REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

Ready for Mardi Gras

You know Sophia, my mannikin, that I dress differently every month? Well, she's ready for Mardi Gras and she watched the Academy Awards with Cookie and me in her new clothes. 

This is her lovely face with her mask, purple and black hat dripping with black chiffon in the back, her funky necklace, and a peek of green satin dress. Every piece of her clothing came from a thrift shop or garage/estate sale. 

She'll be partying through Tuesday night, but knows she has to tone it down come Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. 

Here she is full length below.

She says she would be in a parade if she could, preferably in Brazil, but if asked, she'd catch a flight for New Orleans. 

Tomorrow she is going to get another pile of beads and hopes to listen to a little Preservation Hall's jazz. She indicates she wants her hat adjusted so you can so all the poofy chiffon in the back. 

Eat your heart out, red carpet walkers. She says she would either be at the Vanity Fair party or Elton John's tonight--at least in spirit. Instead, she waits silently downstairs. 

Cookie doesn't even give her the time of day anymore. I think she needs a dog, don't you? 

Happy News For a 20-Year Breast Cancer Survivor

Today I got very pleasant news from my oncologist. After five years of using Femara, one of the new breast cancer aromatase inhibitors and seven years of tamoxifen, he is discontinuing drug therapy. Since 1989 I’ve been dancing with breast cancer and I’m one of the many very lucky people who is here to tell about it. As we say in 12-step work, I’d like to share my experience, strength and hope with all of you.  

But first I have to say, even though the doctor had told me this past summer that it was his plan to discontinue the drug if all my blood work and cancer markers were good, when he actually told me today, my eyes filled with tears and it was all I could do to keep from howling with joy—and fear. I’ll admit that there is comfort in taking hormone therapy for breast cancer because I’ve felt protected.

It all begin routinely in 1989 when I was 51, 20 years ago. I had gone through a divorce after a 25 year marriage; it was final in 1987. Emotionally it was an extremely difficult time—and I even got laid off a job in that period, right after selling the family home and buying my townhouse. Fortunately, I pieced together work until I got my next job. Those times, however, have made me so much stronger. I had had a predisposition to lumpy breasts, as did all my sisters, and had several biopsies, all negative. Each time was an emotional jolt, however. Then I found a lump in my left breast myself in a routine self-exam. After another biopsy by a local doctor and a clean bill of health after the operating room pathology, when I went back to have the stitches removed seven days later I was told that I did have breast cancer. That doctor referred to it as a “garden variety” breast cancer and suggested mastectomy. I reacted strongly and told him I was getting a second opinion. I had cared for my own mother-in-law the year prior to her death of breast cancer in 1973 and lost a close friend in 1983. I was terrified. Friends referred me to the well-known surgeon at UCLA, Dr. Armando Guiliano, and I went through extensive testing and ultimately a partial mastectomy and removal of the lymph glands. Though the cancer was invasive, it was not in my glands, thank God. Unfortunately, after four days in the hospital and a few days home, I was diagnosed with a strep infection in the surgical area and went back to the hospital for two weeks where a debridement surgery was performed. I was so very sick. I realized how fortunate I was to have early stage breast cancer, once I was out of the woods, and stoically faced into the six weeks of radiation with minimal side effects except for external burning (I thought). I got two oncology consultations after and decided to forego tamoxifen, but my 132 pound self began to gain weight, probably because I was existentially fearful and food gave me comfort. But, I could live with that.

In 1996, my long-term significant other and I broke up and I decided that I had to live a single life while I tried to figure out who I really was without a man. I’d always defined myself as a woman who needed a man. (I’ve never seriously dated again.) I also adopted Cookie that year. In 1997 my Torrance radiologist, a parent at the school I work for, found a suspicious area in a mammogram, but it was the opposite breast this time. They had had a cancellation for a stereotactic biopsy and with Cookie out in the car waiting, I had a biopsy on the spot. Technology had already come a very long way. It was cancer. I saw a local surgeon who immediately said, “Let’s be safe and take this breast off.” I said no, I wanted a second opinion, and went to a local oncologist and asked for my pathology to go to the Tumor Board at Torrance Memorial Hospital. They agreed that a lumpectomy would be safe and that’s what I had, followed again by six weeks of radiation. I worked the entire time with minimal side effects. By the way, my two cancers are not considered recurrent; each one was a separate case and that has been in my favor.

