The heating repairman was here last week. I was just noting his resemblance to actor Chris Cooper as he descended from the attic. Dryly, he remarked, "Ya got a rat problem up there." My head spun, as if I had just learned I had an STD or was a slatternly housekeeper. I heard the words, "feces," "urine," and I thought, oh drat! But I have lived in this bungalow for three years; the demands of homeownership cannot be postponed any longer.
So what friend will you ask about rat abatement problems? In one sense seeking referrals instantly unravels your filthy secret. Then again it may convey that you suspect someone else has experienced vermin---now there's an unsavory assumption. Instead I turned to the trusty Hometown Pasadena website because its concierge department lists plenty of specialties. There it was: Choice Pest Control of Sierra Madre, CA.
I made an appointment with Mr. Joel Pena. What a nice fellow! He has the reassuring, comforting smile of an obstetrician. He conducted a brief interview and then headed up to my cursed attic. Yes, old and new rat activity was evident. We walked about the exterior of the house and he pointed out three or four small permeable entries for rats. He said they love homes for shelter and comfort, just like humans do. He further mentioned that I shouldn't leave my house doors wide open on these lovely mild days, that quick crafty critters sidle in despite the presence of a dog.
After the estimate, I went whole hog for fourteen traps in the attic and basement. Mr. Pena will be back in a few days to seal the entries and check the traps. Trapping will continue for several weeks. Meantime, I am going to tend to my yard by disturbing leaf litter and trimming back growth. I can't let any corners remain dark, attractive nuisances. The days of benign neglect are officially over.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Elegy for Mr. B
This is an essay I never wanted to write. My dear friend, John Bogert, succumbed to cancer on July 29, 2012. He was 63, a longtime newspaper columnist, Pasadena resident, and devoted dad to his three darlings, Caitlin, Rachael, and Ian. I was a latecomer to his life, having met him in 2010.
Just prior, a longer-time friend, Frankie Stearns, had recommended I buy the book, GROUNDED, by John Bogert. Duly I went to Vroman's and ordered a copy. It's a collection of columns--humorous, musing, ruminative, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. One day my daughter Eliza came home and said, "Whose book is that?" "Mine," I replied. "Mrs. Stearns told me to get it." "But that's Rachael's dad's book!" "Rachael who?" (Come now! I have four kids and I'll wager each has had a friend named Rachael.) "MY RACHAEL FROM SCHOOL!" she corrected. Then the dots began to connect. This was the Rachael whom Eliza had met at University of Edinburgh when they were comedic Improverts together, another local girl who had ventured to Scotland for college. The Bogerts were as colorful a family as ours, I deduced from John's book and Eliza's anecdotes. I just had yet to meet them.
I did meet John at a St. Patrick's party. He was both a late arrival and the raconteur who said all the funny lines first. Usually I like to be the one to toss the bon mots, so I was amused to be displaced. We chatted, discovering we had many mutual acquaintances, parenting similarities, and East Coast origins. We parted ways. But I did start to read his Daily Breeze columns online. His writing became a compass for me sometimes, his prose elevating the prosaic, his distillations of events becoming droplets of significance. Through the written word did my affection for him grow.
Eight months after we met, John was hospitalized with acute gut pain. Appendix? Maybe. But it was much worse. I remember the rainy afternoon Eliza phoned me. I was on the way home from school and I pulled over near the Langham Hotel. She informed me of the cancer diagnosis, and I crumpled in the car, crushed. Everyone who knows cancer understands that its diabolical reach must be countered as craftily as possible. John enlisted a top-notch doctor at Keck. Our erudite Everyman kept springing back from every bodily insult. Surgeries. Chemotherapy. Nausea. Weight loss. During 2011 he was able to resume work on a limited basis. He saw one daughter marry, another daughter move into television work, his son enter senior year of high school. Life ambled on.
But as 2012 progressed, so did the illness. If I ventured to say maybe we'd all see each other when we were stardust, John would tersely text:CUT THE CLICHES. I visited a few times; we'd just sit and reminisce, or not. "How are the cactus?" he would ask. We remembered the July day he had brought a load of cuttings to my Altadena backyard and dug them all in. "Now once in awhile, ya gotta flood them," he advised. "Flood them."
In my experience, when one is dying of cancer, the circle tightens to family. It's serious work to die, and all energy is concentrated on the process. I never saw him again after April. I'd text. Once or twice a week, I made my backyard bouquet stealth drops on their front steps. Eliza saw John in May at Ian's graduation party, and she conveyed my love to him. John's final newspaper column was published on June 24, coincidentally my birthday. Despite all pain, he wrote heroically, capsulizing a life of language and love, exactly as great journalists strive to do. How I miss him. He was my wonderful cranky friend.
