Music Teachers for the Ages

Not too long ago, a very fine friend and fellow, recounted his childhood experiences with one music teacher he still so fondly remembers. I, also, have a music teacher or two, who have claim to a very sweet spot in my heart. Each teacher I consider part of the fabric that has woven my experience in the exceptional world of music.

Perhaps the most storied of teachers, was Mrs. Munn. Ah, Mrs. Munn, a beautiful soul who made a seemingly very abrupt exit from my life. In truth, it was me. I graduated high school, went on to college and kind of forgot about this very important influencial person. But youth tends to do this. We often realize the good after it is too late. Well, I started my lessons with Mrs. Munn after I had a year or two of violin under my belt. I began learning the instrument in public school in fifth grade. Eventually, on urging of my grandmother, my parents sought after a good music teacher who lived in our town. Mrs. Munn was recommended.

Getting to her house was an event. Because I had so many siblings, it was sometimes up to me to get myself there. Thus, my violin case bore a nifty shoulder strap, and my music was easy to transport in my bookcase. (Back in those days, the sixties and seventies, a bookcase could mean a satchel for books and music, not just a a tall shelf.) Mine had green and gold plaid material and what appeared to be green leather. It probably wasn’t. That’s alright, it felt scholarly to me. Now, the idea was to be able to walk three miles from my family home to her house. Thus, I happily did, which was about an hour’s walk.

Mrs. Munn was extremely practical. If you stepped into her front door, you were met with a thick heavy plastic floor runner to walk upon to avoid soiling the carpet. In the six years I took lessons from her, I never stepped onto the plush carpeting in her home. Next, you would hear piano notes emanating from the room around the corner. That would be Madame Munn at the keys. Also in the hearing was the sound of either a cello, viola or violin and sometimes, in accompaniment, would be noticed the lulling, contributing snore of her royal German Shepherd, “Baron”. (More about Baron will come later in this article.)

Upon entering Mrs. Munn’s home, if you did not hear these sounds, then you knew you could walk right into “the music room” and get started. If you did hear the lilt of musical notes, you politely sat down on the gray couch, under the end table lamp, next to the proverbial candy jar. Mrs. Munn always knew how to keep children well behaved. She’d ply them with candy. Being a good girl, I never took any until I heard this familiar sentence, “Oh hello, come right in, make yourself comfortable and help yourself to some candy.” That was it. The delightful, hoped for sentence. Magazines were also by the candy jar, and I read a lot of National Geographics and Redbook while waiting for the lesson ahead of me to finish. If I had walked in the summer heat, Mrs. Munn would usually have a glass of lemonade ready to be poured for me, which was a welcomed sight. Some of my other siblings took lessons from her, and I recall once or twice being invited to her home to just sit down to a teacher/student luncheon. I will never forget eating a delicious sandwich on pumpernickel bread. I hadn’t had that kind of bread before, but, I loved it! Mrs. Munn was excellent with children. She knew what we liked and she kept her business thriving due to that inside knowledge.

Lesson after lesson, year after year, phase after phase, Lucille Munn was my constancy. God bless her patience. I think she loved me like a daughter and her patience with my perennially repeating issues which never seemed to phase her. She never once scolded me, and I never once felt pressured. Try as she may, she never could quite get me past that hurdle of learning to vibrato. It all came down to the first teachings of handling the violin, and she was not there for those first two years. Well, unfortunately, I learned to comfortably hold the violin neck, rather than create an arc of space by balancing my thumb on the neck only, and holding up the violin by my chin bearing down on the chinrest. Mrs. Munn could tell I loved music and that I knew when technique sounded “right”. So, she started to see a growing disillusionment in me because, here, I could play concertos, but I simply could not make my violin sing via the use of vibrato. It made me angry at myself. We tried spools of thread placed between the neck and my thumb. She encouraged me so much, but I just had a physical block and the damage was done.

However, Lucille Munn inspired me to tackle wonderful pieces, and to play for her what we were learning in orchestra. She successfully taught me to bow correctly, which any violinist will tell you is paramount to good playing. My music teacher confidant that she was, somehow survived all the other machinations going on in my life…sibling rivalry, puberty, and other interests such as girl scouts, and drillteam. I know she was an amazing teacher and I rather think I took her for granted. I am so sorry for this. But, her teachings about phrasing, intonation, and bowing remain as vibrant reminders that are useful to me even today.

Now, Mrs. Munn may have had a gray couch, a subtle, silver carpet, and plain walls, but she herself, was a colorful character! She was rather short…maybe teetering on the mark of 5’7″. She wore simple, nondescript clothing and did not seem to have a sense of humor as far as I could tell. But there are two great stories attached to my memory of her. The first one has to do with the fact that she was a fully-blown practicing Christian Scientist. One occasion she was being plagued by inundating ants. Most of us resort to using the “chemical blast” to eradicate the highly unwelcomed intruders. She, however, used the power of prayer. “After all, ants belong in their anthill home, not MY home,” she said. Well, her story she told me, (and I have every reason to believe it is the truth), is an eye opener. 😳. Mrs. Munn claims due to much concentrated thought as to where the ants truly belong, she discovered them no longer trailing amuck in her house. Instead, they had formed an organized, almost infantry parade-like line of exiting ants. She said they marched right past her one day and literally, out her front door to the front yard, never to return again! I was shocked at the details of this recounting, but, I believe!🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜🐜

Now, the other story is one every dog owner should hear. Baron, was a mighty presence. He often lay, with regal aplomb underneath her piano as Mrs. Munn taught. (He knew how to get the best sound). One rainy day, when most likely he did not get his morning walk, he sat up and seemed to be toying with some train of thought leading to a decision he’d have to make. Well, Mrs. Munn, engaged a certain ritual for all students. As the eager pupils approached her music room, a folding table was demonstrably situated in front and near the window at the entrance to the area where pupils could get fully set up with their music and instrument. Before the lesson began, you were to place your mother’s check or cash on the folding tray. This one particular music day, Baron decided he was much too hungry. He wolfed down every last personal check and dollar bill from that little table. Already by late morning, the contents amounted to what in those days was a lot of money–$80! She never scolded him. She just changed her method of receiving payment. Thusly, Baron, was never put on the “back burner” when it came to activity time and lunch. This was my teacher. And such was life.


