Category: Prose

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Things that keep me up at night

 

Dollhouse
I am busy rearranging furniture at my house and in my daughter’s dollhouse.

Things that keep me up at night—too many to count! I sometimes feel like I might be one of the most neurotic people on earth for all of the insecurities and worries that can trouble me in the middle of the night. I often obsess over inappropriate things I might have said to other people in social situations, and am apt to feel misunderstood. I’m full of self-doubt about everything I do.

For at least the tenth time in my life, I decided to go through the Myers-Briggs battery of questions, thinking somehow it will help me figure out what’s wrong with me—why I butt heads with some people more than others. It always comes out the same. I even have asked my husband and children for suggestions on how I might improve my interactions with these people. They suggest that  I “just don’t say anything.” They know I will probably say the wrong thing! Inaction is not possible for me.

I am an INFJ, apparently a rare type. I’m not sure I completely agree with the assessment, which is why I keep going back every few years hoping I get a different answer.  I always thought it was BS, and still think it is, but here I am again—at least  the answer it yields every time is consistent. But what can I do with it?

things that keep me up at night—being an INFJ

INFJ stands for Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Judging in the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), which categorizes personality types based on four dichotomies. Here’s what each letter represents:

      1. Introverted (I): Prefers focusing on inner thoughts and ideas rather than external activities and interactions. INFJs gain energy from spending time alone or in small, intimate settings.
      2. Intuitive (N): Focuses on the big picture and future possibilities rather than immediate facts and details. INFJs tend to think abstractly and are more concerned with patterns and meanings than practical realities.
      3. Feeling (F): Makes decisions based on personal values and emotions rather than logic and objectivity. INFJs emphasize empathy, harmony, and the impact of their actions on others when making decisions.
      4. Judging (J): Prefers structure, organization, and planned approaches rather than spontaneity or flexibility. INFJs like having things settled and appreciate clear goals and outcomes.

Some people categorize this type as the “Mystic.” It is a creative, imaginative type. Lots of writers and artists fall into this category. Okay, but what about that Judging part? I don’t like that at all!

things that keep me up at night—insulting people

I have several friends that I manage to unintentionally insult or be insulted by every now and then. I don’t know what their MBTIs are, but I do know a few things they have in common. They are furniture movers and extremely detail oriented—perfectionists. I am not. Once I make a decision about the placement of a piece of furniture, it is likely to stay there forever. This must be the “J” part of the MBTI. It is the part I have most quibbled with when it comes to this Myers Briggs assessment of my personality. Specifically, I don’t like the characterization of lacking spontaneity or flexibility.

I generally think of myself as being flexible and spontaneous. I am not rigid. But, if I make plan (which I don’t always do), I prefer that plan stays in place, just like my furniture, especially if there are lots of other people depending on me to carry out my part. I don’t want to pull a chair out from beneath someone in the process of sitting. I want to be dependable. That said, I also don’t want to be crippled by the plan. At the same time, I don’t spend time wallowing in  details that seem inconsequential. It is enough for me to have a big picture plan.

things that keep me up at night—NOT THE DETAILS

Plans change. My husband and I recently planned a family trip. It was a little complicated because it was not a simple round trip. We bought our airline tickets first, and then rented places to stay in each location. Done. Oops, I forgot that I was supposed to go to the wedding of two friends who live close to where we were vacationing, so I had to change the plan, something I adapted to readily and willingly.  My changing the plan had an impact on other people’s plans, but fortunately, for all of us it worked out to everybody’s satisfaction. I was grateful for the flexibility.

A plan for me could be as simple as “Let’s have lunch next Wednesday.” I don’t need to consider the details other than the time and date. We can decide where to eat the day of, or even modify the time. I don’t need to know what we will talk about with each other or whether we will sit inside or outside (not a consideration at all before the pandemic). I have friends who really need to know in advance exactly which restaurant we are going to meet at, and they will even research the menu before going so they know what to order. That is definitely not me.

things that keep me up at night—not what i am going to play

I play bluegrass music with different groups of friends on different days of the week. I host a jam at my house every Monday. Most people show up dependably, but naturally other priorities come up, including for me, and we need to alter the plan. The big plan is that we are going to play songs together. We often don’t know who will be there, what instruments we will have, or what songs will be called in advance. This makes some people uncomfortable.

The challenge of adapting to new musical situations excites me.  I am unafraid to attempt a close harmony on a song I have just heard for the first time, while other people won’t risk that. Some people want to know the precise “correct” notes to sing. I also enjoy attempting to play a melodic solo over a brand new song. Who cares if it isn’t perfect if it sounds good enough?

things that keep me up at night—not what i’m doing on my vacation

One of my friends who I recently irritated with my inability to meet her degree of planning detail, told me she would never want to go on vacation with me. That’s doesn’t bother me a bit. It would be a disaster that would surely end our friendship—we have different personalities. I plan the trip so that it will happen, but I don’t overthink what I will do with every minute of every day, or even make advance reservations unless it is absolutely necessary. I am moderately inflexible about the enveloping plan, but flexible about the details. The plan is a container for lots of possible activities. I prefer spontaneity and flexibility in the details.

