Category Archives: Family and Friends

Inspiration from family and friends

Remembering Bailey

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If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.
– Will Rogers, American humorist, social commentator, and actor

Our timid Bailey, winter 2000.

Our timid Bailey, winter 2000.

The Milo Foundation used to come to Fourth Street in Berkeley on weekends to adopt out rescued dogs, cats, puppies, and kittens. It was late summer 1999, and I persuaded David to “just take a look.” He was reluctant. I had given up my dog Sydney through my divorce four years earlier because I moved out of the house and into a large apartment complex, where I could not keep a large pet. I grew up with dogs throughout my childhood, and I couldn’t wait to be a homeowner so I could finally have a dog of my own.

I saw “Iggy,” a lab mix, with her sister in a pen. She’d been given that nickname when she arrived, sick with kennel cough, at the shelter. She was a puppy less than five months old, with mostly black fur with a little white on her chest. She was timid but wanting attention and affection. Iggy and her sister were found in a cardboard box, abandoned somewhere in Berkeley. I wanted her. I imagined sitting at my computer, working on my novel, while she slept at my feet. David was adamant. We were not going to be tied down with a puppy. I left, turning around to see her being held by a young woman. Iggy had an uncertain look on her face. I convinced David to return on Sunday, and if by chance the young woman hadn’t taken her and Iggy was still there, it was a sign that she belonged to us.

We went back on Sunday, and miraculously she was still there. We named her Bailey and brought her home. We deduced, when David rolled up a newspaper to swat at a spider on our bedroom wall, that Bailey had been abused. She cowered and her eyes were glassy with fear. She also had abandonment issues, which she never outgrew. It was difficult to leave her in the mornings. We ended up putting her in the kitchen, with sheets over the newly installed cabinets so she wouldn’t jump – she liked to jump – and scratch the panels.

One day I came home and she would not move. I coaxed her down the stairs from the kitchen to the utility room and out into the backyard. She made it to the backyard, but she stopped and winced. I waited for David to come home and then we took her to the vet, where we learned that she had broken her leg in two places. She had surgery and was in a cast. David put down grass in the middle of the yard, as advised by the vet, and we had one of our retired neighbors come by during the day to let her outside. We even left an Etta James concert in the City before it ended because we were afraid to leave her in the house by herself too long. The vet cautioned us before her cast came off that there was a chance her sciatic nerve would be damaged, which meant he’d have to amputate her leg. I saw a three-legged dog in the park and imagined that Bailey could still wag her tail and trot as if she had four legs, just like that happy-go-lucky dog. The whole medical episode cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $1,600, but she was able to walk again, work her paw out from a curled ball, and stop limping.

Walking Bailey the day before giving birth, June 2000.

Walking Bailey the day before giving birth, June 2000.

I was in heaven when I quit my office job in my first trimester. I worked on freelance projects, and on weekends, when pregnancy fatigue hit, I’d lie on the couch, with Bailey – who was a sedentary dog from the beginning – stretched out on her dog bed next to me, white belly up. Those were the salad days. We gave her long walks. She basked in our attention and the homebody lifestyle we took on, as we prepared for our first child’s arrival.

Bailey had slept in our room ever since she was a puppy. It was a game, before my son was born, to try not to stir on weekend mornings because the minute we did she would be at the side of our bed, wet nose poking into our faces. She was just as sleep deprived as we were when our son was born. And she’d let us know how irritated she was by groaning and slapping a paw over her face. With the bassinet in our bedroom, which also doubled as my office, we were feeling overwhelmed and crowded. Adding insult to injury, we put Bailey’s bed in the living room, and that is likely the time she retreated into a state of perpetual depression. Friends who came to our house often commented on how sad she looked, lying on her bed, staring at the world going past her.

Deceptive scene of Rex on top of Bailey.

Deceptive scene of Rex on top of Bailey.

