My Why, My Way…
Even in 2020, a couple things remain constant..... the first is that time flies, and the second, is that everything is always changing. My very first trial post of "DearEasyDiaries," the blog, was in April of, the now dreaded, 2020, but it feels like it has been years; almost a lifetime ago? Since then, I've been overwhelmed by, and beyond grateful for, the support of this, now treasured, community. What would I have done had I not started this journey? The outlet of "deareasydiaries.com" has provided more therapy and encouragement than (almost) anything I've ever known! Which brings me back to the question of.....my why; what is my why? Back, in April, I had never done anything like this; by July 19th, when I wrote "2600, Eyes, Miles and Lies," I had, all of a sudden, gained 2600 pairs of eyes that were reading "DearEasy." Today, that number has grown to over 28,000 pairs of eyes, with 11,000+, kind and patient souls "bookmarking" my entries; to say I'm humbled is an extreme, understatement!
My very first “Dear Easy” post.
It occurred to me just a few days ago, while trying to "wrap up the bows" on my next, painstakingly slow-going post, is that, way, back in April when I wrote "Not Every Idea Is A Good One," I shared a lot of what has happened over my several decades of life, and a glimpse into what many of the pages from the various chapters of my life reveal, but, I've never really introduced myself, or shined a light directly into the pieces of my soul that make me...me; please indulge me while I try to "take a stab" at doing that here?
Right away, I must backtrack a bit and make a couple confessions, as these two considerations have a direct impact on my blog, and social media, connectivity. They are.....
1.) Having my picture taken and posting pictures of me, myself, alone, without the buffer of another, is akin to giving blood, or getting surgery; I can't stand it, and that almost always is reflected in the picture itself. With that said, surely, there are some pictures that turn out better than others. Candid shots seem to be a bit cuter than staged photos, but "selfies," are almost always a complete disaster, and an absolute "no, no!" This "distaste" has been both a curse and, hopefully, a challenge that I will eventually conquer through "DearEasy;" we'll see though? For now, the jury's still out? That's also the reason why, either here on the blog, or in my IG posts and stories, only very infrequently will there be a picture that features JUST me! One thing I do know, however, is that pictures taken when I'm, undeniably, super happy always look better than any other time! I'm a firm believer that a smile and a happy heart are the very best "make-over tools" in the world. The picture in my @deareasydiaries IG profile is one a friend took a few years back while we were riding horses one day; my memory, and I think the photo, recalls it being a happy day! Thanks DB!
2.) I have "A.D.D." in a HUGE way! Knowing that, NOW, is a blessing, as I'm able to channel my efforts in productive ways, based on the project, my mindset, and knowing which times of the day, or which days are more conducive to getting the serious sh_t done! I don't really believe in regrets...but, I'm 100% positive that had today's "learning issues/differences" been more (or, at all) mainstream when I was in elementary school, who know's if I might not have been the first female President of our country, by now? Probably not, but you get the idea!
My son, bless his heart, inherited both my ADD, and his father's dyslexia gene. While he's super smart, and gifted in so many ways, (as his father CAN be), he desperately struggled getting through school. By some stroke of happenstance, my son, (& daughter, and son-in-law) and I lived in the same small town when my son was in high school, as when I went through high school, and we both ended up going to, and graduating from, the same small, private, college-prep, school. It looks enormously different now, than it used to, but one thing is the same in that it offers a program which specializes in teaching, and supporting, students with learning disabilities. I'll never forget the day he/we interviewed for his admission. We met first, and thankfully, with the kind, wise and insightful man who would end up serving as my son's advisor for all four years of his high school experience; based on that introduction, I felt confident that it would be a "good fit!" Our next interview (more like a "grilling") was with the Director of the Learning Skills department; she was not as, or even close to, as kind, encouraging and supportive as Mr. Gee. We were speaking about the program, the school, and the many changes in the years since I had attended, when she interrupted, (with both my son and ex-husband sitting right there), and said, "well, now-a-days, we do require more of our students than the mere ability to read and write!" That's a direct quote! In all the years since I had graduated from the very same school, gone to college, successfully navigated my way through life, which included raising two children, (the first of which had already graduated from one of the top, private high schools in California, was a National Honors Scholar, gained acceptance to 18 of the 19 universities to which she applied, including the entire UC system, and Stanford) as well as, thus far, surviving an abusive marriage to, and divorce from, a pathological liar and narcissist, I'd never been judged so quickly, and by someone I hadn't even known for five minutes? Regardless, I was still embarrassed, and could feel myself "shrinking," just hearing that short sequence of words strung together and still hanging in the air, as though I was somehow "sub-human" and not sitting right there, immediately in front of her. In the many years following my high school graduation, I had been an active participant and supporter of all things academic. I had not only given to my high school's annual fund, hosted Alumni gatherings, been hugely involved in my own children's schooling, chaired numerous school fundraisers, and been either an integral, or founding member of several other philanthropic endeavors, but