I'm Flying ! JoAnn Ellis

I’m flying! I’m flying! I always wanted to know how a bird feels when they soar above the earth and now I know. It took a lot of nerve. I really never thought I could be brave enough to jump out of an airplane. I am still not sure if I jumped on my own or if someone had to give me a little shove, but here I am just floating like a feather in a summer breeze.

Until my chute opened, I don’t think I have ever been more frightened in my life. Maybe in time I will learn to enjoy the freefall part of the jump but this time I was scared spit less. My mouth felt as dry as cotton. I felt paralyzed, too frightened to even scream. My stomach was in my mouth. My clothes were whipping like they do in a Santa Ana wind, adding to the noise of my body breaking the air. I knew my family was going to see me splattered on the ground because the parachute wouldn’t deploy. I was so glad I had decided to use a static line to open the chute because I am not sure I could have made my hands pull the chord until it was too late. The static line method of opening your chute also makes the freefall shorter, and the way my mind was conjuring up horrible images my chute couldn’t open too soon.

Now that my chute is open, and I am floating down, I can relax a little. In fact, I am thoroughly enjoying myself. Now it is quiet and peaceful just as I had imagined it would be when I have enviously watched a bird floating with the wind. I can see for miles and the view is so much more spectacular from up here. It is like looking at an artist’s landscape, one that includes all of the beautiful colors, unlike when you are on the ground and see just one tree or hill at a time.

I would like this experience to last forever, but good old terra firma is approaching rapidly, and it is worry time again. Am I going to be able to hit the ground without breaking a leg or worse yet without cracking my head open? Here it comes! Here it comes! Gravity does exist. Oh, wow, my butt is taking a beating. Oh good I see someone running to help me. If they save me I promise never to do this again--at least not until I get the nerve up to do it again.

Well, I did it. Did I enjoy the ride? It was a little like flying in an airplane. The takeoff and the landing is the only part I ever feel any uncertainty about. Would I do it again? It is a little too soon to answer that question. I need a little more time to absorb my feelings and discern whether the takeoff and landing is worth the ride.

 THANKSGIVING DINNER

@2011 Pam Wilkie

I love Thanksgiving; it’s my favorite holiday of the year. It doesn’t have the angst and commercialism of Christmas which makes me want to run screaming to a faraway island until it’s all over. Thanksgiving is a simple, honest and wonderful day of just being with those you love; laughing, eating, drinking and watching a lot of football. No gifts to buy, no decorations needed, no fancy clothes to wear. Just be.

In the early days of my adulthood, we all went to my Mom’s for dinner. I am the oldest of seven kids and when we all got together with our spouses, kids, boyfriends and/or girlfriends, it was quite a crowd. It was always fun and I treasure those memories. But my favorite Thanksgivings have been the ones Bill and I have shared in our home over the last twenty years.

I love to set a nice table; to me it’s just as easy to put down a pretty dish or glass as an every day one. I alternate between using Bill’s grandmother’s beautiful one- hundred year old china and lovely linens, and my mother’s china from the sixties with my own tablecloth and napkins. I pick leaves from the magnolia tree in my back yard, clean them off and arrange them around crystal candlesticks of varying sizes that were wedding gifts, and put hydrangea leaves under the deviled eggs to keep them from sliding around on the plate. I gather whatever flowers are blooming in my yard (if I’m lucky there might be daffodils or narcissus), put them in small crystal vases or jam pots and scatter them around the table.

We cook a traditional meal of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy (oh yes, the gravy), home-made cranberry sauce, peas, rolls and butter, Waldorf salad and, of course, pies for dessert which nobody eats until the next day. The mood is always casual, relaxed and fun.

Although Thanksgiving is a uniquely American holiday, we’ve had the great pleasure of sharing our table with friends from other countries. Our lovable, charming and a little bit wacky Australian friend, Rick, joined us several times. Before dinner he played pub songs on the piano and told an endless stream of funny stories of his travels all over the world. For him we are thankful.

Richie, tall and lean, dressed casually in one of his short sleeved, plaid shirts, jeans and ever present baseball cap, looks as young and handsome as ever. Rie, with her black hair falling to her waist, open unadorned face, quiet, gentle nature, and the purest soul I’ve ever known, is a pleasure to be around. They join us each year and for that we are thankful.

