Most likely you followed the link from my first page or the seventh or eighth page of Random Thoughts stories. Here are some more, and I hope these are just as amusing and thought provoking. And, as always, your comments are appreciated.
In my real mail the other day, came a letter i was expecting and in a way, dreading. The first mailing about my upcoming high school reunion. This is the 30th. Could it really be that long??
30 years it was 1969. I was 17, had my whole life ahead of me. I had already heard i had been accepted to UCLA, i had a steady boyfriend named Frank, and i was ready to graduate. My class had voted to name itself the Si Bonnaes. None of those Greek names for us. If at one time i knew what it stood for, i sure don't remember anymore. We were the 10th class to graduate from Grant High School in Van Nuys, California. Our colors were powder blue and white, and our class motto was, Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Yeah, it was corny.
When the letter came to inform me of the 10th reunion, i didn't even consider going. I might have, except I was 8 months pregnant with my daughter at the time, living in Minnesota. I sent in my current information, and didn't think too much about the reunion. When i got the booklet of who was there, where they lived and what they were doing, i read it with some interest. Pretty much everyone still lived in California, still in the valley. There were 800 kids in my class. Back then, they had January graduates too, and those 300 kids were lumped into our class, so, there could have been 1100 people at that reunion. I think less than 200 responded or attended that reunion. Of course, none of the kids i was curious about went or even bothered to send information in. Like my old boyfriend Frank. Or some of the class brains. I wonder what they have achieved. And we had a number of kids who were already dead. Like my friend Mike Gold, who had died of AIDS. A few that had died in Viet Nam. But most just didn't care or couldn't be found.
I was back in Minnesota for the 20th. I considered going, but didn't. Nor did i go to the 25th. Based on who had attended the previous ones, there weren't too many people i was interested in seeing again. I am only in contact with one person from my high school class, my best friend Ellen. She sees a lot of people from our class living back in Van Nuys now, in the same house she grew up in. And from what she tells me about them, i don't care to see them again any more now, than i did before. I do order the memory book of the event, so i can see how those who do go, look today. Most of the names i don't remember anymore. And my old yearbooks are packed up in a box still in Minnesota.
Last week, when i spoke to Ellen on the phone, we briefly discussed the reunion. She will probably go, and then i can get a first hand report. I have no real connection to Van Nuys anymore. I left in '70 for good, to go to Berkeley for college and then to other places. I remember the street names well enough to get around, but i know LA has changed, much more than i have. The last time i was in LA was when my brother was very ill, and that has to be at least 15 years ago. I don't understand why many of the class stayed there. But maybe the ones who don't go to reunions, like me or fill out the questionaires, have moved on. Put those wonderful high years behind them. I figure i will go to my 50th. It won't matter what i look like then. And it gives me 20 more years to accomplish something. I still have a few good years ahead of me, i hope.
©23 February, 1999Last night I watched An Affair to Remember. I have seen it many, many times. And it never fails to make me cry. Particularly the end, where Cary Grant says to Deborah Kerr, if it had to be one of us, why couldn't it have been me. That has never failed to bring on the waterworks. My mom and i would watch it together.. and just bawl our eyes out. Even now, as I write that, and think back I have no tears. Had the movie been Carrousel, I wouldn;t be writing this. I know that movie would make me cry.
But I didn't cry last night. I find that in a way remarkable. I had been very depressed over the weekend. And i cried many times, over seemingly nothing. A book I read brought me to tears. I suppose it did have a sad ending, but I doubt most people would have cried over it. It just happened to hit several raw nerves. I seem to have a lot of those these days.
Reading emails from my daughter brought on more crying. I know one of the things bothering me is I want to go fishing, but I seem to find a reason to not go every time I get ready to leave. This will be the first time I have gone fly fishing without her. I wouldn't even be thinking of anything like this had it not been for her. However, it is only 38 days to NEC V and I know we will be together fly fishing up near Lake Placid. Still doesn't make it any easier for me to grab my gear now.
