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From Thelly, the Story Lady in cardiff by the Sea

Writing the memories of my life has been by far the most rewarding thing I have done for myself and my family. In addition to writing over 450 stories, it keeps me pleasantly occupied and out of the shopping malls. I’ve learned computer at an age when most people wouldn’t even consider trying. And I’ve joined the Super Information Highway, by coding these pages by myself and putting my Home Page up on the World Wide Web. My mind is alert, I’m constantly researching for new ideas to write about and my family loves me more for having made the effort!

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Next time your community college catalog comes out, look for a class like this! If there isn’t any listed … call the school and see why not! Help get it started!

My book “All About Life Story Writing” could be a first step. Order it now!

Technorati Tags: book, books, Life Story, Life Story Writing, stories, writing, writing book

Writing Classes

Our Government mandated a Life Story Writing Class all across the country…local classes for local people, usually advertised in Adult Ed or Jr. College brochures. The classes are No Fee/No Grade.

When I first moved to Cardiff by the Sea many years ago, I signed up for the LSW Class and it was the best thing I ever did for myself. Mac, the teacher, was a retired professor from San Diego State, he took the class one semester and the teacher quit. He decided to apply, and the rest is history. He’s been teaching the class for probably 20 years now. He’s in his 90’s!

For me, who had flunked out or dropped out of many creative writing classes because I don’t have a left brain to do outlines and such, Mac was a breath of fresh air. He taught us to *write off the top of our heads*…to get the story out and worry about grammar, spelling, syntax etc. later (or not at all!) The class helped to discipline me to write a story a week, because we were expected to read our stories to the group, thereby encouraging them to write their stories.

I stayed in the class for 10 years because I needed that extra discipline, and because I was with like-minded people that I enjoyed being with on a weekly basis. It became my social life : ) We had coffee breaks and cookies every Tuesday, we learned to care about one another, and we learned from Mac that what we needed was encouragement…not criticism! Then I put up my website, and then my daughter suggested having a discussion group on Yahoo!

I wish that all the group members would share their stories…it’s so important to the encouragement of each member…it nearly always triggers a memory for someone else. Remember the quote from Stephen Kings book “On Writing” ‘The main thing is the main thing!’

As King says:

Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well.

On Writing is an encouraging but very honest look at what it means to be a fiction writer, and if you’re an aspiring author – especially if you secretly worry about not being “clever” enough or educated enough to write fiction – then I highly recommend it.

Copyright by Daily Writing Tips.

Stephen King’s On Writing

Check out your local schools and see if a class is offered in your area. It’s worth it!

Google Life Story Writing Classes, or call your local schools for information.

I am not a teacher, so I don’t feel qualified to teach…all I do is encourage!

Remember…The main thing is the main thing…get your story out, write it down or record it for future generations!

We’re leaving a roadmap, and as you can see in this day and age, the next generation is going to need it!

Technorati Tags: Life Story Writing, stories, writing, Writing Classes

(LSW circa July 1999) It was my second trip to California for a visit to Dad’s house in Pacific Beach since he passed away seven months earlier.

During my first trip, three months before, I couldn’t bring myself to ask Dad’s widow to leave the house while I took time alone to go through Dad’s personal effects.  Not only did it feel awkward to have to ask her to leave the house in which she temporarily resided, I was even more uncomfortable with the thought of rummaging through Dad’s personal belongings in the first place.  I knew it would be emotional and I didn’t want to share the moment with anyone other than myself.  I finally chose to make another trip in a few months when I was more comfortable with the task.  By then, Dad’s widow would have moved out and I could take my time to see what my father had that I might want for a keepsake.

The whole purpose of my second trip was to spend an entire week going through my father’s personal possessions at my leisure.  Not that he had that much in material possessions, but I knew many of his possessions would spark memories or emotional responses in me and I felt I needed at least that much time to accomplish the tasks.  My brother, Bruce, would help.

My children had expressed an interest in something, anything of their granddad’s that they could keep as a memory of him.  I drove my truck out specifically to load things up to take back to Arizona.

It was Monday afternoon when I arrived.  My father’s widow had just purchased a mobile home in another city and I learned that the home had been delivered to the lot that same day.  She told me it would take about six weeks for the manufacturer to set it up before she could move. 

She then dropped the bombshell:  

“Would you mind waiting until after I move before removing your father’s things?”

She said it would upset her to see me take anything of Dad’s out of the house while she was still living there – that the place would seem even emptier with furniture removed.

I was upset that she had the nerve to make that request, especially knowing I was coming out especially for this purpose.  I felt my memories trumped her’s. I had 47 years of memories with my father, she only had one year with him. I gritted my teeth and I chose to bite the bullet, but only out of respect for my father and his wishes.  She was his widow and before Dad died, he asked my brother and I not rush her to move out, to give her a year to make suitable living arrangements.  I agreed to wait to remove any furniture until after she moved.  It would only be six more weeks.