For the next seven years I took tamoxifen and for the last five years I took Femara. I’ve been recalled for more film after some mammograms and had one other negative biopsy in recent years. The Femara, by the way, is very expensive and I was paying a lot each month out-of-pocket once I partially retired. Part D Medicare’s donut hole came all too soon, but hey, I’m here, just grousing a little bit. I developed a chronic cough, GERD, and a lot of aches and pains, but I adapted because I fiercely wanted the best chance possible. I also gained 30 pounds from 1997 until now. I have been eating indiscriminately, I’ll admit, but the doctor said weight gain is a possible side effect, as are the aches and pains, and the exacerbation of depression itself that I’ve dealt with for a lifetime. And I do have radiation scar tissue in the lung and esophagus, partially causing the cough, along with a lot of allergies and asthma. This past year I did have the genetic testing for the BRCA gene as two of my other sisters have had breast cancer, as well as a niece. It was negative.

The bottom line? Unless something else develops, I see the doctor’s nurse practitioner in one year who will order my blood work. Needless to say, I’m so hoping that a lot of my day-to-day symptoms I’ve experienced the last years might lessen as the drug gets out of my system. I’m deeply grateful I never had chemotherapy, just the hormone therapy and other treatments. Chemo has been my greatest fear all along.

I owe so much to so many doctors, nurses and counselors I’ve seen over the years, and to the researchers and subsequent technology that is rapidly improving. I’m grateful for the drugs that have been available to me. Yes, I’m one of the “lucky ones,” and I thank God every day. It is likely that my death won’t be caused by breast cancer.

I know this has been a very long entry, if you got this far. It's probably pretty self-serving as I don’t talk a lot about living with breast cancer as I don't want to scare anyone. (I'll admit I was a pain in the ass when first diagnosed.) But, frankly, I wrote it for myself and will paste it in my journal tonight. If anyone witnesses it, and it helps you or someone you know, I’d love to hear about it. Urge your friends to do self-exams, get those mammograms, and stay on top of the research. Thanks from the bottom of my heart for reading here.

Our 1939 Trip to South America: Charles and Sonia Hammer-Housestead

As many of you know, I work part-time as an archivist at a private school. One of the really interesting “mysteries” is when you first open a box in deep storage and see its content for the first time. Last year I found a box with three photo albums and two scrapbooks, two of them from Ft. Reilly, Kansas. The few names that were written in white pencil on the black pages had no correlation to the school as far as I could discern. The date ranges were from the late 1920s through the 1950s. 

As it turned out, our photography teacher was given these albums by a former employee thinking he might be able to use the photos for teaching purposes. Instead, he stored them in the archives where they have sat for many years. There is no connection to my school as far as I can tell, which means I can decide their fate. Archivists share their materials so ultimately I'll find the proper home for them. But for now, I've gone into my story telling mode because as I was told from early childhood, "She has an imagination that won't quit."

Above you see a photo of a woman on deck of a ship and I was instantly taken deep into who she is and what she was doing. A chinchilla lap robe, a wicker chair, a cloche, furs about her neck. My only clues of this series are The SS Florencia, 300 tons; Chalet Suisse Iguigue, and the Antofagasta Part Works. With the exception of the latter link, I can’t find anything so far when I’ve searched. The albums date from the late 1920s through the 1950s. This series of photos seems to be in 1939 and are largely in South America. Many of them are of engineering projects underway and a series of men hiking, and these of a ship.

