3 Weddings - None of Them in June - Number 3

My grandfather, Sherman Alden Allen, left copious diaries and some amazing photos of life in turn of the century Northeast. In the early 60's, as an octogenarian, he transcribed his journals to carefully numbered report folders on a manual typewriter.

His was not an illustrious life, but one of hard work, adventure and occasionally, romance.

Graduating from Brown University in 1903, he sailed off to teach at a University in Syria and Lebanon, where he took expeditions to famous ruins, fending off marauding Bedouins and skinny-dipping in remote desert pools. Returning to New York he took classes in German and French at NYU,  got a master's at Princeton,  and later shipped himself off to France to really learn their language.

He wrote in short sentences of his job as professor, his daily recreation, boating, skating, concert going, with very little emotional or philosophical entries.

My favorite story was of his courtship and marriage, though it took some piecing together of trip records and photos.

On a voyage to France he met a young stenographer named Herta Schenk, a Dutch born girl, with an accent to prove it. Her father was a successful baker. They seemed to hit it off well and he appears very star-struck on his trip home aboard the freighter.



If I were Herta, I definitely would have been taken
by his stout and healthy handlebar mustache!


Just the other day, I saw a young hipster at Sub-Culture coffee shop in West Palm, sporting the same upper lip adornment.

Funny how styles recycle themselves a century later!


Sherman here at age 28 would have looked a lot like the West Palm hipster, without the skinny pants, long hair and tattoos.



No. My grandfather had no tattoos.

Given his inscription on the photo back, he was certainly taken by his new Dutch love.


But, reading his 1909 entries, I almost miss the proposal to Herta.


He says he wrote "the" letter to Herta and shortly after he is booking European passage again.


This time to Holland and England.





The trip included meeting her family in Rotterdam, and buying her a ring. He, not the betrothed bride, books the wedding chapel and lodging for Herta, in London.

And on August 15th, 1910 the couple wedded and made an appearance on a London balcony with wedding party attending.

I never saw him much, separated by the space between Massachusetts and California, but felt a connection because we both shared a February 8th birthday.

He passed in the 70's and when his trunks came, it was like treasure had arrived. They were the same trunks that Herta used, bearing travel labels saying "Rotterdam."

His was not a life of fame, but certainly adventure and

Romance!

The newlyweds settled in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania and later moved to Worcester, Massachusetts.

1915 - Walter, my dad, brother Ralph and Grandma Bertha (English for Herta).

First came love, then came marriage, then came a baby (my father)  in a baby carriage.

Sometimes words pour like poinciana blossoms

In early summer the blossoms fill the air with red flurries that pile up in ankle-deep scarlet snowdrifts. Vainly I try to hold them in my arms, catch them, but they spill over onto the driveway.  I bend to gather them and the wind snatches them in rosy gusts. Down the street I run to save them, so they are not lost forever.

Sometimes words pour like poinciana blossoms. I can't write them down fast enough. They slip through my fingers, swirling away like mutinous feathers on my writing ship. I chase them feverishly.

Nothing, not even imminent danger deters me from my syllabic quest.

Danger, such as driving and (gasp) texting sudden inspiration on the Florida turnpike. It's the fomo (fear of missing out) on a thought, phrase, lyric or idea that might escape like a canary from its cage. I type these words in my iphone notes section while driving to work behind an 18 wheeler.

Mid-sentence, a mindless person parked on the right shoulder opens his door into traffic. The truck breaks suddenly in front of me. Out of nowhere a wasp randomly lands on my bare left knee. I shriek, spring off the driver's seat, frantically brushing the venomous insect away, still catching words like fireflies. I break behind the truck in time.

Where's that wasp! Crawling the floor ready to fly up and stab his stinger firmly in my flesh? I have no choice but to keep driving.  Resigning myself to the fact that the worst the bug can do is cause a moment's pain.

I'm going to freaking kill myself and someone else, trying to capture these fleeting words!

Some days there is not a letter to be found and blogging death looms surely.

Like the first year we planted the sapling poinciana tree and Hurricane Wilma came through and shredded the young branches and tender leaves, pulverizing every plant in its path.

We thought it was dead. Killed by 120 mile an hour winds.

