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This story is about sewing, and the image above will become relevant as you read on.
Sewing by hand is becoming a lost art, and I'll be damned if I let it go without a fight. The dance with needle and thread has impacted me in many ways, and I'm grateful to the those who taught me how to replace a button... attach a patch... set a hem... repair a rip.
It's a quiet and singular activity that, much like ironing, can push a certain button in certain people. I like to iron too, but I'm weird that way.
Aunt Peggy
During Grade school, my younger brother and I lived with Aunt Peggy and Uncle Tony while Dad worked hard to create a new space for his two young sons. This is a common arrangement in many families, yet the benefits of that time so long ago are still with me.
To help ends meet, Peggy took in laundry and ironing work, and her small home was always filled with clothes. Regular walking trips to the laundromat were a part of my days from 2nd to 5th Grade, and the rules for using a laundromat were burned into my hard drive at an early age.
After school, I'd sit and watch her iron and learned how to do it (I'm still an Ironing God). She also taught me the basics of hand-sewing, and sometimes she'd let me sew missing buttons onto a dress shirt before it was starched, ironed and hung, ready for pick-up. I was a weird kid, too.
Father Sews Best
My Dad is a jack-of-all-trades, so it wasn't a surprise that he was also pretty good with a sewing machine. When I landed the role of 'The Peddler' in my Junior High School production of 'Oklahoma!' during the 7th Grade, he figured out how to use Grandma's ancient machine to fashion a sporty suit coat out of leftover material scraps. He fabricated the coat while I hovered around him, watching it come together. I told everyone "My DAD made this coat!!"
During my Boy Scout years, Dad was heavily involved with (among many other things) starting an Indian dance team for our local Order of the Arrow chapter. With me at his elbow, he fabricated the entire costume I wore for several years at performances all over Southern California. He also sewed-up and decorated the full-sized 'tipi' seen in the image above, which our team used at Camporees and pow-wows. My Dad RULES.
Camping Capitalism
The image above was taken at Holt Scout Ranch (a.k.a. Camp Cedar Canyon), located in the San Bernardino (CA) mountains. During the summer of 1970, I was a Summer Camp Junior Staffer there and lived at camp for over two months on my own.
Scout Troops would arrive at camp on Sundays for a week of outdoor activities, campcraft classes and fun, departing on the following Saturday. As a Junior Counselor, I conducted First Aid classes and helped the senior staffers to keep things humming. I washed a LOT of dishes in the Mess Hall.
My sewing skills came in handy. Workers in the Camp Store (pictured at left above) knew I could sew and would send visiting Scouts that needed emergency clothing repairs to find me.
My typical charge was $1 per repair, and Scouts would gladly pay me to fix their torn clothes, sew a newly-earned merit badge onto their sash, or attach an official Camp badge on their Red wool Scout jacket. I always had extra cash to spend at the camp store.
The really cool part was that camp staff lived in large individual tents on raised wooden platforms, with electricity! I had a portable record player, an incense burner and my 'Easy Rider' poster in there. Many evenings found me sewing by lantern light, blasting 'Inagaddadavida' into the surrounding forest.
Stitching One Together
I've been lucky to have spent quality time in fast cars on different kinds of race tracks. During my first session at the Jim Russell Racing Driver's School in Sonoma (CA), I unlearned as much as I learned about car control.
In the first classroom day, the instructor kept saying: "The goal is to stitch together a good lap, and then do it over and over again."
This relates perfectly to sewing, and the title of this story.
In motorsports, every turn is another opportunity to screw up the lap. When producing autocross-style tire testing events, I'd do a track walk with the participants, stopping at the entrance of each turn to recommend where the car should be placed, when to brake, when begin the turn and when to accelerate out of the turn. My favorite advice (Thanks, Mark Richter!) was, "Anyone can drive fast INTO a corner. The secret is being able to drive fast OUT of a corner."
Note: watch this vid on 'full-screen' It'll be worth it.
(Not me.)
Anyone who sews knows that every stitch is vital to the integrity of the finished product. A missed or incorrect stitch can weaken the whole, with failure as a likely result. In the autocross video above, each cone turn is another chance to mess up the lap, and the driver messes up a few of them. He's trying to 'stitch one together'... to take each turn just right to keep up his speed and momentum, thus achieving a quick elapsed time.
When I'm patching a pair of jeans, I make double-doggone-sure every stitch is where it needs to be so the repair doesn't fail and the patch stays where it's supposed to. In motorsports and sewing, the goal is to make every stitch count.
Heart-shaped Box
The sewing kit shown above is the reason I was inspired to write this essay. It belonged to The Artist's Grandmother Lila, and I loved her dearly. When she passed many years ago, we inherited both her sewing machine and this sewing kit, which I use all the time.
When I sit down and open the lid to repair a piece of clothing, Lila's with me. When I use a needle or thread or scissors or thimble or stitch ripper, it's like I'm communing with her across time and space. Holding those precious things in my hand gives me joy for having known and loved Lila so much, and I think about her all the time, even when I'm not sewing.
The vintage plastic case is now old and fragile, and my head was filled with slow-motion visions of the handle breaking and the kit crashing to the ground, exploding into a thousand pieces. I taped down the handle and cradle it in my arms when carrying it.
Sewing isn't for everyone. Neither is ironing. Both are becoming irrelevant, but I dinna care. I get satisfaction from doing both and will continue until I'm no longer able. Whatever happens to Lila's sewing kit when I depart this mortal coil is of no consequence because I won't know. I hope that another person who loves the intricacies of sewing will see the kit as I have: as a time machine... an homage to human skill and ingenuity... as a way to help their favorite jeans last just a little bit longer.
(again, full screen).
(Definitely not me.)
Images of Peddler coat, Indian costume, summer camp and sewing box by the Author, all other images Thanks to GoogleImages; All videos Thanks to YouTube.
This true story is dedicated to my friend, Rhae Lynn.
It started with a conversation about the album cover pictured above for Leon Russell's 'Carney', released in 1972. I'm pretty sure I still have this vinyl in my collection.
Our conversation took place at a company I worked at for over 12 years. The business specialized in automotive film production services and our facility included a full-sized photo studio that hosted shoots for both still photography and videos. The shoots were mainly centered around the vehicles from our primary client, a Korean auto manufacturer.