Just prior, a longer-time friend, Frankie Stearns, had recommended I buy the book, GROUNDED, by John Bogert. Duly I went to Vroman's and ordered a copy. It's a collection of columns--humorous, musing, ruminative, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. One day my daughter Eliza came home and said, "Whose book is that?" "Mine," I replied. "Mrs. Stearns told me to get it." "But that's Rachael's dad's book!" "Rachael who?" (Come now! I have four kids and I'll wager each has had a friend named Rachael.) "MY RACHAEL FROM SCHOOL!" she corrected. Then the dots began to connect. This was the Rachael whom Eliza had met at University of Edinburgh when they were comedic Improverts together, another local girl who had ventured to Scotland for college. The Bogerts were as colorful a family as ours, I deduced from John's book and Eliza's anecdotes. I just had yet to meet them.
I did meet John at a St. Patrick's party. He was both a late arrival and the raconteur who said all the funny lines first. Usually I like to be the one to toss the bon mots, so I was amused to be displaced. We chatted, discovering we had many mutual acquaintances, parenting similarities, and East Coast origins. We parted ways. But I did start to read his Daily Breeze columns online. His writing became a compass for me sometimes, his prose elevating the prosaic, his distillations of events becoming droplets of significance. Through the written word did my affection for him grow.
Eight months after we met, John was hospitalized with acute gut pain. Appendix? Maybe. But it was much worse. I remember the rainy afternoon Eliza phoned me. I was on the way home from school and I pulled over near the Langham Hotel. She informed me of the cancer diagnosis, and I crumpled in the car, crushed. Everyone who knows cancer understands that its diabolical reach must be countered as craftily as possible. John enlisted a top-notch doctor at Keck. Our erudite Everyman kept springing back from every bodily insult. Surgeries. Chemotherapy. Nausea. Weight loss. During 2011 he was able to resume work on a limited basis. He saw one daughter marry, another daughter move into television work, his son enter senior year of high school. Life ambled on.
But as 2012 progressed, so did the illness. If I ventured to say maybe we'd all see each other when we were stardust, John would tersely text:CUT THE CLICHES. I visited a few times; we'd just sit and reminisce, or not. "How are the cactus?" he would ask. We remembered the July day he had brought a load of cuttings to my Altadena backyard and dug them all in. "Now once in awhile, ya gotta flood them," he advised. "Flood them."
In my experience, when one is dying of cancer, the circle tightens to family. It's serious work to die, and all energy is concentrated on the process. I never saw him again after April. I'd text. Once or twice a week, I made my backyard bouquet stealth drops on their front steps. Eliza saw John in May at Ian's graduation party, and she conveyed my love to him. John's final newspaper column was published on June 24, coincidentally my birthday. Despite all pain, he wrote heroically, capsulizing a life of language and love, exactly as great journalists strive to do. How I miss him. He was my wonderful cranky friend.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Like a Phoenix
I traveled to Phoenix over a recent 3-day weekend. While visiting my college roommate Robin, I also managed to fit in a little time travel.
Robin and I met 41 years ago as freshmen at Arizona State University. We lodged in Dixie Gammage Hall, the original bargain dorm, for the rate of $160 a semester. Our hall was outfitted with two stories of what were essentially dressing rooms. The beds were located in a nearby sleeping porch, likened by some of us to a Girl Scout camp or reminiscent of the garret in the Madeline stories. And most of us dragged our cots into the small rooms during the first two weeks of school. Voila! Dorms as nature had intended.
We also had some quaint practices that smoothed the rougher edges of first-time communal living. Our R.A. instructed us to shout MAN IN THE HALL if we were lucky enough to have one to walk to our rooms. What was intended as a warning actually conveyed bragging rights. We also learned to shout the cautionary HOT WATER when flushing. The adjacent showers immediately reacted with a hellish blast, and who wanted to be scalded and then drop her glass Prell shampoo bottle?
Gammage Hall had a careworn living room of good intentions, a place I imagined where gentleman callers of the 1940s waited for their dates. It also had an expansive grass backyard, now a Phoenix luxury but one I took for granted. The dorm was centrally located. You could practically tumble over to Hayden Library to read or to the Memorial Union for meals, walk to class in five minutes, strategically lounge on the mall, ready to meet all those new people streaming into your young life.
Gammage girls were an eclectic bunch, from Montana and Idaho, Arizona and California, even faraway New York. In contrast, the glamorous blondes we stereotyped as Barbie dolls lived in modern dormitories like Manzanita Hall, the fancy housing that sported elevators and its own dining room. But we could climb in and out of our low-slung windows if someone forgot to prop open the security door. Gammage was so uncomplicated.
But it is 2012 now, meaning Robin and I rode a sleek metrorail through downtown Phoenix and eastward. (We reminisced about the 1973 Bette Midler concert where I saw my first transvestites in ballroom gowns.) We alighted in Tempe. And now I genuinely believe in what Rip Van Winkle felt. Any familiarity of place had been overlaid with "progress." The local Mill Avenue district of bong shops and dusky taverns had become a glittering Emerald City of high-rises and upscale chains. Our university burgeoned with strange edifices. The local apartments once collectively known as SIN CITY looked tidy, sedate, and adamantly sinless.