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Another grand personage in the world of music for me, was Mr. Charles Ross. He is still highly revered by our town. He arrived as a young music teacher, endeavoring to do what nobody had ever done in our town. He started a music program in our school district. He brought classical music to our little “city”, and this eventually branched out into other genres, including marching band, choir and jazz band. Band was not really his “thing” but, he knew whom to hire to make it happen. I knew him because of violin. I was introduced to violin in my 5th grade year. We were all assembled at my elementary school’s auditorium. I remember seeing this man onstage with four wooden instruments that seemed to look alike except for size. Knowing, by this age I was a “schpunt”, as my mom would say,  I ignored the bass viol and cello. They were too large and unwieldy for me. The viola had a nice mellow sound, but the violin was small and I decided I was little and should play something little. 🎻 It was a good match. My parents had to drive me in to a city half an hour away to find a quarter size violin, since, my arms were just not long enough to meet a half-size. My clever parents located a quarter-size violin hanging in a music shop window and convinced the proprietor to sell it to us. Probably, the size of my violin is why I did not learn to vibrato. (not much room on the fingerboard).

Bless Mr. Ross’ soul, he would travel to every school and teach around thirty kids at a time. This meant he would have to be extremely patient and a good enough leader to tune all those instruments while the awaiting students grew potentially antsy. He got us all past “Hot Cross Buns”, and we learned “Barcarolle”, “Volga Boatman”, “Merry Widow’s Waltz”, etc. Our parents liked the results, too. Once in junior high, I moved on to learning student concertos such as the Seitz Violin Concerto. I remember playing “Pavanne”, “Flight of the Bumble Bee”, and “Beethoven’s 5th Symphony , 4th movement.” It was all about the ending on the downbow. He pitted Lois, another violinist against me, vying for 1st chair. If, we didn’t keep up to snuff, the other would take the lead position. I kept it for a few weeks!  I loved that competition very much. Charles Ross believed in me, too. He drove me to Saturday violin competitions, and I came home with “Superior Minus” ratings….that minus always pushed me a bit further. I recall discussing Liberace with him and asking if he was not the greatest pianist ever. He diplomatically answered that he was the best entertainer of all…Mr. Ross also made a home visit to my house to encourage my parents to not let my brother quit playing the cello. It is an understatement to say Mr. Ross was dedicated to furthering music via children.

I could swear he was Beethoven himself sometimes, gesturing and jumping up and down with his “Einsteinian” hair wildly dancing to and fro. He would have to swipe it from his eyes as he’d make a sweeping turn of the music page, not skipping a beat, while conducting. He insisted “eyes on him” and “no toe tapping”. But, that gentleman could command junior high orchestras to do amazing things. He made music sizzle🔥 for me. I often got chills up and down my spine. I soon learned to covet the sound of being immersed in a full orchestra, hearing “surround sound” from the violins to the cellos to the trumpets to the timpani. He was my sturm and drang, my waves of chromaticism and my lilting cloud-puffs of serenity. He held me “captive” by the tip of his baton and the arch of his eyebrow. Mr.Ross taught me something most would say cannot be taught. He taught me to LOVE music. Really love it, from within. Regrettably, I never got to thank him in a way he deserved. After I graduated high school and went on to college, I heard that he passed away. He never knew I took up learning the harp, but still can play violin when I have one to play. I hope he reads internet blogs up in heaven.

Mrs.Munn also moved away before I could give her a proper thank you. Even both of my harp teachers have moved on to new chapters and horizons. Each one built a lifetime memory for me. They were all harbingers of the good in life. Next time, I will recall memories of my harp teachers; both quite different, yet very special, too. Plus, the story of me and my harp is worth telling. Thus, one and all, stay tuned… no pun intended!



Big Sisters Are Just That Way

Impressionable people come and go in our lives, but their mark is everlasting. To have a relative who is impressionable is a gift. Each time I speak of my older sister, it is like unwrapping that present all over again. This is a collection of remembrances about her. Granted, she is still quite alive and not even retired. But, while I still have my faculties about me, I thought it was high time I expound on this very special individual.


It seems to me my earliest memory of my big sister was that of her playing with her dancing doll. Santa had given her a doll which was made of cloth limbs that niftily bent at the knees and elbows. A cloth torso anchored the doll’s neck and face. Thus, it was one giant piece – a very versatile rag doll. Just like my sister, the doll had yellow hair (which was probably made of yarn, bright blue eyes and a very sweet smile. The doll wore a long ballet tutu around it’s waist and a pastel pink and white horizontally striped leotard-type top. At least that is how my memory has recorded the visual.  The best part of the doll was the fact that her cloth feet at the end of its legs had not only ballet-like shoes, but an elastic strap that my sister could slip her own feet into, thus connecting the doll to her every step. The doll could dance anything my big sis could conjure up herself. Her moves were her dolly’s moves. With ease and exuberance, she could dance with her doll hand in hand, toe to toe and cheek to cheek. Whatever was on the “Lawrence Welk Show” became their song; the pair of them sidestepping and sashaying any kind of dance she desired. They would waltz to country, swing to jazz, or be-bop to early rock n roll. My sister and her partner would spontaneously create their own style in response to what was being heard in our living room from the television or the radio. I thought it was a genius toy and was envious of how much fun my sister had dancing with it. Years later, when my sibling was entrenched in ballet classes, I tried to be like that doll and mimic my big sister’s every move. I took ballet, as well…though the talent must not have been there. I think I only lasted one year. Her doll and my memories of her dancing have endured for more decades than I’d like to admit!


Without sounding too redundant, let’s call my sister “C”. As in most families, the children in ours, had blissful moments and other times not quite so amiable. C was very efficient. I have two recountings, each one describing the opposite end of the spectrum of sibling decorum. Our parents could rely on her to watch over the younger ones which included me. One outing, we found ourselves at the beach and my father insisted everyone line-up in front of him for the customary Sea ‘n’ Ski slathering of our nose, cheeks, tips of our ears and across our shoulders. Mind you, he never brought us to the coast until after 3pm when the sun was less intense. Well, after we all received our suntan-lotion anointing, we were all free to go play. Parameters were stated as to how far to wander down the shoreline. Sand pails and shovels were distributed and sunhats adjusted to provide the maximum protection. Adventures commenced.

