it was a weekend, ya’ll…and a new beginning, too

I just got home.     Home.

I’ve never before looked at this cramped space as sanctuary, but after the exhausting weekend I had, it is that and more.  It is refuge. It represents the distance from all the evils.  It represents solace from all the tumult that seems to follow me like a hungry puppy.   

I walked in and I started to do what I always do– I thought about the weekend and where its  deposited me in the grand scheme of my life.   I shed a great amount of emotional weight over the past 24 hours.  I have let go of the one major impediment of my life.   I won’t bore you with details, but permit me to put it this way– I closed the last door of my “Let’s Make  Deal”  past.      Which  way do I go?  How do I handle this?  Will he love me?  Will it work out?  Why doesn’t he feel this way?   Why can’t I love more or less?????/    No more questions:  the guess-work is over.  

 Thank you, closure.   I’ve never been much for this wondrous art.  In fact, it’s only been in the past three years or so that I have wrapped my head around how important it closure it.   Well, I do now and in that time, I closed, then nailed shut the door that kept allowing the love-lorn memory of  two men,  both were THEE great loves of my life, to haunt me.   I have also severed an equally unnerving childhood memory.  

So here I am, now a free agent on so many levels it almost scares me.    Seriously.   Change is daunting and the void it’s creating is all around me.   It’s up to me to fill.  But with what?   

Well, we’ll seriously pose that query another time.  Right now, I have to deal with the inertia of my life.    So to avoid that, I started to think of the wierdness of my life and I was reminded of one other trip home from the Texas Hill Country. 

DATELINE:  The Shoulder of Interstate 10..somewhere between Schulenburg and Houston, circa late March 2010. 

I drove back on a Sunday morning with my then 21-year-old niece, Kelly (who’s ridiculously good looking) to spend the night with friends before leaving from Houston for a few days in Vegas.    At the time Kelly was a Senior  at Texas A&M.    I’m fond of my young Kendrick sapling who stands 5’9″–her mother is barely 5’2″;  her aunt (me) is five feet even and her maternal grandmother,  is eye level to any navel. She’s so short that she’d be fully welcomed into the Fraternal Order of Keebler Tree Trunk Cookie Bakers, Local 47387.

How Kelly got so statuesque coming from the female genes she came from, is beyond me.   Her father’s people are tall…go figure that DNA shit.    Anyway, Kelly and I always laugh when we’re together and we always have fun and great conversations.  I have a very good relationship with all my sisters; kids, but I’m a bit closer to my sister Karol’s kids, by virtue of proximity.  I spent a great deal of my time with these kids when I was San Antonio, back in my 20′s.  We’ve been close ever since.

Kelly and I talked about her eventual move to Houston by 2011 and what her options would be in terms of nightlife, shopping, etc.   We were in my sedan and not far from Houston , surrounded by Teamsters in Mack trucks heading east.   The traffic, even civilians in their cars, was barreling down Interstate 10.  I had to go 85 mph just to keep up with one older, tattooed Peterbuilter who kept making lewd tongue gestures to Kelly as we passed each other which was often,  depending on our speeds, lane availability and of course, his tongue muscle strength.

All of a sudden, my car started to shimmy.   If you’ve driven any amount of time, you’ve invariably suffered a blow out.  When that happens, there’s an unmistakable way in which the car shakes.   That’s if the tire splits in half…up the middle. 

Like mine did.

At 85 mph.

We were surrounded by leering truckers gacked out of their minds on No Doze or worse, who need to be in Atlanta in three hours.   Now, keep in mind that at that location, they were still more than six hours out of New Orleans.   Speed was something they would achieve either with a pill or the proverbial “pedal to the metal” and they were acheiving it on all sides of us.   

Fear not—a cooler Kendrick head prevailed.  As if channeling the driving prowess of the late Steve McQueen, I deftly grabbed the steering wheel,  spewed forth many F-bombs while gently applying the brakes to minimize my 85 mph speed, and put on my blinker.  I  was able to dart in and out of traffic, avoiding certain death as I managed to get to the right shoulder of eastbound I-10, while also dodging long, shredded tire treads slamming against my windshield.  I suddenly realized what Tippy Headren must have felt while filming  The Birds.

By the time I pulled over and stopped, I was on my rim.  It looked like it had teeth marks in it.  I thought I smelled smoke.

