June Collins's Blog, page 5
December 30, 2012
December 28, 2012
Hi Friends,
Check out my recent interview on Clancy Tucke...
Hi Friends,
Check out my recent interview on Clancy Tucker’s blog…
http://clancytucker.blog.com/2012/12/27/27-december-2012-june-collins-guest-author/
December 24, 2012
THIS WAS NOT SO VERY LONG AGO. THINK ABOUT IT!!!
fiction author Jung Chang writes in her memoir of the excruciatingly painful Chinese custom of binding women’s feet:
“My grandmother was a beauty. She had an oval face, with rosy cheeks and lustrous skin. Her long, shiny black hair was woven into a thick plait reaching down to her waist. She could be demure when the occasion demanded, which was most of the time, but underneath her composed exterior she was bursting with suppressed energy. She was petite, about five feet three inches, with a slender figure and sloping shoulders, which were considered the ideal.
“But her greatest assets were her bound feet, called in Chinese ‘three-inch golden lilies’ (san-tsun-gin-lian). This meant she walked ‘like a tender young willow shoot in a spring breeze,’ as Chinese connoisseurs of women traditionally put it. The sight of a woman teetering on bound feet was supposed to have an erotic effect on men, partly because her vulnerability induced a feeling of protectiveness in the onlooker.
“My grandmother’s feet had been bound when she was two years old. Her mother, who herself had bound feet, first wound a piece of white cloth about twenty feet long round her feet, bending all the toes except the big toe inward and under the sole. Then she placed a large stone on top to crush the arch. My grandmother screamed in agony and begged her to stop. Her mother had to stick a cloth into her mouth to gag her. My grandmother passed out repeatedly from the pain.
“The process lasted several years. Even after the bones had been broken, the feet had to be bound day and night in thick cloth because the moment they were released they would try to recover. For years my grandmother lived in relentless, excruciating pain. When she pleaded with her mother to untie the bindings, her mother would weep and tell her that unbound feet would ruin her entire life, and that she was doing it for her own future happiness.
“In those days, when a woman was married, the first thing the bridegrooms family did was to examine her feet. Large feet, meaning normal feet, were considered to bring shame on the husband’s household. The mother-in-law would lift the hem of the bride’s long skirt, and if the feet were more than about four inches long, she would throw down the skirt in a demonstrative gesture of contempt and stalk off, leaving the bride to the critical gaze of the wedding guests, who would stare at her feet and insultingly mutter their disdain. Sometimes a mother would take pity on her daughter and remove the binding cloth; but when the child grew up and had to endure the contempt of her husband’s family and the disapproval of society, she would blame her mother for having been too weak.
“The practice of binding feet was originally introduced about a thousand years ago, allegedly by a concubine of the emperor. Not only was the sight of women hobbling on tiny feet considered erotic, men would also get excited playing with bound feet, which were always hidden in embroidered silk shoes. Women could not remove the binding cloths even when they were adults, as their feet would start growing again. The binding could only be loosened temporarily at night in bed, when they would put on soft-soled shoes. Men rarely saw naked bound feet, which were usually covered in rotting flesh and stank when the bindings were removed. As a child, I can remember my grand- mother being in constant pain. When we came home from shopping, the first thing she would do was soak her feet in a bowl of hot water, sighing with relief as she did so. Then she would set about cutting off pieces of dead skin. The pain came not only from the broken bones, but also from her toenails, which grew into the balls of her feet.
“In fact, my grandmother’s feet were bound just at the moment when foot-binding was disappearing for good. By the time her sister was born in 1917, the practice had virtually been abandoned, so she escaped the torment.”
Author: Jung Chang
Title: Wild Swans: The Three Daughters of China
Publisher: First Touchstone Edition
December 22, 2012
December 5, 2012
Well Christmas is here and I no longer do it!
