January 22, 1978

January 22, 1978

While combing my diaries for a suitable blog entry, if I find a snippet about CD, I usually send it to the adult CD just to give him some idea of his life as a two-year-old.  Since he has no conscious memories of his infancy, he can’t enlighten me about what actually ran through his mind.

CD at the park 1

A child psychiatrist might hazard an informed guess about which cognitive skills were in development but no one will ever know for sure. Odds are, my instincts were right and what amused him involved repetition.

CD at the park 2

As my diaries suggest, by nature I wrote down almost everything that happened, no matter how apparently trivial. I’m glad I did, now, since some of the things that seemed mundane – even then – acquired significance in the ensuing years. I forgot almost everything I failed to record for posterity.

CD at the park 3

As my firstborn, CD was the beneficiary – or the victim, depending on your point of view – of my meticulous record keeping. Sometimes, in bursts of energy, he’d run races with himself, up and down the family room, shouting “Go!”  a few seconds after he started. We could guarantee a smile by throwing a towel over his head, asking “Where’s CD?” and yanking it off. Hilarious! Two-year-old’s – the best audience ever.

J & CD at the park

 

 

January 17, 2007

January 17, 2007

What if it had been a serial killer? Remarkably, given my paranoid fantasies about scenarios such as this, I’ve never formulated a plan for survival. I have no idea what S and I would, or could, do. It would probably be prudent to learn how to change my own tire but since I haven’t done so yet, it seems unlikely.

Changing Tires for DummiesA woman stranded on a remote highway in the dead of night is a trope in thriller/horror movies – hopefully, not for good reason (I have no statistics). Most of the time (although not always), contemporary fictional heroines survive without the aid of a man. In the process, they discover hidden reservoirs of cunning and strength.

S and I - unlikely to take on armed marauders.
S and I – unlikely to take on armed marauders.

Should I find myself in similar jeopardy, I suspect the ending would be less satisfying (at least for me.) I’d be too frightened to scream and I can’t think of anything else to do. Take a martial arts course, maybe? Much like learning to change a tire, it seems unlikely.

Breakdown, Hitcher, Duel, Vanishing

Fortunately, stories like those told in Breakdown, the Vanishing, the Hitcher and Duel are far less common than real-life tales about kind strangers, willing to help change a tire.

A Good Deed

 

January 15, 1965

January 15, 1965

I don’t have any photos from Sandy’s slumber birthday (if digital film had been a thing, we’d have billions) so I’m running one of my own birthday party photos from around the same era.

Top row from right to left Natalie Nilsen, Susan Tanaka, Donna Duncan, Moi, Loretta Dirks, Julie Farnham, Sandy Walker
Top row from right to left Natalie Nilsen, Susan Tanaka, Donna Duncan, Moi, Loretta Dirks, Julie Farnham, Sandy Walker

I was a textbook “dork” (spazz, feeb, or brain.) For a female in 1965, “brain” was a major cut (chop, put down, shut down, slam.) I have no recollection about the game “Starlight, Starbright.”  I suspect it was something Sandy and I invented.

"Dork"
“Dork”
Sandy
Sandy

I wish I’d recorded the revelations that emerged from our game of “Truth.” I’m pretty sure they were silly and tame. As close as we were, it’s unlikely we shared deeper secrets; it never occurred to me anybody carried any.

Photo booth - a year or two later
Photo booth – a year or two later

I was naïve. The older I get, the more certain I am that everyone has a secret life, to a greater or lesser degree. Chekhov said it best.

 

He had two lives...

 

January 12, 1972

January 12, 1972_edited-1

I knew that I bragged too much – “I had to tell people…I got into Kessler’s poetry class.” For sure, I boasted to the pages of my diary. I doubt anyone ever paid me a compliment I didn’t promptly record, verbatim. I’m probably bragging right now, by reprinting this particular diary entry. (“Look how great I used to be!”) That said, if I’m ever going to correct my character flaw of vanity – or is it pride? – I need to own it, so here goes – I’m conceited.

Yay me!

It’s not very Norwegian.  My parents raised me not to “sing my own praises.” (On the other hand, there is that parable about not hiding your light under a bushel but I’m not sure that exonerates me.) I always dislike myself after I “toot my own horn” – just not enough to stop doing it.

Good Norwegians avoid the limelight.
Good Norwegians avoid the limelight.

