Picture, Picture, Tell Me a Story

Near the end of her life, my mother, being my mother, thought it only fair to divide up some pictures she’d been hoarding of our early childhood. They were given out equally between my sister and I. Unfortunately, there were no stories to explain the pictures nor any kind of narrative that might have shed a light on the where, when, and why of those scenes of domestic bliss.

That’s the way Hildegarde LaComb (Noll) operated. It was always very secretive, almost as if she was afraid that the truth, in whatever form, might leach out between narratives sometime in the future. Unfortunately, it never did and my sister and I were left with two separate collections of black and whites glued to a scrapbook we never knew existed until near the very end.

Raised in a good German Catholic household, feelings and emotions were never addressed. I probably got more feedback (and affection) from our pet cottontail rabbit named Nosey than I did from my mother. That’s probably why I escaped into my own fantasy world influenced by television, the movies, comic books and pre-teen angst.

My rampant, wandering imagination revealed itself in drawings of medieval knights, cowboys and Indians and Tarzan. Short comic books and other sketches filled out the imaginary world I lived in most of the time.

I’ve saved those drawings and some vague remembrances of my motivation for their creation. Unfortunately, these new black & whites just discovered don’t have that background of reflection. They leave only questions unanswered and motivations unsolved. So, I blinked on my detective’s eyes and tried to examine carefully the new pictures to see what they might reveal…beginning with my father, Arthur LaComb. It was the only trail I had to follow.

There were no pictures or other mementoes of my father in our house when I was growing up. It was as if he never existed in the first place. By the time I had finally matured and became curious about my lineage those memories of my mother’s distant past had become a fog clouding her mind. Her stories of my father were often confusing and contradictory.

Looking closely, there were clues in those pictures…in the clothes, posture, location and a hundred other enounces that spoke volumes about the man that gave me life. By reading into those images with the inquisitiveness of a writer and a curiosity of past traits passed down to me, I hoped to find some answers (unconfirmed, of course) in what those pictures were telling me.

So, without being maudlin or clinically antiseptic, I began to study the clues. There were stories in those images that said so much and yet revealed so little. I did my surgical inspection without the benefit of any oral history pasted down from my mother. And I was cognizant of her refusal to recognize that part of her past life. If there was any prejudice, hard feelings or hidden shame in her relationship with my father it had slipped away with her last breath here on earth.

Who was this man that was a part of my life for less than two years then was gone forever? Who was this Arthur LaComb whose lineage could be traced back to Quebec, Canada but little else beyond that?

For one thing, he seemed to like to dress me as he dressed. Today he’d be called fashion-wise, nattily attired or very smooth. Back then perhaps even labeled a ladies’ man. That trait ended with him.

My grandmother (on his side) was only in our lives for a brief period of time. Marlene said she visited us once then disappeared after her son (my father) died. From research on Ancestry.com, my wife discovered that my uncle (his brother) lived in Los Angeles until he died in the mid-70s. Obviously, our uncle never bothered to ever get a hold of us when we were growing up.

My father was a smoker and liked to hang out in bars. My mother commented on his drinking only once or twice and left it at that. A cousin once said he was a pleasant drinker and funny when he got drunk…as opposed to a mean drunk, I suppose.

Turns out, I have/had a step-sister. I think her name is Beverly. I knew my father had been married once before. That came up when I saw a picture of a young girl with us way back when. Then my mother remarked once back in the eighties, “Oh yes, you have a step-sister who lives in a trailer park in Florida. She came to visit us once.’ I guess I was in the fourth or fifth grade at the time but I don’t remember her visit. We never heard from her again. My mother never explained why she also disappeared from our lives and I was too young to ask.

The story of his death is also a vapid cloud that kept changing tones and colors as it was retold over the years. It seems in the winter of 1948 my father was traveling back from the West Coast to be with us for Christmas when he stopped in Missoula, Montana. The next morning, he had a massive heart attack in his hotel room and died. End of story, figuratively and literally.