Too hot – too tired – too humbug! But there was a time when it was a big deal in our home (Seattle USA then). With six adopted kids ranging in ages from three to thirteen, I HAD to do it. (They were the ages they were when I adopted them.) Those kids came from Korea, India, Columbia and the USA. Most of them had never heard of Christmas ( or spoke English, at first.) But Christmas is all about Kids and Jesus. (Or regarding the latter, it used to be)
We started our day with a bowl of chinese soup for breakfast. That was their combined favorite breakfast.
For kids who had never had ANYTHING, the Christmas tree, decorations and heaps of giftwrapped presents was mind boggling. I kept the table set all morning with candies and any snack that looked pretty and was unhealthy. The Christmas music was drowned out by their excited chattering and laughter as they unwrapped and played with their new and wonderful gifts.
Later, when things settled down, we gathered outside and wrote ‘Happy Birthday Jesus” on balloons with felt tipped pens. After we released them into the air, we went inside and said a prayer of thanks before sitting down to a traditional American dinner. My husband, being American, (I’m an Aussie), was a great turkey cook and while he roasted and stuffed the turkey, I did the veggies and desserts. A team effort! (Keep in mind that in our family, we frequently ate more ethnic food) As I looked around the table at their smiling faces, black, brown, yellow and white, it was hard to stifle a tear. Isn’t that how the world should be and always should have been? And shouldn’t every child have a family and experience life like that?
By now most of them have left home and some of them have children of their own. I hope they are enjoying the traditions I taught them. But as for me — I’m taking it easy.
Have a wonderful Holiday Season everyone. Don’t forget the reason for the season and love one another………..
December 4, 2012
November 26, 2012
A LITTLE BIT OF LAUGHTER WON’T DO US ANY HARM.
I had promised to make my next blog about self published memoir writers. Alas! I’m not in the mood so here goes another broken promise.
One of my writing text books advises writers NEVER to reveal their unedited writing to anyone – they termed it ‘dirty writing’…(Now don’t misinterpret the word ‘dirty’.).
Today I am going to do just what they advise NOT to do and copy/paste a segment from a random chapter in my as yet unpublished, unedited, un-named sequel to Goodbye Junie Moon.
While re-reading it I had a bit of a giggle and I hope you might too.
If it makes you chuckle at all, – or even smile, please comment and let me know;
NECESSARY BACKGROUND; This section is where I, an Aussie, was living in Fairbanks, Alaska and my mother and teen-age sister came to visit. It is their first time out of Australia.
The sun was still shining when the plane dropped into the small airfield. It was ten at night. As I waited for the passengers to disembark I hopped from foot to foot, craning my neck. Almost five years had passed since I last saw my mother. She would be almost sixty years old and I was sure she would be exhausted after such a long trip. Anxiously, I watched the passengers disembark and make their way down the steps. The stream of humanity became a trickle and there was no sign of her. Nervously I wondered if she had missed the plane. A huge wave of disappointment was beginning to swell when she bounced into view, followed more sedately by Jan. I waved and caught her eye. She waved wildly and almost ran down the stairs, leaving Jan behind. We hugged and chattered excitedly. Jan caught up and we all talked at once as I led them to the Jeep.
“It’s still daylight.” Mum looked at the sky, incredulous! “When do you sleep?”
“Never!” I joked.
We reached the apartment and after I opened the door, they both gasped.
“What the hell is this jungle June? I need a machete to chop my way through.” Mum’s outburst caused Jan to place her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle.
The birds, upon hearing us enter, greeted us by increased screeching and yelling which caused the rabbit to bounce excitedly around the splashing waterfall. I had been meaning to buy a less powerful pump. Mum thrust vines from her face and worked her way to the corner aviary.
“Do you always have to go overboard girl. I hope you haven’t got Tarzan stashed away somewhere.”
A picture of Doug in a leopard skin loin cloth flashed through my mind.
“The chlorophyll is healthy Mum.” I answered lamely.
A few days later, Doug arrived, allowing me time off to be with Jan and my mother. My mother and Doug got along very well together. Mum being only eight years older than Doug and both of them having experienced their share of hard work. Jan took a little longer to warm to him after hearing him swearing at the drivers.
