I am my Jewish Mother

IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN.....OR OLIVE

2009-06-04T14:27:00.000-07:00

My mother phoned last week to let me know how much she had enjoyed a recent visit with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. "Caitlin was wearing a hot pink cardigan and she looked so beautiful," Mom gushed.

My mother's closet is organized by color. Each outfit has its own color-coordinated hanger.

Mom continued her one-sided conversation without pausing. "I asked her if she knew what her colors were, but she didn't. I knew the moment Cristin was born that she was a "Summer" but I'm not sure about Caitlin. I told her that her Aunt Rebecca needs to send her some color swatches."

My sister wrote about painting her house in a November, 1983 letter: "But I want to repaint the entry---don't like the leaf green in there now. I'll go for apricot or peach instead." Only someone in my family would know that there is a difference between the colors apricot and peach.

At one point during the phone call I casually mentioned that I was wearing a lot of black. I might as well have told my mother that I had been lying out in the sun every day for months, slathered in Johnson's baby oil.

"You do not look good in black," she said in a voice that let me know I was the stupidest person on earth.

I give Mom props for being diplomatic at my wedding. I know she thought my champagne-colored dress and yellow-flowered wreath were very unflattering colors on me. Two weeks before the wedding she sent money for a manicure and this advice about nail polish: "Even if you choose a pale pink, be sure it is a warm tone. With your coloring, wouldn't a coral be pretty? At any rate, you don't want any blue in the formula."

She immediately launched into a tirade that sounded a lot like Vice President Joe Biden lecturing the public on how to avoid the deadly swine flu: I would not go anywhere in confined spaces. I would not ride the subway. I would not get on an airplane. I would not wear black with olive-colored skin.

"It's just so easy," I said, a little defensively, even though I know she could care less about practicality. "The girls were not sure it was you when they saw earlier pictures, so keep that in mind," Mom said. I wasn't sure what she meant and I didn't want to ask. Questioning Mom is like questioning her credentials.

Years ago my mother purchased a red-orange hutch from a model home sale. It was a personal favorite of hers. This letter to my sister is a typical example of Mom bequeathing something to her grandchildren. For the last 25 years she has refused to own anything that is not "in my colors." (Feb. 1987)

For as long as I can remember my mother has been obsessed with color. Years before it became popular to personalize colors based on the seasons, she carried in her purse a collection of color chips that she got from the paint store. The samples were hooked together at one end with a brad and opened up like a little Chinese fan. Before she made any purchase---towels, sheets, dishes, furniture or clothes---she would spread those paint chips out and hold them next to the item. Nothing was taken off a hanger or removed from a store's shelf until it passed the Ameritone color test.

If you ask my mother today what I was good at as a child, I have no doubt she would say, "Kathleen could tell the difference between magenta and pink when she was only two years old." I used to think I was born precocious. But now I'm sure Mom used that fan-shaped color wheel like a deck of flash cards to drill me on my colors so I could spare her any future embarrassment.

When I was in 8th grade I had a 'D' in Science on the first report card. At the Parent-Teacher Conference my mother asked what subjects we would be studying next. When Mr. Phend said ' prisms,' she assured my very skeptical teacher that I would have no trouble passing the course. "Kathleen is very good with colors," she told him. Mr. Phend was so shocked that I raised my average to a "B" that he even initialed the report card, just in case my parents questioned the grade.

Not surprising, the first word I learned to say was a color word---yellow. (Or yeh-yo, as I pronounced it for more years than I care to admit.) I loved the color yellow. Mom even indulged me on my third birthday with "The Yellow Party." Everything at the party was yellow---the tablecloth, plates and paper cups. Everything except my party dress. I was not allowed to wear yellow, birthday or no birthday.

Mom dubbed my third birthday party THE YELLOW PARTY. On my birthday she always had my second cousin Cheryl sit to my right, in the honored guest position. My best friend and next-door neighbor Robin always sat to my left.

About the same time I was expressing my preference for the color yellow, I was taught that while yellow is "very pretty," I must learn to enjoy it from a distance. I must NEVER EVER wear anything yellow. "You have olive skin," my mother explained to me with the same tone of voice that she used to warn me not to talk to strangers. "You cannot put the color yellow near your skin."

I remember examining the skin on my arm for the very first time and trying to understand what she was saying. Olives were a slippery black food that I stuck on the ends of my wiggling fingers before popping them one by one into my mouth. Was there a connection between what I ate and the color of my skin? My mother must have sensed my confusion. "Your skin is the same color as your Aunt Judy's," she said, trying to reassure me.

Comparing me in any way to my father's younger sister only caused me more distress. "Don't ever go anywhere alone with your Aunt Judith," I was cautioned my whole life.

My dad's half-sister has been the family's problem-child for as long as I can remember. When I first heard Cary Grant utter the famous line, 'Judy, Judy, Judy,' I was sure that he too must be trying to fix a mess created by my irresponsible aunt.

When I was seven years old I remember standing in a dressing room in a Broadway department store with my mother and sister. Mom wanted to buy us new dresses for Easter. Becky and I were posed in front of the mirror, silently gazing at ourselves in identical outfits. We might as well have been staring into one of those crazy, distorted amusement park mirrors. We were so different in so many ways that just seeing ourselves dressed like twins looked bizarre.

I could tell that Mom really wanted to buy those dresses. She was pleased with everything---the matching two-tone gloves, the little white drawstring purses, and more importantly the price. But she kept standing over me with the Ameritone color samples fanned-out above my shoulder and shaking her head. "I just don't like this navy blue on you," she said. "It's too dark for your olive skin."

Easter Sunday, 1960. After our family's egg hunt we always dressed-up and visited my Jewish great-grandmother.

I didn't say a word. I wasn't raised so much with the philosophy of "children should be seen and not heard," as the admonition to "shut up and do as you are told." Sharing my opinion was never really an option. I remember being a little hopeful about the prospect of getting a new dress, but any excitement was dulled by the fact that my sister was getting the exact same outfit too. After all, I wore her hand-me-downs. I would be wearing this dress for a long, long time, no matter how fast I grew.

Finally Mom came to a reluctant compromise. "The trim on this dress is a true winter white," she declared. "And because the collar is white and it is near your face, I think it will be okay for you to wear it."

My sister's birthday party, October 1962. I am standing between my sister and my best friend Robin.

I did wear that navy blue dress for a long time. Not just for Easter, but for birthday parties and even at the LA County Fair. And after I grew out of it I inherited the same navy blue dress from my sister, which I wore to school for many more months.

But I don't think there was one time that I put that dress on that I didn't think about my skin color. I never wore that dress without worrying that maybe not everyone else would notice that the color white was near my face. On those days I secretly hoped that my complexion didn't look quite as olive and that my dress didn't look quite as navy blue as I knew they really were.

1960 Los Angeles County Fair, Pomona, California.

CINSES TAYKUR KNEEDED

2009-02-22T16:30:00.000-08:00

I spend a lot of time looking at census records. I also spend a lot of time alternately cursing or blessing the enumerators who interviewed our ancestors so many years ago. There are many times when I just know that I could have done a better job recording this data for future genealogists. So a few months ago I decided to apply for a job with the U.S. Census Bureau. My thinking was, why merely look at these documents when I could actually be creating them? And who knows, maybe I'll have an inside advantage and get to view the 1940 U.S. census before it's released to the public in 2012. Hey---that background check they put me through should be worth something!

Before I filled out an application I decided that I better do my own background check on the U.S. Census Bureau. Their website is colorful and alluring. I was promised "flexible hours, paid training, and the chance to work within your own community. You'll earn a place in history, as well as work experience you can add to your resume."

I really liked the part about being a part of history. Wow! Seventy-two years from now someone just like me will see my name at the top of some census form! They will praise my beautiful elementary school teacher's penmanship and the uncanny way that I inserted maiden name, birth city, and port of entry into this oft-insufficient instrument.

The website also informed me that as a census taker I'll play "a vital role" in helping to determine my representation in government. If there ever was a time that I felt misrepresented by my government, this is the time. Being told that "your community is counting on you!" and "opportunities like this don't happen every day!" was the final push I needed.

I showed up at Goodyear City Hall at the advertised time, only to be turned away (with many others) because I didn't have an appointment. Undeterred, I phoned the Phoenix office and after enduring some jokes about being "a Goodrich living in Goodyear" I was given a new testing date in Tolleson. I was told that I would be evaluated on my map skills. So I was very surprised to open up the test and find only a few questions in that category. I was tested on reading comprehension, organizational abilities, clerical skills and supervisor strategies. I was asked to define words like transcribe and controversial. Most of the math problems were basic operations with decimals, though some questions were a little more involved:

Your new cell phone battery needs to be charged for three hours and 45 minutes before using it. If you plugged the battery into the charger at 8:20 a.m., you should wait until what time before using it?

I was stunned that we were not tested on our handwriting legibility, our hearing acuity, our spelling accuracy, or our ability to know when a woman is lying about her age.

Richard, the Recruiting Assistant who was administering the test that day, kept reading something he called The Verbatim. I've never been read my Miranda Rights, but I imagine it sounding a lot like The Verbatim. We were told that we had to climb stairs, work in all kinds of neighborhoods, and had to be able to ask personal questions of strangers. He said that preference for jobs would be given to veterans, high test scorers, those that lived in neighborhoods that needed census takers, and those with bilingual abilities. I looked around the room and decided that the odds were against me. The only category I thought I had a chance at was to do well on the test. However, many people that afternoon were retaking the test, trying to get a higher score. I know as a teacher that each time you take a test you will do better.

After the Field Employee Selection Aid (i.e. test) was over and everyone else had left the room, I hung around to ask Richard some questions about the 2010 census itself. When he told me that it was going to be a very brief questionnaire, I just about decided that I did NOT want to be an enumerator. It made me irritated that there was going to be very little genealogical value to the 2010 census.

Then I noticed that he was stuffing his papers and things into this very unique bag. I paused for a moment: Had I ever seen a bag like that, even in a government surplus store? I realized that the only way to get that cool bag was to swallow my concerns and get the census job! I asked for my application back so I could make a few changes. I put down my availability to work as every day and night, even Sunday. Hopefully, I rationalized, the Lord will view census taking on the sabbath as a form of family history. I marked each box under the question How will you travel? (car, ATV, boat, plane or bicycle.) I let Richard know that I was a genealogist and that it was very important to me that the census was taken seriously.

This strategy (and the fact that I scored 100% on the test) seems to have paid off. Thursday, while on the road travelling to California, Michael from the U.S. Census Bureau phoned to ask me if I could start training on Tuesday! He read something that sounded a lot like The Verbatim that Richard had read to me last December. He told me to report to the Avondale DES office at 9:00 a.m. Being the consummate researcher that I am, I asked for the exact address. "Just a minute," Michael replied. "No one else has ever asked for that. I'll have to get it for you." I could tell by the admiration in his voice that I was practically supervisor material already.

