Dating Yourself in Pasadena

What's Old is New Again

2011-12-11T07:47:00.001-08:00

During several summers following high school, I, like nearly every teenager in Orange County, worked at Disneyland. Early in my career, one of my pals introduced me to another coworker in the parking lot. Actually, this new acquaintance was crawling out of the rumble seat of a 1939 Packard, if memory serves me. And as if to interpret the behavior, my friend said, "This is Ralf Reynolds. His grandma was ZaSu Pitts." Since I already had a dear Uncle Ralph Reynolds living in Downey, the name was easy to remember. The silent film star link sealed it into my knowledge reliquary.

But Disneyland yielded to other jobs and the years fled breathlessly. I forgot about Ralf Reynolds until somehow Facebook resurrected us. We've cyber-howdy'ed. Then came a Facebook post announcing a musical performance starring the Reynolds Brothers right here at the Coffee Gallery Backstage in Altadena! I had to go.

The Reynolds Brothers, Ralf and John, and their cohorts Marc Caparone and Katie Cavera, turn out to be a most genial, lively, historically-attuned band which specializes in American music of the 1920s and 1930s. Ralf is the maestro. He plays washboard, which is really a Rube-Goldbergian percussion system. John plays a gleaming silver guitar that looks like it must have been designed for the film, THE ROCKETEER. Marc heralds coronet, muted by an assortment of plungers and cupcake toppers. And Katie strums a cool cat bass, as well as warbling songs like, "Was That the Human Thing to Do?" Their effect is lovingly G-rated (well, maybe PG), informative, energetic, and completely pleasing.

The Coffee Gallery is a ten-minute walk from my cottage. As I headed over, I chided myself, "Why don't I ever go to events at this place?" It's intimate, accommodating 50 people. You pay admission to manager and impresario Bob Stane at the door to the rear room and enter an oblong space containing a stage, trompe l'oeil backdrop, plastic chairs and tables. It's dark and cozy and you don't even have to buy any drinks. But of course there are coffees available, and on this night a guest chef was barbecuing pulled pork. The patrons are of all ages. It's an easy place to feel happy.

The Reynolds Brothers perform regularly at California Adventure at Disney in Anaheim. The Coffee Gallery Backstage offers an eclectic performance series. Information and reservations are available at 626.798.6236.

A Better Life, No Matter How Elusive

2011-11-20T09:01:00.000-08:00

"Teacher, why are you showing me such a sad movie? I'm gonna cry all day."
"Miss, I'd kill to have a father like that!"

Sometimes I strike gold while watching a film with my students. It happened last week when we saw the summer 2011 independent film, A BETTER LIFE, directed by Chris Weitz.

It's my academic and personal mission to bring challenging material into the classroom. In continuation school, the challenges already in situ can thwart even my best intentions. But if I can find a riveting story, one that the kids and I can lose ourselves in, one with cinematic integrity, then we are rich indeed. A BETTER LIFE piqued our interest in a big way.

It's the topical story of a laboring undocumented immigrant who is both mother and father to his 14 year-old son. As some students wrote, "...the son is careless about what he does and disrespectful to his dad;" "He thinks he is ruthless, but he is a punk!" Or, "He's stubborn, cocky, and isn't thankful for what he has." The son does skitter along the margins of gang culture to the disapproval of my students. I heard them chuckle during exchanges where the speakers address each other as "fool," or use "A'ight," shorthand for all right. But many found the son's disdain for his dad's efforts insufferable and consorting with gangsters unwise.

The film is anchored by a majestic, understated performance by Mexican film star Demian Bichir. His suffering and stoicism elevate him from humility to nobility, if that's possible. The students' observations ranged from, "He doesn't hit his kid," to "He's very noble," to "He is the definition of a real man--he is humble, honest, eager for a better life." Bichir's monologue in the final minutes of the film is wrenching. One of the girls came to me afterward and said, "Miss, I'm glad the lights were off because I was crying so much." I told her I was crying too and we exchanged sad little smiles. But I am certain the father's love for his son reached almost all of the students because they were deeply attentive, something I do not take for granted.

When we watch a film, I'm as active as I can be without becoming obnoxious. That is, I want the students to start to become mindful of color, detail, lighting, story links. The kids are already plot-line experts, more acute in that area than I am. In A BETTER LIFE, all of Los Angeles is a plot element. Students recognize settings, saying, "It's very correct. Dead-on what East LA/Lincoln & Boyle Heights areas look like," or, "I like how they don't have to be in the middle of night for bad things to happen." Or, "It seems very real because it could happen to any Mexican parent." One girl nails it:"I think the film looks realistic in some ways for many of us."

Patric Goldstein wrote an article for the Los Angeles Times (CROSSING BORDERS, 11/17/11) elaborating upon the film's power. He makes an eloquent argument for a Best Actor nomination for Demian Bichir. I'm with him on that one. So are my students. Rent this film and see what you think.

A BETTER LIFE, directed by Chris Weitz
Starring Demian Bichir and Jose Julian
Summit Entertainment

Make Mine Lemonade

2011-11-19T06:06:00.000-08:00

Dare I cite the old bromide, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade?" Now I actually love lemons in their every form. Naturally, the other night I chose to visit Lemonade, a restaurant which opened at 146 South Lake Avenue two months ago. The occasion? A delayed birthday meal for one of my valiant friends who knows a thing or two about lemonizing.

This particular friend and I have a years-long tradition of meeting for dinner every 6 or 8 weeks, choosing restaurants that our families probably wouldn't go for. Hence, the Thai-Italian noodle house. The Peruvian that replaced Hooters. The serene Tibetan on Holly. But we haven't met for our dinners since last summer. Over a year ago, my friend received a dire diagnosis which has necessitated a series of surgeries. Life-changing surgeries. We are trying to get back on track. The good news is that she is here and she is sunny and she is braver than ever.

In the two hours that we devote to catching up about children and mulling over life's challenges, there's always some unexpected profundity that emerges. I was thunderstruck when she said, "Jean, you're an inspiration to me! You were homeless and practically living out of your car for months [between houses] and you still manage to stay positive!" Psssh, thought I. Mere inconvenience compared to the courage that health issues demand. She thanked ME for keeping in touch and keeping her connected. But who are we if we don't show our friends and families through our actions that we love them? And we cannot stint on this because we all need that support sometime.

We both were delighted to try Lemonade. It is a cafeteria-style design with a playful yellow motif. Look up to see the yolk-shaped light fixtures while you sit in a chair colored just like a hard-boiled egg. There is a boggling array of at least 20 salads which can be ordered in share-able portions. Sandwiches, braises, soups, and macaroni + cheese follow. The fancy lemonades include cucumber mint, which I tried for my walk on the wild side. We enjoyed an ample meal for about $20. Lemonade turns out to be an unexpected sweet spot in Pasadena. (Six other locations exist in Los Angeles County...LemonadeLA.com)

The Boy Who Taught Me How to Be a Teacher

2011-09-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

Once you get old enough, you start to develop a perspective about how life's random puzzle pieces have come to connect. Some pieces attach by sheer force, some settle gradually; but there are others whose fit becomes apparent only after the passage of years.

Now I was fortunate enough to be hired as a high school teacher at age 23. I had proceeded from high school to college to a fifth year credential program, and duly employed---there I stood, facing five daily classes populated with freshmen, sophomores, and juniors. School's basics were firmly in my grasp: know your subject matter; manage timing; keep track of everyone. It was the ineffable that I had yet to learn.

When I first went to write on the board, I remember wishing a miracle would occur, transforming my printy script into an elegant, disciplined, right-slanting hand. It never happened. In fact, the whole disciplined elegance factor eluded me. But I do know I felt an immediate and deep concern if I saw anyone resting his head on his desk, and very quickly I found just such a one in my afternoon class. What to do? My own brother was in another high school at the time. I knew he was involved in cartooning for the school paper. But I didn't have the maturity yet to try to knit my student into the school's fabric through activities. I just decided to keep approaching the desk-rester in a low-key manner; I presumed he probably viewed me as an over-zealous do-gooder. If he even noticed my efforts.

In that era there was room to act more creatively. I inquired of my department head and learned I could remove this boy from class and instead carry him as an independent study student during my conference period. The boy agreed to the arrangement. We moved forward without asking his parents--it never even occurred to me, again due to my inexperience. We met daily in the English department office. We read literature of alienation, like THE PAINTED BIRD by Jerzy Kozinski and Kafka's METAMORPHOSIS. We talked about our readings; he wrote more and more and he attended faithfully. Somehow we finished that year together. He was a sophomore, though I was but a freshman as a teacher.

The boy moved on into his junior and senior years, joining in school plays, revealing a sensitivity to art and a wonderful sense of humor. Once I asked, "How do you memorize all those lines for a play?" He replied, "It's really like a conversation. And if you think of it that way, it's very easy to recall all the lines in order." After he graduated, we lost track.

Close to fifteen years later, my cartooning brother, who grew up to become a special effects creator, phoned me to say he was working with a man who spoke highly of me and seemed to know me very well. It turned out to be this very same student! Today if you google Spectral Motion in Glendale, you will see the powerhouse work and boundless creativity of Mike and Mary Elizalde. They run one of the top creature shops in the movie industry. Mike has been nominated for an Academy Award. But more significant is his generosity and willingness to mentor other young artists.

Mike came to speak to two of my classes last week. He brought along a gifted young illustrator, Alex Palma, who crafts images to show to producers who have word-ideas of what they want. Many of my current students struggle academically and emotionally. Mike spoke to them about how to pursue work in the arts with a directness tinged by neither a cloying or "bootstraps" tone. He was modeling sincerity and respect for others. It was then that I realized how pivotal Mike had been in my own career development. I finally understood that he had taught me the ineffables, my own sacred trio: reach out to others; meet the students where they are and go forward; and be kind. It is so simple. But it takes all the time we have to master it.

22 Miles Across the Sea

2011-08-14T14:15:00.000-07:00

Catalina is a local destination I'd never visited before. The occasion? A day trip with a dear friend who was celebrating her birthday. Since she's more in the know than I am, she had acquired a free boat pass courtesy of the birthday promotion at www.CatalinaExpress.com. (Take a look! The offer is legitimate and it is good through April 2012.)

I booked my passage online to complement hers, departing San Pedro. There is a rather youthful senior-citizen rate (ahem, 55 and up), and if you wish to phone in reservations, AAA offers a $7.50 discount for up to six in a party. The boat terminal is located 45 minutes south of Pasadena. Parking for the day costs $12.00. Now if the facility looks vaguely familiar, perhaps it's because you've made some joyous drops here in the misty past, sending kids off to summer camp. I have, and that was my only association with the terminal. Now it was my turn to sail away.

Waiting in what feels like a small-town airport--friendly staff, no sense of impending terrorism--I read maps and recommendations and the correction that Catalina Island is not 26 miles away; it is twenty-two. The ride over takes 75 smooth minutes. Docking in Avalon calls for a southern California brain change; walking is the norm here! Almost all transport is by foot, golf cart ($40 per hour rental), or wheel (bikes, segways). The other adjustment is accepting that everything is on a tinier scale, more akin to Main Street Disneyland or Brugge. Small clapboard houses, narrow alleys, dinky splashes of gardens. First we located a deli and bought sandwiches. We took our lunch and walked toward the curvilinear casino, a 1920s Mediterranean landmark that houses performance space, a cinema, and a museum. Soon we sat on a bench to people-watch and read aloud all the boat-names we could see in the slips. After lunch we got serious about walking.

Through the town there are charming flat-lander neighborhood streets. We went into St. Catherine's Catholic Church, whose stained glass windows cast their nautical glow into the silent sanctuary. Then we headed upland in search of the Wrigley Garden. This route was more rustic, among eucalyptus, a campground, the sunny summer smell that results from sunshine falling on trees. We never did reach the botanical garden, but we did find a golf course with a snack shop offering dollar tacos. Sold! We fortified ourselves before heading back to the dock.

Thirty minutes before departure is the line-up formation. The return ride was simple, though I did spy some campers going home after their Catalina adventure. But they weren't my campers, and I coasted back to the mainland without a care in the world.

Reservations and information:
310-519-1212 or 800-422-9159
www.CatalinaExpress.com

CHILDREN OF THE STREET

2011-07-26T11:03:00.000-07:00

"To all those who dare to care" is the dedication in the newest novel by Pasadena author Kwei Quartey. CHILDREN OF THE STREET has just been released in paperback. It's a book unlike any you have read, unless you are already a fan of his first detective tale, WIFE OF THE GODS.

Both books are set in Accra, Ghana, the West African nation Americans may recognize for its horrific past as a slave source. As critical as its historic position remains, Ghana is also a fascinating, increasingly cosmopolitan presence. Its capital city Accra is a living, breathing creature sloughing off its provincial skin. Modernization in the forms of constant construction, international investment, and potential offshore oil reserves drives its metamorphosis. Kwei Quartey examines these elements with an insider's eye. You see, Kwei is a physician who was raised in Accra through his adolescence, the son of a Ghanaian father and an African-American mother. His authorial voice blends his African self with his American self. And overlaying both is his discernment of the frequent intersections of medicine and human nature.