I knew in advance that it would be eerie sleeping in Dad’s house when he wasn’t even there to host my visit.   Knowing Dad had been there and was not there now and was not going to be there ever again bothered me the most at nighttime when things were quiet and I found myself pondering over the permanence of his death.

I had over forty years of memories of the home of my childhood, coming to visit Dad and many more fond memories of living there during my happy childhood.

Each night I endured the ritual of tossing and turning while attempting sleep in the room of my childhood.  Sleep would never come.  I would eventually grab the blanket off the bed and go out to the livingroom to sleep on the couch, a sleep would come only with all of the lights turned on.

Dad took his last breath in the living room.   My choice to sleep in that room was disturbing to me – it bordered on the surreal.    Maybe I needed a sense of connectedness with Dad.   In reality though, I actually think I simply liked the comfort of the living room.  Dad’s overstuffed, wing-back chair was there after all.

My mother had told me that the chair was her’s and my dad’s first piece of furniture; bought second hand shortly after they married in 1947.  The green vinyl chair was very comfortable and worth every bit of the fifty cents they paid for it.

As a toddler, my baby doll’s hot water bottle bounced under the chair and I couldn’t reach it.  Mom came to my rescue and tilted the chair backwards to retrieve it for me.  I was happy.

As a small child, when my maternal grandparents came to visit, I used to hide behind the chair.  I was shy.

When my brother and I played with matches and started a grass fire in our yard, we hid behind the chair when Dad came home, and listened while Mom informed him of what we had done.  We were scared.

I was caught smoking in junior high school and was suspended from school for a week.  That night, I had to tell Dad what I had done.  He was sitting in his chair and I sat on his lap as he listened to me confess.  I bawled as I buried my face in his chest.

My four children giggled and climbed all over their granddad while he sat in his chair.  I was touched…it was me all over again.

Dad had the chair recovered countless times over the years.   The seat of the chair got narrower with each re-upholstery.

Shortly after Dad died, I emailed my brother and asked him if I could have Dad’s chair.  He replied that he had similar thoughts about the chair.  The chair had always been there as long as we could remember.  It was… Dad’s chair.

The chair was well worn and basically worthless for resale, but was priceless in memories to us.  I really wanted to be selfish — I wanted to demand that Bruce let me have the chair.

Compromising, I wrote back to Bruce and informed him that the chair held so many memories for me; I said I wanted to be the one to keep it.  But, if seniority rules…if he insisted on the chair, then I would let him have it on the condition that it stay only with him or be returned to me if he ever chose to discard it.  I could do that much, even though I felt the memory of that chair was greater for me than for my brother.  I was the sentimenal one.

Bruce wrote back a few days later and said I could have the chair. 

I could have Dad’s chair!  I was elated.

My brother made several trips over to Dad’s house during my second trip and together we solemnly discussed arrangements we would make for the bulk of our father’s things – items we felt that no one in our respective families would want.  Dad didn’t have much in the way of material possessions, just his house and a gun collection in his workshop located in a room behind the garage.  I had no interest in the rifles – I didn’t hunt, and I certainly didn’t have use for the countless cans of ammunition Dad used to load his own bullets.

One of the days during my trip, my brother and I sat out on Dad’s back patio for lunch while I ran loads of laundry inside the garage.  It was uncomfortable for us to discuss Dad’s personal possessions, but it was something that needed to be done.  I asked Bruce if he had any interest in Dad’s photographs – there were several boxes of albums in the house.  He suggested that I just take them home; we could go through them another time.

I agreed to come back in September to help some more with the house and pick up the chair and the items I wanted my children to have.  I left Dad’s house on Thursday, seeing no need to continue going through Dad’s house during this trip since I couldn’t take anything.  I loaded up the truck’s cab with the three boxes of picture albums that spanned Dad’s entire life.  I bid Dad’s widow goodbye, thanked her for her hospitality and wished good luck in her new home.  I knew I’d never see her again.  I then left Dad’s house to spend a couple of days with my mother and then returned home to Arizona on Saturday.

Late Tuesday night of the following week, I received a phone call from my brother.  My brother seldom calls and the first words out of my mouth were, “Oh no, is it bad news isn’t it?”

I listened to his reply of “yes” and I met his request to sit down.  I thought of my mother and wondered how I could suffer through the loss of her – I had not had time to get over my loss of Dad. “Is it Mom?” I asked.  I was shaken and it seemed like an eternity before my brother spoke again.

“No, it’s not Mom”, he said.

“Oh no, it’s my stepfather.” I thought to myself and I wondered how Mom was holding up.  Tears welled up in my eyes as I anticipated hearing the bad news.

