Look What I Found...

     While cleaning out my parents' garage in preparation for moving my mom to a smaller place, I discovered an old tool, now a new treasure... my old skate key! I recognized its singular shape immediately, but it was the soiled old string-necklace still laced through it that initially caught my eye, as I dug through Dad's battered metal tool box. Memories rushed at me.
     In the weeks since my discovery, I have carried my skate key amongst the coins in my wallet and shared it with friends and family on a variety of occasions. There is a thick, solid, line-in-time that defines those who recognize the key immediately for what it is and those who have not the slightest idea what they are looking at! People born in the '50s or earlier break spontaneously into wide smiles that include the whole of their faces, and then quickly wax into nostalgic childhood anecdotes about skates, skating, skating accidents, favorite skating shoes, skating events... everything skating. Most of these stories were long forgotten until the spark of seeing my lost-and-found treasure sparked their remembrance.

I got a brand new pair of roller skates.

You got a brand new key.

I think that we should get together and try them out, to see ...

     Younger folks, certainly those born after the '60s, sport a puzzled look upon first seeing my skate key. They invariable take it into their hands, flipping it this way and that. They recognize the "toolness" of the object, but see no special purpose for which its bends and holes might have been designed. When the words "skate key" are lovingly spoken by their elders, their heads cock to the side and their puzzled looks deepen, "a what?" A lengthy explanation then ensues, with special emphasis on special facts, akin to advice given by an experienced mentor to a younger protege recently deemed ready to learn how to properly skate.

• First, those old-fashioned skates require you to don hard-soled shoes with a sole-lip thick enough and firm enough to support the metal clamps of the skates.
• Second, the skates must be properly fitted to your feet before they are clamped to your shoes. To do so, the various bolts must be loosened with the skate key, the foot piece must be adjusted to the proper length and width, and then bolts must be tightened again with the skate key.
• Next, to prevent its disastrous loss, the skate key must, at all times, be worn on a string around your neck and tucked into your shirt all summer long, even when not skating.
• Periodically, you must pause, inspect, and readjust the tightness of the clamps. Failure to do so could easily result in mechanical failure and a painful crash.
• Finally, the skate key must never, ever, ever be misplaced, or you could never skate again without mooching off a friend.

      I remember... playing follow the leader while skating with the neighborhood kids, going 'round and 'round and 'round the block in our own little parade. We skated downhill on Newton Street's sidewalk, turned right at Library Street, skated back uphill on the sidewalk along Brand Blvd, and turned right again on Fifth Street to get back to Newton and start all over again with a new leader. Sometimes, after getting to speed on the downhill run, we would close ranks, grab one anothers' waists, squat down low to the cement, and glide down the street like a giant careening snake. Care had to be taken over the rough spots, as those metal skate wheels could catch in a crack or on a small stone and launch you head over heels! (I have a pale scar on my forehead to this day that proves that warning!)

     I remember... putting on dramatic performances, performance-art storytelling on skates, complete with princesses and fairies and heroes! MaryAnn Macey, Lynn Monteverde, and I practiced for weeks on Ione and Otis Crawford's perfectly shaped and sloped driveway, distributed handwritten fliers to every home in the neighborhood, set up chairs on the sidewalk, and created both scripts and costumes for our summer evening debut. I remember there were grand entrances from alongside Crawford's house, swirling spins and swift strides in the wide space front of the garage, and deep curtsies at the conclusion.

     I'll wager my elders and contemporaries out there have similar childhood skating anecdotes to share! Do tell...

(The photo above is of my mother, Louise Griffin, age seven, resting during a skating session in front of her house in San Diego in 1932. The lyrics above are from the song "Brand New Key" released by singer/songwriter Melanie in 1971.)

Peaceful Resting...

     "You're never prepared."

     How many times have I heard that phrase concerning someone's emotional reactions to the death of a loved one? I thought I understood it, and intellectually I did. But physically and emotionally, I couldn't have understood, because I had never actually experienced it before.

