Tribute to a Great Lady

On September 1, 1990, Wilma Sehnert died. I was asked to speak at her service. She lived two doors down from us in Alhambra and became our second mother. Here’s what I said that day:

There’s hardly a significant event of my youth that Wilma was not part of. Looking back, I can remember the beautiful woman with the dark, shiny hair, the ever-present bangs, the warm twinkling eyes, the mischievous smile, and that contagious, throaty laugh.

I remember scorching summer afternoons before the advent of air conditioning, where the only breath of air was expelled from our seared lungs, and the only hope of relief lay in the Sehnerts’ backyard under the shade of a tree in the few inches of cool water contained in Dan’s small wading pool. And I remember our childish amusement when our mothers dared to share our little oasis of comfort. And amidst it all was Wilma—bringing sweat-frosted glasses of lemonade and iced tea. She refilled the little pool as fast as we emptied it with our games and always made us feel as though she enjoyed our play as much as we did.

I remember days which, with the magic of time, have taken unto themselves a sort of mythic unreality. Were we ever really that serene? Was life ever that pure and untouched?

During those lovely summers of our innocence, our families took turns hosting neighborhood potluck suppers. The Grahams, Sehnerts, and our family rotated these weekly events. But I remember the evenings at the Sehnerts with particular fondness. Perhaps it was their wonderful patio, which my dad helped build. At one end was an edifice of brick—a magnificent structure which was the equivalent of today’s outdoor kitchen. On the nights of the potlucks the built-in barbeque was put into service. During our play, however, it might be used as a walled fortress or a mountain to be climbed or a bunker.

Perhaps I remember best the quiet times after our meal when ancient grey-covered songbooks with yellowing pages would be passed around and the singing began. I can recall falling asleep to the strains of “Show Me the Way to Go Home,” “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” and “Good Night Irene.” The latter may have been Wilma’s favorite, as I can’t recall a single time when it was skipped. Or perhaps I remember it best because of her enthusiasm in singing it. While she may have lacked a bit in technical ability, she made up for it in enthusiasm! Sometimes Laura Lee Graham or my mother would add harmony, and the sweet sound of those female voices still rings in my memory.

I remember the wonder of the first television I ever saw—in the Sehnerts’ living room. At the center of a massive wooden cabinet was a small, slightly blurred screen on which real people moved and talked! The Hollywood Christmas Parade was an annual tradition. We kids sat on the floor as close to the set as our parents would allow and watched the parade. Don would build a fire in the fireplace, and in the background was Wilma, serving up mugs of delicious steaming hot chocolate. Sometimes there was also popcorn or cookies. It was the official beginning of the holiday season for many years and a memory my brother and I both cherish.

I remember Wilma during the hard times, too.

She was there for Mom, too. She was the first one at the house when Mom got the news of my father’s death, and was a constant fixture for the following weeks and months. She took care of us kids and saw to it that we had a second home to go to if we needed it. My brother, Ron, and I counted on that assurance and probably took advantage of her generosity far too often.

One of the most vivid pictures in my recollection is of Wilma dragging Dan’s little wagon, filled to overflowing with good food, up the street to our house each night after my dad died when I was seven. She’d arranged with all the neighbors to prepare the dishes, and then delivered these feasts herself.

Since Mom didn’t drive, Wilma was generous about taking us wherever we needed to go and helped her practice driving.

Since there was no money in our budget for extras, I had to pay for my own bicycle: the enormous sum of sixty dollars. (To me at ten-years-old, it might has well have been a thousand!) Wilma was there again. She invented excuses to have me run to the store for her so she so she could tip me more than was required when I returned. She ‘hired’ me to help her clean her house and overpaid me for the job. (When I was older, I realized that she probably had a cleaning service and didn’t really need any help.) I don’t know how much of that bicycle was purchased through her generosity, but I do know that without her, I never would have gotten it!

