Booze and stale cigarette smoke. Mmmmmmm.... Perfume to my olfactory senses.
It all started when I was about five years old. Thailand was just beginning to get hit with its first contingency wave of American influence and change back in the early 1960s and night clubs catering to the "farang" were popping up all over Bangkok proper. Imitating the American lead, Thais also frequented these sleazy bars.
Among these night spots was one unassuming one in particular called The Orchid Room. Its location was in a downtown plaza named Gaysorn. In a few years this plaza would become one of the many hubs of Bangkok, and in the early 1960s the place to be if you were an American was in The Orchid Room right in the center of Gaysorn Plaza.
One of the unique things about Bangkok back then was that anyone could frequent these night clubs. And, I mean anyone. That also included any age, any gender, any ethnicity -- in a word, ANYone; so, when Gaysorn Plaza held an annual festival event one evening, The Orchid Room was open for business and in full swing.
I remember this one particular night....
I'm five years old. I'm just beginning to realize my surroundings. The air is warm and the sky is dark with shining stars, and I feel a new feeling of excitement. This night is magical. There are lights everywhere. The street is filled with people and street food vendors, and they're all walking around, talking and eating. Mom has a hold of my hand and that of my sister, Mary, and we are walking down the middle of the street with people strolling about all over the place. Dad appears from around the corner and says something about an orchid and mom nods.
I see floating balloons of every color over head. Mom gives the man some Bhat (Thai currency) and the man gives her two balloons. One she ties on Mary's wrist and one she wants to tie on mine, but I want to hold it in my hands, so she lets me. We continue walking and suddenly, my balloon floats away. I yell something, and mom looks down at me and says, "Well, that's what happens when you don't let me tie the string to your wrist. Now, make a wish and let it fly away." I miss my balloon. Mary still has hers.
We walk through a large door and into a dark, dimly lit smoke filled room. Outside, before walking in, is see a flashing neon light. It is a pink flower and it looks like an orchid. The room is packed with people. There is a bar to the right. Dozens of small round tables with filled glasses on them fill the room and lots of people are sitting in chairs or standing. Dad is sitting in one of them. Mom takes us over to his table and I sit down. I look around, smelling the smoke, watching everyone drinking, laughing. I hear the chatter and take in the wonderment. I'm only five years old.
This was my first experience of life at night, and the excitement of it would last me a lifetime. The infectious and addictive sense of that night, sitting there in The Orchid Room with all those grownups and my mom and dad and Mary, had seeded itself; and, what I would later discover as Night Life, had taken hold and claimed my reserve through a laughter crazed and smoke filled room of a neon lit purply-pink orchid plant. The Orchid Room had changed my life forever.
Back in the United States after some 15 years of living overseas, I frequented many disco clubs and felt at home inhaling the stale smoke while sipping my glass of wine or two during the years of my youth. Later, I would take belly dance lessons in Sacramento and then begin performing on the small stages of local San Francisco belly dance night clubs on Broadway Street to the wee hours of the morning. There, the lingering cigarette smoke would hang in the air and filter through my costumes as I danced for the patrons. And, as I would dress for work the next day, I would walk out to the living room where I had left my costume just a few hours earlier, having departed the night club after an evening of dancing, and I would take in the aromas of the evening as that stale smoke and booze molecules escaped my costume drifting into the confines of my apartment. It was The Orchid Room all over again.
The Clean Air Act and the No Smoking laws put an end to smoke clouded night spots. And, although I know that second-hand smoke can also kill, I still miss the chatter and clatter of a hazy night club as people light cigarettes and let drift the lazy smoke into the room. It would fill my senses as it once did decades ago inside The Orchid Room.
Sometimes, when I get a little nostalgic, I'll wander upstairs to where my costumes are now stashed. I'll open the costume cases and bring these now old and worn costumes to my nose, and I will inhale deeply the still faint scent of stale smoke, and the excitement and magic of Night life will once again fill my senses.
And I'm the Orchid Room all over again.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Friday, December 14, 2012
A Bangkok Family Christmas
Saturday, December 1, 2012 10:25 AM -- the very day after the very last day of November, and I witnessed my first sighting of a Douglas Fir strapped to the roof of a car driving west on John F. Kenedy Drive in Golden Gate Park. I mean, couldn't they have waited another day or so before chopping down this innocent young fir tree? Six hours later and the second one wizzed past me on Sunset Boulevard.
I hate Christmas. Or rather, I hate the commercialization of Christmas.
My first real Christmas tree was back in 1964. It was a real big deal back then. I was only ten years old and we were living in Bangkok on Soi 31 off of Sukumvit Road. Back then, the Thais were just beginning to get what Christmas meant to the Americans stationed over there, and real live fir trees of any kind were virtually unknown. So, when my friend, Becky, told me of real live fir trees being imported to Bangkok, I rushed to tell my mom and dad.
But long before that year, our beloved Christmas tree consisted of dark green plastic pieces all wrapped up in a cardboard box, which we got from the Navy Base Exchange. Six one-foot pole-like parts with corresponding numbers embedded in each pole fitted into each other and made up the trunk out of which half-inch nobs protruded. Into these protrusions with corresponding numbers the larger branches with the same number were attached. These branches also came with half-inch nobs and smaller branches were fitted onto these nobs according to more matching numbers. And, yes, these smaller branches had nobs onto which the fir-like leaves were attached. By the end of the tree construction, we had a perfectly symmetrical six-foot dark green plastic Christmas tree. I still remember being a part of something big as I helped to assemble and then decorate this plastic fir tree with my family.
Then came the real tree, the live tree, the tree that would make all the difference in our 1964 Christmas, imported especially for the Americans all the way from the hills of somewhere in the United States. And it was a beautiful tree, with branches that stuck out every which way. It was a perfect Christmas tree. It was a special Christmas tree.
And then ten years later, back in the States, I saw it; rows and rows of young fir trees all lined up just like the apple orchards in Washington. A sign hung on a fence, "Christmas Tree Farm".
Trees grown in a tree farm just for chopping and selling for the Holidays use of less than a month saddens me. People ask me around the Holidays, "Why don't you ever put up a Christmas tree?" My answer: "There are plenty of LIVE trees outside my window that look just as lovely in the sparkle of daylight and just as beautiful beneath the glow of the moonlight without going out and BUYING A DEAD ONE -- one that was grown specifically for chopping down or rather killing and which will ultimately end up all dried and brown lying in a gutter somewhere; a fitting place for the (by the way) once glorified Christmas tree just for a 30-day occasion of decorating and celebrating a Holy birth." A dead tree for a Holy birth. Now, there's a point to ponder! It just makes no sense to me, spirit or no spirit.
I will never forget my first real Christmas tree, which was then unbeknownst to me most likely grown on a tree farm and which seemed so special back in 1964, but I'd much rather have that boxed plastic one along with some assembly required, because the assembly of this tree was more than just a Christmas tree. It was the gathering of my mom and dad, brother and sisters on one mid-December evening long ago in a tropical country, working as a team -- a family -- building a Christmas tree from numbered plastic parts and decorating it together with laughter and joy. And, we would eventually stand back all together like the assembled parts of that Christmas tree and agree that it was the most beautiful Christmas tree ever.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013 12:00 Noon -- A Christmas tree lies alone in the gutter at Fulton and Divisadero Streets. Another at around 3:30 PM rolls back and forth in the cold wind on Fulton and 36th Avenue. Both brown and dead. Both tossed out in the streets for the garbage men to pick up. Sad.........so very very sad....
I hate Christmas. Or rather, I hate the commercialization of Christmas.
My first real Christmas tree was back in 1964. It was a real big deal back then. I was only ten years old and we were living in Bangkok on Soi 31 off of Sukumvit Road. Back then, the Thais were just beginning to get what Christmas meant to the Americans stationed over there, and real live fir trees of any kind were virtually unknown. So, when my friend, Becky, told me of real live fir trees being imported to Bangkok, I rushed to tell my mom and dad.
But long before that year, our beloved Christmas tree consisted of dark green plastic pieces all wrapped up in a cardboard box, which we got from the Navy Base Exchange. Six one-foot pole-like parts with corresponding numbers embedded in each pole fitted into each other and made up the trunk out of which half-inch nobs protruded. Into these protrusions with corresponding numbers the larger branches with the same number were attached. These branches also came with half-inch nobs and smaller branches were fitted onto these nobs according to more matching numbers. And, yes, these smaller branches had nobs onto which the fir-like leaves were attached. By the end of the tree construction, we had a perfectly symmetrical six-foot dark green plastic Christmas tree. I still remember being a part of something big as I helped to assemble and then decorate this plastic fir tree with my family.
