1983 was not a good year.

I turned 12 in the spring of 1983. My dad was teaching 7th grade Texas history and was moved to an outdoor portable at the start of the school year, August 1982. I noticed a change right away. He came home in a pissy mood, was irritable over the weekends, and we were all walking on eggshells. Previously he had always been happy at his job, came home with funny stories, and we'd all go out to eat dinner on Friday and Saturday nights and watch TV shows together, laughing. On Sundays, he'd play his Beatles, Sinatra, Edith Piaf, and traditional Hebrew folk records, wash his truck, and by evening we'd all be eating hotdogs and watching The Wonderful World of Disney, then off to bed. But none of that was going on anymore. My dad was grumpy and he and my mother argued louder and louder. We weren't going out to eat as often, the TV would be off when it was usually on.

To this day I hate what Ronald Reagan did to my family. Because of his education budget cuts, my dad was walking on eggshells at his job. Why pay a Texas history teacher when a coach could teach history, two-for-one. My dad took the lack of a raise that year and being placed in a hot shed to teach as a demotion, the move before a layoff. That summer we didn't travel anywhere. My dad got a summer job instead and remained grumpy. One day the mail arrived and addressed to my mother was a letter from  Publishers Clearing House notifying her that she could possibly win one million dollars. She truly believed she had a chance of winning and told us if we all prayed together as a family, we could win this money and my dad wouldn't have to work and be happier. While skeptical I imagined a higher allowance and Barbies I never received for Christmas or birthdays, a new house, and a bigger room. So my mother got my sibs and me to pray a Novena to win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. For nine days we were called away from our summer TV line-up to go kneel around my parent's bed and pray. My mother would say we had to believe we'd win, we would win, it was an opportunity given by God and all we had to do was get through these nine days of long prayer. This was done while my dad was working. She told us not to talk about too much with him. I thought we should so he could stop working now and enjoy the summer knowing he wouldn't have to return to his dreaded job in the portable. 

I don't remember when the prize was to be awarded, only asking when and praying these Novenas all summer. It was the end of August and we were all back in school, my dad back in the portable building to teach. Finally, my mother told us we didn't win and I remember crying and feeling cheated by God, my mother, and Ronald Reagan, all involved in messing up the good thing we had only the year before. I was most angry with my mother who told us we were going to win because we had faith. This was years before The Secret and words like manifesting. I remember thinking whoever won couldn't have needed it more than us. We couldn't even go out to eat anymore, I wasn't taking piano lessons and no longer attended ballet.

This was also the year I was told there wasn't a Santa Claus. I have a very clear memory of where I was standing in the kitchen, on December 23, 1983. I walked over to the cassette player and pushed play. It was The Carpenters Christmas Portrait and it was in the middle of Carol of the Bells. That was the year I discovered depression. My family wasn't working out, my wishes weren't working out, and now childhood was nothing but a sham. Things at school weren't going so great either, I was not in step with my peers who were already dating each other and sipping beer. On New Year's Eve, I recorded my family in the living room, grandparents, parents, and our close friend Randy, all talking and laughing, waiting for midnight. I would escape to my bedroom and record my thoughts and impressions. I was a sad little thing. I still have that tape and I listened to it recently. It was painful for me to walk out of childhood and into tweendom. I was having an existential crisis and the tape is basically me asking what is life all about, and why are we waiting on a new year so happily when it's putting us all closer to unwanted changes, aging, and death. A lot of still unanswered questions fill that 90-minute tape.

A Happy Fall?

Is a happy fall upon us or will it be a frustrating disappointment of the absolute saddest kind? We need cooler temps, the sun and humidity have been relentless and rarely taking time off. They show up just about daily and torture. The summer has been unbearable, weather-wise. If only we could move to Oregon or even Pennsylvania. I fell in love with the trees in Pennsylvania but the natural world found in Oregon cannot be beat. This summer began quite mild. The mornings were still in the low 70s and dry. We found ourselves having breakfast outside at 8 a.m. and sitting outside until 1-2 p.m. We'd lunch and watch clouds go by. We were well into June when the oppressive temperatures came upon us and ruined our bucolic plans in the backyard as well as the garden.

Recently I found that a black widow had really made herself at home under the deck we abandoned to the heat at the end of June. She was quite large and had three egg sacks. I instantly took my sandal to it all and removed that part of the deck. It had slats where she could easily crawl into our world and would be easily encountered. I couldn't have that. That part of the deck will be rebuilt with a design allowing whatever exists in the underworld to remain there, keeping us apart.

