Memoirs of a Mad Poet

Penny Hikes

2009-03-25T22:19:00.000-07:00

When we lived on Carlton Way (Between Gower & Bronson - 1 block south of Hollywood Blvd.), which was quite awhile, we didn't have a car.

Of course, we didn't have a car in Kansas City either, but then it didn't take two hours to get somewhere on a bus, cabs were a LOT cheaper, and we had life long friends.

Which made for a lot of boredom (in Hollywood???), but at the time, it did.

So a lot of times, on the weekends when we didn't visit Bob & Shirley Taber (they came and picked us up, all the way from Arcadia, then brought us home.) or Bill & Irene Taber (ditto), or had one of their girls (Karen Taber or Marie Taber, respectively) staying the week end with us, Mom and I went on frequent Penny Hikes.

People probably don't even know what these are today! We walked out the front door (Gramps never participated), and when we got to the sidewalk, we tossed a penny. Depending on prior agreement, heads was right, tails was left. And so it went at EVERY corner. (Sometimes you walk all the way around the SAME block several times, but not usually.)

Penny Hikes can be short or long, but the Penny Hikes Mom and I went on almost always included a lot of talk and laughter (and sometimes arguments!), no matter how long we spent doing it.

Disco Duck

2009-03-23T07:18:00.000-07:00

One night, I was dancing a fast dance with someone at the Holiday Inn, and Disco Duck cut in!

Now I mean the real Disco Duck, in full costume! So there I was, on the dance floor dancing with a duck! We did talk a little as we danced, and he claimed to be the 'real' Disco Duck.

After the dance, The Duck escorted me back to my table and headed for the bar, where he drew quite a crowd. He stayed about an hour, then left.

It was fun to say the least...

The Birth of a Son

2009-03-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

(an email to Jon - October 3, 2005 7PM)

Sitting here having a cup of coffee and thinking of you.

Thirty-Seven years ago, at this very minute, I was waiting for your Dad and Granny to arrive (I had called them & told them the contractions had started).

We had dinner, I put Lisa down for the night, and at about 10PM, I called Dr. McAnnich and let him know the contractions were every 5 minutes and that we were going to have a baby tonight. He told me to go to the hospital (Glendale Memorial). I didn’t tell your Dad or Granny that, not wanting to sit around the hospital for HOURS, I just made another pot of coffee, and sent them off to bed for a few hours sleep.

So you and I were alone at the kitchen table. I was wondering if you were a boy or girl, what you looked like, and I was thinking how wonderful it would be, at last, to hold you. It was really kind of a pleasant time…

Suddenly, about 2AM, the contractions dropped to every 3 minutes and got much harder. I woke your Dad, quick!

It was a half-hour drive to the hospital; there was actually some doubt that we’d make it there before your arrival. Your Dad was mad at me for waiting so long!

We got there, with enough time left to check in! You were born at 4 AM. Soon your Dad was handing out cigars, and your Granny was calling everyone in the family.

I almost can’t believe that so many years have passed. That you are now a middle-aged man and have kidlets of your own!

I miss celebrating your Birthday’s with you…

Have a HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and may your Birthday Wish come true!

Mom

Shakespeare and Ashbery

2009-03-11T04:37:00.000-07:00

Though we were very poor, and didn’t even have a car, I found much to do as a teen in Hollywood.

For one thing, at that time, Hollywood boasted any number of excellent, small bookstores, used, rare, etc. Once I found them, I spent much time in them, and the owners did not seem to mind me standing in the close packed, usually dusty and dim, aisles, reading. I didn’t have the money to BUY a book, but I did much ‘spot reading’ in those wonderful shops.

It was in those stores that I discovered Shakespeare’s Sonnets and John Ashbery’s poems. I was enchanted! I would note what pages I was on so I could pick up where I left off when I went back.

I had not yet thought of writing poetry, didn’t think of myself as a ‘poet’, but the seed was planted.

PBX Operator

2009-02-28T18:25:00.000-08:00

My Mother (Aldine) was a PBX Operator. She learned the occupation at the American Red Cross in Kansas City Missouri at a very young age. It may even have been her first job.

She went on to work at the Kansas City Hall, (Where my Grandfather was the Garage Superintendant) the Coca Cola Company (boy do I wish I had just a few of the promotional items she brought home!), and then the Veterans Hospital in Kansas City.

