The Year of Living Scared

When I worked at Design & Type in San Francisco, the company took us on a river rafting trip. It was my first time down the American River with wild rapids. I had a blast. Now, fast-forward 10 years. A huge group of us from work at GTS in Commerce went river rafting. That time I was scared.

As a young adult I admired my friends who traveled to far away lands. I had one scare in Tijuana at the age of 16 that altered any wanderlust. I went with the church youth group leaders, along with another youth, to scope out a possible location for a work camp. When we were at the border they pulled us aside, and even with an American driver’s license, it took much convincing that I was an American citizen.

Not knowing the language has always scared me. But this year, to celebrate my 50th birthday, of all places, I went to the place of my birth. I made an attempt to learn the Korean language, but, lost interest after the sixth class when I realized, even if I could read Hangol, I wouldn’t know the meaning. I did, however learn how to say, “annyeong haseyo!” with a slight bow.

Learning sign language all over again has been quite scary. I’m scared to talk to Deaf people. I’m scared to sign with Hearing people who know ASL. I know my ASL is more Contact sign (a way to "bridge" the gap between native ASL speakers and native English speakers).

To step it up a notch, after taking ASL2 and Conversational ASL at Pierce College, I enrolled in the ASL/EIP (American Sign Language/Interpreter Education Program). I just completed five classes (11 units) this Fall semester. I loved every class but I was also scared the entire semester.

2010 was the year that “do one thing every day that scares you,” by Eleanor Roosevelt, was felt every day.

Pumpkin Pie

In a moment of pure desperation, I picked up a pumpkin pie while cruising the aisle at TJs. I knew it was pathetic. Nothing tastes better than homemade. I don’t cook.

For many years, my birthday and pumpkin pie were synonymous. That’s because my birthday landed on Thanksgiving every now and then. Even if it didn’t, it was celebrated on Thanksgiving.

I can still see the impressions the birthday candles made in the pie. But, at some point in time, I rebelled. I remember complaining (gasp) that I had to have pumpkin pie every year for my birthday. The following year appeared an angel food cake with whipped cream frosting.

Audism affects everyone!

(Excerpt from NorthEast Florida Association for the Deaf website.)

In all my years of school, I have never cried in class; that is until last night. About a month ago, our ASL teacher had us read and sign an agreement that we would not use our voice in class. Over the past month, I’ve witnessed students using their voices, not to mention, text messaging (don’t get me started) and not paying attention.

I have felt frustrated with my talking classmates. Why? Despite their proficiency in signing, they insist on talking, as if following rules doesn’t matter, ignoring the teacher’s request. Often times, I would feel the urge to do something about it. But, I’ve learned, through experience, it’s better for me to stand back and just observe.

My ASL teacher is Deaf. (Yes, that’s a big “D.” Meaning she is “culturally/linguistically” deaf. Small “d” is “audiological/medical.”) She has repeatedly asked us not to use our voices in class. The agreement we all signed noted that if we used our voice we would be sent out of the classroom and we’d have to request to return with an apology. Part of me was frustrated that there wasn’t any follow-through on the part of the teacher. She knew people were using their voices. I attributed this to her being too nice. But, if she didn’t follow-through with the agreement, what was the point of having it in the first place?

Last night, my teacher’s weeks of tolerance finally ended. At the beginning of class she asked what respect meant to us. The room became silent. Finally. I sat there and listened. Her emotions ranged from anger, sadness, and disappointment. I was ashamed. I was equally embarrassed that my talking classmates put our teacher in this position.

Most of all, how can we be part of the Deaf community if we don’t respect those who are willing to share their beautiful language with us?

November 11, 2008 - Veteran's Day

I was there, with my Dad’s companion of fifteen years, when my dad took his last breath. On Veteran’s Day, it will be two years. Unlike other holidays, this holiday remains November 11, rather than on the closest Monday or Friday, and thus lands on any day of the week depending upon the year. Most of us will have the day off.

The last days of my Dad’s life started the weekend of Halloween. He loved the fall-- changing seasons--Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. He was not feeling well but stirred up enough energy to participate in The Gardens Halloween costume contest. Those photos are the last ones we have of him.

Something not often shared between friends, what exactly happens when a loved one is taken off life support? My Mom, when dying of cancer was able to come home from the hospital to live the rest of her days. She died in 1989. As her time neared, we knew it was soon because the nurse had trouble getting her vital signs. My Mom was physically weak but coherent. She never became unconsciousness; she knew she was dying.

Dad passed away at the VA in Westwood. He had been unresponsive for three days before his companion and the family understood what the next step should be. The time between taking him off life support and his last breath lasted a couple of days. Unlike what Hollywood portrays, it doesn’t happen in a one-hour episode.

Someone at my Dad’s memorial service asked me if it is harder to lose one parent or both parents. I have to say, at the time I thought it was an odd question. Yet, I think about that question every now and then.

When I lost my Mom, I was too young to really understand how much I’d miss her. I was still trying to find myself. I’m just glad I was able to spend as much time with her as I was able to that last year. There was a twenty-one year gap between my Mom’s death and my Dad’s.

Losing my Dad was not something unexpected. He was ninety years old and had lived a full life. I attribute this to the fact that he remained very active and for fifteen years was in a fulfilling relationship.

Death is a part of life. We can’t avoid it. It’s how we live that matters most. To me, it’s the golden rule.

Text Messaging Dilemma

Last summer, when I mentioned to a Non-Deaf classmate in my Conversational ASL class that I don’t have text messaging enabled on my cell phone, her response was, “And you want to work in a field working with the Deaf?” At the time, I did not understand the role text messaging played in the life of a Deaf person. In fact, it never occurred to me at all until I started taking ASL classes, how does a deaf person call roadside service if their car breaks down in the desert? (This actually happened to my ASL1 teacher, who is Deaf.)

My cell phone, aside from making phone calls, has many of the bells and whistles that enable the Deaf to process the world in ways never imagined not that long ago. To name a few, I have applications such as Google maps, web access, e-mail access, and text messaging capabilities. However, the latter, is not included in my monthly phone plan. I observe non-Deaf students or friends text message during a class lecture or while gathered for dinner with friends. To me, their behavior removes them from the current conversation or environment. But, for the Deaf, text messaging is the opposite from isolation—it allows them to connect with others in their world.

How does wireless devices fit into Deaf Culture? Before, the Deaf (and some still) use TTYs, VideoPhones and similar technology, and/or Video Relay Service. Text messaging, exchanging brief written messages via a phone, has changed the way Deaf communicate. While text messaging wasn’t created for the Deaf, access to it has enhanced their lives.

What would Alexander Graham Bell think of his invention today?

Gray Matters

I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said once a week someone makes a comment about my (gray) hair. It’s interesting when a stranger says something to me. Sometimes they’ll be complimentary, and other times, I’m told, from a stranger no less, that I should dye my hair.

Along with the comments about my hair, I now notice the hair color of people my age and older, regardless of gender. I’m actually a little embarrassed to be flaunting my roots when I see ninety-year-old women still covering up their roots. It’s common for men to have gray in their hair. However, for women it’s different. We are suppose to hide it--“Does she or doesn’t she?”

In 2007, during the Thanksgiving holidays my hairdresser had to change my appointment. I was having my roots dyed monthly, but, realistically, I needed to have it done every three weeks. By the fourth week, I was doing a serious comb-over.