 My brother then informed me that we lost the house.  “What do you mean we … LOST … the house?” I screamed.  He told me,  “there was a fire, it blew up, and it is kaput, gone.”

“Gone?  Oh no,” I wailed, “what about the chair?”

“Gone.”

 Gone?  How can that be…Bruce said I could have the chair.

Now the chair was completely wiped out in the fire.  Anger rose in me.  I had to deal with the evil thoughts I directed against Dad’s widow for asking me to wait on removing furniture.  If she had only moved a month earlier, I’d have the chair.  If only she hadn’t been so selfish and asked me not to take anything the week before…I mourned.

Now, I had nothing of Dad’s to keep, nothing to pass down to my children.  The few things that I had felt were worthwhile keepsakes were now completely destroyed, obliterated, gone forever.

Suddenly, everything my father owned became significantly important.  I longed for something to call mine as a keepsake.  His favorite glass, his bed, his jewelry, his clothing – anything.  There was nothing worthy of salvage.  The stress of the fire was greater than any stress I’d experienced in life.  I mourned the loss of Dad all over again.

The fire started in the garage, apparently the result of an old, out of code water heater.  Fueled by fumes and chemicals in the garage, the fire quickly spread to Dad’s workshop where the ammunition was stored.  It took no time at all for the fire to reach the explosives, literally blowing the roof off the garage in the process.  The house was gutted before the fire department arrived.  Fortunately, there was no loss of life – Dad’s widow was inside the house at the time.

Three months later, I took yet another trip to California.  This time, I drove to the restoration company’s warehouse where Dad’s chair had been stored at my request since the fire. 

Walking in to the warehouse felt like walking into a morgue.  I was somber and felt I was there to identify the body. I was directed to a small corner that held what was and was not salvageable.   An afghan blanket had been draped over the chair before the fire.  The intensity of the fire melted the pattern of the afghan into what was left of the fabric and stuffing.  The water from the fire hoses, had distorted the shape of the chair and shrunk most of its material. 

I loaded up two small dressers from Dad’s bedroom and the charred remains of the chair, then headed back home to Arizona. 

After learning of the chair’s fate during the fire, my husband and I had spoken to one of our neighbors who upholstered furniture for a living.  He indicated that he could probably rebuild the chair if the fire hadn’t gotten to the wood. 

As soon as I came within cell phone range of home, I called my beloved husband to tell him the chair can be salvaged.  I asked him to call our neighbor.  “Tell him I have the chair…I’m on my way.”

Technorati Tags: chair, chairs, furniture, upholstery

“Am I in the story Gramma?” That’s the first question any of my thirteen grandchildren ask when they see me at the computer, or when I get “Tidbits of Time” out at night to read them a true bedtime story from it.

We all want to be center stage!

If we are read to as a young child, we are more cognizant of the importance of the main character. Especially if we identify with that character. It’s great fun to be in Gramma’s story, but how much more fun, if the child writes a story in which they are that main character. It gives them that wonderful feeling of being somebody special.

My very first recollection of writing a story was coming back to school after summer vacation and my third grade teacher asked us to write about what we did that summer.

As if it was yesterday I remember I wrote about a week at Camp Comfort, up in the mountains of Ventura County. I’m nearly eighty now, but because I wrote about that event the details are sharp and clear in my mind. I recorded it for posterity. It is forever etched in the recesses of my brain, to be re-called into any time or space. That week gave me a lifelong love for camping, exploring and tasting the great outdoors.

The sights and smells still linger. An open campfire, marshmallow’s roasting on a wire clothes-hanger. The smell of coffee brewing in the morning and the sizzle of bacon frying in a big, black iron skillet. These sights and sounds are, for the most part, lost to this generation where we use microwave ovens and Mr. Coffee.

When a child writes about themselves and their family, it gives them great feelings of pride and a sense of value. Their self-esteem goes up. I am important. I am loved. I am cared for. Or I was bad and I was sorry. Or, my dog loved me unconditionally. It’s not important what it’s about, but that it is about them. It is the story of their life and they are unique.

The simple, unpretentious writing of a child is similar to the teaching in Life Story Writing Classes, in that we write off the top of our heads just to get the story out. We can deal with re-write, spelling and grammar at a later time, but it’s important to write the memory while it’s tweaking around in our heads.

No matter what age a writer is, a story has a beginning, a middle and an end. That’s simple enough for a child to understand and the sooner they begin writing their memories, the longer they will have them.

I tell my Grands to “Write on!” They just think I’m cool saying “Right on!” But they’ve gotten the message over time, and they know there is a section in my life story book “Tidbits of Time” that is especially set aside for their stories. I call that chapter “And the Beat Goes On”

Leaves don’t fall far from the tree. What you model before your children, is usually what they do. Let them know the importance to your family of Life Story Writing by doing it yourself. It doesn’t have to be perfect, it doesn’t have to be structured, it doesn’t have to be great. Just do it!