Once we moved to California, she went to work for the Retail Clerks Union Dental Office on Hollywood Blvd. She worked there for over 10 years.

I never heard her express an interest in doing any other type of work. Her job, and the places where she
worked, played a very big part in our lives.

Rats!

2009-02-21T17:40:00.000-08:00

My Grandparents (Thomas Earl Garrett and Grace Garrett) house on Jefferson St. (and the houses surrounding it), were literally infested with rats. You could set a jillion traps and not be rid of the rats!

Now we are not talking cute little field mice here, but big huge rats!

It was so bad that there was a ‘stick’ in a corner of each room (usually from the bottom of an old window blind), to beat them off with!

In fact, my half-sister Donna Fuqua was badly bitten by one of them in the middle of the afternoon while taking a nap (I remember it well – though I was younger than she was.) In her sleep, she had let her hand dangle out of the crib slats, and a rat almost bit off one of her fingers.
I remember her screaming, crying, and her Mother, Irene Fuqua, rushing to pick her up. Her hand was bleeding profusely. It was such a bad bite; they even took her to a doctor (a rare event for such a poverty household.) Her hand was bandaged for days.

Loretto Academy, Kansas City, MO

2009-02-20T17:12:00.000-08:00

Though no one in my family was Catholic, I attended this all-girl Catholic School from about 1950-1957 (ages 4-8). It was a majestic old building at 1111 W. 39th St. Kansas City, Missouri.

I ended up going to Loretto Academy because, having been at home with my Grandparents, Grace & Thomas ‘Earl’ Garrett, for my first 4 years; I did not tolerate any other day care my Mother tried!

I do not know if we moved to the 39th St. apartment (a whole other story), which was just down the street from Loretto Academy, before or after I started school there.

The Sisters at Loretto Academy were patient, loving, and above all, teachers. I soaked it up like the proverbial sponge. I was shown a way of life I hadn’t seen at home. Academically, I did very well there (I still have the report cards), which wasn’t the case once I left.

Our uniforms consisted of a white blouse topped by a blue jumper. (Me at about age 6) -------->

In the few short years I spent there, (with my Mother’s permission) I was baptized Catholic, went to first confession and first communion. I also gained a deep faith, which I have kept the rest of my life, though I remained the only Catholic in my immediate family.

I have only fond memories of Loretto Academy, and often wondered what my life might have been like had I gone to that school till I graduated.

Oh, but I DID graduate from Loretto Academy! I graduated from kindergarten! Here is the picture to prove it.

2110 Jefferson St., Kansas City, MO

2009-02-10T11:06:00.000-08:00

Was the address of the two-story house, in a definitely poorer section of town that my adopted grandparents, Thomas Earl Garrett and Grace Garrett owned.

I do not know if my adoptive Grandparents ‘operated’ a Boarding House, rented out rooms, or just let those in need stay, but at any given time, a lot of people lived there such as Irene Fuqua and two of her children (older than I) Dale and Donna Fuqua in one room, my Mom, Dad, and I in another. At various times, many lived there and became my ‘extended’ family if not actually related in some way.

I think I lived there, with my illegally (or a poor person’s adoption) adopted Parents Aldine Estes and Clyde Estes, until I was 4 or 5 years old.

Indeed, I was born there, on the dining room table, caught by a doctor who was smoking a cigar during my birth, of Irene Fuqua (Later, Irene Taber; check out ancestry.com). It was a Tuesday mid afternoon and there was a snowstorm going on outside. I was immediately handed over to my adoptive Mother Aldine Estes (Though my ‘natural’ mother, Irene was an integral part of my life until way into my adult years.).

I was named after someone, but now the reason is unknown: Evelyn Ann Estes.

Since my Mother worked mostly full time, my beloved adoptive Grandparents guided my first years.

I have many ‘stories’ or remembrances about that house that I hope to relate in this memoir!

Jesus and Mary

2009-01-14T23:52:00.000-08:00

These two figurines have held a dominant place in my home, usually on a home alter, since I received them as a gift. That was when I was 10 years old, so these figurines are 52 now!

They were made for me by Beverly Pearson, who is about 3 years older than I am, in 1956. I don’t know if she was taking a class in school (‘art’ used to be a part of the schools then), or if someone taught her. They say ‘Holland Mold’ on their bottoms.