So, it was my fourth week and my appointment was rescheduled for after Thanksgiving, which meant I spent the holiday feeling very self-conscious about my roots and doing my best comb-over. It was during this time I saw the ridiculous amounts of gray I was hiding and decided to surrender. Why fight it?

My hair grows about half an inch each month. Depending on how I wear my hair, either I’m covered completely in gray (pulled back in a high ponytail), or it’s straight down and most of the gray is in front.

Some of my dearest friends tell me to cover my roots. They tell me it ages me. But, I am old. I’m proud of it. It certainly beats the alternative. Something happens in our forties. We work hard to be respected and taken seriously, and then fifty comes along and we’re ashamed to show our age? Not I!!!

About a month ago, I was chatting with a dance sister at Starbucks. A man interrupted our conversation to say that when he saw me he wanted to tell me how beautiful I was. Whoa, awkward moment! Yet, it’s those moments that make me smile, knowing that it’s okay to show your roots and be who you are.

Sugar the Shetland Pony

The other day we were looking for a park in the area. We had relatives with two kids visiting from Germany. We had just picked up one of their friends from the train station in Chatsworth. Where to go?

I knew of a few parks in the West Hills area. To get there, we drove west on Roscoe Blvd. and needed to turn south on Woodlake Ave. I remembered a shortcut to Woodlake Ave. Just before going up the hill on Roscoe, one can take a left turn (south) on Jonathan St. Not a big shortcut but the memories came flooding back.

When we were growing up, that hill was four blocks from our house. The hill had a long driveway that paralleled Jonathan St., which led to a house. The hill was home to Sugar the Shetland Pony and other animals. During my elementary school days, there were many times I’d either walk or ride my bike to visit the pony. On Sundays, I would nab a few sugar cubes from the church coffee hour, or a carrot, or an apple from the fridge to feed Sugar.

My eighth grade year in junior high, that hill (the intersection of Woodlake Ave. and Jonathan St.) is where my friend and I were pulled over on our bicycles, on our way to school, by a police officer. We had apparently rolled through the stop. Unbeknownst to us then, we had come to a California Rolling Stop. We got tickets. I rode on to school but my friend when back home.

The same intersection was the place where, I eventually learned, a boy I had a crush on in ninth grade, lived. Later, after high school, I recall driving my red VW squareback and stopping at that intersection on my way to a performance at the church. I had curlers in my hair and that same boy was out on the sidewalk. I wanted to die!

Looking back, there were many “I wanted to die” moments. Every time I saw that boy from the intersection, I wanted to die. He was in one of my ninth grade classes at Columbus Junior High. I think we spoke five sentences to each other on five separate occasions over a five year span. Yes, every time I spoke to him, I wanted to die. It was the crush I will remember from my youth.

The shortcut to Woodlake Ave. has gone through big changes over the years. Most recently the house on the hill has been removed and replaced with a huge fancy retirement home. The road that curves around the hill has been straightened a bit, perhaps to prevent a blind curve. I wonder how many others remember that shortcut from years gone by.

Doesn't know sh*t from Shinola

At my Dad’s memorial service on Saturday, January 17, 2009, when I got up to share my memories of Dad, I said, “I remember Dad taught me how to shine his shoes. He'd pay me 35¢ and I was thrilled.”

My Dad would say to me, “How would you like to earn some money?”

I knew exactly what he had in mind. He’d bring the shoeshine kit down from the cupboards in the service porch, place a bar stool in the middle of the kitchen, and sit down, hoisting a foot up on the little shoeshine kit. I learned much later in life, he made that wooden kit.

I was taught there was a system to polishing my Dad’s shoes. He’d select the color. First, one shoe up on the foot stool. Apply the polish. Shoe is lowered. Other shoe up, apply polish. Go back to the first shoe on the “last.” Use the brush with bristles. Alternating shoes, after the brush, was the fuzzy buffer and finally the big long rectangular soft cloth. It was rolled up when not in use. To use it, one would unroll it so both ends were exposed. Then rolling a little bit of each end, it was held in both hands. First, moving it swiftly back and forth across the top of the toes, the tip in front, each side respectively and then the heel. Sometimes I had a hard time with the heel and my Dad would help take over.

In an effort to clear the clutter, I’m going to make the wooden shoe shine box into a plant holder in the backyard. In researching what to do with old shoe polish, I discovered that shoe polish can go in the trash. Yes, some of these canisters are very old. Some of the cans have 33¢ painted right on the canister. Lincoln and Kiwi brand is now up to $4 a canister. I will empty most of the contents in the trash but keep a couple of the canisters to reuse for something else.

This is my Dad’s legacy he’s passed along to me. I will think of him often, when I look at the shoeshine box in our garden.

Wrapping Paper Woes

I’m cursing my parents right now! Why did they convince me into thinking that wrapping gifts was a creative outlet for me?!!!

Every Christmas, once I was old enough to cut and tape, I was the go-to person for wrapping presents. I loved wrapping presents. My brothers jumped on the bandwagon and before I knew it, I was wrapping their gifts for others, too.

I would come up with extravagant ways to tie bows. Now, I leave the bows off. But, I can be distracted by beautiful expensive ribbon.

Currently, I do the green thing and wrap everything in post product or recycled brown paper. I’ll enhance the brown with a strip of wrapping paper. Not only am I conserving on wrapping paper, I’m also helping the earth. Yay!

My curses are because of the way my parents treated wrapping paper. I remember many birthdays and Christmases where we were not to crinkle the wrapping paper so it could be (gasp) reused. Yep, reused. Which makes it hard (My husband would say for me—impossible) now, to toss away any scrap of wrapping paper or ribbon.

But my “tossing away” phobia continues with shopping bags of many different sizes–paper and plastic. Not to be used for a gift but used, eventually, somehow, someday. It’s horrible; I can’t recycle them–they need to be reused. Just when will that day come?!!!

When my dad moved into assisted living, he took with him the family wrapping paper and bows box. That box (see photo above) could always be found in the cupboard in my room at Burton St. (Check out the tape holding it together.)

That box is long gone (recycled). But, the wrapping paper habit still lingers on. I need to shut my eyes and just recycle the scraps or come up with a new system to keeping scraps. Ta-da! I think I’ll wrap them on used paper towel and toilet paper rolls.

Hey! I’m feeling really green today! Woes be gone!!!

Out of Sight

This is a photo of the left side of the closet in the blue room. Yes, when the door is closed, it's out of sight and out of mind. Sad but true. I want to change that.

Recently, the last week of June, a Facebook friend posted that he got a call from the “Oprah Network asking if I knew of someone who had issues with clutter that would like help with their problem on the show.”

I responded, “Yes, I know someone.”

Turns out the Oprah Winfrey Network is looking for families to be part of “Enough Already! with Peter Walsh.” I have the name of the casting director if there’s anyone out there who’s interested.

After giving it some thought, “nobody wants to be told they have clutter issues.” If my husband had any say, he’d nominate me. In fact, my husband is the guy you want to invite over when you say, “I have a clutter problem; can you help me?” He has systems down. My horizontal piles drive him crazy.

I first learned about Peter Walsh last September when I got a phone call for a job to help a woman organize her office. I had thought I should do a little research before taking on the task. The job fell through, but I acquired the book, “How to Organize Just about Everything,” by Peter Walsh.

Peter Walsh has office supplies exclusively with OfficeMax called “[IN]PLACE SYSTEM.” I’ve picked up a sample set and have learned that I need to use see through folders and containers. My problem? Out of sight, out of mind.

I want to declutter my life.

I think about my legacy. When I die, I don’t want to burden other people with packing up my junk. More importantly, I want to be freed from my clutter, so instead of thinking about it, everything is organized and I can find my keys. Old age and memory doesn’t make things any easier.

Part 1 – 8 Nights/9 Days Tour in Korea

I’ve been back now from Korea for over two weeks. It took almost the same amount of time for me to get over the jet lag. I had no idea it would be an issue. When we arrived in Korea, the only time change adjustment problem for me appeared to waking up early the first couple of days. The jet lag I felt being back home was physical exhaustion. I’d be awake and suddenly my body felt like it hit a wall.

The first part of my trip is documented in the form of a blog, along with a slideshow (courtesy of YouTube) of each day’s excursions. I’m glad I decided to write about my trip. It’s been fun to relive each day.

Many people have asked about my trip, of course. Looking back, I’m surprised about what I’ve chosen to share. Mainly, I talk about the food and the toilets. Ha! Ha! Consider that I’ve insulted an entire nation by not eating their food. The toilets? I had been forewarned, but, seeing is believing! Funny part, I really did need a manual but nobody wanted to talk about it.

Here’s where you can find details on the first part of my trip to Korea, referred to as the “8 Nights/9 Days Tour.” Out of courtesy of others, in most cases, names are not provided.

• Welcome

Part 1 Blogs:

• Day 1 - LAX
• Day 2 – Jeju Island
• Day 3 – More Jeju Island
• Day 4 – Busan
• Day 5 - Gyeongju
• Day 6 – Mt. Sorak
• Day 7 - Seoul
• Day 8 – More Seoul

Part 1 Albums:

• Part 1 - Photo Album

Now, I begin posting part 2 of my trip, which I will refer to as “On Our Own” in Seoul. We stayed in a Guest House (aka hostel) and visited with my friend’s family for six days.

Seoul Searching 2010

A week before my trip to Korea I debated whether to take my phone/laptop. I was thrilled to learn I didn’t need a voltage converter for either my phone or my laptop computer. Yay, Apple! However, ATT was unable to provide a roaming package for Korea.

Instead of the phone and laptop, I opted to take my Canon 20D camera. Since I can’t speak the language, why not capture the trip through photos? My husband loaned me his Flip video camera, too.

I had my camera with me most of the trip. There were one or two days I left it home because I was more likely to draw attention. (Those are days I’d pull out the Flip video camera if I felt it was safe.) I kept all my money on me because nothing screams tourist like a big-ass camera. As it turns out, Korean-Americans don’t blend in. Our clothes are different. We tend not to be dressy, as I learned. Let’s just say, when we travel, we’re comfortable. In my case, very comfortable.

My trip to Korea was life altering. Each day, I asked the question, what if this was my life? I know I only saw a glimpse of the country. Visiting Jeju Island is like going to Hawaii. The entire island appears to be living off tourists. Our bus ride, up the eastern coast from Busan to Mt. Sorak and along the northern border, was just a sliver of how the Korean landscape looks and the people live. Seoul was both a sobering and wild experience.

Overall, I had no expectations other than I was scared to death because I didn’t speak the language. With the amazing patience of my friend, I asked question after question, and learned about the food, people, and culture past and present.

I loved every minute of my trip. I met some truly wonderful people along the way. Most of all, I am thankful for the Holts and my parents (Lloyd & Birdie) for believing that, "Every child deserves a home of his own."

My trip will be documented on a (private) website by the same name as this entry, Seoul Searching 2010.

“Seed from the East” – A Trip to the Homeland (Part 4)

As I was told, once my parents landed in Korea, they had four days. When they arrived at the orphanage in Il San, they got to visit with us for awhile but stayed the night somewhere else. (See photo of me with my parents in the yard.) Eventually I was picked up and flown to my new home in La Crescenta, CA. My Dad recounted, every chance he got, that on the flight back, when my mother left me with him to use the bathroom, I screamed the entire time at the top of my lungs until she returned.

Needless to say, I was a mess at three years old. I had boils, hair lice and worms. My two front teeth were rotten and had to be pulled out. (It took a long time for the adult teeth to grow in.) Plus, I had tuberculosis.

After looking at all the files my parents kept of the adoption process, I am truly amazed that the Holt Adoption Program was able to get Visas, adoption papers signed, and physicals approved for seventy-eight children for that charter flight on November 29, 1963.

In the book, “Seed from the East,” the story is told, in part, through the numerous letters from Harry in Korea. Things he wrote about, I remember being told about myself:

The children didn’t sleep in beds. They slept on the floor. My mother found me sleeping on the floor at home. It took awhile for me to get used to the bed.

They didn’t wear shoes. I had never worn shoes before. Captured in the 8mm footage, I sit down and won’t walk because the shoes hurt my feet.

We ate oatmeal in the orphanage. Living in America, I refused to eat oatmeal. To this day, I am unable eat it from scratch.

When the children arrived in Oregon, they were scared of the family dog. In Korea, dogs were known as vicious. As I was told, I climbed up on the picnic table and screamed when I saw the family dog, Susie. She had just been house-trained and was relegated to the backyard. Mom said we watched each other through the glass door. Eventually, she became “my” dog and we were inseparable. She slept on my bed, followed me to school (until we got a fence), walked with me everywhere in the neighborhood, and protected me. She died my senior year in high school.

Up until I was nine or ten years old, every Thanksgiving my parents would bring out the 8mm projector and show the trip to Korea. Every year, my brothers would laugh at the part where I would stop walking. At some point, I had expressed that I didn’t want to watch the movie of the trip ever again. In 1990, I had the footage transferred to VHS tape and gave it to my Dad on Father’s Day.

Recently, the Reverend Bob Bock told me he was there at the airport when my parents returned from Korea with me. He was the Associate Minister at Hollywood Beverly Christian Church where my parents worked for fourteen years until 1969. He said he admired how my mother instilled my Korean heritage. Sadly, I shared with him that I fought it and she finally gave up.

Growing up in a predominantly Caucasian community meant, I was self-conscious about looking different. I remember distinctly, while in third grade, being harassed by other school children about the way I looked. As I recall, it was after school and I was playing with friends on the playground. When I got home from school I didn’t share this with my mother, but she knew something was wrong. (I‘m not sure if I’d been crying or just had an angry face.) She prodded and I finally told her what happened.

That day on the playground changed the way I viewed people who felt a need to make fun of someone else because of the color of their skin or the shape of their eyes. It has helped me endure prejudice, bigotry, and racist comments throughout my life.

When someone says to me, “Your people. . . ” I am truly baffled by what they mean. I know visiting Korea will be an educational, emotional, but, also a fun experience for me. I take with me gratitude and love for the two people that never gave up hope that I would be their little girl.

“Seed from the East” – A Trip to the Homeland (Part 3)

In 1961, a letter addressed to my parents, written on October 4, from Holt Adoption Program, stated that I was nine months old and that someone brought me to the orphanage from the Seoul City Hall where I had been abandoned on August 31.

