LIKE WATCHING A BLACK WIDOW SPIDER

LIKE WATCHING A BLACK WIDOW SPIDER

I fear and loathe spiders—yet I’m mesmerized by them, drawn somehow by their very repugnance. 

From the first, Trump has held for me that same kind of strange magnetism, a similar brand of weird appeal. As though I can’t believe he’s real, that he’s actually doing what he’s doing. I want to turn away, but I can’t. When I open a newspaper, I see the word TRUMP,  and I read it.

The Los Angeles Times must be similarly, morbidly fascinated; the man appears on page after page.

What is there about his candidacy?  We all know it’s unreal, not remotely possible. He’s about as qualified as my three-year-old grandson, who has never found a wall he won’t climb, a barrier too strong to keep him out. And once in awhile he says something really perceptive. If he gave it a moment’s thought, he, too, might aspire to be president.

Yet there’s Trump, surrounded by crowds . . . real, adult, speaking people, reasonable enough looking, all of them hot on his trail, drawn to a magic presidency which will never exist.  If they gave him a moment’s in-depth thought, they’d see the same impossibility, the same set of failures the rest of us see. 

You wonder—how many defeats would it take to convince them?  Is it not enough that the Trump airline is gone, the Trump steaks and vodka likewise, his university now sued out of existence, four of his casinos dissolved in bankruptcy, two former wives abandoned . . .   

And how about the absurdity of his goals?  An endless wall between two countries that can’t and won’t pay for it, eleven million immigrants jerked from their homes, (how?) foreign prisoners water boarded—“and worse”—(already refuted by the head of the CIA), while the king, with his magic wand, provides jobs for everyone. 

Really?  

I doubt any of us have ever, in our lifetimes, witnessed a presidential candidacy without a single achievable goal, a campaign based solely on two attributes: Nerve and ego.   

In the beginning, he appeared to be another Hitler. One newspaper called him “The Furor.” Now he seems not quite so lofty, more bizarre than menacing. 

Of course I’m fascinated. I’ll keep watching the spider until someone, or several someones, finally squashes it.  

                                                   ****************

My mom was unusual, but nothing like this man.  "The Tail on My Mother's Kite" is available on my website: Maralys.com.  Or through Amazon. Try it--you'll like it. 

TRUMP IS DEAD

TRUMP IS DEAD

You’ve just witnessed it.

Like the sudden flaring of grease above your frying pan, Trump has flamed out.

While he once appeared to be another Hitler, he metamorphosed into a buffoon.  

Too bad.  He was so entertaining.  Even the Los Angeles Times thought so.  To my amazement—I actually counted them--a couple of Sundays ago Trump was the main topic in seven different articles.

But it couldn’t last, and we all knew it. Some of us just hoped he’d prevail long enough to create some lively drama at the Republican convention in July. We’ve become like spectators at the Roman Coliseum, morbidly fascinated by the carnage taking place down on the arena floor.

But now it won’t happen, and the reason is plain: the man has simply been unable to put his brain in gear before he speaks. 

Honestly. How did he imagine he could survive the statement that women who get abortions should be punished?  Trouble is, as he fumbled in front of a reporter who was pushier than he is, he didn’t imagine anything . . . because that’s never been his modus operandi. He never imagines, he just blabs--assuming that whatever comes out of his mouth will make his followers love him more.  And some actually do.

We’ve all watched the spectacle, the alternate spewing of hatred for some (“I’d like to punch him in the nose!”) and love for others. The adoring crowds, the Donald swooning in public. “They all love me!” he keeps chanting. “My people love me!”    

Sadly, the adoration and swooning are pretty much over, though he may not know it. Besides trashing Megyn Kelly and Mexicans and Muslims and Bernie supporters, and fellow candidates and now women seeking abortions, he managed (in Wisconsin), to elicit boos for Wisconsite Paul Ryan, Speaker of the house. . . . the biggest wheel in his own party.   

I doubt The Donald will win another state. 

