Translate

03 April 2009

The Black Tie Valentine Dinner

While living in Dallas, we started a custom of hosting an annual Valentine's Dinner for couples. We required Tuxedos and evening gowns. I added the stipulation, communicated personally to the girls, to think of two words: plunging and strapless. Most of them ignored me. A couple of friends groused about the inconvenience of formal attire, suggesting that blue jeans and T-shirt were good enough where they ate. We stuck to our guns, however, and finally prevailed upon the resistant ones, one of whom actually bought a tuxedo for future dinners.

After the fourth year, we decided that it had grown too large and too costly and two stressful, so we abandoned the event. Later, we moved back to California, and this year we revived the event for our friends in the Bay Area. Only twelve at table this year and that is manageable, though we do wish my sister-in-law and her husband could have joined us. Well, next year, she assures us.

So, here is the scene: We brought out the crystal, china, and silver. We printed menus on vellum for each guest and put romantic music on the ipod.

Shawna and Angel

We started the evening with my leading the gentlemen in a toast in honor of the ladies. Mary Lou next lead the ladies in a toast honoring the gentlemen. We moved from champagne to aperitifs and chat at the table for awhile. Next, two lovely young high school girls from across the street, Shawna and Angel, brought out the next course, an apetizer of baked pear wrapped in bacon and drizzled with honey. A salad of hearts of Romaine, Prosciuto, and Mandarin oranges with a poppy seed dressing that Mary Lou prepared appeared at precisely the right moment thanks to the skill and attentiveness of Shawna and Angel. Following that the girls brought out the special asparagus soup, Mary Lou's doing again. We got through that at a leisurely pace and when concluded, presented the duck breast ravioli in butter sage sauce with pine nuts. We then took a break to move around, relax, take care of things, y' know?

When we returned to table there was a small dollop of Meyer lemon sorbet to cleanse the palate and get us ready for the main course, a wild coho salmon baked in a salt crust, which I broke apart and plated with Haricot Vertes touched by just a bit of olive oil and lemon juice. Once the plates were cleared, guests enjoyed some more wine, oh yes, there was wine. We finished the meal with Mary Lou's deep rich chocolate terrine.

Mary Lou sparkled in elegance, as did all the ladies. The gents were gallant and in their best Cary Grant mode. The team work among hosts and guests and help was precise. Shawna and Angel won the hearts of every guest. It was great to revive this Valentine's tradition, and we look forward to it next year.

02 April 2009

Gerald Locklin, PhD: Professor, Poet, Friend


Gerry taught literature and writing at Cal State Long Beach for over forty years and authored scores of books of his poetry and fiction. He was a friend to Charles Bukowski and is a scholar of his works. I believe he published some of his research on the works of Jessamyn West. I was a student of his in several classes. In our first encounter, upon seeing him enter the room and walk to the dais, I wondered why this very casually dressed student was going to address the class. He had worn-thin old docker-type pants and sneakers, his shirt was not tucked in, he had a beard and very short hair. I remember thinking that perhaps he was a teaching assistant about to tell us that Dr. Locklin could not make it to this very first session because he had been called away to something important. Instead, he announced in a deep but soft monotone that he was Gerry Locklin. He indicated that he preferred just "Gerry" to "Dr. Locklin". I learned later that he was one of those brilliant people who learn, master, and retain what they are interested in quickly. I think he got his PhD when he was 21 or something.

My college experience took a sudden and wonderful turn when I became his student and friend. He changed the way I looked at writing and literature. He taught me to be direct in my discourse and avoid circumlocution and unnecessary detail and to write much as I speak. I observed the way he evaluated writing and I came to understand the value he saw in good, direct exposition and the disdain he had for superficiality and pretension, no matter the fame or anonymity of the author. He would take a student paper, read it aloud and point out how this person's narrative was similar to Hemingway's or Steinbeck's. He saw common threads where I would have never considered the possibility. He was and, I'm sure, remains encyclopedic in his knowledge of all things literary. He was one of the most interesting and knowledgeable characters in my brief academic career. I have thought of him often over the years, though regrettably, I made little effort to reconnect with him. My life turned away from academia to the corporate world, and I lost touch with him completely. Well, there was a family to raise, a career at which to succeed, and Vietnam to intercede. There were relocations to Chicago, Portland, and the San Francisco Bay area. There was also frequent travel.