Inspector Darko Dawson is the protagonist of these books. His first name is an anglicized version of "Daaku." Dawson is a husband, the father of a chronically ill boy, an honest guy working in an often-corrupt environment. He is also gripped by dark demons. It's Dawson's internal struggles that endear him to us. In the current book he is pursuing the killer of near-anonymous street teens, those ever-present hawkers and cart-pushers seen on Liberation Road or Independence Avenue. When the corpse of 17-year old Musa turns up in a filthy lagoon, Darko Dawson take the case. Accra's many faces glower and evade and occasionally shine as the detective seeks answers from every source.

Because Accra is such a complex city, Dr. Quartey sees it as the perfect setting for crime stories. His third book, MEN OF THE RIG, about the burgeoning oil industry, is due in 2012. His research visits to Ghana are chronicled on his website. Of particular interest is a school called Street Academy. Dr. Quartey formed a connection here and presently underwrites the education of one of its students. Ghana may seem a world away to us in California. Yet if we can dare to care, we too can connect. These books are a wonderful invitation to do just that.

Kwei Quartey joins a Barnes & Noble panel on "Deceit and Intrigue in Foreign Settings," at the Westside Pavilion, West Los Angeles, at 2 pm on Saturday, August 20.

www.kweiquartey.com

PSST! WORD OF MOUTH! GO SEE TERRI!

2011-07-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

TERRI is an intimate, autumnal-lit film about an overweight high school boy and his unexpected relationship with his assistant principal, Mr. Fitzgerald. Though we locals can sense that the movie was filmed right under our noses, the location is meant to be a woodsy Anywhere, USA. The players are Everyman. Their situation is both heart-rending and heartening.

Terri is apparently suffering from anomie, which we see from the get-go as we watch him shuffle tardily to school wearing pajamas and Crocs. He is not contriving eccentricity. He is odd. Terri's parents are inexplicably absent from his life, so that explains one level of daily pain. Instead, Terri lives with his uncle whose growing dementia shadows their daily lives and foreshadows a time of yet deeper isolation for Terri. However, the uncle has occasional astute moments, so beautifully illuminated when Uncle James informs Terri, "Don't mean to be rude here. Just have to take advantage of this window right now," gently tapping his temple. And despite what others at school may think, Terri does have genuine social intelligence. He responds graciously to his uncle's ebbs and flows. Terri runs their household, tends to his uncle's medications, steps in when the uncle stares uncomprehendingly at food burning on the skillet. The Terri we see at home has a maturity that almost all school personnel miss when they perceive him to be a shambling misfit.

Of course, Terri is referred to the office for counseling. This is where the movie gains traction. John C. Reilly evokes that administrator who appears initially to be the school-policy mouthpiece. But as he interacts with Terri, we start to recognize a teacher-iconoclast, the guy unafraid to tell a kid that life can be a vessel loaded with both manure and flowers. We are going to have to choose which aroma we prefer and work for its fragrance every day of our lives. For Terri, this kind of adult influence is puzzling, then intriguing, then disappointing, and finally satisfying. What Terri learns from his most imperfect, candid counselor is the basis of any trusting relationship: it's evidenced in the healthy patterns of friendship, family or loved ones. A reliable relationship has to be tensile enough to stretch and contract with the times and not snap on us. Such resolute knowledge applies to Terri, to Mr. Fitzgerald, to you, and to me.

TERRI is rated R for a sexual situation that may make viewing with younger teens uncomfortable. There is also a dicey-appearing implication with some special needs students that actually resolves quite fairly. Even if you have seen the entire catalogue of quirky coming-of-age films, you may still find delight in TERRI. And those of us who work in high schools should never grow so complacent that we gaze over the river of youth without plumbing the deeper currents that determine our students' lives.

TERRI, starring Jacob Wysocki and John C. Reilly
Laemmle Playhouse 7
673 E. Colorado Blvd.
Pasadena 626.844.6500

CLUB 21: Just Imagine

2011-06-04T16:43:00.000-07:00

The volunteers at Club 21 are wrapping up spring session. I help there every Wednesday at ECAR, the Every Child a Reader tutorial. I am one of a cadre of ten teachers who report from 4 pm to 6 pm. Each of us is assigned to a student with language and developmental needs. All of our Club members happen to have Down syndrome. We never say that they ARE Down syndrome; we say they have it. A medical condition does not define who we are.

Down syndrome is a congenital disorder. Some of our families learned of their children's medical condition prenatally. But many others are shocked to receive a diagnosis at birth. Luckily, an increasing number of obstetricians and pediatricians are referring families whose babies have Down syndrome to Club 21 immediately. As a clearinghouse, emotional support system, and school resource, Club 21 is unmatched in the Los Angeles area. It is the brainchild of Nancy Litteken, who is a native speaker of American Sign Language (among her many other winning traits).

Language and communication can be challenges for all children. But for children with Down syndrome spoken language is invariably a struggle. Yet the earliest intervention helps the child and the whole extended family. Most parents now learn and then teach their babies sign language as their primary system. Signing gradually cohabits with oral speech. The two languages support the child's needs and reduce frustration. When reading instruction begins, sign language links a depicted concept to a print symbol. Because the children have characteristic short-term memory issues, repetition-repetition-repetition of sign, spoken, and print language cannot be stressed enough. The wonderful outcome is that every child will read! All will labor, most will sight read, and each will surprise us.

Every Wednesday as ECAR commences, we greet the children with a ritual. One adult dispenses hand sanitizer and a spritz of lavender spray. We have the kids intone after us, "I am focused and ready to learn." It's just a little mantra to state our purpose and it starts our next 45 minutes with a contractual nod. Then we head up to our study areas to work. Parent conferences and teacher debriefing round out the session. The parents pay a nominal fee to help cover materials; otherwise all activity at Club 21 is volunteer-supported.

"Just imagine the possibilities" is the motto of Club 21. And even tiny miracles do occur. Recently we learned the theme of the 2012 Rose Parade will be "Just Imagine." We think this phrase may be more comprehensive than we ever realized.

Club 21
539 N. Lake Avenue
Pasadena 91101
626.844.1821
www.clubtwentyone.com

I Call Him Sugar

2011-05-01T15:44:00.000-07:00

"Oh, come give me some sugar!" Miss Lois McLeod would greet us children when we'd arrive those summers to visit our granny. Nowadays we'd refer to Lois as a spinster. She was a bred-in-the-bone North Carolina Presbyterian lady. She worked as a secretary for Gulf Oil and for years she rented room and board from our grandmother, Miss Alice. If Lois had suffered in life, and certainly she had, with the polio, it was utterly lost on us children. We were always overjoyed to slam the old screen door, bound through the dining room which predictably creaked, and check to see if that special single case of bottled Coca Cola under Granny's sink awaited us. And of course we would give Lois some sugar, an exchange of welcoming hugs and kisses. She belonged there and she belonged to us.

Lois and Miss Alice are long gone, as are almost all our links to Aberdeen, North Carolina. But a month ago, some sugar came back into my life. I decided to adopt a little dog from the animal shelter. I named him Sugar Rum Cherry. It didn't take long to get him to answer to Sugar or informally, Shuggy.

This dog adoption had been noodling around in the back of my head since I had a gate put up to enclose the yard. Discreetly I had been online surfing the animal shelters, looking for dainty Italian Greyhounds or maybe a comical pug, something whimsically genteel, like me. At the West Valley facility I located what was listed as a Clumber. I know Clumbers to be jumbo spaniels, often calm to the point of listlessness. I thought I might check this unusual breed.

The Chatsworth animal shelter is gorgeous, and sadly it is full of pits and chihuahuas of every permutation. Eventually I inquired about "the spaniel," which elicited a number of nods and smiles, though I learned he had been placed in isolation for kennel cough. I was taken to meet him. I could see that he might become a lovely animal, and better yet, my boon companion. He is a tricolor long-tailed late adolescent who resembles the result of a Cocker/King Charles Cavalier meetup. I just felt he was the one for me.

When we came home to Altadena, I made an appointment with the vet, filled out the microchip form, and began a serious relationship with Centinela Feed and Pet Supplies. I can say I have now become a Dog Person. I always nodded politely to the Dog People, but now I find myself willingly engaging in Dog Chats at the Rose Bowl or on the street when we are Dog Strolling. Perfect strangers remark, "What a cute pup!" and I beam as if I, Pygmalion, had designed him. But the truth is he is a good little fellow who just wanted a home, where he could lie inside under a computer desk and forget that he had ticks and matted hair and whatever else may have befallen him. And he doesn't mind that I call him Sugar.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

2011-03-05T05:25:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I ask people if they are comfortable going places by themselves. In the past year I've grown ever more capable of taking myself on solo excursions. I've discovered places that are satisfying little idylls, either for singular or plural outings. Here are some I can vouch for in no particular order.

1. Tommy's Restaurant, 170 N. Hill Avenue, Pasadena. For a meal under $5, I always choose the chili cheese fries and a small drink. People who know me might be shocked at this pursuit because I am not a fast-food fan. However, Tommy's is clean and bright, perfect for spreading out the Pasadena Weekly and eating with decadent gusto.

2. The Huntington Library and Gardens in San Marino. Buy a membership and you can walk the grounds in quiet splendor beginning at 8 a.m. The guards are always affable weather prognosticators. I head to the cactus garden first to admire the crenulated brains and prickly mammaries that stud the landscape. The ducks at the pond have paired off, the camellia forest casts down its showy mantle, the allee to the mausoleum foreshadows more cooling strolls into summer. A visit to the gardens in any circumstance reminds us why we love California. It makes the heart sing its own private aria.

3. Farmers' Market at 3rd and Fairfax. Another venerable destination perfect for a Sunday morning: arrive by 9 a.m. Take your L.A. Times; get your two-hour free parking spot in the lot before all the car sharks start circling the lot. Proceed to the Coffee Corner, buy a cup of joe and have your parking ticket validated NOW. I prefer the communal tables under the heaters, but really any spot is suitable for eavesdropping on screenwriters, families, or wizened regulars. Diners seat themselves with breakfast trays from the surrounding stalls and the place gradually increases its animation. There is still time to wander over to the Grove as shops open at 10 a.m. Although I pooh-pooh the Grove for its artifice compared to my beloved Farmers' Market, I confess to having found some true bargains at the Grove Gap and Anthropologie.

4. The Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences, 8949 Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. My own personal screen gem! I subscribe to their newsletter (Oscars.org) and there is a steady stream of offerings for even an ordinary movie fan like me. I recommend the free curated exhibits on the fourth floor. I like to arrive at noon on a Sunday when parking is navigable and foot traffic is nil. Go right into the lobby, take out your driver's license, and approach the desk. Hand over the license and ask to see the exhibit on the fourth floor. You'll receive a pass and off you go via the elevator. Now there's a rarefied space guaranteed to please and teach you about cinema. I've seen collections featuring W.C. Fields, Ray Harryhausen, and Noel Coward. It's a splendid uncrowded foray. When you finish and collect your license, be sure to linger in the lobby where there are historic and changing portraits or posters displayed. The restrooms are coolly elegant too.

5. The Cornfields. For this one I ride the Gold Line to Chinatown station. Just before alighting, you will note a 32-acre evolving park. We used to refer to it as The Cornfields, which harks back to a time when kernels germinated there accidentally, but now it is an historic park of El Pueblo de Los Angeles. It may sound funny to take a train in order to take a walk, but I do recommend strolling from station to park and then walking its periphery. What was once a dusty old trainyard is now a farm lab, a grassy oasis, and a wildflower garden. The park is an exemplary L.A. juxtaposition of nearby buildings from our manufacturing past, our progressive train system, and the greening hope of reclamation. Often I feel that by walking a place, I understand it more. That's my sensation when I walk The Cornfields and look up at the big sheltering sky.

Beginning Again

2011-01-23T15:08:00.000-08:00

"Girls, make your life a dance!" our Orange High School PE teacher, Mrs. Weatherill, would exhort us. She of the black tights, the blacker ponytail, the Kathyrn Crosby demi curl-bang, a big apostrophe resting on the right side of her forehead. Smartly keeping time, Mrs. Weatherill beat a hand-held drum and dispatched us in choreographed lines across the gym to the music of Carlos Santana. But as sixteen-year-olds, my friends and I skimmed past our teacher's advice, preferring giggles and gossip.

Yet over the years, I decided Mrs. Weatherill may have been a few beats ahead after all. She meant that we would need to muster all the grace, stamina, and joy we could in order to face what life was about to present to us. And with advancing age, it is easy to overlook making your life a dance: at every turn someone new is undergoing chemotherapy or learning a grim diagnosis or losing someone dear. The drum now beats mortality.

However, sometimes I use these heavy realizations to initiate something new. I found my latest pursuit at Pasadena City College Extended Learning. Yesterday was my first session of Beginning Ballet. You don't have to be thin! You don't have to be nimble! You don't have to have a neck like a swan! You only have to own a pair of ballet shoes.

