A VISIT TO DYE FOR

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

YOU DON'T TUG ON SUPERMAN'S CAPE

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!

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

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

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)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

WORKIN' FOR THE MAN EV'RY NIGHT AND DAY

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)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich