Movie nostalgia

When I couldn't find a friend to join me at the movies on a recent Monday afternoon, I decided, as I often do, to go by myself. As I entered Theater 14 in the megaplex, I stood in momentary disbelief when I realized that not only did my friends have something else to do, apparently so did everyone else in Vista and the surrounding communities. The theater, except for me and the camera's whirring, was empty. I wondered how long the complex could stay open if this were typical, and then struggled with the even more pressing problem of how I would drink my contraband soda if I couldn't become invisible in a crowd.
 Having my pick of seats, I chose a center spot in a row where I could put my feet up if I so desired and sat back to watch the monotony of candy advertisements, movie star quizzes and fascinating Hollywood facts. As I waited to don my 3D glasses for the feature film, the thought of this new-old fad sent me into a spin of nostalgia.

 All of sudden, I saw myself on the outdoor theater lawn at Lake Winola, Pennsylvania. Wrapped in blankets with my friend Nancy, whose parents owned a lakeside cottage, we settled in to watch the latest in 3D with our red and blue glasses. Sunburned from our day motoring around the lake in her family's outboard or canoeing carefully among the lily pads at one secluded spot where fishing was best, we laughed about boys, ate popcorn and screamed at whatever monster might leap from the screen. One of our favorites, though not in 3D, was Vincent Price's "The Fly," which prompted the loudest screams of all. For weeks, we devised play situations, and even a few pre-teen crank calls, where we could huskily whisper, "Heeeellllp me, heeellllp me!" We knew all our friends had watched as Price morphs into an insect after experimenting with scientific transference. We knew they lived in fear. We capitalized on it.
  We also loved "The Blob," especially watching the slimy monstrosity grow redder and redder as it wreaked havoc in the community. We sang, "Beware of the The Blob . . . it creeps and leaps and glides and slides across the floor, right through the door . . ." and collapsed into paroxysms of laughter to cover up our nervousness that this creature might enter our bedrooms at any time.
 I loved movies as a child. My father often took me, and I remember walking down the street holding his hand, feeling secure and loved, eagerly awaiting whatever might unfold on the screen. Oddly enough, the film "Sayonara" stands out in stark relief in my memory. Why this would appeal to a child, I'm not sure, except to say I already apparently was developing a sensitivity concerning racial bias. My heart broke when Red Buttons and Myoshi Umeki committed suicide rather than face separation.
   I must have wished, as I saw this movie many times over, that somehow the romance would turn out differently. I wished it again years later as the love between Tony and Maria in "West Side Story" ended in disaster. Little did I know that I would experience my own real-life drama concerning an inter-racial relationship during my college days. No one died in my case, except for a piece of my heart.
   I also cried each time I watched Melanie's death scene in "Gone With the Wind". The ominous aura created in the candlelit room as she begs Scarlett O'Hara to watch over Ashley, apparently naively unaware that Scarlett has lusted over Ashley from the beginning, both disturbed and entranced me.
 Just as I began to realize that I must not have seen many comedies in my childhood, the theater darkened. A few more patrons had come, and we put on our glasses to watch the Mad Hatter, the Cheshire Cat, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee all become larger than life in the 21st-century adaptation of "Alice in Wonderland."
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Thanksgiving in July

