Wendy Bird Has Flown

Harry and Annette Tarsky introduced me to Wendy when she came West for her Junior Year of High School at Belmont, downtown Los Angeles. She'd been to New York for her final year of elementary school years before coming to Los Angeles. Judy's mother, Katie Cool, called Wendy "a Worldly Girl."

When school started that hot September I had a REAL FRIEND on top of the dead-end hill where I grew up in Echo Park. We would slip in and out her bedroom window at the end of a winding path between our two houses so as not to rouse Lord Jim, the huge German Shepard who ruled the roost at the Tarsky's house. AND we carpooled together! Wendy turned sixteen in September, and I in October, 1964. We went to the DMV together and, mercifully, we both passed our written and driver's road tests on the first go. Celebration!

Harry graciously allowed Wendy to drive his huge Ford Econoline Van two days a week and my mom let me have her little yellow Volkswagen the other three days of the week. It was the time of dress codes requiring young women wear skirts or dresses and panty hose. Every Tuesday and Thursday, when Wendy got behind the wheel of that Econoline van, she’d snag the right knee area of her nylons on the damned metal spring that kept Harry’s leatherette and glassine window car registration holder snug to the upright steering column. "Damn!" She’d say. She didn't seem to care about the look so much as to enjoy the feeling of the snag causing the ladder to run all the way down her nylon to her ankle. And she was upset that she didn't remember that it would happen. Everytime. We laughed a lot in our carpool for two. 

Probably we had a few classes together, my memory is not so keen about much in High School, but one class I do remember is Chemistry with W. T. Smith, III. He had an infectious gap tooth smile that made his admonitions against blowing up the chem lab by pouring one beaker full of chemicals too quickly into another beaker full of chemicals seem friendly and not too, well, admonishing. On more than one occasion, the guys in our lab class deliberately tried to "blow things up." Wendy and I got through Chemistry, if not with great interest in the subject, then with delight in W. T. Smith, III and the entertainment of the other budding scientists in our group and the botched experiments we tried.

Coming out of class one day, I was distraught. I'd seen my father at Veteran's Hospital the day before. Dad had cancer of the everything. The doctors thought he'd live about six months before the cancer ate him completely. He lasted only two months. He was getting close to death when school was nearly ending in June, 1965. Wendy and I were walking down the hall. I was crying while telling her about the horrors of the VA patients and my dad being in coma. Someone coming the other way down the hallway waved and shouted "Hi, Mendy & Wendy." I smiled and waved back. Wendy pulled back her arm and slugged me HARD in the stomach. Oooof! "What the hell was that for?" I asked her. Angrily, she said, "Here you are crying about your dad when someone smiles at you and you flash this big phony smile back. That's not real. That's disgusting." I was embarrassed - as much to be seen crying as I was that she was right. I will ALWAYS remember that day and Wendy's earnest teaching, though it didn't stop me right away from being an appeaser and avoiding conflict. 

The day Wendy boarded the train at Union Station Downtown Los Angeles, to head back to Dayton and eventually her home town of Yellow Springs, Ohio, Judy and I accompanied her there, in my mother's yellow VW. We sat with her in that grand old Art Deco station signing one another's yearbooks. We cried and laughed, laughed and cried and melodramatically waved big fluttering white handkerchiefs at her when she boarded and her train started down the tracks. One of us had brought the hankies especially for the occasion. We waved until her hanging-out-the-window form was out of sight. There were real tears. Such was Wendy's impact on us during that formative year of eleventh grade.

Judy and I took the Greyhound bus all the way to Dayton later that summer of 1965. News of the Watts riots followed us across country in the headlines at every bus stop along Route 66. My dad was dead. I felt relief, grief, and anticipatory glee that we were on a road trip to see our dear Friendy Wendy. She picked us up in her blue VW bug and drove us immediately to Glen Helen to see the red rocks and iron-rich yellow water that gave her town, Yellow Springs, its name. For the very first time, I saw fireflies! Wendy opened the sun roof and let Judy and me take turns standing up to catch the soft moist breeze as she whooshed us through this iconically verdant glen. I think I caught a few fireflies in my teeth, as well. I can still imagine I feel that magical moist wind on my face, blowing my hair behind me. 

One night, during our two week stay, the three of us went to the only movie house in town. "Psycho" was playing. It had just been released. In this college town, everyone knew what was going on and when. Wendy took us to the donut house a few doors down from the theater. Fresh baking donuts on a warm summer night smelled gorgeous. We approached the counter to place our order. It was just past midnight. The guy behind the counter pulled a huge butcher knife up from behind the counter with a look on his face very much like Anthony Perkins. EVERYONE in the shop screamed. Judy, Wendy and I screamed the loudest. An indelible memory.

Years later, Wendy went to live in San Francisco. Judy had five-year-old Corbin, I had two-year-old Mosa, and Annet had four-year-old Devon and two-year-old Luke. We were three tired and very grubby moms from L.A. camping out in Big Basin Redwood State Park. The kids invented Chocolate Make-Up and covered themselves completely with the fine rich brown silt mixed with water. As dusk colored the kids golden brown and the redwoods blazed greenish gold in the sunset, up the road came the most welcomed sight we could imagine: Wendy Rae Dallas with a car full of treasure. Dark fell quickly, but we could see by candle light the unimaginable feast she brought to share with us... a whole fresh salmon purchased that very day at Fisherman's Wharf, two bottles of Pouillyfuissés wine, fresh corn-on-the-cob, sourdough bread, real china plates, and real crystal wine goblets. After putting the kids to bed, we came out to find the fish, which she'd wrapped in foil to bake over the fire with lemon and onion, perfectly done, ditto the corn and bread. Each of us tired mamas got down and kissed Wendy's feet. Then we feasted and toasted and laughed and played Scrabble. THAT was the way to camp! I don't recall if Wendy stayed the night. I do remember her on another camp-out climbing up into the pine trees and me following her up. We set up a competition to see who could go higher. Wendy always won. We got up to the tippy tippy top of these graceful old trees in Idylwild. That July and we sang at the top of our lungs, "Oh, Holy night, the stars are brightly shining…."  It had been our ritual over the years whenever we met that Wendy and I would sing and harmonize on that song... falling on our knees and generally acting out the lyrics in silly pantomime to keep from crying a the sheer beauty of our harmonies together. 

When Anne and Wendy met and fell in love and began life together, it was a joyful time for me and Wendy's Angelino friends from Echo Park and Belmont High. She always fit-in, though I don't think she felt that way. Who did in High School?  Her authenticity, humor and ability to create mirth wherever she went, and her vision to see the human inside all of us children of all ages shall linger longer in my memory than will the harder times she faced at the end. 

Thank you, Anne, for being the love of her life and encouraging Wendy Bird to soar.

With so much Love and gratitude for you on the planet. You broadcast love from every pore of your being, Anne!

~ Melinda

January 2020