THANK YOU GEORGE HARRISON, TWENTY YEARS LATE

From my Beatles scrapbook

Twenty years ago on 29 November 2001, George Harrison died in Los Angeles from cancer and probably from too many cigarettes and too many drugs. And probably from lingering effects from being stabbed multiple times in December 1999. 

I took out the old Beatle records and listened for hours while I cried; but also felt the old joy of singing along with Beatle songs. My tears surprised me so on December 1st, I wrote in my journal in an effort to sort through my feelings.

"I guess I put away my Beatle records one day and never really knew why."

2001 had been a difficult year, beginning in February when my older sister died from cancer. Of course September 11 was devastating for all of us. So I figured my grief and tears was a way to release all the sadness of the year. I also figured it was sadness over the reminder of all those special times with my friends and fellow Beatlemaniacs, Kathy, Dede and Nancy. Whatever was the reason for my tears, I wrote 

"Thank you George" 

I've written here before about my history as a Beatlemaniac and the ways the Beatles, their story and their music intersected with events in my life.

    • Almost 41 years ago on 8 December 1980, John Lennon was assassinated.

    • Almost 56 years ago on 25 December 1965, my mother gave me Rubber Soul for Christmas.

        (http://honeylights.blogspot.com/2014/12/rubber-soul-49-years-ago.html)

    

    • 56 years ago on 30 August 1965, I saw the Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl with friends Nancy and Kathy. 

        (http://honeylights.blogspot.com/2015/08/the-best-guilt-trip-ever-or-how-i-saw.html)

   

    • Almost 58 years ago on 9 February 1964, I saw the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show on the tiny, maybe 10-inch, screen of my grandmother's television. I was almost 11 years old.

An ad for an Admiral TV console 

like my grandmother's

I know there will be many words written to honor George Harrison on the anniversary of his death. More words than I could ever read. And I know they'll be written by famous people who can write about him and his music with a depth of knowledge that I don't possess. I'm not sure I'll read those words because I resent being told how I should feel about George Harrison and the Beatles. And I know that although I am not and have never been a "super-fan" most people who know me probably know that the "way to my heart" is through a Beatles song. That first chord of A Hard Day's Night? That's George. But don't ask me to name my favorite George song or my favorite Beatles song. I can't do it.

Fifty-five years after my last addition to my Beatles scrapbook. I occasionally pull it from the bookcase to remember my 10 to 13 year old self. I don't know if my daughters ever looked through my scrapbook but if they did, they'd discover my 10 to 13 year-old self, trying (unsuccessfully) to keep my Beatlemania under control. My scrapbook is where I tried to keep my Beatlemania undercover from my older brother who loved to tease me but has since asked forgiveness and admitted that I was correct about the Beatles. I also tried to keep it under cover from my older, uber-cool sister – the one who died in February 2001. My daughters didn't keep scrapbooks but plastered their bedroom walls with posters of their favorite bands of the late '80s and '90s. I'm happy that my daughters appreciate the Beatles and their music. It makes sense because many of their favorite bands were influenced by the Beatles. Now it seems we also have a third generation Beatles fan. I don't know if our granddaughter remembers that I sang Beatles' songs to her as I rocked her to to sleep in her first months of life but I've heard recently that she was upset to learn that the Beatles broke up; thanks to the new Peter Jackson film.

Here's my first  scrapbook entry. Unfortunately, I didn't include the source of the article but it seems to be very early 1964, probably before the Ed Sullivan Show or I think it would be mentioned. Several of the passages are quoted in other articles I found, but none of them are credited. 

Here was my apparent secret code for who was my favorite Beatle. 

Paul - George - Ringo - John

Twenty years after George's death, I still don't know what my Beatlemania and my reaction to his death means and I for sure don't know why I put away my Beatles records. They've all been replaced by CDs, videos, DVDs of the movies and of course internet resources for just listening. I am not a music critic or a rock-music critic or a movie critic or a historian so if you want to learn about the Beatles you can easily find sources for their history and analysis of their music. I don't respond to Beatles music the way I did as a 12 year-old girl anymore, but sometimes listening to the Beatles makes me sentimental for her. Usually I prefer to mix up their old and newer music, but sometimes I prefer to listen to an album from start to finish. That's about all I can tell you about my tastes in Beatles music. And I can tell you that while I can get sentimental, I am fully aware of their faults and scandals. 