When we got home I looked up the Department of Economic Security address on their website and compared it to the one Michael had given me. It was NOT a match! Not even close! Now I'm wondering if this misinformation is really a deliberate attempt to test my problem-solving abilities at finding a location. I'm convinced that locating Tuesday's training site is just the first challenge, of many more to come, that I will experience as an employee of the United States Census Bureau.

copyright 2009 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

I CANNOT CARE (conclusion)

2009-02-12T14:14:00.000-08:00

As Mom began her litany of complaints against the Orange County females who attend AA meetings, it was soon apparent that when she told me, "I have added two young women who are very helpful," she wasn't talking about hiring someone to help her with daily living concerns. The two young women she was referring to are Janet and Jennie, AA members who have volunteered to give her rides home from meetings. Her collective loathing towards most of the women in AA is based on their reluctance to be her personal chauffeur. Not only does she expect a ride home from the meetings, but she finds it perfectly reasonable to assume that the driver will stop along the way and let her run errands.

My mother and me on a trip to the Grand Canyon the year I turned two

"I have some very nice gentlemen who take me home from the Saturday meeting," she eagerly informed me. "One night they dropped me off at the market and said 'take as long as you like.' But I came into the program when men worked with men and women worked with women and I don't understand why I cannot get rides home from the women. When I first went to the Friday morning meeting I looked around and there were about forty women. I said to myself, 'I will not have trouble getting a ride home here.'"

"And that's another thing, Kathleen," she suddenly veered off-topic without missing a beat. "I would like to have the car working, in case of an emergency."

"I looked around the room when the meeting started," she continued, "and I announced that I had taken a taxi and I would appreciate a ride home and I told them how close I lived. And do you know that NOT ONE woman came up to me! NOT ONE!" Her voice expressed a perfect mix of indignation and hurt. "One woman said, 'we are going to lunch first and you are welcome to join us, and then I would be glad to drop you off.' But I said, 'not at this time.' I didn't want to go into the fact that I had my heat going off, and I had had an argument with my granddaughter and an argument with my son, and it was time to get home."

If she expected me to make a comment she left no opening. Mom didn't even pause to breathe. "And after the meeting, one by one, as everyone left the room, I saw three women by the coffee, besides the one who had invited me to join them for lunch. And I went up to them and said, 'could one of you take me home?'"

"Only Mom can make a question sound like an order," I thought to myself as I heard her imitate the tone of voice she used with the other women.

"They all said 'no' except Janice," Mom said in disgust. "I am telling you that it is something I am still working on, Kathleen. I accept it intellectually but I have not accepted it where I need to. It is no small thing. I know now that it is not me. It is not me." She repeated the last sentence emotionally, like an actress concluding a crucial monologue. Using language to convey drama is her signature.

My mother and me at my sister's wedding, Los Angeles, California

I was twenty-three years old.

Suddenly her voice turned upbeat. "You still haven't said if you can come, if you can just be with me for awhile." I wasn't swayed by her playful tone. She reminded me of a spoiled child: 'I know I'm getting that toy anyway, so stop teasing me.'

"I cannot come," I responded. My voice was flat, but I secretly enjoyed the alliteration. "I have a conference in Yuma this Saturday, and next week I'm starting two new classes." It felt good to have a real excuse.

"Would you come if I was in the hospital?" Her voice was suddenly frosty, her words biting. Her abrupt metamorphosis was straight off an index card for a Joan Crawford recipe: mix two parts accusation with equal parts disdain. Sprinkle liberally with self-pity.

I couldn't help but laugh out-loud. "I came last time you were in the hospital." I was almost daring her to talk about the unmentionable topic she warned me to never talk about. She backed down. "I just do not have the feeling that you care about me. You do not understand why I stay here. I stay here because I have a doctor."

That elicited another impulsive laugh. "Oh, that's right. You have to stay by your doctor!" My tone was actually humorous, not sarcastic. I couldn't believe how funny not caring was.

"You're right. It's never perfect." Mom was choosing her words carefully now. Her icy voice was dropping in degrees by the second. She was working herself up to a double batch of that Joan Crawford recipe. All she needed was some wire coat hangers. "I just wish I could hear from you occasionally."

"Didn't I just call you last week?"

"I would set a timer if some in my family would call me regularly. All I am really asking for is a very brief call. All I am really asking for is to know that you are thinking about me. Do you check it off your calendar? I haven't talked to her for two weeks, so I need to phone now?"

"Mom, I need to say something."

"NO! YOU DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO THIS!" She shrieked into my ear.

"I cannot care that you are having a hissy fit, I thought wearily. I continued pacing the hallway without missing a step. I cannot care shouldn't mean that I cannot set limits, I reasoned. I decided to try again to get her attention.

"Mom, I've listened to you talk for over fifteen minutes without saying anything," I interjected in my reasonable counselor voice. She became abruptly silent. I knew it wasn't out of respect. She was a commanding officer, regrouping for another attack.

I took a deep breath and started talking. I tried to keep it simple and unemotional. I pointed out that her own mother had relocated to northern California to be closer to Mom's sister. Eventually Milt and Marlene cared for Grandma in their home for nine years before she died. It was a sacrifice for everyone, but Grandma never fought the family over anything.

Mom with her younger sister Marlene and their mother, 1975. Marlene took care of Grandma and Grandma's sister Mayme in her home for many years.

I asked Mom if she knew anyone in a similar situation to hers---living alone and hundreds of miles from family, not driving, not cooking, lots of medical problems and the need for frequent trips to doctors; unable to take care of basic home maintenance. I said that I didn't know anyone in the same situation, but if she did, I wanted to talk to that person. I explained how difficult and frustrating her phone calls were for both me and my brother.

"Mom, you won't move closer to family so we can help you do things. You aren't even willing to try any kind of different living arrangement so you aren't such a burden on your family," I stated, trying to keep it real. "When you tell us that you won't make any changes because of your doctor, then you are telling us that you are putting your relationship with your doctor above that of your family."

"I cannot care that I questioned her insane devotion to Doctor," I told myself. I was in no mood for tip-toeing on eggshells. I was more than ready to take on her I-can't-possibly-leave-the-one-man-who-has-kept-me-alive-all-these-years argument.

"You need to let me talk," Mom suddenly cut-in. I knew she wouldn't let that comment about her doctor be the last word. "Maybe it is something that I learned with the 12 Steps and all the years that I helped others," she stated like she was presenting her resume. "I needed to just talk."

She said the last sentence without fanfare, but I knew it was major. With just five little words she had taken a squeegee to anything incriminating she might have said earlier. She wanted to make sure there was not one drop of evidence that her behavior was anything but rational. "And now what I will do, when I feel the way that I do, I will talk to somebody else," she said gallantly.

"Thank you, Mom, I appreciate that."

She didn't acknowledge my response. Gratitude wasn't what she expected to hear. We both knew she wasn't trying to help me by offering to confide in someone else. She was trying to punish me.

"But I would still appreciate just a very brief call," she said coldly. "Having lost Peter would have been humongous, but I have had two or three other things as serious to deal with, and I have dealt with it. And I will tell you one thing," her voice was becoming Joan-Crawford-like again. "Mom told me at one time that she would never live with her children. When she moved up North, Bob and I did not hear about it until we drove out the day she was packing up. It was not a sacrifice for Marlene."

"It wasn't a sacrifice?" I asked incredulously, before I realized that I had broken my own rule about asking for clarification.

"No. It was not a sacrifice because they did not have to take her into their home." By now she was fairly hissing out each word.

My mother with me and my oldest daughters, about 1982. Shortly after this picture was taken Mom decided to cut-off all contact with us for nearly 20 years.

"I have not yet found another woman," she continued with less anger, but with no less intensity, "who has lost her husband, and nobody in her family came to hold her and nobody in her family was there to hold her and to console her." She paused dramatically. "So I too have a situation that I have not found a si-mi-lar-i-ty." She emphasized each syllable of the last word like a snooty scrabble player. "So I think this is a good time to say that I am glad that we shared and I will not call you again with problems." Her mood was triumphant as she hung up the phone.

"Love you, Mom! Talk to you soon!" My voice was casual and pleasant. It was like I was dropping off my dry cleaning. I couldn't believe how insincere my voice sounded and how little it bothered me that it sounded that way. I realized that I must truly be at the point where I cannot care.

copyright 2009 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

I CANNOT CARE

2009-01-25T22:00:00.000-08:00

My fourth birthday party, Los Angeles, California

When the phone rang I automatically glanced at the corner of my computer monitor and noted that it was exactly 8:55 a.m. I resolutely reached for the receiver. Even without Caller ID, I knew who was calling. When she calls it is always five minutes before the hour; any hour. Her voice was weak and strained, yet strangely composed.

"Kathleen Dear... I...I...I am not doing well, Darling. I need...I need you to come be with me." My mother's voice was turning throaty. I knew she was struggling to swallow her sobs and talk at the same time. "I am feeling so over-whelmed. So...so depressed. I just feel like I am alone. I feel like I am floating alone." There was just the slightest pause. "My body has broken out into something and she told me there is very little that can be done about it."

I cannot care. The words came into my mind without prompting. I first heard them a week ago when my friend Bess and I were discussing strategies to break the bonds of co-dependency in our lives. "A good friend of mine who grew up in a rather dysfunctional family used to say that," she shared.

I accepted the phrase like a gift, not sure whether to keep it or return it. "I have to think about this," I said honestly. "It's not quite empowering enough, is it? Shouldn't it be, I choose not to care?" I didn't want to come across as ungrateful, but practicality is very important to me.

"I don't know," Bess responded without taking offense. "That's what she used to say, I cannot care."

"Well, I like how it sounds," I admitted. But I still wasn't ready to take it out of the box and use it.

I cannot care. The phrase was now muffling my mother's guttural gesticulations. I cannot care. I liked the alliteration. It was even 4/4 time like How Firm a Foundation, one of my favorite hymns. Suddenly Mom's voice picked up both volume and velocity. "I am trying to move ahead, but it has been difficult. I wanted to call you last night, but I felt that you would not be interested."

I cannot care that you read my mind, I told myself as I automatically opened up a new Word Document. It has become my habit to sit at the computer and type what my mother is saying during our phone conversations. I am a genealogist after all, and that's what we do: record family history. There's nothing like mixing business with pleasure.

At Big Bear Lake, the summer I turned three.

"The man who will fix the heater and air conditioner left me a message that his truck is supposed to be ready sometime today," she droned on. "I got the phone number of a realty Lee and David know, and I thought I can find out from him, how to get a lock box, and then I will have to get it. I don't want to spend my life taking taxis. I know that I need a lock box and I haven't talked to anybody from Life Line. She hooked me up, but I know that until it is connected, it is no good. I am feeling that I better be connected."

I cannot care that you are not making sense, I told myself as I forced my fingers to keep up with her rapid verbiage. Sometimes during these dictation exercises my curiosity comes out and I want to ask questions like, Who is she? Why do you need a lock box? And What does this all have to do with taxis? But I cling to the security of my keyboard like a life preserver. Stopping to ask my mother for clarification is like getting dragged underwater by a drowning person.

In our backyard in Palos Verdes, the spring before my thirteenth birthday.

"Yesterday when I woke up and found two more places that had broken out, I was going to call Doctor, but I read my book and read about having more faith. I felt that I would go through my videos again, that it is probably time to let go of them again. I found the Salvation Army number..."

