Throwing Kasha to the Wind

It feels like such a long time! From January second, when we meet, all the way through our second date January15, when he turns to me and says, “You’re going to be my wife.” I laugh, then I cry and say, “You’re right!” We hug and hug and hug like lovers lost to one another for millennia finally rejoining in the safety of a long-lost-familiar-embrace.

It feels like such a long time to wait - all the way into the very end of April, to gather our friends, his family from New York, the local “Right-on-Rabbi,” from Hollywood, wearing his fringed leather jacket, arriving on his motorcycle at my mother’s house in Echo Park, where my beloved and I, and all my family have prepared the space for the Wedding in the Weeds. 

Now, here we are April 30, 1972. In my old bedroom, Jeannie Siegel, my Co-Counseling teacher, elicits shivers and shakes from me, to exorcise any fear, and to calm my nerves, as I commit to memory my vows. Mom gently places the wreath of flowers on my head. Her Indian Paisley shawl ‘round my shoulders serves as “something Old, Borrowed and Blue. Papa Leo is agitated, “Tell her to hurry up! People are waiting,” he urges my mother. “Shhhh! She’s coming! Don’t rush her!” Well, THIS is new! Mom is standing up for me!

My palms are sweaty, but my feet are sure - even in these three inch thinly strapped heels and holding the hem of my long halter top cotton muslin dress. I’m voting with my feet and going to join my beloved under the canopy.

As Papa Leo, my mom and I begin to walk, my Aunt’s sister Serena, the artist who’s painted portraits of me at ages ten and seventeen, catches up, and passes us in her halting, straight-legged gait, as we walk from the house toward the steps that lead down into the open field,where one hundred fifty or so of our friends and family are assembled. I worry about Serena on those uneven log steps, but she seems to navigate the descent well on the arm of my older brother Mel who gallantly offers support. She seems to relish being watched - almost like a flower girl, preceding us. Although she has no petals to strew on the path, her aqua chiffon cape and long red hair billow behind her, a little like flowers, if you use your imagination.

It feels like a long time for Mark to wait for his bride’s arrival under the canopy, I imagine. He is there with the rabbi, under the chuppa  made of four bamboo poles and a Madras cotton bedspread from the Akron Store. Mark’s father, brother, brother-in-law, my grandfather and cousin Deborah gather at the four corners of the chuppa. My older brother Mel is standing in as photographer. 

When we selected this date, we didn’t know it would turn out to be the day of springing forward with our clocks to Pacific Daylight Savings Time. Luckily, the invite reads: “Open House and Open Field 3:00pm; Ceremony 4:00pm” 

By the time the Rabbi gathers the attention of those assembled, to the task of witnessing the marriage ceremony, it is about 4:15. Out of the corner of my eye I see a couple of folks walking up the dirt road to the field, and a couple more hesitantly coming down the stairs - unlike Serena, they are NOT wanting to be watched, because the ceremony has begun.

Rabbi Setcher guides us through our vows in a relaxed manner. At some point, my great-aunt, who is as big as a button and feisty as a badger, pipes up, “C’mon a-ready! Marry ‘em!” Her inimitable Russian accent and directness of her plea causes a ripple of laughter.

As a gesture of the times, the Rabbi presents Mark and me with daisies, which are to be our first gift exchange as a married couple. Sweet, unexpected and so us... hippies joined at the heart.

Mark stomps on the “wine-glass” in a handkerchief. (It is really a light bulb, but gives a satisfying shattering sound.) We are officially married. The hugging and kissing begins with us, then the chuppa holders join in, and eventually it becomes the entire field of friends hugging us, one another and perfect strangers. Even Bob Barker and Charlie Lyons from Truth or Consequences, where Mark is employed as a writer, and their wives, are in the hugging fray; Mr. Barker’s makeup is melting in the late April sun, coloring his tuxedo shirt collar.

Other friends are wearing white muslin cotton pajamas, prayer beads, and sandals. They fare better with the foxtails and weeds than those who arrive in nylons and heels. 

Someone has brought Kasha (toasted Buckwheat) as substitute for the traditional rice thrown at weddings to ensure fertility. Kasha is a favored grain in Jewish cooking.

