Good Morning
When I say good morning I mean to say:
G-od
O-ffers us His
O-utstanding
D-evotion to
M-ake us
O-bedient &
R-eady for a
N-ew day with Him.
I-nspire others please, and
N-ever forget
G-od loves you!
If you like it send it to others. God will bless you for doing just that!!!
HAVE A BLESSED DAY!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Book Larnin'
Book Larnin'
by Thelly Reahm © Tidbits of Time
I've been going to *continuing education* all my life. My only regret is that I never kept track of the classes for credit. Thinking about three Grands in college triggered this memory I didn't think...way back...that it was important to have a degree so I dropped out of college to get married and begin my family. That’s what couples did after World War II ...we replenished the earth.
Now, in my age of maturity I think differently. In fact, by the time my children were in school I began to go to Junior College or Adult Education Classes to further my knowledge. Most things I took for *no credit* and I would not do it that way again. Some of it was my fear of not winning. I have always known more trivia about a subject and less about what was on the exam. I’m fun in a game of Trivial Pursuit ... but I seldom hold my own in a conversation, with the exception of Nutrition and Rehabilitation. Those two sujects I know like the back of my hand!
Nine years of Life Story Writing ... three years of Photography ... two years of Real Estate related courses in Finance, Law, Appraisal, etc. and a year of Design Crochet, learning to design patterns etc., and many other Journalism and Creative Writing classes, plus a course at UCLA on Contemporary Moral Issues. Aunt Wanda and I took Accounting together at San Diego City College at the time we helped run a plumbing business in the 50’s.
Plus two years of San Diego School of the Bible in addition to the credits I had from Biola way back in the 40’s. I have no credit for any of it.
However, I have the knowledge and that is important to me! I feel good about myself for having done it!
My grandmother and I used to sit on the front porch at night and look up at the stars and moon. I must have bombarded her with my curiosity questions because I can remember her putting her arm around my shoulders and saying "You’d best go to college…I think you might become an astronomer!" Of course that never happened, but my curiosity never stopped. I’ve mentioned before that I keep taking notes because I think people will ask questions later!
My personality pushes me to learn more and more, and as I age I see the benefits. It keeps me sharp and alert and interested in a variety of things. It gives me places to go. It gives me new friends who have like interests. And learning the computer, the world wide web and HTML programming at a late age has certainly given me a new interest in life. I love Cyberspace!
I’m curious about all the places we travel to. I read up on the country before we go and then take hundreds of pictures while I’m there. I also collect post cards of the area. Then I make great scrapbooks of our adventures when we return home, as well as typing up my travel journal for Tidbits of Time. I am preserving many things for the next generation!
I’ve also learned new crafts from time to time. I’ve painted ceramics, done macrame, textile painting on clothing and pillow slips, twined baskets of Torrey Pine Needles and coiled baskets out of rope, knit sweaters for all the Grands as they came into this world and crocheted afghans for everyone, as well as crocheting baby "Binkie Blankets" for Birth Choice (an alternative to abortion). When I was younger I made all of our clothing, even taking a Tailoring Class and making my suits and coats. My back doesn’t take sewing machine work any more, but I did do fine work in my time.
>From the time I was a child, I heard that "Idle hands are the devil’s
workshop" and "A rolling stone gathers no moss" along with "A stitch in time saves nine" When you’re taught productive thoughts like that at a young age, how can you possible waste your time? It makes book larnin' a lifetime pursuit!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I share my stories to encourage you, not to brag. They are not all perfect by any means, but they are written! That's the *main thing* as Stephen King says in his book "On Writing". We have to write every day.
It takes discipline to remain focused, and you may miss going to The Mall or *out to lunch* as often, but it's worth it to leave our memories as a roadmap for the next generation.
Write on,
Thelly
Thelly, the Storylady Cardiff by the Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Share at my Spiritual Retreat
Famous Quotes
by Thelly Reahm © Tidbits of Time
I've been going to *continuing education* all my life. My only regret is that I never kept track of the classes for credit. Thinking about three Grands in college triggered this memory I didn't think...way back...that it was important to have a degree so I dropped out of college to get married and begin my family. That’s what couples did after World War II ...we replenished the earth.
Now, in my age of maturity I think differently. In fact, by the time my children were in school I began to go to Junior College or Adult Education Classes to further my knowledge. Most things I took for *no credit* and I would not do it that way again. Some of it was my fear of not winning. I have always known more trivia about a subject and less about what was on the exam. I’m fun in a game of Trivial Pursuit ... but I seldom hold my own in a conversation, with the exception of Nutrition and Rehabilitation. Those two sujects I know like the back of my hand!
Nine years of Life Story Writing ... three years of Photography ... two years of Real Estate related courses in Finance, Law, Appraisal, etc. and a year of Design Crochet, learning to design patterns etc., and many other Journalism and Creative Writing classes, plus a course at UCLA on Contemporary Moral Issues. Aunt Wanda and I took Accounting together at San Diego City College at the time we helped run a plumbing business in the 50’s.
Plus two years of San Diego School of the Bible in addition to the credits I had from Biola way back in the 40’s. I have no credit for any of it.
However, I have the knowledge and that is important to me! I feel good about myself for having done it!
My grandmother and I used to sit on the front porch at night and look up at the stars and moon. I must have bombarded her with my curiosity questions because I can remember her putting her arm around my shoulders and saying "You’d best go to college…I think you might become an astronomer!" Of course that never happened, but my curiosity never stopped. I’ve mentioned before that I keep taking notes because I think people will ask questions later!
My personality pushes me to learn more and more, and as I age I see the benefits. It keeps me sharp and alert and interested in a variety of things. It gives me places to go. It gives me new friends who have like interests. And learning the computer, the world wide web and HTML programming at a late age has certainly given me a new interest in life. I love Cyberspace!
I’m curious about all the places we travel to. I read up on the country before we go and then take hundreds of pictures while I’m there. I also collect post cards of the area. Then I make great scrapbooks of our adventures when we return home, as well as typing up my travel journal for Tidbits of Time. I am preserving many things for the next generation!
I’ve also learned new crafts from time to time. I’ve painted ceramics, done macrame, textile painting on clothing and pillow slips, twined baskets of Torrey Pine Needles and coiled baskets out of rope, knit sweaters for all the Grands as they came into this world and crocheted afghans for everyone, as well as crocheting baby "Binkie Blankets" for Birth Choice (an alternative to abortion). When I was younger I made all of our clothing, even taking a Tailoring Class and making my suits and coats. My back doesn’t take sewing machine work any more, but I did do fine work in my time.
>From the time I was a child, I heard that "Idle hands are the devil’s
workshop" and "A rolling stone gathers no moss" along with "A stitch in time saves nine" When you’re taught productive thoughts like that at a young age, how can you possible waste your time? It makes book larnin' a lifetime pursuit!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I share my stories to encourage you, not to brag. They are not all perfect by any means, but they are written! That's the *main thing* as Stephen King says in his book "On Writing". We have to write every day.
It takes discipline to remain focused, and you may miss going to The Mall or *out to lunch* as often, but it's worth it to leave our memories as a roadmap for the next generation.
Write on,
Thelly
Thelly, the Storylady Cardiff by the Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Share at my Spiritual Retreat
Famous Quotes
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Roadmaps - Thelly Thoughts
Sent: Wednesday, December 27, 2006 11:53 PM
Subject: Roadmaps - Thelly Thoughts - (music midi - Starry
Night)
Night)
Thelly
Thoughts...Roadmaps
Thoughts...Roadmaps
The Bible is our richest resource to
help us raise children who will know and love Jesus. Nothing is more
essential than the Holy Scriptures to equip them for all of life's
challenges.
help us raise children who will know and love Jesus. Nothing is more
essential than the Holy Scriptures to equip them for all of life's
challenges.
What are you doing to make the next
generation "wise for salvation through faith"?
generation "wise for salvation through faith"?
Parents, give your children guidance
And instruction from God's
Word;
Word;
Then with wisdom and
compassion
compassion
Teach them how to love the Lord. -
Sper
Sper
The character of our children
tomorrow
tomorrow
depends on what we put into their hearts
today.
today.
excerpt from Our Daily Bread
Are you leaving a
roadmap?
roadmap?
Thelly, the Storylady, Cardiff by the Sea
For
a virtual visit go to http://www.lifestorywriting.net/
My
Blog Spot #1: http://cardiffstorylady.blogspot.com/
My
Blog Spot #2: http://storyladyincardiffbythesea.blogspot.com/
Join
the fun at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/life-story-writing/
To buy my book About Life Story Writing - http://lifestorywriting.net/aboutbok.htm
For
a virtual visit go to http://www.lifestorywriting.net/
My
Blog Spot #1: http://cardiffstorylady.blogspot.com/
My
Blog Spot #2: http://storyladyincardiffbythesea.blogspot.com/
Join
the fun at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/life-story-writing/
To buy my book About Life Story Writing - http://lifestorywriting.net/aboutbok.htm
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Chicken Recipes Edition of the Carnival of the Recipes
Chicken Recipes Edition of the Carnival of the Recipes
The Chicken Recipes Edition of the Carnival of the Recipes is hosted at Chicken Recipes this week by Thelly
Last week the Carnival was hosted at World Famous Recipes and can be found here: Recipes
The Chicken Recipes Edition of the Carnival of the Recipes is hosted at Chicken Recipes this week by Thelly
Last week the Carnival was hosted at World Famous Recipes and can be found here: Recipes
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Fourth Time by Thelly Reahm © Tidbits of Time
Fourth Time by Thelly Reahm © Tidbits of Time
1992
It was our regular winter trip to Arizona. We hadn't hit the front door before Christen was announcing her good news. We'd only been on the road seven and a half hours, so I was not really up to her excitement.
"Gramma...tomorrow I get my driver's permit...wanna come with us?"
I cringed inside. There were three generation's standing here in the entry hall. My daughter, my granddaughter and me. It made me feel old suddenly. Can Chrissy be old enough to drive already? It seemed just like yesterday that we were pushing her in a stroller. Where did the years go? We hugged our hello's, brought in our usual bags of goodies for the grandchildren and settled in.
All the conversation that evening was about defensive driving. Speed limits. Signals. Parking zones. All those questions from the Arizona DMV manual that Chrissy would have to answer tomorrow.
"Don't trust turn signals....ever....especially if you're planning a left turn. That person blinking at you may not turn at all....proceed with caution," Grampa said.
There were a lot of 'I remember when' stories about early driving days that made for a happy evening. Kathee groaned over her travails with our old Volkswagen Bug and it's four speeds forward and a really weird reverse gear position. She complimented Dick and me on our patience with her back then. I hadn't remembered being patient at all. That was the period in the '60's when I had three additional children to tend to. All I recalled was wanting driver ed to be over with. Fast. All this talk about old times caused me to flash back to La Jolla and when I got my drivers permit.
Of course there were no automatic transmissions back then, nor turning signals or freeways that would blow your mind on your first day out. I did most of my practice runs in a beat up beige 1934 Willys Knight, complete with a windshield that cranked open for ventilation. We drove on a seldom used street behind La Jolla High School where students worked on old hot rods in the Machine Shop. My brother was the one who practiced with me most of the time, as my Mother did not have the stomach for this kind of torture and my Dad worked late.
One day Leo suggested we drive up to the Muirlands. There was very little traffic in that area, but I will never forget my consternation when he told me to stop right in the middle of the road on a rather steep incline.
"Kill the engine and set your brake," he said.
I complied.
"Now start it up again, put it in gear, step on the gas, don't roll back and go on up the hill."
I was scared to death, but I did it....exactly. Well, except for the rolling back part.
"O.K. stop again, you rolled back too much," he said with his big superior brother attitude. I was glad to have him help me, but this was ridiculous.
I went through the routine again. Stop. Kill the engine. Set the break. Start up again. Don't roll back. This was really frightening.
"It's going to be on the driving test, so you'd better get it right now while you're not under pressure." Not under pressure? Guess again!
Stop. Kill the engine. Set the break. Start again. Don't roll back. I got it after eleven tries. After that many trial and error routines, you begin to get a feel for it. It becomes you and you never forget. More trivia I don't need now that both our cars have automatic transmissions.
Chrissy was still sleeping when I came in the house the next morning from the motorhome.
I saw Kathee go in to Christen's room as I came down the hallway.
"Chrissy Pie, wake up....wake up....we all over slept and there's only 20 minutes to get to the DMV," she said pulling back her covers.
"Oh, No!" Chrissy groaned, leaping out of bed and heading for the bathroom.
"Just kidding," Kathee said following her and hugging her, "I just wanted to tease you....lighten up!"
"Mom! How could you? I'm nervous enough as it is!" she did her fake pout which all of us call the phoney smile.
Gramma, Mom and Chrissy piled into their family mini-van and headed for the freeway and the DMV of Phoenix.
"Do I have my I.D.?" Chrissy asked for the third time.
"Yes, honey, don't be nervous....you're going to do just fine," her Mom said looking back over her shoulder. I wished she would keep her eyes on the road. I was beginning to get nervous myself....a trait that was carried down from one generation to the next....basically on the female side.
We parked and I let Kathee and Christen go on ahead so I could take a picture of them going in the door marked DMV. Then I followed them inside to the examination room. When Chrissy sat down to take the exam I poised the camera for another shot.
"Oh, Gramma!" Chrissy said looking like she wished I hadn't followed her in there.
"You know Gramma, I've gotta document everything on film for posterity!" I said. "This is the fourth generation of female automobile drivers in this family. My Mother's Mom had to conquer a horse and buggy!"
Kathee motioned for me to go to the outside waiting room until Chrissy got through this major ordeal of her life.
Later, as we left the foyer, they both looked as though she hadn't passed the exam. Either that, or they were both just really blase about the whole thing. Then Chrissy flipped out the piece of paper that proclaimed her as a learning driver and waved it at me as I took another picture of her leaving the building.
I flashed back again to a sunny afternoon in Pacific Beach. A dirt road that was extremely wide and seldom traveled. That day my brother was to teach me to park. I was prepared for a grueling session of 'do it again' or 'it's gonna be on the test' coming from him. I just gritted my teeth and started to practice. That seldom used dirt road is now busy Grand Avenue....all four lanes of it and as for parking or stopping on hills without rolling back, I am a super whiz.
"Gramma, ya wanna go with us to practice driving this afternoon?" Chrissy asked when we got home.
"No thanks, Sweetie, I don't think my nerves are up to it this time around. I'll just take a picture as you leave!"
I got out the camera and watched through the view finder as she climbed into the mini-van. I could feel the adrenalin start to course through my veins. This was as close to being in the car with another teenaged driver as I wanted to be!
More Tidbits of Time - More Life Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Famous Quotes
1992
It was our regular winter trip to Arizona. We hadn't hit the front door before Christen was announcing her good news. We'd only been on the road seven and a half hours, so I was not really up to her excitement.
"Gramma...tomorrow I get my driver's permit...wanna come with us?"
I cringed inside. There were three generation's standing here in the entry hall. My daughter, my granddaughter and me. It made me feel old suddenly. Can Chrissy be old enough to drive already? It seemed just like yesterday that we were pushing her in a stroller. Where did the years go? We hugged our hello's, brought in our usual bags of goodies for the grandchildren and settled in.
All the conversation that evening was about defensive driving. Speed limits. Signals. Parking zones. All those questions from the Arizona DMV manual that Chrissy would have to answer tomorrow.
"Don't trust turn signals....ever....especially if you're planning a left turn. That person blinking at you may not turn at all....proceed with caution," Grampa said.
There were a lot of 'I remember when' stories about early driving days that made for a happy evening. Kathee groaned over her travails with our old Volkswagen Bug and it's four speeds forward and a really weird reverse gear position. She complimented Dick and me on our patience with her back then. I hadn't remembered being patient at all. That was the period in the '60's when I had three additional children to tend to. All I recalled was wanting driver ed to be over with. Fast. All this talk about old times caused me to flash back to La Jolla and when I got my drivers permit.
Of course there were no automatic transmissions back then, nor turning signals or freeways that would blow your mind on your first day out. I did most of my practice runs in a beat up beige 1934 Willys Knight, complete with a windshield that cranked open for ventilation. We drove on a seldom used street behind La Jolla High School where students worked on old hot rods in the Machine Shop. My brother was the one who practiced with me most of the time, as my Mother did not have the stomach for this kind of torture and my Dad worked late.
One day Leo suggested we drive up to the Muirlands. There was very little traffic in that area, but I will never forget my consternation when he told me to stop right in the middle of the road on a rather steep incline.
"Kill the engine and set your brake," he said.
I complied.
"Now start it up again, put it in gear, step on the gas, don't roll back and go on up the hill."
I was scared to death, but I did it....exactly. Well, except for the rolling back part.
"O.K. stop again, you rolled back too much," he said with his big superior brother attitude. I was glad to have him help me, but this was ridiculous.
I went through the routine again. Stop. Kill the engine. Set the break. Start up again. Don't roll back. This was really frightening.
"It's going to be on the driving test, so you'd better get it right now while you're not under pressure." Not under pressure? Guess again!
Stop. Kill the engine. Set the break. Start again. Don't roll back. I got it after eleven tries. After that many trial and error routines, you begin to get a feel for it. It becomes you and you never forget. More trivia I don't need now that both our cars have automatic transmissions.
Chrissy was still sleeping when I came in the house the next morning from the motorhome.
I saw Kathee go in to Christen's room as I came down the hallway.
"Chrissy Pie, wake up....wake up....we all over slept and there's only 20 minutes to get to the DMV," she said pulling back her covers.
"Oh, No!" Chrissy groaned, leaping out of bed and heading for the bathroom.
"Just kidding," Kathee said following her and hugging her, "I just wanted to tease you....lighten up!"
"Mom! How could you? I'm nervous enough as it is!" she did her fake pout which all of us call the phoney smile.
Gramma, Mom and Chrissy piled into their family mini-van and headed for the freeway and the DMV of Phoenix.
"Do I have my I.D.?" Chrissy asked for the third time.
"Yes, honey, don't be nervous....you're going to do just fine," her Mom said looking back over her shoulder. I wished she would keep her eyes on the road. I was beginning to get nervous myself....a trait that was carried down from one generation to the next....basically on the female side.
We parked and I let Kathee and Christen go on ahead so I could take a picture of them going in the door marked DMV. Then I followed them inside to the examination room. When Chrissy sat down to take the exam I poised the camera for another shot.
"Oh, Gramma!" Chrissy said looking like she wished I hadn't followed her in there.
"You know Gramma, I've gotta document everything on film for posterity!" I said. "This is the fourth generation of female automobile drivers in this family. My Mother's Mom had to conquer a horse and buggy!"
Kathee motioned for me to go to the outside waiting room until Chrissy got through this major ordeal of her life.
Later, as we left the foyer, they both looked as though she hadn't passed the exam. Either that, or they were both just really blase about the whole thing. Then Chrissy flipped out the piece of paper that proclaimed her as a learning driver and waved it at me as I took another picture of her leaving the building.
I flashed back again to a sunny afternoon in Pacific Beach. A dirt road that was extremely wide and seldom traveled. That day my brother was to teach me to park. I was prepared for a grueling session of 'do it again' or 'it's gonna be on the test' coming from him. I just gritted my teeth and started to practice. That seldom used dirt road is now busy Grand Avenue....all four lanes of it and as for parking or stopping on hills without rolling back, I am a super whiz.
"Gramma, ya wanna go with us to practice driving this afternoon?" Chrissy asked when we got home.
"No thanks, Sweetie, I don't think my nerves are up to it this time around. I'll just take a picture as you leave!"
I got out the camera and watched through the view finder as she climbed into the mini-van. I could feel the adrenalin start to course through my veins. This was as close to being in the car with another teenaged driver as I wanted to be!
More Tidbits of Time - More Life Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Famous Quotes
Who Am I? by Thelly Reahm © Tidbits of Time
Who Am I? by Thelly Reahm © Tidbits of Time
1990
I am Thelma Lucille (Hyder, Gorden) Reahm
Physically:
From my drivers license age of sixteen until I was forty-five, my physical description remained the same. Female. White. 5'5". 120 pounds. Green eyes. Brown hair.
There were variations during those years for pregnancy, when my weight shot up to 135 and down as low as 105 after, but for the most part, I was size 7 or 8 depending on the designer.
Then menopause happened. Partially by hysterectomy in 1960. The remainder about 1970. My hair turned white (during the years that I was bleaching it blonde) and my waist thickened and I gradually lost height and gained weight. That was a double whammy....plus the fact that I am large boned anyway. I'm now size 12 to 14, and I exercise rigorously walking and waterobics to maintain my weight at 140.
Although my hair was brown, I have had a stint at being a redhead (during the early 60's) and a blonde (during the 70's). By age forty-five my hair was pretty well snow white.
Occupation:
I have lived the role of Girl, Wife, Mother, Writer, Optometric Assistant (San Diego City College 1959), Writer (I sold some short stories and a trashy novel during this hiatus). Copy Boy co-owner, Real Estate Entrepreneur, Gramma, Writer, Body and Soul leader (I wrote the Body and Soul Diet Book) Drug and Alcohol Facilitator, and Writer again (my life story period).
Writing seems to be my most favorite thing to do and the thing that I have enjoyed doing with my talents the most. From days with a shorthand notebook on my beach towel at the foot of Sea Lane in La Jolla to the fast track of computer word processor in my golden years at Summit House. Writing is the most rewarding and soul satisfying.
Writing is what I do best.
Gramma is what I am best!
I suppose that is part and parcel of being a parent first, but of all my vocations or avocations, I hold The Grands most dear. Maybe that is the child still in me....or they give me the excuse to relive my own childhood. I wish that I could have experienced the closeness, and the TIME with my own children that I have had during the summers at Summit House.
All I can do is thank my children for providing me with such treasures. You done good!
Spiritually:
I was raised Baptist for the most part at La Jolla Baptist Church on the corner of Genter and Draper Street. I was married there in 1947 (to Ben), my children were on the Nursery Roll and were dedicated to God there by Pastor Earl Reeves. I still belong to Forget-me-nots, a group of the girls from that church that I grew up with. We meet annually for lunch and reminiscing.
I had a brief time of membership at Christ Lutheran in Pacific Beach. At that time Quentin Garman was pastor. This is during the period that Ben 'dropped out' spiritually. Bruce was confirmed there and served as Altar Boy. Kathy sang in the youth choir.
In 1964 I 'dropped out' spiritually speaking, got a divorce and re-married. Dick and I spasmodically attended the Reformed Church in Clairemont where we were married. Within our first year of marriage, RCA transferred us to Hollywood Regional Office and we lived in Canoga Park. We 'dropped out' totally from attending church as a family at that time.
My spiritual awakening came in 1973 at Calvary Chapel, Costa Mesa. I had never stopped believing, but I had stopped living what I believed. I learned there that God loved me unconditionally and that the Holy Spirit was my healer, helper and comforter.
Since that time I have been living in sobriety a serene life in the midst of the same strife that life had presented me before. I had always thought that knowing Jesus kept you from perils. I have learned that He goes through the peril with you and brings you out the other side a saner more serene person than if he had protected you from it.
I am a facilitator of Overcomer's Outreach, a Christian 12-step group at Carlsbad Community Church, where Dick and I have been active members since 1986.
Characteristically:
My life has probably been close to the Boy Scout model of Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient and Cheerful (except for my delayed adolescent rebellion period in the '60's). I was an obedient, compliant, only child. My parents were also raising my half-brother who was eight years older than me. My Grandma Talbert lived with us, too. I lived in a household of adults and lived like a miniature adult. Children were to be seen and not heard in those days.
Because of that attitude, I read voraciously. I took piano lessons, and elocution lessons (learning to read poetry expressively). I was painfully shy until my teen years when I served as president of the youth group at La Jolla Baptist Church.
In boyfriends I looked most for a sense of humor and then for black hair and blue eyes. I didn't find all of these qualities in the same person. I came close a few times. That's about all you can ask when you're young.
Post Script:
I still love a good joke, I still love to read and most of all I lose myself in writing.
Up until 1991 I did not think I had any memories of my childhood, but due to the LIFE STORY WRITING CLASS and Mac Hartley, the teacher who taught me to write off the top of my head, I was able me to accomplish this project.
This book TIDBITS OF TIME proves that I was wrong once! I did have memories. And they were worth writing about. I will continue to add stories as the Lord recalls them to my mind, proving the old saying "Come grow old with me....the best is yet to be."
This is my best love gift to my family. Treasure it always, because you are all a part of it.
The story's changed somewhat over the years as older generations of the family tell it to newer ones. But somehow no one ever gets too tired to tell it, or too bored to listen.
More Tidbits of Time - More Life Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Chicken Recipes
1990
I am Thelma Lucille (Hyder, Gorden) Reahm
Physically:
From my drivers license age of sixteen until I was forty-five, my physical description remained the same. Female. White. 5'5". 120 pounds. Green eyes. Brown hair.
There were variations during those years for pregnancy, when my weight shot up to 135 and down as low as 105 after, but for the most part, I was size 7 or 8 depending on the designer.
Then menopause happened. Partially by hysterectomy in 1960. The remainder about 1970. My hair turned white (during the years that I was bleaching it blonde) and my waist thickened and I gradually lost height and gained weight. That was a double whammy....plus the fact that I am large boned anyway. I'm now size 12 to 14, and I exercise rigorously walking and waterobics to maintain my weight at 140.
Although my hair was brown, I have had a stint at being a redhead (during the early 60's) and a blonde (during the 70's). By age forty-five my hair was pretty well snow white.
Occupation:
I have lived the role of Girl, Wife, Mother, Writer, Optometric Assistant (San Diego City College 1959), Writer (I sold some short stories and a trashy novel during this hiatus). Copy Boy co-owner, Real Estate Entrepreneur, Gramma, Writer, Body and Soul leader (I wrote the Body and Soul Diet Book) Drug and Alcohol Facilitator, and Writer again (my life story period).
Writing seems to be my most favorite thing to do and the thing that I have enjoyed doing with my talents the most. From days with a shorthand notebook on my beach towel at the foot of Sea Lane in La Jolla to the fast track of computer word processor in my golden years at Summit House. Writing is the most rewarding and soul satisfying.
Writing is what I do best.
Gramma is what I am best!
I suppose that is part and parcel of being a parent first, but of all my vocations or avocations, I hold The Grands most dear. Maybe that is the child still in me....or they give me the excuse to relive my own childhood. I wish that I could have experienced the closeness, and the TIME with my own children that I have had during the summers at Summit House.
All I can do is thank my children for providing me with such treasures. You done good!
Spiritually:
I was raised Baptist for the most part at La Jolla Baptist Church on the corner of Genter and Draper Street. I was married there in 1947 (to Ben), my children were on the Nursery Roll and were dedicated to God there by Pastor Earl Reeves. I still belong to Forget-me-nots, a group of the girls from that church that I grew up with. We meet annually for lunch and reminiscing.
I had a brief time of membership at Christ Lutheran in Pacific Beach. At that time Quentin Garman was pastor. This is during the period that Ben 'dropped out' spiritually. Bruce was confirmed there and served as Altar Boy. Kathy sang in the youth choir.
In 1964 I 'dropped out' spiritually speaking, got a divorce and re-married. Dick and I spasmodically attended the Reformed Church in Clairemont where we were married. Within our first year of marriage, RCA transferred us to Hollywood Regional Office and we lived in Canoga Park. We 'dropped out' totally from attending church as a family at that time.
My spiritual awakening came in 1973 at Calvary Chapel, Costa Mesa. I had never stopped believing, but I had stopped living what I believed. I learned there that God loved me unconditionally and that the Holy Spirit was my healer, helper and comforter.
Since that time I have been living in sobriety a serene life in the midst of the same strife that life had presented me before. I had always thought that knowing Jesus kept you from perils. I have learned that He goes through the peril with you and brings you out the other side a saner more serene person than if he had protected you from it.
I am a facilitator of Overcomer's Outreach, a Christian 12-step group at Carlsbad Community Church, where Dick and I have been active members since 1986.
Characteristically:
My life has probably been close to the Boy Scout model of Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient and Cheerful (except for my delayed adolescent rebellion period in the '60's). I was an obedient, compliant, only child. My parents were also raising my half-brother who was eight years older than me. My Grandma Talbert lived with us, too. I lived in a household of adults and lived like a miniature adult. Children were to be seen and not heard in those days.
Because of that attitude, I read voraciously. I took piano lessons, and elocution lessons (learning to read poetry expressively). I was painfully shy until my teen years when I served as president of the youth group at La Jolla Baptist Church.
In boyfriends I looked most for a sense of humor and then for black hair and blue eyes. I didn't find all of these qualities in the same person. I came close a few times. That's about all you can ask when you're young.
Post Script:
I still love a good joke, I still love to read and most of all I lose myself in writing.
Up until 1991 I did not think I had any memories of my childhood, but due to the LIFE STORY WRITING CLASS and Mac Hartley, the teacher who taught me to write off the top of my head, I was able me to accomplish this project.
This book TIDBITS OF TIME proves that I was wrong once! I did have memories. And they were worth writing about. I will continue to add stories as the Lord recalls them to my mind, proving the old saying "Come grow old with me....the best is yet to be."
This is my best love gift to my family. Treasure it always, because you are all a part of it.
The story's changed somewhat over the years as older generations of the family tell it to newer ones. But somehow no one ever gets too tired to tell it, or too bored to listen.
More Tidbits of Time - More Life Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Chicken Recipes
Reflections, by Thelly Reahm, ©Tidbits of Time
Reflections, by Thelly Reahm, ©Tidbits of Time
1990
Part of the blessing of photography classes is that you forever look at pictures differently. Not just your own, but the photographs of others.
You ask yourself such questions as what time of day was this picture taken? What season of the year? What is the light source? Were they using a tele-photo lens? What F-stop were they using?
I will never forget the first time I saw a picture of the Princess Hotel on Lake Louise in Alberta, Canada. The reflection of the glacier was just magnificent. I remembered what the teacher said about focusing on the reflection rather than the thing reflected, for a sharper than normal image. I studied that picture long and hard and after much scrutiny knew that someday, some way I would be sitting beside that lake to make my imprint on the chemistry of film running through my camera.
At first I thought I would get to see that famous resort when we went to Expo-86, but three weeks wasn't long enough to cover the World's Fair, Vancouver Island's famed Victoria and also scoot across the miles to Alberta. It was not the resort itself or the village of Banff that drew me magnetically. It was that haunting reflection I had seen in camera class.
Finally, in 1990 we started off on this much awaited trip to Alberta, Canada.
We left from Phoenix, as we often do because of the need to go to Montara before leaving town for any length of time, and travelled North through Utah. Our first photo-rama was at The Grand Tetons. I sympathize with professional photographers who get to the site of their object of desire and the weather is not cooperating. It could take months to get those perfect pictures. I never did see the top of the Teton's because it was snowing so hard. Although we went back and camped at Jackson Hole to wait for the weather to change, it didn't so we headed on North.
We parallelled the Rockies on the East side up through Wyoming and Montana. They were magnificent. If I had known that the Rockies were going to look so wondrous in their snow drenched brilliance, I probably would have passed on the Tetons. They certainly made up for any disappointment I felt being snowed on in Jackson.
Yellowstone had been totaled by the fierce fires that had been allowed to burn out uncontrolled, so photography there was not of aspen groves dappled with spring leaves as I pictured in my minds eye, but stark mountains populated with black, grotesque monuments to the horror of pyrotechnics.
Motorhoming is peculiar, in that while drawing yellow tour lines on maps, the distance looks less than it actually is. Pretty soon you become jaded by all the mountains, trees, lakes, farms, and hamlets. Things have to be mighty spectacular for you to even stop the car and get out to photograph something.
Not so when you get to Banff. Glacier National Park totally surrounds you with beauty so spectacular it's hard to know where to point the camera.
When we got to Lake Louise the first thing we noticed from the parking lot was there was a lot of snow piled up here. Mounds of it. Also, mounds of building materials. The hotel was being remodeled! What a revolting development that was. Scaffolding was peaking over the green copper roofs and construction crews were everywhere.
Dick took charge of the Video equipment, while I was getting my
camera loaded for my moment of triumph at the lake. We arrived for the early morning reflections which are always best. I was cold and stopped to put on another pair of pants over the ones I had on. I really hadn't expected so much snow on the ground at the beginning of June, but what do native Californian's know about such things.
I started out on the path made by a snow plow toward the lake. This was the moment all those photography classes had been for...all those thousands of grueling miles in the Motorhome. Everything had led up to the moment of triumph when I would see that magnificent cerulean blue lake with the crystal reflection of the glacier. Not a ripple on the lake to disrupt the beauty of the early morning.
A few more feet and I would be there. I checked my camera. I had turned it on. I had tentatively set the f-stop for what I was pretty sure it would be. The adrenalin was pumping through my veins.
One more turn of the path and I would see that magnificent curve of lake surrounded by snow and the glacier, and the darling hotel nestled by the water.
I raised my camera in anticipation and adjusted the view finder. Somehow I couldn't adjust it to clear...all I could see was white. Was it malfunctioning now at my special moment in time?
I lowered the camera to see what was wrong. I looked out towards the lake, at least where it was supposed to be in relationship to the hotel, and there was nothing but snow.
"What's going on?" I said to Lake Louise...to anyone who would listen.
"I've seen people talking to their video camera," a lady said passing me on the path, "but that's the first time I've heard someone talk to a still camera."
"The lake is frozen...it's covered with snow!" I screamed. "I can't believe it...where's that wonderful blue I came to photograph?"
Dick caught up with me, the video poised for the first view of Lake Louise.
"Don't bother," I said, "the only reflection is in my head!"
It has been said that the original photograph is in the mind, what we take with camera's are only reprints.
Lake Louise was forever etched on the planes of my mind from a dream that almost became reality. Sometimes those reflections are the very best. The beauty of the lake was not dependent on film, f-stops or focusing. It hinged only on my memory of the dream and that picture I could carry with me always.
That's why they call amateur photoprapher's amateur I guess. I have loads of pictures in my mind, but I have more reprints of reality in my photograph albums. Cloud topped Tetons, burned out Yellowstone, and my now famous picture of frozen Lake Louise. That's what my memories are made of...reflections of life as it really is.
But I can still trip out on the perfect reflections in my head.
More Tidbits of Time - More Life Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Chicken Recipes
1990
Part of the blessing of photography classes is that you forever look at pictures differently. Not just your own, but the photographs of others.
You ask yourself such questions as what time of day was this picture taken? What season of the year? What is the light source? Were they using a tele-photo lens? What F-stop were they using?
I will never forget the first time I saw a picture of the Princess Hotel on Lake Louise in Alberta, Canada. The reflection of the glacier was just magnificent. I remembered what the teacher said about focusing on the reflection rather than the thing reflected, for a sharper than normal image. I studied that picture long and hard and after much scrutiny knew that someday, some way I would be sitting beside that lake to make my imprint on the chemistry of film running through my camera.
At first I thought I would get to see that famous resort when we went to Expo-86, but three weeks wasn't long enough to cover the World's Fair, Vancouver Island's famed Victoria and also scoot across the miles to Alberta. It was not the resort itself or the village of Banff that drew me magnetically. It was that haunting reflection I had seen in camera class.
Finally, in 1990 we started off on this much awaited trip to Alberta, Canada.
We left from Phoenix, as we often do because of the need to go to Montara before leaving town for any length of time, and travelled North through Utah. Our first photo-rama was at The Grand Tetons. I sympathize with professional photographers who get to the site of their object of desire and the weather is not cooperating. It could take months to get those perfect pictures. I never did see the top of the Teton's because it was snowing so hard. Although we went back and camped at Jackson Hole to wait for the weather to change, it didn't so we headed on North.
We parallelled the Rockies on the East side up through Wyoming and Montana. They were magnificent. If I had known that the Rockies were going to look so wondrous in their snow drenched brilliance, I probably would have passed on the Tetons. They certainly made up for any disappointment I felt being snowed on in Jackson.
Yellowstone had been totaled by the fierce fires that had been allowed to burn out uncontrolled, so photography there was not of aspen groves dappled with spring leaves as I pictured in my minds eye, but stark mountains populated with black, grotesque monuments to the horror of pyrotechnics.
Motorhoming is peculiar, in that while drawing yellow tour lines on maps, the distance looks less than it actually is. Pretty soon you become jaded by all the mountains, trees, lakes, farms, and hamlets. Things have to be mighty spectacular for you to even stop the car and get out to photograph something.
Not so when you get to Banff. Glacier National Park totally surrounds you with beauty so spectacular it's hard to know where to point the camera.
When we got to Lake Louise the first thing we noticed from the parking lot was there was a lot of snow piled up here. Mounds of it. Also, mounds of building materials. The hotel was being remodeled! What a revolting development that was. Scaffolding was peaking over the green copper roofs and construction crews were everywhere.
Dick took charge of the Video equipment, while I was getting my
camera loaded for my moment of triumph at the lake. We arrived for the early morning reflections which are always best. I was cold and stopped to put on another pair of pants over the ones I had on. I really hadn't expected so much snow on the ground at the beginning of June, but what do native Californian's know about such things.
I started out on the path made by a snow plow toward the lake. This was the moment all those photography classes had been for...all those thousands of grueling miles in the Motorhome. Everything had led up to the moment of triumph when I would see that magnificent cerulean blue lake with the crystal reflection of the glacier. Not a ripple on the lake to disrupt the beauty of the early morning.
A few more feet and I would be there. I checked my camera. I had turned it on. I had tentatively set the f-stop for what I was pretty sure it would be. The adrenalin was pumping through my veins.
One more turn of the path and I would see that magnificent curve of lake surrounded by snow and the glacier, and the darling hotel nestled by the water.
I raised my camera in anticipation and adjusted the view finder. Somehow I couldn't adjust it to clear...all I could see was white. Was it malfunctioning now at my special moment in time?
I lowered the camera to see what was wrong. I looked out towards the lake, at least where it was supposed to be in relationship to the hotel, and there was nothing but snow.
"What's going on?" I said to Lake Louise...to anyone who would listen.
"I've seen people talking to their video camera," a lady said passing me on the path, "but that's the first time I've heard someone talk to a still camera."
"The lake is frozen...it's covered with snow!" I screamed. "I can't believe it...where's that wonderful blue I came to photograph?"
Dick caught up with me, the video poised for the first view of Lake Louise.
"Don't bother," I said, "the only reflection is in my head!"
It has been said that the original photograph is in the mind, what we take with camera's are only reprints.
Lake Louise was forever etched on the planes of my mind from a dream that almost became reality. Sometimes those reflections are the very best. The beauty of the lake was not dependent on film, f-stops or focusing. It hinged only on my memory of the dream and that picture I could carry with me always.
That's why they call amateur photoprapher's amateur I guess. I have loads of pictures in my mind, but I have more reprints of reality in my photograph albums. Cloud topped Tetons, burned out Yellowstone, and my now famous picture of frozen Lake Louise. That's what my memories are made of...reflections of life as it really is.
But I can still trip out on the perfect reflections in my head.
More Tidbits of Time - More Life Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Chicken Recipes
Name-calling, by Thelly Reahm, © Tidbits of Time
Name-calling, by Thelly Reahm, © Tidbits of Time
1990
A Smelly Rose told of the origin on my name and some of the feelings that went along with it. What that story didn't tell was the amount of names I've had through the years.
Johnny: 1932 - 1944
Thelma: In school only
Heidi: By my mother, trying to get a nickname going besides Johnny
Posey: By a short-lived boy-girl relationship. He gave me a friendship bracelet with that name on it. Maybe he found the bracelet. I don't know.
Baby: By my first husband when he was happy with me.
Bucky: By my first husband when he was not happy with me. From a joke "Slip me a kiss, Bucky, I'm thirsty.
Mommy: By Bruce and Kathy
Mrs. G: By Dr. Malin, my first Optometry job.
Tilg: By Dr. Kuntz and later, Tiller. From my initials TLG and later he called me Tiller, from my new initials TLR, as I worked for him briefly after Dick and I were married.
Pee Wee-2: By Richie, who is Pee Wee-I. Meaning we are a small, PeeWee family now that all the children are grown and gone.
Gramma: By Christen, Krishell, Jon Mark, Clinton, Kelly and Kathy, and later by Linda's children, Jamie, John and Jeff.
Ann: Self inflicted by me during early A.A. days. I truly wanted anonymity I did not divulge my real name until I took my first birthday cake at the Ebell Club in Newport Beach.
Thelly: By Richie, and picked up by Body & Soul and Overcomer’s Groups and Seaside Church.
Great: When my first great-grandchild Taysia Ann arrived I said just call me 'Great'. She calls me Great-Reahm
More Tidbits of Time - More Life Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Chicken Recipes
1990
A Smelly Rose told of the origin on my name and some of the feelings that went along with it. What that story didn't tell was the amount of names I've had through the years.
Johnny: 1932 - 1944
Thelma: In school only
Heidi: By my mother, trying to get a nickname going besides Johnny
Posey: By a short-lived boy-girl relationship. He gave me a friendship bracelet with that name on it. Maybe he found the bracelet. I don't know.
Baby: By my first husband when he was happy with me.
Bucky: By my first husband when he was not happy with me. From a joke "Slip me a kiss, Bucky, I'm thirsty.
Mommy: By Bruce and Kathy
Mrs. G: By Dr. Malin, my first Optometry job.
Tilg: By Dr. Kuntz and later, Tiller. From my initials TLG and later he called me Tiller, from my new initials TLR, as I worked for him briefly after Dick and I were married.
Pee Wee-2: By Richie, who is Pee Wee-I. Meaning we are a small, PeeWee family now that all the children are grown and gone.
Gramma: By Christen, Krishell, Jon Mark, Clinton, Kelly and Kathy, and later by Linda's children, Jamie, John and Jeff.
Ann: Self inflicted by me during early A.A. days. I truly wanted anonymity I did not divulge my real name until I took my first birthday cake at the Ebell Club in Newport Beach.
Thelly: By Richie, and picked up by Body & Soul and Overcomer’s Groups and Seaside Church.
Great: When my first great-grandchild Taysia Ann arrived I said just call me 'Great'. She calls me Great-Reahm
More Tidbits of Time - More Life Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Chicken Recipes
the Grand Vocation, by Thelly Reahm, Tidbits of Time
the Grand Vocation, by Thelly Reahm, Tidbits of Time
1990
Not since Bess Truman have we had a First Lady of the land who did not look vaguely anorexic or was face-lifted to distraction. Barbara Bush is a refreshing breath of reality in the White House She lets you know it's o.k. to be white haired, pleasantly plump and wear fake choker pearls, and look like somebody's grandmother.
She believes strongly in the importance of grandchildren. She calls hers The Grands. I like that.
It's been said that grandchildren are a parents' second chance...when they have more time! Allotting the time is the secret. Good grandparenting takes time. It is an art in itself.
It includes such mundane things as babysitting to give your own child a break, but there are so many sublime opportunities to bond with that new generation of your genes that it can become a game to see all the nooks and crannies where 'the Grands' can be included in your life. It can mean mini vacations at your house. It could be camping trips to teach them about the great outdoors. You can be pen-pals if you live at a great distance, they love to get mail. Being creative about grandparenting is as simple a thing as opening your mind to the possibilities.
PHOTO FACTS
Through The Eye Of A Camera
When our first grandchild was born, I volunteered to be the official photographer. I took pictures of the Hospital marquee, the family waiting room, the labor room, the nursery window before the arrival and after. I'd have been in the delivery room too, if I'd been allowed. Some hospitals do encourage this. Some allow a camcorder to record the entire event. Personal preference of the new parents to be should be the guideline.
Later I prepared a special photograph album with all the pictures and details and comments of the day. This is the time when it's nice to include in the album a weather report and the front page headlines of the baby's birth day. I realize you can get all those things computerized nowadays, but it's more cost effective and personal to do them at the time. In fact you might want to incorporate news items from the towns of the other grandparents too.
SOUND EFFECTS
Get To Know Your Tape-Recorder
Before the baby's birth, I tape record water sounds. The washing machine, the dishwasher, turning on and off the kitchen faucet, a shower running. These sounds played back later to a fussy baby can lull them back to sleep. It's kind of a 'back to the womb' experience and will only work for the first few months, but anything is worth a try when you've tried everything else! Of course you want to be sure that the baby has been fed, changed and comforted before using this method, but when nothing else works, the water sounds will. $100.00 teddy bears with a similar recording in it's tummy are available at department stores, but again...not nearly as thoughtful or as personal. This is just another 'one of a kind' thing a grandparent can do.
DEDICATION
Baby's First Letter
Sometime during a new grandchild's first week of life, when the excitement is fresh and feelings are bubbling from your heart, it's a good time to write the baby' first letter from you. I start my letters out with a description of what we were doing the day they came into this world. Then, like it is something to enclose in a time capsule, I enter facts about what World is like at this time. I tell the price of gasoline, what music is popular, the Oscar-winning movie of that year, who is President of our country and what clothing fads are popular.
Then I tell the child of our beliefs and explain that Christianity is not something that is handed down from generation to generation but that it is a personal belief...a relationship with Jesus Christ. I tell them that they have been prayed for and loved all their life and that we have tried to be role models. Now the choices are up to them.
This letter is to be opened on their 12th birthday. We have already celebrated two such "Openings" and I can't express the joy we feel inside when these children assure us of their love for us and the Lord, and thank us for thinking ahead and writing 'the letter'.
TUCK INS
When You Can't Be There
Goodnight stories from a loving grandparent are especially nice if you live at a distance. I recorded the entire Mother Goose book for my first grandchild. Example:
"Hi Chrissy. It's Gramma. I just came to tell you a goodnight story. Lay your head down on the pillow and listen quietly: (read a verse or two from Mother Goose)".
"Goodnight, Sweetie. Sleep tight. Gramma loves you. (Another option would be to end the session with a goodnight kiss and a child's prayer)".
Vary the script for each night of the week, so you don't sound stale or repetitious.
ABC RHYMES
Re-cycled Christmas Cards
Their first Christmas is a nice time to present a scrapbook of ABC's. You'll have to plan ahead for this one. Save your Christmas cards each year. Cut the front pictures off and discard the back. Then sort through them and find a suitable picture or design for each of the Alphabet verses (see Appendix A:)
The parent can establish a tradition of reading their Christmas ABC book each year. They will be the only child in their neighborhood with such a special book personalized with their grandparents greeting cards. It's environmentally smart to re-cycle, too.
WISH BOOK
Their Own Toy Catalog
As they grow, and become interested in toy catalogs, I tear out a children's toy section of the Sears or Penney's catalogs and make a construction paper cover with their name on it. You can name it something cute and special for that particular child, or just personalize it with a wide felt-tipped pen. Because we have ten grandchildren (and 13 Greats) and we shop after-Christmas sales in January for the following holiday, I always tell them in advance that Gramma has already done her shopping, so there are no great expectations from me. It does let the parents know what the child wants, and since 'wanting' a thing is part of the pure joy of receiving, it seems to stretch the enjoyment of Christmas.
OPEN HOUSE
The Grand Time of Year
All the grands know that August is the time to visit us. The weather is the best at the beach this time of year, and we don't choose to go on trips during the summer.
We postpone household projects and plan the month as 'play-time'. We keep 'cross-over' visits with other cousins to a minimum...enough time to bond with each other, but not long enough for chaos. Last summer was an exception due to a mix-up and we had all nine grands at once. Great for pictures which we cherish, but bad for Gramma, the chief cook and bottle washer. Bath time was totally un-real! The washer and dryer and dishwasher were on constantly. We don't recommend this as a regular thing.
DRESSING UP
Thrift Shop Style
Rather than discarding out of style clothing, I save some of it in a special box for "dress rehearsals'. All children love to dress up. If you don't have discards of your own, a trip to the Thrift Shop will be productive. Included in the 'prop box' are wigs, junk jewelry, old hats and high heeled shoes from the days I could still wear them! I take it a step or two further with the aid of electronics. We do a pretend play. They choose the setting, possibly from something they've seen on TV or read in a book. They practice it with their brother's, sister's or cousins and then when they are ready, Gramma appears with the Camcorder to record it for posterity.
One summer, two cousins were here from Arizona at the same time as the California cousins. It wasn't long before they had cooked up the idea of a 'blind date'. I decorated the kitchen table with placemats, and flowers, and they provided the imagination. It was especially hilarious since the boy cousins from each family were about three years younger than the girls. After their initial apprehension about 'dating' they caught on quickly and played along actually coming up with quite interesting dialogue. That time, I hid a tape recorder on the table, as well as doing the video, so each cousin got a copy of the tape to take home with them.
CRAFTS
Homemade Creativity
In our yard we have two gorgeous Torrey Pine trees. They are an endangered species that grow only two places in the world. I thought there must be something I could do with all the pine needles, and sure enough the local college offered a class in coiling Torrey Pine Needle Baskets. I took a couple of semesters and re-cycled all those falling needles into a craft. It wasn't long before The Grands became interested too. Most were too young to do the coiling, but they all got into helping to gather the healthiest five prong needles into the basket box. The collector's could range in age from two to ten...it didn't matter...it was a family project, and you could hear their voices all over the hillside "That ones too short!" "Lay it this way...don't just throw it in the box", "That's ones broken!" "Too short!" "Too long!". They had a job now at Gramma's, house and each time they came they asked if I needed more pine needles. It wasn't long before they wanted to help 'cook them' in the glycerine water to soften their shafts. Then we learned to dye them from onion leaves and beets. We dyed raffia too. Soon, the coiling lessons began, and simple hot plate mats were made. It won't be long before another generation will have learned Torrey Pines basketmaking from nuisance needles that kept falling on the circular drive. Children do what you do. It's still the same as with their parents generation.
I also enjoy crocheting. The girl-grands have taken to that craft very naturally, first crocheting with their fingers, and then with a hook, using up odds and ends of yarn leftover from sweaters I have made for them. Granny Squares are especially good projects for assorted and sundry colors because they take such small bits of yarn.. They like helping me with things I make for the church bazaar. Last Christmas one granddaughter made pot holders for their own craft sale. When they see you enjoy the crafts you're doing, they want to get in on the fun!
Since we live at the beach, collecting sea shells is a natural and visiting the tide pools is fun. Wherever you live, there is something special about that place to pique a child's interest. Even if it's bug-collecting. Let them hammer nails into jar lids to make air holes for a collection of critters to take home. You'd be surprised at how many parent's don't have the time today to explore these interests with your grandchildren. It's up to you to teach them the fun stuff! It's an old, old saying, but the best things in life are still free!
THE GRAND WALL
Who Do We Look Like?
We've all heard about the Great Wall of China and that it's the only manmade thing that can be seen from outer space, but did you know the unseen benefits of a Grand Wall to the inner space of a child? We have one wall in the house that is devoted to candid pictures of all The Grands. I did not realize how important it was until one of The Grands told me that her other grandparents didn't love her. When I asked her how she knew this her answer was "They don't have any pictures of me at their house." From then on I probably over did it with little framed pictures of them all over the house. I even have a handbag that has picture pockets all over the outside. It's called a Brag Bag. In case nobody asks to see pictures of your grandchildren, your purse says it all, a walking billboard of cute little faces. Self esteem soars when the grandchildren feel you care enough to show them off to your friends at all times. See Appendix B.
When I see The Grands pictures it is always a reminder for me to pray for them wherever they are. Each morning I surround them with prayer as they go off to sitters, nurseries or school. The enemy is everywhere and I count my opportunities of prayer a privilege.
READING
Turn The TV Off
We encourage reading in every way we can. We read to the Grands each night before we tuck them in bed and hear their prayers. We visit the library and choose some suitable books for them. We read the Bible in front of them as we have quiet time each morning. They want to hear "Thoughts for the Day" or "Daily Bread" because we read these on a regular basis. They always want to do what we do!
As they learn to read in school, we tape record them, so they can hear themselves read a book. They love it. It is especially nice when we can compare their improvement to last years tape. You should hear the and giggles over mistakes they made last year. "Remember when I couldn't even say spaghetti?" It can be fun when they know they are improving all the time.
JOURNALING
The Art Of Real Communication
As the children grow and learn to read and write, the fun begins. We encourage them to write down all their feelings at the end of the day. What we did...what we ate...how we inter-acted as an extended family. I happen to be in an on-going class at Adult-Ed called WRITING THE STORIES OF YOUR LIFE. I read to them from this book of memories about their parents, our child-hoods, the great depression, World War II. It encourages them to write their own memories. Plus it gives them a record of their summer vacations with us from year to year.
PHOTOGRAPH ALBUMS
The Going Home Gift
I allot one roll of film to each visiting grandchild. We try to record field trips, visits to the Zoo, beach or amusement parks. Nothing is too trivial to record if the child is having fun doing it. At the end of their visit, we make a little trip to the store and purchase an inexpensive album in which to place the pictures of their summer vacation at the Grandparent's. That's what memories are made of!
TIME WELL SPENT
The Best Kind Of Tired You Can Be
Perhaps you're exhausted just reading all this. Grandparenting can be a big job, but it also helps you to relive your childhood and that special time when these children's parents were entrusted to you. A chance to see the similarities...the differences. What rewards! There's nothing more wonderful than hearing a small voice in the night saying "Gramma, this is the most fun I've had in my whole life!" and all we're doing is sleeping out in our motorhome in our own back yard.!
Between writing to them each month, remembering birthdays, Valentines Day, Easter and Christmas, the hours do add up. There's so much wonder to pass on to the next generation, that we just get caught up in the pure pleasure of it all. It's work, it's play, it's tiring and it's fun. It's the best kind of tired you can be.
We try to make our gift giving of a spiritual or educational nature and now that some of the children are old enough, we provide the funds to send them to the church camp of their choice, as well as coming to our home for a visit. What better way to show love to their parents than to give love to their children.
We make every effort not to cross over the boundaries set by their parents and not to spoil them rotten. But to love with an unconditional love, so that they know they are special in the eyes of their grandparents and that we have time for them. That they are as special to us as their parents were.
In a day when it seems to be more fashionable for grandparents to be globe-trotting or snow-birding for their own pleasure, we know that in the light of eternity it is the best choice to be the best grandparents we can be.
There's a good role model in the White House. And at our house. How about at your house?
More Tidbits of Time - More Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Chicken Recipes
1990
Not since Bess Truman have we had a First Lady of the land who did not look vaguely anorexic or was face-lifted to distraction. Barbara Bush is a refreshing breath of reality in the White House She lets you know it's o.k. to be white haired, pleasantly plump and wear fake choker pearls, and look like somebody's grandmother.
She believes strongly in the importance of grandchildren. She calls hers The Grands. I like that.
It's been said that grandchildren are a parents' second chance...when they have more time! Allotting the time is the secret. Good grandparenting takes time. It is an art in itself.
It includes such mundane things as babysitting to give your own child a break, but there are so many sublime opportunities to bond with that new generation of your genes that it can become a game to see all the nooks and crannies where 'the Grands' can be included in your life. It can mean mini vacations at your house. It could be camping trips to teach them about the great outdoors. You can be pen-pals if you live at a great distance, they love to get mail. Being creative about grandparenting is as simple a thing as opening your mind to the possibilities.
PHOTO FACTS
Through The Eye Of A Camera
When our first grandchild was born, I volunteered to be the official photographer. I took pictures of the Hospital marquee, the family waiting room, the labor room, the nursery window before the arrival and after. I'd have been in the delivery room too, if I'd been allowed. Some hospitals do encourage this. Some allow a camcorder to record the entire event. Personal preference of the new parents to be should be the guideline.
Later I prepared a special photograph album with all the pictures and details and comments of the day. This is the time when it's nice to include in the album a weather report and the front page headlines of the baby's birth day. I realize you can get all those things computerized nowadays, but it's more cost effective and personal to do them at the time. In fact you might want to incorporate news items from the towns of the other grandparents too.
SOUND EFFECTS
Get To Know Your Tape-Recorder
Before the baby's birth, I tape record water sounds. The washing machine, the dishwasher, turning on and off the kitchen faucet, a shower running. These sounds played back later to a fussy baby can lull them back to sleep. It's kind of a 'back to the womb' experience and will only work for the first few months, but anything is worth a try when you've tried everything else! Of course you want to be sure that the baby has been fed, changed and comforted before using this method, but when nothing else works, the water sounds will. $100.00 teddy bears with a similar recording in it's tummy are available at department stores, but again...not nearly as thoughtful or as personal. This is just another 'one of a kind' thing a grandparent can do.
DEDICATION
Baby's First Letter
Sometime during a new grandchild's first week of life, when the excitement is fresh and feelings are bubbling from your heart, it's a good time to write the baby' first letter from you. I start my letters out with a description of what we were doing the day they came into this world. Then, like it is something to enclose in a time capsule, I enter facts about what World is like at this time. I tell the price of gasoline, what music is popular, the Oscar-winning movie of that year, who is President of our country and what clothing fads are popular.