In July we took out Kathy Lennon [of the Lennon Sisters] and photographed her around town. We love paper dolls and I am so glad that August still enjoys playing with them the way she does. It's become a zen type of play, perhaps it always was. One of these will become our Welcome Fall greeting card. While our temperatures don't seem to be surrendering to the season, a lady can dream and dream... Sadly, with climate change, I am not expecting a very cold holiday season. I hope I am wrong.

Sew there was this kid...

My sewing machine is broken and the town has no one who services sewing machines. That explains all the old and new sewing machines scattered among the thrift stores in town. They are bought, taken home, then donated to a new shop within a few months. I have seen one travel this route. I have often been told that I should take on more creative endeavors and maybe create my own business. I just have never felt like the entrepreneurial type. Even when I had a rather successful website, the minute I transferred over to Etsy, it was all over. It lasted a year or so, but I never made enough to quit my day job. I love the security of a day job. I made some money writing, some money knitting hats, and some money selling purses I made. But the bulk of my income has always been from a day job, preferably working for a university. So I still work for a university, it's where my people are, my tribe. 

So back to the sewing machine...I have several and none of them are working, the last one has stopped. I have unloaded the others but will hold on to this last one because it was the one my mother used to sew all of my clothes. Next time I am in Austin, I will drop it off at the sewing machine shop and have it serviced. However, when asked what is the one thing you wish you could do all day, the activity that you can't walk away from, nothing was coming to mind. I have many interests and hobbies, but all day desire to continue? It took two weeks to think over this question and the answer was sewing. It took two weeks because when I think of sewing I think of messing with a machine for several hours, then needing to go to work, feed my child or just being frustrated and having to walk away. 

How often have I walked away from sewing? The thing is, I was never really sewing. I was mostly pulling out a seam I just made because the tension was bad and it was unraveling, there was winding the bobbin again because maybe that was the reason for the thread breaking every ten stitches, and there was going to the store to purchase new spools of thread, new needles, and an oil kit because maybe that was the issue. There were very few times in the last five years that I was actually sewing. Even then I have several pieces to show for my perseverance, patience, tenacity, and dedication to a project. I kept trying despite all the frustrating obstacles, I made it work and I was happy with the results. So to reward myself for getting through past frustrations, going way back to 2005, further back to 1995 when I borrowed a bad machine. Let's go further back to the first machine I ever had, the Sew Perfect Sewing Machine that had the needle and thread in a cartridge and would always come undone and no one could fix it because it was in a plastic case. I either had to get my parents to purchase an $8 cartridge or abandon the project. Then it worked on DD batteries and once they stopped working... So to reward myself for all the years of trying so hard to sew and sticking to sewing even though it seemed to always hate me, I am purchasing a brand new, all metal geared, high-end sewing machine. One that will always be ready to go. I haven't decided if it will be industrial or not but it will be Japanese and it will be loved. 

I don't know why I never did this before, other than I probably thought I didn't sew enough to be worthy of a brand new, high-end, sewing machine. There was the lower middle-class parent lecture, "If I get this for you, you better use it because I don't have the money to buy this, this will be a sacrifice I am making so you better use it, you better practice, you better, you better..." The pressure was always too much. I'd always say, "Forget it" and I really would move on, having been convinced by my parent's speech that they knew me better and I wasn't dedicated or serious enough. The fact that I'd never cry about it confirmed to me that they were right but it manifested later in different ways. The inner child is real, tend to that kid!

Novena

For nine mornings Lunamia accompanied her mother on the dusty, desolate three-hour drive from their home to the place she called “la gruta”. It was outside, under a canopy of trees where they would kneel on a rough patch of cement before a statue of La Virgen de Guadalupe. Later, they would enter a church for prayers. If she was good, sat straight, and said the prayers for the nine mornings, Mamá promised her a sweet from the panadería around the corner from the grotto. She could have anything she wanted. All week she had been on her best behavior. She prayed loud enough and even endured the small daily injury of bloody knees without complaint. She thought it a miracle to watch them instantly turn into sandy scabs. 

On the drive, Lunamia decided that today would be the day she would ask for the cup of arroz con leche instead of the gingerbread marranito she knew her mother would want her to get. She had noticed how the top of the dessert had a thick coat of cinnamon, the spice of affection. Cinnamon was the smell of festive family gatherings and the taste of hugs. On the long drive,  she kept imagining taking a spoon and carefully skimming the cinnamon off with just enough of the creamy pudding, then holding the sweet spoonful in her mouth until the spice tickled the sides of her tongue. 