     Then Daddy died this year, on Good Friday, on Mom's birthday, on April 22, 2011. Dad wasn't ready to go. Even at 89, after a long and rich life filled with adventure and love, Dad valiantly battled with shrouded Death, determined to win. During his 80's, Dad fought back from the brink several times, escaping Death's clutches in the form of kidney failure, heart disease, "every chronic affliction known to man." Those successes drove him to continue his fight even as his last day approached and he slipped further and further away from us.
     The "apple of Dad's eye," his only grandchild, Dean, hurried home to visit and say goodbye. When he arrived, Dad propped himself up a little higher on his bed cushions, smiled a little more, and became almost "perky" as we all talked about "the good old days." After an hour-and-a-half, Dad slipped into a peaceful sleep. He never regained consciousness, though he responded to the touch of our hands.

     Mom and I camped out at the side of his bed all day and well into the night. We talked to him, believing he could hear us even though he couldn't respond. We recounted stories and discussed important and frivolous things with him. On Friday morning, shortly after we both returned from a sleep break, Dad found enough strength to squeeze Mom's hand (happy birthday? goodbye? both?) just before he breathed his last breath.

     The lovely cards and calls that we have received from friends old and new universally extol his kindness, his humor, his brilliance... and the twinkle in his eye. We miss him everyday.

     Wallace Miles Griffin's obituary is here.

(The photos above are of 86-year-old Wally on Christmas morning in 2008 at my house; two-year-old Wally in coat and hat on the running board of his father's car in San Fernando; and young married Wally and Louise in the 1950s in San Fernando.)

The Smell of Roses...

     For Christmas, a bit belatedly, I received a Kindle, and for that I am very grateful. I am an avid reader, with a large library; buying books is my strongest vice. If he didn't know better, the postman would think I was having an intimate affair with someone by the name of Amazon; so many boxes he delivers to my door are emblazoned with that name.
     Currently, I have four books actively "in progress", and several others awaiting my attention in precarious piles. For a complete look at my reading lists, past, present, and future, you can become my "friend" on Goodreads.com a really fun social networking site exclusively dedicated to reading and talking about reading.
     So, despite being in the midst of several books, I took my new Kindle in hand, and downloaded my first Kindlebook last night: 365 Thank Yous by John Kralik. Mr. Kralik really took an idea and ran with it, an idea many of us have had, but never followed through with. And I'm pondering following in his footsteps.

     In this crazy-busy world we live in, everyone is running from one thing to the next, barely pausing to (forgive the cliche') "smell the roses." Many an expert has suggested that one way to greater happiness is through practicing mindful appreciation of the world around us: people, nature, beauty, etc. But it's hard to appreciate what you are rushing past, even pushing out of your way. Experts also tell us that by contemplating and writing a list of gratitudes every evening we become better at noticing the people and things in our lives we sincerely appreciate and find meaningful, things big and things small... sort of like priming the pump (another cliche', sorry). If I have an "assignment" to come up with three specific things that I feel grateful for every evening, and I don't want it to get repetitious, then I had better start noticing what's going on around me. I'd better slow down and allow myself to be aware of my surroundings and those with whom I interact. "They" say, eventually, this practice becomes a habit--a way of life that leads to greater happiness.
     Mr. Kralik's idea goes one step further. He challenged himself to not just write a gratitude list for himself, but to write and deliver a written thank you to someone, everyday for a year, expressing that gratitude. His notes weren't long or mushy, just honest and sincere. He began, easily enough, by writing thank yous for Christmas gifts he had received. It wasn't long before he had to look deeper and watch more carefully. It was interesting how touched people were by his simple notes. People's need to be appreciated, was as great as his need to be appreciative. The connections created by his thank yous brought energy to both the giver and the receiver.
     Kralik's personal goal was for greater happiness for himself; he needed to pull himself out of the deep dark hole into which he had fallen. The end result was a "pay it forward" result. By passing on his appreciation, his gratitude, to others he succeeded in passing along his greater happiness as well.

     So, I'm going to give this a try. I am challenging myself to write a thank you note a day for all of 2011. It sounds daunting when I say it, write it, like that... 365 is a big number! So I am also allowing myself forgiveness when I mess up, because it's sure to happen. I want to begin right now.

Dear Readers,     I am deeply grateful to those of you who read my blog, especially to those of you who comment from time to time. Your readership and your comments are encouraging to me. I get excited every time I see on my "stats" that my blog has been viewed! I feel giddy when there's a comment waiting for me. When I grow up, I want to be a writer. I began this blog a year ago as a challenge to myself to "go public" with my writing in order to face my fears; fears that really kept me from actively pursuing that writing dream; fears that you have helped to dispel with your encouragement. So, I sincerely appreciate, you, my dear readers!           
     THANK YOU!      Joan        

New Year's Wishing...