As she spoke I twisted my head and pulled the phone out from under my bent neck. I hit the speaker option and set the receiver upright on the desk. I readjusted my position in my ergonomically-correct chair. I realized that I would need a doctor, or at the very least a chiropractor, if I didn't prepare for these phone conversations like I was preparing for strenuous physical activity.

"I told Coco that I need an extra hour from them. I found the earthquake things and I want them to take them out and put them back again. I know that there are some battery-operated radios. I talked to Bobby and I want to get a new paper cutter."

This is where the real insanity starts to kick in: Mom trying to use my brother, who lives in the mid-West, like a delivery boy. "But I just still feel like I am floating alone and I need someone to be here with me." She finally stopped talking and I knew it was my cue. Despite her desperate plea in the Opening Act, it was obvious that she didn't want me there to hold her hand; she wanted me there to run her errands.

I pushed myself away from the computer and the comfort of my cushioned chair. If I was going to be part of the dialog I needed to be doing something more active than just tapping my fingers on a keyboard. Moving my body is one way to keep my head from exploding while carrying on a conversation with my mother. When my feet hit the tile I kept walking until I came to the end of the hallway, then I turned automatically and walked in the opposite direction. My dad's a pacer, so I blame the habit on him. Maybe it was just his way of surviving Mom too.

My mother's baby shower for Bobby. I was almost four years old.

"Gosh, Mom, I feel terrible about all these problems you are having, trying to run a household, getting rides to the doctor and the store. My voice was modulated, yet pleasant. Chuck calls it my counselor voice. "But I don't know what I can do to change your situation."

"KATHLEEN!" She reinserted herself into the conversation with a characteristic blend of annoyance and condescension. "We helped Peter's mother get established, in what you want me to do, and it was very lovely. She had her own apartment, which was complete with a kitchen, a bedroom with two large closets, and a smaller sitting room, because they had such a beautiful lobby downstairs. The restaurant was on the top floor, and it was beautiful: linen place mats, and a choice of two or three entrees. But you are deluded, because even there, they will say, 'we are going to the mall today, whoever wants to go to the mall may go today.' Or, 'make your doctor appointments in a certain time slot.' But there is no ready, available transportation, and that is what you do not understand."

"And it isn't the house. I am not always going to have to find a lock box," she continued without taking a breath. "Kathleen, some of these things are one thing only, just like I will not have to bury another husband. But right now, I do feel over-whelmed and moving into a community is not the answer."

My mother leaving the hospital with me as a newborn.

"Life isn't perfect, Mom. Every thing's a trade-off. But I'm not talking about moving into a community. Maybe you need someone there all the time to help do these things for you."

"I have added two young women who are very helpful," she stated matter-of-fact, like a business owner taking inventory. But she quickly digressed into her favorite topic: chronically her difficulties getting other Alcoholics Anonymous members to give her rides to and from the meetings.

I patiently continued typing, forcing myself to stay interested in yet another retelling of the same tale of rejection. The way she talks about it, she's the octogenarian counterpart of Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls.

(to be continued...)

copyright 2009 Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

THAT THING YOU DO

2008-12-24T19:00:00.000-08:00

Mother and Modesty are two words I have never been able to use in the same sentence. My mom has always had a thing about showing off her body. A few weeks ago I was brazenly reminded that aging has done nothing to diminish this characteristic.

If I ever write a book about my mother the title will be: I'm Ready for my Close-up (May 1992)

The week after Thanksgiving I spent the night at my mother's. If this event doesn't seem remarkable to you then you don't know my history. I decided it was the longest period of time we had ever been alone together. I arrived at 5:30 in the evening clutching my own dinner. I knew the only food I would find at her house would be milk, yogurt, butter, orange juice, tea, and a bag of Trader Joe's Chewy Chocolate Chunk Cookies. I hastily stopped at Panda Express and bought a serving of chow mien and Beef and Broccoli. Not only did I crave something warm, but I needed something I could easily share if necessary.

As a child I remember my mother bragging that she needed to get her legs insured. The back of this photo says: Please note $33.00 Beauty Salon job. The Dunes, Las Vegas, August 1955.

Mom wasn't impressed with my meal. She preferred to wait to eat at the Wassailing Party at the library. I was relieved. I had escaped one of the ways my mother complicates even the simplest of tasks. There are certain things she won't do; eating out of a Styrofoam container with a plastic fork is one of them. First she would have heated up some stoneware plates in the microwave, then heated up the food in its Styrofoam container and then transferred the warm food to the warm plates. Correction---she would have hovered over me as I carried out her explicit instructions.

Mom in her Go-Go Girl outfit (Redding, California 1969)

As I tentatively began eating my take-out food she chattered away about the holiday program we were going to at the library that evening. "This is how Peter and I always started The Season," she reminisced. "And I bought a beautiful new silk dress to wear." Christmas, like Easter, has never been a religious observance for my mother. It's all about the pageantry.

As she spoke, I noticed that she was wearing a loose-fitting robe. She kept fiddling with the sash around her waist. "Maybe she is going to adjust it a little so she can cover herself more discretely," I wishfully hoped. I couldn't help but recall what my brother said just a few months ago when we spent the night together at her condo. I asked him what he thought about Mom walking around in a scanty negligee. "I didn't even notice anything," he responded honestly. "I learned a long time ago to avert my eyes."

This was as close to the water as Mom ever got. Although she never learned to swim, she also never failed to pack a swim suit when travelling. " I am very decorative around the pool" was her reason for always having a bathing suit handy. (Salt Lake City, 1958)

Suddenly Mom untied the sash once and for all, quickly slipping the entire robe off her shoulders and into her fidgeting hands. There she was, standing in front of the refrigerator wearing only her underwear. She never stopped talking about the holiday program. In a moment of self-preservation, I instinctively followed my brother's advice: I averted my eyes. I promptly became very focused on my chow mien. I frantically searched for strands of bean sprouts, shredded cabbage, or even a sliver of carrot---anything to save me from making visual contact with an eighty-year-old woman in black lace panties.

Mom enjoyed sunbathing in public. When I was younger I was often embarrassed by her habit of unhooking her bathing suit or pulling down her straps to avoid unsightly tan-lines. (Salt Lake City 1972)

I have no recollection of what the conversation was about after that moment, but finally she excused herself to "go and take a sponge bath." I groped my way to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of cold milk. I was just settling back down into my chair at the kitchen table when she reappeared in the doorway, chattering away as usual. I made the mistake of looking up. This time even the black lace panties were gone. Mom was drying off her bare torso with a small towel. I jumped up out of my seat. "I need to go get ready!" I practically ran to the guest bathroom. My mother never paused as she continued with her one-sided conversation. I cracked the bathroom door. "I can't hear you, Mom!" I called out. "I'm getting DRESSED!" I emphasized the last word like a command.

Mom says this outfit is perfect for her visits to the spa, just a short walk down the street from her condo. (with Peter's grandson in Huntington Beach 2006)

I started singing God Bless America under my breath. At that point it was the only way I could safely say the word God without lapsing into uncontrollable swearing. I was just finishing my make-up when her voice penetrated the closed door. "Kathleen Dear, may I come in? I want to show you something."

"Just a minute, Mom," I pleaded. I squeezed an extra squirt of Colgate onto my toothbrush and jabbed it into my mouth, brushing hard. "How do I avert my eyes when I am in a well-lit bathroom surrounded by mirrors," I desperately wondered. I braced myself for a screaming-in-multiple-images-moment straight out of the classic movie The Fly.

I reluctantly opened the door. "I just want to show you this lovely slip that came with my dress." She stood in the doorway, striking a model's pose.

"Yes, it is very pretty." I forced my head to nod up and down as my mouth foamed with toothpaste. Mercifully, she was wearing the full-length slip.

Although they wore matching shoes to my wedding, Mom and her sister Marlene have little else in common. (September 1976)

When we returned from the library, Mom, who had been complaining all evening about being cold, slipped out of her dress with its plunging neckline, removed her open-toed high heels, and put the lovely slip back into her lingerie drawer. She met me in the hallway wearing only a lavender push-up bra and matching panties. She then led me around the condo on an informal tour as she showed- off her new silk flower arrangements. She paused outside the guest bedroom. It was getting harder and harder to keep my eyes averted and I was anxious to get in my own room and finally relax.

I thought this was my opportunity to say 'good night' but she was just getting warmed up. "You know, I never thought of myself as pretty," she remarked in a totally unconvincing tone. "But I told Doctor that something must be wrong because I am putting on this weight, and it is all in my stomach. From the front I look fine, but from the side I look six months pregnant!" She turned to and fro in front of me as if I was a full-length mirror. "And look at my arms!" She thrust them out vertically and then horizontally like a cheerleader. "I'm not putting on weight anywhere else. It's just in my stomach. I told Doctor that this isn't what happens in our family. This isn't how we put on weight."

My Quintessential Mom: Perfectly posed for the camera in her signature decollete dress with the hemline hiked up above the knee to reveal an ample view of her shapely legs. Maybe it's just my imagination, but it looks like a lot of eyes are being averted in that front row. (September 1976)

She paused for dramatic effect then gave me a look that told me she was seriously worried about this mysterious weight gain. I realized that I was probably one of many that she had shared her concerns with. "Ummm...I think it's normal to become more pear-shaped or apple-shaped as we age," I offered, trying to sound reassuring yet factual. "I believe this even happened to Grandma and Aunt Mayme." I was hoping that the injection of family names into the discussion would bring it back to reality. The thought of either my grandmother or her sister prancing around in brightly-colored lingerie and fretting over their geriatric body proportions made any attempt to fuss over my mother as ridiculous as was her whining. I was certain that Grandma, who died at age 87 and Aunt Mayme, who lived to be 94, were both turning over in their graves at this embarrassing display of narcissism.

My grandmother Sara (right) with her sister Mayme. They both had very practical wardrobes in their later years. (San Luis Obispo, California, about a year before Grandma died in September 1992)

Mom seemed to ignore my attempts to inject logic into our bizarre conversation. "Well, Doctor says I need a colonoscopy to see what's wrong," she stated matter-of-factly. I learned a long time ago that it was futile to argue with anything her doctor of thirty-five years recommended. We said our good-nights and I exchanged an awkward hug with my half-naked octogenarian mother. I gratefully closed the door to my own room.

When Kelley was sixteen she spent Spring break with her grandmother. One morning Mom changed her outfit to match Kelley's so they could be "twins." This is the best she could do: my mother has NEVER owned a pair of jeans. (Huntington Beach, California 2000)

Mom's grandmother Rachel Lea Saiger. She is the same age in this photo as my mom is in the one with Kelley. Obviously Mom didn't inherit her fashion style from the Saigers. (St. Louis, Missouri 1940)

As I tossed and turned on my air mattress I tried to make sense of my mom's exhibitionism. She's been like this my whole life, I told myself, so why am I still not dealing with it very well?

It seemed like forever before Mom finally stopped wandering around the house fussing over her laundry and incessantly humming. At one point I peeked down the hallway, curious to see what she was wearing. I caught a glimpse of her standing in her large bedroom closet methodically going hanger by hanger, inspecting one outfit after another. She was dressed in a very revealing nightgown. Perhaps, I reasoned, this isn't so much a case of mutton dressing like lamb as much as it's a case of Mom feeling comfortable in her own sheepskin. If only, I told myself as I finally started to fall asleep, I could just learn how to pull the wool over my own eyes!

