The invitation for this party (reproduced above) explains it all. I wore the dress I actually wore to real proms in the sixties when I thought it was the most beautiful gown I’d ever seen. The style failed to age as well as I hoped – the dresses worn by most of the other female guests fared better (but I still got to be Prom Queen, an opportunity denied me in real life)
In this case, the photos are worth a thousand words so here are some of my favorites.
This decision was a turning point in my life – so it surprised me that until I re-read my diary entry, I remembered it wrong. The big beats – the struggle and the decision – remain essentially the same but over the years, I romanticized the fight. In my mind, it became a testament to J’s belief in me as a writer. While in essence this remains true, his willingness to bet on me didn’t come easily or with his whole-hearted support.
And in retrospect I can’t say he was wrong to have reservations. Neither of us knew that a month later, around the time the health insurance my job provided terminated, I’d discover I was pregnant and we’d pay 100% of all the ensuing medical bills. Most of the free time I envisioned after quitting my job would get eaten up with taking care of our infant son.
While I did develop a successful career as a writer, it would be three years before I earned a penny writing – seven or eight years before I’d earn enough writing to support myself, let alone our growing family. If I’d kept my job, those breaks on our tuition and medical insurance would’ve come in handy, particularly since I didn’t accomplish anything much during that interval anyway.
Betty Friedan was right – work expands to fill the time available. Later in life, when I worked forty plus office hours a week co-producing a television show, I got more writing done on other projects at home than I ever had before. When my time is limited, I use it more wisely.
So, quitting my job to provide me with unlimited free time wasn’t our best decision although it was good for our relationship. It meant the world that J believed in me but I probably should’ve believed in his judgment and stayed employed.
This was John and my first trip to Europe. We went with my sister Janet, her husband Jim McCann and John’s brother Matthew. It didn’t start out well. Our van broke down halfway up the mountain road to our lodge forcing three jet-lagged American boys to brave the icy night and push the van up the hill. Sometimes it’s especially nice being a girl.
For some reason, Janet and Jim didn’t join us on our day excursion to Venice – probably because it was a long drive from where we stayed in Neustadt. They would’ve if they’d known it was Carnival – we didn’t know it either. We arrived as falling snow dusted gondolas, surrounded by people in masks, capes and Renaissance regalia; music and bells rang across St. Mark’s square. The spectacle was as surreal as it was magnificent.
One mundane memory remains (that I didn’t write down). Like every other day on that trip, the weather was arctic – subzero cold and bitter winds cut through to our bones. Even so, John and Matt didn’t complain (much) when I dragged them up and down narrow streets on a quest for Italian leather boots. Hopelessly lost by the time I scored “the pair”, we ducked into the nearest restaurant for warmth as much as food. The menu was in Italian with no accompanying translation to English. We threw caution to the winds and ordered entrees with appealing words (but no concept of what we’d be eating).
I got a sea creature with massive tentacles served with black ink, enough to make me hurl. Once again, it paid to be the girl. John graciously traded with me. To this day, he swears he got the best of the deal.
When I started to write this diary blog I realized this was the last time my family and I skied. How could 23 years fly by so quickly? Why did we stop? We didn’t make a decision to give up the sport, it just happened – like far too many of my relationships (and in some cases, obsessions) end, arbitrarily and without warning.
My sister Janet and I taught ourselves to ski as children. I introduced my husband John to the sport around 1980. We invited John’s brother Matt along on our first and subsequent ski trips. In no time at all, John and Matt skied advanced slopes while I stayed stuck between beginner and intermediate. I broke my hand at a Motley Crue concert in 1985 (See November 28, 1985) which didn’t help. It heightened my fear of falling and re-injuring my hand, which made me nervous. A nervous skier is a bad skier.
Chris, Sam and Alex surpassed me because by nature children are fearless – and being close to the ground, they didn’t have as far to fall. Other than our final trip, we skied at Deer Valley in Park City, Utah.
On this trip, we skied in Oregon, a vacation arranged by one of John’s high school and college friends Bryan Arakelian. As usual, everyone’s favorite Uncle Matt came along. In addition to being a great skier and musician, Bryan is an all-star chef so it was gourmet dining every night at the condo. Due to deadlines, I stayed home half the time to write which was fine with me since not only was I unable to keep up with the grown-ups, I could no longer keep up with the kids. We had a great time.
Why was it our last ski vacation? I wish I knew.
I had no idea my guilt about dropping Kessler’s class would far outlast the relief. While I’ve got bigger regrets in my life, this one stays with me. Here’s why.
Kessler taught Poetry Writing, a small exclusive class for juniors and seniors. He only accepted ten students per quarter and you had to audition – present a piece of writing – to be considered. I gave him the play Luke helped me write – “The Lowlands” – and won a place. Even though it wasn’t a poem like most applicants submitted, he thought I had a “voice” and gave me a chance. I was thrilled.
