All posts by Gretchen

Idle Worries

Another Pair of Glasses?

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More Designer, Less Worrier, please

 

It’s fascinating to realize how much of our–or, should I say, my time–is lived in the future, or to be more specific,  in worrying about the future.  A future that may or may not arrive.

Take, for instance, my breathless search for a new pair of glasses at the very cool, very chic online designer-glasses outlet, Warby Parker.

I am in love with almost every pair of glasses on the site.   Yet, what if they look vastly different on me than they look on the site?

Yes, You Can Try Them On At Home

Not to worry.  And, what a novel idea:  via the Warby Parker website, I can order up to five pairs of glasses to be sent to me, so that I can try them on.  At home.  In front of my own mirror.  All at no cost, so long as I return them.

How cool is that?

But How Will I Decide?

Even as I am excitedly clicking my way through various angles of online images though, I am simultaneously wondering how I will make a decision once the glasses arrive.  After all, I might like two pairs equally well.

I am also wondering if the prescription I received from my eye doctor will need to be modified; since she’s an M.D., she wrote the prescription in a manner different from the standard optometrist’s measurements.  Will I need to call her office?

And, what if one of the pairs I like will be too much like the pair of a person whose glasses I would not like mine to look too much like?

All this worry, and I haven’t yet picked the five I’d like to try on.  At home.  In front of my own mirror.

But Will the Warby Parker Box Fit in My Post Office Box?

Once I choose the five I’d like to try on, I may begin worrying about which day the glasses will arrive at my post office box, whether I’ll be able to make it to my post office box on the day they arrive, and whether they’ll come in a box that will fit in my post office box.

In the meantime, I need to get back to worrying about choosing the five I’d like to try on.

Family

Happy Day After Day After Father’s Day, Edmund

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Handsome

Handsome.  Charismatic.  Charming.

Dad @ 19These are three of the words that  I remember adults using to describe Edmund when I was young.  As in, “Oh, your father is so talented and charming.”  Or, “I always thought your father was one of the most handsome men I’d met.”

I recall accepting compliments directed toward Edmund’s appearance with an odd mixture of pride, and uncertainty.  Proud that grown-ups found my father handsome, and uncertain as to what I was to do with that information.

Now, with the advantage of both time, and distance, I can take an objective look at Edmund, and declare, that, yes, he was indeed, a “very handsome man.”

Adventurous

Edmund was also adventurous.  Not so much in the physical, mountain-climbing way, but in the “damn the torpedoes” attitude, the we-only-live-once kind of way.

He had suffered severely from polio when he was young, and one of his legs bore testament to that struggle, so his exploits were of necessity more intellectual, more existential, than physical.

Edmund was adventurous in his love life, and in his writing.  So, too, he was wildly adventurous, some might say recklessly so, in his artistic endeavors.

I would place creating larger-than-life-size nude sculptures of his lovers, and exhibiting those sculptures at Laguna’s Sawdust Festival, on a par with sky-diving or mountain climbing, even if the consequences weren’t as potentially fatal.  But, maybe that’s just me.

I would also place his experience with meeting a woman, entering into a contractual living arrangement with her, and writing a book about that arrangement up there with adventurous acts of vulnerability, like say, undressing in front of strangers.  But again, maybe that’s just me.

Smart

Edmund was, perhaps above all else, smart.  In some of my fondest memories of him, I see him tinkering, experimenting, creating.  A chemist by education, he was an alchemist of sorts, and was light years ahead of others in his experimentation with fiber optics.

He was able to combine his curiosity, intellect, and command of writing to make even annual reports and user manuals at once authoritative–and entertaining.

And, he was a storyteller with an encyclopedic command of current events.   Wherever Edmund was, there was sure to be a world map nearby.

And so it is

Twenty years’ of Father’s Days have passed since Edmund died.  Twenty years since I last had the opportunity to send him a card, to call him, to tell him that I love him.

To be sure, we had our rough patches.  Our very rough patches.  I’d like to think, though,  that I never missed a Father’s Day opportunity to thank him for being my father.