     The topic of Christmas Letters has come up several times in conversations recently. It used to be that the practice of sending out a typed letter to friends at the holidays was frowned upon, considered gauche, uncultured, and impersonal. I find it fascinating that during the last couple of decades, the Christmas Letter has become a welcomed tradition. Dozens of colorful letters from a variety of friends and family carry delightful annual stories into my home. I truly look forward to receiving them and enjoy catching up with everyone's adventures, challenges, and accomplishments via their words and photos. 
     I began writing my own holiday missives when we all moved to Northern California twenty-two years ago and left so many dear friends behind. It seemed like the perfect way to carry on relationships that might otherwise have slipped away. Over the years, I've kept a copy of each annual letter, and last year, at Dean's suggestion, I put them all together in a binder. It has become a great conversation starter, two decades in review.
     Following is my 2010 letter... a greeting meant to be part nostalgic reflection and part blessing sent your way...

Dearest Family and Friends,

     As I pulled off the freeway in Grass Valley the other day, I was greeted by a fleeting and beautiful winter weather phenomenon. Behind me, to the south, the sky was crystal clear and blue. The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, casting blinding golden rays into the eyes of the drivers headed that direction. Ahead of me, to the north, the sky was made black by a wall of tall storm clouds sweeping towards the mountains. The sky was cut exactly in two, one half clear blue, the other ominous black. Between me and that black wall swirled a fine golden mist, a silken veil of fog illuminated by slanting sunbeams. The gold fog descended on the roadway and enveloped my car, separating itself into its individual snowflakes, sparkling gold and silver. The first flakes were small and swirling, but soon huge quarter-sized flakes began to float out of the mist and stick on the car and the pavement. Within minutes, the ground was white and the sun was gone. The Magic of the Season is upon us!
     At this point in my holiday letter, I usually lament the speed at which the year has passed. However, this year, I must lament the passing of THREE years! My last letter went out in 2007. I had such good intentions the last two Decembers, but the Fates conspired against me… against us, really. December 2008 saw my dad, Wally, in the hospital recovering from a heart attack. In December 2009, it was my mom Louise’s turn. She spent a couple of months in the hospital fighting off an infection in her heart. “Recovering” and “fighting off” being the operative words in those sentences! They are both still alive and kicking and have promised to let me get my annual letter out this year. Much has happened in three years. Though I promise not to recount it all, there are some highlights to pass on.
     Dean is currently in the third year of a PhD program in the Communications Department at Stanford. He is taking classes, teaching, researching, and generally wallowing in the academic environs he so enjoys. He is also studying in the Statistics Department. For the last several months he has been working in the research lab at Facebook’s Palo Alto campus.
     Dean’s girlfriend, Kat (Katrina), is in law school at UC Hastings in “the city”, while Dean continues to live in Palo Alto. Though she graduated from Placer High, right down the road from here, Kat and Dean didn’t meet until they had both graduated from Stanford, and she answered an ad for a roommate! (Ironic.) Over the summer, they traveled to Spain and Turkey for a couple weeks of sightseeing, relaxation, and lots of pictures. Prior to that, over spring break, Dean traveled with long time friend, Chris, and others to Peru, a trip that included hiking and “luxury camping” in the Andes Mountains and more photography. And somewhere in between, he combined business with pleasure and traveled to Denmark and the Netherlands. Previously, there were multiple trips to Finland for Nokia, his former employer, and fun excursions to Florence, Venice, Paris, and closer to home, Yosemite and Napa.
     Dean enjoys an active lifestyle. He bikes almost everywhere and runs for fun. This year’s huge Sierra snowfall is a skier’s siren call. Oh, to be young and soooooo energetic. He also visits “home” several times each year and is really good about staying in touch with his grandparents. There are plans in the works to do some video interviewing of Grandma and Grandpa. (Check out his blog “Ready to Hand” at deaneckles.com/blog if you’re interested in what he’s thinking about and working on.)
     I celebrated the completion of my twentieth year of teaching last year, two decades – unbelievable! I continue to enjoy teaching English Language Arts to 7th and 8th graders in Colfax. Adolescents are fun and enthusiastic beings who keep me laughing and energized. Despite all the negative news you hear about the state of public education, I assure you, teaching and learning are alive and well in our neck of the woods. I have an awesome group of kids this year (as every year), who teach me something new everyday.
     In addition, I am trying something new in education. I am team-teaching a pair of online university courses, guiding students from the birth of their master’s projects in September to the publication and presentation of their final written theses in May. The courses are part of the MA Contemplative Education program that I, myself, completed two summers ago at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado. It’s both fun and challenging to be on the other side of the virtual table, participating in threaded conversations about current topics in education and helping others through a life-changing process that I so recently completed myself.
     I have not done the kind of world traveling that Dean has enjoyed, but I have taken shorter trips in recent years: twice to DC and NYC with my students, Boulder and the Colorado Rockies with Naropa friends, retreats to beautiful Point Reyes, and fun in Encinitas. I also traveled to DC to attend the Mind and Life Institute and be inspired by the Dalai Lama, and to Thich Nhat Hanh’s Deer Park in Southern California for a lovely retreat. I enjoy tasting the local wines with friends at the sweet little wineries right here in the Sierra Foothills, and try to get out to do some local hiking, too. (Read my blog “It’s Dawning On Me” at itsdawningonme.blogspot.com to check in on what I’m thinking and doing.)
     My folks, Louise and Wally, are no longer able to participate in the kinds of adventures we used to take, but we get together almost every week. I drive up and we share dinner; sometimes I cook, sometimes we go out. Mom still gets in a few bridge outings a month, but Dad has gotten out of the bridge loop these days. What has been a fun hobby for all of us has been a new interest in genealogy. We have been doing extensive research online, with the help of Ancestry.com. We have dug out all the old boxes of pictures, letters, and other documents that have been hidden away for a long time. We have traced a dozen family strands back to the 1600s, thanks to those Quaker ancestors who were very good bookkeepers, cataloging everyone’s movements in great detail. But there are several intriguing mysteries yet to be solved, one of which includes a mysterious oil well!

