by Diane Keaton
I brought a pot roast, but all she did was complain about that too. Iowa is the only place with tender beef. And as for food in Los Angeles. Forget it. Only cafeteria style tastes any good at all. Then she started in on Randy and his poems. “What do his poems mean anyway; who ever heard of writing about celery? It ain’t a poem you can understand, like Roses are Red. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t get it.” And then as if to torture me she kept going on, “What exactly does Robin do besides take care of people who are dying?” And, “Does Dorrie like that Peter guy? What nationality is he anyway?” And, “What about that Diane, flying all the way back to N.Y. before Easter? Doesn’t she want to be at home? I guess she hates flying, huh? Touch of Jack showing there. Oh well, it’s a weird old world.” And … And … And. All I thought was, What happened? We used to do family things on Easter. I’d make brand-new outfits for all the kids. We’d go to church. I’d cook. We’d all be together, Dorrie, Randy, Robin, and Diane … all of us together. So many things have changed. When I think back on my four children, I remember each little warm body meant something to me I could never put into words; never.
When we got home Dorrie called to say she wasn’t coming down. I tried to read, but couldn’t get Dorrie out of my thoughts. Why doesn’t she come see ME? I tried to rub the thoughts out. I started to think of actions I wanted to take, but rationalized I shouldn’t. I kept thinking if I’m so miserably maladjusted to this life, my absence would only be felt for a short time. And anyway, my responsibilities with the family are over. They no longer look to me for guidance. It’s more like I’m the one they’re stuck being responsible for. My company isn’t sought after. Whatever I have allowed to happen has also brought on this horrible lack of confidence. I’m intimidated. I have no one to tell my concerns to, NO ONE. I’ve let myself come to a very sad state, not only sad, but stagnant. I try to talk to Jack but I can’t. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to LISTEN.
I have a secret longing to set out alone & do what I want to do. Why don’t I? It would be better than driving with Jack to the foreclosure auction, like I did last week. The radio kept blaring out the awful news of Idi Amin executing dissenters in Uganda. I asked Jack where the dial on the AM radio was—he kept pointing to the switch button. “Dial, Dorothy, DIAL.” “Don’t shout at me!” I said. “I’m NOT shouting at you.” Then silence.
We drove past South Coast Plaza Shopping Mall, where the new I. Magnin’s is going up near Bullock’s. We were silent as we drove past Long Beach, past Downey, past the City of Commerce, and on to Torrance. I saw an overturned truck when we reached the Magnolia off ramp. It didn’t register because there was so much anger in me, all I could think about was the fact that I can’t live according to Jack’s list of rules anymore. I’m sick of being smothered by all the talk of real estate, and taxes, and how to buy, and Money, Money, Money. We passed a Motel 6 sign next to a Lutheran church, next to a Jewish temple, next to a used-car sales lot, where I saw Toyotas, Ford Torino wagons, Chevy Vegas, Pintos and Datsuns, and still we were silent. We passed a man in the driver’s seat teasing his hair into a stand-up position. A plane landed at LAX. It was hot. The auction started at 10. I wanted out.
I’ve created this solitude. I’m drowning in the worst depression I can remember. I’ve always tried to hide my feelings. Things, even little things, seem to dislodge my frail grip on the handle of positivity. I completely succumb to the dark side. At one time I fought with all I knew to prevent these unwelcome attacks. I did a great deal of pretending. I would say to myself, “I’m not depressed, I’m not—I’m not.” I kept covering up, pushing back, denying, in an effort to appear “normal.” When the kids were alone with me, I would be attentive, involved, interested, and warm. When Jack got home from work the pretense began—fake actions and words in order to present a calm unruffled atmosphere. Someone I can’t remember once said, “No one gets mad or even raises their voice in your household.” What an indictment, but at the time I considered it the achievement of a good mother.
And Finally …
This will be strange because I am going to be honest. By honest, I mean I won’t leave out details like I usually do. I’m sitting in front of the fireplace—a fire is burning; burning one of our dining room chairs. I’m a bit shaky, but I’m not lost, frustrated, erratic, or illogical. The chair has almost burned away. I don’t care. Last night all my framed photos were thrown. There’s splintered glass everywhere. The flowers Diane sent are all over the floor. The table has a big gouge. I have red bruises on my face. There are black and blue marks on my arms and legs. Where in hell are WE HEADING?
