First came the piano. (Triumph, then rebellion.) Next, the drums.
(Noise.) Next, the guitar. (Silence.) The recorder. (Unqualified,
grin-and-bear-it success.) The clarinet. (A work in progress.) And now:
The violin.
Damned the torpedoes, Erin and Matt are going to learn to play a musical instrument.
Five years ago, my parents--perhaps guilt-ridden that they didn't
do anything to develop my hidden musical talents--gave us a used piano
for Christmas. Knowing nothing about pianos, I chose one whose
distressed blonde wood fits in nicely with our Mexican decor.
Much to her mother's delight, Erin took to the piano like a dog to
a sock. For about two years. Then she decided she would rather eat
broccoli than practice. Lucky thing the piano fits in nicely with our
Mexican decor.
Thankfully, the music program at Erin's elementary school had not
yet been chopped in half (grrrr) and she learned the recorder in fourth
grade. So far, that $6 recorder by far has been our least expensive and
longest lived endeavor into musical awareness. Name a song, any song.
Erin instantly can toot it by ear--like one of those underrated bar
pianists who takes requests from sloshed patrons.
The music teacher selected Erin and a few other kids for the
“recorder band.” Did you know that recorders sound almost pretty in
concert? Hard to believe, if you've ever had a child walk around the
house blowing “Happy Birthday” on the plastic flute.
Meanwhile, Matt got old enough to pursue his own standing as a
child prodigy. In kindergarten, he viewed himself as a future rock
star, so we indoctrinated him with a drum set purchased at Target.
Within a week, one of his buddies accidentally had slashed the biggest
drum with a snorkel. Duct tape can only do so much. After the floor
pedal fell off, it was a slippery slope from educational toy to piece
of junk.
Soon afterward, my sister shipped Matt a guitar that her daughter
had outgrown. For Matt, its arrival was more exciting than a trip to
Disneyland. But the guitar was a little too big for Matt, so we
postponed lessons for a year or two. Or three, or four...
Erin's pushy parents pushed her into the middle school band,
meaning we all have to wake up an hour earlier for the “zero period”
elective. Fortunately, Erin's friend Emma got drafted, as well. Emma,
likewise a master of the recorder, and Erin both decided on the
recorder-esque clarinet.
E & E are the proud owners of the band's only clarinets made
by First Act, a company best known for those $6 recorders. Emma's
parents, esteemed members of Costco, secured them at a reasonable
price. The band teacher has questioned the quality of these
instruments, but based on the probability that Erin will have moved on
to the accordion by summer, we're committed.
Back to Matt's parallel life. A couple of months ago, Matt, who
tends to fixate, suddenly became fascinated with the violin: “Violin,
violin, violin. I'm desperate to play the violin!” This obsession had
something to do with a classmate named Parker demonstrating his violin
to other third graders.
When its thumb rest fell off, we took the clarinet to an
instrument store for first aid. While the repair guy smirked about the
cheesy construction of our clarinet, Matt sampled a violin. Pure
ecstasy. The shop owner produced a slightly used violin that he'd sell
us for only $100. And it's not even a First Act.
Talk about impulse buy. Now comes the real expense--lessons.
At this moment in his evolution, Matt is the happiest boy on
Earth. He'd, uh, “play” his violin in his sleep, if he could. His
friends don't get the attraction. (You can't shove it into a
PlayStation.) His parents think this means he's the next Itzhak Perlman.
On with the parade.
(2003)
Newspaper Columns
SECRET LETTER
This much my friend knew:
Her father served in World War II from 1942 until 1945. He fought
in hand-to-hand combat at Guadalcanal--something that those of us who
have lived only in comfort and peace cannot fathom.
This much my friend extrapolated:
In 1944, her father and a woman also stationed in the South
Pacific (perhaps as a nurse?) fell into a fervent love doomed from its
very beginning. She already was promised to a man pining for her from
afar, either back in the States or (perhaps?) from a battlefield in
Europe.
After my friend's father died, her mother decided to move from her
home of 50 years to a retirement community. So my friend flew east to
help weed out decades of canceled checks, warranties for long-gone
appliances and such from the papers worth saving.
One box contained her father's war correspondence. There were
letters to his parents, letters from family and friends, an address
book, newspaper clippings. It is a box resting beneath a layer of dust,
undisturbed yet unforgotten, in the basements and closets of old
soldiers everywhere.