Then I tell the child of our beliefs and explain that Christianity is not something that is handed down from generation to generation but that it is a personal belief...a relationship with Jesus Christ. I tell them that they have been prayed for and loved all their life and that we have tried to be role models. Now the choices are up to them.
This letter is to be opened on their 12th birthday. We have already celebrated two such "Openings" and I can't express the joy we feel inside when these children assure us of their love for us and the Lord, and thank us for thinking ahead and writing 'the letter'.
TUCK INS
When You Can't Be There
Goodnight stories from a loving grandparent are especially nice if you live at a distance. I recorded the entire Mother Goose book for my first grandchild. Example:
"Hi Chrissy. It's Gramma. I just came to tell you a goodnight story. Lay your head down on the pillow and listen quietly: (read a verse or two from Mother Goose)".
"Goodnight, Sweetie. Sleep tight. Gramma loves you. (Another option would be to end the session with a goodnight kiss and a child's prayer)".
Vary the script for each night of the week, so you don't sound stale or repetitious.
ABC RHYMES
Re-cycled Christmas Cards
Their first Christmas is a nice time to present a scrapbook of ABC's. You'll have to plan ahead for this one. Save your Christmas cards each year. Cut the front pictures off and discard the back. Then sort through them and find a suitable picture or design for each of the Alphabet verses (see Appendix A:)
The parent can establish a tradition of reading their Christmas ABC book each year. They will be the only child in their neighborhood with such a special book personalized with their grandparents greeting cards. It's environmentally smart to re-cycle, too.
WISH BOOK
Their Own Toy Catalog
As they grow, and become interested in toy catalogs, I tear out a children's toy section of the Sears or Penney's catalogs and make a construction paper cover with their name on it. You can name it something cute and special for that particular child, or just personalize it with a wide felt-tipped pen. Because we have ten grandchildren (and 13 Greats) and we shop after-Christmas sales in January for the following holiday, I always tell them in advance that Gramma has already done her shopping, so there are no great expectations from me. It does let the parents know what the child wants, and since 'wanting' a thing is part of the pure joy of receiving, it seems to stretch the enjoyment of Christmas.
OPEN HOUSE
The Grand Time of Year
All the grands know that August is the time to visit us. The weather is the best at the beach this time of year, and we don't choose to go on trips during the summer.
We postpone household projects and plan the month as 'play-time'. We keep 'cross-over' visits with other cousins to a minimum...enough time to bond with each other, but not long enough for chaos. Last summer was an exception due to a mix-up and we had all nine grands at once. Great for pictures which we cherish, but bad for Gramma, the chief cook and bottle washer. Bath time was totally un-real! The washer and dryer and dishwasher were on constantly. We don't recommend this as a regular thing.
DRESSING UP
Thrift Shop Style
Rather than discarding out of style clothing, I save some of it in a special box for "dress rehearsals'. All children love to dress up. If you don't have discards of your own, a trip to the Thrift Shop will be productive. Included in the 'prop box' are wigs, junk jewelry, old hats and high heeled shoes from the days I could still wear them! I take it a step or two further with the aid of electronics. We do a pretend play. They choose the setting, possibly from something they've seen on TV or read in a book. They practice it with their brother's, sister's or cousins and then when they are ready, Gramma appears with the Camcorder to record it for posterity.
One summer, two cousins were here from Arizona at the same time as the California cousins. It wasn't long before they had cooked up the idea of a 'blind date'. I decorated the kitchen table with placemats, and flowers, and they provided the imagination. It was especially hilarious since the boy cousins from each family were about three years younger than the girls. After their initial apprehension about 'dating' they caught on quickly and played along actually coming up with quite interesting dialogue. That time, I hid a tape recorder on the table, as well as doing the video, so each cousin got a copy of the tape to take home with them.
CRAFTS
Homemade Creativity
In our yard we have two gorgeous Torrey Pine trees. They are an endangered species that grow only two places in the world. I thought there must be something I could do with all the pine needles, and sure enough the local college offered a class in coiling Torrey Pine Needle Baskets. I took a couple of semesters and re-cycled all those falling needles into a craft. It wasn't long before The Grands became interested too. Most were too young to do the coiling, but they all got into helping to gather the healthiest five prong needles into the basket box. The collector's could range in age from two to ten...it didn't matter...it was a family project, and you could hear their voices all over the hillside "That ones too short!" "Lay it this way...don't just throw it in the box", "That's ones broken!" "Too short!" "Too long!". They had a job now at Gramma's, house and each time they came they asked if I needed more pine needles. It wasn't long before they wanted to help 'cook them' in the glycerine water to soften their shafts. Then we learned to dye them from onion leaves and beets. We dyed raffia too. Soon, the coiling lessons began, and simple hot plate mats were made. It won't be long before another generation will have learned Torrey Pines basketmaking from nuisance needles that kept falling on the circular drive. Children do what you do. It's still the same as with their parents generation.
I also enjoy crocheting. The girl-grands have taken to that craft very naturally, first crocheting with their fingers, and then with a hook, using up odds and ends of yarn leftover from sweaters I have made for them. Granny Squares are especially good projects for assorted and sundry colors because they take such small bits of yarn.. They like helping me with things I make for the church bazaar. Last Christmas one granddaughter made pot holders for their own craft sale. When they see you enjoy the crafts you're doing, they want to get in on the fun!
Since we live at the beach, collecting sea shells is a natural and visiting the tide pools is fun. Wherever you live, there is something special about that place to pique a child's interest. Even if it's bug-collecting. Let them hammer nails into jar lids to make air holes for a collection of critters to take home. You'd be surprised at how many parent's don't have the time today to explore these interests with your grandchildren. It's up to you to teach them the fun stuff! It's an old, old saying, but the best things in life are still free!
THE GRAND WALL
Who Do We Look Like?
We've all heard about the Great Wall of China and that it's the only manmade thing that can be seen from outer space, but did you know the unseen benefits of a Grand Wall to the inner space of a child? We have one wall in the house that is devoted to candid pictures of all The Grands. I did not realize how important it was until one of The Grands told me that her other grandparents didn't love her. When I asked her how she knew this her answer was "They don't have any pictures of me at their house." From then on I probably over did it with little framed pictures of them all over the house. I even have a handbag that has picture pockets all over the outside. It's called a Brag Bag. In case nobody asks to see pictures of your grandchildren, your purse says it all, a walking billboard of cute little faces. Self esteem soars when the grandchildren feel you care enough to show them off to your friends at all times. See Appendix B.
When I see The Grands pictures it is always a reminder for me to pray for them wherever they are. Each morning I surround them with prayer as they go off to sitters, nurseries or school. The enemy is everywhere and I count my opportunities of prayer a privilege.
READING
Turn The TV Off
We encourage reading in every way we can. We read to the Grands each night before we tuck them in bed and hear their prayers. We visit the library and choose some suitable books for them. We read the Bible in front of them as we have quiet time each morning. They want to hear "Thoughts for the Day" or "Daily Bread" because we read these on a regular basis. They always want to do what we do!
As they learn to read in school, we tape record them, so they can hear themselves read a book. They love it. It is especially nice when we can compare their improvement to last years tape. You should hear the and giggles over mistakes they made last year. "Remember when I couldn't even say spaghetti?" It can be fun when they know they are improving all the time.
JOURNALING
The Art Of Real Communication
As the children grow and learn to read and write, the fun begins. We encourage them to write down all their feelings at the end of the day. What we did...what we ate...how we inter-acted as an extended family. I happen to be in an on-going class at Adult-Ed called WRITING THE STORIES OF YOUR LIFE. I read to them from this book of memories about their parents, our child-hoods, the great depression, World War II. It encourages them to write their own memories. Plus it gives them a record of their summer vacations with us from year to year.
PHOTOGRAPH ALBUMS
The Going Home Gift
I allot one roll of film to each visiting grandchild. We try to record field trips, visits to the Zoo, beach or amusement parks. Nothing is too trivial to record if the child is having fun doing it. At the end of their visit, we make a little trip to the store and purchase an inexpensive album in which to place the pictures of their summer vacation at the Grandparent's. That's what memories are made of!
TIME WELL SPENT
The Best Kind Of Tired You Can Be
Perhaps you're exhausted just reading all this. Grandparenting can be a big job, but it also helps you to relive your childhood and that special time when these children's parents were entrusted to you. A chance to see the similarities...the differences. What rewards! There's nothing more wonderful than hearing a small voice in the night saying "Gramma, this is the most fun I've had in my whole life!" and all we're doing is sleeping out in our motorhome in our own back yard.!
Between writing to them each month, remembering birthdays, Valentines Day, Easter and Christmas, the hours do add up. There's so much wonder to pass on to the next generation, that we just get caught up in the pure pleasure of it all. It's work, it's play, it's tiring and it's fun. It's the best kind of tired you can be.
We try to make our gift giving of a spiritual or educational nature and now that some of the children are old enough, we provide the funds to send them to the church camp of their choice, as well as coming to our home for a visit. What better way to show love to their parents than to give love to their children.
We make every effort not to cross over the boundaries set by their parents and not to spoil them rotten. But to love with an unconditional love, so that they know they are special in the eyes of their grandparents and that we have time for them. That they are as special to us as their parents were.
In a day when it seems to be more fashionable for grandparents to be globe-trotting or snow-birding for their own pleasure, we know that in the light of eternity it is the best choice to be the best grandparents we can be.
There's a good role model in the White House. And at our house. How about at your house?
More Tidbits of Time - More Stories
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Chicken Recipes
More Tidbits of Time - Book Larnin'
Book Larnin'
Book Larnin'
by Thelly Reahm, Tidbits of Time
1990
I've been going to *continuing education* all of my adult life. My only regret is that I never kept track of the classes for credit.
Just thinking about three Grands in college triggered this memory and with it my pride in them.
I didn't think...way back...that it was important to have a degree so I dropped out of college to get married and begin my family. That's what couples did after World War II…we replenished the earth.
Now, in my age of maturity I think differently. In fact, by the time my children were in school I began to go to Junior College or Adult Education Classes to further my knowledge.
Most things I took for *no credit* and I would not do it that way again. Some of it was my fear of not winning. I have always known more trivia about a subject and less about what was on the exam. I'm fun in a game of Trivial Pursuit…but I seldom hold my own in a conversation, with the exception of the Bible, Nutrition and 12 Step Recovery,and Lifestory Writing. Those three subjects I know like the tip of my own turned up nose!
Nine years of Life Story Writing...three years of Photography...two years of Real Estate related courses in Finance, Law, Appraisal, etc. and a year of Design Crochet, learning to design patterns and every intricate stitch that was ever conceived. I took every Journalism and Creative Writing class offered, plus a course at UCLA on Contemporary Moral Issues. Aunt Wanda and I took Accounting together at San Diego City College at the time we helped run a plumbing business in the 50's. Plus two years of San Diego School of the Bible in addition to the credits I
had from Biola way back in the 40's.
I have no credit for any of it, except that I know it's all in my noggin'.
I have the knowledge and that is important to me! I feel good about myself for having done it!
My grandmother and I used to sit on the front porch at night and look up at the stars and moon. I must have bombarded her with my curiosity questions because I can remember her putting her arm around my shoulders and saying "You'd best go to college…I think you might become an astronomer!" Of course that never happened, but my curiosity never stopped. I've mentioned before that I keep taking notes because I think people will ask questions later!
My personality pushes me to learn more and more, and as I age I see the benefits. It keeps me sharp and alert and interested in a variety of things. It gives me places to go. It gives me new friends who have like interests. And learning the computer, the world wide web and HTML programming at a late age has certainly given me a new interest in life. I love Cyberspace!
I'm curious about all the places we travel to. I read up on the country before we go and then take hundreds of pictures while I'm there. I also collect post cards of the area. Then I make great scrapbooks of our adventures when we return home, as well as typing up my travel journal for Tidbits of Time. I am preserving many things for the next Millenium...I'm leaving a roadmap!
I've also learned new crafts from time to time. I've painted ceramics, done macrame, textile painting on clothing and pillow slips, twined baskets of Torrey Pine Needles and coiled baskets out of rope, knit sweaters for all the Grands as they came into this world and crocheted afghans for everyone, as well as crocheting baby "Binkie Blankets" for Birth Choice (an alternative to abortion)and made Chemo Caps for Cancer patients at Scripps. When I was younger I made all of our clothing, even taking a Tailoring Class and making my suits and coats. My back doesn't take sewing machine work any more, but I did do fine work in my time.
From the time I was a child, I heard the age old proverbs that "Idle hands are the devil's workshop" and "A rolling stone gathers no moss" along with "A stitch in time saves nine" When you're taught productive thoughts like that at a young age, how can you possible waste your time? It makes book larnin' a lifetime pursuit!
More Tidbits of Time - More Stories and Chicken Recipes
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Book Larnin'
by Thelly Reahm, Tidbits of Time
1990
I've been going to *continuing education* all of my adult life. My only regret is that I never kept track of the classes for credit.
Just thinking about three Grands in college triggered this memory and with it my pride in them.
I didn't think...way back...that it was important to have a degree so I dropped out of college to get married and begin my family. That's what couples did after World War II…we replenished the earth.
Now, in my age of maturity I think differently. In fact, by the time my children were in school I began to go to Junior College or Adult Education Classes to further my knowledge.
Most things I took for *no credit* and I would not do it that way again. Some of it was my fear of not winning. I have always known more trivia about a subject and less about what was on the exam. I'm fun in a game of Trivial Pursuit…but I seldom hold my own in a conversation, with the exception of the Bible, Nutrition and 12 Step Recovery,and Lifestory Writing. Those three subjects I know like the tip of my own turned up nose!
Nine years of Life Story Writing...three years of Photography...two years of Real Estate related courses in Finance, Law, Appraisal, etc. and a year of Design Crochet, learning to design patterns and every intricate stitch that was ever conceived. I took every Journalism and Creative Writing class offered, plus a course at UCLA on Contemporary Moral Issues. Aunt Wanda and I took Accounting together at San Diego City College at the time we helped run a plumbing business in the 50's. Plus two years of San Diego School of the Bible in addition to the credits I
had from Biola way back in the 40's.
I have no credit for any of it, except that I know it's all in my noggin'.
I have the knowledge and that is important to me! I feel good about myself for having done it!
My grandmother and I used to sit on the front porch at night and look up at the stars and moon. I must have bombarded her with my curiosity questions because I can remember her putting her arm around my shoulders and saying "You'd best go to college…I think you might become an astronomer!" Of course that never happened, but my curiosity never stopped. I've mentioned before that I keep taking notes because I think people will ask questions later!
My personality pushes me to learn more and more, and as I age I see the benefits. It keeps me sharp and alert and interested in a variety of things. It gives me places to go. It gives me new friends who have like interests. And learning the computer, the world wide web and HTML programming at a late age has certainly given me a new interest in life. I love Cyberspace!
I'm curious about all the places we travel to. I read up on the country before we go and then take hundreds of pictures while I'm there. I also collect post cards of the area. Then I make great scrapbooks of our adventures when we return home, as well as typing up my travel journal for Tidbits of Time. I am preserving many things for the next Millenium...I'm leaving a roadmap!
I've also learned new crafts from time to time. I've painted ceramics, done macrame, textile painting on clothing and pillow slips, twined baskets of Torrey Pine Needles and coiled baskets out of rope, knit sweaters for all the Grands as they came into this world and crocheted afghans for everyone, as well as crocheting baby "Binkie Blankets" for Birth Choice (an alternative to abortion)and made Chemo Caps for Cancer patients at Scripps. When I was younger I made all of our clothing, even taking a Tailoring Class and making my suits and coats. My back doesn't take sewing machine work any more, but I did do fine work in my time.
From the time I was a child, I heard the age old proverbs that "Idle hands are the devil's workshop" and "A rolling stone gathers no moss" along with "A stitch in time saves nine" When you're taught productive thoughts like that at a young age, how can you possible waste your time? It makes book larnin' a lifetime pursuit!
More Tidbits of Time - More Stories and Chicken Recipes
Story Lady in Cardiff By The Sea
Cardiff Story Lady
Life Story Writing
Chicken Recipes
Friday, February 24, 2006
Pacifiers
Pacifiers
1988
"Twins, again? I can't believe it!" I hung up the phone in total disbelief.
I got hysterical. It was only five years since Kathee had her girl twins, and now Linda and Bill were going to have twin boys.
When they were born we planned a short trip north to see the latest addition. This was the third birth of grandchildren that came in unison. Before Kathee's twins, Clinton and Jon Mark were born in the same twenty-four hour period to separate families. It seemed we were destined for these birthdays in bunches.
When we got to Livermore the newborn boys, Jeff and John were five days old. We walked in, camcorder in hand to record the miracle of two peas in a pod.
Jamie was holding John on the couch, a pillow tucked under her arm to prop him up. At three, she just glowed, as though she was totally responsible for this event.
Jeff was crying in the background, and I guess John heard it and thought he was missing out on something, because his little face screwed up and he began to whimper.
Dick focused the camcorder in on Jamie. How would she handle this?
"He needs a pacifier, or he's going to start crying" she said very matter of factly,
A hand came out of nowhere and a pacifier was given to her.
"Where do you put it?" she said looking up into the camcorder lens at Bop.
"In his mouth," came the answer.
"Which end?" she asked innocently.
We just broke up laughing. She was grown up enough to know the baby needed a pacifier, but she was not sure if the handle went in the mouth or what. It didn't take her long to learn. After that, she became Mom's little helper as do all the older sibs to twins. There's not a lot of choice.
Bop was just fortunate enough to get this on video. We laugh again every time we see it.
1988
"Twins, again? I can't believe it!" I hung up the phone in total disbelief.
I got hysterical. It was only five years since Kathee had her girl twins, and now Linda and Bill were going to have twin boys.
When they were born we planned a short trip north to see the latest addition. This was the third birth of grandchildren that came in unison. Before Kathee's twins, Clinton and Jon Mark were born in the same twenty-four hour period to separate families. It seemed we were destined for these birthdays in bunches.
When we got to Livermore the newborn boys, Jeff and John were five days old. We walked in, camcorder in hand to record the miracle of two peas in a pod.
Jamie was holding John on the couch, a pillow tucked under her arm to prop him up. At three, she just glowed, as though she was totally responsible for this event.
Jeff was crying in the background, and I guess John heard it and thought he was missing out on something, because his little face screwed up and he began to whimper.
Dick focused the camcorder in on Jamie. How would she handle this?
"He needs a pacifier, or he's going to start crying" she said very matter of factly,
A hand came out of nowhere and a pacifier was given to her.
"Where do you put it?" she said looking up into the camcorder lens at Bop.
"In his mouth," came the answer.
"Which end?" she asked innocently.
We just broke up laughing. She was grown up enough to know the baby needed a pacifier, but she was not sure if the handle went in the mouth or what. It didn't take her long to learn. After that, she became Mom's little helper as do all the older sibs to twins. There's not a lot of choice.
Bop was just fortunate enough to get this on video. We laugh again every time we see it.
Humble Arrogance
Humble Arrogance
1989
It happened when I quit believing the lie. I'm not sure when that was, really. Maybe it was during my mid-life crisis and my values began to change or after I got fat and got skinny and no one noticed or cared. Maybe it happened when I volunteered in the church thrift shop and I saw the difference between wants and needs in the barrio.
Whenever it happened, I know that it was a shock to find out I'd been lied to. Whoever penned the falsehood 'clothes make the man' was a haberdasher trying to make a buck...and I bought it.
Sometimes I do get my wants and needs mixed up. It's natural...it's o.k. The media bombards me constantly that I'm not wonderful until I have this fashion or that and then the 'committee' in my head starts telling me "Yup...you aren't! You'll never measure up, you can't!" and I start to listen.
Fashion designers and advertisers never mention that they keep changing the rules. That's why I can't measure up. One day the hemline is down...the next thing you know it's up. Buy this! Buy that! Buy, BUY, BUY! When I have one of everything, they start layering the look so that now I need more! And underlying the media message is the lie: You'll be happy when you get it all.
When I succumb to being a Mall Doll, when I've shopped until I drop and I'm down on the ground and there's nowhere to look but up, I yelp in a raspy whisper "Help!" In the quietness as I listen there's a still, small voice saying "It's o.k. I knew you couldn't make it on your own, so I did it for you. Look in the mirror!"
I get up off the floor. I look in the mirror. Shining back at me are clear eyes, no trace of the effects of the debilitations of the past. White hair...a sign of Godliness (and raising five kids). Lips that speak God's power and ears that hear His praise. I'm a new creation. It's a gift! I don't need to buy a new creation like the media says, I am a new creation.
I grab the Cardiff tuxedo (a tee-shirt and sweats) from my closet and head out for a walk on the beach. I inhale God's unconditional love and exhale the enemy's doubts. Any thoughts of Madison Avenue, mini-skirts or the false guilt of trying to measure up to other peoples expectations is gone.
I wish I could say that every day I am in complete submission like that. I'm not. It's a process. Thank God there are more positive days now than there used to be. It takes practice.
Silk, satin, or synthetics cannot make me feel good about myself. Feeling good about myself comes from the inside out, not from the rags on my back. It comes from a fact: God made me in His image....therefore I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am one of a kind with a one of a kind job. To glorify God. To call attention to His name. Not to Nordstrom's...not to Carol Little or Liz Claibourne, but to the original Creator. I keep getting thatmixed up.
It's not clothes that are the problem. It's me...thinking that they are going to make the difference. God's Word tells me that I'm not to copy the behavior and customs of this world, but I am to be a new and different person with a fresh newness in all I do and think...Romans 12:2 (Living Bible)
People, places and things have always come between me and my Creator. I am always waiting for the illusory miracle that they will make me happy. Always trying to fill the god_shaped void in my life with something or someone else. Are these the very idols God has warned me about in the Bible?
A light goes on in the inner recesses of my being. It's me. I'm the problem. It is my stubborn will. It is when I surrender and let go of them and focus on the behavior changes in me that the
Lord can work in my life, then, and only then, He changes me from the inside out.
Ephesians tells us to "Use every piece of God's armor to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, we will still be standing up." (Living Bible)
If I withstand the temptation to create my sense of self from the outside, with the superficial aids of societies standards, when I quit believing the lie and surrender, God is faithful and will empower me to stand on my own. When this civilization is gone, Eternity is. The designer clothes, the fleeting fashions are not what I will be taking with me. I won't even have to pack a bag.
I wonder how Louis Vuitton feels about that?
Thelly Reahm is a facilitator for Overcomer's Outreach at Carlsbad Community Church. She is a recovering alcoholic with eighteen years sobriety. She lives at Cardiff by the Sea in California. Her articles have been published in other magazines. She is currently writing her life story.
1989
It happened when I quit believing the lie. I'm not sure when that was, really. Maybe it was during my mid-life crisis and my values began to change or after I got fat and got skinny and no one noticed or cared. Maybe it happened when I volunteered in the church thrift shop and I saw the difference between wants and needs in the barrio.
Whenever it happened, I know that it was a shock to find out I'd been lied to. Whoever penned the falsehood 'clothes make the man' was a haberdasher trying to make a buck...and I bought it.
Sometimes I do get my wants and needs mixed up. It's natural...it's o.k. The media bombards me constantly that I'm not wonderful until I have this fashion or that and then the 'committee' in my head starts telling me "Yup...you aren't! You'll never measure up, you can't!" and I start to listen.
Fashion designers and advertisers never mention that they keep changing the rules. That's why I can't measure up. One day the hemline is down...the next thing you know it's up. Buy this! Buy that! Buy, BUY, BUY! When I have one of everything, they start layering the look so that now I need more! And underlying the media message is the lie: You'll be happy when you get it all.
When I succumb to being a Mall Doll, when I've shopped until I drop and I'm down on the ground and there's nowhere to look but up, I yelp in a raspy whisper "Help!" In the quietness as I listen there's a still, small voice saying "It's o.k. I knew you couldn't make it on your own, so I did it for you. Look in the mirror!"
I get up off the floor. I look in the mirror. Shining back at me are clear eyes, no trace of the effects of the debilitations of the past. White hair...a sign of Godliness (and raising five kids). Lips that speak God's power and ears that hear His praise. I'm a new creation. It's a gift! I don't need to buy a new creation like the media says, I am a new creation.
I grab the Cardiff tuxedo (a tee-shirt and sweats) from my closet and head out for a walk on the beach. I inhale God's unconditional love and exhale the enemy's doubts. Any thoughts of Madison Avenue, mini-skirts or the false guilt of trying to measure up to other peoples expectations is gone.
I wish I could say that every day I am in complete submission like that. I'm not. It's a process. Thank God there are more positive days now than there used to be. It takes practice.
Silk, satin, or synthetics cannot make me feel good about myself. Feeling good about myself comes from the inside out, not from the rags on my back. It comes from a fact: God made me in His image....therefore I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am one of a kind with a one of a kind job. To glorify God. To call attention to His name. Not to Nordstrom's...not to Carol Little or Liz Claibourne, but to the original Creator. I keep getting thatmixed up.
It's not clothes that are the problem. It's me...thinking that they are going to make the difference. God's Word tells me that I'm not to copy the behavior and customs of this world, but I am to be a new and different person with a fresh newness in all I do and think...Romans 12:2 (Living Bible)
People, places and things have always come between me and my Creator. I am always waiting for the illusory miracle that they will make me happy. Always trying to fill the god_shaped void in my life with something or someone else. Are these the very idols God has warned me about in the Bible?
A light goes on in the inner recesses of my being. It's me. I'm the problem. It is my stubborn will. It is when I surrender and let go of them and focus on the behavior changes in me that the
Lord can work in my life, then, and only then, He changes me from the inside out.
Ephesians tells us to "Use every piece of God's armor to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, we will still be standing up." (Living Bible)
If I withstand the temptation to create my sense of self from the outside, with the superficial aids of societies standards, when I quit believing the lie and surrender, God is faithful and will empower me to stand on my own. When this civilization is gone, Eternity is. The designer clothes, the fleeting fashions are not what I will be taking with me. I won't even have to pack a bag.
I wonder how Louis Vuitton feels about that?
Thelly Reahm is a facilitator for Overcomer's Outreach at Carlsbad Community Church. She is a recovering alcoholic with eighteen years sobriety. She lives at Cardiff by the Sea in California. Her articles have been published in other magazines. She is currently writing her life story.
Charlie Tuck
Charlie Tuck
1989
.
By his own admission he was Carlsbad's own town drunk.
For years the police would lock him up in the drunk tank, or take him home to his wife.
Then he sobered up. Through the 12 Step Recovery program of A.A. he became an active, caring person.
He started attending Carlsbad Community Church, and he and his wife of 50 years renewed their wedding vows there.
When San Luis Rey Hospital was built, and he found out that they would have a detox program, he volunteered to lead A. A. meetings. In his words he said: You take care of the doctoring part and I'll teach them the 12 Steps of Recovery.
He led those meetings for fourteen years, as well as being a faithful member of Carlsbad Community Church.
When I first heard of Overcomer's Outreach, a Christian based 12 step recovery group on a radio program I wanted to have meetings like that at our church. I had successfully practiced a program of sobriety through A.A. for 14 years, but I felt there was something more to offer people after the 12 Steps. After the Spiritual Awakening. Overcomer's could be that program.
After a year in a Co-dependent educational group, and after a six month training program at Oceanview Recovery Hospital in Oceanside, I volunteered to facilitate an Overcomer's group.
I called Charlie Tuck to see if he would help us get such a group started at the church, although I knew that he was still involved heavily in Hospitals & Institutions work and led an A.A. meeting on Tuesday nights in Carlsbad. Plus he was still doing the one at San Luis Rey.
I was too late. He was dying of cancer. The man who answered his phone said he was too sick even to talk. It was obvious I was going to have to do this by myself. I had prayed for this too long to give up now, so I went ahead with my plans and announced it in the church bulletin.
The church suggested that we name our group for Charlie Tuck. I was not so sure about it then, but I agreed. I have been pretty much dedicated to the idea of being low profile and not getting into the politics of behind the church scenes.
That was in January 1989.
I started out with one man. He was the husband of a woman in the Co-dependent group who was just coming out of a care unit and needed after care. For many weeks it was just the two of us.
San Luis Rey Hospital had a memorial dinner for Charlie Tuck in the spring. Dick and I attended at the new facility on Saxony Road. It was fabulous. We were amazed that at least 200 people were there. There were testimonials by the Police Chief, Judges and a Congressman, as well as many recovering people that Charlie had helped along the way. He was a much loved man.
Since we are a recovery group, and the nature of recovery groups is to have a large turnover over of people, we remain steadfast. We still have the two charter members, and about fifteen people on a rotating basis. Ages range from teens to sixties. Needs vary from Adult Children of Alcoholics to OverEaters to Co-dependents to actively sobering alcoholics.
We share our experience, strength and hope with each other. We study the 12 Steps, and we pray for one another....and we acknowledge that Jesus Christ is our healer.
1989
.
By his own admission he was Carlsbad's own town drunk.
For years the police would lock him up in the drunk tank, or take him home to his wife.
Then he sobered up. Through the 12 Step Recovery program of A.A. he became an active, caring person.
He started attending Carlsbad Community Church, and he and his wife of 50 years renewed their wedding vows there.
When San Luis Rey Hospital was built, and he found out that they would have a detox program, he volunteered to lead A. A. meetings. In his words he said: You take care of the doctoring part and I'll teach them the 12 Steps of Recovery.
He led those meetings for fourteen years, as well as being a faithful member of Carlsbad Community Church.
When I first heard of Overcomer's Outreach, a Christian based 12 step recovery group on a radio program I wanted to have meetings like that at our church. I had successfully practiced a program of sobriety through A.A. for 14 years, but I felt there was something more to offer people after the 12 Steps. After the Spiritual Awakening. Overcomer's could be that program.
After a year in a Co-dependent educational group, and after a six month training program at Oceanview Recovery Hospital in Oceanside, I volunteered to facilitate an Overcomer's group.
I called Charlie Tuck to see if he would help us get such a group started at the church, although I knew that he was still involved heavily in Hospitals & Institutions work and led an A.A. meeting on Tuesday nights in Carlsbad. Plus he was still doing the one at San Luis Rey.
I was too late. He was dying of cancer. The man who answered his phone said he was too sick even to talk. It was obvious I was going to have to do this by myself. I had prayed for this too long to give up now, so I went ahead with my plans and announced it in the church bulletin.
The church suggested that we name our group for Charlie Tuck. I was not so sure about it then, but I agreed. I have been pretty much dedicated to the idea of being low profile and not getting into the politics of behind the church scenes.
That was in January 1989.
I started out with one man. He was the husband of a woman in the Co-dependent group who was just coming out of a care unit and needed after care. For many weeks it was just the two of us.
San Luis Rey Hospital had a memorial dinner for Charlie Tuck in the spring. Dick and I attended at the new facility on Saxony Road. It was fabulous. We were amazed that at least 200 people were there. There were testimonials by the Police Chief, Judges and a Congressman, as well as many recovering people that Charlie had helped along the way. He was a much loved man.
Since we are a recovery group, and the nature of recovery groups is to have a large turnover over of people, we remain steadfast. We still have the two charter members, and about fifteen people on a rotating basis. Ages range from teens to sixties. Needs vary from Adult Children of Alcoholics to OverEaters to Co-dependents to actively sobering alcoholics.
We share our experience, strength and hope with each other. We study the 12 Steps, and we pray for one another....and we acknowledge that Jesus Christ is our healer.
Angel In Disguise
Angel in Disguise
1988
We used to joke that on the way to Linda's (up I-5) to Livermore, we counted cows. On the way to Kathee's (out I-8) to Phoenix, we counted cactus. Both trips are nearly always eight hours, uneventful and boring.
That is until this particular trip.
I drove the Motorhome alone to Phoenix. I figured any bad dudes who might notice me at the wheel would assume my husband was in the back asleep. They wouldn't bother me. Therefore, I was not afraid.
Little did I know that well into the 6th hour I would be praying for someone to stop and help me.
I noticed some vibration of the microwave oven door after I left the reststop east of Yuma. I figured the rattling could wait until Gila Bend. I put it out of my mind. I felt I had enough to think about going to Phoenix to take care of four grandchildren while Kathee was in the Hospital.
There was very little traffic, so I set the Cruise Control for 67 mph. The asphalt just stretches out to Eternity in the desert. Long shimmering mirages of water. I lost track of time or where I was. After doing this trip four times a year for twelve years, I could do it in my sleep. I know exactly what's on the other side of the next butte...just more cactus!
KA-BAM! The rig shuddered as I grabbed hard onto the steering wheel. The roar was deafening. I thought I'd been hit in the rear by a truck, but I looked out the rear view mirror and could see nothing for miles. I struggled valiantly to keep the Motorhome on the road...it just zig-zagged back and forth across the Freeway.
Stepping on the brake would de-activate the Cruise Control but I had presence of mind not to use it. That would have caused the rig to roll. At one time the dashboard was tilting on a 45 degree angle, and I knew my right wheels were probably off the pavement. For the life of me I couldn't remember the other way to turn off the Cruise Control. I looked at the gear shift...no...the turn light indicators...no... This whole traumatic event was happening in slow motion for me...every detail of it in living color.
"God...please help me!" I screamed.
Finally I remembered that the 'on/off' switch for the Cruise Control was on the steering column. I flipped it and engine began to slow down to where I could control the rig. I pulled over to the side of the road, by this time in shock. I was crying and shivering, too dazed to get out of the driver's seat. I just held on desperately to the steering wheel, saying "Thank you, Lord. Thank you!"
I stumbled out the side door of the rig and onto the soft sandy shoulder of I-8. Where, could I be, I wondered...I didn't recognize the lay of the land.
Then I saw the back tire. It was in shreds. It was steel belted, and it was demolished. So was the Motorhome. When the tire blew, the steel belts acted like a weed wacker and just chewed up the tire well. Part of the furnace was hanging down along with the entire electrical system of the rig. Pots and pans from one kitchen cabinet had sifted through and were scattered out on the desert. I could see daylight through that cupboard and up into the clothes closet. No wonder the explosion had made such a clatter.
Inside the rig again, I checked out the damage to the interior. Spears of wood flooring were stabbing the back wall of the closet. Fear gripped me. Those spears of wood could have been in the back of my head! Pieces of wiring were everywhere.
"Thank you again Lord, for preserving me. Now what?" I asked. I sat down in the passenger seat and picked up the C.B. transmitter. I dialed Channel 9 for help and called out.
"Breaker, Breaker, I'm near the green highway marker 109. I've had a blowout. I need a tow. Please get help out to me. I am in an Itasca Motorhome headed East, just west of Gila Bend." I did not know how far west, but I could see trees ahead that I thought were from the cotton ranch.
I placed the call every 5 minutes for an hour. Cars, Motorhomes, and 18 Wheelers were zooming past me. Where's the Highway Patrol when you need them?
By this time it was 4:00. I was not looking forward to being out here in the desert after dark. It was time for action.
I went back outside and stuck my head up the tire well. It was possible I could tuck those wires back through the whacked out hole, then they couldn't wrap around the axle and I could drive the shoulder very slowly on to Gila Bend.
It worked. Hallelujah! I started the engine and put the rig in gear. It was bumpy, but I crept alongside the road very carefully for about a mile. A small pick-up truck pulled over in front of me waving at me to stop.
"Hey there lady," a young man shouted at me.
I rolled the window down just a bit so I could hear.
"Lady...you're a gonna rune that wheel a yorn!" he said with country accent. "Can I hep yew?"
I knew the rules of the road about taking help from anyone these days. You were to lock your doors. Stay in your car and wait for the police.
"Lord, help me!" I pleaded heavenward.
"I am," said the Lord, "Trust me...I got you through the blow-out. Trust me!"
Up until now I had always doubted people that glibly say 'The Lord told me this or that,' but when it happened to me, I believed it whole-heartedly.
"Thank you." I said to God and the young man from the old blue truck with the Tennessee license plates. "You're the only person out on this whole desert kind enough to stop and help a little old white haired lady."
"Just happy I could, Ma'am," he said pulling his tire changing tools out of his truck.
Thirty minutes later, I was back on my way to Gila Bend. I paid the young man $40.00 from my stash of cash that I had hidden for an emergency.
Later on when I told Dick my tragic tale, he said "$20.00 would have been plenty." I said to myself, You weren't there, you don't know how much it was worth! Then I let it go.
To Tennessee angels in disguise, you give $40.00 because you're that grateful!
As I drove on to Gila Bend, I thought about that young man. He was very poor...I could tell by his clothing and the beat up truck...perhaps he had been praying for money to get back to Tennessee. Perhaps the blowout was my opportunity to be his angel in disguise.
But that's another story. One that only he could know. God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.
Post Script:
Angel Unaware, by A. Nonymous
There once was a flood and everyone had reached safety except for one man.
He climbed to the top of his house with the water lapping at his feet.
A helicopter flew over his head and hung down a rope for him to climb, but the man was deeply religious and said, "It's alright! The Lord will save me!"
So the helicopter flew away. The water continued to rise and a boat came to him but, once again, the man shouted, "No! Go AWAY! the Lord will come and save me!"
and, once again, the boat sped off.
The water was getting dangerously deep by now so the helicopter came back and, on cue, the man repeated, "I don't need saving! My Lord will come"
Reluctantly, the helicopter left.
The rain continued to pour, the water continued to rise and the man drowned.
At the gates of heaven, the man met St. Peter. Confused, he asked, "Peter, I have lived the life of a faithful man – why did my Lord not rescue me?"
St. Peter replied, "For pity sake! He sent you two helicopters and a boat!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It does kinda give you pause…doesn’t it?
1988
We used to joke that on the way to Linda's (up I-5) to Livermore, we counted cows. On the way to Kathee's (out I-8) to Phoenix, we counted cactus. Both trips are nearly always eight hours, uneventful and boring.
That is until this particular trip.
I drove the Motorhome alone to Phoenix. I figured any bad dudes who might notice me at the wheel would assume my husband was in the back asleep. They wouldn't bother me. Therefore, I was not afraid.
Little did I know that well into the 6th hour I would be praying for someone to stop and help me.
I noticed some vibration of the microwave oven door after I left the reststop east of Yuma. I figured the rattling could wait until Gila Bend. I put it out of my mind. I felt I had enough to think about going to Phoenix to take care of four grandchildren while Kathee was in the Hospital.
There was very little traffic, so I set the Cruise Control for 67 mph. The asphalt just stretches out to Eternity in the desert. Long shimmering mirages of water. I lost track of time or where I was. After doing this trip four times a year for twelve years, I could do it in my sleep. I know exactly what's on the other side of the next butte...just more cactus!
KA-BAM! The rig shuddered as I grabbed hard onto the steering wheel. The roar was deafening. I thought I'd been hit in the rear by a truck, but I looked out the rear view mirror and could see nothing for miles. I struggled valiantly to keep the Motorhome on the road...it just zig-zagged back and forth across the Freeway.
Stepping on the brake would de-activate the Cruise Control but I had presence of mind not to use it. That would have caused the rig to roll. At one time the dashboard was tilting on a 45 degree angle, and I knew my right wheels were probably off the pavement. For the life of me I couldn't remember the other way to turn off the Cruise Control. I looked at the gear shift...no...the turn light indicators...no... This whole traumatic event was happening in slow motion for me...every detail of it in living color.
"God...please help me!" I screamed.
Finally I remembered that the 'on/off' switch for the Cruise Control was on the steering column. I flipped it and engine began to slow down to where I could control the rig. I pulled over to the side of the road, by this time in shock. I was crying and shivering, too dazed to get out of the driver's seat. I just held on desperately to the steering wheel, saying "Thank you, Lord. Thank you!"
I stumbled out the side door of the rig and onto the soft sandy shoulder of I-8. Where, could I be, I wondered...I didn't recognize the lay of the land.
Then I saw the back tire. It was in shreds. It was steel belted, and it was demolished. So was the Motorhome. When the tire blew, the steel belts acted like a weed wacker and just chewed up the tire well. Part of the furnace was hanging down along with the entire electrical system of the rig. Pots and pans from one kitchen cabinet had sifted through and were scattered out on the desert. I could see daylight through that cupboard and up into the clothes closet. No wonder the explosion had made such a clatter.
Inside the rig again, I checked out the damage to the interior. Spears of wood flooring were stabbing the back wall of the closet. Fear gripped me. Those spears of wood could have been in the back of my head! Pieces of wiring were everywhere.
"Thank you again Lord, for preserving me. Now what?" I asked. I sat down in the passenger seat and picked up the C.B. transmitter. I dialed Channel 9 for help and called out.
"Breaker, Breaker, I'm near the green highway marker 109. I've had a blowout. I need a tow. Please get help out to me. I am in an Itasca Motorhome headed East, just west of Gila Bend." I did not know how far west, but I could see trees ahead that I thought were from the cotton ranch.
I placed the call every 5 minutes for an hour. Cars, Motorhomes, and 18 Wheelers were zooming past me. Where's the Highway Patrol when you need them?
By this time it was 4:00. I was not looking forward to being out here in the desert after dark. It was time for action.
I went back outside and stuck my head up the tire well. It was possible I could tuck those wires back through the whacked out hole, then they couldn't wrap around the axle and I could drive the shoulder very slowly on to Gila Bend.
It worked. Hallelujah! I started the engine and put the rig in gear. It was bumpy, but I crept alongside the road very carefully for about a mile. A small pick-up truck pulled over in front of me waving at me to stop.
"Hey there lady," a young man shouted at me.
I rolled the window down just a bit so I could hear.
"Lady...you're a gonna rune that wheel a yorn!" he said with country accent. "Can I hep yew?"
I knew the rules of the road about taking help from anyone these days. You were to lock your doors. Stay in your car and wait for the police.
"Lord, help me!" I pleaded heavenward.
"I am," said the Lord, "Trust me...I got you through the blow-out. Trust me!"
Up until now I had always doubted people that glibly say 'The Lord told me this or that,' but when it happened to me, I believed it whole-heartedly.
"Thank you." I said to God and the young man from the old blue truck with the Tennessee license plates. "You're the only person out on this whole desert kind enough to stop and help a little old white haired lady."
"Just happy I could, Ma'am," he said pulling his tire changing tools out of his truck.
Thirty minutes later, I was back on my way to Gila Bend. I paid the young man $40.00 from my stash of cash that I had hidden for an emergency.
Later on when I told Dick my tragic tale, he said "$20.00 would have been plenty." I said to myself, You weren't there, you don't know how much it was worth! Then I let it go.
To Tennessee angels in disguise, you give $40.00 because you're that grateful!
As I drove on to Gila Bend, I thought about that young man. He was very poor...I could tell by his clothing and the beat up truck...perhaps he had been praying for money to get back to Tennessee. Perhaps the blowout was my opportunity to be his angel in disguise.
But that's another story. One that only he could know. God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.
Post Script:
Angel Unaware, by A. Nonymous
There once was a flood and everyone had reached safety except for one man.
He climbed to the top of his house with the water lapping at his feet.
A helicopter flew over his head and hung down a rope for him to climb, but the man was deeply religious and said, "It's alright! The Lord will save me!"
So the helicopter flew away. The water continued to rise and a boat came to him but, once again, the man shouted, "No! Go AWAY! the Lord will come and save me!"
and, once again, the boat sped off.
The water was getting dangerously deep by now so the helicopter came back and, on cue, the man repeated, "I don't need saving! My Lord will come"
Reluctantly, the helicopter left.
The rain continued to pour, the water continued to rise and the man drowned.
At the gates of heaven, the man met St. Peter. Confused, he asked, "Peter, I have lived the life of a faithful man – why did my Lord not rescue me?"
St. Peter replied, "For pity sake! He sent you two helicopters and a boat!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It does kinda give you pause…doesn’t it?
The Adrenaline Connection
The Adrenalin Connection
1988
"Thyroid, B-12 and Iron should take care of the problem," the doctor said to my mother who was standing beside me as I lay on the examining room table. I had just had a pelvic at age 12 and I was shaken to say the least. I remember her holding my hand..
Puberty did not roar in like a lion for me. Instead it was more like a simpering puppy. The doctor discovered that my metabolism was low and I was anemic. He placed me on a prescription called Synthroid...a synthetic thyroid. I have taken it for the rest of my life.
From what I have read, this means I wore out my thyroid gland by age 12, or it was defective to begin with. It seems odd, because I have felt 'wired' most of my life.. Antsy, is the most common word I would use to describe myself. Or having the 'heebie-jeebie wim-wams' as my mother called it. Usually a walk down to the beach or a drive in the car could cure it. If I had any lows, they were not for long or were induced by monthly cycles. The B-12 shots were only for a short time and the Iron I took only periodically. Today, I would have been placed on Estrogen Replacement Therapy....that would have taken care of my PMS and monthly problems totally. But that hadn't been discovered yet.
When we lived on Mc Graw Street in Bay Park Terrace, I made charts of my chores. It hung on the kitchen wall and I always consulted it as to what work had to be done on what day. If it took me until midnight, I kept at it until the days list was done. Often I hung the laundry out at night because there just wasn't time during the day when the children were young.
This paragraph is a little side thought, but I don't know where else to put it. We didn't have disposable diapers then, we had Birdseye by the dozen. Actually hanging diapers up to dry accomplished two purposes back then. We saved money (yes, they did have diaper services) and the exercise of bending over and picking up one diaper at a time and hanging it on the line served as our aerobics class. Now , the young moms buy diapers (spending money) and then have to join Family Fitness to burn off the pregnancy fat (spending money again). They will be remembered for clogging our landfills with diapers and doing it all...juggling career and parenthood all at once. Our generation is remembered for moms staying home with their children. I suppose that sounds rather dull today. Only time will tell which generation did the best job. There are rumblings now, that the 90's woman, after paying taxes, child care, extra money for career clothes, more package-prepared meals and housekeepers to do their home work, that she reaps very little in the way of actually getting ahead. But that's the way the government wants it....more money from us to give away to 'programs' that are not working.
Meanwhile, patterns have emerged in my life that show me my adrenal surges were pretty much self induced to some extent by my choices of friends, activities in the church (always on a committee to decorate for some banquet or another) finding time to be room mother, and Cub Scout helper. But maybe never having the time to deal with my own marriage and family problems where lack of communication was a very large problem. If you are so busy doing 'other stuff' you're not expected to 'be there' emotionally for the family. It's socially acceptable. With 20/20 hindsight it is totally not acceptable. We live and learn, and we hope the next generation does a better job than we have.
Some would call what I did wheel spinning....I'm sure my children don't remember if the entire house full of bare oak floors was waxed (down on my knees) every week or not. They might have remembered more stories being read, or more time being cuddled. This view looking back is what hindsight does for you. At the time, I was doing the best I knew how to do. My role models for housekeeping were Doris Holder and Tee Lee. No matter how I tried, or how many lists I made I could never do it as well as they could. I wore out my knees trying to measure up to their perfectionist style of housecleaning. I'd have been much better off wearing out my knees in prayer, asking the Lord to show me what was important in life.
Now I know, as an addictive person, that I was addicted to my own adrenalin. My modus operendi was to get so tired and worn out doing things that it killed the pain of feeling like I didn’t measure up. I got testy with everyone around me when I couldn’t maintain the adrenal high any longer, much the way a beligerant drunk does…or a sober person on a dry drunk.
My 'people helping' got me kudo's from other people, that I would never have achieved had I just tended to my own business at home. And it's 'iffy' what my motives were. Was it the helping....or the hoopla I got for doing it? My self-esteem was mixed up in there someplace, but God only knows I thought I was doing the right thing.
Once a pastor called me the 'pied piper of Hamlin'.
"Do other people always do what you want them to?" he asked when I came in with an entourage of people for a dinner meeting.
It got me to thinking.
I had always thought of myself as a 'juicer'. One who stimulates others for activities they wouldn't have experienced otherwise. I think if I enjoy something, then I should juice other's up to enjoy that happening too. It's not always that way. Sometimes I beat my head up against a brick wall. Push meets shove and the other person won't budge. Always tickling in the back of my mind is that happy thought that I tried! After all, I was raised on Pollyana and Scattergood Baines!
Dancing lessons for my children was one dead end, exasperating experience. Bruce hated going to the Pacific Beach Cotillion. I thought it would teach them grace and manners and be fun. The desire was born out of frustration that I had never been allowed to dance. That ban went along with playing cards (the devil's pasteboards) and attending movies. I wanted my kids to be better rounded....more balanced. Their piano lessons paid off, but dancing was a total waste of time.
I remember being so enamored with Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass in the sixties. I loved the happy beat of the music. Dick wasn't even aware of their existence. However, he bought tickets for the concert for my birthday and went along just to make me happy. Whadaya know! He loved it. I think we collected every record they ever made. That was one of the 'pluses' of my trying.
To say that I obsess over things and drive some people to distraction is putting it mildly. At age sixty-five I recognize somewhat more often than I did when I was younger, that I can be a pain....especially when I have learned something new. It's all I want to do or talk about.
When I worked as a 'temp' at Bruce's Family Counseling office for a few weeks they noticed that when I wasn't busy with office work, I was purging their files, cleaning out drawers and otherwise making the best use of their time that I could.
"You don't have to do all this," one of them said to me, "you must be a bundle of energy."
"I don't know energy from adrenalin surge," I said, creating another place for something.
"That's sad...." she said, handing me something else to file.
Sometimes it is sad. Sometimes I just want to sit down and do nothing. But then a few minutes later I scoot over to the stereo and slip some tapes in that I want to copy. Then I turn on the television softly and pick up my crochet. I adjust my heating pad for the upper back and pop a jelly bean in my mouth. If I could just have somebody read one of the three books I'm reading I would feel like it's a great day. That way I'm not wasting my time!
WARNING: If you want to keep me happy in my old age, don't let me run out of yarn, blank tapes, a TV big enough to see and a back-up of self help books to read. And 3 x 5 cards. I still put all my notes for Tidbits of Time on those ever ready cards. Oh yes, and Jelly Beans! Preferably the black ones!
This above all, to thine own self be true,
and it must follow as the night the day,
thou canst not then be false to any man.
Line 78 - Hamlet, William Shakespeare
Sometimes it's just tough to be so predictable.
1988
"Thyroid, B-12 and Iron should take care of the problem," the doctor said to my mother who was standing beside me as I lay on the examining room table. I had just had a pelvic at age 12 and I was shaken to say the least. I remember her holding my hand..
Puberty did not roar in like a lion for me. Instead it was more like a simpering puppy. The doctor discovered that my metabolism was low and I was anemic. He placed me on a prescription called Synthroid...a synthetic thyroid. I have taken it for the rest of my life.
From what I have read, this means I wore out my thyroid gland by age 12, or it was defective to begin with. It seems odd, because I have felt 'wired' most of my life.. Antsy, is the most common word I would use to describe myself. Or having the 'heebie-jeebie wim-wams' as my mother called it. Usually a walk down to the beach or a drive in the car could cure it. If I had any lows, they were not for long or were induced by monthly cycles. The B-12 shots were only for a short time and the Iron I took only periodically. Today, I would have been placed on Estrogen Replacement Therapy....that would have taken care of my PMS and monthly problems totally. But that hadn't been discovered yet.
When we lived on Mc Graw Street in Bay Park Terrace, I made charts of my chores. It hung on the kitchen wall and I always consulted it as to what work had to be done on what day. If it took me until midnight, I kept at it until the days list was done. Often I hung the laundry out at night because there just wasn't time during the day when the children were young.
This paragraph is a little side thought, but I don't know where else to put it. We didn't have disposable diapers then, we had Birdseye by the dozen. Actually hanging diapers up to dry accomplished two purposes back then. We saved money (yes, they did have diaper services) and the exercise of bending over and picking up one diaper at a time and hanging it on the line served as our aerobics class. Now , the young moms buy diapers (spending money) and then have to join Family Fitness to burn off the pregnancy fat (spending money again). They will be remembered for clogging our landfills with diapers and doing it all...juggling career and parenthood all at once. Our generation is remembered for moms staying home with their children. I suppose that sounds rather dull today. Only time will tell which generation did the best job. There are rumblings now, that the 90's woman, after paying taxes, child care, extra money for career clothes, more package-prepared meals and housekeepers to do their home work, that she reaps very little in the way of actually getting ahead. But that's the way the government wants it....more money from us to give away to 'programs' that are not working.
Meanwhile, patterns have emerged in my life that show me my adrenal surges were pretty much self induced to some extent by my choices of friends, activities in the church (always on a committee to decorate for some banquet or another) finding time to be room mother, and Cub Scout helper. But maybe never having the time to deal with my own marriage and family problems where lack of communication was a very large problem. If you are so busy doing 'other stuff' you're not expected to 'be there' emotionally for the family. It's socially acceptable. With 20/20 hindsight it is totally not acceptable. We live and learn, and we hope the next generation does a better job than we have.
Some would call what I did wheel spinning....I'm sure my children don't remember if the entire house full of bare oak floors was waxed (down on my knees) every week or not. They might have remembered more stories being read, or more time being cuddled. This view looking back is what hindsight does for you. At the time, I was doing the best I knew how to do. My role models for housekeeping were Doris Holder and Tee Lee. No matter how I tried, or how many lists I made I could never do it as well as they could. I wore out my knees trying to measure up to their perfectionist style of housecleaning. I'd have been much better off wearing out my knees in prayer, asking the Lord to show me what was important in life.
Now I know, as an addictive person, that I was addicted to my own adrenalin. My modus operendi was to get so tired and worn out doing things that it killed the pain of feeling like I didn’t measure up. I got testy with everyone around me when I couldn’t maintain the adrenal high any longer, much the way a beligerant drunk does…or a sober person on a dry drunk.
My 'people helping' got me kudo's from other people, that I would never have achieved had I just tended to my own business at home. And it's 'iffy' what my motives were. Was it the helping....or the hoopla I got for doing it? My self-esteem was mixed up in there someplace, but God only knows I thought I was doing the right thing.
Once a pastor called me the 'pied piper of Hamlin'.
"Do other people always do what you want them to?" he asked when I came in with an entourage of people for a dinner meeting.
It got me to thinking.
I had always thought of myself as a 'juicer'. One who stimulates others for activities they wouldn't have experienced otherwise. I think if I enjoy something, then I should juice other's up to enjoy that happening too. It's not always that way. Sometimes I beat my head up against a brick wall. Push meets shove and the other person won't budge. Always tickling in the back of my mind is that happy thought that I tried! After all, I was raised on Pollyana and Scattergood Baines!
Dancing lessons for my children was one dead end, exasperating experience. Bruce hated going to the Pacific Beach Cotillion. I thought it would teach them grace and manners and be fun. The desire was born out of frustration that I had never been allowed to dance. That ban went along with playing cards (the devil's pasteboards) and attending movies. I wanted my kids to be better rounded....more balanced. Their piano lessons paid off, but dancing was a total waste of time.
I remember being so enamored with Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass in the sixties. I loved the happy beat of the music. Dick wasn't even aware of their existence. However, he bought tickets for the concert for my birthday and went along just to make me happy. Whadaya know! He loved it. I think we collected every record they ever made. That was one of the 'pluses' of my trying.
To say that I obsess over things and drive some people to distraction is putting it mildly. At age sixty-five I recognize somewhat more often than I did when I was younger, that I can be a pain....especially when I have learned something new. It's all I want to do or talk about.
When I worked as a 'temp' at Bruce's Family Counseling office for a few weeks they noticed that when I wasn't busy with office work, I was purging their files, cleaning out drawers and otherwise making the best use of their time that I could.
"You don't have to do all this," one of them said to me, "you must be a bundle of energy."
"I don't know energy from adrenalin surge," I said, creating another place for something.
"That's sad...." she said, handing me something else to file.
Sometimes it is sad. Sometimes I just want to sit down and do nothing. But then a few minutes later I scoot over to the stereo and slip some tapes in that I want to copy. Then I turn on the television softly and pick up my crochet. I adjust my heating pad for the upper back and pop a jelly bean in my mouth. If I could just have somebody read one of the three books I'm reading I would feel like it's a great day. That way I'm not wasting my time!
WARNING: If you want to keep me happy in my old age, don't let me run out of yarn, blank tapes, a TV big enough to see and a back-up of self help books to read. And 3 x 5 cards. I still put all my notes for Tidbits of Time on those ever ready cards. Oh yes, and Jelly Beans! Preferably the black ones!
This above all, to thine own self be true,
and it must follow as the night the day,
thou canst not then be false to any man.
Line 78 - Hamlet, William Shakespeare
Sometimes it's just tough to be so predictable.
