Travelin' On . . .

Although this crisis in my life actually occurred two weeks ago yesterday, I haven't blogged about it before because I just finally wrapped my mind around the fact that she's gone.

Gone, as in picked up (some of) her stuff, flew off to Colorado . . . just so she could move to Arkansas.

ARKANSAS?

Truthfully, I knew she was going to move somewhere, but I thought it was likely to be Africa, Apparently she took a wrong turn somewhere and, as I write, should be in a caravan with her son and daughter-in-law, making their way toward Texarkana.

Two days before she boarded the plane for Colorado Springs to meet up with her family, she called me and announced she and her buddy Taz were leaving. Just like that. It wasn't a *total* surprise because she'd told me her DiL, Jenia, was facing a job change which might involve a major move and that she might go back there to help the family out.

Who the heck am I talking about?

Gosh, if I looked like this on my birthday, I might leave the state, too.

I'm talking about my friend Pat. My traveling companion buddy. My Hollywood Bowl buddy. My American Ballet Theatre buddy. The person who, if I said, "you wanna explore the Eastern Sierras?" would always reply, "how soon do you want me there?" The one with whom I first discovered the beauty of Sedona many years ago. The one who explored the Napa wine country with me last June.

From now on it's gonna take just a little longer for us to get together, I reckon.

Despite how it looks, I'm really not whining. Not much, anyway.

Pat has wanted to make a change for a long, long time. We've talked about it for years. She's also wanted to make a difference, and that's why she took major steps toward entering the Peace Corps in 2010 (at 70 years old! Way to go!). Although the destination has changed--and I'm thrilled, because Arkansas is a lot closer than Africa--she's still going to be able to make a difference. She'll have time to spend with her granddaughter, Stasia, as well as son Kirk and DiL Jenia. Knowing how much it meant to Pat to be able to assist her grandson, Devin, with his homework in his earlier years and to play a major part in his life, I understand that this is a great opportunity for her to do the same for Stasia.

At this point I can't wait to hear from her that they've made it safely and are getting settled in their new locale. When we last talked, just before Christmas, they were expecting to arrive sometime on Wednesday.

Best of luck to you, dear pal. I miss you!

You Can't Go Home Again . . . or . . .

. . . there's absolutely nothing you can't find via Google, if you're diligent about it.

For all the years I've had access to the Internet, I've periodically searched for a friend from college days, someone dear to me who disappeared from my life. I've always wondered what happened to him and where he ended up. Those searches  proved fruitless, until Monday.

I can't imagine what parameters I entered differently, but all of a sudden there he was. So much of him that it blows my mind I didn't locate him before, over the years. It seems that Creator has a grand plan, and it's for Him to know what it is. For some reason THIS was the right time for me to find my friend.

To find this person was at once heartwarming and disconcerting.

He's been extremely successful in his chosen field and clearly discovered exactly the right path for him. When I knew him, some 45 years ago, he had a vision of where he wanted to go but no defined way of reaching that goal. He floundered, as we all did, changing his major two or three times, itching to find the right fit. That he did is evident. In doing so it's also obvious that he influenced many lives and effected positive social change along the way. He's made a difference.

He married about the same time I did and has remained married all these years. He raised two sons and recently became the grandfather of twins. He's now retired, at the pinnacle of his career. All this I unearthed over a few hours' reading, where I couldn't find a trace of him before. A life well-lived, from all appearances, and I'm pleased beyond belief for all of that.

Thomas Wolfe wrote, you can't go home again. Having gained all this information, there's nothing I'll do with it.  Except think about it, long and hard.  

He's made a difference.

In this lifetime we have a limited amount of opportunities to make a difference. What's clear to me, more than anything, is that I haven't done that yet, haven't found--after 66+ years--that magic path that, when you're on it, your world lights up. You know, you just know, you've found your calling. Like my heroes Greg Mortenson, Ghandi, the Dalai Lama and others lesser known but equally committed, dedicated and courageous. Those are big shoes to walk in.

Could I take a stand for something I believe in, against all odds? Could I work for a goal regardless of monetary returns?

I've done many things that have meant a lot to me. More than anything I brought two beautiful daughters into the world, and they've turned out to be incredible, marvelous human beings who are a joy to be with and who make me very, very proud. But that has much more to do with them than me. While my daughters are a legacy I'll leave behind, there has to be more, in the end. What is it? Where is it? When will I discover it?

I'm convinced this realization that the search must begin now, not a moment to waste, is the reason this gift was placed in my hand.