I had NEVER been treated that way by anyone other than my, now ex-husband, nor had my "intellect" been so summarily discounted? Her, the director's, seemingly, cavalier statement was a "dig" that got under my skin, and took on a life of it's own. It was just so, uncomfortably, reminiscent of the all the condescending comments Al used to routinely make, things like..."Mizz's knack for spelling is hardly an important determinant of intelligence!" Was there some truth behind her statement; I was never certain what was real, and what was part of my sensitivity to years of constant undermining? That one moment and the “flip” comment, though, brought any future involvement on my part in that school, during the four years of my son's academic life, or moving forward, to an abrupt halt. I made sure my son had the resources and assistance he needed, and remained very involved in his sports, and extracurricular activities, but until he graduated and started college three months later, any personal "tie" I had, or would ever have, with both my son's and my own Alma Mater, was over! Okay...enough about that! This is an example of where, and how my ADD kicks in.....relaying that story reminds me of my Mom's frequent expression, "there are many kinds of lessons, and they aren't all learned in a classroom, nor are they taught by the 'so-called professional' in the room." Indeed!!! The ability to hold a polite conversation, look someone in the eyes while speaking, possessing even the slightest filter for what constitutes an appropriate conversation, or being able to show any degree of empathy and respect, even while disagreeing, is not a skill often taught, or exhibited, these days. Whether it's regarding politics, religion, or the discussion of any other "taboo" topics, I genuinely believe, that we should all just agree to disagree; we SHOULD be able to debate a subject, without demonstrating poor manners and, oftentimes, downright "ugly" behavior. And, yes.....sometimes I need to give myself a bit of a pinch and remember my own words! Because I may have a different opinion than you (or anyone else) does not mean I dislike or think less of you, or anyone else? It just means we all are free to have our own beliefs...end of story. Meanwhile, back to the "ADD;" my mind could take that last statement, and in no time at all, segue into developing an idea about fostering a program in the public school system to spread the message of kindness, acceptance and good manners to an age-appropriate, group of students where it would be particularly meaningful. "Monkey, monkey, underpants"...... a perfect analogy, and also one of my favorite "ism's" from Gilmore Girls; also a good place to finish that train of thought, right?
So much of what goes on in this mind of mine can be likened to a filing system; different periods of my life are sorted and "filed" according to subject matter, and while most of the time, there's a fairly consistent order to where the files may fall in that seemingly endless, mile-long, 9.5" x 14.5" metal file drawer, there is occasionally a shift in a particular file's priority. The labels on any one of those file jackets could reveal almost anything: family of origin; education; places I've lived; 'crushes' I've had; favorite pets; vacation memories; various fragrances (Ysatis) or songs ("You Can't Lose Me") that bring back special memories; the endless list of legal proceedings and lawyers that accompanied my divorce, and so forth and so on...ad nauseum! The file containing my "family of origin" material is particularly thick (actually many, many multiple folders worth), but some of the more, light-hearted pages in those many volumes include things like, the "gallery wall" that inspired some of my most treasured home decor. When I was nine, my family moved from our home in La Jolla, to the then very rural yet upscale suburb of Rancho Santa Fe, just 15-20 miles northeast in Southern California. We were super "horsey," and my parents bought a fourteen acre property, which overlooked a lake, had a great stable/horse facility, enormous backyard, and was completed by a pool that took up a good bit of that yard. The house was a rambling Adobe ranch-style, with matching, exterior, Adobe bbq/kitchen set-up, and its interior floorpan, which rambled along a winding, "U" shape expanse of space. The living portion was centrally located within the 6000+ square feet, with a family room, large kitchen/breakfast area, adjacent to the large rectangular middle space with its vaulted, pitched ceilings and huge fireplace, punctuating the room's center, as well as marking the separation of, both, the formal dining and living room areas. Next to the family room was my older sister's wing consisting of bedroom, sitting room, bath and side entrance. On the opposing end was a long hallway, which separated the Master Bedroom wing, (opening to the covered and capacious patio, with lawn and pool beyond), across from the two large bedrooms connected by a classic "jack and jill" bathroom, that I shared with my two younger sisters. It was the long hallway, however, that was always one of the highlights of the house for me! I felt like I was stepping back in time, or opening the worn, richly-fragrant, and fragmented pages of a thick novel on each occasion when I would retrace my measured steps from one end of the hall to the other. Both sides of the ivory-stucco wall were, literally, covered in antique frames of all sizes, shapes and materials and each one (there had to be hundreds), revealed a glimpse into both sides of my parent's familial stories, juxtaposed with newer, somewhat bolder frames containing a mix of black and white, or color pictures that told the tale, and experiences of our own family. I could, and frequently did, wander down that path wondering about the faces of the puzzle, that had gone before me and already passed, mixed so carefully between the faces I recognized, knew and loved. I remember thinking what a task it must have been for my Mom to have hung each one, just so perfectly; they all appeared to be spaced and positioned to capture the exact message our family's history had relayed thus far.