Twin Prayers
Twin Prayers
1987
Some of my greatest blessings come in the month of August. It's the "Grand Month" when all the grandchildren come to visit.
The first time I had Kathee's little girl twins by themselves they were about four. Christen and Clinton were down visiting their cousins at Uncle Bruce and Aunt Penny's house in Spring Valley.
We'd had a fun day at the beach playing in the surf. They both ate a good dinner, had their showers and were about to be tucked into bed.
I went in to the living room and pulled down the Murphy Bed that Richie had built the previous winter. I had the book shelves well stocked with children's bedtime stories. I turned on the little night lamp, turned down the covers and fluffed up the pillows.
"Come on girls," I called out to them. They were busy in the family room with Grampa.
"We're coming," they called out in unison. So many times they answered in unison.
They soon came bounding in to the living room, hopped into bed and I read them a story.
After the story I turned the lamp down low, and reached out to hold their hands as I always did with all the children for evening prayers.
"Let's say prayers, now," I said.
"One, two, three," they started as though they were going to run a race. Like, 'Get ready, get set, go!'
I waited.
After the preamble of 'One, two, three,' they said in unison "Dear Lord, thank you for this day, thank you for sending an angel to watch over and guide us. Keep us safe through this night and bless our family. Amen."
I had not expected their prayers to be in unison....but that's how twins are. I could hardly keep a serious face. As I kissed them both goodnight, I was doubly blessed!
1987
Some of my greatest blessings come in the month of August. It's the "Grand Month" when all the grandchildren come to visit.
The first time I had Kathee's little girl twins by themselves they were about four. Christen and Clinton were down visiting their cousins at Uncle Bruce and Aunt Penny's house in Spring Valley.
We'd had a fun day at the beach playing in the surf. They both ate a good dinner, had their showers and were about to be tucked into bed.
I went in to the living room and pulled down the Murphy Bed that Richie had built the previous winter. I had the book shelves well stocked with children's bedtime stories. I turned on the little night lamp, turned down the covers and fluffed up the pillows.
"Come on girls," I called out to them. They were busy in the family room with Grampa.
"We're coming," they called out in unison. So many times they answered in unison.
They soon came bounding in to the living room, hopped into bed and I read them a story.
After the story I turned the lamp down low, and reached out to hold their hands as I always did with all the children for evening prayers.
"Let's say prayers, now," I said.
"One, two, three," they started as though they were going to run a race. Like, 'Get ready, get set, go!'
I waited.
After the preamble of 'One, two, three,' they said in unison "Dear Lord, thank you for this day, thank you for sending an angel to watch over and guide us. Keep us safe through this night and bless our family. Amen."
I had not expected their prayers to be in unison....but that's how twins are. I could hardly keep a serious face. As I kissed them both goodnight, I was doubly blessed!
The Shadow of Your Smile
The Shadow of Your Smile
1986
It was Clinton's first summer vacation here without parents. He was seven.
One foggy morning we were sitting at the kitchen table eating hot oatmeal. Clinton and I were the first ones up so we were having a quiet time together, sitting across the table from the wall collage of family pictures.
"Who's that Gramma?" he said pointing to the Benett family picture.
"That's Uncle Bill and Aunt Linda and Jamie," I said.
"Where's the twin boys," he asked. I was surprised at his knowledge of who belonged to what family since we are such a blended conglomeration of relatives.
"That was taken before the twins were born," I said answering one question at a time.
It was seldom he slowed down enough to have a conversation, so I tried to make the most of it.
He moved his attention now to the pictures of his own family. More familiar territory I thought.
"Who's that?" he pointed to Christen when she was little.
"It's your sister when she was a baby," I said taking another bite of cereal. How children love these family pictures. I'm so glad we have them all over the house. It lets them know they are cared about. It is also a reminder to me to pray for them daily.
"Who's that boy at the top...." he asked.
"Oh, that's you when you were about two years old," I said thinking he was going to be pleased I had such a cute picture of him in the collage.
"Nope. That's not me." he said, tilting his cereal bowl up for the last bite.
"Sure it is," I said. "That's all the Zonies in that collage".
"Huh uh, Gramma. I should know. That's not my smile!"
"Can't you even see a shadow of your smile?" I asked.
"Huh, uh...that's not my smile," he was adamant over that.
He's twelve now and I don't know if he will ever be convinced that the cute little boy in the collage is him.
"May I be excused?" he asked taking his bowl to the sink.
That was the end of that conversation, but I chuckled over it the rest of the day. It doesn’t take much to make a Gramma happy!
1986
It was Clinton's first summer vacation here without parents. He was seven.
One foggy morning we were sitting at the kitchen table eating hot oatmeal. Clinton and I were the first ones up so we were having a quiet time together, sitting across the table from the wall collage of family pictures.
"Who's that Gramma?" he said pointing to the Benett family picture.
"That's Uncle Bill and Aunt Linda and Jamie," I said.
"Where's the twin boys," he asked. I was surprised at his knowledge of who belonged to what family since we are such a blended conglomeration of relatives.
"That was taken before the twins were born," I said answering one question at a time.
It was seldom he slowed down enough to have a conversation, so I tried to make the most of it.
He moved his attention now to the pictures of his own family. More familiar territory I thought.
"Who's that?" he pointed to Christen when she was little.
"It's your sister when she was a baby," I said taking another bite of cereal. How children love these family pictures. I'm so glad we have them all over the house. It lets them know they are cared about. It is also a reminder to me to pray for them daily.
"Who's that boy at the top...." he asked.
"Oh, that's you when you were about two years old," I said thinking he was going to be pleased I had such a cute picture of him in the collage.
"Nope. That's not me." he said, tilting his cereal bowl up for the last bite.
"Sure it is," I said. "That's all the Zonies in that collage".
"Huh uh, Gramma. I should know. That's not my smile!"
"Can't you even see a shadow of your smile?" I asked.
"Huh, uh...that's not my smile," he was adamant over that.
He's twelve now and I don't know if he will ever be convinced that the cute little boy in the collage is him.
"May I be excused?" he asked taking his bowl to the sink.
That was the end of that conversation, but I chuckled over it the rest of the day. It doesn’t take much to make a Gramma happy!
Psalm 119
Psalm 119
1986
Cataracts come on so slowly that I was not aware it was happening to me. I just think that all our friends were aging well with very few wrinkles, that there was no dust on the furniture, and that colors mellowed as I got older. It's like seeing the world through rose colored glasses, except that the rose color is more like a misty fog.
"Wow, did you see the neckline on that girl?" Dick asked as we were watching television.
"Neckline? What girl?" I asked, and our television was a 50 inch projection set.
I knew then it was time to get this checked out. What I didn't know was that even after you are diagnosed with cataracts, the Ophthalmologist must wait until the timing is 'ripe'. Meanwhile, trees loose their leaves and it isn't even autumn. There are no waterspots on dishes. And foreign movies don't have sub-titles. At least not that I could see!
Ritchie would check me out occasionally just to see how I was progressing.
"Would you mind reading the words for me," I asked as my eyes progressively got worse.
couldn't see things out on the screen
We were out camping in the motorhome when I discovered that I had brought our Bibles, but not Our Daily Bread the little pamphlet that we used for our daily devotions.
"What'll we read?" I asked.
"Well, let me think.
“You read Psalm 119. I'll take Psalm 121
He was finished in no time, closed his Bible and got ready for bed. One hundred and seventy-something verses later, I was yawning and wondering when this chapter would end. The one he had chosen was only seven verses long. Mine had 176 verses...it is the longest Psalm in the Bible. He got quite a chuckle out of his little sadistic joke.
Some months later he noticed Our Daily Bread had Psalm 119:12 - 21 for the scripture reading. Knowing that I had trouble seeing, he planned one of his ultimate best practical jokes on me. He took "Whiteout” and covered the numbers 12 - 21. So I sat for a full twenty minutes reading the entire hundred and nineteenth Psalm again.
"Can you believe Our Daily Bread having us read the entire 119th Psalm again. Usually there's only a few verses of anything. Wonder why they did that?" I asked Richie.
“I dunno, Pee Wee," he said innocently. I don't know how he kept a straight face.
Over the period of the next two years, he doctored up the numbers whenever Our Daily Bread gave a reading in the 119th Psalm, until finally one day I said "They sure are not as creative coming up with verses to read any more. I don't remember in years past that they ever had us read the same Psalm over again in the same year. I'm getting to know more about it than anything else in the Bible. I'm sure I've read this Psalm three or four times lately."
"Three times, four counting the time we were out camping."
"You've been keeping track, too?" I asked
"I've been whiting out the verse numbers with type corrector, so all you saw was the chapter number. It was bad of old me, but I couldn't help myself!"
"The devil made you do it, huh?"
After I had cataract surgery and the lens implants, I said "If I was tall enough, I could see all the way to Arizona!"
The leaves were back on the trees. Our friends had not fared well. The house was dusty and had aged ten years overnight.
When we came in the house, I was startled. "Oh my gosh. such a dark blue for the family room?" I asked my hubby.
"Wait 'til you see the red bedroom!" he said laughing.
”Well, why didn't you stop me when I chose such dark colors?”
That was just another of his little practical jokes. Weird sense of humor!
What a thrillfor me to have eyes again after living in a fog for such a long time. I couldn't be jarred by his weird sense of humor. Nothing could spoil having 20/20 eyesight again. Plus, I am very well versed in Psalm 119!
1986
Cataracts come on so slowly that I was not aware it was happening to me. I just think that all our friends were aging well with very few wrinkles, that there was no dust on the furniture, and that colors mellowed as I got older. It's like seeing the world through rose colored glasses, except that the rose color is more like a misty fog.
"Wow, did you see the neckline on that girl?" Dick asked as we were watching television.
"Neckline? What girl?" I asked, and our television was a 50 inch projection set.
I knew then it was time to get this checked out. What I didn't know was that even after you are diagnosed with cataracts, the Ophthalmologist must wait until the timing is 'ripe'. Meanwhile, trees loose their leaves and it isn't even autumn. There are no waterspots on dishes. And foreign movies don't have sub-titles. At least not that I could see!
Ritchie would check me out occasionally just to see how I was progressing.
"Would you mind reading the words for me," I asked as my eyes progressively got worse.
couldn't see things out on the screen
We were out camping in the motorhome when I discovered that I had brought our Bibles, but not Our Daily Bread the little pamphlet that we used for our daily devotions.
"What'll we read?" I asked.
"Well, let me think.
“You read Psalm 119. I'll take Psalm 121
He was finished in no time, closed his Bible and got ready for bed. One hundred and seventy-something verses later, I was yawning and wondering when this chapter would end. The one he had chosen was only seven verses long. Mine had 176 verses...it is the longest Psalm in the Bible. He got quite a chuckle out of his little sadistic joke.
Some months later he noticed Our Daily Bread had Psalm 119:12 - 21 for the scripture reading. Knowing that I had trouble seeing, he planned one of his ultimate best practical jokes on me. He took "Whiteout” and covered the numbers 12 - 21. So I sat for a full twenty minutes reading the entire hundred and nineteenth Psalm again.
"Can you believe Our Daily Bread having us read the entire 119th Psalm again. Usually there's only a few verses of anything. Wonder why they did that?" I asked Richie.
“I dunno, Pee Wee," he said innocently. I don't know how he kept a straight face.
Over the period of the next two years, he doctored up the numbers whenever Our Daily Bread gave a reading in the 119th Psalm, until finally one day I said "They sure are not as creative coming up with verses to read any more. I don't remember in years past that they ever had us read the same Psalm over again in the same year. I'm getting to know more about it than anything else in the Bible. I'm sure I've read this Psalm three or four times lately."
"Three times, four counting the time we were out camping."
"You've been keeping track, too?" I asked
"I've been whiting out the verse numbers with type corrector, so all you saw was the chapter number. It was bad of old me, but I couldn't help myself!"
"The devil made you do it, huh?"
After I had cataract surgery and the lens implants, I said "If I was tall enough, I could see all the way to Arizona!"
The leaves were back on the trees. Our friends had not fared well. The house was dusty and had aged ten years overnight.
When we came in the house, I was startled. "Oh my gosh. such a dark blue for the family room?" I asked my hubby.
"Wait 'til you see the red bedroom!" he said laughing.
”Well, why didn't you stop me when I chose such dark colors?”
That was just another of his little practical jokes. Weird sense of humor!
What a thrillfor me to have eyes again after living in a fog for such a long time. I couldn't be jarred by his weird sense of humor. Nothing could spoil having 20/20 eyesight again. Plus, I am very well versed in Psalm 119!
Ripped Off
Ripped Off
1987
It rained all day so our usually busy neighborhood looked deserted. All the neighbors doors and windows were closed as though a big storm was brewing.
I drove to Orange County to see Dick, who was working on the Garfield house. The trashy Petersen family had just moved out after a 12 year stay.
"This is disgusting," I said, walking around the house with a clipboard writing down all the damage that had been done to it. "I can't believe so many things have been broken!"
Was this what the court system meant as 'usual wear and tear'? We would have to gut this place just like we had back when we bought it from the Chinese family.
"Do you think it needs a new range?" Dick asked, opening up the grease laden stove top. "I think the dishwasher is shot too." he said showing me the beat up racks and rusted interior. It was scudgey with food particles.
"Where are the drapes?" I asked coming from the living room.
"I don't know. She took ours down and used her own, but after all these years...who knows where ours are?"
"Why didn't they tell us about plumbing leaks? The carpet is totally wrecked in the hallway and into the bedrooms from that tub leak in the children's bathroom."
Dick would be likely to be in Costa Mesa for weeks, I thought as I drove back to Cardiff in the rain. Each swipe of the monotonous windshield wipers were like a tote board racking up dollars to spend on repairs. Thank the Lord, Dick was an expert handyman, and we wouldn't have to hire outside labor. Parts and appliances were going to be expensive enough.
I drove through at Jack-in-the-Box when I got near home.
"Two tacos," I said, sighing heavily. I was too stressed to care about eating. I headed on up the hill to Summit House. It was just dusky dark and the night lights had not come on in the family room. I hated coming in alone after dark. The garage door sprang to attention as I pushed the remote button. I was thankful I didn't have to get out in the rain. I grabbed my Taco's and opened the back door.
I felt uneasy immediately as I entered the family room and saw light coming from Dick's office downstairs. Had we left a switch on this morning, I wondered? Maybe. I laid the Jack sack on the drainboard and started to take my jacket off when I caught something strange out of the corner of my eye. It looked like wiring. Black, and curled up on the blue carpet. Dick must have dropped something as he left this morning.
I flipped on the family room lights and finished removing my jacket. Then I saw space. Empty space where the TV and VCR should have been. My gosh. We've been ripped off. And maybe they are still here, I thought remembering the light downstairs.
Hair stood up on my arms, and adrenaline began to flow. My mouth was open to scream, but nothing came out. I ran to the front door...my Brag Bag was on the floor...everything spewed across the parquet. I hit the screen running, swooped up the purse with the other hand and flew across the street to the neighbors.
"We're being robbed!" I yelled pounding on Tid and Nita's front door, "Call the Police! I think they're still in the house," I said panting for breath as they let me in. My heart was beating overtime and I couldn't get my breath. I could barely talk straight, much less make the phone call.
Because of the rain and the buttoned up houses, none of the neighbors had heard a thing, which was very unusual, since we all look out for one another. Especially if anyone is away for any length of time.
Soon the Sheriff arrived, checked out my house and then came and got me at the Sander's. I was apprehensive about re-entering the house, but I was assured that no one was there. I was shocked as I walked through my home. Everything electronic was gone. Radios, TV's, VCR's...even my Yamaha Keyboard Organ that I had just learned to play. I stared in disbelief.
Dresser drawers were ransacked. Jewelry was gone. Dick's wedding ring (which he should have been wearing) was gone. All of his guns handed down from his Father were gone. Anything small and carryable was gone.
That drug commercial...Up In Smoke...came to mind. Like cocaine. One snort...a boombox...two snorts...a TV...3 snorts, a VCR. I felt devastated. Was nothing sacred anymore? Not even the privacy of my own home?
As soon as all the paperwork and dusting for fingerprints was completed, I called Dick at the Garfield house.
"We've been hit," I cried into the phone.
"What? You were in an accident? Are you alright?" he asked.
"No...we've been burglarized. Everything electronic is gone!" I wailed. "I thought we lived so simply. I thought all we collected was seashells, but there's probably $3,000.00 worth of stuff stolen. Ripped off!"
"I'll be right home," he said, "Don't cry. Get someone to stay with you...I'll be there in an hour and a half."
That was what I wanted to hear. Staying alone had never been my favorite thing to do and this turn of events had not made me more brave.
1987
It rained all day so our usually busy neighborhood looked deserted. All the neighbors doors and windows were closed as though a big storm was brewing.
I drove to Orange County to see Dick, who was working on the Garfield house. The trashy Petersen family had just moved out after a 12 year stay.
"This is disgusting," I said, walking around the house with a clipboard writing down all the damage that had been done to it. "I can't believe so many things have been broken!"
Was this what the court system meant as 'usual wear and tear'? We would have to gut this place just like we had back when we bought it from the Chinese family.
"Do you think it needs a new range?" Dick asked, opening up the grease laden stove top. "I think the dishwasher is shot too." he said showing me the beat up racks and rusted interior. It was scudgey with food particles.
"Where are the drapes?" I asked coming from the living room.
"I don't know. She took ours down and used her own, but after all these years...who knows where ours are?"
"Why didn't they tell us about plumbing leaks? The carpet is totally wrecked in the hallway and into the bedrooms from that tub leak in the children's bathroom."
Dick would be likely to be in Costa Mesa for weeks, I thought as I drove back to Cardiff in the rain. Each swipe of the monotonous windshield wipers were like a tote board racking up dollars to spend on repairs. Thank the Lord, Dick was an expert handyman, and we wouldn't have to hire outside labor. Parts and appliances were going to be expensive enough.
I drove through at Jack-in-the-Box when I got near home.
"Two tacos," I said, sighing heavily. I was too stressed to care about eating. I headed on up the hill to Summit House. It was just dusky dark and the night lights had not come on in the family room. I hated coming in alone after dark. The garage door sprang to attention as I pushed the remote button. I was thankful I didn't have to get out in the rain. I grabbed my Taco's and opened the back door.
I felt uneasy immediately as I entered the family room and saw light coming from Dick's office downstairs. Had we left a switch on this morning, I wondered? Maybe. I laid the Jack sack on the drainboard and started to take my jacket off when I caught something strange out of the corner of my eye. It looked like wiring. Black, and curled up on the blue carpet. Dick must have dropped something as he left this morning.
I flipped on the family room lights and finished removing my jacket. Then I saw space. Empty space where the TV and VCR should have been. My gosh. We've been ripped off. And maybe they are still here, I thought remembering the light downstairs.
Hair stood up on my arms, and adrenaline began to flow. My mouth was open to scream, but nothing came out. I ran to the front door...my Brag Bag was on the floor...everything spewed across the parquet. I hit the screen running, swooped up the purse with the other hand and flew across the street to the neighbors.
"We're being robbed!" I yelled pounding on Tid and Nita's front door, "Call the Police! I think they're still in the house," I said panting for breath as they let me in. My heart was beating overtime and I couldn't get my breath. I could barely talk straight, much less make the phone call.
Because of the rain and the buttoned up houses, none of the neighbors had heard a thing, which was very unusual, since we all look out for one another. Especially if anyone is away for any length of time.
Soon the Sheriff arrived, checked out my house and then came and got me at the Sander's. I was apprehensive about re-entering the house, but I was assured that no one was there. I was shocked as I walked through my home. Everything electronic was gone. Radios, TV's, VCR's...even my Yamaha Keyboard Organ that I had just learned to play. I stared in disbelief.
Dresser drawers were ransacked. Jewelry was gone. Dick's wedding ring (which he should have been wearing) was gone. All of his guns handed down from his Father were gone. Anything small and carryable was gone.
That drug commercial...Up In Smoke...came to mind. Like cocaine. One snort...a boombox...two snorts...a TV...3 snorts, a VCR. I felt devastated. Was nothing sacred anymore? Not even the privacy of my own home?
As soon as all the paperwork and dusting for fingerprints was completed, I called Dick at the Garfield house.
"We've been hit," I cried into the phone.
"What? You were in an accident? Are you alright?" he asked.
"No...we've been burglarized. Everything electronic is gone!" I wailed. "I thought we lived so simply. I thought all we collected was seashells, but there's probably $3,000.00 worth of stuff stolen. Ripped off!"
"I'll be right home," he said, "Don't cry. Get someone to stay with you...I'll be there in an hour and a half."
That was what I wanted to hear. Staying alone had never been my favorite thing to do and this turn of events had not made me more brave.
Cabbage Patch Kids
Cabbage Patch Kids
1987
At the height of the Cabbage Patch Doll Craze, the Grands were reluctant to leave their dolls at home when we went to Knott’s Berry Farm. The dolls were very expensive, as no two were exactly alike, so I wasn’t about to take them on the trip. If they didn’t get lost at the Theme Park, for sure they would be stolen from the car.
So, it was Grampa to the rescue! He offered to baby-sit the dolls for the day.
“You’ll take good care of them, won’t you Grampa?” Chrissy asked.
“And feed them?” Krishell added.
“Of course, of course, do you think for one minute I would neglect them?” Grampa reassured them.
The dolls were soon forgotten as adrenaline pumped through the children’s veins as we approached Knott’s Berry Farm. They spent an entire day riding rides, buying souvenirs and generally ‘getting their money’s worth’ at the park.
We stayed late, having dinner in one of the many eateries on the grounds. No mention was made of the Cabbage Patch Kids all day. How soon they forget, I thought.
By the time we reached the parking lot it was midnight, and we had an hour and half drive home. The children slept contentedly in the back seat of the car while Penny and I reminisced about the day. It was a full one.
“I can’t get over your stamina, Gramma,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be up for staying all evening too!” my daughter-in-law said.
“I’m not that old!” I said, trying to sound alert and perky.
We pulled into our driveway about 1:30 and by then I was thinking that bed was going to feel really good.
When we got in the kitchen there were the Cabbage Patch Kids, all safe and sound, but with some thoughtful additions to their possessions.
Grampa had gone out to his workshop and made miniature collapsible TV Trays for each one. Then he placed tiny little plates of food in front on the trays. Then, as so often happens, he got on a roll and made television sets for each one. Then he went to the TV guide and cut out color pictures to paste on the television screens, so they looked authentically ‘just like Grampa and Gramma’s TV”. But being the perfectionist that he is, he decided that because our television had a wood carved Jesus fish on top of it, that the Cabbage Patch Kids should have no less. Back to the drawing board in Bop’s Shop, where he managed to make tiny Jesus fish on the jig-saw, stain them, and set them on top of the Cabbage Patch Doll’s TV Tray.
Talk about privileged dolls…they were the only ones in the world with a set of furniture like this!
Fortunately, I still had a few shots left on the last roll in the camera, so the entire scene was captured on film! Grampa would be famous! He would go down in history as the very best Cabbage Patch Kid baby-sitter in the world!
And the best loved Grampa. The Grands were thrilled!
1987
At the height of the Cabbage Patch Doll Craze, the Grands were reluctant to leave their dolls at home when we went to Knott’s Berry Farm. The dolls were very expensive, as no two were exactly alike, so I wasn’t about to take them on the trip. If they didn’t get lost at the Theme Park, for sure they would be stolen from the car.
So, it was Grampa to the rescue! He offered to baby-sit the dolls for the day.
“You’ll take good care of them, won’t you Grampa?” Chrissy asked.
“And feed them?” Krishell added.
“Of course, of course, do you think for one minute I would neglect them?” Grampa reassured them.
The dolls were soon forgotten as adrenaline pumped through the children’s veins as we approached Knott’s Berry Farm. They spent an entire day riding rides, buying souvenirs and generally ‘getting their money’s worth’ at the park.
We stayed late, having dinner in one of the many eateries on the grounds. No mention was made of the Cabbage Patch Kids all day. How soon they forget, I thought.
By the time we reached the parking lot it was midnight, and we had an hour and half drive home. The children slept contentedly in the back seat of the car while Penny and I reminisced about the day. It was a full one.
“I can’t get over your stamina, Gramma,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be up for staying all evening too!” my daughter-in-law said.
“I’m not that old!” I said, trying to sound alert and perky.
We pulled into our driveway about 1:30 and by then I was thinking that bed was going to feel really good.
When we got in the kitchen there were the Cabbage Patch Kids, all safe and sound, but with some thoughtful additions to their possessions.
Grampa had gone out to his workshop and made miniature collapsible TV Trays for each one. Then he placed tiny little plates of food in front on the trays. Then, as so often happens, he got on a roll and made television sets for each one. Then he went to the TV guide and cut out color pictures to paste on the television screens, so they looked authentically ‘just like Grampa and Gramma’s TV”. But being the perfectionist that he is, he decided that because our television had a wood carved Jesus fish on top of it, that the Cabbage Patch Kids should have no less. Back to the drawing board in Bop’s Shop, where he managed to make tiny Jesus fish on the jig-saw, stain them, and set them on top of the Cabbage Patch Doll’s TV Tray.
Talk about privileged dolls…they were the only ones in the world with a set of furniture like this!
Fortunately, I still had a few shots left on the last roll in the camera, so the entire scene was captured on film! Grampa would be famous! He would go down in history as the very best Cabbage Patch Kid baby-sitter in the world!
And the best loved Grampa. The Grands were thrilled!
Grandma's Rocker
Grandma’s Rocker
1985
The seat of the old rocking chair was worn and torn and its peeling paint showed that it had seen better days.
It first came into my possession in the early sixties when my parents felt it was no longer worth having. It hung in the rafters of the Missouri Street house and cobwebs wove their way through the rounds that held the rockers in place. It was in such bad shape that I wasn’t even sure that I wanted it.
Grandma Talbert had purchased the rocker at the La Morrie family’s auction. She paid a quarter for the chair and another quarter for the sewing cabinet. She placed the chair in front of her bedroom window when she came to live with us when I was six. She sat in it each afternoon doing mending and embroidery work.
I can see her gnarled hands now, slipping a round wooden darning knob into a pair of old socks, restoring a toe hole to like-new again, her middle finger capped with a silver thimble. She taught me to weave holes in socks using a burned out lightbulb....it was the same shape as the wooden darning tool, and stood me well. My weaving adventures were child like and never quite measured up to Grandma’s neat mending job, but I tried to learn because I knew it would be something worthwhile for when I grew up. Just like embroidered luncheon clothes and dish towels. She taught me to make French Knots to bunch up in the center of daisy like flowers to make them look real. I learned to crochet pink shells along the edge of pillow cases and linen guest towels.
She liked her position at the window looking out at the front side walk. She called it her window to the world. She knew everyone who passed by and if the weather was warm and the sash was up, she would call out to them, “How do, Mrs. Davis” or “How do, Mr. Turley”.
Dick and I asked for custody of it after my divorce in 1965. After we bought our first house in Clairemont, I was hopeful that it could be restored and brought back into usefulness. “Good luck” my ex-husband said, “you’re going to need it.”
I sanded it for weeks, down to the bare wood, but because of multiple coats of white paint I couldn’t redeem it to its former natural wood glory. I became discouraged and decided to antique it. I repainted it with flat white and then used antique stain of a dull avocado green shade. I rubbed it down streaking it with antique stain to make it look old again. Dick bought some naugahyde and made a better cushioned seat for it and we were in business as we furnished our new home with hand-me-downs from both our former marriages. The rocking chair sat gracefully by the corner fireplace and was set off by another matching piece, the sewing cabinet where I kept crochet and knitting needles.
In the Seventies I gave the chair to Kathee to rock her first baby, Christen. When she moved to Arizona and had three more babies in rather quick succession she gave it back to me. There wasn’t much time to rock Clinton after the twins, Kelly and Kathy were born.
When we brought it to Summit House, it took it’s position in the rafters of the garage one more time, relegated to cobwebs and dust.
We always get a “together” for “us” gift on our anniversary and when our twentyieth came along I thought it might be nice to restore the old rocker, but my own arthritic hands weren’t up to all the sanding and rubbing this time.
“Could we have my Grandma’s rocker restored professionally?” I asked Richie one day.
“Do you think it’s worth it?” he asked.
“Well, I do, but that’s because it was my Grandma’s....not because it has antique worth....it probably doesn’t. I just always liked it.”
He took it down to Solana Beach and had it professionally stripped and then to our painter friend, Timmy Bennett and asked him if he could refinish it to match the woodwork of the entertainment wall in our family room.
Viola! When Grandma’s rocker came back home to us, it exactly matched the oak cabinets, and Richie replaced the seat of it one more time with an authentic antique reproduction from The Woodworker’s Store. It looked great! It looked brand new ‘old’ again!
Now I can sit in my Grandma’s old rocker looking out our front window at the joggers passing by. I can catch a morning sunrise as I drink my first cup of coffee. I can crochet and knit with all my hooks and needles close at hand. I love my Grandma’s old twenty-five cent rocker that now cost over $200.00 to restore! And worth every penny, I might add.
Most of all, I can look at it and just remember my Grandma sitting in the gloaming, remembering Kentucky and telling about the days of her youth. Rocking back and forth gently as though the movement comforted her tired old body. Gently rocking, back and forth....back and forth.
Like her, when I need comforting, I rock in her old rocking chair. It is a splendid thing to do in the gloaming and reflect on the day as I watch the sun set into the Pacific. It gives me a good deal of joy.
1985
The seat of the old rocking chair was worn and torn and its peeling paint showed that it had seen better days.
It first came into my possession in the early sixties when my parents felt it was no longer worth having. It hung in the rafters of the Missouri Street house and cobwebs wove their way through the rounds that held the rockers in place. It was in such bad shape that I wasn’t even sure that I wanted it.
Grandma Talbert had purchased the rocker at the La Morrie family’s auction. She paid a quarter for the chair and another quarter for the sewing cabinet. She placed the chair in front of her bedroom window when she came to live with us when I was six. She sat in it each afternoon doing mending and embroidery work.
I can see her gnarled hands now, slipping a round wooden darning knob into a pair of old socks, restoring a toe hole to like-new again, her middle finger capped with a silver thimble. She taught me to weave holes in socks using a burned out lightbulb....it was the same shape as the wooden darning tool, and stood me well. My weaving adventures were child like and never quite measured up to Grandma’s neat mending job, but I tried to learn because I knew it would be something worthwhile for when I grew up. Just like embroidered luncheon clothes and dish towels. She taught me to make French Knots to bunch up in the center of daisy like flowers to make them look real. I learned to crochet pink shells along the edge of pillow cases and linen guest towels.
She liked her position at the window looking out at the front side walk. She called it her window to the world. She knew everyone who passed by and if the weather was warm and the sash was up, she would call out to them, “How do, Mrs. Davis” or “How do, Mr. Turley”.
Dick and I asked for custody of it after my divorce in 1965. After we bought our first house in Clairemont, I was hopeful that it could be restored and brought back into usefulness. “Good luck” my ex-husband said, “you’re going to need it.”
I sanded it for weeks, down to the bare wood, but because of multiple coats of white paint I couldn’t redeem it to its former natural wood glory. I became discouraged and decided to antique it. I repainted it with flat white and then used antique stain of a dull avocado green shade. I rubbed it down streaking it with antique stain to make it look old again. Dick bought some naugahyde and made a better cushioned seat for it and we were in business as we furnished our new home with hand-me-downs from both our former marriages. The rocking chair sat gracefully by the corner fireplace and was set off by another matching piece, the sewing cabinet where I kept crochet and knitting needles.
In the Seventies I gave the chair to Kathee to rock her first baby, Christen. When she moved to Arizona and had three more babies in rather quick succession she gave it back to me. There wasn’t much time to rock Clinton after the twins, Kelly and Kathy were born.
When we brought it to Summit House, it took it’s position in the rafters of the garage one more time, relegated to cobwebs and dust.
We always get a “together” for “us” gift on our anniversary and when our twentyieth came along I thought it might be nice to restore the old rocker, but my own arthritic hands weren’t up to all the sanding and rubbing this time.
“Could we have my Grandma’s rocker restored professionally?” I asked Richie one day.
“Do you think it’s worth it?” he asked.
“Well, I do, but that’s because it was my Grandma’s....not because it has antique worth....it probably doesn’t. I just always liked it.”
He took it down to Solana Beach and had it professionally stripped and then to our painter friend, Timmy Bennett and asked him if he could refinish it to match the woodwork of the entertainment wall in our family room.
Viola! When Grandma’s rocker came back home to us, it exactly matched the oak cabinets, and Richie replaced the seat of it one more time with an authentic antique reproduction from The Woodworker’s Store. It looked great! It looked brand new ‘old’ again!
Now I can sit in my Grandma’s old rocker looking out our front window at the joggers passing by. I can catch a morning sunrise as I drink my first cup of coffee. I can crochet and knit with all my hooks and needles close at hand. I love my Grandma’s old twenty-five cent rocker that now cost over $200.00 to restore! And worth every penny, I might add.
Most of all, I can look at it and just remember my Grandma sitting in the gloaming, remembering Kentucky and telling about the days of her youth. Rocking back and forth gently as though the movement comforted her tired old body. Gently rocking, back and forth....back and forth.
Like her, when I need comforting, I rock in her old rocking chair. It is a splendid thing to do in the gloaming and reflect on the day as I watch the sun set into the Pacific. It gives me a good deal of joy.
George's Cafe, Encinitas
George’s
1985
Remember George’s on the beach in Cardiff in the Forties? Seems like there’s always been a George’s in these parts and Jane Schmaus carries on the tradition of good food, fun and friendship.
The ceiling of her restaurant is a mosaic of long surfboards of times past....their phantom riders now faded into Seasoned Citizen Surfer status or obscurity, and sometimes sitting around her tables telling tales of the ‘big waves’ of their youth.
Classic posters of Endless Summer movies or ‘hot spots’ along Old Highway 101 of pre-freeway days line the peeling plaster walls.
Starving artists and surfers who work at the will of the waves and tide line the brown booths done in fake leather designs of the nifty fifties.
Dividers of Mother Earth plantings separate the cavernous space of what looks like the prow of a ship in enclosed in glass.
George’s wasn’t planned....it evolved over time and this place is authentic. Jane, the proprietress, is the Mother Earth lady who tends the plants and takes on all the problems of her ‘adopted children’ who faithfully serve the tables year after year. Loyalty is a given in this establishment that officially closes twice a year for a couple of days of togetherness at Idylwild to romp in the snow or bond over hot herb tea in a warm cabins paid for by the restaurant. The closeness of the employees rubs off on the steady customers who know them all like family. The canaries sing their mating songs of love and their babies move in with each waitress, steady customer or family in the spring. Through Jane’s sharing about how to take care of the canary’s needs, some of the young servers learn to apply the life lessons to themselves.
“What kind of dish do you miss from back home?” Jane asks her guests....”we’ll make it here! We want you to come back.” So the menu is as varied and long as her guest list. She has named dishes for surfing beaches, Swami’s, Stone Steps and Beacons and locals...like Eggs Anna. The famous and the unknowns sit side by side and share tips on conquering the waves of every surfing beach from Costa Rica to Hawaii and back down the coast of California.
When her memorabilia of old surfboards and pictures of young men skimming giant waves of their youth began to crowd out her useable restaurant space, Jane took it upon herself with the help of friends to launch the California Surf Museum at Oceanside Pier. What free time she has is devoted to keeping that going with special shows by local artists, film documentaries and special displays of Long Boards of the past.
Breakfast A, B, C and D attract the early rising locals out for their morning walks, who can’t beat the prices or the quality anywhere in town. Homemade muffins are a specialty (sometimes the unusual recipe of a waitress) and the omelettes are large, full of ‘goodies’ like fresh vegies or homemade chili or seafood and the tastiest in Encinitas.
If you haven’t tried George’s you have missed a slice of Americana especially geared to our local beach area. It’s just plain good eating. But, if you’re not hungry, come in and look at the surfing pictures that line the walls. You’re bound to see someone you know.
If Jane isn’t too busy bussing tables, she’ll stop and share colorful stories with you about surfing. She doesn’t surf herself, but like her car license says she’s SURFMOM and everyone wants to adopt her.
George’s is like Cheers, without being a bar....where everybody knows your name. Try it....you may have found a home away from home!
1985
Remember George’s on the beach in Cardiff in the Forties? Seems like there’s always been a George’s in these parts and Jane Schmaus carries on the tradition of good food, fun and friendship.
The ceiling of her restaurant is a mosaic of long surfboards of times past....their phantom riders now faded into Seasoned Citizen Surfer status or obscurity, and sometimes sitting around her tables telling tales of the ‘big waves’ of their youth.
Classic posters of Endless Summer movies or ‘hot spots’ along Old Highway 101 of pre-freeway days line the peeling plaster walls.
Starving artists and surfers who work at the will of the waves and tide line the brown booths done in fake leather designs of the nifty fifties.
Dividers of Mother Earth plantings separate the cavernous space of what looks like the prow of a ship in enclosed in glass.
George’s wasn’t planned....it evolved over time and this place is authentic. Jane, the proprietress, is the Mother Earth lady who tends the plants and takes on all the problems of her ‘adopted children’ who faithfully serve the tables year after year. Loyalty is a given in this establishment that officially closes twice a year for a couple of days of togetherness at Idylwild to romp in the snow or bond over hot herb tea in a warm cabins paid for by the restaurant. The closeness of the employees rubs off on the steady customers who know them all like family. The canaries sing their mating songs of love and their babies move in with each waitress, steady customer or family in the spring. Through Jane’s sharing about how to take care of the canary’s needs, some of the young servers learn to apply the life lessons to themselves.
“What kind of dish do you miss from back home?” Jane asks her guests....”we’ll make it here! We want you to come back.” So the menu is as varied and long as her guest list. She has named dishes for surfing beaches, Swami’s, Stone Steps and Beacons and locals...like Eggs Anna. The famous and the unknowns sit side by side and share tips on conquering the waves of every surfing beach from Costa Rica to Hawaii and back down the coast of California.
When her memorabilia of old surfboards and pictures of young men skimming giant waves of their youth began to crowd out her useable restaurant space, Jane took it upon herself with the help of friends to launch the California Surf Museum at Oceanside Pier. What free time she has is devoted to keeping that going with special shows by local artists, film documentaries and special displays of Long Boards of the past.
Breakfast A, B, C and D attract the early rising locals out for their morning walks, who can’t beat the prices or the quality anywhere in town. Homemade muffins are a specialty (sometimes the unusual recipe of a waitress) and the omelettes are large, full of ‘goodies’ like fresh vegies or homemade chili or seafood and the tastiest in Encinitas.
If you haven’t tried George’s you have missed a slice of Americana especially geared to our local beach area. It’s just plain good eating. But, if you’re not hungry, come in and look at the surfing pictures that line the walls. You’re bound to see someone you know.
If Jane isn’t too busy bussing tables, she’ll stop and share colorful stories with you about surfing. She doesn’t surf herself, but like her car license says she’s SURFMOM and everyone wants to adopt her.
George’s is like Cheers, without being a bar....where everybody knows your name. Try it....you may have found a home away from home!
Retin-A Day
Retin A Day
1986
The ad in the paper was enticing.
“Women - age 50 - 70 - Not taking hormones - Interested in clinical study for anti-wrinkle cream. Complete physical by dermatologist. Pay for study visits. 454-5555.”
It was a La Jolla phone number, so that made it more interesting because if I was chosen, it wouldn’t be far to drive.
I called my friend Norma.
“Wanna get paid for trying a new skin cream to get rid of our wrinkles?”
“Sure, I could go for that.”
We composed a message to put on their answering machine. “Two former beach bunnies with lots of wrikles, meet qualifications, would like appointment for interview. 436-5219”.
Then we waited. I guess lots of former beach bunnies answered this ad. Southern California is known for sunny weather and a high incidence of skin cancer, due to the sunbathing practices of all the young sun worshipers who choose this area for the great outdoor weather.
We got an appointment for interview and headed down to the offices of Dr. Lewis, Dermatologist. We filled out reams of questionaires, and had our bodies checked for identifying marks, scars or tattoo’s. The doctor drew circles around rough, pre-cancer spots and liver marks on our faces. Then he photographed us. Later we referred to this image as the photo from Hell, but we qualified! Hooray!
They gave us a months supply of Johnson & Johnson soap, Johnson & Johnson Sunblock 45, Johnson & Johnson Retin-A. You guessed it....Johnson and Johnson was the laboratory being investigated for claiming that Retin-A, thus far used clinically for teen aged acne, would also remove wrinkles. Now the government was getting into it. It had to be proved in a double blind study that the side-effect of plumping collagen underneath the skin, actually did take away fine wrinkles.
We left Dr. Lewis office loaded down with all our lab materials and product use diaries. We hoped we were not on the placebo.
“Isn’t this fun?” Norma said as we went down the stairs toward the parking lot.
“Yeh! And a great excuse to come to La Jolla once a month for lunch. We’ll call it our Retin-A day out! Let’s have lunch right now and start the celebration!” I said unlocking the car door.
When we got home, the routine was easy. Wash the face twice a day with their soap. Cover face with thin layer of Retin-A at night. In the morning after the routine face wash, we were to look at our copy of picture of our bad spots and put Retin-A on those. Never leave the house without covering the face with their sunblock. Piece of cake! And we were going to get paid for this, yet!
Retin-A days were fun outings. We covered every shopping area in La Jolla that year and tried all the restaurants including Johhny Rocket’s and Hard Rock Cafe. !
We both began to peel immediately so we were pretty sure we were on the real stuff. We looked pretty good, and it was noticeable that brown liver spots were lightening up. Our faces were plumping up and our skin looked smoother. And it was all free, plus we were being monitored each month at the doctors office.
At the end of the study we each received checks for $380.00 and a prescription for Retin-A. We were now on our own....each tube of the precious cream would now cost $25.00 if we wanted to continue. I did, so I bought mine in Tijuana for $5.00 a tube. I only use it twice a week on my forehead, which has always been a problem area for me, and on those circled areas that the doctor took pictures of. I’m pleased with the effects. Norma opted to quit using it after about six more months.
Johnson & Johnson still can’t say that Retin-A is an anti-wrinkle cream, but I am one who attests to it’s remarkable benefits. I plan to continue.
Norma and I still have our Retin-A days.....only now we just go to lunch But we still call our special days out our Retin-A days....even after all these years!
Post Script: Ironically, during this period of special attention to my face, I discovered the lump on my jawline that turned out to be cancerous. It had nothing to do with the Retin-A Study. I had it surgically removed in November of 1986 (Muco-epidermoid carcinoma). The discovery of that lump made me more cognizant of skin blemishes and the importance of doing a periodic check-up for any unusual lumps or darkened spots all over my body. I do the ABC test recommended by American Cancer Society. You should too! Now, in 1996, after ten years, Retin-A is okayed as an anti-wrinkle cream. We knew it all along!
1986
The ad in the paper was enticing.
“Women - age 50 - 70 - Not taking hormones - Interested in clinical study for anti-wrinkle cream. Complete physical by dermatologist. Pay for study visits. 454-5555.”
It was a La Jolla phone number, so that made it more interesting because if I was chosen, it wouldn’t be far to drive.
I called my friend Norma.
“Wanna get paid for trying a new skin cream to get rid of our wrinkles?”
“Sure, I could go for that.”
We composed a message to put on their answering machine. “Two former beach bunnies with lots of wrikles, meet qualifications, would like appointment for interview. 436-5219”.
Then we waited. I guess lots of former beach bunnies answered this ad. Southern California is known for sunny weather and a high incidence of skin cancer, due to the sunbathing practices of all the young sun worshipers who choose this area for the great outdoor weather.
We got an appointment for interview and headed down to the offices of Dr. Lewis, Dermatologist. We filled out reams of questionaires, and had our bodies checked for identifying marks, scars or tattoo’s. The doctor drew circles around rough, pre-cancer spots and liver marks on our faces. Then he photographed us. Later we referred to this image as the photo from Hell, but we qualified! Hooray!
They gave us a months supply of Johnson & Johnson soap, Johnson & Johnson Sunblock 45, Johnson & Johnson Retin-A. You guessed it....Johnson and Johnson was the laboratory being investigated for claiming that Retin-A, thus far used clinically for teen aged acne, would also remove wrinkles. Now the government was getting into it. It had to be proved in a double blind study that the side-effect of plumping collagen underneath the skin, actually did take away fine wrinkles.
We left Dr. Lewis office loaded down with all our lab materials and product use diaries. We hoped we were not on the placebo.
“Isn’t this fun?” Norma said as we went down the stairs toward the parking lot.
“Yeh! And a great excuse to come to La Jolla once a month for lunch. We’ll call it our Retin-A day out! Let’s have lunch right now and start the celebration!” I said unlocking the car door.
When we got home, the routine was easy. Wash the face twice a day with their soap. Cover face with thin layer of Retin-A at night. In the morning after the routine face wash, we were to look at our copy of picture of our bad spots and put Retin-A on those. Never leave the house without covering the face with their sunblock. Piece of cake! And we were going to get paid for this, yet!
Retin-A days were fun outings. We covered every shopping area in La Jolla that year and tried all the restaurants including Johhny Rocket’s and Hard Rock Cafe. !
We both began to peel immediately so we were pretty sure we were on the real stuff. We looked pretty good, and it was noticeable that brown liver spots were lightening up. Our faces were plumping up and our skin looked smoother. And it was all free, plus we were being monitored each month at the doctors office.
At the end of the study we each received checks for $380.00 and a prescription for Retin-A. We were now on our own....each tube of the precious cream would now cost $25.00 if we wanted to continue. I did, so I bought mine in Tijuana for $5.00 a tube. I only use it twice a week on my forehead, which has always been a problem area for me, and on those circled areas that the doctor took pictures of. I’m pleased with the effects. Norma opted to quit using it after about six more months.
Johnson & Johnson still can’t say that Retin-A is an anti-wrinkle cream, but I am one who attests to it’s remarkable benefits. I plan to continue.
Norma and I still have our Retin-A days.....only now we just go to lunch But we still call our special days out our Retin-A days....even after all these years!
Post Script: Ironically, during this period of special attention to my face, I discovered the lump on my jawline that turned out to be cancerous. It had nothing to do with the Retin-A Study. I had it surgically removed in November of 1986 (Muco-epidermoid carcinoma). The discovery of that lump made me more cognizant of skin blemishes and the importance of doing a periodic check-up for any unusual lumps or darkened spots all over my body. I do the ABC test recommended by American Cancer Society. You should too! Now, in 1996, after ten years, Retin-A is okayed as an anti-wrinkle cream. We knew it all along!
Joker's Wild
Joker's Wild
1983
Never buy a house that backs to a busy street. Never, that is, unless you are fond of the Indianapolis 500 in process, black, silty dust on your furniture and the inability to use the patio or yard for more than irrigation purposes.
"That's a non-conforming property," the lender said, as he refused a loan on the house.
"Well, we know that it needs to be cleaned up, that's why we are buying it. The price is reflected in that," Dick said in a very Real Estate Broker voice.
"I don't mean 'non-conforming' because it's a fixer. It is considered 'non-conforming' by the big lenders back East, because it backs to a busy street. They don't build homes in this manner back there."
This dismal conversation should have been a warning light, but we pursued relentlessly on, trying other lenders. We finally succeeded, closed escrow, and plunged into the project of refurbishing a five bedroom, three bath, hidden two-story, glass enclosed atrium, gigantic mess.
One bathroom had been wall-papered in Mad Magazine Covers and then shellacked over. But this was to be our last fixer before we retired to Cardiff by the Sea, so we felt we could endure anything.
The traffic behind the house told us only that we lived in busy Orange County, and because this house was so devastated and in such a great district next to the golf course and country club, we knew it would make money.
By the time we moved in the trickle of traffic behind the house had tripled as the city widened Adams Avenue and the Santa Ana River Bridge.
Our first night in the house was a shocker. I had assumed by the time I went to bed that the traffic would have died down. As I layed in my bed, and stared at the ceiling until the traffic eased off sometime after the last bars closed down at 2:00 a.m., I remember thinking "Why me?"
At 5:00 a.m. the hum of early morning commuters awakened me as they shifted gears at the corner stoplight. Adams Avenue was the shortcut for the bedroom community of Huntington Beach to reach the 405 Freeway.
I bolted out of bed in confusion. It sounded as though they were coming through the master bedroom.
Where am I? Then I remembered we'd moved. I grabbed my robe and headed for the kitchen. I made coffee and sipped it slowly as my night person husband slept peacefully on. He was totally undisturbed by the now four lane highway in our backyard. I could hear his muffled snores from the kitchen, blended with honking horns and an occasional police siren. He snored on quite peacefully.
"What am I going to do?" I asked him over breakfast.
"It can't be that bad," he said, as though he didn't even live here.
"Look at me...my eyelids are at half-mast and you say it couldn't have been that bad!"
"You exaggerate," he said, "go buy some ear-plugs if it bothers you that much."
I did. And they worked. I slept like a log that night.
The ear-plugs were funny looking little things. Small cylinders of soft foam about three quarters of an inch long. Bright yellow. You rolled them in between your fingers until they got long and thin and warm and then you slipped them inside your ear and they swelled back up to normal size again, blocking all sound. They were a miracle.
I became so dependent upon the little yellow ear-plugs that I carried several of them in my train case when we went to visit the children. These little wonders also drowned out the cries of newborn babies, barking dogs and mating cats.
One time when Linda was visiting, I was sitting in bed warming up the little ear critters between my fingers, as she came through the doorway to say goodnight. She and Dick kept chit chatting while I went through my nightly ritual.
"My ear-plugs feel funny," I said as I continued to roll them and plunk them into my ears. They burst out laughing hilariously.
I stopped abruptly. My hands were sticky now.
Dick and Linda were both laughing so hard they couldn't talk.
It seems that earlier in the evening they had cooked up one of their practical jokes that the Reahm's are notorious for. They removed my ear-plugs from the nightstand and rushed them out to the kitchen. Got some baby marshmallows from the cupboard and feverishly painted them yellow with a felt tip highlighter pen. Then they placed the fake and phoney look alikes into my bedside drawer. The rest of the evening they spent anxiously waiting for me to go to bed.
"What were you going to do? Wait until those gooey marshmallows went into melt down in my ears and then tell me?"
"Not me, Coach," which was Dick's standard answer when caught in a devious act. He got a damp washcloth for me to wash the sticky off my ears and fingertips which were now bright yellow.
I've never heard the last of that event, but it did teach me a great lesson.
Never buy a house that backs up to a busy street no matter how good the deal and never trust your family as far as you can throw them! Especially if the practical jokers are wild like Dick and Linda.
1983
Never buy a house that backs to a busy street. Never, that is, unless you are fond of the Indianapolis 500 in process, black, silty dust on your furniture and the inability to use the patio or yard for more than irrigation purposes.
"That's a non-conforming property," the lender said, as he refused a loan on the house.
"Well, we know that it needs to be cleaned up, that's why we are buying it. The price is reflected in that," Dick said in a very Real Estate Broker voice.
"I don't mean 'non-conforming' because it's a fixer. It is considered 'non-conforming' by the big lenders back East, because it backs to a busy street. They don't build homes in this manner back there."
This dismal conversation should have been a warning light, but we pursued relentlessly on, trying other lenders. We finally succeeded, closed escrow, and plunged into the project of refurbishing a five bedroom, three bath, hidden two-story, glass enclosed atrium, gigantic mess.
One bathroom had been wall-papered in Mad Magazine Covers and then shellacked over. But this was to be our last fixer before we retired to Cardiff by the Sea, so we felt we could endure anything.
The traffic behind the house told us only that we lived in busy Orange County, and because this house was so devastated and in such a great district next to the golf course and country club, we knew it would make money.
By the time we moved in the trickle of traffic behind the house had tripled as the city widened Adams Avenue and the Santa Ana River Bridge.
Our first night in the house was a shocker. I had assumed by the time I went to bed that the traffic would have died down. As I layed in my bed, and stared at the ceiling until the traffic eased off sometime after the last bars closed down at 2:00 a.m., I remember thinking "Why me?"
At 5:00 a.m. the hum of early morning commuters awakened me as they shifted gears at the corner stoplight. Adams Avenue was the shortcut for the bedroom community of Huntington Beach to reach the 405 Freeway.
I bolted out of bed in confusion. It sounded as though they were coming through the master bedroom.
Where am I? Then I remembered we'd moved. I grabbed my robe and headed for the kitchen. I made coffee and sipped it slowly as my night person husband slept peacefully on. He was totally undisturbed by the now four lane highway in our backyard. I could hear his muffled snores from the kitchen, blended with honking horns and an occasional police siren. He snored on quite peacefully.
"What am I going to do?" I asked him over breakfast.
"It can't be that bad," he said, as though he didn't even live here.
"Look at me...my eyelids are at half-mast and you say it couldn't have been that bad!"
"You exaggerate," he said, "go buy some ear-plugs if it bothers you that much."
I did. And they worked. I slept like a log that night.
The ear-plugs were funny looking little things. Small cylinders of soft foam about three quarters of an inch long. Bright yellow. You rolled them in between your fingers until they got long and thin and warm and then you slipped them inside your ear and they swelled back up to normal size again, blocking all sound. They were a miracle.
I became so dependent upon the little yellow ear-plugs that I carried several of them in my train case when we went to visit the children. These little wonders also drowned out the cries of newborn babies, barking dogs and mating cats.
One time when Linda was visiting, I was sitting in bed warming up the little ear critters between my fingers, as she came through the doorway to say goodnight. She and Dick kept chit chatting while I went through my nightly ritual.
"My ear-plugs feel funny," I said as I continued to roll them and plunk them into my ears. They burst out laughing hilariously.
I stopped abruptly. My hands were sticky now.
Dick and Linda were both laughing so hard they couldn't talk.
It seems that earlier in the evening they had cooked up one of their practical jokes that the Reahm's are notorious for. They removed my ear-plugs from the nightstand and rushed them out to the kitchen. Got some baby marshmallows from the cupboard and feverishly painted them yellow with a felt tip highlighter pen. Then they placed the fake and phoney look alikes into my bedside drawer. The rest of the evening they spent anxiously waiting for me to go to bed.
"What were you going to do? Wait until those gooey marshmallows went into melt down in my ears and then tell me?"
"Not me, Coach," which was Dick's standard answer when caught in a devious act. He got a damp washcloth for me to wash the sticky off my ears and fingertips which were now bright yellow.
I've never heard the last of that event, but it did teach me a great lesson.
Never buy a house that backs up to a busy street no matter how good the deal and never trust your family as far as you can throw them! Especially if the practical jokers are wild like Dick and Linda.
Progressive Phones
Progressive Phones
1983
Until my mother passed away, I though Poppy was self-sufficient.
I allowed for a reasonable time of mourning and forgetfulness, but soon I noticed chinks in his armor. My weekly visits became longer, with more errands to run, and more telephone calls to make for him. He seemed to be regressing to the Dirty Thirties. I think he missed Ma Bell's voice asking "Number please" from the good old days.
Poppy was never comfortable with new fangled things, unless it was engines underneath the hood of a car, and then he was totally in awe of what the mind of man could invent.
The little cottage he lived in needed a lot of work, which Richie was more than willing to help with. In the process we found that his telephone was hopelessly outdated, so I crawled under the bed to where it was wired in, un-hooked it and took it to The Phone Store.
"This must date back to high-button shoes," the girl at the phone company said.
"Yes, I agree. I don't know why they never replaced it. Just very frugal people, I guess."
"Well, look around and choose whatever you want, and I'll help you with it," she said, going on to help the next customer, "come back when you're ready."
I had it figured out well in advance. I would get him a push-button phone, with 24 programmable numbers for all his friends, doctors, and emergency 911. That would take care of looking up numbers for him every week when I came to visit. His eyes were getting progressively worse.
They told me at the store just how to connect the new phone, since Poppy's house was old, and not wired for push-button systems. I fiddled and fiddled under the bed until I got the green to red or vice versa, crawled out, dusted myself off and headed into the next room to program all the numbers.
"What are you doing over there?" Poppy asked, peering through his thick glasses at me.
"It's a surprise, Poppy," I said continuing to dial numbers, store them and assign them a simple number from 1 to 24. This was going to be so neat. All he would have to do would be read the name of who he wanted to call and push their number. What could be simpler?
When I finished, I placed the telephone in his lap.
“It's the telephone,” he said matter offactly.
"Yes, but it's new. It's a new modem convenience.”
I patiently explained how he would only have to push one button now to call any number of people. All his good Gideon buddies, all the widows at church, all his doctors. Now they were just one button away.
"Sufferin' cats," he exclaimed, "what'll they think of next!"
"Try it," I said, I was super excited about this.
