Tag Archives: #Woodside

My Life is Like a Pearl Necklace

bnm(of Itty Bitty Miracles All Strung Together.)    by Christina Ivazes

This story is dedicated to the parents of Joanna Newsom, who nurtured an angel!

 

Although it was obvious there wasn’t much living going on in our living room, I never thought of it as being empty until the morning after that magical night.

The temporary territories we called “home” only contained necessities and usually didn’t include things like couches or coffee tables, and definitely did not include anything decorative hanging on walls. Our family necessities were mattresses, cooking and eating utensils, a few pieces of clothing each and a kitchen table with chairs. As a child, I never questioned the need for more furniture to create the warmth of a home. Our view of what was normal was designed by what we saw and experienced, not by what we did not.

In between homes, my father must have scavenged assorted pieces of furniture quickly to provide us with the basics until we moved onto the next house or apartment. We only carried what we could fit into the trunk of our car and a few toys, though there were still the instinctive and repetitious fights with my siblings over who got the ‘baby spoon’ or ‘baby fork.’ It mattered that whatever it was stood out from the others because in a family of five children, standing out was the ultimate goal and a complete set of matching silverware and dishware was something only Grandmas were made of.

Or perhaps baby spoons and those other coveted objects disguised the fact that there were much deeper terrors in my life. This may also explain why I have guarded a few precious and seemingly insignificant memories, elevating them to the prodigious events of my otherwise tragic childhood recollections.

Something else I should mention is that even though we didn’t have living room furniture in that short-lived Mountain View home in California, we were blessed with two new sets of second-hand bunk beds while we were living there! It felt to me like we had hit the lottery when my parents carried them into our house. I don’t know how they did it. These beds were the first real bedroom furniture for us older kids. One set was made of wood and the other set was metal, which I distinctly remember being painted a pale green. They were each put in a separate bedroom. I remember the thin, green metal railings. I slept on the top bunk because I was the oldest. I must have been about six or seven years old.

Though the arrival of bunk-beds was monumental, it doesn’t compare to the unexpected event that highlights this home like a blazing light in my childhood. And forgive me while I explain a bit more about my father because he was the conductor of this particular event. Daddy was a house painter by trade in those days before he became a chimney sweep. But foremost, he was a musician.

Daddy played the horns. He played trombone, baritone horn, and the trumpet (which he played in the military service). He must have been quite good because when I was older Daddy told stories of two famous brothers who had big bands in the 40’s who were fighting over who would have him in their band. He decided against their offers. He also boasted that Martha Graham had offered him to be her lead musician when she went out on tour, but he turned her down too. Even back then, Daddy’s brilliance was overshadowed by his eccentricities that became the theme of my childhood. Eccentricities that made poverty pale in comparison. Like when Daddy eventually added giant gongs to his instrumentation, but those gongs are yet another story.

Yes, Daddy’s passions lied in his life as a musician. Ironically this same lifestyle, the lifestyle that attracted Mommy to him the night he played at Nepenthe in Big Sur (with Henry Miller in the audience), was where many of their marital problems erupted. As the eldest, I observed and experienced the tensions between Daddy and Mommy more directly than my siblings as Mommy spilled her anger and frustrations onto me in the form of yelling and beatings. All of this going on while Daddy dedicated his evenings to music after a hard day of work.

Though my story takes place in the late 1960’s, Daddy was known as one of the first people to perform during a ‘light show’ for the other counter-cultural Beatniks in San Francisco from the 1940’s. (A light show is a moving picture of swirling food coloring and oil on a projector that is displayed on a screen while spontaneous instrumentation is played in the background, most closely related to the ‘acid jazz’ of our modern era.) Daddy was way ahead of his time with the ‘in crowd,’ so he said, although I never understood any of this stuff until I became an adult. I was just a kid.  I didn’t really understand what he did late at night in the garage with other people that never came into our house, with the exception of this one night.

I recall Daddy asking Mommy for permission to store an item for one of his friends, only overnight. Like a dutiful wife, she complied. Later that afternoon I walked into our stark, white walled living room and saw it. The most beautiful thing I had ever seen illuminated in the far left corner of the room as if it had its own stage lighting. It was a giant, magnificent golden harp as exquisite and curvaceous as a mermaid, as golden as an award’s statue, and as finely strung as if by a hundred angels. I am quite sure I lost my breath. As I moved in to get a closer look, Daddy blurted out in his firm, no messing around manner, “Don’t you dare touch it Christie!” Daddy’s wrath was my biggest fear. He was always the bad guy in every nightmare I had about Mommy and him fighting. The last thing I wanted was for one of those nightmares to become real.

bnj   So, to state the obvious, there was no way I was getting anywhere near that gorgeous instrument; even though I wanted to so bad I could feel it resonating throughout my entire being. I just planted myself on the bare wooden floor in the opposite corner of the room and studied it.

A child’s active imagination is an amazing pool of creative wealth and mine was extremely active in those days. My school report cards were speckled with comments about too much ‘daydreaming in class.’ In this particular moment, my eyes glued to the harp, I was liberated to daydream without teacher retribution. Familiar cartoon images of angels playing harps started racing through my mind. I envisioned full-sized and feather light angels dressed in gossamer fabric playing sweet melodies that drifted off in never ending sonorous threads. The imagined sounds and physical dimensions of this instrument seemed larger than life and much grander than I had ever realized the influence of a harp could be. It sounded luscious. It glowed profusely, filling the entire room with its beauty. It became my refuge, offering me a perfect and tiny, yet infinitesimal moment of peace through my eyes and imagination.