I have a low tolerance for a constantly changing container plan. Changing this part of a plan is always the most costly—especially true when planning expensive trips or planning something that involves the goodwill of a lot of people. Messing with the container plan early on is okay, but later is not.

things that keep me up at night—i still don’t know how KNOWING MY PERSONALITY TYPE WILL HELP ME

After this recent foray into my MBTI, I haven’t figured out how to respond more appropriately to my more detail-focused, perfectionist friends when they want me to. I love them, and see a great value in them, and want them on my team as collaborators.  Being forced to spend time hashing out the minutiae  to conform to their desire of perfection usually ends badly. I don’t mind others moving their own furniture, but prefer moving my own. And, for God’s sake, don’t send me an hour by hour itinerary for our next vacation together!  I’ll just meet you in Santa Fe and we can have dinner, go for a hike, or maybe we’ll just sit around on the plaza and people watch for awhile.

Oh, the things that keep me up at night!

And now I must go rearrange my own furniture—we are staging our house for sale, and also staging a dollhouse for the Portland Miniatures and Dollhouse show!

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Diversity in Literature Matters

Diversity in literature matters. Imagine a world in which literature depicted only idealized Norman Rockwell white bread families living in perfect harmony in beautiful houses. In every story, one white man, and one white woman marry, and then have birth-gender conforming offspring. What if nothing bad every happened in these stories? Imagine if literature only depicted the lives of people that excluded you, or the experiences that formed you?
Diversity in literature matters: How so?

Stories, fiction or non-fiction need to reflect the entirety of human experience.  Sure, reading about non-conforming relationships, or the way people from different religious, ethnic or racial backgrounds live and think may make some folks uncomfortable.  Likewise, depictions of violence, be it war or interpersonal violations—murder, rape, incest, etc—naturally stir up discordant emotions. That’s is the point art—to prod people into opening themselves to wider world views that reflect real experience of the human condition.

Some of you who know me know that my mother, Megan McClard, who died last year at the age of ninety-six was bi-sexual, or lesbian (depending on the day)—she didn’t much like labels. She said, “I love people for who they are, and then the rest follows.”

My mother was an amazing person who survived against all odds, and it is for this reason that I wish to encourage you to read and buy her book if you have not already done so. In an effort to get it out there beyond my “known circle,” I am participating in an online group sales promotion. The promotion includes both  her book, Leavings: Memoir of a 1920s Hollywood Love Child, and my newly released novel, Margaux and the Vicious Circle.

Diversity in Literature Matters: About Leavings
Cover of Leavings
Leavings: a Memoir

Megan McClard did not write the stories contained in Leavings to be a memoir. She wrote them as individual stories as her part in a weekly writing group that spanned years—a group of several trusted women friends. Only later, when she was ninety-three, did we convince her to organize the stories into a memoir of sorts, because they naturally formed a late-in-life coming of age story.

Part of her coming of age story involves her sexual orientation, although I would argue the bigger story is about overcoming the circumstances of her early life as a foster child in Los Angeles, and in her married life to my father. For her, her sexual orientation was ancillary—a part of who she always was. Throughout the stories she tells, the women in her life take front and center—they made her who she became, especially the woman she loved the most dearly. I hope you will purchase and enjoy reading her story. It is a love story you won’t forget.

Diversity in Literature Matters: About MARGAUX AND THE VICIOUS CIRCLE

Margaux and the Vicious Circle is a novel within a novel. In it, Margaux Andrews is a young writer living in Manhattan who has penned a semi-autobiographical novel about traumatic events that took place in her early childhood in the mid-nineteen-sixties. In Margaux and the Vicious Circle, Margaux’s mother is a lesbian, borrowing from my own life experience, but that fact is not the focal point of the story.

Anne McClard's Novel Margaux & the Vicious Circle
Margaux is here!

Margaux’s thematic elements relate to “the dangerous world.” A conversation I had with my mother in her last year of life inspired the book. She worried about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren because the world had become such a dangerous place. She said it was more dangerous than the world in which she or I grew up in. I disagreed. Her childhood was more dangerous than mine or my children’s.  I gave her countless examples. In the end, we agreed that living is dangerous—today’s dangers are different than the dangers that each of us faced in our respective childhoods.

Margaux and the Vicious Circle is about overcoming adversity using the power of imagination and in magical thinking—two gifts that my mother bestowed on her family. She had an amazing imagination and creative drive that elevated the lives of her children, no matter how tough the going got. Bad things happen, but they don’t have to define us.