I’m grateful for those old pictures of my dad and me. Not because they answer any questions. They certainly don’t. And my mother’s refusal to talk about that part of her past has left a huge hole in my life where fond memories are supposed to be. Despite that I can’t complain.

It’s been a good ride over the long haul and I have few if any regrets. Yet, it’s interesting to think that for a very brief period of time back on Smith Avenue in old Saint Paul, it looked like we were a family… a family just like everyone else. It’s tempting to let my ‘writer’s imagination’ go with that image but honesty won’t let me.

In retrospect, it’s been a lifetime of unanswered questions with a shadow that wore the cloak of my mother and a vacuum where a father was supposed to be.

Such is life.

Finding Your Authentic Self

Discovering your authentic self for the first time is like meeting a perfect stranger you’ve known all of your life. If one can get past their ego’s definition of who they are, it can be a truly enlightening experience.

But to get there, you have to push beyond those influences that up until now have defined who you think you are. Past life experiences, relationships, loves, losses, and a wide assortment of pivotal life-altering events that have all conspired to shape a personal vision of yourself in your head.

There have been a number of books that have influenced me in one way or another over the years. I’m sure the influence was heavily fortified by the lifestyle, angst, mood and my own psychic temperament at the time.

Most of us spend a lifetime painting our skin like a canvas of who we think we are. It’s a personal journey of ego, attitude, needs, desires, fears and wants. But in our quest for satisfaction in life we sometimes inadvertently let outside influences shape and define our true self.

Often times, there’s been collateral damage suffered and you didn’t even know it. It came from those youthful messages imparted on you by parents, teachers and friends. Everyone who thought they knew who you were, what you were and what you should become in life.

Writing for me has always been a journey to find my authentic voice and express it in my stories. Yet, I can’t unlock the shackles of past influences that color my many words. I’m not alone in this vernacular journey of detours, distractions and negative voices lurking in the back of my head. Recently, I’ve read two books that expanded the spectrum of that chasm in writing.

Larry McMurty (The Last Picture Show, Terms of Endearment, Lonesome Dove, Brokeback Mountain, etc.) and Micky Spillane (Kiss Me Deadly, I, the Jury, Vengeance is Mine) had two very different writing styles and yet each was true to their internal voice. They both had two distinctly different writing styles that, despite their stark differences, managed to connect very effectively with their respective audiences. Both authors found their voice and satisfaction in their own approach to story-telling. In short, they were honest to themselves and never wrote to a supposed audience or group of readers.

Finding our inner voice is different for each one of us. We all have it. We just need to find it. If one looks at creativity not just in terms of the arts, music, crafts, and all of its many manifestations but far beyond that, it is another world welcoming us to explore.

Creativity can be found in our ordinary, often times mundane acts of living. Albert Einstein said it best when speaking about creativity. “Everyone is a genius, but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life believing it is stupid.”

It means creating a lifestyle that embraces all that is important to you, your soul, and your inner cravings for your purpose in being alive. It means living by those principles that define who you are as a person, a spouse, a lover, a parent, a guardian, and a member of the human race. Living creatively can and should be your motivation for personal evolution, growth, learning and therefore, thriving in a complicated world.

For me, part of that organic process of writing is a new demand for more self-examination and thoughtful-processing of the past lives I’ve lived, my present environment and level of personal satisfaction.

It demands a closer examination of past relationships and my reaction to life events. It forces me out of old reflections, memories and explanations and gradually wipes away the dust and dirt of past assumptions to revealed a truer self. My research and writing have taken me on a journey I am only now beginning to better understand and appreciate. It’s all about answering the question of who I was back then and how it made me who I am today.

Helping me along the way is a daily detour I take to check-in inside my head. This practice is a monastic exercise but one with benefits. It’s finally coming face to face with the true me. Mind you I can’t say I know me that well even though it’s been over eight-one years of living in this skin.

As with any responsible enterprise it is our duty to find what it is that interests us the most. We must listen to our inner voice and answer its calling. To do this we must learn how to support our creativity. That means to take the time to daydream, doodle, imagine, and ponder those many ‘what if’s’ that seem to hang around the edges of our consciousness. Life-changing habits come from thoughts and energies beyond that which we normally access during our daily lives.