We had done all the usual tourist things, taken the paddle wheeler down the Chena River, eaten bear and drank in pubs with sawdust and peanut shells littering the floor beneath a sea of women’s brassieres which hung from the rafters.
“I hope we are not expected to add to this collection.” Mum muttered, dubiously eyeing the offending undies in one establishment. Like most diary farmers, she was rather conservative. This was her first time away from Australia and I’m sure she found it quite different.
“I would enjoy this trip better if I could get some damned sleep.” She added in between dainty sips of her shandy. Jan and I sat beside her, quaffing down a couple of frothy beers and Jan, still a good-girl, teenager, and unused to alcohol, was beginning to look a little cross-eyed.
“It’s those damned birds” Mum continued, determined to spoil the moment. “The poor things don’t know when to sleep with the sun always shining. Couldn’t you get some quieter ones? How about Finches?”
Jan contributed to the conversation by attempting to make bird sounds, interspersed with lispish giggles.
“And please June, would you turn that noisy waterfall off when we go to bed.” Mum ignored Jan “I’ve never had to get up to pee so often.” I wiped some froth from the tip of my nose.” Yes Mum. I promise to turn it off. You need sleep for tomorrow. We’re flying to Anchorage for a special treat.”
Jan interrupted with another faltering whistle and I too, ignored her. “Were going to do some sight seeing and then – get this! I’ve chartered a private plane to fly us around the glaciers.”
Jan gave one more bird call before toppling from her stool but Mum was so excited about the upcoming event that she failed to notice.
Two days later we took a taxi from The Captain Cook Hotel to the airfield. Alaska has more private planes per capita than any place in the world and it is famous for the skills of its Bush Pilots. The hundreds of small villages were mostly accessible only by dog sled team, motorized snow sleds or plane. Mum was agog with excitement, just as she had been almost since her arrival.
We arrived at the private airfield. Thousands of small planes stretched as far as the eye could see. The taxi driver, a wizened up little native, found our tool shed sized charter company office with not too much trouble. Our pilot, upon hearing the cab pull up, opened a sliding window and leaned out, greeting us. He didn’t look to be much older than Jan but he had probably been flying since age ten.
“Are you ready for the sights and sounds of the Columbia Glacier?” he rallied us. Mum nodded eagerly. Jan looked uncertain. I gave her an encouraging slap on the back.
Soon we were strapped into the small Cessna, ready for take off.
Anchorage, located around the Cook Inlet, is surrounded by mountains. Drafts, through and around the mountains, can be quite turbulent. Before long we were lurching up and down, our stomachs shooting to and from our throats like a bouncing ball. Jan reached for the brown paper bag and began throwing up violently. It sounded ghastly and didn’t smell great either but, unable to help her, we did our best to ignore it.
We circled one particular mountain peak several times and even I was beginning to wonder why. Flying dangerously close to its thick, icy crust, I could almost reach out and touch it. Certain the pilot knew what he was doing, I remained unperturbed. During my days in Vietnam I had flown with many crazy helicopter pilots who tried to scare me with stunts such as flying beneath bridges. Mum did not appear to be sharing my lack of concern. Her initial smile of pleasure took on a frozen look as her eyes filled with terror. Finally she croaked.
“I’m sure this is the same mountain we have circled a dozen times pilot. Are you lost?”
“No Ma’am,” he replied with a chuckle which was cut short by another loud upchuck from Jan. “I’m trying to find where the Dall sheep are. These mountains are usually full of them but they seem to have disappeared. But don’t you worry. They’re a highlight of the trip and I won’t leave here until we find them.”
“To hell with the Dall sheep!’ my mother retorted ungraciously. “I’ll buy a post card with a photo of them. Move on pilot.”
This was so unlike my mother who was normally ultra polite.
“Our pilot’s name is Jim, Mum.” I tried to nudge her good manners while opening the window to clear the stench. An onslaught of wind blew in with gale force.
“Do you have another bag?” Jan lifted her head to whisper, a string of windblown spittle attaching itself to her cheek.