We’ll miss the drama, the latest outrage that enlivens the six-thirty news. From time to time his flame may flicker a bit, but the truly spectacular fireworks are over.

In a way, we spectators should be grateful. None of us thought this breath-taking show would last as long as it did.     

I HATE POLITICS--IT'S THE ISSUES THAT KEEP ME AWAKE

I HATE POLITICS—IT’S THE ISSUES THAT KEEP ME AWAKE

I’ve long since vowed I would never blog about politics; readers are too valuable to risk losing half of them.   

Yet our everyday world is governed by who’s in charge. And like it or not, that becomes important . . . no, let’s be honest here, being in charge is everything.       

As lovers have said, Let me count the ways: 

Years ago when our kids were on Foothill High’s swim team, the afternoon air was often terrible . . . orangey-brown, and so toxic the kids couldn’t swim. After school sports were regularly cancelled. If you happened to be outside, you could see, smell, and feel the rotten air. Finally the Air Quality Management District took over and clamped down on smog-producing cars. And probably on refineries and factories, too. Gradually the air got better, until now it’s mostly breathable.  At least in our area.  

But guess what just happened?  The Orange County Air Quality Management District  was recently taken over by Group A. With a one-member plurality, the tough-minded president of the board was fired. The remaining members have now adopted new, softer rules proposed by the oil industry—the polluters. Guess which way the air is headed.

The same scenario just happened to the California Coastal Commission—whose conscientious chairman was just terminated because he was “too hard on developers”--again by Group A. You’ll no doubt soon see the results . . . high-rises of every kind taking over our coastline.

It’s all so personal. Remember when you could count on Halloween night being cold—even nippy?  Last year, in October, Orange County’s temperature reached 102.  Near Halloween. I’ve never been so overheated, so many months, as I’ve been these last few years. Hey, it’s really getting hotter!  And I’ve never seen so many tornadoes, so many floods, in so many areas, as now appear on TV.

I couldn’t imagine I’d ever witness, personally, the disappearance of so many Grand Teton glaciers  . . . nor could I forget how scary it was to be stuck on a sandbar all night on a tiny boat in Juneau’s Taku river, with glaciers hanging over us mere yards away--knowing if you fell in the river you were dead. Years later, flying over the Taku river, I saw to my astonishment that all the glaciers were gone.

But Group A holds debates in which NOBODY mentions Climate Change. Partly because the oil industry has its own scientists—about 1% of the total—who declare Global Warming a hoax. So Group A has silently vowed to ignore Climate Change.    

And what about guns?  What about 21 kids mowed down in Newtown, Connecticut?  And how about Group A’s refusal to propose the slightest change in background checks because the NRA wouldn’t like it? How frightening would it be to infuriate another driver in Texas, where citizens are practically mandated to “open carry?”  For Group A, it seems, America’s 46,000 gun deaths a year are a small price to pay to ensure that all “good” citizens are now armed.            

Freedom from regulation is Group A’s mantra, meaning freedom for coal companies and others to pollute air and water at will, freedom to raise drug prices 500%, freedom to keep merging corporations until smaller businesses can no longer compete . . . freedom from everything except a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body.  Which is where Group A draws the line.

As I said in the beginning, I hate politics.  I’d rather we all negotiated our differences and agreed to make the best decisions for the greatest numbers of people. But Group A won’t have it any way but their own.  Which wouldn’t matter much, if it weren’t so personal. 

With Group A in charge, we’ll all be hot, and soon hotter. We could eventually find the air too polluted to breathe, and the water ever-so-slightly poisonous. It’s possible we’d have to pay $750 for a lifesaving pill . . . or someone’s daughter might be forced to carry a rapist’s baby. And we’re all likelier than ever to get shot.

I think I’ll vote for Group B. 

                   

                                            ****************

      

 To keep life humorous:  "A Circus Without Elephants"  and "A Clown in the Trunk" both memoirs, available, autographed, on Maralys.com.  Or Available on Amazon. 