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Celebrating Megan’s Legacy—A Memoir of a 1920’s Hollywood Love Child

Megan McClard

 

Born on September 7th, 1927, in Los Angeles, California, Megan’s Story of Resilience

Megan’s Legacy—on this day, September 7th, 1927, my mother, Megan, was born in Los Angeles, California. Abandoned at birth by her mother, Megan became a ward of the City of Los Angeles. She navigated a Dickensian childhood, handed off between foster parents and various relatives. Her book, Leavings: A Memoir of a 1920’s Hollywood Love Child, published at the age of ninety-three tells her remarkable story.

Megan’s memoir documents the first half of her life, focusing on her resilience and journey from being lost to being found. Passed around between foster care and living under different names, Megan didn’t come of age until her thirties—far later than most. Her book honors the women who helped shape her into a whole person, despite the odds stacked against her.

Megan’s Legacy: Published Work and Free eBook Giveaway

Leavings: A Memoir of a 1920’s Love Child is a powerful testament to her strength and survival. In honor of her birthday, I am offering an eBook giveaway. Whether you prefer Kindle, Apple Books, or another eReader format, you can now access her story at no cost. If you own a physical copy of her book, this is a great opportunity to add the digital version to your collection.

Megan’s Final Years and Posthumous Writings

Last Thanksgiving, Megan peacefully died in her sleep after a difficult six-year period. At the age of ninety, a fall resulted in the loss of her mobility, cognition, and the ability to create art, or write. Despite these challenges, she completed her memoir with the support of her daughters and daughter-in-law—a remarkable last achievement.

In early 2025, we plan to publish some of Megan’s other writings posthumously. Stay tuned for more updates as we continue to celebrate her extraordinary life and legacy.

Download your FREE eReader version of LEAVINGS.
Note: other narrative non-fiction books are also being offered in this promotion.

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Things My Mother Taught Me

 

Megan McClard
Sketch of Megan, drawn by her sister Cynthia

Leavings: Memoir of a 1920’s Hollywood Love Child is the book my mother wrote that launched me into publishing.  She didn’t conceive of the writings contained in her book as a memoir, but rather an assemblage, individual pieces of a patchwork quilt, written over  years in her writing group in Denver.  Originally she wanted to call the collection “Rag Bag,” and in the end found herself resistant to publishing the stories at all.

She ended up calling it Leavings, because at the age of ninety-three, her stories are all that was left, like crumbs on a plate after a satisfying meal. She wanted her friends and family to eat her leavings—to remember her life through her words.

I am responsible for making sure her story lives on, and this year Aristata Press will publish a novel that she wrote, which is a companion piece to Leavings—a fictional account of the same period of her life—told in three parts. Each part tells the story from the perspective of a different character.

things my mother taught me: Of fact and fiction

Megan wrestled with the best way to tell her story. The novel, A Time to Heal, was written as her Ph.D. dissertation in creative writing. She never tried to get it published. She was ambivalent about revealing the truths it obscured under the veil of fiction. What would people make of it? I never read her dissertation until last year when she asked me to retrieve a copy because she couldn’t remember ever having written it. She couldn’t remember the title, or what it was about. She wanted evidence that she had earned a doctorate.

And so, I managed to find a copy through an online dissertation repository. Delight spread across her face when I showed her that I had found it, but she didn’t want me to read it to her. “Put it away,” she said. I regret that I didn’t read it to her. It is beautifully written, and while in her memoir she tried to “tell it as it was,”  the novel reveals more about her true feelings of the many situations she tried to write about objectively in Leavings. Both the “fact” and the “fiction” communicate their own truths in different ways.

things my mother taught me about point of view

Many years ago, long before reading my mother’s writing, or knowing her preoccupations with writing the truth, I began thinking about how we experience different forms of written expression. As a college student reading “the great books” at St. John’s College, and as an anthropology graduate student at Brown University I noticed my preference for reading poetry, fiction, and narrative prose over more expository, quasi-scientific writing. I became obsessed with voice and point of view, and the value of having multiple perspectives.

One time I expressed frustration with the great books curriculum to my mother, because at the time, the only woman in the curriculum was Jane Austen (although, my Greek class translated Sappho too). I longed for a female perspective. My mother, knowing that I had read Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America, suggested I read Society in America by Harriet Martineau, an English social theorist, a contemporary of Tocqueville.

For my senior thesis at St. John’s College I ended up writing a comparison of Tocqueville’s and Martineau’s perspectives on American society, and argued that the college should include Martineau in the curriculum alongside Toqueville’s Democracy  in America.  My argument failed to win them over, sadly.