You think the stories will never come back to life and the brown, bare branches of thoughts will never spring green again.

(That's why a studied gardener plants the tree behind the house, not in front. It's deathly barren during our warm winters next to the proud palms, evergreen. But my husband insisted the poinciana be in the front yard so he could view it from his office window, and remember his brother Jimmy. Friends had given us the tree in honor of his brother's untimely death at age 50).

The tree was not dead, only dormant, regaining life, hidden to viewers on the outside, but alive and well on the inside, resting, recharging to soon revive itself.

And after winter's barren cycle, the tiny leaves bud and the blossoms pop out green and firetruck red soon after.

June comes and  poinciana petals fill the driveway again. Thoughts resurrect from the grave of the blank page. And once again, wading through ruby blossoms, I gather up words in a basket.

Oh! A mother's heart when her sons are in the House!

Mothering is a strange thing. From the moment the babies are born, you fall headlong in love and are inextricably bonded as in no other earthly relationship.

All five senses are one hundred percent intertwined with theirs. Your ears are listening for their smallest peep at night or nap time. Your eyes are watching every move on the video monitor or in the the pack 'n play. Every pore is feeling for their body heat, cleanliness, catering to their physical comfort. Any change of odor is detected faster than you can reach for the Pampers and bath supplies. Your voice sings, teaches, scolds, yells, whispers, counsels.

And your heart, I guess that's not one of the 5 senses, but perhaps we have 6 as mothers. The heart is the seat of intuition, the well of deep abiding love that initiates actions only a mother would do. Your heart is wrapping itself around theirs 24 hours a day. Are they happy, sad, disappointed, embarrassed, insecure, frightened, exuberant, rowdy, conniving, hurtful, compassionate? We monitor their emotional echo cardiogram as if it were our very own. Not sure which is greater for mothers: the physical or the visceral out pour.


But then, in keeping with the strangeness of being a mother,

there are days when you want to escape like crazy: Like a life-er locked up in Alcatraz eye-ing San Francisco with a shovel and snorkel in hand.

The news of baby number 4 and number 5 hit like the loud, reverberating slam of a jail door. Would I ever have a life of my own? Ever see my dreams fulfilled?  Ever make my mark in this world? I felt trapped in the day to day battle of beating back the toys and the messes. All just for an ounce of order, a semblance of organization in my schedule and household.

I dreamt about escaping to a bed an breakfast by myself to Santa Barbara, without kids and husband. Just to stare out window with no one wanting me. Just to play a song on the piano all the way through. Three uninterrupted minutes was all I asked for. The routine of mothering felt like a cave I would never be rescued from, the light of day I'd never see. Solitary confinement.

With the last few positive pregnancy tests, my husband would assure me raising 4 boys and a girl was the best thing I could ever do with my life. (Easy for him to say, I thought). Active parenting lasts a long time - 25 years for us.

It was the ultimate emotional tug-of-war. Clutching at my individuality and letting go of theirs as they matured. The listening, counseling, watching, never stopped, the physical care gradually released as they left the nest one by one.

Our heart never leaves.  But theirs will eventually be divided by another - as it should be. And guess what?  My husband was right. It was the best thing I could have done with my life.

They are all grown now. I can attest that any sacrifice is far outweighed by the lifelong delight, the

            fuller than full, 

                                happier than happy 

                                                          feelings I have every time 

                                                                                              we are all together 

                                                                                                                       in the house. 

My chest fairly explodes when they are gathered around the table.


When their friends and girlfriends join us, the table lights up even more.

Instead of singing "Happy Birthday" at my son's 24th birthday dinner, everyone broke out singing the National Anthem instead!

The latest news about "Happy Birthday" is that the owner of the song, Summy-Birchard is clamping down on copyright infringement.

So lucky for us, one of the goofy boys (probably the very funny Vine-celebrity, Marcus Johns) lead out and we all went with it, singing the Star Spangled Banner instead. Whew!

We.

laughed.

So.

Hard.

My joy is no greater than when we sit on the same bench in the House of God.

 

Oh, a mother's heart when her sons are in the House!

Shazbot, Robin! Why'd You Have to Die?

We were all fans of yours, from Mork and Mindy to Hook to  Happy Feet. Our feet will never be as happy as when yours walked the earth with us. You made us laugh. You made us think.