I can’t vent like Jack does. This is the key to our mismatch. My anger comes out in cold unbearable behavior. It eats on him until he explodes. I don’t know why I constantly practice challenging Jack. It’s so out of hand. He says the salad at Coco’s is good. I turn quiet, because he didn’t say, “But not as good as yours.” He asks if I trimmed the bush in the garden and I say, “Why do you want to know?” He asks where I’d like to eat, I say, “I don’t know.” He says, “Well, how about Dillmans?” I say, “We always go where you want to go.” He says, “There’s a program on TV that sounds good.” I say, “I read it wasn’t that great.” He says, “What’s for dinner?” I say, “You’ll like it.” He says, “Typical Dorothy answer.” Then I’m mad all evening. I don’t know how many times I’ve told myself that nobody really has my welfare in mind but me. My care is in the hands of ME.
Jack left me a note. “I wish to hell you’d leave me.” I called and told him I wanted to, just as soon as he figured out how to do it. BULL SHIT. I’m angry. I feel totally misunderstood. I know things will never get better. When I think of Jack, something gets ahold of me. I do NOT want to complain. I WILL NOT—but I WANT better. This is my right and, in a funny way, my responsibility. I need stimulation. After a life of working and planning for the family … I need others. My head gets too lost when it’s only me hanging around the house all day, every day. After last night I thought I would kill myself rather than go through the torture of losing my mind.
From Diane
Mom, the brain fed you an overload of negative data, which you held on to for dear life. Why couldn’t you stop beating up yourself or the people around you—i.e., Dad? It must have been hard to take into consideration what it was like for him to come from a money-driven, half-crazy, fatherless home, complete with Mary Alice Hall as Mother. The effect of such an upbringing did not make Dad an easygoing liberal-minded kind of guy. Don’t think I don’t remember his entrances and how they disrupted the mystique we created with a kind of dreaded reality. Dad was the enemy we kept close. It wasn’t just you, it was all of us.
As the recipient of whatever public validation there was to be gleaned from the business of civil engineering in Orange County, Dad was dynamic. You went a different path. You read Virginia Woolf, who drowned herself in a river, and Anne Sexton, who locked herself in a car and turned on the engine. You had a poet’s appreciation of language, a beautiful face, and an irresistibly alluring, almost inhuman amount of charm, but these gifts didn’t sustain you. By the time 1975 rolled around, your best friend—your journal—became the only release. Our little gang of five had all but dissolved. You were writing your story, I understand, but, Mom, did it have to be so distressing? When was everything going to get better? When were the positive thoughts written in longhand going to reappear?
If I told you how much I loved the sound of your laughter, would you have taken more pride in who you were? If, way back, I made you understand how proud I was to be the daughter of a “really, really special” former Mrs. Los Angeles, would that have made a difference? If you knew how fast I rushed home from Willard Junior High School the day Dave Garland poked his finger in my padded bra and made fun of me, would you have finally acknowledged you were irreplaceable? If I reminded you of the pleasure it gave me to hang out at the kitchen counter and watch you make your mid-afternoon snack of longhorn cheddar
cheese and Wheat Thins, with sweet gherkins on the side, would that have changed anything?
Remember how we used to drive around downtown Santa Ana on Wednesday evenings after Bullock’s department store closed? Remember how I sat shotgun checking out possible “finds”? Remember how I snuck out of the car and rummaged through the trash bins to see if there were any treasures to be found? Was it as much fun for you as it was for me? Did you get a kick out of making sure the coast was clear before I shoved that really cool bathroom shelf into the trunk? We thought it was perfect, remember? But then, so were you. You were the perfect find. Could it have been more fun, Mom, driving home in our Buick station wagon back in the early days of suburbia, just us, turning an ordinary afternoon into something extraordinary? Remember how you told me about the new store in La Mirada called Ohrbach’s and how we could buy brand names for a fourth of what they cost at Bullock’s? Remember the time I was sick over not being invited to join Zeta Tee, the second-best sorority at Santa Ana High School, even though they’d asked Leslie? You told me to have patience. Zeta Tee could wait for later; besides, the girls were a little trashy, weren’t they, and didn’t the so-called “grooviest” member get pregnant? Then suddenly I’d hear, “Oh, my God, Diane, look. Diane, you’ve got to see this,” or “Di-annie, check this out.” I’d look and see an ordinary boy riding a bike past Me-N-Ed’s Pizza on McFadden and Bristol. It was nothing, but it was something. It was just an ordinary boy passing by, but somehow it was unforgettable and somehow it tore me away from pressing tragedies like not making the cut with Zeta Tee.