Today, I can only speculate that that was one night where I truly had sweet dreams, instead of the ritual nightmares of Mommy and Daddy fighting. Nightmares that always left me in a urine soaked sweat by morning. But on that following morning I wasn’t wet. Without hesitation, I jumped up and raced into the living room to greet my wonderful new friend.

My heart sank.  It was gone, taking my dreams away with it; taking its golden light from my otherwise dark reality. The living room was no longer a stage. It was just a barren, cold living room again, like the dozens of other barren, cold living rooms throughout my childhood. How I wished I had secretly snuck up to touch and strum those magical strings just once, to leave the room with its real, everlasting echoes of angels. Why didn’t I? I knew why.

But the feeling of its soothing sound and its golden glow beaming from the corner of our gallery stark living room will always sit inside me, illuminating a corner of my mind with magic and surprise. I had been very lucky and I knew it. I had been graced with the potential of the ever appearing surprises life offers when you least expect them. To this day, whenever I see a golden harp, I am transported. That warm glow becomes the present and I thank the harp for offering refuge to the little girl in me and for the proof in the miracles of possibility.

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If My Mother Were Alive Today

IF MY MOTHER WERE ALIVE TODAY
March 28, 2009

If my mother were alive today
she would probably have a vegetable garden,
though she never grew anything other than us five kids that I can remember.
She would embrace the Green and Slow Food movements, organic food, Alice Waters, Al Gore, recycling, and perhaps even have a compost pile.
My mother was an avid follower of Adelle Davis and Julia Child; gourmet cuisine and nutrition, though never in the same meal.

If my mother were alive today
I think she would revere our new President Obama,
just as she had John F. Kennedy.
I remember the day I arrived home from kindergarten to find her sitting in front of the television in our living room, crying.
When I asked her what was wrong, she told me our President had been killed. My five-year old mind could not comprehend the implications of such an event or the sorrow of her tears; now I understand.

If my mother were alive today
I hope she would be happy that I actually read
Tolstoy’s, War and Peace.
A two-volume paperback version of War and Peace was by her bedside
when she went into the coma that ended her life three days later.
I have to confess that I read it this past winter,
in order to finish something she had started.

If my mother were alive today
she would be happy that I still take walks up on ‘Mummu’s Hill’-
the open space my grandmother fought for years to save.
She would be comforted that I still appreciate where I come from
no matter where life has led me.
Coincidentally, I was on that hill today, comforted by my old friends the California poppies, Tidy Tips, and Buttercups dancing amongst memories of family walks during holidays gatherings. Though Mommy was never there for those walks, it was because of her we were there.

If my mother were alive today
I would make sure she saw her seven great grandchildren
and that they knew how special she was.
She was a deeply intellectual and philosophical thinker,                                                                                                                                                fascinated with avant garde culture and the possibility of extraterrestrial life.              

If my mother were alive today
I hope she would celebrate with me to find out
I am one week away from sending my 1st. manuscript
to the publisher;
something she didn’t have the opportunity to do.
I found out years later that before her death she spent two years writing a novel
which was destroyed before anyone could read it.

If my mother were alive today
we could discuss literature over coffee—two of her habits I fervently adopted.
Insisting I knew she was cultured and literate                                                                                                                                                                         
 she took me for walks on the Stanford University Campus,                                                                                                                                                 sharing secrets of what seemed to be an ‘alter-life’.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Though after our walks we inevitably returned to our real home,                                                                                                                                                  a shack in the ghetto of East Palo Alto.
But, no matter how poor or trapped we were in any given moment
my mother demonstrated that we always had books and the knowledge of others
to expand our lives beyond our circumstances.

If my mother were alive today
I could ask her the many, many questions
about her life that she left unanswered
like, ‘Who was my father?’
What was it really like                                                                                                                                                                                                    following around the jazz greats in the 50’s and living in the basement of Kalisa’s in Monterey?                                                                                         What actually happened that summer in Lake Tahoe during her 16th year,                                                                                                                                that seemed to change her self-concept forever?

I may never know the answers
to these questions;
I can only imagine.
I am comforted in knowing she is happy where she is now
because she told me so
when she visited me in my dreams after her death.
Today is the thirty eighth anniversary of that death,
Which came seven days after her 34th birthday.

This loss of my mother                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    gave me a different experience in life.
As a twelve-year old, I had to figure things out for myself
stumbling through how to be a woman, a wife, a mother, and a professional.                                                                                                                        I had many rough moments, and some really bad influences but eventually                                                                                                                                   I sought out awesome mentors who helped me find my way.

As is human nature,                                                                                                                                                                                                                     I have taken on some of my mother’s unfinished business and                                                                                                                                                      preserved every precious little kernel of culture and wisdom                                                                                                                                                  she fed to me in my first twelve years from preparing crème brulee’ and cardamom bread
to a love of literature, education, and the Extraordinary in Life.                                                                                                                                                   I have come to appreciate those kernels more                                                                                                                                                                     because there are so few of them.                                                                                                                                                                                            Loss has been my inspiration, my eternal compassion,                                                                                                                                                              never taking for granted how precious my life is;                                                                                                                                                                   each kernel becoming a jewel with time.                                                                                   

If you can hear me Mommy,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  I just want you to know that I, too am okay!

Love, Christie

 

 

 

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