and Gardens for the Mega-Reunion of Belmont High School’s classes of ’63-’67, Tere’s heart gave its final rhythm to those of us on this side of the veil. I got the news of her death about 1:45 Sunday morning when I got home from the reunion. 

Glendale Memorial Hospital has never seen the likes of the flow of folks who were milling about, commiserating and camping out in two standing-room-only waiting rooms and in hall ways Friday, Saturday and Sunday. The irony is that I signed-up to volunteer at a Grief Camp at Camp Ronald McDonald for Good Times over the weekend, where my beloved husband did go. I stayed behind this time having also volunteered for the reunion planning committee. I guess I was where I was meant to be.

Tere brought huge light to the planet and we had the benefit of that powerful presence for 74 short years. I only got to know her when my dear brother Steve married Tere’s elder daughter Victoria in 1991. She was, as Vicky described to me in the ICU waiting room at GMH Friday night, “a rock.” All of us are trying to grasp how life will be without her steadfast presence, moral compass and unconditional love.

Yesterday, at her home, the out-pouring of love, respect and anguish was palpable… flowers, food, company and conversation. Brother Steve put on a DVD compilation of family photos that he presented at a celebration four years ago for Tere’s 70^th and for her younger daughter Maggie’s 40^th… a grand Cuban style gala event with Tuxedos, speeches, dancing, of course, and formal gowns. All of us who were re-viewing the photo montage last night laughed and wept.  Emilio, Tere’s husband, is being held in love and support. When someone whose light shines so brightly departs s/he leaves a BIG hole.

Questions I’m contemplating are:  

1) As we take on the role vacated by a family member - in the case of my sister-in-law and her sister, the role of matriarch - are we required to heft the burden of our ancestors?  

2) Can we honor the triumphs of the departed in overcoming adversity and aspire to wear the mantle lightly without letting it crush us with the weight of history?  

3) What must be transmuted or composted in order for us to come fresh to the task of leading a family?

I believe Emilio has the strength to carry on even though he will be so sad without his beloved. Likewise, I sense Tere’s daughters Vicky and Maggie have all the tools they need to carry on, but like Dumbo and his magic feather, there may be a time of foundering and of feeling as if they cannot fly without their madre beacon Teresita. Healing is happening already. The family has strong bonds and a history of doing what’s right when Life throws curve balls. Leaving Castro's Cuba with only the clothes on their backs has steeled them all for tough times. The support of spouses, friends and extended family is invaluable.

Last night they found THE photo for the memorial program as we all watched the Birthday Bash DVD. Already the five grandsons, all very talented musicians, are rehearsing “Guantanamera” to play at the service. Stock in Kleenex has risen dramatically as demand skyrockets.  Tears and laughter are like doing the laundry… laughter is the agitator and the salt water tears wash out the sludge, residual gunk and “grief-stains.” 

How do you get through tough times? What helps you de-grief in times of loss? Who are your peeps to help you through? What beliefs do you hold re: life, death and the threshold in between them? How do we support young ones who may not have yet experienced the death of a loved one? Whatever is in your heart that wants to be expressed... I'd love to hear from you,

Melinda

5-23-11

Crutches

This is a piece I wrote a few years back. I post it now in honor of some friends who currently are in healing mode.

“You’ve been hurt,” she said.

“You’ve been unconscious for some time and now you’re coming back to yourself. There may be some pain,” she whispered, gently squeezing his hand.

He rolled his head one quarter turn trying to focus his eyes on the voice.Sun through a window silhouetted her head, leaving her face in shadow.

“Let’s just be with whatever happens next, shall we?” She asked.

He moaned softly, startled by the sound his own voice made after a silence the duration of which he did not know.

How long had he been out, voiceless, helpless without agency to do anything for himself? He tried to move his left foot and felt waves of nausea from the pain of that small effort.

“Gonna be a long haul,” he thought.

Mercifully sleep came upon him again and he dreamed a dream of feathers and flapping angels in silhouette; muffled voices murmuring at the miracle of his aliveness. Was he going to make it after all?

“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends, oooh, gonna try with a little help from my friends, oh, I get high with a little help from my friends…” was playing in his head the next time he came back around.

She was still here or here again - talking to him in that reassuring sing-songy voice.

“We are all wounded,” she said, “some of us physically; some of us in other ways. Life knocks us silly sometimes,” she said, “up one side and down the other.”

