Remembering Nanny born July 6, 1906.
My grandmother, Nanny, was born today--103 years ago. She was the 3rd child of Manuel and Ellen Balthazar. She was named Ellen Kathryn, but everyone called her "Nellie." My brother named her Nanny and my grandfather, Poppy. (My uncle, called "Tex" because his last name was Texiera, hated that name; he said his mother was neither a goat nor a nursemaid.) Respecting him, and begin teens, my brother Joe and I shortened my grandmother's name to "Nan"—when we weren't calling her "Smelly Nelly”, “Stinky Dupes" or "Stinky Meeks," (all names referring to female parts) All names she threw back her head and laughed at. When I remember Nanny, I remember her laughing. My mother went to the hospital 3 times to have me. On the last trip, the doctor sent her out to walk until the contractions were closer together. Nanny and her younger sister, Aunt Evelyn, were with her. Nanny and Aunt Evelyn got "tickled" at mom waddling along, mad and miserable which made her madder, which made them laugh harder. They laughed so hard they couldn't stand up anymore, so they sat down on the curb—with mom glaring--and wet their pants laughing. When the nurse came out to check on Mom, they were embarrassed to stand up and let her see the wet spot, so Mom had to go in alone.
Nanny's kitchen was our family's favorite gathering spot. There was always a pot of coffee waiting, cookies in the cookie jar (usually peanut butter or oatmeal) and cards at hand. Many evenings passed with all of us, including the cousins, packed around the table playing Liverpool rummy for a quarter game-5 cents a hand and low score takes the pot. Nanny was a ruthless card player, and sometimes she won. She'd gloat when she was about to go out. "Oh my," or "would you look at this?" she'd say. Then one by one she'd lay down her cards. It would be our turn to laugh when the hand she gleefully laid down was the wrong one.
The only left-hander in the family, Nanny taught herself to knit, crochet, tat, and embroider by watching yarn sales people. In those days, yarn companies would send employees out to stores to give handicraft lessons and demonstrations to increase sales. Nanny would watch the reflection of the demonstrations in the store window and learn in reverse. My mother and I are also left-handed, and Nanny was always happy to teach us what she knew, and fix our mistakes, and finish our projects. Her motto: "make the back as pretty as the front."
Joe and I spent summers in Watsonville at my grandparent's 2-bedroom house. He'd sleep in the front bedroom with Poppy, who went to sleep early and snored. Nanny and I slept in the back room were we'd whisper sleep meditations—"toes relax, feet relax, shins relax. knees relax"—which never worked. Bored and lonely in the front room, Joe would creepy crawl down the hall and try to sneak under our bed without us catching him. Then suddenly, he'd lunge up and POUNCE! I'd scream and Nanny would laugh.
My son Max was a beautiful baby with blond curls, big eyes, and a really big, round Charlie Brown head. One day Nanny and Mom decided to see just how big his head was so they took him to the store and tried hats on him. None of the boy hats fit, so they decided to try the ruffled girlie hats on him, the fussier the better and laughed until they cried.
A meticulous housekeeper, Nanny dust mopped her kitchen daily, sometimes more often. When my daughter Lexi was about 2, she'd race to the dust mop, stand on top and wrap her arms around the handle. Nanny would shake the handle and holler at her to "get off, Lexi...get off right this instant." Lexi just looked up at her scolding and giggled—it was all part of the dust mop ride.
We laughed at Nanny's funeral. I was sitting in the front pew with Mom, Max and Alexis, Aunt Evelyn and her husband, Uncle Joe. Alexis, just old enough to pay attention to the happenings at her first Catholic mass, got the giggles when she noticed "the old people sticking their tongues out" at the priests giving communion. Lexi has a laugh that rolls up from her belly, the contagious kind, and before long we were all laughing. Mom kept trying to shush us, which made us all, especially Aunt Evelyn, laugh louder. "Nellie would have loved this," she said. And we all knew it was true.
Pour a "hot" cup of coffee—"milk and 2 sugars, please"—pass around the cookie jar and break out the cards for one more game of Liverpool. Deal Nanny in!