Beverly is the only daughter of Betty Ford, one of my Mom’s (Aldine Bush), best friends, so Beverly and I spent a lot of time together.

Holiday Inn – Glendale, CA

2008-12-30T04:51:00.000-08:00

Holiday Inn – Glendale, CA

The Holiday Inn had an upscale bar with a tiny stage and dance floor. The Band (which was there for years) featured Chief Alexander LongRifle http://www.myspace.com/alexanderlongrifle, http://glendalenewspress.com/articles/2005/08/13/export202.txt Vince Labor on keyboards, and John Horrigan on drums.

The Holiday Inn – Glendale, also had large rooms that Parents Without Partners rented out once a month for dances (where I met Joan Vandertuin).

In the immediate years following my best friend’s passing, my Mother, and my children, one at a time, going to live with their newly remarried (and to the kids, seemingly affluent and stable) father, who did everything he could to keep me from seeing them, I spent far too many nights at the Glendale Holiday Inn, often every night.

First at the Parents Without Partners functions, then in the bar after I met John Horrigan http://www.horriganmusicschool.com/ . My preferable evening adult ‘libation’ was Drambuie on the rocks. And I ‘libated’ a lot!

Eventually, I became friends with the bar manager, Eve, and found out how very good the breakfasts were there. There was many a morning I would meet Eve (when she ‘opened’) for a late breakfast. I would usually be the only patron, and would sit at the big wood bar enjoying conversation with Eve, my breakfast, and a couple of Screwdrivers.

Without my Mother and my Children, I was completely adrift. I had little work, and far too much alcohol.

However, I met some wonderful people, most of whom were kind, but had no idea how empty and broken hearted I was. I also mentored under the poet Bayla Winters, my first ‘mentoring’ experience, and did some good writing, most of which was NOT ‘emotional’ poetry, and some of which eventually got published.

First Publication!

2008-12-27T12:59:00.001-08:00

The first item of any import (other than 'in-house' columns and articles, etc) that was published was a short article entitled "Dancing Girl". It was given Honorable Mention in the 'Article' catagory in the 1979 Writer's Digest Writing Competition.

The Dancing Girl
by: evvy garrett (not garrett at the time!)

