There was only one more goodbye left.
A few days after the funeral, my father asked me to come home and help him sort through my mother’s stuff. It was time to decide what to do with it all. So I put my sixty-pound, yellow German shepherd–mix mutt, Stan, into my old Honda Accord and drove up the coast to my parents’ home near Palo Alto.
The house looked the same when I first entered, but the air was a lot more still. A giant presence was missing.
Walking into the bedroom my father and mother shared, I found it disturbing to be allowed full access to her private domain. But on my father’s instructions, I began to look through her jewelry box and chest of drawers for the first time. Every garment she owned was carefully ironed and in tip-top condition. The aggregate stuff, pushed together in several crowded closets, stood as a collective monument to the thousands of arguments my mother and I had had over the years about my taste in clothes. Try as I might, I couldn’t find a way to want to add any of her double-knit pantsuits or polyester floral print blouses to my existing wardrobe of T-shirts and jeans.
As I was creating a pile of clothing to give to the Salvation Army and Goodwill, I spotted something that provoked such a dramatic reaction in me it was almost as though it came with its own soundtrack by John Adams. There they were: a stack of diaries that my mother kept piled on the highest shelf of her closet. I had been looking at that tower of four-by-eight-inch diaries for years, watching it grow like some kind of mineral deposit or tiny condo complex; by the time my mother died, there were at least fifteen of them. Some had flower-patterned fabric covers and lined pages; some were black pebble board with unlined pages. Each one was labeled by year and countries visited, usually with a piece of paper my mother had cut out and taped to the spine. As an inveterate diary keeper myself, I’d always wondered about the contents of these books. Did my mother let her frustrations and true feelings show on these pages the way I had always done in mine? It felt a little bit indecent even picking the books up and holding them. Should I burn them and preserve her privacy forever?
But now that she was gone, they beckoned to me loudly. Perhaps I was meant to read them and uncover things she’d always wanted me to know but couldn’t talk about comfortably.
I asked my father if he wanted to keep them, assuming he would say yes.
“Naaah,” he said. “You want ’em? Take ’em. What the hell am I gonna do with ’em?”
I tried to imagine the enormousness of the life adjustment my dad was suddenly facing … forty years of marriage vaporized. Maybe more intimacy was too overwhelming for him right now?
Then it was time to make the seven-hour drive down the coast of California, back to my home in Los Angeles. With my dog Stan in the passenger seat beside me, and the diaries in a bag on the backseat, I rolled my old Honda down the long driveway of my parents’ home. A kind of emotional terror swept over me. What secrets would the diaries reveal? Would she explain how she really felt about me? What if she had left behind evidence of a hidden other identity? If she really vented all her dark anger once and for all, could I handle her pain, her self-doubts, her fears? Or even more unnerving: What if she talked about her sex life with my dad? Could I handle that?
I’d never been sure of my mother’s birth year, because she’d intentionally kept that hidden. But by every possible calculation, these diaries, which spanned 1959 through 1989, began when she was in her early thirties. Who was my mother back then?
As soon as I got home I poured myself a big glass of wine, sat down on my sofa, and emptied the stack of diaries onto the cushions beside me. I took a deep breath, preparing to have a real talk with my mother for the very first time.
Before I got started, though, I decided to give my newly single dad a call to offer a little comfort and support.
“Dad, are you okay?” I said, after I heard him say hello. I was relieved by how normal his voice sounded.
“Listen, Merrill,” he said, “I’ve just made myself a hot cup of coffee. I can’t talk right now. My coffee will get cold.” Then he hung up.
So that was that.
I decided to read the diaries in chronological order, starting with the multicolored floral-fabric-covered one dated May 6, 1959.
The opening entry began on the eve of their “first trip abroad on The Queen Mary.” All of their relatives and friends had turned out for “a gay noisy Bon Voyage party. The Jeroboam of Piper Heidsieck champagne was gone in no time.” I flinched a little at the use of the word “Jeroboam.” It was so extremely Ronny Markoe. “Then we wandered aimlessly around the ship,” she continued. “Tomorrow has the promise of adventure!”