In Dead Poet's Society, we were captured by your believable work as professor, connecting with the hearts of students and with us. We chanted along with Whitman's





O Captain, my Captain! the fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought was won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring.
But o heart! heart! heart!
     O the bleeding drops of red,
             Where on the deck my captain lies,
                                         fallen cold and dead.
       

We. Just. Didn't. Think. You'd. Leave. This. Soon.

How could someone so funny be so sad? Someone with such knowledge be at a loss to live? Someone with so much - in so much pain?

If you needed your audience with you everywhere, we would have come, if it meant you knowing you were appreciated.  We needed you to make us laugh.

Didn't anyone ever tell you there was One who never leaves? One who adores you more than any of us could. He was your biggest Fan.

But you/we get trapped by addiction and shame of past mistakes. Of being alone. Being forgotten. Of a bleak and pointless future.  If that was your illness, than we all suffer from it just the same. And we all are craving to feel better. To feel 'warm and wonderful,' as you describe addiction's good side.

God help us run to the right Shelter, the right kind of 'feel good.' 

 Mork from planet Ork!  We met you first then. And we lost you yesterday. With your own Orkan swear-word, we say, Shazbot! Robin, why?

The President and Katy Perry

I keep trying to find ways to boost my respect for this administration, but our head of state is making it very difficult for me. I mean between his discarding of Israel, ignoring the violence on the borders, lying  about us being able to keep our doctors and health plans, releasing terrorist leaders, and sending millions to terrorist organizations, I'm finding it nearly impossible.

Every night another outrageous account jolts and short circuits my oval office expectations.

Just when my esteem could get no lower, a new report comes out.

According to the Huffington Post and Washington Post, the President has stated that one of his favorite people is... oh, you take a guess.

Teddy Roosevelt?

Winston Churchill?

Jesse Jackson?

JFK?

Mahatma Gandhi?

Ella Fitzgerald?

Nelson Mandela?

Mother Theresa?

Bill Gates?

Martin Luther King?

Alisha Keys?


No, none of those.

The president said she was 'a wonderful person.'

'She' was none other than the bra firework shooting, albeit, very good singer,

Katy Perry 

After I picked my jaw up off the floor and searched for my disintegrated respect in the street grate, I had to think again. Even though his choice was just so un-presidential, he wasn't the first Chief of State to do such a thing.

JFK invited Marilyn Monroe to sing at his birthday party. That really wasn't much different than President O's admiration for the pop-y Perry.

But still, please, couldn't he idolize an artist that might have just a smidgen of substance or character?

The next morning I heard this simple ditty milling around in my head, mixed with dream remnants, as I woke up.

Oh no! The President says he likes Katy Perry

Not Diana Krall or Norah Jones, but Katy Perry

Oh no! The president says he likes Katy Perry

Hold on everyone, the country's goin down the drain

Oh no! The President's idol is Katy Perry

I-kissed-a-girl-and-I-think-I like-it -Katy Perry

Oh no! The President's idol is Katy Perry

Hold on, everyone, the country's goin down the drain

Oh no! The President looks up to Katy Perry

Not Teddy Roosevelt or even JFK, but Katy Perry

Oh no! The President looks up to Katy Perry

Hold on everyone, the country's goin down

Hold on everyone, the country's goin down the drain.

Dinner, a pile of records and my new jazz idol

It wasn't on YouTube or through google, but in my disorganized shelf of Lp's that I discovered my new Jazz piano mentor.

Hubby said, "Let's have some music for dinner."

What do you want to hear?

Simon & Garfunkel? Gershwin?

"No, something different"

Then I spied it: Oscar Peterson Trio plus One. Hmm, that must have been one of my thrift store finds.
So after Tim blessed the food,  I dropped the needle on and we were treated to the best jazz I'd heard in  a long time. It was clean and sophisticated. And the pianist was incredible!

While listening and eating, we talked about a children's book idea that I was collaborating with an local artist on. We argued about stupid stuff.

But mostly over our bean soup and salad we talked about the great music playing  on the turntable!
Wow, I didn't know we had this. The 1964 album gave us an amazing menu of pieces and my new jazz mentor. Later I remember being introduced to him at Dick Grove Music school in Van Nuys, CA years ago. I still have the charts we studied by him.
 
