New Focus: Life and Loss in LaLa Land

9:40am                       My Daily Pages                     48°

How many times did I live in California? In a minute, I'll count them up, but right now I'll tell you why I ask. Yesterday, Valentine's Day, I got all tenderhearted and had a crying fit over missing Stephen. As I cried, I whispered, I'm sorry Stephen, as I often do when one of these moments attack and I'm sure I meant that I'm sorry I failed him, sorry I didn't save him, sorry for all the moments I was angry or disappointed in him or in something that he had done, sorry for not being the mother he deserved. As I sit here typing, tears fill my eyes. I'm always going to be sorry, it seems.
     I also whispered, I'm sorry Mama. In that moment, I was sorry that I had failed her as well. I felt the weight of all my mistakes, all my yearnings to make it right, all my desire for love and acceptance, not just for me but for all three of us. In that moment we were connected, my son, my mother and me, like we had never been before, my two loves, the ones I would always miss.
     As I sat weeping, the opening notes of a song began playing in my right ear, I heard them drift to me as if the song had just started playing on the radio or an mp3 player next to me. I listened and the song continued, clear and soft and the wonder of it coming to me like that seemed surprising, like a gift.

"All the leaves are brown .... and the sky is gray ... I'd been for a walk .... on a winters day ... I'd be safe and warm ..... if I was in LA ..... California Dreaming .... on such a winters day ...."

I sat there and listened to the entire song play in my head and I knew that Stephen had sent it to me. He had sent many songs to me since he died and each had started softly but usually I don't catch on until the song is in full swing. I tell people that I have a radio in my head and Stephen is the DJ just as he always had been in my car. He was the playlist king, he always had just the right music with him for any occasion. But this was the first time I had been quiet enough to hear the song from the beginning and recognize it for what it was: An answer to a question that I had been asking for weeks.

How can I tell this story? What is the theme? Where do I begin? There's too much information here, how can I tell what to write and what to leave unsaid?

With that song came the answers, the puzzle pieces of this story fell into place and it all made sense finally --- California is the key! Each one of us, my mother, my son and me, had a special story and relationship with California. It begins with my mother in 1956 and ends with Stephen's death in 2013. In a story spanning 57 years, I have a three generational epic tale to tell and most of that time, none of us lived in California but our feelings and yearnings were captured there and in a way, none of us ever left. Certainly Stephen never left. He died in North Hollywood and if the story were never told for real, his would drift into the ether as just another tragic tale of shattered dreams in the Land of LaLa.

So the new title for the story I'm going to tell is:

California Dreamer

A Memoir of Life and Loss in the Golden State

OK, let's see where this goes. How many times did I live in California?

1) 1956, with mom and Gerald. Mom was a nurse and sang in night clubs when she could get gigs. I don't know a lot about this part of the story. I know she took pills, uppers and downers, and I suspect she had big dreams for her talent .... she had a beautiful singing voice, lovely and unique. She sent us back to Oregon when it became clear that she was in no shape to be a mother at that time. She was 20 years old, we were 3 and 4.

2) 1958, after mom married Richard, she came to Oregon and got me but left Gerald with Auntie Jan. I lived with mom and 'dad' in an upstairs apartment. They got me in the fall and I remember a Christmas there with them. I was placed in kindergarten and was doted on and spoiled and I loved being an only child. We moved to Oregon in 1964 and that's when my yearning for California began.

3) 1981, I met John Sandknop and moved in with him in Hanford, 30 miles north of Fresno. We married, had a baby in March 1983 and lived there until January 1984 when we moved to DC area with the Navy. The yearning began again.

4) 1990, we moved from Florida to the Bay Area in time for John to join ships company on the USS Lincoln and deploy yet again in March 1991. We left Alameda in December 1992 and moved to Chicago area for John's last job with the Navy. More yearning.