Teacher Catherine Round is warmly emphatic, technically astute, and a dead ringer for kin of Amy Adams. She believes women of all ages can learn balletic movement and benefit from improved posture. Instruction involves explanation, modeling, guided practice, and gentle correction. Many of us arrived with childhood ballet experience, and it is the funniest sensation to return to positions you haven't held since the 1960s. Our class also learned practical tips for leg beauty, such as grasping a towel from the floor with bare toes in daily repetitions. Prehensile pulchritude? What's not to like?

Beginning Ballet is full for the current session through March 5. Still, there are many other non-credit options at www.pcclearn.org . Meantime, ballet queries to Ms. Round are welcome at Catherine@croundballetworks.com.

Note to Self: Read 365 Thank Yous

2011-01-03T21:16:00.000-08:00

On New Year's Eve I waited with several friends to watch Rose Parade floats being towed along Huntington Drive. We were seated in a car parked at San Marino High School plowing through two boxes of See's candy and dissecting our dinner at Gus's BBQ. Then one friend mentioned a gathering she had just attended at a South Pasadena home where she had met a new author celebrating his book. She sensed he was "...a really nice, nice man."

"New author?" said I, holding the See's momentarily. I can't help myself. I am enamored of the local lit scene. Now here comes a book by our latest Pasadena-area author, John Kralik. Its title is 365 THANK YOUS: The Year a Simple Act of Daily Gratitude Changed My Life. It's a petite memoir and meditation which contains a lot in a little.

Vroman's Bookstore stocks the book. Its cover is dominated by blue, but at center there sits a red mailbox on a white post resembling a match from afar,a match waiting to be struck. But a match's bright flare is better utilized when transferred to the slower, softer glow of a candle. Under the harsh glare of resentment, self-loathing, and anger, Mr. Kralik starts to examine the events of his life. As he realizes that negativity and disconnection are rapidly consuming any chance for happiness, he also hears a mystical reminder that he MUST learn gratitude. Profound message that it is, Mr. Kralik vows to himself that he will take action: he will handwrite a series of thank-you notes to others for an entire year. Now whether the act of writing propels gratitude or the gratitude promotes writing is moot to me. The reward is Mr. Kralik's subtle change in attitude, and then behavior, and then an incandescent peace that his book reveals. As his self-scrutiny process burrows deeper inside, the reader realizes this too is me; I too bear loss and disaster, and yet we all must live. How can we light the way for ourselves? How can we live with integrity and grace?

What is unusual about this book is that it lacks archness. It is forthright and generous, implying that any of us can rediscover our balance. Maybe the hope and the actuality of change for the better are unsung benefits of middle age.

John Kralik will discuss his book at Vroman's Bookstore, 695 E. Colorado Blvd., Pasadena, on Wednesday, January 26 at 7 pm.

DESTINATION: KOREATOWN

2010-12-23T07:57:00.000-08:00

If you haven't read HELEN OF PASADENA, by Lian Dolan, treat yourself to a sweet truffle of a novel. For many reasons it is a delicious local confection; and one is its reference to a Korean day spa, which echoes our Olympic Spa right here in Koreatown. I just visited the Olympic with two of my daughters to celebrate their December birthdays. Now there is a worthwhile destination.

Olympic Spa caters to LADIES ONLY. This means the only men to be found are the two parking attendants in the locked courtesy lot out back. Prior to your arrival, it is wisest to book reservations and treatments. The online menu displays spa services, including facials, massages, soaks, and assorted combinations. My girls and I opted for PURE BLISS, a 90-minute series of scrubs, masks, massage, and hair treatments. It's reasonable to spend a period of two to three hours at the spa.

My younger girl and I took the Gold and Red Lines to Hollywood & Vine station. Older daughter fetched us from there and we wended our way down Western into K-town. Only the rain and Christmas traffic slowed us, so we didn't quite honor the 30-minutes-early arrival that Olympic suggests. If you haven't been to this spa before, know that once you leave your shoes and belongings in the lockers, it's a concertedly nude place. You are issued a pair of towels and a hospital gown, but for the most part it's jaybird time. Don't fret. It's actually very comfortable, like entering an exclusive club where you never knew you held membership. Shower first: it's required. Then if time permits before your appointment, you can soak in the several large tubs or bask in the saunas.

Each patron is issued a wrist-coil with a number. That number is your ID. When the uniformed employee (in black bra and underpants) calls your number, your treatment begins. Do everything she commands. You will lie on a Burberry-print table like a big baby to be scrubbed, rinsed, manipulated. When she tells you to get up and shower again, go do it. When she tells you to shift or turn, comply quietly. You are an obedient baby filled with the peace that passes all understanding.

After PURE BLISS, the girls and I crossed the room to the heated napping floor. This is a jade-tile stage stocked with cotton coverlets and softer yoga blocks for pillows. It is a murmuring or silence zone where we just stretched out, glowing pinkly in our gowns. We must have rested there for another thirty minutes.

When you feel ready, you dress again for the world, blow dry your hair, and deposit the gowns and towels. Hand the small 15-20% gratuity envelopes to the desk staff as you exit. The parking men retrieve the car, and life as we know it resumes. Birthdays and birthday suits again next year...

Olympic Spa
3915 W. Olympic Blvd. (enter on Norton)
Los Angeles 90019
323-857-0666
9 am to 10 pm

How I Met My Mortgage

2010-11-13T05:38:00.000-08:00

Where do I start with the saga of my mortgage application? What a lamb I was at the outset; it's a wonder I am not a lambchop today. Last May I began with what we call the pre-approval phase.

Squaring up records and information is one of life's harder tasks for me. I never feel adept at organizing data. Locating and faxing forms mutates into a vast, ever-disturbing moil of dark symbolism for me. But isn't self-scrutiny supposed to be good? Shining that antiseptic light of day onto the shadows of your fiscal behavior? Yet I just HATE collating pay stubs, verifications of employment, bank statements, tax forms, decrees, licenses, credit card trails. And I'm one of those untidy circular people who frets about any ability to reach precise answers and codify the proof. I freak! (I recall the same unease back in middle school when I had to construct an apron and I could see the gobs of remaining creased yardage lurking beyond the waistband. How would so much fabric fit into the confines of a dainty little garment?) More to the point, how could I assemble what I needed for an ongoing mortgage application when my records and I dwelled in different locations? Many locations, over what became a five-month episode.

In July I located a sweet little cottage in Altadena that I wanted to buy. Danny Schmitz, my thorough, realistic, steadfast real estate agent, guided me through the bidding and purchase. Little did we know that the next eight weeks would be dominated by an extremely difficult-to-acquire mortgage. In August I even took a trip to the Florida Panhandle. Instead of studying oil spill effects, I ruminated over the elusive mortgage.

By Labor Day the mortgage application was floundering. The accommodations of house-sitting and guesting were starting to curdle. My stoic facade was showing stress fractures. By October 1, I started craigslisting apartments for my own nervous recreation. My car had become a mobile Smithsonian, the kind that never had a curator. Here I was again, striding into another school year, sowing my upbeat philosophy to continuation kids. Meanwhile, the exact opposite feeling was furring up my insides like an aging jack-o-lantern's.

Then by serendipity (or was it better business practice?) Danny announced, "You're going to Steven Kim, another mortgage guy." The day of our appointment I gritted my teeth across town, canvas bag crammed with all those odious documents. I realized this office was mid-Wilshire, near the very building where my dad's boss had jumped to his death back when I was a kid. Now I arrived late, hot, crabby about facing more mortgage torture. I met our Mr. Kim. He was a tall, calm man with a kind, heart-shaped face, and when he said, "No worries," I winced, "That's what you think, bub." He also observed, "I know you teachers are very organized," while I was muttering and pitching out forms and folders like so much inventory at Big Lots.

If I hadn't been so absorbed by my own tension, I would have sensed that Steven Kim was going to be my lucky charm. He actually stated it only takes 48 hours to determine whether you are a viable applicant. He got right to work on my case and phoned/texted me frequently to keep me out of that dark bog. Over the next 3.5 weeks, my little army of supporters helped me provide whatever the loan processor needed. Only one time was I about to burst into tears with Steven, but somehow I reined it back.

Fast forward to October 28. Just a few days before, Steven had assured me, "You'll have your house." And I, with a drop of jaundice, replied that I'd believe it when I saw the key. Danny gave me that key. I was able to hand out Halloween candy in my own home. And that simple pleasure was directly due to the efforts of two men who were "just doing the job," bless their hearts.

Danny Schmitz, Keller Williams, 323 691-1307
Steven Kim, Hillside Home Mortgage, 213-591-6300

NAMI Walk & Union Station Benefit

2010-10-10T20:04:00.000-07:00

Last week I had invitations that both relate to homelessness. Not my temporary, seeking-a-house-to-buy homelessness, but the serious kind, often symptomatic of mental illness, poverty, or addiction. Two vaunted organizations, National Alliance on Mental Illness and Union Station, sponsored their annual fundraisers.

NAMI hosts an October walkathon in Santa Monica. A dear couple I know whose daughter suffers schizophrenia invited me to join the walk. The local NAMI chapter rented a yellow school bus for the trip across town. Riders included "consumers" (who have been patients or those who live in board and care) and "supporters" (who are everyone else). Really, it wasn't that apparent as to who was in which category. But it did cause me to think back to my college job as a "mobility trainer," teaching developmentally disabled adults to ride the public bus system. How confounded I felt back then, trying to navigate the RTD as it was called. How do people cope, I have since wondered, when they are disabled or hallucinatory or ill and need to commute?

The NAMI walk drew 3500 participants this year. I walked with my friends' daughter, and we chatted away about spirits, reincarnation, food, geography, and more random topics threaded by the most delicate of skeins. But this young woman with the blue marble eyes is so much healthier now than she was when psychotic breaks ravaged her and her family. Some credit must go to the tireless support and education offered by NAMI volunteers, as well as her extraordinary family who never falters in trying to provide a high quality of life. Mental illness affects all of us to varying degrees. Depression, addiction, organic brain problems: I saw the placards reminding us THERE IS NO HEALTH WITHOUT MENTAL HEALTH. NAMI's work will never end. But the solace and the information for supporters, consumers, and anyone else will be its legacy. The bus rolls again in October, 2011. All are welcome. Check out nami.org

That same night I was lucky enough to return to our beloved Pasadena Playhouse for Union Station's 11th annual benefit. Hector Elizondo, the USC Thornton Jazz Orchestra, the Yellowjackets and others donated their talents. Entering the Playhouse is its own happy homecoming. But since 1973 Union Station has given succor to those who find themselves in a rough patch or worse. Union Station's services include emergency and transitional shelter, meals, substance and mental illness outreach. The Pasadena Playhouse partnered with Union Station on this twinkly night so that others might not suffer colder nights in times to come. If you ever wish to contribute, there is a range of possibility and participation. See for yourself at info@unionstationhs.org

The Glass Menagerie

2010-10-10T19:12:00.000-07:00

Dateline: Alhambra, 10/5/10
Twenty-seven students and three teachers headed to the Mark Taper Forum to see a Young Audience Program of "The Glass Menagerie." Beforehand I must confess I sweated out the roll-taking, the body-counting, and the alphabetical lineup to the bus. But hadn't the kids signed my homemade Pledge of Conduct, agreeing to sit for the duration of the play; to carry no gum or contraband; to leave electronics at school? We were ready for our public test of behavior.

Tennessee Williams' play is a family case study, actually more comic than any of us realized despite my enforced classroom reading. Right before the lights dimmed in the theater, I reminded the boy next to me, "If you do fall asleep, that will be me pinching you quietly. Do NOT reflex-punch me because it's just me, your teacher who loves you." "Don't worry, Miss," he replied, "I don't snore," which wasn't the answer I wanted. On to Act I. Thirty minutes into it, two shadowy forms from my class rose and exited left. My shoulders sagged. The Pledge of Conduct was already showing its fault lines! Over the next thirty minutes, two other students stood and headed to the restroom. Now I was breathing hard. Hadn't I hammered theater etiquette properly? I consoled myself until intermission by recalling that only one of the entire class had ever been to live theater. Still...

After intermission I hissed at everyone, "Stay in your seats for the remaining hour!" I have to say, however, that not one of our students hooted or vocalized during any part of the play as other students may have been doing. As one of the girls observed on the way back to the bus, "Miss, making noise was so immature in there!" Thank you, I didn't say aloud. Some remarks are best left with a profound nod.

Field trips are no longer the norm in our fiscally strapped school world. Our principal's resourcefulness pays for the bus and the $50.00 attendance fee. She gilded the day for the students by providing breakfast food at the start and pizza upon our return. Because we are a Title I school (a measure of poverty), transportation and food issues loom over our students all the time. If staff can somehow guarantee some solutions, then we have inducements that make participation all the more logical. These particular kids have to be reassured time and again so that they can become the learners we expect. Teachers have to make every step palpable. We want them to understand that this is their Los Angeles too, that they can enjoy its offerings even moreso if they know how to behave. For any field trip we deliberately assign one teacher to ten students. This time our retired art teacher, current art teacher and I were the ones who watched over the students while they watched the play.