Then came the real tree, the live tree, the tree that would make all the difference in our 1964 Christmas, imported especially for the Americans all the way from the hills of somewhere in the United States. And it was a beautiful tree, with branches that stuck out every which way. It was a perfect Christmas tree. It was a special Christmas tree.
And then ten years later, back in the States, I saw it; rows and rows of young fir trees all lined up just like the apple orchards in Washington. A sign hung on a fence, "Christmas Tree Farm".
Trees grown in a tree farm just for chopping and selling for the Holidays use of less than a month saddens me. People ask me around the Holidays, "Why don't you ever put up a Christmas tree?" My answer: "There are plenty of LIVE trees outside my window that look just as lovely in the sparkle of daylight and just as beautiful beneath the glow of the moonlight without going out and BUYING A DEAD ONE -- one that was grown specifically for chopping down or rather killing and which will ultimately end up all dried and brown lying in a gutter somewhere; a fitting place for the (by the way) once glorified Christmas tree just for a 30-day occasion of decorating and celebrating a Holy birth." A dead tree for a Holy birth. Now, there's a point to ponder! It just makes no sense to me, spirit or no spirit.
I will never forget my first real Christmas tree, which was then unbeknownst to me most likely grown on a tree farm and which seemed so special back in 1964, but I'd much rather have that boxed plastic one along with some assembly required, because the assembly of this tree was more than just a Christmas tree. It was the gathering of my mom and dad, brother and sisters on one mid-December evening long ago in a tropical country, working as a team -- a family -- building a Christmas tree from numbered plastic parts and decorating it together with laughter and joy. And, we would eventually stand back all together like the assembled parts of that Christmas tree and agree that it was the most beautiful Christmas tree ever.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013 12:00 Noon -- A Christmas tree lies alone in the gutter at Fulton and Divisadero Streets. Another at around 3:30 PM rolls back and forth in the cold wind on Fulton and 36th Avenue. Both brown and dead. Both tossed out in the streets for the garbage men to pick up. Sad.........so very very sad....
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Pistachio Party
Back in the early 1960s when we lived in Bangkok, Thailand, some friends of my mom and dad invited them and my sister, Mary, and I to come and visit them for two weeks up in a small sleepy Thai province called of Nong Kai. Nong
Kai is a situated near the Mekong river which borders Laos. At that time, the Viet Nam war wasn't in full swing, and Nong Khai, almost unknown to the West, sat quietly among the many small sleepy villages of Northern Thailand.
This was the first time I had ever been on a train. I marveled at the excitement of it all. Every window was open and I remember the warm air splashing on my face as we made our way through the sunny rice field and palm tree dotted countryside, stopping at many a village where noisy vendors piled in and walked down the aisle offering wares of hot aromatic street foods, cold bottled Coca Cola and Fanta soft drinks, and delicate handmade souvenirs for small fares. I remember that, at many of these stops, there was a kind of yellow-goldish charcoal-grilled seasoned chicken stretched out on makeshift skewers, which made their way from the outside to the inside of the car as travelers handed peddlers coins called satang for these delicious smelling delicacies. My mother, always ready to try something new, handed a handful of satang out of the window, and two of these chickens-on-a-stick Thai style came back through and into the palm of her hand. With an all-knowing grin, she handed one over and I still remember the amazing flavor of this savory seasoned chicken. I didn't know it then, but thinking back, I think this was something the Thais call chicken satay. Mary and I enjoyed one while my mom and dad shared the other.
The trip north would take almost eight hours, and I think my father must have seen that we were getting bored, because, after a while, he came up to Mary's and my seats at the front of the car, sat down between the two of us, and produced a small can of pistachio nuts. Back then, pistachio nuts came in a small tightly sealed can and were dyed red; and as he took out his pocket knife and began cutting into the metal with this handy tool, Mary and I gleamed from ear to ear. Dad was sitting next to us and we had his full attention. And that, even then, was very special.
And, for the rest of the trip on our way to Nong Kai through, what seemed to me to be, more soft drink stops and more chicken-on-a-stick negotiations -- unaware that these were destination stops for travelers as well as food opportunities -- we all three sat there shucking off the hard salty red-dyed outer shells to these salty green nut meats, laughing and licking our fingers, competing for the reddest tongue and the best scarlet fingers that the dye from these pistachio nuts could bring as we slowly emptied the can.
There could have been more charcoaled grilled street foods around for the rest of the trip, but I don't remember seeing much more of that. Our threesome and a can of salty red-dyed pistachio nuts was all that existed for the rest of the ride. It was a very private pistachio party that only Mary, dad, and I were enjoying while my mom watched from several seats behind.
Why does a memory like that sear itself into the fabric of one's mind? For years I have carried this memory with me, recalling the connection we all three shared that day. It may have been only a very small moment of time in my life, but it has carried a meaning, so profound and so deep that I will never forget it. It is a memory that brings my father back into my life and makes him real and alive again. It may have been insignificant back then, but I long for this moment time and time again.
Pistachio nuts have become a big part of my everyday life now as I grind them for the Middle Eastern desserts I make in my restaurant. And, although they aren't the salty red ones or the ones that come in a can, not a pistachio nut goes by without my recalling this wonderful adventure, which became that much more special when dad opened a can of salty red-dyed pistachio nuts with his pocket knife and shared them with my sister and me on our way north to Nong Kai.
And, if I sit back quietly and close my eyes, I'm suddenly whisked away to that very special warm sunny day, sitting on a park bench-like seat with my father and my sister, Mary, in a noisy train along with all the smells and laughter and commotion, sharing a moment in life -- a pistachio party -- on our way to the villages of Northern Thailand. He is smiling at me as he opens that small tightly sealed priceless can of salty red-dyed pistachio nuts with his pocket knife, and I have his full and loving attention once more.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Filing Frenzy
Ever wonder about life? I do. Life is all about filing. Life is one huge filing cabinet with a system, and each drawer a chapter in the life's filing cabinet, and each file an incident or an experience of that life's file drawer. That particular filing system is call the brain.
And then there's everything else in life that gets filed away.
It goes without saying that all important papers get filed away, but what about garbage? That gets filed in the garbage bin, probably located under a sink or next to your filing cabinet or desk of drawers. And when that bin gets filled, all of that gets filed in the garbage bins outside for the city to pick up and file in their system. And I'll bet there are at least three color-coded files for that out in your garage -- compost, recycle, and all the rest -- mandated filing by the City.
Dirty clothes get filed in the clothes hamper which is filed somewhere in your home. When the clothes hamper gets filled up, the clothes get filed by color and type of fabric into a temporary file called the washing machine, which is most likely filed in the garage or laundry room. Mine is filed inside my kitchen.
So, after the clothes are all washed and dried, they all get filed back into their respective drawers and closets. The detergent gets filed back with the fabric softener and the anti-static sheets. And that process of filing waits to happen again.
And what about when you go down to get something to eat? Eggs, meat, vegetables, soft drinks, butter -- all filed in the refrigerator. And I'll bet each one has its respective shelf just like a filing cabinet -- butter is in its little compartment, eggs are in their egg compartment, the ice is in the freezer file as is the ice cream. And that refrigerator? Mine is filed in the kitchen near the stove, sink, and washing machine.
And after a hard days night, you'll do what I do -- file myself in my bathroom for a long hot shower. The soap I use is filed in the soap dish which is filed on a hanger over the shower head. The shampoo is filed in one corner of my bathroom, the wash cloth is filed on a hook next to my soap dish, and my razor is filed under the soap. Water spills out of its respective file, lands on me, washes off all of the crud that got filed on my skin, and then goes down the drain and gets filed somewhere in the City's water reclamation facility. The towel that I've filed over my curtain rod gets filed back once I use it. The moister left over on that towel evaporates and get filed back into the atmosphere. And after I brush my teeth, my toothbrush and toothpaste get filed back in a small cup that's filed in the corner of my bathroom sink.
My TV is filed on top of my dresser, my computer is filed on top of my desk, and my desk and dresser are filed in my one bedroom office apartment, which is filed in a building that is filed on Balboa Street which was filed a long time ago in San Francisco.