HARPER LEE WAS MY WRITING TEACHER

HARPER LEE WAS MY WRITING TEACHER

Fifty years ago, Harper Lee led me into her bewitching world and taught me most of what I know.

As a compulsive reader from childhood, I recognized Lee’s magic the minute I finished “To Kill a Mockingbird.” I was then a young, optimistic mother, struggling to become a published author. With five boys and a girl bouncing off our walls, writing at home was impossible.  

Instead, I escaped into the nearby hills above our half acre in Tustin. On a road that led nowhere, I parked and sat with my Smith-Corona on my lap and Harper Lee’s book open on the seat beside me.  I simply had to find out what made her prose so compelling. What was she doing that I’d so far never discovered? How, with both of us using the same language, did she transport me to another world, while my writing seemed only slightly more riveting than “Fun With Dick and Jane?”

It quickly became obvious that we were both trying to create something that other people would view instantly . . . let’s say, a brick wall. Which was when I grasped that in her case the reader saw only the bricks. But the magic actually lay in the mortar--the small bits that held the bricks together, the bits that few people noticed.

Making my task nearly impossible was the fact that I kept getting swept away into her story. It took a stubborn German psyche to analyze her technique, because it was essentially invisible. And thus, from Day One I assumed she’d been both smart and lucky--visited by some kind of inner manna from heaven. 

  

Still, I tried. And I learned things that never came to light elsewhere. I discovered a seldom-discussed trick for displaying character . . . when I realized it was Atticus’ neighbor, Miss Maudie, who described for his children the deeper character of Atticus—more than the reader could grasp from what he said, did, or thought. So now I teach my students that this fourth element is a novelist’s godsend.

I figured out that you can write a book largely from a child’s viewpoint, yet include significant portions from an adult perspective—so yes, it’s a child’s story—but never confined to a childish mind.  

With study I found the small bits of action that accompany dialogue, but actually reveal personality: “Mr. Tate’s voice was quiet, but his boots were planted so solidly on the porch floorboards it seemed that they grew there.” 

During my “study years” (which have never quite ended), I realized that the best memoirs usually read like novels—whereas the best novels quite often read like memoirs. Thus, I teach both in one class.

After years of assuming the novel more or less fell into Harper Lee’s lap with minimal effort—because she was so naturally brilliant--I learned otherwise from the book “Scout, Atticus, and Boo” a fifty-years retrospective.  Harper Lee had, in fact, been subsidized for two years by publisher J.B. Lippincott, to live in a New York hotel and polish a manuscript which they thought had promise. Her editor said, “Go back and re-write it from the child’s viewpoint.” Lee later disclosed that those two years had been among the most intense and difficult of her life.

So there was no manna from heaven after all. Like most superb authors, it turns out she worked like a demon to achieve her unforgettable prose. It seems a great book can start out mundane but become immortal as the result of a thousand small upgrades. Which is why I couldn’t read, “Go Set a Watchman.”  I never wanted to be disappointed by the manuscript that “almost was.” 

If I can now claim to be a decent writer, most of the credit goes to Harper Lee.    

                                                        ************

 My latest memoir, "The Tail on my Mother's Kite,"  available, autographed, on    

 Maralys.com.   Or you can find it on Amazon.

THE HITLER PHENOMENON--IT'S HERE!

THE HITLER PHENOMENON—IT’S HERE!

Last night proved it. The hint of scary, no-logic demagoguery that I wrote about in August has arrived. In New Hampshire. In our country! 

Donald Trump, whom most reasonable people saw last fall as a laughable, bigoted, irrational, and utterly egotistical man has just swept thousands into his . . . well,  you can’t call it vision.  Because he has no vision.  At least nothing that makes sense.

Yet, since I last contemplated it, this Fuehrer-imitator has somehow convinced once-reluctant pockets of citizens that our country is a hopeless seething mess that needs a savior. And he tells them, Never fear, folks, your rescuer is here, ready to make everything all right. Or better than all right, I will make our country “great again.” 