That's where I met Rhae Lynn, who was crewing as a make-up artist for a photo shoot. She stood 5 feet tall, was several years older than me, and we became Green Room friends right away. She was one of the regulars in a production crew that used our studio throughout the year, and we remained friends after I left the company.
Sadly, she passed away after a sudden illness in early 2022, but not before we'd begun talks for me to write an autobiography about her lifelong career as a make-up artist. She'd already chosen the title of her book, but since it never happened I use it here in her honor (more about that title later).
Our rambling talks about her career piqued my interest in the famous make-up artists that inspired her to take up the profession.
Max Factor. Ben Nye. George Westmore (and his sons Monte, Perc, Ern, Wally, Bud and Frank). Jack Dawn. William Tuttle. Jack Pierce. If you've seen any of the classic Hollywood films, you've seen their work, from 'Frankenstein' to 'Planet of the Apes', from 'The Wizard of Oz' to '2001: A Space Odyssey'.
These names (and many more) were the Hollywood legends that gave Rhae Lynn the passion to become a make-up artist. Over the past several years, my wife and I have become big fans of the 'film noir' genre that took place in the 40s and 50s, so now I read the film credits like a treasure map, searching for those names. They matter to me now, too.
Max Factor
According to de Wiki, since make-up was already used in the theater, the early film industry used those same techniques but found them to be sorely lacking. The combination of the crude celluloid film stock used and how the theatrical make-up colors translated onto film wound up looking like grotesque masks. It was Max Factor who developed the more subtle colors and application methods to tone down the looks. Along with his invention of Pancake make-up, his gentle application methods and the higher-quality film stocks being used, his products and methods became the benchmark for everything else that followed in the make-up industry.
George Westmore
It really took off when film stars began to appear off-screen in the same make-up they wore in front of the cameras. When that happened, Pancake make-up became essential for any woman who was conscious of her appearance.
Jack Pierce
When she decided as a teenager to become a make-up artist, Rhae Lynn's family was horrified. They were sure she'd never be able to make a living that way and tried to change her mind, but no dice. She was short and fiery and had made her decision, so a long and successful career was the result of her choice.
In one of our conversations, she admitted it wasn't an easy career choice. At first she felt like a nomad, following production crews around while trying to pierce their insular world, trying to convince someone... ANYONE... that she had the skills. Once she broke through, the job she'd dreamed of became a decades-long grind of location shoots, endless studio days and equally endless periods of waiting by the phone for the next job, the next chance to earn some money and keep going.
But she loved her chosen profession.
She especially loved the people she came into contact with: production crew members, location managers and techs, and especially the talent and clients. She told me about working on a young actress in a shlock horror film who would be almost nude while on-camera. After an arduous make-up session, the actress inspected herself in the mirror and asked "Can you make my nipples pinker?" Thus, Rhae Lynn's autobiography title was born, along with the title of this homage.
The story that resonates most was about the photo shoot for the 'Carney' LP cover.
She was still in her early twenties and just getting her foot into the studio door. She was tapped to do make-up for a photo shoot where the primary tech had to bow out at the last minute. Although still a newbie and not sure what to expect, she gladly took the job.
She arrived on-set and was directed to a small trailer. She stepped inside and came face-to-face with Leon Russell (whom she'd never heard of), a Southern blues rocker and hard-partier. He was slouched in the make-up chair, holding an open can of beer, drunk. She introduced herself and he belched in reply. "Oh Lord", she thought to herself, "What have I gotten myself into?"
She reviewed the production notes for the make-up application and started, but Leon was abusive and obnoxious, burping in her face as she worked and spitting beer at her. She was ready to drop her brushes and run out, but kept calm and kept working on him.
When she was almost done, he shouted "FUCK THIS!!!", jumped out of the chair and stormed into the trailer's tiny bathroom, slamming the door so hard it shook the trailer. She was mortified and began to pack up her gear, certain that she'd be fired for pissing off the talent. She was ready to leave when the bathroom door opened. Leon came out with a big smile and said "Hey... you did a GREAT job, I look FANTASTIC!!" He thanked her and went outside, leaving her dumbfounded.
She told me that's when she knew she could be a real make-up artist.
Leon and the trailer.
I regret not being able to write her autobiography. I can't remember the countless names she dropped of celebrities she'd worked on, their eccentricities and her interaction with them. I missed out on the chance to write her story, but her smiling face and raucous laugh are always with me.
Thanks, Rhae Lynn... for being my friend and cohort, for opening my eyes to your profession, and for being an awesome human being. I'll never forget you.
R.I.P. Rhae Lynn Stitt (19?? - 2022)
RLS imagen, gracias de Facebook, todos las demas fotos, gracias de Google Images; todos las videos, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube. "We're lost in a masquerade."
1969 was a year of massive change that reflected and resonated all across the country. From Woodstock to the Moon landing, anyone above the age of 8 knew things were different and would only continue to be new, weird and exciting.
The Summer of '69 saw me as a 12-year-old heading into the 8th Grade, obsessed with drag racing, MAD Magazine, rock music and GIRLS. I'd been a Boy Scout for almost 2 years and our Troop was one of only a few that regularly held dance parties with local Girl Scout Troops, some hosted at my house since Dad was our Scoutmaster.
It was COOL.
I had my very first job that summer, a referral from the Willow Junior High recreation department. It involved volunteering at a local library in a shopping center near the school, helping with book returns and reading to kids and general cleanup. It was only a few hours a day, a few days each week for a couple of months, and Dad thought it would be a good way to keep me occupied during those long hot no-school days.
Volunteering at the library was fun, especially since I'd recently discovered the world of science fiction and was inhaling books by Asimov, Heinlein and Bradbury. I had to wear dress clothes and shoes (remember those?) so I felt like I belonged in that clean and quiet space... pushing around a cart filled with books to be shelved and helping visitors navigate the dreaded Dewey Decimal System.
One day a girl came in looking for a book and I was stopped in my 12-year-old tracks. She was my age, pale and pretty with long straight blonde hair and dark eye shadow, wearing a plaid mini-skirt and white go-go boots, looking like a teenage Twiggy. She asked for help finding a book, and after missing a beat while I stood there slack-jawed, we hit the card catalog and I found the book for her in the shelves. With a big smile and fluttering eyelashes, she thanked me and went to Check-out.
I wasn't the same for the rest of the day.