While her mother sorted through Nixon-era tax returns, my friend
skimmed some of the missives--catching glimpses of her father as a
young man, so brave and scared and, by necessity, mature beyond his
years. Then she opened the envelope postmarked March 6, 1945, South
Carolina. Inside she found on U.S. Navy letterhead a message that
stopped her breath.
“Yes, I married the guy last Saturday,” read the feminine
handwriting. “So much I want to tell you, but I can't, I can't. It will
have to be enough to say thanks for letting me know you, for letting me
love you. ‘'Twas a year of heaven. I love you, always.”
This much my friend knows:
With the help of a VA loan, her father became the first in his
family to attend college--where a pretty coed walked into his economics
class and sat down next to him. They would marry and enjoy a good life
together, raising their four baby boomers in the freshly paved suburbs.
My friend's father never discussed the war in any kind of
detail. But he regularly had nightmares about it--bolting up in bed and
flailing his arms to fend off phantom enemies.
He was a jocular, fun man--yet at the same time, reserved and
difficult to figure. He relished the role of husband and dad. He was
honest, decent, hard working, religious and, it seemed to my friend,
prudish. She never once spied him in his underwear. He seldom kissed
his dear wife in front of the children.
In this letter, she saw her father as a swashbuckler, almost.
Dashing, romantic, even sexy. Living each day as though, truly, it
could be his last. Putting on hold the social mores he was so steeped
in back home, and would be again.
But also as vulnerable to heartbreak as he was to bullets. My
friend pictured her father sitting in his barrack, absorbing this
good-bye that arrived as no surprise yet shocked him to the core. She
pictured his fingers trembling and his eyes watering. She pictured him
so lonely that his every cell ached. And, in a flash of spite toward
the woman who came before her mother, she thought, “Good riddance, you
flake, else I wouldn't be here today.”
My friend remembered her own passionate letters from boyfriends of
ages past. She wondered if she should retrieve that shoe box from the
attic and toss it, so her children would not discover evidence of her
pre-them adventures. No, she concluded, those, too, were valid and
formative chapters in her life. So be it.
And she silently slipped her father's treasured memory into her pocket and offered to make her mom a sandwich.
(2007)
CHARITY CASES
It has been a lovely day of giving and caring and sharing.
Movie, television and sports stars converged at this private
estate to help raise money and awareness on behalf of a worthy
organization. They spoke in reverent sound bites about the importance
of today’s crusade.
The generous celebrities have served their purpose well--drawing
media to a cause that, in the mountain of causes, might otherwise be
overlooked in the mountain of press releases.
These sorts of star-studded benefits take place regularly in
Southern California, where the needs are as great as the riches.
Now attendees stand in a long line, under a hot and shadeless sky,
waiting for their valet-parked cars. They are tired, sweaty, thirsty,
bored, drained of small talk.
People start to get grumpy. Prickly comments fly. This is so annoying! I’ve been waiting here for 20 minutes!
A foursome of young, handsome TV actors strike up conversation
with another young, handsome TV actor a couple of bodies ahead of them.
“Is this ridiculous, or what?” they complain.
And in front of all of them, a well-known television star, whose wife pushes a stroller, joins in: “What is the deal here?”
Suddenly, everyone freezes, stunned as a famous movie actress is
whisked past the crowd by an usher. Hey, how come she gets to cut?
Someone yells out to her: “How do you rate? We’ve been in line for
half an hour!” She smiles sheepishly as she floats to the head of the
class.
“I’m going up there, too!” announces an antsy member of the foursome.
“Nah, let’s just wait with everyone else,” his populist friend responds.
But revolution stirs the air. The celebs bristle with insult and impatience.
“Hey, don’t I get to go up there?” the well-known TV star barks at
an usher, some guy earning minimum wage. The usher laughs awkwardly,
not quite recognizing him. “That wasn’t a joke, it was a question,”
says the actor.
Wow, he was so earnest and gracious only an hour before.
The antsy member of the foursome decides to take action, but he is
rebuffed by an usher. More restrained, the solo actor quietly mumbles
his own discontent.
Puleez! Now an usher guides a television superstar to the curb,
trailed by her husband, kids and nanny. And there goes a really big
movie idol! Under different circumstances, the onlookers might be
pleased to see him.
That’s it! Rebellion!
“What about us?” implores a foursome fellow. “We’re so-and-so on such-and-such and so-and-so on such-and-such...”
“Oh, OK, just because I like your TV shows,” the usher relents. “How many in your party?”
“Four.”
“Make that five,” adds the solo actor. Might as well jump on that gravy train.
Whoosh, off they go--leaving those without TV shows to ponder
their immediate futures, just made less certain by the contagious
cutting trend.
