An End Girl's Broken Dream

My mother dreamed of becoming a dancer from the time she was a little girl. Somehow my grandma and grandpa found enough money to get her lessons, even though it was the middle of the 1930's depression.

My mother practiced all the time, even when she was tired and in pain. Her dance teachers said she had great promise. During World War II, my mother danced with a troupe that performed for our soldiers in the States. She was the youngest in the troupe and barely in high school, but she loved dancing with all her heart. Her dream was to dance with the Radio City Rockettes, and after high school, she signed a contract with the overseas troupe of the Rockettes to be an end girl.

What is an end girl? She's one of the two shortest girls in the troupe. So, my mother and the other shortest girl would be on either end of the line of dancers. Naturally, every dancer wants to be the center dancer, who is the tallest dancer, because every eye in the audience goes to her first, but my mother consoled herself that the end girls would stand out as the next most noticed girls because they were easily distinguished from the long chorus line of dancers. My mother's dream had come true. All her hard work had paid off, and she was on her way to the life she always dreamed of and wanted. My mother was over the moon with happiness.

But her boyfriend was not. Her boyfriend ripped up the contract and tore the blouse off of my mother so that she could not go back into the office to get another contract. Her boyfriend said he couldn't risk losing her to another man overseas, so he whisked her away to Arizona where they eloped. My mom thought it was SO romantic at the time.

Alas, she soon learned that it was not so romantic after all. The newly married, very young couple lived with the groom's parents, who were not pleased about their son marrying a dancer, who, in their minds, was a "loose woman," and they were even less pleased when she became pregnant, unplanned, five months later with me.

My mother told me that when I was born, she knew what real love was for the first time. She went on to have my sister sixteen months later. But my mom was not happy. She desperately missed dancing. Although she loved us, my mother was not cut out to be a mom. She just did not enjoy it. Years later I learned that, deeply unhappy in her marriage, my mom had fallen in love with another man when I was about four years old. My grandma talked her out of leaving my dad, and many years later, my grandma deeply regretted doing that.

My mom taught dancing on weekends to little girls. She even taught my brownie troop to do the can-can for a mother-daughter event, but some of the other mothers criticized her for having us flip our lacy, fancy slips up, just as you are supposed to do in the can-can. My mom did not like those small minded women.

Later, when I asked my mom to teach me how to dance, she told me "no." She told me that she couldn't have one of her daughters live the dream that she had given up; it would hurt too much. We had to find other talents, which turned out to be ok because my sister had little to no rhythm, and my legs are way too short to be a dancer.

When I was seven, my mom had another child. My dad told her that she had to try to give him a son out of gratitude that he hadn't kicked her out when she fell in love with another man. The new child was, indeed, a son, but it did not make things better between them. My mother had a horrible, what we now know, postpartum depression. A year later, when she was just coming out of it, my grandpa died. My mom was a daddy's girl, and she never recovered from this loss.

My mom spiraled down, down, down, and my dad responded by becoming more and more verbally and physically abusive. Our home life was a nightmare. My mom took valium; my mom drank; my mom hid in the bathroom and slipped notes to me under the door. Sometimes, when no one was home but the two of us, she would come out of the bathroom and pour her heart out to me. I tried to help, but I was a kid and then a teenager. What could I do? I listened to her, and I read the horrible romance novels that she had developed a liking for as a retreat from her miserable marriage so that we could discuss them, but, really, what is there to discuss in the average romance novel? Every, single one had some handsome, misunderstood, dark haired, romantic, rich man swooping in and saving the young woman from some brute of a guy. I could almost see the appeal to my mom, but I thought the stories were dumb.

Once when I was sixteen, I asked my mom to leave my dad, but she said, and these words still haunt me to this day, "If I leave your dad, then I gave up my dream for nothing." I responded that she could find another dream, but she told me that I didn't understand.

And to this day, I still do not understand. My mom ended her life two years later, and for forty-two years I've tried to understand why she didn't just tell my dad to "Go to hell." My mom died at age 39, a young woman. She never knew her children as adults, never knew her children's spouses, never knew her grandchildren.