As Mark and I walk toward the reception area at the top of those log steps, we are showered with Kasha. It finds its way through my hair and down the front of my halter top, tickling on the way down. 

It seems like such a long time that Mark and I have known one another, but, in fact, it has been just over three months. We laugh simultaneously about the Kasha.

The photos tell the story, both of a great time being had by all, and the relative inebriation of my brother the photographer. At some point he opened the back of his camera - introducing light to the film. Some of the photos make it look as if Rabbi Setcher has a halo over his head, and that Mark and I are totally glowing. (I actually think we were glowing!) 

Forty-two years later, we’re still in love and glad we got hitched - even though it seems like such a short time ago! 

While it could've backfired, for us it worked to "throw Kasha to the wind."

Riffin' on Redwood

Back at the Old Homestead in Echo Park, I realize the simplicity of Lautner’s intent: Bring Nature in, Float the roof on paired, angled 2x8 “V” supports down the middle of the house, and Let There Be Slab!

So simple. The foundation is a “T” of red cement rectangles, roughly oriented North to South on the hillside lot, to maximize the astonishing views of the ocean in the Southwest, Forrest Lawn in Glendale to the Northwest, and the Griffith Park Planetarium and Hollywood sign to the West. Mornings bring the Eastern light in slowly, buffered by the hillside dotted with pine and eucalyptus behind the house.

The redwood and glass outer shell maximizes the light, while offering the best possible cross ventilation when the sliding glass floor-to-ceiling doors are slid open.

On hot summer nights, our mom wraps us in wet sheets, sets up our pillows on the redwood chaise lounges and opens both sets of doors. Sometimes, she plugs-in the big floor fan just to move the stultifying August air. We don’t have air conditioning, nor do we need it, except for the occasional Santa Ana heat waves.

Redwood siding wraps the inner and outer walls where the glass stops. Dad puts up a ballet bar for me outside the dining room when I turn eight. The glass door serves as my mirror so I can check for correct alignment. The bar also is perfect to grab while turning around on roller skates to go back the other way - sweeping eucalyptus pods out of my path with a broom.

Each closet in the house has a redwood bi-fold door, or pair of bi-folds on the bigger closets. Except for the linen closet outside the bathroom, they are all set down the middle of the house. There’s a six inch raised-platform floor, and the roof of each closet is set a foot or so below the lowest part of the “V” shaped ceiling, allowing the light from the closet to radiate upwards onto the expanse of textured white, while simultaneously lighting the interior of the closet.

The redwood is alive, glowing and burnished with wax, and it softens the angles and hard textures of glass and cement. I love this wood and pet it as I walk through, bidding adieu to my childhood home. 

I remember the story, but not the event: Age two, wearing socks, holding a child’s tin shovel, leaning against this redwood wall where the upright piano now rests. My slippery socks and polished red cement floor conspire to make my feet slip out from under me. The shovel catches my neck. Mom, Dad, and brother Mel think I’ve broken my neck. I lie still on the floor long enough that they panic and pick me up. I’m  bleeding. They pack me into the Desoto with wet bath towels. I cry all the way to Irving J. King’s practice of General Medicine. Perhaps there are stitches or simple butterfly tape. I don’t remember - even the story - about how it got put back together.

On a recent trip to New York, Mark and I sleep at his sister’s house. The lighting in her bathroom is just right for me to see a small scar which I don’t remember ever seeing before! Oh! The story must be true.

Back at the old homestead in my mind. I say good bye to all such memories of hurt. I’ll keep the memories of tree-climbing, perfecting roller skating moves on the patio, practicing giving birth to dolls with Angelika and Kitty Cooper in the playhouse, Halloween haunted houses built with neighborhood friends, sliding down the dry fox-tail-covered hillsides on cardboard, dirt clod fights, mining for clay in the sandstone, forts we built in the weeds, flying kites on Kite Staff, the rope swing hanging from the tree angled out over the hill out back that made it feel as if we could really fly, and making forays into Elysian Park by way of the Baxter Street Stairs.

Good bye, dear house.