Swirly-Whirly Skirt Takes a Wrong Turn
Remember my swirly-whirly skirt? The one that disappeared into the dark hole of Rusnati’s ironing pile because it is linen and so difficult? The one that was never supposed to be ironed in the first place? Well, after Rusnati finally stopped messing with it and let it be all crinkly and wrinkly, bouncy and twirly, it really was cute! So cute, in fact, that a friend asked to borrow it so she could have it copied. This friend is smaller than I am and shorter—much shorter. But that wasn’t a problem; our seamstress, Ibu Nana is a wiz. She can copy anything. And she can alter anything. So I handed over my favorite skirt. And, I have to admit, did so eagerly—greedily--anticipating how I could capitalize on the loan. Once Ibu made a pattern, she could make me another swirly, whirly, too, after all, couldn’t she? (Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have two? In different colors!) However, although I never voiced them, I had doubts about whether my friend’s copy could ever be as wonderful as my original precisely because the fabric mine was cut from is divine. Would anyone ever be able to find the same type of crinkly, bouncy linen? I decided to wait and see how the copy turned out.
In good time my swirly-whirly skirt was returned. It caught my eye while I was dressing this morning. It bounced, beckoning while I pawed through my rack. I pulled it down from the hanger and pulled up—to my knees…
Have I gained that much weight? Ok, so I haven’t been working out as much as I should…And I did go on that vacation… I weighted myself yesterday and sure, I was a few pounds on the plump side, but just a few...
I squeezed my legs closer together and tugged. The skirt streeeeeeetched up to my thighs and stuck. Then it hit me--hard--below the belt. Not only had Ibu Nana copied my skirt—she’d altered the original—expertly tailored it to fit that scrawny shrimp.
Now my friend will have two wonderful, crinkly, bouncy, adorable swirly-whirly skirts—in different colors—and I have none.
Why am I being punished? Is it so wrong for me to love a crinkly-wrinkly skirt? Am I not allowed to be bouncy, twirly-whirly?
Moving Day
My best Jakarta Girlfriend, Joy, is moving. Seeing the packing trucks out in front of her house buzzed me back in time to 1971—the summer before 7th grade. The first move I remember making—the first in a life-time of moving away. We weren’t moving that far. We lived in Huntington Beach and would still be living in Huntington Beach, but not on Griffith Circle. My parents were divorcing. My mom, brother, and I were moving almost two miles, from a house to a 2-bedroom townhouse apartment on Warner Avenue. My father, really step-dad, was moving a world away. After that moving day, I would never see him—the man whom I loved and looked up to as “Daddy” for 8 years, the man who had called me his “daughter” for those same 8 years—again.
I was leaving my last non-shared bedroom, my first ride-the-streets-solo-I-know-everything-and-everyone neighborhood. My best basketball, Monopoly, cookie-making friend, Donna McFall and her family of five kids—3 of whom fell into my brother and my age range—would no longer be on-call for after dinner Kick-the-Can or Hide-n-Seek. My best Elton John and Harlequin Romance friend, Theresa, would not be three doors away on any given Saturday afternoon. Jane, one year older and wiser, wouldn’t be across the street, slipping notes and advice through the hole in my window screen. My best friend, Valarie, wouldn’t be waiting on the way to school, ready to partner up on Halloween costumes and school projects, either. We would never again race home together trying to beat the street lights.
Moving sucked then--it still does.
But this is the worst.
All the moves before it was me moving away. This is the first time I recall anyone leaving me behind. Even that first time, while leaving Griffith Circle was tough, it wasn’t as painful. I was so busy getting ready to move, moving, and unmoving that I didn’t have time to think about it. I found comfort in knowing I could hop on my bike and ride back to Griffith Circle to my friends when I felt homesick. Afterwards, while I figured out who I was in this new place, in this new room—shared with my mother—in this new life, time passed and healed the homesickness.
Later moves were the same. While I didn’t always physically return to other “old” neighborhoods, I mentally returned via telephone, letters, and e-mail. As in the opening of the play Old Town, in my mind I positioned the cast in the proper setting, imagining everyone and everything exactly as I had left it/them, comforting myself with their sameness.
But this time, I’m not the one leaving—I’m being left. In her mountain of boxes and bundles, along with her mix-matched happy, eclectic furniture, scatter rugs, husband and son, Joy is taking away my touchstone, my full calendar, packing up my place to run when I need a laugh, a drink, a friend….
Moving hurts.
It hurts more when you are not the one who is moving.
I never knew that before.
Packing Lighter--A Tragic Afterward
March 11th I flew to West Papua, Indonesia with some friends—a group led by Leks and Linda Santosa from Remote Destinations. We were flying into Asmat country—the swampy coastal area of West Papua famous for head-hunters, ferocious warriors with boar’s tusks through their noses and feathered or furred headdresses. The only way to reach this area is by boat--or by small plane and then boat. I had a tough time packing for this trip. (You may recall my blog posting of March 11, “Packing Light”). The supply list was specific and the weight restrictions strict. Selecting what to bring (mosquito repellent, liquor) vs. what I couldn’t (books, wine…) took the most part of a day. I groused about the weight restriction—“…only 15 Kilos—20 including carry-ons? How can they expect me to do that?”
I was delighted to be going even though Curtis couldn’t (a minor thing called “job” held him back). Remote Destinations had had a difficult time securing a plane to fly us into Asmat Country. The two regularly used planes were out of commission: one with engine trouble; the other had crashed after sliding off the runway. After much haggling, Leks finally hired an airplane to fly us from Timika to the village of Ewer. The night before we left on our trip, Linda sent us this message about the plane chartered through Mimika Air Charter:
“The plane is new and the pilot is from Myanmar...VERY professional. (Freeport Mining Company uses them all the time.) Everything was weighed and written down...6 seats behind the pilot and co-pilot. The flight was on time both ways. And just wait until you see the VIEW over the pristine jungle and the ribbons of rivers flowing into the Arafura Sea. Have your cameras ready!!!!”
The brightly-painted, close to brand new plane had been purchased to facilitate the upcoming--
--elections. Candidates and election officials would be ferried all over West Papua so everyone would have a chance to hear them speak and decide who was best for the job. Election Rally’s in Indonesia are more than a chance to see/learn about/meet a candidate, they are an opportunity to SCORE! Rally attendees are paid in T-shirts, food, and often cash—as much as 50 or 70,000 Rp a day (US $5-7—day’s wages for many). I have a friend whose gardener took election rally week off so he could earn extra money
Prior to boarding our luggage and each passenger was weighed and then loaded onto the plane accordingly. Upon take-off, we joked about how it seemed as though the pilot and co-pilot were leaning forward to help our heavy-in-spite-of-carefully-packing plane obtain lift-of. We laughed and leaned forward with them.
Once airborne, our pilot, Nay May Linn Aung and the co-pilot, welcomed us and handed back a plastic Pringles lid of wrapped candies—our onboard snack. We told him we had been to Myanmar a few months before and we shared some smiles about that. Their smiles were white and wide, friendly—confident.
A month after than trip, on April 14th, after carrying us to Ewer and back safely, that spiffy new plane crashed. According to reports, the plane was overweight, stuffed full of election ballots and maybe too many pounds of passenger. (There was seating for eight total and the plane was carrying 10 or 11, including 2 children.) It went down trying to navigate through the mountains regions of West Papua—crashed into Gergaji Mountain. (We had been warned that the air currents and cloud cover made flying difficult and that it was best to fly in the morning—early as possible.) All passengers and the crew—pilot Lin Aung, and co-pilot, Makmur Susanto—were lost.
According to statements from workers and others as the airport, the pilot and co-pilot knew the plane was overweight, knew it was not the best time, or best conditions, or best plan to fly…. Lin Aung and Makmur Susanto didn’t want to fly. Politicos, or political workers, and their bosses threatened them to make them fly. “Fly or lose your jobs,” they were told
Flying is so easy—“jet here, hop on a plane there, “can’t we fly it’s so much quicker,” to somewhere else—it’s easy to cop a lassez faire attitude and take flying for granted. We stop worrying about the danger. I did. A few weeks before the crash, I was the one asking “What difference can a few extra kilos make?” If allowed, I would have gladly piled more into the plane—both coming and going. The only difference between me and those eager to get flying passengers was clout.
Those passengers, impatient to get back to it played the “do what we say or else” card and won. And so, contrary to their best opinions, to their knowledge of the aircraft, the conditions, the terrain in West Papua, Ni Lin Aung and Co-pilot, Makmur Susanto flew. And the too-heavy plane crashed in the mountains. And everyone on board was lost.
Ni Lin Aung and Makmur Susanto will never again smile and pass back a plastic lid of wrapped candies to passengers or say “get ready for landing.”
Van Gogh's Ear--Playing Dirty
"Do you know the real reason Van Gogh cut off his ear?” Esteban Vicente asked John Canaday, former art critic for the New York Times.
“No, why?” Canaday said.
“Because he couldn’t stand listening to critics anymore.”
This exchange is repeated in Audrey Flack’s book Art & Soul. It is preceded by this conversation between Flack and Jimmy Ernst:
“Jimmy: I’m doing bad work…there’s hope.”
“Audrey: I did bad work for a year when I began doing watercolors again after a break of over twenty years.
“Jimmy: There was a time when it was not held against artists to show bad work. It was expected in terms of their development. There was no sudden death in art then. There is now. Art was a friend. You didn’t drop a friend because she or he made a mistake.”