My sister Rebecca often seemed in competition with our mother. (Visiting with Cousin Mark at my wedding, September 1976)

AIN'T NOTHING LIKE THE REAL THING

2008-11-14T11:50:00.000-08:00

Philip J. Berg, Esquire

I've been following with interest the legal battle over the President-elect's proof of citizenship. A few months ago Philip Berg, a Pennsylvania attorney, filed a lawsuit stating that Barrack Obama:

Is not a natural-born citizen; and/or
Lost his citizenship when he was adopted in Indonesia; and/or
Has dual loyalties because of his citizenship with Kenya and Indonesia

In June of this year the Obama campaign released a digitally scanned image of his birth certificate in an effort to quell speculation that he might not be eligible to serve as President of the United States. The image only prompted more skepticism and so the debate continues both online and in the courts.

When my brother was a preschooler my parents started celebrating his birthday in May instead of March. Even though I got upset and questioned it, they steadfastly insisted that I was mistaken about the date. Many years later they finally confessed that they altered his birth certificate in order to give him an advantage in school. Despite their shenanigans, he proved to be mentally gifted and eventually graduated from high school a year ahead of his classmates. (Bobby's second birthday party, Los Angeles, California)

When I told Chuck that I wanted to write a post about Obama's birth certificate, he was concerned that I was entering controversial territory. "How are you going to relate that to Family History?" he wondered. "Boy, he really has no clue what I do all day!" I thought to myself. I spend countless hours viewing microfilm trying to find just such evidence as Philip Berg is looking for to support his case. I'm never completely convinced either until I obtain primary sources to validate my research.

I shouted with joy when I finally found my grandmother Ayleen's birth record. It confirmed my hunch that family members assumed aliases shortly after her birth. (photo taken about 1910, San Antonio, Texas)

Genealogists are always more credible when they can base their research on information found in a document originating at the time of the event, instead of relying on a secondary source, such as Obama's newly-created Hawaiian Certification of Birth.

A few years ago my father asked me to obtain a copy of his half-sister's birth certificate. He was convinced that Judith could not possibly be a blood relative. "Marilyn [his wife] says that she doesn't resemble me or my father in any way," he offered as an explanation for his sudden obsession. He also believed that his newly-divorced stepmother was probably pregnant when she married his father. "I remember Dad kept saying, 'that was an awfully short nine months!'" When Judy's certified birth record showed that she was born over eighteen months after the wedding, my dad begrudgingly accepted the fact that they probably had the same father.

Although the LDS church has microfilmed millions of records, they haven't achieved 100%...yet. But that's okay with me, because there is just no substitute for going to the source and holding the real thing. That's what happened this summer when we traveled to northern California and visited the Searls Historical Library in Nevada City.

Searls Historical Library, Nevada City, California (June, 2008)

I was looking for evidence to determine what had become of an ancestor's first husband. I wasn't satisfied with undocumented sources that claimed she was a widow at the time of her second marriage. Imagine my excitement when I stepped inside Judge Searls old law office on Church Street and discovered the complete file of my ancestor's 1856 divorce! I spent all afternoon reverently unfolding, flattening, and then carefully placing page after page on the Xerox copier. A silver-haired volunteer, unfamiliar with the machine and just as uncomfortable with my pervasive presence, stood by wringing her hands. "Surely you don't need a copy of everything!" she kept saying. I just smiled, and continued to push the green button on the copier. It was obvious that this lady hadn't yet grasped the significance of the real thing. She didn't relax until I stopped copying just moments before closing time and wrote out a check for all sixty pages.

A partial view of a room in Judge Searls' law office, showing his original filing cabinets full of legal documents from the 1800s.

Before I left I reluctantly refolded the faded blue papers. They were held together by thin strips of ribbon, sewn through the corners of each page. Some of the ribbon had tragically ripped out of the packets when the volunteer carelessly brushed up against the xerox machine while answering the telephone. I muffled a gasp when she reached for a stapler. It seemed almost sacrilegious to tamper with the integrity of the original document. She must have read my mind, because she hesitated, then grabbed some paper clips. "I sure hope those don't rust," was all I could think as she fastened the papers together. I placed the packets back into their snug wood and metal holders. I respectfully watched the volunteer slide the drawer once again into the judge's sturdy cabinet. I couldn't help but wonder if it would be another 150 years before anyone touched that incredible packet of papers again.

My grandfather's sister Sophie changed her name to Shirley. Later she married a man named Meyer Levy who was known to everyone as Mike Meyer. When I viewed a digitized copy of her original birth record, there was a line drawn through the entry. The name Shirley Goblinger Meyer was handwritten above the line. Her father's name was Morris in the original record. It too was crossed off and the name Joseph inserted. A notation stated that the record was changed in June 1961 by affidavit. (Aunt Shirley and Uncle Mike, 1976)

In 1968, Shirley's older sister Betty (aka Beckie) also had her birth record altered. This is particularly disheartening because she was born just a few years after the family immigrated to the United States. It's impossible to decipher the surname in the 1903 record because of the line drawn through it, but it is definitely not G-o-b-l-i-n-g-e-r. Also, her mother (Fannie) is Dora and her father's name looks like John in the original record. It's unfortunate that the clerks in the city of St. Louis were allowed to deface these documents. I believe they could have provided valuable clues necessary to trace the Goblingers back to their origins in Europe. (Betty Goblinger Sirkin, 1990)

Genealogy is all about finding the records. Over the years I've gained a real appreciation for the importance of analyzing original documents. I'm sure most genealogists would agree with me that the Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell song, Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing, could be our theme song.

My grandmother, Sara Saiger, dropped the "h" in her name when kids in her fifth grade class started calling her Sahara Desert. I recently found the names of her mother and older brothers on a ship's manifest. They sailed from Liverpool, England to Boston, Massachusetts in February 1904. The original family surname was ZEIGER. Her birth records were lost by the City of St. Louis when she was still a child. I remember Grandma telling the story of how the principal had her open her mouth and then looked at her teeth to determine whether or not she was old enough to enter school.

My sympathy goes out to Philip Berg in his quest for certified copies of Barack Obama's original birth certificate, as well as supporting documents pertaining to his citizenship. Most genealogists passionately believe in the accessibility of public records. I've included examples in this post from my own family tree to illustrate why I live for the moments I get to sing out loud, So glad we got the real thing, baby!

One of my most challenging projects has involved researching my rather well-known ancestor, Charles S. Howard (pictured above on left). Howard owned the famous racehorse Seabiscuit. I was initially dismayed that I was unable to enlist the cooperation of living Howard cousins to help me complete my pedigree chart. Now, however, I am enjoying the rewards of doing my own work. Finding C.S. Howard's birth record is just one of many exciting moments I have experienced while tracing my father's maternal line. (p.s. to my Howard cousins: Charley was not born in Marietta, Georgia).

THE SIBERIAN SOLUTION

2008-10-12T18:17:00.000-07:00

My sister phoned last week to let me know that her "mind has been working for awhile" on a plan to help our mother. Perhaps, I thought, she has reconsidered the benefits of living near Mom. Maybe she is finally willing to help with simple household tasks, basic transportation, and just being there to protect Mom against her increasing vulnerability.

My mother, pregnant with Becky, holding a kitten called Miss Misty. (September 24, 1950)

"It's obvious that Mom has always been a cat person," Becky began, as I tried not to drop the phone.

"She hasn't owned a cat in over 25 years!" I managed to cough out.

"There's a reason for that. Pete was deathly allergic to flea bites, and Mom was worried that if she had a cat, it would have fleas. I kept telling her that she lived on the third floor, and there are no fleas on the third floor! We all know she needs a cat and it's obvious the time has come."

Becky holding her cat Pushkin. She has always been the designated cat-lover of the family. (July, 1984)

"So I've been researching Siberian cats," my sister continued, ignoring my silent astonishment. "They are intelligent, low maintenance, and affectionate."

"Can they change light bulbs? Mom had to pay someone last week to change a light bulb. She also had to go door-to-door until she found someone who would untie the knot in her bathrobe."

"Oh, Mom loves having Staff. She loves having servants." Becky quickly dismissed my concerns as irrelevant. "Putting that aside, there are health benefits and psychological benefits to these cats. She would really chill out a lot. But there is no DNA test. You can't just go to the pound and say, 'that looks like a Siberian to me.' To be sure, you need to go to a breeder. So I've been looking for catteries. And I found one in California! Guess which city?"

I couldn't even respond. I was stuck on the word cattery. "Is that synonymous for feline factory?" I silently wondered.

"LOS GATOS!" Becky practically shrieked. "Can you believe it?"

Me, leaning against my front door in Palos Verdes and relaxing with the neighbor's cat. Gomer always hung out in our yard. (March, 1967)

"What about her allergies?" I was beginning to feel stupid. I couldn't believe that I was still trying to have a conversation based on reality.

"That's the beauty of the Siberian," she cheerfully explained. "I was happy when the hypoallergenic cat came out, but they're $8,000. These cats only run about $1,000, and they're for people with allergies. They'll even send you a clipping of the fur so you can test yourself for allergies. You just tape the fur near your nose and eyes and see how you react. So I'm going to find out where these catteries are. You need to look in your local paper in case you see an ad for a Siberian cat."

Becky and I enjoying our Siamese cat, Singh. He disappeared the day we moved out of Los Angeles. He was never allowed in the house because of my mom's allergies and asthma. (August, 1961)

My father as a young boy, holding an unknown feline friend. (undated)

There was nothing more to say. True to form, Rebecca had expeditiously solved another of life's challenges. Why are my brother and I spending so many hours trying to figure out ways to help our mother? She simply needs to get a Siberian and "chill out." I got off the phone and picked up my own cat. Stewart may be just a domestic short hair, but as I stroked his fur and listened to him purr, I found myself saying, "Don't worry. It's all going to be okay."

My brother Bobby and Cat Boy in a peaceful place. Cat Boy was the first animal allowed in the house. He was totally spoiled by my mother. He was the only pet to become a long-time member of the family. When our parents were going through their divorce, my mother quietly had Cat Boy euthanized. ( photo about 1967).

A VISIT TO DYE FOR

2008-09-28T14:00:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I invited my sister to spend Thanksgiving with us. Now I'm scared to death that she might accept our offer. Recently I received an e-mail with the subject line: RE VISIT. I gasped when I opened up the attachment. It was two pages long and full of very strong language.

Phrases like poisonous phthalates, toxic chemicals, hazardous to humans, fish-killing perfume-poison, pesticide residues, harmful fumes, and neurological poison were strewn throughout the document. Yes, I said document. This isn't your typical RSVP. But then again, my sister isn't your typical house guest.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? I'm a little nervous about my sister's upcoming Thanksgiving visit. (photo taken 1999)

Rebecca suffers from Multiple Chemical Sensitivities, or MCS. She has become increasingly handicapped with this condition. She struggles daily to keep herself in an environment devoid of common man-made products or, in her words, "poisons."