5) 1998, we fled Quincy, IL and went back to Hanford for a retirement job for John as a simulator instructor for new pilots at NAS Lemoore. We lived there until I left John for good in 2002 and moved to Oregon. California was finally out of my system, I knew I couldn't sustain my life in that expensive state and I went on a six year quest for Home, finally deciding on Boise, ID in 2007 and I've been here ever since.

6) Stephen never did get California out of his system. He moved back with his partner in 2011 and he never left. 

So, shall I format the story around those dates and include the houses we lived in, the parties we had, the fights, the dreams and plans and the epiphanies? Why not. It can be a story in six parts, the last one being Stephen's all alone. 

So many stories have been told around that state, they all see so hack right now. How am I going to make our story uniquely ours? I can use each date above as the pole around which the story in that time frame wraps ...  like a May pole, I'll weave the story in and around the date and location while filling the details in time around them.

Time stands still and life goes on.

9:36am              My Daily Pages                31°  Boise

I'm being bad this morning. I went to Facebook first a half hour ago and am just getting to my pages. Last night I wrote a post and then used it to reopen my Practice Happiness blog and I wanted to check on that to see what the comments were. 21 people visited the blog and no one left a comment. Connie left a comment on FB and I took the time to answer her. That was good. And then I posted a photo and birthday greeting for Stephanie since today is her birthday. Anyway, I'm here now and ready to write and so I shall.

From my bed this morning, I clicked on my cell phone and listened to Stephen's song, Right As Rain, and wondered again if that should be the title of his book.

Right as Rain

The life and death of Stephen B. Sandknop

Then it would be a biography and not a memoir. Or I could write it as creative non-fiction. It would be good to have a song to go with the story. "Forever is so far away ... but then again, so was today." Also, the subtitle could change as the story unfolds. I've certainly done enough writing and remembering since he died, I should be ready to write this story. And I am, really. I keep saying I am. Am I?

Stephen liked the words, The Void. In my young life, I liked The Chasm. In many ways we were similar and both tortured in our own ways, struggling to be ourselves but not knowing, really, who that was, and so failing to drum up support for our efforts in our families. Both of us had families that didn't really pay attention, parents who were so different and so narrow, mine with religion, his with the military. It's surprising to me how similar in feel those narrow lives were. Conservative, structured, opinionated, right. Right as rain. And yet we were both so wrong for the families we had.

I never really looked at it like that before. His story is also my story. My story is also my mother's story. We're all connected down through time. Time stands still and life goes on. How both of the statements can be true is beyond me but I do feel the truth of them.

Points to ponder. But for now, I need to prepare to go get Stephanie's little dog, Olie, and take him to the groomer for her while she joins her family at her grandmother's death bed. I was 53 when my Granny died, Stephanie is 44 today. Granny was 44 when I was born. Poor Stephanie. I hope she can take this loss, it's just the beginning. She still has the rest of her family to say goodbye to and she's so sensitive!

Kaelen's Sentencing

9am                         My Daily Pages                    33°    Boise

My alarm went off at 6:30 but I didn't begin to wake up until 7:30, didn't rise until 8:00 and now I'm just now sitting down to my practice. That's my new name for these pages ... writing practice. Of course that's what I do. But now that I think of it, I actually report my life as if it were a diary and I philosophize as if it were a journal and I plan my days and my projects as if it were a planner. The term "pages" covers what this is quite well, really. So it's not about practice at all, not here, not this. These really are my daily pages and that's that. Writing practice will have to be something else. Perhaps I can use my spiral pages for practice. I'm reading Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and she's got all sorts of ways to practice writing. I may try some of them.

Today I have to get going, get dressed and get to the court house to be a witness to Kaelen's sentencing. He needs to see me there. If he's going to prison, I need him to know that I'll be lending him my support the whole time. I'll write, send books as I can, bring or send writing supplies. I'll visit when it's allowed. At least once I will, just to see if it's a good idea.