Our feet could hold back no more. We flipped the vinyl to side two and my husband did something very uncharacteristic of himself and out of the ordinary. He grabbed my hand and led me to the family room to dance.

And I followed. I mean, I actually let him lead.

Not like our first dance lesson debacle.

It was a little bit 70's random arm jerking, 50's swing and fox trox. Spinning me forward and backward then back to front, we sidled and swirled and giggled our way through that bass improv, the piano licks and flugelhorn riffs. We'll be ready for Cody Johns' wedding next week. We'll be tearing up the dance floor!!

Then we lay on the floor exhausted in the pile of records.

What a great night!

No TV

A new/old  jazz mentor - Thank you Oscar Peterson.

Dancing, and it was only a Thursday night.

And a pile of records.

3 Weddings - None of Them in June - Number 2

The 1940's were Hollywood's golden era.

After a few stabs at college, a WWII tour in the Middle East and a trip to London, my father, Walter was ready to go west, young man, with an itch to act. It wasn't gold that attracted him to California, but silver - the silver screen.

So, Walter traded the Middle East heat and desert sands for California palms and rolling hills; he exchanged the four seasons of Massachusetts and a disappointed father, for two seasons in the Golden State and a chance at Hollywood.

1943. What a head shot!

He had studied acting at Clark University and was ready to give it a go, despite his professor father's urgings to finish college.

Yes, these were the golden days of Hollywood. And he had that 24 karat look.

His quest for stardom only led him to a day job as a taxi driver.

I don't know how many scripts he read, auditions he had or interviews he made, but the closest he ever got to becoming a movie star was driving Lucille Ball and John Wayne in his cab.

While in Hollywood, though, other things were brewing that would soon change his life. A mutual friend introduced him to a young woman named Isabel who lived, ironically, back in Massachusetts, not far from Walter's hometown.

Isabel MacDuffie - visiting her dad, E. 57th, NYC - 1940

So they wrote letters cross-country. For 2 years they wrote letters. Love letters that stoked their chemistry enough for a meet-up to be planned.

If it was 2014, they would have connected online and then decided to meet their mystery friend. Here it was a pen-pal connection. My father booked a flight to New England.

The first woman he saw debarking the plane was fat and he got scared for a minute. But then he laid eyes on a young woman with dark wavy hair, crystal blue eyes, thin and poised. He was pleased and very much relieved.

When he met her family, not so much.

All they did was talk about money, he said. I don't think Isabel's family was too taken by Walter either. He was what? A taxi driver? For a girl brought up in homes with names like 'Marimonte' and 'Lordvale,'  the disparity of pedigree was as glaring as a Timex next to a Tag. (Sorry, dad).

Whether it was Walter's dashing looks or the need to escape her family, or the fact that she was 28 and unmarried, she followed Walter out to California.

But wait, I forgot the proposal.

Their first visit was nearing an end. Walter was headed to the airport and he realized he was 34 and missing the chance of a lifetime. Strange family or not, this was a good woman and he needed to act fast.

So he headed for the nearest phone booth. He waited in line and called her and right then and there, asked her to marry him - over the phone.

Unbeknownst to him, two little old ladies were in line behind him, watching  and listening to his conversation. He hung up and turned to catch his plane. They stopped him abruptly.

"Excuse me, sir, did you just propose to that young lady over the phone?"

"Why, yes I did!"

"Well, I hope she refused you, " they said indignantly.

 

How gauche it was, in their minds, to offer marriage any other way than in person. Today, it would be the equivalent of proposing by text.

Yet it didn't bother Isabel. As you know, she accepted and Walter flew back to LA to plan his wedding at the Wee Kirk of the Heather chapel in Forest Lawn.

They were married October 17th, 1949.

"We were forty-niners," my mother would tell me with a twinkly smile, when I was a little girl.

Yeah. Forty-niners who struck it rich!!

The Dangling Conversation

Some song lyrics bear remembering. This is one of them written by Simon & Garfunkel released first in "The Big Bright Pressure Machine" and later in the "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme" project of 1966.

