Take Lots of Pictures

My mom died 10 years ago today. It was sudden and I was not prepared to lose her, though now I think I would have never really been prepared to lose her. Still, her death rocked my world in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. Aside from my husband, she was my best friend and confidante. But, this wasn’t always the case.

A smart, highly educated, tall (5’11”) woman, my mom was also somewhat of a stoic. She was serious, focused, and strong. While I knew this, I’ve come to appreciate these traits, especially her strength of character more as I’ve gotten older. She came from humble beginnings, the eldest of three daughters born to a railroad worker father and a nanny/school cafeteria worker mom. But, because of her focus in school, she graduated as valedictorian and went on to attend the University of Southern California (USC) on full scholarship. She received her bachelor’s and master’s degrees and became an English teacher at Leuzinger High School in Lawndale, California. After 20 years in the classroom, she became  a principal and later a district administrator. She was accomplished professionally. When she “retired” she worked for the State Teachers Retirement System for a time and then for a non-profit organization which helps seniors and their families. It’s tough to be a high school teacher and public school administrator. But, when I think about her strength, I think of it in terms of her fortitude in her personal life.

My mom left my dad and divorced him in 1975 after 10 years of marriage. I was six years old. We moved from Hollywood to Torrance. Since I was already attending school in Torrance because it was close to her job at Leuzinger High, I didn’t have to start over  at a new school or make new friends. I don’t remember much about that transition which, I think, is a testament to it being a relatively smooth one for me. My dad came to visit and have dinner with us a few times. But, all I remember about those meals was the arguing . . . and that is the only time I remember them arguing. After that, my dad would visit and my mom would leave the apartment. Or my dad would pick me up and we would go somewhere for a visit. There were times when I didn’t see him as often. As a teenager and young college student I would complain that my dad made me feel guilty if I couldn’t see him because I of other obligations. I was learning that he was a master manipulator. My mom would tell me that I wasn’t obligated to see him and that I shouldn’t feel bad if I had other commitments. I had some say in the matter. She, on the other hand, did not complain to me about him. She didn’t point out his faults or shortcomings. This is where her strength is remarkable. 

In looking at pictures of my dad in his 30s, I can see why she was attracted to him. He was handsome. Plus, I knew that he was clever and smart and probably charismatic. But, he was also deeply flawed. I do not recall him ever having a full-time job. He taught community college classes, but it was typically part-time at several schools. Eventually, he was no longer offered these jobs. He was out of work for a time and my mom continued to try to help him find work . . . any work . . . for years after their divorce. He loved photography and worked for a time at a one-hour photo shop–a job I’m sure he felt was beneath him with his Master’s degree in psychology. He never paid child support or alimony. My mom gave him money and groceries for many, many years. Well after she was remarried. I don’t know how he would have survived without her help. Yet, I never heard my mom complain. Many years later I learned that when we first moved to that Torrance apartment our was rented. A few pieces were given to my mom from a dear friend. We didn’t have much, but it was enough.  And, we lived in Torrance, so we were far from poverty-stricken. But, I also knew better than to even ask for the Gloria Vanderbilt jeans with the swan logo that were so popular. My mom worked hard to support us a build a good life. Meanwhile my dad spent a few hours a month with me. Still, she didn’t complain about or speak ill of him.

She also bore the brunt of raising a daughter who was a good student and rule-follower . . . until she wasn’t. For about two years I was an awful teenager. I was selfish and reckless and only cared about what I wanted to do. My mom who worked with teenagers for over 20 years, including serving as principal at a continuation high school, was at wit’s end. We had top-of-the-lungs screaming matches that got so bad at one point, that we resorted to communicating through writing in a notebook . . . a fact I had long forgotten until my mom mentioned it many years later. I’m horrified and embarrassed at my behavior during those years. But, my mom didn’t give up on me and eventually I grew up.