We noticed her as soon as we had sat down in the mock-leather black chairs and ordered our first round of drinks. Her legs and arms were working rhythmically and methodically in the newest dance patterns as she and her current partner moved around the parquet floor, her brown stack-heeled sandals making a clicking sound whenever they made even slight contact with the waxed wood. It was a week-night, Tuesday, and not crowded, so she had all the room that she needed to do the latest Discos. The four soft pink spot-lights that were supposed to be focused on the tired-looking rock band at the far end of the rectangular room overflowed the small square stage, adding a spectral look to the several dancing couples and to the stale little neighborhood bar itself.
Strangely, we ignored each other and the business that we wanted to discuss, settled back into the tub chairs, and watched. She was fairly pretty, but there was nothing about her features that anyone could call striking. An average type working woman, maybe a secretary, in her mid-twenties with tawny in-the-sun-a-lot skin and short dark hair that framed her face with a sweep of soft waves. But it looked like a plastic face that perhaps a make-up artist would devise for a stage somewhere; a face that didn't have a laugh or frown line on it, a face that didn't change expressions, a face that didn't smile once all evening. Still, she did dance, and dance well, her slim form moving lithly from one point in space to another, a study in natural untrained grace. And because of that, she was the focal point of attention this cool and rainy spring night. Her partners changed often as different men would approach the high bar stool where she was perched, shyly holding out a hand, asking her to dance with them; tall, short, drunk, sober, young, old, she accepted all offers, never once rejecting a dance. It seemed that it wasn't a particular man that she was looking for, or someone to buy her another Margarita to sip daintily on, but just a warm breathing body to dance another dance with.
It didn't even seem to matter to her if the band played a fast or a slow number; she would slip gracefully off the bar-stool and head for the dance floor, passing our table on the way, with large loop gold earrings swaying as she walked and trailing behind a soft fragrance of soap and a popular perfume. Then stepping onto the dance floor, she stepped into another world, a world that she didn't allow anyone else to enter. Almost magically, she would be under the influence of the throbbing music, her tall body starting to move in time to the bored drummers beat, Ignoring her partner, keeping her gaze fixed just above his head when her almond shaped brown eyes were even open, she could have just as well been dancing alone in the privacy of her own living room to the beat of her own stereo. If it actually happened that she and her partner danced as if they were truly a couple, it was because the man of the moment was following her lead, not vice-versa.
The dancing girl was wearing a too-early-for-the-season, summery navy-blue dress of a thin material that looked like it would feel soft to the touch, with small pink flowers scattered randomly over it; and very little, if anything, under it. As the girl moved so did the dress, as if it had a life of its own; first it would wrap itself this way around her curved hips, then the flowing material of the skirt would silently slide up a few inches to reveal a smooth knee, only to slip back down with the next harsh guitar chord to caress her stockingless calf. It was the same with the bodice of the dress too, which had a low V neck and gathered short cape-like sleeves that on the inside of the dress were cut down almost to her waist, One moment you would be looking at the dress clinging sensously to her small well-formed breasts, the nipples clearly erect as she threw back her shoulders, the next moment a quick flash of cleavage and pink skin as she bent slightly forward from her hips. But it was not lurid or obscene, you could tell that it was unintentional; it was like watching a new kind of art form.
She seemed to be completely unaware of her surroundings; of the cheap tables and chairs, the shadowy corners, the smell of beer, the various people, (among ourselves, we wondered how often she came here), And she was unaware that everyone’s eyes were on her, male and female alike. You got the feeling that she didn't care, that she was here for her own special reasons; to dance, to move her body, to feel at one with the music that she seemed to love, that was all that mattered. If the dancing girl had a job, an apartment, relatives, lovers, or bills to worry about, tonight wasn't the time for it. Right now, this moment, was the time for the thin blue summer dress, green-tinted Margaritas, pink lights, and throbbing music. Tonight was for transforming an everyday working girl into a princess for a night, in a dark and lonely Los Angeles bar.
The hours passed swiftly and our two drink business conversation had been forgotten long ago, but none of us minded, we had seen something special this night. something that we would all remember for a long while. And when it was almost time for the bar to close up for the night, we were sorry that our magical interlude was over. As we were hunting car keys and the old bartender was polishing glasses, we saw the dancing girl leave. Silently, she finished her drink, slipped into her jacket and without saying good-night to anyone, walked slowly out the door. Alone.

It was WEEKS before I came off the ceiling!

Grace Garrett's Hatpin

2008-12-26T12:17:00.000-08:00

This was my Grandmother’s (Grace Garrett) hatpin. Grace Garrett passed in 1956, and she was quite ill for about 8 years prior to that.

She had, and wore many hats and hatpins, especially during the 1920’s-1940’s. But this is the only one I ended up owning.

It has been living in my jewelry box for over 30 years. My Mother (Aldine Bush) had it stuck through this ‘postcard’, that I guess she never mailed to her co-workers, and there it has remained!

It is 5 inches long. The head is Filigree Gold, Copper, or a mixture (It is so old, I cannot tell for sure!). And other than needing cleaning up, it’s in perfect condition.

Since none of my family knows what it is, nor cares, nor is interested in it and I need money; it is often on sale on Craig’s List San Diego/Collectables.

John Eugene Suydam

2008-12-22T20:55:00.001-08:00

One Friday evening, late in 1965, a friend from work phoned me. Her boyfriend had dragged along his brother, a Navy man, just out of boot camp on their date. My friend was looking for a ‘date’ for the brother that very evening, so it would be a foursome and not a ‘third wheel’ situation.

I was reluctant. I was just out of a short and unhappy dating situation with a man named Blaine. Plus, I had never been on a ‘blind date’ and didn’t see any reason to start now. On the other hand, I could spend my Friday evening watching TV with my mother.

Fate was set. The minute our eyes met, it was all over for me. We had a brief, hot, courtship and married on January 9, 1966. Unfortunately, I was in love with him, and he was in lust with me. Add to that, we had absolutely nothing in common, a disaster and heartbreak in the making.

Surprisingly, I still love the man he WAS (no, not the man I thought he was, nor the man I wanted him to be), but the man he was at the time. Now, he is on his third wife. I never remarried though there were a couple of ‘serious’ relationships along the way.

