Now What?
The ongoing story of a life unexpected.
Today's memoir assignment was to come up with a title and tagline that captures your life, or a moment from your life.
Showing posts with label remembe(red). Show all posts
Showing posts with label remembe(red). Show all posts
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
After
Though it was only March, the sun was glaringly bright. My eyes, which had been indoors for so long, had trouble adjusting. Without thinking, I reached for my sunglasses in the holder by the rear-view mirror, hesitating as I remembered I was in my mom's car. Mine was at my apartment, 400 miles away.
I hadn't cried much since my brother died just a few days before. I felt the need to be strong when I was at home, didn't want my parents to comfort me when it seemed they needed every ounce of strength just to keep breathing. And even though it seemed like the three of us would never feel anything but grief, we are, in the end, merely animals, and our stomachs still growled and throats got dry. I needed to replenish the house with bread and peanut butter. Needed to make sure there was toilet paper and coffee and diet coke for the people who might stop by. So I volunteered to go to the grocery store.
Driving down Ventura Boulevard, I marveled at the number of people out in the middle of the day, going about their business. I was shocked that the world looked exactly as it had the last time I was out. A beautiful, young man, an important person, had taken his last breath, and all these people were eating lunch and going to work and getting gas and everyone was just driving, driving, driving.
I wanted to yell at them. I wanted to scream and cry and curse at the world for letting this happen, and then at all these people for going on with their lives. Instead, I found myself singing. Not a prayer or something spiritual, just a pop song, something old and familiar. The radio was tuned to the station I always listened to when I lived at home. And the tune came spilling forth. The words had been etched into my brain for so many years, the singing was automatic, effortless, normal.
Singing was better than crying. It reminded me that the past that included my brother would always be there, no matter how many days would continue to pass without him. It was a small token of regular life, away from the cancer and fear and death that had overtaken my every thought for the last few months. And, ultimately, singing along to the radio was something he would be doing if he still could, something that we had often done together.
I have cried many, many times since that day. But that afternoon, driving in the sun, I sang. And it felt right.
This week's memoir prompt was to be inspired by this sentence: The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.
I hadn't cried much since my brother died just a few days before. I felt the need to be strong when I was at home, didn't want my parents to comfort me when it seemed they needed every ounce of strength just to keep breathing. And even though it seemed like the three of us would never feel anything but grief, we are, in the end, merely animals, and our stomachs still growled and throats got dry. I needed to replenish the house with bread and peanut butter. Needed to make sure there was toilet paper and coffee and diet coke for the people who might stop by. So I volunteered to go to the grocery store.
Driving down Ventura Boulevard, I marveled at the number of people out in the middle of the day, going about their business. I was shocked that the world looked exactly as it had the last time I was out. A beautiful, young man, an important person, had taken his last breath, and all these people were eating lunch and going to work and getting gas and everyone was just driving, driving, driving.
I wanted to yell at them. I wanted to scream and cry and curse at the world for letting this happen, and then at all these people for going on with their lives. Instead, I found myself singing. Not a prayer or something spiritual, just a pop song, something old and familiar. The radio was tuned to the station I always listened to when I lived at home. And the tune came spilling forth. The words had been etched into my brain for so many years, the singing was automatic, effortless, normal.
Singing was better than crying. It reminded me that the past that included my brother would always be there, no matter how many days would continue to pass without him. It was a small token of regular life, away from the cancer and fear and death that had overtaken my every thought for the last few months. And, ultimately, singing along to the radio was something he would be doing if he still could, something that we had often done together.
I have cried many, many times since that day. But that afternoon, driving in the sun, I sang. And it felt right.
This week's memoir prompt was to be inspired by this sentence: The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.
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Monday, June 6, 2011
The Best Part I Never Had
My acting career got off to a slow start. I was absent the day they cast our first grade play, Peter Rabbit, and upon my return was given a non-speaking part. I held a pink cardboard bunny in front of me as my costume, and got to nod my head and point. At least I wasn't in the chorus.
The following year, I was discovered at the grocery store by an agent. I had professional head-shots done and started going on auditions. I got a lot of auditions, primarily because I looked younger than I was and had all my teeth.