According to my sister, even unscented products are subject to scrutiny. She claims that St. Ives fragrance-free lotion probably contains a scent-blocker, or a perfume ingredient to drown out scents. Her explanation: "kind of like putting a blindfold on someone so they won't see how messy the room is."

Rebecca is going through some tough times. Not only is she single, homeless, and without the ability to provide for herself, but she has virtually no contact with her daughter or son. A resident of Alaska, she has balked at traveling to the "lower forty-eight" in recent years, believing that chemicals used in airplanes will seriously compromise her already weakened immune system. I've been encouraging her to try and step out of her comfort zone and take another look at some life options. Our eighty-year- old mother is recently widowed and lonely in her beachfront condo. She must pay someone for basic household services. This is a situation where mother and daughter could benefit by living together or near to each other. My brother and I have both offered to build small guest homes on our respective properties, and essentially take care of our sister for the rest of her life. But she is adamant that only Alaska provides the combination of clean air and sparse population critical to her survival.

Rebecca claims dryer sheets or fabric softeners irritate lungs, eyes, and skin. They use a petroleum-based oil to soften clothes. Breathing the fumes is called huffing. Everyone should switch to dryer balls. The best news is, they are cheap and last at least two years.

When I invited my sister for Thanksgiving, I was hoping that she could benefit not only from our mild Arizona temperatures, but also from the warmth of our extended family gathering. I didn't want her to spend another holiday alone. Initially she sent me a few tentative e-mails: What are the average high and low temperatures in your community in November? Is there room in your home? Would I extend an invitation to our mother? These were easy questions to answer. I'm just not sure how to deal with her latest communication. Rebecca's e-mail was an explicit list, detailing acceptable products that she can "use and that those with MCS can usually be around." Of course, she couldn't resist a healthy dose of unsolicited advice and name-dropping:

I know Mensa members who refuse to have [bleach] in their homes, as it's so very dangerous in the event of an earthquake or fire.

Dr. DeMain says Tide---even Tide Free--- has formaldehyde, which is an eye, lung, skin irritant, also a poison.

To keep drains free of clogs, put a little Rid-X, powder version only, down each drain about once a week just before bedtime.

A packet of black Rit dye is $2 or less, and good for an entire big wash load of clothing that has faded. The Soap and Detergent Assn. says it's best to just turn your darks inside out to keep colors bright by reducing abrasion and pilling.

Rebecca calls Black Woolite a "vicious product...loaded with fish-killing chemical perfume-poison."

While I discovered some interesting household tips in her letter, learning that I can renew faded jeans with black dye does nothing to prepare me for my sister being a house guest. I know this visit is going to require more than just leaving the light on and hiding a key under the mat.

The owners of Rebecca's last apartment went all-out to accommodate her MCS. The walls were repainted without the use of Volatile Organic Compounds (VOC). Carpet, flooring, tile and windows were all replaced. They even moved her upstairs to a corner unit so she could have the cross-breeze that she requested.

Several years ago she brought a law-suit against the owners of her apartment complex. She insisted that the residents stop using items such as dryer sheets and scented candles. She even demanded that the outside grounds and parking lots be off-limit to smokers. In a letter to the apartment manager, she complained that "at any particular time, one or more neighbors smoke in or near this building; there is no respite. Smoke travels throughout a building, emerging from electrical outlets or light fixtures, as well as hallways and under doors. Whether or not I smell it, my body registers it. I need your help. I am handicapped and need clean air in order to live, to avoid death or further disability. I ask for that accommodation---now."

I need to come up with my own practical accommodation for my sister this Thanksgiving. Knowing what I know about her, I'm worried that I don't have the ability to meet her stringent environmental criteria. And how much do I inconvenience the other house guests? I will have daughters, their husbands, my in-laws, and several babies visiting our house at the same time. I definitely need help thinking outside the VOC! (Sorry, I just could not resist that...)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

BEAM ME UP, BARACK

2008-09-08T11:59:00.000-07:00

I read so many articles last week about how well Obama merchandise is selling that I just couldn't resist checking out the marketplace myself. It was readily apparent as I surfed the internet, that if sales are voluminous it might be due to so much variety. I had no idea that expressing a preference for a candidate isn't limited to wearing campaign buttons or slapping stickers on a car's bumper. Many of the slogans even showed some creativity. I didn't think anything could be cooler than the "Make America McGovernable" pin I wore in 1972 when I was a precinct worker for George McGovern in Santa Ana, California.

But this campaign season I discovered T-shirts and caps proclaiming, "if it ain't BARACK don't fix it." Or, "BARACK MY WORLD!" Pretty clever use of the candidate's name. However, none of the pundits are willing to equate merchandise sales with votes in November. As one McCain spokesperson said, "John Kerry and Al Gore sold a lot of T-shirts too." But I did note that while the Obama Bobble-head Doll was nearly $22, the Mitt Romney counterpart was only $10. I'm sure someone is scrambling to get a Sarah Baracuda Bobble-head Doll (or should it be called the Bubble-head Doll?) on the shelves as soon as possible. I'm anxious to see the fair market value of that little tchatchke. Here is a very small sample of what's out there for the Obamamaniacs:

The back of this mug says, "I LIKE MY PRESIDENTS LIKE MY COFFEE: BLACK AND STRONG." Interesting that Obama's image is actually white on this cup.

These air fresheners can only be purchased as a duo. Looks like the manufacturer made a strategical error in assuming that an Obama/Clinton ticket made a lot of "scents."

I was unable to figure out exactly what is miraculous about this toast. Is it that only the truly enlightened can see Obama's image? ( i.e. those who believe, along with Oprah Winfrey, that "he is the one?") Or is this just what it looks like to me---a piece of burnt bread, and a not-so-subtle message that Obama is "toast" in this election.

These dog tags are for canine lovers who want to use their pets as campaign tools. The instructions on the package include the warning: NOT FOR USE ON CATS. Hey, everyone knows cats are smarter than dogs, and would never support Bark Obama for President! This is actually a very clever product, and should prove useful if Barack decides to run for dog catcher in the next election cycle.

In all honesty, I am clueless as to why these dolls are so popular. Do people purchase the doll of the candidate they support, or the doll of the candidate they want to laugh at as they watch it bob up and down in their rear-view mirrors? Hopefully I will figure it out before we buy our next car. I think this is a really practical way to determine which brand of automobile has the smoothest ride.

This is an adult rubber mask. The package stresses FOR ADULTS ONLY. I heartily agree with the mature rating. Even I find this item disturbing. I'm definitely sleeping with the lights on tonight!

Obama shoes, designed for those with "soul." This is a 21st century version of a popular sentiment from United States history: Don't Tread on Me.

A rather bland picture of Barack Obama in the likeness of the sixteenth president of the United States. Last night I heard someone refer to Sarah Palin as Babe-raham Lincoln. Now that's a poster I would hang on my wall!

I was stunned to see this rebus mouse pad for sale on the Obama merchandise websites. I guess I've read too many comments from the Dems voicing their total disdain for uneducated and stupid people. This message is definitely "written" on kindergarten level.

The Obama key chain reminds me too much of the Doomsday Clock to feel comfortable attaching my keys and casually stuffing it in my pocket. What happens when it hits the dreaded zeros in each column? I don't want to be there when that happens!

This is the one product I almost purchased. I loved paper dolls when I was a kid! I was tempted to buy the Hillary set because it was on clearance. However, there wasn't enough variety in outfits--- you know, just pantsuits. The Sarah Palin paper doll is on back-order, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I can get what could easily be a collector's item. They said the wardrobe is awesome and extremely versatile!

YOU DON'T TUG ON SUPERMAN'S CAPE

2008-09-04T13:05:00.000-07:00

When I woke up this morning and automatically turned on my radio, the first headline tease line I heard was: "Hockey Mom Ices Democrats." Of course I knew what it meant. I've been hooked on politics since I was eight years old. My family didn't own a television set in 1960, but I convinced our next-door neighbors to let me sit in their living room and watch live coverage of Jack Kennedy accepting his party's nomination. Eventually all the adults trailed off to bed, but I refused to leave that lumpy couch and go home until the station went off the air.

Last night as I watched yet another national convention, it didn't seem like I stayed up quite as late as that night forty-eight years ago. The images on the television were in living color and easy on the eyes. As I lounged comfortably in my family room, I felt like I was part of the energetic crowd as their thunderous applause surrounded me. One of the great opening lines last night, as Sarah Palin accepted her party's nomination for Vice President, was actually an ad-lib:

"You know what the difference is between a pit bull and a hockey mom?" (pause) "Lipstick."

A lot of things came to my mind when she was speaking, but the words of an old Jim Croce song sum it up best:

You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim

Apparently, others are also impressed with her tenacity. Here are some quotes I culled off the web this morning from various media sources that likened Governor Sarah Palin to some strong personalities:

"It is the age of Sara Palin, the Wonder Woman..." ( the Scotsman)

"The great leaders sometimes come from the countryside, from the most remote spots. Remember Joan of Arc! Sarah could be our modern Joan of Arc." (U.S. army veteran Bill Coll, Le Point.)

"Thrilla From Wasilla" (Townhall.com reader comment)

I've participated vicariously in many conventions beginning with my childhood days of sitting in a dark room, watching a flickering black and white television screen. But this election is different. I love how last night Sarah Palin said, "If we win," not the presumptuous "when we win." It was a refreshingly honest sentiment, one I've never heard voiced in a political speech. I'm enough of a realist to know that anything can happen in politics. But last night I heard someone say all the things I've been yelling at my television and radio for months. I'm not going to mess around with Sarah Palin. I'm going to vote for her.

YOU SHOULD GROW LIKE AN ONION---WITH YOUR HEAD IN THE GROUND!

2008-09-03T10:31:00.000-07:00

My daughter Kelley phoned the other day to break the news that "Palin's daughter is pregnant!" I had so much trouble understanding her that I actually thought she said, "Have you heard Caitlin, your daughter, is pregnant?" I was so relieved to learn that it wasn't my daughter who was pregnant that I wasn't even irritated that this was the third day in a row that Kelley had found something with the McCain/Palin ticket to gloat about. However, after reading her blog this morning, I realize that my daughter needs to get back to her roots as far as insults go.

Sarah Palin's appearance on the cover of VOGUE seems to reinforce the slogan: Alaska: Coldest State, Hottest Governor. (She should suffer in the midst of pleasure!)

Just a few days into the vice presidential nomination, and pathetic Sarah has already made Kelley's dreaded "fashion-crime" hit list. She was spotted at a grocery store in Wasilla dressed in a native-inspired outfit only someone in Alaska would wear. Even worse---she wears (gasp) glasses! Kelley is convinced that this is just a gimmick on the part of the governor to fool the public into thinking that she isn't a "ditz."

Come on, Kelley. Ditz? You can do better than that! Don't you know that if you can't say something nice, say it in Yiddish? It's so much more colorful and creative! What other language gives you an endless number of ways to tell someone to drop dead? Let me give you an example of a REAL curse: Let what I wish on her come true (most, even half, even just 10%). Or how about: She should be transformed into a chandelier, to hang by day and to burn by night.

Governor Sarah Palin should continue to be kvetch-worthy for a long time. Surely someone in the family has ripped a tag off a mattress, or put a glass bottle in an aluminum recycling bin. (My enemies should be as ugly as she is beautiful!)