I have not been doing “bad work” nor have I had cause lately to want to cut off my ear. The sad reality is that I haven’t been doing any work. Nothing. I have a notebook of ideas on top of my desk. A few months ago those ideas were niggling, calling, singing at me to write, write, write them.
Over the past years I have developed a “sneak attack” method to approaching new story idea. When a story idea sang to me, instead of trying to write it out, I ignore it. Usually, the idea keeps calling—louder, Louder, LOUDER until finally I have to write it.
But this time, for some reason, while I was waiting, thinking I was so smart to give my subconscious time, that monster critic who sits on my shoulder nattering and badgering me about how lousy my work is--how it’s not good enough, not funny enough, not fresh--took control.
And now I am not writing because I am scared to do “bad work.”
I used to do bad work all the time. It didn’t faze me—maybe because I didn’t know it was bad. I hadn’t learned the “bad art” lesson yet. Like most kids, I slapped and splashed, scribbled and scrawled joyously. Our kid-art was wonderful because we created it.
But now, like many supposed adults, I’m scared to do badly. And not just at writing, either. If I don’t think I can dance well, I don’t dance. I don’t ice skate because I might fall or look silly. I don’t try cooking anything I don’t already sort of know how to cook. I quit art class because I was lousy at drawing—and because I was lousy, I didn’t let myself enjoy it. And now, now that I’m a “published” author, with editors who want to read my work, I’m not writing because I am scared to write. I am so worried about what the critics might say that I have forsaken my friend.
Damn the Monster Critic!
Somehow I, we—all of us who have creation anxiety, all of us with a Monster Critic sitting on our shoulder, judging our every move before we even make it— have got to pull a Van Gosh. Cut off our critic-tuned ears.
Whatever it takes: dancing him dizzy or turning up the music, drugging him, or dazzling him with disco light, somehow we have got to kick the Monster Critic to the curb. Destroy him, or at very least distract him for a while so the kid in us can come out and play.
Come on! Let’s get dirty. Let’s do some bad work!
Honoring Lucky the Goldfish
Lucky the Goldfish passed away last week. He was a dear friend and companion to my editor Sarah and her partner, Lori. (I think, if I remember correctly, Lucky was actually one of those carnival goldfish Sarah won at a fair, hence his name.) For more than 9 years Lucky had flapped and fluttered around in his bowl, blowing bubbles, gobbling nibbles, making sure that Sarah and Lori never came home to an empty house. And, in his quiet, fishy way, Lucky was responsible for my story, NOT NORMAN, A Goldfish Story being published. Several years back, say 2002 or earlier, my agent, Erin, heard Sarah speak at a conference. During the Q&A following Sarah’s presentation some one asked the question everyone always asks editors: Is there any story you are looking for? Sarah burst into her Lucky the Goldfish story and how she would love, love to receive a manuscript about a goldfish…
As it so happened, I had goldfish—a pond full of them—and a Goldfish picture book manuscript: Not Norman. The rest, as they say, is history.
People who call themselves “real pet people” i.e. dog, cat, horse, hamster lovers poke fun at us fishy folks. They think the only good pet is one who crawls, climbs or claws. They need the tactile connection those types of pets provide.
We fishy folks are beyond all that. We appreciate fish for what they are and do. A lot of what looks like nothing. Fish swim around in their watery worlds, drifting, floating, bubbling, dreaming fishing dreams while the rest of us drive ourselves and everyone else nuts rushing, rushing, doing, and begging for more.
The only begging Lucky ever did was a meal time. And that wasn’t really begging that was more like a reminder. A hey, remember me while you’re stuffing that cracker into your gullet. How’s about tossing me a treat, too, while you’re at it?
Here’s to Lucky!