Of course, no one stopped to help.   Truckers who we’d passed earlier drove on by blaring their horns and doing God knows what with their hands below out line of sight.   I got out; popped the trunk and stood there looking  inside it knowing full well I had no idea how to change my tire.   Kelly was just as ignorant in the ways and means of tire changing, but she had the good sense to belong to Triple A, who unfortunately, couldn’t get there any sooner than an hour…maybe.   That was going to be a problem;  I had to be back in Houston by early afternoon to work on a writing  assignment.   

 She hung up and joined me at the back of the car.   We moved some stuff around and lifted the floor of the trunk which revealed where my temp tire was stowed.    I pulled out the jack and Kelly unscrewed the tire hold.   I was bent over.   No one honked.   No one stopped.   But for some reason, I felt horrible about my ass presentation to the motoring world.  I knew it wasn’t a pleasant sight and feared for the safety of the drivers who might gaze upon my ass which I felt sure looked like two queen sized pillows cases that appeared to be filled with golf balls which were battling for supremacy of one hole which was consistently always well OVER par.    I immediately stood upright.       

I’m nothing if not considerate.

I then realized that I wasn’t thinking; not using my head.   I realized that we had ASS-sets that could help us get the tire changed.   I told Kelly to bend over further to show off that finely tuned Aggie ass.  By the way, she was wearing very form-fitting yoga pants.  

All it took was two minutes.  A truck with two men–obviously, a father and a son–drove up behind us.  They got out, shook my hand as I assessed the situation for them,  but they both stared at Kelly.   I’m used to that.  I’m one of those women that pretty woman gravitate to.  I’m funny and smart and they’re devastatingly gorgeous.  We, as two people, complete this perfect triumvirate of attraction.   Like this cartoonish Abbot and Costello.  It’s always been like that.   Not sure why, but they flock to me…like gay men.  

Long story short–dad and son ( and Jr. had an extremely interesting over bite and large noggin) changed out the tires in less than five minutes.    We offered them what we had in terms of cash–a whopping 18 dollars.  Dad refused it,  telling us they didn’t want any money and that it was their pleasure to help,  but Deliverance Child greedily grabbed the cash out of Kelly’s hand and ran back to his father’s truck and with a fiendish grin, started counting it with the cypherin’ he  know’d from all that fancy book learning’ he done got with  sixth grade edumacation.   My friends, there is no other driving force in the world than that which compels a strange young encephalic man /child man who desperately wants to buy a bag of weed and a chocolate Moon Pie.

We looked at the old tire.   It was split up the middle at least a foot (I kid you not) and then in the middle,  exploded in this Medusan looking steel belted frenzy.   It looked like  Don King was poking his head through what was left of the radials.

For example:

We rolled into Houston going incredibly slow–we were passed up by mopeds and Rickshaws, but we made it.   

Even now, almost a year and a half later, I realize how lucky we were.  Blow outs are horrendous and have ended up in cars flipping and lives lost.  And yeah, I know it was horribly sexist of me to use my niece to force someone to stop and help.  I know motivations like this  set women back decades,  but then again, isn’t it motivations like this that’s also kind of proven that we’re also damned resourceful?   And besides, had I been in that scenario by myself, I might as well have pitched a tent and unless a bus full of male, AARP types, half blind by diabetes, but feeling benevolent toward a non gaunt, middle-aged woman in distress  were to pass by, I’d still be there beside I-10, fed and nourished only by the trash that would’ve been thrown at me by mocking passers-by.   

 So color me wily. 

And yes,  color us both lucky.  Lucky indeed, but we made it to Houston in one piece.   And we did it by the grace of God,  my quick reactions and reflexes and of course, my niece’s fine young, nubile ass.

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Growing Up In Front Of The TV (In A Very Small Town)

I was a kid in the 60′s; a teen in the 70′s.   TV was my world.

What I find so vastly different between then and now is all the color we see on the tube.   And I mean that it in more ways than one.   I remember the first time I say down in front of a color TV…..wow.    The first program I remember watching in color was “Bewitched”.    I had no idea that Endora has red hair, that the Stevens’ living room carpet was brown.   I had no idea that Uncle Arthur was gay.  

I suppose the first black person I saw on TV was in a crowd scene on an old black and white version of “The Andy Griffith Show”, circa 1962.   Ever noticed that anyone NOT from Mayberry, even if they were from Mount Pilot or Raleigh, sounded like they were born  and  raised in the Bronx?

What was that all about??  