Mandatory adoption filings with the Holt Adoption Program included:

• statement of adoption
• power of attorney
• affidavit of support for American Embassy
• copies of birth certificates of both parents
• copies of marriage certificate
• letters of recommendation of employer, pastor, and friends
• physicians report, and
• pictures of family and home.

Simultaneously, while in Korea, my parents had to go through an Immigration Orphan Investigation that was approved on November 2, 1961.

My parents endured their own months/years of red tape filings with Intercountry Adoption applications, State Department of Social Welfare, International Social Service and the United States Department of Justice.

The Holt agency was licensed in Oregon. They had their own adoption laws through the Oregon Child Welfare Department. California required that the home be approved by their state welfare agency before a child can be placed. The Holt Adoption Program felt, “thwarted in its attempt to place children there.”

Although approved for adoption through Holt, my parents still had to go through State of California Immigration Services, which meant they could not adopt by proxy. Preadoption requirements in California stated that, “The parent must see and observe the child during the adoption proceedings.” This, in turn, precluded any other statement in the law.

A letter dated November 10, 1961, passed along news from Harry Holt that, “The new adoption law in Korea says that every child that leaves Korea has to be adopted under the laws of the Republic of Korea. . . . It may mean that the only way the children can be adopted will be if the parents come over here and adopt them.”

My parents received a letter dated November 27, 1961, via Harry Holt, informing them, “. . . it is impossible, under the present set-up, to adopt your child through the laws for your state. The Korean Government has made us responsible for the child while it is in our charge and has given us the guardianship. This guardianship is assigned to us by the Mayor of Seoul. We are not allowed to transfer this guardianship to anyone except to an adoptive parent. Now, if it is possible in your state that we can transfer the guardianship directly to you, I think we could do the adoption. We cannot transfer the guardianship to a social welfare agency or to an adoption service or anything like that.”

Holt went on to state that he would not release any of his adoptive children to social services. The concern, once the child is transported through the International Social Service, there was no guaranteed the adoptive parents would receive him/her. He had a case where a child, “. . .was adopted through Probate Court but before probationary period of adoption was completed, the father died and the child was thrown into an orphanage and was there over a year.”

In a reply from a letter my parents wrote on March 6, 1962, the Holt Adoption Program replied that in California there seems to be no way to place children. Two different bills were up before the California legislature, “Bill 727, making it legal of a state agency licensed in its own state to place children in California and to file a necessary home study report with the courts. Bill 454 would make it possible for probation officers of the county to review and approve homes for the courts rather than the matter having to go to the welfare department.”

On June 4, 1963, Holt Adoption Program wrote, “We were thrilled to hear the bill passed the Judiciary Committee and that Senator Murdy says there should be no problem in its passing the Senate.”

Sadly, by August 28, 1963, a letter from the Holt Adoption Program in Oregon, stated, “As you know, we have been unable to place children in families in your state since the Federal Law governing immigration was changed making it compulsory to work under state law and in some instances through state welfare departments.”

Happily, the same letter went on to say that a parent in California contacted the Flying Tiger Airlines and explained the difficulties. “They listened with an open mind and compassionate heart. . . . If a group of 58 parents (that is, 116 parents or 58 couples) can be readied at the same time for travel to Korea, Flying Tiger will provide a charter plane, which will be under the sponsorship of Orange County Amko Club. They will provide this plane, which will be a Four Engine Constellation going over and return on Turbo Jet, which will carry 165 adults besides all the children. . . . There would be no charge for the children brought back. . . . Two stewardess would be provided for the trip to Korea and an additional two stewardesses would be added for the return trip. All food, including the babies’ food, would be supplied by the airlines, as well as diapers, etc. needed by the little ones. . . .”

My parents felt they had no other recourse but to fly to Korea and adopt me on Korean soil.

Based upon the stories and documentation I have, my parents were on a Flying Tiger Airline’s chartered flight as, “American Mothers for Korean Orphans.” (See photo of my parents with Bertha above at the airport.) Their flight was delayed by a day, due to the horrific news of President Kennedy’s assassination. The plane left Burbank, California, and refueled in Anchorage, Alaska. Then they were unexpectedly grounded in Japan due to a snowstorm.

“Seed from the East” – A Trip to the Homeland (Part 2)

Connecting with Molly Holt in Il San, Korea, peaked my interest in the Holt story. I sent her a YouTube link of a 3-minute movie I made titled, "1963_Korea_Trip." It's the trip my parents made to Korea in 1963. I took twenty minutes of 8mm footage and shaved it down to three minutes, leaving just images of my mother and me. Molly said she was nineteen years old then and would have been in Il San at the time. Her mother, Bertha Holt, was on the same flight as my parents.

This past month, pulling together still photos and 8mm footage of the trip to Korea in 1963, along with organizing all the paperwork my parents had on file from my adoption, has been an interesting journey to my past. I just finished reading “Seed from the East,” by Bertha Holt, written in 1956, five years after Harry Holt’s trip to Korea to adopt eight Amerasian children.

The Holts, Harry and Bertha, already had six children ranging from twenty-two to nine years old. They were farmers in rural Oregon. Practicing Christians they sponsored thirteen children after attending a film presentation about the plight of Korean war orphans. Over time, they decided they would adopt. How or how many was unknown at time.

Harry departed for Korea on May 30, 1951—Memorial Day weekend. He didn’t know when he’d return. In order to adopt more than two children from another country, the Holts needed the law to change. He initiated the process by persuading one of Oregon’s senators, Richard Neuberger, to sponsor a bill permitting a larger number of children to be adopted. He did. First, Senate Bill Number S.2312, “A Bill for Relief of Certain Korean War Orphans,” had to pass the Senate Judiciary Committee, Senate Immigration committee and the Senate itself. Once passed, Holt Bill HR 7043, moved through the House of Representatives in a similar fashion before being signed by the president. It didn’t happen overnight.

To complicate matters, in Korea, Harry didn’t have access to phones; it was 1951, in a war torn country. Some days there wasn’t electricity. He wrote home to Oregon on a regular basis but news (good and bad) was delayed. Visas for the children took a month to arrive by boat. (Whereas, if it had been by mail, it would have taken a week.) Illness was prevalent. Some of the children chosen died or were too ill to travel. Each child had to pass a physical in time for the trip to the States.

Harry was in Korea until October 14. It took three days to fly the children home, stopping each day in Japan, Hawaii, and Oregon. The Holt adoption story received national coverage in both Korea and America. Letters about the adopting mixed-race children oversees prompted the writing of “The Seed from the East.”

In 1961, a letter addressed to my parents, written on October 4, from Holt Adoption Program, stated that I was nine months old. On August 31, someone brought me to the orphanage from the Seoul City Hall where I had been abandoned.

“Seed from the East” – A Trip to the Homeland (Part 1)

In a week, I will embark on a trip to Korea where I was born. I have never had a desire to travel out the States. I’ve always been concerned about language barriers. Yet here I am, unable to speak the language and I’m going.

I am traveling with a woman, Sue, and her granddaughter, Jacqueline. (See above, photo of Sue and me in October, 2009.) We worked together over ten years ago. Recently, reconnected by way of Facebook, I learned of her plans to go to Korea. I am tagging along with the two ladies. Sue speaks Korean and I will rely heavily on her ability to communicate for me.

