Adventures of a Mile High Thespian

It began with a ‘hard knock life’ and ended with ‘tomorrow.’  However, Maya has never been a hard knock life and tomorrow is just a metaphor for something more to do.  The youngest actress in our extended family just added another play to her acting resume. Now in addition to skiing black diamonds, double black diamonds and, last season, extreme black diamonds, third-grader Maya Charlotte LaComb can add budding thespian to her growing list of accomplishments.

Now, making her bed every morning…yeah, not so much.

This was my eldest granddaughter’s third theatrical performance in as many years.  In the first two she was just wallpaper but didn’t seem to mind. This season Maya really wanted a speaking role but once again just ended up an orphan. Mind you, a singing, dancing, animated orphan but mute none-the-less. By third grade Maya was disappointed with no speaking part…I didn’t speak in public until high school. Go figure!

I’m sensing that Maya’s acting chops are getting sharper with each season’s cache of plays to perform. Truth be told, the roar of the greasepaint seems to be getting louder with each of her performances.  Papa couldn’t be prouder.

Not because I think the theater is in her future…nor performing on stage in a room full of envious soccer moms and wiggling siblings.  Instead it’s in Maya’s own projected animation when she speaks about performing that I find her bubbling enthusiasm most contagious.

I’ve seen that same fire in the eyes and hunger in the belly of my own children when they talked about subjects they were interested in.  You can’t implant passion or focus or drive in a kid. They have to find it within themselves. All an adult can do is lead their child in as many directions as possible and see which path they choose to follow.

I want Maya to find her own way in the world.  And hopefully not be distracted by those wizards behind the curtain whose focused packaging of American girls, vanilla princesses, frozen pre-teens and cable channel sub-par stars only exist to promote the latest (manufactured) and (profitable) teen trends.

We had a chance to see this young woman in action when she came back to Minnesota with us after our visit to Colorado.  Her week-long whirlwind visit to Minnesota was complete with: 

Visiting the Eagle Center in Wabasha where she traced the pages for her new book on eagles and rode the carousel at Lark Toys.

                                                           

 On the way home we stopped by the birthplace of Laura Ingalls Wilder. One adventurous young woman following in the footsteps of her favorite author. She also learned how to make a quilt with Nana.

Brennan and Charlotte insisted on seeing their cousin as much as possible.  To celebrate her birthday early at their house and then again at our place where they played an energetic game of tag.

Now Maya can also add budding wordsmith to her list of accomplishments. She researched and created a book on the Cheyenne Indians for a school project. Then at the National Eagle Center in Wabasha she traced a number of images for a book on eagles. Papa typed out the text as Maya dictated it.

While I can’t match Maya on the ski slopes perhaps we can challenge each other as authors as we collectively try to capture those fleeting thoughts, ideas and images swirling around in our respective  heads. Not a bad way to dance with someone so young and talented.

So in the end Maya left Minnesota with a lot of wonderful memories. And Nana and Papa got to see our precocious eight-year-old on the cusp of some very interesting first steps. Perhaps it started with ‘Clifford’ long ago but Maya is certainly racing forward with a lot of imagination today.

Chick Magnet at Seventy

 

Joel and I at Prom

Being a bon-vivant was never a moniker I wore as a younger man.  Awkward and clueless were probably more apt descriptions of that confusing period in my life.  Just ask my girlfriend in high school or the one in college.  Over the years, I haven’t gotten much better.  Even at seventy-two, navigating that sometimes-treacherous landscape called male-female communications can still be a formidable challenge.

Saguaro Pool Party

It’s not that I live in a monastery here in Palm Springs.  The whole Coachella Valley is one fertile field for straight guys who are standing prone and self-supporting.  If they were cheetahs the valley would be a field of gazelles.  But sadly when it comes to finding a man, the single women are all quick to attest that “most of the inventory here is either gay, gray or leaving Tuesday.” (That’s a direct quote I’ve heard on more than one occasion.)

For those of us happily attached another issue can sometimes arise.  Communications between the sexes can sometimes be made more difficult because of the strange environment we all live in here in the desert.  It’s not the normal ‘work all day and rest at night’ routine.  Nor is it permanent vacation time.  Snowbirds, natives or part-timers; it doesn’t seem to matter.  We all still have to talk to one another.

Despite their occasional grousing about their spouse, I think most of the married women here are happy with their state in life.  What it really comes down to is the universal dichotomy between men and women.  Perhaps it’s the age-old survival of the fittest or in this case the smartest.  EI verses FA; emotional intelligence verses financial acumen.  Even if those obstacles are overcome, there is yet another challenge for us men folk here in the desert.

Coda Gallery

Trina Turk Building

                                                         

Case in point, the Coachella Valley is fertile ground for shopping.  From the plush designer shops on El Paseo Drive to numerous consignment stories, shopping seems to be an addiction that affects many women here.  For their spouses, not so much.  I’m a clear example of that.

I hate to shop…more clearly stated…I loathe the simple process of walking into a store…any store…for any reason.  Shopping is antithesis to my very being.  Even driving by a shopping mall can make my skin crawl…OK, I exaggerate a bit here but I don’t even like to be within any proximity to goods and services I’m not interested in.

