Bad Boyfriend and East Berlin

It was Christmas break 1973.  I booked the cheapest fare from Stockholm, where I was a graduate student, to West Berlin, where my boyfriend would meet me and drive us back to West Germany and his home of Hirschau in Bavaria.

When the train met the North Sea, it went right onto a large ferry. I remember thinking that if we were going to sink, it would be fast.   The next morning I was chugging through the countryside of East Germany watching the black coal soot gush out of the train’s engine.  And then I arrived in East Berlin.  The train came to a halt and I sat in my compartment—like the ones in the old black and white movies.  And I sat.  And I waited for the train to move.  And then an East Berlin soldier with a rifle entered my compartment and yelled “RAUS”-“Get out”  I left quickly. I had seen enough war movies to know that “RAUS” didn’t auger well.

I didn’t know that I was supposed to switch to a different train to cross over the border.  It had left and I remained.

I had no visa to be in East Berlin, let alone East Germany. My only money was Swedish kroner.   Armed, communist soldiers patrolled on the walkways above the station platform.  This was way before cell phones.  I had no idea how to contact my boyfriend.

I had been learning and trying to speak Swedish for four months and now I had to revert to a limited knowledge of German that was culled from watching television and trying to be polite to my boyfriend’s family.  I started to cry.

From nowhere a young man approached, spoke English and guided me to the u-bahn.  At the ticket booth I spoke loudly  “Ich habe kein geld”  (I have no money) and pushed my way through the barrier and onto the train. All the while I was thinking of Julie Andrews in “Torn Curtain.”

After passing through Checkpoint Charlie, the subway finally paused at the West Berlin station. The subway station and the train station were at the same locale.  One under the other.  There was my boyfriend.  He had figured out what might have happened.  I think that that was the moment that I knew we were not meant for each other.  He saw me and shook his head in disgust like I was the dumbest person he knew.

The next day we went to the Berlin Wall.  From a building that had been bricked up as part of the wall, I plucked a thick piece of glass that had once been part of a window.   I still have it.  At the time, I doubted I would ever live to see a re-united Germany.  But I have.   And now many people don’t even remember that Germany was divided.

The Talk

I have always loved Army surplus stores; they have that musty smell of old canvas, black-painted metal and old wool.  I suspect that the pup tent my sister, father and I set up in the back yard at Angus Street was from one of those stores; probably the one on Sunset Boulevard.

It was a fairly big deal to set up the tent and my sister and I (well, I can’t speak for her) were looking forward to “camping out” in the back yard.  Our tent was genuine war surplus and had nothing like the quick folding aluminum poles and nylon of today’s tents.  This was also way before Charles Manson’s crowd would murder a couple within two miles walking distance.  The biggest thing I had to fear was a grasshopper. But that was before our mother crawled into the tent.

There we were, anticipating a magical night in a musty pup tent in our flannel sleeping bags when our mother decided it was time for “the talk.”  I will never forget what she said and how little impact it really made on me.  Basically, I just thought it was a little weird.  My sister and I were informed that our bodies were  “a temple that shouldn’t be desecrated.”  If she had just said, “you girls shouldn’t be skanks” it would have made more sense.  I was 11 or 12,  and my sister was two years younger.  Having a “temple” for a body didn’t make much sense.  All I could think of was white marble and I knew I was far from white marble.

I suppose my mother never had “the talk” with her mother, because my grandmother died when my mother was 12.  I have no idea who informed my mother of the facts of life. But my mom sure tried hard to make certain that we knew. We were given books to read  (Now You are a Woman) and taken to teen sexuality classes.  Celibacy never sounded better.

But the tables turned rather abruptly when we were in our late teens. Our gay uncle gave us a copy of The Sensuous Woman.  I found it in the trash a few days later.

The Ring

 My grandfather was a Christian minister.  In the early years of the last century he went to China as a missionary, leaving his wife behind in Seattle.   Having just returned from a week in Beijing, I can’t begin to imagine what a culture shock that was for a young man originally from Nebraska. Named after a former president—and a good one—Cleveland bought a small piece of jade and two pearls.  I’m not quite sure whether or not the actual ring was made in China or the United States, but I think it is the latter. The jade and pearls became a ring for my grandmother. They formed a gift for his much loved wife who would die in 1929, leaving a twelve year old daughter and nineteen year old son.  They were wrapped in gold and a tiny gold flower—a cherry blossom-- sat next to the jade.

After her mother’s death, the ring passed to my mother.  I don’t recall ever seeing her without the jade ring. My mother wore the ring daily and took it off daily.  She had little dishes by her sinks to hold the ring while she washed dishes and pots and pans.

My mother was not a big jewelry person.  She had a few special and meaningful pieces.  One was the jade ring and one was her wedding ring.  The wedding ring was a re-mixed creation of the stones from her first marriage and her second.  Her first marriage ended when her husband, stationed in Long Beach during World War Two, died suddenly of polio. In the late 1960’s my mother combined the sapphires and diamonds of both her engagement rings into one ring.