C knew I enjoyed viewing the frolic of the sand beetles, and combing for shells hither and thither. One particular beach day, we had been collecting treasures when my sister decided to try something different. Being 6 years older than me, and myself barely past being a toddler, she could not have been much older than 10 or 11. Yet, she was a clever one. She wanted to break me of my fear of the water. At this point I had only stood on wet sand with the tide tickling my toes as it surrounded them and drew away. But, to actually go IN the water? I had not ever done that.  This time she encouraged me to hold her hand and leave the bucket perched on our little mound. Then we started walking down to the seaspray and foam. The closer we got to being actually in the ocean, the more I hesitated, eventually coming to an abrupt stop. C bent down and stared her beautiful blue eyes into mine and said, “If you keep holding my hand I’ll keep you safe. Let’s try to walk into a wave….” Naturally, I strongly protested and resisted such an endeavor. She then countered with: “If you walk into a wave, they say you can see the mermaids inside it. You want to see the mermaids, don’t you?” I had to ponder that one. It didn’t take long for curiosity and imagination to win  over cold fear. We did walk into a wave holding hands…and as a youngster, that wave seemed extremely high. It probably was only a 3 to 4 foot wave, though. I don’t recall thinking I saw the mermaids and sea nymphs, but I did come out of the experience invigorated with glee. The wave had gone right over my head, and I saw lots of swirling colors so they must have been mermaids! I jumped and squealed with excitement, only to ask for a command performance again and again and again. I have to thank my Big Sister for promoting my bravery. From that day onward, I was in love with the sea…still am.


Occasionally, C was not the best babysitter for all of her siblings. Sometimes she had her own plans and it did not include the presence of us underlings. On this day, our folks had an appointment and C was left in charge. I seem to recall playing with my next in line sibling, my brother #3. We had a terrific time recreating a circus show using the Fisher-Price Circus set. I still remember the thick hard-pressed cardboard animals with their white plastic movable arms and legs. The Master of Ceremonies, and the various performers were made the same way. We would play tirelessly, having them climb up the white rungs of red wooden ladders, which would reach the “High-top’s” tallest podium. There were also, wooden red and white cages for animals, all part of the circus train kit. Many details remain vivid enough to recall after all these years. Perhaps the invaluable aspect was how our imagination ran freely and it was quite the creative escape into whatever childhood could dream.


While merrily at play, we suddenly were being told by the “Authority in Charge” that it was officially nap time. Yes, in my generation of rearing, everyone took naps in the afternoon, up to late years in grade school. Same time, every day, time to recharge the batteries of youth. Well, naturally being embroiled in some escapade taking place within the main circus ring, my brother and I profusely protested, and tried to negotiate extra play time. C flatly said no, and determined that the circus would still be there when we woke up and the SOONER we fell asleep, the SOONER we would wake up again to continue our fun. She shooed us off to our beds and sternly told us to not get up until she came in to wake us.


Resigned to nap time, I found myself for some particular reason, having a most difficult time falling asleep. I remember getting out of bed and lying under the sewing machine desk. Suspended upside down was the Singer machine, and all the gizmos and gadgets required to make it work. Lying on my back, peering upwards, it resembled my idea of what a factory must look like on the inside. I don’t know how long I laid there, but it did pass the time a bit for this far from sleepy child. After a good while, I grew tired of waiting and left my bedroom to look for my big sister and the clock. She took her two hands and turned my shoulders back to the hallway and reminded me to go finish my nap. She said it simply wasn’t long enough. Well this same chain of events happened again a bit later, and Cs reaction was now annoyance. I told her I just could not sleep, and couldn’t I just read? “No” was my answer. The third time I left my room was instrumental in making her very mad at me. She demonstratively said, “I don’t want to hear your complaints. Go to bed!” C then proceeded to stuff my mouth with kleenex and I proceeded to cry. She walked me back to my room and gave me some ultimatum -I know not what. This time, I cried myself to sleep. When she did wake me up, it was much later. In fact, our parents were arriving back home. They saw how “rested” my brother and I looked. That was when C said she had put us down for a nap 5 hours ago! I don’t remember anything after those details, but it was definitely an abuse of power, don’t you think?


Since C was the first-born child, our parents’ rules were more stringent than some of the children born much later. My big sister went to high school in an era when girls could not wear jeans or slacks, but only skirts and dresses. The wearing of lipstick to school was just starting to be allowed. Even still, high school girls were being carefully monitored in what they wore to class. I remember C begged and begged our father for permission to not only wear lipstick, but to be able to wear knit stockings or nylons with flats. He was of the “everything meaningful is no fuss” kind of midwestern mentality, and he emphatically denied her requests. Then one day, when visiting the high school with the town’s Rotary Club, which is a businessman’s club, he noticed that his daughter was practically the only girl still wearing bobby socks and saddle shoes. When our dad returned home and was surrounded with family at the dinner table, he announced that my sibling ought to go with the flow and wear what everyone else wears. I remember in the following days, she had her pink Yardley lipstick and mary janes on. I remember her riding her bike down the driveway with her skirt billowing voluminous puffs on each side, looking much like one of the suffragettes of yore. Yet, she had on her make-up and her footwear in keeping with the trend. She was very happy! Heck, I Was glad she was happy, because it meant she was paving the way for me.


Out of a lifetime with my older sister, the five hour nap incident is the ONLY negative memory I have. That is saying a lot. Truth is, C has always been a figure of wonder and respect. Her scholarly ways amazed me. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was an A student. Books in tow, and always about to, or finishing up her studying, she was the perfect consumer of information. Before she moved away to college, our sewing room was her study. It was at the top of the stairs, and one of the walls was the slant of the roof, with a dormer window flooding in light. Being very narrow, it was almost cocoon-like; a nest for knowledge if you will. Time and time again she was locked up in her study refining her education. In high school, Mom would let her take cups of coffee up there so she could burn the candle into the wee hours of the night. She would only emerge from her inner sanctum when it was mealtime. We used to laugh about her at dinner because invariably, one of her knees was in hyper-mode, bobbing up and down under the table. She really wasn’t too conversational; probably because she was still thinking about what she had been reading or writing about. All we knew as a family was that this devotion to learning could only lead to lofty places.


How true this was and is! In high school, she was honored as being designated one of the California’s Scholastic Federation scholars, wearing her golden stole around her neck for for graduation ceremony. When she completed her studies at California Western University she graduated Magna Cum Laude. What amazed me the most was that she was superb in both Math and in English. I was so proud of her. I aspired to be close to the same, if I could. Years later, she instilled in her own children the same forthright attitude when it comes to academic achievement.


After college, my sister made a bold move. She sought out a position in sales for the company Proctor & Gamble. She practically lived in her car, making it her office as she drove from retailer to retailer, engaged in selling products and monitoring their means of display in stores. I remember one family holiday, she was home and busier than ever. She had on stiletto heels and a long business dress. Out in our backyard on the cement walking path, I remember her excitedly spinning around with notepad and pen armed for self-checking. She must’ve been going over a presentation. The rest of the family was inside getting the meal on the table and she was out there in a a different universe, breaking that glass ceiling for young women of the 70s in business. Not soon after that day, I heard the company was sending her to Wall Street to learn all about the Stock Market. What a perfect blend of her two talents: Math and Language! The rest is history. She has been a stockbroker for probably 45 years now, and presently advises those clients involved in high finance.