Before you know it, they will want to write their own stories and every family is richer for that!

After all, some of Gramma’s DNA is in the Grands, and like the child in me still squirming around in her seat, waving her hand at the teacher, wanting to be heard I do it with stories about the family!

Life story writing is a child’s opportunity to be heard!

Copyright © 2000 – Life Story Writing Network – Thelly Reahm
The Story Lady in Cardiff by the Sea, CA
Visit Thelly’s Life Story Writing (dot net) website.

Technorati Tags: children, kids, Life Story Writing, writing, writing for kids

Thankfully, my prescription hadn’t changed noticeably but I asked the optometrist for a new prescription anyway so I could get new glasses.

Off to the optician to find that PERFECT pair of glasses.

At first I wanted a male optician to help me again, just like I had for my last purchase. I naively thought that I’d be given the BEST perspective and would leave looking better than ever. Then I remembered my last glasses purchase. As I recall, I listened as the male optician convinced me how great this new frame looked and I left looking just like another clone of myself; the same style frame, different color. I now wonder if his commission had ANYthing to do with his opinion?

This time I picked an attractive female optician to help me out. She was just a few years older than me, not frumpy at all and was dressed in a well tailored jacket and skirt. She was wearing a beautiful contemporary glasses frame. She couldn’t possibly steer me in the wrong direction; she had taste.

As you can imagine, I’m not frumpy looking either, I’ve got taste and although my frame (the glasses folks!) could definitely use improvement, I was eager to change styles.

Remember that television commercial of years gone by, advertising “Underalls” pantyhose? In it, the girl was displayed, swaying her hips from side to side as she walked away from the camera in a sleek pair of slacks. She then bent forward, turned her upper torso around to face the camera, and remarked ever so flirtatiously that when wearing Underalls, she looked like she “wasn’t wearing nothing” (under her slacks, that is!). Now if the marketers can deliver that kind of outcome with pantyhose, surely they can make a similar ad campaign about ordinary glasses. I had high hopes!

This optician was no miracle worker, but she came close. She got her bonus commission by selling me one of the most expensive name brand frames in the place and I left as one very satisfied customer!

Do I look like I’m wearing glasses? You betcha! But thanks to my new featherlite lenses, I FEEL like I’m not wearing nothing!

I grew up hating my legs. It was bad enough they were skinny, but worse yet were those darned boney knock-knees.

As an adult I’ve come to accept what is and learned to get on with my life! I try not to let the inferior feelings of my adolescence creep into this eccentric mind of mine.

My solution: I just cover them up so as to not draw attention to my short-comings — or is that long-goings?! Now this works well for half the year, but in the warmer weather, it’s especially bad since:

It’s hotter ‘en hades here in Phoenix, AZ USA.

You ladies out there can probably sympathize with me on this one in the summertime; you gotta start shaving those legs again!

But what the heck for? I often wonder why. Is it entirely for vanity? I should say not! I think we shave our legs so they will be silky smooth for when we… oh never mind! I’ll just look forward to my reprieve in the winter again!

I have yet to find the perfect razor; one that will remove EVERY hair on the knees. Since my knees are so boney. I have to be eSpEcIaLlY careful when I shave my legs. I’ve tried the tic, tac, toe method. I’ve gone backwards, sideways and shaved them criss/cross and STILL cannot get all of that fuzz off of my knees!

Years ago I even bought one of those TORTURE shavers; I’m sure some of you got sucked into buying one too. You know, the one with the coil on it that literally rIPpEd the hairs out in groups of ten? I was too ashamed of my purchase to take it back to the store, so I just packed it away in my razor archives along with all of the other shavers and razors that missed the mark.

I keep hanging in there, every day, religiously! You’d think by shaving EVERY day I’d manage to eventually shave the one’s I missed the day before.

Yesterday, I was in a grocery store and happened to glance down at my knees and discovered to my horror that I had simply NEVER shaved my knees before! It seems as if the hairs from my youth actually survived all of these years! How can this be? How can someone miss so many hairs day after day when shaving each and every single day?

I’ve heard the women in Europe don’t shave at all. Now thar’s a thought.

And furthermore, don’t you just hate it when you’re shaving UP your shins and the razor slips and you shave OFF the skin too? And of course, those are the type of cuts that don’t bleed right away. The absolute WORSE kind! I hate it when that happens!

I was preparing chicken legs for dinner the other day. As I was cleaning the chicken I noticed that it had the same type of “fuzzy” problem as I have on my knees! My first thought after I put my razor away was that I oughta’ just buy skinless chicken!! Why go through all this frustration?