When my mother was in her 80’s she decided to “put her house in order.”  She wanted to ensure that her things went where she wanted them to go.  One day my sister and I were presented with two small boxes.  She said, “I hope I’ve made the right choice.”

I took a deep breath and hoped that she had as well. I had always felt that the rings were a little too much for my taste.  But, I had always loved the tiny cherry blossom on the jade ring and history that the ring represented.

Mom made the right choice.  I was given the jade ring.

Last week I was packing for a trip to Beijing and for some reason I felt compelled to put on the jade ring.  I don’t wear it often.  I thought it would nice to return the ring to its origin.  So I put on the ring and wore it through the many time zones and airports to China. 

The ring did not go un-noticed. Sitting at one of the large, round dinner tables on the campus of Peking University, someone asked about my ring. I was proud to tell them the story. The jade and pearls had returned home.

I tend to be rather cavalier about jewelry and figure if I’m wearing it, it better stay the course. I don’t feel that about the jade ring.  I take it off when I shower or wash dishes.  The former is much more frequent than the latter.

Catalogs

When I was a child we would, occasionally, get a thick catalog from Sears and Roebuck.  They had a competitor named Montgomery Ward.  My dad always referred to the two of them as Sears and Sawbuck and Monkey Ward.  When he was growing up in the rural areas of southeast Arizona, these catalogs were his only view to the outside world. Sometimes their pages were turned into toilet paper.  Today we’d call it recycling.

For a while J.C. Penny entered the catalog fray. Hickory Farms joined in and then Harry and David, who sold pears and fruit,.  Despite this, catalog purchases waned during the 60’s and 70’s.  Monkey Ward went out of business and Roebuck disappeared. 

When it came, I would purloin the Sears catalog and head straight to my room.  I knew I was safe because my mother thought Sears was “cheap” and she would never be looking for the catalog.  The first place I turned was the toy section. Today a Toys R Us catalog contains a plethora of electronic, digital and video toys.  There are life-like battery operated cars and SUVs that rich kids drive around their yards, and video games killing cops and contributing to childhood obesity.

In the catalogs I read were pictures of blonde girls with pageboy hair styles –always wearing pink clothing-- and Brylcreemed boys wearing plaid or striped shirts who consistently played with some form of sports equipment.  In my day, sitting on my white chenille bedspread—or sometimes on the toilet—I would peruse the pages and dream of what it would be like to have my own miniature oven that would make cupcakes or a bike that had a headlight. Or better yet, a cowboy outfit. I had the good sense to know that I would never be, nor look like, those pink, blonde girls. 

Those catalogs—which came only once a year—unlike the deluge today—offered a glimpse at the possibilities of childhoods that would never be mine.  Believe me, I wasn’t complaining. But cupcakes in your own bedroom…. well that's something to covet. 

Then, sometime in the late 1960’s, we no longer got the Sears catalog.  Just like we no longer got mail delivered twice a day during the Christmas season.  Catalogs became a thing of the past.

Catalogs began their revival in the 1980’s, and remain one of my favorite things to get in the mail. One of the most memorable catalogs was the  J. Peterman—parodied on Seinfeld.  Through its descriptions and hand drawn illustrations, you could image yourself in the Australian bush or a Moroccan Kasbah. They sold a dream as well as overpriced clothing and leather messenger bags.

I know that my mother latterly saw catalogs as a shopping blessing.  With two daughters on either side of the nation, a catalog provided an easy, effective way to “take care of Christmas.”

As well as my elderly mother’s gifts for me, my sister and the grandchildren, I have received a blanket lovingly sent from my hundred-year-old Sunday school teacher, baklava from my childhood best friend and other gifts that only a catalog could provide.

When my mother passed away and my sister and I went go through her mail, catalogs were in abundance.

But I fear for them.  The Internet is the catalog enemy.  So are the environmentalists.  Between the un-p.c.-ness of using too much paper and the convenience of shopping online, I predict the demise of my old friends.  I will miss them when they go as much as  I welcome them when they come. 

The Fireplace

The center of any home is either the kitchen or the fireplace or both.  I now live in Hawaii and fireplaces weren’t high on the list of architechtects, contractors and builders.  I think they are now, though.  Because a fireplace brings gravitas to a home. Even if it’s 84 degrees, having a living room with a fireplace makes a home seem more substantial.

So at Angus Street, we loved our fireplace.  We didn’t have one of those huge kitchens with eat-in counters of granite and bar stools.  The kitchen was the kitchen.  That was it. But we had a fireplace.  It wasn’t an ornate Adams; it was made of simple brick tile.

I remember when I learned that the fireplace could be turned on without wood. Gas would do the trick.  There was a small key on the left side of the grate and if turned and lit with a match “(close lid before striking”), flames would appear.

I was very careful when I lit a match and turned it on.  My dad would trim our fruit trees—plum, apricot, white peach—which met its demise when my dad built us a life-sized playhouse—and, who knows, maybe even the grapefruit tree contributed to our fires.  In the “winter” (this was Los Angeles) we enjoyed wood fires.  My mother taught us how to put orange peels into the flames and watch the oil from the skins turn into blue lights. It was, by far, my favorite thing to watch, Hey—and this was even when we had a TV.