Obviously, my braggadocio stems from a pervasive sense of inadequacy. Einstein didn’t announce he was a genius. Garbo didn’t brag that she was a famous movie star. Brilliant, talented people don’t need to tell the world how smart and exceptional they are. It’s obvious. It’s equally obvious when they are not. And no amount of self-promotion can turn mediocrity into greatness.

Not always, though.
Not always, though.

January 10, 1970

January 10, 1970

Apparently, it escaped me that these were the golden years of UCLA basketball. I saw, maybe, two games during my four years there. I wouldn’t become a basketball fan for another 17 years, when I fell in love with the Lakers. ( They had a GREAT game last night!)  I still don’t follow college basketball but the more I learn about John Wooden, the more I admire him.  Three of his quotes – “Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are.” – “Don’t mistake activity with achievement.” – “The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching.”

70's UCLA Basketball
70’s UCLA Basketball

Luke and I were in the midst of one of our many break-ups so I was dating. It was awkward and uncomfortable to talk to a new guy, especially compared to the rapport I enjoyed with Luke – even when we were fighting.  I don’t remember anything about Bill at all; for me, he exists only in this diary entry.

Don't forget me.
Don’t forget me.

That strikes me as sad, but he’s far from the only person I crossed paths with that I no longer recollect.  I’m sure that’s true for everyone (I hope so or my memory is worse than I thought). We all meet so many people in the course of our lifetimes. Only a handful make a lasting impact.  I like to fancy myself unforgettable, but no doubt Bill has forgotten me too.

 

January 7, 1984

January 7, 1984

Dad, Mom, Dolly and Jani - I must have taken the picture
Dad, Mom, Dolly and Jani – I must have taken the picture
Mom, Dolly & Dad
Mom, Dolly & Dad

Looking back, our end-of-the-evening ennui seems inexplicable – it sounds like a pretty darn good day – but in 1984, J and I tended to focus on what we didn’t have– rather than what we did.  Now that we’re older and wiser, we’re more inclined to gratitude. The days we took for granted look golden in the rear-view mirror.

Irene Miracle
Irene Miracle

I’d give anything to see my parents off on another cruise. After retirement, my father served as chaplain for many voyages. J and I took a few ourselves – one of them with my parents and extended family to celebrate their 66thwedding anniversary.

On voyage with grandparents
On voyage with grandparents

In 1984, CD had just turned seven and S wasn’t even a year old. I’d just begun to make it as a film and TV writer and we didn’t have household help. Sometimes, the pressure felt overwhelming. Today, the difficulties of raising small children and juggling a career seem insignificant. I’d welcome the chance to savor those moments of their childhood again.

J and I with CD, S and my parents around this time.
J and I with CD, S and my parents around this time.

I can’t justify the angst, today. We had it good. I need to remember this when I’m tempted to dwell on my daily disappointments. We’re alive and well. We still have it good.

 

January 3, 1966

January 3, 1966

Hullabaloo Show 34

One of many things I’m grateful for is the great blessing of being young when the Beatles burst upon the scene. Sure, there were concurrent superstars that lasted longer – take the Rolling Stones. And there were subsequent superstars who graced the cover of Time and sold gazillions of albums – Bruce Springsteen comes to mind.  I stopped listening to top 40 or current FM sometime in the late 70s or early 80s – so I’m not certain which individuals or groups qualify as super-stars. Feel free to educate me in the comments section.  (That said, I do love Garbage and Coldplay. I hope that doesn’t doom them to fuddy-duddy status.)

Paul McCartney circa 1966
Paul McCartney circa 1966
Me circa 1966
Me circa 1966

There was something special about the Beatles, though. IMHO, they were bigger – and their impact more substantial – than earlier stars like Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. Admittedly, Elvis broke new ground but I don’t think his cultural significance approaches that of the Beatles. They wrote their own songs and their style and personas evolved to an unprecedented degree which, in turn, influenced a generation.

Rubber Soul - Revolver - Sgt. Pepper
Rubber Soul – Revolver – Sgt. Pepper

1966 was a great year for a Beatles fan. They still projected an intoxicating innocence. Rubber Soul had been released a month earlier. Revolver would be released that summer and they’d begin recording Sgt. Pepper. More than half a century later, their music still sounds fresh and exciting. How many so-called super-stars can make that claim?

 

December 30, 1974

December 30, 1974

My sisters and I, Christmas '74
My sisters and I, Christmas ’74

What’s the right thing to do about desperate strangers stranded in phone booths?

