Leaving California

Before my coffee cooled, 40 years went by.  I arrived in LA, pert, cute, clueless, with two suitcases, the larger one filled with shoes, and $100.  I had everything, I knew nothing and I had a lot to learn.  For example, Sepulveda is pronounced Se-PULL-ve-da, not Se-pul-VEEDA. As a consequence of learning to drive in LA, I am a fearless driver, leaving the fear to others in my path, or in my wake.  Another learning point – the freeway. In the early '70's, freeways had character. They had names; I knew where I was -- the Santa Monica freeway took me west to Santa Monica, the Ventura freeway took me north to Santa Barbara, the Hollywood freeway took me to exotic locales; numbers on signs were secondary and inconsequential.  Being an astute young lady, as I barreled down the freeways, I frequently noticed the Junction freeway. Paying no mind to the number in the middle, I oftentimes pulled out my Thomas Bros. map book and tried in vain to find the mysterious elusive Junction freeway. If only I could get on that freeway, it would take me everywhere.  . . .

Speaking of exotic, the only exotic ethnic group to be found back east (the old country) were the Italians. Since I was of Italian descent, I didn't consider myself exotic. I wasn't exotic, but LA had plenty of exotics.  Never mind the colorful characters from south central LA, east LA, west LA, there were hippies, flower children, rockers, who later morphed into men with purple Mohawks, disco queens, queens, Goths, and all those cute young men lining Santa Monica Boulevard, why on earth were they loitering on the street all day wearing tight blue jeans and tee shirts.  There I stood, an island in pumps and pearls, asking embarrassing questions to my Bakersfield born and bred roommate who magnanimously kept her cool while she explained the facts of life.

Another major adjustment in LA -- the weather. Weather is a concept in California. There is no weather.  Fritz Coleman once bemoaned the fact that he was a weather man in a town that had no weather. 

High tech meant having a typewriter with an erase feature. An elder member of the firm came back from his executive meeting and told me that one day everyone would have a computer on their desk. I smiled patiently at the senile old coot . . . and remember the story while I type from my laptop.

A lot has changed since my arrival. Then, Jerry "Moonbeam" Brown was governor, oh, but wait, he's still governor. The more things change, etc.  And now, the time has come to take my learnings and move to Maryland. Will the culture clash be too much? Stay tuned.  

Giants among us

My Uncle John is on his deathbed and I am sorry for that. He is 84 years old; a long life well lived. He's still married to his sweetheart bride. They chose their wives well, my four uncles. Uncle John was the third son. He returned from WWII, thinner but still handsome and smiling. He was the music man in the family.  I was a little girl in those post war years and when weddings came around, he was there to swing dance with me. Cyd Charisse had nothing on me. Unlike others who were not so lucky, the war in Europe seemed to do him no harm, or at least he never talked of any harms. Instead it introduced him to men unlike his close knit family and to previously unfamiliar music.  Many of his stories began with "I met this guy in the army and he. . . . " Uncle John was generous, thoughtful and, after the war, he was more tolerant and more patient with others who were not so fortunate. Summer visits to his home meant listening to Benny Goodman and, later, Frankie Laine and B.B. King. He loved jazz. As I grew older, our conversations continued to revolve around music; the changing beat. Django Reinhardt, Artie Shaw, Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, Herbie Hancock. Our last conversation included musings on B.B. King's guitar, Lucille.

Uncle John was closest in age and comraderie to his older brother Ermando. They were thick and fast all through their lives. Both served during the European war and were reunited quite by accident in a Paris cafe. Although they were in different units, all roads led to Paris. Surrounded by their army pals, each man went to the same cafe to forget the fatigues of war and enjoy the rarified company of women. As Uncle John entered the bustling cafe filled with soliders he looked around for the familiar faces of his buddies. Instead, he saw his brother Ermando. Screaming his name, Ermando looked up and called his name in return. Even with the high noise level, the tone in their voices made other soliders realize something wondrous was happening and the cafe went silent as they watched while two brothers sobbed and held each other. Then, of course, laughter and mayhem ensued long into the night. They didn't see each other again until the war ended but that brotherly bond was never broken.

However, it came close a few times. Each year they would take turns hosting the families' Thanksgiving celebrations. As they aged, they became more like each other; a little impatient, perhaps factually incorrect on occasion, and generally a source of amusement to the next generation. One year they had a terrible argument. Unfortunately, Uncle John could not remember what the argument was about, but he knew that Uncle Ermando knew, but Ermando wouldn't tell him, so there they sat.

And then Uncle Ermando was stricken with cancer. He was 87 at the time. Astonishingly, he was put on a list as a good candidate for organ replacement, but he would have none of it. He had lived his life and now it was time to move over and make room for the next generation. He had no ax to grind, no story to tell. He served his country. He worked hard during his life and was rewarded for it with a loving wife and two fine children. After 60 years of marriage, his wife was still his girlfriend. He often said the only smart thing he ever did was to marry her. During his illness, Uncle John never left his side.

In time, the memory of these two men will fade. Their names will not find their way into any history books. No street will be named after them. Their lives will be of no consequence to future generations, but to the people who loved them, they were giants.