Whew! That was three years in a nutshell!

I am blessed to number you among my beloved family and friends.

Your places in my life are sacred and bring me great happiness.

My inclusion in yours enriches me.

Wishing you all love, life, truth, beauty, abundance, and peace in 2011.

May all beings be free from suffering.

May all beings find love and happiness.

Namaste’

Miscellany...

The junk drawer...
     Mine's in the kitchen, and it's the repository for all things miscellaneous, varied, random, homeless. Opening the drawer reveals a motley mosaic of entangled forms. Some inhabitants are obviously useful, functional, the quickly located goal of frequent or regular searches, things one wants to keep ready to hand. Others, equally useful, but rarely needed, end up relegated to the back of the drawer and require a fair amount to rummaging to find their way to the surface. A third group, saved for no apparent practical reason, having but limited purpose, yet it seems a wasteful shame to actually throw them away. They're the kind of thing that sells by the dozen, when you only ever need two or three at a time, and the next time comes again only after several years.

The junk drawer? 

Full of various and sundry things, 

Diverse and heterogeneous, 

An assorted conglomerate,

A haphazard assortment,

Scrambled and mingled, 

Jumbled and unmatched.

A drawer of miscellany.

• Scissors with yellow handles
• Blue-handled adjustable pliers
• Needle-nosed pliers
• Philips-head screwdriver
• Slender orange plastic-handled razor cutter, with safety catch
• Rubber bands: big blue ones, removed from fresh vegetables before cooking (15), small red ones (21), and a HUGE tan one
• A small tub of Crazy Glue, more than half used
• Six sheets of red twist ties, still clinging together, unseparated
• Scotch brand invisible 3/4 inch tape in a dispenser
• Blue masking tape, 1-1/2 inch wide roll
  
