Dad's Lincoln

                The weather was warm – what we call the calm before the storm. The gas attendant was gingerly cleaning the gas pumps. Not seeing the point of cleaning them when a storm was approaching, I told the story about my dad.

                “I remember once when my dad did that, “ I mentioned as I got out to fill my tank.

                “He was cleaning his nice, fancy car inside and out. Actually, it was a used Lincoln and it was December 23, 1983…”

                We lived out in Lake Los Angeles, California. A lake it wasn’t, just dirt and wind. To clean a car was pointless because it would just get dirty again, especially if a storm was coming. Dad practically spit-shined that car. We drove out to Sylmar to pick up my step-mom from work. While we were waiting for her to get off, Dad started picking lint and other unseen tidbits off the upholstery. Sarcastically, I said, “Guy, Dad, it’s so clean you could lick it off!” He scowled at me to mind my own business. The next night the sky let loose some heavy rain. We drove to church and then out to the cemetery to visit Uncle Ray’s grave. Ray was one of Dad’s older brothers who had died the previous June. The road leading to the cemetery was called Avenue S. It was dirty and not well developed like it is today. It was filled with pot-holes and muddy water that splashed all over Dad’s nice, shiny, clean car. I snickered and laughed like  no other! It was payback. When we got home, Dad sprayed that car off good! I don’t remember if I said anything else after that. I probably did, knowing my frame of mind in those days.

                The gas attendant smiled. I think he needed something to do to keep him busy – being that it was Sunday in Utah and slow.

Just For You

This morning Lizzy woke up and put the ipad in bed with her. She knows how to turn it on to play the games and stories. It’s an activity that has become routine as I get ready for work. Several of her favorites are the Starfall apps, especially the turkey one. When she gets something right, the app plays a tune from Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer. She loves to move her hands as if she is leading the orchestra. She has a smile of satisfaction when I mimic her, like she knows she is accomplishing something tremendous!

                The other apps that she likes to watch are Mercer Mayer’s books. On this particular morning I was taken back in time – again – as I prepared for work. Way back before Lizzy was even a twinkle in Brook’s eyes and even further back before Brook was a twinkle in my own, young, innocent eyes ( I can hear John and Brook cough and choke at young, innocent), Dad worked for a company that installed security systems. He not only installed the alarms but maintained them as well. So, anytime they malfunctioned or went off, the technicians were alerted and sent out to investigate. This gave Dad the opportunity to meet some very famous people, including Mercer Mayer’s mother.

                Mercer Mayer wrote and illustrated children’s books. On one of Dad’s calls, he was sent out to the home of Mr. Mayer’s mother. She gave Dad a copy of the book, Just for You. I still have it. It is truly ranked as one of my favorites. I have read it to hundreds of children throughout the years.

                Technology is so accessible today that my toddler grandchildren can watch and hear the books on a thin tablet at the touch of a baby finger - while sitting in bed. As the story is read, the words being read are high-lighted in blue, except for the Christmas one. The letters pop out in red. When a picture is touched, the name of it springs out in blue letters, again, red for the Christmas version. When the spider and grasshopper are touched, they are tallied at the end of the story. The book has gone from being a paper-backed copy to an interactive game that a 14 month old child can manipulate. When the book came out, we thought we were so modern with what was then available. I have heard that we haven’t even scratched the surface of what will be offered in the future. I look forward to seeing what my grandchildren will be “reading” to their children. By the same token, I am thankful for having what we did have, such as paper copies of books. I am also thankful for my dad having the job that he did have at that time.

                Kelli McDonald

                9 December 2013

Pomegranates

Pomegranates

          Fall isn’t fall without eggnog and pomegranates. The San Fernando Valley of Southern California was built around orchards: oranges, lemons, grapefruits, apples, avocados, and pomegranates. When the Developers came through and produced the never-ending sub-divisions during the Post-War years of the 1950’s and 1960’s, they kept many of those orchards on the property of the new homes. An area of the Valley was even named for the pomegranates, Granada Hills. Granada is the Spanish equivalent. The neat, rounded shrubs were introduced to California in 1769.

          In December of 2000, I decided it was time take a walk back in time to that place that my thoughts idolized for years. I drove through the streets we walked through as kids. We plucked those precious gems off the trees that grew so freely. One of the yards had overgrown pomegranate trees. They were wasting away on the ground! Recently we paid $2.59 per pomegranate in Lehi, Utah! It is a yearly tradition for us to purchase them – regardless of the cost. Like eggnog, that is only sold during the Fall months.

          As kids we plucked them from all the trees. We would split them open on street signs when we did not want to use our fingernails. Many times some went bad simply because we had too many!

          When I was a small child, my mom made jelly from the precious juice of pomegranates. Her father would serve me Shirley Temples, a non-alcoholic drink made from concentrated pomegranate juice, 7-Up and a maraschino cherry. My whole life, I thought she made popsicles, too, from pomegranates. When I turned 43, I asked her about it. Nope, just the jelly!

          During an unusually enormous windstorm that swept through during the Fall of 1981, the fruit blew off those old trees. They rolled down the streets. My brothers, always resourceful when it came to something free, grabbed several large greenish black, trash bags. They filled all of those bags. We had free fruit for some time. I made fresh squeezed juice. Such a treat!

          November 2006, my mom, my daughter, and I sat in Mom’s t.v. room eating pomegranates while watching the final episode of M*A*S*H*.  She had never seen it, although she had wanted to. I had viewed it when it was first aired back in 1983.

          My boyfriend, Bill Schumacher, and I raced home from school. The whole world was going to watch the finale. We were in school at Los Angeles Valley College. Our classes were late getting out. We arrived home in time to see the part where Hawkeye was in the mental ward. He was trying to piece together the events that lead him there. I never saw the beginning until November 10, 2006 when my kids and I watched it. The eleventh and final series was a birthday gift from my kids. We own the entire series. It is an integral part of our lives, so much so that when I hear the introduction music, I can close my eyes and feel as if I am a teen-age again.

          My mom was giving me things that she no longer needed. I wanted to share something that was meaningful. Pomegranates and a television show that epitomized my childhood for good and for bad. She had a picture of her graduating class from high school .They were the first graduating class of James Monroe High School in Sepulveda, California. I, too, attended twenty years after she did. I well remember the building the picture was taken next to, T-Hall. I had classes in that same building. I had seen this picture countless times. This time, a face other than my mother’s looked familiar. I wondered if it was Donna Ludwig, Richie Valen’s girlfriend. As if she knew what I was thinking, my mom stood beside and pointed her out. Mom had once told me that she knew Donna, but that was it. I did not realize that the girl went to Monroe as well. Mom described the group of friends Donna hung out with and the response after Richie died in a plane crash. Our family has since stood together at the very spot the picture was taken so long ago. We have paid our respects at Richie’s grave site as well as his beloved mother.

          Today, tales of its benefits are widely circulated. Religions tout it as a symbol of righteousness. Folk medicine considers it an astringent. It is used as a natural dye for synthetic fabrics. The culinary world considers it a spice. There are even advertisements boasting of its cleansing powers. When I was a kid, it was just an unusual fruit. Today, it is a sacred tradition. We have now passed this tradition on to my grandchildren. Lizzy loves to go around our home saying, “I love pomogwanits!”

          For my next birthday, Mom blessed me with a small case of pomegranates.

Kelli McDonald

October 2013

Remember?

Remember?

Close your eyes…And go back…

Before the Internet or the MAC,

Before semiautomatics and crack

Before chronic and indo

Way back…

I’m talkin’ about hide and go seek at dusk.

Sittin’ on the porch

Hot bread and butter.

Eatin’ a super dooper sandwich, (Dagwood),

Red light, Green light.

Chocolate milk, Lunch tickets,

Penny candy in a brown paper bag.

Hopscotch, butterscotch, double Dutch

Jacks, kickball, dodge ball, y’all!

Mother, May I?

