Midge, My Sister Loretta Jean Schooler Hillmon

 The spectacle of foaming white waves crashing into the jagged rocks that line this particular aspect of the Pacific Coast is especially comforting as, once again having released a loved one through the doors of eternity, we seek solace where sea meets sand.
     We have come to this place along the beautiful 17 Mile Drive near Carmel to push back the gnawing pain born from the loss of our baby sister,  Loretta, the one Grandma called "Fancy Pants." Perhaps through pondering this stretch of dynamic earth, we can find answers to those questions of time, life and eternity that have puzzled all of humankind from the beginning.  The sea--with its ebb and flow--calms and soothes us.
     The toll we pay on entering the Pacific Grove gate reminds me of others: bridges, conveyances, tuition--endless tolls that buoy us ever forward through this journey, this life.
     The park policeman, a dead-ringer for "Today Show" weatherman, Al Roker, cheerfully provides us with shiny brochures outlining famous coastal vista points.
     We continue and spot a thin man riding a bike along the left side of the road,
     "Is that Clint Eastwood?"
     "Nah, too thin."
     We must create laughter to dim fresh memories of the stark reality of death.  To do less would disappoint one who lived life as fully as did Loretta.
     The memories form pictures that dance across my mind's horizon.
     "Midge" (another nickname for Loretta as diminutive child) was our princess--and my real live doll.  Momma made me, the oldest girl (and fully two years Loretta's senior) her caretaker.  She became my shadow.
     We talked of these things as she lay dying.  Our childhood, lost loves, rivalries, family stuff.  All trivialized by the impending journey to come.
     "I'm going on a trip and I don't need no suitcase."
     Wispy clouds drift overhead against a brilliantly blue sky and I wonder if she is there.  My mood is broken by discordant sounds from homely sea otters perched along the rocks staring back at excited tourists who photograph then and each other and jockey for loftier vantage points.
     The Lone Cypress is still there, dressed in widows reeds, it seems, awaiting her sea captain--who, unknown to her, languishes in his ship at the bottom of the sea.
     Cancer is an unforgiving disease, merciless and relentless in its quest to destroy.  And even while we have made great strides in the diagnosis of this plague, the treatment promulgated by our best medical minds has not reduced the numbers in terms of death from the disease.  In fact, cancer will soon take the No. 1 spot as the cause of death in these United States.
     I am reminded of the nursery rhyme from Mother Goose when I think of these past few months of watching helplessly as my sister's condition deteriorated.  It's about "Old King Cole," except in this case: All the poison (chemotherapy), the burning (radiation), the cutting (surgical excision) failed to put my sister back together again.  And, in the end, we learned that it was overkill and the failure of her autoimmune system to rally to the cause of homeostasis that was the real killer.
     "I want to go home."
     In the end, she chooses to leave rather than endure another moment of agony.  We watch as she journeys homeward in ever-increasing intervals.  Her gaze is fixed beyond our world and she likes what she sees.  Her eyes reflect the wonder of the beauty.  She smiles.  The pain is but a memory.
     A seagull swoops down onto the blanket of a picnicking couple. Startled, the woman shields her face and then looks quizzically at the bird, fascinated by its sudden boldness.  For a moment, the two size each other up.  And then the bird flies away, skimming the ocean's sparkling surface before soaring upward toward the heavens.

A Sierra Memory

 November 21, 2012

A Sierra Memory

            Just beyond Echo Summit where Highway 50 reaches dizzying heights in excess of 7,000 feet, lies a stretch of road that strikes terror into my being each time I approach it.  A flashing sign warns motorists: “Slow, cliffs ahead for the next four miles.”  I freeze, my hands dampen, and my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder kicks in, big time.

            As we near the dreaded spot, my heart starts pounding madly against my chest.  I push my feet hard against the floor in a vain attempt to brake the car as my companion seemingly delights in becoming A.J. Foyt’s clone while negotiating the hairpin curves  down into the Tahoe Basin.

            The fear emanates from an experience of more than forty years ago on my first trip to the majestic Lake Tahoe.