I don't know the exact method my Mom used to achieve that hallway's distinct personality, but I do know, now, an equally effective approach towards accomplishing a similar labor of love. It's one of my favorite and first things I've done in each of my own homes..... post-divorce, that is! My first home, following the divorce, was filled with such gratitude, relief, and enormous sense of blessing, that I was determined to ensure each and every single aspect of it was representative of my greatest blessings.....my children, our story, and the triumph that that specific home, and our journey to get there, symbolized.
Rancho Valiente translates to “Home of the Brave”
A dear friend of mine, from Georgia, and the Resort days (you’ll have to read backwards in posts to understand) was and is, a talented, thoughtful and very successful Interior Designer; she agreed to fly out to California and help me start Rancho Valiente's evolution. What a fun few days we had; our initial undertaking was to hang a first "gallery wall" of my own. This particular hallway had only one, somewhat longish wall to cover, but cover it, we did! Rather than hang the thousands of pictures of my kids and I that I'd collected and saved over 20+ years, I hung the individually framed and treasured pieces of artwork from the hands of my own two "Picassos."
I wanted our home to reflect the love and importance that my children brought to my life, and that first hallway was my start. My friend MB and I started by lining the surrounding rooms with all the works that were ready to hang, and MB guided the process, as if she was conducting an orchestra. I'm not entirely sure she'd want me to reveal her "tricks of the trade" so I'll save that special "key" for the time being, but if there comes a day when we (you and I) meet in person, I'll share it with you then. Mark my words, while seemingly simple, the method and process will “transform” your life and is a uniquely beautiful analogy to creating a happy life! We finished the first wall during MB's visit, but for the second masterpiece, she "anchored" its beginning, and I literally continued adding to, and building upon its foundation until the day I listed the property for sale; that....however, is a story for another day!
Eleven different cities in five different states have all, at one time or another, served as host to a chapter of my story and in all those various locations over the course of all these years, it still amazes me that I can recount 29 different properties that, at one time or another, symbolized "home." The shortest stint was three months, and the longest duration of time I've ever spent in a specific place was 15 years. Each of those 29 locations represents a change and a move. While I DETEST the actual process of moving, I've become pretty philosophical and even good at the change part. Looking back, I like to think that each move, each change and each new experience opened my eyes, and a door, to new opportunity. Each change has broadened my exposure to, both, the gifts and challenges that life holds and, I hope, has provided me with a special set of "tools" to use and share on the path that lies in front of me.