The first week we will be on a tour for eight days. We will visit JeJu Island, Pusan, Kjungyu, Gangneung, and Seoul. These places, other than Seoul, I had never heard of before but are places where the locals visit in their own country.

The second week, the three of us will be on our own in Seoul. During this week, Sue will get a chance to visit with some of her family and friends. She has lived in the U.S. for the past twenty years. Her parents are gone, but she has three sisters who remain in Korea. Her other two sisters are in the states. During the day we’ll make day trips in and around Seoul. In the evening, her family and friends will visit us.

I mentioned to Sue I wanted to visit Il San during our visit, not knowing at the time, the adoption agency, Holt International, still has a facility on the site. It is no longer an orphanage. Now it is a residential facility for the disabled. Since purchasing our tickets, I’ve done some research on Holt, called them and written them emails. I have scheduled a visit through Molly Holt to tour Il San Holt, thirty miles north of Seoul.

Sue suggested I look into Korean TV for searching for my birth parents. She thought Molly could help me and I should try and do this before our visit, just in case I could meet my birth parents. I had to file the appropriate paperwork through Holt International in Oregon. I’ve received copies of my files from the Oregon office, but it appears I will not receive my files from Seoul, Korea.

Searching for my birth parents is not my focus on this trip. Going on this trip has been impulsive. I turn fifty in November and have planned for many years to go on a big trip in 2010, just didn’t know exactly when or where.

In an earlier blog entry, “Giving Blood—The Gift of Life,” I wrote about Holt International and searching for my birth parents. This trip is not to learn who my birth parents are or were but about the land where I was born.

Paying It Forward - Chrysanthemum Tea

A few months ago, I was in a Whole Foods looking for something to drink. I wanted to avoid caffeine and refused to buy bottled water. Chrysanthemum tea in a bottle caught my eye. I took my first sip and was immediately transported back to my in-law apartment on 19th Avenue in San Francisco.

The year I moved off-campus at San Francisco State University (SFSU) I got a part-time job working as a cold-caller at Lehman Brothers Kuhn Loeb. They were an investment banking firm at the time, eventually changing owners/names and now defunct. My job was to call people on the phone from a stack of index cards. If I got a person on the phone, I would transfer the call to a broker.

By my senior year at SFSU, a couple of my pals—Janice and Lisi—and I, would trade off working for a senior broker, Mr. Lim. We no longer had to make cold calls; instead we answered Mr. Lim’s calls when he was on the phone, typed letters, and basically assisted him working as office assistants. Mr. Lim was first generation Chinese-American and most of his clients were Chinese. He was a very generous person and had a huge heart.

I don’t remember when a new gal, Sandra, started working at Lehman Brothers. As I recall she was related to one of Mr. Lim’s clients. We embraced her immediately. She was attending SFSU, also. She had a second job working at a café near Ocean Beach.

Sandra was also a generous person. I remember one time when I was home with a cold, she arrived at my doorstep with homemade wonton soup and chrysanthemum tea. The tea was packaged in little one serving packets—big yellow crystals. She left a few packets with me. As I recall, she often brought me homemade Chinese meals.

I was blessed to have Mr. Lim, his family, and Sandra in my life. At the time, I’m not sure if I didn’t take it all for granted. I look back now and realize how their generosity has affected my life. Perhaps “paying it forward” was a way of life for them. Because of them, I find myself wanting to help others, too.

Nature’s Window at de la Osa St.

We’ve been feeding the bird as long as I can remember.

We started with one hummingbird feeder in the front of the house. I kept adding on. Now, this is when my husband rolls his eyes, we have a total of nine hummingbird feeders strategically located along all walls of the house.

We have water dishes (aka bird baths) for the birds (and squirrels). There’s one dish in the front yard and two in the backyard.

We have one seed birdfeeder in the front yard and one in the back. The squirrels get their own feeder.

Several years ago I discovered Nature’s Window. It’s a speaker with a small microphone that brings the sounds outdoors inside. Sadly, the device was so powerful we couldn’t use it after 7 a.m. Otherwise we can hear the neighbor’s dogs barking, cars driving down the street, or airplanes flying overhead, and you can imagine the sounds of a lawnmower or leaf blower. O my.

Once in awhile, we get visits from hawks. Sometimes we get a cluster of crows hanging out in our trees. Last year we had a mocking bird living in a tree behind our house. (They sing at odd hours of the morning.) It can get pretty noisy around here. Just the other day, we had a crow knocking at our back sliding glass door. (I suspect looking for handouts.)

I can never get tired listening or watching birds eat/drink, or take a bath in our birdbaths. The squirrels are amusing, too. I know the cats, Adriana and Luciana, appreciate the view, too.

How May I Help You?

My first job was working at Fosters Freeze at the corner of Fallbrook Ave. and Victory Blvd. in Canoga Park. Where the sidewalk met the two streets on the northeast corner is where the building stood. It’s no longer there. Demolished and now a parking lot for Orchard Supply Hardware.

Why work at Fosters Freeze? I don’t know. I had never eaten there. There were no connections with the owner. Just happened to be my first job. We had to wear nurses’ uniforms. Not the kind worn today, but the traditional all white uniform. We wore a blue and white striped apron over them.

Behind the counter at Fosters Freeze, workers were either flipping burgers or dishing up desserts. I did the latter. Also known as “working the walk-up window,” facing the street on Fallbrook Ave.

My favorite dessert to prepare was the banana split. We didn’t make it very often. I could create one in seconds. First cut a banana lengthwise. Place the two halves on each side of the dish. Then add three scoops of vanilla ice cream between the banana halves. On each scoop pour a pineapple, chocolate, and strawberry mixture. Top with whipped cream, chopped peanuts, with a cherry on top. (I knew I’d need to share that information someday.)

During the time I worked at Fosters Freeze, about four or five months, I worked the cash register, prepared food, and cleaned up. I also learned how to work with others. Most of all, I remember learning how to say, “Hi, how may I help you?”

I’m Having A “Frosty Paw” Moment

Berowne came to us at nine weeks old. It was just after the 4th of July holiday weekend in 1993. My friend, Doris, came up to me at work and said, “Do you know anyone who wants a Golden Retriever puppy?”

Bob didn’t have a chance to say, “No.” I have no idea how the discussion went. He might say I threatened him. I suspect it was more like, he said, “When and where do we go pick him up?” Laguna Beach was where we got him and that Saturday wasn’t soon enough.

Before Berowne was given his name, he was someone else’s pet for a week (at eight weeks old), a friend of Doris’. He was a gift to someone’s wife. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out–they were expecting a baby, their yard didn’t have a fence, and the puppy had separation anxiety. The puppy had flown down from the Bay Area with the owner (husband) a week earlier.

There is way too much to write in one blog entry about the life and times of Berowne “ChewPee” Miller. (He got his Native American name within the first few months, since all he did was chew and pee.) He was too smart for his own good. Many dog trainers tell you when your dog runs off, lay down immediately and the dog will come back? Not our ChewPee!

For 14-1/2 years Berowne had a Frosty Paw practically every day of his life. What are Frosty Paws? They are ice cream for dogs made out of a soy product. Berowne knew them by name. Eventually we were unable to say the two words together. Couldn’t whisper it either, he knew. Even knew, “F.P.” (I can still see his ears pricking up.) He usually had one after dinner before we went to bed. In his latter days, he’d come walk into the doorway and give a look. It meant, “Come follow me.” We’d follow. He’d then lead us into the kitchen and point his nose at the freezer. Seriously!