Then, the second time I saw Black person on TV, was on “The Dick Van Dyke Show”.  Laura had just given birth and she and Rob thought the hospital had mistakenly given them the wrong baby–NOT Richie “Rosebud” Petri.   Something about the baby’s footprints or something.  Rob was convinced the baby actually belonged to the Peters family, an easy mistake since Rob and Laura’s last name was similarly spelled.   So, Rob tracked down the Peters and explained the situation and invited them to his home, you know, the one in New Rochelle on Bonnie Meadow Road.    There’s a knock on the door; Rob answers it and the fun ensues when Greg Morris and his wife step inside.   See, Greg Morris is a black man,   HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  The hospital COULDN’T have switched the babies for the obvious reasons.    HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!      

Innocuous by today’s standards, but cutting edge for its day, especially considering the Civil Rights movement at the time.   

What’s strange to realize is that there were probably people  watching who were repulsed–for lack of a better word–that Rob so kindly invited a  young, black couple into his home, his white man’s palace.    Stranger still, was this sentiment was felt all over, not just in the South.     Prejudice has never known geographic boundaries.

After that, came “Julia”, Dianne Carrol’s groundbreaking role about a young African-American mother and nurse, trying to raise her son, played by Marc Copage.   Lloyd Nolan portrayed the old curmudgeonly doctor for whom she worked.    Whenever he’d arrive at the office, he’d throw his cap from across the room and it would always hit the peg in the hat rack.   Her son’s best friend was a little red-headed white kid named Earl J. Waggedorn.

Why I remember this trivial minutia is beyond me.    Lord knows that from 1973 through most of 1988, I tried my best to ruin all of  my brain cells and their capacity to retain anything, but  I’m not the only one.  Other people my age remember these things too.   Could this be because kids in my generation actually watched  a lot of TV because that’s all we had to do back then and we had so few channels from which to choose?

When we watched, we watched thoroughly.  We got into it…completely immersed ourselves in network programming.  We watched everything–the intro,  the show itself, the commercials; the opening credits theme….even the credits.

Here’s proof:   

“Calvada” was the name of the production company which produced “The Dick Van Dyke Show”.  It was a combination of CALifornia and NeVADA, which was popular to do at the time.   Sinatra owned a hotel in Reno (I think) which he called the “CalNeva”.

Wilbur Hatch actually conducted the Ricky Ricardo Orchestra.

“Journey to the Unknown” on ABC.   The intro was a single camera walking through a deserted amusement park. The series was creepy….Rod Serling-esque and produced by the Brits and it always featured B-list American actors.    I suppose if it were on the tube today, we’d see the likes of Dustin Diamond (TV’s “Screech”), Omarosa, Lou Ferrigno, Cheryl Ladd and Melissa Gilbert in spooky scenarios.   

 The facade of the Stevens’ house that we saw each week on “Bewitched”–brought to you by Chevrolet, was situated in  suburban New York (the one on Morning Glory Circle).  It’s still used today, most recently used in  a fairly recent Christmas Fruit of the Loom underwear ad.       Oh yeah, the interior was used in “The Patty Duke Show”  (…”because their cousins…identical cousins and you’ll find…they laugh alike, they talk alike…at times they even walk alike….you can  lose your mind!!!!!”)

Don Fedderson produced “My Three Sons”.

Jay Sommers wrote “Green Acres”.

“Welch’s” brought us “The Flintstone’s” when the animated show–based on Jackie Gleason’s “The Honeymooners”–  was on prime time.  Wrigleys and Kool Cigarettes also got into the sponsor ad action in the late sixties.  They also brought us “The Flintstones, that  modern stone age fam-uh-lee.

Anyone remember all those in-show commercials?   I remember Pebbles grabbing her stone-honed,  grape juice-filled sippy cup and saying in her best Jurassic baby talk dialect that she was jonesin’ for Welch’s  ”Goo-goo, Gape Goo“, which is what she would call grape juice in that high-pitched Jurassic accent of hers.   Barney and Fred were out behind the house puffing away on Kool’s or Salem’s or Pall Mall’s or Winston’s or Marlboro or Chesterfield’s.

Max Factor–the brilliant Hollywood make-up artist and founder of his own make-up line of the same name–did make-up for most of TV’s elite in the 50′s and 60′.s

Archie and Edith Bunker lived at 704 Houser Street; Lucy and Ricky lived at 623 East 68th Street.

“Botany 500″ dressed Gene Rayburn on “Match Game” featuring the drunken antics of The First Lady of Goodson/Todman game shows–Miss Charles Nelson Riley and the raspy voiced stylings of Brett Sommers (Mrs.  Jack Klugman).