I saw the BEATLES live in concert only once. I never saw any of them individually or with their subsequent bands. I haven't seen any of the so-called "tribute bands" with one exception – the Fab Faux – and you should see them too! (https://www.thefabfaux.com/live.html) It's not that I'm stuck in the past. I think it's just that I don't want to mix up my memories of The Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl in 1965 with some guys dressed up in look-alike costumes and wigs. I have not yet watched the new Peter Jackson film though I will eventually. 

Me in 1965

And in the end, I'm just a grown up version of my 10 to 13 year-old self who kept a "Beatles scrapbook" so that "in 30 years" I could try to recall those days. And I'm so grateful that George Harrison found his way to Paul McCartney and John Lennon and that they found Ringo Starr. 

******

P.S.
This is a column from the 19 February 1966 issue of the KRLA BEAT, from the Los Angeles radio station KRLA. THE BEAT was published from 1964 to 1968. I'm not sure where I picked it up after moving to San Diego in August of 1965 but I found issues online where you can read this entire issue at http://krlabeat.sakionline.net/issue/19feb66.pdf
Turns out Shirley Postson was an alias but I didn't know that then. I faithfully read her "For Girls Only" column in KRLA BEAT. I tried to emulate her style in a story I wrote. I suppose today my attempt would be labeled fan fiction. If "Shirley" is still alive, I'm pretty sure she would understand my feelings about George. Like "Shirley" I was completely caught up in Beatlemania but I imagine that like me, she also acquired additional musical interests. 

From my scrapbook. Also see page 6 at http://krlabeat.sakionline.net/issue/19feb66.pdf

The One About the Phone Call on My Way to the Church

Once-upon-a-time on my wedding day, after we took a few pre-wedding photos outside my apartment with my sisters and my parents, I went back inside. To turn off lights? To make sure the stove or iron (?!) was off? 

I don't remember. 

As I walked back to the door to leave for church, the phone rang. 1976. No caller ID. No voice mail. It was reflex to pick up the receiver. 

It was my Aunt Jen, calling me in San Diego from Chicago where it was already noon-ish. Our wedding was at 11AM. Maybe she was eating lunch and thought, "I really should call Joni and let her know I'm not coming to her wedding even though I said I was coming." She was sobbing. 

I never wear makeup but it was my wedding day so I had applied a little blush and a little eye-shadow. Maybe even some mascara. So I did not cry.

I pretended it was fine. That I was fine. I did not shed tears, but I was crushed. But I really wasn't all that surprised. I loved my Aunt Jen unconditionally. But she was unpredictable. She never explained why she couldn't come. I never asked her.

This summer, I am missing the weddings of two of my nephews. I didn't wait til their wedding days to explain why. I guess I learned my lesson 45 years ago.

I think and I hope they understand how I've spent the previous 15 months trying to protect my high-risk self from Covid19 and that although it might be "safe" for vaccinated people to travel, it's still risky for people like me. 

Still, here I am in the middle of a self-pity party. Even if all the anti-vaxers suddenly got vaccinated and decided wearing a mask was the moral and ethical thing to do to protect people who can not get vaccinated, I am not sure I could travel if I wanted to, thanks to the "walking boot" I'm wearing due to heel spurs & achilles tendonitis. So I'm really sad I can't be there. It's ridiculous to be angry at a virus, but I feel quite justified in being angry at the people who refused to protect others by wearing masks and now won't get vaccinated. I'm angry on behalf of so many who lost loved ones and on behalf of so many people who had to cancel and/or delay weddings, funerals and so many other life events. These two nephews and their brides appear much more calm than I would be about their multiple wedding dates!

These two nephews will have plenty of other aunts and uncles and cousins attending and celebrating with them this summer. My absence will not be a crazy memory like I have of Aunt Jen's absence. I knew that my paternal "Chicago relatives" weren't coming but I had expected Aunt Jen. My only other aunt, my Aunt Peg – my mother's sister who was my godmother – attended. Then there was my maternal grandmother and the many great-aunts and great-uncles and most of the California cousins who also attended.

Thinking about all those people reminds me of the other lesson I learned on my wedding day 45 years ago which I hope will also occur to my nephews. It's the one I always hope all couples experience. 

I know that in the midst of wedding planning, it's easy to get swept up in all the details and sort of lose the big picture. But after Mike and I said our vows and turned around to face those 200 or so people who I kind of forgot were there, I saw the big picture. I remember thinking how incredible it was that so many people wanted to witness this event; that there were that many people who either loved us or our parents so much that they arranged their Saturday to celebrate with us.