During the two days following "The Glass Menagerie," we had our students write thank you notes. They wrote to the principal, to the home-school coordinator, and to Center Theater Group. I told the kids I would act as censor for quality control; I've gotten 48 notes so far. On Monday we will send some emissaries to deliver the on-site notes. I've just mailed the first wave to CTG. Writing thank you notes is a staple of our field-tripping. It wraps up an event; it provides an informal evaluation; and it exercises our civility. I just want every kid to feel equipped to cope in public situations. Father Greg Boyle is fond of saying, "Nothing stops a bullet like a job." I tag along with, "Nothing builds confidence like a guided cultural experience." It's but one day of school, yes. But I hope it becomes a day they will remember.

The Questions

2010-09-24T05:34:00.000-07:00

"Miss, don't you ever get mad?"
"Miss, does a crime record hurt you for college?"
"Miss, you're wearing different shoes! Does that mean you got a place to live?"
Every day students ask me the unexpected. Every day I answer as honestly as I can.

We're in our fourth week of school. The familiarity of routine is established. We're a lucky school in that we don't have fights; the staff is always vigilant for any signs of tension or dispute between students so that we can glide in and intervene before something gets hot. Because of this vigilance, we all cultivate techniques for keeping kids engaged. We give them the space to ask and express what may be bottled up inside, even if it's "off-topic" or seemingly disconnected from classwork. Usually our adult responses involve mild banter. Effective teachers have learned not to use sarcasm or threats. Students don't take to either, and in fact they will drift out of our orbit of influence if we are not mindful.

Bringing a student closer to graduation is much harder than you would think. Right now I am very excited about the turnaround of one young man who used to bedevil me no end. Last year I could not convince him to sit all period; he hovered by the window "Looking out, Miss," so regularly that I nicknamed him VENTANA. He scowled at me for that, but gradually he began to smile a little. He's the one who called our word game "Scramble" despite my puny insistence that it be Scrabble. His pacing, the intractability, the attempts to slip out of class that colored last year have all vanished this fall. What happened? Because even our summer school time remained a struggle of wills. I wanted this student to work through an English text and he was hellbent on tracking the World Cup. I know we met in the middle and he wrote me an armload of soccer essays while I tried to step back from hovering and micromanaging.

In our school lexicon we have a small category called "Superseniors." These are kids who are in the fifth year of high school, so the stakes are high. It is expensive to keep Superseniors in the system until they can graduate, but it's even costlier to cut over-18s loose without doing everything possible to help them earn diplomas. Superseniors can be tough to work with--some drag it out and some just have had such a tortured school history that it's a slog to the final credit. The happy news is that some Superseniors rekindle the spark they may have felt in kindergarten. This is what happened with my soccer fan. It was not my doing. It lay hidden within him, and in some inexplicable way, we've gotten to witness the change. This boy is my right-hand man right now. One of my coworkers got him to organize, photograph, and issue the school ID cards. We entrusted him with necessary school tasks and gave him the freedom to move about campus to accomplish them. We got the blessing of the school principal to put him to work in an unorthodox way. We listened to his concerns and we accepted his suggestions. During these past four weeks I've checked with his other teachers to see how he's doing. Each teacher has marveled over his ability to knuckle down. One teacher remarked, "He told me he just wants to graduate."

Just-wants-to-graduate is a very ambitious concept for students who have skittered along the margins before we meet them in continuation school. The process of coaxing students into scholastic life is freighted with open-ended questions. I never feel I know the answers until I've seen them graduate. But I know I am going to bawl on the day this particular young man finishes, and the principal escorts him to the classrooms as the P.A. system blasts "Pomp and Circumstance," and she throws confetti to mark his passage.

Me and Mrs. Jones

2010-08-26T16:24:00.000-07:00

"She bore her burden because she did not wish to be a burden." I'm paraphrasing from an Isaac Bashevis Singer short story, "The Washerwoman." It's one of those anthology selections for ninth graders that kids never take to, a story that eventually resounds for those who live long enough to have the stuffing kicked out of us a few times. The titular washwoman is a birdlike Gentile who launders for wealthier Jews in an early 20th century Polish shtetl. Her frail build belies tenacity and pride in her lowly occupation--an occupation both arduous and invisible. I guess I'd call it a story where stature trumps status.
Often I've thought of that very story over the the past ten years since I've known Mrs. Jones. She is a longtime Pasadenan, living in her home since 1951. She's raised a family and worked at the legendary FEDCO on Colorado Blvd. until she retired at about 70. That must be when Mrs. Jones started fueling her next career.
Mrs. Jones takes in ironing. I can say it no other way. She is a word-of-mouth phenomenon who can starch a flaccid shirt into respectability. She transforms a jumbled basket of laundry into prete-a-porter. For as long as I have patronized Mrs. Jones, by gum, my creases have been straight and my cuffs crisp. Mrs. Jones is all business and no play at her ironing board.
Just last week we were chatting about my house hunting trials. Mrs. Jones handed me a xeroxed policy statement written in her elegant hand:

Dear Jean-
I'm going to give myself a 90th birthday present and raise the price of ironing
to $8.00 per hour starting Sept. 1, 2010. I hope you will still let me do your
ironing because I love doing it.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Jones

All I could say was, "90? Mrs. Jones, you don't look a day over 82!" I get such a kick out of her professionalism and her product too. Ninety years old and still keeping Pasadena/Altadena unwrinkled? That to me is stature.

Homeowner Once Removed

2010-07-12T05:46:00.000-07:00

I've lain dormant for the last eight weeks since my Pasadena house sold. More accurately, I've laid my head in a number of different homes because I've become a housesitter. I didn't foresee this lifestyle. Somehow it sought me.

I had to vacate my home by May 18. Once the sale fell into place, the sorting, discarding, and packing demands punctured my reverie and pricked me until I finished. Do-it-yourself storage! Pink Transfer! Annual city bulky item pickup! These agencies and the kindness of friends emptied a big old house of 24 years of stuff.

The devil lurking in the details was where would I go next? Luckily I was so fatigued from the pack-out that my usual over-planning tendencies were blunted. I can say that a dear couple was heading out on a trip May 18 into June and I slid right over to their commodious Altadena home. Another friend then introduced me to a family from southwest Pasadena who were vacationing for ten days. From there it was a night at my sister's. Then back to the first homestay. In another week I will head to a new family's poolhouse. It's a daisy chain of accommodations--all of them lovely, summer-y, imbued with a tensile strength of unexpected generosity to me. The serendipity of all these people offering ME places to stay while I complete summer school and sort out my future is the gift.

You learn things about yourself when you are itinerant. Every now and then you'll reach for something familiar, only to realize it's packed in storage or a friend has it at her home for safe-keeping. My computer, for instance, lives in a private home in Monrovia. My potted plants moved to El Monte. My favorite dictionary is in, er, uh, word limbo somewhere. But certainly I am enjoying the chance to see how homes reflect the organization of our lives. It's an education in itself to see an efficient cook's kitchen or where it's best to store the pet food or how to set up a discreet laundry system. Maybe once I find my own new home I can remember to emulate some of these principles. In fact, later today I am looking at houses in Altadena.

COME OVER TO "LA MISSION"

2010-05-30T10:23:00.000-07:00

"La Mission"
Written & directed by Peter Bratt/starring Benjamin Bratt

Some ten years ago at UCLA I heard Raymund Paredes, Ph.D., state, "The universal lies in the particular." His context was multicultural literature and how the stories of lives far beyond our own can illuminate your very situation or mine. I've since adopted his observation and it lives with me daily in my classroom. It also lives in the excellent independent film, "La Mission."

Peter and Benjamin Bratt have collaborated on a story set in their hometown of San Francisco in its Mission District. The story line: bus driver-recovering alcoholic-single dad Che Rivera abruptly learns that his cherished son Jesse is gay. Che's troubled ability to cope with this shock and his threads of connection to others lattice the plot. The "particular" of the film is its Latino community life. The universal is its painstaking process of sloughing off a father's angry, deflective layers of hurt in order to reveal his tender core, his corazon, for his beloved boy. The brothers Bratt coax Che's transformation without ever slipping into the maudlin. They recreate a milieu of working-class car aficionados, neighborhood tensions of gentrification and homosexuality, and urban violence so authoritatively that all of us viewers can understand Che's anguish.

"La Mission" takes a cue from opera when it uses signature music to identify each major character. Watch for that touch. Two scenes that employ music are among my favorites. In the first, for about 90 seconds we see Che ironing his clothes for an evening out. Now I admit to having spent many a Saturday night ironing to Art Laboe's Killer Oldies, but Che vaults ironing up to Olympic stature in this scene. How he summons perfection from an iron deserves major props. The other exemplary scene is the lowrider outing set to "Stop, Look, Listen," the magnificent 1971 Philly Soul cut. As far as I am concerned, this song is the apex of the Stylistics' catalogue; the pairing of this music with Che and Lena's date is sublime. It made me cry. It was that beautiful.

Another interesting motif is the presence of shrines. The Bratt brothers are ever mindful of both the leadership and confluence of indigenous and conquering peoples. The opening montage of murals illustrates this tension from the get-go. Repeatedly we see Che pause at the shrine he keeps of Our Lady Guadalupe and her red roses. Meanwhile, his neighbor Lena maintains her own shrine to feminine power with a goddess from India. Much later at a Dia de los Muertos memorial, Che finally experiences the integration that has eluded him. What are shrines but memory made palpable? We can feel the ache in Che when he holds the photo of his late wife. The tattoos on his body, the image of his mother on his prized ride, the regular offering of groceries to his aged neighbor--Che is a memory-curator in his own particular world.

I hope "La Mission" will find a viewership in and beyond Los Angeles. I hope it reaches Phoenix, Tucson, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Las Cruces, El Paso, San Antonio. And it's an unusually potent film that deserves a rebirth once dvd time comes along.

Parsing the Parson's Nose Productions

2010-04-17T22:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight was yet another winsome evening of readers' theater sponsored by the Parson's Nose Productions. This is a South Pasadena-based troupe whose motto is "introducing classic theater to contemporary audiences." Husband and wife duo Lance Davis and Mary Chalon are the mad creative geniuses who direct and devise all things Parson. They would also like a bit of our help.

Parson's Nose is peripatetic, which sounds a lot classier than itinerant or heaven forbid, homeless. There is a mailing address, a phone number, a website; but at present there is no theatrical home. Gamely, Davis and Chalon have mounted a fine series of reading performances in Pasadena's Jameson Brown Coffee Roasters (260 N. Allen Avenue). Also, in January 2010 the company staged a successful run of the full-on production, THE IMAGINARY INVALID. This show inhabited the Pacific Asia Museum upstairs for its performance space. Certainly, the locations bloom merrily where the players perform each rendition. But it's not quite the same feel as having a room of one's own. Parson's Nose is searching for its own dedicated spot. Pasadena tops the wish list, in case anyone knows of a space available for regular rehearsals and productions.

"The Pied Piper of Hamelin" was tonight's hourlong adaptation written by Lance Davis. The coffee shop kind enough to host such a reading closes at 6 in order to be ready for this 7 pm performance. Entering a closed business with others in-the-know feels like we're melting into something exclusive like the Mattachine Society. I kidded with the reservations volunteer when she asked, what's the password? "Nonprofit organization?" I ventured. Now the super part about these readings is that they are FREE, though donations are enthusiastically recommended and received. Tonight I also noticed a ramped-up conviviality among the patrons in the full house. In fact, Davis and Chalon had to play school principals to coax the irrepressible audience back into their seats after intermission. My read on this level of interest is that Parson's Nose is starting to root in our town. And for an organization to succeed, there has to be an emotionally attached following. Davis tapped into that sensibility at the end of the reading when he spoke to us. He said that actors love their work, just as other professionals do. And actors wish to pay mortgages, bills, tuitions, and they deserve salaries steadier than what donations generate. Davis said that he wants to pay his players fair wages and that they are seeking a space in town where the classics will have a home. Brainstorms are welcome. The last readings of this season are scheduled for May 15 (UBU ROI) and June 19 (KING CYMBELINE).

Parson's Nose Productions
1325 Monterey Rd.
South Pasadena, CA 91030
626.403.7667
www.parsonsnose.com
parsonsnose@mac.com

WASC Sting Averted

2010-03-24T19:16:00.000-07:00

I've had to remove myself from my dating scene in order to complete work on our school accreditation, cryptically known as "WASC." Western Association of Schools and Colleges is the organ's proper name. This organization verifies and upholds the quality of diploma-granting schools. To a school as small as mine, a pair of WASC reviewers was dispatched.