Kelley, the way this election is going, you are going to need all the put-downs you can accumulate. I recommend spending time with the language of your great-grandparents. When it comes to insulting someone who really needs it, like the shlemazl Sarah Palin, may you never be at a loss of words again. And should you ever feel the desire to pay me back for my helpful advice, don't do me any favors!

A LEGACY OF LINOLEUM

2008-08-24T17:59:00.000-07:00

My dad has undertaken a house remodeling project. He started in his family room and has now moved into the kitchen. Tuesday, he interrupted his work long enough to phone to let me know that he had experienced a near-death experience. While eating lunch at the local coffee shop he had started choking. He could not stop. It got really scary for everyone. Some other diners and even the restaurant manager tried unsuccessfully to help. Fortunately, by the time the paramedics arrived, he was okay.

"So, did your whole life flash in front of you?" I asked my eighty-three year old father.

"No," he responded honestly. "But two things came to mind that I'm bothered about." I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, poised for a True Confession moment. "I feel terrible about the bombs I dropped on Germany."

"Dad, it was war time. You were doing your patriotic duty and serving your country." I tried not to act too irritated, but his latent concern sounded so disingenuous, so out of character.

"I know," he lamented. "But these were horrible weapons...huge destructive bombs! Now [in the current war] anytime there's even a single death, there's such a fuss in the news. Goodness, hundreds were killed every day when we flew our missions."

"That's true," I agreed, still trying to figure out what he really wanted to say.

My father was a tail gunner on the B-17 Flying Fortress during WWII. As a member of the 8th Air Force stationed in Kimbolton, England, he flew 35 missions with the 379th Bomb Group. The survival rate was 66% for those making it to the 25 mission mark.

"And something else that bothers me is the horrible things my father did during the war."

"What kind of things?" I calmly asked, repositioning my pen over the paper.

"My dad was in charge of the entire Air Transport Command while stationed in Italy after the war," he explained. "When Vi [his stepmother] found out that she could get hundreds of dollars for a few packs of cigarettes and some booze, she had a roaring business going. She got involved in the Black Market and she got my dad to help her. Then there was the scandal in China. Dad was the Air Director of the China/Burma/India Theater of War. But he suddenly ended up in Modesto. That's when he took early retirement. I was always too embarrassed to ask him what happened. But now I want to know. I want you to get his military records. I want to find out why Stilwell passed him over for promotion to General."

My grandfather, an Air Force officer, had a distinguished military career beginning in 1921. No one in the family knows why he abruptly retired in 1947. My father wants me to solve the mystery.

"Okay." I relaxed a little. Now it was all beginning to make sense. This was the dad that I knew. We talked for awhile about what might have happened to end my grandfather's career. I reminded my father that most of the military records of that era were lost in a fire in St. Louis.

A devastating fire in 1973 at the National Personnel Records Center destroyed 80% of the records for Army personnel discharged between 1912 and 1960. I'm hoping that my grandfather's records were not among the 18 million damaged or destroyed files.

"What about you, Dad? Isn't this the time for me to help you record your life story? You don't want to leave your family wondering about your life, the way you're wondering about your father's." I was always trying to work the subject into our conversations. I would be on his doorstep in a heartbeat, if I could just get him to put out the welcome mat.

"My sails are full," he protested, as I listened for the latest round of excuses. "You know I have a trophy wife," he bragged for the thousandth time. "I'm busy redoing our whole house. When I'm done in the kitchen we're moving to the living room." He spent some time going over the details of each project. He was doing nearly all the work himself.

"That's great, Dad," I replied. "I can just see us all standing around talking at your funeral. 'Gee, aren't we glad he got those cabinets hung! I feel so much better knowing that he was able to caulk that grout before it was too late!'"

Robert S. Goodrich holding his great-grandson, Jonah Nalder, Christmas Day 2007. This was the first holiday in 25 years that my father had spent with any of his children or grandchildren.

My father started laughing and telling me how funny I was. Then he quickly excused himself. He did, after all, have important work to do. As we said our good-byes, it was not easy for me to mirror his nonchalant mood. I've never been able to convince him that time spent with things such as nails and paint can never replace time spent with your own flesh and blood. My siblings and I have been perplexed by this mind-set for twenty-five years. We know what he's leaving his "trophy wife." But what isn't he leaving his children and grandchildren? A legacy of linoleum just won't mean a darn thing.

I NEVER SANG FOR MY MOTHER

2008-08-10T19:39:00.000-07:00

Many years ago I saw the movie, I Never Sang for my Father. As I recall, the film didn't get rave reviews. But I've always remembered it because of Gene Hackman's acting and because of the subject: parent/child relationships. Hackman plays a middle-aged man struggling to get close to his father, who just retreats into self-centeredness and detachment.

As far back as I can remember, my mother depended on doctors and drugs to get her through another day of living. She claims that her addictions really took hold about the time my brother was born.
(My mother holding Bobby, 1956)

I often think about this movie when thinking about my mother. She phoned a few days ago and happily chattered non-stop about a recent visit from her granddaughter and great-grandsons. It dawned on me, that for the first time in years, my mother can carry on a lucid conversation, write with a steady hand, and walk without stumbling. As her voice rattled on, I was almost lulled into thinking that I could have a real relationship with her---almost. And then I heard her complaining about how the weather was making her ill and how Doctor was out of town for a few days. All of a sudden I was jolted back to reality.

When I was growing up, there were long periods of time when my mother never got out of bed. I remember Mom routinely calling me into her bedroom and telling me to get her basket of medicine off the closet shelf, then bringing it to her as she carefully propped herself up in bed. She would open vial after vial, shaking-out a capsule here, breaking a tablet in half there, until she held a handful of multicolored and multi-shaped pills. (This prescription has been saved in her scrapbook for about sixty years.)

Doctor is the name my mother affectionately reserves for her personal physician of more than 30 years. Mom's trips to see Doctor rapidly escalated over the years until she was averaging three office visits a week. Then in February, her neighbors got fed-up with her disturbing routine of wandering the condo complex, screaming and banging on doors. Someone finally called the paramedics. She spent several months of involuntary residence at a psychiatric hospital de-toxing from a steady diet of drug cocktails; her medical team releasing her only on the assurance that she hire round-the-clock care.

Her caretakers, thinly disguised as household help, were really there for one reason: to document her intake of medication. She had help 24/7 for months after release from the hospital. It was almost a contest to see who would prevail. Would a girl quit, or would my mom beat her to the punch, and fire her before the end of the day? I learned in our phone conversation that she has eliminated all but one favorite helper, who works just the week-end shift. But what's really troubling is hearing about her return to regular visits with Doctor.

When my stepfather suffered a stroke while hospitalized, Mom thought that he had died. She immediately put this notice on her front door. He lingered on for three more months. She never saw nor spoke to him again.

No one in the family has ever figured out what is in the injections Doctor so freely dispenses at every visit. Many years ago Doctor told my father that he always wanted his patients to leave happy. "I give them something to make them happy," he explained to Dad, without really explaining anything. Even Mom does not know, does not care to know. "It's something for my heart, something for my lungs, some estrogen...something to build me up." She always sounds defensive when I try to get the facts. "This man has saved my life more times than I can remember and whatever sanity I retain is to his credit as well," she asserted in a letter two years ago. "Nobody understands that he is the reason I'm still alive after all these years."

My mother is convinced that if any medical personnel other than Doctor provides treatment, it could prove fatal. I found this warning taped to her kitchen phone, just in case anyone was reckless enough to call 9-1-1 in an emergency. Last year, when her husband fell in the middle of the night, he needlessly suffered for hours because of her edict.

She's right. I don't understand. I've always been disgusted that she could never make even simple, personal decisions without consulting Doctor. I've never comprehended why this man was ever elevated to savior status. We only have to look at how her health dramatically improved when she was under the care of different physicians, to know that something is not right with Doctor's treatment plan.

As my mother ended her phone monologue about grandsons, I heard her voice take on a familiar tone. "Of course, I expect a visit as soon as Chuck gets his vacation time."

"Well, Mom, you know he's been working real hard for over a year with very few days off, " I replied, meaning, we might have our own plans.

"Well don't you forget, she admonished, again using her self-righteous voice, "that your mother spent twelve years without any time off, taking care of a very fragile and very dear husband." Suddenly she pleaded exhaustion and quickly hung up the phone.

And there you have it. Her suffering is always greater. Her needs always trump everyone else's. Her reality of events is never open for discussion.

In 1984, I encouraged my mother to see me and her grandchildren when we came to Los Angeles for a visit. She wrote a lengthy response to that suggestion. I maintained my "disparaging" status for another 15 years until she reluctantly deigned to see me.

As a young boy, Gene Hackman's character, Gene Garrison, would sing while his mother played the piano. But his father always stayed upstairs, alone in his room. That's the simplistic reason why Gene never sang for his father. I don't need to get complicated either. I know I too will never sing for my mother.

While I was in high school, Mom worked a recovery program and eventually triumphed over her demons. For more than a dozen years my parents enjoyed life together. Unfortunately, the good times did not last. (American Samoa, 1977)

WORKIN' FOR THE MAN EV'RY NIGHT AND DAY

2008-08-02T16:38:00.000-07:00

Chuck leaving home to start another shift of work at Weyerhaeuser Paper Company in Yuma, Arizona (1992)

The summer of 1974, my husband was twenty-two years old and unemployed. One day he parked his Chevy truck in an industrialized area of Modesto, less than a mile from his home on the Tuolumne River where he grew up. He walked up and down the street, going factory to factory, looking for work. Weyerhaeuser Company offered him a job that summer, running a die-cut machine. He worked for three weeks straight before he got his first day off. This year Chuck reached a milestone in his life: it's the thirty-fifth summer that he has been making boxes for Weyerhaeuser.

Over the past 35 years Chuck became skilled at operating machines such as this Flexo Folder-Gluer. His crews often set production records. He is an expert at training and motivating employees.

Chuck and I were married in September 1976. His grandmother warned us not to move away from Modesto and family. But we did. Like the infamous "seven year itch," Chuck got the urge to relocate almost every seven years. If Weyerhaeuser was starting-up a new box plant, he wanted to be there. We hit every cardinal point on the compass. First we moved north (Portland, Oregon) then south (Yuma, Arizona) then west (Camarillo, California) and finally east (Phoenix, Arizona).

And these were just the major moves. There were always the shorter, temporary moves while waiting for houses to be built, escrows to close, or issues to be resolved. Twice we moved with newborn babies. Three times we turned our homes into rental properties when we transferred out of state. Between four kids, we adjusted to six different elementary schools, three junior high schools, and four high schools.

Chuck's grandmother, Dolly Tibbs Goodrich, warning us at our wedding reception to stay in Modesto

When I placed the order for our wedding cake, the lady would not stop bragging about her children and their successful careers. When she asked me what my fiance did for a living, I did not hesitate a second. "Oh, he's a recycling engineer," I casually replied. My mother-in-law nearly fell off her chair, because at the time Chuck ran the baler machine. The conversation immediately shifted to talk about frosting and flowers.