He started to push the first button.
"Try it, you'll love it!" I coaxed
"No, Poppy, that says Thelly. I'm the first button. I'm not at home now. I'm here. So nobody will answer my phone. Try the next one. It's Mr. Brown."
He pushed the second button.
"Brown?"
Mr. Brown answered.
"It's him,” Poppy said to me.
"Well, talk to him, not me.”
"Brown?" he asked again, as though he just couldn't believe that the new telephone could have managed to get Mr. Brown with just one push of a button.
"Yes," Mr. Brown said real loud, "who is this?"
"It's Hyder. I'm gonna hang up now, I have to play with more buttons."
Poppy, you could have talked awhile, you didn't need to hang up on him," I said
"I want to try ZelIa," he said.
"O.K." I said, glad that he was wanting to get the hang of it already.
I went on out to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He loved it when I made fresh coffee for us before I went home in the afternoon. Then he wouldn't have to make it in the morning. I don't know whv he didn't like to make coffee, but he didn't. Once I told him to freeze the fresh coffee in Styrofoam cups and then when he wanted a fresh cup of brew, he could just heat it in the microwave oven. That only worked once. He set the micro for twenty minutes instead of two and it blew up the coffee, cup and all. What a mess that was! Coffee breaks were his favorite pastime...other than going out with the widows for breakfast.
I fixed a snack with our coffee and came back into the living room.
His phone calls were going well. He was on his third widow by the time I returned with out treat.
After our break, I headed home feeling very smug about the day's achievement.
Three days later, he called early in the morning.
"Thelma, can you come right away?"
I thought heart attack first thing. He had angina, which was severe and debilitating at times.
"I'll be right there," I said
I drove way over the speed limit, taking all the shortcuts to Escondido.
When I came in the back door, he was looking good.
"I want to go to the telephone office.
"What for?" I asked, relieved that he was O.K., but upset that I had hurried so for a non-emergency.
"I keep getting the wrong widows on the phone, and I end up going to breakfast with the one I didn't call. There's something wrong with this new phone."
"You're just not used to it yet," I said patiently.
"And I'm not going to get used to it. I want my old phone back."
Here we go again, I thought. Can't teach an old man new shortcuts. Oh well.
When we got to The Phone Store, I decided to just let him handle it. I was too embarrassed.
I wandered over to the Mickey Mouse phone in the center of the display to check it out, but I could hear him across the room.
“I want my old dial phone back. I'm a retired person, I have plenty of time to dial my own phone numbers. I don't like these little push button deals doing it for me they always get the wrong people. They get the widows mixed up. Then I have to take them all out to eat at the same time. He plunked the phone down on the counter with finality.
That was the end of a progressive phone for him. It was over. Done with. End of subject.
1983
Until my mother passed away, I though Poppy was self-sufficient.
I allowed for a reasonable time of mourning and forgetfulness, but soon I noticed chinks in his armor. My weekly visits became longer, with more errands to run, and more telephone calls to make for him. He seemed to be regressing to the Dirty Thirties. I think he missed Ma Bell's voice asking "Number please" from the good old days.
Poppy was never comfortable with new fangled things, unless it was engines underneath the hood of a car, and then he was totally in awe of what the mind of man could invent.
The little cottage he lived in needed a lot of work, which Richie was more than willing to help with. In the process we found that his telephone was hopelessly outdated, so I crawled under the bed to where it was wired in, un-hooked it and took it to The Phone Store.
"This must date back to high-button shoes," the girl at the phone company said.
"Yes, I agree. I don't know why they never replaced it. Just very frugal people, I guess."
"Well, look around and choose whatever you want, and I'll help you with it," she said, going on to help the next customer, "come back when you're ready."
I had it figured out well in advance. I would get him a push-button phone, with 24 programmable numbers for all his friends, doctors, and emergency 911. That would take care of looking up numbers for him every week when I came to visit. His eyes were getting progressively worse.
They told me at the store just how to connect the new phone, since Poppy's house was old, and not wired for push-button systems. I fiddled and fiddled under the bed until I got the green to red or vice versa, crawled out, dusted myself off and headed into the next room to program all the numbers.
"What are you doing over there?" Poppy asked, peering through his thick glasses at me.
"It's a surprise, Poppy," I said continuing to dial numbers, store them and assign them a simple number from 1 to 24. This was going to be so neat. All he would have to do would be read the name of who he wanted to call and push their number. What could be simpler?
When I finished, I placed the telephone in his lap.
“It's the telephone,” he said matter offactly.
"Yes, but it's new. It's a new modem convenience.”
I patiently explained how he would only have to push one button now to call any number of people. All his good Gideon buddies, all the widows at church, all his doctors. Now they were just one button away.
"Sufferin' cats," he exclaimed, "what'll they think of next!"
"Try it," I said, I was super excited about this.
He started to push the first button.
"Try it, you'll love it!" I coaxed
"No, Poppy, that says Thelly. I'm the first button. I'm not at home now. I'm here. So nobody will answer my phone. Try the next one. It's Mr. Brown."
He pushed the second button.
"Brown?"
Mr. Brown answered.
"It's him,” Poppy said to me.
"Well, talk to him, not me.”
"Brown?" he asked again, as though he just couldn't believe that the new telephone could have managed to get Mr. Brown with just one push of a button.
"Yes," Mr. Brown said real loud, "who is this?"
"It's Hyder. I'm gonna hang up now, I have to play with more buttons."
Poppy, you could have talked awhile, you didn't need to hang up on him," I said
"I want to try ZelIa," he said.
"O.K." I said, glad that he was wanting to get the hang of it already.
I went on out to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He loved it when I made fresh coffee for us before I went home in the afternoon. Then he wouldn't have to make it in the morning. I don't know whv he didn't like to make coffee, but he didn't. Once I told him to freeze the fresh coffee in Styrofoam cups and then when he wanted a fresh cup of brew, he could just heat it in the microwave oven. That only worked once. He set the micro for twenty minutes instead of two and it blew up the coffee, cup and all. What a mess that was! Coffee breaks were his favorite pastime...other than going out with the widows for breakfast.
I fixed a snack with our coffee and came back into the living room.
His phone calls were going well. He was on his third widow by the time I returned with out treat.
After our break, I headed home feeling very smug about the day's achievement.
Three days later, he called early in the morning.
"Thelma, can you come right away?"
I thought heart attack first thing. He had angina, which was severe and debilitating at times.
"I'll be right there," I said
I drove way over the speed limit, taking all the shortcuts to Escondido.
When I came in the back door, he was looking good.
"I want to go to the telephone office.
"What for?" I asked, relieved that he was O.K., but upset that I had hurried so for a non-emergency.
"I keep getting the wrong widows on the phone, and I end up going to breakfast with the one I didn't call. There's something wrong with this new phone."
"You're just not used to it yet," I said patiently.
"And I'm not going to get used to it. I want my old phone back."
Here we go again, I thought. Can't teach an old man new shortcuts. Oh well.
When we got to The Phone Store, I decided to just let him handle it. I was too embarrassed.
I wandered over to the Mickey Mouse phone in the center of the display to check it out, but I could hear him across the room.
“I want my old dial phone back. I'm a retired person, I have plenty of time to dial my own phone numbers. I don't like these little push button deals doing it for me they always get the wrong people. They get the widows mixed up. Then I have to take them all out to eat at the same time. He plunked the phone down on the counter with finality.
That was the end of a progressive phone for him. It was over. Done with. End of subject.
Traditions
Traditions
1983
We do the “big thing” the night before. They do it in the morning. We take turns. They do it all at once.
We bake ham. They roast turkey.
We have mashed potatoes. They have mashed rutabagas.
The occasion is Christmas and the “we’s” and “they’s” are the German side of the family and the Swedish faction.
We have a “Jesus is the reason for the Season” banner on the tree...they have a donkey and blue and yellow flags wrapped around theirs.
We make gravy in a pot. They make gravy in the roasting pan.
We have cranberry compote. They have cranberry sauce. We have Transparent Pies, they have Jule Kaga. We have Wassail...hot and fruity simmering all day on the back of the stove....they have grog! Or is it Glug?
I don’t know how local California celebrations of Christmas can be so varied and different, but they are. None of us have pure family lines, we all grew up within a few miles of each other...we didn’t just get off the boat!
Tradition! Heritage! Legacy!
We all hang onto habits and traditions of our past.
I can hear the voices sound out loud and clear year after year.
“We always do it this way!”
“Well...we always do it that way!”
Some year, I’d like to do it my way!
I’ve always dreamed of Christmas on Waikiki. First Class! No shopping. No wrapping. No thank you notes after.
Think of it! Breakfast in bed. A walk on the beach. No sit-down dinners for twenty. No putting away all the leftovers for the freezer when everyone else is gone.
After forty years of this, burnout has arrived!
Next time I hear a sentence beginning with “We always...” I’d like it to be my voice on my way to the airport.
I’ll send a post card saying MELE KALIKEMAKA!
It must be somebody’s tradition somewhere! Why not make it mine!
1983
We do the “big thing” the night before. They do it in the morning. We take turns. They do it all at once.
We bake ham. They roast turkey.
We have mashed potatoes. They have mashed rutabagas.
The occasion is Christmas and the “we’s” and “they’s” are the German side of the family and the Swedish faction.
We have a “Jesus is the reason for the Season” banner on the tree...they have a donkey and blue and yellow flags wrapped around theirs.
We make gravy in a pot. They make gravy in the roasting pan.
We have cranberry compote. They have cranberry sauce. We have Transparent Pies, they have Jule Kaga. We have Wassail...hot and fruity simmering all day on the back of the stove....they have grog! Or is it Glug?
I don’t know how local California celebrations of Christmas can be so varied and different, but they are. None of us have pure family lines, we all grew up within a few miles of each other...we didn’t just get off the boat!
Tradition! Heritage! Legacy!
We all hang onto habits and traditions of our past.
I can hear the voices sound out loud and clear year after year.
“We always do it this way!”
“Well...we always do it that way!”
Some year, I’d like to do it my way!
I’ve always dreamed of Christmas on Waikiki. First Class! No shopping. No wrapping. No thank you notes after.
Think of it! Breakfast in bed. A walk on the beach. No sit-down dinners for twenty. No putting away all the leftovers for the freezer when everyone else is gone.
After forty years of this, burnout has arrived!
Next time I hear a sentence beginning with “We always...” I’d like it to be my voice on my way to the airport.
I’ll send a post card saying MELE KALIKEMAKA!
It must be somebody’s tradition somewhere! Why not make it mine!
Transparent Pies
Transparent Pies
1983
Christmas was never Christmas without Transparent Pies.
My Grandma Talbert made the most delicate, light pastry you could imagine, then she rolled it out on a floured breadboard and cut it in circles. She would lift each circle up and carefully mold it into a cupcake tin. Then in a large bowl she would beat eggs, karo syrup and sugar until it was fluffy and full of air. She poured this mixture into the cups and baked them in the oven.
When you sunk your teeth into Transparent Pies, you knew you had been treated to a real down-home Kentucky dessert! Hmrnm! I can smell them baking now, and hot or cold they were lip-smacking good.
They were never the same when my mother baked them. They smelled the same, but she never had the knack of getting such a light flaky crust. Grandma gave up baking them in her eighty third year and I knew that life was not going to be the same.
I was a newlywed then.
"Mother, when do I get to learn to make Transparent Pies" I asked my mother that Christmas.
"When you learn to bake a decent piecrust," she said flatly. I knew that would be never, as I was already buying ready-mix crusts in a box because I never could get that light touch. It's really an art. My Aunt Ollie could do it and Grandma could do it, but certainly my mother couldn't, at least not as well, and now she was giving me a putdown for not being able to bake a decent crust.
I never did get the knack, and mother never gave me the recipe for Transparent Pies.
"The crust is all!" she would say.
The fact that I made the best Buttermilk Devil's Food Cake in the world never satisfied her. The words "Crust is all" echoed in my head through the years.
When Grandma Talbert died, the recipe, in her handwriting, was handed down to my mother. Grandma had never given it out to a living soul. It was a family recipe and it was to stay that way..
So, as time went on and the Christmases passed, I always knew that someday I would get the recipe for Transparent Pies, even though my pie crusts had not gotten a bit better. In fact ready
mix had been replaced by ready made, they came home from the store in a pan with perfectly fluted edges. I was a modern working woman I didn't have time to make piecrust.
Mother continued making them every Christmas until her last. They hadn't gotten better over time, and that fact caused me more than once to consider taking up 'crust making from scratch' again just for the sake of carrying on the tradition when she was gone.
After she passed on I looked high and low for the Transparent Pie Recipe. I never found it.
Christmas came and I missed the smell of Transparent Pies.
In the hustle and bustle of family arriving for dinner, I didn't notice who brought what until dessert time.
"Who's ready for Transparent Pies?" my son's wife, Penny, asked.
"Say what?" I took a double take.
"Who's ready for..." she tried to repeat her question but I interrupted.
"Never mind that where did you get the recipe?" I asked wide eyed and filled with disbelief.
"Gramma Hyder," she said innocently, "she told me I should carry on the tradition. So, I did."
I knew she meant me no injustice by baking the Transparent Pies herself. How could she know that my own mother never trusted me to make the crust right.
So, the Transparent Pie recipe skipped a generation. So what?
I always did think the proof was in the pudding part, even though my mother thought it was in the crust.
I busied myself in the kitchen making another pot of coffee, tears stinging my eyes, while Penny served the dessert.
"How are the Transparent Pies?" I asked as I sat back down at the table.
"Gone!" everyone chorused. They usually saved that phrase for my famous deviled eggs.
That was the best part of a tradition, that we all enjoyed it and that it continued long after our parents and grandparents were gone, bringing back fond family feelings of Christmases past.
I could start a new tradition. I could be the only one in the history of this family who never learned to make piecrust from scratch! Carry on, Penny, your crust is great!
1983
Christmas was never Christmas without Transparent Pies.
My Grandma Talbert made the most delicate, light pastry you could imagine, then she rolled it out on a floured breadboard and cut it in circles. She would lift each circle up and carefully mold it into a cupcake tin. Then in a large bowl she would beat eggs, karo syrup and sugar until it was fluffy and full of air. She poured this mixture into the cups and baked them in the oven.
When you sunk your teeth into Transparent Pies, you knew you had been treated to a real down-home Kentucky dessert! Hmrnm! I can smell them baking now, and hot or cold they were lip-smacking good.
They were never the same when my mother baked them. They smelled the same, but she never had the knack of getting such a light flaky crust. Grandma gave up baking them in her eighty third year and I knew that life was not going to be the same.
I was a newlywed then.
"Mother, when do I get to learn to make Transparent Pies" I asked my mother that Christmas.
"When you learn to bake a decent piecrust," she said flatly. I knew that would be never, as I was already buying ready-mix crusts in a box because I never could get that light touch. It's really an art. My Aunt Ollie could do it and Grandma could do it, but certainly my mother couldn't, at least not as well, and now she was giving me a putdown for not being able to bake a decent crust.
I never did get the knack, and mother never gave me the recipe for Transparent Pies.
"The crust is all!" she would say.
The fact that I made the best Buttermilk Devil's Food Cake in the world never satisfied her. The words "Crust is all" echoed in my head through the years.
When Grandma Talbert died, the recipe, in her handwriting, was handed down to my mother. Grandma had never given it out to a living soul. It was a family recipe and it was to stay that way..
So, as time went on and the Christmases passed, I always knew that someday I would get the recipe for Transparent Pies, even though my pie crusts had not gotten a bit better. In fact ready
mix had been replaced by ready made, they came home from the store in a pan with perfectly fluted edges. I was a modern working woman I didn't have time to make piecrust.
Mother continued making them every Christmas until her last. They hadn't gotten better over time, and that fact caused me more than once to consider taking up 'crust making from scratch' again just for the sake of carrying on the tradition when she was gone.
After she passed on I looked high and low for the Transparent Pie Recipe. I never found it.
Christmas came and I missed the smell of Transparent Pies.
In the hustle and bustle of family arriving for dinner, I didn't notice who brought what until dessert time.
"Who's ready for Transparent Pies?" my son's wife, Penny, asked.
"Say what?" I took a double take.
"Who's ready for..." she tried to repeat her question but I interrupted.
"Never mind that where did you get the recipe?" I asked wide eyed and filled with disbelief.
"Gramma Hyder," she said innocently, "she told me I should carry on the tradition. So, I did."
I knew she meant me no injustice by baking the Transparent Pies herself. How could she know that my own mother never trusted me to make the crust right.
So, the Transparent Pie recipe skipped a generation. So what?
I always did think the proof was in the pudding part, even though my mother thought it was in the crust.
I busied myself in the kitchen making another pot of coffee, tears stinging my eyes, while Penny served the dessert.
"How are the Transparent Pies?" I asked as I sat back down at the table.
"Gone!" everyone chorused. They usually saved that phrase for my famous deviled eggs.
That was the best part of a tradition, that we all enjoyed it and that it continued long after our parents and grandparents were gone, bringing back fond family feelings of Christmases past.
I could start a new tradition. I could be the only one in the history of this family who never learned to make piecrust from scratch! Carry on, Penny, your crust is great!
Green Flash Facts
WEATHER GUIDE CALENDAR - GREEN FLASH INFO
Have you ever seen a green star? Chances are, you haven’t. But the light from all normal stars, including our sun, contains green light. In fact, most stars emit most colors of light.
But there is another way to see the sun’s elusive green light, and that is by observing a transient if not rare phenomenon called the “Green Flash”.
Under the right conditions, the Green Flash may be visible at the top of the setting sun, seconds after the body of the sun has slipped below the visible horizon. It is sometimes visible with the rising sun, too, but these observations a re more difficult.
When the sun is near the horizon, its light is passing through thicker layers of atmosphere than when it is high overhead. Thus the effect of the air in bending sunlight is greatest at this time. So the sun’s light can be dispersed into different colors. At this time you may also notice the sun appears flattened which is another effect of the atmosphere.
The blue wavelengths are scattered by molecules of air. Because their wavelengths are comparable to the size of air molecules, they have a more difficult time find a straight line. Instead, they are bounced off into all directions, if you will, which is why the sky is blue. On the other hand, orange and yellow light is not scattered, but absorbed by the atmosphere (primarily by water vapor, oxygen, and ozone). So the setting sun typically doesn’t appear orange or yellow because the atmosphere absorbs those wavelengths.
The red light passes through, which is why the setting sun frequently appears red. But like red light, green light is neither absorbed nor dispersed. And when the red light is fading, for just a brief moment, the top of the sun may appear greenish. And sometimes the green edge of the sun appears to detach itself and float above the sun for a few moments. This is the “GREEN FLASH”
Al though the green flash has been known for a long time, relatively few people have seen it because it requires a certain set of circumstances and is very fleeting.
The Green Flash and other color phenomena are best seen when there is a low, clear horizon without clouds, dust, haze, or any form of pollution. From a mountain top or over the ocean are typically cited as the best observing conditions.
Just remember, the Green Flash is a fleeting and somewhat capricious phenomenon. Some observers have tried for decades and have never succeeded. And then there are others, such as our intrepid photographer Ken Langford, who just have the knack to photograph this and many other phenomena.
Article by Larry Sessions. Weather Guide Calendar with Phenomenal Weather Events
Accord Publishing ltd. (There is a 5 x 6 picture of the Green Flash)
Jules Verne, 1828 Le Rayon Vertor (The Green Flash) A Romance of the Scottish Highlands
"A green which no artist could ever obtain on his palette, a green of which neither the varied tints of vegetation nor the shades of the most limpid sea could ever produce, the like of! If ever there be green in Paradise, it surely must be this true green of hope"
Have you ever seen a green star? Chances are, you haven’t. But the light from all normal stars, including our sun, contains green light. In fact, most stars emit most colors of light.
But there is another way to see the sun’s elusive green light, and that is by observing a transient if not rare phenomenon called the “Green Flash”.
Under the right conditions, the Green Flash may be visible at the top of the setting sun, seconds after the body of the sun has slipped below the visible horizon. It is sometimes visible with the rising sun, too, but these observations a re more difficult.
When the sun is near the horizon, its light is passing through thicker layers of atmosphere than when it is high overhead. Thus the effect of the air in bending sunlight is greatest at this time. So the sun’s light can be dispersed into different colors. At this time you may also notice the sun appears flattened which is another effect of the atmosphere.
The blue wavelengths are scattered by molecules of air. Because their wavelengths are comparable to the size of air molecules, they have a more difficult time find a straight line. Instead, they are bounced off into all directions, if you will, which is why the sky is blue. On the other hand, orange and yellow light is not scattered, but absorbed by the atmosphere (primarily by water vapor, oxygen, and ozone). So the setting sun typically doesn’t appear orange or yellow because the atmosphere absorbs those wavelengths.
The red light passes through, which is why the setting sun frequently appears red. But like red light, green light is neither absorbed nor dispersed. And when the red light is fading, for just a brief moment, the top of the sun may appear greenish. And sometimes the green edge of the sun appears to detach itself and float above the sun for a few moments. This is the “GREEN FLASH”
Al though the green flash has been known for a long time, relatively few people have seen it because it requires a certain set of circumstances and is very fleeting.
The Green Flash and other color phenomena are best seen when there is a low, clear horizon without clouds, dust, haze, or any form of pollution. From a mountain top or over the ocean are typically cited as the best observing conditions.
Just remember, the Green Flash is a fleeting and somewhat capricious phenomenon. Some observers have tried for decades and have never succeeded. And then there are others, such as our intrepid photographer Ken Langford, who just have the knack to photograph this and many other phenomena.
Article by Larry Sessions. Weather Guide Calendar with Phenomenal Weather Events
Accord Publishing ltd. (There is a 5 x 6 picture of the Green Flash)
Jules Verne, 1828 Le Rayon Vertor (The Green Flash) A Romance of the Scottish Highlands
"A green which no artist could ever obtain on his palette, a green of which neither the varied tints of vegetation nor the shades of the most limpid sea could ever produce, the like of! If ever there be green in Paradise, it surely must be this true green of hope"
The Popcorn Knew!
The Popcorn Knew!
1983
From childhood, when we had a cow, and made our own butter, the taste was just something rich and satisfying to me...especially when home baked Parker House Rolls came popping out of the oven.
Changing from creamery butter to margarine, and then to low-fat margarine was not a fun thing, but higher than normal cholesterol demanded making the sacrifices.
When I worked at Dutch Boy Bakery in La Jolla in 1949, (a short term job I held in order to buy a train ticket for Bruce and me to go visit my parents after they moved to Little Rock, Arkansas), the owners of the bakery always furnished creamery butter when the hot rolls came out of the ovens, and we would have our break in the back room with real butter dripping from fresh, hot buns or cinnamon rolls.
Occasionally I’d had the misfortune to have oleo margarine as a kid, but not often. It came in a flat loaf, white, like lard. In the package there was a packet of red powder to sprinkle over the white margarine. I plopped it in a big bowl, and with bare hands worked the coloring in, until it became a soft, creamy yellow. It took forever to wash the grease off my hands. Then I patted it into the shape of a loaf again, and placed it in the ice box. When it hardened, then Grandma cut it into four 1/4 pound cubes and pretended that it was butter. That was only when the cow went dry and times were so lean.
Movie popcorn never tasted as good as home made, because it messed that special taste of real butter.
After the war, the margarine came in a sealed plastic bag with a small button of liquid orange coloring inside the bag. I was married by then and I worked the margarine until it was soft, not getting my hands greasy because it was all self-contained in the bag. I then popped the button between my fingers and bright, orange, juice squirted through the white glob, turning it streaked and striped with different shades of orange. I kept working that bag until the margarine turned creamy yellow and was ready to place in the refrigerator. I never seemed to get this mess quite square, but later as it hardened, it too was cut into 1/4 pound cubes ready for the table. The idea of it was new, and it was very reasonably priced, but it never became a great tastey substitute for butter.
As new things came and went, homogenization became the rage, and actually got the margarine tasting a bit more like butter. But then they started messing with it some more...making it low fat. Whipping it with water, made it fluffier, smoother and less fattening. Sometimes it was made of different oils... canola, corn oil, safflower oil, whatever happened to be popular, competing with many brands trying to beat the cows out in the age old race to find something to take the place of creamery butter. As far as I was concerned it always fell short. If it tasted like butter, it laid there on my morning toast staring up at me like a blob of plastic, never melting.
After we moved to Summit House, we took up eating popcorn for a fibrous, non-cholesterol snack of an evening. We began with a regular, old fashioned popper that sat on the burner...I had to shake it often, to keep the popcorn from burning. Then we graduated to an air popper, using no oil, and then to the world famous Orville Reddenbacher packs you pop in the microwave oven.
When the popcorn was finished, I melted some tasteless, low fat, poufy margarine and poured it into the microwave bag of popcorn and shook it.
I poured it into a bowl and carried it into the family room. By the time I placed it on the table between our chairs the popcorn was reduced in size to about half.
“Something’s wrong with this...it’s tough!” Richie said, spitting his mouthful of popcorn in the trash.
“Gee. I don’t know if popcorn goes bad or not?”
“Well, something is wrong with this!”
“I’ll make another bowl...I have a new pack of Orville Reddenbacher in the pantry.”
I puttered around in the kitchen for awhile, repeating the routine I had just gone through earlier. Popped the corn in the bag, melted some low fat, poofy water laden margarine, poured it into the bag, shook it, walked into the family room and poured the popcorn into the bowl.
Poof! It hardly filled the bowl half-way, again!
“Well, what the heck!”
“I got the new package!” We both stared at the flat popcorn.
I went back into the kitchen, dumped it in the trash, got out a new pack of popcorn, reached for the margarine to melt for it when it dawned on me.
“It’s the water!”
“What? Olympia beer?” he called back to me. He remembered the old commercial from back in the sixties.
‘No! It’s the water in the margarine!”
I stuck the bag in the microwave. It began popping. I reached into the back of the refrigerator for a cube of real creamery butter, that I saved for special occasions. Cholesterol be hanged! We were going to have a bowl of good tasting popcorn!
“Now that’s buttered popcorn,” I said, munching on it and smacking my lips.
No matter how the different manufacturer’s tried, nothing tasted as good as real creamery butter. Not “I can’t believe it isn’t Butter,” nor Butter Buds, nor half-butter half-margarine. It took cream from a cow to make real butter.
The popcorn knew!
1983
From childhood, when we had a cow, and made our own butter, the taste was just something rich and satisfying to me...especially when home baked Parker House Rolls came popping out of the oven.
Changing from creamery butter to margarine, and then to low-fat margarine was not a fun thing, but higher than normal cholesterol demanded making the sacrifices.
When I worked at Dutch Boy Bakery in La Jolla in 1949, (a short term job I held in order to buy a train ticket for Bruce and me to go visit my parents after they moved to Little Rock, Arkansas), the owners of the bakery always furnished creamery butter when the hot rolls came out of the ovens, and we would have our break in the back room with real butter dripping from fresh, hot buns or cinnamon rolls.
Occasionally I’d had the misfortune to have oleo margarine as a kid, but not often. It came in a flat loaf, white, like lard. In the package there was a packet of red powder to sprinkle over the white margarine. I plopped it in a big bowl, and with bare hands worked the coloring in, until it became a soft, creamy yellow. It took forever to wash the grease off my hands. Then I patted it into the shape of a loaf again, and placed it in the ice box. When it hardened, then Grandma cut it into four 1/4 pound cubes and pretended that it was butter. That was only when the cow went dry and times were so lean.
Movie popcorn never tasted as good as home made, because it messed that special taste of real butter.
After the war, the margarine came in a sealed plastic bag with a small button of liquid orange coloring inside the bag. I was married by then and I worked the margarine until it was soft, not getting my hands greasy because it was all self-contained in the bag. I then popped the button between my fingers and bright, orange, juice squirted through the white glob, turning it streaked and striped with different shades of orange. I kept working that bag until the margarine turned creamy yellow and was ready to place in the refrigerator. I never seemed to get this mess quite square, but later as it hardened, it too was cut into 1/4 pound cubes ready for the table. The idea of it was new, and it was very reasonably priced, but it never became a great tastey substitute for butter.
As new things came and went, homogenization became the rage, and actually got the margarine tasting a bit more like butter. But then they started messing with it some more...making it low fat. Whipping it with water, made it fluffier, smoother and less fattening. Sometimes it was made of different oils... canola, corn oil, safflower oil, whatever happened to be popular, competing with many brands trying to beat the cows out in the age old race to find something to take the place of creamery butter. As far as I was concerned it always fell short. If it tasted like butter, it laid there on my morning toast staring up at me like a blob of plastic, never melting.
After we moved to Summit House, we took up eating popcorn for a fibrous, non-cholesterol snack of an evening. We began with a regular, old fashioned popper that sat on the burner...I had to shake it often, to keep the popcorn from burning. Then we graduated to an air popper, using no oil, and then to the world famous Orville Reddenbacher packs you pop in the microwave oven.
When the popcorn was finished, I melted some tasteless, low fat, poufy margarine and poured it into the microwave bag of popcorn and shook it.
I poured it into a bowl and carried it into the family room. By the time I placed it on the table between our chairs the popcorn was reduced in size to about half.
“Something’s wrong with this...it’s tough!” Richie said, spitting his mouthful of popcorn in the trash.
“Gee. I don’t know if popcorn goes bad or not?”
“Well, something is wrong with this!”
“I’ll make another bowl...I have a new pack of Orville Reddenbacher in the pantry.”
I puttered around in the kitchen for awhile, repeating the routine I had just gone through earlier. Popped the corn in the bag, melted some low fat, poofy water laden margarine, poured it into the bag, shook it, walked into the family room and poured the popcorn into the bowl.
Poof! It hardly filled the bowl half-way, again!
“Well, what the heck!”
“I got the new package!” We both stared at the flat popcorn.
I went back into the kitchen, dumped it in the trash, got out a new pack of popcorn, reached for the margarine to melt for it when it dawned on me.
“It’s the water!”
“What? Olympia beer?” he called back to me. He remembered the old commercial from back in the sixties.
‘No! It’s the water in the margarine!”
I stuck the bag in the microwave. It began popping. I reached into the back of the refrigerator for a cube of real creamery butter, that I saved for special occasions. Cholesterol be hanged! We were going to have a bowl of good tasting popcorn!
“Now that’s buttered popcorn,” I said, munching on it and smacking my lips.
No matter how the different manufacturer’s tried, nothing tasted as good as real creamery butter. Not “I can’t believe it isn’t Butter,” nor Butter Buds, nor half-butter half-margarine. It took cream from a cow to make real butter.
The popcorn knew!
The Green Flash
The Green Flash
1983
Walking became my form of exercise when we moved to Summit House. In the mornings I walked to the Post Office to get our mail. In the evenings I did what I call the Ruby Loop....Up to Rubenstein, Loop back to Summit via the Rubenstein Place (circle) and then North on Rubenstein Drive and back to Summit again. It was the best route to avoid vicious dogs, see the best coastal views and the people were friendly.
One evening in particular I noticed several people out on their evening walks just stopped in their tracks and faced west when it was time for sunset. I would smile, wave and continue walking to keep my heart rate up. I guessed that they just truly enjoyed sunsets. Wrong.
It was several weeks before I got up my nerve and asked a couple if they were enjoying the sunset.
“We’re watching for the green flash,” they said smiling.
“Oh.” I didn’t know what they were talking about.
Another evening I saw neighbors on their balcony.
“Enjoying the sunset?” I called to them.
“Watching for the green flash,” they answered not turning back toward me at all.
Another evening walk, and I saw green balloons tied to a mail box. That seemed to be the normal way of announcing a party around our neighborhood. I wondered why they just used green balloons when it wasn’t St. Patrick’s day, but I just smiled and waved as I walked by their front deck.
“Waiting for the green flash!” they called back to me.
My curiosity got the best of me and I began asking around about the green flash phenomenon.
It seems that on an extremely clear night....usually during the Santa Ana Season or for sure whenever you can see San Clemente Island at sunset, there is a true phenomenon known as the green flash, just as the orb of the sun sets into the far horizon.
The green flash is a great excuse to sit down on a deck chair and wait for the sunset as you watch the steaks on the barbeque or to stop and catch your breath on a walk while the last ten seconds of a bright orange sun sets into the dark blue waters of the Pacific, or grab your honey by the hand and drag them out to the balcony for a moment of quiet wonder. Or like many of our younger neighbors....as good an excuse as any to have a party!
Most folks think that the green flash is similar to snipe hunting back in the mid-west, or like the illusive grunion hunts at the beach, and if we hadn’t experienced it first hand, we might too. But, it truly happens....we’ve seen it!
So, I did a bit of research at the local library. It’s been seen for centuries even though it is thought to be a recent phenomenon.
It attracted the attention of ancient Egyptians who observed it as the sun set behind certain Libyan hills. There were also smaller effects at sunrise. It was believed then that the sun turned to green overnight. They used the word Mafkait which was a green colored mineral. (Nature - Joseph Offord - 1907). It requires a very pure atmosphere and William Corliss (Strange Phenomena) concludes that abonormal atmospheric refraction, including mirage effects, play a great part in producing the green flash.
Richie’s theory, before my research, that the retentive memory of the lens of the eye causes you to see green, the opposite of orange, when the sun (which you’ve been staring at) suddenly disappears into the water. His thoughts weren’t in any of the books I researched, so we can’t say for sure, but it certainly seemed possible to us.
There is very little written about the green flash…but that just feed into it’s mystery!
You won’t catch the ‘flash’ in the fog, or if there’s too many clouds clustering close to the horizon. But on a crisp clear night, come on over and join us. We won’t answer the doorbell, because we’ll be frozen in time out on the deck quietly waiting for that miraculous moment. In the splendor of a coral colored sky, there’s a tiny flash of green just at the horizon. That’s when we gasp at the gift of joy at having caught that elusive happening. Granted, they’re few and far between but well worth the wait!
I rather fancy the Scottish belief that those who see it will be successful in affairs of the heart! (Weather - C. M. Botley - 1971). It sure makes you feel close to your Honey when it happens!
One of those thousand and one reasons why we retired here in Cardiff by the Sea!
Jules Verne, 1828 Le Rayon Vertor (The Green Flash) A Romance of the Scottish Highlands
"A green which no artist could ever obtain on his palette, a green of which neither the varied tints of vegetation nor the shades of the most limpid sea could ever produce, the like of! If ever there be green in Paradise, it surely must be this true green of hope"
1983
Walking became my form of exercise when we moved to Summit House. In the mornings I walked to the Post Office to get our mail. In the evenings I did what I call the Ruby Loop....Up to Rubenstein, Loop back to Summit via the Rubenstein Place (circle) and then North on Rubenstein Drive and back to Summit again. It was the best route to avoid vicious dogs, see the best coastal views and the people were friendly.
One evening in particular I noticed several people out on their evening walks just stopped in their tracks and faced west when it was time for sunset. I would smile, wave and continue walking to keep my heart rate up. I guessed that they just truly enjoyed sunsets. Wrong.
It was several weeks before I got up my nerve and asked a couple if they were enjoying the sunset.
“We’re watching for the green flash,” they said smiling.
“Oh.” I didn’t know what they were talking about.
Another evening I saw neighbors on their balcony.
“Enjoying the sunset?” I called to them.
“Watching for the green flash,” they answered not turning back toward me at all.
Another evening walk, and I saw green balloons tied to a mail box. That seemed to be the normal way of announcing a party around our neighborhood. I wondered why they just used green balloons when it wasn’t St. Patrick’s day, but I just smiled and waved as I walked by their front deck.
“Waiting for the green flash!” they called back to me.
My curiosity got the best of me and I began asking around about the green flash phenomenon.
It seems that on an extremely clear night....usually during the Santa Ana Season or for sure whenever you can see San Clemente Island at sunset, there is a true phenomenon known as the green flash, just as the orb of the sun sets into the far horizon.
The green flash is a great excuse to sit down on a deck chair and wait for the sunset as you watch the steaks on the barbeque or to stop and catch your breath on a walk while the last ten seconds of a bright orange sun sets into the dark blue waters of the Pacific, or grab your honey by the hand and drag them out to the balcony for a moment of quiet wonder. Or like many of our younger neighbors....as good an excuse as any to have a party!
Most folks think that the green flash is similar to snipe hunting back in the mid-west, or like the illusive grunion hunts at the beach, and if we hadn’t experienced it first hand, we might too. But, it truly happens....we’ve seen it!
So, I did a bit of research at the local library. It’s been seen for centuries even though it is thought to be a recent phenomenon.
It attracted the attention of ancient Egyptians who observed it as the sun set behind certain Libyan hills. There were also smaller effects at sunrise. It was believed then that the sun turned to green overnight. They used the word Mafkait which was a green colored mineral. (Nature - Joseph Offord - 1907). It requires a very pure atmosphere and William Corliss (Strange Phenomena) concludes that abonormal atmospheric refraction, including mirage effects, play a great part in producing the green flash.
Richie’s theory, before my research, that the retentive memory of the lens of the eye causes you to see green, the opposite of orange, when the sun (which you’ve been staring at) suddenly disappears into the water. His thoughts weren’t in any of the books I researched, so we can’t say for sure, but it certainly seemed possible to us.
There is very little written about the green flash…but that just feed into it’s mystery!
You won’t catch the ‘flash’ in the fog, or if there’s too many clouds clustering close to the horizon. But on a crisp clear night, come on over and join us. We won’t answer the doorbell, because we’ll be frozen in time out on the deck quietly waiting for that miraculous moment. In the splendor of a coral colored sky, there’s a tiny flash of green just at the horizon. That’s when we gasp at the gift of joy at having caught that elusive happening. Granted, they’re few and far between but well worth the wait!
I rather fancy the Scottish belief that those who see it will be successful in affairs of the heart! (Weather - C. M. Botley - 1971). It sure makes you feel close to your Honey when it happens!
One of those thousand and one reasons why we retired here in Cardiff by the Sea!
Jules Verne, 1828 Le Rayon Vertor (The Green Flash) A Romance of the Scottish Highlands
"A green which no artist could ever obtain on his palette, a green of which neither the varied tints of vegetation nor the shades of the most limpid sea could ever produce, the like of! If ever there be green in Paradise, it surely must be this true green of hope"
Thank You Beach
Thank you, Beach
1983
An Old Irish Proverb
Living by the Sea stops old wounds from hurting.
It revives the Spirit, it quickens the passions of mind and body
And it lends tranquility to the Soul
Thank you, Beach, that my beginnings were along the California shoreline.
I was in vitro at Ventura Beach. I was born at Oxnard Shores. Most of my life has been spent within a terry towel toss of the sea.
My first memory of seeing you, Beach, was from Signal Hill in Long Beach.
Signal Hill, in the Thirties, was California's most productive oil field. From the distance it looked like a pincushion covered with tall wooden derricks. As we chugged up the hill I could see men with hard-hats worked on pumpers, that looked like green horses bobbing their heads. The ground was black from oil spewed from gushers.
"When we get to the top of the hill, you will see the ocean," my mother said, "keep yours eyes out the front window and the first one to see it, yell 'I spy'!"
The adrenaline ran high as the old 'Model A' Ford sedan struggled up that long incline.
"I spy!" I squealed. I suspect they let me win. I could see the battleships laying in the harbor like toy boats in a big blue bathtub.
I first touched your shore inside the breakwater of Rainbow Pier....your big waves were held back by a circular breakwater, so there were just gentle ripples sloshing around my feet. I loved the feel of the squishy sand oozing between my toes.
I was five....maybe six. I remember Aunt Molly was visiting from Colorado and we took her to The Pike (the amusement zone) and she bought me a small glass dish with a lid....it had a rose carved in the lid and I stored little treasures in it throughout my childhood. It was blue like the ocean.
Camping in a tent at Bolsa Chica the pounding waves lulled me to sleep at night. Mother and Goldie Yarnell planned the trip for the children during summer vacation my seventh year. Multi-colored tents covered the beach for miles. You could pitch a tent anywhere on the sand in those days and stay as long as you liked. No fees. No rules. No regulations.
I felt your power as I walked out on Huntington Beach pier, so high above your pounding surf. I could see the water between the giant wooden planks and I clung to my mother's hand. I felt the pier shake beneath my feet and it filled me with terror.
Later in the day I contentedly fished from the railing, not knowing that my line wasn't long enough to reach the water. When the older kids caught something, I reeled in my line in to see if I had gotten lucky. It was such fun!
How soon I forgot my fear....but that's the way it is with you, Beach.
Back at the tent that night, Donny Yarnell and I decided we didn't like fried fish so we made sandwiches of pork and beans, peanut butter and jelly, and canned milk. Our mother's made us eat that mess. I don't think we complained about their cooking the rest of the week. Sun burn was a given, as fair as I was, and a week of peeling skin followed like vinegar rinses and sand in the hair. I did not tan like the other kids did, unless you could consider my wall-to-wall freckles a tan. (137 Madrona St., Brea, CA)
We're moving to you, Beach! We're moving to San Diego!
A cottage just three blocks from the beach became our home in Pacific Beach. I remember how exciting that was for me. Pacific Beach and Mission Bay were my playground. I rode my little red everywhere....down the boardwalk along Mission Beach to Belmont Park and the roller coaster, sometimes out across the Causeway through the scary swamplands and always coming home with that inevitable sunburn on my back and the tip of my nose. (1024 Chalcedony St. Pacific Beach and later 1828 Missouri St.)
I was enamored by you in my teens as we moved to La Jolla not far from the rocky shoreline. You were my hiding place.
The Cove, where there were softer waves, Scripps Park, where you could hear the surf without getting gritty with sand on a Sunday afternoon and the Casa Pool with it's breakwater. All were my backyard. I found a quiet cove just north of the real Cove....it was so small nobody else hung out there. I went there to write my journal and poems for English classes. It was my personal hideaway. Later it became a place to take special boys when I wanted to get away from the gang at the Sunday picnics under the Z-tree in the park. Sometimes my cove was swept away by high tides and winter storms, but it was always my place to be alone with my thoughts.
I wrote odes to fog and rhymes to rainbows, Beach, you were my inspiration, my joy, my solitude.
Saturday night parties for servicemen (at the church) became Beach Parties in the summer with the smell of camp fires and wiener's and marshmallows roasting. We sang all the old songs....Let Me Call You Sweetheart, There's A Long Long Trail A Winding, many songs from our parent's days and many popular songs from the war years....Mairzy Doats, Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree and The White Cliffs of Dover. Then the fires would die down to glowing embers and by that time the girls had decided who they wanted to pair off with for the walk home from the beach. Such simple times. Such sweet memories. (7415 Draper St., La Jolla)
Innocent, tender, young love began on your shoreline, Beach. You were entwined romantically with my first kiss, and the experience was a dizzingly exquisite one. Your waves pounded....my heart throbbed....it all swirled into one like whitewater crashing on the sand.
I'd had a view of the beach for over nine years, when I moved to Torrey Pines. I was a young bride and I was homesick for my family and the beach. I walked out to Scripps Grade to where I could see it in the distance. The white water around the curve of La Jolla Shores Spindrift Beach was breathtaking and I could see landmarks of my growing up years in La Jolla. I longed for La Jolla but didn't have a lot of hope of returning, because housing was so hard to come by after the war years. After Bruce was born, we had to find a bigger home.(112 Torrey Pines Homes, La Jolla)
At Torrey Pines I couldn't see you from my house, but you lulled me to sleep at night. It was my first time away from home and I needed that. Scary and exciting feelings were going on inside me. My son was in vitro by the sea.
Then the miracle happened....we found a cottage just four blocks from The Cove. What luck! What a dream come true. Again, we couldn't see the beach from the house, but I could surely walk my baby to it every day. He could play at the breakwater at the Casa Pool.
What joy! To be back home again in La Jolla....and another pregnancy by the sea. Home again! (7776 Herschel St., La Jolla)
Our first G.I. house was not at the beach. That brought turmoil to my thought processes, but I soon found that my spectacular view of Mission Bay was almost as mesmerizing as ocean waves. It changed color with the cloud formations of the sky. It glowered at us from storms crossing it's length and breadth. It reflected bright colored lights of Pacific Beach, Mission Beach and Point Loma at night. We couldn't walk to the bay, but after about a year we bought a second car and I was able to drive Bruce and Kathy and other neighborhood children down for a dip on the hot and humid days of summer. Lanny Stapp, Gary and Pam Tuttle and the curly haired Bonnie Allen. It was safer there, than trying to watch a crew of children at the beaches with surf. It seemed I was the only 'true beach mom' in the neighborhood.
Forgive me, Beach, I never mentioned to those mom's that I couldn't swim. (3336 Mc Graw St., Bay Park Villa)
When we needed a larger house we moved to Pacific Beach. For the second time I would live on Missouri St. as I had as a child. This time only a few blocks from the water and we still had some view of Mission Bay from the front porch. During long recuperation periods from two major surgeries that year, I took up knitting and I did it at the beach. I had finally learned about slow and easy suntan's and miraculously acquired a tan. We took our lunches nearly every day that summer....a trail of us walking down Missouri Street, Bruce carrying my folding chair, Kathy the lunch bag and me my knitting for the day. I knit seventeen sweaters during that period. I seldom do things in moderation. Could I know then that the beach bunny's of those years were going to be the wrinkled old prunes of today? (1128 Missouri St. Pacific Beach)
l loved that time of solitude and healing on your sandy coastline and have many warm memories of it, including watching Bruce learn to surf at Tourmaline.
From 1965 until 1971 we lived in what I called the "Valley's of despond" nowhere near the beach Those were bad times for me. The San Fernando Valley and San Gabriel Valley's became our abode. Periodically I would pack up the children for Malibu or Huntington Beach, but it was a major process. One Thanksgiving weekend Richie and I got a room at Malibu for a night. I remember sitting by a window and laying my head on the ledge just listening to the surf and breathing in it's salt air. I missed it so much. We were to live in, Canoga Park and Charter Oak before we got a reprieve from RCA and were transferred to Orange County.
Hooray! Back to the beaches of my childhood...thank you for still being there for me!.
We chose to live in Huntington Beach....a block from the water. Ocean surf was again my constant companion. I sniffed it, walked along it and waded in it. It mattered not that fog was almost always my companion. A true beach person can reckon with that. It's the absence of ocean that can ruin the day. Science has proven that there is an aura within a thousand feet of the beach that moisturizes, mesmerizes and naturally nurtures the nerves. (205 Thirteenth St. Huntington Beach)
You are calming to me, Beach, and often cause a 'back to the womb' experience when I walk through the ever widening ripples of your wet sandy shoreline.
We wearied of living in Boardwalk and Park Place because of never-ending tenant problems and noise. Costa Mesa was our next move. I still considered it beach, however it did not have sand or fog. It was a few blocks inland. Many drives had coastal views, the restaurants that we frequented were around Newport Harbor or on the beachfront in Balboa. I rode my new ten-speed bike down the trail on the banks of the Santa Ana River and watched the shore birds along the way. My destination was a lagoon where I could sit on a log and absorb the waves coming in to greet me after my long ride. I would nibble my sandwiches in the quietness and marvel at the wonders God creates as the surf meets the shore. The turn of a wave....the rippling sounds over gray beach pebbles. My quiet times at the mouth of that river were much longer than the pedaling experience of getting there, but the spiritual in-filling must have been more important to me than the burning of calories because I did it often and I was always blessed by it. It was akin to worship. I worshipped the God who created it....not just the creation of God. By then I knew the difference, and truth had set me free. (2066 Flamingo Dr., Costa Mesa)
The crest of a wave in the breakwater and then the slow rippling sounds over gray beach pebbles...they are all yours, Beach. I can recall them at random and remember those recovery days. Times of beginning again.
Our last move to Summit House has been the ultimate.
Hello Beach, I'm back!
A vast expansive view of blue for sunsets to slither into at night, and small patches of whitewater to mesmerize me during the lazy leisure hours of my later life. What a nice place to retire. The pounding surf at night is my lullaby and the shore birds keep me attune to changes in the weather. Sometimes summer seeps into winter and that's serendipity to me. (1506 Summit Av., Cardiff by the Sea)
You don't know it, Beach, but a warm stretch of sand and the sound of the ocean can make me forget even death. I am a true beach person. I do not have to be in it or on it, but I do love to be near it. It can be raining, foggy or cold, it does not matter. The sight of it balances my inner being for me like no desert, forest, or mountaintop experience can do. It centers my spirit with my Creator. Thank you for waiting for my return. You knew I'd come back, didn't you? I could not stay away!
So, until I go to my heavenly home on high....when my ashes will be scattered at sea.... the ocean says to me by it's sights, sounds and smells that I am as close to heaven as I can be on earth. I am at home at Cardiff by the Sea.
Thank you, Beach, I love you.
1983
An Old Irish Proverb
Living by the Sea stops old wounds from hurting.
It revives the Spirit, it quickens the passions of mind and body
And it lends tranquility to the Soul
Thank you, Beach, that my beginnings were along the California shoreline.
I was in vitro at Ventura Beach. I was born at Oxnard Shores. Most of my life has been spent within a terry towel toss of the sea.
My first memory of seeing you, Beach, was from Signal Hill in Long Beach.
Signal Hill, in the Thirties, was California's most productive oil field. From the distance it looked like a pincushion covered with tall wooden derricks. As we chugged up the hill I could see men with hard-hats worked on pumpers, that looked like green horses bobbing their heads. The ground was black from oil spewed from gushers.
"When we get to the top of the hill, you will see the ocean," my mother said, "keep yours eyes out the front window and the first one to see it, yell 'I spy'!"
The adrenaline ran high as the old 'Model A' Ford sedan struggled up that long incline.
"I spy!" I squealed. I suspect they let me win. I could see the battleships laying in the harbor like toy boats in a big blue bathtub.
I first touched your shore inside the breakwater of Rainbow Pier....your big waves were held back by a circular breakwater, so there were just gentle ripples sloshing around my feet. I loved the feel of the squishy sand oozing between my toes.
I was five....maybe six. I remember Aunt Molly was visiting from Colorado and we took her to The Pike (the amusement zone) and she bought me a small glass dish with a lid....it had a rose carved in the lid and I stored little treasures in it throughout my childhood. It was blue like the ocean.
Camping in a tent at Bolsa Chica the pounding waves lulled me to sleep at night. Mother and Goldie Yarnell planned the trip for the children during summer vacation my seventh year. Multi-colored tents covered the beach for miles. You could pitch a tent anywhere on the sand in those days and stay as long as you liked. No fees. No rules. No regulations.
I felt your power as I walked out on Huntington Beach pier, so high above your pounding surf. I could see the water between the giant wooden planks and I clung to my mother's hand. I felt the pier shake beneath my feet and it filled me with terror.
Later in the day I contentedly fished from the railing, not knowing that my line wasn't long enough to reach the water. When the older kids caught something, I reeled in my line in to see if I had gotten lucky. It was such fun!
How soon I forgot my fear....but that's the way it is with you, Beach.
Back at the tent that night, Donny Yarnell and I decided we didn't like fried fish so we made sandwiches of pork and beans, peanut butter and jelly, and canned milk. Our mother's made us eat that mess. I don't think we complained about their cooking the rest of the week. Sun burn was a given, as fair as I was, and a week of peeling skin followed like vinegar rinses and sand in the hair. I did not tan like the other kids did, unless you could consider my wall-to-wall freckles a tan. (137 Madrona St., Brea, CA)
We're moving to you, Beach! We're moving to San Diego!
A cottage just three blocks from the beach became our home in Pacific Beach. I remember how exciting that was for me. Pacific Beach and Mission Bay were my playground. I rode my little red everywhere....down the boardwalk along Mission Beach to Belmont Park and the roller coaster, sometimes out across the Causeway through the scary swamplands and always coming home with that inevitable sunburn on my back and the tip of my nose. (1024 Chalcedony St. Pacific Beach and later 1828 Missouri St.)
I was enamored by you in my teens as we moved to La Jolla not far from the rocky shoreline. You were my hiding place.
The Cove, where there were softer waves, Scripps Park, where you could hear the surf without getting gritty with sand on a Sunday afternoon and the Casa Pool with it's breakwater. All were my backyard. I found a quiet cove just north of the real Cove....it was so small nobody else hung out there. I went there to write my journal and poems for English classes. It was my personal hideaway. Later it became a place to take special boys when I wanted to get away from the gang at the Sunday picnics under the Z-tree in the park. Sometimes my cove was swept away by high tides and winter storms, but it was always my place to be alone with my thoughts.
I wrote odes to fog and rhymes to rainbows, Beach, you were my inspiration, my joy, my solitude.
Saturday night parties for servicemen (at the church) became Beach Parties in the summer with the smell of camp fires and wiener's and marshmallows roasting. We sang all the old songs....Let Me Call You Sweetheart, There's A Long Long Trail A Winding, many songs from our parent's days and many popular songs from the war years....Mairzy Doats, Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree and The White Cliffs of Dover. Then the fires would die down to glowing embers and by that time the girls had decided who they wanted to pair off with for the walk home from the beach. Such simple times. Such sweet memories. (7415 Draper St., La Jolla)
Innocent, tender, young love began on your shoreline, Beach. You were entwined romantically with my first kiss, and the experience was a dizzingly exquisite one. Your waves pounded....my heart throbbed....it all swirled into one like whitewater crashing on the sand.
I'd had a view of the beach for over nine years, when I moved to Torrey Pines. I was a young bride and I was homesick for my family and the beach. I walked out to Scripps Grade to where I could see it in the distance. The white water around the curve of La Jolla Shores Spindrift Beach was breathtaking and I could see landmarks of my growing up years in La Jolla. I longed for La Jolla but didn't have a lot of hope of returning, because housing was so hard to come by after the war years. After Bruce was born, we had to find a bigger home.(112 Torrey Pines Homes, La Jolla)
At Torrey Pines I couldn't see you from my house, but you lulled me to sleep at night. It was my first time away from home and I needed that. Scary and exciting feelings were going on inside me. My son was in vitro by the sea.
Then the miracle happened....we found a cottage just four blocks from The Cove. What luck! What a dream come true. Again, we couldn't see the beach from the house, but I could surely walk my baby to it every day. He could play at the breakwater at the Casa Pool.
What joy! To be back home again in La Jolla....and another pregnancy by the sea. Home again! (7776 Herschel St., La Jolla)
Our first G.I. house was not at the beach. That brought turmoil to my thought processes, but I soon found that my spectacular view of Mission Bay was almost as mesmerizing as ocean waves. It changed color with the cloud formations of the sky. It glowered at us from storms crossing it's length and breadth. It reflected bright colored lights of Pacific Beach, Mission Beach and Point Loma at night. We couldn't walk to the bay, but after about a year we bought a second car and I was able to drive Bruce and Kathy and other neighborhood children down for a dip on the hot and humid days of summer. Lanny Stapp, Gary and Pam Tuttle and the curly haired Bonnie Allen. It was safer there, than trying to watch a crew of children at the beaches with surf. It seemed I was the only 'true beach mom' in the neighborhood.
Forgive me, Beach, I never mentioned to those mom's that I couldn't swim. (3336 Mc Graw St., Bay Park Villa)
When we needed a larger house we moved to Pacific Beach. For the second time I would live on Missouri St. as I had as a child. This time only a few blocks from the water and we still had some view of Mission Bay from the front porch. During long recuperation periods from two major surgeries that year, I took up knitting and I did it at the beach. I had finally learned about slow and easy suntan's and miraculously acquired a tan. We took our lunches nearly every day that summer....a trail of us walking down Missouri Street, Bruce carrying my folding chair, Kathy the lunch bag and me my knitting for the day. I knit seventeen sweaters during that period. I seldom do things in moderation. Could I know then that the beach bunny's of those years were going to be the wrinkled old prunes of today? (1128 Missouri St. Pacific Beach)
l loved that time of solitude and healing on your sandy coastline and have many warm memories of it, including watching Bruce learn to surf at Tourmaline.
From 1965 until 1971 we lived in what I called the "Valley's of despond" nowhere near the beach Those were bad times for me. The San Fernando Valley and San Gabriel Valley's became our abode. Periodically I would pack up the children for Malibu or Huntington Beach, but it was a major process. One Thanksgiving weekend Richie and I got a room at Malibu for a night. I remember sitting by a window and laying my head on the ledge just listening to the surf and breathing in it's salt air. I missed it so much. We were to live in, Canoga Park and Charter Oak before we got a reprieve from RCA and were transferred to Orange County.
Hooray! Back to the beaches of my childhood...thank you for still being there for me!.
