Money, and all that jazz

Our house (rented) on a cliff overlooking the ocean at Laguna Beach, California
Our house (rented) on a cliff overlooking the ocean at Laguna Beach, California

We rented richly

I don’t remember us being rich as I was growing up. Nor, however, do I remember us being poor.

When I was born, we were living in a house a mile from the ocean in Laguna Beach. When I was one year old, we moved to a house across the street from the ocean. And, when I was five years old, we moved to a house on a cliff, directly above the ocean. When you look at it that way, I suppose we were rich.

We lived on rich land, indeed.  It was land that would become even richer.  Yet my father, Edmund, rented. He refused to buy.

A renter in a buyers’ market

Long before hedge funds and mortgage-backed securities were household names, long before Silicon Valley teemed with venture capitalists, Edmund had the foresight to move his young family to a place that would one day rival New York City zip codes for the priciest addresses in the country.

In what would become one of the world’s hottest real estate markets, Edmund chose not to buy property that would one day increase exponentially in value.

On being un-wealthy

Edmund, who was sent as an adolescent from his boyhood home in China first to boarding school in Korea, and then as a teen to The Hotchkiss School in Connecticut, would regale us with stories of having gone to prep school with the sons of the very wealthy.   He, the son of Presbyterian missionaries to China, by comparison,  was poor. And that worldview seemed to inform his thinking about having money from then on.

My memory is that for him, being without wealth was a way of staking his identity.

Heading West

His was a fascinating combination of fear and bravado. On one hand, when he was contemplating moving my mother, Helen, and my older siblings West, from Ossining, New York, to Laguna Beach, he wrote of his fear of making the wrong choice, financially-speaking. Later, as fervently as he had promised Helen a new start in Laguna Beach, he justified why it had not worked out the way he had promised.

Adrift in a sea of new-age wealth

It’s ironic, and not quite surprising, that Edmund never did buy property in Laguna Beach. Ironic, because he had turned his back on wealth, yet he had planted his family in the epicenter of it. Not quite surprising, because to him, having no wealth, in a sea of wealth, seemed to suit him just fine.

Edmund died relatively young, and poor. I’m not sure he would have had it any other way.

In a snapshot: missing Mom’s embrace

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Photos that were never taken

The photo here is one of my favorites. It is one of the few I have of my mother, Helen, embracing me. It is one of even fewer I have of her smiling while embracing me. And it is the only one I have, in which we are both smiling while she embraces me. I wish I there were more.

Cameras were not ubiquitous then

Yes, it’s true that when I was a toddler and adolescent, cameras were not ubiquitous, must-have parts of everyday life as they are now. And yet. And, yet there are plenty of photos of me–as a toddler, and as an awkward adolescent, as a more awkward young teen, and then as a self-absorbed, blonde California teen.

In the few photos where Helen joined me and my sister when we were young, she sat–or stood–apart, erect. No hugs. No spontaneous smiles. And, in the final years of her life–my teens–the only photos I have in which both she and I appear, are forced, posed “family” photos: Helen, my stepfather, Brad, my stepbrother, Barry, my sister, Kristin, and me. Oh, how I wish there were photos of just Helen and me.

Memories blurred, presence blurred

What is sadly wonderful about the fact that there are so few photos of Helen with me is that it squares with my memory of her, which is to say, that I don’t recall her spontaneously embracing me in the limited years she was in my life.

This, in turn is sadly ironic, as I have lately come to learn that in the view of my siblings, I was my mother’s favorite. How is it possible, then, that there aren’t photos that speak to that affection?

As I alluded to in another post, “Parenting Ourselves,” my mother was often nearby, yet equally often nowhere to be found, emotionally speaking. She was compelled to anticipate my father’s needs. Then to nurse his ultimate betrayal. Then to nurse herself in sickness. And finally, to die.

It’s different now

Perhaps because I was an older mother, I felt the relentless march of time. I knew that I would not likely have a second child, hence a second chance to take more photos. I knew as well that time would rush by me, and I would wish I had been physically, and mentally present–in life, and on film to capture those moments of life. And so, (almost) anytime the opportunity arose, I said “Yes,” to the chance to be in a photo with my boy.

Little fingers, lasting memories

In fact, one of my favorite photos is of Lorenz, at five, and me, on a wintry day in New York. We were on the beach at Coney Island, our sweaters protecting us from the chill. I knelt behind him, while his beautiful fingers curled around my forearm.

A stranger had seen us laughing at the wind-tossed surf, and asked me if I’d like him to take a photo of us. I am to this day grateful that I said, “Yes.”

Our heritage, our hair

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A rich heritage

I like to think that if I had really, truly appreciated my rich heritage when I was younger, I might have saved myself countless hours of envy. Instead of bemoaning my curly hair, or my prominent nose, I might have instead seen in them traces of my resilient Dutch roots, roots strengthened by long winters first in Amsterdam, and then, in New Amsterdam.

Instead of wishing I had a more exotic complexion, I might have relished the common thread I shared with those first Dutch settlers who braved the endless days at sea crossing the Atlantic–without the benefit of sunscreen.

Before New York was New York

For, long before vertical showcases poked at the Manhattan sky, long before private jets brought captains of international businesses gliding into the gleaming metropolis, and long before the streets of lower Manhattan were paved with proverbial gold, a ship arrived, and with it, a man who was one of the founders of New Amsterdam, today’s New York. This man was also my great, great, great, great, great, great, great, grandfather.

His name was Abraham Pietersen

Abraham Pietersen arrived in the New World in 1631. A miller by trade, he was one of the first 300 Dutchmen to settle New Amsterdam.

In a wonderful New York Times article, entitled “The Van Dusens of New Amsterdam,” the author elevates Abraham Pietersen, saying that “it all began with Abraham,” alluding to the Old Testament Abraham. The Dutch Abraham was born in the town of Duersen, in Brabant, Holland, and hence, the name in its many variations all trace back to the village of Duersen.

My cousin Martin Van Buren

I have Presidential royalty in my Dutch blood. It turns out that the great aunt of Martin Van Buren, the 8th U.S. President, was my great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandmother, Cornelia. That makes Martin Van Buren my distant cousin.

A curly hairitage

When I look at the image of Martin Van Buren, I see traces of my father. The nose, the curly hair, the intelligent eyes. And I see traces of myself. I can continue to wish I didn’t have curly hair, or that I had a more refined nose. Or, I can celebrate these attributes as reminders of my connection backward through time. I am so much more than what I see in the mirror. Among many other things, I am the best—and the worst—of every one who has come before me.