nostalgia

March 23, 1973

March 23, 1973 Plan B

Leaving Melnitz Hall
Leaving Melnitz Hall

I knew what I did not want to do – don a cap and gown and endure an excruciating graduation ceremony. My own Jr. High and high school extravaganzas were torture. What about those magical moments, watching my own children graduate? Don’t you just want to smile all over? Uh, no.

S's High School Graduation
S’s High School Graduation

Slow-roasting in bleachers without shade, surrounded by delirious parents straining to spot their spawn in a sea of black-robes several zip codes to the south – made home schooling appear an attractive option. For the record, the only things I dread more than rituals like graduation are parades and colonoscopies.

A at his college graduation
A at his college graduation

Flash forward to my son CD, valedictorian for his UCLA film and television class. Two surprises awaited me, one pleasant and one not so much. The good news was, only film and TV students participated, making it more like a party than spectacle. Lulled into a false sense of security, I thought, “this is almost a perfect day.”

CD's graduation UCLA
CD’s graduation UCLA

CD took the microphone. He singled out his wife and his father – 100% USC Trojan, undergrad and law school. He thanked them for their inspiration. No mention of his mother and fellow UCLA film and TV alum. You know, the one who introduced him to Melnitz hall and UCLA’s campus.

CD & classmates at UCLA graduation
CD & classmates at UCLA graduation

 

Amazingly, I recovered from this ego-shattering blow as well as a carrot that caused me to barf at the reception. Something deep and primal superseded my lifelong distaste for graduations, parades and vomit.  So what if CD forgot to thank me? I could not have been any prouder of him. I still am.

March 19, 2016

March 19, 2016 A and his cousin Conner wait to speak

As a Lutheran pastor, my father officiated at hundreds of weddings and funerals. Based on his experiences, in the aftermath of a loved one’s death, intense guilt – usually about things the bereaved intended to do, but didn’t – is a universal reaction.

A speaks

My father said, don’t go there.  What you did or didn’t do doesn’t matter. The love you give – like the love I feel for you – is enough, it always has been and always will be.

CD speaks

Still, regrets linger.  I failed to grasp the void their absence would leave until they were gone. I grossly undervalued hours and minutes we might’ve shared, if I hadn’t been busy with meaningless things.

Janet and Kathleen at the gravesite

Don’t postpone a visit because work’s been crazy but should calm down. Life never settles down. Choices must be made. Some choices won’t be available tomorrow. Forget the fantasy there’s a perfect moment to express how much someone means to you. There is only one perfect moment – now. Nobody’s guaranteed the next one. If you love someone, say it. What’ve you got to lose?

Gravesite

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 8, 1973

March 8, 1973

All of my dreams are coming true can dissolve


What looked like my lucky break was actually a crash course in how quickly “All my dreams are coming true!” can dissolve into no one’s returning my phone calls. Sadly, this was far from my last experience with emotional whiplash, careers version.

My teacher and mentor, Bill Froug
My teacher and mentor, Bill Froug

Still, Froug was right when he advised me to celebrate. Why not bask in the potential something amazing just might happen? So what if it doesn’t, this time?  The near-miss zone is nothing to be ashamed of. Most people never get that close. Nobody gets there by accident. Somebody noticed you and said, “the kid’s got talent.” If they didn’t believe it, they wouldn’t waste their time. The least you can do is believe in yourself.

The least you can do is believe in yourself

Legend has it, the average overnight success endures twenty to fifty rejections before they’re rewarded with that first life-changing YES. What are you waiting for? The faster you rack up the no’s, the sooner your dreams come true.

What are you waiting for?The script that earned me this near-miss – “Intimate Changes,” not the greatest title – never got produced, but it won me introductions to agents, producers and network execs, all pivotal in my later career.  What felt like loss was only life unfolding more slowly than I preferred.