Trouble is, that on my desk where my computer is filed, lay bunches of papers that need to be filed in an actual filing cabinet! Imagine that! And all the VHS cassettes where my Egyptian movies are filed, need to be filed back in the book cases, which are filed in another room. I've called this my temporary file.
I'm currently filing my shoes in the middle of the floor where I removed them just minutes ago from having previously filed them on my feet, and I doubt I'll remove them from that temporary file. There are a couple of used plates and utensils where I had filed some milk and cereal in one of them, and some ground seasoned beef and baked fish in another -- now filed in my stomach, on my office desk, and if I don't file them in my temporary kitchen sink file, I'm apt to cover them up with more un-filed paper work.
God, I HATE filing!
Well, I guess I'll close now, and file this blog in my Pondering on a Thought blog file under the title, Filing Frenzy, and hope that it gets picked up and read by some of my followers, who, by the way, are filed in my Gmail email account and in my personal circles files in my Google+ file.
What haven't YOU filed today?
And then there's everything else in life that gets filed away.
It goes without saying that all important papers get filed away, but what about garbage? That gets filed in the garbage bin, probably located under a sink or next to your filing cabinet or desk of drawers. And when that bin gets filled, all of that gets filed in the garbage bins outside for the city to pick up and file in their system. And I'll bet there are at least three color-coded files for that out in your garage -- compost, recycle, and all the rest -- mandated filing by the City.
Dirty clothes get filed in the clothes hamper which is filed somewhere in your home. When the clothes hamper gets filled up, the clothes get filed by color and type of fabric into a temporary file called the washing machine, which is most likely filed in the garage or laundry room. Mine is filed inside my kitchen.
So, after the clothes are all washed and dried, they all get filed back into their respective drawers and closets. The detergent gets filed back with the fabric softener and the anti-static sheets. And that process of filing waits to happen again.
And what about when you go down to get something to eat? Eggs, meat, vegetables, soft drinks, butter -- all filed in the refrigerator. And I'll bet each one has its respective shelf just like a filing cabinet -- butter is in its little compartment, eggs are in their egg compartment, the ice is in the freezer file as is the ice cream. And that refrigerator? Mine is filed in the kitchen near the stove, sink, and washing machine.
And after a hard days night, you'll do what I do -- file myself in my bathroom for a long hot shower. The soap I use is filed in the soap dish which is filed on a hanger over the shower head. The shampoo is filed in one corner of my bathroom, the wash cloth is filed on a hook next to my soap dish, and my razor is filed under the soap. Water spills out of its respective file, lands on me, washes off all of the crud that got filed on my skin, and then goes down the drain and gets filed somewhere in the City's water reclamation facility. The towel that I've filed over my curtain rod gets filed back once I use it. The moister left over on that towel evaporates and get filed back into the atmosphere. And after I brush my teeth, my toothbrush and toothpaste get filed back in a small cup that's filed in the corner of my bathroom sink.
My TV is filed on top of my dresser, my computer is filed on top of my desk, and my desk and dresser are filed in my one bedroom office apartment, which is filed in a building that is filed on Balboa Street which was filed a long time ago in San Francisco.
Trouble is, that on my desk where my computer is filed, lay bunches of papers that need to be filed in an actual filing cabinet! Imagine that! And all the VHS cassettes where my Egyptian movies are filed, need to be filed back in the book cases, which are filed in another room. I've called this my temporary file.
I'm currently filing my shoes in the middle of the floor where I removed them just minutes ago from having previously filed them on my feet, and I doubt I'll remove them from that temporary file. There are a couple of used plates and utensils where I had filed some milk and cereal in one of them, and some ground seasoned beef and baked fish in another -- now filed in my stomach, on my office desk, and if I don't file them in my temporary kitchen sink file, I'm apt to cover them up with more un-filed paper work.
God, I HATE filing!
Well, I guess I'll close now, and file this blog in my Pondering on a Thought blog file under the title, Filing Frenzy, and hope that it gets picked up and read by some of my followers, who, by the way, are filed in my Gmail email account and in my personal circles files in my Google+ file.
What haven't YOU filed today?
Surviving Concavity
I hate rejection. It's painful. When I come face to face with rejection it jars me to the core. And if I'm not careful, I allow it to sink me into a deep depression -- but thankfully only for a day or so. Then I climb back out after a long thought process, and put my life back in perspective.
A little fresh air and sunshine don't hurt none neither.
I'm told that sharing rejection that leads to depression helps, so, here goes. I'm going to open my life up a little and share some of my most significant rejection moments that have lead to some of the worst depression moments in my life. Hey, the good thing is that I'm still here to talk about them.
My first rejection was the worst. I think we all experience this, don't we? I fell in love in the Seventh Grade with a dazzling gorgeous fellow named Jen. He was tall and beautiful, and he actually gave me some attention. Maybe that's why I fell in love. For the next two years I saw him hug and kiss a pretty young blonde, and every time I saw this, a dagar shot through my heart. It would be the first of many to come.
In high school, my heart went out to a young boy by the name of Chris. He was kind and gentle, and he was, at that time, going blind. But I loved him nonetheless. He was also the lead guitar in a band, and I spent many moments in the same garage with him and his fellow musicians. Those were lovely moments. A year later, he was the proud father of someone else's baby girl.
I left for Sacramento to start my life and, like a kid in a candy store, I fell in love a lot. Life was grand! But I ended up with a guy named John who, after three years, liked to use me as his personal punching bag. After the third time, I felt I had had had enough; and, quite frightened, I escaped to San Francisco to save my life, with a new job, and new everything. No ties. No friends. No connections. Everything ripped away.
I went to work with the USPS and fell in love with a gorgeous fellow there by the name of Chuck. We dated for about two years or so. We broke up over differences, and, though I tried desperately for a year to win him back, the young woman from the mail room soon appeared after that, parading herself on his elbow.
Each of those heartbreaks was painful, especially when the aftermath of them was flaunted right before my eyes, and things were ripped from my life. But I always pulled myself up and continued on.
During my time in the USPS, I was wrongly accused of dealing drugs by the Postal Inspection Service. I knew the people that were dealing the drugs; I was just not one of them. After the painful and arduous interrogations, I was able to clear my name but the gossip stories in that corporate world had already taken hold. Reluctantly, I quit the Postal Service.
During those interrogations, I met my husband, Gabe, and we were married in 1986. He owned a restaurant in San Francisco, and I went to work for him as a dancer and partner. I lived the artist dream. Ten years later, we were divorced because of his complaints that I had an inability to bear children. I already knew from my past I could have them. The hole that I was left in because of his reason for divorce was deep and dark, but I managed to crawl out of that one and get on with life.
I met my late partner, Hatem, during that bout of depression and with promises of fame and fortune, I latched on to his reigns. And, having bought the restaurant lease before my divorce, for the next two years I rode on a new high in a new restaurant and with a new future. Then, because of certain circumstances, the floor fell through, and I no longer had his support. That relationship snowballed downward and took with it all the connections to my biological family.
In that snowball, I was handed a lawsuit from my landlord who was doing his best to break my lease. I had put so much into my restaurant and now I was on the verge of loosing it. After a year of depositions and discoveries, I prevailed but at a large monetary cost, physical anguish, and lost sleep.
Then, the two young girls, "S" and "G" (names changed to protect the guilty), who were involved with the restaurant at the time of my partner's cancer diagnosis, saw an opportunity and climbed aboard that snowball ride, pilfering all my assets and bank account. In the interim, my partner passed away of a lung disease in 2008. When I emerged from that roller coaster ride, I had nothing but the clothes on my back, six lawsuits, and a restaurant in badly need of repair, marketing, and business, and an empty heavy heart.
Four years later, while going through my books, the discovery of $2.8 million of stolen and embezzled monies spiraled in my brain as I found out that these two girls, whom I had trusted with my heart and soul, had otherwise spent all of my savings and earnings on everything but what they were supposed to have spent them on. Because my partner was no longer around to state his case, all I was able to do was file a police report. There are now two dance studios and a house in their names in the East Bay as a result of that crime.
After that significantly depressing chapter of my life, out of which I was still climbing, a fellow -- at my request -- by the name of Max stepped in to help me recover from the loss, and acted as partner and supporter. A year later I discovered that he had double tipped all of my customers to the tune of around $5,000.