During my high school years, she was there for me, too. I remember once when a particularly important occasion arrived (so important that the particulars have escaped me) and as always, there was no money in our tight budget for a new dress. I had nothing close to appropriate in my wardrobe. But Wilma loaned me one of her dresses. It was a favorite of hers and mine. I can picture it clearly: white pique cotton with a V-neck, tight bodice, low back, and flared skirt. I felt like a princess wearing it! And I was frightened throughout the evening of soiling it.

She saved me the night of my senior prom, too. A girlfriend had offered to do my hair and makeup the afternoon of the dance. By the time she left my house, my hair looked like a huge rat’s nest and I was hysterical. Mom did the only sensible thing she could think of: she called Wilma. Still sobbing, I went to her house where, in a very short time, she transformed the disaster into perfection. She styled my hair into a sleek and sophisticated French twist with wispy bangs and fragile curls in front of my ears. Then she added her own lovely hair band of tortoiseshell, to match my hair, studded with rhinestones. It looked as though someone had sprinkled stars in my hair. She redid my makeup, and when she was through, I felt like Cinderella with my very own fairy godmother.

As I grew older and moved away from the neighborhood, I didn’t see as much of Wilma as I probably should have. But I always knew she was there. We met several times for lunch, and I’d stop by if I was visiting my mother.

She was always such a constant in my life—rock-solid and dependable. When I try to picture the world without her, I know that much of its sparkle and energy would be dimmed. What a bright light she was to so many of us!

She took in all of us strays and gave generously—of her possessions, but mostly she gave of herself. She was never easy on us. Quite the contrary. She expected the best from each one, and we did our best not to disappoint her.

One of her most memorable phrases to us kids was, “come on, you can do it!” And, although I know it would embarrass her terribly to hear it, much of what I learned about the kind of love they tried to teach in Sunday school came not from that source but from the example she set. Through her faithful and constant acts of selfless love, I observed what commitment and unconditional love were all about.

Love is a verb, and Wilma put it clearly into action. Those acts of love are very real and precious to each of us who was blessed to be a recipient of them and had Wilma touch our lives.

Visiting the Past

Not long ago, we had occasion to drive through Arcadia, California, the city where we’d lived for seventeen years. We bought our first home where we raised our daughter there in 1970. Fortunately Larry’s cousin purchased the house from us and still owns it, so it remained in the family. That alone made it easier to leave.

We ate breakfast at one of the restaurants we’d enjoyed when we lived there. At that time (twenty-five years ago), the population was primarily white-haired seniors. On our recent visit, however, the place was packed with young families of several ethnicities. It felt good to know that the area was once again alive and that a new generation would be growing up there.

Many of the familiar stores and other businesses were gone and replaced with newer ventures.

FIRST HOUSE

Driving by the old house was an exercise in nostalgia. It looked fresh and well-maintained. Of course, the roof line is different than when we first moved in. A fire in 1980 required replacing the original. We decided to go for a full gable on the front. The yard has also been completely replaced. The tree roots had lifted the brick entry so that it had become dangerous. There is now a nice railing around the porch and a new front door.

     1970    

     2012

HOME TOWN

The same afternoon, we found ourselves in Alhambra, the town where we’d grown up, so we decided to drive down Main Street to see what it looked like now. We were surprised that several of the old businesses remained. Since they were family-owned establishments and we had moved away many years before, we were delighted to see them.

We also drove to the neighborhood where we had both lived. All the houses looked well-preserved, and most had additions, including the ones we had been raised in. They were very small to start with, so the addition of more square footage was no surprise.

CONCLUSIONS

It was fun visiting the past, and we were grateful for the time spent in both locations, but we were also very happy to return to our current home in Dana Point. We adore the neighborhood, the neighbors, the proximity to the beach, and the house itself.

Have you ever gone back to places you’ve lived in the past? How did it feel? What did you learn?

Word(s) of the Day

At a recent women’s retreat, we were given an opportunity to be alone and consider how we were feeling that day. We were to define that emotion in one word. However, being a wordsmith, I couldn’t limit it to one word. Instead I came up with three:

CONTENT

The day before, as part of a book study, we had discussed contentment and discontent. I realized that especially since we’ve retired, I’m truly content with my life.