It was just a moment. And maybe it was the heat of one of the hottest days in San Diego history. Or maybe it was realizing that we had just been married by a hungover priest and wondering if all those people had noticed we said our vows twice – the ones we repeated back to the hungover priest plus the ones he forgot we wrote ourselves and that we said after he finished? Or maybe it was the emotional rebound from the Aunt Jen phone call?

 

But it's a moment I've never forgotten and I always hope couples take a moment to look at all those faces of people who love them. And maybe think about the ones who wished they were there. Even if they don't or even if they don't realize it til years later, all those people will be with them along their way. It's amazing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Here's a few other photos to go with this story. I wish I had photos of me with Aunt Jen, just us. But here's a few to go with story about the love of a young woman for her Aunt Jen.

At my brother's 1973 wedding. Aunt Jen in green. Her big brother, my father. Me, my sisters, my cousins.

My cousin, my sister, Aunt Jen. Washing dishes in Greece.

From right, Aunt Jen, me, my daughter, Jen's brother my Uncle John

Aunt Jen with her sister-in-law, my mother. 1996.

Me, Aunt Jen, my cousin

Aunt Jen holding the youngest cousin. Some of them are married now. Two of them are getting married this summer.

EDUCATED BRAINS

"I suppose that when we have our brains blown out it would be better if they were educated brains. It would make more of an impression on our enemies. After all, we don't want Uncle Sam to be ashamed of his boys do we?"  Angelo Adams in a letter written from University of Illinois, to Betty Ann Russell in Chicago, December 1941

Angelo Adams 1943 before going overseas

 

    These words from my father keep coming through to me lately. Of course he was talking about LITERALLY getting his brains blown out – by enemies outside our country. Enemies who were all the way across two different oceans. All semester he wrote nearly daily letters to my mother back in Chicago and then suddenly they were all about whether to join up or wait for the draft. About final exams and coming home for Christmas but maybe stop on the way home to have his physical. Or wait to finish school so Hitler's army could blow out his educated brain.

    I'm writing today because those words from my father have haunted me for a few weeks. Because I've realized how naive I was back in June 2015 when Trump came down that escalator and said all those hateful words. At the time, I figured that people like me, descended from immigrants, with fathers and uncles who went to war against those enemies across oceans would see and hear those hateful words the way I did. And then he said more hateful words and I kept thinking maybe now all those people who claim to follow Jesus would be horrified. But no. They still voted for him. And then he was inaugurated and the hateful and so-called America-first POLICIES began. Not one of which could possibly be justified as Christian or even christian. Some of which were actually harmful to the people who voted for him. They didn't seem to care or notice all the ways he was hurting them – as long as he was hurting the people they hated.

    And now here we are. In the middle of a pandemic. And I see how naive I was back in March 2020 when I thought surely everyone would see that wearing a mask, "social distancing" and even a short-term "shut-down" would save the lives of Americans. 

BUT NOW THERE ARE TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND AMERICANS DEAD.

Oh, their brains are not getting blasted out by enemies, although the coronavirus often attacks the brain in ways not yet understood.

    Americans are dying by the thousands because of the failures of this president. Americans are dying by the thousands because somehow he convinced the people who voted for him and for the representatives and senators and governors who are afraid to stand up to him – he convinced all of them that TO PROVE THEIR LOYALTY TO HIM, THEY CAN NOT WEAR A MASK DURING A PANDEMIC. 

    LOYALTY TO HIM was more important than loyalty to their own loved ones. They seem to take pride in maintaining their ignorance. As if denying the existence of the virus would protect them. As if denying that the policies of the president were harmful would protect them from job losses.

    I'm a little embarrassed by my naive faith that people I know and love would climb out of their denial bunker and understand that wearing a mask was NOT a political statement. For me, it had nothing to do with politics.

    For me, wearing a mask was a way to fight back against a microscopic, invisible ENEMY. I know that wearing my mask doesn't so much protect me as it might protect you. I remember how I never got strep throat but my kids often did which made me wonder if I was a carrier. I remember how I actually had MMR infections as a child; and as a child of the 50s & 60s, I was also vaccinated against MMR. But still, my Rubella antibody level is negative. I read information from trusted sources so I know that any one of us could be the next coronavirus victim and that even when we get a vaccine, it's unlikely to be 100% effective.

