ALL THINGS PAST & PRESENT

The throw of the dice this week lands on the immortality of relationships. In our life there is one relationship that we cannot let go. That person may or may not be related to you. It could be a stranger, a friend, or a teacher.  It is someone who handed you everything you needed to know about life; but you didn’t listen.

For me, it was my father. The relationship we had while he was living, wasn’t what either of us wanted. The distortion we had between us was Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel. My father had another family he had to answer to, and now I understand that. I don’t think it’s too late to correct the relationship. Otherwise I wouldn’t write about him, and what I’ve learned after his passing.

As an adolescent I wanted a father that didn’t care so much. I cringed when he followed me from school while I went walking with a girlfriend to the bus stop. I’d see him in his black El Dorado tailing behind us, like a mystic black eye and I dropped my head to hide. He always picked me out amongst the other school kids, and I’d have to leave my friends and get in the car.

    “Where were you going?” He asked

    “To the bus stop.”

    “Who was that girl in the red; I’ve never seen her before.”

    “She’s a new friend.”

    “Well tell me about her.”

    “I don’t know anything yet.”

    ”Well Luellen, from now on if you make a friend find out whom you’re making friends with.”

Then he’d ask me questions about school, and no matter what my answer was, it was wrong, and he’d tell how to think. After he finished his lesson, we’d go to Emil’s Pastry Shop and have a sweet roll and coffee. I watched him in this little Swedish pastry shop, where women shopped for cakes and bread, and European men sat around discussing politics.  Behind his black sunglasses, he observed it all, overtly satisfied with the sweet roll and preoccupied with his own thoughts.

I wanted a father that did not listen in on all my telephone conversations, and made it so obvious my girlfriends knew he was listening because of his breathing. When they asked me why he listened, I fumed, “ I don’t know, he’s paranoid about everything I do–he doesn’t ever believe what I tell him. I hate him.” 

I thought I wanted a father that went to work, came home and mixed a cocktail, watched the news with his wife, and ate dinner with his children without scolding them for dropping a green bean on the floor, or wanting to be excused early to call friends.  At our dinner table I waited for his approval that I’d cooked the fish or chicken properly, and then I silently prayed that the phone would ring, and one of his friends would call him away from this strenuous pretense of sharing a family dinner.

I even picked out the family that presented the most normalcy.  In elementary school it was Wendy.  She lived in a comfortable house with a swimming pool and a lot of salty food in the pantry. I was at her house almost every day. After work her father came home, had a cocktail, and her mother served a three course dinner; canned vegetables, a porch chop or hamburger, and salad. Always salad because he owned Milano’s Italian dressing. Wendy’s father laughed a lot, and allowed Wendy to climb all over him after dinner, and rough neck on the floor. On the weekends we went swimming, and Stacy, the Dalmatian they all loved, jumped in the pool with us. The funny thing is, Wendy didn’t soar with the family congeniality. She digressed into uncompromising sexuality before she was in 7^th grade. Her parents sent her to live on a Kibbutz in Israel.  

At Warner Avenue middle school I wanted to live with Cindy. Her house thundered with noise and uncontrollable chaos. All day her mother vacuumed, answered the phone, and scolded one of her three children while their dog ran back and forth barking, and the housekeeper chased after little Paulie, the youngest, for one of his hilarious pranks. Cindy’s older sister, teased Cindy till she cried, while I sat in the bedroom listening to the radio and eating ice cream sandwiches.  When her father came home from work, we all sat down to dinner and laughed our guts out. I even had my own twin bed at Cindy’s. Ruth welcomed me every night of the week and I loved her.  She was the only mother who didn’t mind talking to my father. A few years ago Ruth told me stories about my dad. 

“ Once when you were still very young, my husband and I were going to take you and Cindy trick or treating. Your father called and I told him, and he said; ‘ Absolutely not.’ I couldn’t believe it. He was very polite about it, he didn’t yell, but he said you were not to go with us. I was furious, and I told him, ‘ Mr. Smiley, I am not going to deny that child what all the other kids do. Now, my husband and I are going with the children in Stone Canyon, and I’m sorry, but Luellen is going with us.’  While we were walking through the neighborhood I noticed a black Cadillac following us, stopping when we did and so forth, so I went over to the driver. ‘May I ask why you are following us?’The driver says to me, ‘Sorry,  Smiley’s orders.’ Well, I never heard of such a thing.  Now I didn’t know anything about your father, and if I did it wouldn’t have mattered. He cared very much, and he was worried about you.”  When I asked her why, I mean, what could happen trick or treating in Bel Air. She said he thought I might be kidnapped. 