Sometimes friends came from other cities or states to celebrate the day with us. Mark and Billie and their little boy, Blake would drive in from Las Vegas and Mark, who loves to cook, would take over the kitchen and prepare the whole meal. What a blessing that was! Bill’s parents from New Mexico joined us across the table for several years, until they weren’t able to travel any longer.

During the years when my children and grandchildren were living out of the area, Bill and I spent several Thanksgiving Days at the home of our friends David and Stacey and shared the joy with their families.

This year, however, is special; Shelley, my daughter, is hosting her first Thanksgiving Day meal and has invited the whole family to come. She wants LOTS of people there. We’re all helping out by bringing a dish or two. Shelley’s a good cook and can put together this meal, no problem, even though she’ll not only have her own family to deal with, but that of her boyfriend, as well. It will be the first time in many years that I’ll share the day with my children, grandchildren, nieces and grand nieces. And for that I am thankful.

If, for some reason she changes her mind, I will have Thanksgiving here once again and try to decide how to decorate the table this year.

Whoever we’ve had the pleasure of being with on Thanksgiving; it’s always been a happy, lovely day. No one ever forgets to toast our good fortune and the many blessings we have each and every day, and for that we are thankful.

A thought while I am gone. . .

Love is the Greatest: Here are two different loves.

BEING IN LOVE

©2011 Pam Wilkie

I remember being in love. Oh, that wonderfully glorious feeling that nothing else in the world mattered. It was the single most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me. We saw each other for over ten years and for the entire time we remained in love. I’d hurry to see him, always anxious and a little bit nervous. He’d hug me tightly, say Hi, kiss me and then we’d sit down and share the past twenty four hours with each other. We sat close, holding on, touching while we chatted and ate our lunch. We’d talk about what we did the evening before, trying to block the inevitable feelings of jealousy we knew would come, but we smiled and listened to this part of our lives anyway. Sometimes we wouldn’t have lunch at all – we’d make better use of our time.

Leaving was the hardest part for us – we simply didn’t want to go. Driving off, I was both sad yet exhilarated by being in his presence and knowing I might see him again on his way home after work. Those ever so brief encounters would have to last until the next time; and they did. The memory of my moments with him didn’t leave my mind until I saw him again.

At first we would meet at the park and I’d sit across from him, face to face. Looking each other in the eye, we talked of nothing important. But we laughed and acted silly and we knew it was good. We could feel the bubble that enclosed us from the world. We heard and saw nothing at all but each other. He told me how pretty I was; he stroked my face and hair. He kissed me softly and all my muscles relaxed and I blended into his arms. We talked of a time we could really be together and how good it would be.

I would leave there and go home with butterflies in my stomach from the excitement of spending even such a short time with him and the anticipation of the next time. In those days and for every day ahead for many years, it was always the same; hurrying to get there, to see the sparkle in his eyes, to smell his cologne, to hear his voice, just being two people in love, and later having to force ourselves away.

A dinner and a movie for us was a special occasion. Most of the time it meant we had the whole night together. We’d go to a favorite restaurant – a fine dining institution just outside of town – and drink our wine, feeling very sophisticated. The tables were set with lovely, white linens and heavy flat wear; the walls covered with red fabric and dimly lit sconces reminiscent of a saloon from a hundred years ago. It was perfect!

Our love was genuine and all encompassing. I knew it, I felt it. It was real and it was comforting. No harsh words ever passed between us, through good times and bad. We were level with one another; soft, happy. We brought out the best in each other and it was good and I understood this is the way it’s supposed to be.

Once, on a hot mid-summer day at our meeting, I was distraught over a financial or parenting crisis and ran into his arms crying uncontrollable. When he asked me what was wrong, I couldn’t speak. He sat me down and went and found water and brought it to me and then he did the most extraordinary thing…he washed me feet! He gently washed my feet. The effect that had on me was immediate and powerful. My crying stopped – I was utterly in awe of this man. Never before had I experienced such caring tenderness, nor have I since.

We made the most of our time together. The years flew by and then it was time to part. We both knew it, but even so, it was hard to do. There was no fight, no argument, still no harsh words, just a mutual understanding of how it must be.