We walked into the campus and by degrees discovered our past. Having a companion who shared experiences made the journey all the more comprehensible. Here was the boys' dorm, the WPA project called Irish Hall. Here was the Language and Lit building where we learned to be English majors. Here was Gammage Hall, now repurposed for administration. By gum, its door was unlocked! We entered, as if to sanctuary. The living room has been walled off as a Dean's office. To the left we counted the doors. Mine was open, and we startled an employee toiling at her desk. She allowed us to see the room, the tiny room that had served as my portal from childhood to whatever the heck I was about to become. We went to see the infamous toilets, the sleeping porch, the yard now known as The Secret Garden. Everything was ordinary and everything was profound. How often do we have the privilege of revisiting those places which shaped us? How lucky I feel. How lucky I am.
Robin and I met 41 years ago as freshmen at Arizona State University. We lodged in Dixie Gammage Hall, the original bargain dorm, for the rate of $160 a semester. Our hall was outfitted with two stories of what were essentially dressing rooms. The beds were located in a nearby sleeping porch, likened by some of us to a Girl Scout camp or reminiscent of the garret in the Madeline stories. And most of us dragged our cots into the small rooms during the first two weeks of school. Voila! Dorms as nature had intended.
We also had some quaint practices that smoothed the rougher edges of first-time communal living. Our R.A. instructed us to shout MAN IN THE HALL if we were lucky enough to have one to walk to our rooms. What was intended as a warning actually conveyed bragging rights. We also learned to shout the cautionary HOT WATER when flushing. The adjacent showers immediately reacted with a hellish blast, and who wanted to be scalded and then drop her glass Prell shampoo bottle?
Gammage Hall had a careworn living room of good intentions, a place I imagined where gentleman callers of the 1940s waited for their dates. It also had an expansive grass backyard, now a Phoenix luxury but one I took for granted. The dorm was centrally located. You could practically tumble over to Hayden Library to read or to the Memorial Union for meals, walk to class in five minutes, strategically lounge on the mall, ready to meet all those new people streaming into your young life.
Gammage girls were an eclectic bunch, from Montana and Idaho, Arizona and California, even faraway New York. In contrast, the glamorous blondes we stereotyped as Barbie dolls lived in modern dormitories like Manzanita Hall, the fancy housing that sported elevators and its own dining room. But we could climb in and out of our low-slung windows if someone forgot to prop open the security door. Gammage was so uncomplicated.
But it is 2012 now, meaning Robin and I rode a sleek metrorail through downtown Phoenix and eastward. (We reminisced about the 1973 Bette Midler concert where I saw my first transvestites in ballroom gowns.) We alighted in Tempe. And now I genuinely believe in what Rip Van Winkle felt. Any familiarity of place had been overlaid with "progress." The local Mill Avenue district of bong shops and dusky taverns had become a glittering Emerald City of high-rises and upscale chains. Our university burgeoned with strange edifices. The local apartments once collectively known as SIN CITY looked tidy, sedate, and adamantly sinless.
We walked into the campus and by degrees discovered our past. Having a companion who shared experiences made the journey all the more comprehensible. Here was the boys' dorm, the WPA project called Irish Hall. Here was the Language and Lit building where we learned to be English majors. Here was Gammage Hall, now repurposed for administration. By gum, its door was unlocked! We entered, as if to sanctuary. The living room has been walled off as a Dean's office. To the left we counted the doors. Mine was open, and we startled an employee toiling at her desk. She allowed us to see the room, the tiny room that had served as my portal from childhood to whatever the heck I was about to become. We went to see the infamous toilets, the sleeping porch, the yard now known as The Secret Garden. Everything was ordinary and everything was profound. How often do we have the privilege of revisiting those places which shaped us? How lucky I feel. How lucky I am.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
What's Old is New Again
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.
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.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
A Better Life, No Matter How Elusive
"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
"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
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Make Mine Lemonade
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)
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)
Saturday, September 24, 2011
The Boy Who Taught Me How to Be a Teacher
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.
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.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
22 Miles Across the Sea
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
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
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
CHILDREN OF THE STREET
"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
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
Thursday, July 7, 2011
PSST! WORD OF MOUTH! GO SEE TERRI!
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
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
Saturday, June 4, 2011
CLUB 21: Just Imagine
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
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
Sunday, May 1, 2011
I Call Him Sugar
"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.
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.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things
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.
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.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Beginning Again
"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.
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.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Note to Self: Read 365 Thank Yous
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.
"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.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
DESTINATION: KOREATOWN
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
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
Saturday, November 13, 2010
How I Met My Mortgage
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
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
Sunday, October 10, 2010
NAMI Walk & Union Station Benefit
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
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
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.
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.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Questions
"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.
"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.
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