I love my home, my family, my neighbors. I’m living a life I couldn’t have begun to imagine when I was young and very poor. We’ve visited places all over the world that I’d only read about and never expected to see. We’ve had experiences far beyond my wildest dreams.

And we’ve managed to retire together with enough financial security to allow us relative peace of mind.

Many friends are suffering from various debilitating physical ailments. We are both in good health, adding another reason for contentment. Larry surfs nearly every weekday, and I walk two miles each morning with friends.

We are still active mentally as well. We continue to write, both together and apart. Larry published his book, Lakeview Park, last December. My new book, Ghost Writer will come out this summer. And we have several more currently in the works.

BLESSED

I feel truly blessed to be surrounded by people whom I adore, and who love me in return. We have been active in the same church family for many years. Those relationships are our emotional and spiritual safety net.

We are blessed with a wonderful, loving family. And that is truly a gift.

We live in Paradise, otherwise known as Dana Point, California. Our neighbors watch out for us as we do for them. In a time when most people are transient, we’ve lived in the same place for twenty-five years with nearly all the same people. We know our neighbors as good friends.

GRATEFUL

I was born in the most prosperous and free country in the world. And I get to live in one of the most beautiful places in that country in a large, beautiful home.

I’m wrapped in the love of friends and family, all of whom are close and treasured

I was actually able to retire, despite spending many years as the filling in the ‘sandwich generation.’ That’s more than many baby boomers are able to do. And I get to spend a lot of time just hanging out with Larry, my soul mate and best friend.

I get to write books, both together with Larry and separately. I love writing and appreciate having something constructive and pleasurable to do in retirement.

Unlike when I was working, I can now spend more time doing for others. For instance, on Mondays, we go to Del Obispo Terrace, the assisted living facility where my mother spent several of her happiest years. We sing and share with the residents. These people are truly an inspiration, and we always feel blessed to be able to spend time with them.

Larry and I are both healthy and active and expect to continue to be so going forward.

Is it any wonder that I start each day with a prayer of thanksgiving?

How about you? What is your word of the day?

Betty Crocker Homemaker of Tomorrow

 

I've rarely mentioned it... Actually, for many years, it was a joke and a little bit embarrassing.

In school, I was "the smart one." I was a life member of the National Honor Society, won a couple of scholarships, concentrated hard on the academics, and made outstanding grades. I designed the emblem for our high school’s senior sweater and had my picture in the paper often during my senior year.

So how did I also win the Betty Crocker Homemaker of Tomorrow contest?

My friend, Marie Mazetta, was a homemaking student. When they announced that there’d be a test for the Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year, I had no intention of entering. But Marie wanted to, and she didn't want to go alone. So I finally agreed to go with her.

It was a multiple-choice test, and I really thought I'd blown off the answers. I was the first one finished, and I left. The part I hadn't counted on was that I'd been doing most of the household tasks for years: cleaning, shopping, budgeting, etc.

No one was more shocked than I when my name was announced as the winner!

I received a cute little gold pin and a certificate. And I thought it was a hoot!

However, about fifteen years ago, I decided to wear the pin to work to show it to someone, and I lost it. I hadn't realized how much that silly thing meant to me until it was gone. After searching for several years, and finding several that looked the same but were a larger size, I finally located another on eBay and purchased it.

The 'new' one is now back in the shadow box where I'd kept my original one, and my world seems complete once more.

Silly, the things that seem to define you. I never recognized that this award, another in the long string of awards I've won over the years, actually mattered to me. Perhaps, it was because it was so unexpected. Perhaps it was because it demonstrated a different skill set than I was normally recognized for. But, for whatever reason, that silly little pin became more precious as the years went by.

I ran across the ‘wrong’ ones one day shortly before Christmas a couple of years ago and realized that I knew women who embodied the values measured by the competition: “family relationships, spiritual and moral values, child development and care, health and safety, utilization and conservation, money management, recreation and use of leisure time, home care and beautification, community participation, and continuing education” (Copied from the Betty Crocker website http://www.bettycrocker.com/community/forums/27/32621.) My sister-in-love and two nieces had truly created homes where friends and family gather, where children are welcome, where nurturing and love can be found.