And then there was my Navy captain Marcus, a fellow I used to know in the Seventh Grade. I met up with him and I thought he was it. He promised me the world and for the next eight months I was on cloud nine. Then nothing. No word. No letter. No email. After about five months of wondering I did a search on the Internet. Yep. There it was in the local newspaper. Married about the same time he quit calling.
Depression paralyzes and obscures life. It holds one back from making timely and wise decisions. While I never in my life really had the support of my family, I never thought they would turn on me. I never thought my close and trusting love relationships would betray me as deeply as they have. I never thought I'd turn out to be a possible homeless person.
But here I am.
I have found out that family is the family you choose, not the family to which you are born. And the family you do choose in life can also betray you, but that's a chance one needs to take. I have found that no matter how depressing life can be that there is STILL life out there, and that all I need to do is to search and find it in the core of my soul. I have found out that no matter how many betrayals I have encountered, I will continue to trust, for without the ability to trust, there is no life. I just won't again trust the people who betrayed me.
I don't know why I leaned so hard against the very people who betrayed me. I believe it is because I failed to see the greatness in myself, and so I turned to those who I thought knew all the answers. Each time I was plummeted into oblivion, it was I who found the courage and the resources to climb back out.
Having survived these rejections and the accompanying bouts of depression has not been easy. It would have been easier to give up. To throw in the towel. But in not giving up or giving in is evidence of how great I am or can be.
I'm working toward that goal, now -- to be greater than I have ever been in the past. I'm in in command now. I'm at the wheel. And even though I still go through bouts of depression just thinking about what my life has been like and what I've been through and what I have lost, I know that I will be OK.
There are still many many years to come, and many many things to accomplish, despite any rejection that may come my way again. I still have my health (knock on wood.)
Like I said, I'm in command now.
A little fresh air and sunshine don't hurt none neither.
I'm told that sharing rejection that leads to depression helps, so, here goes. I'm going to open my life up a little and share some of my most significant rejection moments that have lead to some of the worst depression moments in my life. Hey, the good thing is that I'm still here to talk about them.
My first rejection was the worst. I think we all experience this, don't we? I fell in love in the Seventh Grade with a dazzling gorgeous fellow named Jen. He was tall and beautiful, and he actually gave me some attention. Maybe that's why I fell in love. For the next two years I saw him hug and kiss a pretty young blonde, and every time I saw this, a dagar shot through my heart. It would be the first of many to come.
In high school, my heart went out to a young boy by the name of Chris. He was kind and gentle, and he was, at that time, going blind. But I loved him nonetheless. He was also the lead guitar in a band, and I spent many moments in the same garage with him and his fellow musicians. Those were lovely moments. A year later, he was the proud father of someone else's baby girl.
I left for Sacramento to start my life and, like a kid in a candy store, I fell in love a lot. Life was grand! But I ended up with a guy named John who, after three years, liked to use me as his personal punching bag. After the third time, I felt I had had had enough; and, quite frightened, I escaped to San Francisco to save my life, with a new job, and new everything. No ties. No friends. No connections. Everything ripped away.
I went to work with the USPS and fell in love with a gorgeous fellow there by the name of Chuck. We dated for about two years or so. We broke up over differences, and, though I tried desperately for a year to win him back, the young woman from the mail room soon appeared after that, parading herself on his elbow.
Each of those heartbreaks was painful, especially when the aftermath of them was flaunted right before my eyes, and things were ripped from my life. But I always pulled myself up and continued on.
During my time in the USPS, I was wrongly accused of dealing drugs by the Postal Inspection Service. I knew the people that were dealing the drugs; I was just not one of them. After the painful and arduous interrogations, I was able to clear my name but the gossip stories in that corporate world had already taken hold. Reluctantly, I quit the Postal Service.
During those interrogations, I met my husband, Gabe, and we were married in 1986. He owned a restaurant in San Francisco, and I went to work for him as a dancer and partner. I lived the artist dream. Ten years later, we were divorced because of his complaints that I had an inability to bear children. I already knew from my past I could have them. The hole that I was left in because of his reason for divorce was deep and dark, but I managed to crawl out of that one and get on with life.
I met my late partner, Hatem, during that bout of depression and with promises of fame and fortune, I latched on to his reigns. And, having bought the restaurant lease before my divorce, for the next two years I rode on a new high in a new restaurant and with a new future. Then, because of certain circumstances, the floor fell through, and I no longer had his support. That relationship snowballed downward and took with it all the connections to my biological family.
In that snowball, I was handed a lawsuit from my landlord who was doing his best to break my lease. I had put so much into my restaurant and now I was on the verge of loosing it. After a year of depositions and discoveries, I prevailed but at a large monetary cost, physical anguish, and lost sleep.
Then, the two young girls, "S" and "G" (names changed to protect the guilty), who were involved with the restaurant at the time of my partner's cancer diagnosis, saw an opportunity and climbed aboard that snowball ride, pilfering all my assets and bank account. In the interim, my partner passed away of a lung disease in 2008. When I emerged from that roller coaster ride, I had nothing but the clothes on my back, six lawsuits, and a restaurant in badly need of repair, marketing, and business, and an empty heavy heart.
Four years later, while going through my books, the discovery of $2.8 million of stolen and embezzled monies spiraled in my brain as I found out that these two girls, whom I had trusted with my heart and soul, had otherwise spent all of my savings and earnings on everything but what they were supposed to have spent them on. Because my partner was no longer around to state his case, all I was able to do was file a police report. There are now two dance studios and a house in their names in the East Bay as a result of that crime.
After that significantly depressing chapter of my life, out of which I was still climbing, a fellow -- at my request -- by the name of Max stepped in to help me recover from the loss, and acted as partner and supporter. A year later I discovered that he had double tipped all of my customers to the tune of around $5,000.
And then there was my Navy captain Marcus, a fellow I used to know in the Seventh Grade. I met up with him and I thought he was it. He promised me the world and for the next eight months I was on cloud nine. Then nothing. No word. No letter. No email. After about five months of wondering I did a search on the Internet. Yep. There it was in the local newspaper. Married about the same time he quit calling.
Depression paralyzes and obscures life. It holds one back from making timely and wise decisions. While I never in my life really had the support of my family, I never thought they would turn on me. I never thought my close and trusting love relationships would betray me as deeply as they have. I never thought I'd turn out to be a possible homeless person.
But here I am.
I have found out that family is the family you choose, not the family to which you are born. And the family you do choose in life can also betray you, but that's a chance one needs to take. I have found that no matter how depressing life can be that there is STILL life out there, and that all I need to do is to search and find it in the core of my soul. I have found out that no matter how many betrayals I have encountered, I will continue to trust, for without the ability to trust, there is no life. I just won't again trust the people who betrayed me.
I don't know why I leaned so hard against the very people who betrayed me. I believe it is because I failed to see the greatness in myself, and so I turned to those who I thought knew all the answers. Each time I was plummeted into oblivion, it was I who found the courage and the resources to climb back out.
Having survived these rejections and the accompanying bouts of depression has not been easy. It would have been easier to give up. To throw in the towel. But in not giving up or giving in is evidence of how great I am or can be.
I'm working toward that goal, now -- to be greater than I have ever been in the past. I'm in in command now. I'm at the wheel. And even though I still go through bouts of depression just thinking about what my life has been like and what I've been through and what I have lost, I know that I will be OK.
There are still many many years to come, and many many things to accomplish, despite any rejection that may come my way again. I still have my health (knock on wood.)
Like I said, I'm in command now.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Song Scape
When I a little girl, my mother would always sing to us -- my sister and I. One song in particular, she used to sing, was Sunbonnet Sue. My mother wasn't one with a singing voice, but when she sang that song, I felt warm and secure. At that very moment in my very young mind, I was the only one that mattered to her.
Sunbonnet Sue was written by songwriter Will D. Cobb back in 1906. A 1908 rendition by Harland is uploaded on Youtube.com. Listening to this recording brings back clear and beautiful memories of me standing next to my mother, combing her hair while she sang Sunbonnet Sue.
As I got older, I became ammusingly aware of the many songs that were written in honor of my name sake -- Sue, Susie, Suzy, Susan, Susanna, Suzanne. So I went on a search. Song writers, it seemed, were -- have been perpetually in love with some form of Susan since the mid 1800s.
In 1979, I walked into The Bagdad cabaret and nightclub, then on Broadway in San Francisco, and met with owner Jad Elias. A budding belly dancer with visions of grandeur and high expectations, I introduced myself to him. What quickly spilled out of his mouth left me standing in amazement.