I landed a few commercials, including one for the original Strawberry Shortcake dolls. I shot one spot for Gwaltney sausages that I never saw because it didn't air on the West Coast. I was also in a TV commercial and print ad for Allstate Insurance. I'll never forget walking into a Sears department store and seeing a huge poster of me and my on-screen dad.
Of course, there were many more parts that I didn't get. My biggest rejection was for a part on Mork and Mindy, where I would have played Mindy as a little girl in a flashback episode. I learned the scene, and brought my own teddy bear to the audition. The bear was called "Mr. One Eye," but I didn't want to tear an eye off my teddy bear, so my dad put a band-aid over one of his eyes. I found the scene on You Tube, and the lines that have been dormant in my mind for so many years, came right back to me.
It was down to me and just one other girl. Apparently, she looked more like Mindy than I did, or had the right color eyes. At least that's what I was told.
A young Melissa Francis did get that part. Missy, who also appeared in Little House on the Prairie, is now an anchor on CNBC, and frequent contributor to the Today Show. In an interview, she said "There was the time I appeared on Mork & Mindy and Robin Williams gave me a doll version of himself, and a teddy bear for my 8th birthday!" She is also considered to be the inspiration for the character Avery Jessup on 30 Rock.
I knew I should have worn colored contacts to the audition.
Most auditions didn't require me to learn a lot of lines, but I did have to learn a jingle for one:
I was finally offered a part in a movie. Unfortunately, this would have required my mom and I to travel to be on location for a few weeks, and she wasn't willing to leave my three year old brother behind.
And thus, my brief time in the Screen Actor's Guild came to an end.
The following year, I was discovered at the grocery store by an agent. I had professional head-shots done and started going on auditions. I got a lot of auditions, primarily because I looked younger than I was and had all my teeth.
I landed a few commercials, including one for the original Strawberry Shortcake dolls. I shot one spot for Gwaltney sausages that I never saw because it didn't air on the West Coast. I was also in a TV commercial and print ad for Allstate Insurance. I'll never forget walking into a Sears department store and seeing a huge poster of me and my on-screen dad.
Of course, there were many more parts that I didn't get. My biggest rejection was for a part on Mork and Mindy, where I would have played Mindy as a little girl in a flashback episode. I learned the scene, and brought my own teddy bear to the audition. The bear was called "Mr. One Eye," but I didn't want to tear an eye off my teddy bear, so my dad put a band-aid over one of his eyes. I found the scene on You Tube, and the lines that have been dormant in my mind for so many years, came right back to me.
It was down to me and just one other girl. Apparently, she looked more like Mindy than I did, or had the right color eyes. At least that's what I was told.
A young Melissa Francis did get that part. Missy, who also appeared in Little House on the Prairie, is now an anchor on CNBC, and frequent contributor to the Today Show. In an interview, she said "There was the time I appeared on Mork & Mindy and Robin Williams gave me a doll version of himself, and a teddy bear for my 8th birthday!" She is also considered to be the inspiration for the character Avery Jessup on 30 Rock.
I knew I should have worn colored contacts to the audition.
Most auditions didn't require me to learn a lot of lines, but I did have to learn a jingle for one:
I am stuck on Band Aid, 'cause Band Aid's stuck on me.I've never been a great singer and I didn't get the part.
I am stuck on Band Aid, 'cause Band Aid's stuck on me.
'Cause they hold on tight in the bathtub and they cling in soapy suds.
I am stuck on Band Aid, 'cause Band Aid's stuck on me.
I was finally offered a part in a movie. Unfortunately, this would have required my mom and I to travel to be on location for a few weeks, and she wasn't willing to leave my three year old brother behind.
And thus, my brief time in the Screen Actor's Guild came to an end.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Road Trip
Oh, how I ache for those days. I long for the time of family road trips, my brother and I in the back seat, our parents' presence making itself known only to break up the occasional squabble.
