Thanks to Google, a really
good friend from my childhood, Nadine, stumbled upon my site. That’s her in the photo, circa 1970
something. (Property of Nadine Buchwald.)
And because of her, I am
re-inspired in my focus for my book. I
sort of lost my way, getting caught up in what plays well at open mike nights
and reworking sentences until they mean nothing. All she had to say was that she related to my
book title “Craving Normal,” and it triggered something in me, got me thinking
again.
About Nadine - she was more than just a friend; she
and her family were like family to me. Our parents knew each other from their
early 1960’s high school days – way back when my mom still wore a bouffant and
our dads had short haircuts. They stayed friends right through their clean-cut,
straight arrow lives as young parents raising babies in the mid-sixties on
through their late sixties/seventies transformations. They all changed.
My parents sold our suburban house so we could buy a trailer and travel the
world. Nadine’s dad went from being a short-haired, clean shaven married
dad to a bearded, single father with an afro. My dad grew a fu-manchu mustache
and my mom grew her hair long and her dresses short.
Once back in San
Francisco, our families (Nadine and mine) would merge on many weekends, maybe we’d
hike through the hills of Marin or splash around in San Francisco’s chilly
ocean water. And then we'd return to their Victorian house or our apartment; either place would be
full of adults sipping Gallo jug wine, with perfumey smoke hanging over their
heads as Bob Dylan or maybe the Beatles played on the stereo; meanwhile, Nadine and I,
along with our siblings, would run off and get into trouble.
When their dad remarried
and moved to Malibu, my family hauled our butts down from San Francisco to eat
off the fruit of their land - literally, figs off their trees and
figuratively, borrowing their funky/bohemian yet still very Malibu beach lifestyle. Some of the parents went scuba diving as my mom tanned
and we kids body surfed all day long. In the summer of '77, it was on their TV that I learned Elvis died and saw punk rockers on the news for the first time. In Malibu, we watched Happy Days film the infamous (which I didn't foresee) Fonzie Jumps the Shark episode. We prank called
Nadine’s sister Michelle’s first boyfriend (a total fox, I believe we called him), Rob Lowe. It was with Nadine that I met
Charlie Sheen when he was shorter than us and covered in freckles. Their Sunny Los Angeles life was foreign to
my foggy San Francisco existence. As Nadine reminded me in her
email, I was constantly talking about becoming a movie star. Yeah, I often fantasized about wearing a sparkly dress to the Oscars. I was starstruck. That her dad played basketball with Cheech
and Chong or just Chong or Cheech, impressed me. That her stepmom was a teacher to one of Bob
Dylan’s kids seemed unreal. For a few
weeks, I became Nadine’s Southern
California sister,
enjoying her friendship and my fantasy life.
Anyway, back to my focus and
why I titled my book Craving Normal -
all of us kids (Nadine, her siblings, my sister and me) shared something in
common; our childhoods started off one way and went another. I'm not sure about Nadine, but I had a taste of “normal” life before the counter-culture revolution
really took hold. I'd experienced meatloaf
and mashed potato dinners and weekend barbecues spent splashing in our doughboy
pool as the AM radio still played tinkling Burt Bacharach songs sung by Dionne
Warwick, like Walk on By and Do You Know the Way to San Jose? Those were
days before the Beatles’ Magical Mystery
Tour took its place on our record players.
I don’t know Nadine’s
perspective, but here’s mine – Talk about tripping kids out... Our brains, while still forming, had grown to
know one lifestyle and then everything changed. Parents hair became long, barbecues turned to
trippy costume parties (no kids allowed); the music changed. Our lives
changed. Everything I’d known in the
suburbs – birthday parties, the ice cream man, playing in sprinklers, Fractured Fairytales and Captain Kangaroo on
morning TV – was replaced with a trailer in Morocco or a rock hut on a nude beach in Greece. Not that I
didn’t enjoy all of that, too. That’s
not the point.(photo of us in Mexico: I'm in long skirt, Nadine is next to me in short skirt with her sister Michelle and brother Scott on the right. In back, my mom, Nadine's dad Dave and her stepmom Nancy.)