Today, I had mentioned “Frosty Paws.” For a second, I thought I had to whisper so Berowne wouldn’t hear. Oh, how I miss that sweet puppy.

A Rite of Passage - Pierced Ears

At Justice Street Elementary, we culminated from sixth grade into junior high (seventh grade). All I cared about that summer was getting my ears pierced. My closest friend, Lisa, already had hers pierced (in a doctor’s office with a needle).

My parents gave me a pair of self-piercing earrings. They were small hoops with a needle-like tip at one end and a small loop on the other. The idea was that every day I would squeeze the earrings. Little by little the needle end of the hoop would eventually pierce all the way through the lob.

Eventually, the ears were pierced. It was a rite of passage. Today, most women I talk to about getting their ears pierced have a story to go with it. When I smell rubbing alcohol, it takes me back to the summer of 1973.

During my senior year in high school, I decided to double-pierce my left lob. I can’t remember what possessed me to do it. It wasn’t as though, “Everyone is doing it.” I didn’t ask permission. I just did it, with a needle. It hurt. What hurt more was trying to get an earring through the hole. It was a struggle! (My parents never knew.)

Fast-forward twenty years, summer of 2008. I decided, after a major personal achievement in my life, it was time for another piercing in left lob. This time it was done with a piercing gun. It didn’t hurt but felt like a big tug.

I’m done with piercing my ears. I can’t explain why I have 3 holes in one ear and only one in the other. Yet, getting them pierced has had significant meaning in my life. For gals my age, we all have our ear piercing stories to share.

"See What I’m Saying" – A Documentary

Before See What I’m Saying was released for it’s first theatrical release, I received invites from GLAD (Greater Los Angeles Agency on Deaf), Deaf West Theatre, and friends in both my ASL1 and ASL2 classes.

I offered to take a brother, Scott, of a friend in my Saturday ASL1 class who is deaf. It wasn’t out of my way since I was driving over Laurel Canyon to the Laemmle Sunset 5. There was some confusion as to what time the show started but we got there in time. Turns out about seventy students from California School for the Deaf Riverside (CSDR) had just arrived, also. We were late but the movie had not started.

So many parts of the movie touched me. My ASL1 teacher said to bring tissue. I had been forewarned and he was right. I was mostly saddened when Robert DeMayo (actor) talked about his mother who never made an effort to learn sign language.

Just two days earlier, I had learned that the North Valley Occupational Center had a deaf program. Bob Hiltermann (drummer), a teacher at the school, was one of the featured artist in the movie. Scott knew him since he attended NVOC.

I recognized CJ Jones (comic) from Deaf West Theatre (DWT). I volunteer for DWT in the office–helping with graphics, website updates, and the Facebook fan page. When DWT produced “Stories by Shel” featuring The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein, I assisted in the box office once. CJ directed the show and I recall seeing him behind the scenes.

TL Forsberg (singer) was the only woman represented in the documentary. She was edgy and had a great voice. I was proud of her. It was fun to watch the CSDR girls light up when they posed for a picture with her. What a great role model. (That’s TL in the picture with me above.)

Much of the footage for the documentary was filmed in the Los Angeles area. GLAD in Eagle Rock, El Rey Theatre in NoHo, House of Blues on Sunset, Marriott in Woodland Hills, to name a few.

Bob Hiltermann, CJ Jones, TL Forsberg, and the director/producer, Hilari Scarl, were special guests following the matinee showing for Q&A. We heard from all the entertainers except Robert, who lives on the East Coast. Hilari explained that the documentary took five years to film, edit, and produce. What an amazing project.

This documentary helped me learn more about the deaf community. I want to be part of it. I realize American Tribal Style (ATS) bellydance can also become part of that community, if I can find a way to share and teach deaf dance students. Perhaps someday–ATS passed along from generation to generation. I can only hope.

It Happens! Turning 50!

When one turns 50 years old, they should have their first colonoscopy. This is the year of the big 5-0, so my doctor made the referral. I was so excited that I forgot my birthday isn’t until November. The gastroenterologist who performed my procedure asked me why I was early; I responded that I couldn’t wait. (What was I thinking!?)

At Kaiser, they have you come in for a class to prepare yourself for your colonoscopy. There are two nurses and one doctor in a room the size of a broom closet stuffed with about ten patients. We had to fill out paper work, watch a video on what to expect, and got to ask questions.

First thing I learned, even though my appointment was for Friday, I had to cancel everything I had planned for Thursday. (Things they don’t tell you when you make the appointment!) I was grumbling a bit about it, but realized there was never going to be a good time, so I kept my appointment.

I must say that the preparation for the colonoscopy was very stressful. The nurses in the preparation class explained if you didn’t prepare correctly they would send you home and you’d have to come back another time. You have to stop eating solid foods two days before the procedure. The day before is restricted to clear liquids, with Ducolax pills at noon, then starting at 5 p.m., drinking two liters or half the bottle of Colyte in ten minute increments; that is, an eight ounce glass every ten minutes. Finally, the day of the procedure, no drinking after the second half of the Colyte is finished, again eight ounces every ten minutes starting at 6 a.m.

My appointment was at 2:40 p.m. After signing a release and hooked up to an iv , I was wheeled away into an extra large office big enough for the bed but not much more. Once the Demerol was injected, I was out cold. When I opened my eyes again, I was in recovery. The Dr. stopped by to say everything was fine and to come back in ten years.

My husband took me down to the car in a wheelchair. I couldn’t stay awake. As soon as I got home, I passed out. I woke up once at 12:30 a.m. and forced myself back to sleep. I slept for about 12 hours.

Yay! I’m alive!

Reconnecting with High School Pals

Recently I met up with some pals from high school—ECR (El Camino Real) H.S. Something we started doing after the summer of 2009. Nothing rigid, but, those who can gather can, if their schedule permits.

One friend commented, after a gathering, that we haven’t changed. It’s hard to believe we haven’t changed.

My first year in high school was not my best. The streets that determined which high school I would attend were one house away to the North (Chatsworth H.S.) and three blocks East (Canoga Park H.S.). I would have chosen the latter, if given a choice.

As kids we didn’t realize that our parents chose to buy a house in a specific neighborhood based on the schools their children would attend. All I knew was that my close friends all went to a different high school.

I was scared and lonely. I didn’t hang out with the girls in the neighborhood. By junior high we had found different friends; high school divided us even further. We didn’t say more than, “Hi,” to each other.

Where our house was located, we had a bus pick us up and drop of us off at ECR. The bus picked me up at the corner of Jason and Jonathan. The route started at Woodlake and Jonathan and moved along Sadring Ave. going South, with the final stop at the top of Platt (at Candlewood Way).

The bus was crowded in the mornings. But in the afternoon, there were only a handful of us going home. Most of these people became my high school pals. I suspect the lack of not having a driver’s license had an influence, but we enjoyed each other’s company. We would spend our nutrition and lunch breaks together.

Looking at photo albums of us then, there seemed to be a recurring theme. There were two of us (me and another girlfriend), known as the loud ones, with the rest being very quiet. When I say very quiet, they were painfully quiet and shy. So, compared to the others, we were the loud.