I still have a large packet of his ‘love letters’, written all those many years ago, tied with a red ribbon, put away in a box. Every once in awhile, on a rainy day, and with a box of tissues at hand, I reread them…

Radio Magic

2008-12-21T20:00:00.000-08:00

Some of my earliest and fondest memories revolve around a big old floor radio that looked very much like the one above.

Late afternoon on most days, my Grandfather, Thomas Earl Garrett, would gather up a big pan of potatoes to be peeled for dinner, and his favorite paring knife. We would then, just the two of us, go into the living room of 3910 Jefferson St., Kansas City, MO, where we all lived. In the quiet of the room, the day, Gramps would turn on the radio.

Gramps would pull a chair up close to the radio, so he would not miss one word of the broadcast, and I would sit at his feet. That paring knife would not start moving until some wonderful show like the ‘Lone Ranger’, ‘Amos & Andy’, or ‘Our Miss Brooks’, magically erupted from the big wood box.

Once a show had started, there was only Gramps and me, and the deepening dusk of the evening. That paring knife would start slicing the skin from the potatoes in an almost perfect, thin spiral. I would watch the potatoes ‘unwind’ one by one and hear the voices coming from the radio, enthralled by both events.

Occasionally Gramps would chuckle, or even laugh out loud at something that had been said by the radio actors that I did not understand without ever losing his pace. And that too, was magical.

Furicin Anyone?

2008-12-12T16:41:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up, Furicin, a thick green salve, was valued as much for the container it came in, as the salve. Furicin Salve could be used for just about anything, minor burns, splinters, bug bites, minor cuts and scrapes. I do not know if it actually facilitated healing, but we all thought it did.

And the jars, originally dark green glass, and now black plastic, were treasured by everyone for storing ‘stuff’.

Above is a jar, decorated by Joan Vandertuin’s Mother, given to Joan, and passed along to me sometime in the early 70’s. It is still going strong, and I still store ‘stuff’ in it…

Our First Hollywood Christmas Parade

2008-12-01T18:55:00.000-08:00

By 1962, Mom (Aldine Marie Busch) had landed a job (PBX operator, of course) at the huge Retail Clerks Union 770 Dental Clinic on Hollywood Blvd. (This was before there was even ONE star on the ‘Hollywood Walk of Fame’!)

We had a nice one bedroom furnished apartment one block south on Carleton Way (Gramps, Thomas Earl Garrett, got the bedroom. Mom and I slept on corner-to-corner day beds in the living room.)

Soon after, Mom and I attended our first Hollywood Christmas Parade (gramps was not interested in going). There were no bleachers, only wall-to-wall people filling the sidewalks, craning their necks to see.

Looking for a better vantage point, we wandered behind the crowds, up towards Grauman’s Chinese Theater (one of my favorite hangouts those days!). I got a little further up the block, when I realized I’d lost mom, and started back.

Imagine my amazement to find my totally UN-star struck Mother, with her arm around the base of a light post, staring face to face at James Gardner, whose Limo was stuck in a turn at a corner in a pre-parade area! Mr. Gardner had his window rolled down, and was in the back seat of the Limo alone. His car was stuck there for a few minutes, and my Mom stared at him, arm wrapped around pole, the entire time – no one else seemed to notice.

I teased her about it for days…

Lost in Macy’s

2008-11-29T17:36:00.000-08:00

I was only four or so when Mom (Aldine Marie Busch) took me with her to do some shopping at Macy’s.

I do not remember how I got separated from her, but I did. I do remember the terror of being alone, wandering around among all the adults, trying to find my Mom.

Finally, a male store employee found me, and took me back to where I belonged, to the safety of my Mom’s hand.

Mom was relied, but also angry with me, that I had wandered away. Whereas I felt she was the one who had wandered away!

My 10 minutes with Jimmy Durante

2008-11-28T17:33:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimmy_Durante

When my Mom (Aldine Marie Busch) and I left Kansas City, MO for good, our first stop was Las Vegas for an extended visit with Uncle Clay (Emory Clay Campbell). He had been working as a ‘studio musician’ for the shows at the Desert Inn for about two years.

It was late one night, when Mom and I were picking Clay up from work after the last show at the Desert Inn that I got to meet and talk with Jimmy Durante.