I danced at The Bagdad for the next three years and feasted on the sweet lyrics of many an Arabic song, and one American one in particular. This highly respected Arabic musician often honored me from time to time, sometime on stage, with If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie.
While, I'm sure this is not a complete list (and it is a work in progress primarily for my own knowledge), and while some of these songs have been re-recorded by different artists, this is what I found:
1848: Oh Susanna by Stephen Foster
1925: Oh Susanna by Arthur Fields
1925: If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie sung by Eddie Cantor
1928: Sweet Sue, Just You by Victor Young and Will Harris, sung by Bing Crosby
1945: Souix City Sue by Geme Autry
1957: Susie Q by Dale Hawkins
1957: Wake Up Little Susie by Everly Brothers
1957: Peggy Sue by Buddy Holly
1958: Little Suzie by the Blues Musician Ray Bryant
1958: Susie Darlin' by Robin Luke
1959: Suzy Baby by Bobby Vee
1959: That's My Little Susie by Ritchie Valens
1961: Runaround Sue by Dion and the Belmonts
1962: Susie Darlin' by Tommy Roe
1963: Sue's Gotta Be Mine by Del Shannon
1963: Tra La La La Suzy by Dean & Jean
1967: Susannah's Still Alive by Dave Davies
1967: Suzanne On A Sunday Morning by Ricky Nelson
1967: Susan by The Buckinghams
1968: Suzanne by Leonard Cohen
1968: Suzie Q by Creedence Clearwater Revivial
1969: Hello Suzie by Amen Corner
1969: Sorry Suzanne by The Hollies
1969: A Boy Named Sue by Johnny Cash
1970: Wake Up Little Susie by Marty Wilde
1971: Susan Van Heusen by Gilbert O'Sullivan
1972: Suzanne Beware Of The Devil by Dandy Livingstone
1976: Susan by The Spinners
1977: Wake Up Little Suzy by Mike Berry
1981: Runaround Sue by Brittish pop group, Racey
1981: Wake Up Little Susie by Simon and Garfunkel
1984: Susanna by Art Company
1997: Susan's House by The Eels
Susan Song by songwriter Tom Glazer
Susan's Song by Al Jarreau
Susan Himmelblå by Kim Larsen
19XX: Oh Sweet Susannah by Mooney Suzuki
19XX: Susan by Aimee Mann
19XX: Susie Q Sailaway by Self
19XX: Suzy Lee by The White Stripes
XXXX: Susanville by The Vandals
Sunbonnet Sue was written by songwriter Will D. Cobb back in 1906. A 1908 rendition by Harland is uploaded on Youtube.com. Listening to this recording brings back clear and beautiful memories of me standing next to my mother, combing her hair while she sang Sunbonnet Sue.
As I got older, I became ammusingly aware of the many songs that were written in honor of my name sake -- Sue, Susie, Suzy, Susan, Susanna, Suzanne. So I went on a search. Song writers, it seemed, were -- have been perpetually in love with some form of Susan since the mid 1800s.
In 1979, I walked into The Bagdad cabaret and nightclub, then on Broadway in San Francisco, and met with owner Jad Elias. A budding belly dancer with visions of grandeur and high expectations, I introduced myself to him. What quickly spilled out of his mouth left me standing in amazement.
I danced at The Bagdad for the next three years and feasted on the sweet lyrics of many an Arabic song, and one American one in particular. This highly respected Arabic musician often honored me from time to time, sometime on stage, with If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie.
While, I'm sure this is not a complete list (and it is a work in progress primarily for my own knowledge), and while some of these songs have been re-recorded by different artists, this is what I found:
1848: Oh Susanna by Stephen Foster
1925: Oh Susanna by Arthur Fields
1925: If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie sung by Eddie Cantor
1928: Sweet Sue, Just You by Victor Young and Will Harris, sung by Bing Crosby
1945: Souix City Sue by Geme Autry
1957: Susie Q by Dale Hawkins
1957: Wake Up Little Susie by Everly Brothers
1957: Peggy Sue by Buddy Holly
1958: Little Suzie by the Blues Musician Ray Bryant
1958: Susie Darlin' by Robin Luke
1959: Suzy Baby by Bobby Vee
1959: That's My Little Susie by Ritchie Valens
1961: Runaround Sue by Dion and the Belmonts
1962: Susie Darlin' by Tommy Roe
1963: Sue's Gotta Be Mine by Del Shannon
1963: Tra La La La Suzy by Dean & Jean
1967: Susannah's Still Alive by Dave Davies
1967: Suzanne On A Sunday Morning by Ricky Nelson
1967: Susan by The Buckinghams
1968: Suzanne by Leonard Cohen
1968: Suzie Q by Creedence Clearwater Revivial
1969: Hello Suzie by Amen Corner
1969: Sorry Suzanne by The Hollies
1969: A Boy Named Sue by Johnny Cash
1970: Wake Up Little Susie by Marty Wilde
1971: Susan Van Heusen by Gilbert O'Sullivan
1972: Suzanne Beware Of The Devil by Dandy Livingstone
1976: Susan by The Spinners
1977: Wake Up Little Suzy by Mike Berry
1981: Runaround Sue by Brittish pop group, Racey
1981: Wake Up Little Susie by Simon and Garfunkel
1984: Susanna by Art Company
1997: Susan's House by The Eels
Susan Song by songwriter Tom Glazer
Susan's Song by Al Jarreau
Susan Himmelblå by Kim Larsen
19XX: Oh Sweet Susannah by Mooney Suzuki
19XX: Susan by Aimee Mann
19XX: Susie Q Sailaway by Self
19XX: Suzy Lee by The White Stripes
XXXX: Susanville by The Vandals
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Daisy Dad
Back in the 1960's when we lived in Bangkok, Thailand, my father was able to procure a second car. He needed and ultimately got the U.S. Government's stamp of approval. The Peugeot had taken it's last drive, and, as dad love Volkswagen Bugs, he put his request in for one and we waited.
About that time, my older sister, Judy, had graduated from International School of Bangkok and was now enjoying the offerings of San Francisco attending a secretarial school called Grace Ball Secretarial School that she and my mother had picked out to ensure her productive future. I remember missing her. I remember, for certainty, a hole in the family when she left.
But, it wasn't long before Judy began to send us the marketed cultural byproducts of San Francisco's flower child and hippie culture, which was running rampant at that time. We would eventually receive packages filled with stickers of psychedelic designs as well as the colorful and graphic new phrases that were being made up daily out of that era. I remember the feeling of excitement each time my mother brought these packages home. I remember thinking how lucky I was to have a sister who remembered her sisters back in Thailand.
Soon after Judy left, my dad got notice that his car was in. The Peugeot was sold and our new car was scheduled for delivery. But the Volkswagen wouldn't come in the form of a Bug. It would come in the form of a shiny powder blue Fastback.
Regardless, my dad loved that car. It was his pride and joy -- a brand new shiny car, straight from the factory, delivered to his doorstep at Soi 43, House 41 in Bangkok, Thailand. We all went for a drive that day.
Because we were a close-knit community back in the 1960's where the Americans lived among the Thais, our Volkswagen Fastback became a well-known landmark of the Molthen Family, and we were somewhat recognized among the three-wheeled "samlors" and old wood-plank trucks. Dad was one happy camper.
One sunny warm day, a large envelope from San Francisco arrived. Mom handed the envelope to my younger sister, Mary, and me to open, and as we removed the contents of that envelope, our eyes grew wide as saucers. The culture of San Francisco had once again made its way into our home with the help of my sister, Judy, in the form of large blue and green and pink and yellow daisies, removable and stick-able on any clean shiny surface.
I didn't wholly understand the attitude and its significance or consequences of the male ego at that time, but as the years passed, I began to realize profoundly the amount of love that my dad must have had for us and how tolerant he was of our crazy ideas and actions. Dad may have felt as if his manhood had been destroyed that day but he never let on or ever broached the subject of his heartbreak or disappointment.
And for the rest of our time in Bangkok, Thailand, until the day we left in 1969, we all rode in a powder blue Volkswagen Fastback now adorned and decorated with large blue and green and pink and yellow daisies, which may have been removable from their original surfaces but were now forever stuck to the outside of my dad's pride and joy -- and singing "Are You Going To San Francisco".