I didn't get her name. I knew nothing about her.
And against all odds, the next time I worked at the library, she came in again.
Now, I didn't know if it was a coincidence but this time I made sure to talk to her as much as I could. She told me her friends called her Spooky (?!?), she went to a rival junior high near the library, lived just a few blocks away and read a lot of books but no sci-fi. Before I knew it, she was gone... POOF!
We wound up seeing each other over the next few weeks. Sometimes after I was done at the library we'd walk to the Thrifty Drug lunch counter in the shopping center to grab a fresh-dipped ice cream cone and just talk. We blabbed about school and friends and books and laughed a lot, all very junior-high but I was crushing on her. It felt like she could be my first real possibly maybe girlfriend and we were 'going around'! She wouldn't let me walk her home, so we'd stroll to the edge of the shopping center, rolling my 10-speed bike between us, before she'd split across the street when the light turned Green and... POOF, gone again.
Then it happened. Once after the ice cream and the goofy talk and the stroll to the intersection... before she left, she kissed me. I mean, a real honkin' French Kiss with tongue and everything! Hoo boy, it felt great as we kissed right there on the corner for the whole world to see. WOW.
The next time we met, she asked me to stop by her house later that evening to hang out. I clearly remember getting ready in my room, lying to my Dad that I'd be racing slot cars with a Scouting friend nearby and then riding my bike to her house, SO NERVOUS. Would her folks tell me to leave their daughter alone? Would she invite me inside to watch TV and make out? What if she wasn't home? I didn't even know her real name!
The streetlights had just come on when I arrived in front of her house, a slightly rundown place with a dirt front yard and a ratty covered porch. I could see the lights were already on inside through the front window, covered with torn drapes.
I rang the doorbell and after a looooong minute, she opened the front door and came out onto the porch, quickly closing the door behind her. Naturally I thought she'd hug or kiss me but instead we both just sat down on the porch bench. We were there for a few minutes, not saying anything, and then she told me she couldn't hang out and that maybe I shouldn't have come over. Then I heard someone inside the house shout:
"HEY... SPOOKY!!! WHATCHOO DOING OUT THERE?? GET BACK IN HERE!!!"
Me: "Soooo... who's that inside calling you? Is it your Dad or your Brother?"
Her: "No, it's my boyfriend. I wasn't expecting him tonight and I didn't have your phone number so I couldn't call to tell you not to come over."
Me: "Your... boyfriend? He sounds a lot older than us."
Her: " He is... he's a Senior in high school."
Me: "WHOA... he's a LOT older than us. Does he know I'm here?"
Her: "Yeah, but I told him you were a just a friend dropping off a school book. He's pretty jealous, so you'd better take off before he comes out here and gets mad and beats you up."
And that was it. Without another word, she went inside the house and I jumped on my bike and pedaled away, feeling hurt and betrayed. I rode around in the dark neighborhoods and after a while went home to my room, turned on the radio real loud and cried like a big stupid baby.
She didn't come into the library again, and even though I knew where she lived, I never rode by her house and then my Summer library job was over. It all happened in the span of about a month, so after a while it seemed like it never happened at all.
And then it was time for 8th Grade... the cute girls, Friday afternoon sock-hops, Saturday night dances and all the stuff we took for granted. For the longest time I tried not to think about Spooky again because it hurt, but even that eventually faded away and I knew it wasn't supposed to be. She knew it too.
I'll never EVER forget that kiss with Spooky on the corner of Amar and Orange Avenues in La Puente, California in the Summer of 1969, near the Food Giant and the library, only a few miles from home but a million miles from everywhere.
Epilogue: all the tunes above were on the radio in the Summer of 1969, and now they sound simple and beautiful and meaningful. In fact, I recently heard all these songs on a Spotify feed in one afternoon, which inspired me to write about Spooky. For me, everything began to change in 1969, and I mean EVERYTHING.
I know this much: I'll always be grateful to have been 12 years old in 1969.
Lead Image, gracias de Google Images; all videos, muchisimas gracias de YouTube.
May 5, 2022 - The relevance of this essay from 2012 (now updated) is a sad testament to the insanity that surrounds the issues of female self-determination, family planning, contraception and abortion, seemingly the most important things in the world to the conservatives among us. With the SCOTUS poised to eliminate federal protections for abortion rights, my observations from a decade ago are still painfully obvious and devastating - Oblio
Preface: this is a rant about the systematic misogyny and anti-woman legislative attacks being carried out by the Regressive Conservatives in Congress and state houses across the country. If you don’t believe there’s a ‘War On Women’ taking place in our modern political discourse, then you're either not paying attention, don’t care, or live in a world without women (a sad and lonely place, indeed).
I'm not a woman, so I'll assume that some of the nuances involved in this essay will never EVER be completely self-evident to me. However, I feel like I have more female-centric empathy than the Average Bear. A staunchly conservative female co-worker once described me as ‘the gayest straight man’ she’d ever known, and I took that as an honest compliment because that's how she meant it.
I don't understand the current hysteria being screeched by Conservatives over family planning, contraception, abortion and the subject of women’s healthcare. It’s the antediluvian mindset that's brainwashed those who would limit, restrict or eliminate a woman’s right to make decisions about her body. The entire (mostly male) segment of our Right-leaning politicians and citizenry are bound and determined to take us back to the days when women were chattel, owned outright by their male overlords. Don't forget... it wasn't until 1920 that women were allowed to vote.
“If men could get pregnant, abortion would be a sacrament.” – Florynce Kennedy
It isn’t simply a case of Regressives not wanting ‘their’ tax dollars used for things they don’t really consider healthcare. It’s actually an overreaching ploy to establish and maintain authority and control over women’s individual rights and life choices. Regressives need to feel they have control over women, and the fake-pious Rethuglicans keep sticking their size 10’s into their mouths with every pronouncement of how they'll assert control over female bodies, specifically the uterus.
It's fascinating that the same folks who espouse the concepts of Smaller Government and States Rights and Personal Freedom and all that… want the federal government to force women to simply roll the dice when it comes to having sexual relations. If they wind up preggers, oh well… GOD’S WILL.
They don't just want to eliminate family planning, contraception and abortion. They want theocratic control over women’s physical lives to match a stilted vision of 'How Things Should Be', as directed by that Great Eye In The Sky and his minions on Earth who wear dresses in church and rape young boys in the small rooms behind the altar, with the visage of a mythical dying man nailed to a torture device, hanging on-high, exalted.