Color was by “Deluxe”;  lenses were all Panaflex.    ”Sky King” was sponsored by Nabisco and when he banked his plane to the left,  the wingspan formed the exact same shape as Nabisco triangle and the logo came spinning out at the viewer. 

Bing Crosby would haul out his family to help him host, “The Hollywood Palace”.   His daughter, Mary Catherine, would grow up to shoot J.R. Ewing. 

Speaking of Bing,  two of the biggest production companies in Tinsel Town were owned by Lucy and Desi and Bing Crosby.  The two constantly duked it out for producing credits back in the day.   Danny Thomas was a producer to be reckoned with, too.

Nope, kids today don’t watch TV as we did.    We didn’t merely watch it…we studied it.   Do you think today’s 8-year old would know that Ishiro Sakahura is one of the Art Directors for ”Dora the Explorer”??   

No.

Or that most NBC sitcoms are filmed at Sunset-Gower studios in Hollywood?

No.

And I’m not saying that knowing where something was filmed or who applied make up to the stars is all mandatory and save for a trivia contest and one very specific trivia contest at that.   So yeah, knowing this crap is completely useless…BUT….it can give you a historical sense of the cultural nuances of your youth, that is, if you allow it.   And nothing tells us where we’ve been as Hollywood can.   

While on a business trip in L.A. a few years ago, I was invited to attend a taping of the sit com, NewsRadio at the Sunset Gower studios in Hollywood.  Wow, that was a trip.   I connected with  the history behind it.  And what a history!!!     This studio was the home of such film classics as  Frank Capra’s, It Happened One Night, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and Funny Girl.   TV shows include NewsRadio, JAG, Married….With Children and I Dream of Jeanie, to name a few.

Kids today will look at the above  paragraph and wince as that large question mark forms over their heads.   They don’t know this stuff, though I knew who the stars were from my parents childhoods.    Today’s kids have more distractions and much shorter attention spans.    Perhaps they even have more stuff to do, but less space in which to do it. And anyone over 45 knows that parents today are far more paranoid than ever before and I suppose, they have reason to be.  Kidnapping used to be about money.  Today, tragically, it’s about pedophilic sex and almost always ends up with investigators closing the case with a body bag.    

Dangers lurk everywhere these days and parents rarely let kids play in a fenced in backyard without proper supervision.

So sad.

And sometimes, what doesn’t get them outside of the home, gets them inside their homes.  Neglect and abuse of all kinds are rampant.

When I was a kid on a Saturday morning in the summer, my friends and I  got on our bikes at 9 am and came back home in time for supper.   Our mothers didn’t know where we were and more often not, didn’t worry.    It was a different time and I think it’s because we were a different people.   More trusting, less worried maybe.   Shit has always happened, but back then, it didn’t seem to matter that much or we never heard about it.     Perhaps we were more mindful to keep family business within the family.

The blissful ignorance of  yesteryear.    That’s not to say I was always 100-percent safe and never got into trouble.  

I  might have been safe, but I definitely got into trouble…frequently and often and when I did,  my grandmother always found out about it somehow and she never punished me–she let Mater and Pater do that, but she tried to  ensure whatever it was I did, would be the first and last time I’d ever do it.   You see, my grandmother was the Queen of Cautionary Tales.   And her belief in all that she told us teetered on text book paranoia, at its most hilarious.. 

She’d tell ud that every where er looked, danger lurked.  There were scads of  Bonnie and Clyde copycats out there,  not to mention other vile, shoot-to kill Highway men were looking for little girls just so they could turn them in to little corpses. 

And the Black Dahlia murderer was still on the loose and  my grandmother felt certain Lee Harvey Oswald had an equally insane brother who was a much better shot, skulking about  in every tall  building, though that particular fear factor never held much water.   The tallest thing in my hometown was the water tower…with  “Class of ’77″  sprayed in ugly  Halloween orange (our school colors and the year my classmates and I graduated, thank you very much)  across the side.

She’d also regale us with stories that every little town had at least one Bates Motel in it, even if there wasn’t a motel for miles.    We couldn’t sleep near an open window, lest the Gypsies (who we hear were also tramps & thieves) would steal us in the night and make us dance for the money they’d throw.   

And according to my granny, there was always someone waiting to commit a second  Lindbergh baby kidnapping,  even in Tiny Town, South Texas decades after the original  event occured.

Obviously, my grandmother stopped reading the newspaper after 1964.       

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