Why I'm starting down this particular path is a bit unclear, and even a little scary; nonetheless, here we go. It appears that I'm extraordinarily horrible at CHOOSING men for myself; the ones that have shared intimate, important and pivotal chapters in my life haven't been great successes. I wonder if some of the "ism's" that I grew up hearing, contributed to that eventuality? I can't tell you how many times I must have heard the expression..."why buy the cow, when you can get the milk for free?" Looking back....oh, gosh, NO, let's don't go back there right now! However, (thank heavens), the men that were put into my life as a result of someone else's choice, or the inheritance of birth, were always and continue to be tremendously, great gifts. They've either left me with amazing memories, invaluable words of wisdom, or a still steady presence, and have not just represented overwhelmingly significant contributions to my life, but remain true "keepers!" Whether Grandfathers, Fathers (yes, two), Brother-in-Law, Nephews, and, now too, a Son-in-Law, these men have managed to, each, instill a sense of strength, fidelity, and an optimism about the male species, as a whole. While I'm not really, "jonesing" to add another permanent male counterpart to my life, I remain open-minded that finding a true "soulmate/partner" is indeed possible, due to the example these men have set. "Pa," my maternal Grandfather, was one-of those larger than life characters, never to be replicated; everything he did was executed with unprecedented flair, style and a zest for life, that was matched only by his unwavering faith and endless positivity. He deserves, and will eventually, be the subject of an entire post, but for now one of his "mantras" that, while being a tad crass, actually illustrates his optimistic take on life, and has always “stuck!” It is, "they may be a son of a bitch, but make 'em yours!" I heard that phrase countless times in my first 19 years of life, before Pa passed, and it helped direct the way I interacted with challenging people, whether that meant classmates in elementary school, teachers, professors or other authority figures that came and went...bosses, co-workers, committee co-horts, etc... Somewhere, along the way, I fashioned, or molded, the expression in a way that fit my own internal compass, by deciding which "sons of bitches" were worthy of the effort, and which I could acknowledge in a courteous way, but leave behind. As indelible as my memory is, from hearing those words so frequently escape his lips, the personal "twist" I've employed when applying the phrase to my own life is emblematic of my entire journey through life. I've tried to take the lessons and memories from every person or situation that's touched my life, and thoughtfully apply the benefits, accept the disappointments, and move forward in a way that is as positive as possible. There have been MANY, MANY instances, particularly over the past several years, when my "rose-colored glasses" view of the world has been, not just challenged, but utterly, and completely shredded! Those instances have left my "circle" considerably smaller, but also free from the games, “egg-shells,” expense, and drama that usually accompanied the, now absent, "players." I've discovered that when I hold people to the same standard that I expect of myself, I'm rarely able to view them in the same light? Too often, I've blindly given of myself, my resources, my loyalty, and my time. When I've stopped, and waited for even one of those same courtesies to be reciprocated, I've been, FAR TOO OFTEN, left empty-handed and disappointed. I'm finished, too, with caring more about a particular aspect of, or extending more thought to the well-being of, another's life, than the person THEMSELF, is willing to do for themselves. Again, these philosophical “edits” have, definitely, resulted in the shrinking of my circle, but that same circle is also, now, stronger, and my glasses may not be quite so rosy in color, but the lens, and my vision is clearer.
Fifie, my Dad, and Pa at Dad’s Knights of Malta induction, NYC 1960
On a lighter note, and in complete contrast to the larger than life persona that "Pa" was, my paternal Grandfather, "Fifie," was a gentle, quiet man; my memories of him are numerous, but all similar in theme. He was an ideal counterpart, and seemingly perfect match, for my POWERHOUSE Grandmother. She was an absolute PISTOL, in the very best way possible; equally adept at hosting, preparing and serving a gourmet dinner for 20, as she was entertaining and squiring her numerous grandkids around for a single day, which could, and frequently did, include visits to the San Diego Zoo, Wild Animal Park or Sea World, followed by bike rides around their oceanfront, La Jolla home, and exploring the rich landscaping surrounding their home for "Praying Mantises," which she convinced me were "talismans of good fortune." With every departure from their Calumet home, Grandmother would beckon to Fifie, with her predictable statement, "come on Dearie, let's show these girls some fun!" Fifie always rose from his French-blue, upholstered, wing-back chair, which overlooked the Pacific Ocean spread out below the enormous picture window in the homes's living room, and would, silently, but surely, follow us out to her signature, and always newest, Cadillac sedan. This is the part where Fifie's very understated, and quiet demeanor, might rival Pa's enormity of stature and fortitude. I'm unclear as to the origin of this saintly connection, but Fifie was, affectionally and reverently, referred to as "the Patron Saint Of Parking Places in our family. Turns out.....it's 100% true! Maybe it's a symbol of the faith that pulsed so strongly through the older generations of my family of origin, but give it a try, and I guarantee you'll be shocked. Next time you're circling a crowded parking lot, navigating an underground garage, or traversing up and down city blocks desperate for a vacant space, try this! Just quickly ask, or even thank Fifie, in advance, for the parking place he's putting before you. Believe with conviction that the place will appear, and voila.....I've NEVER seen Fifie's magic fail. Not as long-standing and not quite yet “saint-worthy,” but another example of my blind faith is found in the ten years that I've known my son-in-law. I've never seen him fail to do whatever it's been that Emily, my son, or I asked of him. For someone who had only limited interactions with ANY animal before his entry into our lives, (much less the "menagerie" he encountered when joining our little crew), Alex has taken on the role of caretaker, participant and reliable support system in our lives since day one. Nine years ago, and only a few months into my very new, and inexperienced foray into breeding horses (HUGELY different than my experience in the riding, caring for and showing of horses), I needed to get a "broodmare" hauled to another ranch/facility about eight hours north of our small ranch in Santa Ynez. Time was of the essence, and I couldn't do it myself; Emily offered, in her typically confident way, “don't worry Mom, Alex will do it!" "Has he ever pulled a horse trailer," I asked? She replied, “she didn't think so, but he had driven many other kinds of trucks and trailers, and it wouldn't be a problem!