I'm hoping that I can keep my favorite Ghandi saying, Let us be the change we wish to see in the world, at the forefront as I look for the answer to that mystery.

P. S. After writing this and scheduling it to post, I decided to do a bit more web exploration and came across the Blog 4 Change which challenges its readers and writers to answer the very question(s) posed in this entry. Is this the beginning of the answer?

Friends: Installment 3 - Pat

Pat and I have shared lots of good times together, from the wilds of Yosemite to the sophistication of the American Ballet Theatre and the Hollywood Bowl. She's been my friend since 1967, the day my husband and I moved into our Huntington Beach home.

As soon as he saw the activity in our driveway, Alan, our neighbor on the left, came running. He fashioned himself a good-will ambassador, eager to introduce us to the rest of Kamuela Drive. He pounced on the occasion to introduce us to the residents on our right, Jim and Pat. Jim was career Navy and overseas much of the time. My husband was also often away, so Pat and I forged a friendship. Over the years both of us have done our share of moving around. I eventually ended up in the Yosemite area, while Pat now lives on Brookhurst, at the end of Kamuela Drive, just two blocks from where we first met.

When I moved to Huntington Beach, I was seven months pregnant with Farida, so Pat has known both of my children before their birth, and I've known hers. Her Kirk arrived nine months after Farida, and Carisa came along a year after Nasreen. They grew up together and, in a sense, so did Pat and I, as it became clear that our marriages were not destined to survive. We provided sounding boards for each other (much to the displeasure of our respective spouses) and moral support whenever needed.

Back in the days when women coaches were a rarity, Pat and I—along with our friend, Kathy—coached an AYSO girls' soccer team. Much to the chagrin and obvious displeasure of the men coaches in our division, our Mini Green Giants won the championship by a hair in the last 5 minutes of the game. To this day, we swear our success that season was due mainly to the talented girls on the team—including Carisa and Nasreen. But matching hair ribbons, cheerleading from the sidelines and our emphasis on positive teamwork helped, too. Those afternoon planning sessions floating in Pat's pool accompanied by lemonade spiked with vodka didn't hurt, either. Although my girls gave up soccer long ago, Carisa still plays and continues to be a mainstay of her adult team.

Pat and I were among the only working women in our neighborhood, and both of us held down full-time jobs while raising our families, a further bond between us.

She's far more cultured than I with musical tastes ranging from opera to classical to classic rock and a lot in between. I confess (sorry, JK) that I've never been able to develop a feel for the operatic, although I appreciate the other genres.

Pat discovered the availability of a Hollywood Bowl biweekly subscription, and for nearly ten years we spent every other Friday summer evening sipping wine, nibbling grapes and sampling cheese as we listened to a variety of musical treats. Our favorite, hands-down, was the annual Tchaikovsky Spectacular complete with the 1812 Overture, cannons, fireworks and the USC Trojan marching band.

We held the same Bowl seats each season and looked forward to seeing who else would return to the surrounding seats. Life got even easier as we discovered the convenience of Park-n-Ride to and from the Bowl. There were a number of evenings when we needed that buffer between the wine and the drive home.

Attempts to instill our love of fine music in our children failed as they resisted the urge to indulge in our version of cultural refinement. They considered our one mutual Hollywood Bowl episode akin to waterboarding.

Another contribution Pat made to our cultural awareness was an annual subscription to the American Ballet Theatre at the Shrine Auditorium. The ABT was in its prime in those years with superstars like Barishnikov and Bissett. Gelsey Kirkland's stellar performance in Swan Lake was a memory to last a lifetime. We managed to drag our daughters to The Nutcracker, and they claimed to enjoy it.

One of the more “esoteric” musical events Pat and I shared with our children was a Bee Gees concert at Dodger Stadium. Farida, Nas, Kirk and Carisa were less than enthusiastic, but we got them to agree to go. Although to this day they'd probably deny it, once the show started, all of them seemed to enjoy the talents of the Brothers Gibb.

At Pat's urging we both participated in a past-life regression. It was billed as an experiment conducted through the California School of Professional Psychology, which friends of ours attended. I didn't buy into the experience, especially when the hypnotist

I had the pleasure of introducing Pat to one of my favorite musicians: Elton John. She knew little about him when I coerced her to attend a concert at the Universal Amphitheater. That was in one of Elton's quieter phases (no feathers or platform shoes for this performance); just Elton on piano and Ray Cooper on percussion.

who conducted the session claimed to have contacted my father. His death, when I was 21, had haunted my memories. For many years each time I'd hear the song “Leader of the Band” by Dan Fogelberg I'd burst into tears because it would remind me of my dad. The hypnotist ordered my dad to leave my aura and continue his own journey. Despite my misgivings, following that past-life experience, I've never since been bothered by that song.