I am not a poet... but I wrote this on Saturday, when i was feeling exceptionally sad. I didn't think i would send it in, but then I got this notion to write about tears while I was falling asleep last night. So I guess it all fits together.
tears fall down my face
i don't know where they come from
or how i can stop them
my heart is shattered into a million pieces
it can't be put back together
too many pieces are gone
given away with abandon
the pain pours out of the holes
till i can barely breathe
and i no longer care about my heart
take it break it
there is no love left for me
no matter where i look
songs run through my head
words that scar me further
i am left with my tears
and nothing else
I seem to have done a lot more flying in the last few months than i have done in my entire life. I'm not sure why i have been doing all this traveling, especially on airplanes. Most of my traveling has been done by car. But there is nothing like getting on an airplane, and a few hours later, being halfway across the country.
There are many ways to pass the time on flights. When i used to fly with my children, my time was taken up with trying to keep them occupied, quiet. I took Evelyn to California to be with my mom when she was maybe 6 months old. It was easy then. Just keep a pacifier or breast in her mouth. It got more complicated when i took the 3 of them places, but somehow, we all managed to get to our destination in one piece. I particularly remember our trip to Montreal in March of 1992. I had planned this trip for a few months. At the last minute my ex backed out, because of job related responsibilities. I took a 12 yr old, 10 yr old and 6 yr old on the trip myself. It was the boys first time they could remember being on an airplane. Two months after the trip, my ex was fired from that job.
Sometimes, i just read. Coming back from Minneapolis this past October, i went to a used book store to get a book. I picked a book that turned out to be about a loving couple, both of which it turned out had cancer. I stopped reading when the man was in remission in his terminal cancer, and the woman just about to go into surgery. I had run out of kleenex. I had no idea the book was that depressing, or i never would have picked it. Airplane and vacation books, in general, should be rather lightweight in subject matter.
Lately, i have been passing the time by talking to my seatmates. Especially, since there are fewer flights and they seem to be packed most of the time. It's funny how you can start a conversation with a total stranger, exchange personal information, then walk away, and forget about them. Or do you??
On my flight up to Minneapolis before Christmas, i sat next to a young soldier. He was in his full dress uniform, with his name, Bald Eagle, on his name tag. I started the conversation, asking him where he was going, where he was stationed. I found out he was 22 years old, divorced with 3 children. He was going to South Dakota to see his children who were staying with his parents on an Indian reservation. I asked him if the army was training him for a career. He said no, he was a paratrooper. I learned a lot about jumping out of airplanes. I learned they jump out sometimes at high elevations, so that as they float down to earth, the enemy won't see them. They jump out at 30,000 feet but don't open their parachutes till they get to 7,000 feet. He said this was the first time he had ever landed in a plane, and as we made the descent, he showed me at about what height most of his jumps were made. He had to catch a plane to Rapid City, and then it was a several hour drive out to the reservation. One of the things he hoped to do while he was home, was convince his younger brother to join the army. I wanted to say, talk your brother into going to college, but it wasn't my place to do that, and i don't think he thought of college as an option. As we left the plane, i pointed out where the Armed Services hospitality center was, and left him. On the flight home, i was too upset over leaving my children to be personable, and buried myself in my book. Once again, i chose a book that was not lightweight reading, but held my tears inside.
On the leg from Dallas to Phoenix, i gave up my aisle seat in the rear to sit near the front, and was in a middle seat. As soon as we got settled on the plane, they announced there were weather related delays in Phoenix, and we probably weren't going to even leave Dallas for 3 hours. I thought about Linda waiting at the airport for me. I was seated next to a woman about my age, and we talked the entire time. I learned she had lived on the same block in Boston all her life, moving to a different house when she got married. She told me about the problems she had with her kids; i told her about Greg's illness. She was going to meet her husband who had been working in Phoenix for a few weeks, and then they were heading off to San Francisco to see one of her sons. I met her husband at the baggage claim area, because i hadn't recognized Linda at the gate, and she didn't recognize me. We exchanged email addresses, but i haven't written her either.
I'm heading back to Phoenix in a week. I will take a book with me, as usual. I'm not sure which one. Maybe i'll be lucky again, and get someone interesting to talk to on the flights. When i was a novice flyer, it was enough to sit me by the window, and i would watch the earth and clouds for the entire time. Now i prefer an aisle seat, and to be left alone with my thoughts. Unless, i happen to feel the need to talk. And the person sitting next to me is willing to pass the time in mindless conversation. Either way, the time on the plane will pass.