Love comes in many forms. One of them is tolerance -- a form my dad taught me on that day.
About that time, my older sister, Judy, had graduated from International School of Bangkok and was now enjoying the offerings of San Francisco attending a secretarial school called Grace Ball Secretarial School that she and my mother had picked out to ensure her productive future. I remember missing her. I remember, for certainty, a hole in the family when she left.
But, it wasn't long before Judy began to send us the marketed cultural byproducts of San Francisco's flower child and hippie culture, which was running rampant at that time. We would eventually receive packages filled with stickers of psychedelic designs as well as the colorful and graphic new phrases that were being made up daily out of that era. I remember the feeling of excitement each time my mother brought these packages home. I remember thinking how lucky I was to have a sister who remembered her sisters back in Thailand.
Soon after Judy left, my dad got notice that his car was in. The Peugeot was sold and our new car was scheduled for delivery. But the Volkswagen wouldn't come in the form of a Bug. It would come in the form of a shiny powder blue Fastback.
Regardless, my dad loved that car. It was his pride and joy -- a brand new shiny car, straight from the factory, delivered to his doorstep at Soi 43, House 41 in Bangkok, Thailand. We all went for a drive that day.
Because we were a close-knit community back in the 1960's where the Americans lived among the Thais, our Volkswagen Fastback became a well-known landmark of the Molthen Family, and we were somewhat recognized among the three-wheeled "samlors" and old wood-plank trucks. Dad was one happy camper.
One sunny warm day, a large envelope from San Francisco arrived. Mom handed the envelope to my younger sister, Mary, and me to open, and as we removed the contents of that envelope, our eyes grew wide as saucers. The culture of San Francisco had once again made its way into our home with the help of my sister, Judy, in the form of large blue and green and pink and yellow daisies, removable and stick-able on any clean shiny surface.
I didn't wholly understand the attitude and its significance or consequences of the male ego at that time, but as the years passed, I began to realize profoundly the amount of love that my dad must have had for us and how tolerant he was of our crazy ideas and actions. Dad may have felt as if his manhood had been destroyed that day but he never let on or ever broached the subject of his heartbreak or disappointment.
And for the rest of our time in Bangkok, Thailand, until the day we left in 1969, we all rode in a powder blue Volkswagen Fastback now adorned and decorated with large blue and green and pink and yellow daisies, which may have been removable from their original surfaces but were now forever stuck to the outside of my dad's pride and joy -- and singing "Are You Going To San Francisco".
Love comes in many forms. One of them is tolerance -- a form my dad taught me on that day.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Family Ties
"This looks like a tortilla!"
I looked over at my friend, Elva, and laughed. We had just opened up the tin-foil packaging of a street festival food dish called shawarma, a middle eastern concoction of cut seasoned spit-cooked lamb and beef, mixed with tahini sauce and chopped salad makings along with a spread of humos and wrapped up in a fresh loaf of pita bread. We were enjoying an afternoon at the Second Annual Lebanese Festival. Of course, it looked like a tortilla, I thought to myself. Elva is of Mexican descent.
For almost a decade, my last name was Michael -- a well known Lebanese family name; and while I was married to Gabe, a Lebanese-American, I met numerous young fellows straight from Lebanon who came to the United States for their education, somehow ending up working for Gabe as a waiter at his then Lebanese San Francisco restaurant called The Grapeleaf. Sitting there in the plaza square, I felt quite comfortable with a familiarity I hadn't experience since the last Lebanese picnic I had gone to with Gabe almost twenty five years ago. Where had the time gone?
Relaxing under the bright sun at the Redwood City Plaza enjoying my shawarma burrito, music began to blast through the speakers and a large group of young people dressed in traditional Lebanese costume began to gather near the elevated band stand. Seats around us quickly filled up as families began to settle themselves in for the afternoon's entertainment. Young mothers and husbands with their babies in strollers greeted what looked like their moms and dads -- proud grandparents of those young new lives. I saw cousins greet cousins and brothers greet brothers who were the uncles to someone in the groups. Sisters and aunts embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks. English was replaced by Arabic.
As the young performers began their show, it suddenly dawned on me. This entire plaza filled with Lebanese families, young and old, was actually filled with one big enormously huge family. The sense of ties was so evident that I saw them reach as far back as the country of Lebanon itself. Its strength and power was apparent as I gazed upon the congregation.
And then I thought about my own family ties. I thought about the general ties of the American extended family. I know that in my own family, I am estranged from all of them. I don't know my uncle and aunt anymore from my father's side, and all of my mother's sisters have since passed away. My cousins are unknown to me and my only niece and nephew were shut off from me when my mother passed away for reasons set for another blog.
As the young people danced and acted out their skits, family members cheered and clapped at their performances. The support and enthusiasm from all sides lifted my spirits and jerked me to the present. I, too, clapped and cheered at their performance.
The enormity of this family overwhelmed me. Perhaps one day, I will be united with my sisters and my brother. I missed them. But for then, I was glad to be a small part of it for that one afternoon with my Lebanese family under the sun at the Redwood City Plaza.
I looked over at my friend, Elva, and laughed. We had just opened up the tin-foil packaging of a street festival food dish called shawarma, a middle eastern concoction of cut seasoned spit-cooked lamb and beef, mixed with tahini sauce and chopped salad makings along with a spread of humos and wrapped up in a fresh loaf of pita bread. We were enjoying an afternoon at the Second Annual Lebanese Festival. Of course, it looked like a tortilla, I thought to myself. Elva is of Mexican descent.
For almost a decade, my last name was Michael -- a well known Lebanese family name; and while I was married to Gabe, a Lebanese-American, I met numerous young fellows straight from Lebanon who came to the United States for their education, somehow ending up working for Gabe as a waiter at his then Lebanese San Francisco restaurant called The Grapeleaf. Sitting there in the plaza square, I felt quite comfortable with a familiarity I hadn't experience since the last Lebanese picnic I had gone to with Gabe almost twenty five years ago. Where had the time gone?
Relaxing under the bright sun at the Redwood City Plaza enjoying my shawarma burrito, music began to blast through the speakers and a large group of young people dressed in traditional Lebanese costume began to gather near the elevated band stand. Seats around us quickly filled up as families began to settle themselves in for the afternoon's entertainment. Young mothers and husbands with their babies in strollers greeted what looked like their moms and dads -- proud grandparents of those young new lives. I saw cousins greet cousins and brothers greet brothers who were the uncles to someone in the groups. Sisters and aunts embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks. English was replaced by Arabic.
As the young performers began their show, it suddenly dawned on me. This entire plaza filled with Lebanese families, young and old, was actually filled with one big enormously huge family. The sense of ties was so evident that I saw them reach as far back as the country of Lebanon itself. Its strength and power was apparent as I gazed upon the congregation.
And then I thought about my own family ties. I thought about the general ties of the American extended family. I know that in my own family, I am estranged from all of them. I don't know my uncle and aunt anymore from my father's side, and all of my mother's sisters have since passed away. My cousins are unknown to me and my only niece and nephew were shut off from me when my mother passed away for reasons set for another blog.
As the young people danced and acted out their skits, family members cheered and clapped at their performances. The support and enthusiasm from all sides lifted my spirits and jerked me to the present. I, too, clapped and cheered at their performance.
The enormity of this family overwhelmed me. Perhaps one day, I will be united with my sisters and my brother. I missed them. But for then, I was glad to be a small part of it for that one afternoon with my Lebanese family under the sun at the Redwood City Plaza.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Memory Catchers
The Millbrea Fine Wine and Arts Festival is coming up. It always gets scheduled for Labor Day Weekend. I'm planning to go.
I've been going to this festival since 1978. I love going to this festival. It brings back memories that pull at my heart strings and remind me of how precious and fleeting life's special moments can be.
A few of years ago, after my business partner passed away back in August of 2008, I climbed in my car and headed for Millbrea. I felt lost. My then pillar of strength was gone. I hadn't gone to the festival since my mother passed away in 2003 -- my first pillar of strength -- and on that day, a week after my partner left this world, I had to go. Something there was calling me.
I arrived from Fog City to a fairly warm sunny day, found my parking spot, and walked toward the crowds that were milling up and down Broadway Avenue. There, I was suddenly transported to another time when life seemed brighter. I saw myself walking in costume with my girlfriends toward the performance stage area, anxiously anticipating the moment in the schedule when we would be announced as the Winds of Araby to curious bystanders eager to see how belly dance was done. And did we wow the crowds with our dances those years. I found I was smiling to myself.