So, out of my imagination comes Mrs. Charles (Sonia) Hammer-Housestead whose husband is a civil engineer in the United States.  He and his colleagues are on a business/pleasure trip to South America and Charles brings along his wife and their shepherd King.

In this photo, King looks out to sea while Sonia holds up a treat.

This is King and Sonia posing for Charles on the deck.
 

 

And here a very proud Charles takes a classic profile of Sonia next to the Imperial.

This is a photo Sonia snapped of hubby Charles aboard ship with his suit, vest and fedora. 

If these were your characters you just acquired through photos, what would their names and their stories be? 

 

 

Missing My Mom After 40 Years

My mother, Emily Ann Huxtable Streur, died 40 years ago today and to be honest, I wasn't conscious of that date until I sat down to write in my journal this afternoon. I glued an old photo of her in the journal just to say I loved her and when I wrote the date, I realized the significance. By the way, my doctor has always told me that we may not think we remember memorable dates, but the unconscious mind always knows. 

This whole past year my parents have been frequently on my mind and they appear in many of my dreams. As we grow older, if we have a belief that we are ultimately reunited with our soul group after death, there comes an almost primal "knowing" that the time is growing closer when we'll meet again face-to-face, or however all that works. 

This past week I have been working with this image of my mom, taken when she was about 16-years-old, because I black gessoed my former image of Gloria Swanson in this frame, and intended to place mom there instead. My first few tries didn't work. It was when I put a piece of antique netting over mom's image that I felt this piece was done. It is hanging next to my parents' wedding photo on the wall near the foot of my bed. I'm awfully sentimental, I know. 

How I miss this dear, dear woman whose genes I have. I also have her nurturing aspects and sense of humor. No one could hug like she could. What I didn't inherit was her occasional rage when she was pushed too far and felt trapped. My personality takes anger and turns it inward.

I was with my mother when she unexpectedly died right after preparing our noon-time early Christmas dinner at her home. She was only 71 and had not been feeling well; at Thanksgiving time she said she had completed all her hand-made gifts to make sure they were ready early. My husband and our young family all went out to Little Rock, CA where they lived in a rather remote area to celebrate an early holiday. Tony was less than a year old and in his portacrib sleeping when mom started to feel really badly. Ray took Joe and Christy, who were six and five, out to the wash to hike when we realized a crisis was at hand. I've relived the details of her final hour and our inability to get help for her in time way too many times over the years. My guilt and subsequent depression were to overcome me four months after her death and I was hospitalized for three months in a deep depression, the first of two really dark periods in my life. Needless to say, I've long ago forgiven myself and my late dad for not reacting quicker. The emergency room resident doc, who coincidentally had purchased our old house, was on rotation in the hospital where mom's body was taken. He said it would not have mattered if we had gotten her there sooner. 

At this point in time I've largely forgotten the "bad" times of growing up with mom and dad and the even harder times of illnesses and death. Largely I recall the good times and laugh hard sometimes recalling how I got my hackles up as an adolescent and how right on they were when they disciplined me. 

Several years ago I participated in an Ancestor Deck card exchange and this was the card I made for mom.

On the back side of the card, I wrote the following:

My Mother

Emily Ann  Huxtable Streur

Born Oct. 11, 1898 – Died Dec. 14, 1968

Married at 18 to Allyn Streur

Mother of five daughters and at her death, grandmother to 10.

She tatted, quilted, sewed, she grew strawberries and raspberries to make extra money, and was one of the hardest hands-on workers I ever knew.

She swore like a trooper, hugged you deliciously until you squeaked, and made the best pea soup, cinnamon rolls, biscuits, pot roast, and oatmeal raisin cookies in the world.

She had a temper that was fearsome, but she had a greater capacity to love than anyone I ever knew. 

So, mom, I dedicate this blog entry to you. I believe we choose our parents and travel in our soul groups again and again. I'm just so grateful to have been your daughter. 