She paused. With difficulty he opened his eyes again. The sun had shifted. It was golden. He could see part of her left cheek and the side of her nose. She was glistening. Tears? Sweat? His own body had no temperature that he could feel. He was pretty numb and at the same time filled with ribbons of exquisitely electrifying pain.

“Yep,” she continued, fluffing his pillow, “up one side, down the other; life slaps us to a peak and s-a-laps the peak off.” She giggled and swung her hand like she was swatting a fly.

He winced.

“That’s what my grandma used to tell us kids. Said she’d ‘s-a-lap the peak off’ if we didn’t behave…. She never did though. Guess she knew life would do it to us soon enough.”

“But, ya know…crutches come in all shapes and sizes.” She said. “Some look like whisky bottles or wine bottles, others like cigarettes, pills or plates full of food.”

She fussed over some of the pipes and wires dripping fluids into his body.

“That morphine should kick in within five minutes.” She looked at her watch and at the clock on the wall behind her.

“Some crutches sound like prayers, feel like prayer beads worn smooth from over-use… or… or like a hand holding ours.”

She held his hand. He tried to squeeze her hand back and then to squeeze back tears as some of her words hit their target. Jumbled and jarring images of rain on a windshield, red light reflected off the pavement. Shattering glass. His foot braced as if on a brake pedal – right there in his hospital bed. His heart swelled like an airbag with so much emotion he doubted it was big enough to hold it all.

She touched his chest, as softly as a kitten’s paw where it burned and felt raw. Then she moved to the foot of the bed cradling each of his heels in her warm hands. After a few minutes the stiffness in his aching legs began to let up.

“That’s it,” she said, “You’re remembering that good right stomp. It saved you from hitting the light pole any harder! Gooood right foot! You’ll cycle through that brace/relax sequence lots of times in your healing process. See if you can find some place that feels sort of OK – even while some parts hurt a lot. It will help you to be aware of both the pain and the ease. Take out some of that fight, flight stuff that makes you so stiff.”

The morphine seemed maroon colored inside him and brought a metallic taste to his mouth. Cotton batting was filling his ears.

“With crutches…” she went on, “whatever gets us up and going again is fair game. We got to lean into the best crutch we got until we find our legs again. We got to stand as tall as we can in gratitude for life.”

She stayed at his feet for some time. He dozed again. Then she moved to his side, smoothing the hair from his forehead and putting a cool cloth there.

“ ‘course the cost of some crutches is more dear than others… cigarettes bite somethin’ fierce if you use them too much. My daddy died of ciggy lungs. Anything we use too much’ll probably kill us. But we got to accept each other’s crutches and know that all of ‘em are fair game – some time… just to keep us up and moving.”

His throat hurt from holding back tears. Jaw tight. His right foot braced again on some invisible brake. His hands were fists by his sides, arms rigid. The cool washcloth was warm already but the pressure of it felt pretty good. His throat eased a little.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, now. Give it all time to heal. Your body’s smart. You’re gonna be alright.  Some one’s at the house right now to watch your kids. Someone else is bringing soup. Your people are in the waiting room. I’ll be back later.”

He heard the sound of rustling feathers.

“We are all the walking wounded,” he thought.  “We are all inflictors of wounds.”

He cried in earnest when she left… grateful for the sweetness of a stranger. Grateful to be alive. Grateful for the flow of healing salt water. He stuck out his tongue and caught some tears at the side of his mouth and liked the taste. His dreams were of crutches and gawky flapping angel wings.

Melinda Maxwell-Smith

May 23, 2008

Mothering from the Outside In

Mothering from the outside in…. 

Mom was good at holding me in the twilight hours when I scraped my knees sliding into home from Angelika’s house across the way. We lived at the top of a steep dead-end street in Echo Park where the cars all parked on a leveled gravel and tarmac pad. Invariably, I’d slide on that gravel at the end of each day presenting bloody neon knees that were trying to signal the deeper hurt my Daddy was perpetrating right under her nose. It was as close as I could come to telling her and I tried that nearly every day.

My favorite time of day was twilight, just after the Mercurochrome-colored sky had faded to Maxfield Parish blue, and the sting was gone from my knees even though they were still the color of the sunset. Mom would rock me on her lap, singing and lovin' me up 'til my battery was recharged. She was good at holding that healing presence. What she wasn’t so good at was reading between the lines… or cooking or sewing. For that I had to find other mothers to teach me. I learned to mother myself from the outside in.