© 9 January, 1999Night comes quickly here in Arizona. Maybe it's the mountains, but it seems darker here than other places I've been. I know that it has something to do with no daylight savings time, but that's not the only reason. Dusk lasts much longer and the sky is blacker than other places. When you look up at the sky on a typical cloudless night, the sky seems to go on forever. The stars are like shiny diamonds, just waiting to be plucked out of the sky.
It's the quiet too. From where I am, up in the mountains, I don't hear a lot of traffic noise. The main highway is about a mile away, and occasionally I can hear a truck, but only if the windows are open. It's even rarer to hear a plane overhead, and much to my dismay, there are no trains that run through town anymore. And I don't wake up to the birds singing, either.
Come 5:30 am, the sun is up. Starting to peek across the mountains to the east, till the sun at 6 am is as bright as if it were noon. When it's cloudy, the colors of the sky are more brilliant than ever. Oranges and pinks and yellows. The clouds diffuse the colors and change them to ones you would find on an artist's palette. Sometimes, I wake up to watch the sun slide across the Bradshaw mountains to the east. On a few occasions, I've driven down to Phoenix as the sun rises, and I'm lucky my guardian angel is watching out for me, as I watch the sky more than the road.
I've lived in Arizona for a little over a year now. I have experienced monsoon season, and the winter where a bad snow fall lasts past 11 am. The scenery still enthralls me, and I don't mind the drive down the mountain to Phoenix. Driving the twisty mountain road into Jerome and onto Sedona is always a challenge. I always notice something new, and yesterday the cacti were blooming. Another day, another night.
©5 May, 2000Last night, the Philadelphia Flyers hockey team beat the Pittsburgh Penguins, 2-1. That's not that unusual, until you consider they had to have 5 extra twenty minute periods plus some after the regulation sixty minutes of hockey to get that game winning goal. This is the playoffs, so they play the ultimate overtime. Until one team scores. During the regular season, they play a five minute overtime. I gave up on the game halfway through the 4th overtime. I put the television on the sleep timer, and thought, maybe, the game would be over before I fell asleep. Or I would hear the crowd noise when the game winner was scored. I had to wait till morning to find out who won.
I wonder how the players feel today. Exhausted, I'm sure. They played almost 3 games in one night. I'm waiting to see a replay of the game winning goal during tonight's games. Keith Primeau got the game winner, shooting over the Penguin's goalie's shoulder. They showed it between periods of the Detroit Red Wings and Colorado Avalanche game. The most embarrassing part of watching that game last night, was having to listen to the commentators. After the first over time, they had nothing to say. By the end of the second, I think they were about to start reading from a hockey fact book. At every opportunity, they would talk about all the other over time games, and how this one compared. The Penguins were in a 4 OT game a few years ago, and I think they showed the game winning goal from that game at least a dozen times last night. In case you are interested, the Pens won that game. Petr Nedved got the winning goal.
I think it was the Washington Capitals vs. New York Islanders game several years back, when the commentators lost it. I'd gone to bed, but my ex stayed up and watched the end of the game. The announcers took off their ties and tied them around their heads. Apparently, they ran out of things to say, or just started to get punchy from the long hours. Since it was so late, they didn't get into too much trouble with the higher ups, since they're still doing hockey broadcasts.
Television lets you get much closer to the action than if you were at the actual game. You can see the players spit, take their mouth guards out and chew on them and pick their noses. You can see the looks on their faces. See the intensity in their eyes and the scars on their faces. When there's an injury, the cameras get right up close and you can see the blood. Then there are the replays. One play that they show over and over again, from several different angles. Along with much discussion of the angles, the sticks, and where the goalie was in the crease. At least, in hockey, unlike some sports, there's a lot of action.
The first few games of hockey I watched, were live at the old Met Center in Minneapolis. Then, when we lived in Memphis, and had cable for the first time, I got to watch lots of hockey games on television. We got WOR out of New York, so almost every night there was a game televised. I got used to hearing the mindless chatting and sometimes insightful commentary. So when I would go to live games, it took me a while to realize what was missing. No one was talking me through the game. I had to pay attention to what was going on, down on the ice. With television, you can do other things, and listen to the crowd or announcers voices, to know when you need to give the game your full attention.