Is that too harsh? Too bad… deal with it.
I have no patience for uninformed, narrow-minded religiosity when it comes to the issue of women's reproductive rights.
Fact: 98% of women in this country use, will use or have used some form of contraception in their lifetimes. Since they're uniquely equipped to give birth, it only stands to reason that each and every woman must have the ability... the right... the choice to conceive and give birth or not as they see fit, and this is specifically a women’s health issue. It has nothing to do with religious freedom.
"Keep your rosaries off my ovaries" -- anonymous bumper sticker
Let me be clear on something before I continue with my little rant: I totally accept that there are lots of people who consider every aspect of my viewpoint on this issue as a non-starter. For them, anything that interferes or obstructs the natural process of conception is an abortifacient. For them, anyone who willfully terminates a pregancy before giving birth is guilty of MURDER. I understand their arguments, but as has been confirmed (up to now LOL) by the Supreme Court and in countless surveys, studies and polls, the vast majority (70%+) of Americans are pro-choice and support a woman's right to choose whether or not to conceive and/or give birth.
I will always respect an individual's right to believe what they choose to believe, but there's only one set of facts here. Facts and reality do not support those who, as the result of their own personal beliefs, vehemently oppose and want to eliminate access to family planning, contraception and abortion for everyone else.
OK, back to the ranting.
I hate to break it to the forced-birthers out there, but here’s a news flash: contraception is a modern woman’s RIGHT, not a privilege or some special gift that requires anyone’s approval or blessing. Limiting and/or eliminating access to family planning, contraception and (as a natural progression) abortion services does NOTHING to advance the role of women in our society. Limitations to these services only holds women back, hostages to their evolutionary role as progenitors of the species. Women aren't simply walking uteri, mammalian vessels whose sole purpose is to give birth and make dinner, a concept championed by the uber-religious on behalf of their Unseen Sky Wizard and his ghost-written magnum opus.
“If men could get pregnant, they’d sell do-it-yourself abortion kits at Home Depot.” – anonymous bumper sticker
Women are half of our citizenry. Women are more than half of our workforce. Women deserve to be treated with the same respect as men at every level of our society. HOWEVER… since men will never EVER be put in a position to have their bodies taken over by the process of childbearing, women also have a far heavier burden of responsibility towards procreation. Therefore, since women are solely responsible for gestation of the unborn, it's logical to conclude that ONLY women should decide whether to conceive and give birth or not, and must have at their disposal every option and opportunity to exercise that choice. It's the only civilized response to their singular status. It’s not that difficult a concept to grasp.
I've often posed the concept that women, as a member of the species homo sapiens, are just a tick further evolved than men. That statement is usually met with sneers of derision from men (and affirmative head nods from women) until I list the facts:
1. Women live longer than men.
2. Women can handle pain better than men.
3. Women regenerate blood and sinew faster than men.
4. Women are all, to a certain extent, psychic (sorry, guys… you know it’s true).
5. Women have an incredible level of sensitivity and intuition.
6. Women can engage multiple layers of conscious thought streams simultaneously.
7. Women have their reproductive organs on the inside of their bodies.
8. WOMEN CAN GIVE BIRTH.
9. Women have the ability to make men completely wall-eyed and stupid(er) with a simple word or deed. A push-up bra also puts men into full-tilt chimp mode (sorry, guys… you know it’s true).
These are only a few of the the facts that IMHO establish women as the more-evolved of the species, as the people we single-minded testicle-dragging meatheads must offer as much deference to as possible. Conversely, these facts are also why, in almost every human society since the Stone Age, women have been oppressed to control their influence and quash their voice. In almost every religious doctrine now being practiced on this planet, women are treated as second-class, second-rate, second-in-line. Women have been cast as the lesser of the species, subject to the vagaries of their ‘stronger’ male counterparts, when in fact men have always oppressed women because they secretly feared the power of the uteri-laden.
"For a woman to get half as much credit as a man, she has to work twice as hard, and be twice as smart. Fortunately, that isn't difficult.” -- Charlotte Whitton
I'm reminded me of a favorite scene from the film ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’, where patriarch Gus Portokalos, called out over another instance of his dunderheaded ways, pronounces “MAN… is the HEAD of the family!" As an aside, his wife tells their daughter, “The man may be the head of the family, but the woman is the neck, and the neck can turn the head ANY WAY it wants to”.
Soooo... now that you have a pretty good idea of where I stand on the issue of women's reproductive rights, you may be asking yourself what you can do about it The answer is simple: SPEAK OUT. VOTE PRO-CHOICE. Don't stand by and allow the regressive theocrats to take another step towards the oppression of every American woman. Our wives, girlfriends, sisters, daughters, Mothers and friends need every voice to be raised in support of their singular and ongoing struggle to control their own lives, to be in charge of their individual futures.
This isn't really a partisan political issue, although the battle lines do seem to be drawn in shades of bright Red and Blue.
Sad to say, in the year 2022 we're still having a heated national argument over women's reproductive rights. I remain optmistic that we'll eventually reach a point of agreement/understanding on this issue, although it promises to be a knock-down drag-out battle in the upcoming primary and Presidential election seasons. I know this much: when it comes to the subject of women's rights, I'm a foot soldier on their behalf, ready to lead the conga line towards a more equal society. Come dance with me, won't you?
"If you can't trust me with a choice, how can you trust me with a child?" - anonymous bumper sticker
Click the links below to find out more about these issues:
Lead image 'Crucified Woman' by Eric Drooker, Muchismas Gracias de globalvoicesonline.com; Garbage 'Sex Is Not The Enemy' and Monty Python 'Every Sperm Is Sacred' videos, gracias de youtube.com
Note: this fictional story was inspired by my Father.
CHAPTER ONE
El Viejo wasn't sure what was happening to him, but he knew it wasn't normal or like anything he'd experienced during his long life.
He was mystified and alarmed... but also surprised and grateful!
He'd been out on his property, harvesting the latest crop of wheat he'd grown from seeds gifted to him by an old farmer when he first arrived in the valley. He also grew pinto beans and Hatch chiles for the chile verde burritos he sold from his small shop that were a favorite among the locals and made all the abuelitasjealous.
