Waterworld

Growing up with a swimming pool my parents built when I was in the fourth grade, we kids played watergames as much as yard games. Our Birthdays and Christmases provided us with a continual supply of fins, facemasks, and various flotation devices. We went through endless quantities of goggles and masks, compensating for their frequently broken straps by squishing them onto our faces and inhaling repeatedly until the suction pressure held it in place. The residual headaches and red marks on our foreheads were a small price to pay for razor sharp underwater vision. Swim fins were a must for our pool length races, enabling us to fly back and forth with lightening speed. Full of initiative like our do-it-yourself Dad, we became aqua-engineers, building floating structures out of stacked innertubes and Styrofoam paddle boards so that we could swim around in secret, peeking out of slits between the tubes while immune from water gun attacks. We piled up tubes at the steps on the shallow end, roofing them with upturned wading pools and deflated rafts to make aqua forts. Inspired by TV shows like Seahunt, we longed to spend our days submerged. We tested our endurance by doing as many underwater laps as we could on one breath - in case, like Lloyd Bridges, we would have to perform underwater rescues when our aqualung tubes had been slashed by the bad guys. We would kick around the pool with an inverted bucket over our head and try to submerge with it as if in a diving bell, an exhausting endeavor later replaced with the technique of sitting on it to keep it submerged and taking turns diving under to get a breath from the air trapped inside. Mom was given a metal ornamental frog as a garden sculpture – whose weight, when gripped tightly, made it an excellent device for a quick drop down to the bottom of the deep end for a meditative moment. These underwater activities led to numerous ear infections and much of the time I remember being in the pool protected with cotton, ear plugs, and a stiff rubber bathing cap - which kept out the water as well as much of the sound. After each swim, I learned to shake my head sideways with a NO NO NO NO on each side, hearing the sound of liquid inside slosh back and forth until I could feel the trickle of warm water finding its way out. Eardrops were dispensed daily - I can still hear my Mom timing each side after a dropperful with “one, two, button my shoe …three, four, shut the door… all the way to nineteen, twenty – that’s aplenty”. She stuffed cotton wads in afterwards to keep the medicine inside as I slept – a dry land treatment that shut out the sounds of my busy home much like my waterworld sojourns. My submerged activities were a constant source of enjoyment and even now I thrill with the freedom of a comic book Aquaman, undulating underwater with a dolphin kick and arms stretched out in front as if in liquid flight. The world above becomes less real and I return to those childhood bottom of the deep end moments with the frog, looking up at the rippling surface and wondering what strange land is that above me.

Structural Engineering

Dad built so many items for our home – partially due to the economic constraints of our oversized family, but mostly because he loved being a ‘do-it-your-selfer’. Dad would look over whatever Mom was currently admiring in a magazine picture and figure out how to make it for a fraction of the cost. It was a mission and a challenge! Each project began with a Saturday morning trip to the lumberyard. We would be there for hours, Dad searching for items on his list and calculating costs; us killing time wandering around the sawdust covered floors, inhaling the sweet smell of cut lumber and looking for the vending machines. They always had a row of them tucked into some corner near a doorway luring us with their colorful packages filled with stale Tom’s peanut bars, cheese cracker snacks, beer nuts, Chuckles candy and other delectable items. He’d give us pennies for the gumball machine and like juvenile gamblers we’d try our luck – hoping for a jackpot to come through the chute. On this particular Saturday we were shopping for redwood for outdoor armchairs that Dad had decided to make after seeing them in a Sunset magazine. Ours were designed to accommodate square vinyl covered foam cushions that we had purchased at the Akron discount store. These plastic cushions were water and soil proof, perfect for a large family with grimy little kids. We sat on them when watching TV, stacked them on top of one another for thrones and forts, used them as landing pads for indoor sporting events, or lined them in twos or threes for makeshift mattresses during sleepovers - the slippery vinyl units inevitably sliding apart by morning to leave us in a tangle of blankets, pillows, and cushions on the hard floor. Being cheap and plentiful, they became the key element in the chair design, their yellow and orange 60’s colors stylishly complimenting the redwood frames. Dad had opted for ¼” plywood as the supporting surface for the seat cushions, figuring that would keep the structure light and thus easy to move around. The plywood was set into narrow slots in the side rails of the seat frame. Unfortunately over time, weathering caused the plywood to shrink and warp, popping out of the slots when too much weight was applied to them. Seeing the grownups suddenly finding themselves in a near fetal position with their knees up under their chins was a source of great amusement for the younger kids, whose lighter payload made them immune from such catastrophes. But Dad was a problem solver and design tweaking after test flights was a naturally occurring part of his job. Undaunted by this minor setback, he seized upon some old tire inner tubes, (a supply of which no household in those days was without) cut strips from them and stapled the straps across the chair bottom in place of the plywood. The result was enhanced security and far greater comfort. No longer suffering the shock and surprise of splintering crashes, the occupant would sink incrementally in an almost genteel fashion as the aging rubber tore through the staples one by one, relaxed in the knowledge that escape could be made before disaster struck.
Now when I open the door of my shop and step onto the sawdust covered floor, the aroma of lumberyard imbued with Dad’s spirit fuels my efforts, bracing me for whatever daily obstacles my work may encounter.