Throughout her life, C has had many interests. Ballet was likely her earliest. She studied ballet for six years. Her favorite music to dance to was Swan Lake. One time she had a dance solo portraying a puppeteer’s doll in the Nutcracker. It seems Santa’s “dance along with doll” was a meaningful present. I honestly was either too little or too much in my own imaginative world to recall C practicing ballet at home. I certainly do not even recall any recital I might have attended. Back in those days, parents didn’t really fawn all over their kids. They funded and supported their children’s interests, but not anything equal to today’s full-blown everyone in the family will go to recitals and performances. Even sports was a bit like that as well. However,  I do remember her practicing the marionette dance…and I also remember my mom was very enthused over how well she did.


But, C also was excellent at swimming and diving, she totally enjoyed being a statistician in high school where she could flex her mental muscle, and also in high school, she was made co-captain for the drill team. She was a great leader and looked very polished in all her parades and field-shows. I have wonderful visions of her in salute pose, wearing the tall black shako on her head, buckled under her chin, her back angled at a near 45 degree slant, her one knee up and her opposite hand, white gloved with fingertips aside of her eyebrow. To me, she was a grand figure exuding grace, confidence, and power. In this leadership role, she probably developed her verbal skills…which with all that ballet, swimming and drill team taught her to do, served her well in her adult life and in her line of work. Success comes to those who know both competitive determination and self-controlled aplomb. She was masterful at these. We are lucky in our family, because both our parents were trained to be educators, and were terrific communicators. Our dad was a top-notch salesman and our mother had boundless gift of gab. So, C like all of us, had good examples to pattern after, and she did. Thus, what she learned for the ballet stage, the swimming pool, the street marching parades and leadership amongst peers, were fine character-strengthening activities.


When I think of my sister, I think of a person who as I was growing up, was just a bit too old for me to have had her as a confidant. Yet, she was simply that amazing and mystifying Big Sister. What is dear to my heart though, is how later in our adulthood, we came to really understand one another. We have always known we were cut from different cloths. But, as years move on, we learn to appreciate our differences. In recent years, my sister has proven to be the one beacon of hope and resolve that has guided me through turbulent waters. When my premature son was born she was the first and only person who behaved as if he would most certainly survive. She was his first visitor at home and the first to allay my fears. When my other son graduated from high school, she wrote him a beautiful letter of encouragement- a class act if there ever was one. When it came time for me to stand up for myself in divorce court, she was there- with contacts, advice and a plan. Finally, she has been the salient voice that has told me how deserving I am of what I earned in my profession and that what is due me is worth fighting for. Again, the contacts, the advice and the plan were freely given. Not t mention the countless hours of effort involved in research.


There is nothing better in this world than having a person in your life that truly respects and realizes our true worth. They become cheerleaders for you, and they do not waste time with words. Instead, they DO supportive deeds. My big sister has bolstered me up through the toughest of times. She has been my rock in many ways. Perhaps, the sweetest part is having been the recipient of her generous invitations to hear the philharmonic. On such occasions we have conversed over fine meals and shared the same quietly born, music-induced,  emotional tears. Life really doesn’t get more poignant than this. Well, she does know my love for my sons as she has the same for her daughters and grandkids. As women, perhaps that is the creme de la creme of all that can be understood and shared. Yes, she is definitely a super business-woman, but moreover, a super person. She has earned the “Rhodes Scholar” standing in life- being the best a daughter, sister, and mother could be. No wonder she has such a wonderful husband as well.


This brings me to one of the absolute most dear memories I have ever had regarding my sister. One summer, which I believe was the summer after her first year in college, I walked with her from our house way up at the top of our very long lane, down the long drive past two avocado groves and two neighboring homes, to our mailbox. It was fixed to a post alongside the neighbor’s box who lived in front of us, I remember having a good talk with her as we walked in our play clothes in the beating sun.  I sensed something different about her. I didn’t really know what, but it was a bit tantalizing to feel. When we got to our mailbox, she dug inside to retrieve the contents within. Then, she stopped, pulled out one more thing in a whisk of wild surprise! It was a postcard and she dropped half of the letters onto the ground as she voraciously read the card with those lovely Czech, wide-blue eyes of hers. “What is it? Who is it to? Who is it from? What does it say!”….”It’s from a boy I know from school…and it seems he does keep his promises. He said he would write me on his family trip to Hawaii” “Really? A boy? How exciting!” “Can I see?” “Please, can I read it?” …With the most solidly flattening “No”, she drew the line. But, she peered down at me, and smiled, then proceeded to skip all the way back up our driveway lane to home. That “boy” became her lifelong husband and to this very day they are still madly in love.

Yes, sisters are like that. Age differences can be difficult, but the sisterly bonds of love are clasped with ease. I love my Big Sis. I am in awe. And I am in her debt for all the kindnesses she has done for me.


Happy Birthday to her!





Ladies’ Hats and Lace-trimmed Gloves

“1-2-3-4-…no… one more- 5!” This was my little sister’s ritual countdown in church before we were shuffled off to our Sunday School classrooms. She always sat next to me, her knobby knees swiveling in position as her ever active legs swung up and down. Her lacy white ankle socks were always a constant flash complimenting her patent leather good shoes. My spunky sibling simply could not sit still for very long. She knew I was much the wiser and older by five years…probably too serious for her temperament. This was the impetus for her finding ways to distract me and attempt to get me to giggle in church. Sometimes it worked and totally blew my quest for being devout on Sundays. The worst timing of said ritual would be when she instigated these shenanigans during a somber hymn solo. We were supposed to sit quietly and stoically, displaying reverence for word and song. As kids, we could only take so much seriousness, and then we just had to explode in some way. If the hat counting didn’t work, then she would try fidgeting with her little purse. She would pose it on her lap and make little movements with the bows or the flowers as if they were animated in some way. Other times she would purposely slide her bum-dee-ay into mine to jolt me out of my mesmeric stupor. But the worst to control would be my sister’s pretending to cough or sneeze. Of course I knew they weren’t authentic! I just could not get past the silliness of it, because without turning my head, I could see and feel her hot red-cheeked, blue-eyed, freckled-nose face crowned in strawberry blonde locks. She was the epitome of effervescence in both visual and deed. Half a century later, I can report that my appreciation for her “apple-cart upsetting demeanor” remains strong and sweet.