He even milled the wheat into flour, using an ancient hand-operated stone mortar and pestle he'd found on a long-defunct local farm.
Lately though, he'd been feeling exhausted when he woke in the morning darkness, pulling himself out of bed while his wife snored. He wasn't used to feeling so old... so worn-out... so damned TIRED all the time.
He sat drinking his first cup of coffee at the small kitchen table and realized he'd have to cut back on the huge amount of work it took to raise the food and run the shop. "What the hell is happening to me?" he thought. "I guess I'm just a worn-out old man... soon I won't even be able to make the tortilla flour."
All of this was running through his mind while he milled some of the wheat grain that morning.
He heard his wife call out to him from the back door of the house for some hot champurrado and fresh pan dulce. He stepped out of the mill shed, looked over and saw... a beautiful long-haired young woman standing there. He blinked his eyes, rubbed them hard and looked again, but she was still there.
She shouted at him:"Entonces... que estas esperando, una invitacion firmada? Ven a buscar tus bocadillos o se los dare a los perros!" (Translation: "So... what are you waiting for, a signed invitation? Come and get your snacks or I'll give them to the dogs!")
He stared at her, trying to understand what he saw. This beautiful woman with long black hair and fiery Brown eyes was his wife as she looked when he first met her!
He was confused and captivated. He slowly walked up to this amazing creature and stood before her, looking her up and down without words.
Before this vision disappeared, he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her with a fervor he hadn't felt in years. For almost 30 seconds they kissed so passionately that when he finally released her, she took a step backwards and sat down heavily on the doorstep, her eyes wide and face flushed.
She looked up at him, standing in front of her with his leathery brown skin and wavy white hair and bristly salt-and-pepper moustache, dressed in his working whites, his hat cocked dangerously low on his forehead... and her eyes grew even wider.
He wolfed down the snacks as he stood there, never taking his eyes off the beautiful young woman, thinking he must be hallucinating or suffering from some kind of mad delusion.
He thanked her, turned and headed back into his milling shed. He didn't look back for fear she would disappear.
His mind reeled. What in the hell had just happened? How could his wife suddenly appear to him as a 16-year-old maiden? Was he losing his mind or having a stroke?
He went back to milling the wheat, his hands on the large wooden handle that turned the old wooden gears which slowly rotated the stone pestle. He was lost in thought, trying to understand the strange vision of his young wife, a woman he'd slept with most of his life!
He raised his eyes to see the morning light streaming through the shed's window, the fine flour dust in the air beautifully illuminated by the sun. He felt honored that his Lord had smiled on him enough to grant him such a beautiful day, a beautiful life... and a newly-beautiful wife, even if he knew her youthful appearance was only a mirage... an illusion... a trick played on his mind.
After he'd milled enough flour, it was time to start a batch of dough to make his daily dozens of fresh tortillas. In only a few hours his small shop would open to a line of patiently-waiting customers.
He emptied the freshly milled flour into a large bowl, picked it up and walked out of the shed... and was stopped by what he saw. The yard between his shed and kitchen, normally filled with chickens, was instead covered by dozens of tiny chicks scurrying around, peeping loudly.
"None of my chickens has hatched any chicks", he thought to himself, "yet the yard is full of them!" He heard dogs barking and then saw three of them come running from behind the shed... but they were all puppies! They jumped and barked and chased the chicks, with El Viejo standing in the middle of it all, his mouth wide open.
All at once, he was gripped with a fear that he was going insane insane. "NO!", he said to himself out loud. "I'm not insane and I refuse to be insane!" With the large bowl of flour still in his hands, he looked straight ahead, walked into his kitchen and began preparing the tortilla dough.
Several hours had passed since his morning hallucinations, during which he'd made at least six dozen fresh tortillas, opened his shop and sold many burritos. He refreshed the simmering pot of burrito mix consisting of green chiles, potatos and steak, transferred a fresh pot of pinto beans onto the stovetop to begin slowly cooking for the next day, and made a few dozen more tortillas for the customers he knew would soon arrive on their way home from work.
As she did every day, his wife came through the kitchen door behind him with a fresh batch of meat to be cooked down for tomorrow's burrito mix. Without turning around, he felt her arms surrounding his waist and her gentle kiss on the back of his neck.
"Mi amor", she whispered into his ear, "... parece que tuviste otro gran dia. Estoy muy orgulloso del trabajo que haces, trayendo tanta alegria a nuestra ciudad con tu deliciosa comida!" (Translation: "My love... it looks like you had yet another great day. I'm so proud of the work you do, bringing such joy to our town with your delicious food!")
He turned to embrace her and saw not the 16-year-old apparition, but the wrinkled face and ample figure of his wife of almost fifty years. He looked deeply into her eyes and gently kissed her, closing his eyes with relief that he was no longer hallucinating. It didn't matter that she was old and gray like him, because in his mind's eye she would always be the beautiful young bride of his dreams... the same one he'd seen that very morning!
We're all unstuck in time at some point in our lives. The essence of a human being relies on memory and comprehension and a certain amount of self-consciousness about our time and place on this mortal coil. We may be the only species on Earth that can't survive without those traits.
I write these words as a 65-year-old man, thinking about a book I received as a boy from a man who probably wanted to have sex with me. That book, written before I was born, is about a future history of human strife and upheaval that resonates with the current malevolence swelling in the hearts of many humans, especially here in the United States.
How's THAT for being unstuck?
"The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom." - Isaac Asimov, 1920-1992
The book in question, Isaac Asimov's TheFoundation Trilogy (TFT), is a benchmark of 20th century science-fiction spanning a thousand years of future human history. It should be required reading for every high school Senior to help them better understand the world they'll graduate into. They need to become unstuck in time to understand the future they'll help to create as thinking, feeling, emotionally complex human beings, even though the story covers vast distances in time and space.
My hardcover copy of TFT is worn out from multiple readings, its spine held together with packing tape, the pages yellowed with age. I was around 12 or 13 years old when it was gifted to me by one of the male Boy Scout leaders involved with our troop after he found out I was inhaling science-fiction novels. The guy didn't have any kids.
I came to understand much later that this man - unmarried, pasty-faced and overweight - was likely a pedophile who involved himself in scouting to groom young boys for sex. I remember the day he presented the book to me as our Troop gathered at my house for an event (Dad was our Scoutmaster), signing his name on the inside cover and telling me he knew I'd enjoy reading it. Thankfully, he disappeared from our orbit soon after, who knows why (I think I know why).