We chose to live in Huntington Beach....a block from the water. Ocean surf was again my constant companion. I sniffed it, walked along it and waded in it. It mattered not that fog was almost always my companion. A true beach person can reckon with that. It's the absence of ocean that can ruin the day. Science has proven that there is an aura within a thousand feet of the beach that moisturizes, mesmerizes and naturally nurtures the nerves. (205 Thirteenth St. Huntington Beach)
You are calming to me, Beach, and often cause a 'back to the womb' experience when I walk through the ever widening ripples of your wet sandy shoreline.
We wearied of living in Boardwalk and Park Place because of never-ending tenant problems and noise. Costa Mesa was our next move. I still considered it beach, however it did not have sand or fog. It was a few blocks inland. Many drives had coastal views, the restaurants that we frequented were around Newport Harbor or on the beachfront in Balboa. I rode my new ten-speed bike down the trail on the banks of the Santa Ana River and watched the shore birds along the way. My destination was a lagoon where I could sit on a log and absorb the waves coming in to greet me after my long ride. I would nibble my sandwiches in the quietness and marvel at the wonders God creates as the surf meets the shore. The turn of a wave....the rippling sounds over gray beach pebbles. My quiet times at the mouth of that river were much longer than the pedaling experience of getting there, but the spiritual in-filling must have been more important to me than the burning of calories because I did it often and I was always blessed by it. It was akin to worship. I worshipped the God who created it....not just the creation of God. By then I knew the difference, and truth had set me free. (2066 Flamingo Dr., Costa Mesa)
The crest of a wave in the breakwater and then the slow rippling sounds over gray beach pebbles...they are all yours, Beach. I can recall them at random and remember those recovery days. Times of beginning again.
Our last move to Summit House has been the ultimate.
Hello Beach, I'm back!
A vast expansive view of blue for sunsets to slither into at night, and small patches of whitewater to mesmerize me during the lazy leisure hours of my later life. What a nice place to retire. The pounding surf at night is my lullaby and the shore birds keep me attune to changes in the weather. Sometimes summer seeps into winter and that's serendipity to me. (1506 Summit Av., Cardiff by the Sea)
You don't know it, Beach, but a warm stretch of sand and the sound of the ocean can make me forget even death. I am a true beach person. I do not have to be in it or on it, but I do love to be near it. It can be raining, foggy or cold, it does not matter. The sight of it balances my inner being for me like no desert, forest, or mountaintop experience can do. It centers my spirit with my Creator. Thank you for waiting for my return. You knew I'd come back, didn't you? I could not stay away!
So, until I go to my heavenly home on high....when my ashes will be scattered at sea.... the ocean says to me by it's sights, sounds and smells that I am as close to heaven as I can be on earth. I am at home at Cardiff by the Sea.
Thank you, Beach, I love you.
John Muir Trail
John Muir Trail
1982
It was October 1982. A cold October. We were doing a photo-safari in the High Sierra's with Ginny Gleason. She had maps of where famous photographer's had shot their impressive wilderness landscapes.
In Yosemite we stood where Ansel Adams had once set up his tripod and waited for the moon to be just right over Half Dome. We hiked the four miles up Sentinel Dome where the famous Jeffrey Pine clings to the rocky landscape. Every turn, every tree it seemed had been chronicled by Adams or Ed Weston, or someone on their way up the photographic hierarchy. It was fun to wonder as you sweat over a shot, if it would accidentally turn out as perfect for you.
"If you get one really good shot, where everything is right, F-stop, lighting, focus, golden mean...if you get one out of a 36 exposure roll, you are doing well." the photography teacher had said one night at Orange Coast College where we took classes.
You could hear a collective groan from the class. "One out of 36?"
I really tried to remember everything I had learned when I focused on the well-known scenes, because I doubted that we would ever have the time or energy to photograph the same places twice. There are too many National Parks to shoot the same again.
We were fortunate to stay three days in the Yosemite Valley, where campers are no longer allowed...three glorious days. Our legs ached from all the hiking and our arms were sore from packing the camera gear, but it was worth it seeing where our mentors had been.
Our next stop was "Oh! Ridge" at June Lake.
"What is Oh! Ridge," I asked Ginny. All the other spots I had heard of or had read about.
"Just wait...you'll know when you get there!" she answered.
We kept winding slowly up an incline and rounded a bend.
"Oh! WOW!" I said. The scene was just breathtaking. June Lake all crystal blue and shimmering lay in the valley below.
"Now do you see why they call this Oh! Ridge?"
We shot a lot of pictures there...the lake as well as the Oh! Ridge sign. I love to document my slides with cute signs or mail boxes of an area that say where it is more than I can.
Convict Lake was in this area too, but not nearly as spectacular as the first glimpse of June Lake at Oh! Ridge. That one was truly memorable scene...all other lake views would just try hard to compete.
We parked the trailer at Convict Lake in a small campground.
"Our next stop is Hot Creek...we need a break from photography," our tour guide said, "we won't take the trailer because the road is rough."
"What is it famous for?" Dick asked.
"Nothing...it's just a hot mineral bath. It's like your jacuzzi, only better. It's totally natural. Hot springs well up from underground and lots of people go there for the healing benefits of the mineral waters," Ginny explained.
"That's why you told us to bring bathing suits along on this trip...I wondered why we would need them in Yosemite and Mammoth Mountain in October," I said.
We put our suits on under our jeans, grabbed some trail mix and headed on out for our next adventure.
When we arrived at Hot Creek there were many cars and tour buses in the parking lot. It was a famous place. We watched the bathers from the top of the trail leading down to the creek. Steam was rising in swirls from where the hot and cold waters churned together. It was a long steep trail and it was cold going down. We took off our clothes and left them on rocks at the side of the pool.
"Oh, yuk!" I cried, as I followed Ginny into the water, "the bottom is all mushy-gushy."
"Come on in further...it's great," Ginny called from out in the center of the bubbling water.
"Brrr," Dick said to me softly, "I thought this was supposed to be better than our jacuzzi!" He had inadvertently walked into a cold current.
"Oh, well, let's get out into the hot part," I said as I kept wading through the icey water, the slishey mud oozing between my toes every step.
"Yoicks!" Dick hollered, "I found the hot!"
The hot streams floated in and out and swirled around us. One minute you were in it and all warm and nice...then just as quickly an icey current encircled your body and cooled you off.
We laughed and screamed along with all the other crazy people burning their buns and then freezing their front side. Total strangers were carried away to childhood abandon in a moment of time. It was weird, some of the people were totally nude, some of them were wearing all their clothes and some women were just topless...boobs floating on the water.
We soon tired of dodging the icey currents and Dick was the first to abandon the fray. He decided to get out before us, and slip behind a bush to take his cold wet swim suit off rather than put dry clothes on over it. The drive back to Convict Lake was going to be chilly enough without being wet, as the sun was going down.
He checked around to see if anyone was looking and the coast seemed to be clear. He then peeled his blue trunks down over his rear and was struggling to get them off one leg while hopping on the other when we heard laughter.
A new tour bus had arrived at the top of the embankment. There was a whole load of Japanese tourists, cameras, binoculars and camcorders aimed at him.
Ginny and I came charging out of Hot Creek as Dick scrambled into his jeans and shirt.
"What is Hot Creek famous for?" I asked.
"Well, as far as that busload goes...the guy behind the bush was the feature attraction," Ginny laughed.
"Just think...you'll be in all their home videos!" I said.
Dick was trying desperately not to be seen at all.
We did go on to Mammoth, and we got better than average pictures for the whole trip. No "nines", as they are called in camera competition, but we were happy with them.
Actually, they were nothing compared to the pictures the Japanese got at Hot Creek! Dick became world famous as a model instead of a photographer.
1982
It was October 1982. A cold October. We were doing a photo-safari in the High Sierra's with Ginny Gleason. She had maps of where famous photographer's had shot their impressive wilderness landscapes.
In Yosemite we stood where Ansel Adams had once set up his tripod and waited for the moon to be just right over Half Dome. We hiked the four miles up Sentinel Dome where the famous Jeffrey Pine clings to the rocky landscape. Every turn, every tree it seemed had been chronicled by Adams or Ed Weston, or someone on their way up the photographic hierarchy. It was fun to wonder as you sweat over a shot, if it would accidentally turn out as perfect for you.
"If you get one really good shot, where everything is right, F-stop, lighting, focus, golden mean...if you get one out of a 36 exposure roll, you are doing well." the photography teacher had said one night at Orange Coast College where we took classes.
You could hear a collective groan from the class. "One out of 36?"
I really tried to remember everything I had learned when I focused on the well-known scenes, because I doubted that we would ever have the time or energy to photograph the same places twice. There are too many National Parks to shoot the same again.
We were fortunate to stay three days in the Yosemite Valley, where campers are no longer allowed...three glorious days. Our legs ached from all the hiking and our arms were sore from packing the camera gear, but it was worth it seeing where our mentors had been.
Our next stop was "Oh! Ridge" at June Lake.
"What is Oh! Ridge," I asked Ginny. All the other spots I had heard of or had read about.
"Just wait...you'll know when you get there!" she answered.
We kept winding slowly up an incline and rounded a bend.
"Oh! WOW!" I said. The scene was just breathtaking. June Lake all crystal blue and shimmering lay in the valley below.
"Now do you see why they call this Oh! Ridge?"
We shot a lot of pictures there...the lake as well as the Oh! Ridge sign. I love to document my slides with cute signs or mail boxes of an area that say where it is more than I can.
Convict Lake was in this area too, but not nearly as spectacular as the first glimpse of June Lake at Oh! Ridge. That one was truly memorable scene...all other lake views would just try hard to compete.
We parked the trailer at Convict Lake in a small campground.
"Our next stop is Hot Creek...we need a break from photography," our tour guide said, "we won't take the trailer because the road is rough."
"What is it famous for?" Dick asked.
"Nothing...it's just a hot mineral bath. It's like your jacuzzi, only better. It's totally natural. Hot springs well up from underground and lots of people go there for the healing benefits of the mineral waters," Ginny explained.
"That's why you told us to bring bathing suits along on this trip...I wondered why we would need them in Yosemite and Mammoth Mountain in October," I said.
We put our suits on under our jeans, grabbed some trail mix and headed on out for our next adventure.
When we arrived at Hot Creek there were many cars and tour buses in the parking lot. It was a famous place. We watched the bathers from the top of the trail leading down to the creek. Steam was rising in swirls from where the hot and cold waters churned together. It was a long steep trail and it was cold going down. We took off our clothes and left them on rocks at the side of the pool.
"Oh, yuk!" I cried, as I followed Ginny into the water, "the bottom is all mushy-gushy."
"Come on in further...it's great," Ginny called from out in the center of the bubbling water.
"Brrr," Dick said to me softly, "I thought this was supposed to be better than our jacuzzi!" He had inadvertently walked into a cold current.
"Oh, well, let's get out into the hot part," I said as I kept wading through the icey water, the slishey mud oozing between my toes every step.
"Yoicks!" Dick hollered, "I found the hot!"
The hot streams floated in and out and swirled around us. One minute you were in it and all warm and nice...then just as quickly an icey current encircled your body and cooled you off.
We laughed and screamed along with all the other crazy people burning their buns and then freezing their front side. Total strangers were carried away to childhood abandon in a moment of time. It was weird, some of the people were totally nude, some of them were wearing all their clothes and some women were just topless...boobs floating on the water.
We soon tired of dodging the icey currents and Dick was the first to abandon the fray. He decided to get out before us, and slip behind a bush to take his cold wet swim suit off rather than put dry clothes on over it. The drive back to Convict Lake was going to be chilly enough without being wet, as the sun was going down.
He checked around to see if anyone was looking and the coast seemed to be clear. He then peeled his blue trunks down over his rear and was struggling to get them off one leg while hopping on the other when we heard laughter.
A new tour bus had arrived at the top of the embankment. There was a whole load of Japanese tourists, cameras, binoculars and camcorders aimed at him.
Ginny and I came charging out of Hot Creek as Dick scrambled into his jeans and shirt.
"What is Hot Creek famous for?" I asked.
"Well, as far as that busload goes...the guy behind the bush was the feature attraction," Ginny laughed.
"Just think...you'll be in all their home videos!" I said.
Dick was trying desperately not to be seen at all.
We did go on to Mammoth, and we got better than average pictures for the whole trip. No "nines", as they are called in camera competition, but we were happy with them.
Actually, they were nothing compared to the pictures the Japanese got at Hot Creek! Dick became world famous as a model instead of a photographer.
Fog Horn
Fog Horn:
1965
My first recollection of the sorrowful sound of a foghorn was on my wedding trip with Richie. We stayed at The Breakers motel in Morro Bay. The fog horn blows every eight seconds. I never ever hear one that I don't think of that foggy night in May eating dinner down at the warf and walking in the swirling mists that made that big Morro Rock look so foreboding. The rock that is so huge and of such magnetism that it has it's own weather system.
Horse Sense
Horse Sense
1979
Kathee was gone on vacation and I was caring for Christen for the first time with full responsibility for every facet of her daily routine.
Now, baby sitting is not bad if you just stay at home and do only that. I had gotten used to having a grandchild overnight or for an afternoon occasionally. But a whole week of it was another thing. What I'd forgotten was how difficult it is to go shopping with a three year old. when you choose not to stay home.
I'd given much thought to the time that would be best for our trip to K-Mart. She would have a full tummy from lunch, but not yet ready for her nap at three o'clock. It should be an enjoyable time for us.
When I got to the K-Mart parking lot, I successfully released her from her car-seat and handily helped her out of the rear of the car without wrenching my back. She waited patiently for me to gather up the purchase I was returning, grab my purse and keys from the front seat, and lock the car door. She raised her little hand to me to hold while we walked across the parking lot toward the entrance.
I had not been aware of the myriad of temptations lined up along the sidewalk in front of K-Mart. Always shopping alone and mostly in a hurry I had not noticed the vending machines of candy nor the electronic merry-go-rounds of dashing horses.
"I want to ride the horsey," Christen said looking up at me with pleading eyes.
"Not now, honey, Gramma's in a hurry."
"I want to ride the horsey," she repeated.
We were through the doors and half-way to the counter marked Courtesy. She was lagging behind, leaning backward toward the carousel of horses.
I took a number at the counter and waited in line.
"I want to ride the horsey," her voice was much louder this time.
"No, Chrissy, I have to exchange this package...not now." I glanced warily around to see if anyone was glaring at me in disdain. I shifted the weight of the package to my hip for better balance, keeping a firm hold of her tiny hand in mine.
"I wanna ride the horsey!" she cried.
I knelt down in front of her at eye level. I'd seen this work so well with young mother's of this generation.
"No Christen. Not now." I said firmly keeping myself at her eyelevel.
"I wanna ride the HORSEY!" she screeched.
By this time everyone in K-Mart was checking me out for child abuse.
I hitched my package up under one arm, picked Chrissy up like a sack of flour under the other arm and left K-Mart.
All across the parking lot she screamed, "I wanna ride the horsey."
All the way home the wailing never stopped.
Inside the house I went straight for Chrissy's suitcase where Kathee had left a wooden spoon. It was only to be used for emergency she had told me at the airport, but if reasoning fails all you have to do is show it to her.
Oh, sure. I'll bet, I thought. Reasoning had failed.
"Christen, if you say that one more time, Gramma will have to get the spoon." I said, not expecting much change. For twenty minutes I'd been listening to this Horsey tale and I had just about had it.
I got out the spoon and showed it to her.
She stopped yelling for the horsey ride and the voluminous tears dried up. I put the spoon away, thankful I didn't have to use it. It would have killed me.
After a quick spit and polish in the bathroom, we headed back to K-Mart to exchange my package.
I dreaded going back through that entrance again with all those temptations lined up on either side.
I could feel her tug at my hand, and cold chills ran through my body.
"We sure don't want to ride the horsey, do we Gramma?"
"No Chrissy, we sure don't. Thank you for being such a good girl."
I sighed with relief.
I knew that a horsey ride would be inevitable the next trip, but today I was home free.
Things hadn't changed so much since my kids were little, but I had to wipe a tear from my eye as I remembered carousel rides of days gone by. My own at the Pike in Long Beach; my children's by the entrance to the Zoo at Balboa Park. The temptations were just closer to home for this generation. Instant gratification, I thought. They can't wait for anything. Instant entertainment with television. Instant food with Mc Donald's. Instant horse rides!
"We'll come back tomorrow and ride the horsey," I promised entering the store for the second time.
I exchanged my package and we left the courtesy counter.
"Is it tomorrow yet?" Chrissy asked looking up at me with those soulful eyes.
Oh, no! I thought. Had I delayed her gratification long enough? Would I be knuckling under if I give in now?
"Yes!" I said hoisting her up on the horsey. I slipped a quarter into the slot and thought "Who cares if it's tomorrow or not!"
I hadn't actually given in to her screaming, she'd learned her lesson in delaying gratification. Now I'd have to teach her the concept of time.
I could see my work was cut out for me. I had five more days.
1979
Kathee was gone on vacation and I was caring for Christen for the first time with full responsibility for every facet of her daily routine.
Now, baby sitting is not bad if you just stay at home and do only that. I had gotten used to having a grandchild overnight or for an afternoon occasionally. But a whole week of it was another thing. What I'd forgotten was how difficult it is to go shopping with a three year old. when you choose not to stay home.
I'd given much thought to the time that would be best for our trip to K-Mart. She would have a full tummy from lunch, but not yet ready for her nap at three o'clock. It should be an enjoyable time for us.
When I got to the K-Mart parking lot, I successfully released her from her car-seat and handily helped her out of the rear of the car without wrenching my back. She waited patiently for me to gather up the purchase I was returning, grab my purse and keys from the front seat, and lock the car door. She raised her little hand to me to hold while we walked across the parking lot toward the entrance.
I had not been aware of the myriad of temptations lined up along the sidewalk in front of K-Mart. Always shopping alone and mostly in a hurry I had not noticed the vending machines of candy nor the electronic merry-go-rounds of dashing horses.
"I want to ride the horsey," Christen said looking up at me with pleading eyes.
"Not now, honey, Gramma's in a hurry."
"I want to ride the horsey," she repeated.
We were through the doors and half-way to the counter marked Courtesy. She was lagging behind, leaning backward toward the carousel of horses.
I took a number at the counter and waited in line.
"I want to ride the horsey," her voice was much louder this time.
"No, Chrissy, I have to exchange this package...not now." I glanced warily around to see if anyone was glaring at me in disdain. I shifted the weight of the package to my hip for better balance, keeping a firm hold of her tiny hand in mine.
"I wanna ride the horsey!" she cried.
I knelt down in front of her at eye level. I'd seen this work so well with young mother's of this generation.
"No Christen. Not now." I said firmly keeping myself at her eyelevel.
"I wanna ride the HORSEY!" she screeched.
By this time everyone in K-Mart was checking me out for child abuse.
I hitched my package up under one arm, picked Chrissy up like a sack of flour under the other arm and left K-Mart.
All across the parking lot she screamed, "I wanna ride the horsey."
All the way home the wailing never stopped.
Inside the house I went straight for Chrissy's suitcase where Kathee had left a wooden spoon. It was only to be used for emergency she had told me at the airport, but if reasoning fails all you have to do is show it to her.
Oh, sure. I'll bet, I thought. Reasoning had failed.
"Christen, if you say that one more time, Gramma will have to get the spoon." I said, not expecting much change. For twenty minutes I'd been listening to this Horsey tale and I had just about had it.
I got out the spoon and showed it to her.
She stopped yelling for the horsey ride and the voluminous tears dried up. I put the spoon away, thankful I didn't have to use it. It would have killed me.
After a quick spit and polish in the bathroom, we headed back to K-Mart to exchange my package.
I dreaded going back through that entrance again with all those temptations lined up on either side.
I could feel her tug at my hand, and cold chills ran through my body.
"We sure don't want to ride the horsey, do we Gramma?"
"No Chrissy, we sure don't. Thank you for being such a good girl."
I sighed with relief.
I knew that a horsey ride would be inevitable the next trip, but today I was home free.
Things hadn't changed so much since my kids were little, but I had to wipe a tear from my eye as I remembered carousel rides of days gone by. My own at the Pike in Long Beach; my children's by the entrance to the Zoo at Balboa Park. The temptations were just closer to home for this generation. Instant gratification, I thought. They can't wait for anything. Instant entertainment with television. Instant food with Mc Donald's. Instant horse rides!
"We'll come back tomorrow and ride the horsey," I promised entering the store for the second time.
I exchanged my package and we left the courtesy counter.
"Is it tomorrow yet?" Chrissy asked looking up at me with those soulful eyes.
Oh, no! I thought. Had I delayed her gratification long enough? Would I be knuckling under if I give in now?
"Yes!" I said hoisting her up on the horsey. I slipped a quarter into the slot and thought "Who cares if it's tomorrow or not!"
I hadn't actually given in to her screaming, she'd learned her lesson in delaying gratification. Now I'd have to teach her the concept of time.
I could see my work was cut out for me. I had five more days.
Most Memorable Memorial Day
Most Memorable Memorial
1980
Hot-l Baltimore was a popular TV show at the time, so we nicknamed our last fixer-upper Hot-l Flamingo. It was a five bedroom monstrosity, on Flamingo Drive in Costa Mesa. We hardly needed that size of a house after all the kids were gone, but we didn't expect to be there very long.. We just saw a great opportunity to make money on the property because of it's deferred maintenance.
It was soon evident that Mary, our next door neighbor and Dick were going to be chummy. She was very into 'fixing things' and sought him out on a regular basis for advice on her many projects. She also kept very interested in what improvements he was doing to our house, including making a loft out of the fifth bedroom so that it overlooked the expansive living room.
Basically, I felt Mary made a lousy cup of coffee, she still had three children living at home, and a huge St. Bernard that drooled slimy stuff all over your shoes when you visited. She had been a registered nurse who postponed having her children 'til later in life and absolutely doted on everything they said or did. Plus, these people were original owner's making their house payments about $900.00 a month below ours. That was hard to take. All of these things discouraged my pursuit of any meaningful friendship with her. Besides, I fully intended to clean up this house in a hurry and head for Cardiff by the Sea. There would be no time for friendship.
"What do you want to do Memorial weekend?" I asked Dick over morning coffee.
"I thought we'd stay home," he answered.
"Stay home? We always go camping? Stay home?"
"Well the traffic is getting so bad on these long weekends, I think we should just stay home and be safe." It sounded like the end of a conversation to me.
I started thinking up alternative plans to a camping trip. I could go to South Coast Plaza....it would not be crowded because everyone would be out on the freeway. I could take my bike out on the trail of the Santa Ana River and go sit down at the beach. Maybe pack a picnic lunch. I was never at a loss for things to do, since "Go" was my middle name.
Memorial Day dawned bright and beautiful. We could hear the roar of traffic on Adams (which our house backed up to....another reason the price of it had been low!) as it was an approach to the San Diego Freeway.
We drove down to the corner to Denny's for a leisurely breakfast about 11:00.
"I think I'll work on that side patio when I get back," Dick said.
"That sounds like a good idea," I agreed, hoping the job didn't include me.
Later, I saw Dick leaning against the high side wall, looking up to the second story window of Mary's house. She was visible at the window of their daughter's bedroom.
They chit-chatted like that often....like two ladies gossiping over the back fence. I had to admit this was unusual for Richie, since he had never really liked any of our neighbors before, but since Mary was a rather plain-Jane type, I didn't consider her to be any competition, and as I aged jealousy seldom reared it's ugly head.
I heard the St. Bernard barking on the other side of the wall, as I slid the window of Dick's office open to air it out.
Just then he raised his arms up and rested them on the top of the block wall.
I guess it spooked the dog to see just his hands over the top. Anyway, it leaped up to the top of the five foot wall and took a bite out of his dangling fingers.
Mary screamed as Dick spurted blood.
She came running over to our house to administer first aid. When she examined him, she realized that he would have to go to the hospital for stitches. The gashes were deep.
Emergency rooms are not the greatest place to spend Memorial Day. Between Freeway accidents, family disturbances, beach rescues and drug overdoses it was a zoo.
Four hours later we emerged from Costa Mesa Hospital. Dick's hand was useless for anything for weeks, as the umteen stitches began their healing process in the four fingers that were involved.
So much for a safe and sane Memorial Day weekend off those dangerous Freeways.
However, it was the most memorable.
1980
Hot-l Baltimore was a popular TV show at the time, so we nicknamed our last fixer-upper Hot-l Flamingo. It was a five bedroom monstrosity, on Flamingo Drive in Costa Mesa. We hardly needed that size of a house after all the kids were gone, but we didn't expect to be there very long.. We just saw a great opportunity to make money on the property because of it's deferred maintenance.
It was soon evident that Mary, our next door neighbor and Dick were going to be chummy. She was very into 'fixing things' and sought him out on a regular basis for advice on her many projects. She also kept very interested in what improvements he was doing to our house, including making a loft out of the fifth bedroom so that it overlooked the expansive living room.
Basically, I felt Mary made a lousy cup of coffee, she still had three children living at home, and a huge St. Bernard that drooled slimy stuff all over your shoes when you visited. She had been a registered nurse who postponed having her children 'til later in life and absolutely doted on everything they said or did. Plus, these people were original owner's making their house payments about $900.00 a month below ours. That was hard to take. All of these things discouraged my pursuit of any meaningful friendship with her. Besides, I fully intended to clean up this house in a hurry and head for Cardiff by the Sea. There would be no time for friendship.
"What do you want to do Memorial weekend?" I asked Dick over morning coffee.
"I thought we'd stay home," he answered.
"Stay home? We always go camping? Stay home?"
"Well the traffic is getting so bad on these long weekends, I think we should just stay home and be safe." It sounded like the end of a conversation to me.
I started thinking up alternative plans to a camping trip. I could go to South Coast Plaza....it would not be crowded because everyone would be out on the freeway. I could take my bike out on the trail of the Santa Ana River and go sit down at the beach. Maybe pack a picnic lunch. I was never at a loss for things to do, since "Go" was my middle name.
Memorial Day dawned bright and beautiful. We could hear the roar of traffic on Adams (which our house backed up to....another reason the price of it had been low!) as it was an approach to the San Diego Freeway.
We drove down to the corner to Denny's for a leisurely breakfast about 11:00.
"I think I'll work on that side patio when I get back," Dick said.
"That sounds like a good idea," I agreed, hoping the job didn't include me.
Later, I saw Dick leaning against the high side wall, looking up to the second story window of Mary's house. She was visible at the window of their daughter's bedroom.
They chit-chatted like that often....like two ladies gossiping over the back fence. I had to admit this was unusual for Richie, since he had never really liked any of our neighbors before, but since Mary was a rather plain-Jane type, I didn't consider her to be any competition, and as I aged jealousy seldom reared it's ugly head.
I heard the St. Bernard barking on the other side of the wall, as I slid the window of Dick's office open to air it out.
Just then he raised his arms up and rested them on the top of the block wall.
I guess it spooked the dog to see just his hands over the top. Anyway, it leaped up to the top of the five foot wall and took a bite out of his dangling fingers.
Mary screamed as Dick spurted blood.
She came running over to our house to administer first aid. When she examined him, she realized that he would have to go to the hospital for stitches. The gashes were deep.
Emergency rooms are not the greatest place to spend Memorial Day. Between Freeway accidents, family disturbances, beach rescues and drug overdoses it was a zoo.
Four hours later we emerged from Costa Mesa Hospital. Dick's hand was useless for anything for weeks, as the umteen stitches began their healing process in the four fingers that were involved.
So much for a safe and sane Memorial Day weekend off those dangerous Freeways.
However, it was the most memorable.
Family Reunion
Family Reunion
1982
Did you ever plan a party and it flopped?
Well, I did!
The day after this party was over, I went to the doctor and I had a bleeding ulcer. That’s how awful it was!
My first mistake was inviting family for more than one day, but they were all coming from some distance to participate, so I said, a few hours, a day, a week…whatever will make it worth the trip.
In attendance were The Gorden’s (Bruce, Penny, Krishell, Jon Mark); The Sullivan’s (Kirk, Kathee, Christen, Clinton and a step-son named Kirky); The Benett’s (Bill and Linda); and my parents the Hyder’s (Emmette and Marguerite.)
We were living at what we called The Hot-l Flamingo (so named after a television show called Hot-l Baltimore, where the E of the sign was burned out.) Since the house we were re-modeling at the time was a five bedroom, it seemed the logical time to have a Family Reunion.
On paper everything was planned for the three day event. It centered around Christmas, and I had the food all prepared ahead of time. The tree was decorated and each room had Christmas decorations of some sort. The house looked festive!
Change number one came when Kathee’s family decided to come for a week instead of the three day holiday. It seemed that Kirk wanted to see if he could get some tree trimming work around our area to help pay for the trip. This never materialized, so we hired him to trim trees at a rental in Irvine and there at the home place.
Although we were happy to see the Grands, it was an extra twist that I personally didn’t need when trying to prepare for the large group over the weekend.
Change number two came when we sat down for a meal and Kirk told me he didn’t like what I was serving, “Could I just have a ham sandwich…I seen a ham in the frig?”
“I have that planned for another meal when the other families arrive,” I said.
I think push met shove that day, as my stomach growled at me and he ended up going out to the kitchen to make himself a peanut butter sandwich.
Other than looking totally decadent with so many gifts under the Christmas tree and spilling out to the center of the living room, the Christmas gift exchange went well. We took pictures and video throughout, documenting what an absolutely wonderful time we were having.
Change number three came when it was decided, since we were all together in one location, we should have family group portraits. Bill volunteered to be the photographer.
The small groups went very well. It was when I gathered my parents for a portrait of their family that things got ugly.
“Come on Kirky…sit right here,” Kathee said.
I said, “No, this grouping is just for my parents family and their extended family…grandchildren!”
“Well, Kirky belongs in it too,” she said firmly.
“No, Kirky is from another family, he is not their grandchild,” I said just as firmly.
It got uglier and uglier and can only be documented by the picture itself. Kathee was not a happy camper. She refused to smile and her body language was strong. It ruined the picture, as far as I was concerned, and it was the last time that we were all together for a family portrait like that, because my parents soon passed on to be with the Lord.
I excused myself from time to time to go into the master bedroom and collect myself. I call it “centering”. My stomach was killing me. My idea of a pain killer was to take three Anacin and lie down. Of course that was only exacerbating the problem. Little did I know.
By separating out the memories of the weekend, and looking just at the cute pictures of our grandchildren, I am able to say “Yes, it was a good idea!”
But, when I look at the family portrait grouping for my parents, I say “Never again!”
We weren’t ever a family of close people, no matter how hard I tried to make it so. Blended families seldom are. However, I did try.
If there is ever to be another reunion of this mixed up clan, it won’t be at my house.
One bleeding ulcer is enough to last me for a lifetime!
1982
Did you ever plan a party and it flopped?
Well, I did!
The day after this party was over, I went to the doctor and I had a bleeding ulcer. That’s how awful it was!
My first mistake was inviting family for more than one day, but they were all coming from some distance to participate, so I said, a few hours, a day, a week…whatever will make it worth the trip.
In attendance were The Gorden’s (Bruce, Penny, Krishell, Jon Mark); The Sullivan’s (Kirk, Kathee, Christen, Clinton and a step-son named Kirky); The Benett’s (Bill and Linda); and my parents the Hyder’s (Emmette and Marguerite.)
We were living at what we called The Hot-l Flamingo (so named after a television show called Hot-l Baltimore, where the E of the sign was burned out.) Since the house we were re-modeling at the time was a five bedroom, it seemed the logical time to have a Family Reunion.
On paper everything was planned for the three day event. It centered around Christmas, and I had the food all prepared ahead of time. The tree was decorated and each room had Christmas decorations of some sort. The house looked festive!
Change number one came when Kathee’s family decided to come for a week instead of the three day holiday. It seemed that Kirk wanted to see if he could get some tree trimming work around our area to help pay for the trip. This never materialized, so we hired him to trim trees at a rental in Irvine and there at the home place.
Although we were happy to see the Grands, it was an extra twist that I personally didn’t need when trying to prepare for the large group over the weekend.
Change number two came when we sat down for a meal and Kirk told me he didn’t like what I was serving, “Could I just have a ham sandwich…I seen a ham in the frig?”
“I have that planned for another meal when the other families arrive,” I said.
I think push met shove that day, as my stomach growled at me and he ended up going out to the kitchen to make himself a peanut butter sandwich.
Other than looking totally decadent with so many gifts under the Christmas tree and spilling out to the center of the living room, the Christmas gift exchange went well. We took pictures and video throughout, documenting what an absolutely wonderful time we were having.
Change number three came when it was decided, since we were all together in one location, we should have family group portraits. Bill volunteered to be the photographer.
The small groups went very well. It was when I gathered my parents for a portrait of their family that things got ugly.
“Come on Kirky…sit right here,” Kathee said.
I said, “No, this grouping is just for my parents family and their extended family…grandchildren!”
“Well, Kirky belongs in it too,” she said firmly.
“No, Kirky is from another family, he is not their grandchild,” I said just as firmly.
It got uglier and uglier and can only be documented by the picture itself. Kathee was not a happy camper. She refused to smile and her body language was strong. It ruined the picture, as far as I was concerned, and it was the last time that we were all together for a family portrait like that, because my parents soon passed on to be with the Lord.
I excused myself from time to time to go into the master bedroom and collect myself. I call it “centering”. My stomach was killing me. My idea of a pain killer was to take three Anacin and lie down. Of course that was only exacerbating the problem. Little did I know.
By separating out the memories of the weekend, and looking just at the cute pictures of our grandchildren, I am able to say “Yes, it was a good idea!”
But, when I look at the family portrait grouping for my parents, I say “Never again!”
We weren’t ever a family of close people, no matter how hard I tried to make it so. Blended families seldom are. However, I did try.
If there is ever to be another reunion of this mixed up clan, it won’t be at my house.
One bleeding ulcer is enough to last me for a lifetime!
Feelings
Feelings
1981
When Krishell was three I was immersed in photography classes at Orange Coast College. One of our assignments was going to a park and photographing children on the playground. It was fun, but there was something lacking. I was learning all the tricks of 'shooting' children, but I did not know these kids. Usually I felt a sparkle, a zing that happens when I am truly enjoying photography.
That's it! I need my own grandchild to photograph. I'll go down and photograph 'Shell'.
I headed for La Mesa and the nearest grand to lend enjoyment to this weekend assignment. I was loaded down with props. Hats. Umbrella. Toys. She had plenty of dolls to play with. I had my usual two rolls of film in my pocket my notebook from class lest I forget anything I had learned that week.
I sat and played with her for awhile before even mentioning the photo session I wanted to do. By the time we were both relaxed and at ease with one another, I suggested we go out on the sundeck.
"You can play with Gramma's umbrella," I said hoping she would be interested. I had chosen a bright blue one that would look good in pictures.
"O.K." she said following me outside.
I opened up the umbrella and before long she was playing peek-a-boo with me peering her big eyes over the edge of the umbrella.
Adrenalin pumped in my veins as I adjusted the camera to catch her every move.
"Peep eye!" I said hoping for smiles bigger than my heart could hold.
"Peep eye!" she said peeking out, her blond curls bobbing.
I traded props as I progressed through a roll of film. Hats. Dolls. Toys. Climb the jungle gym. "Do whatever you want, Shell, just keep moving for Gramma," I was really getting some good shots.
I continued taking pictures as we left the deck and wandered over to a nearby park. There were lots of props there. Swings. Merry-go-rounds. She loved playing on the bouncing horses.
As I finished the last roll and we headed back to the duplex they owned, I was tired but happy.
"Hold my hand," I said as we started up the stairs of their place.
She looked up at me and smiled and placed her little hand in mine.
"I like you, Gramma," she said very solemnly.
I thought my heart would burst. She'd said "I wuv ooh," many times in the past, as children parrot those who teach them, but this response was like no other. She had decided this all on her own. No prompting from parents. No baby talk.
It was my first experience of unconditional acceptance from her.
I knew I had shot some nine's that day (nine's are the best mark you can get on a photo shoot) but she had given me the best gift.
I no longer cared about the photographic assignment.
I picked her up and gave her a big hug.
She hugged me back.
1981
When Krishell was three I was immersed in photography classes at Orange Coast College. One of our assignments was going to a park and photographing children on the playground. It was fun, but there was something lacking. I was learning all the tricks of 'shooting' children, but I did not know these kids. Usually I felt a sparkle, a zing that happens when I am truly enjoying photography.
That's it! I need my own grandchild to photograph. I'll go down and photograph 'Shell'.
I headed for La Mesa and the nearest grand to lend enjoyment to this weekend assignment. I was loaded down with props. Hats. Umbrella. Toys. She had plenty of dolls to play with. I had my usual two rolls of film in my pocket my notebook from class lest I forget anything I had learned that week.
I sat and played with her for awhile before even mentioning the photo session I wanted to do. By the time we were both relaxed and at ease with one another, I suggested we go out on the sundeck.
"You can play with Gramma's umbrella," I said hoping she would be interested. I had chosen a bright blue one that would look good in pictures.
"O.K." she said following me outside.
I opened up the umbrella and before long she was playing peek-a-boo with me peering her big eyes over the edge of the umbrella.
Adrenalin pumped in my veins as I adjusted the camera to catch her every move.
"Peep eye!" I said hoping for smiles bigger than my heart could hold.
"Peep eye!" she said peeking out, her blond curls bobbing.
I traded props as I progressed through a roll of film. Hats. Dolls. Toys. Climb the jungle gym. "Do whatever you want, Shell, just keep moving for Gramma," I was really getting some good shots.
I continued taking pictures as we left the deck and wandered over to a nearby park. There were lots of props there. Swings. Merry-go-rounds. She loved playing on the bouncing horses.
As I finished the last roll and we headed back to the duplex they owned, I was tired but happy.
"Hold my hand," I said as we started up the stairs of their place.
She looked up at me and smiled and placed her little hand in mine.
"I like you, Gramma," she said very solemnly.
I thought my heart would burst. She'd said "I wuv ooh," many times in the past, as children parrot those who teach them, but this response was like no other. She had decided this all on her own. No prompting from parents. No baby talk.
It was my first experience of unconditional acceptance from her.
I knew I had shot some nine's that day (nine's are the best mark you can get on a photo shoot) but she had given me the best gift.
I no longer cared about the photographic assignment.
I picked her up and gave her a big hug.
She hugged me back.
Positive Affirmation
Positive Affirmation
1977
We bought Summit House on the rebound from a lovely weekend in Morro Bay.
Deciding where you want to be for your old age can present problems. You should be near your parents to take care of them if necessary...and for the same reason, you should consider where your kids live.
As we approached retirement age it was good to think our next move would be our own choice. We'd moved around hither and yon with RCA for years without really having much say in the matter. We could now decide where we would spend the rest of our lives.
We had been to Morro Bay on our wedding trip and loved it. It was small town, beachy, but close to a freeway for getaways. Our major dis-satisfaction was that maybe it was too far from everything.
Visiting it again twelve years later, we still thought it might have possibilities, and began seriously looking for a house.
"How far is it to the nearest hospital?" I asked the real estate agent who was showing us a really neat house.
"About 45 minutes by ambulance," she said, "the nearest hospital is in San Luis Obispo."
"That doesn't sound wonderful if there's an emergency," Dick said, as he inspected every nook and cranny of the house. It was on a hillside with lots of trees...had a good view of Morro Rock, and had a deep foundation. "I think I could add a workshop under the house." It was close to the village for walking and breakfast out...our favorite pastime, but far enough from the touristy bayfront not to be congested.
A workshop was really important to Dick. So far in our marriage, he would just get his tools set up in the garage and RCA would transfer him somewhere else. I never had seen him make anything more than a workbench and tool cabinets. He made great workshops and then we would move on again.
I was looking out the bay window when I became aware of the fog horn.
"Does that blow constantly?" I asked.
"Pretty nearly this time of year," the agent said.
I timed it with my watch. It blew every twenty seconds. I wondered if you got used to it like a train, or the surf at night.
We went back home to Costa Mesa, rested and invigorated from Morro Bay, but disappointed that we had not found a likely retirement place.
A few days later a friend from Cardiff came by Copy Boy (our print shop). She was in real estate. We told her about our visit to Morro Bay over lunch.
"All we wanted was a little cottage with a sun-deck on the back and a view of the ocean," I said.
"Maybe it's too soon to be planning this," Dick said, "but the way real estate is going up, we won't be able to afford anything near the beach if we wait much longer."
"I had a listing like that in Cardiff not long ago. The man finally rented it out and moved to Lake Elsinore," she said.
"Cardiff would be closer to my parents in Escondido," I said.
"Want to come back home with me and I'll show it to you?"
"Sure, we can come down this afternoon. Work is slow and Penny (our hired help) can handle it." Dick got up from the booth to pay the check.
The house on Summit was two bedroom, older than we wanted, but had a basement rental underneath. It had two gorgeous Torrey Pines in the front yard. It was $80,000.00 and that was in our price range. We had hoped to keep this last purchase under $100,000.00.
We couldn't get inside because of the tenants, but we liked the rural neighborhood and the magnificent view of the ocean.
"I don't know if this would mean anything to you since you're looking for a retirement place, but this is an R-4 lot. You could build some rentals on it later."
I caught my breath. This was a dream come true. It was in our price range, ocean so close you could reach out and touch it...white water view straight to La Jolla and it's R-4. We both knew from real estate classes that when making negotiations to purchase, never look excited!
"We'll think about it," Dick said calmly, "we really had our heart set on Morro Bay." We walked toward the car, not looking back.
"We'll call you."
R-4...ocean view...it even had a sundeck on the back. Scripps Hospital was at the corner as was Safeway and a Thrifty drugstore. I could walk to all the shops in my old age. I could get one of those baskets on wheels that you see little old ladies pushing.
We could hardly wait to get back to Costa Mesa so we could call her to begin putting this deal together.
We saw the property several more times during negotiations, but we never did see the inside. It was to be a rental for a few years anyway, we could refurbish it later. We might never even move here. We didn't know. Plus we got it for only $4,000.00 down. The rents from the two units would cover the mortgage. We just knew we'd made a coup.
Our first vacancy, we packed up our sleeping bags, coffee pot and work clothes and headed for a weekend working vacation at Cardiff by the Sea. Summit House had warm knotty pine wood interior. It had a nice fireplace, too. It could be made cozy someday.
We cleaned it up, steamed the carpets, raised the rent and re-rented it to a young airline couple who commuted to Lindbergh Field and LAX respectively.
The earth children who lived in the studio downstairs were artists and planned to stay forever. They used the garage as a stained glass studio.
During our many trips to Escondido to visit Poppy and Grandma Hyder, we detoured to Summit House to check on our tenants and began falling in love with Cardiff by the Sea. We enjoyed the restaurants and the layed back ambience of this beach town.
When I got home from one of our visits, I got out my clipboard and lots of plain paper to draw on. Nearly every night after work at Copy Boy I would draw plans to remodel Summit House. I made sketches of the place as is. I made sketches of it as it could be. It became my obsession.
"You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," Dick said. He felt it just wasn't big enough for us and it really needed a great deal of work due to its' age. Plumbing. Electrical. All needed upgrading.
"Yeh, but...." I always had some answer that would remedy his negatives. I never gave up. For five years I dreamed on about Summit House and what it could be. Meanwhile, its' value was skyrocketing.
During this time we were attending Orange Coast College, basically so that Dick could get his broker's license. Usually we took the same classes, but one semester I took a class called "A More Positive You" and I learned about saying positive affirmations every day. I wasn't sure I believed it all, but it was worth trying.
I made up a positive affirmation about Summit House.
I, Thelly, live at 1506 Summit, Cardiff by the Sea. I am a healthy, happy active Christian, content with a simple life.
Every time I had a minute to spare at work I would say my affirmation to myself. As I sketched on my houseplan at night I would say my affirmation. Suddenly it dawned on me to put my affirmation inside my prayers at Morning Watch. Then it would not be me manipulating this idea trying to make it happen. It would only happen if God was in it. I sure hoped He was.
In my fantasies about living in Cardiff I would get up early in the morning and take a walk to the village post office to pick up our mail. Then I would go over to Piccadilly for coffee or drop in at Vee Gee for a donut. I would walk back up the hill and by that time my 'night person' husband would be up. I had my life all planned before I ever moved here.
One night while I was looking at my floorplan...which enlarged a lot over time, I realized that I did not want a garage that had a downhill driveway. That might be difficult to negotiate in my old age. So, I remedied that situation with a garage addition to the house on the street level. Voile! Everything was so easy with a soft lead pencil and a good eraser.
Meanwhile, we were getting really tired of Copy Boy and were doing better with our real estate fixer-uppers. It was the late Seventies now and real estate was really booming. We sold the printing business and headed for Arizona to look for apartments to trade for the five houses we had in Irvine. Not Summit House, that was escalating in value more than any other property we had. As is. Without any remodeling at all. It was the land under it that was really of value.
We bought twenty units in Tempe in trade for some other property and we also bought a waterfront condo on a man-made lake. It was known as Runaway Point at The Lakes. We thought there might be a possibility of retiring there so we would be closer to the apartments and we could summer in Cardiff in the studio apartment. Then we experienced summer in Arizona. It begins early in May and ends in late October...all of it 100 plus degrees. That did it for the condo. We rented it out. Later we joked that after the 'big one' (California earthquake) Runaway Point might be our ocean front property!
I was showing Dick my latest Summit House drawing after we settled down from the Arizona trip.
"Well...now that is a real possibility," he said.
"See," I said pointing to the garage, "we could add a garage...push the bedroom walls out...make that a family room, and we could have our office and bedroom downstairs in the basement."
I was thrilled that he finally liked my plan. I was bubbly with excitement. Usually he didn't even look at my plans much less listen when I talked about them. He was interested, it just wasn't his top priority.
"Then, you could use the existing garage for a wood-working shop," I continued, "you've always wanted to work with wood."
"That's a definite possibility..." he said really getting interested in the floorplans for the first time. Five years had passed and I had never given up.
**************
I'm saving the remodeling of Summit House for a different story because it took twice as long to do and cost twice as much as we expected. It really is hard to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.
***************
I do encourage making positive affirmations in your prayers, though. And never give up on your dream. I will add that even with all my detailed plans and fantasies things don't always happen just the way you dream.
The little village post office doesn't get the mail up until after 10:00 in the morning.
Piccadilly went belly up.
Doughnuts are very high calorie things to have on a regular basis and it is important to vary your walks from day to day.
Other than that, it is absolutely great living at 1506 Summit. I am a healthy, happy, active Christian content with a simple life. Just like my affirmation. Moving here was just the icing on the cake.
It really doesn't matter where you live, or what you live in...it matters how you live. I got pretty caught up in the Summit House dream...to the exclusion of living one day at a time. I may have even bordered on being nagging about it.
Dick says he just moved here to get me off his back.
Maybe I even hooked him into moving with the lure of a wonderful workshop...but now when I start talking about travel or the possibility of ever leaving Cardiff, he says "What? And leave paradise?"
1977
We bought Summit House on the rebound from a lovely weekend in Morro Bay.
Deciding where you want to be for your old age can present problems. You should be near your parents to take care of them if necessary...and for the same reason, you should consider where your kids live.
As we approached retirement age it was good to think our next move would be our own choice. We'd moved around hither and yon with RCA for years without really having much say in the matter. We could now decide where we would spend the rest of our lives.
We had been to Morro Bay on our wedding trip and loved it. It was small town, beachy, but close to a freeway for getaways. Our major dis-satisfaction was that maybe it was too far from everything.
Visiting it again twelve years later, we still thought it might have possibilities, and began seriously looking for a house.
"How far is it to the nearest hospital?" I asked the real estate agent who was showing us a really neat house.
"About 45 minutes by ambulance," she said, "the nearest hospital is in San Luis Obispo."
"That doesn't sound wonderful if there's an emergency," Dick said, as he inspected every nook and cranny of the house. It was on a hillside with lots of trees...had a good view of Morro Rock, and had a deep foundation. "I think I could add a workshop under the house." It was close to the village for walking and breakfast out...our favorite pastime, but far enough from the touristy bayfront not to be congested.
A workshop was really important to Dick. So far in our marriage, he would just get his tools set up in the garage and RCA would transfer him somewhere else. I never had seen him make anything more than a workbench and tool cabinets. He made great workshops and then we would move on again.
I was looking out the bay window when I became aware of the fog horn.
"Does that blow constantly?" I asked.
"Pretty nearly this time of year," the agent said.
I timed it with my watch. It blew every twenty seconds. I wondered if you got used to it like a train, or the surf at night.
We went back home to Costa Mesa, rested and invigorated from Morro Bay, but disappointed that we had not found a likely retirement place.
A few days later a friend from Cardiff came by Copy Boy (our print shop). She was in real estate. We told her about our visit to Morro Bay over lunch.
"All we wanted was a little cottage with a sun-deck on the back and a view of the ocean," I said.
"Maybe it's too soon to be planning this," Dick said, "but the way real estate is going up, we won't be able to afford anything near the beach if we wait much longer."
"I had a listing like that in Cardiff not long ago. The man finally rented it out and moved to Lake Elsinore," she said.
"Cardiff would be closer to my parents in Escondido," I said.
"Want to come back home with me and I'll show it to you?"
"Sure, we can come down this afternoon. Work is slow and Penny (our hired help) can handle it." Dick got up from the booth to pay the check.
The house on Summit was two bedroom, older than we wanted, but had a basement rental underneath. It had two gorgeous Torrey Pines in the front yard. It was $80,000.00 and that was in our price range. We had hoped to keep this last purchase under $100,000.00.
We couldn't get inside because of the tenants, but we liked the rural neighborhood and the magnificent view of the ocean.
"I don't know if this would mean anything to you since you're looking for a retirement place, but this is an R-4 lot. You could build some rentals on it later."
I caught my breath. This was a dream come true. It was in our price range, ocean so close you could reach out and touch it...white water view straight to La Jolla and it's R-4. We both knew from real estate classes that when making negotiations to purchase, never look excited!
"We'll think about it," Dick said calmly, "we really had our heart set on Morro Bay." We walked toward the car, not looking back.
"We'll call you."
R-4...ocean view...it even had a sundeck on the back. Scripps Hospital was at the corner as was Safeway and a Thrifty drugstore. I could walk to all the shops in my old age. I could get one of those baskets on wheels that you see little old ladies pushing.
We could hardly wait to get back to Costa Mesa so we could call her to begin putting this deal together.
We saw the property several more times during negotiations, but we never did see the inside. It was to be a rental for a few years anyway, we could refurbish it later. We might never even move here. We didn't know. Plus we got it for only $4,000.00 down. The rents from the two units would cover the mortgage. We just knew we'd made a coup.
Our first vacancy, we packed up our sleeping bags, coffee pot and work clothes and headed for a weekend working vacation at Cardiff by the Sea. Summit House had warm knotty pine wood interior. It had a nice fireplace, too. It could be made cozy someday.
We cleaned it up, steamed the carpets, raised the rent and re-rented it to a young airline couple who commuted to Lindbergh Field and LAX respectively.
The earth children who lived in the studio downstairs were artists and planned to stay forever. They used the garage as a stained glass studio.
During our many trips to Escondido to visit Poppy and Grandma Hyder, we detoured to Summit House to check on our tenants and began falling in love with Cardiff by the Sea. We enjoyed the restaurants and the layed back ambience of this beach town.
When I got home from one of our visits, I got out my clipboard and lots of plain paper to draw on. Nearly every night after work at Copy Boy I would draw plans to remodel Summit House. I made sketches of the place as is. I made sketches of it as it could be. It became my obsession.
"You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear," Dick said. He felt it just wasn't big enough for us and it really needed a great deal of work due to its' age. Plumbing. Electrical. All needed upgrading.
"Yeh, but...." I always had some answer that would remedy his negatives. I never gave up. For five years I dreamed on about Summit House and what it could be. Meanwhile, its' value was skyrocketing.
During this time we were attending Orange Coast College, basically so that Dick could get his broker's license. Usually we took the same classes, but one semester I took a class called "A More Positive You" and I learned about saying positive affirmations every day. I wasn't sure I believed it all, but it was worth trying.
I made up a positive affirmation about Summit House.
I, Thelly, live at 1506 Summit, Cardiff by the Sea. I am a healthy, happy active Christian, content with a simple life.
Every time I had a minute to spare at work I would say my affirmation to myself. As I sketched on my houseplan at night I would say my affirmation. Suddenly it dawned on me to put my affirmation inside my prayers at Morning Watch. Then it would not be me manipulating this idea trying to make it happen. It would only happen if God was in it. I sure hoped He was.
In my fantasies about living in Cardiff I would get up early in the morning and take a walk to the village post office to pick up our mail. Then I would go over to Piccadilly for coffee or drop in at Vee Gee for a donut. I would walk back up the hill and by that time my 'night person' husband would be up. I had my life all planned before I ever moved here.
One night while I was looking at my floorplan...which enlarged a lot over time, I realized that I did not want a garage that had a downhill driveway. That might be difficult to negotiate in my old age. So, I remedied that situation with a garage addition to the house on the street level. Voile! Everything was so easy with a soft lead pencil and a good eraser.
Meanwhile, we were getting really tired of Copy Boy and were doing better with our real estate fixer-uppers. It was the late Seventies now and real estate was really booming. We sold the printing business and headed for Arizona to look for apartments to trade for the five houses we had in Irvine. Not Summit House, that was escalating in value more than any other property we had. As is. Without any remodeling at all. It was the land under it that was really of value.
We bought twenty units in Tempe in trade for some other property and we also bought a waterfront condo on a man-made lake. It was known as Runaway Point at The Lakes. We thought there might be a possibility of retiring there so we would be closer to the apartments and we could summer in Cardiff in the studio apartment. Then we experienced summer in Arizona. It begins early in May and ends in late October...all of it 100 plus degrees. That did it for the condo. We rented it out. Later we joked that after the 'big one' (California earthquake) Runaway Point might be our ocean front property!
I was showing Dick my latest Summit House drawing after we settled down from the Arizona trip.
"Well...now that is a real possibility," he said.
"See," I said pointing to the garage, "we could add a garage...push the bedroom walls out...make that a family room, and we could have our office and bedroom downstairs in the basement."
I was thrilled that he finally liked my plan. I was bubbly with excitement. Usually he didn't even look at my plans much less listen when I talked about them. He was interested, it just wasn't his top priority.
"Then, you could use the existing garage for a wood-working shop," I continued, "you've always wanted to work with wood."
"That's a definite possibility..." he said really getting interested in the floorplans for the first time. Five years had passed and I had never given up.
**************
I'm saving the remodeling of Summit House for a different story because it took twice as long to do and cost twice as much as we expected. It really is hard to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.
***************
I do encourage making positive affirmations in your prayers, though. And never give up on your dream. I will add that even with all my detailed plans and fantasies things don't always happen just the way you dream.
The little village post office doesn't get the mail up until after 10:00 in the morning.
Piccadilly went belly up.
Doughnuts are very high calorie things to have on a regular basis and it is important to vary your walks from day to day.
Other than that, it is absolutely great living at 1506 Summit. I am a healthy, happy, active Christian content with a simple life. Just like my affirmation. Moving here was just the icing on the cake.
It really doesn't matter where you live, or what you live in...it matters how you live. I got pretty caught up in the Summit House dream...to the exclusion of living one day at a time. I may have even bordered on being nagging about it.
Dick says he just moved here to get me off his back.
Maybe I even hooked him into moving with the lure of a wonderful workshop...but now when I start talking about travel or the possibility of ever leaving Cardiff, he says "What? And leave paradise?"
It's a Business
It’s a Business
1976
.Alice Peterson walked into the freshly renovated house dressed stylishly in high heels and carrying a clipboard.
"Giminy....do you suppose she thinks the place is for sale instead of rent? I asked Dick. It had taken two months to renovate this fixer upper and now we'd been waiting patiently all day for someone to come by from the newspaper rental ad.
We were normally in control on rental interviews, since we had been buying fixer-upper houses and apartments for several years. We'd even bought a book on how to manage rentals, but nothing prepared us for Alice Peterson.
She turned on faucets, flushed toilets, slid windows open, looked inside every door, cupboard and wardrobe and then shot questions at us rapid fire for ten minutes.
"She's probably a good risk, she's so picky," I whispered to Dick naively.
We all leaned on the breakfast bar while she filled out the rental questionnaire and handed it back to us.
She used the name Petersen-Riley. With a hyphen, yet. They had two children. That was good. People with kids hated to leave school districts once their kids got settled. Gramma lives with them. That would give them built-in child care. They both work.
Self-employed accounting business. Taxes. God. Second marriages for each, one kid from each marriage. Well. Gramma probably already had a handle on that.
"I'd like to rent from you," she said standing very erect looking out to the backyard, which was probably the worse feature of the house. "I'd like permission to plant a vegetable garden over there," she pointed to a corner near an orange tree.
