sixties

March 28, 1992

March 28, 1992_edited-1 

Two sisters in Taos

Joyce and I went to Taos to visit a former friend I’ll call V (for Voldemort – she who must not be named). Neither Joyce nor I had ever been there. Ostensibly we were going to get a lot of writing done but I’m not sure either of us believed that would happen (it didn’t). In truth, it was a chance to escape our routine days – which revolved around our husbands and children – and reclaim our “independence”.

Getting silly. (Joyce and I do this a lot.)
Getting silly. (Joyce and I do this a lot.)
At African dance class.
At African dance class.

We shopped in Taos, took silly pictures, and beaded necklaces. V talked us into taking an African Dance class.  Later she wound us up and down twisting mountain roads to a secret hot spring that supposedly few people knew about. After we parked, we hiked down a narrow slippery path to the spring.

Buying beads.
Buying beads.

It was every bit as spectacular and secluded as advertised – a genuine hot spring with a breath-taking view of the Rio Grande rushing past hundreds of feet below. Joyce and I, Midwestern Lutherans at our core, are not the type of girls to skinny-dip, but V ridiculed our narrow-minded inhibitions so we shed our clothes and slipped into the steaming water.

Memories come back of Joyce and I in the hot tub trying to do an Ingmar Bergman PERSONA inspired pose.
Memories come back of Joyce and I in the hot tub trying to do an Ingmar Bergman PERSONA inspired pose.

I’m glad she did. It was magical, a once-in-a-lifetime experience and I would’ve regretted it if I’d declined. Remembering special times shared with V creates all manner of cognitive dissonance. It’s easier to demonize, to refuse the existence of any mitigating factors.

Striking a pose1

I suspect I am not alone here. Experiences contradicting my mind set are inconvenient and acceptance is hard work.

Striking a pose2

My diary drags me kicking and screaming back to reality.

Striking a pose3

 

March 25, 1970

March 25, 1970

Janet and I in our Santa Clara neighborhood shortly after we moved there.
Janet and I in our Santa Clara neighborhood shortly after we moved there.

It’s not terribly surprising I was adamant about Santa Clara being my home considering my family left Santa Clara for San Diego a mere six months before I wrote this entry. In contrast, it astonishes me that 47 years later, I still regard Santa Clara as my home – despite the fact I never lived there again. Realistically, hasn’t LA – where I’ve lived the last 47 years – earned the right to be called home?

Yeah, objectively, no doubt about it. Emotionally, not so fast. I grew up in Santa Clara, it will forever be where I spent my childhood, it’s the backdrop for all my highly formative memories and experiences.

My sisters and I in front of our Santa Clara parsonage - the girl on the far right in the bathing suit is Alana (Lennie), a neighbor and early friend.
My sisters and I in front of our Santa Clara parsonage – the girl on the far right in the bathing suit is Alana (Lennie), a neighbor and early friend.
The three Knutsen sisters in August of 1957
The three Knutsen sisters in August of 1957

Unfortunately, the Santa Clara I regard as home ceased to exist shortly after I left. I’ve covered this in other blogs (July 18, 1969, August 26, 1969) and I’m loathe to repeat myself. Still, Santa Clara’s metamorphoses into Silicon Valley fascinates me.

Janet, Joyce and I in front of Santa Clara parsonage a little later.
Janet, Joyce and I in front of Santa Clara parsonage a little later.

Someday I’d love to write a historical novel about Santa Clara. I’d approach it as a multi-generational saga about a family who own an apricot orchard, tracing family members and the city itself as it evolves to Silicon Valley.  I’ve been warned family sagas are out of fashion but by the time I finish, they might be all the rage again.

March 19, 1965

 


March 19, 1965

Perhaps Sandy and I shared a deviously clever rationale for the eraser scam – but I doubt it. The truth is, occasionally – maybe frequently, depending on your point of view – Sandy and I could be extremely unique. Creative? Original? Okay, off the charts weird.

Sandy & Kathy2

Apparently, our acquisition of the eraser was a major coup – why? And what, exactly, was the purpose of the Corridor Stomp?  If I put on my amateur shrink hat, I suspect the aggressive march was our way to feel powerful and in control of a situation – Junior High – that was beyond our control.

Sandy & Kathy1

To me, something else stands out even more than our weirdness – our innocence, particularly by today’s standards. When I wrote this entry, Sandy and I were fourteen. In our own minds, we were BAD-ASS rebels without a cause. Kathy and Sandy equals explosion!

Sandy and I, approximately 1965
Sandy and I, approximately 1965

How big was our explosion? We didn’t shoplift, fool around with older boys, deface public property, hot-wire cars or joyride. We stalked – unobserved – down hallways and tricked school supplies out of hapless janitors. Woo-hoo, stand aside Bonnie and Clyde, here come Kathy and Sandy – hide your chalk and bar the doors, or kiss that pencil sharpener goodbye.