Going through an accreditation is like planning a wedding. Backward design, or setting the end-goal first, that joyous day of affirmation, then allows you to align the months' preparations leading toward the big event. Our school sought a three-year validation of our programs. That's because the last time we were visited, we did not receive the highest seal, the six-year clear term. Oh well. What could we do but use the interim to refine our practices?

No one can say it's been easy, moving continuation school aggressively into standards-based instruction. Data is king nowadays. We've had to retool our teaching in order to generate more of it. Now the data pops up like crabgrass. The data has to be collected and interpreted to drive classroom practices. I accept that data now features in my life, just as a colonoscopy does: each beneficial and each to be endured with grace.

But let's get real. The part that interests me in this whole self-study process is the people. A WASC visit typically runs for three days. Day 1 is a Sunday reception for parents, students, and staff. Days 2 and 3 are classroom visits, interviews, and conclusion-writing. I almost think Day 1's gathering was the most profound of the three, because students and parents testified as to the effect the school has had upon them.

One mother stood to explain how very stressful it is as a parent to keep hearing that your child is failing, your child will not graduate on time, your child is off track at the big school. She told us that now she receives heartening phone calls from our school, telling her about credits earned, improved attendance, her daughter's involvement in extra-curriculars. Another mother echoed this by reminding us all that at the big school, her son was relegated to a sort of permanent underclass of non-achievement. Now to her great delight,he stays after school to volunteer on committees, he's applied for a scholarship, he's certain to graduate by June. Yet another speaker was a lovely girl who has just completed her credits and graduated. She recalled how all her teachers knew her name by the first week. And that daily, as she got off the bus, there were always three or four adults there to say good morning and encourage everyone to have a good day. When she said, "No one gives up on us here. My English teacher sat with me to do my FAFSA because I had no one to help me," I couldn't help but well up. To me, that's the job. But maybe to a student it really is crossing a little Rubicon with adult guidance.

We will not really know the full outcome of this visit until June. Our sense and of course our hope run positive. The pair of reviewers were keen observers of our process. They understood that our students are among the most fragile. But all of our community is held accountable. Back to creative aspirations on a shoestring and other California realities.

NOT THE ORECK STORE TOO?

2010-03-13T07:07:00.000-08:00

This week during my drive to work, I noticed the forlorn vacant Oreck Vacuum shop on South Lake Avenue. When did that close? I glanced into its empty storefront, one of how many in the stretch from San Pasqual to California Boulevard? Eight?

I know most of us don't have particular affection for vacuum stores, but the departure of Oreck leaves me a little sad. Some years ago when I was part of a two-income lifestyle, I bought myself a snappy little Oreck upright. Lightweight, smart, accompanied by the perks of an Oreck iron and an Oreck mini-vac, my new vacuum convinced me I would now houseclean like Samantha from BEWITCHED. I pampered my Oreck and I took it to the mother store for annual tune-ups. The clerk would show off my vacuum's prowess on their thick green plush and I felt a certain consumer's pride rise in my chest. But I haven't taken my Oreck in for its tune-up for about 18 months. And now there is no specialty shop devoted to the pride of Mr. Oreck. My reasons for shopping on South Lake are disappearing faster than you can say Pete's Grandburger or Smith and Hawken.

However, if you travel to the east side of town, there is another distinguished vacuum repair shop, Tanner's Valley. I know it sounds indulgent, but I have a second vacuum cleaner. It's a Cadillac to me. This one is a big red Sanitaire, circa 1990 maybe. It's the type professional janitors admire: heavy, serious, with a cord long enough to traverse three rooms. I love the Sanitaire because it belonged to my mom. She had to wait a long time in her life to acquire some of the nicer things, and I count this king of vacuums among them. The Sanitaire I take to Tanner's Valley for its tune-ups because it is an old-timey shop with a love of old-timey machines--Hoovers, Singer sewing machines, Mieles, and come to think of it, I just saw a little clique of Orecks standing around together among the other repaired vacuums awaiting their owners. When I took the Sanitaire in for its checkup last week, the lady who clerks told me the parts themselves are very valuable to scavengers, and not to sell it at a garage sale for $20! Now it's entirely possible I have paid more for tune-ups over the years than the initial purchase price. But the Sanitaire seems eternal so far, and I think my mom would be proud of me for maintaining it.

I may go to pick up the Sanitaire today. It should be standing at attention with its fellows, handwritten tag on its neck. After the lady apprises me of its needs and remedies, I will lug it out to the Honda curbside and take it back home. Next month when I get paid again, I am going to bring the Oreck here. Some things in life just need to be maintained, and that goes for machines and memories.

Tanner's Valley Vacuum Center
2610 E. Colorado Blvd.
Pasadena 91107
626.793.7839

The Practice of Friending

2010-02-21T07:55:00.000-08:00

I was a bit late arriving to the Facebook station, maybe because it takes me such a long time to mull over trends and then weigh whether I can hop on before their hipness pulls away. But thanks to the urging of a former student and my sister, I joined the crowd on the platform. You have to find your way and decide whether social networking even serves any purpose for you. Once you figure out the etiquette (i.e., don't post negative or personal messages, as everything has potential to go public), you can refine your role on Facebook. I myself like to flit around as a demi-Kokopelli, that flute-playing trickster whose image is overused in Southwestern advertising. I like to post my little quips and then see what kind of response comes 'round. (Aside: Kokopelli also has allusions of randiness, fertility, and agriculture, but I doubt much of that fits my Facebook profile.) Anyway, to its credit, the Facebook phenomenon does help link you to friends from the past and it helps acquaint you with those you might not otherwise run into. For me, it's become an entertaining conduit to my more traditional friendships.

From my fog of adolescence, I do remember my mom stating, "Jean, do not ever lose touch with your friends." I was a little know-it-all about human relations in those days, so of course I shrugged her off with my silent retort, "Hummph...what would MY 50something mother know about friends? I don't even see her running around with any friends!" Of course, I'm leaving out the parts like my mom raised 4 kids on her nurse's wages, she worked the 3 pm to 11 shift, there was a time when 5 of us relied on one Ford Maverick...yeah. But her exhortation comes back to me now. How prescient she was. Our friends, virtual, real, remembered, upcoming--these are the figures that stabilize and enrich our lives. Everyone knows this; it's just been crystallizing for me in recent years.

One serendipitous result of Facebooking was re-meeting a teaching colleague from the late '80s. I bet we had not seen each other for 14 years prior to her visit to Pasadena last weekend from Olympia, WA. We had a hilarious, sad, wondrous catchup, cataloging our many life changes and just reflecting how we cope and teach and learn to BE in this life. We also dined at Puebla Tacos #2, a homey little spot for hungry LA ex-pats and local yokels like me. The punctuation of the years fell away as we laughed it up, my mom's words preserved in parentheses.

Too, I credit Facebook for my invitation yesterday to a memorial at Hollywood Presbyterian Church. My long-ago student, now a mother of 3 and my cyber-pal, invited me to her dad's service. She's an ordained minister. As she delivered her remarks about her pop, I realized, this isn't your 17-year old yearbook staffer anymore; this is a polished divinity grad who knows how to structure the story of a life and imbue it with meaning in a way that all of us can grasp. At the reception, I found yet another student, herself a teacher these last 15 years, and her mom, whom I had met at many a parent function as her three kids grew up in our school. It was a delightful funeral, if that is not too oxymoronic, and it was my privilege to connect with these people once again.

Puebla Tacos #2
1819 E. Villa
Pasadena 91104

"Different, Not Less"

2010-02-08T10:42:00.000-08:00

HBO's current special, TEMPLE GRANDIN, stars Claire Danes as the noted author, animal husbandry expert, and unlikely heroine for many families affected by autism. I found the film spellbinding on several levels. (You can catch it on HBO by demand.)

As a teacher, I love any uplifting portrayal of the educator who never gives up, one who sees potential in even the most truculent student. Temple was an academic misfit whose love of science was stoked by her boarding school instructor, played by David Strathairn. As a parent, I somehow feel ennobled by a film mom who can follow her instincts and try her best to guide a difficult child to independence. Check: that element is present. As a viewer, I eat up transformation stories, starting with the erasure of a starlet and the utterly persuasive replacement with an indelible character. Claire Danes becomes Temple Grandin down to the very way her teeth bite her words. But the way Temple learns to find her place in our chaotic world is the most moving transformation of all.

Temple was born in 1947. In the 1950s, her now-classic symptoms of autism were attributed to "infantile schizophrenia" or bad maternal bonding. Fortunately, Temple's mother chucked much of the medical advice she was given, such as institutionalizing her child. Instead, I suspect this mother worked powerfully but self-effacingly. Her mother coined the phrase, "different, not less," to influence Temple. Once Temple acquired language, her mother insisted on schooling and engagement. As Temple said, "Mother pounded me with manners and rules." This very pounding helped to equip Temple to function out in the world.

I see so many criss-crosses with the story of Temple Grandin in my own life. Certainly when you work in a continuation school, there is a constant need for pounding manners and rules. Manners begin to instill a sense of dignity among those who've been downtrodden. Manners reduce classroom beefs and prevent fistfights. Furthermore, when I volunteer at Club 21, I'm noticing the steady emphasis of learning rules of civility and engagement, of what constitutes normal social behavior. If you are a teen with Down syndrome, you need to learn that you don't hug everyone you meet; you hug your family. Or if you want to join the social group, we sit up in chairs. We don't sprawl all over the floor during conversations. Most of all, I recall my own mom saying, "Just wait 'til you have a child who's different." Sure enough, I did have a child who has endured many learning challenges through life. How often our family has faced dilemmas and decisions, frustrations and missteps. Not as profound as what Temple and her mother experienced, but enough that I can identify with their story.

When you have a child who is different, your job as a parent becomes even more complex. Average can become your aspiration. As one of the moms at Club 21 beamed not long ago, "The teacher told me my daughter got a normal passing score on her spelling test! Normal!!" We all reveled in laughter at the compliment.

Parents who recognize their children may be different, but not less, become searchers. We don't look for grand-scale miracles, but we are always open to the smaller ones that may come our way. A kind, persistent speech therapist;a classroom teacher willing to adapt; the group leader who teaches social cues--as searching parents, we treasure these finds. Only last year did a friend recommend a great resource new to me: Fuller Seminary's Psychology Department. Dr. Stacy Amano and her team conduct thorough, in-depth studies for children, adolescents, and adults with learning and socialization issues, including Autism Spectrum concerns. Appointments need to be made six or more months in advance and the cost is dear. But the interpretation of results, the comprehensive report, and the valuable referrals that follow make it worthwhile. For us it made all the difference.

Stacy Amano, Ph.D
Fuller Psychological and Family Services
180 N. Oakland Avenue
Pasadena 91101
626.396.6044

2010-02-08T08:10:00.001-08:00

The Pasadena Playhouse

2010-01-31T08:34:00.000-08:00

By now we are all aware that our solid old "always there" Pasadena Playhouse is on precarious footing. She's the grand dame of Pasadena culture. We are shocked and distressed to hear of her misfortune, even if we are not playgoers. How can we make sense of her decline, and is there anything that we ordinary friends or neighbors or even strangers can do to reverse it?

Last night I was at a dinner party with some far more cognizant of finances than I am. One suggested that the Playhouse renegotiate terms of its mortgage obligations, "skinny down" staff, and with the understanding that this recession may continue for another two to three years, work on revitalization. Someone else noted that significant fundraisers really can occur in a generous region like Pasadena. Another said bankruptcy is an option. I listened to all of this, but I admit I don't quite understand how we reached this point. Yet here we are.

I've always wanted to be a philanthropist. My primary obstacle is that I don't have any money. To compensate I suppose I think a lot about how to make things better. Now the Pasadena Playhouse has relocated right into the center of my thinking tank. Its occupation has become my preoccupation. On a human level, I have known Sheldon Epps, the artistic director, and his wife for nearly ten years. They are very understated, earnest, devoted contributors to the cultural scenes of Pasadena and Los Angeles. If anyone can suss out some solutions, I'd wager it will be Sheldon. Still, this is a painful time fraught with 37 job losses and the Playhouse's spectral possibility. I keep thinking about what else could help restore and reinvent the Pasadena Playhouse.

The other day in class a boy suggested, "Miss, if every man, lady, baby and kid in the US gave a penny, wouldn't that help the economy? Even the babies!" he emphasized. This did get me thinking, what if we shifted our view that instead of a getting-time, we now live in a giving-time? And it may need to be a giving-time for an indeterminate period? What if we imagined a new normal? What could that look like?

A new normal in Pasadena could steady the Playhouse. True, someone is going to have to lead the way in things monetary. But why couldn't the Playhouse broaden its applicability to the life of our city? Could it be used for filming? For music or speakers' series? Could its lovely courtyard be rented for private events as those in the oak garden behind Happy Trails Catering on Fair Oaks? Could a drama school be reintroduced? Could improv training like we find at Upright Citizens Brigade or Groundlings be offered? The Hamilton Theatre with its 86 seats is a great intimate space for performances and small-scale plays that itinerant companies like Buzzworks or Parson's Nose mount.