I was not allowed backstage, as I was underage. So, as usual, I was left in the lobby while Mom went and collected Clay. I soon got bored and wandered into the main floor restaurant. It was totally empty of customers at that hour, except for one lone older man, dressed in a suit and tie, sitting at a white cloth covered, table by a window. I wandered over, sat at a table next to his, and said “Hi!” No shrinking violet me…

It was not long before he started talking to me, between bites, never putting his knife down while he ate with gusto, asking what I was doing there, etc. Of course, I told him about Kansas City, Uncle Clay, and my Mom.
It was not long before my Mom and Uncle Clay arrived, with stunned expressions on their faces at whom I was talking too. They claimed me, and we left for the parking lot. But once out of the main lobby of the Desert Inn, they were beside themselves with awe, “That was Jimmy Durante!” And Uncle Clay giggled that embarrassed little giggle he had, while shaking his head.

I had not realized that it was Jimmy Durante till I was told so. To me he was just a friendly older man that took interest in a bored teen.

33 Years

2008-11-08T13:06:00.000-08:00

After 33 years, I still miss my Mom (Aldine Marie Busch). She died on July 22, 1975.

Seldom does a day go by that I do not think of her. It has only been in recent years, that I have stopped myself from heading to the phone to call her when ‘important’ stuff has happened that I wanted to share with her.

We had a loving, close, relationship. We talked on the phone or saw each other every day. (Except when she was traveling, still, she would often phone me, to tell me what she had seen or done.)

Though there were many things we disagreed on, we LIKED each other.

Even after I married and had children, we spent time together. Once or twice a week we (just the two of us) would eat out, or go to a movie.

Or, she would come over after she got off work, and the three of us (hubby included, and often times, other family members) would play hearts or scrabble (both of which she was very good at and enjoyed), evenings filled with love and laughter.

My own children were only 8 and 6 years old when she passed, far too young to remember how wonderful their maternal grandmother was, how much she loved all of us, or to remember what a good relationship between a parent and adult child could be…

John Holmes

2008-11-05T08:43:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Holmes_(actor)

Long ago and far away, John Holmes was an acquaintance (and a great dancing partner!), of mine.

John Holmes and I spent many an evening after dancing all night, alone at his Glendale apartment, talking and having coffee.

He was a pleasant, nice, regular guy (I had no idea of his 'porno' stardom at the time.). I think he liked having a female friend that he wasn't involved with romantically, sexually, or 'work related'.

I did not even know, at the time, that his birth surname was ESTES (his father: Carl Estes, and my father of record was Clyde Estes)! I would have had a LOT of questions for him

Our acquaintance was just as he was getting involved heavily in drugs. Once he was really into drugs big time, (as were so many in that time), I lost track of him. (We even stopped phoning each other.) Except of course, I 'followed' him in the papers as they reported on his legal woes

And finally, the story reporting his death.

Uncle Clay and chicken(s)

2008-11-01T06:14:00.000-07:00

Emory Clay Campbell was the only child of Lula Garrett, Aldine’s half-sister. Aldine and Clay were very close; perhaps because there was a 12 year difference in age, Aldine felt ‘she had raised Clay’.

At any rate, Clay had this life long ‘thing’ about chickens; he was scared to death of them, living or dead! He was so phobic; he would not even eat chicken, and would almost turn green when others did in his presence.

Clay attributed this to having to gather eggs when a child (for those that haven’t done this, it is a dangerous thing, the hens will peck your hands and arms till they are bleeding). Clay said that not only did he fear this daily chore as a young child, but that the ‘adults’ (unknown – Grace Garrett?) told him that he had to be careful as the chickens would get his ‘pecker’.

Thus a life long phobia…

Mom was not a cook!