My Dad and Grandmother, 1947. Northwestern University graduation.

    I've written thousands of words about my father, including a whole website documenting his military service. He returned in May 1945. Thanks to the GI Bill, he enrolled at Northwestern that Fall to finish what he started at U of I in September 1940 – with 62 transferable credits plus 18 military credits. Then graduated from Northwestern 7 quarters later, in June 1947, with the educated brain he fought to preserve. Having married my mother in 1942, by 1947 they were ready to start their family. For the next five decades he offered the chance for educated brains to me and my six siblings.

Me with my parents at my high school graduation. 

Me at my college graduation.

      

    I've spent the 22 years since his death trying to understand my father's many mistakes and lies (mostly lies of omission) so I'm fully aware of his imperfections. It's an understatement to say we had a very difficult relationship. Among our many differences, I'm pretty sure we never voted for the same presidential candidate. As the former accountant/banker/real estate developer, he might have voted for Trump, the so-called business and real-estate tycoon. Or who knows, maybe he would have seen straight through Trump's lies? Hard to say. 

    What I do know about my father is that he spent much of his income on our educations. And I know how he felt about infectious diseases. He knew his Uncle Angelo died (in Greece before my father was born) from influenza in the 1917-1919 pandemic. He knew the death of his father's brother was the reason my grandfather returned to Greece after 10 years in the States, serving in the U.S. Army and becoming a citizen. 

1926 S.S. Moreas manifest showing my Dad held for scarlet fever.

    I remember his worry when my own daughter had scarlet fever. Both of my parents told stories of scarlet fever quarantine signs on houses when they were growing up. In fact when my father arrived from Greece with his father in 1926, they were held at Ellis Island for scarlet fever observation. One of his nephews contracted polio before that vaccine was available. He knew about family members up and down the family tree who were born, lived with, and even died due to mostly preventable diseases. And while he made light of his own brushes with malaria during the war and later on even denied his own health issues; I witnessed his strong reactions when other people suffered. I also know that he did not subscribe to the herd immunity (or "mentality" if you're Trump) theory of 2020 coronavirus anti-maskers. I know this because he got very angry at my mother when she took us to visit cousins who were all sick with one of the various childhood diseases.

   I have NO REGRETS for the time I've spent since March 2020 employing preventive measures against coronavirus. I don't regret hand sanitizer. I don't regret coughing or sneezing into my sleeve. I don't regret staying safe at home. I don't regret wearing a mask. Sure I'm tired of it all but I don't regret it. I don't regret avoiding anti-maskers like I would avoid the plague. I do regret being naive and thinking the anti-maskers would come around. I know that supporters of the president don't agree with the way I see this president. I keep thinking about all of the president's lies and all the actions he could have and should have taken to reduce the spread of coronavirus. I keep thinking about the MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DEAD AMERICANS AND THEIR FAMILIES. I keep thinking about all the cases of coronavirus that could have been avoided IF ONLY the anti-mask folks had cared about their fellow Americans.

    There are no guaranteed ways to prevent coronavirus infections. Staying six feet away from each other isn't necessarily a preventive measure. Neither is virtual education. Neither is virtual working. Wearing a mask seems to be the BEST method for preventing the spread. Seems to me that the best way to stop the spread is to wear masks in combination with the other methods. I understand that having an educated brain doesn't necessarily confer immunity against coronavirus but having and using our educated brains surely helps understand the value of masks. Our educated brains should be able to understand it's just common sense.

And really

Ignorance is not bliss. 

It's deadly.

    😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷        😷

Note: I think I've shared the link to my WW2 work before, but here it is anyway. You might note that it uses "Honeylights" too, just like this personal blog. That's because as flawed as our father was and in spite of the difficult relationships he had with his seven offspring, we often thought of him as our "Great Captain" reflected in the quote from the Odyssey: "Great Captain, a fair wind and the honey lights of home are all you seek." 

This is a photo of a plaque we gave our father on our trip to Greece in 1988. See the very first post on this blog which is about a trip to Greece in 2009. I used this photo.

 http://honeylights.blogspot.com/2009/05/going-to-greece.html

Here's the link to my WW2 site: http://www.honeylightsletters.com

           

A Covid19 Dream about Sepulveda Blvd

  Yesterday I was looking for a photo and ended up in the "cleaning up my iphoto library" rabbit hole. Here's a photo that I did keep. It's  from my April 2018 drive from UCLA (where Mike was talking science) to Bakersfield (where I went to do Sesma genealogy work) that I took as I turned at the light to get on to the 405North. 