“ Sure enough, Alex loaded that sweet, pregnant mare into the trailer the next morning at 4:00, made the long haul to Red Bluff, California, unloaded the mare at her new home, turned around and made his way back to Santa Ynez. At the time, Alex HAD NEVER been around horses, nor driven a horse trailer; 18 hours later, however, he had "ticked" both those items off a bucket list, he probably didn't even know existed? Ever since, he just keeps showing up and has proven his fidelity to my daughter, and our family, over and over again.
The example with Alex circles back to my contention that history proves, I definitely benefit by other's choices of men, and I'm going to continue counting my blessings that that is the case. There are a couple other examples of these men I “inherited,” that deserve recognition to help explain some of the varied aspects of who I am, the continued hope that lives in my soul, and some of the factors that illustrate how that person came into "being!" In high school, I was notoriously naive, incredibly innocent and never seemed to find the trouble, suspensions nor eventual expulsion that my just-younger sister, Dorothy found. The one instance when I found myself in a bit of a pickle was after a dance at the local public high school, where I wasn't a student, but had been invited to a dance, by one of my friends who was a student there. One of the many Collins/Ryan "ism's" that filled my upbringing was..."normal pleasures cease at midnight!" (I know...it begs the question, what about before midnight? But, back then, it wasn't my role to question.) With that in mind, my curfew was 11:00, but on this particular occasion (as many others) I had become quickly and totally infatuated with some cute guy and was too busy dancing up a storm, to bother tracking the time. When I did finally notice the time, (10:50 p.m.) on the huge metal-framed clock, hanging on the gymnasium wall, the friend who had invited, and taken, me to the dance was no where to be found.... I panicked. My handsome new friend offered to drive me home, and I jumped at the suggestion. It was just a few, short miles down the same road from the high-school to the almost, mile-long driveway that led down a dirt road back to our home, and I was, frantically wracking my brain to come up with a plausible explanation that I might offer my Mom and Stepdad, George, who just happened to be as protective as any biological Father could have dreamed of being. I hopped out of the car at the driveways intersection with Refugio Rd., telling my "hunky-dunk" of a dance partner, and now too chauffeur, that I'd walk the rest of the way, not wanting the errant motor of an unknown car to set off any alarms for George. I was maybe half way up the driveway, and poof---magically, there was Bill, my brother-in-law, and his truck; the window was open and the engine idling, but the lights were off. He quietly motioned for me to get in the truck, and then carefully backed the truck up the remainder of that long narrow stretch of road, where I quietly exited as he stopped outside the far side of the house, near the exterior window which led directly into my walk-in closet. No sooner had I raised the window just wide enough to climb through, and was “stealthily” inching myself forward, head first, when I landed almost directly upon the large, dusty pair of black cowboy boots, with their huge spur rowels, (thankfully not directly) below my face....oops? I'm convinced, that one transgression went a long way towards my renewed commitment to steering clear of any trouble which might find me anywhere within vicinity of the stern, disapproving face that belonged to that tall, 6'3, dark, swarthy horse-trainer, Stepfather of mine, who, actually, was as kind as he was imposing, and not someone I wanted to disappoint. That one "slip-up" also set a new standard for the next several months of after-school pickups, and dating rules; George would arrive promptly at dismissal time, exit whatever vehicle he had chosen to drive that day and stand there, in the parking lot, patiently awaiting our appearance. His predictable uniform of black-felt cowboy hat, ("blocked" just so) which always topped his tall frame, chiseled Portuguese face, pale blue, oxford cloth, button down shirt tucked into the signature Wrangler jeans, supported by a hand-tooled, leather belt reading, "Valdez" across the back, and showing off the custom, Dave Murray belt buckle, listing several of his many accomplishments on its face, combined with jeans, most always, tucked securely into the knee-high tall, black cowboy boots that he wore daily, added the finishing touch to his already formidable presence. If any, either very arrogant, or foolish young high school "buck" was brave enough to "take on" THAT,” and might actually ask my sister or I out on a date, they were required, first, to "pass muster" by attending one of our family dinners. George held court at the head of the table, and those dinners were the only times his cowboy hat was not sitting atop his head. The hat was, instead, replaced by the pewter "spittoon" my Mom had purchased for him, as he was never without his pouch of Red Fox chewing tobacco (even at meals) and the Heineken bottle that had been his receptacle prior to marrying my Mother, was almost instantaneously replaced by another "more suitable" implement. It will suffice to say, my high school romances were not terribly plentiful, but, at least, I always knew that both my Brother-in-Law and my Stepfather were men I could count on, and would go to bat for me!