My mom had so much to offer the world. She was smart, funny, talented, and, when I was a young child, full of life. She should not have been a mother, though I am grateful to have been born. In a perfect world, my mom would have seen my dad's ripping her contract and tearing her blouse for what they were, the actions of a bully, not a lover, and she would have gone back into the Rockette's office, head held high, in her bra, and signed another contract!

But this is not a perfect world, and my mom didn't sign another contract. My mom has been gone a long time. In my mind's eye I always see her dancing, and I am writing this so that she will never be forgotten.

Take care,

Kate

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We Have Something Special

Yesterday, a lovely group of individuals gathered together to share a meal and several hours of lively conversation. It was the 4th annual reunion of SJSU English professors and students, who became friends during the 1970's and 1980's, and then followed various paths until re-connecting in 2009.

Thirty-five years ago, I was an undergraduate student in English at San Jose State University. I was new to the bay area and a returning college student in my late 20's and knew no one. One day, a professor I liked a lot asked me to join him and some friends for coffee before class. My shyness almost kept me from going, but curiosity beat back my shyness, and I went. Consequently, I found a group of friends who made me feel "at home" for the first time in my life.

These like-minded individuals shared my interests. Everyone read AND talked about what they had read. Everyone had strong opinions and stated them. We all watched PBS and went to art house films, so we had people to talk with about what we watched. We talked politics, and sometimes we even gossiped. It was a heady time; it was invigorating; it was comfortable; it was pure joy! 

But even better, our egalitarian group of people was open-hearted. Everyone and anyone who wanted to be part of the group was welcome and made to feel so. We celebrated Fridays together, graduations together, holidays together, major birthdays and anniversaries together, weddings together, and new babies together. In fact, the last time I met with all of them as a group before our reunions began was in 1990 at Lisa's baby shower.

In our group, Lisa and I were particular friends. She had been my doula for Gavin's birth. We saw each other through marriage, divorce, and remarriage. Her son and my youngest child are the same age. Though our lives went in markedly different directions for awhile, we kept in touch, and we kept each other up-to-date on whatever we learned about our group of friends.

Though my children knew only a few of the members of our group, this group of friends loomed large in my children's lives. They grew up hearing numerous stories about everyone in the group, and this group gained an almost mythic stature in my children's eyes. They expected to have the same experience when they went to college. Alas, that has not been the case. While they have formed some friendships, they have not found a group like the one I found so long ago. 

I talked with one of the Scotts in our group, and he said around the 1990's, something changed. Individuals still made friendships, but a lovely, lively group like we had so enjoyed didn't seem to happen very often anymore. Theories abound as to why not, but it mostly remains a mystery.

Our group was and is special. Though we had our occasional ups and downs and intrigues, mostly we had an abiding fondness for each other. So, when Nancy and Lisa ran into each other in 2009, they thought it would be fun to hunt everybody up and get together again to catch up on our lives Those who could make the reunion in 2009 had so much fun, picking up where we left off, that we decided to meet up on a yearly basis; thus, our annual reunion was born.

We are mostly gray haired now, and we range in age from fifty-three to eighty-seven. Our children, if we chose to have them, are grown, and some of us have grandchildren. Some of us are still working, and some of us are retired. But despite the differences and all the years apart, our fondness for each other and delight in each other is as sure and true now as it was way back when.

I can't speak for the others in our group, but these people are, in some way I cannot explain, part of my core being. With them, I found my first "home," and that sense of home is one that stays in my heart always. 

I am grateful and blessed to know these people, and I can't wait until next year's reunion!

Take care,

Kate

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Grandma's Birthday

Long ago, my grandma called me in tears. She had just received a certified letter from her daughter telling her that she had thirty days to move out. This notice arrived on her birthday. She was, as you might imagine, devastated. I was furious at my aunt. How could she do this to my grandma, her mother? I asked grandma if she wanted me to talk to my aunt, but she said no. She said that she didn't want things worse by having the family fight. That was my grandma for you. She always thought of her family before herself.

 

Grandma moved into an apartment, and she seemed to adjust well.  Four months later, she discovered that she had cancer. She died in less than a week. 