We'd pass the time playing games. Sometimes we played travel sized versions of popular games, like checkers or Connect Four. But usually we played games meant for the road. Spot a license plate from every state. Tap the beat of a song and guess what it is. Find each letter of the alphabet on passing billboards. The rules were developed as we played. Letters could come from road signs but not from bumper stickers. The songs have to be current top 40 hits. The older we got, and the longer the road trip, the more elaborate the rules became.
We'd arrive at our destination, or maybe just an overnight stop along the way. My mom would present us with the individual cereal boxes she brought for our breakfasts, the kind of sugar cereals we would never get at home. We took turns claiming them for ourselves to avoid arguments in the morning. Bill always chose Apple Jacks. I chose Fruit Loops. Or maybe it was the other way around.
We stayed one night at a motel that had a tennis court. It was more grey than green, the paint faded with the years. The net sagged and weeds grew along the sidelines. But for two kids released from the backseat with a few hours of remaining summer sunlight, we could have been at Wimbledon. We had no tennis rackets, so we used what we could find: a stray tennis ball and some paperbacks for paddles. And we invented "book ball."
My brother and I spoke often of book ball, though we never played it again. It was a game known only to us, a memory we shared that is now mine alone. My eyes well with tears as I remember him, just a boy, fair hair shining in the afternoon sun.
We'd pass the time playing games. Sometimes we played travel sized versions of popular games, like checkers or Connect Four. But usually we played games meant for the road. Spot a license plate from every state. Tap the beat of a song and guess what it is. Find each letter of the alphabet on passing billboards. The rules were developed as we played. Letters could come from road signs but not from bumper stickers. The songs have to be current top 40 hits. The older we got, and the longer the road trip, the more elaborate the rules became.
We'd arrive at our destination, or maybe just an overnight stop along the way. My mom would present us with the individual cereal boxes she brought for our breakfasts, the kind of sugar cereals we would never get at home. We took turns claiming them for ourselves to avoid arguments in the morning. Bill always chose Apple Jacks. I chose Fruit Loops. Or maybe it was the other way around.
We stayed one night at a motel that had a tennis court. It was more grey than green, the paint faded with the years. The net sagged and weeds grew along the sidelines. But for two kids released from the backseat with a few hours of remaining summer sunlight, we could have been at Wimbledon. We had no tennis rackets, so we used what we could find: a stray tennis ball and some paperbacks for paddles. And we invented "book ball."
My brother and I spoke often of book ball, though we never played it again. It was a game known only to us, a memory we shared that is now mine alone. My eyes well with tears as I remember him, just a boy, fair hair shining in the afternoon sun.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
A Family Ritual
My dad liked to go to the beach at sunset. By then, the throngs of Southern California beachgoers were heading back to their cars, leaving plenty of good spots to park our car in the lot and ourselves on the sand.
As a young teen, I could spend all day at the beach, and preferred to be there in the heat of day, tanning, body surfing, and watching couples holding hands as they walked the shore, dreaming of the day when I'd be old enough to do the same. But I loved the ocean, and going in the late afternoon with my parents and brother was better than not going at all.
Going to the beach at sunset became a bit of a ritual once my dad got a cell phone. My dad is a doctor, and when he was on call, going places without easy phone access wasn't possible. But the cell phone changed things.
This was no pocket-sized contraption, and was the most unlikely of beach accessories. So while my mom and brother carried the standard blankets and bags of supplies, and I carried my own towel and bag (lest I be caught sharing the same space with my family), my dad would trudge down the sand carrying his phone by its handle, looking more like a car battery or military issue radio than mobile phone. But that device gave us freedom.
My family were not active beachgoers, rarely bringing paddle ball sets or roller blades for the boardwalk. We would walk as close to the water as we could without worry of the incoming tide and spread our blankets on the sand, shoes and bags anchoring the corners. My brother and I would listen to music, watching the waves mingle with the seaweed, birds and people along the shore.
Once the sun started to dip below the horizon, and sweatshirts came on over bathing suits, we'd pack up our belongings, and shake our towels away from the wind. We'd make our way back through the soft sand to the parking lot, avoiding the cigarette butts and bottle caps that marked the transition from sand to sidewalk. After a brief stop at the low retaining wall to brush off our feet as best we could and put on our shoes, we would pile back in the car and head back through the streets of LA toward home.
