Picture my Aunt Petra’s kitchen way back in the mid-50’s.  It was there that I told her, quite seriously, that I was going to be a movie star.  I was absolutely mad about the movies (Notice that I didn’t know you sounded more intelligent if you called them “films.”) and movie stars.  They seemed to have exciting, glamourous lives.  They dressed in furs and high heels and tuxedos and went out to nightclubs every night.  What could be better?  I could even give up my candy cigarettes and smoke the real thing – in a holder of course, a la Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

 

My Grandma Felice had a monthly subscription to Photoplay Magazine – the People of its day, and I could hardly wait to go to her house to devour it and the cookies she always had in the cookie jar.  I had to know exactly what the latest hair and clothing styles were in Hollywood.  More importantly, how did they spend their leisure hours when they weren’t on the set?

 

I had many ideas about how I would be discovered.  It seemed logical that some director or producer would pick me out of a crowd – perhaps during recess at Lincoln Elementary or while shopping in downtown Ontario.  Quite possibly I could be plucked off the stool at Gemmel’s Drugstore just like Lana Turner, but in my heart I knew that Gemmel’s in Ontario was a far cry from Schwab’s in Hollywood.  Later, I did get a job at Gemmel’s soda fountain, but it was behind the counter.  There’s another story.

 

I planned on marrying someone exactly like Tony Curtis, Jeff Chandler, Cary Grant, or Clark Gable, and when I won my Academy Award, I would be sure to thank my mother, my father, and especially my Aunt Petra, who stood there in her kitchen listening to every word I said without a word of discouragement or hint of skepticism.  I miss her.

 

As you’ve probably already guessed, my talent turned out to be more in the area of eating the cookies at Grandma’s than in being a movie star, but I still love the movies, although the stars have lost some of their shine.  I just have to be content with critiquing a film and how I might have played a role better than, say, Meryl Streep.

 

At fourteen, I decided I would be a great painter.  My Uncle Jack was very bohemian and liberal for his day, or I should say for his family, which could be best described as blue-collar and crude.  Jack was the youngest of four brothers, one of whom was my father.

 

Jack loved music and books and was a gifted painter.  I knew he was good because he won first place in the 1952 Chaffey High School Art Show.  His bedroom walls were completely covered with color chalk drawings that he had done himself, and he always listened to music – mostly Broadway and some opera.  I could sit in his room for hours examining each drawing, playing with his art supplies and listening to his music.

 

It turned out that I was a pretty mediocre artist, too, so I gave that up.  If I couldn’t be the best right off the bat, then I abandoned it.

 

I dabbled in dancing and playing the piano.  I took dance lessons for one year when I was four years old.  At my debut, I bowed the wrong way – my bottom TO the audience. The reviews weren’t favorable.  While I was dancing, my sister was across town being born.  Ever since, I blame her for the brevity of my career in dancing.  I had to be content living vicariously through the dancer I gave birth to.

 

As for the piano?  You must understand by now that I wanted to be a great piano player, but I never practiced – unless you count the fifteen minutes just before my lesson at noon on Saturdays.  Because of that, I usually ended up in tears while Ms. Armstrong rapped on my fingers and looked at me with disgust and disappointment, which I deserved.  I have to tell you I was scared of her and her dark, Victorian style house hidden behind a high, high hedge, but I guess not scared enough to actually practice.  I often wondered what was beyond the piano room, but never, ever asked to see it.

 

By the time I got to high school the main thing I needed to do was learn to type and take shorthand and major in business and secretarial classes so that I could get a job immediately after graduation.  It was important to my parents that I learn how to make a living and then get out and do exactly that at eighteen – although I would not be allowed to actually move out of the house because that would be disrespectful.

 

And, so it was in high school that I discovered my true talent.  I could type and take shorthand faster than anybody else.  They used to bring younger students in to watch my technique.  My eye-hand coordination was terrific.  I wish I would have appreciated it more.

 

All I ever wanted to do was be the best dancer in Modern Dance class, but alas, I was the best typist in Typing Class.

 

Now, I want to be a great writer, but of course I want to be a great writer right now.

 

I want to move people; make them laugh and make them cry, but I’m having trouble even making sense.  I wonder if good writing can be learned, or if it’s a gift that you either have or don’t have.  It could be that I’ll end up learning I’m not talented in that direction either, but nevertheless, I’m putting words down on paper, and I’m getting loads of satisfaction from it.

 

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