Then I found out the class functioned like a writing work shop – I was unfamiliar with them then. Students were required to read their poems out loud to the class and then listen to everyone’s feedback. The prospect of reading one of my poems out loud petrified me. I knew from past experience that when I read out loud for others, a fight or flight response takes over and it turns into a race to the finish. My speech pattern is fast under the best of circumstances. I’m all but unintelligible if asked to read for an audience.
But that wasn’t the only thing that terrified me. Our first class made it obvious my fellow students knew a lot more about poetry – both reading and writing it – than I did. Consequently, I feared writing a bad poem as well as making stupid comments about other people’s poetry. I was so scared I dropped the class.
If I had it to do over again, I’d face my fear. Even if I’d been the weakest in the class, I would have learned something – maybe even made a few strides toward learning to read my work in public. Chickening out made me feel more like a failure than actually failing the class.
My regrets about this flooded back when I came across Kessler’s obituary in the LA Times, several years later. Some doors and windows open only once. I wish I’d summoned the courage to go through all of them. This wasn’t the only one I missed.
Usually, I don’t realize a particular day or night was auspicious – in terms of exerting a major influence on my life – until long after the fact. Not this time. Everything about meeting John for the first time felt intense, heightened, dramatic. At the same time, there was a quality of recognition – like, “There you are. I knew you were coming into my life.”
I have some corroborating evidence for my romantic premonitions. The next day I met my friend Denise Gail Williams for lunch. She said I looked happy, glowing. I told her, straight-faced, “I met the man I’m going to marry last night.”
I can’t explain how I knew this with such certainty and – in the interest of full disclosure – I must add that John did not know any such thing. He was in his first year of law school at USC and marriage was not on his mind (although it would be, a mere six weeks later when we got engaged, and six months later when we got married).
None of our fellow residents at Law House gave us a chance. Someone started a betting pool about how long we’d last. No one predicted forty-one years and counting. And after all these years – he’s still the One.
Because I’m a pastor’s kid (PK), my father confirmed me – married me – and baptized my children. Every time I stood in front of the congregation and looked into his eyes, tears welled and I teetered on the edge of complete meltdown. I wasn’t sad, just overloaded with emotion. The same thing happens when I think about him now. The memory of my father officiating at CD’s baptism makes me reflect on unique aspects of life as a PK.
When I was two years old (before the Alien Baby[1] emerged, and ruined my life), my father took me with him to give communion to rural parishioners. Halfway through the ceremony, his communicant’s eyes wandered so he turned to investigate what caught their attention. It was me, toddling behind, imitating his words of blessing and passing out imaginary wine and wafers.
We acted out Bible stories to amuse ourselves. The Good Samaritan was a favorite. My father played the battered victim near death by the side of the road. I took on multiple challenging roles ranging from a snooty priest to a snotty Pharisee and a self-absorbed Levite. Basically, I pretended not to see the dying man by the side of the road. At this point my sister Janet, bobbing with excitement, took center stage in the starring role of Good Samaritan. Between you and me, a monkey could have played her part. All she needed to do was hoof it as far as the kitchen and ask Mommy for a glass of water. When she accomplished this feat, dramatic tension peaked. Invariably she paused – and guzzled most of the water, saving a few drops for our dying dad. And I’m the one who got typecast as being selfish?
Sometimes Janet and I played Israelites in search of manna. Confused about what constituted manna – was it vegetable, legume or dairy product? We agreed it probably resembled chocolate chip cookie dough and hid globs of it in the sofa cushions for the Israelites to discover and devour. Who knew about salmonella in the fabulous fifties?
(Future blogs will explore other aspects of growing up P.K.)
[1] See Kathy Vs. the Alien Baby footnote
I’ve attended more than my share of writing workshops, including some of the most torturous to get into (hello Bread Loaf and Sewanee) as well as other high profile names – Tin House, Aspen Summer Words, Napa, Taos.
Eckerd College’s WRITERS IN PARADISE is one of my favorites. As far as I know, it’s the only workshop with a competition for best and second best pieces in the workshop. (The best got published in their literary magazine; the runner up got a nice write-up). For me, this led to what a friend called “fang extension” – a fierce desire to win no matter what.
Victory didn’t come easy. I lost both first and second place for three solid years. I loathe losing and swore I’d win before I died. Luckily, it happened sooner – because, to my chagrin, Eckerd discontinued the competition after 2013. Under the new system, all participants can revise the material they work-shop and submit it to the magazine for consideration. Speaking strictly for myself, I miss the thrill of cut-throat competition but since that resulted in nine miserable writers who lost and one triumphant writer who won, maybe it undermined community spirit and cooperation. Personally, I don’t think so, but who knows?