The well-known television star--better known than those
pip-squeaks!--is not about to suffer in silence over this latest
indignity. “Come on!” he says to his wife. He grabs the stroller from
her hands, steers it out of the line in a huff, and vanishes with his
family.
Uh, what was that fundraiser all about, again?
(2006)
OLD MARRIED COUPLES
For the better part of their time together, my father and mother spent their time apart--their prime time, that is.
As old married couples will do, they fell into an immutable routine that no man, woman or grandchild could put asunder.
Every night after dinner, Dad would roost in his recliner to
multitask between channel surfing and fussing over the same
half-completed Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle.
Mom would retire upstairs to absorb a tome about some 14th century
duke no other living human has heard of, while simultaneously
processing “CSI.”
At about 10:15, right at the climax of “The Magnificent Seven” or
whatever old movie Dad had stumbled upon, Mom would alight in the
kitchen directly overlooking the den and start grinding coffee.
“Honey, knock off that racket!” Dad would bark.
Ignoring his pleas, she would run the disposal and, for good
measure, fire up the dishwasher. Defeated but clinging to his pride,
Dad then would demand that she bring him a bowl of cereal and, for good
measure, provide a six-letter word meaning “shrill insect.”
I exaggerate not. Every night. Every single night.
Well, now I understand how such ruts happen. Every night after
dinner, every single night, full moon or no, my husband and I transform
into... George and JoAnne. Suddenly, we lead separate existences--a
wall, or three, between us.
George, AKA Mike, plants himself on the sofa with our complex
arsenal of channel changers. I head for bed, though not to sleep. Many
chores await me there, beginning with the most tedious one: clearing
space for myself by filing away the multiple piles of folded laundry
neglected since my last burst of energy hours before.
Then my son joins me with his latest Hardy Boys book, which we
take turns reading aloud. Matt chortles over the brothers’ endless jabs
at hapless Chet--their “stout chum” who eats his way through every
adventure. (Definitely not a politically correct character by modern
standards.)
Afterward, I drift into the kitchen, like an apparition from the
other side, to refill my water glass--just when the “West Wing” prez
reveals his hush-hush disease. “Your timing is impeccable!” Mike moans,
as the ice maker clanks away.
Next, if the moon's full, I might sandwich in a few sit-ups on our
all-purpose bed until my daughter appears requesting homework
assistance. This facade lasts for about 10 minutes because she doesn't
really want help anymore--having long since learned that my only forte,
proofreading reports, comes with the high price of way too many
“suggestions.”
What Erin wants is to gab and giggle for a while. We're often deep
into some inside joke, laughing uncontrollably, when Mike obtrudes to
claim his parcel of the bed.
One night, Erin and I were having so much fun that we accidentally
bristled at his arrival. “Oh, shoot, Dad's here,” Mike intoned, sensing
that his presence was unwelcome. (More truthfully, in place of “shoot,”
he used a four-letter word meaning... Never mind.)
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. But only when it occurs at distances greater than a wall or three.
(2005)
FORGET NOT GETTING FORGOTTEN
I always return from trips poised to detail every sumptuous moment, made all the more ideal by a warm and forgiving afterglow.
But then it hits me once again: To bask in a vacation’s reminiscence,
you had to be there. A little goes a long way when it comes to someone else’s
travel log.
So forget Paris.
Forget the bright flowers in bloom everywhere and the cute chocolate
Easter chicks peeping from boulangerie windows. Forget picnicking in the
shadow of the Eiffel Tower as worshippers marked the stations of the cross.
Forget the cobalt blue skies, the cobblestone streets, the magnificent or
quaint buildings that have survived dozens of human generations.
Forget how that final surprise step into Sainte-Chapelle felt like
waking up inside a jewel box. Forget Musee d’Orsay, Musee Rodin, Sacre Coeur,
the Louvre. (OK, we DID forget the Louvre.) Forget how Notre Dame at night
appears, as a lantern, illuminated from within.
Forget our French friends persuading the kids--who normally shun
anything mildly unfamiliar--to sample snails. Forget crepes au fromage and
cassis sorbet on Ile St. Louis. Forget croissants and Nutella and profiteroles
and kirs. Forget $10 expressos at Les Deux Magots just because it was a Hemingway
haunt.
Forget our silly recurring “voila” joke, so sidesplitting in context. You REALLY had to be there for that.
Forget it all, for now, except this: A macabre reminder of our certain fate and ultimate insignificance.
