Vietnam, a Love Story

I returned from my first visit to this country in late September. I brought "Fire in the Lake" with me, a book by Frances Fitzgerald published in the mid-1970s that outlines the complex history of Vietnam, its colonization by France and subsequent conflict with the U.S.  I went with my friend, Chi, a native of the country now living and designing jewelry in Los Angeles. Chi has a house and a jewelry factory in a small village a four-hour car ride south of the city.

I cannot say what it was about the journey that I loved the most: The warm, unexploited waters of the South China Sea, the lovely countenance of the people I met, the buzzing excitement of a country on the verge of an economic renaissance? In truth, all of the above.

More to come about this mythic land. I will be returning soon, that's certain.

Factoids

Some good things I've noticed lately:

- I like living alone. I can now smoke all I want and no one yells at me. And no one steals my Milky Way bars, either. Of course, I'm also trying to quit both of these nasty habits.
- I still buy food as if I have two little ones living with me. There are 7 boxes of unopened cereal on my refrigerator.
- I own 243 spices. They are not alphabetized.
- My bathroom is always neat.
- I make my bed every morning and can't seem to deal with the day until it's made. This is either a sign of boredom or impending senility. Or perhaps I'm more OCD than I realize.
- I watch too many crime shows. Not the made-up kind. The 48 Hours, 20/20, Women Behind Bars kind. I should stop. Or maybe start writing some true crime novels.
- I hate plastic surgery and am beginning to love old faces. Real old faces. This probably comes from an identification I didn't have before.
- If asked if I would rather give up my hair dye or my cigarettes, I'd chose the latter. I know.
- I realize my mother was right about so many things, the leading one being that by the age of 50, you get the face you deserve.

Thanks, Mom.

Chicken Dinner

Is there anything better than walking half the length of Central Park with an old friend on a classic April afternoon? Short answer: No.
Ron and I were neighbors in San Francisco in the late '70s. We lived in matching one bedroom apartments at the corner of Union and Webster in the city's Cow Hollow neighborhood when a spacious place just north of Pacific Heights went for a measly $350 a month. (Sweet!)
Ron made the best chicken dinners I've ever tasted and today he shared his recipe. His tips? Slow cook a butterflied bird (tented with aluminum foil) at 250 f. for a few hours, finishing it off at 375 f. for 20 minutes. Baste with butter and lemon juice throughout the process. Use one of those old enamel grandmother pans for best effect.
That is all.

Sorry, Kiddo

My daughter just called from California. She is distraught: The young man she's dated for a year, her first love, has broken things off. He wants to be free to surf and hang out with his friends this summer sans girlfriend. Her heart is broken. And my heart aches. For her.

I'm a mother, a woman who's been through this a few times herself. The tone of voice is unmistakable: wrenching, shrill, verging on hysteria. I wish I could tuck her in, read her a story, take her out for an ice cream cone. Right now, she'd probably prefer a dry martini and a Valium. But I gave her the parent drill nonetheless: You'll live. You'll forget about him. Don't call. Sit on your hands. Go out with your friends...it's all advice I've been given myself. And I know it probably won't help.

What will help is time. Lots of time. Coupled with a copious amount of sitting on one's hands. I only wish I had a magic balm, like the ointment I used to rub on her skinned knees when she was little, that would work as easily on her heart.

Unfortunately, none exists. How I wish it did.

My Funny Valentine

Lorenz Hart was one of the greatest lyricists of all time. Of course, the author of "Is your figure less than Greek? Is your mouth a little weak? When you open it to speak, are you smart?" ("My Funny Valentine") was an alcoholic, suffered from depression and had an all around difficult life--especially in his later years. Still, every Valentine's Day, it is this song (my favorite version is sung by Ella Fitzgerald) that sends me swooning.

He also wrote the lyrics for "Isn't it Romantic" and "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered," two of my favorites. On that note, I'll leave you with this:

"Romance, finis.
Your chance, finis.
Those ants that invaded my pants, finis.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more"


Don't worry, Lorenz. You might not be here but your words are.

And would you be my Valentine?

Love,

Barbara

Breakfast, 1968

My mother waits for me in the kitchen, her yellow, flowered apron a cheerful contrast to the gloomy avocado wallpaper. My father sits reading his newspaper. He smokes. A long, gray curl rises above the head of Lyndon Johnson, an old man I have seen on the evening news and am only drawn to because of his extraordinarily long ear lobes. The front page story announces that Johnson will not run again for the presidency. "That damn war," says my father. A loud slurp can be heard behind the morning news. And then, like a thud he asks, "when is Bobby coming home?"

It is another morning in 1968. Bobby is my brother, my only brother, the one who comes home from graduate school next month and whose draft status has been the mealtime topic for all of us--despite the fact that he has been 3000 miles away for the last two years. No matter. Bobby's future has become a part of our scrambled eggs, our meatloaf, our sausage patties since he turned 18. His salvation from what what we fear is certain death lies at the Hudson County Draft Board, a place he will visit in early June when sunny California and a college deferment will no longer protect him from the possibility of war.

My mother lifts a pan of damaged oatmeal from the stove. "I burned it. I'm sorry," she says, her eyes not meeting mine.

Back to Joisey

After a year living in a small country town, I left that town and moved back to be nearer to the City, my family, my friends. Yes, it's back to New Jersey for me. Now not too sure it was just the small town isolation that was the problem. Had lots of friends there. Rather like a salmon returning to its hatching place, I'm here again, with the things around me that are known. Secure.

I'm hoping the next decade is a little better than the one we just left. I'll toast with a glass of Martinelli's Sparking Apple Cider to that one!