At last we left the mountains behind and came out into still air. I glanced back at Jan. She lay crumpled in her seat, her body seemingly deflated as her head lolled back; eyes closed tight in a green face.
As the miles passed the vista before us became increasingly spectacular. Blue water met blue sky as majestic white mountains loomed along either side. I heard Mum exhale with relief, and when I looked back again, her frozen smile had melted to normal. At last the glacier came into sight. Mum ooohhed and aahhed as she snapped away with her little camera.
“Get your camera out Jan.” she ordered excitedly “Yours takes better pictures than mine.” Jan responded with a feeble moan and unhitched her camera from around her neck before limply handing it to Mum.
“You take them Mum.” She whispered.
When all the film was exhausted our pilot turned the small craft and headed back the way we had come. An hour later he began to descend.
“Are we landing pi…Jim?” Mum asked “I don’t see an airstrip.”
Indeed. There was none. We were approaching the shore of what looked like an island wilderness.
“Coffee break!” Jim declared “Nothing but the best for our customers. Tighten your belts, ladies.” And he smoothly guided the small plane down onto the water.
With the engine shut off, he and I climbed down onto the struts. I balanced myself against the body of the little plane while edging to the end of the strut. I catapulted myself across the small expanse of water, onto dry land.
“Come on Mum.” I called “Come on Jan. Stretch your legs.”
Trees had grown almost to the waters edge leaving us a clear strip about eight feet wide where we could stand while enjoying our refreshments. Like so many of Alaska’s trees, these were stunted, due to the perma-frost. Jim produced a box of colorful, iced donuts and the largest thermos of coffee I had ever seen. Jan gazed at the pink donut with multi colored sprinkles which Jim offered her. She averted her eyes and shuddered. Mum took one sip of her coffee before whispering into my ear “June. I’ve got to go to the toilet. I’m going to slip in behind those trees.”
“Then watch out for brown bears.” I joked.
“What?” a look of horror crossed Mum’s face “Bears! I’m not going.”
“It was a joke Mum. Come on.”
But that was that, better destroyed kidneys than an encounter with a bear. She tossed her remaining coffee onto the ground. Despite Jim’s best efforts, the morning tea was a bit of a wash-out. For the remainder of the journey, Mum, looking agonized, kept her legs tightly crossed. I grew tired of her constant queries. “How much further, pilot?”
Nevertheless, my mother spent the next twenty years telling anyone who would listen about ‘the best holiday of her life’ the highlight of course being the trip to the glaciers.
November 21, 2012
EXIT WOUNDS. THE BOOK AND THE GENERAL.
I am currently reading Exit Wounds, a book written by Major General John Cantwell. The book starts off where he is in a psychiatric hospital receiving treatment. He is recently retired from an illustrious career. The pinnacle of such was his commandment of all three Australian military branches in the Middle East and Afghanistan. Just prior to his retirement he had applied for the number one job in charge of all Australian forces worldwide. I shudder to think that he may have succeeded had he not decided to pull out and quit.
This is a man highly affected by the horrors of war. Isn’t everyone? After three and a half years in Vietnam, I know the debilitating affect it had on me, even though I wasn’t in combat. So I can understand and have great compassion about that. But a military commander has the lives of many thousands in his hands and he must be able to rise above the horror and devastation. Fortunately, it appears he was able to do an efficient job and climb up the ranks, meanwhile suffering nightmares, sleepless nights and sobbing outbursts. Considering his mental condition, one wonders why he didn’t quit sooner. It is appalling to read that he even harassed higher ranking officers to assist in promoting his ambitions.
I first became aware of this officer a few weeks back when he appeared on Australian National Television to speak about the launching of his book and why he wrote it. During the interview he said that all combat veterans of war are left emotionally scarred or destroyed. The many Vietnam Vets who can still be seen on the streets of the USA, their lives wasted by drugs are evidence of that. But that is NOT all combat vets. Many have gone on to lead successful and happy lives.