Then we must take those thoughts, ideas, concepts, and ‘what if’s’ and put them into concrete form or action. The tragedy here is not to try and fail but to do nothing at all. Each of us has an intuitive nature. We must harness the energy of and the power of that intuitive self in order to become limitless in our inner exploration.

You must first accept where you are in life and never regret the journey you took to get there. You should slow down and smell the flowers. That means eliminating toxic people and situations that do nothing but harm your self-worth. Practice the art of mindful living and appreciating your good fortune when intuition comes into your life.

It means breaking away from centuries-old assumptions, questioning old habits that hold us back and honestly looking deep within ourselves for the truth there. Creativity is a whole body and mind experience. It is a way of life not just an idea or an ambitious goal. It is preparing ourselves mentally and physically for the journey deep within ourselves that reveal truths about us we never knew. It is a mind-set that in turn is a road map that in turn is a guide to eternal truths…our truths about who we are and what we can become if we so desire.

Welcome to your inner journey. It’s going to be a wonderful, at times confusing, and ultimately satisfying trip. It’s better to jump on that train now than to wait at the station for another-life to arrive. It’s a journey I intend to follow for the rest of my life. A trek backwards that might help propel me forward with clarity and vision of who I really am.

·      Credit must be given to the following authors who wrote articles in ‘The Edge’ Magazine, June, 2016 on this subject matter. Theresa Nutt, Alley Brook, Jeanne Henderson, Lisa Sellman and Nick Seneca Jankel.

Back in the Wash

It’s an easy place to get lost. A quiet and serene sweep of desert scrub brush, shifting sands and soft whispering winds. It can change its appearance in subtle yet curious way on almost a daily basis. It’s a perfect capsule of silence capped around your ears. Everything around you seems dead and yet is alive in a hundred different ways.

There’s usually a small muddy creek meandering by. The scrub brush is usually full bloom except in the dead of summer. Nesting birds’ flitter about endlessly. The stillness there can be deafening with only a few fleeting sounds floating by. All is peaceful until every couple of years when the rains come and wash that complacency away with astounding fury and force in just a matter of moments.

After the storms, the leftover residue slowly settles into the newly formed crags and crevices and the wash goes back to its dormant life once again.

I experienced that here in the desert several years ago. A record three and a half inches of rain fell in one day. Contrast that to an average rainfall of five inches for the entire year and one can understand the magnitude of the hard rain pounding on concrete soil.

Before the rains, the wash was alive with horseback riding, mountain biking and hiking.

Horse trails become mountain bike meccas. Hikers wander the wash, meandering back and forth as the rutted grounds give way to dry beds. Arroyos cut in the corners and debris lies crumpled up in distorted jumbled piles randomly deposited everywhere. Then after the rains, new trails are forged on a totally altered landscape.

Fortunately for me, the wash isn’t the only place I’ve found for tranquility and peace in his part of my world. The best views of this ever-changing tapestry of desert landscape are from the mountain trails that climb up to the summit.

As a fellow hiker commented the other day. “It really is one of the best playground for adults in the world.” I’ve also found a host of other newly discovered venues to get lost in around the Coachella Valley.

Whether it is walking the berm and scaling the heights above, they are all magnificent escapes just steps away from my home. Places to meet and greet and at the same time go solitary if I want to.

Its heaven’s confessional where I reveal my earthly sins; the good ones, the bad ones, and the fun times in-between to nobody else but me.

What is Cool Anyway?

As a young man growing up, there was one status symbol I never achieved. That was to be cool. Even today, I know ‘what I wasn’t’ but still can’t grasp what it was that I thought ‘I wanted to be.’

Back in the day, there seemed to be one sure guideline to follow on the pathway to ‘coolness.’ Since appearances meant everything for an impressionable young boy, Playbook Magazine seemed to have it down to a tee. The slick glossy tabloid to all things hip covered the whole spectrum of ‘cool’ things, places, people and attitudes.