Mom taught me that the way to make toast was to put bread under the broiler, wait ‘til you smelled smoke, scream, “Aaaaah!” and go to the sink and scrape off the burnt part. She also knew and tried to teach me all the Latin names for plants. I cherish the gifts she gave me and thank her for sending me to search for what she could not give. Colette taught me how to cut parsley with scissors in a juice glass. Lucy taught me how to cut mangoes so they resembled peacocks strutting. Aunt Nora and my friend Wendy taught me how to camp in style - with real crystal wine goblets and fine china. Lynn taught me to make a mean sweet-potato-salad.

All my “mothers” taught me to pass it on… whether that was implicit in their teaching or not. I’ve been privileged to pass on the best of what I’ve received from this team of women most of whom don’t even know one another. I’ve passed on the practical skill sets of mothering to my daughters of course, but also to clients, friends and strangers in the supermarket. Do you know how to choose celery that isn’t bitter? Scratch & sniff the root end. If it smells bitter, it is.  I learned this from a gentle woman shopping alongside me in the produce section at Von’s.

Joan Peck was a wise neighbor during those impossibly painful years when I was 16 to 21. She let me smoke, cuss and drink wine with her. She accepted me for who I was trying very hard to become… even though I didn’t know exactly who that creature might be.

Colette also taught me how to sew on buttons with a French twist, to sing La Vie en Rose with a passable  accent and the usefulness of Beaujoulais wine for building the blood after childbirth. She had married an American G.I. and borne him two children… her son, Francis died of AIDS; Nora sustained a high fever in infancy that fried her brain. She was categorized EMR (Educable Mentally Retarded) but couldn’t speak. I became a surrogate daughter for Colette and she was a great comfort to me from early in my marriage and young mothering to when we visited her on our 25^th wedding Anniversary 15 years ago in her homeland outside Paris. I have darned socks for clients whose toes were poking through their adorable monkey socks and offered buttons to those who’d lost theirs - just because Colette inspired me to pass it on.

One “mother” figure was a woman I never met but only saw in a Smith Hawken garden shop in Pasadena maybe 15 years ago. She was 60-ish, with a white bun atop her head and radiating health, vibrancy and mysterious magnetic charm. She seemed happier in her skin than anyone I’d ever seen... exuding love of life, comfort and grace. I followed her around that shop just basking in her glow.  I aspire to walk in her footsteps and inspire some “40 somethings” when they’re just beginning to wonder how to age.

A grandmother type was picking out prune plums at the grocery store. While juggling one daughter on my hip with her sister in the cart, I asked and the woman told me how to select plums and gave me a recipe for a Hungarian Prune Plum confection. Because it called for a sugar cube in each pitted plum and because I was trying to raise our girls without sugar, I never made the recipe, but I cherish the sweet memory of that offering and keep the yellowing page with my recipes. I regret having been so restrictive with sweets. Our older daughter started selecting friends based on whose mom would let them eat Twinkies and M & M’s! Once, when I made a gloptious chocolate/meringue confection for her birthday cake instead of the usual carrot cake with "health food" written all over it, her mouth dropped to her knees. We all enjoyed it to the last!

My mother in law, Freidabel is on my list of motherly heroines… She taught me to make Stuffed Cabbage, Pot Roast and Kasha Varneshkas, taught me songs in Yiddish, and she taught her sons and daughter to be self-sufficient, productive human beings. She loved sooo much in her too short life. If we could’ve put her and my mom in the blender… we would have had the perfect recipe for “A Perfect Grandma!”

My Grammy Stern is on the list too, for, among other things, teaching me with the patience of Job to use a sewing machine. Even after her death… if I have a sewing question she’s on call.  Aunt Fay taught me how to knit – no less than three times. I still forget how to cast-on. Maybe I'll dial her in heaven and ask for a review.

My high school buddy Wendy came up to Big Basin Redwoods where 2 of our friends and their kids were camping with me and my then three year old daughter Mosa.  Wendy arrived Saturday night with an entire salmon fresh from Fisherman’s Wharf, real china plates, fine wine, crystal goblets and silver cutlery. The gusto with which we 3 tired mothers devoured her lemon and onion studded masterpiece could be heard 300 miles away in L.A. I’m sure my husband looked up, scratching his head… “Do I hear orgasms in the redwoods?”