When I moved to Bass Lake, our friendship continued to flourish, although we didn't see each other as often. Pat would drive up for the weekend, and we'd take off to explore Yosemite. Many's the day we'd drive to the valley, park at Curry Village and walk all over the valley floor. We'd always end up at the Ahwahnee Hotel, where we'd park ourselves on the patio with an Irish Coffee or a Chip Shot or two. That tradition continues today and has been passed on to other friends and family through the years. She may not remember with such fondness the day I convinced her to hike the western loop of Yosemite Valley. She swore to me she could do the six-mile trail, but her knees—none too sturdy over many years—gave out on her as we rounded the bend where John Muir met with Teddy Roosevelt. I left her in the meadow while I hoofed it back to our car, parked by the Yosemite Chapel. When I came around to pick her up, I discovered she'd endured a brief shower. while a number of park visitors stopped to admire a black bear who shared the meadow with her. I don't remember her ever thanking me for that adventure.

With Pat I explored Tioga Road for the first time and discovered the most glorious parts of Yosemite. We'd take off early in the morning, drive to White Wolf, walk around there a bit and then continue on through the high country to Olmstead Point, Tuolumne Meadows and Dana Meadows. Together we marveled at the Sierra splendor displayed before us. Pat has photos where's she's venturing ankle-deep into the last snows of the season at the foot of Mt Dana. We recently reprised that episode on our way from my house in Coarsegold to Pat's condo in Lake Tahoe. We stopped at the same spot, where Pat waded into the snow-melt of the Tuolumne River.

We decided to take “the back way” home from Tahoe through Monitor Pass and eventually on through the 22 per cent grade of Sonora Pass, through some of the most beautiful mountains I've seen in California.

Though Pat and I have remained friends, our kids have gone their separate ways. They haven't seen each other since Carisa's wedding nearly 20 years ago. Kirk survived a stint in the Marine Corps and has moved all over the country as a result of his job with American Equipment. Carisa remains rooted in Orange County.

Pat's sense of adventure continues as she approaches her 70^th decade, she's about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. Next June she expects to find herself en route to a French-speaking country in sub-Saharan Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer. She figures that as she winds down her career in Orange County, her vast computer and teaching experience will stand her in good stead as she assists third-world women strive to reach their entrepreneurial potential.

It's an incredibly brave undertaking to leave your home and family traveling halfway around the world to serve others in conditions less than ideal. I can't begin to tell you how much I admire and applaud you, my courageous friend.

The Rumors of My Demise . . .

As Mark Twain said, "The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated."

It's clear that Facebook is a powerful social networking tool when you can go there and learn that at least some part of your world thinks you're dead.

In one of my first blogs I wrote that I have no friends left from before my college years. That statement has to be amended now . . . and the friend who surfaced last week on Facebook informed me that at my 50th high school reunion I was listed on the "In memory of . . ." page.

Facebook is not one of those sites I spend a lot of time perusing, but every so often I decide to see if I can find anyone from my distant past pre-LA State. That past includes probably 2 people who I would remember and who would remember me.

My parents--allegedly for my own good--yanked me out of my country high school in Vista after my sophomore year and threw me, kicking and screaming, into big-city San Gabriel High School. Let me state here and now that removing a teenager from the safety of the world she's known since she was three years old constitutes cruel-and-unusual punishment. It ruined what was left of my high school years. My junior year I wandered aimlessly, trying to figure out where and how I fit into a society totally foreign to me. My grades suffered along with my psyche. I can't tell you the number of times I wanted to bolt and run. Things turned around--somewhat--in my senior year, and I made a couple of good friends.

I lost touch with those friends almost immediately after leaving high school, although I've thought about them often over the years. I've even searched for them from time to time, but I'd given up any hope of locating them.

Of course I could have possibly caught up with them had I considered finding out about my high school reunions. But I couldn't face that. The memories from Vista were too nostalgic and those from San Gabriel too traumatic. No wonder San Gabriel High School believed I'd moved on to the Great Beyond. No one there had heard from me since the day I'd walked out of the school doors.