Almost everybody attended church in our community. At one point we had 14 different denominations calling their flock to their pews. It is what you did on Sunday. Then you’d come home to have lunch or once in awhile go out to eat with family. Following that, depending on how the week had gone, the goals still to be reached, and the health status of everyone; whole families would be commanded by their dad to pile into the car to get going on a “Sunday Drive”. This could mean EVERYONE, from the tiniest baby to the visiting grandparents. It was a way to be entertained together. Once home, mothers would stir the stew or baste the roast, maybe even bake a pie. After dinner had been consumed, the entire clan would converge on the one television in the living room to watch either “Wonderful World of Disney”, “Bonanza”, or the “Ed Sullivan Show”. Sometimes it was the “Jackie Gleason Show” reiterating “How Sweet it is!” But, this piece is not about after church, it is about going to and being IN church.


They say church attendance is way, way down in the United States. Lots of reasons are given. Nowadays, with both parents working, children involved in multiple hobbies, clubs, sports and interests; the ritual of going to church at the end of a week seems an exhausting task. Additionally, the time-stealing homework loads coupled with heightened use of social media are also likely culprits. In other words–a lot of competition for one’s weekend time. But, back when I was a youngster we had our own relative “busy-ness.” However, come Saturday night, we laid out our Sunday best ready to wear the next morning. My mom or dad would give me a bath with either my brother or my sister-and wash my very long hair. Afterwards, once I had survived the near violent head shaking from my dad’s expert towel drying of my hair, my mom would proceed to tackle combing it out. Next, she’d roll my long tresses into clean socks from the “socks without partners” sock drawer. I would go to bed wearing probably ten socks all wound up in dampness, which by morning would be dry. Once they were unraveled, the curls would not disappoint. I would skip out the door in a fancy frock, shiny shoes, lace-trimmed white gloves or ones loosely knit, and a ribbon in my hair. Oh I loved those ribbons! Sunday School hats would come out of the mothballs in time for Easter, and were helpful the whole hot summer.  When I was a tad bit older, I graduated from bobby socks to lace stockings. It was the trend for girls and I sported a Twiggy haircut and mini-A-line shift instead of a frilly sundress from younger days. The point here is: one would not dare go to church without being “dressed to the nines”. It simply wasn’t done. This was how to show our respect to God. We displayed our very best! With our behavior, too! (Now you know why it irked me so– to be instigated to laugh whilst being seated in presumed reverence).


I wasn’t always a “goodie two shoes”. There are famous reports of me making dramatic demonstrations outside the Church entrance when I was barely old enough  to read. I remember throwing my Bible down on the pavement in order to get the “giants” surrounding me to pay attention. One girl who was about four years older,  had a crush on my big brother so she hung around us all the time. She would warn me not to do it again. Then I would! Much to the reactions of the taken aghast masses, this flagrant impudence of mine became evermore enjoyable. I have been told and also recall vividly, only singing the one hymn I approved of: “Onward Christian Soldiers”. It did not matter what the rest of the congregation was singing. I would still sing THAT one. Again, the stares of shock, query and disapproval were high entertainment for this little manipulator. I’m sorry….I think I just liked the marching rhythm of the song…what kid doesn’t love a good march? At least I didn’t venture out of my seat and start marching up and down the aisle!


In defense of my reputation, I must uphold the fact that once I was seated in my little circle corner, I was most pious and well-behaved. Now, I did often stare at the paintings on the wall. My first Sunday School classroom was in the church which was no bigger than a minute on a street in our town’s historic district. The rooms were very small, and this is the church where my Bible-throw-downs took place. But, my Sunday School room had windows framed in dark brown wood and white-washed walls. I always liked sitting in the seat facing our teacher directly. She thought it was because I wanted to really be attentive to her, but in actuality, I loved gazing at the painting that hung on the wall behind her. It depicted a youthful Jesus amongst a flock of lambs in a pastoral setting. One lamb was in his arms, his face peering lovingly down at the gentle creature. This painting is the origin of my affection for laemmles I have felt all my life. So if anyone ever says paintings are unnecessary, just don’t believe it.


My little sister and I weren’t the only rebel children in our family when it came to church-going dos and don’ts. In my preteens, my older brother now had his “Green Bomb” 56 Chevy. My father would ask him to take one of us kids to church with him in his car. Big bro liked taking me. I think it’s because I never argued with any of his ulterior motives. I seem to recall several Sundays where we completely never even made it to church. He would turn around after the family was down the driveway, and say, “Wouldn’t you rather stay home and make Bisquick biscuits with me? We’ll eat them up all ourselves!” Of course I’d comply. Biscuits hot from the oven, with slathered butter and dribbled jam? Holy Moley they were good! We did this naughty detour, time and time again, and this might be where I further cemented my often times obdurate behavior. But, I must admit I took my “just desserts”. One of the reasons he liked staying home was for the express purpose of watching “Chiller” or “The Twilight Zone”. He seemed obsessed wth scary stuff. (Yet, he would insist I sit right next to him). He was the one with whom I watched “Hound of the Baskervilles” and a most memorable Hitchcock thriller,”The Birds”. I believe he is the one who forced me to endure “Psycho”. I close my eyes and tremble just conjuring up the look that kills made by those Anthony Perkins’s eyes. Well, truth be told, I to this day do not like watching fright movies. They flood my visual way too impressively and the sounds can be even scarier. If I read something terrifying, I can have control. I can snap the book shut and regroup. Sitting in front of a screen I can’t. Forever paying the price, unfortunately. Should have gone to church in the car with Dad!


I too am to blame for at least trying to play hooky from church. Our esteemed patriarch always came in our room early Sunday morning and would wake us in a sudden swish of movement. He did not beat around the bush. He would throw off our covers, blankets, sheet and all. Simultaneously he’d chime loudly: “Up and at ’em!” One time I would not budge, I kept grabbing for the blanket. I tried telling him my outfit had holes in it. He countered with: It’s good to be holy on Sunday!”. Of course he won dominion over that protest.


Our father was reared in the Midwest. He raised us exactly how his parents did. He knew having church in one’s life was wholesome and character building. But, I think he was even more attuned to his Bible teachings than our mom. Granted, she knew her Beatitudes as well. But, my father was the one who would ask if we had read our Bible this week. I might go looking for him in the evening and he would be upstairs in his bedroom chair under a lamp reading and studying. I know it was important to him because his pat answer to almost everything was: “If you can follow all of the 10 commandments, you are doing better than most people.” So, I studied those 10 commandments a lot. And even though much of the Bible is meant to be interpreted, I grew up and still take the Ten Commandments literally. How did I come to be so permanently affixed to this line of faith?