This week has been way too busy, too many other things to do besides write or make cards. I have a stack of prints ready to trim and affix to cards and then glitter but haven't had time. I don't like being this busy, I want to focus on my writing and my art. I'm not good with too many diverse things going on in a day. I'm not good at multitasking. But it's OK, after today, there should be time. In addition to the courthouse, I have errands to run and then the gym at 3pm. And I have yet to practice playing my guitar! But at least I got plenty of sleep, I should hold up for the entire day. I was so tired last night, I went to bed at 10pm, lights off by 10:20. That provided me with ten hours in the sack! Holy cow, how could I be that tired?!

Well, I better scoot. Bye for now.

Indiana:1880something

8:21am                   My Morning Report                   28°  Boise

I have until 10am to writing this morning. Then I have to eat breakfast and get dressed to hop in the car and drive to Ontario to meet my cousin Joe at an antiques mall and pick up one of his lamps for a customer here. It's foggy out this morning and gray ... drab. Looks like a great day to stay home all day in front of my vid-fire and live in my mind, writing about my memories, trying to make them into a book.

Yesterday I began outlining some high points in my life and either I have some amazing memories or I'm enamored with myself and think my experiences are more interesting than they are. I never before thought my life was worthy of a book but losing Stephen has made me dive deep into it, looking for answers as to why he was so tortured and what part did I play in it? --- and how could I possibly have headed it off had I known more? Now, after over two years of exploration and writing, I see that my life has been more complex then I could imagine. It really does feel like I've lived a movie script instead of a life! Only this particular movie is way too long to be an average movie, it would have to be a 6 part mini-series.

Part One .... April 1953

I am born to a 16 year old mother in a tiny town in Oregon. My people are poor but vivid, possessing keen intellects combined with sharp humor --- Descendants of the Scots (McDaniel) and the English (Adams). My own father seems to have been German (Hesseltine) and since he's still alive, I should ask him about that. I know very little of my fathers line or my grandfather Adams line. My lineage through my mother and grandmother is where I'm most familiar and I guess that's where the story will come from.

If this were a movie, I'd begin filming in Indiana. 1880something. My great grandmother Rachael Riley McDaniel is getting on a train with several trunks and the two youngest of her children. The three oldest are married and are staying behind with their families. Rachael is a widow. Her husband has recently died, Had McDaniel, and she is intent on starting anew out West, Spokane, Washington, where her sister and her family moved several years before. (I have this story in a box in the shed somewhere, I should dig it out). I just love this story and find it so inspiring! The intrepid Rachael taking her life in her hands and setting out on a journey to a strange land, leaving everything safe and familiar behind. I love the idea of writing this story as the beginning. I'm certain that our lives and what we experience begin well before our births and carry over long after we die and in this way we are connected to humanity, to the whole of life as we think it is.

Maybe everyone has a huge story to tell. Maybe that's why we all love stories so much, love hearing about how others came about, what happened to them and what they did about it. There's room in life for all stories and I'm so very pleased to be working at telling mine --- the story of me and my family, the ones before me and the ones who came after.

My genetic history ends with Nathan. I can't tell you how sad that idea makes me. After all I've been through in this life, there is one person standing between me and oblivion. In the big picture I know that it doesn't matter what little bits of genetics flow from the past into the future but it still makes me sad to think that none of my little bits will go forward except by way of words on a page. I have toyed with the idea of asking Nathan to contribute to a sperm bank so that at the least, there would be that much to carry forward even if we would never know if any of it were used or even fruitful.

I know, I veer all over the place. I'm constantly running around the pool, trying to find just the right spot to jump in. I get a toe in once in a while and then jerk it back out again and then continue my pacing. What I want is in the pool, so many people and things bobbing around. It's all so interesting and distracting!

OK, this has been fun, the third day of typing my pages instead of handwriting, and I'm happy and encouraged by the results and how fast I can do this. Now if I want to come back and yank something out of this to use in the big story, I can do that at any time.