   Last night, I had a dream about Sepulveda Blvd. Something about how it was figuring in the Covid19 pandemic and helping people keep their distance when driving to and fro in L.A. Yes indeed. It was a dream so it made no sense. And I woke up thinking how ridiculous. Sepulveda  Blvd already runs mostly parallel to the 405 – or really the other way round given the Blvd was there first. And reports are that L.A. traffic is already reduced during the pandemic isolation efforts. 

   Still I kind of love a dream that, when I wake up, sort of takes me back to times and places in my memory. In many ways Sepulveda Blvd is a road of dreams for someone who grew up in Los Angeles 1955 to 1965; and then returned to visit when her parents moved back in 1973. 

   In that 1955-65 decade we lived in Westchester, next to LAX. Sepulveda was as far as we were allowed to walk by ourselves. Sometimes Mom would let us tag along on her grocery store expeditions or her weekly beauty shop appointments, and allow us to walk another block to the public library.  Our little neighborhood no longer exists but you can still see our parish church on Google maps.

Brother Tom's baptism with siblings & cousins, Mom, Dad, Grandma. Visitation Church.

   I saw the Beatles movies at the Paradise Theatre on Sepulveda. During the summers the Loyola Theatre on Sepulveda showed afternoon movies for kids. We stopped at the bank down the street to get our tickets; crossed the street to Sav-On Drugs (now a CVS?) to buy three candy bars for 25 cents (or maybe it was 50 cents?) and then back across the street to the theatre. We went up to the parking lot on top of the Broadway (now a Kohls?) and sometimes got into mischief as we watched people on the sidewalk below.

In the kitchen of our McLean Ave house.1958

   We visited parents' friends in the San Fernando Valley, which I now know is near the northern end of Sepulveda, just before it once again intersects with the 405. It was an almost three-hour drive before the 405 opened. That route took us through the "Sepulveda Pass" tunnel at Mulholland. When we visited cousins in Hawthorne or Long Beach or went to Disneyland, we drove through the Sepulveda tunnel at LAX. It took forever to drive back and forth to San Diego during the months our Westchester house stood on the market in 1965-66. And then Mom and Dad and the two youngest kids moved back from San Diego and lived in Palos Verdes in 1973. Palos Verdes occupies part of what was a Sepulveda family ranch.

At Disneyland in 1959 with siblings & cousins & an aunt & an uncle.

  Then later, they moved to Pacific Palisades and we mostly bypassed Sepulveda, depending on where we got off the 405. Ang and Betty are buried at Holy Cross Cemetery in Culver City. To get to the cemetery from LAX, I take Sepulveda.

   And then, the least expected connection is my Sesma genealogy research. The family legends are that there have been Sesmas in California since before it was admitted as a state in 1850. I've only been able to find "our" Sesmas back to the 1893 birth of Albert Sesma in Sacramento. Someday maybe we'll figure out the Sesma story. Meanwhile, when you look up the history of Sepulveda Blvd and Sepulveda Pass, there are names that show up in the Sesma history. Moraga, as in my photo. Angelenos know the street name, Figueroa. 

   California is almost 1400 miles long from north to south. The 405 is 72.41 miles long. Sepulveda Blvd is almost 43 miles long north to south. The intersection in my photo is about 15 miles from the northern end of Sepulveda Blvd. I know that this photo triggered my dream. I know why my dream connected Sepulveda to the current coronavirus pandemic. Aren't we all having Covid19 pandemic dreams? I just wish I remembered the details about what they were trying to do to the road that was supposed to help people dealing with the isolation of the "stay-at-home" orders of this pandemic. 

   And finally, I wonder about the Sepulveda Blvd stories of all the Californians I know.

Say Say Oh Playmate. Hand Clapping Songs and Games: For My Personal Historical Record of the Covid19 Pandemic

I knocked on the window and waved and tried to coax her out to the front porch to sit 6 feet apart for a little YiaYia-Harper time. Suddenly I started singing but then realized it was not a song she knew. Even Amelia didn't recognize it. I couldn't even remember all the words, but I remembered the hand-claps that go with it. 