Side Note: Pedophilia has ALWAYS been on the fringes of Boy Scouts. It's not a new phenomenon, and IMHO seemed to have increased as churches became more prominent supporters of Scouting activities. I never saw or knew anyone in my Scouting life who was abused or molested by a leader, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen.
So it goes.
He was right about the book. I read it right away, then a second time to revel in the fantastic saga of science and galactic war and space travel. What I didn't grasp... and wouldn't until I read it again as an adult... was that the story was actually about human interaction, human emotion, human loss and human achievement, cloaked as a space Western... a galactic 'Dallas'... a sci-fi 'How The West Was Won'.
The central theme of The Foundation Trilogy revolves around the science of 'psychohistory' and a man named Hari Seldon, a university mathematician living on the planet Trantor (as Earth would be called in a future time). He developed and championed a theory that could foresee the future of humankind solely based on human psychology, emotion and predictability. His predictions also included thirty-thousand years of galactic turmoil and war unless certain things happened at certain times, which relied on human beings being just that: HUMAN.
However, he couldn't know that his barely-accepted theory of psychohistory (and the entire galaxy) would be threatened by a mutant possessing incredible mental powers that could control the thoughts and actions of others across the vast distances of space. Known only as 'The Mule', the mutant would wreak havoc and threaten to upend the human race with the aforementioned thirty-thousand years of war and death and mental servitude.
No one really knew when The Mule was exerting his powerful mind control. They just 'thought' with seeming free will, but were in fact being manipulated by an unseen force that bent them to his bidding with literally no effort. Entire fleets of men and warships were controlled in this way, and planetary systems fell one after the other to The Mule.
Naturally, I ain't about to give away how the story ends, but OMIGOSH is it a great ending.
I re-read TFT again last year while the 'Rona raged around the world, and the story resonated with me more than ever, forging a strong connection between the malevolence of The Mule... a powerful tyrant who controlled the minds of others... with our 45th President, Donald J. Trump.
I'm NOT the only person to make this connection, as I've read a couple of articles that connect DJT with The Mule in concept.
Here's the rub: whereas The Mule used his incredible powers of mind control over others without their knowledge, DJT has created a 'cult of personality' that's been accepted, codified and practiced by his followers, seemingly with their full knowledge and approval. BUT... are his followers fully cognizant of the control he seems to have over them?
In fact, the idea of a 'Trump cult' is gaining traction due to the way his acolytes ignore science and facts and information which completely refute everything he says and does, yet they still pledge allegiance to him. Some are even claiming he was 'sent by God to smite those who don't believe in Trump, the one true savior of our country.'
Really, truly scary.
A pathological liar, tax cheat and failed businessman with hundreds of millions of dollars in personal debt to foreign banks.
An aggressive philanderer, misogynist and accused rapist with dozens of women credibly claiming he'd abused and assaulted them.
A man who displayed a stunning level of ignorance of science, history and politics.
A bully who would personally abuse, insult, demean, debase and denigrate anyone he pleased.
And finally, as a failed Presidential candidate, an instigating traitor who fomented an insurrection against the U.S. Capitol to support 'The Big Lie' and stood idly by, watching on TV from the White House, while his violent mob threatened the lives of lawmakers and law enforcement and tried to force the 2020 election results to be overturned.
"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent." - Isaac Asimov, 'Foundation'
Donald Trump was and is all of these things... and yet he's still revered, supported, promoted and defended by a large swath of the GOP and the citizenry.
Willful ignorance? Brainwashing? Mass psychosis? Latent stupidity?
None of this is mind-control on the level displayed by The Mule in TFT, but what can explain the counter-intuitive behavior of so many people?
I think there are several things at work here which may not be considered mind-control per se, but in concert manipulated the thinking and opinions for millions of people. This includes a slavish devotion to celebrity, the aforementioned willful ignorance, pernicious misinformation and the 'The Gish Gallop', barely-disguised criminality, an unchecked and unregulated social media, FOX NEWS, and a Congressional GOP that's degenerated into the Disloyal Opposition.
Think about it: every one of these conditions set up a Foundation of Mass Misinformation that was absorbed and shared by millions of people, duped by their own inability to know the difference between facts and bullshit. Since they couldn't (or wouldn't) question their own belief systems, they decided to follow DJT while he attempted to steer the Ship of State over Niagara Falls. He almost did and still might if given the chance.
I could (and should) go on... but you get the picture, right?
Mind-control writ large. The Mule, reincarnated as a criminally-malevolent political terrorist.
In TFT, there were people determined to stop The Mule by any means necessary, but they were beholden to something he was not: humanity. They were checked in many ways by their own inability to overlook their essential humane-ness, the very thing that separates us from the other non-human inhabitants of our small Blue Marble. They had two crucial human traits: EMPATHY and COMPASSION.
Has ignorance, venality, vengeance and violence now become the hallmarks of conservatism in the United States of America?
We'll know in a year or two if this country learned a valuable lesson about putting a criminally-malevolent political terrorist in The White House. We'll find out if our collective humanity can prevent an inhumane leader from once-again gaining power in and control of our nation.
Here's what I've learned: the past is ALWAYS prologue, and we usually get the leaders we deserve.
The sci-fi novels I read as a youth are still important to me, mostly because I can read them now with the eyes and perspective of a seasoned Old.
Isaac Asimov... Arthur C. Clark... Ray Bradbury... Harlan Ellison... Kurt Vonnegut... Kim Stanley Robinson... Robert Heinlein... these writers held the wild future of the human experience in their big brains and shared it without trepidation or hesitation or apology. They put forth ideas which, with the passage of time, are now more real than ever.
The youth I once was, star-struck and inspired by the fantastic future these brilliant people created, gained an open mind and open heart and a willingness to question everything. That questioning mind rejected the simple-minded poetry of religious belief and chose instead to ask a lifetime of questions that result when asking hard questions without easy answers. I've not regretted that decision for a nanosecond ever since.
The grizzled adult I am now can still see that wild future with the same youthful open mind and open heart, regardless of the willful ignorance or the mindless religious fervor held by so many around us. The future of our Nation will rise or fall as the tides of political and sectarian turmoil ebb and flow, constantly rebuilding or eroding the foundation we stand on, literally and figuratively.