Bye for now ....

Practicing

9:39am                       My Morning Report              30°    Boise      

OK, second day with my new plan. Up a little later than I wanted but still within reason. I tried getting up earlier for a few days in a row and I did not like it, could not get going, felt tired and my eyes didn't want to function. It seems that I can't navigate my days without just the right amount of sleep and even getting enough sleep but rising too early bothers me. It might be a habit thing. Maybe I can adjust if I just go slowly and creep up on it.

Tomorrow I have to get up early enough to fit it all in before leaving to meet cousin Joe in Ontario at noon. So I have to leave here by 11am, which means I'll have to get up by about 7:30 in order to get it all done and be ready to leave at that time. 40 minutes to wash up and make the bed, an hour or so of writing, eat breakfast, clean up, get dressed. I can do all that in 3½ hours, surely.

I added some full caff to my coffee blend this morning thinking a little extra caffeine would help with my mornings. Just a little extra, not the whole caff thing. So we'll see how that works for me. And later today I will call Baker City and try to get it straight for our high school reunion, hopefully booked at the Geiser Grand Hotel on Main Street.

Yesterday I had my first guitar lesson with Alan Watts. It was very interesting but hard. I'll need to practice at least 20 minutes a day in order to get my fingers broken in to this new activity, build up some calluses. I'm in it for the long haul and I hope I can learn to love it. It certainly is a whole new language but not just for the brain, it will also be informing the body in a whole new way. Last night I dreamed that I was playing the cello again only I was facing it and doing it all wrong and yet is still sounded good. Maybe that dream was telling me to keep at it and trust the process even if it feels all wrong.

Also yesterday, I went to the Vista office to bring some paint supplies to #22 where I had spackled the day before and the job was done but not well. Whoever finished it didn't sand the spackle patches, nor did they dab the patches with primer. They just painted over my patches and called it done. Dang. Well, that's it for me, no more trying to help Horace with that building. For one thing, it's work that I don't enjoy and for another, I just don't have time. But I would have time if I enjoyed it ... I know. But I don't so that's that.

With the advent of my new writing practice, typing my morning report, I should get comfortable typing again and be able to take off on my book soon. I do feel bad about abandoning my notebook. It's laying there, close to me, and as I continue to type here, it will accumulate days of blank pages. I'll have to try to write in it in the evenings maybe, a whole different kind of report. So far, this typing is good and I'm doing OK with it. Look how fast I've filled this page! I wonder what my word count is. There's another place I could be putting these posts, 750words.com, where my word count would show up. But that site costs $5 month and this place is free and has my name on it. If I wanted to, I could begin to blog again and actually post things for others to read but right now I don't want to think about that. I just want to practice typing so that I can practice writing books.

So that's about it for today. The cats are pissed, it's overcast and chilly out there and I haven't let them out yet today. I also just remembered that I haven't cleaned the litter box! Yikes! But this was fast and effective, this typing. I'm better at it than I thought I would be, very few mistakes, the words just slide out and if one is incorrect, it's easy to fix. I guess all my practice on FB has helped, too. But it's kinda nice to just sit here and blather on, knowing no one will see it and I don't have to justify what I'm doing to anyone, anyway. I'm free to do whatever I want to do and so I shall! I think I'll close this up and go clean the litter box and refill by coffee and come back here to see about writing and planning a book. Which one of the 7 or 8 that I have in me will come out? That is the question of the day. And will I be able to stick with one until I get it done? Another great question!

OK, bye now! See you again tomorrow. There's always more to report and this is a fine way to do it.

New Journal Idea - Day One

9:30am

Last night I got the idea to get up and go straight to the laptop to begin my writing and not do my handwritten pages. I've been sitting down to the pages with a pen in my hand regularly since I moved to Hannibal, MO in 2006 and before that, sporadically since December 1994. I have so much written ... memories from my childhood, trying to piece together my own story, the daily events that befall a life and trying to make sense of all that ... books many times over if I could glean what's in my spiral pages. But they are another world, really, a world that I only get to with my pen and the open page. I need to get to that world through a different portal, one that can be accessed and saved in a format that I can use for other works. I need to be able to type my way in and then save it or take chunks out and use them in Word documents.