• Red electrical tape, 1/2 inch wide roll
• Master padlock with one key
• Four random keys, definitely NOT front door or car keys
• Marks-a-lot brand permanent marker, bold tip, black
• Five push pins in rainbow colors
• A dozen nails in a variety of sizes and colors
• Three long slender bolts, and a score of small bolts and screws
• Three white drawer pulls, removed from kitchen drawers, replaced over five years ago
• One walkie-talkie, partner lost years ago
• Twenty-five foot retractable metal measuring tape
• Three meter retractable metal measuring tape
• Two small flashlights, neither working, with dead AA batteries
• Energizer AA batteries (3), Duracell C batteries (2)
• Scripto brand butane BBQ lighter, with long wand handle
• Bic butane lighter
• S-hooks (3), cup hooks (4), cotter pins with rings (2)
• One small box wooden strike-anywhere matches, scattered
• Matchbooks (2)
• Suction-cup hook (2)
• Magnets (2)
• O-ring, small (1), large (1)
• Shelf brackets, metal (3 in plastic bag), plastic (2)
• Wall mirror brackets, plastic (3)
• One tube of lip balm

What's your drawer look like? Where's it located? What treasures does it contain? or hide? Come on, fess up. You have one, too. It keeps the rest of the place clean, if you have a place to shove the miscellany!

Heroine Out of the Blue...

Christmas, 1961.
     Santa Claus never wrapped the presents he left at our house. Instead, they were arrayed invitingly on the hearth, those meant for me on one side, my sister's on the other. Christmas '61, I discovered to my delight a beautiful hardbound book, Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell. The cover was splashed with brushstrokes in shades of blue, suggesting the rising, swirling waters of the Pacific, and the face of a beautiful Indian girl with eyes as deep as the sea. A gold seal announced its celebrity as that year's the Newbery Award Winner.

     I had spend many happy hours at our small town's well-stocked library, reverently touching and holding books, before choosing the weekly allotment. And I had spent even more hours curled up with those treasures in my favorite chair consuming them. Choosing crisp new paperbacks from Scholastic's monthly book orders, an American schoolhouse tradition for decades, was a privilege I delighted in. I had also been the lucky recipient of a sizable hand-me-down collection of Nancy Drew Mysteries, books savored repeatedly.

     But this was different. This was the very, very, very first brand new hardback book that I had ever owned! I picked up Santa's gift and was awed by it. It felt substantial in my hands. Watercolor art adorned the dust jacket that protected the treasure from damage. Taking a deep breath, I reverently opened the cover to read the words on the jacket's flaps, words that proclaimed Island of the Blue Dolphins a masterpiece. As I flipped though the pages, up rose the delightfully sweet new-book aroma unique to hardbounds.
     I do not remember anything else about that Christmas morning, absolutely nothing. I know all the presents under the tree were unwrapped, and I'm sure my mother made coffee and my father whipped up one of his traditional holiday breakfasts, but I can recall none of that. What I do recall is having to wait, and wait, and wait until things had calmed down enough for me to curl up in my favorite chair to begin reading this new story.

     The main character in Island of the Blue Dolphins is Karana, a young Indian girl marooned alone on an island with her little brother, when all the other members of her tribe are moved to a new home. A variety of challenges face the two children as they try to survive on their own. Karana fights off wild animals, learns to hunt and fish for food, builds a shelter and makes clothing, but despite her amazing efforts to protect him, the little boy eventually dies. Karana continues to live and even thrive on the island for a long time by herself, until she is finally rescued. Karana's story of survival and heroism is a true adventure story that took place on San Nicholas Island off the coast of Southern California during the days of the Spanish Missions.
     I LOVED that book. I fell in LOVE Karana. Certainly a classic heroic literary figure, she became my own personal heroine. Filled with love, she risked her life for her brother. She faced perilous challenges with courage and difficult problems with creative optimism. Faced with the loneliness of extreme isolation, she determinedly made a comfortable home for herself. What might have been an island paradise, was at first, a deadly trap. Through her Herculean efforts, she made it into a paradise.
     I wanted to be strong and brave and smart and independent just like Karana. I wondered, if I was faced with those kinds of threatening challenges, would I have her courage and strength?