Paris is a spectacular city not only above but also underground--with
its intricate metro system, quirky sewer tours and bizarre catacombs. It’s
a wonder the external masterpiece doesn’t collapse into that maze of tunnels
below.
We spent an afternoon spelunking through a mile-long section of
the 186-mile(!) network of abandoned limestone quarries--now home to millions
of old bones. They ended up there due to practical rather than sinister reasons.
In the late 1700s, the city started clearing out church cemeteries--some
of which posed health concerns--to make room for the living.
This may seem a little TOO pragmatic to a young nation that still
strives to treat ancient burial sites with respect. Yet imagine a burgeoning
metropolis competing for space amongst several centuries of ancestors. What’s
a real estate developer to do?
Artistically arranged femurs and skulls line the passageway in
tightly stacked piles. They are grouped by cemetery, but otherwise bear no
identity.
These bones once belonged to fathers and sons, mothers and daughters,
people who were loved by other people, people who did something of note in
their lifetime, people with unique fingerprints and diverse personalities.
Now they all look exactly the same--fleshless faces, hollow eye
sockets, toothy grins. No one mourns them or even knows their names. They
may as well be grains of sand on the beach.
Whether in the mausoleums of Forest Lawn or the guts of Paris,
all but the Marilyn Monroes and Napoleons among us are headed this direction:
eternal anonymity.
If ever you start feeling a little more important than the fellow
standing next to you, consider this massive tomb beneath the world’s most
fashionable city.
Then giggle over a dumb joke, slurp a scoop of ice cream in the
sun, tell someone you care, and make the most of your nanosecond in the universe.
(2007)
LEAF BLOWER
You
know Leonardo. He’s the guy who drives the old pickup truck loaded with
the tools of his trade--a well-worn lawn mower, a leaf blower, an
edger. He works at your house, and your neighbor’s houses, and all
those other houses on all those other blocks.
Leonardo hails from Mexico. He understands more English than he
speaks. Other than that, you don’t know much about him. You can’t even
guess his age. His face is weather-beaten yet boyish.
It takes Leonardo 30 minutes to do what would require you three
hours of precious weekend time. He always has a smile and a wave for
you. He beams at the sight of your children. They have a natural
affection for him, and tag along behind as he goes about his business.
He hauls his heavy equipment around, he sweats in the sun. But he
never seems tired or agitated or disgruntled with life--as you do now
and again, even though your job is much less labor intensive and much
more lucrative.
Leonardo is a real deal. You can’t imagine how he makes rent at
the end of the day. Occasionally, you pay him tips. You give him a
Christmas bonus. However, these little gestures don’t erase your
middle-class guilt.
Back when you leased an apartment, before a tidy lawn was your
responsibility, you hated leaf blowers and wondered why the loud and
intrusive devices were even legal. Whatever happened to raking leaves
the old-fashioned way? Indeed, some cities have banned leaf blowers,
slashing Leonardo’s slender hourly wage in the process.
My husband and I hooked up with Leonardo soon after buying our
first house. He was across the street pruning hedges. We asked if he
had an opening in his schedule, and he did.
In brief glimpses, Leonardo has witnessed our lives unfurl. He was
edging the grass when we returned from the hospital with wee Erin. Two
and one-half years later, Mike whisked Matthew from his bassinet to
share our latest progeny with Leonardo, and proudly offered a cigar.
Leonardo admired our new van, critiqued the fresh paint on our
house, watched Erin practice riding her bike sans training wheels,
chatted with our housekeeper, playfully taught Matt a few Spanish
phrases.
Sometimes, Leonardo brought along a boy about 8 years old. I
assumed the friendly kid was Leonardo’s son. I pictured Leonardo with
his sweet wife and, perhaps, another child at home.
But eventually, through confusing conversations tripped up by our
language barrier, I ascertained that the child was Leonardo’s younger
brother. Leonardo, it turned out, is not married. He comes from a
family of nine children whose ages span a generation.
After six years, we bought a slightly bigger house on a slightly
smaller lot. “It would be really lazy of me not tot mow the lawn myself
here,” Mike commented, surveying the patches of grass that qualify as
our front and back yards.
We told Leonardo we wouldn’t need him anymore. Mike bought a push
mower and edger at Sears. He spent half his Saturdays sprucing up the
great--well, petite--outdoors.
That lasted for about three months, until our liquid amber trees
started shedding their autumn leaves. We had lost Leonardo’s phone
number, so we solicited the help of a neighbor’s gardening crew. They
were OK--but they weren’t Leonardo.
