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...