Now that I’m the parent of an almost-sixteen-year-old I am amazed at all the times my mom allowed me to make decisions she surely must have thought were not in my best interest. She didn’t offer her opinion, unless I asked. When I was 15 and applied for jobs, interviewed, and was hired . . . and didn’t tell her until I was hired, her only comment was something along the lines of “You have your whole life to work.” But, I was hellbent on working. I lied about my age, indicating I was an entire year older (better to keep the birthday the same, I figured). When I decided to apply for a better job, while still working the first, she didn’t stop me. After a month or two of working 30 hours a week while between both jobs while in high school, I eventually came to my senses and quit the first job. When I was 21 and decided I wanted to enroll in a Spanish immersion program in Costa Rica and travel alone, she paid for it. I can’t imagine how worried she was about me, but she never told me so. When I decided to stay an extra week to see more sights after my four-week program ended, she changed my flight for me. After getting my first teaching job at 23, I opted to move out of the house I shared with roommates and live alone in  a studio apartment in a not-so-great part of town in Long Beach, California. She didn’t try to stop me. And, when I decided to quit that tenure-track job at the end of the year to pick up and move to Seattle, Washington with no job prospects, she didn’t tell me not to go. Instead, she welcomed me back when I returned to California 14 months later. She had to have known that some of these choices wouldn’t work out the way I had planned (after all, I am back in California!). Yet, she let me make choices . . . and mistakes . . . without offering unsolicited advice and I am a better person for it. 

Despite all our battles when I was a teenager and my headstrong independence as a young adult, my mom and I came to be very close when I was in my 20s, 30s, and early 40s until I lost her. I knew I could ask her almost anything. I knew she would give me solid advice. There are things I never asked her though. Like, did she always want to be a teacher? Or, what was her relationship with her dad like? Or even, what caused my dad’s life to go off the rails? My mom was incredibly caring in her actions, but she not always the most open about her life or her thoughts . . . at least to me. I think she shared different stories and secrets with different people in her life. I know this because she has several dear friends who miss her as much as I do. There were things about her life she never shared with me that I uncovered in her papers and writings after she died. 

One of my greatest joys was seeing my mom become a grandma. This serious, stoic woman, was a different person with my son. She was joyful, silly, and engaged in activities with him that I could have never imagined. For instance, one of my mom’s favorite pastimes with my son, when he was around three or four years old, was to play in the “jungle” (her term for her amazing backyard garden). My son was especially interested in having her overturn stepping stones to look for bugs. My mom hated bugs. I just couldn’t believe that this was the same woman who raised me. But, that’s the thing. She wasn’t just my mom. She was this multi-faceted person. How did I fail to recognize this? My mom loved being a grandma and for some reason that sort of surprised me. My son loved spending time with her. Time was slow and relaxed when they were together. I’m grateful he had those experiences, though he doesn’t remember much of her because he was only six when she died. But I remember.

One day, I complained to my mom about my dad and some ridiculous expectation he had of me in terms of time with him or something along those lines. My mom expressed a rare moment of regret. She wondered if she should have cut off contact completely with my dad when I was younger so that I wouldn’t have the burden (my word) of the frequent guilt trips and adjusting my life to fit with his, with little in return. I think she knew that eventually I would be his sole lifeline. I told her that she made the right choice because at least I knew my dad and that if I hadn’t had him in my life, I would have always wondered about him. Instead, I was able to learn for myself.

My mom was outspoken and tough. But, she was kind and generous and silly with her only grandson. She showed what it means to be strong and also why sometimes it’s better not to say what you think. I didn’t know everything about her, but that’s okay. She recognized that I also needed to live my own life, just as she had.  She protected me. She cared for and loved me. She let me . . . be me. She was my mom and I miss her every day.

Today is my birthday. My dad was big on birthdays. Though he never had money for extravagant gifts or outings, he made sure that I knew he put thought into whatever birthday gifts I received from him. And, of course, my birthday had to be celebrated on the exact day. This wasn’t always practical or possible, but somehow he still managed to find a way to celebrate me on April 13th. 

Of course, birthdays meant pictures. Long before social media had people documenting birthdays and even milestones of infants by weeks or months, my dad would identify the date with a sign . . . as in, a literal sign.

This is me just as I awoke on my sixth birthday. It would be the last birthday we spent all together, as my parents divorced later that year. 

When I was a young, gifts were often small and symbolic or quirky. For my 10th birthday, he created a sort of scavenger hunt in our apartment. By “our apartment” I mean the one I shared with my mom, as my parents had been long divorced by this time. Each of the small gifts contained a clue to find the next one. I don’t remember what any of the trinkets were, but I do have fond memories of the process of hunting for them. 

When I was a teenager, gave me a silver ankh pinky ring. He frequently drew ankhs and referenced the symbol in letters and conversation. I wore that ring for many, many years. I loved that ring and what it represented.

In my young adult years, he saved up money to buy me books. Or rather, saved money my mom gave him to have her buy the books for me, and then he would pay her back. He would request a particular book when they spoke on the phone. Then when I would pick up groceries and essentials from my mom to give to my dad when I visited on the weekends. She would enclose the books she purchased for him to give to me. He would then gift these to me and send her money (they money she had given him) to pay her for the books. These were mostly books of fiction and poetry that were considered “classics.” When I turned 28 I received The Poetry of Robert Frost. For my 29th, it was Don Quixote.