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Watching my dear granddaughter make memories on her redwood deck and climbing structure in the back yard this weekend gives me great pleasure. We draw chalk pictures and words. She climbs and swings and slides. 

She and her Gran'Pun and I plant Petunias, Sweet Peas, beans, African Daisies, watermelon, Stevia, tomatoes, Spearmint and Chocolate Mint (can you believe it?) in pots just off the deck. She will water them faithfully, or not. In either case, she will learn what's required for living things to grow: water, sun, food, and love. Despite the occasional redwood splinter from that aging deck, SHE is thriving!

Heidi Hi, Heidi Ho… Choose a bowl and away you go

I have a step sister for four years. 

Heidi is Eugenie’s daughter. Eugenie and my dad Howard hook up at the Mermaid Cafe on Hermosa Strand, after my mom puts him out, when I am ten. These two new women in his life come to California from the wilds of McHenry, Illinois and seem to be scheming to steal my daddy from me. The black Marks-a-Lot ink hearts inscribed on their ‘fridge pretty much tell the story: “Howard loves Eugenie,” “Eugenie loves Howard,” “Heidi loves Howard," and “Howard loves Heidi.” I read in between the hearts and arrows, “Melinda is chopped liver and doesn’t belong in this family at all.”

Insult is added to injury when Heidi’s perfect skin is compared to porcelain; mine to rusty enamel - the freckles being so country-bumpkinish to her elegant pure white flesh, surrounding turquoise colored eyes.

The cozy threesome live together in Manhattan Beach for a year or so before moving to a bigger house on Salem Circle in a new housing development in Costa Mesa, where all the streets in the new neighborhood are named after cigarette brands... Viceroy Circle, Lucky Strike Lane, and Marlboro Street. Dad is a chain smoker and so is Eugenie. They seem also to be “chain drinkers." Eugenie is a real witch when she's drunk. The Salem Circle address is doubly fitting.

In between the Manhattan Beach home and Orange County, Howard is jailed on child molestation charges, drunken and disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest. He spends six months in Los Angeles County Jail, according to my Aunt Nora, and is released for “good behavior.” I guess the kind of love which their fridge professes is in question. I am never told what happened. I only know I don’t hear from my daddy for a long time. 

When at last I do visit the Salem Circle house, Heidi and I get along alright, except that she is sometimes mean, and Howard and Eugenie drink every night, causing us eleven year olds to hide in Heidi's closet. This is familiar, only my closet at my mom’s house is much more homey - as I’ve had years to perfect its coziness and practical elements for long stretches of being inside. Plus, her closet doors do not keep out the sounds of fighting coming from Howard and Eugenie's bedroom.

Here, they have some Mexican pottery dishes. Two bowls in particular I remember from the Salem Circle house. 

Heidi and I arise earlier than our parents and head to the kitchen for Cheerios with milk and lots of sugar. After taking out the stinky trash, which has multiple cigarettes extinguished in the multiple beer and vodka bottles, and washing up, because the smell makes me feel sick to my stomach, we get down The Infamous Two Bowls from the cupboard.

These bowls are glazed earthenware; beige with dark brown edging spilling down the unglazed terracotta outsides. If you whack them with your fingernail, they sound dull, as if they are cracked, rather than the “ping” you’d get from a porcelain vessel. Each bowl has a word in Spanish written in cursive in the bottom. 

“Which one to YOU want,” asks Heidi extending “Fea” (ugly) to me while clutching “Bonita” (beautiful) to her belly.

“Well, I guess I’ll take this one...” I say half-heartedly, suddenly losing my appetite all together, and wondering if Heidi’s porcelain cheek will “ping” if I whack it with my fingernail.

Heidi's ritual asking dance, "Which one do YOU want?" is repeated so often over the three years of visiting the Salem Circle house, that my cousin Debby and I make it one of our go-to instant laugh routines.

Heidi and I eat in front of the TV with the sound turned really low on the Saturday morning cartoons. We both hope her mom and my dad sleep really, really late, while Popeye and Olive, Whimpy and Bluto cavort across the screen.