Of course, a mantle and fireplace are a big deal at Christmas.  Our German advent calendar with sparkling glitter sat on the mantle and became the focus of our pre-Christmas mornings.  Closer to the 24^t th of December, our stockings would appear.

My own son, raised in Hawaii, has never celebrated a Christmas with a mantle-hung stocking.  He had to do with cabinet knobs and door handles.  But, in a few years, he will have his mantle-- when we move.

My very favorite days were when it rained.  It rained heavily on one of my birthdays when I was at Ivanhoe Elementary School and I felt like my birthday wish was fulfilled.

When I was older, and we had a rainy day, I would come home, put on the fireplace—using the gas, not wood-- and head to the kitchen.  It was cinnamon toast time.  My mother, home from the Burbank School District, my sister and I would sit on the floor around a rather odd coffee table that fronted the fireplace and eat cinnamon toast cut into strips. 

I miss a fireplace and I am so sorry that my son doesn’t have any fireplace memories.

Unrequited Toy

I watched a lot of Westerns.  Roy, Rex, Rowdie, Gil Favor, Sky King, Tonto, John Wayne, Little Joe and on and on. I loved them all.   Once I saw one of them—not one of the above mentioned—sunbathing on my mom’s beach.  Leathery but in shape and obviously waiting for his agent’s call.  It wasn’t going to happen.

Sometimes, when these shows were shown at kid viewing time, i.e. Saturdays, there would be commercials that crept into our vulnerable brains.  Tony the Tiger, Bosco, Nestlé’s Quik, Malto-Meal and Ovaltine.

My favorite ad for something that I really, really wanted was from Mattel.  They made a tooled Western belt with a buckle.  The buckle featured a small derringer; the same gun that killed Abraham Lincoln.  The gun was “real”—in that it could fire a small plastic bullet and maybe a cap.  I’m not sure, because I never got one.

The deal was that a kid could load his gun—note that I’m not saying “her” because I was supposed to be wanting Barbie accessories—walk around confidently and then thrust out his stomach muscles to trigger the derringer which would swing out and “fire.”   I had never seen anything cooler in my entire life:  baring Dick Tracy’s watch.

I wanted one.  I never got one.   They are on EBAY.  The prices are going up and the belt wouldn’t fit me.  I do think I could fit the buckle. 

The New Room

Why, where or exactly when, I do not know.  But at some point my parents decided to expand our Angus Street house.  I have pretty much no memory of the porch which was over the garage. I do remember the construction to enclose it into a room and excitement that followed.

Thus was born “the new room.”   A decade later, the space was still called “the new room.”  I’m certain that the people who now live there and paid a heck of a lot more than the $10,000 my mother paid using her widow’s insurance from the death of her first husband, would not be calling that space the “new room.”  Everything about that house is now old. But for my family, it was always the “new room.”

Whether my dad had building permits, which I highly doubt, don’t know.  But what I remember was the new beams and sitting astride them.  Our neighbors, Cece and Bernice, didn’t think it was safe.  But they also didn’t think my dad should be feeding us those yellow hot chilies in a jar.  Neither had lasting a lasting negative impact.

Once the porch was enclosed into a room, the floor was laid.  Cork.  Then my dad built bookshelves and electrical outlets.  On one side of the room the shelves housed the World Book Encyclopedia and all the National Geographics that we’d ever received.  On the other side of the opening, were all of my parents’ record albums.  Pattie Page, Leonard Bernstein, Mike Nichols and Elaine May, Smetana, Ferde Grove, Harry Belafonte and more. There was also an album by a woman who specialized in singing off key for humor’s sake.  I was told that this was something that was quite difficult.

 These were the days of Sing Along with Mitch.  Folk music was about to hit its acme.

My father had each album ordered and labeled. This is also where my parents’ guitars and banjo were stored.

Then my parents bought an L-shaped couch.  I guess it was pretty modern for the time.  It had some odd plastic cover that always felt cold. White with colored piping.  The backrest came off, making the seat into a bed.  On the opposite side of the room was a business-like desk and chair. 

To separate the living room from the “new room” my parents put up a sliding, accordion door that we rarely used.  The only time I can remember using it was when a young man came to door.  I had worked with him and we’d gone out on one date.  Smitten, I was not.  He arrived unannounced and upon seeing him coming up the stairs to the front door, I solicited my sister.  Her job was to answer the door and say I wasn’t home.  My job was to escape quickly to the “new room," shut the accordion door and hide.  Unfortunately, he decided to wait a while for me to “come home.”  I was inches away from him and was worried that he could see my feet under the door.  Needless to say, we never went out again.

Many years later, a boyfriend came to stay during the holidays.  My mother didn’t like him—and in the long run neither did I.  But he was put on the cold, white plastic couch.  The only good thing my mother could find to say about him was that he made his bed and returned the backrest to the couch.

I have learned that making the bed is not all that important.