 

February 26, 1971

February 26, 1971

Project One Films

The first time I saw a commercial for a phone that shot photos, it looked absurd. Cameras were for taking pictures, phones were for talking. The combination could only weaken them both.

Obviously, I was wrong – so very wrong. Today, even though I have a good digital camera, I shoot photos with my phone.  However, this brave new world was far in the future when I unwrapped my second-hand Vivitar. To me, it was state of the art; I couldn’t imagine asking more of any device.

In San Diego with the family around '71.
In San Diego with the family around ’71.

As it turns out, there’s no end to things I couldn’t imagine then but take for granted today. Remote controls. Microwaves. Cheap calculators. Smart phones. Cars that come with screens and GPS. Watches that keep track of my steps, my heartbeat, my minutes of REM sleep.

In my right hand, super-8 mm film which UCLA required Project 1 students to synchronize with 16mm soundtrack (left hand). Digital was but a dream!
In my right hand, super-8 mm film which UCLA required Project 1 students to synchronize with 16mm soundtrack (left hand). Digital was but a dream!

And, of course, the unsettling reality that unknown corporations, foreign and domestic, know more about me than the people in my life. The amount of data that potentially could be harvested from this blog is scary. Why keep doing it?

A selfie taken with my phone this year - unimaginable in 1971
A selfie taken with my phone this year – unimaginable in 1971

Realistically, I can’t stuff the genie back in the bottle. What hits the net, lives there forever. And I kind of love it that after I’m gone, bits of my life will live in cyberspace.

 

February 21, 1965

Chad & Jeremy Clipping
February 21, 1965
A couple years ago, my sisters and I saw Chad and Jeremy at McCabe’s, a relatively small venue in Santa Monica. They signed autographs after the show so I got in line. As I inched forward, I overheard people in front of me – all of whom, to my biased eyes, looked decades older than I felt. (I’m sure they thought the same about me.)

Chad Stuart signing an autograph.
Chad Stuart signing an autograph.

In December, Joyce and I saw Jeremy Clyde at an even smaller venue, The Coffee Gallery Backstage in Altadena, CA. It poured on the drive over and Joyce ranted about how she hated to drive in hard rain. Everything changed when the show started.  Our seats were spectacular – literally, about two feet from Jeremy – who was charming, witty and self-deprecating.

Jeremy Clyde at The Coffee Gallery in December.
Jeremy Clyde at The Coffee Gallery in December.

He explained Chad stopped touring. He played Chad and Jeremy’s biggest hits – Yesterday’s Gone, Willow Weep for Me and Summer Song – and selections from his solo CD series, the Bottom Drawer Tapes. In a perfect world he would’ve played Distant Shores, too, but this was close enough for me.

Our seats were spectacular - literally, about two feet from Jeremy
Our seats were spectacular – literally, about two feet from Jeremy

On April 9, 2016 I wrote a precursor to this blog, thinking I had done everything in my power to see Chad and Jeremy, AGAIN, after 51 years (http://www.kathleenrowell.com/2016/04/09/51-years-between-chad-jeremy-concerts/) – little did I know I would experience this wonderful evening with Jeremy Clyde.  I hope new opportunities arise as I seem to be growing younger, at least with my music idols.

February 18, 1967

February 18, 1967

This entry’s self-conscious attempt at being “lyrical” suggests I wrote it for others to read, not to bare my soul. One of my failings as a writer (or strengths, depending on your point of view) is my conspicuous lack of place description. It bores me in other people’s fiction, so why torture my readers?

Sandy on this snow trip.
Sandy on this snow trip.

Elmore Leonard’s ninth and tenth rules of writing are:

  1. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.
  2. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

The parts I tend to skip are description – of place in particular, but pretty much everything else too. Some people love elaborate descriptions of food. I hate them. Unless it affects the plot – for example, if there’s arsenic in the quiche – it just doesn’t matter if the hero selects steak or salmon as his entrée.