Never mind that since August The Donald has not uttered one word on how he plans to bring about this great transformation . . . just that he will somehow do it.  It’s a “Trust me, I’m here to save everyone,” kind of jargon. The few specific jobs he’s promised to do are all impossible—at best, logistical nightmares. He’ll never be able to extricate eleven million souls from their current lives and send them all home—wherever “home” once was.   

He’ll never persuade Mexico to build—let alone pay for--a wall so high and so long that even the United States couldn’t do it. He won’t convince the Chinese they need to do everything his way, and he won’t conquer Isis by making enemies of Muslims. He can’t provide instant jobs for people who still need them, because he’s not into that bit-by-bit, grinding process that took Obama seven years—just to reduce 10% unemployed to  5%. He can’t pretend to be “good for business” after four of his own businesses went bankrupt. 

It’s all so contradictory . . . who would have dreamed, for one instant, he’d wow everyone by arriving in a TRUMP-emblazoned  jet—rather like some folks would expect from Jesus.           

Most amazing of all is the fairy tale taking root in our country--that thousands upon thousands of decent Americans are looking for a messiah, and somehow imagining that this scowling, orange-haired man who walks away from a debate when conditions don’t suit him, who has never presented a single workable solution for anything, who freely insults everyone . . . is it. 

Didn’t Hitler take over Germany in much the same way?    

                *************

"The Tail on my Mother's Kite" -- a memoir -- available through Amazon, or autographed on my website:  Maralys.com 

GOOD-BYE, PRETTY BOY

                       

GOOD-BYE, PRETTY BOY

I never imagined I’d take it this hard—these last days as Pretty Boy kept trying to jump up on my table or onto Bob’s lap, and sliding back down, not quite making it—he, the incredible jumper. And now knowing I’ll never see him again.

I’ve suddenly become as bad as Rob—weeping over an animal, somehow unable to see him any longer as just a cat.    

How could this happen?  I am mostly a people-lover, not especially knocked out over animals, but here was this little guy who’d become a third presence in our house . . .  who would sit for hours on top of a protected outside shed, just waiting for us to come home. And then, as the car stopped, we’d see him mid-air, saw his paws extended as a great, carefree jump took him from the top of the shed onto our windshield, where he left tiny cat prints. Tail swishing, he followed us into the house. In his seven years, he must have spent half a year on the shed, waiting patiently.

He was never just there.  He inserted himself into our lives. Like a puppy, he followed us around the house. His favorite spot was Rob’s lap, where he parked himself every night as Rob watched television. Second favorite was the back of Rob’s chair, which inspired a feline impulse to give Rob a shampoo.

When Rob wasn’t available, I was second-best. Suddenly he’d appear upstairs as I was typing, full of sudden fervor to spread out across my keyboard. I had to push him away . . . until eventually he caught on that I didn’t want him as a second author. With that, he chose the back of my upstairs couch and stared out the window until he fell asleep—sometimes for hours. 

Cats are nothing if not great sleepers. Yet they’re light sleepers, too. When I appeared every morning in the family room, he was right there, rushing to greet me at the door, standing still and purring as I rubbed him under the chin. At those moments he stared into my eyes—which I’ve heard is how a pet tells you he loves you.

To our continuous astonishment, Pretty Boy was, for years, an Olympic-class jumper. After a quick sizing-up, and with no apparent effort, he’d take a sudden flying leap and land atop a cupboard that was six feet higher than where he started. He never cared to stay long—it seemed the attraction was simply doing it. When he came down again, he landed miraculously amidst pictures and little boxes and papers, without disturbing any of them. Occasionally, when we couldn’t find him, he spent the night outdoors. We knew why the coyotes never got him: our Olympian could out-leap a Bengal Tiger.

The last month with him was agony.  Three different vets told us he had kidney failure and wouldn’t last. After they’d treated him for days in a cat hospital they said, “We’ll help you put him down.”  

Rob was horrified. “I can’t kill my little friend. I can’t. I won’t.”  And I said, “Isn’t it better for him?” But Rob said it wasn’t, that Pretty Boy wasn’t suffering.