On the bright side, my life trajectory turned because of my mother’s  introduction of Martineau.  I credit her with my decision to become a cultural anthropologist,  and subsequently a fiction writer.

things my mother taught me: All writing is fiction

The word ‘fiction’ comes from the Latin fictio, to fashion or shape. My mother taught me that. Everything written, whether ostensibly factual or not, is crafted into a narrative that the writer creates toward a particular end, scientific or otherwise. Subsequently, readers consume the written word and interpret it through their own lenses. The original point of view belongs to the writer (or employer), as does the motive for writing a particular thing. Sometimes writers express someone else’s point of view, but there always is a point of view. Truth may exist, but it’s fool-hardy to believe when someone says “this is a true story” that it is. We all weave stories to please ourselves and others.

My mother planted these seeds in me. Those were some good leavings.

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When Frogs Sing, We Listen

When Frogs Sing, We Listen
Watercolor by Anne McClard
Why do frogs sing?

I am sure some people wonder why I bother spending time writing books and songs. I sometimes worry that friends and acquaintances think my writing activities are egoistic. It’s possible that some think I am a pretentious poser, or that I am a bad writer, a bad singer, or a poor musician, and don’t understand why I bother. One has to start someplace, and typically, one doesn’t start at the top. And, besides, frogs sing because they have to.

I write because I like telling stories, and love the process of piecing things together. My two favorite idioms are opposites—song and novel—short and long form. Each of these forms comes with its challenges. The challenge with the long form is how to keep readers engaged, maintaining continuity, and keeping track of all of the characters and events. The challenge of the short form is to tell a complete and satisfying story in few words that lasts between three and four minutes, and also pleases the ear (most of the time). The joy lies in the process. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want an appreciative audience. That brings its own satisfaction, but it isn’t my goal. I love exploring words, thoughts and ideas at my leisure without too much regard for what other people might think about them.

Songwriting as Truth-Telling

I participate in Matt Meighan’s songwriting workshops, something I began at the onset of the pandemic, and have continued to do.  He calls his class “Songwriting as Truth-Telling.” I don’t know how many of his classes I have participated in to this point, but quite a few. To date, I have written more than seventy songs, most of them as part of Matt’s workshop. The only daylight most of my songs ever see is in that context. Some songs are better than others, but they are all worthwhile, and that is the truth.

During the pandemic, and while taking care of my mother who was dying, songwriting, music and fiction writing were my refuge. Many of the songs I wrote were about my mother, some inspired by things she said in delirium, some inspired by her lived life, and then later, her death. Those were not happy times, but Matt’s workshop gave me an outlet for dealing with the difficulties in my life.

In today’s post, I want to tell you more about how Matt’s classes work, because being a part of them has brought so much joy to my life, and I feel like there are lessons in it to be gleaned by anybody who has ever been on the giving or receiving end of criticism.

Each workshop lasts four to six weeks, virtual or in-person depending on the season, and also on the songwriters geographic locations.  Every week eight to ten songwriters—a mix of first timers and highly experienced—get together to share something they have written, a song, a poem, an idea for a song, whatever they are able to bring on that day. Matt suggests prompts every week, but no one is required to adhere to the prompt. Many people never use it. I am embarrassed to say that I usually do, as I love the surprises that emerge, and frankly I don’t always have a song waiting in the wings.

You can’t teach a frog to sing if you step on it

Matt doesn’t offer direct instruction or song critique, in fact, critique is prohibited. Each person sings or reads in turn. We don’t spend a lot of time discussing form or the specifics of “how to” write a song. That isn’t the goal. The goal is to listen to other people’s songs closely—to hear the words, story, word choices, voices, melody, and the chord progression .  There are rules. Listen. Hear. Be generous. Kind. At first, I was disappointed that Matt or my fellow workshop participants were  not offering up suggestions about how to make my songs better, but in time my perspective changed.

Initially, I wanted to learn more about structure, and different song forms, so I signed up for a Berkeley class. I got what I needed out of it—it had great course material, not such good human interaction. People were not kind. I didn’t want to put my songs “out there” so that some snotty twenty-something year-old could take a dump on me. And, after several times of attending “Songwriting as Truth-Telling,” I began to understand that the positive responses to specific aspects of my,  and other people’s songs, were the lessons. Turns out a one-word, one-chord song can be a good song, even when a frog is singing it—especially then.

An old frog sings

In case any of you are interested in hearing an old frog perform a few thus-far unperformed songs, I will be singing several at the open mic at Threshold Brewing and Blending, located at SE 79th and Stark on the 27th of July. It starts at 6 and ends at 9. We are looking for a few more songwriters to perform. Reach out to me if you are interested, and I will get you on the list. The slots are 10 to 15 minutes each—so 2-3 songs.

Stay tuned for my next post that will focus on the long-form writing I do! In the meantime, if you haven’t read my first novel, Butterfly Dreams, or ordered my second novel, Margaux and the Vicious Circle, now is an excellent opportunity to do so. While you are at it, check out some of the other great books in the Aristata Press Bookstore!