            The weather was crisp and clear that long ago summer day.  My former husband, a dead-ringer for world heavy-weight boxing champ Joe Louis, and I accompanied a Don and Marge, a young white couple and our closest friends, to the lake for the weekend.  Don’s parents’ owned a cabin there, and we were all jazzed about this new experience.

             It was the early sixties, and blacks, while not blatantly excluded from the Lake, were not welcomed there.  We’d learned that our fair skin coloring allowed us admission into places that frowned persons of color . 

            “What nationality are you?” people often asked. Sometimes when we disclosed our racial origins we’d hear audible gasps and expressions would go from mildly curious to deep disgust.  We learned to read body language like persons with hearing deficits learn to read lips. 

            The proud owner of a new Chrevolet Impala, Don eagerly demonstrated its formidable horsepower at every opportunity—especially rounding curves.  A joyous mood had enveloped us as we began the ascent.

            Just beyond Pollack Pines, however, the aftermath of a fatal accident that occurred moments before our arrival on the scene dampened our mood.  A car had crashed through a barrier on one of the curves and plunged down a steep embankment.  Driven by a curiosity reserved for the very young, we decided to stop for a closer look.  There was debris scattered along the embankment:  a tennis shoe, a scarf (“remnants of humanity,” I thought), a car door, bent chrome stripping from the fated automobile, and, in the ravine below, the horribly twisted car.  Rescue workers ushered us away.

            As we continued up the mountain, the road changed from four to two lanes.  The radio broadcast a report of the accident, noting one fatality.

            I focused on the tennis shoe and silently wondered about its owner.

            Just beyond the summit, we reached the first low stone fence marking the danger zone.  “How can that bit of stone prevent a car from going over?” I wondered as the car gained momentum.  The car ahead slowed.  Impatient, our driver moved to pass him.  Just then another car emerged from around the curve.  I screamed.  With seconds to spare, Don jammed the accelerator to the floor.  We missed a head on collision by millimeters.  Each time I go to the mountain, I pay a memory toll that mars the occasion for a time.

            Today as we exit the lake, I spot tourists taking pictures from a nearby observation point. The view is breathtaking, the lake as small as a teacup from this angle. A few miles down, as pine surrenders to maple and oak and the south fort of the American River chortles merrily alongside the highway, there is evidence of the devastation wrought by fires of summers past.  Homes on the riverbank are being rebuilt.  Some homeowners have trailers as temporary dwelling places.  Skeletal remains of other homesteads, some with only chimneys left to commemorate their existence, appear deserted. Fallen trees lie on silt-covered hillsides.  Neat stacks of deadwood await retrieval. Tall, dead, rust-brown pines line grassy hillsides intermittently sprinkled with golden poppies and purple foxglove. The haunting beauty of nature in the wake of disaster is not lost to my eyes.

            Still a mist blurs my vision when I remember the empty tennis shoe.

Tuskegee Wives, the real heroes

Several years ago I wrote a column for the Stockton Record under the headline "The greatness behind the Tuskegee airmen." In the wake of Black History Month and the flap about "Redtails," the recently released movie honoring this small percentage of Tuskegee airmen, I am posting that column, written November 25, 1997:

A friend attending the Tuskegee airmen reception lat week speculated about the women in their lives.

"Just what does it take to be a Tuskegee wife?" she wondered. After all, the attention is usually focused on the men, and the wives are almost viewed as appendages.

A sampling of the ingredients came as a bonus to those fortunate enough to meet the trio of spouses at a dinner reception in Stockton last week under the auspices of the Association of Life Underwriters.

I've always held to the adage that behind every great man is an even greater woman. My belief was validated on meeting the women of Tuskegee.

First it takes courage. If you're shackled to a brave man, you can't be a shrinking vine.

A little humility doesn't hurt either. I first observed the lovely ladies sitting quietly as their husbands mingled with the crowd. They obviously enjoyed each other and appeared content to leave the spotlight to their husbands.

Beauty--the women were definitely beautiful by any measurable standard. I thought of Oscar Wilde's "Portrait of Dorian Grey" with its premise that whatever is inside a person ultimately makes its way to the surface.