It’s a still-life watercolor 
Of a now late afternoon 
As the sun shines through the curtain lace 
And shadows wash the room 

And we sit and drink our coffee 

Couched in our indifference 

Like shells upon the shore 
You can hear the ocean roar 
In the dangling conversation 
And the superficial sighs 
The borders of our lives 

Art Credit - Kaito x Gakupo by LikeaBoss78

And you read your Emily Dickinson 

And I my Robert Frost 

And we note our places with bookmarkers 
That measure what we’ve lost 
Like a poem poorly written 
We are verses out of rhythm 
Couplets out of rhyme 
In syncopated time 
And the dangling conversation 
And the superficial sighs 
Are the borders of our lives 

Yes,we speak of things that matter 
With words that must be said 
“Can analysis be worthwhile?” 
“Is the theatre really dead?” 
And how the room is softly faded 

And I only kiss your shadow 

I cannot feel your hand 
You’re a stranger now unto me 
Lost in the dangling conversation 
And the superficial sighs 
In the borders of our lives

It never was a hit, probably due to its heaviness, surmised the author. But the lyrics and the topic are universal and lasting.

It's a hit in my book.

3 Weddings - None of Them in June - Number 1

We are both part free spirit and part planner.

Not a great combination. So it's no wonder that my husband proposed to me in a Ford in front of my house.

This was before the days when a guy would ask 10 friends to help in a grand production of knee-bending, engagement ring revealing ceremony. No, he did not surprise me on some holiday with fireworks, pomp and video cameras running.

It was "will you marry me?" in an after-date conversation on a bench seat in a 1975 station wagon.

How un-romantic can you get?

I dizzily replied yes, sworn to secrecy, because who would believe that after the fourth date, we could be serious about such an important decision. Secret engagements do add some illicit excitement to the whole thing, though - something that every relationship needs.

Now if he had just popped the question 45 minutes earlier, it would have been the perfect setting.

We had just gone to the Queen Mary, an antique ship that first sailed in the early 1900's into the Hudson Bay in its New World glory and ended up docked on opposite coasts at the Long Beach Harbor for all the world to visit. Decked out with restaurants, shops, ballrooms, the floating beauty is a great destination for a date night out. Outside the stars glimmered after our dinner. We talked and dreamed and enjoyed each other's company.

But it wasn't till we were parked in front of my humble suburban house, that my husband realized we were at a crossroads and he needed to seize the relationship.

And seize, he did.

As I said, I tentatively agreed, wanting a little more time to decide. I'm very long on decisions. At restaurants, it takes forever to order. The pros and cons are too much for me to sum up in 5 minutes. The same was true for picking a spouse. Weighing the facts would have consumed me till I was 40, thus missing out on love, children and family.

Decades later, it's even better than when we started out in that tiny Newport Beach duplex, 100 feet from the boardwalk, the ocean waves singing us to sleep, the damp air making my cardboard hangers sag, smiling like happy faces.

And happy faces, we had.

But let me back up, because Tim had to fight just to get us to the first date.

We met at Calvary Chapel, Costa Mesa at a Saturday Night Christian rock concert. I had known his sparkly - eyed brother, Jimmy, because he taught home bible studies where a bunch of us teenagers met to study and socialize.

Timmy was my kind of guy. He had the beachy, long haired boy look that made my heart pitter-pat.
We would see each other at parties and get-togethers long before any romance had begun.

I started college at Biola University.

He called for a date. I turned him down for homework.

He called a second time for a date. I turned him down again.

A bit clueless, I didn't realize I was insulting him. For me, studies came first, play later.

Little did I know that he vowed  he would never ask me out again. "If You want us together," Tim ranted to the skies, "She will have to call me!"

And call, I did.

But it wasn't for love. It was for homework.

My Biblical Foundations class included an assignment to go street witnessing with an experience "soul winner." This person would need to commit to 3 evangelism excursions. When I asked a pastor's wife whom she might recommend, she suggested Alan Young and Tim Shaw. Well, Alan Young was on his way to the University of Jerusalem, so Tim was the only option.

He said that when the phone rang, he knew it was me before his mom handed over the phone.

And that was the beginning. Date number 1. Sharing Jesus on the Newport Pier preceded by dinner at a Chinese restaurant. How sly is that, of my scheming husband-to-be?