In high school, I was frequently referred to as "last-minute Missy,” particularly by my history professor. I always assumed it was because I found his class extraordinarily "dry," and, simultaneously, admit to not giving his assignments my best effort. Later, long after my high school days, and following college too, I had a job working at The William Morris Agency in Beverly Hills as assistant to one of the Chief Legal Counselors, and I found an interesting new rationale for my “last-minute Missy” title. Wheeler Coberly was a volatile, interesting and sharp man. At first, I was a bit intimidated because he could, definitely, be awfully gruff and dismissive, and I had made the unfortunate error of misspelling Angela Lansbury's name on a correspondence my first week there; I accepted my harsh correction, and to this very day, am hyper-vigilant about the spelling of people's names. It was late one day about four months following my start, when a "shift" occurred. The office opened each morning at 8:45 and closed at 6:00 p.m; it was a late fall evening, around 5:45, and Wheeler had been working on finalizing a couple big contracts. He was, at the last moment, interrupted by a phone call from one of the Managing Partners on the first floor, who had successfully "landed" a hugely important, MAJOR new client, and needed a contract drafted, finalized and ready for signing in an hour, when the "V.I.P." (at that time undisclosed talent) would be arriving for a specially catered, dinner meeting in the large, elegant conference room, also on the main floor. I had been sitting in my adjacent office, listening to the exchange; Wheeler never closed his office door, and was also one of those personality types, who would animatedly pace, while talking when he was feeling pressure. By the time he finished the phone call, and had mentally noted all the significant points to the contract, it was well after the office's 6:00 closing time. Still, I sat there, just waiting. I knew that it was a big deal, knew he'd need help getting it all finalized and wanted to prove myself. We never looked up for the next hour, and sure enough, at 7:15, we both took the elevator downstairs, handed the document to the secretary waiting to receive the "hand-off" and left the building for the parking garage across the street. When we were well out of hearing range of 151 El Camino, Wheeler looked at me and said, "hey, that was super cool that you intuitively knew what a big deal that was, and that you stayed to help!" He went on to explain that he knew he could be a "real pain in the ass," but that he really appreciated my sensitivity and reading of the situation. He continued, saying "most of the time, I'm bored to death by this damn job, and the only times when I get excited and feel any rush or fulfillment, are occasions like today, when there's an immediate and important deadline; you made that work tonight.....thanks!" He walked off to his vehicle, but the next day, and for each one that followed, his demeanor towards me was noticeably different. All of a sudden, my paycheck reflected a nice, little bump, and my responsibilities were elevated too; I was newly tasked with the coordinating, and interfacing with all aspects of events and people, that were a part of his membership in the illustrious, and very private, all-male, Bohemian Club. Additionally, he was determined that I was up to the challenge of learning how to throw a "perfect spiral" through the hallways of William Morris's third floor, when the small core group of agents and lawyers that Wheeler liked, would gather to blow off steam by throwing the football around. There were several more such instances, when I picked up on nuances of things that needed doing without being directed, just by paying attention and being "truly present." I had, virtually overnight, gained admission into a different, but for me, equally significant club. I was, newly, included in "the regular lunch bunch" gathering at The Grill on the Alley, a Beverly Hill's institution; I met and became familiar with Wheeler's second wife and two young sons; I helped plan and was included in his 50th Surprise Birthday party, and, finally, I was seated in the pew directly behind his wife and four kids a few years later, during the huge church service to honor his memory, when he succumbed to cancer. The invaluable lessons I received while working for Wheeler, have been utilized and rewarded a thousand times over, and I gained new perspective on my own proclivity to perform better under pressure, waiting for the last minute to truly shine. And, still today, I throw a wicked spiral.....thanks, Wheeler! You might be surprised how often, when combined with my love for "shooting pool," those two, "special" life skills have proven to be, both, invaluable "icebreakers," and social entrées!