Happy Birthday Dad - Roger Westvig 1/24/1919 - 9/27/1997

Snapshots

Taking photographs and making pictures has always been a part of my existence. I can still feel myself squinting as a child in the summer sun while Dad took our family portraits, gussied up in our church clothes, sweaty and itchy and feeling as though we had already suffered through enough with being at church all morning in scratchy starchy finery when we could have been playing. Each Christmas time he would take home movies of us hanging up our stockings for Santa, the hot glare of his camera lights burning our retinas while the fireplace was cooking our backsides. My parents both grew up with fathers who were camera buffs, so documenting their lives with snapshots was as much a part of their daily routine as eating and sleeping. Like his father, Dad took photographs too and even made his own prints, first with a makeshift enlarger fashioned out of an old cocktail shaker and later on in a cramped darkroom he built in our basement. Though unconcerned with the technicalities of how the camera worked, Mom was well aware of the magic it could generate. To her, photographs were tangible ‘hard copies’ of time and place and face that you could keep. She selected and preserved them in our family photo albums as devotedly as any medieval monk, knowing that they were her legacy as well as our history. The albums served to trigger memories and tales from the past – our past. Time after time, we would flip through their pages remembering the people and events held fast in them. After my parents’ deaths, the most cherished and difficult items to divide up were the photos. I took custody of them, duplicating each image multiple times so everyone would have a set. Recently I have been creating albums online for our now distant family to enjoy and share anew. Digitalized images are easy to enlarge for aging eyes, revealing details overlooked in those little snapshots we got back from the drugstore and pasted in books or kept in wallets. I have used photos as reference materials for reminiscing, writing and painting ever since grade school, improving my drawing skills by rendering the images over the years when live models were illusive and weather hampered attempts to paint nature in ‘plein air’. The photo was always there, holding still for hours, days, years, while I worked. The living subjects may have grown up, grown old, grown apart, but their images in the photographs are unchanging, captured in time and place for eternity.

Letters from Home

Lately I have been rummaging through boxes of old letters written by me to my folks and by them to me, and those to and from siblings and friends over the years. They are treasure chests filled with tangible bits of the past so unlike today’s electronic missives. These messages were penned and folded and licked by loved ones now long gone and opening them engages all the senses. A tearstain here, there a lipstick smudge, a pressed flower, a spatter of kitchen grease, colored crayon scrawling, all shrouded in a lingering perfume of musty attic. Old letters are not just read - but touched and smelled. Why some of our correspondence from the past was saved and others thrown away is a mystery. Were some kept as cherished mementos, historical references, proof of love, incriminating evidence, or for future blackmail? They are records of trips, births, deaths, aspirations, joys and despairs - all of the significant hurdles we surmount through life. Events we have triumphed and fretted over and noted down in dispatches to loved ones. We scan the margins of these remnants of the past for little asides, clues that may reveal new answers to old questions. Now and then we come across omissions, and painfully regret those things never written. Letters we wrote years ago reunite with the ones we have received and their long forgotten conversations are rewound and replayed on crumbly papers. Personal stories, anecdotes jotted down on the backs of postcards, on fancy stationery, in greeting cards, on cocktail napkins, clipped newspaper articles annotated with ball point pen, snapshots and ticket stubs, all combine to chronicle a family ‘history’. They get sorted and resorted, tied into bundles, stored in boxes and plastic Ziploc bags. We catalogue them, grouping them by year and writer, classifying and reclassifying them according to ever-changing schemes. The process awakens memories which have been slumbering, raising them up to hazily stretch and drowsily mingle with current thoughts. Like resurrected zombies, they arise and shuffle among the living, moving and speaking once more, reiterating long buried conversations. Our inner ears grow sharper over the years and prick up on phrases once passed over and dismissed as trivial, but now blaringly significant. The study of Philosophy and poetry puts great significance upon the meaning and specificity of language, requiring careful and repeated readings to absorb their content. With this in mind, I crisscross my fields of letters again and again hoping to glean a few new grains of meaning with every passage.