Watch for Signs and Wonders

On Thursday I bought my 4 1/2 foot Noble fir tree from Lowe's, one that I could totally manage myself. On Friday I dragged it in the house and began decorating in fits and starts. I definitely have downsized my holiday decorating though I didn't finish until tonight. I have been putting decorations up on Freecycle.org and gave my outdoor reindeers to my son and his family. 

The season of Advent is about watching for signs and wonders. Here are a few wonders I've spotted myself. I'll post some more as the days count down to Christmas. 

When I went to dinner at my grandson Henry and Fritz's home, they were just writing to Santa Clause on a plate especially made for that. Henry wants a Playmobil kraken and I helped Fritz write that he wants a Playmobil jet ski. Grandma wrote in small letters on the right side that she wants a sleep over sometime. 

This is the Advent wreath at church which had two candles lit. My own Advent wreath is on my dining room table. When the kids were growing up, we faithfully followed the daily lighting of the wreath, but, unfortunately, as a woman who lives alone, I rarely eat at the table. I tend to eat by the TV, a very bad habit!

All my adult life I have collected Christmas ornaments although now that I have a much smaller tree, I cannot display them all. This was my paternal grandmother Grace's white felt bell which is one of my prized ornaments. It has to be at least 120 years old. When I decorate the tree, it is like a trip through my life. 

When my daughter Christy was 16, she worked for the local Hallmark store. She is 45 years old now so this decoration is "getting up there", too, and I always place it with reverence on my living room coffee table. Christy gave this to me as a gift that year. It revolves and plays Silent Night.

So, here are a few of my signs and wonders that have begun to appear this Advent season. What are some that you have noticed? 

Redondo Beach Power of Art a Huge Success

The past three days the Redondo Beach Art Group's "Power of Art" show at the retired AES plant took place. At the opening on Friday night, nearly 2,000 people attended. This is me standing next to my very first "showing" of a piece of art--"Woman With a Crown of Words." I'm forever trying to tame my ego, but I must admit that I feel kind of proud.

 

There were paintings, drawings, sculptures, ceramics, jewelry, collage and mixed media pieces. Friday night also featured a silent auction as well as entertainment and great food. On the hour all weekend there were various workshops, activities and experiences for everyone who trooped through. It is estimated that about 5,000 people came through. I can hardly believe it. 

I volunteered several hours, but there was a core group of women and men who tirelessly worked for months before and intensely this entire week and weekend. It was fun to see everyone changing from their grungies into evening clothes on Friday night. 

This is Victoria Locke's assemblage called "Shards of My Life." Her assemblage had been an antique mirror she treasured. Thanks to a playful kitty, it fell from the wall and the glass broke in the shards you see. She was devastated. Then it came to her that she could use this loss to work through all the losses in her life. She worked on this piece for many weeks deciding that she would recapture the hard times of her life, including family and friends she has lost. Not only did she create art, she says she also let go of a lot of negativity she had been carrying. The power of art.

This is Jean Schultz's self-portrait, which fascinated me, as did many of the portraits in the portrait gallery--and throughout the old power plant. I made a lot of new friends this weekend and saw a lot of people that I knew from the different parts of my life. What an incredible weekend. Kudos to the people who worked so hard to make it happen. And tomorrow it will all be dismantled. But, thanks to a lot of photos, I'll have memories to relive as we rest a while and then begin to get ready for next year.

Fires Bring Up Control Issues For Us All

 The Marek or Little T (for Tujunga) fire, which is near Sunland, CA where I grew up, is 70% contained as I write this, thank God. Not so for several other uncontained fires burning in the state. Glen Haven Memorial Park Cemetery, in San Fernando, is in Lopez Canyon near Kagel Canyon and that is where my parents and my paternal grandparents are buried. This whole area has been evacuated and needless to say, the cemetery itself is closed until the fire is contained. Obviously, all the people who are buried in Glen Haven are not at risk, but I can’t help but think about the funerals that were scheduled for the cemetery during this difficult period. Many structures have burned in this area, the 210 freeway closed when the fire jumped it, and 1 person has died. I have not heard about Glen Haven specifically. Sigh!