Betty Willhoft Johnson was one of those few friends who made my San Gabriel High days bearable, and the last time I ever saw or heard from her was when I served as a bridesmaid in her wedding, shortly after graduation. When she popped up on Facebook last week, it was totally unexpected--and a gift from the past.

Friends: Installment 2 - Betty

Of the three friends who remain from my college years, Betty in some ways is the closest, yet the farthest.

She lives halfway around the world in Kibbutz Massada, three miles from the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee, perched at the edge of the Golan Heights. She's been there approaching 30 years, and I haven't seen her in at least 15. She believes she's found where she belongs. She has no intention of returning to the United States anytime soon and never permanently. That we've been able to maintain contact over these last years speaks to the miracle of friendship. A lot is owed also to the advances of technology and cyberspace. Lord knows, if she'd been left to depend on my letter-writing, we'd have lost touch long ago. I don't do a whole lot better with email, but every so often we connect and have a marvelous chat.

It doesn't help, of course, that we are in opposing time zones. When it's 6:00 am here, it's 5:00 pm in her part of the world. Some of our best conversations take place when one or the other of us is awake in the middle of the night.

Betty and I met at the bus stop at Los Angeles State within the first few days of our freshman year, through a mutual friend with whom we've both lost contact. We became buddies right away and have remained so for almost to 50 years.

Betty has been present at every major event in my life except one—my marriage. Come to think of it, I shouldn't have been at that one either. (For the record: I thank my Higher Power every day for the two children that resulted. Farida and Nasreen are the greatest blessings of my life.)

We spent Thanksgivings, Christmases and birthdays together. Family in every way but blood.

Betty's the one who tracked me down and phoned me to get my butt home because my dad was very ill. In that instant I knew he was gone, even though she didn't say so. He'd suffered a massive heart attack, collapsed and died. My mother didn't know where I was, but Betty figured it out and found me. She wore a red dress to his funeral. It probably shocked my conservative midwest relatives, but the memory delights me to this day.

Her first car was a Prinz, so small that the two of us could actually lift it, which on one occasion we did.

Her mother and my mother were polar opposites, but to their extreme credit they did everything they could to get along. They even endured a trip to Laughlin, NV, together, about which Betty and I heard differing versions for years. Somehow our mothers knew that, even if they weren't destined to be the best of friends, we were, and that we'd need each other in the coming years.

Betty's mom was Auntie Flo to my daughters, but she might as well have been Auntie Mame. Tall, auburn-haired and flamboyant, she stood out in a crowd. My mother, in complete contrast, shrunk into the shadows at any gathering she attended. No wonder the two didn't get along.

Betty was present at the birth of my first child, Farida, and so was Auntie Flo, in a way. After struggling through much of 21 hours of labor with me, Betty called Auntie Flo, who had been a private-duty nurse for years.

Auntie Flo took matters into her own hands, phoned my doctor and demanded in her deep, authoritative voice, “what the hell do you think you're doing? Give that woman a c-section NOW!” Within minutes I was being wheeled into the operating room. If it weren't for her intervention. I'd probably still be pregnant.

Because of her nursing experience, when her doctor told her she was ill with multiple myeloma, Flo knew exactly what that meant. With immense courage she endured years of treatment and intense pain until the treatments did no more good. When Betty called to tell me that Auntie Flo was in Huntington Memorial Hospital and not expected to make it much longer, I raced to Betty's side. We got a rollaway bed delivered to that hospital room, and Betty and I—neither one of us withering flowers—slept side-by-side on that bed.

Waiting.

Finally Betty needed to leave to run a few errands, and I needed to get home to check on my girls. We were fairly sure nothing would happen until we returned. Flo's longtime friend, Beryl, came to hold the watch. It took me an hour to drive home to Huntington Beach, and I hadn't been there long when Betty called to say that Flo was gone. To this day Betty often reminds me how much my sharing that rollaway bed—and sharing the pain of her mother's illness—meant to her.

The child of a Jewish father and a Roman Catholic mother, Betty decided to learn something about her father's heritage. Her original journey to Israel was a two-week sightseeing trip. During that excursion she fell in love with the land and its people, and she set about to find a way to return.

Some time later, she went back as a volunteer at Kibbutz Massada. During that adventure she worked in the communal kitchen and milked cows, something quite unlike her former profession in the States as an insurance adjuster. She stayed six months, returned to her home in Pasadena and began her plans to make “aliyah” to Israel. Despite her father's Jewishness, she found she had to convert to Judaism in order to be granted kibbutz membership. At the time I found that odd.