That was many years ago now. We’ve had no contact since then, but I often think of him and those days we enjoyed. I can see now what he taught me about how to love. I was given a great gift by him; knowing what true love feels like, of being secure and safe in that knowledge and not having to question it. I’ll always have that part of him for myself, but I knew all along he was not mine.

This is a love of longevity and loyalty

Wimbledon White Mustang

©2011 Joyce Seeger

     As our two-year Peace Corps assignment in the Philippines was ending, Connie McPherson and I enjoyed planning our trip home. Since we had come across the Pacific Ocean, we decided to travel home through Asia and Northern Europe. I would also make a stop in New York City. I had a friend there, named Anne Guilfoile, whom I had met during a summer job while in college. One of the things we would do was go to the World’s Fair in New York City.

      I remember as we neared Kennedy International Airport from London, the pilot announced that because of severe weather in New York City, our flight would land in

 Boston. After going through customs there, we were bused to New York City, but to

 La Guardia Airport rather than JFK. I was a little worried about the airport change, but

 Anne had been informed and met me at La Guardia.

      We enjoyed the fair, and two things still stand out almost 50 years later. One is that

 Pepsi-Cola sponsored a ride called “It’s a Small World” and after the fair this ride was

moved to Disneyland in Anaheim.  The second is The Ford Motor Company Pavilion where I saw their newest car on display. I looked up at the rotating rotunda and fell in love with what I saw.

I decided right then and there that when I got a job I would save my money and buy that car.

      My job was teaching 6^th grade in Racine, Wisconsin, and my salary was $6,600. a year.

 I lived in a room at the YMCA, rode the city bus to my job, and by March 1965 I had saved

 enough to buy my first car, a 1965 Mustang. It was Wimbledon White with black interior, a six-cylinder and three-speed stick shift.

           Because I had gone to college in Iowa and was teaching in Wisconsin, the requirements

 for a teaching credential in Wisconsin specified two additional courses. I needed to take

 these during the summer, and now that I had a car, I decided to register for summer school

 at UCLA. My parents drove to California with me, and after visiting friends in Inglewood

they flew back home. But before we left Wisconsin some friends of theirs reminded them

 that mutual friends, Henry and Irene Seeger, lived in San Bernardino, and suggested

to my parents that they stop and visit them on the way to Los Angeles . So, after a few days

of traveling west in my new Mustang, we checked into the Valley Motel on Mt. Vernon

 Avenue (Route 66) in San Bernardino . After we had some dinner, my mother found the

 Seegers’ number in the phone book and gave them a call. They offered to pick us up at the

 motel and take us to their home for an evening of visiting. These Seegers were people I did

 not know, so I said I would stay at the motel, but when the Seegers arrived , my parents had talked me into going along. When we got to their house I was introduced to their son, and fourteen months later we were married.

The lady, who would be my mother-in-law, served us homemade chocolate cake with ice cream that evening, and throughout the years she always had a homemade dessert on hand to serve to guests or family.

      I drove back to Wisconsin alone at the end of that summer, and since then the Mustang

 has gone across the country often: to the edges of the continent, the bridges and water   

of the Florida Keys, the Canadian countryside all the way to Halifax, Nova Scotia. This included the steep  hills of San Francisco where STOP signs at the tops of the hills, with a stick-shift, were always a challenge. My children both learned to drive in the Mustang, and I still drive it regularly.

I Am From

©2011 Ethel Mitchell

I am from Souix City, Iowa, a city of stock yards, corn fields and Loess Hills.

I am from Sundays spent at church and the cemetery cleaning

the ground around the graves, listening to the band playing in the kiosk,

playing tag with my cousins, eating our lunch

on a blanket spred on the ground.

I am from East Seventh street

extending up a hill that was just made

for sledding in winter and picnics

by the river while men cut ice.

Ice skating, roasting marshmallows over bon fires

on the banks and going home cold but happy.

Wrapping a blanket around me, reading

one of my many books

and drinking hot cocoa.

I am from paper dolls made out of Sears Roebuck catalog,

taught to me by Enid Bow,

southern belles dancing in the cotillion dresses

from hollyhock dolls, jacks on the side walk

and playing house with doll

furniture my father

had made for me.