How endearing! My mother, a girlish young wife … off to sea for the first time and seeking the promise of adventure! She sounded similarly energized a week later, on May 13, when she first encountered Switzerland. “What a sense of smallness is yours when you look out at the sheer glory of the Alps.” How nice! She and my dad were having a good time, but not only that … did I detect a hint of self-reflection?
By May 20, I started to hear a more familiar voice:
ROME, MAY 20, 1959
Went to see Michelangelo’s Moses at St. Peter’s. So dark in church could barely see. Then to Alfredo Alfa Serofa for dinner. Looks like a Roman SARDI’s. Food was very tasty but service was so quick you felt like you were being rushed. As I put a last piece of lettuce in my mouth the waiter rushed to remove my salad plate. Told him to go away. As we ate a last piece of the main course, the waiter asked (with our mouths still full) what we wanted for dessert. I told him to go away and come back in 5 minutes. I had scampi alla griglia which in a better atmosphere at a slower tempo would have tasted much better.
I kept reading and reading. From 1962 to 1988 my parents really got around. They went to every country in Europe, as well as Japan, China, and Africa. But not too many ports of call escaped my mother’s critical view.
MADRID, MAY 2, 1962
Madrid is a very large city, very bustling and not very pretty. This morning about 11:00 we went to see the Royal Palace, residence of the Spanish kings until their deposure. Outside the building is ugly, grey, forbidding, large and ornate. Inside we had, along with others, an English speaking guide who took us thru 30 of the most magnificent luxurious living quarters I have ever seen … so breathtaking that by the 30th room, your eyes have become dull to beauty by its overabundance in too short a time. It’s a relief to look at simple lines familiar to everyday life. Then we went to La Zambra Flamenco Dances performance. Saw true Flamenco troupe dancing. Was enjoyable although I don’t care if I never see Flamenco dancing again. But the singing. Oy vay. That was for the birds.
LONDON, MAY 21, 1962
Arrived London and took airline bus to town—very long ride—and checked into Mt. Royal Hotel—huge old flea bag in Marble Arch area. Room was good sized but furniture old and dirty looking. Dust all over. Bathroom impossible. Person sitting on toilet could become double amputee if door was opened while performing. One closet only and that one too small for both Val-Pacs. Gerry completely disgusted. One bed broken. He’s determined to stay only one night but I feel like I’m coming down with a cold. Throat is sore too. Took city tour of London. Drizzly weather. Guide unspeakably bad. Went to Carltontower Grill for roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Food beautifully served but it certainly didn’t taste like roast beef.
In October 1971, when she was in her mid-forties, she and my father took a month-long trip to Japan, Thailand, Singapore, Indonesia, and Bali. Amazingly enough, Japan got glowing reviews! “Just delicious and such a delightful experience can barely describe!” raved my mother. She was enamored of the Japanese people’s cleanliness, politeness, formality, and artistic sense of design.
The other countries didn’t fare as well.
CHENGMAI, THAILAND, THURSDAY,
OCTOBER 21, 1971
At night we couldn’t bear the idea of the restaurant at this hotel with its greasy dirty tablecloths and its filthy (albeit starched) n
apkins. At lunchtime they gave me a menu crawling with ants. Anyway we checked a book and decided to go to Sri Prackard for Chinese food. Well, that was the worst ever. The place, the food, everything awful. The menu had no prices and when the bill came it added up wrong. They tried to charge us for whisky we never had, for wash towels they gave us that we never used, but we made them itemize the bill and they backed down. We were so goddamned mad that we left no tip. Service was given us by the fat slob of an owner who took our order for lobster and served us shrimp. Then served us greasy chicken skin instead of chicken in the next dish. Finally we went to the Rincome Hotel. Oh the delight of a clean table and an unstained menu.
Bali really took a hit.