When my son was 21 months old, we rescued our dog Rex, who was a puppy at the time, from the Berkeley Animal Control. Bailey despised him. If I had known anything about dog psychology, I would not have brought Rex home. I thought I was doing her a favor when I returned to work in the City by getting her a companion. The thing is, there were too many companions taking attention away from her. We had no idea until one weekend when I looked out the kitchen window and to my horror saw her chase and pounce on Rex. It is the reason to this day that he can’t be around other dogs. Rex barked all the time and was difficult to handle. Bailey lay on her bed like a cat. In her eyes, she was chiding us: “See, look at him! He’s such a bother! You should have stuck with just me. Look at me. I just lie on my bed and cause no trouble to anybody.” Their beds were side by side in the family room, and whenever Rex got up, Bailey would get up, too, only to stretch her body and take up half his bed. We had to scold her to get her to move back to her own bed. On weekend mornings, I would take Rex on his walk first, while Bailey sat dejectedly, snout sticking out in-between the pickets of the dog gate that kept them in the kitchen. While I walked Rex, she would howl and wake up the kids. No matter that I always returned to give her a walk. She never stopped howling. She never got over being left behind. When my daughter was born, Bailey was in such a state of melancholy that we joked about putting her on puppy uppers – and Rex on doggie downers.

Bailey in need of puppy uppers.

Bailey in need of puppy uppers.

I have fond memories of Bailey. She liked to slink up on the couch when she thought we wouldn’t catch her. One night, in the dark, David sat on her instead of the couch cushion. She used to beg for food at the kitchen table. One rainy Valentine’s Day dinner, we tried to keep her at bay by putting an open umbrella, which she was afraid of, at the kitchen entrance. She inched closer and closer, until her collar got tangled with the metal end of one of the spines of the umbrella. She drew back, and to her surprise, the umbrella came at her. She took off, dashing into the kitchen, under the table, shooting out of the kitchen and through the dining room and around the living room, her eyes bugged out, her hind legs whipping ahead of her front legs. Those are the times I wish I’d had a video camera on hand!

Bailey at rest - her usual state of being.

Bailey at rest – her usual state of being.

Many times when we came home from errands, coming up through the kitchen door, she would be on the other side, prancing around like a horse, her favorite stuffed hamburger squeaky toy in her mouth. I tried to let the dogs hang out upstairs with me in my office library during the day, but a knock, a doorbell ringing, or any other noise would send them barking up a storm. So they were gated in the kitchen. Sometimes I would leave the kitchen gate open, and at a certain time in the late morning she would venture up the stairs, her long nails clicking against the hardwood floors, and I’d wait for her to come around and into my office nook. I would give her a big greeting, to which she responded with a wagging tail, and satiated, she would trot back to her bed in the kitchen. She had the softest, velvety ears, behind which she liked being scratched.

One Friday evening in January of 2011, as we were preparing for our son’s basketball game, Bailey came around from the family room area to the kitchen. She looked tired. But I was in a hurry. I said a few encouraging words to her, and then we were gone. The next day she went on her walk, but she was lethargic. On Sunday, for the first time in her life, she would not get up for her morning walk. In fact, she hardly got up at all. When she did, she dragged herself into the kitchen and peed on the floor. David saw what was happening, but in my mind I thought, well, we’ll just get her pads. When David tried to entice Bailey outdoors to pee to no avail, he ended up resorting to lifting her up beneath her front legs. I’ll never forget the startled – even embarrassed and humiliated – look she exchanged with me as her hind legs dangled beneath her, her tail curled up. The kids spent the night on the couches in the family room next to Bailey and Rex’s dog beds.

I was grateful that we had a long weekend; it was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and the kids were home from school. We took a lot of pictures of Bailey and made a video of her on the flip camera. I sat on the floor next to her and put her head on my lap, as I stroked her and told the kids stories about Bailey. It wasn’t until the end of day that I realized she had never slept, which was unheard of given how much she sleeps during the day. I was stricken by the understanding that she couldn’t sleep because she was in discomfort. Her breathing had became loud and raspy. It was then that I reached the conclusion that David had already arrived at on Sunday. At dinnertime, we had a family meeting. We would need to take Bailey to the vet in the morning. Numb and not thinking, I agreed to let both kids, who were sobbing over their meals, come with us.