Say, say, oh playmate,

Come out and play with me

And bring your dollies three

Climb up my apple tree

Slide down your rainbow

Into my cellar door

And we'll be jolly friends

Forever more more more more more

   Of course I found the words via the internet machine. There are many variations and additional verses. But in the first two traditional verses, the rainbow versus rain barrel is often noted. Modern houses don't have cellar doors or rain barrels.

   The second verse?? That's what really hit me in this time of a viral pandemic. My dolly's got the FLU???

Say, say, oh playmate

I cannot play with you

My dolly's got the flu

Boo hoo hoo hoo hoo hoo

Ain't got no rainbow

Ain't got no cellar door

But we'll be jolly friends

Forever more more more more more

   I found the song in my old WeeSing songbooks, with clapping instructions: Start at "Play"

Slap knees, clap own hands, clap partner's hands, clap own hands. Repeat

Can add: slap knees twice, clap own hands twice, clap partner's hands once, partners clap backs of hands together once, clap partner's hands once, clap own hands once

   I found an article on the history of the song. The song is more than 100 years old! There's a Willie Nelson version. There's some really creepy versions with extra verses about death and enemies. There's a big band version by Kay Kyser and orchestra. There's a 1955 version by the Fontaine Sisters. Look up a really cool interpretation with clapping, by singer Ambre McLean. Somehow, it seems that in all the versions, everyone remains friends forever more more more more more.

   I felt like I'd better write down this story. I've heard we should record our experiences for the someday-told history of this pandemic. Yes, we're in the middle of a pandemic. Covid19. Coronavirus. Isolated in our homes until who knows when, while the science people figure out how this virus works, and test treatments, and develop and test a vaccine. Meanwhile, people are very sick, or are worried about getting sick. We worry and we're scared. For ourselves and for our families who we can't even hug. 

I miss my grandkids and long to hold their little hands. 

I worry about friends and strangers. I worry about the health care workers, the scientists in their labs, the newspeople covering the stories, the people stuck in isolation with abusive partners, the women giving birth during a pandemic, the people with no "home" to go to, the people attempting to isolate in small spaces. The list goes on. 

   There's no joy in Mudville - or if there is, it's hard to find. There's no hand clapping allowed unless you're at least 6 feet apart or hanging out your apartment windows to thank the doctors and nurses as they leave their hospitals. 

   But we can still sing songs and I know Harper is singing her own songs, as she has for years. These days, she loves watching the singing contest shows and tells us we should watch them too. 

   So yes, we still can sing songs. Even when we can't remember all the words. Even if the version I remember is different from the version you remember. Even if we're looking into the window from the front porch.

Oh playmate. Come out and play with me!

Secret Ingredients. Food and Memory and Diana Abu-Jaber

   I've lost count of the number of times I've tried to write a blog post/essay about reading the books of Diana Abu-Jaber. My first attempt was in 2016 when I wrote a note on my phone as a prompt for future writing.

6-4-16. My zataar story: 

My daughter brought some back from trip but I couldn't figure how to use it until I read this in Language of Baklava and became a tad obsessed. "My favorite breakfast is no longer pancakes, but bread doused with oil and Zataar."

   Every now and then I've returned to my story and tried again to explain myself but I just couldn't figure out a way to explain my reaction to her writing. I know people post book opinions all the time, but I've felt so inadequate to the task. I'm not a professional writer or book reviewer and my reactions are very personal. But here I am during the COVID19 pandemic, trying again. Because writing during self-isolation in a pandemic is what everyone is doing. No?

   Here in 2020, as I try again, I can't remember in what order I read the books and I don't remember if I asked my daughter Elena to bring me zataar (or za'atar, or zaatar) specifically, or if I said to bring me "some spices" from the spice market in Nazareth she was so excited to tell me about. Or maybe I didn't even make a request. Maybe she spontaneously brought back spices because then she could have an excuse for buying them. At the time she didn't know if she would ever make it back to that shop in that market.

   But I'm pretty sure I had mentioned Abu-Jaber's books to Elena sometime after I met Diana in 2012. I suppose if I had known I would try to write "my zataar story" I would have taken better notes. It all goes back to the 2012 Gaithersburg Book Festival author reception. Mike and I offered her a ride back to her hotel after the reception. I had no knowledge of her or her books and I wasn't able to attend her presentation the next day because I was introducing another author during the same time slot. Diana's book Birds of Paradise was out in paperback and that was her topic. I remember she seemed a little anxious to be away from her young daughter and wasn't sure she wanted to hang around the festival after her talk. She was anxious to get back home.