BALI BEACH HOTEL, SAT. OCT. 30, 1971
After the rain let up a bit, we visited the old palace, a series of low, old buildings that looked anything but royal since they are currently being used as souvenir shops, etc. Then we walked around the town which was nice and muddy now from the rains. It has no great charm. Just unpaved roads lined with concrete buildings and open air stalls. The streets are littered with refuse. The women are not bare breasted at all, just very old women and that is no sight of beauty.… The Balinese women balance tremendous loads on their heads and certainly have beautiful carriage but they’re not as lovely as I had thought. Certainly their dancing girls are, but dancing girls the world over are the crème de la crème. Old Balinese women are rarely still graceful but mercilessly wrinkled … they look terribly dried up and unattractive. The younger women are work worn for the most part.
As my mother got older, she definitely did not get mellower. Usually France was a reliable respite for her; she prided herself on her ability to speak French and peppered her everyday speech with phrases such as Mon Dieu! and La plus ça change and pied à terre. Apparently 1976 was a bad year for France.
FRANCE, MAY 1976
Drove through flat rather uninteresting countryside for hours, interrupted by dreary little towns which slowed our average speed way down to about 30 miles an hour. Gerry and I are both so tired that we stopped, despite our original plans to push onto Strasbourg, at a small town called Vitry-le-François. Singularly uninteresting! The only game in town was a weary looking “two bumper” called the Hotel de la Pose where we checked into an even wearier looking tiny room. We lunched at an open brasserie on Niçoise salad and bad Alsatian wine. When we sent the half carafe of wine back and asked for a bottle of Riesling instead, the smart alec waiter brought us an “open” bottle of Riesling which tasted exactly like the wine we had just returned. I scolded him and accused him of doing just that (pouring the carafe wine into an already open bottle) but he just shrugged and walked away. “We were took.” Went to bed early. Slept fitfully.
Two years later, Turkey let her down as well.
TURKEY, SAT. AP. 22, 1978
Dinner tonight was the usual slush: A tasteless soup, a gluggy beef and rice dish and a Turkish sweet (impossible to eat. It was doughy, wet baklava and totally inedible). I was so exhausted I had the tray of vile food sent to my room and here I am waiting. This afternoon I took off from the group and went walking on my own. I wasn’t feeling too badly then but the town nearby was nothing to see. Cheap little stores full of items from the everyday world. The hotel at Pamukkali was the worst one so far. It was unclean and bitterly cold and no heat was sent up. We went out poking around Cumhurryet Cadessi with its dinky doo shops. The national costume of Turkey seems to be flowered pantaloon pants and white scarves over their heads. The women over 30 are either too fat or these shapeless pants make them seem that way.
Lest it appear that my mother’s critiques were jingoistic, the country of her birth did not fare any better. This was a review from a two-week trip to the Southwest:
NEW MEXICO, SEPTEMBER 19, 1982
Our motel was “stashed” between 2 other ones, all jammed together. The 3 star AAA recommendation was anything but a find. We ate at the Red Lobster, across the street, and ordered King Crab legs. They were quite all right but the melted butter was salty as hell. And there was no getting sweet butter. Our waitress was very inexperienced. Just to get a small fork with which to pull out the crab meat was a reckoning that didn’t happen until meal’s end (along with a same time request for a nutcracker which also materialized after the need was gone). Turns out the Red Lobster is a chain. Never get a proper meal in a chain.
Finland took perhaps the biggest strafing of all. My mother shot the whole country down in flames.
HELSINKI, JUNE 30, 1985
Set out by car for the last leg of our Scandinavian journey. As usual, the scenery was unspectacular. Helsinki is a very commercial city with no particular beauty, at least so far. Finland is not really the sort of country that offers a great deal to a tourist in the way of interesting places, foods, customs, architecture, music, in fact it is a most boring country. For me, and I think I speak for Gerry, we’re just trying to find things to see and do to kill time for the Leningrad trip, and that may turn out to be something less than great since we couldn’t get on a deluxe tour and from what I gather, anything less than deluxe is really second rate.
And yet Leningrad actually made them nostalgic for Helsinki!