Re-enacting the Corridor Stomp years later.
Re-enacting the Corridor Stomp years later.

I don’t regret our extreme innocence. In the fifty years that follow, we’ll find more than enough time and opportunity to lose it. We were fortunate to be as naïve as we were in a world where childhood shortens with every new generation.

No one over 12 years old allowed

I don’t think we missed out on anything nor did we do actual harm amusing ourselves with our naïve rebellions. I never feared being “a little weird” when I was with Sandy, I was too busy laughing and having a blast.

animated-explosion-image-0009

animated-laughing-image-0175

March 9. 1969

March 9, 1969

This wasn’t my first – or last – fantasy about taking drastic measures to escape my life. I didn’t follow through on this brilliant plan or any of the others which didn’t stop me from devising new schemes to start over someplace else whenever I’m overwhelmed where I am.

Flying away to Sweden
Flying away to Sweden

Before my wedding, I thought about hopping a plane and disappearing in Sweden (because I took Swedish at UCLA, as if that would do me any good.)  Thank God I lost my nerve – or regained my senses – and showed up at the church on time. Sticking around and seeing things through was always the right choice.

Hop a train to a new life, new name, new city.
Hop a train to a new life, new name, new city.

The fantasy of running away – starting a new life with a new name – is probably impossible in our high-tech surveillance-happy world. Even if I could, there’s no reason to believe my new life would improve on the one I’m living. As the saying goes, wherever you run to, you take yourself with you.

Go where?
Go where?

And of course, “myself” is the problem. The only way to change my circumstances is change myself. It’s an inside adjustment, not an outside one. I didn’t know that in ’69, as I sank into a bottomless clinical depression. I find solace in the fact that no matter how much I wanted to leave this life, I stayed – and you know what? It got better.

These boots are made for walking - incognito woman of mystery somewhere far north of here
These boots are made for walking – incognito woman of mystery somewhere far north of here

March 1, 1965

March 1, 1965

animated-scared-image-0006

what if?

What a classic example of freaking out about something that isn’t close to happening. From the sound of this entry, I wasn’t even babysitting when I started down this terrifying path of “What ifs?”  That said, on more than one actual babysitting job, my parents had to deliver Janet to calm me down – and I hadn’t even seen movies like Halloween.  (They hadn’t been made yet and even if they’d been available, my parents forbade us to see horror movies. Their attitude was, “If you still want to see this gore when you’re 18, fine. Until then, you don’t need it.”  Given my propensity for hysteria, I can’t argue with their wisdom.

Photo clearly taken on March 2nd - could be 1965, not sure (sadly)
Photo clearly taken on March 2nd – could be 1965, not sure (sadly)

This tendency to extrapolate the most dreadful outcome of any given situation was a curse in romantic relationships. If a guy didn’t call me on time, I convinced myself he was losing interest, intended to drop me, hated me, was madly in love with my worst enemy. Once these ideas took hold, it was hard to release them and I turned into a needy clingy nutcase.

In front of our house on Del Monte around this time.
In front of our house on Del Monte around this time.

Lucky for me, one area where catastrophizing is an asset not a liability is film and television writing.  When writing a movie of the week, you look for the worst possible alternative. If a husband checks out the hot divorcee down the street, odds are his wife will be dead by the first commercial break. The more trouble a writer can hurl at his hero, the more dramatic and emotionally involving the story. The principle works in fiction – not so much in real life.

February 25, 1969

February 25, 1969

In late February 1969, my clinical depression escalated. (See November 30, 1968) My part-time job at California Book couldn’t save me but it staunched the bleeding. It forced me to adhere to a schedule. I only worked 16 hours a week, but it was my first job and I took it seriously. It didn’t infringe on my social life since I no longer had one. I didn’t miss it.

Some people lose weight when they get depressed. They find no pleasure in food. That was never my problem. I packed on twenty pounds in no time.
Some people lose weight when they get depressed. They find no pleasure in food. That was never my problem. I packed on twenty pounds in no time.
In a futile attempt to hide the extra pounds, I made poor fashion choices like this.
In a futile attempt to hide the extra pounds, I made poor fashion choices like this.

The major symptom of my despair was a total lack of interest in anything. Anhedonia is the technical term. It means “an inability to experience pleasure from activities usually found enjoyable … including the motivation or desire to engage in activities.”  It took enormous effort to shower. If I also washed my hair, I was too spent to go to school. Not so long ago I could do both – wash my hair and attend school –  but not anymore.