My dad. For a good many years, he was MY Sunday School teacher. I was assigned TO HIM. Just as if I were any child in my little class, he expected me to memorize and learn verses straight from the King James Bible and to learn what they meant. I did. I was scared to not do well for him. I knew it was very close to his heart. Dad would also invite us to take turns reading aloud. I learned a lot from performing my best for him. My father also was great at answering questions we would have and they were usually straightforward. From him, I learned the essentials and they still stick with me today.


It bothers me that Sunday School is not a huge thing anymore. When my own kids attended Sunday school, the simplicity had already changed. In present times, children might learn part of a verse or one message and then recreate an art project to remember it by- merely duplicating the teacher’s example.  Over time, will they remember that watered-down message? Sure, my sons loved learning this way and  were proud of their little masterpieces, but, it was a lot like regular school. If Sunday School remained focused on memorizing, reading and discussing the Bible, it might have brought better results than we witness today.  These adults now, most likely don’t have the verses safely tucked in their mental pocket. I do, and will pull them out to bring comfort and clarification whenever necessary. It just seems that my own children’s era of church going was less entrenched in the actual study of the Bible. Maybe this is where the fraying has begun. If you don’t have the words held in your heart, then how can you have an affinity for church? A recipe of duty, devotion, compliance, study, toil, angst and glee with a stirred-in sense of honor for something omniscient and loving is what worked for my generation. We need to somehow circle round back to how it was. If nothing else, the community felt safer because most youngsters knew right from wrong.


I am very grateful for the times in which I grew up. I thank my parents for accompanying us to church and being good examples themselves. I thank my public schools who thought nothing wrong of putting on Christmas Pageants and calling Spring Break Easter Break. Even in public classrooms our teachers let us have moments of silence when we could pray. The stories we read might have characters who went to church, because these stories were a mirrored reflection of what society was doing. I always knew there were many different faiths. I knew some peers who attended church on Saturdays not Sundays. I knew some churches varied in their idea of what God is. Never once did I feel it was inappropriate to talk about going to church. Never once did I think my church was better than another. We went because we were obedient. Our elders knew better. They had lived longer.


It is quite sad that the modern world has quite saliently advertised the ills of some of those who are in religious power. The result is widespread skepticism and utter dismay to the point that going to church must mean you are a “radical”. You must be close-minded. Worse yet, you must be gullible. You must be oblivious to the fact that churches are institutions who are siphoning your money and brainwashing your mental state. Ironically, churches that take on a psychological focus are more and more popular. Less and less God is in the sermon and more and more “taking care of Me”. These churches are usually immersed in contemporary music which easily draws the public in. Attendees may come in whatever garb they wish. Play clothes, jeans, t-shirts, sneakers, rumply just rolled out of bed looks does not matter. Attendance is all that matters. Is it? Really? I thought learning, giving and pushing oneself to know and do more is what’s important. I thought thanking God with respect-yes- in how to dress and act, I thought those things were paramount.


In a world where we have poverty and homelessness I believe we need a resurgence of teaching those same lessons taught in my youth. We need those Bible verses to remind us of what to do and think. We don’t really learn these things from feel-good it’s all about Me “sermons”. We improve the world by remembering to say and follow “The Golden Rule.”


I thank my parents for every Sunday they overlooked their stressful lives and took us without fail, to church. I thank my grandma for teaching me to wrap and twist-tie my tithe coins in a hanky. Every time we opened them up and meted out our coins in our Sunday School circle, it felt like we were truly giving to something. I thank my Grandma, too, for “showing us off” at her church, holding us with her suede-soft gloved hands and later driving us in our “Sunday Best” to her local grocery store. She always made certain that we all went to church and loved God.


Sunday School.

Where I first defied.

Then tested.

Then listened.

Then spoke. Then memorized, recited and read.

Then ruminated and spoke again, on a higher level.


Church, where I came to love God and pay tribute through not only proverb and verse, but also music and song. The enveloping organ chords and music literally shook my soul.  The meaningful lyrics were sung again and again, punctuated by gulps of emotion and are imprinted in my brain…even five decades later.


I wish we were still counting old lady hats and fondling our own lace gloves. I wish our legs were still dangling in chairs and pews, as our eyes catch the subtle yet wondrous spectacle before them–the dazzling sheen on our shiny shoes.


I hope more “lambs” come back to the fold and smile inwardly,

as they turn the rice paper paged Bible before them,

ready to make real the printed word.








Going Coastal

I used to think living by the beach was all about the water, that proverbial patch of blue. The Holy Grail of all water to watch, sense, smell and best of all, hear. But you know…its so much more than that, Way more.

Just the sky as a daily changing canvas is worth the adoration. It is as if a painting constantly in the works is presented for you, from sun-up to sundown. Just in the last 45 minutes, I have noted the clouds go from white to cream to pale blue, and they are on their path toward slate gray any minute. Some evenings, a smidgen of lavender has melded into the closing colorful pallet. Often, this celestial blanket spread above appears soft and textured and elicits one’s imagination to wonder about the tactile feel of it all, if it were possible.

In my semi-circumference of view, are palm trees whose windy waltz interplays against the warmth of golden light that has been a constancy for eons. This bright orb that travels the coastal sky from dawn to dusk has been the subject of myth, folklore, history, science, music, art, dance, poetry, architecture, sculpture, lecture and even fashion. Every single culture that has existed on this earth has paid homage to our Sun and has revered her to the height of appointed Deity. Without our Eos, our beaches and sand, our hills and mountains, our greenery and flora, our creatures who walk the land would just not be. How poignant each day becomes at the behest of our great Star, the star from which our very own elemental existence simply could not even have begun. And what a backdrop for that shining globe- the expanse of shimmering sea!

To live by the beach is to adopt a lifestyle. First and foremost, is attitude. A bit of Hawaii in your every reaction. Is it the roll of the waves, the lull of tide, the hush of the breezes? What is it about a surfside town that makes her inhabitants so relaxed and calm? Take things in stride…”Cazh” is the word, its all cool, it’s all casual. Upon arriving to settle down and live in a beach town, the first person I encountered was a real estate agent. When he heard I was new and looking, he spilled forth: “Well, welcome to town!” Mind you this is a city, but there is a hometown heart here. My neighbors are openly friendly. Smiles, offers of aid, first names shared. Wow. Am I still in Southern California? Even my plumber who came to check out my sink the other day wore Bermuda shorts, sneakers and a t-shirt that read: “Have you hugged a Plumber today?” I mean, that’s just cute. Seriously! Cute. There’s hints that this is an ocean town…Surfin’ Donuts, a tall standing surfboard flanking an outspread hung USA flag in a post office lobby and a taco joint that has a surfer dude riding the waves for the logo. When one contemplates surfers, one thinks of the sort who take the time to ride the curl and hang a ten. These things take finesse, and devoted, carefree time. It seems that’s the seaside lifestyle. Prioritizing one’s life to commune under the Sun and in the water.