If I can’t shave my own legs right, what makes me think I can shave the microscopic leftover feathers off a chicken’s legs?

Technorati Tags: chicken, comedy, Frustration, funny, Funny Stories, Humor, legs, razor, shavers, stories

I felt the need to improve my self image as I was going through a nasty divorce and thought a professional head shot might help pick up my spirits.  It would be cheaper than a spa treatment and I’d have something to show for it when all was said and done.

I decided to go on a Saturday when my teenagers had plans away from the house.  I got up early, dolled myself up “right purdy-like” and put on my snazziest outfit to wear for my photo shoot. 

Upon my arrival for the walk-in appointment, I was seated in the reception area where I was privy to watching the patrons leave.  It seemed as if every one of them had remnants of heavy makeup on their faces, almost orange in color. No one’s hair was nicely styled for a picture.   Something wasn’t adding up.  These women all looked awful.  

Well, maybe the photographer can perform miracles, or so I hoped.

The bombshell receptionist that seated me in the area where I was to have my photo shoot qualified to be a Playmate of the Year. I dismissed the thought of not measuring up, especially since she wasn’t going to be in the picture. 

I’m okay, I kept telling myself…I’m okay.

A moment later, to my relief, an ordinary looking woman came in with a tackle box full of colorful shades of makeup and colors for all ethnicities and skin tones.  I stopped her short as she sat down, advising that I already had makeup on. She laughed and said her makeup would easily glide right over it, no problem.

“No problem? I spent a half hour getting myself to look this perfect and you plan to cover it all up?” I groaned.

“It’s necessary for the photos.  Otherwise you’ll look all washed out,” she explained, “and not very glamorous, I might add.”

Fast forward by fifteen minutes and it is amazing what two inches of theatrical make up will do for you.  No imperfections! I’m drop dead gorgeous, according to my reflection in the mirror.  I cannot wait for this photo shoot.  I am SO in the mood!

In walked the hairdresser.  She took my beautifully coifed hair, backcombed it tightly, then grabbed all the hair from the back of my head, pushed it forward and pinned it to make my hair look fuller. 

I must look like an old hag now…down went my mood.

As if on cue, the colorist walked in and said I would need reds and purples for the pictures.  She grabbed a few items off the rack. 

At this point, I protested.  “I won’t fit these clothes.  I am really hard to fit! 

She rolled her eyes and said it wouldn’t matter; the clothes were only the fronts; they would be draped over my shoulders. 

Just wait till I see the proofs, I fumed.  If I don’t like them, I’m not paying!

My spirits began to rise when the photographer came in.  He was nice looking and kept calling me gorgeous and I believed it.  I was beginning to feel more like a model as he kept asking me to turn and pose in various positions while he took shots in quick succession to capture the moment of my playful moods.   This is easy, I could do this for a living!

“Okay, put this red leather jacket on. Great, ahhh, just the right amount of cleavage showing!  Now bend your head down, pout your lips, look up and show me sexy, sultry, seductive.” 

I’m a mom to four and yeah, I ’spose that alone could qualify me as somewhat seductive but how do I pull off sexy, sultry for a picture in front of a photographer I don’t even know?

“How about this…?” I quipped as I smiled coyly, trying to flirt just a little.

CLICK.  He didn’t even try to ease me in to being sexy or sulty.   I was disappointed and he had only one shot left. 

Will this next one be a retake on sexy, sultry or will he try to get me into a different mood?

He did.  His next shot captured my mood much more precisely and was a more realisic photo.

Which photo do you like best? Glamour or Unretouched?

Technorati Tags: model, photography

Brush with Greatness
When I was a kid, I used to walk around Pacific Beach in San Diego, California, and go door to door asking for autographs for my autograph book. I got a lady to sign my book, who just so happened to star as an extra in the mid 50’s movie, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” The fact that I cannot decipher her signature in my autograph book is immaterial.

Brush with Greatness
I swear this is true… while waiting at a train station in El Paso, Texas in the late 50’s … Elvis Presley walked through the lobby. I was gushing with adoration, knowing it was ELVIS in the flesh and as he walked past me, he winked!

Brush with Greatness
Walt Disney waved at me while at Disneyland when I was 11. Does it still count if I don’t share the year?

Brush with Greatness
I went to grade school and junior high with Marianna Bompenserio, and rumor had it that her dad was gunned down in a telephone booth by none other than… the mafia.  Is there such a thing as the mafia — or have I watched way too many movies? Either way, another brush, right?

Brush with Greatness
I had a neighbor who was a local San Diego, California, television sportscaster in the late 50’s and 60’s named Al Coupe. I sometimes played with his daughter, but to this day, I cannot for the ife of me remember her name.