Trying to hide behind my happy nuclear family, I make another poor fashion decision.
Trying to hide behind my happy nuclear family, I make another poor fashion decision.

I knew I wasn’t living up to the curse of my so-called potential. My parents were disappointed, although they never said so. It was nothing compared to how much I loathed myself.

The last thing I needed was more time in bed to think. That kind of self-centered contemplation was like swimming through quicksand – there was no way out, only down. The answer was activity, to get out of bed and out of the house. I knew what to do, but I lacked the energy – and the desire – to do it.

HANG ON!
HANG ON!

Writing about my year of depression is about as much fun as living it. I do it because so many people get stuck in something similar. In the thick of it, I felt alone and empty. It might’ve helped to know I wasn’t. If you’re depressed and read this, remember – you’re not alone or empty either. Things get better. Hang on.

February 23, 1964


February 23, 1964

 

The four of us in 1964 - From the left, Me, Natalie, Janet & Joyce
The four of us in 1964 – From the left, Me, Natalie, Janet & Joyce

From today’s vantage point, life looks simple in ‘64 but it didn’t feel that way then. I obsessed over what other people thought of me (which they didn’t, much). Subtle shifts in friendship sent me reeling. I stewed about my performance in school. I wanted to be number one in everything but I was afraid to be best at anything.

I was afraid to be best at anything.
I was afraid to be best at anything.

My need to be number one began in ‘53, when my parents shattered my fragile 2-year-old psyche by bringing my sister Janet home. I got their message loud and clear. If I’d been a better baby – cuter, smarter, more entertaining – they wouldn’t have needed another baby. I ran outside and bawled my eyes out.

Me, on the day they brought Janet home.
Me, on the day they brought Janet home.
It's nice to have Janet to play with sometimes.
It’s nice to have Janet to play with sometimes.

They flat-out refused to return her. Over time, I discovered she – and later Joyce – had some good points. Little sisters were easy to trick. Gradually both of them became fun to talk to. In fact, it was easier to talk to them than anyone else in the world.

We can talk to each other about things other people don't understand. Because it's a Knutsen thing.
We can talk to each other about things other people don’t understand. Because it’s a Knutsen thing.

Because we knew which buttons to push, emotions ran high. They could cut me to the bone, infuriate and inspire me, rouse my jealousy and my compassion. On balance, we shared more laughter than tears.

Sharing some laughter.
Sharing some laughter.

I trust them with my deepest secrets, my darkest self. When I fail and feel all is lost, my sisters raise me from the dead. They’ve got my back when I need them most. They love me when I don’t deserve it, believe in me when I give up. They’re the wind beneath my wings, my bridge over troubled waters. They light up my life. You get the gist.

We learn how to share precious puppies and kittens.
We learn how to share precious puppies and kittens.

Maybe all things considered, what my sisters give me is bigger than the narcissistic wound Janet inflicted. Maybe gains always come with pain. Maybe I should stop whining about what happened 63 years ago.

Is it finally time to let this go? Now that we're all so mature?
Is it finally time to let this go? Now that we’re all so mature?

Nah. Not yet. More on this in my three photo blogs – When I was an Only Child (2 years 2 days of Bliss), Kathy Vs. the Alien Baby and And then there were three.

 

They're so happy and normal. I would be too, if everyone loved me best.
They’re so happy and normal. I would be too, if everyone loved me best.

 

February 21, 1993

February 21, 1993
 Matthew Patrick was the young director of a movie I wrote for the USA network called “Tainted Blood”. As the title suggests, it wasn’t nominated for any Emmys but it was an entertaining psychological thriller (which adopted girl is the psycho-killer?)

Tainted Blood
The ad that ran in TV Guide when the movie aired in ’93.

Cast against type, Raquel Welch did a good job as an investigative journalist. Given her fame and beauty, I expected a cold bitch and was pleasantly surprised she was warm and friendly – not to mention every bit as stunning in person as she was on-screen.

Paralyzed by self-consciousness, wishing i could think of something fascinating to say.
Paralyzed by self-consciousness, wishing I could think of something fascinating to say.

I never felt like I “belonged” at Hollywood parties so they were stressful. In this case, most of the guests knew each other from weeks on the same set. I never went to the set and didn’t know anyone but the host.

The easiest Hollywood party ever -- my sister Janet's 30th birthday party, less than two weeks after Matthew Patrick's party.
The easiest Hollywood party ever — my sister Janet’s 30th birthday party, less than two weeks after Matthew Patrick’s party. With my sisters and Dolly Parton.

I’m not sure what Sam and Alex were doing at a cast party. To the best of my recollection, Matthew met them when we tweaked the final draft of the script at my house. I wouldn’t have brought them if he hadn’t invited them. His affinity for children impressed me. I thought Laurie Frank was great too (so did Sam) but our paths never crossed again.