Given a choice, I'd much rather watch a hockey game at the arena. I almost went to a Phoenix Coyotes game this past season, but plans fell through. They lost, something like 8-0, so I am glad I saved my money. Hockey tickets aren't cheap anymore, if they ever were. So I settle for watching the game on my television set, and try to imagine I was actually at the game. I doubt I would have stayed through 96 minutes of overtime last night, but that's one game the people certainly got their money's worth. Time to go back to the game on now.
© 5 May, 2000Frank was my first really serious boyfriend. I dated him for most of my senior year of high school and on into the summer and fall. He wasn't particularly good looking, being average height and sort of skinny. He did have nice hands and a ready smile and unlimited access to his father's Thunderbird. I had gotten past my falling for jocks who never noticed me and went for guys who were smart and didn't have to be as picky. It was because of Frank I transferred to Berkeley on my first day at UCLA, so as to be with him. We broke up in October of 1969, before I actually started at Cal. I often wonder what he's doing now, as he is one of the many people from my high school class who have never been to a reunion (well, neither have I) or turned in the survey of where you are and what you're doing now. That I have done.
I know what made me think of Frank recently. It was something his brother once said about me, and the other day I was reminded of Lennie's comment. Frank had my senior picture framed near his bed and Lennie said that I had the saddest eyes he'd ever seen. I had been rather depressed that day and I wondered what Lennie would think of my eyes now. He was Frank's big brother and Frank thought the world of him. Every once in a while those words come back to me. And then I start thinking of other things Frank and I shared and the things he taught me.
The car I currently own is a Saturn station wagon. It's a stick shift, and the first car I ever selected for myself all by myself. Frank taught me how to drive a stick, on this old Ford that had 3 speed on the column. It belonged to a foreign exchange student friend of the family's, Sasha from Russia. We spent hours in the empty Valley College parking lot while he let me practice shifting and using a clutch. I caught on without too much trouble and without ruining the transmission.
Another thing Frank taught me, well, expanded my knowledge of would be more exact, was of a sexual nature. We spent a LOT of time in the Valley College parking lot at night also. Without getting too graphic, I'll just say that we did just about everything short of going all the way. And not just in the parking lot. Enough said.
Frank and I were seniors in 1969, and because he had an older brother who went to Berkeley, he had been exposed to the drug scene. The first time I ever got stoned was with Frank. He showed me how to inhale and hold the smoke inside my lungs. At the time it made me feel grown up and hip, but looking back, I guess I was more of a follower, not wanting to risk losing his approval. After I left Berkeley, I never got stoned again. I doubt you could say that about Frank.
The best thing I learned from Frank was to appreciate classical music. He was quite an accomplished pianist, and I used to sit and listen to him play Beethoven piano sonatas for hours. At that time, his piano teacher was a famous Russian instructor, and he was learning the 15th and 17 piano sonatas, the Pastorale and the Tempest. I bought records of those two sonatas, and now I have them on CD. I remember one day driving in Raleigh, and the Tempest came on, and I immediately recognized it and started "singing" along to it. I would go with him to concerts where he would play. Later, I took music appreciation courses at Berkeley and used to attend the symphony regularly with my ex. I might have learned to love classical music without having known Frank, but much of it has a special meaning now.
There is one last thing Frank exposed me to, and I truly am grateful. It was to Tommy's, the hamburger stand at Beverly and Ramparts in Los Angeles. I remember the first time we went there, and we ordered cheeseburgers and Dr. Brown's chocolate drink. At the time, it was seventy cents for the burger and drink. We took the big, greasy burgers over to one of the standing and eating areas, and I was horrified. There was chili on my burger. Frank laughed and told me to eat it anyway. I did, and I loved it! We used to go there probably on a weekly basis, especially when we were high. I had lived in the LA area for six years and never heard of Tommy's till Frank took me there. I doubt I would recognize Frank on the street today, but I am grateful for most of the things he taught me.
© 4 June, 2000Three years ago I wrote a story for Nosh called a Tale of Two Graduations. It's in the attic if you care to read it, under my name. I wrote it because my oldest child was graduating from high school and my youngest was graduating from elementary school. I was proud of them then, and I'm still proud of them. My daughter is going to be a senior at Smith College this fall, and my youngest will be starting 9th grade.