A three mirror dresser,

a bed like my parents only small,

a reclinging chair

plus

table and chair for tea parties.

I am from panties made from flour sacks

or bloomers made out

of the same material as my dress,

long stockings that always wrinkled,

long handled underwear.

Being bundled up so I could hardly move.

Buster Brown hair cuts.

I am from starting school walking in sunshine, rain, or snow,

trying to see how high I could pump the swing

on the playground, teeter tottering the fastest,

liking spelling and arithmetic. Ivy Brown my first

playmate of the same age.

I am from Sioux City, Iowa

DIRT

©2011 Barbara Dickenson

Big city dirt is different than country dirt. In Momence Illinois, in the late 1930's and early '40's we lived about l½ blocks from a train track. In those days the big black engine was fueled with dirty black coal that spewed from its funnel-like smoke stack. Tiny particles floated in the air and in our homes. When I played outside I would soon have a grayish sheen to my skin.

In those days our neighborhood was true ethnic cultures. We lived close to each other and they were the sort of people that hung over the fence or sat on their stoops to hold conversations. For a yard to play in, well they were all dirt. No one could afford to grow grass, but a few would grow flowers in pots. As children, we would sit on the steps and play with our dolls. This was a cleaner dirt, by that I mean it did not cling to our bodies and clothes. However, it showed up in the bath water.

Camping dirt back East and camping dirt, here in the mountains are pretty much the same. The sort of dirt one gets while climbing trees or scamping around fallen tree trunks, or sitting around the fire ring. Now that was dirt. Back East, we picked up a bar of soap and jumped in the river to bathe. Here in the West, we heat beach. up a bucket of water on the fire ring and get a 'marine bath'!

The dirt in the desert or wash is actually sand and it clings to your skin, even if you brush it off, you feel dirty. The sand blows in and leaves a layer everywhere. It is not as bad now that we have grass and trees.

The question is should children get dirty? I hope so, whether we live in a city or the desert or mountains and even the beach, every year of growth for a child is a learning experience. From digging holes to planting gardens or making mud pies,. these are treasures to be found on the earth.

When my daughter was two years old, I looked out the back door, where she stood outside with a toothy grin. She looked like a chipmunk with small stones in her cheeks and some in her pockets. This was her comfort zone and eventually gew out of it. However, if Peggy is stressed I will still say, “Suck a rock Peg!”

I AM FROM by Pam Wilkie

I am from big rollers in my hair, from Ivory Liquid and Wonder Bread.

I am from ever changing places, foreign, different, and frightening.

I am from the ocean and sand, the wind and snow, the cactus garden at my grandmother’s house.

I am from holiday gatherings with laughs, cocktails, food and always high drama from someone or another.

I am from the strength to cope and thriftiness. From “you kids better straighten up and fly right” and from “get on your horse and get out of town”.

I am from Vacation Bible School and from sitting in the pew of a centuries old church in a centuries old country.

I am from California and Germany and Ireland, from the Amish and Ancient Romans, from my mom’s enchiladas which were really Granny’s and her mother’s before her, and my father’s pea bean pop that morphed into “Moat Soup”.

From the loss of a beautiful brother gone far too soon, a mother who slept till noon, and from husbands who flew the coop.

I am from the slides my father took and kept in a metal box (where are they now?), a scrapbook from my teen years that protects every secret note and Christmas gift tag and the oath of three blood sisters sworn to nearly fifty years ago. I am from airplanes, bowling, baseball and a dog named Gunner.

.

Look for Me by Claudette Dickey

Look for me

Where the wild daisies grow

Above ocean's shore,

Where the driftwood's piled high

From a hundred winter storms,

And the sea birds soar

Against a summer sky.

Look for me

Where the coast redwoods tower

In the cool, foggy mists,

Where the sword ferns lushly grow

And brush my cheek when

I walk by,

And a soul can live forever,

Feeling free,
Feeling free.

Pam in front, left. She does not look happy to be here.

I AM FROM

by Pam Wilkie©

9-4-09

I am from big rollers in my hair, from Ivory Liquid and Wonder Bread.

I am from ever changing places, foreign, different, and frightening.

I am from the ocean and sand, the wind and snow, the cactus garden at my grandmother’s house.