For those of you sweet people who've read some of my past posts, there are a couple things I'm going to revisit here that will sound familiar, and for those of you who are new readers, I love and appreciate you too, and encourage you to give "Authenticity" from 8/23, or "Preludes" from 8/3 a quick, once-over, glance. Anyways, again.....my upbringing and family of origin has had a HUGE impact on who I am today; with that said, my parents left me with more than one to two, iron-strong memories.....some good, some not so good, but always and distinctly, unforgettable. "Your Collins Is Showing," and some of the many other "ism's" that accompany that phrase, and that particular "reel," when it is replaying in my mind, absolutely deserve to be remembered and retold. It's not always pretty, but most often, there's some story or angle that holds the power to create a "pivot." Many members of my family of origin, especially my Father, fought, not always valiantly, with alcoholism. Even so, with that history as part of my genetic makeup, I was still taught very early on, how to whip up the perfect "Hot Toddy" and I was even sent off to college with a flask of Bourbon (always Old Fitzgerald), for "medicinal purposes." I've also been known to send dinner guests home, when they were feeling a tad under the weather, with one of my Mom's signature, hand-painted baby bottles, filled with my infamous Hot Toddy blend. Each and every one of my Mother's nine Grandchildren had an extensive collection of custom-designed and hand-painted baby bottles; each bottle portrayed a theme unique to the specific child in question. There were bottles that boasted bright and bold stars, some were dotted with perfect pink posies or hearts, some boasted darling teddy bears wearing blue ribbons, while others still, featured a perfectly detailed Easter basket personalized with the child's name and individually decorated eggs spilling from the basket. Two very specific bottle remembrances included very ornate and detailed designs; one bore an exact replica, albeit miniaturized, depiction of the child's favorite car, one of his Uncle's Ferraris; and the other instance was actually a grouping of Mom's hand-painted bottles which became the "signature cocktail glassware" adorning the tablescape of a dear friend's baby shower. Each bottle was covered with silver-foil, painted Hershey Kisses, whose tiny white tags, poking from the top of each bottle, spelled the name of the guest sitting at that specific seat.
My Mother prided herself on picture-perfect presentation of everything, be it her four daughter's dressed for Sunday Mass; the table settings which graced every holiday, special occasion or even a random Thursday, when linen napkins were still a MUST; her annual Christmas tree, with the painstaking placement of its plethora of light strings, and the many hundreds of ornaments, most customized, that were hung just so. With her attention to detail and eye for beauty, she was always a very tough, if not impossible, act to follow. I'm fairly sure, I don't do everything, or maybe even anything, EXACTLY, as my Mother did; but I also know that I DID learn a ton from her, and so many of those teachings I still use everyday. Food, and the gatherings it inspired, were a key part of our growing up; there were some hard and fast rules that applied to each, and I've adapted them to my life and the raising of my own family as well! We were taught never to go anywhere, (as an invited guest), empty-handed...ever! Whether it's a small token, such as a sweet, little fragrant candle; a bottle of wine, with a carefully chosen linen bar towel tied around it; a plate of homemade brownies, or German Butter Cookies (one of my favorites).....anyone of those gestures shows your appreciation for the invitation, and is an example of thoughtfulness that is not quickly forgotten. Likewise, a handwritten note is a nicety very rarely seen these days, but is a simple, and genuine way to make a lasting impression, and in my family, it was also a non-negotiable necessity. Not one Christmas, Birthday, or other type of gift did I receive without sending a thoughtful and personal thank you note to each "gift giver."