Matthew Patrick
Matthew Patrick

Actually, everyone I encountered at the party was likable. I’m the one who erected barriers. No one laughed at my faux pas or dissed my ugly shoes; the only one paying  any attention  to my insecurities was me. When I stopped thinking about myself and turned my gaze on the other guests, I discovered open unpretentious smart and talented people. Too bad I didn’t figure this out till my thirties; high school would’ve been a lot easier.

Other people aren't so scary after all.
Other people aren’t so scary after all.

 

February 20, 1978

February 20, 1978

 The script I refer to here turned out to be my breakthrough spec script “At 17”, inspired by and loosely based on the brilliant Janis Ian song of the same title. I didn’t have the rights – I don’t know if anyone actually did – but ABC was developing it as a Movie of the Week (MOW).

Jani and I when we were both close to At 17 in real life
Jani and I when we were both close to At 17 in real life.

My former boss at NBC, the late and much lamented Len Hill, was one of the ABC executives in charge of MOWs; my sister Janet was his assistant/secretary. He told me if I could write a brilliant script in the next ten days he’d consider it equally with the scripts the network paid for. Ten days isn’t enough to write a great script from scratch under any circumstances and it wasn’t the best of times for me. My son CD was 14 months old but well on his way to the terrible twos.

Most of my time and energy went into containing CD
Most of my time and energy went into containing CD

Nonetheless, I gave it my best shot. The tension was so high I threw up on some of those late nights (gross, I know) but – with Jani’s assistance – I finished it.  I don’t think Len or anybody else expected me to do it.

Janet and I
Janet and I

The problem was – it wasn’t good enough. The network preferred the writer who cashed their big checks. The rejection was so devastating I gave up until my pride and desire for revenge resurrected me. “I’ll show you,” I thought. “I’ll do a great rewrite and prove you were wrong to dismiss me.”

"I'll show you. I'll do a great re-write and prove you were wrong to dismiss me."
“I’ll show you. I’ll do a great re-write and prove you were wrong to dismiss me.”

 Did I succeed? I think so. Although the film never got made, it was optioned three times and garnered interest from directors like Martha Coolidge and Amy Heckerling. Years after Molly Ringwald aged out of playing a teen-ager, she told me she would’ve loved to play one of the parts. To say the least, I would’ve loved for her to play it but my script didn’t reach her at the right time.     

No one was better than Molly Ringwald when it came to playing complicated teenagers.
No one was better than Molly Ringwald when it came to playing complicated teenagers.

That’s the way things go. Big ups, big downs. Victories won, battles lost, it’s hard to quantify wins and losses when script quality is so subjective and the industry’s in constant flux.  The bottom line is, were those ten sleepless days and nights worth it when I failed to get what I wanted?   Would I do it again? Hell, yes. If I had my life to live over, I’d try harder, reach higher and risk bigger losses.  The only way to fail for good is giving up.

February 16, 1967

February 16, 1967

Me, with my father and his parents when we still lived in Iowa - early fifties.
Me, with my father and his parents when we still lived in Iowa – early fifties.

 I wasn’t as lucky as my Iowa cousins or my children – they grew up in close proximity to at least one set of grandparents. Since my sisters and I lived within five miles of our parents, all of our children spent a lot of time with Grandma and Grandpa. I saw my grandparents once a year at most when we went to Iowa or they came to California.

My father with his grandchildren.
My father with his grandchildren.

Consequently, while I have vivid impressions of my grandparents, I can’t say I really knew them – certainly not as well as my cousins did. My grandmother was particularly elusive – quiet, sensitive, soft-spoken and introverted although in fairness most people would appear quiet in the shadow of my extroverted grandfather R.S. He was so gregarious and entertaining it was only natural that she let him do most of the talking.

My sisters and I with parents, grandparents and parish worker Marion Voxland - probably 1964 or so.
My sisters and I with parents, grandparents and parish worker Marion Voxland – probably 1964 or so.

I see elements of both my father’s parents in my father. Like RS, he was comfortable talking to others and easy for them to talk to – because, like my grandmother, he listened more than he talked.  His gentle nature and sensitivity resembled his mother more than his father but he was very much his own man – as he had to be, to leave his family roots in Iowa to move to California.

My dad and I with Chris and Alex. It was great they lived close enough to go on fun outings together.
My dad and I with Chris and Alex. It was great they lived close enough to go on fun outings together.

What I like about this diary entry is the way Grandma spoke up for herself in a clear but non-confrontational way.  She didn’t disagree or contradict RS often, but on the rare occasions she did, what she said was worth hearing. I wish I’d written more of it down.

 


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