Friday, December 23, 2016
Holiday Wishes
Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah to one and all. And sending hopes for peace and love in the coming year.
Thursday, December 8, 2016
God Speed, John Glenn
I remember when John Glenn orbited the world. My parents had decided to have some time
together/aka a romantic weekend, and my sister and I were sent off to San
Clemente to stay with a former housekeeper named Donnie. She fried up corn tortillas, in spite of
being Boston Irish, and we ate tacos and watched the TV as the news came in
about John Glenn. It was, obviously, the
precursor of the moon landing and a bit of a one up to Alan Shepherd. But I remember it vividly.
Years later I read, and then watched, The Right Stuff by Tom
Wolfe. I had no idea that John Glenn’s
wife stuttered or that he was a test pilot.
I didn’t know then that he would run for Senate and win and would go up
in the Shuttle at age 77. He just seemed
to me to be a really decent guy. Kinda
like my father.
Friday, November 25, 2016
Aging Wannabe
As I get older and older, I realize more and more. This is one of the conundrums of life and
aging. At one or two-- or ten-- times in
my life I wanted a different name, a different face and a different
persona. But let me start with the name.
In the 1950’s my name
was a tiny bit unusual. There were no
other kids in my school with it, except a boy who lived down Angus Street and
spelled his name with a CH. Must have
been Irish! Now my name sounds like a chirpy
young waitress taking your order. But
enough of that. Suffice it say, I wasn’t
a “Jason” in the 1980’s.
When I was in junior high and there was a comic strip in the
LA Times that I read every morning. I have always read the comics and do so to
this day. (And, as a side note, I would
like to say that I find MARY WORTH to be the most annoying, supercilious, nosey
and self-possessed person on the planet. I am also very suspicious that her
hairstyle is changing and she is aging backwards. )
This new comic was one I loved and remember little of, except
the name: TIFFANY JONES. Tiffany was British, as were The Fab Four,
Twiggy, Carnaby Street and, my all time favorite, Emma Peel. Tiffany was blonde, perky and pretty—though I
only saw her in black and white print—and was everything that I wasn’t.
It’s a far cry from going
from the morning breakfast-table comics to a name change. Though I respected Brenda Starr, felt for the
orphan Dondi, enjoyed Nancy and her antics with Sluggo and was amazed by the
square-jawed Dick Tracy with his precursor of the Apple Watch, it’s a bit of a
stretch to change one’s name after a comic strip. Tiffany Smithson was not to be.
I am SO glad I didn’t. I wouldn’t want to share a name with
a Trump!
Then there was the time I wanted to look like someone
else. Who doesn’t? But there was this one actress that I really
thought I might be willing to do the Devil’s Deal with to look like and, I must
say she isn’t/ wasn’t a glamour girl but more a beauty of the traditional sort.
At least a cosmetic company thought so. Fortunately, the Devil’s Deal wasn’t an option
and I watched from afar as she –being the same age as I am—(Hey, I’m not
wishing for miracles!) aged….and
aged….and aged. I will never divulge her
name. (Well, maybe, if money is
involved.) I saw her today online and
thought back to my wish to trade faces with her. Perhaps if she saw me she would be quite
relieved. I wouldn’t blame her. But I’m
kinda happy that I don’t want to be her anymore. Nor Tiffany Jones.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Nancy, me and Politics
As a child, I have a vivid memory of watching Dwight
Eisenhower speak at the Republican Convention. He did not have a nice voice
like my father…. and husband. Yes. I know this is a bit odd. But I do remember it.
I have touched on my other “political ” experiences in a
previous blog—losing to Monica as school secretary, Duane Wong brandishing “
Vote Brown” buttons from behind the kindergarten fence. Mr. C dumping on Kennedy.
But by 1968 I was convinced that I wanted to be a news
correspondent. A la Nancy
Dickerson. When my mother thought I
needed “something” to make me more of her ilk, she booked me on a TEEN TOURS
trips. By this time I had been sending fan letters to Nancy Dickerson for a
year or more. Nancy was very kind and
always wrote back and I practiced my “ Kristie Smithson, NBC News, Washington”
line often.
When the Teen Tours trip was scheduled for Washington, D.C.
I wrote to Nancy Dickerson—contacitng her from Mt. Vernon-- and she invited me
to join her at the D.C studios. I,
rather stupidly, put on my best seersucker culottes suit and decided to climb to
the top of the Washington Monument.
Then I hailed a cab—quite a feat for a 15 year old—and was taken to the
NBC studio.
At this time Nancy was doing a five-minute news show at different
times during the day. She was one of the
only women—maybe two others—on the national U.S. news. She looked a bit like Jackie and definitely
had Lyndon’s ear.
So I showed up in the taxi –aged 15--and Nancy greeted me at
the NBC studios and complemented me on the yellow and white seer sucker suit and
mentioned that she might like that for a step daughters. Then I was ushered in, watched her do her five-minute
show from behind a glass and was in awe.
Fast forward to 1969…. I was now 17 and my mom and I were
doing a college tour. It was a bit
rough as my dad had booked it and was not into the complications that standby
flights might incur. In Chicago, my mom
went to D.C. and I sat. Finally, I
arrived in D.C. I think my mom was
pretty pleased that I had managed to arrive at the hotel.
Right about this time, the Senate was voting about the
legality of the Viet Nam War. I insisted that we sit in the gallery. Three rows in front of us was Nancy Dickerson
and she turned around and said: “Aren’t
you the girl from California?” I do
believe that my mother was a bit impressed.