In one part of the General’s book he describes coming upon a scene after an air strike. An enemy truck and its occupants had been blown apart in the Saudi desert. He, a major at that time, climbed out of his lone, armored vehicle and went to inspect the torn and scattered limbs of the dead enemy soldiers as they lay in the sand. In great detail, he describes searching for the heads, explaining how heads always blow skywards, landing some distance from the torsos. He wandered about in the heat, apparently mesmerized as he picked up the heads by their greasy hair. The two young soldiers in the vehicle with him kept calling him to stop and return to the vehicle. He ignored them, continuing on to look for heads and place them meticulously atop the torsos. This struck me as very odd and macabre behavior as it obviously did, his two subordinates. Later in the book, he sadly recalled that those two young men failed to respond to his letters when, after their tour of duty was up, he wrote to them. Even that seemed like odd behavior to me. I know many military commanders but I haven’t heard of them staying in contact with their enlisted troops.
Because General Cantwell seemed so different from the commanders whom I had known during the Vietnam War, I bought his book out of curiosity. It is well written, I’m assuming with help from a ghost writer as there is a second name under authors.
The story evokes my compassion for the man but not my admiration. My admiration goes to his staunch wife. A good commander needs discipline over mind and matter. Certain things need to be put from mind but these were the very things that General Cantwell focused on.
While the man seems to have overcome his fears sufficiently to do the job, he did not always hide his re-actions. There were times when his night time screams and sobbing were apparently heard by nearby officers. And haunted into insomnia, just how good were all his decisions? It boggles my mind that this man could climb the ladder the way he did and one must wonder why he chose to stay in that career.
The book will re-enforce anyone’s horror of war. It is surprisingly honest and it seems General Cantwell was baring his soul as a protest against war. While I heartily endorse those sentiments, it is sadly, a futile cry.
Because of this man’s high profile, he was able to sell his story to a publisher. Celebrity memoirs are always sought after whereas memoirs in general, are hard to sell. That is a subject I will touch on next time.
November 17, 2012
November is my least favorite month!
I used to like the end of the year when all my children were young and we lived in Seattle. There was Thanksgiving in November and Christmas in December. There were turkeys and stuffing and visiting friends and prayers for snow. As Christmas drew near the children were happy, anticipating the holidays and their Christmas gifts. I did not even mind the long lines in the shops as I imagined the smiles on my children’s faces when they opened their gifts.
How that has changed! My children are grown. Christmas is now TOO commercial and it is hard to shop for people who already have everything. The shops are so crowded and courtesy has almost disappeared.
After my move to Australia I tried carrying on the Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions of a big turkey feast but after a couple of years, I tired of sweating over a hot stove in 80 degree heat. Thanksgiving was abandoned but I still struggled on in the heat with Christmas.
After five years I gave up and joined the other Aussies who spent Christmas day enjoying the beach while eating prawns and cold cuts. It’s just not the same in a heat wave. Imitation Pine trees don’t smell as good and even Poinsettias, artificially induced to blossom in December don’t feel the same.
As for Christmas lights? Here they are a rarity – viewed by many on a FEW streets NOT on every house on every street. However, times have changed worldwide. There are more people driving more cars now so we have to consider global warming.
Call me a humbug but I have tried to escape Christmas the last few years. It is hard to do. The boat cruises celebrate the season. And even non Christian countries now celebrate something(?) with gift giving and decorations. Is there nowhere to run?
This year I will probably settle down in front of the computer and write a few paragraphs while sipping a glass of Merlot or two. I might even indulge in a few prawns and of course, I’ll check my emails……Yes, times have changed!
UNRELATED P.S. If anyone wants to read another chapter from my unfinished sequel to GJM, let me know in a comment and I’ll add one more.
October 19, 2012
A LONG TIME BETWEEN POSTS
No excuses! I don’t believe in them. Sometimes we just get busy.
Well if any of you read that last chapter you will have forgotten what it is about by now. And just to clarify something that was not clear after jumping into the middle of a story; the character I spoke of called Robin was my co-author of the first book, The Khaki Mafia.