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I have spent this past weekend at a Growth and Transitions Workshop, which is based on the work of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. During the course of two and a half days, participants are encouraged, one at a time,  to "externalize" grief, with the use of some simple tools and the marvelous containment of twenty participant/witnesses and four terrific therapists. 

Memories emerged for me which feel much better outside me than inside. The above recollection surfaced on my drive home. Healthy anger arising, I think I'll find a way to replicate the tools I availed myself of at the workshop… a length of rubber hose, a few phone books, on a mattress, and a pair of gardening gloves (to prevent blisters from forming as I whack the yellow pages with the hose), and let my little kid scream out how that exclusion, belittling, and the scary noises felt. It's very cathartic work, but it sure feels gooood! I'm out to crack the beliefs instilled by that "fea" (ugly) bowl, and maybe, just maybe, listen for the crack in Heidi's perfect porcelain skin… which is probably not all it was cracked up to be. (tee hee)

She and Eugenie departed from my life in 1962, when they put Howard out and burned all his belongings - including all the photos and home movies he had of my brother Mel and me. Alcohol can make people really crazy.

I choose the flushing bowl for Heidi and Eugenie. I've already erected an etheric porta-potty over Howard's grave.

Heidi Hi, Heidi Ho, flush the bowl and away you go!

Grief work is so satisfying!

Batting a Mitzvah

If you don’t like the weather...

Just wait ten minutes ... That’s what they say in the mountains.

New York on Friday was raw, rainy, and, at 40 degrees, freeeeezing to these California bones. While Saturday finds the celebrants of great niece Gabby’s Bat Mitzvah huddling in doorways out of icy wind’s assault, even pepper spray seems a plausible warm-up!

Family temperatures, likewise, run hot and cold. If you don’t like the weather, go talk with someone whose vibe is more to your liking. 

Some are prickly all the time, some are deliciously warm and welcoming, some cold, (pepper spray won't do the trick here). Most of us wave like the ocean, with some troughs deeper than others, while some are on a steady high.

Sunday 5:30 pm, post-party, I’m sitting on sun-drenched brick front porch, hungrily drinking in the warmth. Cozy, Dozy Napping House. My gracious sister-in-law has finally put down the ever-present sponge and retired to her couch. Relishing the silence, the breeze and bare feet, I restore calm to my eardrums and nervous system, after the overwhelm of overzealous DJ’s dangerous decibels at last night’s reception.

Geese fly by, honking their punctuation into my Sunday Write Time. Wind is cold again, still the bricks retain warmth given generously all day by our closest star... and it ain’t Justin Bieber!

One of the DJ’s brings in a special guest - starlet Gina Marie Zimmerman from Big Brother, a TV show I’ve never seen. The thirteen year old boys are hanging on her, literally hanging - on arms, shoulders, neck - as close as they dare to her chestal area. Right on schedule. 

The tween girls are so much taller, because the marathon of maturation processes favors them starting the hormonal roller-coaster earlier (ladies first), and because the current fashion statement is 5 inch platform heels. Mini skirts are back, a friend and I observe, as groups of three to six preeners parade past us on their way to the Powder Room. This is the leggiest party I’ve attended since the 1960’s or ’70’s.

Overall, Gabby’s friends are a bright and curious crowd. Everyone agrees, she did a marvelous job, and the celebration is a success. 

The obligatory Sunday brunch following any big affair is peopled by the same dozen or so characters. We have some unusually fun conversations, and get to know our nieces and the rest of the family better - through playing my fun-loving hubby's camp games, and during several cut-throat games of cards. 

If you don't like the way your family functions flow, what if you change the weather willfully, by posing ponderings - like, "If you could, where in the world would you like to live, what in the world would you like to change, and how would you do that, and what in the world would you like to have?" Hoping your musings are as enlightening, enlivening and entertaining as what we heard. 

Another way we changed the weather, was so simple. We disengaged from the usual small talk among adults at the table, and lay on the carpet to listen deeply to two wise women. One happens to be thirteen years old; the other is ten. In a few years, we'll be back to celebrate Rachel getting bat mitzvahed. We'll remember to bring our own weather.