Is it coincidence that everywhere I look, I see people wearing Hawaiian shirts, sandals and sunhats as the clothing options of choice? Now, it isn’t easy to lose your temper with someone when either you or they or both are dressed in this manner. I mean really…how can you get angry when giant hibiscus flowers on a field of green are advertising peace, beauty and nature on one’s shirt, or their shirt?! Everyone has one skin tone here, regardless where they are from…it’s HEALTH tone! There’s appled cheeks, kissed from the sun noses, tans and browns of every degree. Plus, as you walk the sidewalks, a scent of suntan lotion drifts about every so often. Only those with a happy disposition spending time in the sunshine could acquire such robust coloring. A women’s clothing shop sign claims how it caters to the “Bohemian Lifestyle” with flippy, swishy skirts and sundresses. There are restaurants entitled with Patio, Lounge, Grill, Bistro, Nook and Corner on their marquees.  All these terms evoke relaxation, no hurrying…tarry awhile. References won’t let you forget you are in a laissez faire setting…there’s cabanas, coves, barbecues, and there’s even dolphin inns and seahorse shanties. The maritime whimsey is all around. It coddles one’s mentality. It navigates the disposition of the people.

Everything about living along the shore is a positive. Who wouldn’t want to live where the weather is temperate, with predictable morning and afternoon cooling zephyrs? But, in my coastal oasis, the desire to succumb to afternoon siestas is an overwhelming  indulgence. I can see how Spain, Portugal, Greece, Italy came to adopt this integral part of the day. It is taking time to relinquish one’s thoughts to what naturally feels good. A nap in a sailor’s hammock will do quite nicely, especially if outside in the open air. To appreciate these kindnesses from nature is important. After all, we pay enough attention to the opposite phenomenons in nature- the tornados, floods, and earthquakes. Why not engulf oneself in the sweet gift the ocean offers us every day- those winds from the big blue?

I notice in my new locale, there is a wide variety of people not only from varying walks of life, but from many ethnicities. As I strolled into my new bank the other day,  I saw patrons whom with normal ease were conversing with one another- each quite oblivious to any difference of any kind. This made me stop and think: why did I even notice this in the first place? Have I been living in THAT sheltered of a place in the past? I don’t think so, but there is an added ingredient here. I think it is the forward thinking acceptance. Everyone is just happy to be hangin’. Period. Living in a cosmopolitan place is definitely inspiring. Perhaps, this conglomeration of folk hails from a populace garnered from arrivals by boat, train and plane. Not too far down the coastline is a Marine Base. Some of these citizens might be veterans or relatives of those in service. No matter why people are here- they find themselves along for the wave of ease, happenstance, thrill and adventure!

Then there are the birds. At first, I thought there weren’t any. But, the other afternoon, as I ascended my outdoor stairway, I heard a mourning dove in the distance. When I reached my landing, I heard his mate answer back- and then the conversation ensued for several minutes. Funny, I felt invasive, so I stepped inside and a bit later noticed outside my door, on the closest wire to my home, sat the two birds. They were doing just what everyone else here seems to do…just hangin’ together, checking out the scenery- and perched, facing the ocean. I thought, “Wow, even the birds are romantic!”

There are many, many dogs. They are beautiful. Always on a leash and with a fit as a fiddle owner. Because where I live is quite hilly, people slip on their sneakers and  everyone’s “Best Friend” leads them along, as they trudge up and over the undulating land. The day I arrived, my neighbor in the house next door introduced himself, and his dog felt he must do the same. Maybe the pooch was excited, but I did hear his dog bark quite a bit for several hours. It has been nearly a month now, and I have not heard him since or any other dog. I see plenty of them, just not hear them. So living here are content four legged ones as well? Great! People, birds, dogs…everybody is happy!

Originally, the land that comprises much of this modern-day municipality was owned by a Spaniard. All of it, for miles far beyond what the eyes can follow, was his Rancho. Then, in the 1930s, an out of place Norwegian decided he wanted to build a “Spanish village by the Sea”. He bought la tierra, and immediately set to paper a few hard and fast rules. Mainly, he wished to expound on the adobes with red-tiled roofs that were already a long-time complement to the virgin landscape. Thus, he decided to create a city ordinance stipulating that all new buildings must reflect this historic, Spanish style. Eventually, some infiltration of other forms of architecture dotted the cityscape, but for the most part, the original adobes and the initial builds for his Spanish hamlet have survived and been untampered.

The earliest village “Ole Town” streets are still here, and in fact, my home is on one of those streets. They twist and turn and there is absolutely no rhyme or reason to them. Creating a grid to follow, just did not happen. Authentically, as in the days of past centuries, roads were created more as foot and cart paths threading amongst cottage-size homes; not streets for the modern motorcar. I love this aspect, because it trains my brain to be observant and to imprint pictorial paths in which to go hither and thither. It makes living here a bold enterprise every time one sets out to go somewhere! However, in my travels, I have found a few long, intersecting -across the village- thoroughfares that do help. Out and about, are residents walking, biking, skate-boarding, as well as driving. No matter how you traverse this town, the views of homes clifftop-perched at every angle to catch a glimpse of Sun and Ocean, is breathtaking! In panoramic breadth, contemporary homes somehow harmonize with the echoing of architecturally historic visuals of young California. This serves to entice and entrance those who gaze upon it all- as they pass along. It would seem they are under a spell, perhaps long-ago cast by Neptune’s rolling waves of the sea.

Throughout the city are Spanish detail references. Over-reaching some main boulevards arch wrought iron Spanish frilled street signs and lanterns. Colorful tiled homes and buildings are in abundance.  They often have original ceramic tile as exterior decoration, or in their inner courtyards. One can glimpse painted tile designed as borders around windows and doors. There are crafted large, inlaid mosaic-tile medallions set into low walls along the village main street, while others name beach access tunnels. I have even noticed old “cobblestonesque” sidewalks up and down the rows of shops. There is some stained glass, but it is that familiar red roof tile and crisp white-walled adobe that adds Mediterranean flair to the surroundings.