CHAPTER 9
Growing up, at the mercy of fate, I had experienced both wealth and poverty. Maybe that was why I consistently avoided the middle of the road. For me it was either ‘five stars’ or slumming.
My mother was a superb seamstress and throughout even the poorest years we were always well dressed.
“Remember June,” she used to say “First appearances stick. Always stand straight, keep your legs together when you sit and dress well. Nan dresses beautifully. Everyone looks up to her.”
“But Nan is rich.” I argued.
“You don’t have to be rich to have style” Mum countered, pulling on a rubber dairy boot. “Co-ordinate colors; wear what suits you, not what you see in the magazines.”
I smiled at Mum’s words as she bustled away to milk the cows. She was wearing her customary overalls and a battered straw hat. But if she went into town to buy a few groceries, she would be most properly attired.
Taking after my grandmother, I always found great pleasure in clothes. In Vietnam I had, out of practicality, worn fatigues. Now with money in my pocket once more, I was running amuck amid the shops of Manhattan. My mini skirts and boots were disappearing. Indeed, the previous week, my full length photo had made the front page of the prestigious Women’s Wear Daily. Forsaking glamour for elegance, I was pictured wearing a floor-length emerald green and navy tartan skirt topped by a double breasted velvet blazer.
Again I was on the fringes of ‘the social set’ but this time I found it enjoyable. At one of those New York cocktail parties I shared a dream with Ed McMahon, Johnny Carson’s sidekick.
“I’m going to have a Chinese junk built one day” I said.
Detecting his interest, I elaborated “In Hong Kong I went aboard several. They have wider beams than a regular vessel, making them really spacious and I’m told they are seaworthy.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I will hire a Chinese family as crew and take a bunch of Asian orphans and cruise the world. We will become world citizens.”
“It’s a nice dream” he said and he must have meant it. A short while later I learned he bought a Chinese junk but he did not fill it with orphans.
The book promotion was over! My plans were to investigate Florida with a view to buying a home in a warm climate. Home ownership was the first step towards adopting a child. Simultaneously, I needed to find a suitable marriage mate so the adoption agencies would consider me. It was time to leave Westport but still I lingered.
Propinquity had fostered an undeniable affection between me and Robin. I was well aware of his shortcomings but he was great company. And God knows I wasn’t faultless! We fell into a pattern of unorthodox domesticity. Somewhere along the way, after sharing an evening of alcohol stoked reminiscences, I had fallen into his bed. There were no fireworks. Robin’s tepid passion reached its performance peak when he emitted a gasp. Or so I thought, until realizing it was a snort; an indication that he had fallen asleep on top of me.
The next morning, neither one of us referred to the previous night’s event. I wondered was he even aware of it. I thought of the pleasant lifestyle he now led. The quaint town of Westport, only an hour’s drive from Manhattan, afforded the perfect mix of country tranquility and city conveniences.
Robin’s house had previously belonged to the artist Steve Dohanos (famous for all those Saturday Evening Post covers). The wide hallway doubled as an art gallery, with sun and sky visible through the glass ceiling. The cedar walls and wood burning fireplaces kept the air perpetually fragrant. It was easy to get used to. I loved the green hills with their bi-sections of white railing fences. I loved the pink flowering Dogwood trees that made canopies over the country lanes. I loved the sprawling, white farm houses and the people who lived in them. And then there was Vincent; always at our beck and call; always cheerful, respectful but never servile. Maybe I could settle down and live very happily with Robin.
I shook the day dreams from my head. Despite the inadequacies of our first coupling, Robin and I had continued the physical side of our relationship. For me, sex began in the brain and Robin was always immensely stimulating, therefore, desirable. I didn’t need porno movies or graphic magazine close-ups to turn me on. My idea of a stimulating sex scene could be found in the movie ‘From Here to Eternity,’ when Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr rolled about, kissing in the ocean. Equally stirring was the scene between Robert Redford and Meryl Streep in ‘Out Of Africa’ when he shampoo’d Meryl Streep’s hair. This was not a puritanical streak. I found the most acrobatic sexual acts to be uninspiring if they weren’t stirred vigorously by emotional flavoring.