Sometime this week, there will a graduation ceremony at Edina High School in Minnesota. My middle son should be there, but of course, he won't. Greg died of cancer last July. He started first grade at Creek Valley school, then transferred to Countryside in third grade for the continuous progress program. He went to Valley View Middle School, and then on to Edina High School. He spent all but his kindergarten year in the Edina school system. He was the only one of my children to do so. He was the most adaptable of my children, to the society and rules of Edina, written and unwritten, and could fit in wherever he was. He had many friends, and they seemed to come from all the different clicks at school.
I have tried very hard not to think about the seniors at Edina, and when they had prom and when they had all the other events to celebrate this major milestone. When they had their senior pictures taken and when they all started to send in college applications. I have some good friends who have children that are graduating this year and I've tried to be patient listening to them talk about that and college plans. I've received some emails from parents of Greg's friends telling me what their sons are doing. I reply but in very short sentences, because it's just too painful. I had hoped Greg would come out here for college. He had so much potential.
Edina does things in a big way. They usually raise and spend around $100,000.00 (yes, that figure is correct) on the senior party. Last year, Prescott High School spent $20,000. Evelyn's senior class spent around $40,000. It's quite the honor to be selected to chair the senior party at Edina, and I suppose had I still lived there, I would have served on the committee in some capacity. I still believe it's totally outrageous, but I understand the need for one, just not for the excess Edina goes to.
The senior parents put a story about Greg in the program for the party. I know, because when I was in Minnesota in March, I answered the phone and spoke to some mom who asked me if I would write it. I told my ex, and he did it. I believe they also had something in the yearbook in Greg's memory. They have planted a tree on the school grounds in Greg's memory, too. When I'm in Minnesota next week, Lowell will probably take me to see it. By then, this graduation will be a memory to most of the people involved. For me, the graduation that never was for Greg, will never be forgotten.
©6 June, 2000Yesterday at 8:15 the phone rang. It was Barbara, wondering why I hadn't called her back yesterday. I had called her first, but it wasn't anything too important so I hadn't returned the call. I was going to see her in 45 minutes anyway. She said to be sure to stock up at the grocery store, because another big snowfall was expected.
ANOTHER ONE!? When I moved to Prescott, my realtor bragged that he wore a light windbreaker all year round. Yeah, right. And I'd heard over and over again, most snowfalls melt by 10 am, noon at the latest. For the most part, I can't complain about winter here. When you have a bright sunny day, it's not 30 below zero like it would be in Minnesota. I missed last year's big snowfall of seventeen inches because of trying to get back from Hartford and visiting my daughter. For the most part, the snowfalls we have had did melt by noon. Till this year, when we've had one of four inches and one of six inches.
I've lived some fourteen years in Minnesota and another fourteen in Chicago, so I know what snow is. I've made countless snowmen and snow angels. I've built snow forts and had snowball fights. I've shoveled tons of snow. I've been snowbound with cabin fever and taken long walks in the snow. I've driven in a blizzard and love to drive the four wheel drive through the snow banks. Yes, I know what snow is.
One thing about living in a small town is there is no local news on television. There is a local station which shows very old movies and local personalities with talk shows. I have seen a weather report on there, but I don't know what time it's on. We get our news from Phoenix, and they do forecast the weather here. I'd heard rumblings of snow all week. I stopped listening to forecasts except for those predicting the next day. So I turned on the Weather Channel, and sure enough, the local report said snow. Two to four inches at night, four to eight during the day.
I woke up at 2 and sure enough, it was snowing. Went back to bed and when I got up for good, there were maybe two inches on the ground. My neighbors have already shoveled their driveways. Which means if the sun doesn't come out, I'll be out there in a bit shoveling too. The sun is struggling to come up, but I just noticed more flakes falling.
I'll continue after I clean my driveway.
Thank you, sun. It really didn't come out for long, but just enough to help melt the snow, so I didn't have to shovel. It's been snowing off and on all day, but nothing is sticking at the moment. It's starting to get dark and the temperature is dropping. Guess I'll have to wait till the morning to see what Mother Nature brings us overnight. I hope she sends it up north, and this is all we get. I love snow, love to watch it fall, but am very tired of having to deal with it.
©27 January, 2001There are more stories I have written to read. Please remember these are my original stories and thoughts, and to copy or otherwise use them without my permission is a copyright violation. I would love to hear your random thoughts on any of these stories.