This week's RemembeRED memoir prompt asked us to write a memory of sand. I have so much more to write about this, the feel of the sand in your bathing suit after returning home, emptying shoes into the tub, the restaurant where we often stopped before coming home. But those will have to wait for another day.
As a young teen, I could spend all day at the beach, and preferred to be there in the heat of day, tanning, body surfing, and watching couples holding hands as they walked the shore, dreaming of the day when I'd be old enough to do the same. But I loved the ocean, and going in the late afternoon with my parents and brother was better than not going at all.
Going to the beach at sunset became a bit of a ritual once my dad got a cell phone. My dad is a doctor, and when he was on call, going places without easy phone access wasn't possible. But the cell phone changed things.
This was no pocket-sized contraption, and was the most unlikely of beach accessories. So while my mom and brother carried the standard blankets and bags of supplies, and I carried my own towel and bag (lest I be caught sharing the same space with my family), my dad would trudge down the sand carrying his phone by its handle, looking more like a car battery or military issue radio than mobile phone. But that device gave us freedom.
My family were not active beachgoers, rarely bringing paddle ball sets or roller blades for the boardwalk. We would walk as close to the water as we could without worry of the incoming tide and spread our blankets on the sand, shoes and bags anchoring the corners. My brother and I would listen to music, watching the waves mingle with the seaweed, birds and people along the shore.
Once the sun started to dip below the horizon, and sweatshirts came on over bathing suits, we'd pack up our belongings, and shake our towels away from the wind. We'd make our way back through the soft sand to the parking lot, avoiding the cigarette butts and bottle caps that marked the transition from sand to sidewalk. After a brief stop at the low retaining wall to brush off our feet as best we could and put on our shoes, we would pile back in the car and head back through the streets of LA toward home.
This week's RemembeRED memoir prompt asked us to write a memory of sand. I have so much more to write about this, the feel of the sand in your bathing suit after returning home, emptying shoes into the tub, the restaurant where we often stopped before coming home. But those will have to wait for another day.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
They All Came
I wish you could have been there for the sun & the rain & the long, hard hills. For the sound of a thousand conversations scattered along the road. For the people laughing & crying & remembering at the end. But, mainly, I wish you could have been there. –Brian Andreas, StoryPeople
The sun was strong and the air was crisp and we marched up the hill. We traveled in twos and threes, the mass of us turning into a line stretching long and thin. We were silent, save for the click-clack of heels on the pavement.
You were 25 when you died, and had gathered friends throughout your years. And they all came, from elementary school teachers, to high school friends, to travel your companions in Spain. They came to witness the end, to try to make sense. They came to bury you, to say goodbye, to find solace in remembering. But most of all, they came.
Except for one. Did you know that? All of the cousins came. Jane was there and Sally and Joe. Lauren and Diana and Stephanie came. Even Josh showed up. Only Allison didn’t come. She said it was too hard to travel across the country, couldn’t leave her kids behind. It was an excuse and we weren’t in the mood. We thought her choice was unforgiveable. We didn’t shun her, but didn’t go out of our way either. That was 9 years ago.
A few months ago, I got an email from Allison. She regretted that she hadn’t been there. Said it was one of the biggest regrets of her life. She was sorry, wanted a relationship. I thanked her for getting in touch.
Remember when Grandma was dying? Dad got in a fight with Uncle Paul about the shared responsibility of her care. Dad didn’t want to forgive then either, said he was done with his brother. But you told him to make amends. You told Dad he had to forgive, because he is his brother.
But you see, Bill, without you, I don’t have a brother or sister. I need our cousins to play understudy. So I’m going to forgive her. Try to have a relationship if I can. I think it is what you would have wanted.
And if it isn’t, I hope you’ll forgive me.
The sun was strong and the air was crisp and we marched up the hill. We traveled in twos and threes, the mass of us turning into a line stretching long and thin. We were silent, save for the click-clack of heels on the pavement.