 

The pain in her voice when she called me on her birthday has haunted me ever since. I have no answers as to why my aunt did what she did. However, I wrote a short story about how I imagine my grandma's 73rd birthday morning played out. While it is purely my imagination, my scenario is based on the many mornings I spent with my grandma during my childhood and when she spent a week with me after I got married. Here is the story. 

                                               Ginny’s Birthday

    Ginny awoke on her 73^rd birthday, as she did on every birthday, happy to be alive and grateful for her family.  She sat up and reached eagerly for the stack of unopened birthday cards that awaited her delighted opening. Ginny loved cards, and her many grandchildren always remembered to send them to her early, so they would be waiting for her to open when she woke up on her birthday.

   After reading her cards, laughing at the funny ones, and shedding a tear at the sentimental ones, Ginny dressed and headed to the kitchen to have breakfast with her daughter. Ginny lived with her daughter and son-in-law.  Several years earlier, the daughter had wanted money to buy a bigger home, so she had made a proposal to her mother: you sell your home and give us the money, and you can live with us rent free for the rest of your life.  Ginny’s husband had died when she was 56, and Ginny loved her family more than herself, and, though she hated to admit it, she was lonely living alone, so Ginny agreed, despite the misgivings of other family members. Now, as Ginny saw her daughter drinking coffee at the kitchen table, smiling, and saying, “Happy Birthday, Mom,” Ginny believed for the millionth time that she had made the right choice fourteen years earlier.

   Ginny prepared her favorite breakfast: a half of grapefruit with sugar sprinkled on top, toast with jam, and a cup of tea. She sat at the table across from her daughter. They chatted companionably for a bit, shared the paper, and discussed how they were going to celebrate Ginny’s birthday that day.

   Suddenly, and unexpectedly, the doorbell rang. The daughter went to answer it, and called to her mother to come sign for a piece of certified mail. Ginny was excited; what could it be? A birthday surprise from one of her grandchildren no doubt. Ginny eagerly signed for her mail and returned to the kitchen table to open it. The daughter sipped her coffee, her face hidden by the open newspaper, incurious about her mother’s mail.

   Ginny carefully slit open the envelope and pulled out its contents. She gasped as she read the words, and tears began to form in her eyes, which were wide with disbelief. “You have 30 days to find another place to live.” The daughter sat silently, never lowering the paper, as Ginny, choking back a sob, stumbled her way to her bedroom, which was hers for only thirty more days.

Take care,

Kate

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Hummingbird Moments

Our internet server was down this morning, so when I finished the two delivered-to-our-home newspapers, I found myself eating breakfast with our dog Mollie and cat Oreo, who sat attendance on me, waiting for the goodies I share with them each morning, and no online New York Times. "Woe is me," I thought, "or is it woe am I? I can never keep that saying straight. How am I going to function without my editorials?"

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of iridescent beauty, so startling and so lovely, that I gasped with pleasure. Sitting on a limb of a bush in front of our dining room window was a stationary hummingbird looking at me. For a brief second or two, we regarded each other, and then, in a blur of wings, she was off. My heart was full of wonder and joy.

While I cannot recall another time when I've seen a hummingbird sitting still, we do have another hummingbird with different coloring who occasionally greets me when I take the trash cans down to the cul-de-sac. She hovers in front of my face, looks straight at me, her wings whirring, and appears to greet me. Then, she either flies around me once, or she flies off to the nearest fruit tree. Each time this happens, I feel blessed, as if the hummingbird and I have made a mystical connection.

It occurs to me that I am perhaps missing many such enchanting moments, glued as I am to books and my computer. As I've gotten older and more aware of my shortening time on earth, I've been trying to fill my brain with as much written knowledge via books and the computer as I can, but perhaps it would wiser to spend more time with hummingbirds instead.

Take care,

Kate

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Recognizing A Teachable Moment

When I was a little girl, my favorite day of the year (after Christmas and my birthday) was the first day of school. It was like being given the keys to the toy store and candy store combined, but better, because school was a marvelously magical place where I could learn about everything. School was an ebullient delight, and I tried to never miss a day, and would plead with my mother to let me go to school when I was sick so that I didn't miss out on a scrumptious tidbit of knowledge. No day at school was boring, but some days were so full of wonder that I didn't want them to end.