That said, our sexual incompatibility did occasionally trouble me. How long would it be before I strayed? And I knew his history of perpetual infidelity; an enigma to me after I became aware of how adversely his drinking affected his lovemaking.
And how about adopting children? Robin referred to all kids as rug rats and he would run a mile at the suggestion. I now knew him too well. He loved controversy, loved sensationalism. I believed it was all a desperate attempt to break out of his genuine conservatism which he clothed so well inside those Brooke’s Brothers suits. His cringing had not gone unnoticed whenever I wore something that he considered too revealing. Yet it was my non conforming attitude that fascinated him. Eventually he would tire of that!
“I have great news” Robin burst into the study, his coat dusted in snow, his cheeks bright red. He and Vincent had just returned from town. Bustling over to the fireplace, he warmed his hands before the blaze. Vincent followed him into the room saying, “I’ll make dinner now Mr. Moore. Maybe forty minutes. You want a cocktail first?”
Robin shrugged his coat off. “Don’t ask dumb questions!”
Vincent grinned and strode to the cocktail cabinet “You too, Miss June?” he tossed over his shoulder.
“No thanks Vincent. I still have one. I’ll wait for dinner.”
“Don’t you want to hear my news Junie Moon?” Robin teased.
“If it’s good, out with it.”
“The Khaki Mafia is going to be made into a movie.”
“Wow” I yelled, jumping up and dropping my book “Tell me more.”
“Hannah Weinstein will produce it. She is well respected and the investor is Edgar Bronfman, the owner of Seagram’s whisky.”
“That’s terrific.”
“She’s anxious to meet you” Robin continued “I told her I would bring you into the city tomorrow.”
“I’m so excited.” I threw my arms around him and tried to pull him into a little dance. He smiled as he unfurled himself from my embrace.
“Why don’t you wear that new mink coat you bought?” he said.
I did wear the coat; my first fur. Hannah, petite and brisk, wore a grey wool coat which matched her salt and pepper hair. The meeting went well and we quickly established a good rapport. Over the following weeks things moved fast.
Then one day she asked me to join her at The Four Seasons Hotel. Our lunch companions were Ann Margret and her agent Alan Carr. It looked promising that Ann Margret would be playing the role of me in the movie. Naturally she wanted to suss me out.
To my surprise, she was totally unlike her sexy screen image. Off screen she was quiet and almost shy, not the least bit arrogant as one would have expected. When she spoke of her husband, Roger, who was home sick, her voice filled with such love and tenderness that I, a cynic regarding marriage, experienced a little jab of envy.
I found myself a little tongue-tied. She was so beautiful; it was difficult not to stare. Her flawless, pale skin was as smooth as alabaster and her eyes could melt any heart.
Glancing out the window early one morning, I saw it was still snowing. The countryside looked like a Christmas card. Robin sat across from me as we ate a light breakfast before Vincent drove us into Manhattan.
“Pass the vegemite please Robin.”
“How can you eat that axle grease?” he lifted the small jar between his index finger and thumb, frowning disdainfully
“No self respecting Aussie eats toast without vegemite. Thank God mum mails it to me” I replied.
He dropped the jar in front of me before pointedly reaching for his vitamins, appalled, it seemed, by my gastronomic choices.
“Edgar Bronfman has given Hannah the first half a million for pre-production.” Robin brightened as he changed the subject, “We should be getting our cut this week.”
For all his book royalties and his family’s wealth, he frequently seemed to be running short of money.
“Yes,” I said “And Hannah wants me to meet Jules later this afternoon.”
“Jules Dassin, the director?” Robin frowned.
“Yeah! He flew in from Athens last night. They’re dragging me off to Hawaii soon while they hash out how Stirling Silliphant will handle the script.”
“Damn it.” Robin scowled “Hannah is leaving me out of the loop. She didn’t invite me last week when Ann Margret came into town.”