After high school, as each year passed by, we went our separate ways. We would get together during the holidays or during the summer. After college, we all spread out over the state of California.

Although some of us today live in the same area, we have our own circle of friends. We also have different political and religious beliefs. We have changed. Yet what ties us together is our shared youth. For the time we are together now, I am reminded of a time when our world, though small, was a happy time. I feel blessed I found these friends and we’ve reconnected.

Living Outside My Comfort Zone

Aside from a summer trip to Baja for a WHCC High School Work Camp, I have never traveled out of the states. The language barrier scared me.

When I was seventeen, I went with the church youth sponsors, along with the work camp chair, on a weekend trip to scout out a work camp location in Baja. I had never gone across the border before. Coming back we were pulled over by authorities, and I recall sitting in the back seat and they kept asking questions about me. I had a driver’s license and handed it over. After what seemed like forever, we were on our way back to California.

For the actual Work Camp trip, summer of 1978, I had a passport. I never had to use it.

Over the past several years, I’ve been planning to take a big trip in 2010. Didn’t know where. In the belly dancing community there are always opportunities to travel—Mexico, Greece, Costa Rica, or the Bahamas. As a Sierra Club member, there are many opportunities to travel, also. I had my eye on a trip to Tibet/China. Oh, so many choices.

In the end, I have decided on Korea. I say it’s the right thing to do. Why? Even though I don’t plan to visit the orphanage I was adopted from, my life started there. Recently, a dear family friend mentioned he was there, at the airport, the day I arrived from Korea. He mentioned that he remembers how hard my mom tried to instill in me my Korean culture. I think she gave up after I was in kindergarten when I refused to wear a hanbok (traditional Korean dress).

I have two Korean born friends. One friend, I met through my job in Commerce. She brought her daughters to America when they were young and she was a single mother. After my job in Commerce in 1999, we met and went out for Korean food. Then after 10 years, last October, we met and went out for Korean food, again. She told me she was taking her granddaughter to Korea on a tour. Last week, the same friend called me. I asked about her trip to Korea. Turns out she’s going in June. That’s when I decided I wanted to go with her and her granddaughter to Korea.

I don’t know anything about the places I will visit in Korea or the culture, but no time like the present to learn. I’m excited!

All signs lead to ASL & ATS!

My second year out of college, I decided to take American Sign Language (ASL). Classes were offered through the local community college extension courses. I think ASL is a beautiful language.

After studying for a year, I had joined a Sign Language choir during the Christmas holidays. The choir was for both hearing and deaf. We signed to songs such as, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer to a simple version of Handel’s Messiah. It was short-lived but fun.

Then I discovered the Big Brothers/Big Sisters Hearing Impaired Program (HIP) in San Francisco. After going through the grueling process of applying to be a Big Sister, I was paired up with an older girl in her early twenties. We had a wonderful year going to events together, but I eventually moved to Santa Cruz.

The summer before moving to Santa Cruz, I was accepted in a summer camp program as a counselor for the deaf at Camp Armstrong, near Occidental in Northern California. There were about ten deaf counselors, too. The deaf campers were mainstreamed with the hearing. It was quite challenging. I didn’t know how hard it would be to sign with kids. Their signs are all over the place. Boy, did they get frustrated if you asked them to repeat what they signed.

Somewhere between Santa Cruz and the present, I completely forgot I knew ASL. In discovering who I want to be in my next chapter of life, I remembered that I was quite good at ASL. Sadly, I am very rusty! I went to see Pippin by Deaf West Theatre and Center Theatre Group at the Mark Taper Forum. I’m starting over with ASL1 at Greater Los Angeles Council on Deafness (GLAD) and have enrolled in ASL2 at Pierce College.

Pierce, our local community college, has a huge American Sign Language/Interpreter program. I’m having my transcripts mailed. You never know. . . .

Plus, I want to each deaf women how to bellydance American Tribal Style (ATS)!!!

Photo of a sterling silver "I Love You" charm by James Avery Crafstman, no longer available.

Dabbling in Music

Growing up, all of the Gysin siblings learned to play an instrument. My Dad would tell people how he would hear music on the piano and discover me playing by ear that which my brother played. I was five years old. The song was Minuet in G by Bach.

By the time I was old enough to take piano lessons, at the age of nine, I made a weak attempt at learning how to play. I didn’t understand the need for drilling and technique. I wanted to play songs. Nor was I interested in practicing. I quit the piano at age eleven (in the 6th grade) but it wasn’t without a fight. Mom insisted I finish out the school year.

But wait, three years at the piano shouldn’t go to waste. So, my first year in junior high, Mom had me enrolled in the West Valley Junior Youth Band. I remember the day we drove down to Canoga School of Music and met with the band director. We went home with a glockenspiel.

The summer between seventh and eighth grade my relatives from back east came to visit. My cousin brought her flute and I was hooked. I wanted to play it. Thanks to the wonderful music program at Columbus Jr. High, I played in both band and orchestra. I eventually picked up the oboe, too.

By the time I entered high school, joining the high school band or orchestra was competitive. I had to audition. It was intimidating. I opted out.

Thirty years later, I joined the Get Your Chops Back – Flute Choir, a program through Active Arts at the Music Center. The video (above) is from my second year in the Get Your Chops Back Flute Choir.

$0.007 per Mile

In September, 2009, shortly after my husband returned from Germany visiting his son and his family, I decided to get an electric scooter. My husband had mentioned he was amazed at the amount of scooters and bicycles all over Heidelberg. As much as I enjoy riding my bike, a scooter would be perfect for running errands locally, without the sweat.

I wanted a Vespa but they didn’t come electric. We have a new scooter shop on Canoga Ave., near Sherman Way. While out running errands, I stopped in to see what they had. They had electric scooters. Went back a week or so later and took a scooter on a test drive. It was scary.

Turns out the scooter we chose is over 1500 watts; therefore one must have a motorcycle license, at least M2 class. Not exactly what I had in mind. Nonetheless, by October, we had our scooter, took my motorcycle written test, got my permit, then, waited to take my motorcycle training at the end of November.

The MSF Basic Rider Course, approved by the California Highway Patrol, offers basic motorcycle training, among other classes. On my first day, I spent five hours in the classroom, reviewing motorcycle rules and laws. The following week, we spent five hours on the motorcycle (I rode my scooter). The last week, five more hours, we drilled moves and prepared for our skills test.

An hour before taking my skills test, during drills, my scooter died. I thought, perhaps the battery had died. Luckily, I was able to borrow a (gas) scooter and took my skills test. Again, not exactly what I had in mind. (By the way, it wasn’t the battery–circuit breaker had flipped. Yep, it’s electric!)

By passing my skills test, I received a completion card and my on-bike riding skills test for my motorcycle license (at the DMV) was waived. My license arrived last week. I suspected there might be an error but I’m not standing in line to get it fixed. I ended up with an M1 motorcycle license (good for both mopeds and motorcycles), not an M2. Not to worry, I never plan to ride a motorcycle, ever!

Scent of Hyacinth

There are times when we all smell something and it reminds us of a past experience or someone. I had that experience walking through Home Depot last week. I knew exactly what it was, the scent of Hyacinth.

I recall, during my senior year in high school, my mom popped her head into my bedroom. She gave me a potted Hyacinth. I’d never seen one before. Nor was there a special reason, as I recall.