I am looking for early reviews of Margaux and the Vicious Circle. Reach out to me personally if you would like a free copy of the ePub to read. I will send you a download link.

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The Schwa Was Here

Ten years ago, a small, mostly-black kitten, came into our family. He picked Søren to go home with, out of all possible humans. Søren named him “The Schwa,”  an unusual name for an unusual cat; it fit him perfectly.

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Søren and The Schwa, shortly after the Schwa selected his human.

What is a Schwa? It is the most common sound in the English language–duh…a…the…mother…yup. In the dictionary it is a phonetic symbol represented as inverted e:

/ə/

The Schwa is a hidden sound; it blends into the unstressed syllables of words and unstressed words of sentences. The Schwa has superpowers; it is the unheard and unseen glue of every dialect in the English language.  The Schwa sits in plain sight, but nobody sees it. Søren didn’t know all of this, but he had read a book that year called The Schwa Was Here, by Neal Shusterman, and he recognized a schwa, The Schwa, when he saw him, and that is how this particular Schwa came to have his name.

They say his clothes blend into the background, no matter where he stands. They say a lot of things about the Schwa, but one thing’s for sure: no one ever noticed him. Except me. My name is Antsy Bonano-and I was the one who realized the Schwa was “functionally invisible” and used him to make some big bucks. But I was also the one who caused him more grief than a friend should. So if you all just shut up and listen, I’ll tell you everything there is to know about the Schwa, from how he got his name, to what really happened with his mom. I’ll spill everything. Unless, of course, “the Schwa Effect” wipes him out of my brain before I’m done . . .

The Schwa’s invisibility cloak was always a great mystery to us. Sometimes you could see him and sometimes you could not. He appeared to have full control over his visibility, even up to his last hours in the human world when I went searching frantically throughout the house for him, only to find his failing body curled in a corner beneath a potted plant table in plain sight, yet invisible. When we weren’t accidentally sitting on him because we couldn’t see him, we were looking for him.

You might think an invisible cat would be shy. Quite to the contrary. The Schwa was convivial with anybody who could, who would, see him. He was a creature of habit with an elaborate hierarchy of his humans. Søren was his chosen one. Megan was the one he related to the most; she had a comfy bed and nice Pendleton blankets to curl up with. She also had a very cool car that was fun to take for a spin. Ken was his coffee human–the guy who combed him every morning while brewing coffee. Anne was the mistress of his shadow–he often followed her around, unbeknownst to her.  Zoë was his unconditional love; she faithfully scooped his litter every day. Harriet and Jig were is furry friends–they made sure that his litter box was clean too, although he didn’t quite understand why they were so concerned.

He was unstressed, a cool cat, and his lack of stress brought calm to our house. Even though he spent a lot of time in an invisible state he was always present, and now he is not.

The Schwa Was Here.

On November 4, 2021 the Schwa passed into a permanent state of invisibility.  Wherever you are now, Schwa, I hope you know how much we all loved you. You gave us so much more that we gave you.  We will forever carry your memory as a blessing.

 

 

 

 

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You are My House

Three years ago when I started this site, I posted a few bits of my writing. One piece of prose that I posted was called “You are a House.”

mississippi-river

The song, “You are My House” is loosely based on that piece of prose, and also was a songwriting exercise that I gave myself–to write a song in a minor key, and to use a different song form. Most of the songs I wrote prior to this one followed a simple verse-chorus-verse-chorus structure. This song, in contrast, does not have a chorus, but a short bridge. I hope you like it.

Anne Page McClard · You are My House

 

Lyrics

Rooted on a granite bluff
Above the great river
Windows of your soul look west
Watching flows of smooth waters
Water never rests
You stand witness to human toil
In fecund fields of fragrant soil                                           

Winter blankets you in snow
Below your walls shiver
Timbers of your bones stand tests
They lie above flood waters
Water never rests
You fear nothing but river snakes
In dormant dreams fear awakes

You are my house
Let me in.
Talk to me
Talk to me.

Silence is your favorite sound
Inside your echo chamber
The attic of your mind keeps pests
They feed on thoughts of tired tears
Water never rests
My love survives in constant quiet
Your inner life is far too private

Talk to me
Talk to me.
Talk to me
Talk to me.

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Thanksgiving Thoughts

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It still is, because in modern times at it’s core it is about giving thanks, but that doesn’t mean that we should forget the origins of this American holiday tradition.