She had been so consumed with her plan, she didn't notice that the car had stopped. They had arrived. "Okay, mija", her mother said desperately "This is the last day, so pray extra hard for us." Lunamia sat up straight, straightened her socks, and took some spit to the dust on her shoes before getting out of the car. She had worn the same pale blush dress for the past two 2 days and noticed a faint stain along the hem’s edge as it hovered over her knees, somehow a bit shorter than before. She quickly clutched it, wrinkling it in her hand, hoping to hide the spot in the new folds. She was tired and a bit queasy from the ride. She had closed her eyes too long on the drive, the sun at her face, she was now a bit dizzy. She had not eaten breakfast and didn’t know why.  

While they kneeled in silence at the Virgen de Guadalupe, with eyes closed, she could hear the others arriving and opening the church doors. Mamá tugged on the collar of her dress to get up. Frankincense began to fill the air around her. It reminded her of visiting Tia Lina in California last summer. Tia Lina ran out of the house that day squealing with delight, her strong, distinct, almost piquant perfume greeted Lunamia long before Tia's husky and welcoming arms could envelop her. 

Now inside the church, Lunamia took her right pointer finger up to her right eye and with her left eye closed, pretended to control the group in front of her. She whispered her commands, "You, old, Abuelito man, you sit over there, daughter, sit next to him." The elderly man, back hunched over, slowly filed into the same pew he'd been occupying every morning for the previous eight days. His daughter, a skinny, middle-aged woman with a long, drawn face sat next to him. "Now, Abuelito man, say, ‘Por favor, no olvides las promesas.'" The man turned to his daughter and tearfully made his request. "Now, daughter, say, 'Si papa, voy a rezar.'" His daughter clutched his hand as she told him she would pray. 3 

Mamá took Lunamia's hand tightly in hers, crumpling it into a tiny fist, and brought it down against her side as she pulled her into the pew. Lunamia then took her seat next to Mamá. The hard, wooden pew was cold. She always panicked a bit, wondering how she'd make it through the prayers sitting on such a hard surface. She had to be good, no squirming, it was the last day. She inched forward until her feet were flat on the floor. Mamá was staring straight ahead. The priest entered quietly and began to lead the prayers. 

The chorus of tired voices distracted her from nausea she was beginning to feel from an empty stomach and too much redolence. Relieved, by the ability to manage her discomfort, Lunamia sat back, feet dangling above the floor and the cup of arroz con leche with a thick layer of cinnamon returned to her mind. This time, she added large, sugar crystals and raisins to the top. She felt herself sinking into a softness. Suddenly she heard a sharp slap and opened her eyes to the stinging red form of Mamás hand on the top of her thigh

Made our cake and ate it too!

Birthday Month is over and we enjoyed ourselves. It was three weeks of cake beginning with our traditional Easter Lamb Cake made from a vintage cake mold I purchased at an estate sale. Then August said she would make me a three layer cake and she more than succeeded. It was amazing! It was based on the Momofuku Milk Bar Cake. She followed the recipe found online. For her birthday I ordered a cake from Milk Bar to celebrate her big milestone birthday. Unlike the one I ordered myself last year, to celebrate my big year, hers was the larger one! Friends sent us flowers, cookies and special sweet treats. The month went by slowly and each day we noticed a new sprout or bloom, a surprise burst of color or flower as the spring finally unfolded in this dusty dry town. 

Groupie for me...

I met Iggy Pop, Inspiral Carpets, Stephen Malkmus, and various others. When you are a young girl living in a city and standing by the stage, this is what happens. Sadly I missed the whole Riot Grrrl movement because I was either married to a square, busy having panic attacks or broke. Perhaps if I had been able to catch those shows... I wouldn't have done this:

I was once a groupie. 

I would catch every Gal's Panic Show. 

I loved the energy, the electric guitar, the drums, I loved that they played songs by the Carpenters and incorporated the theme song from Villa Allegre into one of theirsongs...andthattheythrewcoolpartieswhereI'dshowupdressedlikeaFrenchmaidanddanced

totheFlamingLipsandtheirsongsandSmashingPumpkinsallnightlongandIcouldgo on...and on...

They were fun. The people who hung around them were fun. It was a fun time, I had great dresses and shoes, and looked great in them and out of them. I knew then, that for women, youth is over in an instant and would be over all too soon for me. And it was. I recently heard their music. "Alexa! Play music by Gal's Panic." There it was. My favorite song. 

However, my tastes have changed and I look back and see that there was a group of us who enjoyed the music, the group would attend the shows. It was just a group. 

I believed I was in love with the guitar player but I was really in love with a well played guitar and with anyone who was on the stage making the music that made me forget about what I was supposed to be doing. Sweaty fun.