So I decided that each of them should have one of those little pins to remind them of what a special gift ‘homemaking’ is and how much I loved and admired them for doing so for their families.

Isn’t it strange how things we thought were unimportant take on significance as we get older? Is there anything in your life experience that has become more important in later years?

Observation

My husband and sometime collaborator (or cohort in crime), Larry K. Collins, is my guest blogger this week. Hope you enjoy his  unique point of view.

Nora Ephron once said that being a writer was like being a wallflower at an orgy. While all those around you are having a good time, you’re standing nearby taking notes.

I’ve found that to be true. As a writer, I observe differently. Every person, event or situation can become fodder for my next novel.

My work in theme park construction provided excellent training in how to view things differently. I’ll explain using an actual event.

One day while working at Universal Studios Hollywood, I found myself trapped on the upper level of the Jurassic Park Show Building with the ride in full operation. Every thirty seconds, a boat containing twenty-five guests would pass my hidden location. As soon as one vehicle disappeared from sight, another would enter the scene. However, escape was relatively easy once you were familiar with guest mentality. No rider, who is not in the entertainment industry, ever looks back!

After the boat passed, I stepped out onto the emergency egress path adjacent to the stream and followed. I was about three feet behind the raft and could easily have tapped a rider in the last row on the shoulder. I had to pause a moment to let the Dilophosaurus (spitter) finish spraying the guests with pseudo-poison. Then, as they stared ahead at the menacing T-Rex and began the eighty-five foot drop out of the building, I exited unseen through a backstage door.

Of course, since I’ve built several attractions, when I’m riding, I always look forward and back. Now, when I ride, I’m noting where they hid the speakers and lights, how the effects and gags are done, and the quality of the scenery. Good effects still impress me, but I don’t appreciate shoddy workmanship.

My enjoyment has not decreased; I just see it differently. I’m still and will always be a theme park junkie.

The same happens with writing.

Sometimes, nearly forgotten memories from personal experiences will appear in my writing. Skinny-dipping off Molokai took thirty-five years to show up in a story of newlyweds on a honeymoon on Maui. I had the incident stored in my memory banks just waiting for use.

More often, I’ll see a person or witness an event and think, “Boy that would make a good story.”

My book Lakeview Park developed from observing interesting people during noontime walks around a local park in Orange County, California.

One day, I saw an old man in crisp white pants, starched shirt, and yachting cap seated next to a young boy in a ragged tee-shirt and cutoff jeans. Each was sailing a radio-controlled model sailboat in the small lake. They looked to be from two different worlds, and yet they laughed together as they shared a common interest. From this brief observation came an imagined story of how they met in “Alex”.

When I watched caregivers lovingly attending to patients in the nursing home where my mother-in-law lived for five years, I said to myself, “I want to write about the devotion and care that these strangers perform, often unrecognized and unrewarded.” Several stories in Lakeview Park, including “George” and “Alex,” were enhanced by these observations.

People and events that cross my path each day become stories to set down on paper. Perhaps being a wallflower at an orgy isn’t such a bad place to be, especially for a writer.

Creating Characters

We’re often asked how we create characters. Do they just appear or do we make them up? The answer is “YES”!

The truth is that we sometimes start with a plot, and the characters emerge from that. At other times we ‘cast’ them based on friends or celebrities. Here are a few examples:

AGAPÉ JONES

We were attending the Maui Writers Conference when Larry got the idea of writing a mystery set at a writers’ conference. So Murder… They Wrote began as his brainchild.

The next day, we met Love Smith and talked to him about ten minutes. As we walked away, I said to Larry, ‘We have to write that guy!” Thus our protagonist Agapé Jones was born. He’s loosely based on Love. However, whenever we see him, we discover that we’re writing what he’s actually doing! So maybe we’re channeling him… And here we thought we were creating the whole story.