Me in the snow
Me in the snow

One can argue what people eat defines aspects of their character. The guy who loves Popeye’s is rarely mistaken for the dude who dines at Nobu. That said, there’s no excuse for describing more than one meal per person per book.  The reader doesn’t need to know and I don’t want to.

February 9, 1964

February 9, 1964

When dinosaurs roamed the Earth, if you missed Sullivan the first night he featured the Beatles, you were out of luck. No internet, no streaming, no DVDs, VHS or Beta. Today, when virtually any entertainment is a click away, it’s hard to recall when missing a show meant never seeing it, unless you caught it on summer reruns.

My sisters and I around '64
My sisters and I around ’64

Since then, I’ve seen this performance many times. Even if I didn’t own the DVD, it’s widely available.  While still entertaining, it can’t possibly match the excitement of watching the event unfold in real time, live.

Do people born post-Beatles fully comprehend their impact. I write about them because they were that important. There’s “before” the Beatles and there’s “after.” How many entertainers – heck, how many people – can you say that about, on a worldwide basis? Their music was the soundtrack of my adolescence, their existence colored my world.

Around '64 again - a very different world.
Around ’64 again – a very different world.

When I listen closely, I still shiver with excitement. More than fifty years later, they still sound fresh. Different. Thrilling. Electric. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah, oooooo. I think I’ll watch that tape again.

February 5, 1975

February 5, 1975

The morning after I met J, I told my best friend Gail “I met the man I’m going to marry.” I believed this but – as the above entry makes clear – J hadn’t reached the same conclusion. Because it was a done deal in my own mind, I needed J and Gail to get along.

J and I, a million years ago
J and I, a million years ago

It’s a problem when your best friend loathes your significant other. Usually, I’m the one who detests my friend’s beloved. The friendship suffers when my friend chooses the love of her life over me, her jealous, bitchy buddy. Go figure.

My best friend Gail
My best friend Gail

I didn’t want to choose. Choosing means giving up an option, possibly forever. I avoid it when I can. Luckily, J and Gail clicked. Despite many miles and years since that night, we remain close today.

Gail is part of the bridal party (in lime green) - I'm still apologizing about the dresses!
Gail is part of the bridal party (in lime green) – I’m still apologizing about the dresses!

For the record, I did not get more aggressive and gregarious around Law House although J did get more irritable (and irritating) as finals approached. It didn’t matter. My premonition was correct. I’d met the man I would marry.

January 27, 1968

January 27, 1968

JoAnn Hill 1In high school, JoAnn was beautiful, vibrant and sunny. She was taller than I was – such a treat to feel short for a change! She was a fearless tomboy, endlessly curious, generous and optimistic. I could’ve learned a lot from her, if I’d paid more attention.

JoAnn Hill 2JoAnn moved to Los Angeles shortly after I did and we stayed close friends for at least twenty years. At some point, for no particular reason, our paths diverged and we lost touch. After google became a thing, I tried to find her. While I could track down a great many people from my past, JoAnn’s last name was one of the most popular surnames in the USA. Knowing where she graduated from high school as well as her birthday didn’t help.

JoAnn Hill 3Then, out of the blue, earlier this year, my landline rang and caller ID displayed an unfamiliar number. Usually, I let it go to voice mail, but for some reason I picked up – and heard JoAnn’s voice. Incredibly, I still have the same home phone number I had forty years ago. Even more incredibly, JoAnn had that phone number written down somewhere and dialed it.

JoAnn Hill 4A lot changed for both of us in the intervening years. We both lost our parents and she lost one of her brothers.  My children turned into adults. She moved back to San Jose and began raising borzoi dogs. As usual, our lives didn’t unfold exactly as we expected but our lives are good. We haven’t met in person again, yet, but I know we will. I can’t wait.

JoAnn and her smiling Borzoi (also called the Russian wolfhound)
JoAnn and her smiling Borzoi (also called the Russian wolfhound)

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