Now when I watch John Dickerson report about politics, I
cannot help but think of his mom and how kind she was to me. She even gave this advice about college: “Don’t study journalism; study political
science. Otherwise you won’t know what’s
going on.” And I did. And I never became a news correspondent. But John always makes me tear up a wee bit
when I see him doing well.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
The Teacher WITH NO NECK
I was raised with a great deal of love, some Roy Rodgers and
a lot of Walt Disney. To this day, I
have trouble differentiating between Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone because
they were both played by Fess Parker.
When I entered a new school, out of the cocoon of Ivanhoe
Elementary, I was introduced to many new things. Amongst them, was the story of THE TEACHER
WHO HAD NO NECK. Apparently, it, THE
NECK,
had been "shot off in the war.”
Now, at the time of this story, it was 1962. Viet Nam wasn’t on the radar for most people
except a few “advisors;” Churchill, FDR and WW2 were distant memories and Korea
a decade past.
Mr. M, as he shall be called, wasn’t all that old. Just had NO NECK. Today he would probably be called “shoulder
heavy. ”
I didn’t put a great deal of thought into how his neck had
landed so neatly back onto his torso; so
precisely that a chunk of his anatomy could be forever displaced wthout
seeming to cause damage. I just
accepted it. Like I accepted that Hoss
and Little Joe were real brothers. I was
much too busy trying to figure out how to work “sanitary belts” and giant Kotex
pads. And dispose of them without too
much humiliation.
Between remembering locker combinations, the lyrics to
obscure German songs and gym routines with burpees, Mr. M’s necklessness was
accepted and forgotten. He had never
been a teacher of mine and I never had to deal with his missing neck.
But that is until the day
my grandson wanted a family tale while
we sailed up the Endicott Fjord toward a glacier.
we sailed up the Endicott Fjord toward a glacier.
As the ship rocked back and forth, I told him the story of
THE TEACHER WITH NO NECK and he just looked at me.
“Grandma, how OLD were you?”
“”Ummm. Junior High.”
“WHAT! You were in Junior
High and you believed that??”
But he still “believes”
in the Tooth Fairy and I still believe in the joy it gives me when my grandson
and I now have our secret “neckless” shrug that means “let’s laugh.”
Monday, April 27, 2015
Transitional Syllables of a Lifetime
I went out late at
night recently and looked up at the sky, so starry it seemed like a bad but
beautiful case of chicken-pocks had taken it over. It got me thinking of all the places I have
lived and place names I’ve had to negotiate.
Growing up in Silver Lake, I was surrounded by the
artificially created world of Sir Walter Scott.
Though, as a child, I never realized it.
The founders of the Silver Lake neighborhood opted for the bucolic
characters of a long-dead foreign author as inspiration when naming the
streets and landmarks of my childhood home.
I attended Ivanhoe Elementary School and walked home along Rowena and
Hyperion Boulevards. I had friends who lived on Waverley Drive and I frequently
passed Locksley, Kenilworth and Avenel Streets.
I’m not quite sure how Hyperion got thrown into the mix; I do remember
thinking that these names seemed a bit odd and cumbersome, but they were just
part of where I lived. Angus Street had
a particularly nice ring to it. It was
simple and straightforward.
Then I went away to college in Williamsburg, Virginia and
the Scottish names of Silver Lake gave way Native American ones. There was the Rappahonich River, Chincoteague,
Appomattox and Manassas, mixed in the many “burgs” and “villes” of Charlotte,
Frederick, Harris, Peter and William.
Later, I lived in Stockholm, Sweden for a year. Here, my home was on Vallhallavagen,
surrounded by Korsvarsvagen and Roselagstull.
The neighboring towns had names like Eskilstuna, Norrkoping and
Uppsala. No longer did Hyperion seem so
odd.
Another move took me to Scotland, where I had to master not only
the appropriate pronunciations, but navigate yet another set of unfamiliar and
multi-syllabic names. Achiltibuie, Drmmnadrochit, Auchtermuchty and
Ballachulish gave my slightly dyslexic brain a run for its money.
This probably prepared me for a stint in the Pacific
Northwest. The pronunciations were
different, but the syllabic soup continued with Sammamish, Snoqualmie,
Snohomish, Stillaguamish and Mukilteo.
Just as they became familiar, I moved again. This time is was to the mother of long,
vowel-ridden names—second only to those in the Welsh countryside. (See picture above!)
Upon landing in Hawaii, I quickly learned that the letter
“K” was king; sometimes quite literally.
Kalakaua, Kalanioloeole and Kapiolani were roads named for former
monarchs. Wahiawa, Waimanalo. Waipahu, Kaaawa
and Hauula were nearby communities. The
state fish is a Humuhumunukunukuapua”a
and Papahanaumokuakea is the newly created marine reserve. I lived in a neighborhood with a ten-letter
name on an eight-letter street. Names commandeered from Matson ships. After 25 years on the island, I was able to
laugh as I listened to the voice on a rental car GPS trying to pronounce
Haleakula and Kahului in an almost unrecognizable way.
But my most recent transition, and maybe my last, is to a place
that suits me just fine and gives my syllabically challenged brain a much-needed
rest. The town has merely one, lone
syllable and only four letters: Bend. Too bad the name of my street isn’t just
plain old Elm. But it’s not. Got to have some syllables somewhere.
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