Summer, 1964
     Television commercials announced the upcoming release of the movie, Island of the Blue Dolphins, with Celia Kaye playing the role of Karana. I am filled with excited anticipation, eager to see my heroine on the giant screen. In my eagerness, I reread the book for the third time, marking in my mind's eye exactly the countenance and mannerisms of each person, especially Karana and her brother. Again, I envisioned the island setting, with its sandy beaches and rocky cliffs, reminding myself of each and every detail of the plot as it unfolded. I wanted to see on the big screen what, until now, I had vividly been able to see only in miniature inside my head.
     Opening weekend found me with my friends in line at the glass ticket window in front of the Center Theater, in San Fernando, well before the movie was to begin. The ticket cost me fifty cents, a snack of popcorn and soda another fifty cents. We found perfect seats, halfway back and dead center, and sank into the red cushions. The popcorn was nearly gone by the time the deep red velvet curtain ascended to expose the giant movie screen. The auditorium full of kids grew silent as the lights dimmed to black and the music began.

     I discovered that day in that theater an important rule: The movie is NEVER as good as the book!

     I was soooooooooo disappointed to discover that the movie on the screen wasn't at all like the movie I had expected to see! The movie's Karana didn't look like MY Karana! The island didn't look like MY island! Did the director and I even read the same book? Huge parts of the story were missing entirely, and others were out of order or totally wrong! They ruined it! Ruined the movie! Innocently, I had believed the images that formed in my mind when I read O'Dell's words, were the same images that appeared in other readers' minds. I had expected those who made the movie to be faithful to the author's words and, therefore, to my imagery. The fact that others perceived "reality" differently than I did came as quite a shock!
     For a long while, even the book was ruined for me. Not for another twenty-five years did I reread what had been my favorite tale. Not until my son Dean was nine and in the fourth grade did I rediscover Island of the Blue Dolphins. We drove south from our home in Northern California, towards Ventura, the town of his birth, to visit friends. Dubbed our "California History Adventure Trip," along the way we visited museums and historical sites, including several California Missions. As I drove, Dean read aloud the story of Karana and the Island of the Blue Dolphins. In my mind's eye flowed, resurrected and untarnished, my original version of the movie, and my heroine, Karana, was reborn.

     While doing a bit of Google/Wikipedia research, to make sure I had all my dates and details correct, I was reminded that the original Karana had lived completely alone on San Nicholas Island, which is the Channel Island farthest from the coast, west of Ventura, for 18 long years. When she was "found" by a sea captain in 1853, she was taken to Santa Barbara and "christened" Juana Maria. The last living member of her tribe, the Nicoleno, she died seven weeks later, unable to survive her exposure to "civilization" the way she had survived, even thrived, for nearly two decades alone on her island home.

Where, Oh, Where?

     My writing today is based on the poem "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon, a poem used frequently as a model for teaching poetry with both adults and adolescents. My students' final draft poems are due tomorrow. The parts of them I have seen so far are absolutely phenomenal, so full of personal insight, such a result of real self-reflection and self-knowledge. I thought it only fair that I "turned mine in" too. I think it fits with the essence of this blog.

Where I'm From

I am Joan Margaret Griffin

I am from two queens, one Greek, one English,
And a Hebrew “Gift from God.”
I am from myths: A lion with head and wings of an eagle,
Who collects and guards golden treasure.

I am from England, Wales, and Germany,
From devote Quakers with black hats and white bonnets,
Early colonists who came on small ships.
I am from New England whaling captains, Southern backwoods hillbillies,
And hard-working Midwest farmers.

I am from SoCal, from “The Valley,”
From an “oops!” mistake, and “We choose you!” at LA County adoption.
I am from skates with keys, tree houses, kickball on Newton Street, forts in the vacant lot,
And “Be home before the streetlights come on!”

I am from swimming pools, with black stripes and starting blocks,
And from hair turned green from chlorine.
From jump-rope and jacks, black-and-white TV and Barbie dolls.

I am from homework done at the dining room table, and books consumed under the covers,
From The Beatles and The Monkees, Gilligan’s Island and Leave It To Beaver.
I am from road trips in the station wagon and 8mm family movies.

I am from lasagna made from scratch, and homemade meatloaf with instant mashed potatoes.
From ice cream cakes, Mom’s famous Lemon Snow Pie,
And Dad’s silver-dollar-sized pancakes, only on Sunday mornings.

I am from Spartans and Bruins, and football games at the Rose Bowl,
From sun, sand, and sailboats, wetsuits, and zinc oxide,
Freckles and sunburn that blisters and peels.

On one side, I am from strong silent adventuring men,
On the other, from wild and worrying women.
I am granddaughter, daughter,
I am Joan Margaret Griffin