Already this seems foreign, another territory all together. I miss my pen! I miss the feel of paper under my hand. I miss watching words slide out and the sight of my own handwriting filling the page. I know that that was a habit I developed over many years and the thought of not doing it or missing more than a day occasionally makes me sad and nervous, like I'm lost in a huge, dark building. This typing accesses a different part of my brain and I have to train the door to that section so that is swings open at my will. Right now it's a little stuck ... I can rattle it but it won't open past an inch or two. But I'll keep at it.

I actually practice writing on Facebook each day and share my thoughts and experiences with others, especially the grieving mothers in The Compassionate Friends groups. I'm a member of two groups, one is the loss to substance abuse group, the other is the loss to suicide group. I was in the former group for many months before finding out about the later and it's the later, the suicide group, that tears at my heart each day. Those poor mothers! Some of those kids were so young, many under 15 years old and one as young as 11! My God, what could cause kids that age to kill themselves?!
The horror of suicide with these mothers and their young kids, mostly boys, is stunning and I cry every day for them. I seldom write a comment, I'm too shocked, my mind can't get a grip on what happened.

I think back to Stephen at that age, 13, 14, 15 ---- we lived in Quincy, IL from August 1995 to June 1998. He was 12 when we moved there and 15 when we left. Those were the hardest years, the beginning of his self-destruction, a process that would take him until age 30 to complete. I want to find a way to tell his story, our story, in an interesting way, a way that doesn't inspire horror or pity, but might lead to understanding and possibly save lives.

I watched him get enamored with suicide, with Silvia Plath and her stories and poems. As soon as he found out about the concept of suicide, it seemed like he wanted to try it, as if it were a drug or a food, something that he could recover from! And the idea stayed with him for the rest of his life, as if it were a fall-back plan when things got too hard, he could always just kill himself. No big deal, really. Where did he come up with that, I wonder?

OK, I got a start here, typing. I wonder if I publish this if anyone will see it or if I have to go post a link in order to call attention to it? Seems to me, this blog site has been abandoned long ago and setting up shop here for some journaling would be a safe place, like finding an empty building that no one is using or taking care of and just sort of move in, hoping no one will notice. I turned off the comments section so I'll never know if anyone reads this unless they come find me on Facebook. Until then, I'll assume that I'm private here in this building --- I like the idea that I'm finally using this space for something after all.

Just Another New Year's Miracle

I should have gotten ready earlier, I had errands to run and groceries to get --- but I dithered on Facebook, writing and chatting and having a lovely New Year's Eve day. By the time I showered and got ready to leave, it had been snowing for about two hours and I had to shovel the drive and sweep the car off to get out of my driveway.

It was 33 degrees and the snow was wet and heavy. And very slippery! I drove slowly for the 5 blocks to the more heavily driven street thinking the road would be more clear, but when I turned onto that street it was no better and there was plenty of traffic. Uh oh, I thought, how did I get myself into this mess? And how badly do I need groceries anyway?

I was only going about 20 miles per hour and doing fine, until the light I was approaching turned yellow. I tapped the brakes and got nothing but slide. Tapped again, more slide. I thought, no way am I going to slide into that intersection into oncoming traffic! And here's where the miracle happened.

Without thinking, I checked that no one was in the lane next to me and I turned the wheel hard left for a few feet and then back hard right. A curb or pole was preferable and I wasn't going into that intersection! That little maneuver bought me time to right myself and stop without incident.

It amazes me what can be done in 5 seconds or less! I'm not a stunt driver and I've never heard this tactic described for stopping a slide in snow. All I can say is, intention counts!

I am so blessed and grateful~