“But you’re suffering,” I said, “And so am I. Maybe we should put you down.” And Rob replied, “Give him some food, Babe. Offer him something new. Maybe he’ll get better.”

Which explains why for weeks I kept opening new cans of tuna (since cats won’t eat anything exposed to air), and I kept following him around the family room, placing fresh food under his nose. In despair, Rob and I saw him turn away, refusing everything except water. Yet until the last week, he still managed to purr . . . and the last day he broke Rob’s heart when he wobbled after Rob into another room.   

At last Pretty Boy did what pets do. After we went to bed, he found a small spot deep in a cupboard we couldn’t see or find . . . and using his last energy to get there, he spread out and died. Yet Rob and I were not without help. Next morning it was Tracy’s Paul who came over and found him—and yes, buried him. 

We may eventually get another cat. But we know in our hearts we’ll never replace Pretty Boy. For us, his enthusiasm, his unconditional love was irresistible. In the end, love is what it’s all about. 

HOW NOT TO MEET SOMEONE FOR THE FIRST TIME

          HOW NOT TO MEET SOMEONE FOR THE FIRST TIME

                                           

It’s all my daughter’s fault.

Today she had lunch with an executive director of a large charity—a woman whose life will soon be videoed by Tracy’s company, Video Resources.

As the luncheon finished, Tracy called me. “Vivien is a dynamo. She’s only four feet tall, but she’s full of energy. She’s been writing for years and wants someone to critique her book. I told her she should meet you.  If it’s okay, I’ll lead her to your house. We’re not far away.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering if  not far away gave me time to jump in the shower and get properly dressed. I took the chance—imagining Tracy would pause long enough to stand with Vivien at our front door.

She didn’t. And sadly, I was off in my estimate by five minutes. The doorbell rang before I’d put on my shoes or combed my hair.  It got worse from there. When I finally opened the door, Vivien—an elegant but very tiny lady--was alone.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t dressed.”  Already embarrassed, I suddenly decided to seat her in our living room. Who knew where Rob was, or what semi-dressed state he was in?

She sat down at one end of our sofa, so I chose the nearby, expensively antique wooden chair.  Maybe I sat down hard, but I don’t think so. In any case, the second my rear came in contact with the seat, the chair collapsed. It didn’t just sink to the ground, it came apart. Completely. Various pieces of wood went their own ways, some leaning against my hips, so I found myself down in a valley of wooden legs and foot rests, all forming a kind of cage.      

“Oh, oh,” the lady said, “Oh, my, are you all right?” I could feel her discomfort and concern.

“Well . . . I think so,” I said, feeling less injured than mortified. With no idea how to extricate myself from this sudden mess, I flailed about. Then adrenaline came to my rescue, because I managed, finally, to rise. Staring down at what was now a heap of lumber with a seat vaguely attached, I wondered what to do with it. While she waited, I dragged the pieces away from our shocked eyes and into the front hall. 

She moved over on the couch, and I sat with her. We began talking about books and writing. And that’s when I noticed further destruction. Compounding my infamous descent to the floor, I saw that the cat had partially dismembered our two beautiful couches. Small puffs of white lay on the floor, and more white stuffing billowed out around the arms, and beneath them you could see he’d sharpened his claws right down to the wooden frame. 

“Oh,” I said, “I can’t believe what our cat has done.  I haven’t been in here in awhile.” I didn’t tell her our kitty was dying, now within a day of never moving again. She’d had plenty of shocks for one day.

We discussed the impossibility of her traveling great distances at the worst traffic hour to take my class, and instead settled arbitrarily on my giving private Saturday workshops closer to her home. My reddened face never quite cooled off as I tried, feebly, to get her excited about an alternative to my privately reading her entire book. 

As she stood to leave, she began raving about how much she’d enjoyed meeting Tracy. She’ll never say the same about me. I’d done nothing but shower her with apologies. Whatever impression she is now conveying to others, of one thing I’m sure. No matter how much time goes by, that small but dynamic lady will never forget me.