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).