With or without the “Best of” competition, what makes Eckerd such a fantastic workshop? For me, it’s their faculty. I don’t read literary fiction unless forced to (I prefer stories /plots). Consequently, I’ve never heard of the majority of author/workshop leaders appearing at even top workshops. This isn’t true of Eckerd. Books by Eckerd authors/workshop leaders are everywhere – many are best-sellers – because they’re entertaining. Where but Eckerd can a student spend time with writers of the calibre of Sterling Watson, Tom Perrotta, Stewart O’Nan, Laura Lippman, Michael Koryta and Andre Dubus? Dennis Lehane no longer leads workshops but he makes himself accessible and never fails to fascinate.
St. Petersburg weather in January is beautiful, as is the lush green campus. It’s a safe place to stick your toe in the water (figuratively – there are alligators in Florida) and benefit from smart, professional feedback. I liked almost everyone I met there, even my competition – and I returned home a stronger writer. What more could I ask?
This is NOT a paid advertisement. Writer’s in Paradise is that good.
To download a copy of Celebrity Autograph Show, click on the link.
I was sandwiched in the center of a vinyl booth, two boys on either side. While they seemed semi-civilized at school, a round of Pepsis and fries at Denny’s unleashed their inner beast. As much as I hated to encounter obnoxious loud teenagers in real life, it was a thousand times worse to be dead center in a pack of them.
My adult self wanted to read them the riot act but my high school persona hunched speechless, red-faced.
They poured out the condiments Denny’s provided in little baskets on every table and scrawled their names in catsup, subbing salt for glitter. They blew straw wrappers at each other. They insulted diners who viewed us with disgust. If my four-year-old acted like this, I’d whisk him outside where he’d remain until he could behave himself but I didn’t have that option here. I wanted to beg our waitress’s forgiveness and leave a huge tip – I doubted the boys would leave a dime – but I couldn’t without calling attention to myself.
After they dropped me off, I called J in LA. “What’s up with your high school boyfriend?” he asked. I told him I wanted to dive under the table at Denny’s. It was hard for him to relate, since he lived a grown-up life with other adults.
The worst was yet to come. My 3rd period teacher sent me to the library because they were taking a pop quiz on material I missed. Another class, taught by Mrs. Murray, one of my former teachers in real life, already occupied the library.
When the lunch bell blared, students mobbed the door. A popular-looking perky blonde shook her bangled wrist and regaled her court with details about where she bought it, who designed it, and how much she paid. Most “girl talk” I overheard concerned fashion. They were as passionate about cute clothes as my sixties friends were about rock concerts and Viet Nam. My musings skidded to a halt when Mrs. Murray peered over their heads and said,
My adrenalin lurched into flight or fight mode. It was all I could do not to react, to pretend I didn’t realize Mrs. Murray addressed me. She repeated herself, not taking her eyes off me.
I feigned confusion. “No,” I said.
“You look exactly like a girl I had ten years ago,” Mrs. Murray said.
“Sorry, not me,” I said. As a preacher’s kid prone to Biblical references, I felt like Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane, denying my own identity three times. How could that exchange not arouse a glimmer of curiosity from one of the student witnesses? It didn’t. They were all more interested in being first in line at the snack bar than anything Mrs. Murray or I said.
As some of you recall, the Northridge earthquake struck on January 17, four days before this entry – but this 6.7 ten-second monster wasn’t over and gone like broken china. The after-effects were massive and far-reaching. Steve and Linda (Angelique) were our two most affected friends – due to earthquake damage, their apartment was deemed uninhabitable, forcing them to move.
We were a close-knit group in ’94, we didn’t think twice about crossing town to lend a hand when one of our band suffered catastrophe (which didn’t happen all that often in the City of Angels). As of today, I’m still at least Facebook friends with everyone mentioned in the above entry – but I regret to report our paths have diverged. I’m not sure when or why it happened, but it did – much like other friendships that burned bright briefly and then faded for no reason, without ill feeling (at least, not on my side.)
I’d like to believe that nothing fundamental really changed – that we’d be there should a crisis arise – but the truth is I don’t even know where Steve lives these days. That said, it’s conceivable that should we find ourselves in the same location with a few hours of free time to talk, we’d discover that – time and distance notwithstanding – nothing fundamental actually did change. I hope so.
It’s probably a waste of time to quantify friendship and there’s no point looking back for longer than it takes to compose these diary blogs so I’ll focus on the present. I’m grateful to be FB pals with Steve – reading his posts makes me remember good times and I feel like we’re close again. I hope some of my diary postings affect people the same way.