AMY & DAN

For my novella, “Winter’s Song” in the anthology, Seasons of Love, I decided to use our friends Amy and Dan as the inspiration. He’d been after me for years to write their story, and this was the perfect opportunity. (I used their real first names with their permission. Find out what happened after the story here: )

Of course, I fictionalized most of the story. At least I thought I did.

Amy’s mother is a member of our writing group. Several times we’d read a chapter and she’d say, “How did you know about that?” I’d answer, “I thought I’d made it up.” Then she’d proceed to tell me the real story which was eerily similar to what I’d ‘made up.’

COUNTESS ELEKTRA ROZANSKA

For Murder… They Wrote, we decided to create an older lady as one of the suspects. Larry’s speech teacher in grammar school was Countess Elektra Rozanska. I said, “I’d love to use her real name!” “So would I,” he said. So we tried to locate her family without success.

We decided to use her name anyway since she was long gone and she’d have loved being a suspect! So we wrote the character based on her with a few embellishments. (Find out why she was so important to Larry here: http://bit.ly/cERPQc)

A couple of years after the book was published, we were contacted by her grandson. He was delighted that we had written her as a character, and he agreed that she’d have loved her role. He later contacted us to let us know that, although she’d convinced Larry that her title and exploits were all true, she had actually made up not only the name but also part of her back story! Still, we’re so happy that we could pay homage to this very special person in Larry’s life.

LOVEY JONES

Another special lady in my life was Lovie Cooper. (You can see her photo and read about her on our website (http://bit.ly/LBSdjM). When we created Agapé, we decided he needed someone to confide in. Thus was his dead mother, Lovey created, based on our own Lovie. She’s really easy to write since I just close my eyes and imagine her talking to me.

KIMI MCGUIRE & JASON NAKAGIRI

When we first discussed our anthology, Directions of Love, I knew I wanted to take the west. I love Hawaii and wanted to set at least some of my novella there. So “Finding Love in Paradise” was begun. I also decided to take advantage of our own experiences even farther west: Japan.

In this case, Kimi grew out of the storyline. She had to be at least partially Hawaiian so she had a connection there. I’ve seen many lovely Hawaiian girls in our many trips to that special place. We also know many young Japanese women. So Kimi’s appearance was based on a composite of them. Since she was raised in the US, her personality, speech, etc. were easy to write.

Her love interest, Jason, needed to be Japanese/Hawaiian for the story to work. Again, he grew out of the story. However, one night we were watching “The Mentalist” on TV, and Detective Cho (Tim Kang) walked onscreen. “That’s Jason!” I exclaimed. From that moment on, Jason looked like the actor.

However, that wasn’t the end of the story. A couple of years later, we were visiting Oahu and decided to spend a day at Queen Emma’s Summer Palace. We were assigned a docent, and when she appeared I gasped. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you look exactly like a character I created for a book.” I went on to describe “Finding Love in Paradise” to her. It turned out that this young lady shared many characteristics with Kimi. Both were Irish/Hawaiian. Both studied anthropology at UH. Kimi was a docent at the Bishop Museum, and this one was at the Summer Palace.

And once again I wondered just how much I’d made up.

NAN BURTON & MAX MURDOCH

The character of Nan Burton in my new novel Ghost Writer is loosely based on the young ladies I worked with at my last job. I tried to capture their speech patterns and language since they were close to her age.

Max Murdoch, the ghost, was really based on some of the characters portrayed by Clifton Webb in his old movies, particularly Three Coins in the Fountain (http://bit.ly/JucuHy). He is an old curmudgeon, egotistic, and insensitive. He’s also a bit arrogant and British like the character Jonathan Harris Played in the TV Show Lost in Space (http://bit.ly/5n79q).

Even though I think I made them up, I have a sneaky suspicion that, given my record to date, I may actually meet people like them someday.

Mothers’ Day

Since yesterday was Mothers’ Day, I've been thinking about and missing both my mom and my mother-in-love. Letha, Larry’s mother, died six years ago, mine last summer. So this is the first Mothers’ Day without both of them.