In 1976, while working in the Modesto plant, Chuck got in a scuffle with another employee. During the altercation, Chuck's leg got broken. Both guys quickly decided it was in their mutual best interest to blame the "accident" on lax safety conditions near the machine.

Chuck and I traveled on Amtrak from Riverbank, California to Portland, Oregon (with two year old Cristin) when he interviewed for a job in February, 1980. It was nearly impossible to get any sleep sitting up all night on the train.

I remember Mike Sanzone, Chuck's boss in Portland, telling him that "a box plant is a box plant, whether it's in Portland, Oregon, or McAllen, Texas." He said that it's the wife and kids that have to make the biggest sacrifice when moving to a new location with the company.

And he was right. Chuck was always good to go from Day One. Moving only seemed to energize him. But as our children grew, it became increasingly more painful for them (and for me) to be wrenched away from friends and communities that had become so important in our lives. When we moved to Yuma Arizona twenty years ago, someone jokingly asked me if I was suffering from culture shock. Still yearning for my previous life in the Pacific Northwest, I replied, “No, it’s more like lack of culture shock.”

One of Chuck's paycheck stubs from Portland. In the beginning he was compensated for working over 40 hours per week. That benefit was eliminated when he became salaried.

A loyal and tireless worker, Chuck has hardly missed any time on the job in over three decades. Taking into account his brutal work schedule, this is quite a feat. During his career with Weyco, he has worked day shift, swing shift, graveyard shift, split shift, week-ends and holidays. And did I mention overtime? We discovered many inventive ways over the years to ensure that somehow, despite environmental conditions and noisy children, Dad got some sleep somewhere in the house.

The first year after moving to Portland, Chuck was offered a management position. Weyerhaeuser was initially leery about allowing him to transfer from Modesto, where he had been the shop steward. Portland was a non-union plant.

In May 1999, Chuck wrote candidly about his job in a letter to Cristin:

I’m writing this letter at 1:00 a.m. This is my night off. This is really a big deal because I only get two nights off a month so I have to make sure I take advantage of all this free time. I feel like all I do is work. Oh well it could be worse. I could be unemployed or working in a coal mine instead of a box plant. I used to try and glorify my job when people asked what I do for a living. Now I just tell them I make boxes and leave it at that. Most people don’t ask me a second question after hearing what I do. I’m sure they’re thinking, wow, making boxes, that’s right up there with truck driver, garbage collector, poor guy. Little do they know that I make about as much as some Bank Presidents. Of course I have to work twice as much and in the middle of the night.

Real Estate was so pricey in southern California that we opted to purchase this upstairs condominium in Camarillo. It was two bedroom / two bath and the garage was unattached. We had to park our extra car down the hill and across the street at the golf course. (2002)

We bought this station wagon in Portland. It was originally a company car used by the sales team at Weyerhaeuser.

With such a demanding work load, I learned early in our marriage not to have any expectations that my husband would be available for social events or family activities. I was the designated parent at teacher conferences, and the awkward married-but-solo person at the church socials. We settled into our respective roles automatically. My job was to manage the household, help children succeed in school, and keep us all active in our various church programs. Chuck’s job was to make boxes for Weyerhaeuser.

Caitlin's preschool teacher helped her complete this Father's Day card in 1992.

I thought I'd won the lottery when we purchased this beautiful home in Troutdale, Oregon with views of the Columbia River and Portland city lights. We sold the house just 16 months later and moved to Yuma.

John Fogerty’s song, Proud Mary, was the inspiration for the title of this post. The lyrics include this verse: “And I never lost one minute of sleepin’, worryin’ bout the way things might have been.” To be honest, I have lost sleep--- at times lots of sleep--- thinking about the way things might have been. What if we had listened to Grams, stayed in Modesto, and raised our kids near grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles? What if we had been able to take more family vacations? What if we hadn’t moved so much? What if Chuck had worked less hours? What if he had switched careers? What if---? What if---? What if---?

Weyerhaeuser flew us to Yuma for a job interview in February 1988. I cried when Chuck accepted the offer. He attributed my reaction to being eight months pregnant and overly emotional.

Yet it is what it is. I don’t want to diminish Chuck’s accomplishment. He’s always provided for his family. If nothing else, staying loyal to the same employer your whole career is a testament of sheer endurance. Monday morning at 5 a.m. when my husband starts making boxes, “the man” will have a different name. International Paper Company acquired Weyerhaeuser’s entire container-board unit earlier this year. Chuck hit the milestone anniversary date with literally days to spare before the change of ownership. He’s now eligible to receive the maximum retirement benefits offered by the company. Congratulations, Honey. You endured. You managed to survive the last thirty-five years. Somehow, we both did.

Chuck made his last box for Weyerhaeuser on August 2, 2008. He lives near the Estrella Mountains in Goodyear, Arizona. All four of his daughters are married and he has three grandsons. (Chuck with Kelley, Caitlin, Kaci and Cristin, Thanksgiving 2007)

I USED TO BE SMART

2008-07-28T07:34:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend sent me an Arizona Republic article on menopause. I easily identified with Mary Pace, a 54 year old teacher who lamented, "There are some cloudy, foggy times when I think, 'Hmm, I used to be smart.'"

I earned two degrees, the Bachelor of Science (Summa Cum Laude) and the Master of Education (with distinction) from Northern Arizona University. Go Lumberjacks!

Since starting my blog a few weeks ago, I'm even more aware of how my brain doesn't work as well as it used to. The most disconcerting thing about writing at this time in my life is that I can't organize my thoughts very easily. But equally scary is my inability to remember words that were once part of my vocabulary. The days of having words flow easily and effortlessly from my mind to my lips or fingers are gone forever.

So I found it amusing when my daughter Kelley complained last week that my blog was written on the level of a "school research paper." While she admitted looking forward to each post, she whined, "I have to concentrate SO hard when I read your stories." I was still trying to think of how to respond (I was having one of those cloudy, foggy times) when she suddenly said, "Sorry, but I need to get off the phone NOW. I have to watch Access Hollywood!"

When Kelley hung up, I tried to do a reality check. Am I really stretching my readers' fragile attention spans to the breaking point? Should I dumb-down my writing? After all, not only am I writing my life story for my children, but for my children's children. As an educator, I'm painfully aware of the dismal trend towards a steady decline in reading and reading ability. Will my grandchildren, raised on a literacy diet of e-mails, text messages, and compacted language like LOL (laugh out loud) be unable to comprehend my lofty, verbose narratives?

After giving this some thought, I've decided that the best indicator of my grandchildren's ability to appreciate my written legacy is to use the example of my own daughters. Perhaps by looking at their reading proclivities as children, I can get an idea of what literacy skills they will pass on to their own offspring. As we say in the world of teaching, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Cristin read early---before three years of age---and she read well. Her favorite book was The Golden Dictionary. She was so confident by the time she entered school that she proclaimed herself, "The World's Greatest Reader!"

Kaci preferred reading cookbooks and restaurant menus. With vocabulary like soup de jour, entree, pasta, saute, and French toast, she was considered bilingual at an early age.

Kelley showed no interest in reading before third grade. Until then, her book of choice was the Coloring Book. Her favorite genre was Barbie or Spice Girls.

They say the camera never lies, and this photo is proof. Although Caitlin was surrounded by books her entire childhood, I never actually saw her READ one.

SICNR this opportunity to practice IM. JIC I need to abbreviate my prose for posterity. YNK. I'll bet my kids are thinking: IOMH. LIC. This topic TBC...

I NEEDED TO USE MY OWN WORDS

2008-07-23T17:27:00.000-07:00

Bobby and I at Marineland, Palos Verdes, Calif. 1958

I've always felt close to my younger brother

Although my sister and I are only twenty months apart in age, I remember we spent more time fighting than getting along. During the years we lived in Los Angeles, I became best friends with Robin Freels, the girl who lived next door. When I wasn't playing with Robin I was playing with my little brother. In fact, I spent so much time with Bobby that my mother had to ask me on a regular basis to translate his very inarticulate speech. I was the only one in the family who could understand much of what he was saying during his preschool years.

In retrospect, I realize that at a very young age I was often used as a surrogate mother. Yet I don't remember it bothering me. In those days, cooking and cleaning was not work. It was fun pretending that the toy box was a rocket ship heading for the moon as a way to encourage my little brother to pick up his room. I loved teaching him how to read before he went to Kindergarten.

When I was around six years old, my parents discovered that if I were reading Bobby a book they could sneak out of the house for the evening without him having a screaming fit. Soon it became my almost nightly responsibility to implement this form of distraction. However, the reading and re-reading from my small collection of children's books eventually became monotonous for both of us. This is when I discovered the power of expressing myself in my own words. Many an evening I would delight my younger sibling by changing the benign Norman and the Nursery School into Norman and the Mean Lady. It was a harrowing tale rivaling any told by the Brothers' Grimm.

My second grade class at Cimarron Avenue School, 1959. I am sitting in the middle of the front row. Robin Freels is second row, third from left. My other good friend, Ursula Sack, is back row, directly behind Robin

I soon found another audience that appreciated my passion for storytelling. Beginning in second grade, a small group of kids would follow me around each morning at recess. I literally composed stories on the spot as we wandered the playground of Cimarron Avenue School. The black asphalt, with its noisy and enticing games, was a tough teacher. I quickly learned how to be more entertaining than hopscotch, four-square, or jump rope. And my secret weapon for ensuring a return of my entourage the next day: the cliff-hanger. I became skilled at dramatically inserting it into my narrative just as the bell was ringing.

This birthday card I made for my father is atypical because it doesn't have odds and ends glued on the paper to create collage-type pictures

My need for self-expression also manifested itself in another memorable event at that time. I vividly recall coming home from a Bluebird meeting in tears. The group leader would not allow me to insert my own original poem in a Father's Day card. In typical 1950's conformity, each girl in the troop was required to make identical assembly-line ashtrays and identical greeting cards. Each card had the same cutout blue and white polka dot tie on the cover and the same cliched prose on the inside. When I was younger, I always made my own cards for family members. My cards were often multi page with lots of artwork and rhyming prose. One card that survives is typical:

Happy Fathers Day

It would be different with a lunch with no sack

Or a train with no track

Yes it would be different with a lad with no shoes

But it sure would be different if we didn't have you!

Looking back on this memory, I find it noteworthy that I was so resistent to giving my father an impersonal written message as a Father's Day present. Ironically, I was not bothered at all by the fact that I was giving an ashtray as a gift to a man who didn't even smoke!

When I was eight years old, I used pictures I cut out of the Sunday "LA Times" to generate story ideas for homemade books. I wrote "Sing a Song of Lima Beans" to go along with this advertisement for Birds Eye vegetables.

Party Like It's 1950-Something

2008-07-21T11:53:00.000-07:00

CIRO'S Hollywood, July 1956

My mother in her element, flanked by adoring,

rich males. Also at table: Dad and his father

My mother celebrated her eightieth birthday on Saturday. Perhaps I use the word celebrate in error. She was adamant that she was not in a celebratory mood. "Phyllis has made me physically ill with her insistence that I do something special that day," she complained to me in a phone call last week.

Even I was amazed that my mother, the ultimate social butterfly, would balk at having lunch with a few well-meaning friends. Then I remembered that she has recently entered a new phase of her life: Grieving Widow. Now I wonder, are her days of enjoying a good party really over?