 I spent so much time away from home, it finally erupted into a scene and he insisted I bring a friend home. No one liked coming over because he asked questions, and watched us every minute. I found one willing distant classmate; Josie, from France. She needed friends; she had a thick French accent and dressed differently so we shunned her. She was a very intelligent girl, she was just French. After Josie, he seemed satisfied because he liked her and she didn’t mind him.

In high school, I don’t think I slept at home more than twice a week.When I did he interrogated me: he went through all my pockets, my dresser drawers, and sat me down in the living room and questioned me. I asked my friends if their parents did that, and none of them knew what I was talking about. I was interrogated without cause. All the way through grade school, high school, and even college I wanted a different father. I suppose I wanted someone else until that day he went to the hospital. After that I wanted him. When he told me how sorry he was he gambled whatever inheritance was left, and even though he had to yell all the time, he wanted to ensure I knew how to take care of myself, how to act like a lady, and maybe someday meet a decent fella, I knew I had the right father for me. Even though I can’t hear him laugh, or holler, or tell a great story, he’s not that far away; all things past are present. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com 

 

THE SUN RISES ON HARDSHIP

 The throw of the dice this week falls on the sunrise of hardship.

     In my home there is one staircase window that faces east. Each morning before I descend the stairs I stop at the landing, to watch the day begin. The sun must rise above an assortment of tree limbs and trunks, and up over the mountains. By the time I’ve had my coffee, the sun has risen above these obstructions. I am now jerked awake, like a slight nudge a parent might give you, ‘Come on–wake up! You have school.”  

I begin writing, but that shameless sunlight in my eyes and the dance of the birds are tempting me to step outdoors.  When you live in seasonal climate, summer days and nights lure you out of your wits; why stay inside when there’s moonlight, a sage brush breeze, and merriment across the street.

The gradual awakening unfolds layers of thoughts, beginning with the anxiety of the times. The impending hardship of thousands, my friends, and neighbors, oozes out like a bad smell. Everyone seems to be slanting in new directions; some are going home where they came from, others take on another job, or moving out and leasing their homes.    

 

Some mornings I can’t even look at the newspaper. The headlines read like Sunday’s promotional movie advertisements: BANKRUPT, FORECLOSURE, and SUICIDE. The shocking prick of national disaster is a surgical awakening of a disease untreated.  There’s no time to waste, no money to squander, it is a time of reduction and refusal.

     As minor calamities knock on my door, and creditors calling from India, I turn my head to the sunlight and resume what I have to do, and that is write. If you know me, then you know I’ve vanished. It’s the only way I can work, and I’m standing on my head happy that I have the solitude to do it. 

 Last week while I was upstairs, prone on the sofa figuring out a transition between two scenes, someone knocked at the door. Then they fiercely rang the bell. Oh what it is now I thought.   

     “Yes,” I asked the man standing outside. He stared at me while twilling a toothpick in his mouth.

“Are you all right? I’m from Safeguard Security we haven’t had any signal on your alarm.  We came to check on you.”

I stood there expressionless. I assured him I wasn’t held captive or about to throw myself out the window, but he didn’t seem convinced, he lingered and kept looking over my shoulder.  I hastily sent him on his way, and returned to the desk.  I’d been rude; I didn’t even thank the guy.  This is some kind of message, next time he’ll slam the door in my face.      

Later in the day, if I haven’t ventured outdoors yet, I take a walk around the Plaza, and muse over the herds of tourists. I look for revealing expressions and conversations.  I didn’t see panic and anxiety, I observed relief. Couples shuffled together, maybe holding hands, dragging shopping bags, and aiming directionless for a new snapshot. They stand gaping at the churches and shoot photographs while standing in the middle of the street. Vacation is bliss in the middle of discontent. 

When I return to my desk, it is time to print the days work. This is always a ritual of great expectation, filled with disappointments, surprise, and sometimes a whiff of elation.

 By now the sun has made its journey to the other side of the house. The back porch is like starched light, it burns the eyes and flesh, the immediate effect is callous. Now is the time to slouch in the chair, close my eyes, and rewind a few scenes back.

Hardship is like the sun, unmerciful when it is met face to face, and transforming when we are protected. The sunlight is absorbed into our bodies; the effect is invigorating when taken in increments. The light changes the color of the world, we see things differently, and so it is with hardship, we feel intensely, our senses are sharpened, and we appreciate the treats more so than in times of prosperity.

It all translates into less spending and more creating. 

While I lounge in this old house, one track of time keeps re-appearing. It was when my living space was limited to one tiny room, finances on a string as long as my finger and uncertainty a nightmare that turned into a lullaby. It is that time again; and what we all must do is keep the adventures above the circumstances. Any dice to throw:

Folliesls@aol.com