One other consideration is the life and livelihood of Elements, the restaurant which has just arrived and is adjacent to the Playhouse. In its first location, this kitchen has won raves all around town. We've long anticipated its El Molino destination. Elements could prove to be as familial as our beloved old Playhouse, given the chance.

Pasadena has been blessed with its architecture, its sense of history, its ability to craft a particular identity in southern California. There is room for all ages in our city. At some point the scenesters who hang out at the Paseo are going to grow up and start going to the Ice House, the Playhouse, the Gamble House. It's our challenge to link the past and the present, to mesh our getting-time with our giving-time, to continue to foster our vibrant city. The Pasadena Playhouse may be ready for its close-up, Mr. DeMille, but certainly not its close up.

Shopping in the House

2010-01-23T11:01:00.000-08:00

Sunlight is pouring into my house after nearly a week's worth of rain. Tomorrow we have scheduled another open house, which is exactly what needs to occur until this place is sold. Of course, it's a tough time to have your house on the market. But the ever-readiness to show nudges my housekeeping chops to the mark. Albeit Me the Housekeeper felt more like Me the Slattern during the recent holiday season.

If you've raised a houseful of children, you know the pattern of their joyous returns and their flurries of exodus. The house stood still and expectant in early December, tidy, compliant from its series of open house showings. Then came all the prodigals--from Africa, Arizona, Washington, D.C., New York City. It was a happy jumble of car-sharing, birthdays, reunions with friends and family. And the house began to degrade inexorably. This is called "feeling at home." That's when I remembered all the years of chore charts, exhortations, rewards, threats, piles: impressions spinning as endlessly as the washer did back when I still had collagen. But soon enough, everyone began packing and departing. This is where the story gets good.

Once everyone left, it took awhile to restore the house to order. From that point, and as far as I am concerned, into the future, I was able to resume my hobby, Shopping in the House. Shopping in the House is not an isolated phenomenon. If you've lived with anyone, surely there is detritus left behind once these anyones move on. It's one thing to clean up their messes. But it's far more delightful to stumble upon little unexpected treats, and this is the premise of Shopping in the House. It doesn't cost a thing (except that you have probably already paid for the stuff if your kids left it). Today for example, I was rummaging in the cupboard and I found two bags of authentic fry bread mix! You can make crepes from it, I discovered. When I was dusting a bookcase, I found a Frank Sinatra CD that I don't recall. It's got Frank phrasing words like "...groovy." Hmm.

My Shopping finds include beauty supplies that I would never buy for myself. I found a delicate bottle of Vera Wang perfume! Wow! I found a talisman necklace that I later learned was a good luck charm blessed by a tribal priest in Togo. That helped me through a challenging time at work. And what about those dramatic earrings that looked like a pair of small garbage can lids? Now those caused people to comment. I cannot recommend Shopping in the House highly enough. It turns dross into platinum, banality to beneficence. Poke around a little. You'll become a convert. There's treasure to be hunted in our very midst every day.

January 2010

2010-01-17T15:14:00.000-08:00

January has finally assumed its rightful place as a month distinct from the Christmas-New Year's domination. But for those of us in Pasadena, the days leading up to the Rose Parade may include watching the Bandfest at Pasadena City College, navigating alternative streets to avoid the set-ups for the parade, or wondering how many more RVs can cram into the USMC-adjacent parking lot. On January 1, the Rose Bowl game causes traffic to tilt to the west side of town. After that, we'll host two more days of visitors who come to admire the just-retired floats on the east end near Pasadena High School. When the floats are towed off to Duarte or to their cities' storage points, when the trash is collected, and the Christmas trees are mulched, January can officially behave like any other month.

To celebrate that normalcy, last Saturday I took a drive to Cabazon. The little town about 90 minutes east of here was once best known for its giant dinosaur statues (i.e., "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure") and Hadley's Date Shakes. But nowadays the destination is Desert Hills Premium Outlets. I visit that shopping behemoth perhaps twice yearly. I plan my incursion with military precision because shopping is not that much fun when left to chance. Usually I check their website to look for promotions and to verify that stores open at 10:00 a.m. No sense in arriving too early. Yet the parking scene is Darwinian, so a 10:00 a.m. arrival is prime for finding a good spot. If you park in the West Wing, you are close to the customer service office. This office is destination #1. Show your AAA card, and the lady there will give you a killer coupon book that may set your heart pounding. At least for me the adrenaline surges as I chart my course for bargains and acquisitions.

I began at the Bass Shoe outlet and progressed to the Gap. Onward to J. Crew! Nine West! My own relentless Sherman's March of shopping, driven onwards, minus the destruction. This shopping center has three linked segments, but it's wisest not to move the car and risk losing a place. Instead, plan on making little sallies to drop your purchases in the car. You can get lots of walking in with this style of shopping. In fact, I brought a Trader Joe's salad along so I could fortify without having to enter the sensory-overloaded food court. I am happy to say I shopped feverishly for six hours. I think I found some relatively hip school clothes and a pair of sexy lace-up nun shoes. And now I won't have to go shopping until maybe August. I can continue other January pursuits, like turning my own mulch pile, finishing off semester 1, trimming roses, and oh--making credit card payments.

My Island Discovery

2009-12-28T12:05:00.000-08:00

I used to be very easily defeated by car troubles. I felt personally affronted, even persecuted, by the nail in the tire, the blinking light on the dashboard, the heart-thudding engine glug on that morning I was racing late for work. Some years back when I was learning to fend for myself, I answered the call of the coupon from Island Tire. This garage turned out to be more than a tire warehouse; for me it's been a lifesaver.

Maybe it was the time I needed tires for the Honda. I was wary about buying them anyplace because I had no confidence or tire prowess. I just had a generalized anxiety disorder regarding Tire Salesmen, men I pictured in blocky white shirts with skinny black ties, hornrims, and the clairvoyance to read my ignorance. But I compelled myself to visit Island. Here I met the man known only as JOSE (so it says in red on his business card). I was nervous about joining his "tire club," which was some kind of enrollment that offers a fixed rate for oil changes and tune-ups. "Scam," whispered one little voice on the left. "Desperate," whispered the other, more sotto voce on the right. I went with the right and there began a regular, very beneficial automotive relationship. It wasn't a scam. It was a solution!

Just before Thanksgiving Day my battery died on Foothill Blvd. Luckily I was curbside, but unluckily I could not get through to AAA. So I walked down to Island and located Jose. I explained my little tragedy and he took time immediately to drive me over to the car, charge it, and then replace the battery back at the shop. Yes, to the world it's just a car battery, but to me his assistance represents community as well. It's a giant comfort to know you can solve a pesky problem with the help of someone reliable. As I drove my functioning car onto Colorado Blvd., I thanked the universe for allowing me to problem-solve in Pasadena.

I have steered a couple of lady friends to Island. One of them told me she had been to Paradise and she was very happy with it. For a moment I thought this was an allusion to mature romance, but then she gushed about Jose. My Jose! Call the place what you wish. Island Tire just may be that oasis we all need on occasion.

Island Tire
2754 E. Colorado Blvd.
Pasadena 91107
626.792.0987

A Day at the Opera & the Weeks of Preparation

2009-12-19T22:03:00.000-08:00

Usually by October 1, the art teacher and I have written an elaborate application to the Los Angeles Opera in hopes of being selected a school who will attend one of two full-on matinees. In the past years the process has been rigorous. A pair of original lessons adhering to visual arts and language standards must pass scrutiny of the opera education department. This year the stakes were even higher. The program was forced to reduce its matinees to one. In addition, funds for school buses have nearly vanished.

We called this project, "From Alhambra to Seville," invoking our town and "The Barber of Seville." We researched commedia dell'arte and decided to create a lesson based on opera buffa and the life of Rossini. We met our deadline. Then we chewed our nails and by Halloween assumed that we had been eliminated. However, due to a glitch, we learned belatedly that we WERE indeed chosen once again. This opera competition is not kids' stuff. The teachers who submit applications hail from all over our county, representing private and public schools. They teach AP, average, and at-risk youth; humanities, music, foreign language, English, drama, and beyond. It's stellar to be accepted, and from that point, the onus to prepare students to experience an opera and comport themselves properly is dead serious.

The Los Angeles Opera and its patrons throw their support into the annual project of bringing young people to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. This year, on December 8, an energetic, professional ensemble of vocalists, dancers, musicians, lighting and set designers presented a gorgeous three-hour production to a full house. Seats which ordinarily cost from 60$ to 260$ were donated so that Los Angeles students could steep themselves in live opera. For many kids this was THE field trip of the year. We live in such strapped times that we can no longer take the occasional cultural outing for granted. The elegance of opera-going was theirs for that single day. Will it be remembered? I vote yes.

But allow me to pull back the curtain and reveal just what it takes to make such a field trip happen. I confess to a certain queasy ambivalence this year when I learned that our lesson plan had made the grade. It is very nerve-wracking to take 30 continuation school students out to a ritzy institution. All my fears about profanity, fights, inebriation, tagging, or just small stuff like quashing conversations in the house or losing children rose up like condos replacing bungalows in Pasadena. But then I steeled myself.

The art teacher and I marched through November with our preparations. We played arias. We got composition books so that the kids could arrange all their handouts and design commonplace books. Our students prefer to create a product. Theorizing and reveling in abstractions are proven ways to shut down their interest, so we have to inject the color, the texture, the fun of the pageantry of opera. (In past years we have watched MOULIN ROUGE prior to La Boheme, or built shoebox dioramas of torture rooms for Tosca.) We also had to ready the students to be attentive for our guest from the speakers' bureau, a mentally supple gent named Mr. Cadman, who brought along his personal powerpoint-boombox equipage. After Mr. Cadman spoke, we had the kids write him thank you notes, because good manners make the world go 'round.

The week before the field trip, we distributed the permission slips and then chased those down. We dunned the students regarding modest attire, about not looking hoochy, about not wearing hats, and about relinquishing electronics. This was the toughest part because these guys are committed to ipods and phones. (We actually put each item in a baggy, labeled it, and locked it in the office during the hours we were away from campus.) On December 8, we met for breakfast in the art teacher's room. We reviewed how it would go yet again. We now had four adults and 27 students. A short bus ride away we found ourselves spilling out onto the Music Center Plaza. "Miss, you're looking all tense," one boy chided me. By 10:10 a.m. the doors opened, and schools of teenagers swam under the glittering chandeliers on the way to their seats. Precisely at 11 a.m., the familiar overture rose, and the students remembered that this was their cue to fall silent. My students were actually polite and attentive. They watched the production, and I watched them, just as it should be. Twenty-seven plus four adults returned by bus. And just as it should, it all worked out. Bravo!

Remembering Avery

2009-12-12T17:32:00.000-08:00

By mid-December the ginkgos lining south Allen Avenue toward the Huntington Library are dropping their leaves, so many yellow potato chips settling beneath each tree. Comes the showy end of another cycle of a landscaping staple in our neighborhoods: the ginkgo, whose nascent green ushers spring, whose fan-shaped leaves quietly deepen over summer, whose gold steals in during October and November. (We'll forgive the trees' smelly autumn phase.) By Thanksgiving, I always wonder, "When will the ginkgo leaves drop this year?" It's the cold that helps them shed: they were just there, and now, dramatically, they fall away from us. I love the ginkgos. When their time is nigh, we stop momentarily to heed their arresting beauty.

You may sense where this story is leading. It's a quiet story of two friends who met and collaborated for a season. Do you know Sue Hodson, the curator of literary manuscripts at the Huntington Library? Sue is a learned, ebullient jill-of-all-trades at the library. I benefited from her American literature expertise when she guided me during last year's BIG READ collaboration with our school. Sue's most recent project is "Central Avenue and Beyond: The Harlem Renaissance in Los Angeles." This study is part of the "Dreams Fulfilled" series, which for the last two years has examined cultural contributions of African-Americans. Close to Halloween, I visited Sue. (Sue and her staff are kind enough to collect pencils and pens for my students.) She gave me an insider's tour of the current exhibit. In her lively discourse, she connected the many letters, photos, movie posters, and other significant artifacts from the 1920s to 1950s, the period of our own western Harlem Renaissance. I couldn't imagine where this trove came from.

Sue explained that she had worked for the past year with Mr. Avery Clayton, inheritor of more than 600 boxes of cultural mementos and landmark documents. Avery's mother, Mayme Clayton, had been a college librarian for forty years, always with a collector's eye for Black history. Mrs. Clayton haunted garage sales, acquiring books, periodicals, correspondence, and art from numerous sources, sensing that she was constructing an important collection. Upon Mrs. Clayton's death, Avery decided to keep that collection intact and seek a means of cataloging and utilizing the items for public appreciation. Avery had been an art teacher and artist. He was able to secure an old courthouse in Culver City that will become museum to the Clayton collection. Sue marveled at Avery's resourcefulness and his ability to draw a dedicated cadre of volunteers. She intimated that accruing the works was his mother's mission, but that bringing the collection to the public eye was Avery's. The exhibit at the Huntington was easily nine months in the making. Sue works fastidiously. She is a generous collaborator and she loves to learn from every new partnership. She thought the world of Avery. The Clayton exhibition opened on October 24 in the West Hall of the Huntington Library.