"If you'd like to give us a deposit, we'll check your application," I said.
Reading the form, I began wondering....how were we going to check self-employment? Their previous address was with the Gramma. No rent to be paid. There were several personal references, but we had never put much stock in those. Friends can say anything.
Yellow caution lights were blinking in my head but I wasn't taking heed. We hadn't seen the movie Pacific Heights as yet!
She was writing out her check.
We moved off to the hallway and discussed the potential problems.
"I can't make a whole lot more of these house payments without a tenant," Dick said.
This fixer had taken much longer to do than the others, so it was eating away at our personal savings. In Real Estate circles that's known as 'feeding an alligator'.
"I saw an ICHTHUS on your car...where do you fellowship," she asked about the fish on the bumper of our pickup.
"Calvary Chapel....just up the road," I said.
"That's why we want to live here, to be close to Calvary Academy."
What more do we need? They're putting their kids in Calvary school, Gramma probably kicks in Social Security checks and baby sits. Their office is just down the street. Her appearance is good. Income is a little shaky, but we knew what it was like to combine two families....give 'em a break. The warning lights in my head flickered out.
"Well," Dick began, "We're going to give you the benefit of some doubts we have. It's yours. You can move in Monday."
Alice beamed. It was the very last time we would see her grin like that. It was the last time we ever saw her wearing her teeth or out of a chenille bathrobe.
To describe the Petersen-Riley clan as 'Grapes of Wrath' revisited was no over-statement. During the 13 years that they rented from us there was never a rent check that was on time. Most had to be held 'just 'til Friday....then you can deposit it". Or they just plain bounced. N.S.F. Dick spoon fed them, because he knew if we evicted them we would have to go back in to this hovel of a house and clean it all up again. You see Alice was not a housekeeper by any sense of the word.
Two children were only the tip of the iceberg. They had 15 children between them. Of course they didn't all live there at the same time, but between various and sundry divorces, break-ups, un-wanted pregnancies, drug rehabilitation and parole, they must have each been there once with odds and ends of furniture and grandchildren. At one time (the neighbors had called the health department) there were three refrigerators lined up on the front porch.
As far as Gramma being a help, she was senile. Plus they had an army of police dogs protecting the property in the back yard.
But, Alice, bless her heart, loved flowers. They were everywhere. The interior of the house was a jungle of hanging plants complete with cob-webs, the exterior front yard was lined with clay pots along the edges of sidewalks, planters and property lines. It looked like a hippie commune from the Sixties.
They set old couches out front supposedly for Goodwill to pick up, but Goodwill didn't want them. They just seemed to remain as lawn furniture. Extra mattresses were propped up along the breezeway. I 'spose in case of need. Kind of a spare bedroom, if you will.
The backyard had a lawn mower hidden in the tall grass, but it had been stopped dead in it's tracks because the weeds were so high.
The neighbors finally put up a six foot fence to keep from viewing the mess from their house.
Whenever Dick visited Alice (usually for late rent) he would come home with the most perilous tales I'd ever heard. Nothing about the Garfield menagerie was a surprise to me. But often he brought a sack of fresh vegetables from the garden or a scribbled piece of poetry that Alice had written (usually about God or the hereafter) and I would wonder where, in her cluttered mind, that came from.
Years later, when Alice called that the the Costa Mesa firemen had to break through the roof to put out the fire it was no great shock. They had been away camping in their new motorhome (another con-job on some unsuspecting R.V. dealership) and one of their kid's friends had broken into the house to sleep off drugs. He went to sleep with a cigarette and lived to tell the tale.
As we drove up to Orange County to meet with the insurance adjuster, we felt mixed emotions. Insurance would cover the damage to the bedroom, the Petersen-Riley's would move, the place would be renovated by someone else, and since we had paid less than $50,000 for the house and it was now in the neighborhood of $225,000 maybe we would just sell. Maybe it was time. We knew the neighbors thought so!
Nothing would have prepared us for the scene when we arrived on Garfield Street.
All their furniture was on the front lawn....and they were living there! The whole entire house was smoke damaged or water soaked from the firemen breaking through the roof, or it was just burned to a crisp. We offered a motel for them to live in, but they refused. Between the motorhome and the yard they were quite comfortable, they said, and this way they could look after their belongings.
After the damage had been repaired, painted and new carpet and drapes installed, the house came out looking better than before. That's when the City of Costa Mesa gave us a great tax credit because of our loss. We never quite understood this, but you don't look a gift horse in the mouth!
Oh yes, the Petersen-Riley clan stayed on. You can't evict someone for a fire....especially when they didn't directly cause it. They lived on the lawn for six week or so. The fire didn't change them. The rent still did not come on time and the neighbors periodically called police, sanitation or health about something. It was just their way of life.
When they moved to the Mojave Desert to live in a mobile home, they were carrying all their junk piled precariously high on a pickup truck.
Dick was already busy renovating the kitchen, tearing out the stove and dishwasher which I said I would never attempt to clean....not in a million years.
"Dick," Alice called to him from the truck, "Can we have the old dishwasher and stove, since you're putting in new? We're kinda used to them." They had pretty well trashed the place again and in only two years this time.
I remembered what our accountant said back when we first bought rentals:
"It's a business....it has it's ups and downs."
Somehow we couldn't get mad about it. Maybe it was toothless Alice....maybe we were just hardened by then. Or maybe we were comforted by knowing that they had paid us a total of $110,000 in rent. I don't know. Even with 40% out for expenses, it was good return on our initial investment.
As they drove off in that old truck I could just picture those cruddy appliances out there in the sagebrush and cactus. I was sure they would never be used as appliances. Probably Alice would plant Creeping Charlie in them and use them for 'unique ornamental planters'. Or maybe there would be cactus growing from their gaping doors. Alice Petersen-Riley would be propped against a Joshua Tree with her clipboard writing poetry.
I grabbed my mop bucket and started back into the house to help Dick....
The money was the 'ups' and the mess was the 'downs'.
"It's a business," I said rolling up my sleeves. Our work was cut out for us for at least a couple of weeks.
1976
.Alice Peterson walked into the freshly renovated house dressed stylishly in high heels and carrying a clipboard.
"Giminy....do you suppose she thinks the place is for sale instead of rent? I asked Dick. It had taken two months to renovate this fixer upper and now we'd been waiting patiently all day for someone to come by from the newspaper rental ad.
We were normally in control on rental interviews, since we had been buying fixer-upper houses and apartments for several years. We'd even bought a book on how to manage rentals, but nothing prepared us for Alice Peterson.
She turned on faucets, flushed toilets, slid windows open, looked inside every door, cupboard and wardrobe and then shot questions at us rapid fire for ten minutes.
"She's probably a good risk, she's so picky," I whispered to Dick naively.
We all leaned on the breakfast bar while she filled out the rental questionnaire and handed it back to us.
She used the name Petersen-Riley. With a hyphen, yet. They had two children. That was good. People with kids hated to leave school districts once their kids got settled. Gramma lives with them. That would give them built-in child care. They both work.
Self-employed accounting business. Taxes. God. Second marriages for each, one kid from each marriage. Well. Gramma probably already had a handle on that.
"I'd like to rent from you," she said standing very erect looking out to the backyard, which was probably the worse feature of the house. "I'd like permission to plant a vegetable garden over there," she pointed to a corner near an orange tree.
"If you'd like to give us a deposit, we'll check your application," I said.
Reading the form, I began wondering....how were we going to check self-employment? Their previous address was with the Gramma. No rent to be paid. There were several personal references, but we had never put much stock in those. Friends can say anything.
Yellow caution lights were blinking in my head but I wasn't taking heed. We hadn't seen the movie Pacific Heights as yet!
She was writing out her check.
We moved off to the hallway and discussed the potential problems.
"I can't make a whole lot more of these house payments without a tenant," Dick said.
This fixer had taken much longer to do than the others, so it was eating away at our personal savings. In Real Estate circles that's known as 'feeding an alligator'.
"I saw an ICHTHUS on your car...where do you fellowship," she asked about the fish on the bumper of our pickup.
"Calvary Chapel....just up the road," I said.
"That's why we want to live here, to be close to Calvary Academy."
What more do we need? They're putting their kids in Calvary school, Gramma probably kicks in Social Security checks and baby sits. Their office is just down the street. Her appearance is good. Income is a little shaky, but we knew what it was like to combine two families....give 'em a break. The warning lights in my head flickered out.
"Well," Dick began, "We're going to give you the benefit of some doubts we have. It's yours. You can move in Monday."
Alice beamed. It was the very last time we would see her grin like that. It was the last time we ever saw her wearing her teeth or out of a chenille bathrobe.
To describe the Petersen-Riley clan as 'Grapes of Wrath' revisited was no over-statement. During the 13 years that they rented from us there was never a rent check that was on time. Most had to be held 'just 'til Friday....then you can deposit it". Or they just plain bounced. N.S.F. Dick spoon fed them, because he knew if we evicted them we would have to go back in to this hovel of a house and clean it all up again. You see Alice was not a housekeeper by any sense of the word.
Two children were only the tip of the iceberg. They had 15 children between them. Of course they didn't all live there at the same time, but between various and sundry divorces, break-ups, un-wanted pregnancies, drug rehabilitation and parole, they must have each been there once with odds and ends of furniture and grandchildren. At one time (the neighbors had called the health department) there were three refrigerators lined up on the front porch.
As far as Gramma being a help, she was senile. Plus they had an army of police dogs protecting the property in the back yard.
But, Alice, bless her heart, loved flowers. They were everywhere. The interior of the house was a jungle of hanging plants complete with cob-webs, the exterior front yard was lined with clay pots along the edges of sidewalks, planters and property lines. It looked like a hippie commune from the Sixties.
They set old couches out front supposedly for Goodwill to pick up, but Goodwill didn't want them. They just seemed to remain as lawn furniture. Extra mattresses were propped up along the breezeway. I 'spose in case of need. Kind of a spare bedroom, if you will.
The backyard had a lawn mower hidden in the tall grass, but it had been stopped dead in it's tracks because the weeds were so high.
The neighbors finally put up a six foot fence to keep from viewing the mess from their house.
Whenever Dick visited Alice (usually for late rent) he would come home with the most perilous tales I'd ever heard. Nothing about the Garfield menagerie was a surprise to me. But often he brought a sack of fresh vegetables from the garden or a scribbled piece of poetry that Alice had written (usually about God or the hereafter) and I would wonder where, in her cluttered mind, that came from.
Years later, when Alice called that the the Costa Mesa firemen had to break through the roof to put out the fire it was no great shock. They had been away camping in their new motorhome (another con-job on some unsuspecting R.V. dealership) and one of their kid's friends had broken into the house to sleep off drugs. He went to sleep with a cigarette and lived to tell the tale.
As we drove up to Orange County to meet with the insurance adjuster, we felt mixed emotions. Insurance would cover the damage to the bedroom, the Petersen-Riley's would move, the place would be renovated by someone else, and since we had paid less than $50,000 for the house and it was now in the neighborhood of $225,000 maybe we would just sell. Maybe it was time. We knew the neighbors thought so!
Nothing would have prepared us for the scene when we arrived on Garfield Street.
All their furniture was on the front lawn....and they were living there! The whole entire house was smoke damaged or water soaked from the firemen breaking through the roof, or it was just burned to a crisp. We offered a motel for them to live in, but they refused. Between the motorhome and the yard they were quite comfortable, they said, and this way they could look after their belongings.
After the damage had been repaired, painted and new carpet and drapes installed, the house came out looking better than before. That's when the City of Costa Mesa gave us a great tax credit because of our loss. We never quite understood this, but you don't look a gift horse in the mouth!
Oh yes, the Petersen-Riley clan stayed on. You can't evict someone for a fire....especially when they didn't directly cause it. They lived on the lawn for six week or so. The fire didn't change them. The rent still did not come on time and the neighbors periodically called police, sanitation or health about something. It was just their way of life.
When they moved to the Mojave Desert to live in a mobile home, they were carrying all their junk piled precariously high on a pickup truck.
Dick was already busy renovating the kitchen, tearing out the stove and dishwasher which I said I would never attempt to clean....not in a million years.
"Dick," Alice called to him from the truck, "Can we have the old dishwasher and stove, since you're putting in new? We're kinda used to them." They had pretty well trashed the place again and in only two years this time.
I remembered what our accountant said back when we first bought rentals:
"It's a business....it has it's ups and downs."
Somehow we couldn't get mad about it. Maybe it was toothless Alice....maybe we were just hardened by then. Or maybe we were comforted by knowing that they had paid us a total of $110,000 in rent. I don't know. Even with 40% out for expenses, it was good return on our initial investment.
As they drove off in that old truck I could just picture those cruddy appliances out there in the sagebrush and cactus. I was sure they would never be used as appliances. Probably Alice would plant Creeping Charlie in them and use them for 'unique ornamental planters'. Or maybe there would be cactus growing from their gaping doors. Alice Petersen-Riley would be propped against a Joshua Tree with her clipboard writing poetry.
I grabbed my mop bucket and started back into the house to help Dick....
The money was the 'ups' and the mess was the 'downs'.
"It's a business," I said rolling up my sleeves. Our work was cut out for us for at least a couple of weeks.
Malibu Grand Prix
Malibu Grand Prix
1979
The Mighty Midget Auto Races were an important part of my youth. I loved to go to the race track at Balboa Stadium (San Diego High School). The unmistakable roar of the Offenhauser engines the smell of the fuel mixed with castor oil the gray haze hovering over the infield the excitement of the crowds in the stands... .all went together to raise my adrenalin flow to super abundant.
The drivers Perry Grimm, Billy Vukovich, A. J. Foyt all evoke memories. I wanted to be them. . . to have that thrill they must get at the black and white checkered flag. But it would never happen. Race car drivers had superstitions and thought they would be hexed by women drivers in fact women, period, were never allowed on the race track. Peanuts, either. The shells might accidentally get dropped on the straight-away and cause an accident.
Leo and Poppy occasionally worked in the pits with drivers that they knew personally, but I was only allowed to watch from the stands.
The midgets were soon surpassed by the bigger, faster Indy style racers. But whadayaknow, women were allowed to drive them. By that time, my work as a Mommy was well cut out for me, and the thought of being a race driver soon disappeared from my head.
On my fiftieth birthday however, I discovered Malibu Grand Prix raceway in Fountain Valley. I decided that was going to be my 'prize' for reaching the grand old half-century age. The familiar adrenalin coursed through my veins as I went up to the ticket booth, the dream of being a race driver had not died after all. I had to be photographed for an I.D. card (which I still carry in my wallet), and I marched over to the colorful midgets with confidence. They were all lined up at the starting gate.
"Have you ever driven a midget before?"
“In my dreams” I said, “does that count?"
The white uniformed attendant rolled his eyes up heavenward and gave me detailed instructions.
"If you should spin out or get off the track wait for me! I will get you going again," He was sure I was too old to be doing this. He just stood there shaking his head. Then he placed a helmet over my white hair, and in my mind I became the first woman race driver of all time! I waved to Richie and then the attendant let me get in. I fastened my seat belt, adjusted my helmet and started up the car. With my foot on the brake and the accelerator, I raced the engine. What a magnificent sound! What power! I was hooked!
Richie was all poised with the camera to take my fiftieth birthday picture zooming around the track of Malibu Grand Prix. I did not disappoint him. I looked like a professional with my helmet in place.
The attendant set the timer up on the wall and gave me the starting flag. I was off in a cloud of dreams come true. It was the thrill of a lifetime. I had always wanted to be in Vuky's shoes churning around the 500th lap at Indy. Now was my chance to know how he felt.
The attendant gave me the green flag. I was off and running. I careened around the end turns like a pro because I remembered how Perry Grimm used to go to the outside and then cut to the rail and ease his competition out. My feet were itchy to beat my time the second lap.
Out of the comer of my eye I could see the other cars trying to catch me, but I kept pressing the accelerator harder, easing up in the turns and then floor-boarding it, rushing down the straight-away to make up for losing speed in the turns. Each lap I beat my time. Each lap I beat the other drivers on the track. It was addicting. I wished it would never end!
But it did!! I had only paid for five laps thinking that would be plenty of fun for me but like a roller coaster ride it was over almost in the blink of an eye. I knew then it was never going to be enough. The Mighty Midget Auto Races of Balboa Stadium were being relived in me that day.
As I whizzed past the checkered flag I could hear the roar of the crowd thundering in my ears, as I came to a stop at the pit. "Fifty year old grandmother breaks all records at Malibu Grand Prix!" I could hear the MC hollering into a megaphone.
But like Walter Middy, I came back down to earth with a thud. I was me again at the Malibu Grand Prix.
"Did you get good pictures, Richie?" I asked as I re-entered the time zone of Orange County and the real world we lived in.
"Yeah! It'll be great to show your grandchildren someday! You were really good, Pee Wee!"
"I know!" I said as I floated along beside him. I always knew I was race driver material. Now I had a picture to prove it. Plus, the young men I had been racing against came by and high-fived me! I beat my time every lap, and I beat them!
This wasn’t just a dream I allowed myself to have now and then…I’d actually done it.
I had always known! Except this was better than my dream!
1979
The Mighty Midget Auto Races were an important part of my youth. I loved to go to the race track at Balboa Stadium (San Diego High School). The unmistakable roar of the Offenhauser engines the smell of the fuel mixed with castor oil the gray haze hovering over the infield the excitement of the crowds in the stands... .all went together to raise my adrenalin flow to super abundant.
The drivers Perry Grimm, Billy Vukovich, A. J. Foyt all evoke memories. I wanted to be them. . . to have that thrill they must get at the black and white checkered flag. But it would never happen. Race car drivers had superstitions and thought they would be hexed by women drivers in fact women, period, were never allowed on the race track. Peanuts, either. The shells might accidentally get dropped on the straight-away and cause an accident.
Leo and Poppy occasionally worked in the pits with drivers that they knew personally, but I was only allowed to watch from the stands.
The midgets were soon surpassed by the bigger, faster Indy style racers. But whadayaknow, women were allowed to drive them. By that time, my work as a Mommy was well cut out for me, and the thought of being a race driver soon disappeared from my head.
On my fiftieth birthday however, I discovered Malibu Grand Prix raceway in Fountain Valley. I decided that was going to be my 'prize' for reaching the grand old half-century age. The familiar adrenalin coursed through my veins as I went up to the ticket booth, the dream of being a race driver had not died after all. I had to be photographed for an I.D. card (which I still carry in my wallet), and I marched over to the colorful midgets with confidence. They were all lined up at the starting gate.
"Have you ever driven a midget before?"
“In my dreams” I said, “does that count?"
The white uniformed attendant rolled his eyes up heavenward and gave me detailed instructions.
"If you should spin out or get off the track wait for me! I will get you going again," He was sure I was too old to be doing this. He just stood there shaking his head. Then he placed a helmet over my white hair, and in my mind I became the first woman race driver of all time! I waved to Richie and then the attendant let me get in. I fastened my seat belt, adjusted my helmet and started up the car. With my foot on the brake and the accelerator, I raced the engine. What a magnificent sound! What power! I was hooked!
Richie was all poised with the camera to take my fiftieth birthday picture zooming around the track of Malibu Grand Prix. I did not disappoint him. I looked like a professional with my helmet in place.
The attendant set the timer up on the wall and gave me the starting flag. I was off in a cloud of dreams come true. It was the thrill of a lifetime. I had always wanted to be in Vuky's shoes churning around the 500th lap at Indy. Now was my chance to know how he felt.
The attendant gave me the green flag. I was off and running. I careened around the end turns like a pro because I remembered how Perry Grimm used to go to the outside and then cut to the rail and ease his competition out. My feet were itchy to beat my time the second lap.
Out of the comer of my eye I could see the other cars trying to catch me, but I kept pressing the accelerator harder, easing up in the turns and then floor-boarding it, rushing down the straight-away to make up for losing speed in the turns. Each lap I beat my time. Each lap I beat the other drivers on the track. It was addicting. I wished it would never end!
But it did!! I had only paid for five laps thinking that would be plenty of fun for me but like a roller coaster ride it was over almost in the blink of an eye. I knew then it was never going to be enough. The Mighty Midget Auto Races of Balboa Stadium were being relived in me that day.
As I whizzed past the checkered flag I could hear the roar of the crowd thundering in my ears, as I came to a stop at the pit. "Fifty year old grandmother breaks all records at Malibu Grand Prix!" I could hear the MC hollering into a megaphone.
But like Walter Middy, I came back down to earth with a thud. I was me again at the Malibu Grand Prix.
"Did you get good pictures, Richie?" I asked as I re-entered the time zone of Orange County and the real world we lived in.
"Yeah! It'll be great to show your grandchildren someday! You were really good, Pee Wee!"
"I know!" I said as I floated along beside him. I always knew I was race driver material. Now I had a picture to prove it. Plus, the young men I had been racing against came by and high-fived me! I beat my time every lap, and I beat them!
This wasn’t just a dream I allowed myself to have now and then…I’d actually done it.
I had always known! Except this was better than my dream!
Charity Begins At Home
Charity Begins at Home
1974
When your children begin going through the same rough things that you’ve experienced when beginning marriage, it grabs at the tear ducts and the pain epicenters of your heart.
“Could you help us with our income tax,” Bruce asked Richie shortly after the W-2 forms arrived in the mail.
“Sure, I can do it.”
I remember mostly that it just didn’t take very long.
That’s the way it is when you’re young and you’re both working part-time and going to school.
When Richie came home, he was noticeably choked up.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Well, it’s something. You’d better confess right now, before I worry myself to death with my silly guesswork.”
“I’m just impressed with those kids.”
“Why? They haven’t done anything to impress you yet.”
“Well, they have so very little, and they gave away so much!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They tithe to their church and they send extra money to help a young missionary couple they know in Guatemala,” he said, shaking his head.
“How do they do it?” I knew they hardly made anything.
“They just shrugged their shoulders and said that the Lord provides,” he said sitting down in his lounge chair.
The Bible says that a little child will lead them.
Well,Bruce and Penny were not ‘little’ children, but they were ‘our children’.
It was the beginning of a change in Richie’s life. Little by little, he opened up his pocketbook to help others.
First it was to the church we attended. Then we moved to Encinitas and Calvary Chapel received a huge stipend to help them move to their Poinsettia location.
Then it was to Dr. Dobson’s Focus on the Family, because he felt Dobson’s film series was helping so many young families.
Then he expanded his giving to include Our Daily Bread because we had been helped so much by it when we first became Christians.
When grandchildren came along, he contributed to Christian Campgrounds for their tuition for summer camp.
Then along came Alex, Chrissy, our first granddaughter’s, husband, who had a testimony of deliverance from the drug lifestyle to giving his life to the Lord for Christian ministry. Richie dug hard and deep to help with his seminary tuition and books.
Promise Keepers played a major role in bringing friends and family into a deeper committment to marriage and family, and living the Christian walk. This year, he gave $2,000 to pay for scholarships for all the men of our church to attend if they wanted to go. A $60.00 seminar fee can be a real burden to young married people, and they are the ones who are blessed the most by Promise Keepers. The pastor suggested that the young men should pay something, because it would mean some sacrifice on their part, but we would pick up the $50.00 balance, so that wives and children are not neglected in any way by their going.
The more he gives, the more the Lord has blessed his giving.
And Bruce and Penny, his role model couple, were the newly-weds, living on the on the borderline of poverty, who gave from willing hearts.
You just never know who is observing how you live the Christian life.
1974
When your children begin going through the same rough things that you’ve experienced when beginning marriage, it grabs at the tear ducts and the pain epicenters of your heart.
“Could you help us with our income tax,” Bruce asked Richie shortly after the W-2 forms arrived in the mail.
“Sure, I can do it.”
I remember mostly that it just didn’t take very long.
That’s the way it is when you’re young and you’re both working part-time and going to school.
When Richie came home, he was noticeably choked up.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Well, it’s something. You’d better confess right now, before I worry myself to death with my silly guesswork.”
“I’m just impressed with those kids.”
“Why? They haven’t done anything to impress you yet.”
“Well, they have so very little, and they gave away so much!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“They tithe to their church and they send extra money to help a young missionary couple they know in Guatemala,” he said, shaking his head.
“How do they do it?” I knew they hardly made anything.
“They just shrugged their shoulders and said that the Lord provides,” he said sitting down in his lounge chair.
The Bible says that a little child will lead them.
Well,Bruce and Penny were not ‘little’ children, but they were ‘our children’.
It was the beginning of a change in Richie’s life. Little by little, he opened up his pocketbook to help others.
First it was to the church we attended. Then we moved to Encinitas and Calvary Chapel received a huge stipend to help them move to their Poinsettia location.
Then it was to Dr. Dobson’s Focus on the Family, because he felt Dobson’s film series was helping so many young families.
Then he expanded his giving to include Our Daily Bread because we had been helped so much by it when we first became Christians.
When grandchildren came along, he contributed to Christian Campgrounds for their tuition for summer camp.
Then along came Alex, Chrissy, our first granddaughter’s, husband, who had a testimony of deliverance from the drug lifestyle to giving his life to the Lord for Christian ministry. Richie dug hard and deep to help with his seminary tuition and books.
Promise Keepers played a major role in bringing friends and family into a deeper committment to marriage and family, and living the Christian walk. This year, he gave $2,000 to pay for scholarships for all the men of our church to attend if they wanted to go. A $60.00 seminar fee can be a real burden to young married people, and they are the ones who are blessed the most by Promise Keepers. The pastor suggested that the young men should pay something, because it would mean some sacrifice on their part, but we would pick up the $50.00 balance, so that wives and children are not neglected in any way by their going.
The more he gives, the more the Lord has blessed his giving.
And Bruce and Penny, his role model couple, were the newly-weds, living on the on the borderline of poverty, who gave from willing hearts.
You just never know who is observing how you live the Christian life.
My Name Is Ann
My Name Is Ann
1974
My name is Ann and I’m an alcoholic.
Now, erase all the misconceptions that those introductory words imply…like “skid row bum, someone with the D.T.’s in the alcoholic ward, or the hooker from lower Market Street earning her daily fix.
During the ten years of my active drinking I was your child’s Sunday School teacher and Cub Scout Den Mother. Your PTA treasurer (and yes, I drank the funds on occasion). I was head of the car pool that drove your children to school, I also held a reputable full time job in a doctor’s office, was mother to four children and wife to a rising executive and employed no outside help in the home.
I was normal, whatever that is. And this year, that qualifies me as the average alcoholic woman in the USA.
Your mind is now cataloging me as “average non-Christian” alcoholic woman.
That’s another misconception. I accepted the Lord as my Savior when I was eight. You’re thinking I must be from a broken home…possibly of a minority, low-income family.
Wrong again.
W.A.S.P. White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant and add to that Christian, middle class, non-divorced parentage.
What went wrong?
Nothing much really. I just got curious. I drifted slowly into the life of the new morality. I came into teenaged adolescence at age thirty-five and it was a mind blower to everyone concerned.
I would just like to share with you what it was like for me.
When I made the decision to drink socially it was at a Dr. Dean performance at the Hotel in Pacific Beach. While there, I saw my Sunday School teacher having a glass of wine.
I thought at the time…’Well, if he can, so can I’.
In the ensuing weeks I made a startling discovery. I did not like the tast of booze (beer, bourbon or gin) but having an obsessive nature (the number one character defect of a budding alcholic) I continued to try various and sundry concoctions until I discovered something that was pleasing to my palette. I found this in a sweet red wine made by a religious order in a monastery, with a cute a catchy singing commercial ‘Man, oh Manishevit what a wine’. The monastery itself appealed to my cloistered Christian upbringing because I knew that God would not rain fire and brimstone on me for drinking sacramental wine that was blessed, albeit by Catholics.
I was amazed now that I was a ‘social drinker’ I did not feel any different than I had before. I mean spiritually. I still prayed. I read my Bible and I went to services regularly. My life did not change perceptibly.
I was not to know until much later that whether you drink continuously or periodically the disease of alcoholism is a progressive one.
What changed was in my mind. I was getting away with ‘something’. That took on a monstrous importance to me.
My first real drunk-unlady-like behavior was not until five years later.
It was New Years eve. A well-meaning friend, knowing my distaste for hard liquor introduced me to Bloody Mary’s (Vodka, tomato juice and Tabasco sauce). I remember vomiting for what seemed like hours and lying knee-chest position in bed while the bedroom swirled round about me.
I prayed a lot that night. “Oh, God, just please allow me to survive this agony and I’ll never drink again.”
By morning I felt much better and after a good breakfast and many cups of coffee, I decided quite rationally, I thought, to swear off tomato juice…it was probably too much acid for my stomach.
From the rationalization of that occasion I found it increasingly easy to excuse my behavior. Most of which I remembered euphorically anyway.
Hence the ‘Invisible Line’ that alcoholics cross over…the dividing line between enjoyable social drinking and needing, for whatever reason, to drink. Not the physical withdrawal need, but the psychological need. To drink to that point that all serious drinkers strive to attain…euphoria…that beautiful, mind-numbing limbo state where there’s no longer any need to feel or remember. No hurting. No guilt.
At this point it was “known” that I drank. Not talked about, but known. The rejection that I had ever toyed with even superficially became stark reality.
By this time I was a daily drinker. Just wine….(they all say just wine…but wine is alcohol carried in grape juice) I chose to call it Vino…But daily. Nothing heavy, but regular. I remember during this period mentioning Ladies Night to a younger girl at work. As a daily bar drinker, the pinch is soon felt in the pocket book and you begin to shop for the lounges with the cheapest Happy Hours drink prices. I told her “Ladies Night at the Big Apple is Tuesday, the Blue Night is Wednesday, and the Queen’s Coach is Thursday.” It was then that she interrupted and said “And by Friday Ann’s no longer a lady.” I had discovered that Vodka went down very easily and with the addition of Valium could work in half the time and it had little odor. Why that mattered I don’t know.
And that was about it. No longer a lady. Not much of a mother either. My desire to cook delicious, healthy meals went down hill fast. Of course I had two teenaged daughters by this time and I could delegate chores for a monetary consideration. Now I was not only faced with the cost of drinking in bars on a regular basis, but the added cost of ‘hiring’ my work done at home. That was enough to drive anyone to drink!
Multiply this by two (alcoholics often marry alcoholics) and you have what’s known as ‘staff meetings’ at the local pub to balance the budget. It was not unusual at this point to cash two checks at the same bar as you have ‘one more’ to help you try to figure this mess out.
That’s called denial.
Add to that a traumatic surgery, a teenager’s unwanted pregnancy and another teenager’s promiscuity and runaway boys, and you have full blown chaos.
When you’re so down that the only way to look is up…you’ve reached what’s known as ‘your bottom’.
I came in the back door to A.A. called Alanon. I wasn’t about to admit that this was my problem. It was people, places and things.
That’s when I discovered through the Twelve Steps that it was my problem. What happened to the rest of the family was their responsibility, but I had to admit my own addiction and powerlessness.
November 15, 1973 is my sobriety date. It took me two and half years of program hopping and trying to do it my way that my sponsor said “Yes…Valium is a mind altering drug.” I went back to ground zero and started over. Without Vino, Vodka or Valium.
Today, (Nov. 15,2001) I have twenty eight years sobriety. Twenty-eight years that I have grown, one day at a time, into the person that I wanted to be. I’m writing every day. I’m carrying the message to others who still suffer, and I’m being the best I can be with God’s help.
Oh, by the way…I only used the name of Ann until I got my first cake at Ebel Club in Newport Beach. It was then that I told all my friends that my name is Thelly Reahm. It wasn’t even that hard, really!
For Friends of Bill W.
When he wrote the 12 Steps o f AA, he took them from God’s Holy Bible.
Overcomers Outreach became a bridge between AA and the Church.
1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol (our addictions or compulsions) - that our lives had become unmanageable. {For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the wishing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. Romans 7:18}
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2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves (Jesus) could restore us to sanity. {For it is God who is at work in you, both to will and to work His good pleasure. Philippians 2:13}
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3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him {I urge you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship. Romans 12:1}
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4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. {When you follow your own wrong inclinations your lives will produce these evil results: impure thoughts, idolatry, spiritism, hatred, fighting, jealousy and anger, complaints and criticism, wrong doctrine, envy, murder, drunkenness, wild parties and all that sort of thing. Galations 5:19-21}
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5. Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. {Confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. James 5:16a}
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6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. {Humble yourselves in the presence of the Lord, and he will exalt you. James 4:10}
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7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings. {If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. I John 1:9}
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8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all. {And just as you want men to treat you, treat them in the same way. Luke 6:31}
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9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.{If you are presenting your offering at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your offering there before the altar, and go your way; first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and present your offering. Matthew 5:23, 24}
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10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it. {Let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall. I Corinthians 10:12}
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11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out. {Let the Word of Christ richly dwell within you. Colossians 2:16a}
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12. Having had a Spiritual Awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others and to practice these principles in all our affairs. {Even if a man is caught in any trespass, you who are spiritual, restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness; looking to yourselves, lest you too be tempted. Galations 6:1}
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*The Twelve Steps are from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, the Bible references are from The Recovery Bible.
Overcomers is a fellowship of men and women who have been affected either directly or indirectly by the abuse of any mood altering chemical or obsessive/compulsive behavior. We believe that as we look to a loving God for help, and put into practice those principles for living which He has given in His Word,we shall find both the strength and freedom we need to live productive and happy fives. We strongly believe that our "Higher Power" is Jesus Christ ,our Savior and Lord.
Attendance at meetings will provide you with the possibilties of:
F ellowship in recovery
R econciliation to God and His family
E ducation about chemicals and addiction
E dification through faith in Christ
D edicated service to others>
The choice is yours!
We provide safety, anonymity, unconditional love, and God's invited presence at meetings.
It's a great place to learn to break the cycles of addiction and/or obsessive/compulsive behaviors. You will learn principles for living from the Christian perspective. You will undoubtedly experiece Christian growth in your own recovery. We provide step studies and topical studies, speaker meetings and videos. We also provide a lending library of books and audiotapes. In each meeting you will be given the opportunity to speak and workthrough life's issues and learn the biblical comparisons to these issues.
OVERCOMERS OUTREACH IS NOT ... a substitute for a church Bible study or worship service. It is a bridge from A.A. to the church.
It is not a therapy group ... we encourage professional counseling when needed.
It is not a Christian A.A. Meeting - we are a supplementary programto a 12 Step support group and recommend continued attendance at other groups for specialized growth.
OVERCOMERS OUTREACH IS ... a bridge between regular 12 Step support groups and the church.
Overcomers is a Christ centered, non-profit, group dedicated to reaching out to people with problems of addiction or compulsions or with family dysfunction within churches of all denominations.
Overcomers is a ministry providing Christian resources, education through workshops and written materials, and tools to initiate and maintain 12 Step support groups.
REMEMBER THIS!
A capsule, a leaf, a liquid, a pill or a powder; a drug is a drug and addiction is an invisible line you cross!
God grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."
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Other verses from God’s Word:
Proverbs 20:1
Wine gives false courage hard liguor leads to brawls. What fools men are to let it master them making them reel drunkenly down the street. (Poor self image)
Proverbs 23:21
Don’t carouse with drunkards and gluttons, for they are on their way to poverty. (Expense)
Proverbs 23:30
Whose heart is filled with anguish and sorrow? Who is always fighting and quarreling? Who is the man with bloodshot eyes and many wounds? It is the one who spends long hours in the taverns, trying out new mixtures. Don’t let the sparkle and the smooth taste of strong wine deceive you, for in the end it bites like a poisonous serpent; it stings like an adder. You will see hallucinations and have delirium tremens, and you will say foolish things that would embarrass you no end when sober. You will stagger like a sailor tossed at sea, clinging to a swaying mast. And afterwards you will say “I didn’t even know it when they beat me up…let’s go and have another drink!” (addiction)
Proverbs 31:2-7
It is not for kings to drink wine and whiskey. For if they drink they may forget their duties and be unable to give justice to those who are oppressed. Hard liquor is for sick men at the bring of death, and wine for those in deep depression. Let them drink to forget their posvery and misery. (on the job)
Isaiah 5:11
Woe to you who get up early in the morning to go on long drinking bouts that last till late at night…woe to you drunken bums. You furnish lovely music at your grand parties’ the orchestras are superb! But for the Lord you have no thought or care. (partying)
Hosea 4:11
Wine, women and song have robbed my people of their brains. (blackouts)
Luke 21:34, 35
Watch out! Don’t let my sudden coming catch you unawares; don’t let me find you living in careless ease, carousing and drinking, and occupied with the problems of this life like all the rest of the of the world.
Ephesians 5:18
Don’t drink too much wine for many evils lie along that path. (physical)
Romans 13:13
Don’t spend your time in wild parties and getting drunk or in adultery and lust.
(morals)
I Timothy 5:23
By the way this doesn’t mean you should completely give up drinking wine. You ought to take a little sometimes as medicine for your stomach because you are sick so often. (insidious obsession of the mind)
I Peter 4:3
You have had enough in the past of the evil things the Godless enjoy…sex sin, lust, getting drunk, wild parties, drinking bouts and the worship of idols and other terrible sins.
.Don’t ever say you weren’t fore-warned!
1974
My name is Ann and I’m an alcoholic.
Now, erase all the misconceptions that those introductory words imply…like “skid row bum, someone with the D.T.’s in the alcoholic ward, or the hooker from lower Market Street earning her daily fix.
During the ten years of my active drinking I was your child’s Sunday School teacher and Cub Scout Den Mother. Your PTA treasurer (and yes, I drank the funds on occasion). I was head of the car pool that drove your children to school, I also held a reputable full time job in a doctor’s office, was mother to four children and wife to a rising executive and employed no outside help in the home.
I was normal, whatever that is. And this year, that qualifies me as the average alcoholic woman in the USA.
Your mind is now cataloging me as “average non-Christian” alcoholic woman.
That’s another misconception. I accepted the Lord as my Savior when I was eight. You’re thinking I must be from a broken home…possibly of a minority, low-income family.
Wrong again.
W.A.S.P. White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant and add to that Christian, middle class, non-divorced parentage.
What went wrong?
Nothing much really. I just got curious. I drifted slowly into the life of the new morality. I came into teenaged adolescence at age thirty-five and it was a mind blower to everyone concerned.
I would just like to share with you what it was like for me.
When I made the decision to drink socially it was at a Dr. Dean performance at the Hotel in Pacific Beach. While there, I saw my Sunday School teacher having a glass of wine.
I thought at the time…’Well, if he can, so can I’.
In the ensuing weeks I made a startling discovery. I did not like the tast of booze (beer, bourbon or gin) but having an obsessive nature (the number one character defect of a budding alcholic) I continued to try various and sundry concoctions until I discovered something that was pleasing to my palette. I found this in a sweet red wine made by a religious order in a monastery, with a cute a catchy singing commercial ‘Man, oh Manishevit what a wine’. The monastery itself appealed to my cloistered Christian upbringing because I knew that God would not rain fire and brimstone on me for drinking sacramental wine that was blessed, albeit by Catholics.
I was amazed now that I was a ‘social drinker’ I did not feel any different than I had before. I mean spiritually. I still prayed. I read my Bible and I went to services regularly. My life did not change perceptibly.
I was not to know until much later that whether you drink continuously or periodically the disease of alcoholism is a progressive one.
What changed was in my mind. I was getting away with ‘something’. That took on a monstrous importance to me.
My first real drunk-unlady-like behavior was not until five years later.
It was New Years eve. A well-meaning friend, knowing my distaste for hard liquor introduced me to Bloody Mary’s (Vodka, tomato juice and Tabasco sauce). I remember vomiting for what seemed like hours and lying knee-chest position in bed while the bedroom swirled round about me.
I prayed a lot that night. “Oh, God, just please allow me to survive this agony and I’ll never drink again.”
By morning I felt much better and after a good breakfast and many cups of coffee, I decided quite rationally, I thought, to swear off tomato juice…it was probably too much acid for my stomach.
From the rationalization of that occasion I found it increasingly easy to excuse my behavior. Most of which I remembered euphorically anyway.
Hence the ‘Invisible Line’ that alcoholics cross over…the dividing line between enjoyable social drinking and needing, for whatever reason, to drink. Not the physical withdrawal need, but the psychological need. To drink to that point that all serious drinkers strive to attain…euphoria…that beautiful, mind-numbing limbo state where there’s no longer any need to feel or remember. No hurting. No guilt.
At this point it was “known” that I drank. Not talked about, but known. The rejection that I had ever toyed with even superficially became stark reality.
By this time I was a daily drinker. Just wine….(they all say just wine…but wine is alcohol carried in grape juice) I chose to call it Vino…But daily. Nothing heavy, but regular. I remember during this period mentioning Ladies Night to a younger girl at work. As a daily bar drinker, the pinch is soon felt in the pocket book and you begin to shop for the lounges with the cheapest Happy Hours drink prices. I told her “Ladies Night at the Big Apple is Tuesday, the Blue Night is Wednesday, and the Queen’s Coach is Thursday.” It was then that she interrupted and said “And by Friday Ann’s no longer a lady.” I had discovered that Vodka went down very easily and with the addition of Valium could work in half the time and it had little odor. Why that mattered I don’t know.
And that was about it. No longer a lady. Not much of a mother either. My desire to cook delicious, healthy meals went down hill fast. Of course I had two teenaged daughters by this time and I could delegate chores for a monetary consideration. Now I was not only faced with the cost of drinking in bars on a regular basis, but the added cost of ‘hiring’ my work done at home. That was enough to drive anyone to drink!
Multiply this by two (alcoholics often marry alcoholics) and you have what’s known as ‘staff meetings’ at the local pub to balance the budget. It was not unusual at this point to cash two checks at the same bar as you have ‘one more’ to help you try to figure this mess out.
That’s called denial.
Add to that a traumatic surgery, a teenager’s unwanted pregnancy and another teenager’s promiscuity and runaway boys, and you have full blown chaos.
When you’re so down that the only way to look is up…you’ve reached what’s known as ‘your bottom’.
I came in the back door to A.A. called Alanon. I wasn’t about to admit that this was my problem. It was people, places and things.
That’s when I discovered through the Twelve Steps that it was my problem. What happened to the rest of the family was their responsibility, but I had to admit my own addiction and powerlessness.
November 15, 1973 is my sobriety date. It took me two and half years of program hopping and trying to do it my way that my sponsor said “Yes…Valium is a mind altering drug.” I went back to ground zero and started over. Without Vino, Vodka or Valium.
Today, (Nov. 15,2001) I have twenty eight years sobriety. Twenty-eight years that I have grown, one day at a time, into the person that I wanted to be. I’m writing every day. I’m carrying the message to others who still suffer, and I’m being the best I can be with God’s help.
Oh, by the way…I only used the name of Ann until I got my first cake at Ebel Club in Newport Beach. It was then that I told all my friends that my name is Thelly Reahm. It wasn’t even that hard, really!
For Friends of Bill W.
When he wrote the 12 Steps o f AA, he took them from God’s Holy Bible.
Overcomers Outreach became a bridge between AA and the Church.
1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol (our addictions or compulsions) - that our lives had become unmanageable. {For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh; for the wishing is present in me, but the doing of the good is not. Romans 7:18}
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2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves (Jesus) could restore us to sanity. {For it is God who is at work in you, both to will and to work His good pleasure. Philippians 2:13}
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3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him {I urge you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship. Romans 12:1}
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4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. {When you follow your own wrong inclinations your lives will produce these evil results: impure thoughts, idolatry, spiritism, hatred, fighting, jealousy and anger, complaints and criticism, wrong doctrine, envy, murder, drunkenness, wild parties and all that sort of thing. Galations 5:19-21}
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5. Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. {Confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed. James 5:16a}
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6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character. {Humble yourselves in the presence of the Lord, and he will exalt you. James 4:10}
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7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings. {If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. I John 1:9}
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8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all. {And just as you want men to treat you, treat them in the same way. Luke 6:31}
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9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.{If you are presenting your offering at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your offering there before the altar, and go your way; first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and present your offering. Matthew 5:23, 24}
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10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it. {Let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall. I Corinthians 10:12}
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11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out. {Let the Word of Christ richly dwell within you. Colossians 2:16a}
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12. Having had a Spiritual Awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others and to practice these principles in all our affairs. {Even if a man is caught in any trespass, you who are spiritual, restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness; looking to yourselves, lest you too be tempted. Galations 6:1}
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*The Twelve Steps are from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, the Bible references are from The Recovery Bible.
Overcomers is a fellowship of men and women who have been affected either directly or indirectly by the abuse of any mood altering chemical or obsessive/compulsive behavior. We believe that as we look to a loving God for help, and put into practice those principles for living which He has given in His Word,we shall find both the strength and freedom we need to live productive and happy fives. We strongly believe that our "Higher Power" is Jesus Christ ,our Savior and Lord.
Attendance at meetings will provide you with the possibilties of:
F ellowship in recovery
R econciliation to God and His family
E ducation about chemicals and addiction
E dification through faith in Christ
D edicated service to others>
The choice is yours!
We provide safety, anonymity, unconditional love, and God's invited presence at meetings.
It's a great place to learn to break the cycles of addiction and/or obsessive/compulsive behaviors. You will learn principles for living from the Christian perspective. You will undoubtedly experiece Christian growth in your own recovery. We provide step studies and topical studies, speaker meetings and videos. We also provide a lending library of books and audiotapes. In each meeting you will be given the opportunity to speak and workthrough life's issues and learn the biblical comparisons to these issues.
OVERCOMERS OUTREACH IS NOT ... a substitute for a church Bible study or worship service. It is a bridge from A.A. to the church.
It is not a therapy group ... we encourage professional counseling when needed.
It is not a Christian A.A. Meeting - we are a supplementary programto a 12 Step support group and recommend continued attendance at other groups for specialized growth.
OVERCOMERS OUTREACH IS ... a bridge between regular 12 Step support groups and the church.
Overcomers is a Christ centered, non-profit, group dedicated to reaching out to people with problems of addiction or compulsions or with family dysfunction within churches of all denominations.
Overcomers is a ministry providing Christian resources, education through workshops and written materials, and tools to initiate and maintain 12 Step support groups.
REMEMBER THIS!
A capsule, a leaf, a liquid, a pill or a powder; a drug is a drug and addiction is an invisible line you cross!
God grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."
(image placeholder)
Other verses from God’s Word:
Proverbs 20:1
Wine gives false courage hard liguor leads to brawls. What fools men are to let it master them making them reel drunkenly down the street. (Poor self image)
Proverbs 23:21
Don’t carouse with drunkards and gluttons, for they are on their way to poverty. (Expense)
Proverbs 23:30
Whose heart is filled with anguish and sorrow? Who is always fighting and quarreling? Who is the man with bloodshot eyes and many wounds? It is the one who spends long hours in the taverns, trying out new mixtures. Don’t let the sparkle and the smooth taste of strong wine deceive you, for in the end it bites like a poisonous serpent; it stings like an adder. You will see hallucinations and have delirium tremens, and you will say foolish things that would embarrass you no end when sober. You will stagger like a sailor tossed at sea, clinging to a swaying mast. And afterwards you will say “I didn’t even know it when they beat me up…let’s go and have another drink!” (addiction)
Proverbs 31:2-7
It is not for kings to drink wine and whiskey. For if they drink they may forget their duties and be unable to give justice to those who are oppressed. Hard liquor is for sick men at the bring of death, and wine for those in deep depression. Let them drink to forget their posvery and misery. (on the job)
Isaiah 5:11
Woe to you who get up early in the morning to go on long drinking bouts that last till late at night…woe to you drunken bums. You furnish lovely music at your grand parties’ the orchestras are superb! But for the Lord you have no thought or care. (partying)
Hosea 4:11
Wine, women and song have robbed my people of their brains. (blackouts)
Luke 21:34, 35
Watch out! Don’t let my sudden coming catch you unawares; don’t let me find you living in careless ease, carousing and drinking, and occupied with the problems of this life like all the rest of the of the world.
Ephesians 5:18
Don’t drink too much wine for many evils lie along that path. (physical)
Romans 13:13
Don’t spend your time in wild parties and getting drunk or in adultery and lust.
(morals)
I Timothy 5:23
By the way this doesn’t mean you should completely give up drinking wine. You ought to take a little sometimes as medicine for your stomach because you are sick so often. (insidious obsession of the mind)
I Peter 4:3
You have had enough in the past of the evil things the Godless enjoy…sex sin, lust, getting drunk, wild parties, drinking bouts and the worship of idols and other terrible sins.
.Don’t ever say you weren’t fore-warned!
Making The Rounds
Making The Rounds
1973
When I was a child, making the rounds meant that on Christmas Day you went to relatives and friends to show off your loot.
After the children got married, it became a rigorous tour of all their homes, plus the Hyder’s. Christmas could last through New Year’s by the time we fit everyone in.
Kathee and Michael lived in Canoga Park and Bill and Linda in Reseda. We lived in Huntington Beach and Penny and Bruce were making their beginnings in La Mesa. My parents lived in Escondido. Jimmy and Danny were still at home.
This particular year was memorable to me because of my sobriety. However, I’m not comfortable writing this story because it is painful.
Richie forgot to get me anything.
After we opened our gifts on Christmas eve and there wasn’t anything from him, I figured he’d had the girls help him shop, and when we got to Kathee’s or Linda’s...there it would be. My gift.
But it didn’t happen.
When it didn’t happen there, I thought, well, he’s waiting until we get to my folks in Escondido. I couldn’t figure the ‘why’ but it could still happen.
After I left my parents empty-handed, except for their gifts, I began to get ticked.
Richie was acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. That made it even harder on me. There was no “I’m sorry, I forgot.” “I couldn’t get out shopping” “I didn’t know what to get”
Nothing.
We took Bruce and Penny their stuff and by that time, I had decided there really wasn’t going to be anything.
Sure enough. There wasn’t.
I seethed all the way back to Huntington Beach.
The next morning I called my sponsor.
“How was your “Christmas rounds?” June asked me.
“Don’t ask.” I said, still in a snit from several days of high expectations.
“What happened...not your fairy tale kind of Christmas?”
“No...Richie didn’t get me anything.”
“Well, remember what I’ve been telling you about not getting your expectations up too high?”
“Yeah,”
“Well, who says he has to get you anything for you to be happy?”
“Nobody,”
“That’s right. Let’s go shopping and you buy yourself what you want.”
“Well, that’s no fun.”
“We can make it fun.” she said.
We had needed new overstuffed chairs in the living room ever since we had moved to Boardwalk and Park Place. I bought two matching harvest gold, crushed velvet, platform rockers that day...and a lamp to set between them.
He loved the new chairs and lamp and I never mentioned the problem I had of who bought what, when. Some things get healed by ‘turning them over to God’. The program of A.A. was working. But the only way it worked was if I worked it. My sponsor was just beginning to make sense. I had to let go of my fantasies of what life was ‘supposed’ to be and begin living in reality. I was growing up and it was hard.
In April Richie gave me the gift of his sobriety.
That was enough to cover a multitude of sins.
1973
When I was a child, making the rounds meant that on Christmas Day you went to relatives and friends to show off your loot.
After the children got married, it became a rigorous tour of all their homes, plus the Hyder’s. Christmas could last through New Year’s by the time we fit everyone in.
Kathee and Michael lived in Canoga Park and Bill and Linda in Reseda. We lived in Huntington Beach and Penny and Bruce were making their beginnings in La Mesa. My parents lived in Escondido. Jimmy and Danny were still at home.
This particular year was memorable to me because of my sobriety. However, I’m not comfortable writing this story because it is painful.
Richie forgot to get me anything.
After we opened our gifts on Christmas eve and there wasn’t anything from him, I figured he’d had the girls help him shop, and when we got to Kathee’s or Linda’s...there it would be. My gift.
But it didn’t happen.
When it didn’t happen there, I thought, well, he’s waiting until we get to my folks in Escondido. I couldn’t figure the ‘why’ but it could still happen.
After I left my parents empty-handed, except for their gifts, I began to get ticked.
Richie was acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. That made it even harder on me. There was no “I’m sorry, I forgot.” “I couldn’t get out shopping” “I didn’t know what to get”
Nothing.
We took Bruce and Penny their stuff and by that time, I had decided there really wasn’t going to be anything.
Sure enough. There wasn’t.
I seethed all the way back to Huntington Beach.
The next morning I called my sponsor.
“How was your “Christmas rounds?” June asked me.
“Don’t ask.” I said, still in a snit from several days of high expectations.
“What happened...not your fairy tale kind of Christmas?”
“No...Richie didn’t get me anything.”
“Well, remember what I’ve been telling you about not getting your expectations up too high?”
“Yeah,”
“Well, who says he has to get you anything for you to be happy?”
“Nobody,”
“That’s right. Let’s go shopping and you buy yourself what you want.”
“Well, that’s no fun.”
“We can make it fun.” she said.
We had needed new overstuffed chairs in the living room ever since we had moved to Boardwalk and Park Place. I bought two matching harvest gold, crushed velvet, platform rockers that day...and a lamp to set between them.
He loved the new chairs and lamp and I never mentioned the problem I had of who bought what, when. Some things get healed by ‘turning them over to God’. The program of A.A. was working. But the only way it worked was if I worked it. My sponsor was just beginning to make sense. I had to let go of my fantasies of what life was ‘supposed’ to be and begin living in reality. I was growing up and it was hard.
In April Richie gave me the gift of his sobriety.
That was enough to cover a multitude of sins.
The Sober Seventies
The Sober Seventies
AN OVERVIEW OF THE DECADE:
When RCA moved us to Charter Oak it was the beginning of the end for me. Dick's dad had just passed away, and now we were to be responsible for the care of his mother. She had Parkinson's Disease. When we couldn't cope, we over-medicated. I realized we were no longer social drinkers and that we needed help.
From my co-dependent point of view, I assumed that if I went to A.A. that would fix Dick. Well, lo and behold, it fixed me instead. Not overnight, but a process. It took me two and a half years to get my first A.A. "cake" (for one year of sobriety), because I continued the use of prescription Valium. I had not realized that it was a mind altering drug, so by A. A. standards I was not considered totally clean and sober. I have always been a slow learner, but whatever I learn I learn well. The 12-Step program was no exception.
We moved from Charter Oak to Huntington Beach and Dick followed my example and got into the program. He did it overnight, with the aid of an auto accident, a nudge from the judge (DUI) and an eighteen months program called Lucky Deuce.
The bad news was that the two remaining children Jimmy and Danny could not stand us sober. They began acting out.
For the sake of brevity in this overview, I only mention that Dick left RCA after 25 years. We took our retirement money and bought a fast print shop called Copy Boy, borrowed heavily and bought some four-plexes. Inflation was running in the double digits and we leveraged our properties and traded houses, apartments etc. to more real estate in Tempe, Arizona.
We worked hard in the print shop doing mostly flyers for realtors. It was during this time that we began buying fixer upper houses, and while one worked the shop, the other worked on the houses. Soon we were making more money in real estate than we were printing. That prompted us to go to school and get our sales licenses. Then more school, evenings, and Dick got his Broker's license.
Details of the boys are too painful to get into here. They were both on drugs and in trouble. We continued in A.A. and the tough love approach. We would still use that approach today.
We celebrated America's bi-centennial with a three day campout party at the Van Buren house in Costa Mesa. We lived in that area for about eight years while re-modeling two more fixer houses. We also purchased Summit House during this time, looking toward retirement in North San Diego County when the time came. During this time we sold the print shop and joined Irvine-Mesa Realtors.
OPEC. to raise gasoline prices, cut the production of oil. There were long lines at the gas pumps and prices soared to previously unheard of levels of $1.50 per gallon.
Nightline had become a nightly ritual with me. It seemed better to have an in-depth look at the news than to hear all the garbage on the National news. President Carter's re-election bid was foiled by Iran. They had taken over two hundred political hostages, and held them for over two years. They released them the day that Reagan became President. Carter must have felt totally defeated by the system that another country was controlling and by the voter's.
Meanwhile, Kathee had Christen and moved to Arizona.
Linda married Bill at a Justice of the Peace (no guests) and moved to Livermore.
Bruce and Penny had a big formal wedding at La Jolla Baptist, and moved to the State College area.
Meanwhile my parent's health was deteriorating and my weekly visits to Escondido were becoming more of a chore as I would have to stay all day to handle their shopping and medical appointments.
Jimmy had moved back to Charter Oak and a girlfriend who kept him supplied with drugs..
Danny ran away from home umpteen times. He lived for a time in a court appointed group home and finally ran away from there with a girl from the home.
Double digit Inflation was rampant in the Seventies, and some of our properties doubled in price within a couple of years. We skimmed off our profits, and re-invested in Tempe, Arizona. This afforded us to have management of the property and more time to travel and enjoy ourselves.