He stood abruptly. “Be ready to leave in ten minutes. I’ve got an appointment with my accountant this morning.”
Throughout the hour long trip, Robin ignored me, burying his nose in a newspaper. He was seldom in such a grumpy mood and it was clear Hannah had put his nose out of joint.
The previous week, when I attended a small dinner at Hannah’s apartment, I realized that she wasn’t overly fond of Robin. She rather brusquely told me that now the book was written, Robin was no longer needed. At the time I wondered was it a Jew versus wasp thing but as the dinner progressed, I realized that was not the case. They were just worlds apart. The same thing was true with her and me yet, somehow we gelled quite well.
Hannah was an intellectual. Her over stuffed apartment was full of old fashioned furniture and well read books. Her other dinner guests were her close friends; the aging actress Lillian Gish, and Leonard Bernstein whom she affectionately called Lennie.
I was simultaneously impressed and bored as they reminisced about old times. They graciously tried to include me by asking questions about my experiences during the war but despite their best efforts, that old, ‘fish out of water’ feeling persisted.
As I listened to the conversation around the table I soon understood that Hannah’s differences with Robin were not founded on religion or race. When I hesitantly mentioned my adoption plans, she was sympathetic and encouraging.
I listened quietly as she talked about the early days when, as a widow with young children, she had the audacity to break into the (then) man’s world of movie producing. Possibly that was our mutual link; neither one of us had played the expected female role.
She started producing during a period when movie industry was the domain of ‘whites’ only. Apart from Sidney Poitier, there were seldom parts for black actors other than ‘walk on’ roles. These were customarily of a demeaning nature, such as slaves or servants. Back stage was no different. Crews, grips, cameramen, all were white. Hannah went out of her way to employ and train Negros, as black American’s were called back then.
I contemplated Hannah’s compassion as I sat beside Robin while we sped towards Manhattan. Maybe that was the link connecting her and Stirling Silliphant. He had broken the ice when he wrote the script for one of the first successful black movies, “Shaft”.
Robin folded his paper and laid it on the opposite seat. “You might take the train back tonight,” he said “You can grab a cab at the station. I’m going to be having dinner with my attorney, Marty Heller.”
The night before I left for Hawaii, Robin didn’t come home. It was the first time he had stayed away all night. I barely slept, listening to every sound, hoping it was the car. It was a windy night and an unlatched garden gate kept slamming. I jumped up repeatedly. The next morning, hoping against hope, I crept into his bedroom. His bed had not been slept in. My heart pounded and my hands shook. I tried to focus on the imminent trip but the joy was damaged. He rarely displayed anger. Maybe he was getting revenge over not being invited to Hawaii. Or maybe he and I had just run our course.
I finished packing and lifted my bag off the bed. Despite our intimacy, Robin and I did not share a bedroom. Despondently, I hung the last of my winter clothes in the closet beside my mink coat. Just as I closed the closet door I heard the car pull into the driveway. Hauling my suitcase to the living room, I tried to maintain my composure.
“Good morning Robin.” I greeted him with forced cheerfulness as he slunk in, red eyed. He avoided looking at me but spotted the suitcase.
“You’re going today are you?”
“Had you forgotten?” With an effort, I kept my voice even.
“Of course not, Junie Moon. I let Vincent have the night off so I stayed at my club.” I knew he was referring to The New York Athletic Club, another prestige hangout for old wasp men. Although he frequented it often, during our time together he had never spent a night there.
“No need to explain!” I refused to go all hysterical as I had so often seen Liz do. “But I wonder could you spare Vincent to drive me to the airport?”
“What? Hannah’s not sending you a car?” he sniped.
“I never asked.”
“Well okay. I’m planning on writing today so I don’t need him.”
I felt like beating him over the head but I made myself walk over and kiss him on the cheek. He smelled of stale whisky.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do while I’m away.”
A dry imitation of a laugh escaped his throat “That leaves me plenty of scope.”
I resisted slamming the door.
These chapters have not yet been edited so I welcome any comments as I change things frequently before the final edit.