Perhaps the biggest excitement each year was finding out who was going to be my teacher because the teacher made the whole year good or bad. Back then, it seemed like a complete mystery how students were paired with teachers. Looking back now, though, I can see a method to what seemed at the time their madness.

Out of all my teachers, I only had three duds--my kindergarten teacher, my 2nd grade teacher, and my 4th grade teacher. What do I mean by duds? They were boring and uninspiring, and it is my guess that they didn't like children. Fortunately, my terrible teachers were followed by gems in 1st, 3rd, and 5th. 

My kindergarten teacher didn't believe I could read when I told her I could, so she put me in front of the class with a book and said she was going to teach "Miss Smartypants a lesson" about lying (interesting that she thought humiliating a five year old was teaching a lesson--goes to the heart of her character). Well, I read the book aloud, with no errors, and she blew up. She called my mom and read her the riot act. My poor mom; she hadn't done anything wrong. She didn't really teach me to read; I more or less learned on my own. Fortunately, I was seriously sick most of the rest of the kindergarten school year, so I was spared my teacher's loathing (and I had the great joy of my grandma reading books to me hours at a time--heaven).

1st grade brought Miss Nichols. To my six year old eyes, she was a wonder--tall, beautiful, and smart. Plus, she seemed to like children. She quickly discovered the readers in our class and put us in a separate group to read books of our choosing, after we had finished the "Dick and Jane" books, of course. But Miss Nichols, along with my mom, taught me something even more important than "book learning;" they taught me not to lie.

All the children in my class wanted Miss Nichols to come over to their house, and I was no exception. My parents were not too social and said no when I asked if I could invite my teacher over for a visit. Undeterred, I invited her anyway. Well, wouldn't you know it, I was in the shower when Miss Nichols arrived. When I stepped out of the shower, my furious mother confronted me in the bathroom. She told me to put on my pajamas and commanded me to come apologize for lying to Miss Nichols. I was mortified. I couldn't tell her I lied. I pleaded with my mom to cover for me and back me up, but my mom said my punishment for lying was to confess to Miss Nichols that I had lied and ask her and my mom for forgiveness. You can imagine my agony and torment. How could I walk into the living room and face Miss Nichols, and in pajamas no less? Somehow, I summoned up my courage and walked into the living room and apologized.

I thought I was home free, but, no, Miss Nichols, with a nod to my mother, asked me to sit and have a cookie and some lemonade and explain to her why I had lied. It all came out that "fat Margo" bragged and gloated that Miss Nichols liked her best in our class because Miss Nichols visited Margo's home for dinner. I explained that I wanted Miss Nichols to like me too, so I figured that I had to have her over for a visit. Miss Nichols tried somewhat unsuccessfully to hide her smile, and she remonstrated with me not to call Margo fat (though she was) and she told me that she liked students best who were honest and loved to learn. Really? I could do that. I already loved to learn, and now I had an incentive not to lie--Miss Nichols would like me if I were honest. That lesson has stuck with me all these years.

The less said about my 2nd and 4th grade teachers the better. They were a disgrace to their profession. Thankfully, they were aberrations. Miss Hayashi, my 3rd grade teacher, and Miss Copeland, my 5th grade teacher, however, were shining stars in my galaxy of teachers. They made me and all the other students in my class love learning so much that every day was pure joy, and I tried, with amazing success, once I could choose my teachers, to have some of the finest high school teachers and college professors who have ever taught in a classroom. I liked some of my college professors so much that lifelong friendships sprang up, some decades old, and some just a few months new, but all treasured.

Now, in just a few days, I will be standing in front of two new classes full of students, and I hope that I will inspire my students, like my best teachers inspired me, to learn life lessons as well as book lessons.

Take care,

Kate

For those of you who might be wondering, as of today I have sold 105 copies of my book Dueling With Dementia: Not The Love Story We Planned. One thing that is exceptionally thrilling is that readers in seven countries (Ireland, Great Britain, Canada, Australia, Austria, Iran, and the USA) have read and liked my book. That is really humbling.

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