I then flew to a time when I walked down the street and laughed and joked with my sister, Mary, about all the little strange artsy things that were for sale. Mary and I had a language that only we knew how to understand. It was our special language. It's that way between sisters as close as I thought we were.
More thoughts and memories began to flood my mind. Time took on a personality of its own. Empty engraved stem glasses perched on a counter top caught my attention, and there was another memory. A roll of tickets and a sign next to it shot up another memory. A set of tables and chairs next to the counter -- another memory. I was inside a memory vortex.
When I had gone to these festivals years back, a dollar filled up a glass -- for which I had also paid a dollar -- with the wine that was being advertised on that counter. But Mary and I would buy the counter deal -- six tickets for a five spot. We would laugh and fill our glasses with wine and stagger our way through the crowds, laughing and joking. I saw her face that day as clearly as if she were there. I remember suddenly feeling a longing. I missed her.
But the thing I remembered the most that day back in 2008 was the vision of my mother as she ambled in and out of those artists' booths. A white haired old woman with deep wrinkles in her face, I would watch her as she picked up and scrutinized the simplest handmade items; and I wondered back then why she did that. Eventually, she would collect at least three of these useless dust catcher decorations, pay for them; and, then later, seated at a table close to the wine booth at the end of the festival day over the last glass of wine, she would hand one to me and one to Mary. The third, she would keep for herself. "It's for the Christmas tree." she would say smiling.
As I remembered the details of this memory while walking down Broadway Avenue that 2008 festival day, my gaze dropped on an elderly woman who from the back may have been my mother until she turned around. And from the vantage point, I imagined my mother scrutinizing some artsy item as she did when I was with her. I smiled and felt a longing. I missed her.
And then it dawned on me....
My mother wasn't buying some useless handmade artsy decoration dust catcher that would eventually take its place on a Christmas tree; she was buying a representation to a memory. She was saving her joy of that moment with her two daughters and placing that joy inside the casings of, what I had thought then, a piece of junk but, what I realized that day, the shell to a beautiful day of togetherness.
At that moment back in 2008 when I had this revelation, I sat down, turned my back to the crowds and wept silently. My mother had been giving me priceless tokens of a day of memories bundled up inside glasses of wine and warm smiles for years, and I hadn't even known it...until that day.
So, on that day, as I made my way back up the street and before heading to my car, I bought a useless handmade decoration. But it wasn't just from anyone. It came from the hands of the Senior Citizens home. It was a tribute to my mother.
This hand made twirly plastic thing with beads and ribbon now hangs in the middle of my apartment as a reminder of that miraculous day where I learned that memories can be seen as precious and priceless decorations within one's life and that these little trinkets are a representation of that time and of a place.
I have since hauled out many of these trinkets that my mother had bought on those excursions and that I had mindlessly stowed away. These little dust catchers hold the soul to my mother's intentions for buying and giving them to me. They bring joy and peace to my life during an otherwise cloudy day whenever I look upon them from time to time. In each one of them I see my mother's warm smile and a day filled with fun and laughter with her and with my sister, Mary.
These are not just dust catchers; these are memory catchers.
I've been going to this festival since 1978. I love going to this festival. It brings back memories that pull at my heart strings and remind me of how precious and fleeting life's special moments can be.
A few of years ago, after my business partner passed away back in August of 2008, I climbed in my car and headed for Millbrea. I felt lost. My then pillar of strength was gone. I hadn't gone to the festival since my mother passed away in 2003 -- my first pillar of strength -- and on that day, a week after my partner left this world, I had to go. Something there was calling me.
I arrived from Fog City to a fairly warm sunny day, found my parking spot, and walked toward the crowds that were milling up and down Broadway Avenue. There, I was suddenly transported to another time when life seemed brighter. I saw myself walking in costume with my girlfriends toward the performance stage area, anxiously anticipating the moment in the schedule when we would be announced as the Winds of Araby to curious bystanders eager to see how belly dance was done. And did we wow the crowds with our dances those years. I found I was smiling to myself.
I then flew to a time when I walked down the street and laughed and joked with my sister, Mary, about all the little strange artsy things that were for sale. Mary and I had a language that only we knew how to understand. It was our special language. It's that way between sisters as close as I thought we were.
More thoughts and memories began to flood my mind. Time took on a personality of its own. Empty engraved stem glasses perched on a counter top caught my attention, and there was another memory. A roll of tickets and a sign next to it shot up another memory. A set of tables and chairs next to the counter -- another memory. I was inside a memory vortex.
When I had gone to these festivals years back, a dollar filled up a glass -- for which I had also paid a dollar -- with the wine that was being advertised on that counter. But Mary and I would buy the counter deal -- six tickets for a five spot. We would laugh and fill our glasses with wine and stagger our way through the crowds, laughing and joking. I saw her face that day as clearly as if she were there. I remember suddenly feeling a longing. I missed her.
But the thing I remembered the most that day back in 2008 was the vision of my mother as she ambled in and out of those artists' booths. A white haired old woman with deep wrinkles in her face, I would watch her as she picked up and scrutinized the simplest handmade items; and I wondered back then why she did that. Eventually, she would collect at least three of these useless dust catcher decorations, pay for them; and, then later, seated at a table close to the wine booth at the end of the festival day over the last glass of wine, she would hand one to me and one to Mary. The third, she would keep for herself. "It's for the Christmas tree." she would say smiling.
As I remembered the details of this memory while walking down Broadway Avenue that 2008 festival day, my gaze dropped on an elderly woman who from the back may have been my mother until she turned around. And from the vantage point, I imagined my mother scrutinizing some artsy item as she did when I was with her. I smiled and felt a longing. I missed her.
And then it dawned on me....
My mother wasn't buying some useless handmade artsy decoration dust catcher that would eventually take its place on a Christmas tree; she was buying a representation to a memory. She was saving her joy of that moment with her two daughters and placing that joy inside the casings of, what I had thought then, a piece of junk but, what I realized that day, the shell to a beautiful day of togetherness.
At that moment back in 2008 when I had this revelation, I sat down, turned my back to the crowds and wept silently. My mother had been giving me priceless tokens of a day of memories bundled up inside glasses of wine and warm smiles for years, and I hadn't even known it...until that day.
So, on that day, as I made my way back up the street and before heading to my car, I bought a useless handmade decoration. But it wasn't just from anyone. It came from the hands of the Senior Citizens home. It was a tribute to my mother.
This hand made twirly plastic thing with beads and ribbon now hangs in the middle of my apartment as a reminder of that miraculous day where I learned that memories can be seen as precious and priceless decorations within one's life and that these little trinkets are a representation of that time and of a place.
I have since hauled out many of these trinkets that my mother had bought on those excursions and that I had mindlessly stowed away. These little dust catchers hold the soul to my mother's intentions for buying and giving them to me. They bring joy and peace to my life during an otherwise cloudy day whenever I look upon them from time to time. In each one of them I see my mother's warm smile and a day filled with fun and laughter with her and with my sister, Mary.
These are not just dust catchers; these are memory catchers.
Paper Chase
Every Friday, I wake up, get out of bed, and have my two and a half cups of coffee. And every Friday, I hop into my car and go shopping. I own a restaurant and Friday is restaurant-shopping day.
My first stop is at Costco. After stuffing my shopping cart with the items I need, referring to a piece of paper with a list of these items including coffee, I go through checkout. Since I own my own business, I am presented a piece of paper that I sign so that I don't have to give the tax man extra pieces of paper. I'm then presented with another piece of paper that tells me I need to give the checker my piece of paper with my signature on it promising that I can afford to take home all of these items and that Costco will eventually get enough pieces of paper to cover the worth of these items; which, by the way, seem to be worth more today than they were worth last Friday. We exchange pieces of paper and I walk out with my items, but not until the door guard puts his/her mark on the piece of paper I was handed by the checker. Now I have a piece of paper with a pink squiggle on it or blue or green, which I stuff into my back pocket.