The origins of Thanksgiving are something many Americans take for granted. In my childhood history lessons, I learned that the pilgrims, the first settlers from the Mayflower, initiated this tradition by feasting with indigenous people–it was portrayed as a peaceful coming together of two cultures.  Historians and archeologists tell a slightly different story. The first thanksgiving gathering was likely initiated by indigenous people who far outnumbered the English settlers at the feast. There were 90 indigenous participants, and only about 40 pilgrims. Paintings always depict a small gathering of mostly pilgrims feeding a few partially clad native people sitting on the ground. The Pilgrims in these depictions are a mix of men and women and children.

9bb837c5aefe806b14d8a0e881b0b903.jpg

The first thanksgiving feast is now thought to have been where men (women and children cooked) gathered in peace talks that ultimately resulted in a peace treaty between natives and settlers that would last 75 years. Native peoples were right to fear European settlers, their muskets, and the diseases they brought decimated their ways of life. Today, many Native Americans consider our Thanksgiving day, a National Day of Mourning.

tumblr_mdwao0B9Hj1qj171uo1_1280.jpg

We should never forget the genocide that allowed our country to emerge, and we need to make sure that injustices like those suffered by Native Americans do not ever find their way to our country again. We need to maintain vigilance against the rise of facism and the ideologies of white supremacy. I find myself mourning with my native brothers and sisters.

This year has been challenging for the whole world for so many different reasons–climate change (terrible storms, droughts, and fires wrought by it), political strife (the tearing apart of families, expressions of hatred, rampant racism, and general social unrest), and not least, the COVID-19 pandemic (which has had a disproportionate impact on the most vulnerable, and brought poverty and hunger to many in the world). And yet, this Thanksgiving, I find much to be grateful for, and feel a need to express my gratitude.

I am grateful for my family. For me, family extends beyond blood kin, as I suspect it does for most people.

I give thanks for ken–his love, devotion, and steadfast support over the last 34 years. And of course for his magnificent cooking and gardening! Oh, and did I mention his sense of humor?

I give thanks for Zoë, my firstborn–for the joy she brings into my life, her wisdom, her kindness, her daily help and support. Oh, and did I mention her sense of humor?

I give thanks for Søren, my youngest–for his devotion to those he loves, his social consciousness. He stands up against injustice, and leads an exemplary life. Oh, and did I mention his sense of humor?

I give thanks for my mother–the matriarch of our clan. Without her sacrifices none of my life as I know it would have been possible. Definitely thank her for transmitting a sense of humor.

I give thanks for my siblings, Michael, Kevin, Liz, and Peter. Without them, I would be fighting all of my battles alone. And, yes, they all make me laugh. The pandemic and the election would have been insufferable if it weren’t for our weekly family calls.

I give thanks for Judy–she is one of the pillars of my life and is a steadfast supporter of my creative efforts, and the efforts of my mother. She makes things happen. She has been a devoted friend to our entire family.

I give thanks for my cousin Garth–he is truly one of the most generous and kind people I know. I am grateful for our renewed friendship through music, and that he joins in our weekly family calls.

I give thanks for my mirthful sisters, Marita, Jean, Sara, Lisa, Valeriya, Sherry and Sarah who have been with me all the way. We have had some wonderful adventures together in this life.

I give thanks for my neighbor, Ginger, one of the most kind and caring people I know. She always thinks of others, and even though I can be quite introverted she forces me out of my cave into the daylight sometimes.

I give thanks for my music teachers, Tim, Linda, and Greg. They don’t make me feel stupid, and they listen to my emerging musical self.

I give thanks to my jam mates, Sharon, Greg, Laura, Niel, Hannah, Matt, Melissa, and Rob. Without you, I would be tuneless instead of just off-key. Also, you guys make me laugh.

Other things I give thanks for in no particular order: music, fantastic neighbors, living on this beautiful earth, shelter, nourishment, health, the Internet (in spite of its flaws, it has made it possible for me to reconnect with so many people that were lost to me).

And now, I give thanks for you and to you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

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My Mother is Awesome

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After Mrs. Wood, my mom’s foster-mother, took Miranda away from her, she sent it to Mrs. McKenzie, my mother’s biological mother. Eventually, my mother got her beloved doll back.

I am sixth-born, the youngest of five surviving children, and I owe my life to my mother; she brought me into this world, and then made sure that I had what it took to become a conscientious and moral human being. She provided me and my siblings with delicious and nutritious food, shelter, clothing, a sense of wonder about the world and universe, an appreciation of all forms of artistic endeavor. She taught us the value of humor in the face of adversity. Above all, she gave us love, and in demonstrating love, taught us how to love others.

My mother is a survivor, and given what is known today about the lasting effects of childhood trauma I have come to understand that it is nothing short of a miracle that she has been as incredible a parent as she has been.  She suffered countless injustices at the hands of many adults as a child, first living as a ward of Los Angeles after her mother abandoned her in the hospital at birth, and then for the next 14 years in the  Los Angeles foster-care system during the Great Depression. She had very little that she could call her own, save for a little rag doll she had made whose name was Miranda, and even Miranda was not a permanent fixture; her foster-mother took Miranda away from my mother because she felt that my mother had “an unhealthy” attachment to her.