Mom passed away when I was 28 years old. She had cancer. I remember when I got the call. I was living in Santa Cruz working the swing shift. She called one evening while I was at work. When she told me the news she started to cry.

There Will Be at Least One More BIG ONE in My Lifetime!

On January 27, 2010, a 7.0 magnitude earthquake rocked Haiti. When the quake hit Haiti, I was still reading a feature article in the October, 2009, issue of Los Angeles magazine called, Earthquakes. What’s missing from the online version (someone tell me if they find it) is a sidebar explaining the intensity scale with visuals. I’m going to get this wrong but the difference between a 6.0 and a 7.0 is something like twice the intensity.

Living in California one learns to live with earthquakes. I remember as a young kid, while attending Justice Street School Elementary, having to do drop drills—drop, duck, and cover the head. We also had a loud siren go off at the corner of Woodlake and Justice Street on the last Friday of the month. (I was too young to understand at the time that it was an air raid siren.)

I was ten years old, when on February, 9, 1971, a 6.6 magnitude hit Sylmar at 6:00 a.m. I thought our dog Suzie had jumped up on my bed. My Dad was the only one already up. My mom’s parents, Anne and Albert Holter, lived in Sylmar. I don’t recall exactly what they lost but they were hit hard.

My next big earthquake (magnitude 6.9) was in 1989, while working at The Good Guys, at their corporate headquarters, a mile south of the San Francisco Airport. It occurred on October 17, 1989, at 5:04 p.m. Coworkers were getting ready to watch the third game of the World Series–Oakland A’s vs. SF Giants. I was at my drawing table when it struck. Needless to say, I was the only one in my department to drop, duck, and cover. I remember driving home and for the first time in my life, there was dead air on the car radio.

The Northridge earthquake was on January 17, 1994 at 4:31 a.m. It was a 6.7 magnitude roller and thank goodness we were not up but in bed due to Martin Luther King Jr. holiday. Everything seemed to tip over in every room, mirrors and pictures falling off walls, the upstairs TV crashing to the floor, kitchen cabinets downstairs emptying themselves, broken crystal all over the floor. Outside the brick walls in the backyard collapsed on two of the three sides, the third while it stood, was weakened and is now ready to come down with the next big one. The exterior stucco walls, which were being prepped for painting, cracked all over the place.

Earthquakes are reminders that life is precious and we should live each day to the fullest. I’ve lived through a few. I hope to survive the next one. If not, I know each day is a gift.

Photo is of a hand-stamped bracelet I made for myself. If you want me to make you one–drop me a note. Made of sterling silver for $20–your own saying (shipping included).

Converting an LP to MP3 Files

The original title of this entry was, "Converting an LP (Long Play Vinyl Records) to MP3 (MPEG-1 Audio Layer 3) Files" but it was a little long.

At the end of dance practice last week, someone asked the Mac computer users in the group if they knew of a way to transfer LPs to CDs.

Thought I’d share on my blog what I do with my old 33-1/3 & 45 rpm records. I’ve also transferred reel-to-reel and cassette tapes to MP3s the same way.

One of the gals mentioned she has a Crosley LP to CD player. She said she is not happy with the quality of the recordings. We have a Crosley, too. We also have an old-fashion turntable. The Crosley LP to CD player will let you play your LP and assign tracks where the gaps in the songs appear. I haven't tried it myself but my husband has done it.

Instead of using the built-in CD burner on the Crosley, I attach a Sony Digital Voice Recorder ICD-UX70, using RCA connectors to mini headphone jack, in the “audio out” plugs in the back. Actually you could do this with any turntable connected to any receiver with an “audio out.”

It doesn't matter if you're Mac or PC user, the Sony IC voice recorder creates a MP3 file. It connects to your computer via USB. You do not need additional software.

No matter which approach you use, mentioned above, one must be nearby to either assign tracks on the Crosley or turn the Sony IC voice recorder on/off. Note, there are converters out there that will record an entire LP and assign individual tracks without having to stop after each track and start again.

I import the mp3 files into iTunes. If you’re a Mac user, you might want to use Garageband (free on most Macs) for sound editing. You can clean up the beginning and end of the songs. Chances are there will be a slight pop when you turn the recorder on and off.

One of my friends thought it was crazy to transfer LPs over to CD. It might be, if you didn’t take good care of your LPs and they snap, crackle, and pop. However, if you’ve taken good care of your LPs and have the time, transfer them to CD yourself.

Rosy the Riveter = Strong Women

Recently my friend started a group on FB for women helping women get fit. She posted a picture of Rosy the Riveter. I love what Rosy represents.

My Dad's companion and I would chuckle whenever my Dad would comment about "strong women." He'd use that phrase when talking about some of the women at his church or even women in our family. I'd have to pause and think, well, I think of myself as a strong woman, what is he saying? (In fact, his companion was a strong woman.) So, while it may be sexist when a 90-year-old man says it, I'm proud to be a “strong woman.”

Recently the phrase "strong women" came up in an article I'm reading in a magazine. I thought of my Dad. Then last night the phrase came up again on one of my television shows. Hmm, what message are they sending? The character was speaking up about her beliefs.

My mother had a book, Fascinating Womanhood by Helen Andelin ©1963. I haven't read it yet. It's on my bookshelf for that day I want to delve into what my mother went through in the 60s.

Check out the book When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present by Gail Collins ©2009, to see how far we’ve come.

I have strong feelings (ooh, that word “strong” again) about women who go to college, get a degree, join the work force, and then they quit their jobs to have babies and raise a family. I want women to stay in the workforce.

My husband’s son, currently living in Germany, sent an article a few days ago. It’s from the New York Times, The Female Factor: In Germany, a Tradition Falls, and Women Rise.

I’ve been a casualty of the economic downturn. I’m not alone; however, I have a husband to help support me. Many of my single gal pals, in the same situation, don’t pity me. I know I’m blessed. I want to get back in the work force. The only thing holding me back is my attitude about long commutes that keep me away from my life at de la Osa street.

Simple Gifts

One of the joys of TiVo is one can record a television program and watch it later (in bits and pieces). I’ve been watching, Live from Lincoln Center New York Philharmonic New Year’s Eve: Hampson, Gershwin, Copland & Broadway.

The show opened with Copland’s Appalachian Spring. Watching it in bits and pieces means I get the song in sections. I can’t get the song, also known as a Shaker song, Simple Gifts, out of my head.

I see myself as a giver. There are two kinds of people—givers and takers. As a giver, I have to be careful that I don’t have expectations of other people. I liken it to unconditional love. Both one has to work on it every day.

In 2009, I spent time reconnecting with old and making new friends. I was also reaching out and helping people. It feels good to help others, especially when they acknowledge it. That’s the giver in me.

Recently, my cousin started a blog posting one photo each day. I love seeing what’s going on in her life through the eye of a lens--365 days of the year.

I’ve been thinking. Perhaps I could devote myself to giving to someone else once a week. There’s only 52 weeks in a year. I have to consciously think about who that someone will be. Before, my giving was random and sometimes out of control.

Recently I have been stressed. I’m not just saying that, it has manifested itself in health issues. While I give to others, I will also work on taking care of myself. It’s amazing how great I feel when I stop and take a deep breath or two.

Photo of sandhill cranes flying in at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge, New Mexico, taken on January 3, 2010.