   At some point I started following her on Facebook and Twitter. I checked out her books from the library and then I bought them because I wanted to have them on my bookshelf. Of course, I do this with a few authors, so I didn't think it was weird or consider myself obsessed. It's her two memoirs that stick with me: 

The Language of Baklava from 2015, source of the zataar quote;

and her 2016 Life Without a Recipe. 

I love her beautiful writing whether in fiction or memoir. I also know I relate to her stories because members of her family and her fictional characters remind me so much of my relatives – the Greek ones – even if I didn’t really know many of my Greeks all that well and mostly only have memory glimpses of them. Reading about Diana’s family and about her fictional characters in her other books, allows me to imagine what some of my family must have been like.

   Her stories help me understand my ancestors and I think, also, why my father was willing to move our little family 2000 miles away from the Greeks in Chicago when I was two. He loved his family with a Greek passion and loyalty. I think he knew he was losing an unsurpassed support network. But I think he knew how smothering they could be. Did moving us reflect a bit of his own Greek immigration story? His own father moved his little family across an ocean when my father was five and a half. Immigration and family moving stories are always a complex mix of economic and self-preservation opportunity so who knows. (Says the person who gradually moved her family west to east. California-Tennessee-Missouri-Maryland.)

   After Dad moved us from Chicago to Los Angeles in 1955, we did visit Chicago, but infrequently. It was expensive to take a family with three, then four, then five children from California to Chicago just to visit. I think we made the trip less than half a dozen times before I was an adult. As an adult, there were visits for cousins’ weddings and a few that I made by myself, and a few I made with my own family. The grandparents and cousins rarely visited us in California. None of these visits were enough to create as many memories as I would have if we had lived closer, but I have at least a handful of very strong images and stories. Many of them involve sitting around my aunt's dining room table in the northern Chicago suburbs. It's not so much that anyone was cooking as in Abu-Jaber's stories, but there was always food. And there was always talking about food.

1974. Aunt Jen. Uncle John

Still at Aunt Jen's table in 2006, though she died in 2002

Me in blue with cousins at Aunt Jen's table in 2009

   My four siblings made trips to Greece while in college. I didn't get there until 1988 when my father figured out a way for many of us to go together. I don't know why he decided we should all go to Greece after my cousin's Chicago wedding. I believe it was related to his scary cardiac "events" after 1984 and some need of his. So I guess he figured we'd all be together in Chicago for the wedding; why not keep going all the way to Greece? We would sort of tag along on Michelle's honeymoon. Who wouldn't want to spend her honeymoon with her siblings and cousins and their children? Of course we went and brought our two daughters Jennifer and Amelia. We spent most of our time on the Peloponnese. We visited my father's maternal relatives in my grandmother's village, Episkopi; and my grandfather's village Kerasitsa which was my father's birthplace. The two villages are immediately adjacent. In 2009 Mike and I returned to meet Elena at the end of her study abroad semester. We took her to visit the relatives too. I suppose all journey's to a father's birth village in the "old country" are bound to be epic. Ours were.

My father, Angelo. His sister Jen. 1988. At the "old house" in Episkopi.

   For me, on both of my visits, it was the sight of the mountains. I understood why my grandmother Stella cried at the sight of the Southern California mountains when she visited us in 1962. It was seeing the legendary house in Kerasitsa, on the corner, with the plaque identifying it as the family house. And it was the food and eating food with relatives who knew my father, particularly in 2009. I think that he expected to die closer to 1988 than in 1998 when he died from a stroke. I'm so glad I was able to go with him in 1988.

The Peloponnese mountains as we headed back to Athens from the villages. 2009

The house in Kerasitsa where my father was born.
The street sign identifies it as the Street of the Americans

My dad, standing, in the yard at the house in Episkopi.
His cousin Sotirios, seated on left.

   To be clear, I'm already a bit of the family historian so I didn't need Diana Abu-Jaber to prompt me. I've recorded my life in scrapbooks, on my calendars and in journals since I was 12 or so. In recent years, I wrote about my parents in World War 2, my grandfathers in World War 1, the family recipes, and a history of my Greek grandparents that I finally completed in 2019 for my siblings and cousins. I started my World War 2 site way back in 2007 (first using Apple's iWeb, then Wordpress and now Weebly); my personal blog (where you are reading this, using Google's Blogspot now Blogger) began with my 2009 trip to Greece; and my family recipe blog began in January 2016 (also on Weebly). I've included bits and pieces of my own memories in all of these attempts at family history. However, there are some memories that I haven't figured out a way to let filter in or out.