A while later, I discovered Leonardo’s pager number in a desk
drawer. We hired him back. It was great to see his truck pull up to our
house--like encountering a friend so simpatico that, even after long
periods of time apart, you reconnect without missing a beat.
Not surprisingly, Leonardo proved as steady and good natured as
ever. So when he failed to show up or even call for a couple of weeks,
we feared something was amiss. Sure enough, he told us after
reemerging, he’d been ill.
“What is it called?” he attempted to explain. “Fever? Heart?”
“Rheumatic fever?” I replied with alarm. I don’t know much about rheumatic fever, except that it can harm the heart.
“Yes,” Leonardo answered, but I’m not sure if he had exhausted his
English and simply wanted to end our strained dialogue. I inquired
whether he had seen a doctor, and he said he planned to do so--soon,
any day now.
Shortly thereafter, Leonardo disappeared again. Weeks went by. I
tried paging him--no response. I don’t have his street address, only a
post office number.
One morning, I expressed my concern about Leonardo to a neighbor.
“I’m afraid he is very sick,” I said, silently adding, “or worse.”
“I’ll set you up with my gardener,” proposed the well-meaning man,
utterly misconstruing my point. “He’s so reliable that he even works on
Thanksgiving.”
Leonardos, after all, are interchangeable.
(2002)
SECOND CHANCES
I've always avoided reading child care literature. I'd rather
remain blissfully ignorant about all the irrevocable mistakes I commit
on a regular basis.
But sometimes, just to pass the wait in our pediatrician's office,
I flip through one of those magazines with a kissable baby face
grinning from its cover. And then I cringe.
I have discovered that the older my kids become, the more the
articles act as a reminder that I'm way behind in molding the perfect
angels I once envisioned.
How to encourage your picky eater to enjoy vegetables? Start
young! Emulate rather than ridicule those mothers who puree fresh
carrots for their two-teethed wonders while you simply open a jar of
mushy spinach. Else you might find yourself five years later still
serving Gerber's sweet potatoes--behind closed doors, and only in the
privacy of your own home.
How to raise an independent child? Start young! By the age of
three, he should make an honest attempt to dress himself. Refuse the
role of personal stylist just to keep things moving smoothly in the
morning. If you insist on garbing your little prince from head to toe,
don't be surprised when you end up with a first-grader who lies naked
on his bedroom floor constructing Lego towers after promising to ready
himself for school. Not to mention a first-grader who yells down the
hallway, “Mom, wipe my bottom!”
How to teach your children good housekeeping? Start young! Avoid
picking up after them as though their servant--having decided that
plucking underwear that dangles from a ceiling fan is far less
stressful than nagging endlessly. Otherwise, you will develop a chip on
your shoulder and they will develop the sensibilities of a rat.
How to promote responsibility? Start young! Assign chores; let
children suffer the repercussions of their dereliction. Whisking up the
homework your daughter left sitting in a puddle of syrup on the dining
room table and hand delivering it to her classroom probably is not
advisable.
Sadly, I could go on. And on.
But now I have a second chance, a chance to vindicate myself
as a parent. It arrived in the form of two mischievous puppies.
My husband purchased a Dr. Spock for canines kind of book titled:
“American Kennel Club Dog Care and Training.” We assume it applies to
our mutts as well as to dogs of more refined ancestry.
The book has earned a permanent spot on my bedside table, as I
read it and reread it with hopes of finding a magic solution--or, at
least, credible excuses--for our new family members’ bouts of
misbehavior.
“Without proper training,” our book warns, “the cutest puppy will
grow up into a terror, either unmanageable, messy in the house or both.”
Hmm. Makes me think about a couple of two-legged pups I know.
“You must be committed to doing a thorough and proper job of
training right from the start, before you let problems get out of hand.”
Again, the mind wanders.
“If you don't train your dog, you are at fault. No one else. In
fact, if you're not prepared to properly train your dog, you probably
shouldn't get one in the first place.”
Harsh!
“Vacillation is the deadliest enemy of good training.”
Does this mean I shouldn't say things like, “Get in the bathtub right this minute! OK, in 15 minutes!”
“Occasionally, a dog will need to be offered some sort of food reward.”
Finally, I'm doing something right! In our house, Baskin Robbins works well as a bribe.
“One thing that all dogs have in common is a desire to please their owners.”
I guess dogs and kids aren't similar in every way, after all.
“There is no truth to the adage that ‘you can't teach an old dog new tricks.’”
Whew! Hope springs eternal!
(2002)