Snickers Salad prompted the idea.
In a getting-to-know-you conversation with my youngest son's girlfriend, she mentioned that Thanksgiving is her favorite holiday. I concurred, and off we went on a verbal holiday meal tour. When she said her favorite dish is her aunt's Snickers Salad, I have to admit that I, well, snickered.
"It's so good," she raved. "It's made with apples, walnuts, chunks of Snickers bars, all mixed in a dressing of mayonnaise and Cool Whip."
"It sounds like some kind of Waldorf Salad on steroids," I said, and then went on to reminisce about my grandmother's Holiday Fruit Salad, which I prepare for every special occasion. It, too, is a fruit concoction, only made of grapes, pineapple, pecans and mini-marshmallows in a dressing of whipped cream and a blend of eggs and lemon.
Thus, when Joey and Sonia spent the July 4th holiday weekend with me on the eve of his departure to Melbourne, Australia, for a three-year job stint, I came up with a plan. We would have a Thanksgiving meal in July. Joey will be Down Under in November, and Sonia will be with her family in Iowa, as is her tradition. Focusing on gratitude year-round makes sense to me anyway, so out came the recipes for my grandmother's salad, my pecan pie, and my dad's favorite banana bread.
Even though cranberries are not in season, and even though we did not roast a whole turkey, we captured the essence. Even though one of my grandsons has an apparent genetic defect that causes him to dislike mashed potatoes, we allowed him at the table. Even though she feared no one would like it, Sonia whipped up her Snickers Salad. Since little of it was left over after the meal, her anxiety was allayed.
We sat around a table decorated with fall foliage and a representative pilgrim and Indian maiden. We shared about those things that fill our hearts with gratitude. We laughed over the silliness that playing "Catch Phrase" brings forth. We celebrated tradition. We celebrated Thanksgiving.
(In photo: Joey and Sonia)

Kona speaks out

While she is not looking, I will take over her blog.
She has ruined an otherwise completely glorious morning. She tricked me. We took a long walk along the beachfront, our customary Friday morning practice, and we even lingered to watch a pod of dolphins leaping gleefully in the surf. We noticed some pelicans skimming the waves in search of food. The warm sun belied last night's chilly winds and lower than average temperatures for late April. What a doggy delight morning!
When we came home, I snuggled up for a nap, only to have her snatch me out of my bed and plunge me into the tub. Before I knew it, she had drenched me. Well, yes, okay, the water was warm; nonetheless, I felt outraged at the trickery. And well, yes, okay, it probably made me smell better as a result, but here's the thing. She rubbed me with conditioner after the shampoo, and now I smell like a coconut. What self-respecting male dog smells like a coconut?
I showed her, though. After she finished drying and combing me, I did a few donuts on the bedroom floor. I messed up those carefully brushed ears. Ha!
I want you to examine this picture closely. Does look like the face of a happy, content dog? Do I look appropriately mistreated and forlorn?
I suppose I must accept this occasional abuse. After all, she has control of the food.
And no, I'm not going to show you how terrifically fluffy I look. It could work against me. And no, I'm not going to admit that I enjoyed my favorite peanut butter-flavored treat afterwards. I could barely smell it for the coconut.

Generations of women

With Mother's Day on the horizon, a pastor friend of mine from Aiea, Hawaii, asked me if I would write a poem for his congregation. He wanted something he could hand out to all the women in his church that Sunday. He nudged me out of my comfort zone with the thought of poetry, but I agreed to give it a try.
To be perfectly frank, thoughts of not uncommon mother-daughter conflicts came to mind first. This, I thought, is not necessarily the stuff of which Mother's Day poems are made, at least not for my intended audience.
I decided to keep thinking.
As I pondered, I glanced at some lilacs and sweet peas on my kitchen table, which inspired this poem, focusing not just on mothers, but on matriarchal influence through generations.

"Generations of Mothers"

As I inhale the sweet scents of purple
From the simple glass jar on my kitchen table
A makeshift vase full of lavender lilacs and violet sweet peas
Grown and tended lovingly in my friend's garden
I close my eyes only to find myself in my grandmother's kitchen
When breezes scented with lilacs and sweet peas lifted me

Into an Eden of childhood delight
And today I breathe in my grandmother once again --
Her apples pies, always created with enough extra crust
To allow me to fashion tarts, cutting holes into the tops with her sewing thimble,

Her specialty pork roast with cinnamon pears,
Pears blushing in scarlet after their soaking bath in a bowl of red-hots
Her horehound candies highlighted in a crystal dish