My next stop is a grocery store in South San Francisco called Manila Oriental Market. Now, this is where it gets interesting. After loading up my cart with more items from the same piece of paper I took with me to Costco listing my items, I go through checkout. Manila Oriental Market has an incentive for shoppers to buy more than they probably need. For every ten dollars worth of non-sale items, they will give you a one dollar paper coupon good at their on-site deli. So, as I go through checkout, I get a piece of paper that tells me how many pieces of paper I need to give them for the piece of paper they just gave me. As we exchange pieces of paper, I take my piece of paper and direct my shopping cart toward the customer counter checker. She will give me one piece of paper for every ten pieces of paper I just gave to the first checker, good at their deli.
As I hand over my piece of paper to the customer counter checker, she checks off my sale items, takes the difference of that sum from the total sum and gives me back several pieces of paper in exchange for having shopped at that store, good at their deli. I then give her two more pieces of paper and ask her to give me two lottery tickets. So, in exchange for my two pieces of paper, she gives me two pieces of paper which could -- or could not -- potentially land me a million or more pieces of paper. I then step aside and take my one-week old pieces of paper, purchased the Friday before, and scan them for potential millions of pieces of paper. I know it's a futile activity because more often than not, those two pieces of paper will end up in the round file with all the other pieces of paper.
I ditch last Friday's pieces of paper, take my five or more other pieces of paper and head for the deli. I then file my two new pieces of paper good until next Friday in my purse, and stuff the marked up checkout piece of paper in my back pocket along with the piece of paper I got from Costco with the door guard's color-of-the-day mark.
As I walk out of the market with a bag full of Chinese food which I got from the pieces of paper that the checkout person gave to me after handing her the initial checkout piece of paper, I head for my car, and I ponder this thought....
The world really does run on agreement. Money, in and of itself, has no value. Paper coupons, in and of themselves, have no value. Lotto tickets, in and of themselves have no value. They are just stupid pieces of paper. We only give them value as part of a global agreement. So much paper is exchanged under agreement.
I wish I had more pieces of paper hidden under my mattress or in my bank account. I know that these kinds of pieces of paper won't buy me love, but they will buy me peace. And heaven only knows how much peace I wish I had now. In fact, the whole world is in much need of peace.
But here's the flip side......
Friendship and trust can "buy" peace just as pieces of paper can, but the cost is not measured in the worth of these pieces of paper, and the return of this investment is always priceless. Paper may or may not come into that equation, but just the word -- and not pieces of paper -- of one person can build or demolish a nation, a friendship, someone's trust. Too much emphasis is placed on worthless pieces of paper and not enough on the word of someone. Under today's global agreement, we have lost the human element of one's word and compassion, and have replaced it with pieces of paper -- pieces of paper, which many of us hoard under our mattress or in a bank because of the global thought that money can buy you anything.
As I walk out of Safeway -- my last stop, and head for my car, having just visited my bank and having just gotten a bunch of pieces of paper that will make my business transactions easier for the evening, I notice a single, solitary person in the midst of many. That person has a cup in front of himself. "Can you spare some change?" [Translation: Can you spare some of your pieces of paper? I need some and don't have any to visit the deli or throw into the round file.] My first inclination is to walk past that person. I see it happen every time. But, I think to myself; I have friends who have been there for me with pieces of paper when I didn't have any, and who have brought peace to my life with their word and their trust and their compassion, and who have not judged me or demanded anything in return for their pieces of paper. And because of them sometime before today, tonight I will have more pieces of paper by the end of the evening's business.
I reach inside my purse and I give this person some of my pieces of paper; in fact many of them. I have enough pieces of paper to keep me afloat -- under my mattress and in the bank. At least, for a small interim, I know I will have given this person some degree of peace. Maybe it will help him toward his next meal. Maybe it will buy him his next fifth of whiskey. Maybe it will get him his next fix and I may not see him tomorrow. But I don't know that. And I'm not going to judge his predicament. I will just know that I will have brought him some degree of peace.
And if we had more peace in this world, the world would be a better place.
My first stop is at Costco. After stuffing my shopping cart with the items I need, referring to a piece of paper with a list of these items including coffee, I go through checkout. Since I own my own business, I am presented a piece of paper that I sign so that I don't have to give the tax man extra pieces of paper. I'm then presented with another piece of paper that tells me I need to give the checker my piece of paper with my signature on it promising that I can afford to take home all of these items and that Costco will eventually get enough pieces of paper to cover the worth of these items; which, by the way, seem to be worth more today than they were worth last Friday. We exchange pieces of paper and I walk out with my items, but not until the door guard puts his/her mark on the piece of paper I was handed by the checker. Now I have a piece of paper with a pink squiggle on it or blue or green, which I stuff into my back pocket.
My next stop is a grocery store in South San Francisco called Manila Oriental Market. Now, this is where it gets interesting. After loading up my cart with more items from the same piece of paper I took with me to Costco listing my items, I go through checkout. Manila Oriental Market has an incentive for shoppers to buy more than they probably need. For every ten dollars worth of non-sale items, they will give you a one dollar paper coupon good at their on-site deli. So, as I go through checkout, I get a piece of paper that tells me how many pieces of paper I need to give them for the piece of paper they just gave me. As we exchange pieces of paper, I take my piece of paper and direct my shopping cart toward the customer counter checker. She will give me one piece of paper for every ten pieces of paper I just gave to the first checker, good at their deli.
As I hand over my piece of paper to the customer counter checker, she checks off my sale items, takes the difference of that sum from the total sum and gives me back several pieces of paper in exchange for having shopped at that store, good at their deli. I then give her two more pieces of paper and ask her to give me two lottery tickets. So, in exchange for my two pieces of paper, she gives me two pieces of paper which could -- or could not -- potentially land me a million or more pieces of paper. I then step aside and take my one-week old pieces of paper, purchased the Friday before, and scan them for potential millions of pieces of paper. I know it's a futile activity because more often than not, those two pieces of paper will end up in the round file with all the other pieces of paper.
I ditch last Friday's pieces of paper, take my five or more other pieces of paper and head for the deli. I then file my two new pieces of paper good until next Friday in my purse, and stuff the marked up checkout piece of paper in my back pocket along with the piece of paper I got from Costco with the door guard's color-of-the-day mark.
As I walk out of the market with a bag full of Chinese food which I got from the pieces of paper that the checkout person gave to me after handing her the initial checkout piece of paper, I head for my car, and I ponder this thought....
The world really does run on agreement. Money, in and of itself, has no value. Paper coupons, in and of themselves, have no value. Lotto tickets, in and of themselves have no value. They are just stupid pieces of paper. We only give them value as part of a global agreement. So much paper is exchanged under agreement.
I wish I had more pieces of paper hidden under my mattress or in my bank account. I know that these kinds of pieces of paper won't buy me love, but they will buy me peace. And heaven only knows how much peace I wish I had now. In fact, the whole world is in much need of peace.
But here's the flip side......
Friendship and trust can "buy" peace just as pieces of paper can, but the cost is not measured in the worth of these pieces of paper, and the return of this investment is always priceless. Paper may or may not come into that equation, but just the word -- and not pieces of paper -- of one person can build or demolish a nation, a friendship, someone's trust. Too much emphasis is placed on worthless pieces of paper and not enough on the word of someone. Under today's global agreement, we have lost the human element of one's word and compassion, and have replaced it with pieces of paper -- pieces of paper, which many of us hoard under our mattress or in a bank because of the global thought that money can buy you anything.
As I walk out of Safeway -- my last stop, and head for my car, having just visited my bank and having just gotten a bunch of pieces of paper that will make my business transactions easier for the evening, I notice a single, solitary person in the midst of many. That person has a cup in front of himself. "Can you spare some change?" [Translation: Can you spare some of your pieces of paper? I need some and don't have any to visit the deli or throw into the round file.] My first inclination is to walk past that person. I see it happen every time. But, I think to myself; I have friends who have been there for me with pieces of paper when I didn't have any, and who have brought peace to my life with their word and their trust and their compassion, and who have not judged me or demanded anything in return for their pieces of paper. And because of them sometime before today, tonight I will have more pieces of paper by the end of the evening's business.
I reach inside my purse and I give this person some of my pieces of paper; in fact many of them. I have enough pieces of paper to keep me afloat -- under my mattress and in the bank. At least, for a small interim, I know I will have given this person some degree of peace. Maybe it will help him toward his next meal. Maybe it will buy him his next fifth of whiskey. Maybe it will get him his next fix and I may not see him tomorrow. But I don't know that. And I'm not going to judge his predicament. I will just know that I will have brought him some degree of peace.
And if we had more peace in this world, the world would be a better place.
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