We made the trip to Arizona every three months to work on the apartments. We had a good manager, Bonnie, who came with the property, but Dick continued doing the repairs as he had on the California properties.
The rampant inflation era was ending and the oil embargo was over. Times were changing rapidly.
By the end of the decade we were beginning to think seriously about pulling in our horns, and going South to remodel Summit House. We were now empty nester's. The kids nicknamed us the Pee Wee Family. It would be the beginning of a quiet life just for the two of us. We had never experienced that.
AN OVERVIEW OF THE DECADE:
When RCA moved us to Charter Oak it was the beginning of the end for me. Dick's dad had just passed away, and now we were to be responsible for the care of his mother. She had Parkinson's Disease. When we couldn't cope, we over-medicated. I realized we were no longer social drinkers and that we needed help.
From my co-dependent point of view, I assumed that if I went to A.A. that would fix Dick. Well, lo and behold, it fixed me instead. Not overnight, but a process. It took me two and a half years to get my first A.A. "cake" (for one year of sobriety), because I continued the use of prescription Valium. I had not realized that it was a mind altering drug, so by A. A. standards I was not considered totally clean and sober. I have always been a slow learner, but whatever I learn I learn well. The 12-Step program was no exception.
We moved from Charter Oak to Huntington Beach and Dick followed my example and got into the program. He did it overnight, with the aid of an auto accident, a nudge from the judge (DUI) and an eighteen months program called Lucky Deuce.
The bad news was that the two remaining children Jimmy and Danny could not stand us sober. They began acting out.
For the sake of brevity in this overview, I only mention that Dick left RCA after 25 years. We took our retirement money and bought a fast print shop called Copy Boy, borrowed heavily and bought some four-plexes. Inflation was running in the double digits and we leveraged our properties and traded houses, apartments etc. to more real estate in Tempe, Arizona.
We worked hard in the print shop doing mostly flyers for realtors. It was during this time that we began buying fixer upper houses, and while one worked the shop, the other worked on the houses. Soon we were making more money in real estate than we were printing. That prompted us to go to school and get our sales licenses. Then more school, evenings, and Dick got his Broker's license.
Details of the boys are too painful to get into here. They were both on drugs and in trouble. We continued in A.A. and the tough love approach. We would still use that approach today.
We celebrated America's bi-centennial with a three day campout party at the Van Buren house in Costa Mesa. We lived in that area for about eight years while re-modeling two more fixer houses. We also purchased Summit House during this time, looking toward retirement in North San Diego County when the time came. During this time we sold the print shop and joined Irvine-Mesa Realtors.
OPEC. to raise gasoline prices, cut the production of oil. There were long lines at the gas pumps and prices soared to previously unheard of levels of $1.50 per gallon.
Nightline had become a nightly ritual with me. It seemed better to have an in-depth look at the news than to hear all the garbage on the National news. President Carter's re-election bid was foiled by Iran. They had taken over two hundred political hostages, and held them for over two years. They released them the day that Reagan became President. Carter must have felt totally defeated by the system that another country was controlling and by the voter's.
Meanwhile, Kathee had Christen and moved to Arizona.
Linda married Bill at a Justice of the Peace (no guests) and moved to Livermore.
Bruce and Penny had a big formal wedding at La Jolla Baptist, and moved to the State College area.
Meanwhile my parent's health was deteriorating and my weekly visits to Escondido were becoming more of a chore as I would have to stay all day to handle their shopping and medical appointments.
Jimmy had moved back to Charter Oak and a girlfriend who kept him supplied with drugs..
Danny ran away from home umpteen times. He lived for a time in a court appointed group home and finally ran away from there with a girl from the home.
Double digit Inflation was rampant in the Seventies, and some of our properties doubled in price within a couple of years. We skimmed off our profits, and re-invested in Tempe, Arizona. This afforded us to have management of the property and more time to travel and enjoy ourselves.
We made the trip to Arizona every three months to work on the apartments. We had a good manager, Bonnie, who came with the property, but Dick continued doing the repairs as he had on the California properties.
The rampant inflation era was ending and the oil embargo was over. Times were changing rapidly.
By the end of the decade we were beginning to think seriously about pulling in our horns, and going South to remodel Summit House. We were now empty nester's. The kids nicknamed us the Pee Wee Family. It would be the beginning of a quiet life just for the two of us. We had never experienced that.
Jelly Roll Blues
Jelly Roll Blues
1970
I paced the halls of UCLA Medical Center for eight hours the day of Dick's radical jaw amputation surgery. Up and down, around, over and under. I knew those halls like a well studied road map. And not once during that unendurable day did a nurse or a doctor come out to give me a progress report.
Once I sat near a window and let my weary head lean against it for a moment. I remember it being cool and it was dark outside. But bad thoughts flooded my mind and I got up and paced some more.
Thoughts like: What if he dies? What will I do with his children? How will I make it on my small salary? What if he doesn't die, but can never work again? Every time I stopped pacing, the thoughts flooded back again.
What UCLA made up for in the latest exploratory methods of surgery, they lacked in bedside manner. We were never really prepared for what might be. Only that it must be done.
Much later on they told us that the surgery they did was so new, that they were experimenting on chimps in the basement in the morning and Dick in the after noon. There is an eight hour teaching film of the surgery, which we opted not to see.
We had only been married a couple of years, and we lived outside my comfort zone of La Jolla/Pacific Beach where I had a network of friends to lean on. I just stared at the sterile corridors of medicine and the cold stares of strangers as I stalked up and down.
"Mrs. Reahm?" a white coated man approached me.
"Yes," I said, slowed my pace past the door to the waiting room.
"You can see your husband now, he's in ICU."
"Is he all right?" I asked, my heart in my throat?
"The surgery was successful, we're quite pleased."
I was to think later of a joke....the surgery was a success but the patient died. That kept coming back to me on the freeway going home over Mulholland as I approached the San Fernando Valley.
I walked into ICU expecting him to be swathed in bandages, but he wasn't.
The overhead lights glared down on his body, stretched out on a gurney table. He was blue. Dark, purplish blue. From the top of his head to just below his waist he was this ghastly, ghostly blue. His head was swollen to twice the size I remembered it. His lips were bloated and puffy from clamps and instruments too large for his mouth to accommodate. His throat was slit from ear to ear and black with sutures. A tracheotomy plate cover was centered below his adamsapple. What remained of his jaws were wired shut.
To me, he looked to me as though he had been run over by a Mack truck.
My face must have betrayed my shock and dismay, although I was trying valiantly to be his loyal wife and strong arm to lean on. To be his rock of Gibraltar.
He must have sensed my fear, even as drugged as he was from surgery. His hand reached down and took hold of the sheet and pulled it back so I could see his purplish belly.
Then he did the unbelievable.
He sucked in his stomach and did a belly roll like he did for the children to make them laugh.
That was the only indication I had that he would make it.
A nurse touched my arm and told me it was time to leave.
When I got to the parking lot I threw up.
Post Script:
In no way do I wish to minimize his pain by writing what it was like for me. I cannot comprehend to this day what he went through. But that has to be his story. I only know, personally, the desolation that I felt.
1970
I paced the halls of UCLA Medical Center for eight hours the day of Dick's radical jaw amputation surgery. Up and down, around, over and under. I knew those halls like a well studied road map. And not once during that unendurable day did a nurse or a doctor come out to give me a progress report.
Once I sat near a window and let my weary head lean against it for a moment. I remember it being cool and it was dark outside. But bad thoughts flooded my mind and I got up and paced some more.
Thoughts like: What if he dies? What will I do with his children? How will I make it on my small salary? What if he doesn't die, but can never work again? Every time I stopped pacing, the thoughts flooded back again.
What UCLA made up for in the latest exploratory methods of surgery, they lacked in bedside manner. We were never really prepared for what might be. Only that it must be done.
Much later on they told us that the surgery they did was so new, that they were experimenting on chimps in the basement in the morning and Dick in the after noon. There is an eight hour teaching film of the surgery, which we opted not to see.
We had only been married a couple of years, and we lived outside my comfort zone of La Jolla/Pacific Beach where I had a network of friends to lean on. I just stared at the sterile corridors of medicine and the cold stares of strangers as I stalked up and down.
"Mrs. Reahm?" a white coated man approached me.
"Yes," I said, slowed my pace past the door to the waiting room.
"You can see your husband now, he's in ICU."
"Is he all right?" I asked, my heart in my throat?
"The surgery was successful, we're quite pleased."
I was to think later of a joke....the surgery was a success but the patient died. That kept coming back to me on the freeway going home over Mulholland as I approached the San Fernando Valley.
I walked into ICU expecting him to be swathed in bandages, but he wasn't.
The overhead lights glared down on his body, stretched out on a gurney table. He was blue. Dark, purplish blue. From the top of his head to just below his waist he was this ghastly, ghostly blue. His head was swollen to twice the size I remembered it. His lips were bloated and puffy from clamps and instruments too large for his mouth to accommodate. His throat was slit from ear to ear and black with sutures. A tracheotomy plate cover was centered below his adamsapple. What remained of his jaws were wired shut.
To me, he looked to me as though he had been run over by a Mack truck.
My face must have betrayed my shock and dismay, although I was trying valiantly to be his loyal wife and strong arm to lean on. To be his rock of Gibraltar.
He must have sensed my fear, even as drugged as he was from surgery. His hand reached down and took hold of the sheet and pulled it back so I could see his purplish belly.
Then he did the unbelievable.
He sucked in his stomach and did a belly roll like he did for the children to make them laugh.
That was the only indication I had that he would make it.
A nurse touched my arm and told me it was time to leave.
When I got to the parking lot I threw up.
Post Script:
In no way do I wish to minimize his pain by writing what it was like for me. I cannot comprehend to this day what he went through. But that has to be his story. I only know, personally, the desolation that I felt.
Penny
Penny
1972
The first real hard fact I learned about Penny was that she was not and never had been a Penelope! She was Penny Ann Hagge from the beginning. Her mother and I had been pregnant at the same time, but she was born in July and Bruce wasn’t born until September. Her place of birth was French Hospital (where her mother was a nurse) in the Chinatown section of Los Angeles. She never crawled as a baby, she scooted in a sitting up position! I’ve seen, first hand, the super eight home movies of her childhood.
Penny grew up in Burbank with one brother Matthew and a younger sister, Evelyn
Her parents Bert and Marvel were almost a generation separated from us, so we did not have a whole lot in common except our German roots. They were much more into German food than us, and we met socially at German restaurants for family occasions. Her mother was a college degreed Registered Nurse who worked the night-shift as Supervisor. Penny said she never really realized her mother worked, because she was always home with the children during the daytime. Her father was a carpenter by trade. They invested in apartments on the side much as we did. They have gone on to glory now, but memories linger.
After high school, Penny spent two years at San Fernando Valley State College (now Cal State Northridge) then came to San Diego State and her father bought a fourplex in the college district. She managed that for 28 years. Through her college years she kept it filled with students from State, all of them are still close friends today. She also worked at Montgomery Wards in Mission Valley, then El Cajon. After graduation from SDSU she did substitute teaching by day and worked at Sears in Hillcrest. She and Bruce met by correspondence while Bruce was in Vietnam. One of her childhood friends from Burbank was a buddy of Bruce’s. She corresponded with him during the war, and he introduced Bruce to her via airmail. Bruce was attracted to her by her perfect printing ability. After Bruce’s tour of duty, they met in person, having been ‘pen pals’ for a long time. They both became members of College Avenue Baptist Church and still belong there.
They got married at La Jolla Baptist Church (carrying on the tradition of Bruce’s parents) and were married on the Hagge’s wedding anniversary, June 8th. Their reception was at the La Jolla Women’s Club. It was a beautiful old homespun church wedding with all their college friends participating. Her parents gave them the gift of a Hawaiian honeymoon. What a great beginning!
Penny got her first school teaching job in Santee School District and has been teaching first grade there for 24 years. She is now teaching children of the children that she taught when she first began!
After her pregnancies with Krishell and Jon Mark, she reduced her teaching schedule to part-time for twelve years, so that she could be home with her children more.
Penny is an awesome “Crafter” excelling at needlework, stitchery, quilting, dressmaking/sewing and just about anything that she tries. She belonged to a Crafting Bazaar for over ten years, actively bringing extra money into the coffers from her hobby.
She went back to school two years ago and received her Master’s Degree in Child Development from United States International University.
Penny is hardworking, determined and loving. A rare combination, but with strong German stick-to-it-iveness learned from her parents. She and Bruce are strongly commited to a Christian marriage, with their 25th Wedding Anniversary coming up next year.
We are pleased and proud to have Penny Ann in our growing family!
HAPPY FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY, PENNY!
1972
The first real hard fact I learned about Penny was that she was not and never had been a Penelope! She was Penny Ann Hagge from the beginning. Her mother and I had been pregnant at the same time, but she was born in July and Bruce wasn’t born until September. Her place of birth was French Hospital (where her mother was a nurse) in the Chinatown section of Los Angeles. She never crawled as a baby, she scooted in a sitting up position! I’ve seen, first hand, the super eight home movies of her childhood.
Penny grew up in Burbank with one brother Matthew and a younger sister, Evelyn
Her parents Bert and Marvel were almost a generation separated from us, so we did not have a whole lot in common except our German roots. They were much more into German food than us, and we met socially at German restaurants for family occasions. Her mother was a college degreed Registered Nurse who worked the night-shift as Supervisor. Penny said she never really realized her mother worked, because she was always home with the children during the daytime. Her father was a carpenter by trade. They invested in apartments on the side much as we did. They have gone on to glory now, but memories linger.
After high school, Penny spent two years at San Fernando Valley State College (now Cal State Northridge) then came to San Diego State and her father bought a fourplex in the college district. She managed that for 28 years. Through her college years she kept it filled with students from State, all of them are still close friends today. She also worked at Montgomery Wards in Mission Valley, then El Cajon. After graduation from SDSU she did substitute teaching by day and worked at Sears in Hillcrest. She and Bruce met by correspondence while Bruce was in Vietnam. One of her childhood friends from Burbank was a buddy of Bruce’s. She corresponded with him during the war, and he introduced Bruce to her via airmail. Bruce was attracted to her by her perfect printing ability. After Bruce’s tour of duty, they met in person, having been ‘pen pals’ for a long time. They both became members of College Avenue Baptist Church and still belong there.
They got married at La Jolla Baptist Church (carrying on the tradition of Bruce’s parents) and were married on the Hagge’s wedding anniversary, June 8th. Their reception was at the La Jolla Women’s Club. It was a beautiful old homespun church wedding with all their college friends participating. Her parents gave them the gift of a Hawaiian honeymoon. What a great beginning!
Penny got her first school teaching job in Santee School District and has been teaching first grade there for 24 years. She is now teaching children of the children that she taught when she first began!
After her pregnancies with Krishell and Jon Mark, she reduced her teaching schedule to part-time for twelve years, so that she could be home with her children more.
Penny is an awesome “Crafter” excelling at needlework, stitchery, quilting, dressmaking/sewing and just about anything that she tries. She belonged to a Crafting Bazaar for over ten years, actively bringing extra money into the coffers from her hobby.
She went back to school two years ago and received her Master’s Degree in Child Development from United States International University.
Penny is hardworking, determined and loving. A rare combination, but with strong German stick-to-it-iveness learned from her parents. She and Bruce are strongly commited to a Christian marriage, with their 25th Wedding Anniversary coming up next year.
We are pleased and proud to have Penny Ann in our growing family!
HAPPY FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY, PENNY!
Lou Alcindor
Lou Alcindor
1967
Long before Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, there was El Torito.
Mexican food and Margarita’s go together like…well, ham and eggs or tacos and beer…at least that’s how I thought in the ‘60’s. El Torito was the favorite place for the Friday Lunch Bunch that I worked with in the Fire Insurance Unit at Travellers Indemnity in Studio City. It was cheap and delicious Mexican food and they always offered a special deal on Margarita’s by the Pitcher on Friday for a group price. Of course the underlying reason was that it was payday and Travellers was right next door to the restaurant.
When the girls I worked with got back to the lobby of the Travellers Building, most of us were feeling no pain. In the lobby of the high-rise the gals started whispering among themselves when they saw a group of tall guys standing in front of the elevator. I was used to their carrying on without including me, as I was the oldest worker in the unit and hardly their peer.
“Thelma, go over to that black guy…the really tall one…and ask him if he’s really 6 ft. 17 inches tall!”
“Why?”
“Because he hates to be asked, that’s why!” they said laughing hysterically.
I hesitated.
“Come on…we dare ya!”
Not to be dared to do anything and not do it, I boldly, with the aid of two Margarita’s under my belt, walked over to the guy who was at least twice as tall as I was, and said, “Are you really 6 ft. 17 in. tall?”
He just glared down at me!
“Well, are ya?” I asked, not to be daunted.
“Yesssss,” he hissed and moved on into the elevator with the other tall black men he was with.
When I stepped back over to my group, they were just busting up, bending over, and whooping and hollering.
“He said he is…but he hissed it out! Who the heck is he?”
“It’s Lou Alcindor!” Sue said between giggles.
Since I’ve never been a sports fan that didn’t even given me a clue.
“We knew you’d never know who he was!”
Well, Lou Alcindor became very famous as a basketball player for the Lakers. He hated to be asked how tall he was, which was 7 ft. 5 in. So he came up with his little routine of saying that he was 6 ft. 17 in. Maybe it didn’t seem to him that he was such a freaky giant that way. I don’t know.
At any rate, he also turned to the Muslim faith and changed his name to Kareem Abdul Jabar.
I never had Margarita’s with the girls again. Not just because of Lou Alcindor, but because I couldn’t type worth a hoot when I got back to the office, and in those days we were not allowed to make mistakes on insurance policies. If a typing error was made it had to be scraped off the policy with an exacto knife!
I learned that no Margarita, even with great Mexican food, was worth an afternoon of that.
And it was for self protection…no telling what practical joke the girls would pull on me next!
Richie's Re-energizing Rejuvenator
Richie’s Re-energizing Rejuvenator
1965
What do you serve at a party, when you don’t have the money to provide all the refreshments that you wanted to? You get creative!
When we married and combined our children, we had no idea how expensive it would be to take on such a commitment. To provide a large enough house, we bought in Clairemont. We had stars in our eyes, a lot of bills and pocket change.
We wanted to have a house warming . It would be a time to show off to all those die-hards who said “Frying pan into the fire” when we sent out wedding invitations.
We knew we were going to have to cut corners, as our food budget most weeks was about $15.00.
Our most faithful dinner guest was Bob Peard, from RCA Home Office in New Jersey. He said “That Thelma, she knows how to stretch meals…she can tie a string around a piece of meat, drag it through the gravy and call it stew! And it’s good! Who would ever have believed it?” I had explained to him once, in vivid detail, that I was feeding our crew on 25 cents per plate, per person. It took a lot of creativitiy.
But, when it came to watered down drinks…well that was another thing. We put our heads together and decided buying bottle goods for the party was totally out. People have a couple of drinks and mixing their own, tend to get a little heavy handed and suddenly there’s not enough to go around.
So, with the aid of cheap Red Mountain wine and some mixers, we concocted a
drink we called Richie's Re-energizing Rejuvenator.
“You can get Red Mountain wine piped to the house for a buck a month and still get a refund on the bottle!” Richie used to say. We got so creative, in fact, that we even made a label for the bottles....it tasted very smooth going down, but it packed one whale of a wallop as a terrible hangover!
We reveled in the compliments “Great drink!” “Tasty punch, with a punch!” We were good hosts, even on a meager pocket book. We used it at several parties with no complaints. Of course we tried to vary the guest list, so that nobody who had experience the delayed reaction to Richies Re-energizing Rejuvenator, had to experience it again!
Later on, up in the San Fernando Valley, a friend with a short memory for hangovers, thought it was a good idea, and he invited us to a pool party at his home in Studio City He'd taken the ‘cheap drink’ one step further and poured it all into a 5 gallon water cooler, complete with a stand he’d picked it up at a garage sale!
He’d play the Carnival hawker, “Step right this way…yesiree, Bob, Richie’s Ravaging Re-energizing Rejuvenator cures what ails ya!” he’d holler with a flourish that only George Rowland could mimic from the sideshow carnies, he’d press the spigot on the water cooler and fill your cup to the brim.
He stayed faithful to the name we had given it, too, because right there on the front of the water cooler was the name Richie's Re-energizing Rejuvenator!
You can imagine the hangover from drinking that stuff in the bright sunshine all afternoon while plunging headlong into the pool from time to time. And then swearing it was great stuff! Oh, the bravery of the young!
Well, we didn’t go hungry in those days, but we did have many a hangover.
Our drinking friends George and Bob are no longer with us. We hope we didn’t hasten their demise.
1999 will mark our 25th year of sobriety.
I’m sure Red Mountain wine helped to pushed us over the edge sooner than we had anticipated. But in the program of A. A. the Big Book says, “It takes what it takes!”
1965
What do you serve at a party, when you don’t have the money to provide all the refreshments that you wanted to? You get creative!
When we married and combined our children, we had no idea how expensive it would be to take on such a commitment. To provide a large enough house, we bought in Clairemont. We had stars in our eyes, a lot of bills and pocket change.
We wanted to have a house warming . It would be a time to show off to all those die-hards who said “Frying pan into the fire” when we sent out wedding invitations.
We knew we were going to have to cut corners, as our food budget most weeks was about $15.00.
Our most faithful dinner guest was Bob Peard, from RCA Home Office in New Jersey. He said “That Thelma, she knows how to stretch meals…she can tie a string around a piece of meat, drag it through the gravy and call it stew! And it’s good! Who would ever have believed it?” I had explained to him once, in vivid detail, that I was feeding our crew on 25 cents per plate, per person. It took a lot of creativitiy.
But, when it came to watered down drinks…well that was another thing. We put our heads together and decided buying bottle goods for the party was totally out. People have a couple of drinks and mixing their own, tend to get a little heavy handed and suddenly there’s not enough to go around.
So, with the aid of cheap Red Mountain wine and some mixers, we concocted a
drink we called Richie's Re-energizing Rejuvenator.
“You can get Red Mountain wine piped to the house for a buck a month and still get a refund on the bottle!” Richie used to say. We got so creative, in fact, that we even made a label for the bottles....it tasted very smooth going down, but it packed one whale of a wallop as a terrible hangover!
We reveled in the compliments “Great drink!” “Tasty punch, with a punch!” We were good hosts, even on a meager pocket book. We used it at several parties with no complaints. Of course we tried to vary the guest list, so that nobody who had experience the delayed reaction to Richies Re-energizing Rejuvenator, had to experience it again!
Later on, up in the San Fernando Valley, a friend with a short memory for hangovers, thought it was a good idea, and he invited us to a pool party at his home in Studio City He'd taken the ‘cheap drink’ one step further and poured it all into a 5 gallon water cooler, complete with a stand he’d picked it up at a garage sale!
He’d play the Carnival hawker, “Step right this way…yesiree, Bob, Richie’s Ravaging Re-energizing Rejuvenator cures what ails ya!” he’d holler with a flourish that only George Rowland could mimic from the sideshow carnies, he’d press the spigot on the water cooler and fill your cup to the brim.
He stayed faithful to the name we had given it, too, because right there on the front of the water cooler was the name Richie's Re-energizing Rejuvenator!
You can imagine the hangover from drinking that stuff in the bright sunshine all afternoon while plunging headlong into the pool from time to time. And then swearing it was great stuff! Oh, the bravery of the young!
Well, we didn’t go hungry in those days, but we did have many a hangover.
Our drinking friends George and Bob are no longer with us. We hope we didn’t hasten their demise.
1999 will mark our 25th year of sobriety.
I’m sure Red Mountain wine helped to pushed us over the edge sooner than we had anticipated. But in the program of A. A. the Big Book says, “It takes what it takes!”
Brylcreem
Brylcreem!
Brylcreem
1968
Brylcreem! A little dab’ll do ya!
Brylcreem! You’ll look so debonair!
Brylcreem the gals’ll all pursue ya,
They’ll love to get their fingers in your hair!
Brylcreem, Brillantine and Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum commercials still sing their little songs in the back of my head. They were some of the first of the singing commercials that I remember of on radio and they are forever etched upon my brain.
You’d think, that said, that my mind would also have been conditioned to the shape, color, size and lettering on the Brylcreem tube.
Not so!
One morning, while bleary eyed and half awake, before my morning coffee, I brushed my teeth with Brylcreem!
Acchhhhhcht! Yuk! Acchhhhhcht! Spit and sputter!
My eyes snapped open as I grabbed a wash cloth and shoved it into my mouth. I swished it around in the recesses of my mouth to remove the greasy hair oil preparation. Brylcreem was the first hair oil treatment made into paste and packaged in a tube like toothpaste. It clung ruthlessly to the roof of my mouth, to my molars and to my tongue!
I gargled with mouthwash. I spit and spit!
I drank water.
Nothing I did could drown out the taste of Brylcreem!
No wonder their commercial squawked loudly on the radio, “A little dab’ll do ya!”
A one inch ribbon of of Brylcreem on the tooth brush, distributed evenly over all your teeth and gums can darn near kill ya! Or at least make you wish you were dead.
For sure, it makes your coffee taste funny all day long!
Brylcreem
1968
Brylcreem! A little dab’ll do ya!
Brylcreem! You’ll look so debonair!
Brylcreem the gals’ll all pursue ya,
They’ll love to get their fingers in your hair!
Brylcreem, Brillantine and Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum commercials still sing their little songs in the back of my head. They were some of the first of the singing commercials that I remember of on radio and they are forever etched upon my brain.
You’d think, that said, that my mind would also have been conditioned to the shape, color, size and lettering on the Brylcreem tube.
Not so!
One morning, while bleary eyed and half awake, before my morning coffee, I brushed my teeth with Brylcreem!
Acchhhhhcht! Yuk! Acchhhhhcht! Spit and sputter!
My eyes snapped open as I grabbed a wash cloth and shoved it into my mouth. I swished it around in the recesses of my mouth to remove the greasy hair oil preparation. Brylcreem was the first hair oil treatment made into paste and packaged in a tube like toothpaste. It clung ruthlessly to the roof of my mouth, to my molars and to my tongue!
I gargled with mouthwash. I spit and spit!
I drank water.
Nothing I did could drown out the taste of Brylcreem!
No wonder their commercial squawked loudly on the radio, “A little dab’ll do ya!”
A one inch ribbon of of Brylcreem on the tooth brush, distributed evenly over all your teeth and gums can darn near kill ya! Or at least make you wish you were dead.
For sure, it makes your coffee taste funny all day long!
Swimming Lessons
Swimming Lessons
1967
Every morning I have a physical therapy time in the jacuzzi....it's supposed to be good for arthritis. (This is a being written in 1990). I go through many sets of exercises, stretching all the muscles of my body. Much of the time I do swimming strokes, butterfly, breast stroke and dog paddle.
A voice comes to me from the 60's when we lived on Sausalito in Canoga Park.
"Skim the water....pull....skim....pull...."
The voice is Maryanne Kerns who was our next door neighbor then. She taught swimming lessons in their backyard pool. My thing at that time was sitting in the backyard with a portable typewriter on my lap writing the great American novel and soaking up rays. That was where I had painted the psychedelic butterflies and bees on the garage wall and with huge brush strokes LOVE!.
We were not friends then, but every morning her voice carries over that backyard fence of long ago and helps me to churn up the water and loosen up my joints.
"Skim....pull."
I still can't swim, but I go through the motions real good. Thank you Maryanne.
The Good Old Days of Radio
The Good Old Days of Radio
1965
Dick Whittinghill of KMPC radio was doing take-off's on the radio soap opera's of the past. Helen Trent became Helen Trump - From around the corner and up your street. Ma Perkins and Our Gal Sunday were not sacred either. We laughed and together remembered the real lines of those old shows..
The question was always posed, "Could Helen Trent find happiness after the age of thirty-five?". Then the announcer began with the words "....as we look in on Helen Trent..." and he gave a brief synopsis of where the story left off the day before. On Our Gal Sunday, they began the program with "The story that asks the question, can a young girl from a little mining town in the west find happiness as the wife of a wealthy and titled Englishman?" He was Lord Henry Brinthrope of Black Swan Hall. She was just a simple country girl. But what a love story was spun day by day.
Whittinghill's cutsey versions have long since been forgotten, but because our mother's listened to these shows regularly, we knew the real lines by heart. Even to the commercials of Duz and Ivory Soap - 99 and 44 100% Pure! Duz was to music....one of the first singing commercials of our time. "Put Duz in your washing machine, Duz will make your clothes real clean!"
It was amazing to us as we listened to Whittinghill while we traveled in separate cars along the Hollywood Freeway to work each morning, how much of those radio days we remembered. We couldn't have been more than five or six years old when we heard them. We would compare notes when we got home at night and then come up with other memories of our own.
"Did you catch Whittinghill today?"
"Here's one I'll bet you don't remember," I said trying to stump Richie with a soap opera he'd never heard.
"Try me...I'll bet I do!"
"Uh, Uh! I've asked everyone I know about this one, and I have a sneaky feeling this program was only piped to our house in Brea!"
"What's the line?" he asked.
"Oh, Evie, ain't I the one?"
"Let's see....it was Point Sublime. At the end of each show Cliff Arquette said 'Oh, Evie, ain't I the one' and then Evie would giggle. Plus the show was sponsored by Signal Oil Company! Do I get extra points for knowing that?"
"You are just too much! You are the first person in my whole life who remembers Point Sublime! We had to marry each little other....we have such a history together!"
As our conversation went further, we found that Cliff Arquette (for you youngsters, he was Rosanna Arquette's grandfather in real life) was the voice for Evie's husband in Point Sublime. He was also the "Charlie Weaver" on various other shows.
"Not only that," Dick said, "I lived next door to Cliff Arquette when I lived in Sherman Oaks with my folks."
We've heard of people who married people out of their decade, and they didn't even have the music of their era in common. How sad! A history of remembrances are really important when the "new" wears off of a marriage!
I think that is why Jesus considered it so important for Christians not to be linked up with non-Christians. He called it being un-equally yoked together. When oxen of un-equal size or strength are yoked together, one of them is not pulling his share of the load and they don't plow a straight line in the soil. In real life, there is little or no communication when goals are totally different. You're constantly pulling in separate directions and the energy that should be going into a happy relationship is drained in fighting. There is no joy in sharing the believer's life of the Holy Spirit. The more similarities your family of origin has to the life of your chosen mate's family of origin, the easier it will be in the marriage. It is said that we bring six people into the marriage bed, (each set of parents and you) and it takes about twenty years to actually sort out and choose the workable patterns from each family and make up your own traditions and patterns of relating. All the 'well, we did it this way' and 'No....no, here's how you do it!' take a lot of time. Unfortunately, many marriages dissolve before the effort is put into them to pull in the same direction, and it is the children who suffer.
Point Sublime was just one more incident that made us comfortable with each other. Our parents were very similar in backgrounds. Both sets came from Christian roots in the mid-west. They were all of the 'put your shoulder to the wheel' German work ethic. They were conservative politically, survived The Great Depression and recognized the importance of saving money.
Although our 'radio days' memories didn't exactly fit into the Crossing Paths story, I thought it needed to be told.
"It's very difficult to tango with someone if they only know rock and roll, huh Richie?"
.
"Or Cha Cha," he said.
"Oh, Richie, ain't we the ones?"
Post Script:
Arquette was born in Toledo, Ohio in December 1905, but it's the town of Mount Ida, Arkansas that owes its place in American culture to him. That's because his Weaver character developed as a man who was always reading letters from his "Mount Idy Mama." Arquette later said he was inspired by a friend of his mother, who wrote letters from Mount Idy which were read to the whole family. So he often read those in character to Jack Paar or Dennis Day. Arquette also appeared in numerous old-time radio programs, including Fibber McGee & Molly, Lum and Abner and Point Sublime, a 1946 small-town comedy that co-starred Mel Blanc. As "Charley Weaver," Arquette starred in Dave and Charley (1952) as well as a 1955 NBC summer show called Do It Yourself, a combination comedy/how to program that looks like an early forerunner to the fictitious "Tool Time with Tim Taylor" on Home Improvement.
1965
Dick Whittinghill of KMPC radio was doing take-off's on the radio soap opera's of the past. Helen Trent became Helen Trump - From around the corner and up your street. Ma Perkins and Our Gal Sunday were not sacred either. We laughed and together remembered the real lines of those old shows..
The question was always posed, "Could Helen Trent find happiness after the age of thirty-five?". Then the announcer began with the words "....as we look in on Helen Trent..." and he gave a brief synopsis of where the story left off the day before. On Our Gal Sunday, they began the program with "The story that asks the question, can a young girl from a little mining town in the west find happiness as the wife of a wealthy and titled Englishman?" He was Lord Henry Brinthrope of Black Swan Hall. She was just a simple country girl. But what a love story was spun day by day.
Whittinghill's cutsey versions have long since been forgotten, but because our mother's listened to these shows regularly, we knew the real lines by heart. Even to the commercials of Duz and Ivory Soap - 99 and 44 100% Pure! Duz was to music....one of the first singing commercials of our time. "Put Duz in your washing machine, Duz will make your clothes real clean!"
It was amazing to us as we listened to Whittinghill while we traveled in separate cars along the Hollywood Freeway to work each morning, how much of those radio days we remembered. We couldn't have been more than five or six years old when we heard them. We would compare notes when we got home at night and then come up with other memories of our own.
"Did you catch Whittinghill today?"
"Here's one I'll bet you don't remember," I said trying to stump Richie with a soap opera he'd never heard.
"Try me...I'll bet I do!"
"Uh, Uh! I've asked everyone I know about this one, and I have a sneaky feeling this program was only piped to our house in Brea!"
"What's the line?" he asked.
"Oh, Evie, ain't I the one?"
"Let's see....it was Point Sublime. At the end of each show Cliff Arquette said 'Oh, Evie, ain't I the one' and then Evie would giggle. Plus the show was sponsored by Signal Oil Company! Do I get extra points for knowing that?"
"You are just too much! You are the first person in my whole life who remembers Point Sublime! We had to marry each little other....we have such a history together!"
As our conversation went further, we found that Cliff Arquette (for you youngsters, he was Rosanna Arquette's grandfather in real life) was the voice for Evie's husband in Point Sublime. He was also the "Charlie Weaver" on various other shows.
"Not only that," Dick said, "I lived next door to Cliff Arquette when I lived in Sherman Oaks with my folks."
We've heard of people who married people out of their decade, and they didn't even have the music of their era in common. How sad! A history of remembrances are really important when the "new" wears off of a marriage!
I think that is why Jesus considered it so important for Christians not to be linked up with non-Christians. He called it being un-equally yoked together. When oxen of un-equal size or strength are yoked together, one of them is not pulling his share of the load and they don't plow a straight line in the soil. In real life, there is little or no communication when goals are totally different. You're constantly pulling in separate directions and the energy that should be going into a happy relationship is drained in fighting. There is no joy in sharing the believer's life of the Holy Spirit. The more similarities your family of origin has to the life of your chosen mate's family of origin, the easier it will be in the marriage. It is said that we bring six people into the marriage bed, (each set of parents and you) and it takes about twenty years to actually sort out and choose the workable patterns from each family and make up your own traditions and patterns of relating. All the 'well, we did it this way' and 'No....no, here's how you do it!' take a lot of time. Unfortunately, many marriages dissolve before the effort is put into them to pull in the same direction, and it is the children who suffer.
Point Sublime was just one more incident that made us comfortable with each other. Our parents were very similar in backgrounds. Both sets came from Christian roots in the mid-west. They were all of the 'put your shoulder to the wheel' German work ethic. They were conservative politically, survived The Great Depression and recognized the importance of saving money.
Although our 'radio days' memories didn't exactly fit into the Crossing Paths story, I thought it needed to be told.
"It's very difficult to tango with someone if they only know rock and roll, huh Richie?"
.
"Or Cha Cha," he said.
"Oh, Richie, ain't we the ones?"
Post Script:
Arquette was born in Toledo, Ohio in December 1905, but it's the town of Mount Ida, Arkansas that owes its place in American culture to him. That's because his Weaver character developed as a man who was always reading letters from his "Mount Idy Mama." Arquette later said he was inspired by a friend of his mother, who wrote letters from Mount Idy which were read to the whole family. So he often read those in character to Jack Paar or Dennis Day. Arquette also appeared in numerous old-time radio programs, including Fibber McGee & Molly, Lum and Abner and Point Sublime, a 1946 small-town comedy that co-starred Mel Blanc. As "Charley Weaver," Arquette starred in Dave and Charley (1952) as well as a 1955 NBC summer show called Do It Yourself, a combination comedy/how to program that looks like an early forerunner to the fictitious "Tool Time with Tim Taylor" on Home Improvement.
The First Thanksgiving
The First Thanksgiving
by Thelly Reahm c Tidbits of Time
1965
Our parents had not socialized with each other since our wedding day in May. Now it was time for Thanksgiving. The Hyder's lived in Pine Valley and the Reahm's lived in Vista. We had just bought a house somewhere in between. It was not that the families were hostile, it just wasn't convenient.
Although, my parents did have mixed emotions about my taking on the care and feeding of three more children. The fact that our parent's backgrounds were very similar didn't soothe my nerves any, however they had much in common. Roots in the mid-west, Christian upbringing, survived The Great Depression, long term marriages to each other, and having only one child each. You would think that entertaining them would be a piece of cake. Not!
I was as frantic as if this Thanksgiving meal was the first one I'd ever cooked for company. I cleaned for a 'white glove inspection'. I read and re-read at least ten articles on how to prepare a fabulous turkey dinner. I was not feeling at all secure. I wrote down the menu I was going to serve as if Thanksgiving turkey would be hard to forget.
I would be serving basically the same menu I'd served in my previous marriage of seventeen years and the same dishes I had eaten for the previous eighteen years I had lived with my parents. What could go wrong? What could I possibly forget?
I lined all the kids up for inspection before the grandparents arrived. Their faces were clean....hair shampooed. Clothes ironed. Shoes polished. Then one last inspection of their rooms. Everything was fine. Toys picked up. Toilets flushed. I basted the turkey one more time. The pies were cooling on the tea cart. The hors'doeuvre plates were ready in the refrigerator. The coffee was made, candles were on the table. Sugar and creamer were filled and ready.
"Would you turn the stereo on, Dick?" I called to my husband in the living room. I heard him get up from his leather chair, but I didn't hear the music, so I peaked around the dining room wall. "I love you. I love you...." he said to the stereo. "What are you doing?" I was not seeing anything funny about this....the Reahm's and the Hyder's were due any minute and I was getting testy.
"You said to turn on the stereo....and I'm just trying my best....I love you stereo!" he said laughing. I finally laughed although I was in no mood for his special brand of humor. I realized that he was trying to get me to lighten up a bit. He flipped the switch and soft music pervaded the room. A great stereo was another addition I got from this marriage, complete with tweeters and woofers. I really enjoyed good music, and he had strung wire to each room during construction so we had an intercom and music everywhere.
The door bell rang. Then it was pandemonium with this mixed up brood of kids trying to get un-divided attention from their respective grandparents, but also cutting their new step-sibs out when they could. There was a lot of rivalry going on just under the surface and it kept me edgy most of the time. It seemed there just wasn't enough of me to go around and they were a needy bunch of children.
We all sat down at the dining table, the candles glowing, the food smelling better all the time, and the grandparents oohing and ahhing over all the food I'd prepared. I sighed. I knew now it was going well.
"Poppy, would you ask the blessing?" Dick said. I placed the golden brown turkey in front of Dick. I sat down at the opposite end of the table and bowed my head. I breathed deeply as my father asked the blessing. It was a moment to center myself and try to relax. I felt now with everything on the table I could finally enjoy Thanksgiving dinner.
"Will you carve the turkey now, Ben?" I asked sweetly, as I unfolded my napkin and smoothed it on my lap. Ten sets of eyes rolled up in their heads as they turned to look at me in total dismay. I froze. My face flamed crimson. I'd really blown it.
The one thing about this Thanksgiving I hadn't remembered was my new husband's name!
by Thelly Reahm c Tidbits of Time
1965
Our parents had not socialized with each other since our wedding day in May. Now it was time for Thanksgiving. The Hyder's lived in Pine Valley and the Reahm's lived in Vista. We had just bought a house somewhere in between. It was not that the families were hostile, it just wasn't convenient.
Although, my parents did have mixed emotions about my taking on the care and feeding of three more children. The fact that our parent's backgrounds were very similar didn't soothe my nerves any, however they had much in common. Roots in the mid-west, Christian upbringing, survived The Great Depression, long term marriages to each other, and having only one child each. You would think that entertaining them would be a piece of cake. Not!
I was as frantic as if this Thanksgiving meal was the first one I'd ever cooked for company. I cleaned for a 'white glove inspection'. I read and re-read at least ten articles on how to prepare a fabulous turkey dinner. I was not feeling at all secure. I wrote down the menu I was going to serve as if Thanksgiving turkey would be hard to forget.
I would be serving basically the same menu I'd served in my previous marriage of seventeen years and the same dishes I had eaten for the previous eighteen years I had lived with my parents. What could go wrong? What could I possibly forget?
I lined all the kids up for inspection before the grandparents arrived. Their faces were clean....hair shampooed. Clothes ironed. Shoes polished. Then one last inspection of their rooms. Everything was fine. Toys picked up. Toilets flushed. I basted the turkey one more time. The pies were cooling on the tea cart. The hors'doeuvre plates were ready in the refrigerator. The coffee was made, candles were on the table. Sugar and creamer were filled and ready.
"Would you turn the stereo on, Dick?" I called to my husband in the living room. I heard him get up from his leather chair, but I didn't hear the music, so I peaked around the dining room wall. "I love you. I love you...." he said to the stereo. "What are you doing?" I was not seeing anything funny about this....the Reahm's and the Hyder's were due any minute and I was getting testy.
"You said to turn on the stereo....and I'm just trying my best....I love you stereo!" he said laughing. I finally laughed although I was in no mood for his special brand of humor. I realized that he was trying to get me to lighten up a bit. He flipped the switch and soft music pervaded the room. A great stereo was another addition I got from this marriage, complete with tweeters and woofers. I really enjoyed good music, and he had strung wire to each room during construction so we had an intercom and music everywhere.
The door bell rang. Then it was pandemonium with this mixed up brood of kids trying to get un-divided attention from their respective grandparents, but also cutting their new step-sibs out when they could. There was a lot of rivalry going on just under the surface and it kept me edgy most of the time. It seemed there just wasn't enough of me to go around and they were a needy bunch of children.
We all sat down at the dining table, the candles glowing, the food smelling better all the time, and the grandparents oohing and ahhing over all the food I'd prepared. I sighed. I knew now it was going well.
"Poppy, would you ask the blessing?" Dick said. I placed the golden brown turkey in front of Dick. I sat down at the opposite end of the table and bowed my head. I breathed deeply as my father asked the blessing. It was a moment to center myself and try to relax. I felt now with everything on the table I could finally enjoy Thanksgiving dinner.
"Will you carve the turkey now, Ben?" I asked sweetly, as I unfolded my napkin and smoothed it on my lap. Ten sets of eyes rolled up in their heads as they turned to look at me in total dismay. I froze. My face flamed crimson. I'd really blown it.
The one thing about this Thanksgiving I hadn't remembered was my new husband's name!
Meet Me At The Formosa
Meet Me At The Formosa
1967
It was the hangout of Johnny Stompanato and Lana Turner (where they allegedly made whoopee in the back room) before her daughter stabbed Johnny to death for allegedly abusing her mother.
It was where Mickey Cohen stashed gambling proceeds in a mysterious safe encased in cement in the floor. It was frequented by movie legends Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe.
It had been an old antique railroad car, from the abandoned “red car line” of Los Angeles Transit System that criss-crossed the sprawling metropolis of L.A. before the advent of freeways. It became a Chinese restaurant across the street from the Goldwyn Studios (now Warner Brothers) entrance on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood.
The food was not that spectacular, but you were almost guaranteed a “peek” at some major motion picture star, as Hollywood royalty sipped The Formosa’s famous Mai Tais as they took a break from movie-making, and huddled in the back corner, unobtrusively while waiting for a steaming bowl of Chow Mein Noodles or the pungent, spicy Chop Suey with it’s accompanying bowl of steamed rice.
It was at The Formosa that I learned how to remember which I liked best…Chow Mein or Chop Suey. I used to say “The one that comes with rice,” or “The one that comes with noodles.” Richie taught me to think of Mein/Noodles as being closer alphabetically to each other, and that Suey/Rice are closer alphabetically to each other. I never forgot that little lesson!
The shiny red patent leather booths were inviting. If you weren’t thrilled by a real live star, their black and white studio pictures lined the walls above the booths, complete with autographs and messages to the Jung family who were owners. Or if business was slow, the regular waitress Edie, could fill you in on all the details of Jack Lemmon’s daily one martini lunches. It was where Burt Lancaster and Marlon Brando sat in “their booth” in real life beneath their promotional pictures, as though they had rights to it.
“Meet me at The Formosa” became the restaurant’s slogan.
It was always a treat when Richie took me there, when we made trips to the Regional Office of RCA Service Company in the days when he was the manager of the San Diego Branch. Later on, when we were transferred to Hollywood Regional Office and he was Field Service Administrator of the western region, my visits to The Formosa were more regular, especially if visiting brass from Home Office were in town.
I was an avid viewer of the TV show “The Fugitive” with David Janssen, in those days. I never missed an episode. If I could be in love with another man, at the same time as my husband, I loved David Janssen!
“Oh, my gosh!” I said, one day at The Formosa, my chopsticks pausing midway to my mouth, “It’s him…I know it’s him!”
“Who?” Richie asked, not missing a mouthful of his steaming noodles.
“Don’t look….don’t look…but over your right shoulder, two tables away…he just sat down…now he’s straightening his tie…now he’s dropping his napkin into his lap…it’s him! David Janssen!”
“How can I see him if I don’t look!” he said glancing over his shoulder.
Through the remainder of my meal, I just sat there furtively looking over my left shoulder while David Janssen ordered and ate his dinner. He did not know I was alive. However, unexpectedly, he got up to go to the restroom and as he passed our booth he looked down at me and smiled. In that moment, he thoroughly changed the hunger pangs in my stomach to butterflies. I could no longer manage the chopsticks, much less eat a bite more food. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven!
It was several years later, that Richie called me to meet him at The Formosa. He was late, and as I sat waiting for him, nursing a Scotch and Water, minding my own business, a young man came over and sat opposite me. I frowned at him, not wanting to cause a scene. Anyway, he looked very familiar to me.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I’m meeting someone,” I said quietly.
“Well, forget him and have dinner with me…okay?” he grinned showing wide-set middle teeth. I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place him. He was very young.
I sipped my drink pretending that he was not there..
“Come on, have dinner with me!” he pressed.
“Look…I’m old enough to be your mother, I’m waiting for my husband, now move it along.”
I felt annoyed at Richie for being late. Annoyed at this young man for putting moves on me when I was minding my own business, and I was hungry.
“Don’t you know who I am?” he said a little louder than he had been speaking before.
“No, should I?” I asked, digging into the archives of my mind for somebody with a big grin and wide spaced teeth.
“I’m Robert Morse,” he said.
“And I’m Marilyn Monroe, now get lost.”
“But I really am,” he whispered, leaning across the table.
“If you were, you’d have a date for dinner,” I said. I excused myself and headed for the “Guys” and “Dolls” signs posted on the restroom doors. I thought I could probably stave him off for awhile this way and Richie would surely be there when I got back.
When I came back to the table the young man was gone.
“Was Robert bothering you?” asked the cocktail waitress, “he gets a little weird after he’s had a few.”
“That really was Robert Morse? From the movie How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying?” I asked.
“Yes, didn’t he tell you? That’s usually his opener! He hasn’t had a lot of parts yet, so he’s not very recognizable. Plus, he’s not one of the ‘pretty boy leading lady’ types.”
“Well, now, I’ll have to admit that if it had been David Janssen, I might have shown some interest!” I said winking at the waitress.
“What about David Janssen?” Richie asked as he settled into the booth. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
“Oh, that’s O.K.” I said, “Robert Morse just invited me to dinner in case you didn’t show up,” I giggled.
“Robert who?”
POST SCRIPT: The 1998 movie L.A. Confidential, nominated for an Academy Award, used The Formosa for some of its scenes, since it was the most authentic restaurant of its kind, dating back to its opening in 1939. They removed pictures of movie stars who were popular after the 50’s, for authenticity. It is now operated by the third generation of the Jung family.
1967
It was the hangout of Johnny Stompanato and Lana Turner (where they allegedly made whoopee in the back room) before her daughter stabbed Johnny to death for allegedly abusing her mother.
It was where Mickey Cohen stashed gambling proceeds in a mysterious safe encased in cement in the floor. It was frequented by movie legends Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe.
It had been an old antique railroad car, from the abandoned “red car line” of Los Angeles Transit System that criss-crossed the sprawling metropolis of L.A. before the advent of freeways. It became a Chinese restaurant across the street from the Goldwyn Studios (now Warner Brothers) entrance on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood.
The food was not that spectacular, but you were almost guaranteed a “peek” at some major motion picture star, as Hollywood royalty sipped The Formosa’s famous Mai Tais as they took a break from movie-making, and huddled in the back corner, unobtrusively while waiting for a steaming bowl of Chow Mein Noodles or the pungent, spicy Chop Suey with it’s accompanying bowl of steamed rice.
It was at The Formosa that I learned how to remember which I liked best…Chow Mein or Chop Suey. I used to say “The one that comes with rice,” or “The one that comes with noodles.” Richie taught me to think of Mein/Noodles as being closer alphabetically to each other, and that Suey/Rice are closer alphabetically to each other. I never forgot that little lesson!
The shiny red patent leather booths were inviting. If you weren’t thrilled by a real live star, their black and white studio pictures lined the walls above the booths, complete with autographs and messages to the Jung family who were owners. Or if business was slow, the regular waitress Edie, could fill you in on all the details of Jack Lemmon’s daily one martini lunches. It was where Burt Lancaster and Marlon Brando sat in “their booth” in real life beneath their promotional pictures, as though they had rights to it.
“Meet me at The Formosa” became the restaurant’s slogan.
It was always a treat when Richie took me there, when we made trips to the Regional Office of RCA Service Company in the days when he was the manager of the San Diego Branch. Later on, when we were transferred to Hollywood Regional Office and he was Field Service Administrator of the western region, my visits to The Formosa were more regular, especially if visiting brass from Home Office were in town.
I was an avid viewer of the TV show “The Fugitive” with David Janssen, in those days. I never missed an episode. If I could be in love with another man, at the same time as my husband, I loved David Janssen!
“Oh, my gosh!” I said, one day at The Formosa, my chopsticks pausing midway to my mouth, “It’s him…I know it’s him!”
“Who?” Richie asked, not missing a mouthful of his steaming noodles.
“Don’t look….don’t look…but over your right shoulder, two tables away…he just sat down…now he’s straightening his tie…now he’s dropping his napkin into his lap…it’s him! David Janssen!”
“How can I see him if I don’t look!” he said glancing over his shoulder.
Through the remainder of my meal, I just sat there furtively looking over my left shoulder while David Janssen ordered and ate his dinner. He did not know I was alive. However, unexpectedly, he got up to go to the restroom and as he passed our booth he looked down at me and smiled. In that moment, he thoroughly changed the hunger pangs in my stomach to butterflies. I could no longer manage the chopsticks, much less eat a bite more food. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven!
It was several years later, that Richie called me to meet him at The Formosa. He was late, and as I sat waiting for him, nursing a Scotch and Water, minding my own business, a young man came over and sat opposite me. I frowned at him, not wanting to cause a scene. Anyway, he looked very familiar to me.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I’m meeting someone,” I said quietly.
“Well, forget him and have dinner with me…okay?” he grinned showing wide-set middle teeth. I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place him. He was very young.
I sipped my drink pretending that he was not there..
“Come on, have dinner with me!” he pressed.
“Look…I’m old enough to be your mother, I’m waiting for my husband, now move it along.”
I felt annoyed at Richie for being late. Annoyed at this young man for putting moves on me when I was minding my own business, and I was hungry.
“Don’t you know who I am?” he said a little louder than he had been speaking before.
“No, should I?” I asked, digging into the archives of my mind for somebody with a big grin and wide spaced teeth.
“I’m Robert Morse,” he said.
“And I’m Marilyn Monroe, now get lost.”
“But I really am,” he whispered, leaning across the table.
“If you were, you’d have a date for dinner,” I said. I excused myself and headed for the “Guys” and “Dolls” signs posted on the restroom doors. I thought I could probably stave him off for awhile this way and Richie would surely be there when I got back.
When I came back to the table the young man was gone.
“Was Robert bothering you?” asked the cocktail waitress, “he gets a little weird after he’s had a few.”
“That really was Robert Morse? From the movie How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying?” I asked.
“Yes, didn’t he tell you? That’s usually his opener! He hasn’t had a lot of parts yet, so he’s not very recognizable. Plus, he’s not one of the ‘pretty boy leading lady’ types.”
“Well, now, I’ll have to admit that if it had been David Janssen, I might have shown some interest!” I said winking at the waitress.
“What about David Janssen?” Richie asked as he settled into the booth. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
“Oh, that’s O.K.” I said, “Robert Morse just invited me to dinner in case you didn’t show up,” I giggled.
“Robert who?”
POST SCRIPT: The 1998 movie L.A. Confidential, nominated for an Academy Award, used The Formosa for some of its scenes, since it was the most authentic restaurant of its kind, dating back to its opening in 1939. They removed pictures of movie stars who were popular after the 50’s, for authenticity. It is now operated by the third generation of the Jung family.
Foiled Again
Foiled Again
1965
What better time to change traditions like ‘live Christmas trees’ than at the beginning of a marriage? All the department stores were showing the latest thing in artificial trees....the dramatic aluminum foil Christmas tree that would last forever. Complete with a spotlight covered with a rotating wheel of rainbow colors to bathe the tree night after night in living color. In fact the strobe light bathed half the living room in those colors, distorting oil paintings, print drapes and whatever else was in it’s path, including people. But, what more could you ask than to save the forests, save money replacing trees year after year, plus be the first on your block to have the latest innovation?
Some of my worst looking Christmas trees of times past began to look good to me, as we decorated the sterile silver branches with ornaments from our combined households. I’d had some pretty skimpy trees in the lean years. Some fat, some skinny, some crooked, some short, but none had the unmistakable crackle of aluminum foil. They were green. They looked and smelled like trees.
“It kind of glows,” I said as I reached up to place the angel on top of the tree. The angel and I momentarily turned green as the spectrum of lights moved on to red, blue and gold. I stepped back to survey the wonderful results of this eclectic wonder.
“Do you like it?” Dick asked.
“Not much,” I admitted.
Nothing we did to this modern day substitute for pine branches and the smell of the forest helped. The more we piled on it the glitzier it became and the colored lights swirled on relentlessly.
Canadians observe the day after Christmas as “Boxing Day”. It was a day set aside to clear out the mess from opening presents the day before. The day to haul out the tree along with empty cartons and boxes that all our wonderful gifts we’d always wanted came packed in.
That year, we observed Boxing Day, too. The crackling, rattling, shiny, cold looking aluminum foil tree that would last forever bit the dust. At this moment it is laying in some canyon landfill in Clairemont along with disposable diapers that are not bio-degradable.
Archaeologists of the future will stumble onto those trees, buried by the thousands, in every neighborhood landfill of every small town in America.
“What is this stuff?” and they will shake their heads in wonder at the foolish things that man will invent in the name of creativity.
“Maybe it attached to street sweepers?” one will ask.
“No, I think it went on top of flag poles.”
“I think they rattled it to keep away dark spirits.”
Little will they know that it was deliberately purchased by an emerging blended family of the 60’s who had high hopes of catching the “spirit of Christmas” in a new and unusual way. They were to try many ‘new’ things during those turbulent years of learning what traditions to keep and what traditions of their past to throw away and what traditions to establish that were totally their own.
That first Christmas they established their first hard and fast tradition.
No glitzy aluminum foil Christmas trees ever again!
1965
What better time to change traditions like ‘live Christmas trees’ than at the beginning of a marriage? All the department stores were showing the latest thing in artificial trees....the dramatic aluminum foil Christmas tree that would last forever. Complete with a spotlight covered with a rotating wheel of rainbow colors to bathe the tree night after night in living color. In fact the strobe light bathed half the living room in those colors, distorting oil paintings, print drapes and whatever else was in it’s path, including people. But, what more could you ask than to save the forests, save money replacing trees year after year, plus be the first on your block to have the latest innovation?