Just in case I did miss a year or two, I’m taking this opportunity to express that gratitude, to thank him for the many gifts and talents he gave me.  Thank you, Edmund, from the bottom of my heart.

 

Movies

“Fading Gigolo,” Fading Gracefully

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Expectations

I admit, I went into this John Turturro-Woody Allen movie with a high level of anticipation based solely on the fact that Woody Allen was going to be playing a leading role.   For answers as to why this fact was central to my level of expectation, take a look at “A Woody Allen Kind of NYC.”

Expectations Met . . .

Yes, to the extent that Woody Allen was tortured with anxiety, that his face and hand movements singularly broadcast his unique discomfort, and that he invited us, the audience, to agonize with him the way only he can do, Fading Gigolo was all that I hoped it would be.

And to the extent that it not only captured scenes of my beloved Manhattan and Brooklyn, but actually placed the film’s events in believable context within those familiar spots–and didn’t just gratuitously throw the neighborhoods into the mix–it exceeded my expectations.

. . . and Unmet

And yet.  And yet, I found it as implausible that John Turturro would acquiesce to Woody Allen’s scheme, and sell himself for sex, as the idea that Sharon Stone and Sofia Vergara would pay significant sums (or any sums, for that matter) for such sex.

Even more, the theme emanating from timidly beautiful Vanessa Paradis’ widowed Orthodox Jewish mother-of-many, while laying the groundwork for a movie all its own, never was able, for me, to weave itself into the central theme of John Turturro’s turn as a gigolo.

And so . . .

In the end, I left the theatre feeling as if I had received exactly what I had bargained for:  a sentimental visit to my New York story, and a nod to the man who continues to tell it–whether as actor or as director–like no one else can.

Houston & Beyond

A Woody Allen Kind of NYC

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Note:  This post began as a review of Fading Gigolo, the 2013 John Turturro movie, featuring Woody Allen as a character that perhaps only Woody Allen can play.  It evolved into a send-up of sorts for the NYC that perhaps lives only in Woody Allen’s movies.

Manhattan-Love

In the mid-1990s, I lived on Manhattan’s East 55th Street.

Down the block from my apartment building, there was a lounge, Michael’s Pub, where  I’d heard that Woody Allen played clarinet.

Many evenings, I would slow my pace as I walked past the pub entrance on my harried way home from the stifling subway station, hoping that I might chance a glance upon the  famed Annie Hall director.

I’d stare at the pub door, relishing the thought that the man whose films evoked the NYC I dreamed of, had mere moments before walked through it.

Even then . . .

Negative news had emerged in the early 90s about Woody Allen.  The photos of Mia’s adopted daughter, Soon-Yi Previn.  The dysfunctional households.  The nasty break-up with Mia Farrow, and of course, the charges that flew back and forth, from one to the other, skimming the Central Park tree tops that separated their two homes.

Even so, I found myself still drawn to this complex man’s films. I know I was not alone.  It was as if there was a sort of disconnect between Woody Allen, the man who romanced the adopted daughter of his long-time girlfriend, and Woody Allen, the director, the maker of movies and the weaver of dreams.

 A Woody Allen Kind of NYC

After all, his movies held the promise of a New York City that had, for all my seasons spent there, still eluded me.  His was a city of scotch and existential sophistication, of chance meetings in wood-paneled bookstores with like-minded people who thought deep thoughts together in brilliant bursts of harmony.

To this day, I’m not sure if that New York City has really ever existed beyond Woody Allen’s movies—and my imagination.

 

Movies

Of lunchboxes and possiblities

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The Lunchbox, the movie

A few weeks ago, I not so much saw the new movie from writer and director, Ritesh Batra, The Lunchbox, as I did inhale it. It was that good.  That sumptuous.

Savoring the aroma

Amid the glorious colors and the cacopohony of steel against steel in the trainyards of Mumbai, one of the most gratifying aspects of the movie was to watch an Indian office worker, whom one might imagine would be jaded by the temptations of Indian cooking, take in the aroma of ageless spices, and close his eyes as he savored each pungent taste.