Playboy told me that this coolness was reflected in the arts, architecture, music, film, and dozens of other esoteric cerebral ventures of commerce. It was all images and icons for hungry eyes like mine to take in. Playboy became ‘the’ major purveyor of that message when a young editor, operating out of old Cow Town, started up his own journal to herald and embellish this new scene for the cool set.

That illusion of something special was embellished, relished, and enriched by the monthly unfolding of Playbook centerfolds, cool cars, hot bachelor pads, and jazz. On the musical front, I never understood that among the hip crowd, jazz spoke a language only they understood. I was more of a folkie type.

Outside of that fantasy world of bunnies, bachelor pads and cool cars, there existed the ordinary mundane life I was living. In that world of teenage angst, lust, confusion and pipe dreams, a plethora of quirky and colorful characters defined their lives and occupied ours by their dress, style, mannerisms and diction. It was a world of first images that held tight behind a façade of individuality, which, of course, it never really was. The birth of this grand illusion began about the same time I entered the world. It morphed, grew more sophisticated and finally presented itself at the most opportune time….the late Forties and early Fifties.

After World War Two, there was a migration of artist types to the West Coast, primarily California. Coupled with a burgeoning economy, thriving new industries and glorious weather, the West Coast became a mecca for the average Joe as well as his beatnik cousins. I caught wind of this seismic shift in American culture through an art exhibit at a California Art Museum several years later. The museum recreated their exhibit in a coffee table book which I bought.

‘Birth of the Cool: California Art, Design, and Culture of Midcentury’ was one of the most ambitious exhibitions ever organized on this seminal period, encompassing the painting, architecture, furniture design, decorative and graphic arts, film, and music that launched mid-century modernism in the United States and established Los Angeles as a major American cultural center.

This was before the late Fifties and early Sixties swept me into the teen world of class and cult and sexual misinformation. There were the hard guys with their slick hairstyles and choppers and hot rods. The jocks with their letter jackets. The Brains hid out in the library with their books and slide rulers. And every school had its cache of rich bitches (male and female) with their parent’s money and cars. These cool kids had it all in one form or another. They were all ‘with it’, except maybe the Brains. Everybody envied the Brains because they were going to be our bosses sometime in the future.

In high school and even college, the rest of us were merely background distractions for those crowds of easily identifiable clichés. We were simply invisible fill-in wallpaper to their exciting fun-filled lives.

I came of age (but never broken through) back in the Sixties when all the cool music, cool chicks and cool cars were emanating from Southern California. It was a mecca for immature, wonder-ing wandering minds like mine. The Beach Boys painted musical pictures that wetted my appetite for sand under foot and bikinis in sight.  Annette Funachello and Franky Avalon showed me what beachcomber life was all about, Hollywood style.

As cool as it is to think that one is cool, the concept can be a slippery slope, easy to feel but tough to grasp. It’s evolution in midcentury America now seems but a series of willful misunderstandings. It started out as black style but became white style. It was a response to alienation but became a mark of belonging. It came from the language of outsiders, but it became associated with very old ideas of about aristocracy and good taste.

After a lifetime of never being cool and accepting my fate as just average, I think I’ve stumbled upon the true meaning of cool. And from my own kin no less.

In retrospect, I think my granddaughters have shown me the new way of cool. Maya, age 17, Samantha, age 15 and Charlotte, age 12, have all embraced the style of mixing and matching vintage clothing with something new and modern. They’re cool because they’ve become masters of their own fashion sense.

Perhaps, doing your own thing is the ‘real’ cool thing to do. Follow no one else but let your heart and desire lead you on.  It means doing your own thing and ignoring the masses or cult favorites or TikTok glimmers of the silly and insane.

Past symbols of ‘cool’ are now old enough that they’re coming back in a strange amalgamation of form and style. The younger set sees them as new and trendy. Veterans of the movement see a resurgence of a colorful past. Me, I see form and function but little else.

Sadly, even now that I have an idea of what cool is, I don’t think I’m there yet and probably never will be. I’m just going to continue doing what I want to do. So, if doing your own thing is now the cool thing to do, maybe I’ve finally made the grade.

TBA