Avery Clayton died suddenly while hosting Thanksgiving at his home in Culver City. He was 62 years old. There is a wonderful photo by Don Milici of Sue and Avery studying documents attached to the article, "A Burgeoning New Library Puts the Fine Art of Collaboration into Practice," by Traude Gomez-Rhine. It is a stunning loss to have Avery leave us just as we were getting to know his work. Drive past the ginkgos on south Allen Avenue and take yourself to "Central Avenue." You will see the dream of Avery Clayton fulfilled.

My Dinner with Pat

2009-12-05T09:34:00.000-08:00

About two weeks ago I met my pal Pat Atkins for some evening fun. We used to teach high school together. Pat has since retired, but her avocation is that of character actress. In fact, I'll bet you've seen Pat in Nestle or Hallmark commercials. She's the kindly matriarch who beams over a cup of tea or whose face floats out of the greeting card. I was teasing Pat about a recent job.

"What role are you playing?"
"Now what do you think I'd be cast as?" Pat purred in her distinctive contralto.
"Let's see...a grandmother?"
"You guessed it, kiddo."

But Pat is genuinely grateful for every job. She's one of the most active, vibrant women you could hope to meet, always up for theatre or a foreign film or an artwalk. I had told Pat I am dating myself in Pasadena, and she replied, "Is that what it's called? I've been doing that for 35 years!"

We agreed to meet at Daisy Mint. This is a small quirky Asian restaurant that fills up rapidly. Therefore, whoever arrived at 5:25 was to snag a table. Pat captured the flag and we ordered. I chose the spring rolls, which are little hand salads the size of small ice cream cones. The chicken satay, some vegetable dish, the green tea steeping in a glass pot--all of it came together for us as we caught up. The surprise element was a table visit from my old friends Sally and Tracy. They just materialized, and we started talking about the food drive at a local public art spot, known as The Fork in the Road, near Huntington Hospital. Now it may be that I don't get out enough, but I get the biggest bang out of the occasional small-town confluence that is Pasadena. This was just rich, a little cascade of friends in a cozy public spot, people laughing inside, twilight deepening outside.

Pat and I needed to get to Jameson Brown Coffee Roasters by 7 p.m. We are among a growing number of fanatics for the public readings staged by Parson's Nose Theatre. About once every six weeks, this South Pasadena troupe of actors gives a lively reading in a nearby coffee house. Admission is by reservation. Donations are encouraged, but the audience is not browbeaten. Instead, you find yourself so grateful for intelligent hilarity, time after time, that you donate because it is right and meet so to do. Lance Davis and Mary Chalon lead a fine, rapier-witted crew of professional actors. These people interpret classics with zeal and spirit and audacity. I can't say enough good about them. (I can say that they have a production of THE IMAGINARY INVALID coming to the Pacific Asia Museum on weekends from January 15-February 12. Tickets may be ordered online.) Their work is an absolute delight for all mortals. You need not be a theatre geek to appreciate their talent.

And so, thus went my dinner with Pat and all its commensurate antics. We are heading to Parson's Nose at the coffee house again on December 19 at 7 p.m. for a reading of A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Daisy Mint: 1218 Colorado Blvd., Pasadena

www.parsonsnose.com

Jameson Brown Coffee Roasters: 260 N. Allen Ave., Pasadena

The Quare Jean

2009-12-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

"Jean, are you quare like Miss Alice?" asked my cousin Joe some years back. Joe was a trucker from North Carolina, a genial, knobby-knuckled connection to my mother's generation. Joe and his wife Genevieve (pronounced Genevee) had driven (of course!) cross-country as retirees to sightsee and visit a few of us western kin.

His question took me aback. Miss Alice was my beloved granny, born in 1889 up over the border in Virginia. She spent most of her life in a small burg in the North Carolina Sandhills, Aberdeen. Joe and Genevee had not only known Miss Alice for decades; they even knew Miss Emma, our granny's mother who died in 1952! This family history sped through my mind like a reliable dsl connection. Yes, I remembered both those ladies were quare, and today I can say that I am probably quare too.

What is quareness, Californians may ask? To me it means being a bit eccentric, independent-minded without the stridency, maybe even a little offbeat or unusual. In Miss Alice's case, I can think back to a few particulars. If she prepared a fried chicken supper, she would always, always serve herself the back. Not the thigh, not the drumstick, never the breast: only the back. Now you may feel this was her sacrifice borne of surviving the Depression. But habit it became, and only much later on did another cousin explain to me that there on the chicken back lay the two finest, tiniest filets for the most discriminating of diners. I also recall that Miss Alice was an inveterate walker. She never learned to drive. But she liked to go to town regularly for her groceries, and she hoofed it at least three miles well into her seventies. She'd loop her black pocketbook over her forearm and cross her arms for the walk. Trotting alongside her, we children would bat at our heads, complaining that the sucker bugs (deerflies) were biting us viciously. She'd just nod left to right and observe, "Y'all must be too sweet because they don't bother me at'all." Miss Alice had a neighbor across Bethesda Road who mowed her yard. Yankees believed his name to be Garfield, but Miss Alice pronounced it, "Gaw-field Wilson." Some child had the bright idea, "Granny, why don't you marry Gaw-field Wilson? He seems very useful." Her reply? "Now what would I do with a man?" Even though we did not understand rhetorical questions, we knew it best not to prod further. And Miss Alice could twine her legs around each other when she sat down to fan herself, remarking, "Ooo-ee, it's hot'here!" I admired that odd compact way of sitting a spell.

If you want to learn more about being quare, I recommend the essay, "The Quare Gene," from the book Somehow Form a Family by Tony Earley. Mr. Earley grew up in North Carolina. His deceptively simple, lambent writing style carries me back to the place and time of grannies and deerflies and country cooking. "The Quare Gene" explores the meaning and emotion of similar archaic terms, like peaked (peak-ed, meaning ill) or pallet (bedding arranged on the floor for sleeping), words once naturally woven into our Southern lives. Little by little these words are becoming display case curios. As our nation is changed by mass media and technology, words like poke ( a sack) or even pocketbook become consigned to increasingly ironic use. Mr. Earley believes, "...that each individual word functions as a type of gene, bearing with it a small piece of the specific information that makes us who we are, and tells us where we have been..." If this can be so, that language connects us to our personal history, then cousin Joe was actually a messenger delivering a reminder to me. I had almost forgotten that I was right quare until he pointed it out.

They Came. They Saw. They Et.

2009-11-28T16:27:00.000-08:00

Last Wednesday our school hosted its annual Thanksgiving Feast. This is a traditional event that grows from mere mention in October to trumpet blasts from on high by the fourth week of November. It's a time of great anticipation, and once again to my immense relief we pulled it off. I'd estimate we served 200+ dinners to students and guests.

For reasons of poverty or other social woes, a number of our students always go without the traditional Thanksgiving dinner. However, we see it as our job to normalize kids' experiences as best we can in the short time we connect with them. The Thanksgiving preparation process is ideal for that. Let's face it: everyone can be helpful if given a chance and the encouragement to do so. We just have to devise the ways to elicit their help.

I was this year's Thanksgiving Lady, the person who makes sure the event happens. In my usual circular style, I needed to enlist gobs of helpers. The staff is fine. They sign up to contribute and cook volumes of food: nine turkeys; 50 pounds of corn; 60+ pounds of mashed potatoes; rolls, salad, gravy, dressing. We also asked the students to bring dessert. They really came through. Loads of pies and brownies and cakes, all daubed with whipped cream. A bonus this year was a former parent who has an angel's touch in the community. She scored us three salads from Souplantation, a tray of mashed potatoes, and three more turkeys from Fresh and Easy. This all made for a great presentation. For the students, especially the boys, it's the quantity of food offered that thrills them. In the whole buildup to this day we kind of mythologize the meal. Its bounty addresses cravings that a lot of our kids conceal in daily life.

Even though I find organizing the dinner nerve-wracking, there is a part I like. That part is the metamorphosis. It's a human metamorphosis, wherein the individuals gradually merge to form a single working organism. Even the more obdurate ones can come around (the difficult boy who made me a poster listing the helpers because he could 'bomb' or stylize the heading; the too-cool-for-school kids who brought pies and waited patiently in the buffet line...). The two days prior to the dinner ramp up with activity. Girls who typically apply makeup in class carefully arranged buckets of greens from my yard for our pilgrim tables. Boys who cross their arms and stare when I ask them to start their assignments moved tables and set up chairs. Detail kids wrapped utensils in napkins and tied them smartly and set out placecards and collected leaves for decor.

We showcased this meal at 10:30 a.m. Wednesday. It's always a crapshoot in continuation as to who will show up for any event. But sure enough, the line from the science room where the buffet sat steaming snaked down the hall by 10:20. We staff donned our black aprons. The nurse, counselors, teachers, office ladies, even a board member all stood poised with ladles and tongs. The runners angled themselves toward the exit for the refills. For a moment I stood in the empty center of the horseshoe and pretended I was Gustavo Dudamel at Disney Hall. And then on my signal, the organism pulsed and its every function came to life. Dinner was served.

A Push for '"Precious"

2009-11-21T23:01:00.000-08:00

About a month ago one of the students was explaining his tattoos to me. He showed me his mom's name, his grandma's name, and various curlicues. But I was curious about a delicately scripted PUSH on his wrist. He translated it for me: "Pray Until Something Happens." I thought about that later, because although I recall being taught to pray for God's solution, I just assumed it might not necessarily be my kind of solution. Maybe Pray Until Something Happens is another riff on my childhood theology. I just hadn't looked at it that way.

Then I took myself on a date to see the fine, skin-pricking movie, "Precious:Based on the Novel PUSH by Sapphire." Talk about praying until something happens. The characters in this film may not overtly pray, but they surely endure until something happens--the somethings that are both expected and unexpected in an abrasive, treacherous cityscape. Precious Jones is an unloved, functionally illiterate, pregnant teen plodding through the dreariest existence imaginable in Harlem, 1987. The opening pulls you right down into gray-black-white grittiness with a slash of red provided by the titles. (You can trace that red throughout the story if you like to look for color motifs.) I admit that I was prepared to find Precious repellent before I ever met her. But I grew intrigued with her stoicism, her carefully tended bangs, the follow-through that I know it takes to enroll in an alternative school. Certainly, Precious has little reason to be resilient. And yet I started to root early on for Precious not to have the tenacity beat out of her. Precious is no angel--she clocks several characters in the course of the film. But she has this life force that will not be extinguished.

There is a great New York Times Magazine article, "The Audacity of Precious," (Lynn Hirschberg, 10/25/09) where director Lee Daniels is profiled. Daniels greeted an audience at the Cannes Film Festival announcing, "I'm a little homo, I'm a little Euro, and I'm a little ghetto," and the crowd roared approval at his precis. Daniels says he likes to cast comedians and singers as film actors, and he really is onto something in "Precious." Mo'Nique tears the roof off in the final soliloquy. That speech has to be the most riveting, profoundly painful, shocking statement in a movie already loaded with human suffering. Lenny Kravitz warmly provides the convincing male anchor of the ensemble. Mariah Carey, at first unrecognizable, is as plain and wryly world-weary as a lot of us are when we labor to make a system beat with a human heart. If you check out the article and its accompanying video, it will enrich your understanding of what went into this film. The film's potency lies in its ability to coax identification from disparate viewers. For example, many's the time in my own teaching job when I think to myself, "Try harder, Jean. This child was once somebody's baby." And then I read Mr. Lee Daniels his own self says, "Even the most evil person was somebody's baby one time..." Yes, he is referring to the character Mary Jones, but for us it's exponentially larger than that. When a monster of a mother can plaintively cry, "Who gonna love ME?", we all need to think about whom we have loved and who may yet need our love in all its myriad forms.

CLUB 21

2009-11-14T06:48:00.000-08:00

For the past few weeks I have been doing some weekly volunteer work at Club 21 in Pasadena. This is an organization dedicated to serving families and youngsters who have Down syndrome. It's a clearinghouse, an education resource, a place of comfort for families, and a social nexus. There is a queen bee at the center of this buzzing hive, and her name is Nancy Litteken.

Who doesn't know Nancy? If you don't, you should! Nancy is that person you want to sit beside at a conference because she grasps what's going on intuitively, but she has a deliciously impish sense of humor that keeps you alert at all times. As with many warm,dynamic people, Nancy does not appear to have much reason to be such a crackerjack. She will tell you that she was a hearing child born to deaf parents. Her first language was Sign, and when you converse with her, her hands are still flying today. Nancy once told me her parents would take her to the Hollywood Bowl to listen to music because they thought that was what Hearing People did. Nancy grew up to teach and work with hearing-impaired and special needs families. There is, of course, a pretzel logic to her life's preparation. Eleven years ago her own daughter was born with Down syndrome. As Nancy began to search for therapies and resources to benefit her own family, she discovered that our Los Angeles region was strikingly devoid of comprehensive support. What to do about that?