Hula Hoops and Sunflower Seeds,

Jawbreakers, blowpops, Mary Janes,

Running through the sprinkler (I can’t get wet!

All right, well don’t wet my hair…)

The smell of the sun and lickin’ salty lips…

Wait….

Catchin’ lightining bugs in a jar,

Playin slingshot and Red Rover.

When around the corner seemed far away,

And going downtown seemed like going somewhere.

Bedtime, Climbing trees.

A million mosquito bites and sticky fingers.

Cops and robbers,

Cowboys and Indians,

Sittin on the curb,

Jumping down the steps,

Jumpin on the bed.

Pillow fights

Being tickled to death

Runnin” till you were out of breath

Laughing so hard that your stomach hurt.

Being tired from playin’…Remember that?

I ain’t finished just yet…

What happened to the girl that had the big bubbly handwriting?

Licking the beaters when your mother made a cake.

When there were two types
of sneakers for girls and boys

(Keds and PF Flyers),

and the only time you wore them at school, was for “gym.”

When nearly everyone’s mom was at home when the kids got there.

When nobody owned a purebred dog.

When a quarter was a decent allowance, and another quarter a huge bonus.

When you’d reach into a muddy gutter for a penny.

When girls neither dated nor kissed until late high school, if then.

When your mom wore nylons that came in two pieces .

When all of your male teachers wore neckties and female teachers wore skirts and high heels and had their hair done, every week!

When you got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking, for free, every time.

And, you didn’t pay for air. And, you got trading stamps to boot!

When laundry detergent had free glasses, dishes or towels hidden inside the box.

When any parent could discipline any kid, or feed him or use him to carry groceries, and nobody, not even the kid, thought a thing of it.

When it was considered a great privilege to be taken out to dinner at a real restaurant with your parents.

When they threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed…and did!

When being sent to the principal’s office was nothing compared to the fate that awaited a misbehaving student at home.

Basically, we were in fear for our lives but it wasn’t because of drive by shootings, drugs, gangs, etc.

Disapproval of our parents and grandparents was a much bigger threat!

Decisions were made by going “eeny-meeny-miney-mo.”

Mistakes were corrected by simply exclaiming, “do over!”

“Race issue” meant arguing about who ran the fastest.

Money issues were handled by whoever was the banker in “Monopoly.”

Catching the fireflies could happily occupy an entire evening.

It wasn’t odd to have two or three “best” friends.

Being old, referred to anyone over 20.

The net on a tennis court was the perfect height to play volleyball and rules didn’t matter.

The worst thing you could catch from the opposite sex was cooties.

It was magic when dad would “remove” this thumb.

It was unbelievable that dodgeball wasn’t an Olympic event.

Having a weapon in school, meant being caught with a slingshot.

Nobody was prettier than Mom.

Scrapes and bruises were kissed and made better.

It was a big deal to finally be tall enough to ride the “big people” rides at the amusement park.

Getting a foot of snow was a dream come true.

Abilities were discovered because of a “double-dog-dare>

Saturday morning cartoons weren’t 30-minute ads for action figures.

No shopping trip was complete, unless a new toy was brought home.

“Oly-oly-oxen-free” made perfect sense.

Spinning around, getting dizzy and falling down was cause for giggles.

The worst embarrassment was being picked last for a team.

War was a card game.

Water balloons were the ultimate weapons.

Baseball cards in the spokes transformed any bike into a motorcycle.

Taking drugs meant orange-flavored chewable aspirin (at least until the late 60’s kicked in).

Ice cream was considered a basic food group.

Older siblings were the worst tormentors, but also the fiercest protectors.

If you can remember most or all of these, then you have LIVED!!!

~Cindy Sherman S”66

James Monroe High School

Sepulveda, California

Songs of the Soul

“For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart…”

Doctrine and Covenants 25:12

          My brother, Todd, used to sing a song to the tune of God Bless America. It went like this:

God bless my underwear, my only pair…

It was sung several times in a row, with the voice raising in tone as he sang “my only pair” and holding the last syllable. I can not listen to “God Bless America” without snickering and thinking of him.