2008-10-30T15:44:00.000-07:00

I was ten years old before I realized that fried eggs did not have to be tough and have a chewy brown, lacey edge. Once I had fried eggs at a friend’s home without this adornment, and insisted my eggs at home not have this quality, Mom (Aldine Busch) really tried to fry my eggs in the manner I wanted, but succeeded less than half the time. I think the basic problem was that she never really grasped the concept of how the gas stove flames could be turned high or low under the grease filled cast iron skillet; she always had the flames turned as high as they would go. She was aware of her cooking deficiencies and occasionally tried to improve upon them. I remember once when I was about 7 years old, and we were living in an apartment on Summit St. in Kansas City, MO. Actually, this was just before my Mom and Dad (Clyde Estes) separated and divorced, though I’m sure this incident had nothing to do with THAT. Mom purchased a ‘pressure cooker’. She was excited about the contraption and thought all her ‘cooking’ problems were over. The very first time she used it, it exploded. Luckily, no one had been in the kitchen, so no one got hurt. The noise was impressive though, people in the adjoining apartments (it was a two story brick 4-plex) heard it and came running, and there was food everywhere, the kitchen walls, and even on the ceiling! Mom immediately gave the bright shiny contraption to her friend Betty Ford, (who helped her clean the kitchen), who used it successfully, and teased Mom about it, for years. Mom had one way of cooking anything, burned! She could and did, burn toast in a toaster, scraping off the ‘darkness’ with a butter knife with short fast motions, dark crumbs falling into the kitchen sink, leaving me with a very skinny slice of bread. While she was removing the burned part of the bread, she would remind me that we were lucky to have a toaster, instead of having to toast bread in the oven. I do not think Mom liked to cook, it was not one of her life interests, just a means to an end, eating. She liked to eat though, but her idea of ‘food’ and ‘meal’ were not the usual. In her defense however was the fact that she always worked full-time, and we did not always have a car, both of which tend to make shopping for, and preparing food a little more difficult. Mom had three ‘meal’ modalities; sandwiches, eating out, and fried, burned whatever. We ate a lot of sandwiches! In the mid 1960’s she really came into her own, as far as food preparation, with the fad of the Lazy Susan. At that time, it was just the two of us and we lived in California, in a great two-bedroom pool apartment on Verdugo Rd. in Glendale. Mom had a good job, a car (a white Chevy Nova) and I was in my late teens (and fairly proficient at cooking by then). Maybe Mom couldn’t cook, but she could clean veggies, cut salami, cube cheese, take crackers out of boxes, olives, and pickles out of jars with the best of them. From that point on, she viewed ‘balanced’ meals in a completely different way.

Birth of a Writer

2008-10-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

I can pinpoint, almost to the minute, the birth of my writing career. It was 1956, mid-fall, getting dark earlier, and crisp out. However, there had not been a snowfall yet. We were living in a red brick house somewhere in North Kansas City. I was ten years old and in the fifth grade at still one more school whose name goes unremembered, (there were so many schools as we moved about!).

I was sitting in the one remaining swing of an old, dilapidated swing set that prior tenets had left in the rocky back yard. My feet kept me barely moving back and forth. My mom was inside cooking dinner and my stepfather had not gotten home from work yet.

My Mom (Then Aldine Bush) were in the midst of still another round of domesticity; trying one more time to “make it work.” George Bush, had once more promised to stop drinking. Even at the tender age of ten, I knew it would not last long, it never did, and I was waiting for the blow up as you wait for the storm clouds to finally drown you.

I had finished reading the comic book Mom had bought home for me when she came home from work, but I did not want to go in until I was called. Gently swinging back and forth in that old swing, I pulled my jacket tighter around me, trying to stay warm against the evening wind. I again thumbed through the comic, and there, in the exact center of the magazine, was a two page short story; no cartoons, just words, and the only thing left unread. Glancing at the rapidly darkening sky, I tried to judge how long I would have enough light to read or how long until my mom called me to come inside for dinner.

Bored, I read the ‘story’. I was enthralled with the story as soon as I started reading it. It was like nothing I had ever read before; not at school, not at home, not at the library; it was my first young adult story, and my first short-short story.

When I had finished reading it, I rolled the comic book up into a tube and held it in my right hand. Pushing on the ground with my feet and straightening my legs I came to a semi-standing position. The sky was now totally dark and stars were winking overhead. I could see through the kitchen window where Mom was still bustling around the kitchen. But outside, in the deepening dark, around me, the night was quiet and cold.

Suddenly, and with breathtaking clarity, as surely, as if lightening had struck, I knew I was to be a writer. As if the muse, whose existence I did not even know about, had reached out a hand from heaven, touched me with an electrified finger, and marked me in some indefinable way.
I remained where I was for a long while, catching my breath, and dealing with the awe at what had just happened to me.

Excited, I went inside. Mom was frying fish in a big iron skillet, turning the pieces with a long handled fork (which I still have in my own kitchen drawer).