With no discernible promise of success, Nancy hatched the tiny egg of ingenuity. She would raise a nonprofit organization to aid families with Down syndrome! And why not? She had no previous experience, so she never was rationally nervous about the undertaking. Through the miracle that is Nancy, Pasadena Covenant Church agreed to house an office, classroom space,a baby play area,and a private counseling room. Nancy favors a little p'zazz, so she chose the sporty, insouciant name CLUB 21, in honor of the little chromosome that begs to differ. Nancy and her devoted circle of friends have made both a haven and a cutting-edge lab where schoolwork is adapted, where parent meetings are held, where teachers are trained, and where questions are always welcome. Hugs, tears, and laughter are dispensed at every turn.

Earlier this month, the combined efforts of Flintridge Prep Leo Club, Polytechnic students, friends, families, and volunteers hot-housed a walkathon that earned close to $50,000! Nancy's autumn brainchild, recruiting credentialed teachers to volunteer as reading tutors, is just winding down its first ten-week session. After a December hiatus, we tutors will begin again in January. We plan to offer our services until the end of the school year, drawing in more volunteers and expanding the program. Check out www.clubtwentyone.org and see what Nancy hath wrought.

A Valentine for Jimmy Santiago Baca

2009-11-11T14:19:00.000-08:00

Those of you who know me are aware of my challenging and poignant job as a teacher at a continuation high school. My students are mostly boys, not keen on reading, more than disaffected by a whole lot of things in life. But god love them, they are usually fairly tolerant of my attempts to bring academic order to our school lives. (At our school the kids address me by the honorific MISS.) As one fella said, when I was trying to gain his attention, "Oh, go ahead, Miss, teach. Do your little thing."

A couple of years ago I was galvanized by reading a paperback called A PLACE TO STAND, by Jimmy Santiago Baca. This book was the answer to my prayer, because I needed something substantial to read with my kids that would speak to them on a genuine level. The book contains innumerable harsh life experiences, explicit language, and a verity laced with crime and punishment and survival. All this fits my students' milieu. Trouble is, if you are a learner reading at second to fifth grade level, but you are a young adult,even a great book like this might be beyond you. Still, I had to have this book. I wrote a little grant and purchased a class set the first year we tried it.

I have to say that in class I read the entire book out loud, but it is a guided reading. The students read along with me, and we build up our stamina so that we can concentrate on the story for up to 30 minutes a class period. My students may not have experienced that childhood luxury of being read to. In fact, one of them remarked to me, "You know what, Miss? I'm gonna get my diploma and then open an after-school homework center and hire you to read out loud!" I replied that I would dig it and that I might be in the market for some part-time work one of these days. But it is the potency of the narrative that hooks them. How many times have they told me that they have never read a whole book until this one? It's so important to me that they read, that they feel invited to that table of readers and not hang back in the shadows of the excluded. (And it doesn't hurt that A PLACE TO STAND is highly cinematic in spots.)

One of my old teaching chums used to say she reserved time in class for preaching, and I do that too. When I preach, I always tell the kids I am that other mother they never knew they had. This particular book is rife with redemption but never in either a saccharine or lachrymose tone. Instead, this book is about LITERACY--about how we all can release life's pent-up emotion through thinking and reading and writing. I couldn't have asked for better preaching material had I devised it myself.

One small problem is that these books vanish. Everyone asks to take them home and we don't have enough to go around. In fact, I had to order ten more from Amazon for this quarter's go round. But I don't feel like I'm paying fare to Charon to enter the Land of the Dead. Far from it. This is my investment in our vida together.

Walk Therapy

2009-11-11T12:52:00.000-08:00

One of my "hobbies" is walking with various pals in Pasadena. Out of serendipity, I have certain routes particular to certain friends. The other night I met one friend on the steps of our beloved City Hall. Pasadena City Hall is majestic at any hour, but come twilight and on into evening, the lighting beckons solely to you. (Go look at this landmark on Christmas Eve or New Year's Eve or on your birthday and see if you can feel the connection to something sublime, that you may be folded into the strength of its glowing stateliness. It gives me the shivers, I tell you.) Anyway, from the City Hall steps on Garfield, we walk west on Union into Old Town.

Ladies walking = ladies talking. We are sorting out our work lives, and from there we segue into interpersonal psychology. We'll walk a loop to the fringe of Old Town and then east again along Colorado Blvd. The shopping district isn't exactly teeming, but it's populous enough that you should pay attention, especially at the scramble intersections. I think it is the patterning of walking and talking with a friend in a familiar setting that helps you calm down. Some of my workdays feel so electrifying that I need that kinesthetic logic applied like a patch.

Another walking partner happens to be my neighbor, and we meet predawn twice a week. We are mole people. In fact, until we started volunteering at the same place, I had not seen her in daylight for ages. I go out onto my street at about 5:10 a.m where we will meet. Nothing moves. And then, straight out of Sherlock Holmes, my friend materializes; I always get a kick out of her spontaneous generation. We have a circuit that we walk in about 30 minutes' time. There are topics that reflect our passage of blocks: the greeting; recounting recent past events; upcoming/ongoing projects; maybe some ranting or rending of garments; some possible solutions; the benediction until next time. Again, it's the pattern we inhabit that helps us comb out our tangled brains.

And, I have one more longtime friend with whom I have shared many adventures and even more walks. Our usual walk therapy starts at Cal Tech. You can park your car on Wilson (unless there are filming restrictions) and cross campus by the Broad Building. Cal Tech must be the brainiest place we could ever pick to stroll, but it's benign, it's quiet, and it's welcoming every time. The surrounding camphor-lined neighborhoods feel like you're walking into a Ray Bradbury story (and I mean this in the fondest way). We even make up our own speculations about the lovely homes, their warmly lit windows egging us on. On these walks we discuss our dilemmas, the sad and funny events of life (which are often one and the same), social faux pas we have committed, job challenges, travel goals, you name it. We walk 45 minutes to an hour, depending on whose dog has come along. Really, the exercise is secondary to the solace and laughter that come from these rambles.

The Chinese Foot Massage

2009-11-02T19:38:00.000-08:00

Awhile ago I took myself on a date in Arcadia. A friend had told me about her visit to Swan Spa on Baldwin Avenue. She cautioned me not to feel ill at ease when I entered a darkened narrow room lined with upholstered chairs, that this was where the treatment took place. The workers were gregarious, even though they spoke mainly Chinese and I all English. Immediately after they placed me in a chair and put my feet into a bucket of water, they gestured for me to move. It turns out the first 30 minutes of massage take place as you sit on an ottoman facing the chair. No disrobing! The masseuse practically assaults you, kneading, pummeling, and slapping you along the shoulders, back, buttocks, and arms. Just lean forward. In fact, it is the just about the most invigoration a stockstill person can experience. During the massage my anxiety gradually quelled and I started to appreciate what this $18 hour might accomplish.

After the back massage I was asked to sit again conventionally. The plasma TV blared steady coverage of local news in China. Now it was time to roll up my pants legs to knee level and get down to business. My masseuse tugged and pressed each toe. I asked him the correlation of toe to body part, and he replied succinctly, "Head." Or "Eye." Or "Ear." He massaged my feet and calves for a good twenty minutes. Another attendant brought me several cups of drinking water during the process. The treatment was bracing, almost utilitarian, but never fawning. I practically felt like marching to the cashier's desk with new resolution borne of improved circulation. My appointment lasted an hour.

On the way home, I decided to stop at SUSHIYA (sushi for less at 2525 E Foothill, #2, Pasadena). This modest cozy spot in a strip mall is indeed teeny, but it is economical. If you are by yourself, you don't have to feel like an odd duck sitting at the bustling counter. The sushi chef will lean right over into you and ask your choices, his tone staccato but good-natured. There is a full offering of sushi and sashimi, but the dish I liked best is the Jasmine Hand Wrap. The chef rapidly constructs a cone from a seeded Japanese tortilla, stuffs it with mild chopped salmon filling, and brandishes it from his hand to yours. It is one of the more expensive items, about $4.50, but it is a must. After all, dating yourself is grounds for a treat.

When Dating Yourself is a Stretch

2009-10-26T20:27:00.000-07:00

Granted, the metaphor of dating oneself may wear thin if you start to think, heck, this is all about spending too much time alone! But living for all of us has to be about widening our perceptions and stretching our capacities. There are plenty of instances in life where every one of us finds herself alone. But I discovered a way to be alone together at Pasadena City College.

Now PCC's extended learning program (pcclearn.org) offers all manner of non-credit classes. My favorite turns out to be Power Stretch, which meets in a dance studio room on campus every Saturday at 8 a.m. For one hour twenty-five (or so) adults move through a series of flexibility exercises. Equipment is minimal: loose clothing and a yoga mat if you like. Or borrow one of the mats provided. Also on loan to each student is a green stretching strap. If the equipment is minimalist, native ability is even less. Yes, you can do this physical activity! I have very little physical aptitude. I still recall how my fifth grade teacher selected me to stand in the middle of the circle for dodge ball. Fleetingly I gloated over the honor until it dawned on me that she knew I was too slow to participate as a ball thrower and would do better as a target. But power stretch is a different story. I can follow the directions, I can execute the movements, I can calm down, and I can be competent in the class. That is why I enjoy it so much.

Instructor Karen Harris is a personal trainer and kickboxing teacher by trade. She runs Saturday boot camp, stretch class, and air kickboxing. Our class is really about relaxation, but it takes you a while to figure that out when you first join,especially if your balance is wanting. Karen always reminds us, "The goal is to move through class with your eyes closed, getting into a meditative state." But of course it's a challenge to close your eyes that much without turning tottery. Karen leads us from standing willowy movements to stepping ("These are not lunges,") to floor exercises that culminate in leg and hip stretches courtesy of the green strap. You really can connect with your inner Gumby over the weeks, and any competition you'd sense is only within yourself. The class winds down with some yogic stretches and a return to the upright stretch. Karen always congratulates us and exhorts us to go on to a great day. Maybe it is the synovial fluid coursing through your joints that makes you believe it is indeed possible.

A class like this one gives an opportunity for think-time. I've heard that some people actually use physical movement to accelerate their problem-solving process. Maisie Dobbs comes to mind, the English detective in the same-named series by Jacqueline Winspear, who always takes a stroll when she faces an especially puzzling dilemma. Anyway, I like to walk myself down to PCC for Power Stretch and then walk back home to luxuriate in my thinking too.

How to Date Yourself in Pasadena

2009-10-24T07:02:00.000-07:00

When my marriage went kaput, I found myself with a whole new concept of time to manage. At first I devoted this cache of free time to making friends with the Law & Order team. After all, I discovered, they are available on several channels at all hours every day of the week. Elliot and Olivia, Goren and Eames, Fin and Munch--theirs was a comforting reliability during the many hours I found myself alone. However, they were actually only doing their jobs. They are tv detectives whose shifts have their limits. My attachment to them was illusory at best. I knew I was going to have to wean myself and face my brave new world. I decided I could begin by dating myself.

Dating yourself is a no-brainer. All tenets of social dating apply here, perhaps even more so. You have to be kind to yourself or it won't be enjoyable. You need to make a plan as to how you'll be spending your time and your money. You'll want to decide how to dress for your date. And there is no need to feel self-conscious. If you want to be aloof, play it cool. If you feel sentimental, release those emotions. If you are feeling like you want an educational outing, no justifications required. You're taking your own self places now and you get to be the boss!

At first dating myself felt tentative, non-committal. I might be walking my little terrier at Cal Tech, admiring stately arches or discovering the monkey frieze on the side of the genetic research building. Or I might be exiting All Saints after 7:30 a.m. Sunday service, gazing over our magnificent City Hall in a beatific morning light. I might be walking past the transients who drink their Sunday coffee on Euclid and discuss the reclamation of gray water. Gradually, I began to realize that all about me in Pasadena lay beauty and architectural integrity and humor. It was up to me: seek it out, enjoy it, and appreciate it!

One of my favorite Friday dates is going to a movie at the Academy Theatre on Colorado Blvd. You drive down Catalina past the ingenious little housing courts, past the planetary society (whose building is still for sale) and turn right into the free parking lot. You walk past the redolent Cobbler Factory on the way to the movie theatre. After 6 pm the ticket costs $3, and the movies are slightly aged, but who cares? I know the hot dogs are sold for a buck, but I can't seem to mix a hot dog with cinema, so I confess: I might smuggle Twizzlers or Tropical Dots in my purse. The Academy was filled with plenty of other independent daters the time I went to see The Visitor, and no one noticed when I shed a few tears during Richard Jenkins' eloquent confessional speech about the state of his spirit before meeting Tariq. When the movie is over at the Academy, if it's a late one, you almost have the sense that last one out switches off the lights. You stroll back to your car and head home. Soon enough it will be time for another outing.