11718 S. Cimarron Avenue, Fall 1954

My earliest memory of my parents' party days begin when we lived on Cimarron Avenue. In July, 1954, they put a $100 deposit on Lot 139 in the Grandview Hollypark subdivision of Los Angeles. It was a typical post WWII dream house---three bedrooms, two baths and an attached two car garage. A few years after we moved in, Dad poured a large concrete patio in the backyard and built a lattice cover to accommodate Mom's love of entertaining Southern-California style. Shortly before the guests arrived, I would watch my father carefully sprinkle a white powder on the patio, creating the ultimate outdoor dance floor.

My grandfather Dave Goodrich with my brother during construction of the patio, 1957. I never saw my grandfather without a drink in his hand.

My dad also installed a whole-house state of the art high fidelity system, which was a big hit with the cocktail set. Not only were there speakers in our small living room, but also outside and in the garage. There were always table tennis tournaments going on in the garage at the Goodrich parties. I'm certain Dad built the sturdy green ping pong table to satisfy the competitive nature of my parents and their friends.

It was a miracle I got any shut-eye at all when my parents entertained. I could almost fall asleep by concentrating on the melodic music syncopating with the tap-tap-tap of bouncing ping pong balls as it echoed off the wall my bedroom shared with the garage. But then there was the laughter. I found the laughing insanely annoying. Not only was I tired, but I was too young to comprehend and make sense of the party-goers' jokes. Even the laughter could not drown out my mother's disingenuous voice as she and others tried in haphazard unison to sing along loudly to a Mitch Miller record. Of course as the party dragged on, all the sounds only got louder and crazier.

Our kitchen was so small, Mom needed to use the table to prepare larger meals. Her father, Al Gould, is standing in the doorway of the laundry room. June 1956

In the morning, as my sister and I dutifully emptied overflowing ash trays and washed an endless parade of glasses, we would nibble on stale chips and shriveled bits of food stabbed through the end of sharp toothpicks.

Just as we were beginning to feel sick from noshing on wilted hors d'oeuvres tainted with cigarette smoke, my mother would suddenly walk through the front door. Somehow, while the kitchen faucet was running and the garbage disposal grinding, she had managed to silently slip out of bed and leave the house. She would return, just as quietly, clutching a small brown paper sack. As she reached inside the bag with her manicured hand, there was no expectation on our part. We knew she would pull out a very cold, very thick, freshly-made chocolate milkshake. By very thick, I mean that a metal spoon placed straight up in the middle of the glass would not tilt one degree. This was the standard remedy for one of my dad's hangovers.

My dad, during the crazy party days on Cimarron

As Mom disappeared down the hall, Becky and I continued our task of putting the house back in order while entertaining our little brother as quietly as we could. On mornings like this, my sister and I knew it was our job to be the responsible ones in the house. After all, our parents needed time to sleep off the effects of all that fun from the night before.

Gag Me with a Ritz Cracker

2008-07-18T09:59:00.000-07:00

Last week I was offered a slice of apple pie that I refused to eat. Actually, it was not really apple pie, but pie made with Ritz crackers disguised to taste like apples. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against crackers. My favorite comfort food of all time is fried matzos. But deliberately choosing to use my mouth for a chemistry experiment, instead of for the geshmak I feel when I bite into a warm morsel of tart apple? That's cockamammie!

My father, Christmas 1981

Mom turned goyem each Dec. 25, always making glazed ham with pineapple rings and Maraschino cherries

In sharing this experience with my grown daughters, and reflecting on other times that we have had similar reactions to recipes, I'm thinking that this is more than just a case of culinary snobbishness. Call me obsessed with family history and finding my ancestors, but I believe that food preference is part of our DNA.

All the years we lived in Portland I craved food prepared by Horst Mager of the Rhinelander restaurant. Years later, when I filled in the blanks on my pedigree chart with names like Ehrmanntraut and Weinmann, my enthusiasm for German style red cabbage all made sense.

The Modesto Goodriches, about 1999

Enjoying their Christmas tradition of Cioppini
right to left: Chuck Goodrich, his niece Dawn Pratt, her husband Rich Miller

There's currently a lot of interest in the genealogy world about tracing family roots using DNA testing. Simply swab the inside of your mouth to collect skin cells, submit to a reputable company, and you're that much closer to finding your ancestry. But I believe there's an easier way to cut to the chase: check out the family cookbook and traditions involving food.

Case in point: pastrami. Picture a cold pastrami sandwich made with mayonnaise---no, wait---a cold pastrami sandwich made with mayonnaise AND white bread. If this makes you cringe, then we're probably genetic cousins.

Here are some more of our family traditions: cream is whipped shortly before it is served, not scooped out of a plastic tub that has been left to defrost on the kitchen counter. Pancake batter is made with milk, eggs, oil, and preferably buckwheat flour. Macaroni and cheese is baked in the oven until the top is brown and the edges are bubbly.

Jell-O pudding is something you are forced to eat while confined to a hospital bed, not a dessert to serve guests. Chili does not come in a can, and neither does spaghetti. Years ago, as a tired, single mother, I picked up a box of dehydrated potato flakes at the grocery store to help simplify meal preparation. My children were convinced that I had finally lost my mind and would be forever farblondget.

If you are familiar with the oxymoron REAL BUTTER, and say it regularly when ordering at restaurants, then I have a feeling that you are not offended by this post. For the rest of my readers, blame my tastes on heredity, and please help yourself to another slice of pie.

MOM LIKED YOU BEST

2008-07-15T15:25:00.000-07:00

Me and my sister, 1955

Remember the Smothers Brothers? They started a shtick in the 1960s based on sibling rivalry. I could always relate to Tommy when he complained to his brother that "Mom always liked you best!" Throughout our childhood my older sister Rebecca would brag, "I am my parents' favorite child, I am my grandparents' favorite grandchild, and I am my aunt and uncles' favorite niece!" She would say it with such authority, that even though I told myself that she didn't know anything (after all, she was just a kid) I secretly feared that she was right. Now that we are adults, I know she was right.

My sister, the child, 1958

The plethora of gifts, money, family heirlooms, sympathy and attention directed towards my sister has never ceased. I rarely have a conversation with either of my parents without her name coming up. Yesterday I phoned my mother to ask about my stepfather's memorial service. The only time Mom cried was when she told me that Becky had borrowed money to send a dozen yellow roses.

No, I didn't send flowers. But I was there in person earlier this year---just one crazy week before my daughter's wedding---when my mother was suddenly locked up in the psychiatric unit of her local hospital. With her husband near death in another hospital, my daughter Cristin and I tried for days, unsuccessfully, to improve the situation.

My sister and my mother, 1991

While going through legal documents with Cristin, we came across this line in her Trust: ALBERTA PAXSON has intentionally omitted any gift to Kathleen Stewart Goodrich and [her] issue. Despite this slap in the face, I returned to California when she was released from the hospital and begging me to come help. Even my brother, who has been estranged from her for over twenty years, and likewise disinherited, flew out from Iowa. While she quickly returned to old resentments against me and my brother, she never ceased fretting about our sister. At this time Rebecca was virtually homeless and penniless. (So tell me something I don't know!) Bobby and I gently suggested to Mom that an extended visit from her little Bubelah could benefit everyone. "I love her too much to have her come and live with me," Mom insisted.

My sister, the adult, 1998

My sister has a heart of gold, a personality trait I will never have. She has endearing dimples, an infectious laugh, and an ironclad devil-may-care attitude. I once warned her in an e-mail not to move-in with a boyfriend. She wrote back, "Well, as for your advice, I hope not to follow it....and since when did I ever follow your advice???" She's right. My dad calls her the Gordian Knot. The meshugas in the family means zilch to Rebecca. She can listen to our mother rant and rave and it's like water down a duck's back. No wonder Mom always liked my sister best.

Don't Monkey Around My Family Tree

2008-07-12T10:21:00.000-07:00

Hey, hey you're a monkey! Apparently a participant at my last Family History lecture walked away believing that was my message. I was so stunned when I heard through informal feedback that I had offended some one's religious beliefs that my first reaction was to blurt out, "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle!"

Joe and Fannie Goblinger

(my great-grandparents) and children

St. Louis, Missouri 1903

After all, this is my motivational presentation---the one where I spend nearly an hour unabashedly and exuberantly extolling the virtues of finding and preserving one's family story. As for locating ancestors, I always point my students in the direction of an LDS Family History Center, not National Geographic! So I scratched my head and went back over my slides to try and figure out where things had gone bananas.

Then I found the culprit: this drawing of Rodney Micklethwaite's pedigree chart. I show this at the beginning of the presentation when I pose the question, "Why all the fuss about genealogy?" I think that evening I made a comment to the effect that some may say, why bother tracing your roots; everyone knows we are descended from apes! I guess I have to face the reality that not all my students find me as funny as a barrel of monkeys.

Humor is reason gone mad---Groucho Marx

So now I'm asking your advice, Gentle Reader. Should I keep the monkey business out of the genealogy business?

Star-Studded Jamboree in Burbank

2008-07-10T09:04:00.000-07:00

Last week I returned home from a fun trip to Southern California. My main motivation for making the trek was to attend, for the first time, the Southern California Genealogical Society's Annual Jamboree in Burbank. SCGS has been putting on this conference for nearly 40 years, and that experience showed in every aspect of the program. Their reputation as one of the largest and best genealogy conferences in the country remains intact. It was a fabulous event! Of course, because I am my Jewish Mother, I need to kvetch a little about the daily parking fees. The Marriott offered conference attendees a reduced rate of $10, which I begrudingly paid the first day. During the opening session, the woman sitting next to me bragged that she got a deal by parking across the street at the Burbank Airport---"only" $9 per day! (Obviously a Goyeh.)
Did I miss seeing Brad and Angelina walking across the tarmac, because I didn't take advantage of paying "only" $9 for parking at the Burbank Airport? Probably. But at the end of the day I was my very happy Jewish Mother, because I was able to find FREE parking just down the street from the Marriott in a shady, residential neighborhood. By-the-way, do you notice the red bus in the background? I did see several of those driving around, and they all had "Bob Hope Airport" written on the side. It was the only clue I had that Burbank Airport has somehow morphed into the Bob Hope Airport. (Even freeway signs and the conference literature referred to it as the Burbank Airport.)
Of course the REAL celebrities were all at the conference. People like Steve Morse (pictured), Bill Dollarhide, Leland Meitzler, and Megan Smolenyak Smolenyak. (Everytime I see Megan I ponder the benefit to my career as a genealogist of changing my professional name to Kathleen Goodrich Goodrich. Or, do I dare to be shamelessly accurate: Kathleen Goodrich Goodrich Goodrich?) I was totally star-struck by Dr. Stephen Morse. He gave an excellent and entertaining presentation on using his One-Step Website. I've used this website for years ---his tools for finding living people is almost Ouija-board-like, it's so amazing---but I learned even more during this lecture about the census and passenger lists.
Thank you, SCGS for the incredible door prize (one year World Deluxe Membership to Ancestry.com) and for an amazing conference. See you next June! (This is of course assuming that Southern California gas prices will drop drastically---OY VEY!)