When she was an adolescent, and her foster parents felt that she was too difficult to handle, they shipped her off to Denver to live with her “real” family—my mother’s people, sinners, like her. The train she rode on to Denver was mostly full of Japanese people being shipped to internment camps in Colorado, a fact that left a strong mark in my mother’s consciousness. For a few surreal years during the war, she lived with her biological mother, where she was thrown into the world of Denver society, after her austere childhood in LA. Her older half-sisters and their friends taught her how to smoke, drink, dress, and how to be part of the popular crowd at East High School. For the first time in her life she had friends, and people thought she was pretty.

After high school, she started as a freshman at the University of Denver. She was rushed by Pi Phi, a point of pride and jealousy from her half sisters. She met my father in one of her first college classes right after the war. They married somewhat quickly for the reasons that people did back in those days. She dropped out of college, and had babies. And then, she had more babies, and after that a couple more.

Although my parent’s marriage was relatively long-lasting, it was never good. My father, who had been through WWII as a strafing pilot in the Pacific Theater, in all likelihood, suffered from PTSD. He had a volatile temper, which he mostly exercised on my mother when he had too much to drink. In spite of this my mother stood by his side through undergraduate school, medical school, internship, and residencies. She might not have had she not been trapped by children, and a lack of her own means for making a living.

Because his education was paid for by the government through the GI Bill, he went back into the navy to repay his debt. He was stationed on a ship in the Mediterranean when I was born, returning from duty when I was 6 months old. My mother managed to muster the resources to leave him by the time I was 9 months old after a violent incident that made her fear for hers and her chidren’s safety, and so it was that I came to be raised by a single mother, at a time when that was not so common. I joke that I was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I often thank my mother for sticking it out in her sorrowful marriage for as long as she did; if she hadn’t, I would not have been born.

When I was two, my mother, at the age of 35, began as a freshman in college again. She woke each morning at 4 or 5 to do her homework, and was careful to schedule her classes so that she could be home with us for meals. She made sure we had a hot breakfast, whether we ate it or not. We lived in married student housing at first, and then in a series of other circumstances, some better than others, over the next several years. She finished her Ph.D. when I was 9, truly a remarkable feat given all of the barriers that she faced as a single mother in sixties.

She went on to become an English and Women’s Studies professor. All of us children benefitted from our mother’s education; she showed us what was possible through her example. There was never a time in my life when I didn’t know that I would go to college myself one day and become something, someone.  That all five of us children went to good colleges of our own choosing, and that we each felt empowered to follow the paths that we chose is testament to our mother.

My mother is 90, soon to be 91. She has hated getting old, and more than anything, being dependent on others for her physical and emotional well-being. Like most parents, she has found it especially difficult being dependent upon her children. Earlier this year, she worried aloud that she had not done enough for us. She fretted about all of the parenting mistakes she imagines having made. I am sure she made a few mistakes, because what parent does not make mistakes? What she got right far outweighs her wrongs, and her children are proof of it.

Thank you, Mama, for giving me life, for helping me live it through some very difficult times, and for being with me every day. You are a wonderful  and courageous human being. I am proud to be your daughter.

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My Friend John: Part III

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Read Part I
Read Part II

Back in Santa Fe for the summer, Blake and I moved into a rambling adobe house in a small compound off of Canyon Rd. That summer between Junior and Senior year turned out to be an emotional roller coaster that resulted in Blake’s* and my break-up in the first month of our senior year, and I asked Christy if she could recommend me for house sitting jobs to her friends. I couldn’t afford much for rent, since I already had paid for my room on campus, but I didn’t feel like living where I would constantly be reminded of all of the friendships that had been destroyed in the wake of Blake’s and my relationship, and I didn’t want to see Blake any more than I had to.  She offered to rent their guest quarters to me for a small sum. It was mutually advantageous since they were traveling a lot. My dad agreed to help me pay for it, and also offered to come and beat up Blake. I accepted the money.

Looking back at that period in my life from here, I can see that I was a mess. This year, and the years that followed, were full of missteps and poor judgement calls on my part.

Although not consciously trying to become somebody else, that is what I was doing. I had always been a granola girl, crunchy, exactly what one would expect of a Colorado girl. I was an athlete, outdoorsy, and natural. I wore my hair long, often in a French braid, wore no make-up, and donned colorful  casual clothing. I did not smoke, drank very little, and had been a dedicated student. Blake was my male equivalent, or so  I thought, my destined match; some said we looked like we belonged together, which I mistakenly believed meant that we did.