LENINGRAD, JULY 2, 1985
Leningrad is a city of 4 to 5 story high old buildings and giant apartment complexes, square and Soviet in style … the whole town could use a coat of paint. Lunch was too awful to describe, except for the large lump of fat on my plate covered with gravy which I almost ate because I thought it must be fish of some sort.… Then we ran back to the bus and drove to the Hermitage Museum. Well! It was Sunday and the crowds were horrendous. Never really got to see much except from a distance. Then back to the hotel and into a bus to take us to the circus … a one-tent affair on hard benches and no air. No dancing bear! Just some acrobats, illusions, clowns making jokes in Russian, and undraped females whirling assorted things. A dud.
TOMORROW WE GO BACK TO HELSINKI. HOORAY!
And so it went. And went. I sat there on the couch, drinking wine, turning pages, waiting—in vain—for the painful introspection. What I found instead was a travelogue she had written for an imaginary audience, in which she presented herself as a globe-trotting sophisticate whose day began when she “breakfasted early and well.” I was intimately acquainted with my mother’s grandiose word choices. I do not recall being taught to use “breakfast” as a verb.
Who is she writing to? I began to wonder. Was she thinking she might one day get these books published or just pretending that they had already been? It was almost as if she had written a travel guide to advise other budget-conscious people of distinction, like herself, discriminating enough not to compromise their standards of perfection for the sake of momentary assimilation into some misguided second-rate foreign culture. And it was almost as if she took the shortcomings and discomforts of those other cultures as a personal affront.
There were no passages where she wondered about herself or her marriage or her kids. Yet she would fastidiously list the cost of every item she ate or bought or thought about eating or buying. Perhaps the entire country of Finland let her down, but she never failed to be utterly captivated by her own ability to make a sandwich.
“At about 11:30 just before we began a 125 mile stretch of desert road which did not indicate a single town in which to lunch we stopped at a real genuine dinky doo food emporium and I bought something with which to make sandwiches,” my mother wrote on her journey through the American Southwest in 1982, clearly taken by a sense of herself as a rugged pioneer.
A loaf of bread but no jug of wine, just Armour’s beef bologna, a small package of American cheese, and a cucumber. Earlier in the trip at a cafeteria in Canyon de Chelly I had taken some give-away packets of mayonnaise and mustard. Now finally a week later they surely came in handy. Somewhere en route thru that desolate Nevada stretch of road I made Gerry a bologna and sliced cucumber sandwich laced with mayo and I ate a bologna and cheese and mustard with cucumber. I wa
s making the sandwiches while he drove, using a paper bag on my lap for a cutting board and a pen knife to peel the cucumber and cut the sandwiches. For dessert Gerry had a piece of uneaten candy and a tin of apple juice and I had some icy cold water from my thermos. Gerry was hell bent on going, going. Finally we took 15 minutes to chomp away.
To be fair, my mother’s diaries were not entirely joyless and scathing. There were passages of praise delivered whenever she encountered unassailable luxury. But her praise was hard-won. She wanted the reader to know that she was not easily duped; her educated understanding of the world could penetrate all attempts to fool her. She seemed to take pride in her ability to scratch the surface of beauty and find something disappointing lurking beneath. This was the writerly gift that she was willing to share with her myopic peers.
It might have been fun to talk to her about some of this. I would have liked to learn how her early years made her turn out this way. But her life was a topic about which she had no sense of humor. In her mind, she was one of the last of the clear-eyed uncompromised purists, the wizened survivor of countless fearlessly fought campaigns. For my mother to admit that she had flaws was for her to feel as though she were destroyed, transparent, nonexistent.
In this way she caused me to become her polar opposite. If perfection was both impossible and the only thing that mattered, then why mess with it at all? I turned into someone who not only reveled in my own imperfections but underlined them and paraded them like they were assets.
A former record executive in Los Angeles once told me about the day he had finally saved enough money to buy himself a new Porsche. When he took possession of it, its exquisite beauty so overwhelmed him that the only way he could feel comfortable enough to drive it was to first slowly back it into a wall and crease the rear bumper. I would be surprised if he was not raised by someone like my mother.
Cool, Calm & Contentious Page 2