Did you ever pat yourself on the back for your greatest gift, just being you? I’m sorry the small rewards weren’t enough. I understand great expectations. Oh, Mom, Mom, you were such a game gal in so many ways. I wish I could have made the disappointment of your unfulfilled longings magically disappear with the memory of our Wednesday evening adventures, now lost in time.
Did all that writing in all those journals make it worse? Did it exacerbate your isolation? If only we could re-edit our lives and make a couple of different choices, right, Mom? Where would it have taken us? Now I’m alone, juggling with a memoir that’s also your memoir. Would you have approved of my choices? Am I misrepresenting you? I’ll never know. I can only hope you would have forgiven me for revealing your demons, but, in my defense, you wrote it so beautifully. You would have wanted me to share it, right? I hope so. I wish it weren’t too late to go back to see what you might have felt.
Mind Priorities—April 1975
Day 1. My energy is up. Day 2. My motivation is up. Day 3. My personal drive is up. Day 4. My spiritual growth is high. Day 5. I am on a higher plane. I work at this. Day 6. I am throwing out the undesirable from my system. Day 7. I have reached a HIGH beautiful spiritual level. Day 8. I like ME. Day 9. I do meaningful things—think logically—move with grace and ease. Day 10. I love myself—am beautiful inside and out. Day 11. I am not smothered when Jack is around. Day 12. I can still maintain personal beauty and countenance. Day 13. I show love and feel stable inside. Day 14. I am bigger. Day 15. I am ready to take others’ comments, realizing I don’t know their intentions or real meaning. Day 16. I am able to bounce back mentally. Day 17. I am positive. Day 18. I contribute to bringing out the very best in people I am around. Day 19. Diane, Randy, Robin, and Dorrie all fall under my mental thought waves. Day 20. Jack is on the same wave too. Day 21. I value my flashes of creative thought. Day 22. I displace negative thoughts completely and respond to events accordingly. Day 23. I am proud of my spiritual being and the growth I have in this area. Day 24. I believe my spirituality softens the harshness of reality. Day 25. I am thin, one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Day 26. I am passing through the midlife mess and making it. Day 27. I am wise to the needs of others. Day 28. I am continually gaining knowledge. Day 29. I am the beneficiary of all that I surround myself with. Day 30. I am enriching my environment in every way I know. Day 31. I am developing my mind and using it in my continuing search for knowledge.
Days of the Week
Sunday the 2nd—BE HEALTHY
Monday the 3rd—GET THIN
Tuesday the 4th—SELL COLLINS ISLAND HOUSE
Wednesday the 5th—MOVE TO NEAT PLACE
Thursday the 6th—MAKE NEW FRIENDS
Friday the 7th—CULTIVATE OLD ONES
Saturday the 8th—TRAVEL
Sunday the 9th—MENTALLY GROW—EXPAND
Monday the 10th—TAKE MORE CARE WITH—
Tuesday the 11th—COOKING
Wednesday the 12th—BE LESS CONCERNED—
Thursday the 13th—WITH MYSELF
Friday the 14th—BE LIGHTER ABOUT THINGS
Saturday the 15th—LAUGH A LOT
Sunday the 16th—TALK MORE
Dorothy-isms
After the downhill slide, and living under the influence of Jack Hall’s “power of positive thinking,” Dorothy created her own catalog of cheerful bromides to combat depression. The itemized series of pep talks and wishful pick-me-ups had a function: to make her feel better. This year was going to be different. It was the year of Dorothy’s “Days of the Week” and “What I Am Thankful For.” Itemizing catchphrases as if they were wishes that would come true was like praying to a benevolent God who encouraged repetition as a means to an end—a cheerful one. Mother organized information and kept track of changes by classifying her adages chronologically or grouping them by theme. She did not resort to the unsorted or miscellaneous. All homilies worthy of inclusion were gathered together with some criteria in mind.