The Poetry of Rober Frost 4/13/97

Don Quixote 4/13/98

For my 17th birthday, he gave me his high school class ring. He often told stories about his high school years–how he went to an all-boys school and how that was a good thing because it allowed students to focus on their studies. He was president of the chess club and known for being serious about school and life. He frequently mentioned an Italian girl he was sweet on named Teresa. He graduated in 1945 from Lane Tech High School in Chicago. Seventeen-year-old me was probably not very impressed with this gift. But, over the years I grew to cherish it. With the ring, he typed a short note on a piece of blue cardstock. He talked about how he wore this ring when he was 17 and the world and his future, was uncertain. He joined the Navy at 17. So, when he was my age, he was preparing to go to war and he never saw Teresa again. My future was far less tenuous. I’m sure when I turned 17, he didn’t have means for a birthday gift. This was one of the only valuable possessions he owned and he gave it to me. 

In his last few years, my dad had more difficulty obtaining creative gifts for me. On my 38th, he procured a dozen or so separate items . . . almost all of which were purchased at his local Walgreens. One of them was a thick pair of bright red slouchy socks. Walgreens was one of the only stores within a short bike ride of his place. After my mom died, he didn’t have anyone to shop for him, except for me, and that kind of eliminated any element of surprise. Still he would acknowledge my birthday with a traditional card, an e-card, a note, or more often, a photograph of me or of my mom or my husband and son that he printed and framed. 

Eventually, he stopped planning for birthday celebrations in the same way. His world became smaller. He started to avoid going out, even for breakfast with me. He stopped reading the newspaper and didn’t email me anymore. He didn’t have much of an appetite. He became adept at covering his diminished appetite and forgetfulness. He referenced events from long ago and referred to people long-dead as if they were still with us. He watched a lot of TV–mostly reruns of Family Feud and Match Game at peak volume, not realizing that Richard Dawson had been dead for years.

In April of 2016 my dad forgot my birthday. I didn’t point this out to him as I didn’t want to address what that really meant. But, when I left him that day, I cried in the car before heading home. That was my last birthday with him. 

At 51 my future, as all of ours, is uncertain.

I have a bell collection. But it wasn’t my idea. Somewhere along the line, my dad started giving me bells as gifts. I don’t remember ever expressing any particular affinity for bells and he never mentioned any special significance of them . . . that I remember anyway. Continue reading →

Today would have been my dad’s 93rd birthday. I’m bothered that I can’t remember how we celebrated his 89th birthday–his last. I think I brought him some favorite food for dinner and some favorite dessert, but I can’t be sure. That last year he didn’t leave the house . . . at all. Not even to get the mail. He didn’t eat much anymore, but still seemed to like McDonald’s and lemon meringue pie . . . and a martini. Was that what I brought? Did I make him a martini?

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This week I stumbled across an Atlas Obscura article about a clock museum in Vienna. I love clocks, watches, timepieces in general, so it caught my interest. It reminded me about a prediction my dad had for me. He said I would visit Vienna “under strange circumstances.” Continue reading →

Though my dad majored in psychology, he loved art, literature, poetry, and mythology. He taught Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain for a time, but generally art was an avocation. He drew and painted on and off throughout his life. For a couple of years, he created detailed drawings that he gave me every other week when we would meet for breakfast. These colored pencil drawings are ripe with mythological and mystical symbolism. Continue reading →

Juliet says to herself “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By Any Other Name would smell as sweet.” from her balcony in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. She is lamenting the fact that she and her newly-discovered love, Romeo are from rival families. Their names–Montague and Capulet–seem to be, on the surface, the problem.

Romeo eavesdrops from below and when he cannot contain himself any longer, blurts out that  he will discard his name so they can be together. But, it is their names that seal the fates of the “star-crossed” lovers. Continue reading →

I come from a family of educators. My mom was an English teacher. My step-dad was a teacher. I am a teacher and so is my husband. My dad did not have a very stable or lengthy career, despite his intelligence, talent, and education. But, he did teach for awhile. Correction–he was employed as a teacher for awhile, but he was always a teacher and his “lessons” covered many subjects and took many forms.

Every Friday for many, many years I would receive a hand-written letter from my dad.

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As I unpack letters, drawings, and photos created by my father, I’m also unpacking what they all mean.

I am a teacher, learner, parent, wife, and only child.