But beyond the physical beauty, the wives' beauty of spirit overrides, captivates.

The last--and most important ingredient--is love that stands the test of time. All have survived at least four decades of marriage.

The women listen intently as their husbands tell the Tuskegee story. It speaks of stouthearted men protesting a return to second-class citizenship after World War II. Its message of man's inhumanity to man makes way for the greater message of forgiveness--and moving toward "one nation under God, indivisible..."

"We are Americans. We want no hyphens to denote our ancestry. We fought for America. This is our country."

The wives nod their agreement.

Lee Woodward wears her jaunty red cap well. She smiles often and is quick to revise husband Ed's account of their first meeting as youngsters in New York. He claims to have stolen the fetching young Lee from one friend on the dare of another.

Lt. Col. Woodward is dashing the next day at a program for local Black high school students in his Air Force bomber jacket with the American flag on its sleeve. From the podium, his message brings a standing ovation.

After 56 years of marriage and ten children, Aline Moret, wife of 80-year-old retired 1st Lt. Adolph Moret, continues an ageless beauty. When Adolph jokingly asks whether he irritates his lovely spouse, she quips:

"if I were an oyster, I would have enough pearls for a necklace." Moret's bittersweet experiences haven't affected his patriotism. His advice to youths:

"You wouldn't want the injustices to run your life. You need education, prepare yourself for the world because the opportunities will pass you by. Let's do things you can control because the only thing you can control is yourself. And your character is the only thing you are in charge of, not the color of your skin. If you dwell on the color of your skin and neglect character, you will never be free."

Xanthia is married to author James Warren, retired Air Force lieutenant colonel and Vacaville resident. The well-coiffed articulate lady was busy organizing the book-signing after the presentation so we didn't get to talk much. Warren has written "The Freeman Field Mutiny," which they both hope to see made into a movie.

The Tuskegee wives are the envy of their generation. They contributed to the successes of their men and marriages with incredible odds against them. We take this opportunity to acknowledge these fine ladies and, once again, the outstanding achievements of their husbands.

All the Beautiful Children...

All the beautiful children have gone away
They have gone on secret pathways thru the dark
I am here in this empty place with echoes
Of lost laughter
Somewhere they play on star meadows
Under that other sun.
--Maxine DalBen

Once in desert sandstorm on a desolate spot of I-395 near the town of Bishop, California, I suffered a spontaneous abortion. Following such a loss, you go around trying to create a balance to offset the terrible imbalance you feel on losing a part of yourself.

Some years later, I paid a visit to Maxine DalBen, owner of Harlequin House Art Center in Stockton, California. She was an artist who dedicated her life to providing art scholarships to disadvantaged children. The purpose of my visit was to score some of the earlier works of her brilliant protege, James Bell, a Black Stockton artist who was struggling with serious medical challenges. We'd planned a reception and sale to raise funds for his medical expenses.

Together Maxine and I searched the darkened corners of her studio. Memories of an earlier time accompanied our hunt, as flashes of the studio filled with classes of youngsters delving in the strange and wonderful world of painting assailed my mind.

Among these children was my oldest daughter, Pamela, who as a child of eight showed artistic promise. Harlequin House was bursting with activity and Maxine and James were the instructors. The prices were affordable and as parents struggling for economic survival in that Vietnam War era, we saw our kids blossom under their tutelage. That summer Pam came away with a beautiful still life in oils, painted in a brilliant combination of colors that, to a proud mom, rivaled Van Gogh's artistry.

Things were different with Maxine then, as they had been during my previous studio visits. While her husband was beginning to exhibit the usual aches and pains of advancing maturity, he was still around to do the things that spouses of creative folks do: make frames, help with studio upkeep and provide needed safety and security for their South Stockton business/home.

Maxine's mate of some 50 years, had passed away on the Christmas Eve before our treasure hunt. The loss of a companion at any age is emotionally wrenching, let alone the devastation created by the loss of a life-long companion. With the grit that marked her career and defined the woman for all the years I knew her, Maxine continued on: running the studio, tending to special projects, holding volunteer classes at the Blind Center where she taught weaving, and continuing to mentor and fulfill a critical role as historian to the Stockton Art League.