Set right in the center of a handmade doily on her end table
Sweet grandmother
Who taught me to play canasta, counting every card
Who watched me scamper through sprinklers on sweltering summer days
Who sat with me on the front-porch swing and shared stories
Who loved me because her only daughter had borne me
Who scrimped and saved to sew my mother's prom dress
Who protected my mother from Pop's periodic binges
Who whispered, "This, too, shall pass"
And turned often to the pages of her well worn Bible

And sang to herself, "Jesus loves me, this I know . . ."
Precious grandmother
Ended her journey after she finished washing windows
Then lay down to rest
Forever
Leaving a legacy of maternal gifts for her only daughter
Her only granddaughter
Her only great-granddaughter
And her only great-great granddaughter

Each co-creating with God the story of her own garden

My Phoebe

I have a new visitor, a winter muse, outside my kitchen window.
The lizards, who prefer basking in the sun and skittering along the patio and backyard walkway, have gone for the winter. (See 9/22/09 post)
In their stead, a Black Phoebe has arrived. It has come for several days in a row.
I relied on the knowledge of my dear friend, Gloria, an avid birder, for identification. When I noticed this new creature hopping around outside, I tried to take its picture. Apparently skittish by nature, or at least wary of humans, she flew away as soon as she heard the door open. When she returned a few minutes later, I jotted down the best description of her that I could -- small, mostly black, white belly and striped wings --and sent it off to Gloria. She responded within less than an hour, making her best guess based on the information I sent her. She also included a link to some photographs, which confirmed her answer to my query.
The bird has aroused my curiosity. I know she has a purpose here, an Advent angel of sorts. I'll keep watching.

View from the penthouse

"Trump Tower," my friend dubbed my four-story cat condo when she saw it.
Perhaps, I thought, it does look a bit ostentatious. Its residents, however, enjoy the luxury of cat resort living. At least someone in the household can wallow in the penthouse life.
In reality, Ginger and Willow don't visit the top floor all that often. They prefer, instead, the third level, where they cuddle together on a comfy, warm bed. Never mind that each one has her own bed; they choose to share. I often find them napping together in the afternoon. In typical feline manner, they explore the remainder of the condo, particularly its scratching posts, in their noctural journeys when I am trying to sleep.
Today, however, I noticed Ginger and Willow solidly entrenched in the penthouse. Instead of fully napping, they looked about the room with half-open eyes as if on alert. Their expressions showed a cross between disdain and apprehension. The reason? They have discovered that the world does not necessarily revolve around them. They have sensed that someone has infringed on what they perceive as their territory.
Indeed, someone has. Kona, mostly miniature poodle with a hint of Bichon, has joined the family.
Ginger and Willow have yet to decide if they should deign to fully acknowledge this young man, though he has done little except look adorable and bounce around the backyard like Tigger since he arrived last Friday night. Thus far, he has shown as much caution as they have, and no one has resorted to attack mode. They have figured out that they have to share "Good morning!" hugs, and they have dutifully ignored each other's food.
The girls, however, have decided to enjoy the view from the top, at least for the present.

Loving October

I am in love with October.
Finally a hint of fall has arrived in Vista, California. This morning's brisk air, last night's few raindrops, today's warm sun and the promise of gold-rimmed clouds at sunset tonight bring me a sense of peace unmatched at any other time of year. Winds blow more gustily this month, so the chimes outside my kitchen window dance more heartily as if they, too, celebrate October. Tonight's full moon will beckon to my sense of romance and mystery, as it always does.
If I decide to take a morning drive up the mountain this month, the smell of Julian apples will scent the breeze, and leaves beginning to turn color will provide a muted version of the vivid splash that East Coast residents enjoy.
This month is a cosmic present from God, a reminder to harvest all that the Earth provides and store it up. For me, since I'm not a farm girl who literally will harvest fruits of the earth, I will fill up on fruits of the spirit. I will draw on this spiritual storehouse during the emotional maelstrom that the holiday season often can become.