I sat down at the table and told her what had happened to me. I was afraid that she would make fun of me or would not believe what happened. Instead, she listened while dredging still more pieces of fish in a corn meal mixture and layering them in the skillet. Mom almost always listened to me.

Then she talked, as she put the fried fish on a platter, about how much she liked to read (especially spicy Romance Magazines!), and how she wished she had the talent to write. Mom told me I could be anything I wanted, even a writer.

I could not fall asleep for a long time that night though warm and cozy under a lot of blankets, my reading light clipped onto my headboard on, and my bedside radio turned on, the volume low; I could not even concentrate on the book I was reading (Nancy Drew?), thinking about what had happened to me.

That was the beginning of my pursuit of ‘art’ instead of homes, vacations, or husbands!

The Candy Dish

2008-10-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

This was my Mother’s (Aldine Busch) ‘Crystal’ Candy Dish and one of her favorites too! I do not think there has been a day in my 62 years that I have not seen this dish sitting on one table or another.

I have no idea if it is really ‘crystal’ or cut glass; and I don’t care, it is tradition in this family now. A tradition started by my Mother.

I have no idea of where my Mom got this candy dish to begin with, if she purchased it herself, or if it was a gift, but she did love it.

Depending on who was going to be visiting, Mom usually filled it with chocolates of various types, often my Mom’s own favorites, chocolate covered peanuts, or chocolate covered malted milk balls.

Now it is my Candy Dish and has been for many years. Though I often keep it safely put away in a cupboard, it is often out and in use. Right now, it is sitting on my dining room table, filled with a mixture of hard candies.

Visitors often reach out and help themselves to a candy. Isn’t that what a ‘candy dish’ is all about, comfort and hospitality? This one, no matter its origin, or if it is crystal or cut glass, has served well, for well over half a century now!

I was ten years old before I realized that fried eggs did not have to be tough and have a chewy brown, lacey edge. Once I had fried eggs at a friend’s home without this adornment, and insisted my eggs at home not have this quality, Mom really tried to fry my eggs in the manner I wanted, but succeeded less than half the time. I think the basic problem was that she never really grasped the concept of how the gas stove flames could be turned high or low under the grease filled cast iron skillet; she always had the flames turned as high as they would go. She was aware of her cooking deficiencies and occasionally tried to improve upon them. I remember once when I was about 7 years old, and we were living in an apartment on Summit St. in Kansas City, MO. Actually, this was just before my Mom and Dad (Clyde Estes) separated and divorced, though I’m sure this incident had nothing to do with THAT. Mom purchased a ‘pressure cooker’. She was excited about the contraption and thought all her ‘cooking’ problems were over. The very first time she used it, it exploded. Luckily, no one had been in the kitchen, so no one got hurt. The noise was impressive though, people in the adjoining apartments (it was a two story brick 4-plex) heard it and came running, and there was food everywhere, the kitchen walls, and even on the ceiling! Mom immediately gave the bright shiny contraption to her friend Betty Ford, (who helped her clean the kitchen), who used it successfully, and teased Mom about it, for years. Mom had one way of cooking anything, burned! She could and did, burn toast in a toaster, scraping off the ‘darkness’ with a butter knife with short fast motions, dark crumbs falling into the kitchen sink, leaving me with a very skinny slice of bread. While she was removing the burned part of the bread, she would remind me that we were lucky to have a toaster, instead of having to toast bread in the oven. I do not think Mom liked to cook, it was not one of her life interests, just a means to an end, eating. She liked to eat though, but her idea of ‘food’ and ‘meal’ were not the usual. In her defense however was the fact that she always worked full-time, and we did not always have a car, both of which tend to make shopping for, and preparing food a little more difficult. Mom had three ‘meal’ modalities; sandwiches, eating out, and fried, burned whatever. We ate a lot of sandwiches! In the mid 1960’s she really came into her own, as far as food preparation, with the fad of the Lazy Susan. At that time, it was just the two of us and we lived in California, in a great two-bedroom pool apartment on Verdugo Rd. in Glendale. Mom had a good job, a car (a white Chevy Nova) and I was in my late teens (and fairly proficient at cooking by then). Maybe Mom couldn’t cook, but she could clean veggies, cut salami, cube cheese, take crackers out of boxes, olives, and pickles out of jars with the best of them. From that point on, she viewed ‘balanced’ meals in a completely different way.