A colorful brush has painted this seaboard town. Blue, white, red, and the nearly chartreuse green rounded hills with abundant mustard in bloom, create a primary color feast for the eyes. In addition to these rich hues, are the violet spires of Echium Candicans, and the purple clusterings of Limomiun Statice Perizil. Orange beaked Bird of Paradise or Flower Strelitzia are everywhere. Cranberry red Bougainvillea grow prolific and spontaneously along the coast.  Much of it is planted to add rich contrast to the white-washed walls of the adobes. Also, indigenous to the coastal shale soil and climate, and growing with profusion, is the Malva (Lavatera) maritime bi-color blooming shrubs, showcasing pale lilac and deep purple. Just gorgeous! Look closely, as one can see red Calistemon, or wild growing bottle-brush in clusters of ground cover. Remembering childhood, my eyes have zoned-in on the hot pink and magenta Carpobrotus Acinaciformis, a native succulent to the shoreline cliffs and crevices. With such a splash of color on every turn, it is no wonder as to how California became the land of dreams.

Having officially set anchor in this new “berth”, I’m certain there will be a bounty of discoveries in the next upcoming months, after all, summer is around the bend. I have read there are surfing contests, bowlings on the green, street fairs, farmers’ markets, festivals and outdoor concerts in the works. Meeting people and relishing the fine weather are expressions of daily routine. My gratitude for having this new zip code in which to dwell is immeasurable. It all began with the Pacific as my magnet. Yet, living by the ocean is so much more than mere gazing at the azure jewel sparkling out to the south, west and northwest. Knowing this, I still pinch myself to prove it is real.





Yin and Yang,Though Mostly Yang

Yesterday, I experienced the yin and yang of life.

Since my life has been teetering on a most abrupt precipice of late, the day began in the new “normal” style: one slated for adventure. I jumped into my Sun Goddess, started her up and took off for the beach. After all, it was a glorious, crisp, California-winter sort of a day! I knew the ocean must be looking spectacular with the skies awash in bright blue. The divergent cloud clustering sprinkled sporadically here and there could only add to the panoramic skyscape. Well, needless to say, I was not disappointed.

I took the 57 to the 5 which is not a route I drive usually. Why not? There’s ocean south of Malibu! Once I reached Orange County in a flight of vehicular fancy only Southern Californians dream about, I spotted a strip of blue just a bit past Los Osos, I believe. Next, I noted the artistic carving of swallows on wing in the freeway side walls as I commandeered my wheels past San Juan Capistrano, down the 5 which courts the coastal lands.

And then- I spotted it! My muse. The Pacific. She lived up to her name, all smooth like a blue plane of glass-an azure shimmer at peace. Not a sailboat on the water, no mark of humankind, just outstretching calm.

I was grateful the freeway, itself, was flowing like a body of water. That allowed me to appreciate the beauty. But after many miles I hit cities that were further inland and the 5 no longer hugged the shore.

But, still, even as cities these people were so lucky to be so close to feel the ocean air. Maybe they can’t hear the pounding surf, but the air is quite different than inland. I knew this was why I was driving on a whim. I was in quest of sea songs carried on sea winds. I think my car has a “Seaward” button to press for immediate automotive splendor.

Further on, the 5 lined up with the coast again. The long stretch from well before San Onofre through and past Camp Pendleton, slicing through Mission Viejo, has that bright blue platter of water-served up as an irresistible feast for our eyes…Oceanside, then Carlsbad, Escondido, etc…a reception line of communities welcomed me all along the way.

Finally, on impulse, I veered off the road taking an offramp to somewhere… I just made sure my trail was headed west. Well, I drove to the beach. Kids were just coming out of school and skateboards were at play, getting riders to their destinations. A friend’s house? After-school tutoring? Music lessons? Grandma’s? The burger joint? Starbuck’s? Home to hug their mom or the family collie?

I then spotted a place that might be a good place to live one day. I zipped into the driveway and had a look around. A realtor was there showing it to interested potential residents. She was very sweet and quite willing to explore any question or concern That popped into my mind. I admired her savvy. She knew her facts and knew what people need to know. After a fairly short look around, I walked back to my parking space. All the while I was thinking… imagine living down by the beach?!

Well I backed out and shifted my sweet ride into Drive. As I moved forward about 75 feet, suddenly to my dismay, the engine turned off. Just shut off like the snap of one’s fingers. This has happened a few times before in the last three months. Same scenario. I go from reverse into drive and then the engine decides to take a hiatus!

Well, the bad thing was, I was in the middle smack dab of the driveway…cars could not leave nor enter as long as I was a sitting duck. Not even a swan. A duck. Of course I panicked! Of course I tried over and over to start up the engine! But to no avail.

Now, the realtor with perspicacity drew lines from point to point with a mental pencil and straight-edge ruler. She determined before I even call for AAA, that I secure myself and my little roadster off to the side. I thought, “Sure, Brilliant! Who has my I dream of Genie bottle? Where did I last pocket my Bewitched magic nose?” I suggested we go ask a neighbor to help push the car.

In a flash she went to elicit help and a gentleman flatly denied saying he had back problems. Well, “Mavis, the Marvelous”, returned to say she was going to push me herself. I told her no, that she will injure herself! She replied, “So what? I’m 78!” I countered with a pleading that was laced with wonder as to how anyone could think so cavalierly about their heart and Health? I implored her to just let me call a tow-truck. I was too fraught with worry for her.

But folks, there are miracles in this world. Mavis the magnificent told me in all of her senior citizen shrewdness, to put my car in neutral. I did. And before I could get out to help, she commanded me to stay put and steer to the right. Her hands placed on my side mirror and door were primed for action. You know, that fierce “I am Woman, hear me roar”, feistiness fueled her to move me and my wheels just a few feet to clear a drive path!

With my jaw dropped and queasy stomach churning in anguish for her well-being, I witnessed a bonefied miracle. She HAD to get to her next appointment- and by golly she mustered the strength to get the job done so she would!

I wanted to thank her and pay her and exchange information— but she hopped into her own car, carefully eeked it past me looking straight ahead, and took off for location unknown… in a dash of time.

My friends, if ANY of you say being older is debilitating, please eat your words. Mavis was Superwoman yesterday as well as Supercitizen. She proved women can do what we set our minds to do. Her determination became my miracle. I am EXTREMELY indebted to her. But most of all, I’m in awe. What a gal! Thank you, Mavis!

After much incongruent cell phone communication, and a time lapse of about 40 minutes…my car simply started up on a first try. I had no choice but to just go- GO!

You can all guess the ending. It took me nearly 3 hours to get home to our snowy San Gabriels. It was pretty much the most horrific, frightening, nail-biting, topper of all driving experiences driiiive home of my long life. But, I’m here, in one piece.

The Sun Goddess? She’s here, and on punishment. Shame on her. I need to solve this problem. But, I will ever be grateful for a Mavis, a woman with Chutzpah to have crossed my path in a HUGE , important way.