While searching for a James Bell original suitable for posting on my home office wall, I spotted a fascinating color pencil drawing by Maxine.
"Not for sale," she said, when I held it up with a quizzical expression on my face.
Months later, the shopkeeper sent a letter with the above poem enclosed. The letter read:
Dear Alicia:
Thought you might like to see the poem that goes with the color pencil drawing of mine you asked about. Some of my friends have been pushing me to publish again, and I did those three drawings as possible illustrations. Don't know if I event WANT to do a book. I deliberately haven't tried to publish since 1960. Writing spends so much emotional energy--I just seem to have none to spare. Maybe I would feel a need to do more writing if I had a family, but my people are all gone and the children I carried didn't live. I have no incentive to create an enduring body of work.
Anyway, this is the poem for "All of the Beautiful Children." It is for my own dead sons, of course, but also about children all over the world who walk dark pathways of war, famine, abuse and death. Also for my hope that somewhere, in some time, they will come again into joy.
James Bell eventually succumbed to his illness and Maxine died last year at 90. Her beautiful spirit and her poem still linger in my mind, and I imagine her somewhere in star meadows...

Sister, Can You Spare A Dime?

by Alicia Hugg

Originally published in the Stockton Record on July 23, 1995, but still relevant in today's sagging economy...

He stood there talking in his nifty blazer with the emblem that clearly identified him as a real estate agent.
"But I knew you in your other life. You know, the one when you were a school teacher?"
"Aye, lass. That was a long time ago. These times and our plummeting economy mandate that you've got to have at least two or three careers before you leave this earth. Life's not like it used to be."
"Yes. And like Streisand warbles: 'Used to be's don't count anymore, they just lie on the floor 'til you sweep them away.' Do you still teach piano? I've got a couple of grandkids who could stand a few lessons. Me too, for that matter. Haven't played a decent note since Ms. Elebeck tried to revive my piano skills at the old Ebenezer A.M.E. Church, when I was a kid."
"Yep. Still teach. Don't think I'll ever retire. Can't afford to anymore."
"You got that right."
Truth is retirement--like the legendary old grey mare--"ain't what she used to be." According to an article in the July-August issue of the American Association of Retired Persons Bulletin, many men (and, I strongly suspect, women) are now retiring to another job while still collecting pensions from companies long served. This phenomenon is being driven by economical as well as psychological needs, and the fact that Americans are living longer than ever before.
Add to this the growing reluctance by many employers to include health care coverage in retirement packages, and we see ourselves becoming a nation where managed health care is the order of the day.
It's a long stretch between 55 and 65, when Medicare kicks in, and according to most of today's economic soothsayers, by the time me and the Baby Boomers reach 65, the Medicare coffers will be coughing up their last few bucks.
Besides, who wants to retire at age 55 to a mundane existence that promises thirty years of thumb twiddling? Not I, says this Gramma.
While managed care is being touted as the universal answer to all of our health care problems, many Americans--spoiled by years of picking and choosing their own medical providers--are reluctant to move into this rapidly emerging mode of health care provision.
But evidence is mounting that the concept, which stresses prevention as the best safeguard against physical deterioration, is working. We are increasingly committed to improving the quality of our lives. We frequent aerobics classes, purchase exercise videos, dance and diet our lives away, all the while embracing fitness icons like Oprah and Richard Simmons in our single-minded frenzy to "get back in shape."
The other evening while hobbling out of my Jazzercize class after an hour of jumping and stretching to one upbeat song after another, I looked at the graceful creature next to me and said:
"I want to look like you when I grow up."
The thin , incredibly toned woman just looked back at me and smiled.
"When you're my age," she replied in a slow, well-modulated voice, "you're lucky to even make it to these classes, let alone participate!"
Outside my second story window a full moon reigns in the evening sky. The harsh sounds of a helicopter interrupt my reverie, and I recall the earlier events of this evening when I pulled into my driveway to find another thin, but disheveled creature actually rummaging through our garbage can.
Back on the block again, economic reality is a homeless female.
Sister, can you spare a dime?