My Mother took perfection to a whole new level even with our matching equitation suits. Custom made, Everything designed to match perfectly…
We were also blessed to learn, by example, how to prepare an extensive repertoire of culinary dishes and it was another "must" from my upbringing that I'm grateful to have been taught. My personal, most favoritest meal to make, and eat, is unequivocally, Thanksgiving Dinner, which my family always enjoyed at both Thanksgiving and Christmas. Without sounding too boastful, good gravy is KEY, and again, without bragging too much, I make some wicked-good gravy! No-one is perfect...most of all, not me, and I admit to being a bit "stingy" with recipes, so as with the secret of "Easy's Lemon Cake, Perfect Turkey-Dinner gravy, or the formula for hanging an impactful Gallery Wall are all details, I’m not quite ready to share just yet .....but, who know's what the future holds? There were always a few signature dishes/treats, or items that were intrinsically required for every single occasion that my Mother hosted, and following in those footsteps, I have the same edict that graces every occasion in my home, or even a rodeo or cutting-horse show. ONE WORD.....BREADSTICKS! That sounds simple, right? Wrong, they are anything but simple; not because there are tricky ingredients involved, or even a long list of ingredients, but because they don't come with written instructions, and they require several watchful hours, as well as much patience, before all is said and done. Only then, will those unrivaled, tasty, long, thin, spicy and crisp "buggers" be offered in my favorite copper vessel, wrapped gently in a white linen cloth. Thankfully for me, my Mom taught both my daughter, my son-in-law and me how to make them over the course of several years, when she lived very close and spent at least five nights of every week at our home. My two younger siblings have started a business using my Mom's breadsticks as the foundation, and I wish them such good fortune as they follow that path. I'm struck, however, by the irony that they've missed the entire key to her magic formula, before ever serving a single breadstick? You see, Mom would have been the first person to tell you, she never made the "actual" breadstick; her gift and the secret ingredient was the "doctoring" she did of boxed breadsticks, over several hours (6-7) that created the special delicacy that were her signature treat. That very thought, and explanation, reminds me again, that I've missed my Mom's "mark" of perfection many times. However, it's also representative of the mark I've set for myself.....and that "mark" is one of authenticity!
As I wrote in my August post, entitled Authenticity (Guaranteed?), I've known far too much deception, betrayal, and drama in my life, and the avoidance of those same items is what guides my life now. With that said, I'll be the first person to tell you I am SO FAR from perfect, and even farther from pretending to be perfect! I try everyday to accept and celebrate my successes, just as I work hard to "know my nots!" As such, I know how to throw a perfect spiral; I love watching SEC college football, especially the Tide; I know how to shoot a mean game of pool, and am equally comfortable dancing on that same pool table; I love writing, and appreciate the art of sending, or gift of receiving a handwritten note; I‘m an avid gardener, especially when growing roses; I adore entertaining, and am crazy about the art of creating tablescapes; I have this odd, uncanny understanding into, and love for, the canine species (more on that in a future post), and I've had more than one marriage proposal, sight unseen, based on the "turning out" of my signature Easy's Lemon Cake. In contrast, but very honestly, I'm super hard on myself and the people closest to me; I, no longer, have much (or any) patience for people who aren't willing to stand for something; I'm a "closet-curser;" I am, unapologetically, Catholic and conservative; I'm not a "meek' person, nor appealing to the faint of heart; I like to eat carbs, and drink Pinot Grigio; I’ve only been a size 2/4 once in my life, and while that was fun for a spell, I'd rather be a size 10, then go through the "death or divorce diet" that made the 2/4 size possible; I'll probably look my age far sooner, if not already, than other women my age, or even older, because I'm terrified of needles, surgery or looking like the "plastic-like" woman who stood in line in front of me in the Rome airport several years ago.....and I'm okay with all of that!
Having shared some of my “nitty-gritty,” and very REAL traits and truths, maybe I've been able to do a little better at introducing myself? At the very least, maybe, you know a little more than what you might have known before, or even wanted to know...oops? Regardless, I'm going to keep writing, and keep trying to unlock the parts of me that are still shrouded and a bit hazy. I feel things very deeply, and I don't believe in, or represent anything close to the ideal of perfection I grew up thinking was expected of me. I do, however, believe in perfect moments, and I believe in perfect gifts.....like the gifts of my two children, 29 and 24 years ago, respectively, and the endless memories and moments that we’ve shared! That's my why....my way! XO
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