India in Perspective
We returned from 17 days in India Sunday afternoon travel weary, stiff and sour-smelling, with our luggage over-stuffed with treasures and our minds over-flowing with images. Monday bright and too early Curtis motored off to work and I trudged in to face my desk and the luggage and the household details that had piled up while we were gone. More than 800 e-mails pulsed at me from the cue...blink...blink...blink... Since then Curtis and I have been in overdrive pushing forward, working our way through the mess, allowing our recent trip to recede, as if the past weeks were nothing more than billboards beside the Expressway. In a certain room in my house, along with assorted other reading materials, I keep a book called Art & Soul: Notes on Creating by Audrey Flack. Art & Soul is a collection of snippets, observations, quotes related to art. On occasion--regardless of how busy I am--I have reason to sit in that room with minutes to ponder. This morning, during one such enforced break from my monster to-do list, I picked up Art & Soul. I turned to the following passage:
Day 5: Late Afternoon (page 141)
I walk rapidly to the East Wing of the National Gallery to see the "Sculpture of India" show. I have exactly one hour until the museum closes. I urn up the stairs, into the elevator. I want up--the tower; it goes down. Pressured for time, overworked, overstimulated, I finally enter the exhibition space and am met with calm and serene buddahas, goddesses, and bodhisattvas, bestowing grace and wisdom. For the first time in a week, the tension drains from my body and I am at peace in front of these ancient statues. What a blessing. I silently thank all of those ancient sculptors and stonecarvers for the years of loving and caring--every jewel, every bead precisely chiseled and sanded. Thank you.
Namaste.
Packing Light…er
Never actually having seriously considered the term “packing light”--my last return flight from the States, I checked 3 bags, 2 of which were perilously close to the 70 pound limit--I have had a very difficult day. I leave for West Papua tonight on a “Remote Destinations” trip. Remote Destinations is the name of the travel company, owned by Leks and Linda Santosa, which is organizing and leading the trip. Remote also stands for “far away and hard to get to.” We will fly overnight from Jakarta to Timika, West Papua, arrive early tomorrow morning and transfer to a twin-engine propeller airplane. From there, our luggage will either be toted by broad-backed porters, or ferried in shallow-draft boats through swampy, steamy, buggy, formerly cannibal-infested mangrove forest--sounds exciting doesn't it?
Purportedly, the weight restriction was set by the charter airline company. (However, I suspect the weight restrictions may also have been imposed because the porters on our last trip to Papua complained.)
Each passenger had to submit his/her weight. (Accurate weight, I was cautioned, as each passenger will be weighed before boarding the plane.) Our luggage will also be weighed—carry ons, purses, computers, all of it—and will be loaded onto the plane according. Now, normally….often, as you can guess by the baggage I mentioned above, I don’t worry too much if my baggage is a little heavy. However…
Following is a note I received from Linda two weeks ago regarding our travel arrangements:
Hello, All.
As you know, Leks went to West Papua last Sunday to finalize all arrangements for your trip....Unfortunately he has run into a series of bad problems. First of all, the Charter which he had booked for you--the Twin Otter through Trigana--has two big problems....Trkigana actually has 2 Twin-Otters. One recently slid off the runway at Bioga in the mountains and the other they have just discovered 3 days ago needs a new engine...Which has been ordered and the plane is supposed to be ready to fly in 2 weeks...But no guarantees.
SO....Leks and Cindy have tried to contact the following companies in the last two days: Mimika Air Airfast Susi Air AMA Papua--who say they will not take tourists Merpati Avia Star
At the moment we have had no luck with any of these....BUT Leks is running around talking to airline pilots all day today and tomorrow.
Never fear: Leks found an airplane to take us to Papua. Smaller than the Twin Otter—and with weight restrictions—restrictions for which I have suddenly developed a healthy respect.
The per-person weight limit for the trip is undisclosed; the baggage weight limit is: 1 duffel bag, 15 kilos max (33 pounds) and, after we women whined loudly, an extra 5 kilos for carry-on—which sounds like a lot, doesn’t it?
Over the past few days, I have been gathering supplies for the trip. (Keeping in mind that we will only be gone 4 days.) I piled everything on the dining room table, cross-checked it with the supply list, and then began jettisoning whatever I could. Afterwards, I stuffed everything into my duffle and weighed it. Now I’m in the process of culling again. How the heck is anyone supposed to pack light when everything is so dang heavy?
- 1 lightweight hiking boot: 1.5 lbs (Yes, I will pack two--soon as I find the other one)
- Flashlight (ready to go): 3/4 pound
- Extra batteries: 1/3 pound
- Small toiletry bag (hotel sizes of everything): 2.5 pounds
- Undies, socks & 2 bras: 2.8 pounds (ditch the underwires?)
- Treat & drink bag: 7.5 pounds (that will get lighter quickly…maybe preflight)
- Walking stick: 3/4 pound
- Camera (no extra anything): 1/2 pound
- 298 page Paperback novel: 1/2 pound (It’s a YA; maybe they are heaver by nature?)
- Cosmetics bag: 1 lb, 10 oz (No I can not cull…I need every item)
- First aid kit/medication/vitamins: 2 1b, 5 oz.
- wallet: 1/3 pound
- Clothes: ...
Clothes? What clothes? There isn’t weight left for clothes…