With all the tedium that accompanies house work and basic mothering, it’s essential to have humor, help and heroines. I’m HUGELY grateful for mine, especially my husband, who is so appreciative and nothing like John Henry…

“John Henry swore by the light of the moon and the green leaves on the tree

That he could do more work in a day than his wife could do in three.

Said she, “My darlin’ dearie, I know that I’m to blame,

John Henry, I’ll go plow the fields and you must stay at hame.*”  Old English Folk Song

(John Henry is humbled and daunted by the amount of work his wife performs flawlessly every single day.)

*home

Happy Mother's Day, Happy EVERY DAY!!

Melinda

PS: At ninety-one, my mom is still with us. We are grateful.  And her amazing care-giver Ellen has become another heroine, helper and sharer of how humorous and  heart-breakingly beautiful the mothering journey can be.

                                                           

Gratitude

Deep thanks fill my heart as I step onto the blogosphere path. It's all so new! So many possibilities await!
Both daughters blazed the trail and said, "Mom... Just doooo it!"  Megan's get-into-tutoring.com and Mosa's BoobJuice.com provide examples of using the medium to its fullest.


In addition to being totally supportive of all my endeavors, my beloved Mark helped immensely as I tried to navigate WordPress.org to get a blog site going, but the stumbling blocks there barked our shins and sent me in search of easier pathways. We'll see how this blogger.com works.

My writing buddies have been cheering me on for years and I'm so grateful for the nudging and modeling of Jaimi, Adoley, Udana, Sonya, Ellen and Kelly. Catch Sonya's "Om Freely... Monday Morning Memo" about 'Living Out Loud' which inspired my desire to show-up to write at least once a week. I'm thankful to Andrea Beard (CreativeLifeWriting.com) for making it look so easy and inviting me to have my say.


This is the first Monday of the rest of my life. I want to spend it as a writer... a grateful writer.

Today's news is filled with the story of how American forces found, killed and buried at sea The Notorious Terrorist who eluded the world for more than ten years. While I am wowed by the precision of the "fire fight" that took him out, and relieved that this terrorist can no longer orchestrate death, the phrase "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind" plays in my mind. I have visions of the Sorcerer's Apprentice. Remember when the would-be wizard chops up the water-carrying broom? Instead of  ending his dilemma each splinter turns into another broom carrying more water - compounding his problem. We may be in the same boat... or up "De-Nial" without a boat! Do YOU feel safer in your bed tonight? Not sure I do. Time will tell.
I'm grateful Navy Seals put an end to that reign of terror, but worry that the "War on Terror" is far from over.

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Temple Grandin (as played brilliantly by Claire Danes in the docu-drama of the same name) says: "Nature is cruel. Human beings have a choice to be respectful and compassionate toward the animals we choose to eat for food." Her understanding of suffering is embodied. She knows first-hand how panic feels in the flesh. Her autism gave her plenty of challenges to overcome. Not speaking until she was four years old, she walked through many doors on her way to becoming a PhD. Her gifts to the world are immense. She's modeling how to live a meaningful life no matter our limitations.

About 50% of the feed-lots and slaughter houses in our country have adopted her more humanely designed flow-ways for processing cattle. We still have a long way to go to eradicate cruelty... but it's a step. There is cause to be grateful along the way.
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 Thanks for joining me in my Monday Musing. My idea is to show up for myself as a writer - musing about whatever is sitting on top. Some of the topics that interest me are birth, death and the stuff in-between that makes up a life.

I've been a body worker since 1985 and began specializing in trauma resolution in 1995. Bio-Dynamic Cranio-Sacral Therapy, Birth Trauma Resolution, Somatic Experiencing, Yoga Therapy, Jin Shin Jyutsu Accupressure, Polarity Therapy, Ortho Bionomy(R), Svaroopa(R) Yoga Classes, Shamanic Healing, Reiki and Laying-on-of-Hands are some of the modalities I've studied and used over the years. I have loved working with babies who've had a rough entry into the world. It's a privilege to witness them letting go of the fight/flight/freeze in their body so they don't have to carry it around 'til they're old!

I'm grateful to my family, friends, teachers, clients and students who shine the light for me to remember that I came here for some reason... and I'd better get to sharing it.