I am from holiday gatherings with laughs, cocktails, food and always high drama from someone or another.

I am from the strength to cope and thriftiness. From “you kids better straighten up and fly right” and from “get on your horse and get out of town”.

I am from Vacation Bible School and from sitting in the pew of a centuries old church in a centuries old country.

I am from California and Germany and Ireland, from the Amish and Ancient Romans, from my mom’s enchiladas which were really Granny’s and her mother’s before her, and my father’s pea bean pop that morphed into “Moat Soup”.

From the loss of a beautiful brother gone far too soon, a mother who slept till noon, and from husbands who flew the coop.

I am from the slides my father took and kept in a metal box (where are they now?), a scrapbook from my teen years that protects every secret note and Christmas gift tag and the oath of three blood sisters sworn to nearly fifty years ago. I am from airplanes, bowling, baseball and a dog named Gunner.

.

Marine Beds by Robert S. Ynacay

I remember my years on active duty, having to sleep in a sleeping bag, canvas cot, canvas hammock-type bedding ships, and bunk beds, single and double. Those memories of long ago make my body ache as I grow older.

The sleeping bag during the Korean War was great and kept your body warm in the winter, but in a combat atmosphere, you slept on the ground, in a fighting hole, deep enough to where your head was just below ground level, and your buddy stayed awake, watching for the enemy, while you grabbed a quick snooze. The sleep was never deep, as you could hear animals – rats- running in front of your lines, still hear the artillery firing at the other side. You could smell a strong odor of gun powder, sulfur, and just the stench of the air surrounding your present position. A clean breeze would fill my lungs, with fresh air coming off the rice paddies around us, but that soon had the odor of human waste, as the paddies were fertilized with it.

I felt every imaginable type of insect of the night eating on my body. It it started raining, you would warp your bag around you body, put your poncho over you, and sit on an ammo crate to get off the ground. You would have your steel helmet on your head, and your weapon under this get-up – at the reading to come out fighting. The motivation for a Marine to be on the alert in this situation was strong. There was an army unit, caught in their sleeping bags asleep, and that was a disaster. A number of soldiers were bayoneted and shot to death because they couldn't get out of their bags. Any time we had good weather, the bag was aired out.

My favorite bed is the bunk on a troop transport ship, sailing back and forth from the Orient to the States, making the trip in about two weeks each way. The individual berthing space was about 3x7 feet; a piece of canvas with holes four inches apart for lasing down on a metal frame, which made it a very tight piece of bedding. No mattress. These spaces held four or five bunks from the deck to the ceiling, with about 30 inches between your space and the next person above you. There were no pillow, sheets or blankets. Your blanket from your Combat Pack, which you carried ashore with all your personal items, was used as a pillow. Your rifle was tied to this space, your helmet, cartridge belt, bayonet, and any other items you owned were placed on your space, and you could either sleep in your skivvies or your trousers.

The air was always warm, humid, stale, and smelly from the men throwing up from seasickness before they could make it to the head – or topside, where they could get that fresh cold ocean breeze in their faces. Each compartment held about 100 Marines, and shower facilities for troops was saltwater straight out of the ocean, so showing, for most, was every third or fourth day. The entrance to the toilets was wide open, adding to the aroma of a lot of body odor.

The men learned never to grab the bottom rack. The top rack was a little more spacious and they didn't have to worry about a seasick person barfing on them. Only the troops got the honor of these berthing areas; permanent personnel got the cabin type accommodations for ocean voyagers. Most Marines spent a lot of time on deck during the waking hours, cleaning their weapons, reading, sleeping, telling tall tales from their past young lives, and just enjoying breathing in that fresh salty air. A person will never forget his trip on a troop ship.

I have slept on canvas-type civilian camping cots, bunk beds – single, double, triple high – and I have gotten a good night's sleep. Now I cannot sleep on cots or bunks, for the fear of rolling off onto the floor. Only the king-size bed is my favorite, giving me plenty of room for thrashing around without finding myself on the floor, not able to get up. 

Instructor Marilyn Donahue and Nancy O'Connor show presentation board.

Nancy O'Connor explains the Memoir Writing Class presentation board displaying written copy and pictures of the class at work.