Bailey's last day with us, January 17, 2011.

Bailey’s last day with us, January 17, 2011.

I was going to sleep on the couch that night. Both David and I were working on our laptops in the family room. He insisted that the kids could not go with us in the morning. And I secretly wished that she would pass away peacefully, if only her eyes would close and she would fall asleep. It was around 11 o’clock that night when her breathing turned rattled and sounded wet. She struggled to turn her back on us, and in that act I knew she was dying. I rushed to her side, calling out her name, stroking her head. I was torn because I wanted her to know I was there and yet I acknowledged that she had turned her back on us because she didn’t want us to see. I recalled someone telling me once that animals go into the woods to die alone. But I would not let her think she was alone. Within moments, she threw back her head, opened her mouth wide, let out a rattle, and she was gone.

I don’t remember what happened after that. We wrapped her up in a blanket and took her outside on the porch. We knew we had to move her to the van before the kids got up. So we woke up early in the morning and hurriedly transported her body, but by the time we returned inside, I found my daughter, eight years old, wailing in the middle of the family room, in the spot where Bailey’s bed used to be.

Bailey’s ashes were scattered somewhere in Napa. We held a family ceremony for her, burying a wad of her hair and the hamburger toy in the side yard.

Rex, newly crowned pampered pooch, with his blanket and bed in the library.

Rex, newly crowned pampered pooch, with his blanket and bed in the library.

People say you shouldn’t regret. But initially, regret is an involuntary feeling. It’s the wallowing in regret for a long stretch that steals our time and diverts our feelings for other things. And yet, regret can be a great lesson if we are open to it and know how to use it. I very much regret that we ignored Bailey all those years. She just wanted to be loved because when she came into this world, she was abused and abandoned. Those feelings never left her, no matter that she was safe and loved haphazardly in a household that took her for granted in the course of our busy lives.

Happiness is a warm bed, your Cal pillow, and sticking out your tongue when in a deep sleep.

Happiness is a warm bed, your Cal pillow, and sticking out your tongue when in a deep sleep.

Now we pamper Rex, who was not given a fair shake by Bailey. We’re making up for the abuse he received at the hands of a curmudgeon dog. Rex sleeps upstairs, gets a daily walk instead of only weekend walks, and accompanies me on errands – he gives me a stunned and hurt look when I don’t take him with me. He is photographed more than any other person under our roof. And he gets a lot of attention. He has become the dog who sleeps in the library and who I know won’t bark – though he still has a ferocious bark – while I’m on the phone for work.

Last winter, I noticed his hind legs slipping a little. He has had numerous skin conditions throughout the year that I thought perhaps might be the beginning of the end for him. Numerous vet visits and bills, thyroid and other medications later, and after a switch to non-grain dog food, his sandy coat is as soft as Bailey’s ears. He is still a nuisance around other dogs and manages to get in the way of whatever you are doing. He is nervous in unfamiliar situations and environments, his shaking hind legs a sure sign. I affectionately call him my “dysfunctional boyfriend.” Friends call him “Wreck.”

He is nearing 12 years old. He has been my house companion for a solid two years now. We have our daily routine.

I don’t know when his time will come, when he will join Bailey, who, as my kids joke, is up in doggie heaven, looking down and jealously barking, “No fair!” It will be much harder for me in one sense – though no less heartbreaking – when we reach the end of our walk together, but I know there will be no regret at all. Bailey taught me that lesson.

Ready to walk Rex on a winter morning with over-the-knee boots!

Ready to walk Rex on a winter morning with over-the-knee boots!

Layers, different textures such as waffle knits and flecked leggings, smooth and patent leather, faux fur, antique button ring by Elizabeth Ngo, reclaimed vintage rose earrings by Carmela Rose, and Sundance stack of rings.

Layers, different textures such as waffle knits and flecked leggings, smooth and patent leather, faux fur, antique button ring by Elizabeth Ngo, reclaimed vintage rose earrings by Carmela Rose, and Sundance stack of rings.

Engaging with grace

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Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.
– Isaac Asimov, American science fiction writer and biochemistry professor

Mixing black and gray for the holidays, 2011.