          Where does this come from that causes one to pause and reflect just when we think we have forgotten them? My brother died over 25 years ago and I still grin in church, almost irreverently, when this song is sung.

          My dear friend Billy told about his aunt who was extra large. Her husband loved her very much. However, according to Billy, whenever she would come down the stairs, this uncle would sing to the tune of the annual Miss America Pageant theme song,

Here she comes, Miss America…representing all 50 States.

Every Breath You Take

          Speaking of Billy: We were driving together on the Golden State Freeway (I-5) in 1983 listening to the rock group, Police, sing Sting’s new hit, Every Breath You Take when I foolishly decided to out run a CHP (California Highway Patrol). Needless to say, my kids were literally aghast when they heard this story, knowing how obsessively, law-abiding I am. Billy had to pick up a delivery in the company truck. He took me with him to the city of Bell. I drove the way back to work, Chef America in  Sylmar. To this day, I can’t hear that song without thinking about this incident.

          Like I said, Sting was playing his song. The beat was wonderful. We were in the lane closer to the left. I saw the officer in the near-right-hand lane. All of a sudden this urge begged me to see if I could out-run a CHP! Of course he pulled me over. Fortunately the officer had a good sense of humor. He gave a I-know-what-you-were-doing-and-I-know-you-are-close-to-my-age-and-just-having-fun-but…glean in his eyes as he gave me a minor ticket. Whew!

          We never said a word to anyone. My step-mom was an office person for this same company. They were the original makers of the now-famous Hot Pocket sandwiches. One day, she asked in a sly-knowing tone, “So, how’d you get the ticket?” OH MY WORD! How could I think she would NOT find out! I explained and all was forgiven. Except that now I do not like that song. Not only does it remind me of how stupid I was, but it reminds of a stalker.  

           Two of my dad’s favorite songs were Rock of Ages and How Great Thou Art. He wanted them sung at my mission farewell. They reminded him of his mother. I was 21 and did not like those two songs! I felt that since this was my event, only songs that I really appreciated would be performed. Here I was, getting ready to serve the Lord, and I did not even have the compassion to allow my own father to play two pieces that held the utmost sentimentally to him. I am not sure where I gave in, but in the end, my dad played How Great Thou Art on his guitar. I was going to South Carolina and they were standards in that part of the country. They, too, have become two of my favorite pieces of music; the meanings going far deeper than the original meanings were meant to. Sentiments from my grandmother who had long ago passed on, and then guilt and remorse for the way I treated my father.

          Coming from the West where the music was sung at a faster tempo, I had difficulty keeping up with the slower tempo when I first arrived in Gaffney, South Carolina. In an effort to blend in, I joined the church choir. I was frequently singled out in front of the others to stay on key. On one particularly memorable Sunday, I sang with all of my heart, wondering at the upturned, concerned looks from the audience. After church the choir director asked me not to sing with the choir. Dejected, I walked away, determined not to sing in public again. I never have.

 I think that too much emphasis is put on the greatness of those who can sing. Yes, it is a talent that I wish that I could have. But I also think that true greatness comes from one’s other talents such as integrity, courage, and fortitude. Too many people can sing a song who have no depth. Not a lot of people with depth can sing. It makes one wonder at where society’s values lie.

It took having a granddaughter who can actually carry a tune to finally take me out of my shell – sort. I will sing with her in front of a couple of people – only as encouragement for her.

The beauty of technology is that it allows us to recapture a long, lost favorite song. There have been several for me. One in particular is the theme song from the hit series, M*A*S*H*. I hear that song and am transported to another time and place from here. I am still a teen-ager living in Mission Hills, California. My younger brothers, who are either dead or larger men with children of their own, are still little boys doing whatever they would do at the time.

 From the first notes of the opening scenes, a feeling of well-being enveloped us. When I hear the opening music, I suddenly feel as if I’m still in the late 1970’s, early 1980’s. We would do our chores, get something to eat, and go to the bathroom during the “commercial.”