As revealed in Isaac Asimov's story, The Foundation was shackled by a fear of ignorance and tethered to an ideology that valued knowledge, empathy, humanity and the certainty that civilization would eventually find it's way to universal peace through education and enlightenment.
A single hardcover sci-fi novel has given me a lifetime of reading enjoyment, filled my head with questions about mortality and continues to offer a peek towards a vast future history as yet unwritten.
It doesn't matter that my life will end sometime in the next 20 to 30 years, because I've already seen the wild future, or at least several versions of it. I'm a spectral mote of dust, insignificant and expendable. At the same time, I'm made from the stuff of stars, living a singularly unique life on this small Blue Marble that spins around a dying star on the far edge of a galaxy intermingled among millions of other galaxies.
It just doesn't get any better than that, nor should it.
"Scientific truth is beyond loyalty and disloyalty." - Isaac Asimov, 'Foundation'
All images, Gracias de Google Images; Living Colour 'Cult of Personality' and 'Blue Danube Waltz' videos, Muchisimas Gracias de YouTube; Do not fear death or the unknown... always look it straight in the eye and laugh mightily.
The exact date in 2005 is lost to me now, but the memory is seared into my brain.
It started out as a long Sunday night drive from Northern California. I was heading home to SoCal after a solo turn-n-burn trip to visit my ailing younger brother Chuck in Paradise, a small town nestled in the Sierra foothills 75 miles North of Sacramento.
It would be the last time I'd see Chuck alive, but that's another story.
I was rushing home so I could be at work the next day. The Artist hadn't made the trip because it was too long a drive for her over a single weekend. I'd done it several times over the years, so it was no biggie for me.
My Black '93 Toyota SR5 Xtra Cab was a total Highway Star for drives like this, owing as much to the strong V6 engine as to the long wheelbase and excellent road-going suspension. That baby could ROLL.
The run from Paradise, through Sacramento and on to Stockton only took about two hours, with light traffic most of the way. I stopped at a decrepit gas station in Stockton to fuel up and grab a Mountain Dew and a bag of Chili Cheese Fritos, my road food combo of choice.
Once back on the Southbound I-5 freeway, the traffic disappeared and civilization fell away. I was cruising at about 65mph because the area was a known speed trap and I didn't need a ticket.
As I made the Tracy Cutoff, I could see one or two cars waaaay up ahead of me, so I nudged the throttle and settled in at 80mph. Soon enough, the Cutoff blended onto the main two-lane I-5 Southbound. I was now going about 90mph with a couple of cars about a quarter-mile ahead. I also noticed a car in my rear-view mirror, about a quarter-mile behind.
My sled was cruising along so smoothly that, just for fun, I squeezed the throttle a bit more and was now going 100mph, smooth as butter. Watching the roadway ahead, the two cars in front of me used the inside lane to pass a slower car, so I did the same when I caught the crawler, as did the car behind me.
After a few minutes at this excessive velocity, I realized the cars in front and behind were doing the same speed as me!
Eventually, our high-speed auto caravan grew to six cars, all of us keeping to the same speed, catching and passing slower cars in a nighttime freeway ballet. It was amazing to watch us all sweep around slower cars and trucks, one after the other, at 100MPH!
Now, don't get me wrong - this kind of driving was totally illegal and dangerous, and any single thing could have led to disaster. But after a while it seemed so natural... the starry nighttime sky, the headlamp-lit highway streaming underneath, the tunes pumping from the speakers, my concentration cranked up to 11... perfection. A shared celestial moment between drivers who knew nothing about one another except that we were hauling ass.
It was MESMERIZING.
We sped along like that for almost 90 minutes... at 100mph... at night... on the freeway... slicing through the Northern San Joaquin Valley like so many bolides.
I imagine the other drivers had the same shit-eating grin as me the entire time, whooping out loud when we each caught and passed another car, flowing from the outside lane to the inside lane and back to the outside lane. I don't recall there were very many semis on the road that night.
Eventually it had to end, so when the exit signs announced the Kettleman City offramp (gas/food/lodging), two of the cars ahead signaled their exit and, as we flew past, popped their hi-beams and flashers in a sign of shared law-breaking exuberance.
Not too long after we blew by Kettleman City, our Night Train dwindled down to just me and one other car.
We'd done the 130 miles from the Tracy Cutoff to Kettleman City in less than 90 minutes, but now we were approaching the southern half of the valley and on the run to Bakersfield. The traffic grew a bit heavier and I backed down to 85mph. My compatriot behind was lost in the mix, probably doing the same with a new-found abundance of caution.
The rest of the drive... flashing past Bakersfield, over the Grapevine and dropping into overnight SoCal traffic and civilization was an 85mph blur of lights and cars.
I made it safely home, grabbed a few hours of sleep and headed off to work.
BUT... that magical 90 minutes was still buzzing in my head. Had it really happened? Yep, and it wouldn't happen again.
I've had the good fortune to drive real race cars on real racetracks, but that insane high-speed nighttime I-5 drive stands out as a truly singular experience, one that gives me pause when I realize exactly what I'd done, how much risk I took and how little it seemed to worry me at the time.
I'm an old fart now and wouldn't do anything like that on the open highway again. However, in my mind's eye I can still see that freeway ballet, performed when no one else existed in the world except me and my temporary road warrior compadres in our speeding projectiles, hurtling through time and space.
I wonder if any of them remember that night the same way I do?
Todas las imagenes, gracias a Google Images; video de Commander Cody & His Lost Planet Airmen 'Hot Rod Lincoln', muchas gracias a YouTube; Recuerda volar bajo y evitar el radar!
When I make that statement, 99.9% of the response is either complete disbelief or an incredulous LOL. "SUUUURE YOU HAVE!!!" they howl, "...and HOW long have you been off your meds now?!?"
The common wisdom says almost nothing good about Mother-In-Laws (MILs) and most often characterizes them as either meddling interlopers, scheming manipulators or bossy know-it-alls... sometimes all three at once!
I suppose that's true in many (most?) cases, but let me offer an alternate to the common wisdom. I've been lucky enough to have shared my life with two awesome MILs who enriched me, made me laugh and feeling grateful for them.