Brush with Greatness
I went to junior high in Pacific Beach, CA, with Dee Dee Jenkins, the granddaughter of retail store founder, J.C. Penney. No wonder her wardrobe was the envy of her classmates.

Brush with Greatness
When I was a senior in high school, I lived in a suburb, just north of Los Angeles. While driving back home on the freeway from the Los Angeles area, my boyfriend and I decided to take the Mulhulland Drive off ramp to take the scenic route back home to Canoga Park.  At the end of the off ramp sitting on a large boulder, was Jan Michael Vincent, hitchhiking. The year was 1969. From a distance, he looked like my sister Linda’s boyfriend, so we pulled over to offer him a ride. Lo and behold, as we got closer, we discovered the guy was NOT my sister’s boyfriend  Don.  The fellow looked at us with a bewildered expression as we drove off hollering “Whoops! We thought you were someone ELSE!!!!” I bet Jan Michael Vincent thought that we thought he was Jan Michael Vincent and we had second thoughts about it being him!!! We just didn’t realize WHO he was till later — when it was too late to turn back!

Brush with Greatness
I went to high school (Canoga Park High) with Little Peggy March of the 60’s song, “I love him” (I love him, and where he goes I’ll follow, I’ll follow, I will follow him) fame. Of course, it matters not that I did not know her personally, but my boyfriend did… and I married him, thus my brush!

Brush with Greatness
I went to high school with a terribly stuck up redheaded girl, and I can’t even remember her name to this day… but she was the girl “who danced on stage with the Planter’s Peanut man of the Planter’s Peanut commercial fame. (late 50’s or very early 60’s) I remember she was one of the only kids in school driving a late model Mustang. Hmmmm, the commercial paid off I guess.

Brush with Greatness
In high school, I once worked a factory job making tachometers for auto parts stores for racing car driver, Mario Andretti. He came for a factory tour and waved at me.

Brush with Greatness
I went to high school with a girl named Sue B. (last named omitted to protect the innocent), who had gotten quite involved with the hippy scene and drugs. She used to invite some of our school group out to a ranch in Chatsworth, CA on weekends, although we never went with her. Come to find out, I read in the newspaper a year after graduation, that she was wanted for questioning in the Tate/LaBianca murders of the Charles Manson fame. Yikes! I am not tacky enough to ordinarily include murder in a brush with greatness list, but since she was never arrested or charged, the “brush” here is okay, since I knew someone who just knew a notorious murderer.

Brush with Greatness
In high school, a popular place to park with your boy/girl friends was by the Chatsworth Cemetary. I used to park with my boyfriend on a nearby undeveloped street because the cemetary gave me the heebeejeebee’s. The street was named Trigger Lane, which was right across the street from Roy Rogers and Dale Evans old house.

Brush with Greatness
The morning after high school graduation, my boyfriend and I went to see a taping of the Jack Paar show. The camera panned across the audience and displayed my face on the overhead screen. I froze!! I couldn’t think of a thing to do, so without changing my expression, I continued chewing my gum in typical dizzy valley girl fashion and never bothered to smile! Thank goodness there are no reruns to look forward to.

Brush with Greatness
As a young adult (before children) I used to shop at an exclusive clothier in Santa Monica, CA. While getting some clothes measured for alteration, a kid named Beau Bridges, aged 10 or 12 at the time, showed up at the store. Apparently, he was the kid of a personal family friend of the shop owner, and was introduced to me.  My idol growing up was the kid’s father, Lloyd Bridges of “Sea Hunt” television fame.

Brush with Greatness
While shopping in another Santa Monica, California store called, “The Corral.” actor, Lee Marvin was standing behind me in the checkout line. I was trying my best to ignore him and to pretend that I didn’t notice that a real live movie star was standing right behind me. His lady friend, the woman who sued him for palimony years later, was with him. She made a remark, “Doesn’t she have a cute figure” to which he replied, “yes she does.” There were no other women in the store… so it HAD to be me!! When we got to the front of the line to pay for our purchases, my husband stated, “We’ll be paying with cash. I just got paid for playing the horse in “Cat Balou.” ( which was the movie Lee Marvin had just filmed) We all got quite a laugh out of that!

Brush with Greatness
I am related in some far distant way to Merle Haggard of Country Western music fame. I know this because my dad told me so!! It matters not that I’ve never met Merle, but I’m sure he’ll remember me in his will.

Brush with Greatness
I have a third cousin, Billie Talbert, who not only was a famous tennis star many years ago, but… get this, he was the PRESIDENT of the National Tennis Association at one time too!

Brush with Greatness
My first cousin, Dan Gorden, used to play pro baseball for the Toronto Bluejays, until an injury forced him to retire. He then became a model for a while.

Brush with Greatness
My oldest daughter went to the same high school in Glendale, Arizona as Jennie Garth, of “Beverly Hills, 90210″ television fame.