Long Beach State, as we called it then, was mostly a commuter school. Many of us used the southern California freeway system for long drives to and from the campus, and if there was such a thing, extracurricular campus life and I had only a distant acquaintance. It was the largest of the state colleges in California with about 30,000 plus students. I think it cost me about $240 total for four semesters of registration fees and a few hundred more for books. It was 1965-67 in sunny, conservative Long Beach, California where war protesting was polite and few people attended what few events there were. Those who participated were less passionate and disruptive and never in the media, as were our Berkeley brethren.

Across the street from the campus was the 49er Saloon, which was Gerry's second office and my favorite lunch spot. He and I would have our literary discussions in there while maintaining adequate nutritional intake with Polish sausages, pickled eggs, potato chips and cold, amber-colored beverages poured from frosty pitchers. Well, I do recall a word or two of something literary once or twice. The 49er was small and always crowded. There was a pool table squeezed into the middle of the small room with benches along the length of it. As three or four patrons would sit there conversing and enjoying lunch, they would shift and lean automatically, it seems, to accomodate the pool players who needed the space for a shot. No one needed to say "Excuse me", we all understood the need and shifted as necessary while pool sticks moved close to our ears. "Wow, nice bank shot, Man." Somehow it all worked.

I don't recall missing any of Gerry's lectures. He created a relaxed atmosphere, enjoyed a joke and a smile, but covered all his material thoroughly. His delivery seemed spontaneous and very much at ease, he used no notes that I can remember and he changed course with ease when a student brought up a thought that Gerry liked and wanted to explore. In my case, as he concluded each session, I looked forward to the next.

Gerry is a poet, a well-known one. He has achieved respect and fame for his writing and teaching. I caught him very early in his long career and shared wonderful times with him in and out of class. I think I write as I do today in part because of him. When I think of accomplished authors, my mind includes him, as it does when I think of great teachers. I'm going to make the effort to connect with him again.

Sad Update

On 17 January 2021, one month before his 80th birthday, Gerry Locklin died as the result of complications from Coronavirus. I regret that I failed to reconnect with him.

28 March 2009

The Lady on Tennesee Street

She appears frequently on Tennessee street in Vallejo, Callifornia sitting in a lawn folding chair, swaddled in layers of filthy, old clothing. Once positioned, she is usually motionless, with her chin on her chest and her eyes seemingly staring down toward her knees, although ascertaining if they are open or not would require closer proximity than I am willing to attempt. Sometimes she has an umbrella open against the sun's rays, but no matter how warm the weather, she is covered in warm, raggedy clothing. She has a push cart of some kind with some possessions in it, but I have never seen it move.

I have seen her as I drive by at least a dozen times. I have never seen a gesture, nor a purposeful movement from her. She is the most stationary street person I have ever observed. A visual artist could paint her carefully and deliberately en plein aire, no problem. I have never seen her seek money or any contact whatever from anyone. If you needed a study in voluntary human isolation, this is for you.

I have never seen anyone approach her. The sight of her makes it clear that no human contact is sought, desirable, or likely to be tolerated. I have no idea how long she has been a fixture at her various spots on Tennessee street. She is there so frequently that I doubt the police even try to move her along. It seems the rest of us in society have decided to leave her undisturbed and unapproached and untended.

I would like to know her underlying diagnosis, for surely there is one; some psychological issue with a great name, probably a syndrome or other. A psych student could probably accurately diagnose this one from across the street without hearing a word from her, which she would not utter, anyway. I wonder about her family. Has she made it so difficult for them that they have given up? She has to have some means of sustenance and maintenance. She must have to deal with normal bodily functions. There must be some things to which she must attend just to remain alive that require movement, effort, purpose. It's difficult to imagine that she makes the effort for such things, but she must, unobserved I imagine.

I wanted to provide an image file for this musing. I always try to do that. I considered taking my wife's digital camera and capturing her image from across the street. It just seems like such an invasion, though, even from that distance. This story needs a Gonzo journalist and a paparazzo. I am neither.

Sad Update

She no longer sits there. Reports state that she perished in a fire. Evidently, she had property, financial reserves, liquid assets, and a family in the area.