The demise of our relationship had not been sudden; it likely began to erode the day it started in the first week of our freshman year,  but it only became obvious to me in the first semester of our Junior year for reasons I did not understand until many years later. Blake ended up transferring to Annapolis for a semester, ostensibly to figure things out away from me. We had only half-broken things off though, and I went to see him over spring break, during which time we decided to make another go of it. In retrospect, that was a huge mistake. We spent the following summer tormenting each other with petty jealousies, and then the dam broke. At first it was a trickle of leaked lies, secrets that I was among the last to know, and then it was a flood.

After that, I broke it off for good. I had probably read one too many Greek tragedies at that point, pre-disposing me to dramatic expressions of mourning.  I cut my hair short, started wearing a lot of black, and began my new less-than-healthy lifestyle as a smoker. I moved from one unsuccessful relationship to another. I did everything to distance myself from who I had been with him. I felt confused and angry.

In this condition, living in the guest quarters  at the Ehrlichmans’ turned out to be less than ideal. Unlike when I was staying there as a house sitter, John and Christy were home a lot. I felt like they were too aware of me and my comings and goings. Christy was offended by my newfound habit of smoking, and had made it clear that she didn’t want me doing it anywhere in the vicinity of the house. I had also become a bit of a partier, and came home at odd hours of the night, or didn’t, and  I did not always come home alone. John and Christy worried about me, which was something I didn’t really want. I felt cramped and watched over, and I sensed that they felt intruded upon, so I decided to move back on campus for my last semester.

One highpoint of living there that semester, was when my mother came to visit and got to meet John in person. They seemed to genuinely like each other, and why not? They had so much in common: a couple of years apart in age, both had five children, each divorced, both had lived through a lot of the same things in their lives. The age-set effect is a powerful cultural binder. In the end, meeting John, and talking to him humanized him for her just as it had for me; she shifted her perspective on the Watergate criminals. Good men can become bad men, especially ambitious men.

After moving out, I didn’t work for John and Christy very much. I was too busy with my senior thesis, and all of the other activities of my last semester, but I remained on good terms with them.  I invited John up to campus when I learned that a prosecutor from the Watergate hearings was going to be on campus to discuss Executive Privilege. John wanted to be there. He and I sat together at the event in the front row. When the speaker came in, he and John met eyes and nodded in recognition at one another.

John’s presence at this event changed it from one in which a man on the “correct side,”  the prosecutor, would be talking to an audience that completely agreed with everything that he would say to an event that forced the audience to seriously consider alternative views. Namely, we were forced to examine executive privilege in the context of Watergate from the perspective of the accused and convicted. Nixon repeatedly used cries of executive privilege to prevent the testimony of his closest counselors, not to protect them, but to protect his office. Throughout the discussion, John was courteous, even gracious, in his interactions with the college’s guest. Many people later said that he had really made it a great moment for them.

John and Christy were there for me in meaningful ways throughout the remainder of the year, inviting me over for dinner, and even attending my graduation ceremony, something my own father did not do. After graduation, I moved to Toronto to live with my new love, Will*, but that move was short-lived, and I returned to Santa Fe before the summer was over. Upon returning, I stayed with a guy I had met during my last semester, a handsome alum named Tom* who was several years older than I.  I ran into him after I got back into town, and mentioned to him that I was looking for a place to live, and he offered a spot at his place. He was living in a cabin up in an Arroyo near the college. It was a wonderful place, but it had no electricity and no heat, so with winter coming, we were forced to find someplace else to live within a couple of months.

I asked John and Christy if we could rent their guest quarters. They agreed to it, and so we moved in and played house there briefly. I was not in love with Tom, and he turned out to be untrustworthy in some fundamental ways. I fled Santa Fe, seeking refuge with my mother in Denver, leaving Tom behind living at Christy’s and John’s. When he finally moved out of the Ehrlichman’s a few months later he left their place a mess. I ended up owing them money, and they never forgave me for leaving them in the lurch. That was the end of my friendship with them.  I tried to make amends, but I never succeeded.

Christy and John ended up divorcing in the early nineties, and John moved to Atlanta. He remarried. I had completely lost touch with both he and Christy by that point. And then in 1999, two years after my own father died, I heard that he also had died at the same age as my father, 73. I felt sad that I had lost touch with him. He was not a great man, but he was a man; he had his flaws, just as I have mine. He was my friend for a time, and I will always cherish that.

I leave you, and this story with this quotation from John that I found in his NYT Obituary, a lesson for current times, children, and councelors:

”I abdicated my moral judgments and turned them over to somebody else, and if I had any advice for my kids, it would be never — to never, ever — defer your moral judgments to anybody: your parents, your wife, anybody.” [NYT, 1999]

THE END

Note: This story is a recollection of events that took place nearly four decades ago. In creating this narrative, I have constructed dialogue that approximates real conversations that I might have had.

*Pseudonym

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