She did not pass on her Pollyanna-isms, or make reference to her Mount Whitney of words, to anyone. I suspect she shielded us from her “healing business” because somewhere deep down she knew her remedies were best left unexamined. For example, once having written “I am enriching my environment in every way I know,” Mother avoided analyzing it. Why would she? She was smart. She knew she was a harsh critic. She knew she would have been disappointed in the results. Mother’s list of platitudes rose higher and higher, all the way to the top of the biggest list of all, the “Forgotten List.” Once she forgot an idea, Mother was free to rediscover it as if it was forever and always the first “I-am-ism” on the first day of the first week of the first month of the year 1975.
Bogged down by the same dilemmas, Mom and I shared a fear of failure, a concern for what others think, demeaning comparisons, and low self-esteem. In a way, Dorothy’s bromides were a healthier version of my throwing up. After she “did her business,” her system was purged and, like me, she felt better until she needed a new resolution to help cope with getting through yet another day. As a little girl, Mom put two and two together after she saw her friend Jean Cutler write “I will not put gum under my desk” on the blackboard one hundred times. Dorothy saved her one hundred “I will have more self-confidence”s for when she needed it the most—later, much later.
Itemizing what she accomplished or, “doggone it,” how she was going to appreciate herself for once did help her weather the storm. I just wonder if it would have been different with an audience. As her only congregation, Mom was always in the business of being her own best friend. It’s true Mother’s put-ups gave her a much needed break—they helped smooth out the bumpy road—but they didn’t prod her to go further. Dorothy, the good girl, the good mother, but not always the good wife, had nothing to show for the role she accepted. Instead there was the day the truck came with the furniture. The day she got rid of the old couch for the new Pottery Barn linen love seats. The day she planted geraniums outside the picture window. And all those well-intended slogans on paper. There was that. And that was it. Nothing more, and no one to share it with, except Jack.
On the Other Side of the Same Coin
Mother made her big choice early. She married. I made mine late. I adopted. At fifty-four Dorothy was put out to pasture with thirty-two more years of living staring her in the face. At sixty-five there is no pasture, and I’m not lonely. With an all-consuming new occupation�
��parenthood—and an extended family, I’m busy. Eleven years older than Dorothy when she quietly penciled in her parade of panaceas, I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but I like it. I love it. It’s hard to imagine life without Dexter’s phone issues and Duke’s preadolescent poop jokes, which he insists on sharing as I drive him home from swim practice every day. We sing along to Katy Perry’s new song, “Firework.” We think it’s really funny when he hits my arm every time he spots a VW punch buggy. Dexter and Duke have changed my life. People say they’re lucky to have me. I don’t know about that. That’s not the real story. The real story is, I’m the lucky one. They’ve saved me, and I know what from: myself. Odd, isn’t it? My life today is as full as Mother’s was when she happily worked overtime raising a growing family in her mid-twenties.
In 2001 A.D. (After Duke), I began my first and only list. It’s not that I wanted to. It’s that I had to, and when I did, I knew what to call it: “To Do!” In the flurry of life I couldn’t afford to have anything, or anybody, overlooked. I couldn’t drop the ball. I didn’t have time to look for a way to feel better. I had “To Do” it.
To Do! November 2010
1. The California sign is slated to be finished on Tuesday. The question is, will it fit the brick wall of the Lloyd Wright house? The letters are 5 feet high! Did anybody speak to the neighbors about the trash cans? Who’s going to tell Stephanie B. the cabbage plant has to be removed? Let’s face it; it’s too English for a sustainable native California landscape. And those black plants. Oh my God, they look cruel within the context of the rest of the garden. I know, I know, yet another bad idea.
2. I’ve got to turn in the chapter on 1969 … as soon as possible.
3. Call Bill Robinson. I miss him, and Johnny, and little Baby Dylan. I don’t know how to keep close to them. Bill was a pivotal factor in the adoption of Dexter, and now that he and Johnny have adopted Dylan he’s gone. New York seems so far away. I’ve got to call him. Do you have any ideas?
