Found in Drafts

Just across the Silver Strand from Coronado lies Imperial Beach, California. Whereas the ocean has polished Coronado to a manicured, upscale gem, the waves of the Pacific have reduced Imperial Beach to a weather-beaten collection of trailer parks and beer marts. What accounts for the disparity, I don't know. Imperial Beach is a stubborn city, proud of its refusal to conform. These beach bums are lifetime alocholics with bonafide dreadlocks who are just as likely to sleep under the pier as crash at a friend's house.

If you stayed in Coronado long enough, you couldn't help but go native with turquoise jewelry and a collection of tennis skirts. Imperial Beach, on the other hand, gives you the impression that if you stayed long enough you would develop a chronic tattoo habit, liver disease and a hacking smoker's cough. Imperial Beach doesn't apologize for that. That's just the way it is.

So I can't explain why it feels like home when we take that Palm Avenue exit off the 5.  I guess we've just made it our own by returning year after year for over 20 years.  I love that Imperial Beach hasn't changed much.  It gives me comfort and reminds me that, as Simon and Garfunkel said, "After changes upon changes, we are more or less the same."

Looking back at pictures from all of our past years at Imperial Beach, I know we can't go back.  Yet we can go back, and I suppose that's why we do.

Big Golda, Imperial Beach, 1995

Defend the Tradition

Scott and I found ourselves on the front row of a Davis High hello assembly for the first time since 1988.  This time, it was different than it was back in the dark ages.  The studentbody officers all had face mics.  They performed skits and routines that had obviously not been ad libbed, or even thought up the night before.  They had costumes that were not of the "rummage through your mother's closet" variety.  I was nostalgic for the good old low-tech days of the 1980's, but what these students put together was dazzling.  There was an arc to the production, and it was good.  The numbers that the school groups performed were professional quality.  Who was the incredible boy who sang the solo from Les Miz?  Watch out, Broadway!  Performances by the cheerleaders, D'Ettes, drum line, Madrigals and Mr. Miller were equally show-stopping.  And of course, we thoroughly enjoyed the DANCE COMPANY PERFORMANCE, with Golda and her friends.

Back in the day, all WE had was John Jensen flexing his muscles shirtless!

At the beginning of the assembly, the studentbody president, J.R. Oldham, led the school in a silent tribute to 9-11.  It struck me as he recited his textbook summary of what took place that day, that 9-11 is history for our kids.  Golda was what, four years old?  All these sharp, talented, forward-looking kids, poised to lead the world fresh out of high school, they don't remember 9-11.  When I was in high school, an event like that was unthinkable.  In the blink of an eye, it has not only happened, but become history.

And speaking of history, the theme of the assembly was the last hundred years, since Davis High opened its doors in 1913, with a graduating class of 30 students in 1914.  My grandmother Golda graduated in 1924?  My dad in 1954, my aunt in 1962.  Scott and me in 1989.  For 18 years in a row, Scott and I figured out, we will have a child of ours at Davis High.  I think it's safe to say we're "defending the tradition," and we're certainly doing it with a tear in our eye.  We're babies.  But come on, stick us in an auditorium ON 9-11, at our alma mater, the place where we fell in love, get the principal up onstage to talk about tradition and excellence, show us a production where our beautiful daughter dances, wrap it all up with the school fight song, and then expect us not to cry.

Not gonna happen.  Darts are sappy that way.

The Upstager

In 2003, before I started teaching for Clytie, I was very pregnant during recital week.  The baby was due on June 26, and I knew I didn't want to have him on Golda's birthday, the 23rd.  No way!  My PLAN was to watch Golda and Ruby dance in the recital on Thursday night and go to the hospital and have the baby Friday morning.  The 21st.  My doc was on board with my plan, so what could possibly go wrong?

Uh, anything.  At any time.  Wednesday afternoon at the girls' staging rehearsal, you could have found me curled up in a fetal position on a lobby bench groaning and crying.  I went into freakin' labor, for cryin' out loud, during recital week!  Only I didn't know it then.  I just knew I was miserable, so I drove down the street to Karen's office so she could check me out.  She reassured me that if my body was telling me something, I should listen, and to come to the hospital that night if I didn't feel better.  I wanted to meet that baby, but I didn't want to miss my darling girls' ballet recital!

At home, I fell asleep on the couch in the TV room because I just couldn't hike up the stairs to bed.  Around 2:00 in the morning, I heard my grandmother Golda's voice and she said, "It's time."  Big Golda had found out I was pregnant with Freestone the night before she passed away, so I bet she was watching out for him.

When Freestone was born the next morning, the cord was looped over the back of his neck, causing him distress.  My grandma was right; any longer and he might not have made it.  Hours later, my sweet daughters danced and I didn't get to see it, but it hardly mattered.  Freestone was here!

Now, forever and always, Freestone will have to share his birthday with the ballet recital, not to mention Fathers Day and Golda's birthday the same week!  I don't think he minds, though.  He has a generous nature, a sweet spirit and a lot of determination when it comes to planning plenty of party time into the mix.  He will not be overlooked!  Of course, we should have realized that the first time he upstaged the recital.

Happy birthday, Freestone Boy.  We love you!

Placing the Chrysanthemums

Since Aunt Tricia, our resident family historian, moved to Miami, she has had to train Bill to take over the cemetery duties.  It's no small task as we have many relatives at the Kaysville Cemetery, and Tricia knows all of their stories and the locations of all of their graves.  Bill enlisted Xanthe and Freestone to distribute three dozen chrysanthemums to various sectors.  Here is Xanthe stopping to brush off Ralph and Ruby Williams' graves.  Ralph was the best man at my grandparents' wedding, but I only remember Ruby.  When I was a child, I thought she was dazzlingly beautiful in her old age.  What a gift to have such a thing as Memorial Day, to remember.

I just had to include this little note from my Aunt Tricia:   Thank you Felshaw, Circe and Freestone, Xanthe, Ruby and Little Tziporah for taking over while I am in Miami..I miss being there on Memorial Day. I remember, as a little girl, to going to the cemetery with my grandmother Burton, my mother and father, aunts and uncle, it was always a very special time to collect all the garden flowers, put them in big baskets, and load the trunks of our cars and distribute them. Now, it seems it is our turn, mother always helped till she passed and would instruct me how to place them and where, but by then, I knew the people by heart and spirit, hearing stories of them all. Quite a heritage in the Kaysville City Cemetery on both sides, and in other cemeteries we visit also. It is now our turn to carry on remembering them, it is the least we can do for all they did for us, but most of all keep their memories alive in our hearts. Thanks all for putting the plants on, they look beautiful..Love, Tricia XOXO and from Big G, thanks