   1958. I'm five. We're in Chicago. Happen upon my grandmother, chopping onions in her cellar food prep space. Tears streaming. She tells me it's ok it's just the onions. Years later I understand.

   1963. I'm 10. We visit Chicago because my grandmother Stella (Stavroula) is dying. Greek Easter dinner in Aunt Jen's basement.

Grandparents Sam and Stella at the head of the table(s) for Greek Easter in 1963

   1965 - 1973. My parents' dinner table after we moved to San Diego during our teen and young adult years. It wasn't so much the food, because my Irish-German-American mother was not a great cook and she mostly tried to keep us out of her kitchen. But apparently she loved to host gatherings around her tables. It was the "conversation" around the table that was memorable. Vietnam. Robert Kennedy. Martin Luther King. Richard Nixon. And then there's my Japanese mother-in-law who was a great cook and taught me how to make spaghetti and sukiyaki. When you add in my Mexican-American father-in-law, my own kids embody the great American Melting Pot. But I digress.

At the dining room table.
Me on far left. Siblings and Dad at the head of the table.

Mom at the head of the table with her aunts and her mother on far right

  1974. I'm 21. My grandfather Sam (Sotirios) died. At the restaurant after the funeral, one of my father's relatives comes up to us, pointing her finger at each. "Angelo? Angelo? Angelo? Angelo? Angelo?" We nod. Yes. Yes, we are all his.

Dad with one of his relatives at the restaurant after his father's funeral

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

   I guess it makes sense that I love Diana Abu-Jaber's stories about her Jordanian relatives and her various Middle Eastern and Arab American fictional characters. I met Diana briefly eight years ago; I follow her on social media; I’ve read her books. I’ve recommended them to others and then I have trouble finding words to explain to friends why they should read her books.

   What it comes to is when Diana Abu-Jaber writes, she tells us how she learned to live her life while she learned how to cook and bake and write; and then how to continue to write after becoming a mother. In her life, she's had one set of lessons and recipes from her maternal grandmother Grace. Another set of lessons and recipes from her father Bud. So many rules and lessons and recipes from school, work, husbands, family. Different strokes from different folk.

   I'm so grateful that I happened to meet Diana and offer her a ride in 2012. I want to thank her for reminding me to find my memories. But I also feel like I want to warn her that no matter how much she thinks she understands the lessons of her Jordanian father Bud and her German-American maternal grandmother Grace, I'm pretty sure her understanding of them will change again and again.

  As an older-than-her woman and as a mother & grandmother myself I'm wondering if perhaps there are even more valuable lessons in her mother’s journey? The one who may have felt she was just along for the ride. But all those years, there was her mother, Pat, daughter of Grace, soaking it all in until her time was right and she started painting her life. Again. As she had done some years before, then packed away, and then started painting again after her husband Gus died.

   I think Pat may have all the answers and maybe some secret ingredients. But of course I would think that. I'm the mother of adult daughters and I would like to think they've learned a few things from me. I hope they haven't felt too restricted by my lessons and recipes.

   And, the truth is, I absolutely know why I wrote down that quote from The Language of Baklava. It's because, as true friends can attest, breakfast is my favorite meal. Sometimes I like to pretend I'm a Hobbit so I can have "second breakfast." And of course, there's my next favorite meal. Breakfast for Dinner.

"My favorite breakfast is no longer pancakes,

but bread doused with oil and Zataar."

   I'm grateful to Diana Abu-Jaber. And I'm grateful to my daughter Elena for bringing me some zaatar all the way from Israel.

   Go get yourself some zaatar. Some good bread. Some good oil. 

   Read The Language of Baklava. Read Life Without a Recipe.

   Find your memories!

   Find your secret ingredients!

Zaatar from Elena. Nazareth 2015.
Zaatar is a mix of sesame seeds, thyme, and sumac.
Exact recipe can vary from region to region

Books by Diana Abu-Jaber

1994 Arabian Jazz

2003 Crescent

2005 The Language of Baklava

2007 Origin

2011 Birds of Paradise

2016 Life Without a Recipe: A Memoir of Food and Family

2020 Silverworld (March 2020. A middle grade fantasy.)