Some of my worst looking Christmas trees of times past began to look good to me, as we decorated the sterile silver branches with ornaments from our combined households. I’d had some pretty skimpy trees in the lean years. Some fat, some skinny, some crooked, some short, but none had the unmistakable crackle of aluminum foil. They were green. They looked and smelled like trees.
“It kind of glows,” I said as I reached up to place the angel on top of the tree. The angel and I momentarily turned green as the spectrum of lights moved on to red, blue and gold. I stepped back to survey the wonderful results of this eclectic wonder.
“Do you like it?” Dick asked.
“Not much,” I admitted.
Nothing we did to this modern day substitute for pine branches and the smell of the forest helped. The more we piled on it the glitzier it became and the colored lights swirled on relentlessly.
Canadians observe the day after Christmas as “Boxing Day”. It was a day set aside to clear out the mess from opening presents the day before. The day to haul out the tree along with empty cartons and boxes that all our wonderful gifts we’d always wanted came packed in.
That year, we observed Boxing Day, too. The crackling, rattling, shiny, cold looking aluminum foil tree that would last forever bit the dust. At this moment it is laying in some canyon landfill in Clairemont along with disposable diapers that are not bio-degradable.
Archaeologists of the future will stumble onto those trees, buried by the thousands, in every neighborhood landfill of every small town in America.
“What is this stuff?” and they will shake their heads in wonder at the foolish things that man will invent in the name of creativity.
“Maybe it attached to street sweepers?” one will ask.
“No, I think it went on top of flag poles.”
“I think they rattled it to keep away dark spirits.”
Little will they know that it was deliberately purchased by an emerging blended family of the 60’s who had high hopes of catching the “spirit of Christmas” in a new and unusual way. They were to try many ‘new’ things during those turbulent years of learning what traditions to keep and what traditions of their past to throw away and what traditions to establish that were totally their own.
That first Christmas they established their first hard and fast tradition.
No glitzy aluminum foil Christmas trees ever again!
Crossing Paths
Crossing Paths
1965
Early in our acquaintance Dick and I began comparing where we were when. When you miss thirty five years of someone's life, this is very important. It helps give you a history with one another. I was married seventeen years the first time and he was married thirteen years.
Our first possible encounter was when we attended grade school. Dick lived in Glendale then and I lived in Brea. Our schools took bus trips to the Los Angeles County Fairgrounds at Pomona which was about half way between the two towns. Dick danced in the Maypole festival. I conceivably watched him perform..
Dick used to visit his Krouch grandparents and his two maiden aunts Millie and Ruth in Vista during the 1940's while I visited the Clay family, friends of my parents. We both played in Santa Fe Park and hunted for crawdads in the Buena Creek that ran through the park. We might have compared our catch at one time or another, who knows?
A Sailor during World War II, Dick was stationed at the U.S. Naval Training Center in San Diego. He used to take the bus out to La Jolla to get away from the crowded U.S.O. downtown on Broadway. I was a hostess at the La Jolla U.S.O. I'm sure he saw my girlfriends and me sing in our famous Midget Quartet. I also helped lead the Sunday afternoon Hymnsing around the piano. He could have missed me that time because he liked to dance more than sing! Still does!
We discovered that both our parents lived in Vista at the same time, during the 50's. Mine were remodeling a house on Copper Street. His lived on Phillips Street. Dick's dad was an electrician and did work for Miss Hunter on a house out on Santa Fe that my dad was a partner on. All these houses were within a few blocks of each other, and our families were all in and out any number of times.
In 1962 both of our separate and distinct families drove north to the Seattle World's Fair. The Reahm's in a Volkswagen bug, the Gorden's in a new Corvair. We think this is rather unique because both cars had rear engines and not everyone was so brave as to choose cars like that! We were all there on the 4th of July, but you know what long lines there were. Missed each other again!
In 1964 shortly after my divorce, I got a job at Southland Electronics. I had tried to get work in Optometric offices, but there weren't any openings. In desperation, I went to a job placement bureau. My first interview was with a bookkeeper named Lucy Sisco who had been a patient at Dr. Malin's office when I worked there. Because she knew me from Optometry, she hired me immediately. I really didn't know beans about bookkeeping.
Still new to the job, I sent out the first of the month statements. The next day a tall, young man with dark eyes and a crew cut, came back to my desk in the rear of the store. He was the manager of RCA Service Company. It seemed he was used to getting a discount and I hadn't given it to him.
That was all I needed. Complaints about my work! Lucy showed me how to correct his bill and Dick, feeling badly that he had given a new girl a hard time, invited me to lunch.
We found out very quickly that we were both in the process of divorces, and that maybe, just maybe it was the right time for our paths to cross. Time would tell.
Post Script:
Would we have liked each other when we were young? Or did we have lessons to learn....other ground to cover? Or would we have had the same immature marriage relationships that our first marriages turned out to be?
One thing, we did learn from our mistakes.
And we certainly did try harder the second time around!
1965
Early in our acquaintance Dick and I began comparing where we were when. When you miss thirty five years of someone's life, this is very important. It helps give you a history with one another. I was married seventeen years the first time and he was married thirteen years.
Our first possible encounter was when we attended grade school. Dick lived in Glendale then and I lived in Brea. Our schools took bus trips to the Los Angeles County Fairgrounds at Pomona which was about half way between the two towns. Dick danced in the Maypole festival. I conceivably watched him perform..
Dick used to visit his Krouch grandparents and his two maiden aunts Millie and Ruth in Vista during the 1940's while I visited the Clay family, friends of my parents. We both played in Santa Fe Park and hunted for crawdads in the Buena Creek that ran through the park. We might have compared our catch at one time or another, who knows?
A Sailor during World War II, Dick was stationed at the U.S. Naval Training Center in San Diego. He used to take the bus out to La Jolla to get away from the crowded U.S.O. downtown on Broadway. I was a hostess at the La Jolla U.S.O. I'm sure he saw my girlfriends and me sing in our famous Midget Quartet. I also helped lead the Sunday afternoon Hymnsing around the piano. He could have missed me that time because he liked to dance more than sing! Still does!
We discovered that both our parents lived in Vista at the same time, during the 50's. Mine were remodeling a house on Copper Street. His lived on Phillips Street. Dick's dad was an electrician and did work for Miss Hunter on a house out on Santa Fe that my dad was a partner on. All these houses were within a few blocks of each other, and our families were all in and out any number of times.
In 1962 both of our separate and distinct families drove north to the Seattle World's Fair. The Reahm's in a Volkswagen bug, the Gorden's in a new Corvair. We think this is rather unique because both cars had rear engines and not everyone was so brave as to choose cars like that! We were all there on the 4th of July, but you know what long lines there were. Missed each other again!
In 1964 shortly after my divorce, I got a job at Southland Electronics. I had tried to get work in Optometric offices, but there weren't any openings. In desperation, I went to a job placement bureau. My first interview was with a bookkeeper named Lucy Sisco who had been a patient at Dr. Malin's office when I worked there. Because she knew me from Optometry, she hired me immediately. I really didn't know beans about bookkeeping.
Still new to the job, I sent out the first of the month statements. The next day a tall, young man with dark eyes and a crew cut, came back to my desk in the rear of the store. He was the manager of RCA Service Company. It seemed he was used to getting a discount and I hadn't given it to him.
That was all I needed. Complaints about my work! Lucy showed me how to correct his bill and Dick, feeling badly that he had given a new girl a hard time, invited me to lunch.
We found out very quickly that we were both in the process of divorces, and that maybe, just maybe it was the right time for our paths to cross. Time would tell.
Post Script:
Would we have liked each other when we were young? Or did we have lessons to learn....other ground to cover? Or would we have had the same immature marriage relationships that our first marriages turned out to be?
One thing, we did learn from our mistakes.
And we certainly did try harder the second time around!
Fog Horn
Fog Horn
1965
My first recollection of the sorrowful sound of a foghorn was on my wedding trip with Richie. We stayed at The Breakers motel in Morro Bay. The fog horn blows every eight seconds. I never ever hear one that I don't think of that foggy night in May eating dinner down at the wharf and walking in the swirling mists that made that big Morro Rock look so foreboding.
From Morro Museum: “The rock is so huge and of such magnetism that it has it's own weather system. Different weather patterns on the sides of Morro Rock produce microclimates that give rise to different ecosystems. Plant and animal communities vary depending on which side of the Rock they inhabit.
It is one of a collection of rocks that go inland. Although not immediately apparent, volcanic activity is an important chapter in the central coast story. About 25 million years ago molten rock rose through a series of cracks in the earth's crust on what is now the west coast of North America. The rock cooled into volcanic plugs, now exposed as a chain of peaks called The Morro’s. These fourteen peaks are composed primarily of a granite called dacite. There are three morros in Morro Bay State Park: Cerro Cabrillo, Black Hill and Morro Rock.
Morro Rock, the last in a chain of long-extinct volcanoes, covers over 50 acres at its base and towers 576 feet above the entrance to Morro Bay. The local fishing industry is one of the most important along the California Coast. On the Embarcadero, you can shop, walk to Tidelands Park and play on the pirate ship, or simply sit and watch as the boats make their way to sea. Or if you have nothing else to do…listen to the fog horn!”
In 1968 Morro Rock was declared a State Historical Landmark No.821. Years of quarrying had forever changed the shape of the monolith, though it still covered 50 acres at its base. Now, under the protecting wing of the government, the "Gibraltar of the Pacific" would be altered only by nature.
In 1976 we went back to Morro Bay, this time looking for a house that could be used as a rental until the time came for us to retire.
We looked in Cambria Pines and Morro Bay both. Each seemed ideal places to live for our retirement years. Until we found out that it takes 45 minutes by ambulance to get to San Luis Obispo Hospital. That dampened our hopes.
And that fog horn blowing every eight seconds was another discouragement.
We came home empty handed and bought Summit House on the re-bound so to speak! The rest is history.
Compatibility
Compatibility
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1965
For six weeks Richie and I would have to take pre-marital counseling as a requisite to being married in the Reformed Church of America.
The fact that the churches initials, RCA, was it's major selling point for our wedding service made little difference to the pastor. If you had been previously married, you got six weeks counseling. Subject close. Take it or leave it.
"Do you want the RCA church because it's in the neighborhood of our new house, or is it because you work at RCA?" I asked Dick.
"Well, a little of both I guess," he admitted. "We'll probably have to have pre-marital counseling at any church we ask to marry us. It might as well be there."
"We do want a church wedding...we want to start out right, with all five kids sitting on the front row, right?"
"Right," he agreed.
The classes went by very quickly and were more interesting than we had anticipated. The sixth session was a compatibility quiz.
We sat rather nervously across from the pastor's desk as he graded and evaluated our quiz against a 'template' of proper answers.
"All I can say is this...." the pastor paused for effect, "you're really not going to have anything to fight about. You seem to be very....in fact I would say extremely compatible. You've both been through a lot of trauma in your previous marriages that you've obviously learned from. Have you set a date yet?"
"May 15th...if that's o.k. with you," Dick said.
The pastor looked at his calendar and marked it with a big red check and the time. Three in the afternoon.
We were off and running.
When we got to the house we told the kids how compatible we were by the test.
Dick reached for the Sears Roebuck Catalog that was laying on the coffee table.
"Watch us...." he said opening to a page of women's dresses. "Which one would you choose?" he asked me.
I mentally chose the dress I would like....and immediately he pointed it out. We went to men's clothing. I did the same thing. The kids were really amazed at this.
Jewelry. Appliances. Bedding. Even lawn mowers. We chose the exact same thing page after page.
"Do we pass compatibility, or what?" we asked them.
"You pass!" they all yelled.
"O.K. then....Saturday, May 15th is our wedding day," I told them marking our calendar.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," they all chorused.
Post Script:
We just celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary.
He's a night person....she's a morning person.
He likes to stay home....she likes to go.
He likes peace and quiet....she likes the stereo on.
He likes fruit flavored ice cream....she likes chocolate.
He likes peanuts....she likes almonds.
One thing you can always count on is change.
Were we pretending before? Or are we that different? Did we still have growing up to do at age 35 when we got married? Who knows? Who cares?
Of course we found things to fight about. Those five kids we combined! And Jelly Beans. The kids are all long gone, but Jelly Bean fights are forever! Especially who gets the black ones!
What we really are after all these years is compatibly incompatible!
It's an art practiced a little at a time over many years. Until you get it right.
It takes a lot of patience and a lot of love.
1965
Fog Horn:
My first recollection of the sorrowful sound of a foghorn was on my wedding trip with Richie. We stayed at The Breakers motel in Morro Bay. The fog horn blows every eight seconds. I never ever hear one that I don't think of that foggy night in May eating dinner down at the warf and walking in the swirling mists that made that big Morro Rock look so foreboding. The rock that is so huge and of such magnetism that it has it's own weather system.
1967
Swimming Lessons:
Every morning I have a physical therapy time in the jacuzzi....it's supposed to be good for arthritis. (This is a being written in 1990). I go through many sets of exercises, stretching all the muscles of my body. Much of the time I do swimming strokes, butterfly, breast stroke and dog paddle.
A voice comes to me from the 60's when we lived on Sausalito in Canoga Park.
"Skim the water....pull....skim....pull...."
The voice is Maryanne Kerns who was our next door neighbor then. She taught swimming lessons in their backyard pool. My thing at that time was sitting in the backyard with a portable typewriter on my lap writing the great American novel and soaking up rays. That was where I had painted the psycedelic butterflies and bees on the garage wall and with huge brush strokes LOVE!.
We were not friends then, but every morning her voice carries over that backyard fence of long ago and helps me to churn up the water and loosen up my joints.
"Skim....pull."
I still can't swim, but I go through the motions real good. Thank you Maryanne.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Making The Rounds
Making The Rounds
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1973
When I was a child, making the rounds meant that on Christmas Day you went to relatives and friends to show off your loot.
After the children got married, it became a rigorous tour of all their homes, plus the Hyder’s. Christmas could last through New Year’s by the time we fit everyone in.
Kathee and Michael lived in Canoga Park and Bill and Linda in Reseda. We lived in Huntington Beach and Penny and Bruce were making their beginnings in La Mesa. My parents lived in Escondido. Jimmy and Danny were still at home.
This particular year was memorable to me because of my sobriety. However, I’m not comfortable writing this story because it is painful.
Richie forgot to get me anything.
After we opened our gifts on Christmas eve and there wasn’t anything from him, I figured he’d had the girls help him shop, and when we got to Kathee’s or Linda’s...there it would be. My gift.
But it didn’t happen.
When it didn’t happen there, I thought, well, he’s waiting until we get to my folks in Escondido. I couldn’t figure the ‘why’ but it could still happen.
After I left my parents empty-handed, except for their gifts, I began to get ticked.
Richie was acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. That made it even harder on me. There was no “I’m sorry, I forgot.” “I couldn’t get out shopping” “I didn’t know what to get”
Nothing.
We took Bruce and Penny their stuff and by that time, I had decided there really wasn’t going to be anything.
Sure enough. There wasn’t.
I seethed all the way back to Huntington Beach.
The next morning I called my sponsor.
“How was your “Christmas rounds?” June asked me.
“Don’t ask.” I said, still in a snit from several days of high expectations.
“What happened...not your fairy tale kind of Christmas?”
“No...Richie didn’t get me anything.”
“Well, remember what I’ve been telling you about not getting your expectations up too high?”
“Yeah,”
“Well, who says he has to get you anything for you to be happy?”
“Nobody,”
“That’s right. Let’s go shopping and you buy yourself what you want.”
“Well, that’s no fun.”
“We can make it fun.” she said.
We had needed new overstuffed chairs in the living room ever since we had moved to Boardwalk and Park Place. I bought two matching harvest gold, crushed velvet, platform rockers that day...and a lamp to set between them.
He loved the new chairs and lamp and I never mentioned the problem I had of who bought what, when. Some things get healed by ‘turning them over to God’. The program of A.A. was working. But the only way it worked was if I worked it. My sponsor was just beginning to make sense. I had to let go of my fantasies of what life was ‘supposed’ to be and begin living in reality. I was growing up and it was hard.
In April Richie gave me the gift of his sobriety.
That was enough to cover a multitude of sins.
Penny
Penny
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1972
The first real hard fact I learned about Penny was that she was not and never had been a Penelope! She was Penny Ann Hagge from the beginning. Her mother and I had been pregnant at the same time, but she was born in July and Bruce wasn’t born until September. Her place of birth was French Hospital (where her mother was a nurse) in the Chinatown section of Los Angeles. She never crawled as a baby, she scooted in a sitting up position! I’ve seen, first hand, the super eight home movies of her childhood.
Penny grew up in Burbank with one brother Matthew and a younger sister, Evelyn
Her parents Bert and Marvel were almost a generation separated from us, so we did not have a whole lot in common except our German roots. They were much more into German food than us, and we met socially at German restaurants for family occasions. Her mother was a college degreed Registered Nurse who worked the night-shift as Supervisor. Penny said she never really realized her mother worked, because she was always home with the children during the daytime. Her father was a carpenter by trade. They invested in apartments on the side much as we did. They have gone on to glory now, but memories linger.
After high school, Penny spent two years at San Fernando Valley State College (now Cal State Northridge) then came to San Diego State and her father bought a fourplex in the college district. She managed that for 28 years. Through her college years she kept it filled with students from State, all of them are still close friends today. She also worked at Montgomery Wards in Mission Valley, then El Cajon. After graduation from SDSU she did substitute teaching by day and worked at Sears in Hillcrest. She and Bruce met by correspondence while Bruce was in Vietnam. One of her childhood friends from Burbank was a buddy of Bruce’s. She corresponded with him during the war, and he introduced Bruce to her via airmail. Bruce was attracted to her by her perfect printing ability. After Bruce’s tour of duty, they met in person, having been ‘pen pals’ for a long time. They both became members of College Avenue Baptist Church and still belong there.
They got married at La Jolla Baptist Church (carrying on the tradition of Bruce’s parents) and were married on the Hagge’s wedding anniversary, June 8th. Their reception was at the La Jolla Women’s Club. It was a beautiful old homespun church wedding with all their college friends participating. Her parents gave them the gift of a Hawaiian honeymoon. What a great beginning!
Penny got her first school teaching job in Santee School District and has been teaching first grade there for 24 years. She is now teaching children of the children that she taught when she first began!
After her pregnancies with Krishell and Jon Mark, she reduced her teaching schedule to part-time for twelve years, so that she could be home with her children more.
Penny is an awesome “Crafter” excelling at needlework, stitchery, quilting, dressmaking/sewing and just about anything that she tries. She belonged to a Crafting Bazaar for over ten years, actively bringing extra money into the coffers from her hobby.
She went back to school two years ago and received her Master’s Degree in Child Development from United States International University.
Penny is hardworking, determined and loving. A rare combination, but with strong German stick-to-it-iveness learned from her parents. She and Bruce are strongly commited to a Christian marriage, with their 25th Wedding Anniversary coming up next year.
We are pleased and proud to have Penny Ann in our growing family!
HAPPY FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY, PENNY!
Jelly Roll Blues
Jelly Roll Blues
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1970
I paced the halls of UCLA Medical Center for eight hours the day of Dick's radical jaw amputation surgery. Up and down, around, over and under. I knew those halls like a well studied road map. And not once during that unendurable day did a nurse or a doctor come out to give me a progress report.
Once I sat near a window and let my weary head lean against it for a moment. I remember it being cool and it was dark outside. But bad thoughts flooded my mind and I got up and paced some more.
Thoughts like: What if he dies? What will I do with his children? How will I make it on my small salary? What if he doesn't die, but can never work again? Every time I stopped pacing, the thoughts flooded back again.
What UCLA made up for in the latest exploratory methods of surgery, they lacked in bedside manner. We were never really prepared for what might be. Only that it must be done.
Much later on they told us that the surgery they did was so new, that they were experimenting on chimps in the basement in the morning and Dick in the after noon. There is an eight hour teaching film of the surgery, which we opted not to see.
We had only been married a couple of years, and we lived outside my comfort zone of La Jolla/Pacific Beach where I had a network of friends to lean on. I just stared at the sterile corridors of medicine and the cold stares of strangers as I stalked up and down.
"Mrs. Reahm?" a white coated man approached me.
"Yes," I said, slowed my pace past the door to the waiting room.
"You can see your husband now, he's in ICU."
"Is he all right?" I asked, my heart in my throat?
"The surgery was successful, we're quite pleased."
I was to think later of a joke....the surgery was a success but the patient died. That kept coming back to me on the freeway going home over Mulholland as I approached the San Fernando Valley.
I walked into ICU expecting him to be swathed in bandages, but he wasn't.
The overhead lights glared down on his body, stretched out on a gurney table. He was blue. Dark, purplish blue. From the top of his head to just below his waist he was this ghastly, ghostly blue. His head was swollen to twice the size I remembered it. His lips were bloated and puffy from clamps and instruments too large for his mouth to accommodate. His throat was slit from ear to ear and black with sutures. A tracheotomy plate cover was centered below his adamsapple. What remained of his jaws were wired shut.
To me, he looked to me as though he had been run over by a Mack truck.
My face must have betrayed my shock and dismay, although I was trying valiantly to be his loyal wife and strong arm to lean on. To be his rock of Gibraltar.
He must have sensed my fear, even as drugged as he was from surgery. His hand reached down and took hold of the sheet and pulled it back so I could see his purplish belly.
Then he did the unbelievable.
He sucked in his stomach and did a belly roll like he did for the children to make them laugh.
That was the only indication I had that he would make it.
A nurse touched my arm and told me it was time to leave.
When I got to the parking lot I threw up.
Post Script:
In no way do I wish to minimize his pain by writing what it was like for me. I cannot comprehend to this day what he went through. But that has to be his story. I only know, personally, the desolation that I felt.
Tall Tale
Tall Tale
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1968
Mexican food and Margarita’s go together like …well, ham and eggs or tacos and beer…at least that’s how I thought in the ‘60s. El Torito was the favorite place for the Friday “lunch bunch” I worked with in the Fire Insurance Unit at Travellers Indemnity in Studio City. It was cheap and delicious Mexican food and they always offered a special on Margarita’s by the pitcher on Friday for a group price. Of course, the underlying reason was that it was payday, and Travellers was next door to the restaurant.
When the girls I worked with got back to the lobby of the Travellers Building, most of us were feeling no pain.
In the lobby of the high-rise, the gals started whispering among themselves when they saw a group of tall guys standing in front of the elevator. I was used to their carrying on without including me, as I was the oldest worker in the unit and hardly a peer.
“Thelma, go over to that black guy…the really tall one…and ask him if he’s really 6 ft. 17 in. tall!”
“Why?”
“Because he hates to be asked!” they said laughing hysterically.
I hesitated.
“Come on…we dare ya!”
Not to be dared to do anything and not do it, I boldly, with the aid of two Margarita’s, walked over to the guy who was at least twice as tall as I was, and said, “Are you really 6 ft. 17 in. tall??
He just glared down at me!
“Well…are ya?” I asked, not to be daunted.
“Yesssss,” he hissed and moved on into the elevator with the other tall black men he was with.
When I stepped back over to my group, they were just busting up, bending over, and whooping and hollering.
“He said he is, but he hissed it! Who the heck is he?”
“It’s Lou Alcindor!” Sue said between giggles.
“He’s basketball player for the Los Angeles Lakers. Probably Travellers indemnified his big hands or his long body for the sake of winning games,” Anne said, cracking up all over again.
“You set me up!” I said stepping into the elevator and pushing the button to the second floor.
“Yup, we sure did! We knew you’d never know who he was!”
Well, Lou Alcindor became very famous as a basketball player. He hated to be asked how tall he was, which was 7 ft. 5 in. So he came up with his little routine of saying that he was 6 ft. 17 in. Maybe it didn’t seem to him that he was such a freaky giant that way.
He also turned to the Muslim Religion and changed his name to Kareem Abdul Jabar.
I never had Margarita’s with the girls again. Not just because of Lou Alcindor, but because I couldn’t type worth a hoot when I got back to the office, and in those days you were not allowed to make mistakes on insurance policies. If you did, you had to scrape the mistake off the policy with an exacto knife! I learned that no Margarita, even with great Mexican food, was worth an afternoon of that.
And no telling what practical joke the girls would pull on me next!
Brylcreem
Brylcreem!
Brylcreem
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1968
Brylcreem! A little dab’ll do ya!
Brylcreem! You’ll look so debonair!
Brylcreem the gals’ll all pursue ya,
They’ll love to get their fingers in your hair!
Brylcreem, Brillantine and Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum commercials still sing their little songs in the back of my head. They were some of the first of the singing commercials that I remember of on radio and they are forever etched upon my brain.
You’d think, that said, that my mind would also have been conditioned to the shape, color, size and lettering on the Brylcreem tube.
Not so!
One morning, while bleary eyed and half awake, before my morning coffee, I brushed my teeth with Brylcreem!
Acchhhhhcht! Yuk! Acchhhhhcht! Spit and sputter!
My eyes snapped open as I grabbed a wash cloth and shoved it into my mouth. I swished it around in the recesses of my mouth to remove the greasy hair oil preparation. Brylcreem was the first hair oil treatment made into paste and packaged in a tube like toothpaste. It clung ruthlessly to the roof of my mouth, to my molars and to my tongue!
I gargled with mouthwash. I spit and spit!
I drank water.
Nothing I did could drown out the taste of Brylcreem!
No wonder their commercial squawked loudly on the radio, “A little dab’ll do ya!”
A one inch ribbon of of Brylcreem on the tooth brush, distributed evenly over all your teeth and gums can darn near kill ya! Or at least make you wish you were dead.
For sure, it makes your coffee taste funny all day long!
Brylcreem
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1968
Brylcreem! A little dab’ll do ya!
Brylcreem! You’ll look so debonair!
Brylcreem the gals’ll all pursue ya,
They’ll love to get their fingers in your hair!
Brylcreem, Brillantine and Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum commercials still sing their little songs in the back of my head. They were some of the first of the singing commercials that I remember of on radio and they are forever etched upon my brain.
You’d think, that said, that my mind would also have been conditioned to the shape, color, size and lettering on the Brylcreem tube.
Not so!
One morning, while bleary eyed and half awake, before my morning coffee, I brushed my teeth with Brylcreem!
Acchhhhhcht! Yuk! Acchhhhhcht! Spit and sputter!
My eyes snapped open as I grabbed a wash cloth and shoved it into my mouth. I swished it around in the recesses of my mouth to remove the greasy hair oil preparation. Brylcreem was the first hair oil treatment made into paste and packaged in a tube like toothpaste. It clung ruthlessly to the roof of my mouth, to my molars and to my tongue!
I gargled with mouthwash. I spit and spit!
I drank water.
Nothing I did could drown out the taste of Brylcreem!
No wonder their commercial squawked loudly on the radio, “A little dab’ll do ya!”
A one inch ribbon of of Brylcreem on the tooth brush, distributed evenly over all your teeth and gums can darn near kill ya! Or at least make you wish you were dead.
For sure, it makes your coffee taste funny all day long!
Swimming Lessons
Swimming Lessons
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1967
Every morning I have a physical therapy time in the jacuzzi....it's supposed to be good for arthritis. (This is a being written in 1990). I go through many sets of exercises, stretching all the muscles of my body. Much of the time I do swimming strokes, butterfly, breast stroke and dog paddle.
A voice comes to me from the 60's when we lived on Sausalito in Canoga Park.
"Skim the water....pull....skim....pull...."
The voice is Maryanne Kerns who was our next door neighbor then. She taught swimming lessons in their backyard pool. My thing at that time was sitting in the backyard with a portable typewriter on my lap writing the great American novel and soaking up rays. That was where I had painted the psychedelic butterflies and bees on the garage wall and with huge brush strokes LOVE!.
We were not friends then, but every morning her voice carries over that backyard fence of long ago and helps me to churn up the water and loosen up my joints.
"Skim....pull."
I still can't swim, but I go through the motions real good. Thank you Maryanne.
Richie's Re-energizing Rejuvenator
Richie’s Re-energizing Rejuvenator
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1965
What do you serve at a party, when you don’t have the money to provide all the refreshments that you wanted to? You get creative!
When we married and combined our children, we had no idea how expensive it would be to take on such a commitment. To provide a large enough house, we bought in Clairemont. We had stars in our eyes, a lot of bills and pocket change.
We wanted to have a house warming . It would be a time to show off to all those die-hards who said “Frying pan into the fire” when we sent out wedding invitations.
We knew we were going to have to cut corners, as our food budget most weeks was about $15.00.
Our most faithful dinner guest was Bob Peard, from RCA Home Office in New Jersey. He said “That Thelma, she knows how to stretch meals…she can tie a string around a piece of meat, drag it through the gravy and call it stew! And it’s good! Who would ever have believed it?” I had explained to him once, in vivid detail, that I was feeding our crew on 25 cents per plate, per person. It took a lot of creativitiy.
But, when it came to watered down drinks…well that was another thing. We put our heads together and decided buying bottle goods for the party was totally out. People have a couple of drinks and mixing their own, tend to get a little heavy handed and suddenly there’s not enough to go around.
So, with the aid of cheap Red Mountain wine and some mixers, we concocted a
drink we called Richie's Re-energizing Rejuvenator.
“You can get Red Mountain wine piped to the house for a buck a month and still get a refund on the bottle!” Richie used to say. We got so creative, in fact, that we even made a label for the bottles....it tasted very smooth going down, but it packed one whale of a wallop as a terrible hangover!
We reveled in the compliments “Great drink!” “Tasty punch, with a punch!” We were good hosts, even on a meager pocket book. We used it at several parties with no complaints. Of course we tried to vary the guest list, so that nobody who had experience the delayed reaction to Richies Re-energizing Rejuvenator, had to experience it again!
Later on, up in the San Fernando Valley, a friend with a short memory for hangovers, thought it was a good idea, and he invited us to a pool party at his home in Studio City He'd taken the ‘cheap drink’ one step further and poured it all into a 5 gallon water cooler, complete with a stand he’d picked it up at a garage sale!
He’d play the Carnival hawker, “Step right this way…yesiree, Bob, Richie’s Ravaging Re-energizing Rejuvenator cures what ails ya!” he’d holler with a flourish that only George Rowland could mimic from the sideshow carnies, he’d press the spigot on the water cooler and fill your cup to the brim.
He stayed faithful to the name we had given it, too, because right there on the front of the water cooler was the name Richie's Re-energizing Rejuvenator!
You can imagine the hangover from drinking that stuff in the bright sunshine all afternoon while plunging headlong into the pool from time to time. And then swearing it was great stuff! Oh, the bravery of the young!
Well, we didn’t go hungry in those days, but we did have many a hangover.
Our drinking friends George and Bob are no longer with us. We hope we didn’t hasten their demise.
1999 will mark our 25th year of sobriety.
I’m sure Red Mountain wine helped to pushed us over the edge sooner than we had anticipated. But in the program of A. A. the Big Book says, “It takes what it takes!”
The Good Old Days of Radio
The Good Old Days of Radio
The Good Old Days of Radio
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1965
Dick Whittinghill of KMPC radio was doing take-off's on the radio soap opera's of the past. Helen Trent became Helen Trump - From around the corner and up your street. Ma Perkins and Our Gal Sunday were not sacred either. We laughed and together remembered the real lines of those old shows..
The question was always posed, "Could Helen Trent find happiness after the age of thirty-five?". Then the announcer began with the words "....as we look in on Helen Trent..." and he gave a brief synopsis of where the story left off the day before. On Our Gal Sunday, they began the program with "The story that asks the question, can a young girl from a little mining town in the west find happiness as the wife of a wealthy and titled Englishman?" He was Lord Henry Brinthrope of Black Swan Hall. She was just a simple country girl. But what a love story was spun day by day.
Whittinghill's cutsey versions have long since been forgotten, but because our mother's listened to these shows regularly, we knew the real lines by heart. Even to the commercials of Duz and Ivory Soap - 99 and 44 100% Pure! Duz was to music....one of the first singing commercials of our time. "Put Duz in your washing machine, Duz will make your clothes real clean!"
It was amazing to us as we listened to Whittinghill while we traveled in separate cars along the Hollywood Freeway to work each morning, how much of those radio days we remembered. We couldn't have been more than five or six years old when we heard them. We would compare notes when we got home at night and then come up with other memories of our own.
"Did you catch Whittinghill today?"
"Here's one I'll bet you don't remember," I said trying to stump Richie with a soap opera he'd never heard.
"Try me...I'll bet I do!"
"Uh, Uh! I've asked everyone I know about this one, and I have a sneaky feeling this program was only piped to our house in Brea!"
"What's the line?" he asked.
"Oh, Evie, ain't I the one?"
"Let's see....it was Point Sublime. At the end of each show Cliff Arquette said 'Oh, Evie, ain't I the one' and then Evie would giggle. Plus the show was sponsored by Signal Oil Company! Do I get extra points for knowing that?"
"You are just too much! You are the first person in my whole life who remembers Point Sublime! We had to marry each little other....we have such a history together!"
As our conversation went further, we found that Cliff Arquette (for you youngsters, he was Rosanna Arquette's grandfather in real life) was the voice for Evie's husband in Point Sublime. He was also the "Charlie Weaver" on various other shows.
"Not only that," Dick said, "I lived next door to Cliff Arquette when I lived in Sherman Oaks with my folks."
We've heard of people who married people out of their decade, and they didn't even have the music of their era in common. How sad! A history of remembrances are really important when the "new" wears off of a marriage!
I think that is why Jesus considered it so important for Christians not to be linked up with non-Christians. He called it being un-equally yoked together. When oxen of un-equal size or strength are yoked together, one of them is not pulling his share of the load and they don't plow a straight line in the soil. In real life, there is little or no communication when goals are totally different. You're constantly pulling in separate directions and the energy that should be going into a happy relationship is drained in fighting. There is no joy in sharing the believer's life of the Holy Spirit. The more similarities your family of origin has to the life of your chosen mate's family of origin, the easier it will be in the marriage.
It is said that we bring six people into the marriage bed, (each set of parents and you) and it takes about twenty years to actually sort out and choose the workable patterns from each family and make up your own traditions and patterns of relating. All the 'well, we did it this way' and 'No....no, here's how you do it!' take a lot of time. Unfortunately, many marriages dissolve before the effort is put into them to pull in the same direction, and it is the children who suffer.
Point Sublime was just one more incident that made us comfortable with each other. Our parents were very similar in backgrounds. Both sets came from Christian roots in the mid-west. They were all of the 'put your shoulder to the wheel' German work ethic. They were conservative politically, survived The Great Depression and recognized the importance of saving money.
Although our 'radio days' memories didn't exactly fit into the Crossing Paths story, I thought it needed to be told.
"It's very difficult to tango with someone if they only know rock and roll, huh Richie?"
.
"Or Cha Cha," he said.
"Oh, Richie, ain't we the ones?"
Post Script:
Arquette was born in Toledo, Ohio in December 1905, but it's the town of Mount Ida, Arkansas that owes its place in American culture to him. That's because his Weaver character developed as a man who was always reading letters from his "Mount Idy Mama." Arquette later said he was inspired by a friend of his mother, who wrote letters from Mount Idy which were read to the whole family. So he often read those in character to Jack Paar or Dennis Day. Arquette also appeared in numerous old-time radio programs, including Fibber McGee & Molly, Lum and Abner and Point Sublime, a 1946 small-town comedy that co-starred Mel Blanc. As "Charley Weaver," Arquette starred in Dave and Charley (1952) as well as a 1955 NBC summer show called Do It Yourself, a combination comedy/how to program that looks like an early forerunner to the fictitious "Tool Time with Tim Taylor" on Home Improvement.
The Good Old Days of Radio
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1965
Dick Whittinghill of KMPC radio was doing take-off's on the radio soap opera's of the past. Helen Trent became Helen Trump - From around the corner and up your street. Ma Perkins and Our Gal Sunday were not sacred either. We laughed and together remembered the real lines of those old shows..
The question was always posed, "Could Helen Trent find happiness after the age of thirty-five?". Then the announcer began with the words "....as we look in on Helen Trent..." and he gave a brief synopsis of where the story left off the day before. On Our Gal Sunday, they began the program with "The story that asks the question, can a young girl from a little mining town in the west find happiness as the wife of a wealthy and titled Englishman?" He was Lord Henry Brinthrope of Black Swan Hall. She was just a simple country girl. But what a love story was spun day by day.
Whittinghill's cutsey versions have long since been forgotten, but because our mother's listened to these shows regularly, we knew the real lines by heart. Even to the commercials of Duz and Ivory Soap - 99 and 44 100% Pure! Duz was to music....one of the first singing commercials of our time. "Put Duz in your washing machine, Duz will make your clothes real clean!"
It was amazing to us as we listened to Whittinghill while we traveled in separate cars along the Hollywood Freeway to work each morning, how much of those radio days we remembered. We couldn't have been more than five or six years old when we heard them. We would compare notes when we got home at night and then come up with other memories of our own.
"Did you catch Whittinghill today?"
"Here's one I'll bet you don't remember," I said trying to stump Richie with a soap opera he'd never heard.
"Try me...I'll bet I do!"
"Uh, Uh! I've asked everyone I know about this one, and I have a sneaky feeling this program was only piped to our house in Brea!"
"What's the line?" he asked.
"Oh, Evie, ain't I the one?"
"Let's see....it was Point Sublime. At the end of each show Cliff Arquette said 'Oh, Evie, ain't I the one' and then Evie would giggle. Plus the show was sponsored by Signal Oil Company! Do I get extra points for knowing that?"
"You are just too much! You are the first person in my whole life who remembers Point Sublime! We had to marry each little other....we have such a history together!"
As our conversation went further, we found that Cliff Arquette (for you youngsters, he was Rosanna Arquette's grandfather in real life) was the voice for Evie's husband in Point Sublime. He was also the "Charlie Weaver" on various other shows.
"Not only that," Dick said, "I lived next door to Cliff Arquette when I lived in Sherman Oaks with my folks."
We've heard of people who married people out of their decade, and they didn't even have the music of their era in common. How sad! A history of remembrances are really important when the "new" wears off of a marriage!
I think that is why Jesus considered it so important for Christians not to be linked up with non-Christians. He called it being un-equally yoked together. When oxen of un-equal size or strength are yoked together, one of them is not pulling his share of the load and they don't plow a straight line in the soil. In real life, there is little or no communication when goals are totally different. You're constantly pulling in separate directions and the energy that should be going into a happy relationship is drained in fighting. There is no joy in sharing the believer's life of the Holy Spirit. The more similarities your family of origin has to the life of your chosen mate's family of origin, the easier it will be in the marriage.
It is said that we bring six people into the marriage bed, (each set of parents and you) and it takes about twenty years to actually sort out and choose the workable patterns from each family and make up your own traditions and patterns of relating. All the 'well, we did it this way' and 'No....no, here's how you do it!' take a lot of time. Unfortunately, many marriages dissolve before the effort is put into them to pull in the same direction, and it is the children who suffer.
Point Sublime was just one more incident that made us comfortable with each other. Our parents were very similar in backgrounds. Both sets came from Christian roots in the mid-west. They were all of the 'put your shoulder to the wheel' German work ethic. They were conservative politically, survived The Great Depression and recognized the importance of saving money.
Although our 'radio days' memories didn't exactly fit into the Crossing Paths story, I thought it needed to be told.
"It's very difficult to tango with someone if they only know rock and roll, huh Richie?"
.
"Or Cha Cha," he said.
"Oh, Richie, ain't we the ones?"
Post Script:
Arquette was born in Toledo, Ohio in December 1905, but it's the town of Mount Ida, Arkansas that owes its place in American culture to him. That's because his Weaver character developed as a man who was always reading letters from his "Mount Idy Mama." Arquette later said he was inspired by a friend of his mother, who wrote letters from Mount Idy which were read to the whole family. So he often read those in character to Jack Paar or Dennis Day. Arquette also appeared in numerous old-time radio programs, including Fibber McGee & Molly, Lum and Abner and Point Sublime, a 1946 small-town comedy that co-starred Mel Blanc. As "Charley Weaver," Arquette starred in Dave and Charley (1952) as well as a 1955 NBC summer show called Do It Yourself, a combination comedy/how to program that looks like an early forerunner to the fictitious "Tool Time with Tim Taylor" on Home Improvement.
Meet Me At The Formosa
Meet Me At The Formosa
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1967
It was the hangout of Johnny Stompanato and Lana Turner (where they allegedly made whoopee in the back room) before her daughter stabbed Johnny to death for allegedly abusing her mother.
It was where Mickey Cohen stashed gambling proceeds in a mysterious safe encased in cement in the floor. It was frequented by movie legends Humphrey Bogart and Marilyn Monroe.
It had been an old antique railroad car, from the abandoned “red car line” of Los Angeles Transit System that criss-crossed the sprawling metropolis of L.A. before the advent of freeways. It became a Chinese restaurant across the street from the Goldwyn Studios (now Warner Brothers) entrance on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood.
The food was not that spectacular, but you were almost guaranteed a “peek” at some major motion picture star, as Hollywood royalty sipped The Formosa’s famous Mai Tais as they took a break from movie-making, and huddled in the back corner, unobtrusively while waiting for a steaming bowl of Chow Mein Noodles or the pungent, spicy Chop Suey with it’s accompanying bowl of steamed rice.
It was at The Formosa that I learned how to remember which I liked best…Chow Mein or Chop Suey. I used to say “The one that comes with rice,” or “The one that comes with noodles.” Richie taught me to think of Mein/Noodles as being closer alphabetically to each other, and that Suey/Rice are closer alphabetically to each other. I never forgot that little lesson!
The shiny red patent leather booths were inviting. If you weren’t thrilled by a real live star, their black and white studio pictures lined the walls above the booths, complete with autographs and messages to the Jung family who were owners. Or if business was slow, the regular waitress Edie, could fill you in on all the details of Jack Lemmon’s daily one martini lunches. It was where Burt Lancaster and Marlon Brando sat in “their booth” in real life beneath their promotional pictures, as though they had rights to it.
“Meet me at The Formosa” became the restaurant’s slogan.
It was always a treat when Richie took me there, when we made trips to the Regional Office of RCA Service Company in the days when he was the manager of the San Diego Branch. Later on, when we were transferred to Hollywood Regional Office and he was Field Service Administrator of the western region, my visits to The Formosa were more regular, especially if visiting brass from Home Office were in town.
I was an avid viewer of the TV show “The Fugitive” with David Janssen, in those days. I never missed an episode. If I could be in love with another man, at the same time as my husband, I loved David Janssen!
“Oh, my gosh!” I said, one day at The Formosa, my chopsticks pausing midway to my mouth, “It’s him…I know it’s him!”
“Who?” Richie asked, not missing a mouthful of his steaming noodles.
“Don’t look….don’t look…but over your right shoulder, two tables away…he just sat down…now he’s straightening his tie…now he’s dropping his napkin into his lap…it’s him! David Janssen!”
“How can I see him if I don’t look!” he said glancing over his shoulder.
Through the remainder of my meal, I just sat there furtively looking over my left shoulder while David Janssen ordered and ate his dinner. He did not know I was alive. However, unexpectedly, he got up to go to the restroom and as he passed our booth he looked down at me and smiled. In that moment, he thoroughly changed the hunger pangs in my stomach to butterflies. I could no longer manage the chopsticks, much less eat a bite more food. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven!
It was several years later, that Richie called me to meet him at The Formosa. He was late, and as I sat waiting for him, nursing a Scotch and Water, minding my own business, a young man came over and sat opposite me. I frowned at him, not wanting to cause a scene. Anyway, he looked very familiar to me.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I’m meeting someone,” I said quietly.
“Well, forget him and have dinner with me…okay?” he grinned showing wide-set middle teeth. I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place him. He was very young.
I sipped my drink pretending that he was not there..
“Come on, have dinner with me!” he pressed.
“Look…I’m old enough to be your mother, I’m waiting for my husband, now move it along.”
I felt annoyed at Richie for being late. Annoyed at this young man for putting moves on me when I was minding my own business, and I was hungry.
“Don’t you know who I am?” he said a little louder than he had been speaking before.
“No, should I?” I asked, digging into the archives of my mind for somebody with a big grin and wide spaced teeth.
“I’m Robert Morse,” he said.
“And I’m Marilyn Monroe, now get lost.”
“But I really am,” he whispered, leaning across the table.
“If you were, you’d have a date for dinner,” I said. I excused myself and headed for the “Guys” and “Dolls” signs posted on the restroom doors. I thought I could probably stave him off for awhile this way and Richie would surely be there when I got back.
When I came back to the table the young man was gone.
“Was Robert bothering you?” asked the cocktail waitress, “he gets a little weird after he’s had a few.”
“That really was Robert Morse? From the movie How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying?” I asked.
“Yes, didn’t he tell you? That’s usually his opener! He hasn’t had a lot of parts yet, so he’s not very recognizable. Plus, he’s not one of the ‘pretty boy leading lady’ types.”
“Well, now, I’ll have to admit that if it had been David Janssen, I might have shown some interest!” I said winking at the waitress.
“What about David Janssen?” Richie asked as he settled into the booth. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
“Oh, that’s O.K.” I said, “Robert Morse just invited me to dinner in case you didn’t show up,” I giggled.
“Robert who?”
POST SCRIPT: The 1998 movie L.A. Confidential, nominated for an Academy Award, used The Formosa for some of its scenes, since it was the most authentic restaurant of its kind, dating back to its opening in 1939. They removed pictures of movie stars who were popular after the 50’s, for authenticity. It is now operated by the third generation of the Jung family.
Foiled Again
Foiled Again
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1965
What better time to change traditions like ‘live Christmas trees’ than at the beginning of a marriage? All the department stores were showing the latest thing in artificial trees....the dramatic aluminum foil Christmas tree that would last forever. Complete with a spotlight covered with a rotating wheel of rainbow colors to bathe the tree night after night in living color. In fact the strobe light bathed half the living room in those colors, distorting oil paintings, print drapes and whatever else was in it’s path, including people. But, what more could you ask than to save the forests, save money replacing trees year after year, plus be the first on your block to have the latest innovation?
Some of my worst looking Christmas trees of times past began to look good to me, as we decorated the sterile silver branches with ornaments from our combined households. I’d had some pretty skimpy trees in the lean years. Some fat, some skinny, some crooked, some short, but none had the unmistakable crackle of aluminum foil. They were green. They looked and smelled like trees.
“It kind of glows,” I said as I reached up to place the angel on top of the tree. The angel and I momentarily turned green as the spectrum of lights moved on to red, blue and gold. I stepped back to survey the wonderful results of this eclectic wonder.
“Do you like it?” Dick asked.
“Not much,” I admitted.
Nothing we did to this modern day substitute for pine branches and the smell of the forest helped. The more we piled on it the glitzier it became and the colored lights swirled on relentlessly.
Canadians observe the day after Christmas as “Boxing Day”. It was a day set aside to clear out the mess from opening presents the day before. The day to haul out the tree along with empty cartons and boxes that all our wonderful gifts we’d always wanted came packed in.
That year, we observed Boxing Day, too. The crackling, rattling, shiny, cold looking aluminum foil tree that would last forever bit the dust. At this moment it is laying in some canyon landfill in Clairemont along with disposable diapers that are not bio-degradable.
Archaeologists of the future will stumble onto those trees, buried by the thousands, in every neighborhood landfill of every small town in America.
“What is this stuff?” and they will shake their heads in wonder at the foolish things that man will invent in the name of creativity.
“Maybe it attached to street sweepers?” one will ask.
“No, I think it went on top of flag poles.”
“I think they rattled it to keep away dark spirits.”
Little will they know that it was deliberately purchased by an emerging blended family of the 60’s who had high hopes of catching the “spirit of Christmas” in a new and unusual way. They were to try many ‘new’ things during those turbulent years of learning what traditions to keep and what traditions of their past to throw away and what traditions to establish that were totally their own.
That first Christmas they established their first hard and fast tradition.
No glitzy aluminum foil Christmas trees ever again!
Fog Horn
Fog Horn
By Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1965
My first recollection of the sorrowful sound of a foghorn was on my wedding trip with Richie. We stayed at The Breakers motel in Morro Bay. The fog horn blows every eight seconds. I never ever hear one that I don't think of that foggy night in May eating dinner down at the wharf and walking in the swirling mists that made that big Morro Rock look so foreboding.
From Morro Museum: “The rock is so huge and of such magnetism that it has it's own weather system. Different weather patterns on the sides of Morro Rock produce microclimates that give rise to different ecosystems. Plant and animal communities vary depending on which side of the Rock they inhabit.
It is one of a collection of rocks that go inland. Although not immediately apparent, volcanic activity is an important chapter in the central coast story. About 25 million years ago molten rock rose through a series of cracks in the earth's crust on what is now the west coast of North America. The rock cooled into volcanic plugs, now exposed as a chain of peaks called The Morro’s. These fourteen peaks are composed primarily of a granite called dacite. There are three morros in Morro Bay State Park: Cerro Cabrillo, Black Hill and Morro Rock.
Morro Rock, the last in a chain of long-extinct volcanoes, covers over 50 acres at its base and towers 576 feet above the entrance to Morro Bay. The local fishing industry is one of the most important along the California Coast. On the Embarcadero, you can shop, walk to Tidelands Park and play on the pirate ship, or simply sit and watch as the boats make their way to sea. Or if you have nothing else to do…listen to the fog horn!”
In 1968 Morro Rock was declared a State Historical Landmark No.821. Years of quarrying had forever changed the shape of the monolith, though it still covered 50 acres at its base. Now, under the protecting wing of the government, the "Gibraltar of the Pacific" would be altered only by nature.
In 1976 we went back to Morro Bay, this time looking for a house that could be used as a rental until the time came for us to retire.
We looked in Cambria Pines and Morro Bay both. Each seemed ideal places to live for our retirement years. Until we found out that it takes 45 minutes by ambulance to get to San Luis Obispo Hospital. That dampened our hopes.
And that fog horn blowing every eight seconds was another discouragement.
We came home empty handed and bought Summit House on the re-bound so to speak! The rest is history.
The First Thanksgiving
The First Thanksgiving
by Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1965
Our parents had not socialized with each other since our wedding day in May. Now it was time for Thanksgiving. The Hyder's lived in Pine Valley and the Reahm's lived in Vista. We had just bought a house somewhere in between. It was not that the families were hostile, it just wasn't convenient.
Although, my parents did have mixed emotions about my taking on the care and feeding of three more children. The fact that our parent's backgrounds were very similar didn't soothe my nerves any, however they had much in common. Roots in the mid-west, Christian upbringing, survived The Great Depression, long term marriages to each other, and having only one child each. You would think that entertaining them would be a piece of cake. Not!
I was as frantic as if this Thanksgiving meal was the first one I'd ever cooked for company. I cleaned for a 'white glove inspection'. I read and re-read at least ten articles on how to prepare a fabulous turkey dinner. I was not feeling at all secure. I wrote down the menu I was going to serve as if Thanksgiving turkey would be hard to forget.
I would be serving basically the same menu I'd served in my previous marriage of seventeen years and the same dishes I had eaten for the previous eighteen years I had lived with my parents. What could go wrong? What could I possibly forget?
I lined all the kids up for inspection before the grandparents arrived. Their faces were clean....hair shampooed. Clothes ironed. Shoes polished. Then one last inspection of their rooms. Everything was fine. Toys picked up. Toilets flushed. I basted the turkey one more time. The pies were cooling on the tea cart. The hors'doeuvre plates were ready in the refrigerator. The coffee was made, candles were on the table. Sugar and creamer were filled and ready.
"Would you turn the stereo on, Dick?" I called to my husband in the living room. I heard him get up from his leather chair, but I didn't hear the music, so I peaked around the dining room wall. "I love you. I love you...." he said to the stereo. "What are you doing?" I was not seeing anything funny about this....the Reahm's and the Hyder's were due any minute and I was getting testy.
"You said to turn on the stereo....and I'm just trying my best....I love you stereo!" he said laughing. I finally laughed although I was in no mood for his special brand of humor. I realized that he was trying to get me to lighten up a bit. He flipped the switch and soft music pervaded the room. A great stereo was another addition I got from this marriage, complete with tweeters and woofers. I really enjoyed good music, and he had strung wire to each room during construction so we had an intercom and music everywhere.
The door bell rang. Then it was pandemonium with this mixed up brood of kids trying to get un-divided attention from their respective grandparents, but also cutting their new step-sibs out when they could. There was a lot of rivalry going on just under the surface and it kept me edgy most of the time. It seemed there just wasn't enough of me to go around and they were a needy bunch of children.
We all sat down at the dining table, the candles glowing, the food smelling better all the time, and the grandparents oohing and ahhing over all the food I'd prepared. I sighed. I knew now it was going well.
"Poppy, would you ask the blessing?" Dick said. I placed the golden brown turkey in front of Dick. I sat down at the opposite end of the table and bowed my head. I breathed deeply as my father asked the blessing. It was a moment to center myself and try to relax. I felt now with everything on the table I could finally enjoy Thanksgiving dinner.
"Will you carve the turkey now, Ben?" I asked sweetly, as I unfolded my napkin and smoothed it on my lap. Ten sets of eyes rolled up in their heads as they turned to look at me in total dismay. I froze. My face flamed crimson. I'd really blown it.
The one thing about this Thanksgiving I hadn't remembered was my new husband's name!
by Thelly Reahm Tidbits of Time
1965
Our parents had not socialized with each other since our wedding day in May. Now it was time for Thanksgiving. The Hyder's lived in Pine Valley and the Reahm's lived in Vista. We had just bought a house somewhere in between. It was not that the families were hostile, it just wasn't convenient.
Although, my parents did have mixed emotions about my taking on the care and feeding of three more children. The fact that our parent's backgrounds were very similar didn't soothe my nerves any, however they had much in common. Roots in the mid-west, Christian upbringing, survived The Great Depression, long term marriages to each other, and having only one child each. You would think that entertaining them would be a piece of cake. Not!
I was as frantic as if this Thanksgiving meal was the first one I'd ever cooked for company. I cleaned for a 'white glove inspection'. I read and re-read at least ten articles on how to prepare a fabulous turkey dinner. I was not feeling at all secure. I wrote down the menu I was going to serve as if Thanksgiving turkey would be hard to forget.
I would be serving basically the same menu I'd served in my previous marriage of seventeen years and the same dishes I had eaten for the previous eighteen years I had lived with my parents. What could go wrong? What could I possibly forget?
I lined all the kids up for inspection before the grandparents arrived. Their faces were clean....hair shampooed. Clothes ironed. Shoes polished. Then one last inspection of their rooms. Everything was fine. Toys picked up. Toilets flushed. I basted the turkey one more time. The pies were cooling on the tea cart. The hors'doeuvre plates were ready in the refrigerator. The coffee was made, candles were on the table. Sugar and creamer were filled and ready.
"Would you turn the stereo on, Dick?" I called to my husband in the living room. I heard him get up from his leather chair, but I didn't hear the music, so I peaked around the dining room wall. "I love you. I love you...." he said to the stereo. "What are you doing?" I was not seeing anything funny about this....the Reahm's and the Hyder's were due any minute and I was getting testy.
"You said to turn on the stereo....and I'm just trying my best....I love you stereo!" he said laughing. I finally laughed although I was in no mood for his special brand of humor. I realized that he was trying to get me to lighten up a bit. He flipped the switch and soft music pervaded the room. A great stereo was another addition I got from this marriage, complete with tweeters and woofers. I really enjoyed good music, and he had strung wire to each room during construction so we had an intercom and music everywhere.
The door bell rang. Then it was pandemonium with this mixed up brood of kids trying to get un-divided attention from their respective grandparents, but also cutting their new step-sibs out when they could. There was a lot of rivalry going on just under the surface and it kept me edgy most of the time. It seemed there just wasn't enough of me to go around and they were a needy bunch of children.
We all sat down at the dining table, the candles glowing, the food smelling better all the time, and the grandparents oohing and ahhing over all the food I'd prepared. I sighed. I knew now it was going well.
"Poppy, would you ask the blessing?" Dick said. I placed the golden brown turkey in front of Dick. I sat down at the opposite end of the table and bowed my head. I breathed deeply as my father asked the blessing. It was a moment to center myself and try to relax. I felt now with everything on the table I could finally enjoy Thanksgiving dinner.
"Will you carve the turkey now, Ben?" I asked sweetly, as I unfolded my napkin and smoothed it on my lap. Ten sets of eyes rolled up in their heads as they turned to look at me in total dismay. I froze. My face flamed crimson. I'd really blown it.
The one thing about this Thanksgiving I hadn't remembered was my new husband's name!