To be a native Southern California who was raised in the foothills of L.A., I have had personal experience with fires ever since I can remember. Those of us who live here know that fires and earthquakes are risks we take from living in what I personally think is one of the most beautiful places in the world. My mom and dad “saved” our Sunland home twice when I was a kid, but we were never evacuated. The area was very rural then and dad just kept the roof continuously wetted down--and I did not have the proper fear or respect I would have as an adult facing into wild fires. I have never been burned out but we all know people who have. For those of us who live with the illusion of being in control, we are constantly faced with proof that we are not.

This photo is from L.A. Times photographer Jim Behrens. As you know, there are wildfires burning in several areas of California right now; I am at least 30 miles away from them, although Palos Verdes where I work is in a red alert. It is hilly and there are lots of dry plants and chaparral, the fuel for fires when the Santa Ana conditions rule.

I look out the windows of my office on a hill down into the city as I write this and I would say I have 10 miles of visibility. The smoke covers the downtown and Century City area high rises and the mountains ringing the L.A. basin are shrouded in smoke. Even this far away, our cars are covered in ash.

I feel very, very sad as I write this. When I know that so many people are suffering, I have a hard time with my boundaries, good co-dependent that I am. I'm not watching the fires anymore; it's too scary. There's a lot of fear in the noosphere all around the world right now; we are all affected. My little life is doing just fine, but I can't shake the existential sadness. 

And--here's an addendum, a little off topic, except that it is falls in the being out of control part of our lives. Please keep my dear, dear friend Larry and his family in your thoughts and prayers. He is back in the hospital again as he has been multiple times this past year struggling with problems cropping up as he awaits a liver transplant. He's a very good man with lots of work yet to do to make this a better world. 

The Who Farm: An Initiative to Make an Organic Farm at the White House

My friend Corinna at SeaShe: Dreams, Plans, and Adventures told our writer’s listserv about The Who Farm, an organization I admittedly had never heard of until today.  At their About page, it says: “TheWhoFarm (aka The White House Organic Farm Project) is a non-partisan, petition-based initiative to respectfully request that our 44th President oversee the planting of an organic farm on the grounds of The White House, our nation’s First Home, at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, Washington, DC." While everyone who signs the petition is an honorary TheWhoFarmer, Daniel Bowman Simon and Casey Gustowarow are the primary TheWhoFarmers.

TheWhoFarmMobile is two school buses fused together with an organic edible garden on the roof.  It was originally designed by Stefan Sagmeister and Ben Cohen of Ben & Jerry’s, built by Tom Kennedy, and named Topsy Turvy.  TheWhoFarm aquired the bus, ripped off the roof and planted an organic edible garden.  TheWhoFarmMobile is now traveling across the big country to visit schools, food pantries, farmers’ markets, festivals in an effort to inform the nation of TheWhoFarm and their petition.

The website and the cross country journey is really an extremely interesting project. I’m putting the initiative below, but visit the site and tell me what you make of it.

 

Mannequins: How I Distracted Myself on Black Monday

Those of you who follow me regularly know I love to create art from the female form, face and feminine spirituality. Or at least I have a plan to do so. So imagine my delight on the weekend when I found two female full body mannequins at a business closing sale at a price I could afford. The former owners of the vintage business, who have closed their doors because of the economy, helped me load the two ladies in pieces into my car where they remained until today. Here they are partially reconstructed in my TV room:

This morning I went to visit a friend of mine who is leaving to return to the UK in November after 27 years of being an architect in the U.S. Again, the economy. The delightful part of Terri's departure is that she is giving me some of her art supplies she doesn't want to ship, along with books and household items for the library sales. What I don't use or donate, I will put on Freecycle. 