It took something like six months for all the paperwork to be complete for her permanent return to Israel. During that time I became pregnant. At 43. What was I thinking? Despite all the negatives of having a child at that age in the midst of a moribund marriage, I looked forward to that child with all my heart. As a result of an amniocentesis, we learned it was a boy. Farida and Nasreen picked out his name: Nicholas. We bought a crib and baby clothes.

During my fifth month in August, 1983, Betty and I went to see Simon and Garfunkel at Dodger Stadium—just one of several events we had attended together there, such as Elton John shows and that marvelous game three of the 1981 World Series where Fernando Valenzuela pitched for the Dodgers. We were out in the left-field bleachers, but we loved every minute.

During that S & G concert, I discovered that I had begun to spot. The following day I made an appointment with my OB-gyn. While I was in her office, while she listened with her stethoscope, Nicholas died. She scheduled me to go to Hoag Hospital that afternoon. I called Betty, and she came running. As I lay waiting for the interminable end of that pregnancy, she sat beside me, wiping my brow.

Despite my pleas, Betty left for Israel, established a life there and eventually married her Israeli-Argentine sweetheart, Doobie (AKA “The Bear”).

In June, 1989, she returned to the States. Bill, a mutual friend, had moved to Palm Springs after his partner, Rich, passed away of cancer. He asked us to come for a visit. We soaked up the Palm Springs sun, swam in Bill's pool, relaxed in his starkly elegant condo, dined at Sonny Bono's restaurant, and caught up on old times.

Bill was Betty's neighbor at her first apartment building on El Molino in Pasadena. Betty and I spent years speculating about him. Was he gay or wasn't he? During those days you didn't dare speak the word “homosexual” out loud, and Bill wasn't telling. He was obviously afraid of losing our friendship if he admitted it. He died, alone, of AIDS, several years later, never understanding that we loved him for who he was, not what he was.

Upon Bill's death we learned that Rich had died of AIDS, not cancer, during the early years of the disease.

As we drove back to my Santa Ana home from Palm Springs, I had a sudden premonition of trouble. Upon our arrival, we discovered that my mother had been ill, and my daughters had been left to deal with the situation, which they did in yeoman fashion. It was clear, though, that Mom needed medical attention. We took her to the emergency room at St. Joseph Hospital in Orange, where she was admitted. As I tried to deal with major problems with her health insurance coverage. Betty did her best to calm me down. Not an easy job at any time, but especially then.

Although my mother had a host of health problems (Parkinson's disease, high blood pressure, COPD, lung cancer), none of them were imminently terminal. The current problem proved to be diverticulitus and wasn't life-threatening either. Nonetheless, her stay in the hospital dragged on for days.

At 4:00 am the morning of June 25, I got a call from the hospital.

“Come quick,” the doctor informed me. “Your mother has had a pulmonary arrest, and we're trying to intubate her.”

Betty was staying at our house, just days before her scheduled return to Israel. I roused her and asked her to come with me, while my husband stayed home with Farida. Nasreen was away visiting a friend. I knew, however that day ended, it wasn't going to be good, and I would need her moral support. When we arrived, the doctor informed us that my mother had passed away. The doctor, Betty and I wrapped our arms around each other and cried.

Betty returned to Israel, and I have seen her only once since then, when she and Doobie came to the States. I had moved to Bass Lake by that time, and she let me have the privilege of introducing the two of them to Yosemite.

We've been in touch more often recently, thanks to the Internet. We've spoken on the phone a couple of times over the years, but each of us finds that we mainly chat about the weather, for some strange reason. It's easier to “chat” via computer.

Betty's brother-in-law, Yossi, passed away recently of the same horrible cancer that took her mother. She watched and remembered as he suffered for three years, the last few months in hospital and near death. She comforted Doobie as best she could. In the end she called on me as the connecting thread between the two halves of her life, and I felt blessed that she turned to me as I have so often turned to her.

Lest I may have led readers astray, Betty and I have shared much more laughter than tears and years of precious memories. In fact Betty may just be the person most responsible for my move to the mountains nearly twenty years ago. I credit those road trips we took up to Clark Porche's cabin in Fawnskin, near Big Bear, and later ones to Idyllwild, for cementing in my soul the need to be surrounded by mountain peaks.

Betty's been begging me for years to come see her home in Israel. I admit to being afraid, and I'm not sure it's the safest place in the world for a person bearing the name Hussain. But I miss her so much, it may be time soon to make it happen, if I can find a way.

I love you, dearest friend of all.