Mom had a really rough time after my dad died. She was left with a seven-year-old (me) and a four-year-old (my brother) and no means of support. She made a lot of really tough decisions, among them: to remain in our home in Alhambra, to take a job in the school cafeteria so that she could be home with us when we had vacations, to make it on her own. This was a really gutsy position in 1954 when few women worked at all, and even fewer mothers did.

But we received wonderful mothering from others when Mom couldn’t be there. Our ‘village’ was our close Midwick Tract neighborhood. We always knew that if we needed anything, the neighborhood parents were present for us.

My major surrogate mother was Wilma Sehnert, who lived two doors down. She was funny and caring and irreverent. All the neighborhood kids knew they’d find love in her home. She only had one son, so she treated me as the daughter she never had. The night of my senior prom, a friend offered to do my hair for me, but she wasn’t used to dealing with a mane as thick as mine. The net result was terrible. I arrived home sobbing. Mom sent me to Wilma who combed it all out (we teased our hair at the time), wet it down, and styled it into a chic French roll. Then she cut wispy bangs, and added one of her own tortoiseshell headbands studded with rhinestones across the front. Finally, she did my makeup. I went from utter despair to elation. She’d made me feel like a princess.

That was far from the only time she stepped in on my behalf. Whenever Mom and I had a disagreement (mostly during my adolescence), I’d go to Wilma. She would arbitrate. Sometimes she argued Mom’s position in a way I could understand. But just as often, she explained to Mom why she should allow whatever it was I wanted at the time. I could count on her to be fair and objective.

She was not only a surrogate mother for me, but she played that role for many of the other kids in the neighborhood.

When she died, I was asked to speak at her memorial service. It was both the hardest and most rewarding thing I’ve ever done.

Another of those ‘other mothers’ in the neighborhood was Laura Lee Graham. She always supported our hair-brained schemes. Several times her daughter, Diane, and I put on variety shows where we sang and danced. Laura Lee taught us the songs and steps and helped us to choose our costumes.

Once, we decided to stage a circus featuring all our stuffed animals. She helped us craft ‘cages’ out of cartons and, once again, assisted with the planning and costume selection.

We were never able to take vacations as kids, but one year the Grahams asked me to go to Yosemite on their family camping trip. The first night, I was bitten by a scorpion in my sleep and developed blood poisoning. Rather than grousing about my spoiling their vacation, Laura Lee rushed me to the emergency hospital, obtained the necessary medicines, and monitored my recovery. I insisted we stay there, even though I was unable to go in the water. The parents gave up their tent so that we girls could sleep inside. They took the air mattresses on the ground. I still remember the campfires and seeing the fire fall. Despite being ill, it was a memorable trip—one of the very few in all my growing up years.

Another significant ‘mother’ in my life was Letha Collins, my precious mother-in-love. She was the Avon lady and started calling at our house when I was five. She seemed very glamorous, and her bright smile was like a magnet to everyone she met. She loved me as a little kid, and that love continued until the day she died. It was mutual.

Larry and I have always joked that if there were arranged marriages, we’d still have married each other. Letha loved me, and Mom loved Larry.

Shortly before we were married, I asked her what I should call her. In our neighborhood, all the adults were addressed by their first names, but she was now changing roles in my life. Her own mother-in-law was ‘Mother Collins’ but that sounded too formal. She asked what I’d like to use. I answered, “Well, I call my own mother ‘Mom’ so how about ‘Mother’ and Murl can be ‘Dad’?” She started to cry and so did I.

She was Mother from then on. She sometimes confused friends because she always introduced me as her daughter. And I never received a birthday card that didn’t say, “To our Dear Daughter.” As far as she was concerned, I was her daughter, not her daughter-in-law.

I have been truly blessed to have been mothered by all of these wonderful women and others as well. And I truly hope that you have been as blessed in your life.

Who played a mothering role for you? For some people it’s grandmothers or fathers, teachers or friends. On Mothers’ Day, I gave thanks for them all.