Mixing black and gray for the holidays, 2011.

My mother’s passing still haunts me one year later. It is what I had expected. But last week, a number of events have kept me thinking about the other side. A good friend let me know that her elderly mother had been very sick and in the hospital for three days. She is thankfully recovering now in her assisted living facility. Another good friend texted me that a mutual friend, whom I hadn’t seen in a few years, was in the ICU, having suffered congestive heart failure and a stroke. And last Wednesday, as I was running an errand, I saw the result of an accident that must have happened mere minutes before I turned on the corner – a covered body on the street, an inconsolable woman standing on the sidewalk, and police cars redirecting traffic. The wail of a fire truck siren followed soon afterwards.

These events made me think about how things can twist and turn in a blink and take you down a different, sometimes dark, path – thoughts that seem to be especially prevalent as the years march on. Can we really ever be prepared for such tragedies?

Anatomy of black and gray: one o my favorite faux fur jackets, suede booties, and statement necklace from Anthropologie.

Anatomy of black and gray: one o my favorite faux fur jackets, suede booties, and statement necklace from Anthropologie.

In the fall of 2008, I attended the Health 2.0 conference in San Francisco as a reporter for my work. I wanted to cut out before the end of the first day of the conference, but something compelled me to stay for the last presentation. Alexandra Drane, founder and president of Eliza, began talking about her sister-in-law, who at the age of 32 was diagnosed with stage IV glioblastoma. I won’t tell you the rest of the story. You can read it and watch it here. Alexandra shared this poignant story amid many tears in the audience – both men and women, including the young mother who was sitting at my table. Alexandra helped found a viral movement, a nonprofit organization called Engage with Grace, which entreats us as family members and friends, with great humanity and love, to discuss end-of-life care. She asked that we answer the five questions brought up on the website, download the slide and share the story, and “get the conversation started.”

I was incredibly fortunate two years later to actually interview Alexandra at the same conference. I excitedly told her how moved I was by her presentation. Then I told her about my father’s passing, and how he died in his hospital room while we were on our way. I had always regretted – and I know my mother did, too – that he was alone. I told her that after his death, my sisters and I tried to talk to her about planning for her own passing, but she would hear none of it. It was bad luck to talk of such things. So that was the end of it. I then told her that after hearing her presentation, I brought it up to my mother the next time I visited her. (Little did I know that four years earlier, in 2004, she had written out her wishes for end-of-life determination. To this day, I don’t know what triggered her to decide what to do and to write it down, but I am grateful that she did.) Again, I was met with a rebuke for talking about such matters out in the open. That was the end of the discussion.

A very cold Northern California winter, January 2013.

A very cold Northern California winter, January 2013.

I also told Alexandra that after the conference, when I returned home that evening, I sat down and wrote about the presentation and the movement and send out a group e-mail to all my women friends. David and I filled out our advanced healthcare directive and dutifully sent it out to family members and our physicians. We and our family know what we want to do should we find ourselves in that difficult position.

But whereas advanced healthcare directive maps out what you do or don’t want to have done to you, there is no place on the form that asks you where you want to be when your life is coming to an end. It should. I recognize, however, that even if it did, their wishes may not be fulfilled.

My mother wanted to go home. She couldn’t really talk, but she mouthed it. It was plain to hear through the garble. It was obvious in the shape of her chapped lips. At first, my sisters and I thought she meant she wanted to go home to recover, not recover in the hospital. My sister, whom she lived with, brightly told her she needed to regain her strength before she could come home and, as an incentive, kept encouraging her to do her physical therapy, which my mother refused to do when the therapist came to her room. (My mother would look away, disinterested, and play opossum, but the moment a Filipino caregiver came into her room, she smiled, nodded her head, and weakly waved.) As my mother encountered setback after setback, I realized that she wanted to go home to die. She was done fighting, she was tired, she had told us as much with her eyes and her distorted speech, and she had nodded when we asked her, though we were not ready to let go.