Mexicali Stars by David Dowling February 2011

1MEXICALI STARS by David Dowling© February 2011

Were we running from or searching for the illusive, the changing, a cosmic answer? Youth and it’s passions cause large ideas that can co-exist in a small narrow world. Chances that are received and in some cases grabbed in mid-air. The need to experience what cannot be seen only dreamed and smelled and listened to….deep in the night, far from home, sweat in the air, wind through your hair. Through the mysteriousness of a very black night in a southern desert on a strange highway along an abandoned sea with ancient shorelines passing broken buildings over smashed dates from their fallen trees along seldom used railroad tracks canals of sweet water smelling dead fish, coyote eyes stare bright to the right, discarded cans, hitchhikers to everywhere and nowhere, aliens from below, police from above, hot wind pushes us along, tumbleweeds racing past across and over, Chinese tacos for breakfast. Indio, Mecca, Niland, North Shore, Brawley, Westmoreland, Calexico, over the rumbling earth through Ocotillo red toward the destination, ever closer and blanketed by the Mexicali Stars.

Three hours ago there was television, people, many cars, talk, answers, questions, idle time, boredom. Now there is few people, neon in the darkness, cargo trucks, bars and borders. Always hot in the summer, perspiration at midnight, sleep, beer, scared. Keep moving moderately fast never slow… wagons ,carts, horses, neon cars, bicycles, no sleep, through border no questions, red light green light, o no wrong one. Below border police stopped, questions begin, pay now or wait for later. Pay now leave quickly but slowly. Breathe… tortillas, beer, south 3 more hours, focus, pass cargo trucks that pass us. Truck stops in middle of road, no lights no flares, driver sleeps underneath. Good luck. Ancient salt flats, camels, rabbits, date palms, fertile fields, black dark deathly, hot and empty. Pit stop side of road, sewage smell, no sound from car approaching, way off, passing… whoosh, silence again. Two more hours pass. Sliver of sunrise on horizon, craggy mountains on our right, ocean water to our left, reflections, slight breeze from Cortez cools air. No cars, people, buildings for last hour, sign ahead, sun higher, road left, jet contrail above, very fast car passes. San Felipe ahead, Shrimp Man shack, buy land, build house, fish, sleep, live and die, dirt airstrip, town. Mexicali Stars left behind.

Highway stops at ocean, small town, many people, little electricity daytime only, shrimp boats, lighthouse, breakwater, tide out way out, dogs, street carts with tacos de pescado, sun up, hot returns, no relief, humid, no breeze, desert expatriates, sand buggies shrimp, Radio Venezuela, bars, thirsty, no English spoken here, Club Miramar, American girls, convertible from Berkeley over mountains from Ensenada. Why? Beer, food, beer…answer. Smile Drugs and Men serious…. Beach, sleep, search, sleep, swim. Saw girls next day, successful in their search. Six hours from San Bernardino to San Felipe Baja, midnight to 6AM, early 1970’s, under the attentive eyes of the Mexicali Stars.

Sagebrush is My Heart by Monica Zollinger 2011

There is a particular sagebrush plant native of Southeastern Utah which has a stout trunk with stems that are erect, slender and freely branching. It can tolerate extreme temperatures, various soil conditions and lack of water while providing thermal cover for smaller birds and mammals and food when other resources are scarce. While it is not beautiful, its tiny inconspicuous buds loosely spread out along the tips of the silvery stems. In order to truly admire this grayish-green plant, you must pick a leaf, crush it, and smell it. Only then can you enjoy it’s true essence.

Seniors get excited

First Kiss by Nancy O'Conner

First Kiss

by

Nancy O'Connor©

I was fifteen that summer of 1962. Life was filled with friends and slumber parties and swim practices, and yes, boys. I’d had lots of crushes and admired boys from a distance, but I hadn’t yet had a “real” boyfriend or a “real” kiss. I’d been practicing, though, kissing the bathroom mirror and the backs of my fingers, so when the time came I wouldn’t make a complete fool of myself.

Then John Lenker came along. He was a popular Redlands boy who decided to become a “ringer” on the Yucaipa swim team that summer. He was a terrific swimmer, but it seemed he liked the idea of being a big fish in the small pond Yucaipa’s team had to offer. At sixteen, he was an older man, and gorgeous. He was powerfully-built and darkly-tanned, with a buzz cut so short his black hair just made a shadow across his scalp. The haircut made him swim faster, he said. And he had big dark eyes and lashes so long it was criminal they didn’t belong to a girl.