You were 25 when you died, and had gathered friends throughout your years. And they all came, from elementary school teachers, to high school friends, to travel your companions in Spain. They came to witness the end, to try to make sense. They came to bury you, to say goodbye, to find solace in remembering. But most of all, they came.
Except for one. Did you know that? All of the cousins came. Jane was there and Sally and Joe. Lauren and Diana and Stephanie came. Even Josh showed up. Only Allison didn’t come. She said it was too hard to travel across the country, couldn’t leave her kids behind. It was an excuse and we weren’t in the mood. We thought her choice was unforgiveable. We didn’t shun her, but didn’t go out of our way either. That was 9 years ago.
A few months ago, I got an email from Allison. She regretted that she hadn’t been there. Said it was one of the biggest regrets of her life. She was sorry, wanted a relationship. I thanked her for getting in touch.
Remember when Grandma was dying? Dad got in a fight with Uncle Paul about the shared responsibility of her care. Dad didn’t want to forgive then either, said he was done with his brother. But you told him to make amends. You told Dad he had to forgive, because he is his brother.
But you see, Bill, without you, I don’t have a brother or sister. I need our cousins to play understudy. So I’m going to forgive her. Try to have a relationship if I can. I think it is what you would have wanted.
And if it isn’t, I hope you’ll forgive me.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Only in Florida
The long sharp knife deftly cuts each orb in half with a single slice. Six demi-spheres lie on the counter, rocking slightly, revealing their yellowpink flesh. My grandmother chooses a new tool, a curved knife, slightly serrated, created just for this job. Each segment is separated from its membrane, but left intact inside its fleshy bowl. She places the fruit on little plates, and hands them to me to bring to the table, one half grapefruit per person.
Only in Florida is grapefruit considered an appetizer.
I pick up my spoon, specially designed for the task: oblong with a serrated edge. I take a first taste, feigning a test of the grapefruit’s astringency, but knowing full well that I will reach for the sugar bowl. No grapefruit on earth is sweet enough for an eight year old’s palate.
I sprinkle the sugar, just a light dusting, and watch as the crystals melt shimmering onto the fruit. And now another taste, this time bright and vibrant, tart and sugary. I dig down, making sure to get some of the now sweetened juice in every bite. This was the taste of sunshine, of visits to Grandma and Grandpa, of swimming pools and shuffleboard, of humidity, of winter break in Miami.
Every so often, back home in Southern California, my mom would serve a grapefruit before dinner, but it was never the same. I’m sure the fruit was just as good (the grapefruits probably even imported from Florida) but we didn’t have the special plates, the serrated spoons, the glass of sun tea on the side. We didn’t have the carefree days of a school break.
But mostly, we didn’t have Grandma and Grandpa.
This post is part of The Red Dress Club memoir writing series, RemembeRED. This week, we were asked to write about our favorite fresh fruit or vegetable. Although grapefruit is hardly my favorite fruit, it does hold some special memories.
Only in Florida is grapefruit considered an appetizer.
I pick up my spoon, specially designed for the task: oblong with a serrated edge. I take a first taste, feigning a test of the grapefruit’s astringency, but knowing full well that I will reach for the sugar bowl. No grapefruit on earth is sweet enough for an eight year old’s palate.
I sprinkle the sugar, just a light dusting, and watch as the crystals melt shimmering onto the fruit. And now another taste, this time bright and vibrant, tart and sugary. I dig down, making sure to get some of the now sweetened juice in every bite. This was the taste of sunshine, of visits to Grandma and Grandpa, of swimming pools and shuffleboard, of humidity, of winter break in Miami.
Every so often, back home in Southern California, my mom would serve a grapefruit before dinner, but it was never the same. I’m sure the fruit was just as good (the grapefruits probably even imported from Florida) but we didn’t have the special plates, the serrated spoons, the glass of sun tea on the side. We didn’t have the carefree days of a school break.
But mostly, we didn’t have Grandma and Grandpa.
This post is part of The Red Dress Club memoir writing series, RemembeRED. This week, we were asked to write about our favorite fresh fruit or vegetable. Although grapefruit is hardly my favorite fruit, it does hold some special memories.
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