comicbooks

My passions for reading and drawing began with my older brother’s comic books. Those colorful magazines obsessed me as a child and, eager to keep abreast of my heroes’ exploits, I struggled to increase my vocabulary with each issue. My brother also loved to draw and plan things on paper and, using the comics as references, I mimicked him as soon as I could make marks. My Mighty Mouses and Plutos were, for a 4 yr old, impeccable. Later on I drew Superman and Alfred E. Newman, eventually turning to study Degas and Michelangelo - but that was all ahead of me in some distant hazy future place. During naptime, my caped teddy bear (a hand towel safety-pinned around his neck) flew above my bed swooping down to rescue Raggedy Ann or some other hapless victim. During the long days while my brother was at school, I often went down the street to a friend of my mother’s house (probably so she could watch me while my Mom was busy with babies and whatever Moms did). There I followed Mary Jane around, watching her garden, do laundry, can peaches, and magically paint and fire pottery in her basement studio. I still have a plate that I painted there when I was 5 – (Mary Jane helped me out with my signature.) When we had finished in the basement, I’d go upstairs and sit with her elderly mother while Mary Jane was busy out in the yard. Her mother was confined to her bed upstairs - at least I never remembered seeing her anywhere but there in the bed. In the bathroom across the hall was the great repository of comics. The drawers in there were stuffed to the point where they could barely close without crinkling up the covers - it was the mother lode! Now Mary Jane’s daughters were older than me and had different tastes in comics, so there was very little overlapping in selections. They had Betty and Veronica, Sluggo and Nancy and Little Lulu and several of those crime and gore types with plots too dark and complex for my young mind. I studied them all – the sacred texts of my youth - ravenously thumbing through little Lulus, staving off my hunger for the next issue of Mighty Mouse or Uncle Scrooge to come out. I was a child of the Disney era. I knew the Mickey Mouse Club song by heart and sang along everyday - especially liking Wednesday (‘anything can happen’ day) and Round-up Fridays, where they danced around wearing those horse costumes with little fake legs (I so wanted one of those horsy outfits.) My attention was riveted to those TV shows while they were on the air– but when they were off, those colorful comics reigned supreme. They were ours to keep, to carry around, and to page through again and again. For the following few years, my fifteen cent weekly allowance went to comic books and bubblegum - for me the perfect combination for a joyful afternoon in some quiet corner. Nowadays, as I thumb through an art book, I may see the images with older more educated eyes, but my childlike intensity endures.