With his winning personality, he quickly charmed his way into the Howe family. My brother was the swim coach and bent over backwards to welcome this accomplished swimmer to his team. I would like to think being the coach’s sister had nothing to do with John’s interest in me, but I was soon crazy about him. At swim meets, I even held his retainer for him while he swam his races—wrapped in the corner of his towel, of course. And since John rode his Vespa scooter from Redlands to practice every afternoon, it became a regular routine for him to stop on his way home at our house on the boulevard to have dinner. He still holds the Howe family record for taco consumption—twelve in one sitting.

One night after dinner, John and I lingered on the patio, while the rest of the family went inside to watch television. Dad had made vanilla ice cream, and John had done his part turning the crank when the going got tough. Mom brought us bowls of ice cream topped with strawberries from the garden. When we finished off our dessert, things got quiet between us, and the tension grew. He made his move, and it was even better than I had imagined it would be. Sweet, lingering, and strawberry-flavored, the memory of John’s kiss has remained, sort of like his taco-eating record, as a defining moment of that summer.

The Movies

by

Lynn Ferrin©

I have been thinking that you could not possibly write a life story of someone my age and leave out the movies. Actually, the industry and my generation grew up together.

The first movie I ever saw was probably in 1924 when I saw the silent film, “The Gold Rush” with Charlie Chaplin, the little tramp , as he was called. There was one nail-biting scene I have kept in my memory of his cabin in the frozen Klondike, which was slipping over the precipice of a high cliff. Poor little Charlie had slid with the cabin and was hanging out the door kicking frantically to save himself.

In a few years, my brother and I had a lovely routing of going to a Saturday morning matinee. Those were wonderful times. There was Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd and Tom Mix, and, of course, the Keystone Kops. Lots of chases and pie throwing. The silence of the films was broken, however, by the screams of the kids and also the music of a local organist or piano player would try to play mood music for whatever emotion was being portrayed.

I was in charge of my little brother, and since I was older and could read better, I was expected to read to him all the dialogue that was flashed on the screen. He always accused me of leaving out some of the words and was going to tell Mama that I didn't read it all. We got ten cents each for the show and also a nickel to spend. Those were the days of penny candy, and you could have quite a tote bag of sweets if you spent your money wisely.

The next startling event for the movies was that they were discussing talking pictures. Impossible and unbelievable! I remember a very unusual night when my parents called in a baby sitter and went by themselves to see “The Jazz Singer,” with Al Jolson. It actually had only a few lines of spoken dialogue, but the great Al Jolson, in black face no less, sang his wonderful renditions of “Mammy” and “Sonny Boy.” My own first talkie was a Fox Movietone Newsreel of the inauguration and address of Herbert Hoover in 1928.

By the 20's and 30's, they had gotten the sound down, and we heard great musical stars like Deanna Durbin, Jeanette McDonald, Lily Pons, Paul Robeson, and the the big musical extravaganzas with casts of hundreds.

The theaters at that time were of ornate and elaborate architecture and decoration. They usually tried to copy some exotic style like Egyptian or Grecian. There were beautiful chandeliers and carpets. People did not eat in the theaters, but almost always there was a confectioner's shop next to the theater for after movie snacks. Back then people dressed up to go to the movies, like going to church. It was not until the advent of drive-in movies that the “come as you are” lifestyle developed.

The next thing to conquer was color. In 1939, they made the wonderful movie “Gone With the Wind,” from the popular novel. It was done with a new color system which was brilliant and bright, and the movie was three hours long. It was perfect – the cast, the costumes, and the script, which kept to the book. When it was over, I couldn't get myself back to the present. Also, because of crying so hard and staring at the brilliant color, I had a terrible headache.

Then my companion began to urge me to go so we could, “beat the traffic.” Here I had been living every scene for three hours. I heard Rhett Butler tell Scarlet he “didn't give a damn,” and I wanted to sit and enjoy my misery.

Finally, after he kept urging me to come on, I was able to speak to him and give my answer. I said, “Aw Shut Up.”

April Dandelions