It didn't start out that way with MIL #1. In fact, it got really bad before it got really good and it was a long, strange trip. Our first meeting at her home for Thanksgiving dinner in 1977 was weird and troubling and should have been a portent of the emotional mayhem that was to follow. I was just too dumb and lovestruck with her daughter to see it.
In short order, I struck out at the plate:
Strike #1 was that her wonderful Jewish American Princess daughter was dating a Mexican.
Strike #2 was that her daughter was pregnant only 6 months after she started dating the Mexican.
Strike #3 was that her daughter was marrying the Mexican who impregnated her.
I was OUT!!!!!
#1 hated my lack of responsible family planning, my unskilled non-collegiate background, my sketchy heritage and that I wasn't Jewish like she'd always dreamed her Son-In-Law would be. She never relented, denigrating and insulting me in the same passive-aggressive ways she'd been eviscerating her long-suffering Husband with for so many years.
During that tumultuous 4-year marriage and eventual divorce (1978-82), she even accused me of abuse and neglect, all of which was completely false but it was how she rolled. What I didn't know and wouldn't for a while was that she was in the beginning stages of a serious illness that would eventually take her out.
The divorce was brutal and messy and difficult, and I floundered trying to get my footing back. Luckily I met The Artist around that time, and she gave me the love and purpose and meaning I needed to reboot and regain my stride.
Over the next several years of child visitations, court proceedings and the wreckage of an ugly divorce, things slowly began to change for #1 and me. During a birthday party for my daughter at their duplex, #1 and I finally connected in a wide-ranging conversation lubricated with a lot of Asti Spumante. Over the course of that afternoon, she began to laugh more, talk more and even admitted that I was a pretty good provider and father to her only Grandchild.
I was thunderstruck, to say the least.
Soon afterwards, her health issues began to turn serious with a diagnosis of systemic Lupus. She was in and out of hospital, and during one kid weekend when we went to see her at Cedars Sinai, young daughter and I spent several hours at her bedside, with daughter held tight in Grandma's arms and me next to them in a chair, all of us laughing and chattering and feeling really, really glad to be together.
That turned out to be the last time I'd see #1, who'd spend the next 20 years slowly dissolving away from the powerful, crazy, hilarious woman she'd always been. I'm glad my last vision of her was sitting in a hospital bed with a huge smile on her face, waving goodbye.
MOTHER-IN-LAW #2
How can I describe the galactic difference between MILs #1 and #2? Unlike #1, #2 was loving, accepting and gracious to a fault right from our first introduction. She was completely open to bringing me into her family fold when I started dating her third daughter (The Artist), who was also in the final throes of a failed marriage.
The fact that #2 was a Virgo like me bonded us almost immediately, but even though she's deeply religious she never EVER proselytized to or judged me, using her personal example as the gold-standard of her being. She'd raised a family of 4 kids astride her Husband of over 60 years, a stoic-yet-hilarious man who loved to diss and bait me, always giving me his sideways smirk to let me know he was only kidding. They were the classic first-wave Boomer Couple.
When The Artist was seriously injured in a 1988 car accident, which required wearing a halo head/neck/back brace for three months, #2 and I actually got into a several arguments about who was gonna be the primary giver of loving care and support. Those semi-heated arguments always ended in tearful laughter and hugging acknowledgement that we were just trying to out-do each other. Soooo typically Virgo!
When #2 was struck down with a mysteriously debilitating illness in 2011, The Artist and I shifted into overdrive to save her life, an episode you can read about in my essay titled 'Slipping Into Darkness' . I was manic about making sure we did absolutely everything we could so she didn't wind up dead or in potato mode at some stupid nursing home. We made the 80-mile round trip from our home to her hospital rooms every day for weeks on end, fought like hell to convince the Doctors to do a final test that miraculously uncovered the reason for her illness, and cleaned her house every weekend for months during her rehab.
She survived!!!!!
True fact: decades ago she asked me to carve the turkey for the family's annual Thanksgiving feasts because she said hubby always butchered the bird. This was high praise in my book, and for years I carved with gusto and appreciation for her loving gesture.
#2 has become one of the Most Important People in my life, and although she's now 86 years old and adjusting to life without her Man (lost in November 2020), I would move heaven and earth for her. She RULES.
So often, married couples deal with and suffer from the kinds of unfortunate parental relationships that can torpedo a newly-hitched duo in ways both seen and unseen. This phenomenon has historical precedent, but that never makes it easier to handle.
According to De Wiki, the phrase 'Mother-In-Law' comes from the Middle English phrase 'modyr in lawe'. The term was first used in the 14th or 15th century, and the idea behind it is that your MIL has the same rights and duties as your biological mother and is given those rights and duties by the legal pact of marriage.
Funny, but not funny, but actually funny... amirite?
All too often, prospective Sons/Daughters-In-Law are blinded to the whims and vagaries of their future MILs because the prospect of signing on to a turmoil-filled marriage JUST CAN'T HAPPEN. It may be wishful thinking, willful ignorance or simply a lack of foresight when a guy or gal finds themselves at the receiving end of the bad juju that comes with a bad MIL relationship.
None of this seems to be relevant to Father-in laws, who are usually A-OK unless they're just dickheads. Go figger.
I can say this much: based upon my first meeting with #1, if I'd not been so stupidly in love with her daughter I'd have listened to my gut and run from that place and never again dated my soon-to-be-ex-wife.
Hindsight... 20/20... and all that.
My advice to anyone who intends to bring a MIL into their lives is simple: never EVER forget that marriage is a painful way of showing parents how very much a child has grown and maybe doesn't need them any more. This can trigger all sorts of reactions ranging from sorrowful loss to spittle-flecked anguish and resentment, all wrapped up in seething hostility and outright hatred.
Let all of that go by the wayside. Focus on being the most loving, most attentive, most supportive spouse you can be and the rest will eventually take care of itself. Diffuse any animosity with kindness, compassion and understanding... unless you have one of those "OH MY GOD WTF AM I GETTING INTO?!?!" moments like I did in 1977 when I should have listened to my inner alarm screaming RUN, NOW.
Because someday you too will be in their shoes, greeting a child's new Significant Other who may just turn out to be The One.
"I told my Mother-in-law that my house was her house, and she said 'Get the hell off my property!'" - Joan Rivers
Todas las imagenes, gracias a Google Images; videos de 'Monster-In-Law' y Los Beatles 'She's Leaving Home', muchas gracias a YouTube.
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