That is what I do, a world and a culture away.  I close my eyes, inhale the pungent, exotic aroma, and savor each bite of Indian food.

Take me away

Food thoughtfully-cooked, in general, transports me.  It takes me to another place–both gastronomically and geographically speaking.  For that brief instant, I am in Mumbai. I am in Cairo. I am wherever the taste I am tasting was first tasted.

A new day of new possibilities

Today, as the fiery snap of coriander punctures my taste buds and the subtle scents of curry waft through my nose, I am embodying those who’ve tasted the same taste as I am, millions of times before me. And, for that brief moment in time, I am again transported to a world of possibilities. A world of endless lunchboxes and endless possibilities.

Family

Money, and all that jazz

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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.

Family

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.”

Family

Our heritage, our hair

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VanBurenVanDeusen

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.

Family

A bracelet in time

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The little things

Sometimes, it’s the little things. A song we listened to together. A photo of her favorite beach. Or, a chance sighting of a pair of sunglass clip-ons. My mom was forever searching for her clip-ons.

Yes, sometimes it’s the small things that hold the strongest memories for me.

Forty years is a long time to miss someone

It’s been almost forty years since she died. That self-detected lump in her breast led to a radical mastectomy and chemotherapy and hair loss. But the malignancy would not be defeated.

Within two years, I would take her on her last car drive, to South Coast Community Hospital in South Laguna Beach. By that time, the cancer had spread to her bones, and it was all the doctors and nurses could do to keep her from passing out in pain.

Even the best memories are poor substitutes

I was a teenager when she died, so I’ve spent the better part of my life with only the memories of her to provide a mother’s closeness. Those memories have been a poor substitute: a memory doesn’t have a shoulder to cry on, and can’t offer a word of encouragement. Nor can a memory tell you to “break a leg” or “show ‘em all you know.”

A small triumph

And yet, sometimes the little things triumph, bringing her back into focus. Today I am wearing one of those plastic bracelets they give you at the hospital; the nice lady in Admissions gave me one today at the hospital outpatient center where I go for my annual mammogram, a talisman against the cancer that struck down my mother.

The last time I saw her alive, which was the moment she took her last breath, she, too was wearing one of those plastic bracelets. Today, I look at my wrist inside of the plastic bracelet, and I imagine her wrist inside of her plastic bracelet. That little thing, that shared experience brings me comfort.

Family

Parenting ourselves

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Empty Swing 9.26.12

The Child-Less Swing

I love the story this photos conveys: a swing without a child, a bench without a parent.

As the child of an alcoholic father and a codependent mother, I was that child, often too busy parenting myself, too serious, to let go, to be a child in a swing.

A Father Present, Even in His Frequent Absence

Strangely, although my father was primarily absent, his presence permeated our home. I recall much time spent in nervous anticipation of his arrival home. And when he was home, there was an undercurrent of expectation toward his imminent departure, not to mention a wellspring of fear that one of us might trigger his anger.

I particularly recall his insistence that my mother have dinner ready by 5 pm, though he would depart shortly after we ate and remain out until long after we were asleep. I am sure his swift after-dinner departure was a source of sadness for my mother.

A Mother Doing, Rather Than Being

My mother. We revolved around her, as the moon around the Earth, yet she was in her own orbit, revolving around my father, as the Earth revolves around the Sun. If she wasn’t anticipating his needs, his anger, or his betrayals, she was likely protecting herself from them by staying in almost perpetual motion.

She was a “human doing,” and not so much a “human being.” Although she did not hold a job outside the home, she was a prolific volunteer and joiner. There were Women’s clubs and Hospital Auxiliary clubs, school PTAs and Community Playhouse committees. These I remember.

Taking on a Parent’s Role

For me, parenting myself meant earning the highest grades, selling the most Girl Scout cookies, getting in the least trouble, making the fewest demands. As a result of parenting myself, I became hyper-responsible. I felt responsibility for others lives, whether or not they wanted me to.

As an adult, I now try my best to let others take responsibility for their own lives, while I pay attention to that little girl named Gretchen in the swing, from my place on the bench.