For our neighborhood at the corner of Tuba and Noble Avenue, the world revolved around M*A*S*H* - and sports. Every night around 7:00 or 7:30 we had to watch it. If Frank Burns was going to be in it, the show was sure to be good. We watched M*A*S*H* during the week and then we would go to the hockey games and look for the actors there. Jamie Farr, who played “Clinger,” would sit near the ice, usually with his driver. Occasionally, a young kid who looked like his son would sit next to him. Jamie Farr would drink coffee with his driver. We watched this exchange using Billy’s dad’s binoculars.

            As a result, my own kids grew up watching the show. When my kids were younger, we would watch it on DVD’s. I could close my eyes while the music was playing and I would be 15 or 16 years old again. We bought the entire series. When my daughter had children, her oldest started watching it. Whenever she would hear the theme song, she stopped whatever she was doing and moved her hands as if she was leading the orchestra. Late one night I realized that I could probably buy a copy from amazon.com. Incredible! So we downloaded it to the computer and then onto the mp3 player. Every time I would play the song for Lizzy, she would stop whatever she was doing and look in awe and then lead the “orchestra.”The song soothes me like a lullaby to a place that is only available in my memory.

          Loretta Switt played Margaret Hulahan. Margaret reminded me of Judy Schumacher, except that Margaret had blonde hair and Judy’s was dark brown. Judy, like Margaret, could put a person in their place without any effort. I can also see myself as Margaret – in charge and bossy. Billy’s mom was bossy because of her protective, mother bear-like qualities. I was bossy because I, too, had protective, mother bear-like qualities as I continued to watch over my children and grandchildren.

          Billy reminded me of BJ Hunicutt and Hawkey Pierce. BJ was the peace-maker and Hawkeye was the leader of the group and always into mischief. He and Margaret continually butted heads all the while maintaining a high level of respect and occasional romance. 

Petula Clark

                Dancing with my granddaughters to her music one summer morning, I remembered with such fondness of the year we moved back to Longmont, Colorado. It was early Fall 1975. We were too poor to afford a television set. Dad set up the record player with a stack of records that played what seemed like on and on and on. Petula Clark’s music was part of that stack.

                Being able to stay on key is not one of my strengths. But I would belt out those songs as if I was a super star on stage. Pity the poor soul who was in earshot as my voice reverberated:

My love is warmer than the warmest sunshine

Softer than a sigh.

My love is deeper than the deepest ocean

Wider than the sky.

My love is brighter than the brightest star

That shines every night above

And there is nothing in this world

 Than can ever change my love.

(Terius Nash, Tony Hatch)

                Several years later we moved back to California. My high school sweetheart, Billy, became the target for these lyrics as I professed my undying love and devotion to him by singing those words to an unseen audience.

                The morning my grandchildren and I spent dancing and singing to this, my dad was gradually slipping from us. My voice choked at the memory. Rare is it that I will sing out loud because I know what I sound like and have issues about inflicting unnecessary pain on innocent people, especially children. Listening to the likes of “Downtown” and its message of hope if one just went “downtown” to view the sites. One might even find an opportunity to help another, thus making everything better. I wanted to make things better for my father.

Feelin’ Groovy

Hello Lamppost, what ya knowin’?

I come to watch your flowers growin’

Just walking round the cobblestones.

Life is groovy

(Simon & Garfunkle)

                I still see Blake singing those words with Dad. He’s this cute little guy trying so hard to be like his father. Dad is strumming his acoustic guitar. Bake focusing on staying on tune, not more than ten years old.

And then I hear,

The Mademoisell from Armetieres “Parley voo”

The Mademoisell from Armetieres, “Parley voo”

The Mademoiselle fro Armetieres

She hadn’t been kissed for forty years

Hinky stink parley voo.

                Todd is singing with a swaggering attitude and pretending to play a guitar, his head cocked up and his eyes rolled skyward, his tongue curled. All the while Dad is accompanying him. And instead of singing, Hinky Dinky “Parley Voo” as the song suggests, they would sing, Inky Stinky, “Parley Vooooo.”

Kelli McDonald
2013