The second homework assignment/date was at a concert.

After the third evangelism/outing, I wrote my paper for the assignment. And I got engaged along the way.

18 months later we were married.

Calvary Chapel Prayer room. 11/19/77

After raising 5 children who are gone now,  the wonder, tears, sleepless nights, glorious days, loving and fighting that a long relationship survives and celebrates, we are back to just the two of us. Though now in a much more spacious house than that 500 square foot abode we started out in.

Ours was a November wedding.  Not a typical time of year to wed. Not a typical courtship. It's June that is known for the month of weddings and summer romances and falling in love.

And falling in love, we are.

California Road Trip

There is nothing like a trip up the 5 northbound, escaping the congestion of Southern California with Palo Alto, San Fransisco or Yosemite as your destination.

The delirious ascent on the Grapevine and the roller-coaster ride descending into the valleys is better than Disneyland's Matterhorn.

Down in the valley rows and rows and rows of grapevines fill the expanse, an endless linear repetition of low plants and stake props.

Telephone poles blur by and mesmerize. Hot dry, wind blows your hair strands into your teeth. No air conditioning. The sky is wide and powder blue, as blue as western skies ever get.


If it was a family trip, my brothers and I would play license plate games. "Fastest person to find all the letters in the alphabet wins!" Or "whoever finds the most out of state licenses is better!" Older, faster and smarter, my brothers always beat me. I'm certain we bickered in the back seat and drove our parents crazy.

The expanse of vineyards, garlic and strawberry fields gave way to golden rolling hills. On a lucky trip orange poppies might dot the gentle slopes.

Sometimes we'd sing. To ourselves or at the top of our lungs.

Oh you can't get to heaven (echo)
In a put-put car (echo)
Cause the put-put car (echo)
Can't get that far (echo) Repeat

Oh you can't get to heaven (echo)
On roller skate (echo)
Cause you'll roll right past (echo)
Those pearly gates (Echo) Repeat

Then the Redwoods or Sequoias would take over.

A coastal journey is another  edge-of-the-cliff story of steep mountains, Monterrey jagged pines, rocks and choppy seas to

Santa Barbara, Pebble beach, San Simeon or Carmel.

But my idyllic central California Steinbeck reverie is interrupted.

The trips weren't always picture perfect.

On one vacation, my dad, the adventurer pioneered off road toward the deserts behind Big Bear. My mother, gripped with fear, begged my dad to turn around back to our mountain home. She had just read a story about a family stuck in the desert, broken down car with no water. They had to do some desperate things to hydrate. My dad finally turned around and headed back to the cabin in Moonridge. They didn't speak to each other for the rest of the day.

 Yes, being a parent on a road trip is a much different story from being a child traveler.

Armed with backpacks bulging with word puzzles, pens, paper, books, games and snacks, we'd venture out, 5 kids in tow to camp in King's Canyon or Ojai. The two rowdiest of the 4 boys sat in the closest back seat at arms length in case dad had to quickly discipline them. Which was often. I think I've blocked out this memory.

My husband, reading over my shoulder here, is quick to turn my rose-colored recollections into reality. On the narrow dirt road leading up to Reyes Peak, he reminded me of how I flipped out fearing we'd drop off the inches away precipice into the rocky ravine, or be stranded in a desert without water, forced to drink our own urine. (The same fear my mom had in Big Bear).

With a four-month-old in the back seat, I can now explain my psychotic mom-moment as postpartum disorder. Oh My! Lions-and-tigers-and-bears-Dorothy-of-Oz, Oh My! And Dorothy wasn't even a mom.

Next month my g - children will take a road trip from Virginia to South Florida. It's a good 16 hours. Hope they'll stop in Georgia to break it up. Pretty gutsy move with a 6 year old, 3 year old and a baby.

To kill time the boys will watch Frozen, Disney movies and Spider Man on the screens behind their parents' heads. I would've done the same if the technology existed in the 90's.

But I hope they also sing

and play games

and lean their little foreheads against the van windows

watching the hypnotizing stream of stick-pines go by.

And fight too, even if they drive their parents crazy.

Just like we did.

Cath (sis-in-law), Bro Pete, me, Yosemite (70's)