Brush with Greatness
I named my son Clint after the actor, Clint Eastwood.

Brush with Greatness
My brother, Bruce, was once hitchhiking in Pacific Beach, California as a teen back in the mid-60’s and was picked up by Skip Frye, a famous surfer. Of course, it was a no risk effort on Skip’s part to pick my brother up anyway, since he went to the same church as we did.

Brush with Greatness
My brother also used to shoot pool with Butch VanArtsdalen, another famous surfer.

Brush with Greatness
My same brother, as family counselor, had an associate by the name of Kathy. She was an impressive and talented writer. At my brother’s encouragement, she marketed herself to TV and as a result, became one of the writer’s for the famed, Cagney & Lacey show.

Brush with Greatness
My mother once worked for an insurance company who had a famous basketball (Lakers) client named Lou Alsinder, who changed his name to Kareem Abdul Jabaar. When he came in to the office once, my mother asked him if he was really as tall as everyone said… it was his pet peeve… and he glared at her.

Brush with Greatness
My mother stopped her car at a La Jolla, California intersection so John Wayne could cross the street. He winked at her as he crossed the street.

Brush with Greatness
My step-dad used to date Terry Moore, of “Shack Out on 101″ and “Mighty Joe Young” movie star fame. They both attended the same high school as me, Canoga Park High, in Canoga Park, CA. Terry was in many “B” movies in her prime. It’s also been reported that she was once married to Howard Hughes.

Brush with Greatness
My step-dad used to repair TV’s for RCA and Zsa Zsa Gabor offered him a glass of wine when he fixed her TV… plus, she also called him “Dollink”.

Brush with Greatness
My Uncle Doyle Baird (cousin Joyce’s father) invented the pop up drain plugs on bathtubs.

Brush with Greatness
Raquel Welch went to the same high school as my brother, although not at the same time … she’s much older. In fact, Raquel Welch went to the same high school as my mother, although not at the same time… my mother is much older. Ok then, Raquel Welch went to high school with my dad’s boss’ son, Curt Holder. With THREE brushes on this one, I really qualify for greatness, right???

Brush with Greatness
I used to work at Cummins Southwest, a distributor and service center for Cummins Engine Company products. John G. Erskine worked there too. He was the nephew of Barry Goldwater. Can you wager a guess at what the “G” stood for as John’s middle name??

Brush with Greatness
My (former) husband used to install cable television back in the early 70’s. He installed cable for Bing Crosby and Marlo Thomas.

Brush with Greatness
My former best friend in Los Angeles, used to be married to the late pop entertainer, Marvin Gaye’s brother Frankie.

Brush with Greatness
My friend Bill Rowe (of Phoenix, AZ) and his (former) wife Linda had their picture taken backstage with Debbie Reynolds who was a friend of Bill’s brother’s wife’s mother.

Brush with Greatness
I used to attend motorcyle races at Indian Dunes, north of Los Angeles. Jerry Mathers, the star of the 50’s show fame, “Leave it to Beaver”, used to participate in many of the races.

Brush with Greatness
I once shook hands with Ray “Windmill” White, the California Light Heavyweight boxing champion in the early 70’s. The promoters referred to him as the fighting carpenter. He was a humorous fighter. He’d enter the ring and act like a kangaroo, jumping all over the ring. He had a hammer punch that always threw his opponents off guard, thus his nickname “Windmill”.

Brush with Greatness
I was sitting in a front row seat at an exhibition boxing bout between then boxing unknown Mike Nixon and boxing great Sugar Ray Robinson.

Brush with Greatness
I once visited “Church on the Way”, a Foursquare church in Van Nuys, California. I looked up during our opening hymn and lo and behold, there was Pat Boone standing right in front of the church. He was one of the church elders. Jack Hayford was the preacher, and to this day, preaches on TV!

Brush with Greatness
My personal website was featured as part of a study at Georgetown University on the psychological aspects of webpage design. Actually, the study in its entirety is rather uncomplimentary, and I happen to be the first reference. I’m first!! Errr, should I be proud? Incidentally, the link from the study page is to my first homepage originally created in 1996.  Although my site has changed considerably since then, the points of the study remain the same. Scarey!

Brush with Greatness
My friend Bruce Wilkison is an avid golfer and plays violin for the Phoenix Symphony Orchestra for a living but I think he gets business and pleasure confused at times! His wife, Lenore, also plays violin for the Phoenix Symphony Orchestra and in 2000, she won the Halloween costume contest, dressed as a Christmas Tree. Last year, the Wilkisons invited me to a Pops concert conducted by Doc Severenson, formerly with The Tonight Show.