Mrs. Sasina's Magic Zinnia Seeds

We cut down the lilacs in front of our house this week. They were planted years ago, little ‘suckers’ brought over in our kids’ wagon along with other flowers given us from a 90 year old neighbor lady, Emily Sasina. She lived in a little house on the alley a few steps away from us and we referred to her as the ‘flower lady’ because her tiny little house was surrounded by plantings and seemed to be in constant bloom from the first growth of Spring to the onset of winter. When my girls and I used to pass her home on our walks up the alley to the grocery store, she would beckon us over to pull a weed or water a shrub or come in for a cookie. Her television blared away next to the front door letting us all know when the evening news had come on. From her chair facing the doorway, she kept tabs on the neighborhood, chuckling at the antics of everyday humanity. Above her chair was a clock that always read 5:17, the hour of her husband’s death. Despite private sorrows, hers was a cheery nature - maybe because she was always surrounded by flowers. She was one of those depression era holdovers who were skilled in making do with little and needing even less. On visits to her simple home, my children would practice their early social skills - sitting politely while we chatted, admiring her old lady collections of ceramic bunnies and greeting cards, fetching items, watering plants and later purchasing things at the store for her on our errands. She walked less and less as she got older. I would see her bent figure on trash day hobbling with her cane, kicking a bag of garbage down the alley to the curb in front of her home. One summer day she made it all the way over to my house for a surprise visit. I was sewing in the kitchen and she sat and cooled off while telling me tales of the neighborhood. She admired the colorful Hawaiian shirts I was making at the time and I was glad to fashion one for her and tickled to see her wear it. Every fall we clip and save the faded blooms of ‘Mrs. Sasina’s magic zinnias’ – sharing them with our friends and family. How better to honor her spirit than with such simple hardy flowers that bring color and joy year after year after year.

Savvy Waitress

My little sister loved Bob's Big Boy hamburgers and when I was a waitress there, I would occasionally bring one home for her after work. Waking her up by waving a warm juicy burger under her nose brought a groggy joyful sigh – even if it was 2am. I remember my first day on the job and my panic at having to take orders when every table in my section filled at the same time. Nothing makes or breaks your ability to maintain your cool under pressure like waiting tables at a family restaurant. It should be required training for all military personnel. Coffee shops serve the whole gamut of humanity, early evening brings old couples and young families, while late night the place becomes the last stop for after hours workers, dates, and partiers looking to sober up. Single men sat at the counter, ordering the same meal night after night, engaging in what little conversations they could with the patient smiling girl paid to be on the other side. One regular used to stutter and work up the courage to finally blurt out “wwwwwhaaat’s good tonite?” and after I proffered a few ideas, settled on his usual ‘medium tip with blue cheese on the salad’. He never ordered anything else, but always asked his question, working up something close to a conversation. Another counter regular was the spitting image of the horror film star, Vincent Price. He was always smiling and chatty and went to the Sav-on drugstore after his dinner and got a nickel ice cream cone - he loved the idea that you could still get an ice cream cone for a nickel. Wouldn’t it be funny if it really was Vincent Price, getting his dinner at Bob’s Big Boy and having a nickel ice cream cone afterwards, how weird would that be? The busboys were all from Mexico and whether they had legitimate paperwork or not was a grey area that no one bothered to discuss. Most, if not all of them were married and lived frugally, sending the bulk of their money back home. Our group (about 6 or so) lived in a ramshackle house just behind the restaurant. Jesus was gaunt and serious, all business. Felipe, in his 60s, was a cheery tiny man. I remember him constantly laughing and talking rapidly in Spanish (which I spoke not a word) his eyes lit up and hands waved describing the plot of his favorite movie, Godzilla. Santiago was young and handsome, an industrious worker who spent his free time and money going to the Forum in LA hoping to be a boxer. He was always sighing in my presence and exclaiming ‘Corazon!’ until finally I gave in and stopped by their home after closing for a visit. They were all very hard working; warm, decent guys and I had absolutely no qualms about being at their house after hours. I did have uneasiness about working at the restaurant and going home at nights to a nice house up on the hill with a swimming pool while many of my co-workers lived in make-ends-meet conditions. That is the dilemma of an entry level job for someone with little experience in anything other than babysitting and doing homework. Later, while in graduate school, I extended my job repertoire by becoming a motel maid. A wonderfully relaxing and mindless job - a vacation compared to waitressing, but then it paid way less. I almost feel sorry for those who have never had a nickel and dime job at some point in their lives, it is an experience which pays with a reality check whose value cannot be measured in dollars. On the rare occasions that I eat out, I leave my tip, visualizing the staff in the back room smoking, drinking sodas, complaining about rude customers and evil supervisors, strategizing how to placate aggressive cooks who sabotaged their orders for amusement, telling jokes, making their plans for the future. After doing my time at Bob’s Big Boy, this battle-scarred savvy waitress is ready to tackle whatever comes to sit at her table.