Rather than being born to
already existing hippie-types, we were children born on the cusp of the revolution,
who watched it all change - just after JFK was assasinated, during the
civil rights movement and Vietnam. As an
elementary school kid, the war played on my TV like moving wallpaper. The line “Make Love not War” was said so often and placed on buttons, that it meant nothing to me; it was as powerful as
when the supermarket checker says, “Have a nice day.” This was my first epiphany about my childhood
– it hit me on September 11th. Somehow I came out of my childhood naïve. In Europe, we’d
walk through many villages where crowds of children and adults followed us as if we
were movie stars. In Germany, since we were cute and spoke English, my sister
and I were given chocolate coins. The
message I got was 1) everyone loved us and 2) As long as you love there will be
no war. I only mention this because this
is what started me thinking about my childhood, initially. Again, this is just to remind me of my focus.
So, though readers may not
understand it – that’s ok, this is for my own inspiration. What I’m saying is
I can’t relate to Baby Boomers (that was my parents' group) even though I’m lumped
in with them; I can’t relate to kids born to people who were already hippies in
the late sixties or seventies – they didn’t see everything change. I can’t relate to college
student/faux hippies who go to Fish concerts or young parents who call themselves
“Hip mamas.” Think of it this way (Again,
this is for myself, but if a reader can relate that’s great), just as the ocean - with its salt and its
undulating waves - can feel comforting, like returning to the embryonic womb –
I’ve craved – sometimes unconsciously and sometimes purposefully – a “normal”
life, a taste of what I remember from before.
I grew up with a father who got into brawls in hoffbrau houses in Germany, got us held up by gun point in Belgium, chased by tanks during war games in, I think it
was, Turkey. With the
“Do it if it feels good” mentality leading the way, I was left sitting in a car
staring at blinking neon boobs on Broadway in San Francisco, while my dad felt
like sneaking off…where I’m not sure.. but I highly suspect strippers were involved.
Not that I am mad,
resentful or hated my childhood. I
didn’t. It was exciting. It made me who I am today. Though I didn't want my own kid to be a latchkey child, I have to admit, man, I had some great experiences exploring San Francisco with all the freedom I had. To this day, I drift off in comfort hearing Bob Dylan, smelling
patchouli incense, seeing art films and eating sprouts in my sandwiches. But, as an adult, I’ve returned to that suburban life I once tasted - of
family meals, barbecues and pool parties. My daughter has attended the neighborhood schools and grown up with
the same kids. She's had rules (too many, according to her). Not that it’s a better life…
it’s definitely not as exciting as sneaking off to beg in the streets of Agadir, Morocco, as I
did at five-years-old - but it’s definitely more stable.
Here’s my theory: My daughter will run off to travel the world as
a performing artist or something. It
seems to be the cycle of life - when
people are raised one way, they often rebel by doing the opposite, especially
when it doesn’t exactly work for them. It’s not always the case. I mean,
look at the Osmonds. What are there, like, eight of them? And they all seem to have
stayed on their parents’ course. But
more often than not – rebelling is the natural cycle. Hey, there wouldn’t have been a cultural
revolution in the sixties if that weren’t so. I just happened to have ebbed – like the tide – in another direction. And as that generation questioned their parents, I have the right to question the generation that came before me. But then I question everything. It's hard to live through decades like the sixties and seventies, then watch all the shaggy adults put on ties in the '80s and not question everything that exists.
As I was telling Nadine, all of my parents’ friends’ children from the hippie days that I know
about now have all veered toward normal-hood. Well, as one former ex-hippie kid I know of put it, “We’re probably the first
generation more conservative than our parents.”
So I don’t know exactly
why Nadine can relate. But just
knowing she can relate has inspired me.
Anyway, this is long. If someone, other than me, has read this far –
great and thanks for taking the time. I have lots and lots of stories which I will tell through my perspective. So rather than cater to what's popular or what makes an audience laugh - I need to focus on why I want to write in the first place. We all have stories, and these are mine.
Thanks, Nadine.
BEFORE (Mom & Dad, 1966) AFTER (Dad, 70s)