Brush with Greatness
This just in… my mother’s friend, Cleo, had her picture taken with our beloved-may-he-rest-in-peace former president, Ronald Reagan. What do you think about that? Pretty impressive, eh? Aside from the fact that the photo is a cut out of Ronald, it looks pretty authentic to me. Therefore, another brush, IMO, and that’s all that counts!

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Every time one of the teens had asked for new sox, I’d require them to clean out their room AND catch up on their laundry, just so I’d know that there REALLY were no sox to be found.

I had even gone so far as to think, in all fairness to my rule abiding children, that my washer was eating them. But …I’ve had no major backups or clogged drains recently. I can even understand a pair or two, but sure don’t buy the fact that it could have eaten 100 pair of sox in as many days! I’m no fool — I wasn’t born yesterday!!

My son just left for a student military program. This evening while he was gone, I thought I’d take the perfect opportunity to “clean” out his room. I don’t know why I happened to get the energy to clean his room, since I rarely even get around to cleaning the rest of the house!

Since my son seldom does his laundry, I thought, as a surprise to him upon his return, I’d have his laundry all caught up as well as a clean room … my gift of love to him!

‘Sides, the room wreaked of dirty sox, so I honestly couldn’t wait any longer!

Well folks, you guessed it … my son is the sox culprit. I ran FOUR (count ‘em), FOUR full loads of “just sox” through my washer. I don’t know how he got past me with all of these sox in his possession.

Whenever he said he needed sox, I “made him” catch up on his laundry. He’d show me his empty laundry basket and swear that there were no sox anywhere to be found. :::H’yeah, Right!:::

Come to find out, my son would put all his dirty clothes in his closet while I looked at his empty laundry basket. Then, commenting on his messy the room, I’d tell him to clean it.

Then he’d transfer everything from the closet to his laundry basket and put the lid on it, and then claim his room was clean and still no sox were to be found.

Sheesh, I STILL can’t figure out how he pulled this off time and time again without me catching on.

Considering all the work he did to keep the mess from me, he coulda’ just put a load of sox in the washer and be done with it! TEENS … ya gotta love ‘em!!

For a related site, full of wit, check out Bureau of Missing Socks.

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In all of life’s situations there is a story to write! Have you written yours?

Life story writing describes the attitude of my heart!  Life story writing describes my innermost thoughts!  Life story writing describes the very life I live!

I must admit that I did not stumble upon life story writing by accident! My delightful mother played a key role in setting an example for me.

Because of the stories she had written during my childhood, she passed on the desire to write.  She taught me by example, how to put my heart and soul into words through my own stories.  It is now my passion.

I write some of my life stories as I see them develop in my life.  Other stories come to mind far after the fact.  Most of my stories indicate the approximate age of the people involved, in order to give some semblance of chronological logic!  As I gain experience, I may change my methods and become more precise.

Although I may have writer’s block for weeks on end, the important thing I do to stay focused on my own writing is to get my thoughts organized.

Thank God for computers! I can imagine the chaos in my office if I had to sift through a thousand scaps of paper scattered recklessly across my desk just to find a quote or storyline!

I maintain folders in each of my email accounts where I file ideas for future stories. Sometimes its just a copy of an email that triggered an event in my life. In other folders on my pc, I keep marketing and developmental strategies. The instant the stories develop in my head and I’m on a roll, I need to have ready access to my material immediately.

My own inimitable style is to share the experiences of my own family life from a humorous perspective.  Since my stories may reflect the goodness of life or the bad and the ugly, I also have a knack for telling it like it is with a gut level sense of honesty.

In life, we can all witness the same accident and perceive that, “it’s the other guy’s fault.”  As a parent of four children, I know that each of us sees our parallel lives differently.  I write each story from my own perspective, although I have been known to plant a few roses along the way!

I’m sure many of you have seen the cartoon quip with caption, “Someday we’ll look back on all of this and laugh our butts off”

Life Story Writing Network is dedicated to providing serious and witty family life stories, descriptions of unusual situations, humor and links to affiliated sites.

I have placed a number of my family life stories on this website in order to honor my family in one more way.  In each story in which they star, they will receive their own moment of fame and glory as their life unfolds for the world to see.

I write when I can’t not write.  I can only write when compelled to write, not becaue I am told to write or paid to write, although I certainly do believe I’d have a lot more stories out there if I were paid to write, but that would probably also rob me of the joy of writing!

To quote my mother:

“The main reason I write life stories is to leave a roadmap for living to share with my decendents… To show the way with my morals, family traditions, spiritual values, and the mistakes I’ve made, so our family will know where they came from.”

“A lot of people say if they could live life over again, that they would live life exactly the same way.  I would not.  I’d like to do it right. But in my seventh decade, I don’t have that opportunity. The best I can do is tell why.”

God bless you in your efforts to write your own life story. You’ll be forever glad you did!

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