Believe it or not, female clerks love helping me in this painful process.  I’m probably on their radar as soon as I stumble into their store.  ‘Helpless male in the building’ and all that.  I believe both parties win in the end.  I get the assistance I sorely need and they get to help a male in desperate straits.

A friend recently told me that we all have to be nimble, flexible and live everyday as if it were our last.  He said we’re all dying slowly…or put another way we’re all growing older.  So why not live a little faster.  Is playing this role of mine a bit mischievous on my part? Probably.  Is it dishonest?  I don’t think so.  I just want to savor life every day on my own terms.  Shopping is not part of that equation.

In my new incarnation as a storyteller I want to continue living vicariously into old age.  I want to ride out west or help a young developer in Palm Springs.  I want to give a few suggestions on real estate investments and participate again in the fall of Singapore.  I want to bike across the country with a new lady-friend and participate in a musical celebration at the wake of a lost companion.  I want to charm the ladies with every page I create in my minds eye and on the computer screen.  

Female clerks tend to think I’m cute …but still clueless.  It works for me.  Only my wife knows the truth and she just shrugs her shoulders and is happy I’ve found an illusion to cling to.  The only females who don’t buy into my act are a trio of strong-willed women ages four, six and nine.

It’s my granddaughters who don’t cut me a lot of slack.  They have expectations that I’d like to fulfill and assumptions that I know what I’m talking about.  My granddaughters have other male role models in their young lives.  But I get to fill the role of family elder.  

So if I’m going to grow old anyway I might as well relish the young lives around me.

My role as husband, father, grandfather, writer, explorer and romantic (in my writings) will be all the richer for it.

Ants in the Applesauce

The grandkids were back in town and patience was the order of the day if I was to endure, grow, and prosper alongside my favorite ragamuffins.  Some older folks are just naturally built for the rigorous task of entertaining, educating and caring for their grandchildren. For me it’s a learned response (taught by the master) and ever-changing lesson plans I keep trying to follow.

It’s ants in the Applesauce in the age of intolerance.  ‘Ants’ was a childish game we played while trying to find ants in our applesauce each morning. Of course, there weren’t any ants but it brought smiles and chuckles all around the breakfast table. The intolerance part comes from an observation about my own generation.

When the ‘Mongolian horde’ descended upon our place this Christmas my world went from quiet and serene to loud, chaotic and messy.  In such a world, things sometimes get broken or misplaced or out of order. It was all part of their vacation package along with pool time, games, readings, bowling and wonderful moments with Nana and Papa. As adults we got all of that as well as late night gab sessions with our own children and their spouses. We were always able to find those rare moments snatched from the constant din that mixed quiet time, quality time or just plain time spent with the grandchildren. It was a treasure for the youngsters that no amount of money or presents could equal…even if they didn’t know it at the time.

But all of that chaos can sometimes hard for some folks my own age.  I’ve observed a growing reluctance among some oldsters to dive into the cloudy pool of noise and confusion and the ten minute attention span. Understandably, they’d like their lives to be orderly, predictable and quiet. Many feel they’ve earned it. With kids lurking about it’s just the opposite. 

It’s not easy being shaken out of one’s routine for a week of organized chaos.  Many of us get set in our ways and it’s difficult to pry ourselves loose from our comforting regimen of daily life. However, it’s necessary if you want to savor the full impact of five high-energy monkeys living under your roof for seven solid days and nights.

 Fortunately, we all survived and even created a couple of new traditions along the way.  The old tradition of the ‘bear hunt’ on the golf course with Uncle B has now been seconded by ‘morning coffee with Papa’ for each one of the grandchildren. While Papa gets his regular large light roast and a pastry, each child gets their hot Coco with marsh mellows and whipped cream. And, of course, a pastry of their choice. 

Exploring Joshua Tree National Park in a snowstorm was another big hit and will probably be the precursory to further adventures afar.  Perhaps yet another tradition has been born.

Each day brought a plethora of both organized and spontaneous events.

A puppet show with hand puppets.  Maya was the mysterious MC.

Visiting a fire station just down the block

Picking oranges for juice in the morning

Story telling from an original story written by Maya

Bowling

Lots and lots of reading to the kids

 

Picking lemons for lemonade in the afternoon

A special wine-tasting event for the adults

 

Watching TV while the adults relaxed

 and hours of pool time for everyone.

I asked Charlotte one morning at coffee what the best thing about her week was.  Of course I envisioned our trip to Joshua tree or picking oranges or pool time.

Instead, in her best cherub voice, she answered “Running.”

“What do you mean?”  I asked.

“Mommy and Daddy won’t let Bro and I run around in the house at home.”

‘Of course’ I thought, ‘here you and Brennen and your cousins can mimic Santa Anita race track and most of the time, no one says anything.’

I guess if the real goal of that week was to leave a legacy of memories then the kids get to choose what they want to remember. If besting a thoroughbred is what Charlotte remembers most then who am I to judge?