The story of Lot in Genesis offers an extreme example of hospitality. Lot sees two strangers in cloaks and insists they dine and sleep in his home. Later that night, his house is surrounded by a drunken mob of Sodomites demanding that Lot produce the two cloaked strangers. Ever the perfect host, Lot refuses. Instead, he offers the mob his virginal daughters, to do with as they wish. (I’m not kidding.  I wish I were.)

Lot flees Sodom

Luckily for Lot’s daughters, the strangers turn out to be angels who protect Lot from the mob and warn him to get the heck out of Sodom. Lot dillydallies but obliges. Unfortunately, as everyone knows, his wife ignores the angel’s order not to look back and is turned into a pillar of salt.  Things get a little worse from here. Since Lot and his girls are the only three people alive on Earth, the daughters decide to get Lot – their father – drunk and seduce him, to propagate the species. Let’s move on, shall we?

Striking a lonely, alienated pose
Striking a lonely, alienated pose

It’s impossible for me to imagine anyone in the 21stcentury as welcoming to strangers  as Lot – the protagonist (I can’t use the word hero) in an Old Testament story. That said, the words of Jesus in the New Testament are clear.

Matthew 25-25-36

I don’t see too many 21stcentury people following that example either.

Me, for real, Christmas
Me, for real, Christmas

Footnote: This story and other controversial or “forbidden” Bible stories – the ones they didn’t teach in Sunday School – are discussed in The Harlot by the Side of the Road by Jonathan Kirsch.

The Harlot By The Side Of The Road

 

December 27, 1978

 

December 27, 1978

“Success” was a syndicated (very slightly syndicated) half-hour talk show (and tax shelter). I recruited J’s boss, Mark P. Robinson Sr., because recently he’d been voted Trial Attorney of the Year.  Mark had an amazing history. He was the youngest wing commander in World War II and was shot down over Yugoslavia. While his plane was going down, he promised he would go to Mass every day if he survived. He kept his promise. He was broken out of a POW camp by an OSS operative, Joe Sampson, who became his permanent private investigator.

Mark P. Robinson
Mark P. Robinson

MPR was an impressive, amazing person as are his sons – Mark Jr., who won the Ford Pinto case (exploding gas tank), one of a series of fantastic results that have continued to this day, Greg Robinson, defensive coach for the Denver Broncos when they won their two Super Bowls, and Geoffrey, who J considers the coolest guy he ever met.

Mark Robinson, Jr. - Greg Robinson - Geoffrey Robinson
Mark Robinson, Jr. – Greg Robinson – Geoffrey Robinson

MPR was vice-president of the California State Bar and co-founded the American Board of Trial Advocates. In addition to being a brilliant lawyer and a devoted Catholic husband and father, MPR had a huge personality and a legendary temper. He formed and shattered at least half a dozen partnerships during J’s tenure with him. Let’s put it this way. No one ever forgot that MPR was in the room. Most of the time, that was a good thing.

Mark P. Robinson
Mark P. Robinson

Not surprisingly, J’s relationship with MPR was volatile. I was horrified the first time I heard them yell at each other on the phone and amazed when it was all smiles the next day. J learned a lot at USC Law School. He learned much more from MPR.

 

 

 

December 20, 1979

December 20, 1979

CD's 1st Xmas program 1

Growing up PK, I performed in dozens of holiday programs but this was my first in a parental role. I wasn’t embarrassed when CD abandoned the stage – who could expect more of a three-year-old? I hoped he’d enjoy the performance but I don’t think he did.  A live audience flicks a switch in some kids – not CD, at least at age three.

CD's 1st Xmas program 2

I was a show-off at his age, desperate to drown out my younger sister Janet. After I belted all four verses of “Oh Come all Ye Faithful”, my father would gently suggest I let Janet take her turn. “No, Daddy, she’s too little, she doesn’t know the words, I’ll sing it! Joy to the World, the Lord is come…”  All of this was recorded for posterity on reel-to-reel tape.

CD's 1st Xmas program 3

I’m not sure when I lost my taste for performing – probably when we moved to California and I was the uncomfortable new kid in kindergarten. My concern shifted from wanting to share my genius with the world to obsessing about how the world rated me (as yet unaware that most people weren’t paying that much attention.) My fear of not being good enough silenced the raging diva deep inside.

CD's 1st Xmas program 4

 

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