When we went to load the things in my car, there were these two mannequins--one in the back seat and one in the trunk, totally dismanted in their individual parts. Both of us cracked up at the bizarre site. 

This afternoon I began dragging their parts up the stairs and did manage to get one of them together so far. They will also be used at the Redondo Beach Art Groups Power of Art vintage fashion show held on the weekend of our October art sale. So, now the TV room has one cardboard cutout of James Dean and these two women. 

Imagine my delight when Terri e-mailed me this afternoon with the Tate Museum's nominees for the Turner Prize from today's Daily Telegraph.

Below is a close up of one of the mannequins by Glasgow artist Cathy Wilkes; she uses shop mannequins in her installations. Her shortlisted piece, 'I Give You All My Money' features a supermarket checkout and a female mannequin sitting on a toilet with left-over bits of dried porridge at her feet.

Below you will see the full installation and then a close-up of the mannequin on the toilet. I can do this, or at least I think I can. 

And here is the face of one close-up. Do you have any suggestions for my mannequins? For instance, I actually looked like this once way back when. Can we warn our young people what happens when you get older--and when an artist gets hold of you? And then I found Stephanna's website. Or Pleasant Morning's Buzz. Or Fine Art America.

My new career awaits. Suggestions anyone? I may have lost my retirement funds today, but hey, it's all an illusion anyway, right? 

 

Remember to Trust Your Intutition

My car, a 2001 Honda Civic EX, is called Sophia. I bought her new and I have 62,000 miles on her after almost eight years. Not bad, huh? Other than brakes, a battery and its regular check-ups, Sophia has been a faithful companion. I had intuited a few weeks back I should take her in for service, but I procrastinated. This is a glimpse of Sophia (dark blue) near the Tulip Tree at Malaga Cove Library. 

At lunch break at Taco Bell in Peninsula Center, Sophia wouldn’t start. She made that dreaded clicking sound which usually means battery, yes? I went to use my cell phone, which I rarely use unless traveling, and the battery was dead. Oh, oh.

I had no change in my purse to make a phone call on a public phone but the 800 Auto Club phone number went through because it’s an 800 number, I guess. The nice man answered but though I knew I was in Rolling Hills on Hawthorne Blvd., I didn’t know the cross street. Ironically, a triple A tow truck was parked in the lot where I was stalled, but by the time I finally got the person to understand I didn’t know the cross street, the truck left. I settled in to eat my taco in the car while waiting for it to come back.

Only 10 minutes later the Auto Club guy arrived and he jump-started the battery—and it started. We turned it off and Sophia wouldn’t start back up. He ran a diagnostic and it was a dead alternator. Sigh! He called the tow truck which arrived in about 20 minutes and a nice man with conservative political views hooked Sophia up and I gingerly hopped in his truck. Older people don’t hop easily into large vehicles, in case you didn’t know. Off we went to the dealership, and though Robert and I were on the opposite side of the political fence, he built his case very logically about why I should vote Republican as we rolled along. I was impressed and he was willing to listen to my views, too.

By then it was 2:30 p.m. and I had to leave the car. Sigh. I tried to rent from Enterprise on the premise of the dealership, but they had one gonzo truck and another massive SUV. No thanks. The courtesy shuttle gave me a ride home. When I have no car, I always feel like I’m missing one of my body parts.

Cookie, who was not with me today, loves to ride around in the car. That's the main reason I haven't gotten a new one. Her white hair is always on the seat covers and the car does have a distinctive doggy odor. If she lives to be 20, I may have a problem.

I was not successful in bumming a ride to work for tomorrow from a co-worker, but I’ll ask a neighbor in the morning. Worst case scenario is that I work from home--or I call a taxi. 

Intuition? For the past few weeks I have noticed a very slight tremble when idling. I kept telling myself I’d go for service—tomorrow. Tomorrow came all right, the hard way. But hey. It was an adventure, right? Now, sweet Sophia, just how sick are you? My check book trembles in the black recesses of my purse.