When I was alone with her, on my watch, she told me again she wanted to go home, as if I was her only hope. I awkwardly asked my sister to grant her wish. My sister gave various reasons why it was not a good idea to bring her home. And then remembering Engage with Grace, I asked both of my sisters to watch the video and to consider the message. My sister finally responded. She respected the message, but she could not bring herself to do it. I was sad, but I totally understood where she was coming from. It was her home. It was her decision, not mine.

In the end, it was she whose stoicism failed her the night we let our mother go, not I – the “crybaby” of the family when we were growing up. It was she whose voice broke when we each eulogized our mother at her memorial service. And it was she who has to wake up every morning and go to bed at night in the house in which my mother would no longer walk in and out – her bedroom door, closed and white, which my sister would have to face coming in from the garage, like a canker sore on the heart.

If only we had discussed the matter when we weren’t in such a difficult situation. Maybe the outcome would not have changed at all. I don’t know. And in not knowing, and while still haunted, I can only spread the word. Engage with grace. There is great comfort in knowing what your loved one wishes and that there is time to prepare to honor their wishes.

Engage with grace. Amen.

Keeping the winter chill away with faux fur jacket and scarf (Restoration Hardware) and leather (Frye booties) and warm gold (necklace and bracelet by M.E. Moore and Monserat De Lucca crossbody bag).

Keeping the winter chill away with faux fur jacket and scarf (Restoration Hardware) and leather (Frye booties) and warm gold (necklace and bracelet by M.E. Moore and Monserat De Lucca crossbody bag).

Gray matter

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Be comfortable in your own skin, and your style will come out.
– Ikram Goldman, Ikram boutique owner, Chicago

My parents show off their cake at their 25th wedding anniversary, May 1982.

My parents show off their cake at their 25th wedding anniversary, May 1982.

When my sisters and I were going through my mother’s photographs to put in a slideshow for her memorial last January, I came across ones of my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary party. My mother was a month shy of 31 when she got married to my father. So she was nearing 56 when we celebrated their anniversary at a restaurant with our family and all of our relatives. In December 1984, when my sister, Heidi, my mom, and I went to the Philippines – to commemorate the end of my college career and also to embrace my heritage after taking many Asian American Studies classes – my mom was 58 years old.

Me, my lola Salud, and my mother, Baguio City, the Philippines, December 1984. My mother shows just a little gray along the hairline.

Me, my lola Salud, and my mother, Baguio City, the Philippines, December 1984. My mother shows just a little gray along the hairline.

I marveled at how in the pictures from those two events, my mother looked incredibly young. No sign of gray hair. My middle sister Joyce recalled that she berated my mom for plucking her gray hairs, telling her she would go bald. It was around the early 1990s that Joyce introduced my mother to coloring her hair. So at the time of her 25th anniversary and our trip to the Philippines, my mother had plucked her grays – but clearly still had a healthy production of melanin.

No doubt, genetics played a major role in her youthful looks. But at some point, she did color her hair. I, too, plucked at the gray hairs, and when they multiplied to the point where potential baldness had to be considered as a real risk, I faced the decision of either coloring or leaving the gray strands alone. I had always thought I would be the kind of woman who would eschew coloring her hair. Just age gracefully, I argued in my head. But at the age of 44, when the gray hair began exposing themselves around my hairline and at the crown of my head, I succumbed to the practice.

Does she or doesn’t she?
In my neck of the woods – the Berkeley area – more women than not embrace their gray. Was it a defect on my part that I did not? My hairdresser, who has been cutting my hair since I was 29 and whom I have followed from salon to salon through the years, has been badgering me in the last few years to stop coloring my hair. He tells me that “modern women” can carry off gray hair. He also insisted that the owner of the beauty shop where he worked had developed leukemia from having undergone too many Japanese hair-straightening treatments. In all honesty, I don’t know anything about the pros and cons of the treatment and can’t comment on whether the chemicals contributed to her death. I do worry about the chemicals that are seeping into my scalp, which is one of the reasons why I don’t color that often and traded permanent color, which made my hair dry as straw, to semi-permanent color, which seems less harsh, relatively speaking, and fades in a more “natural” way.

My husband, David, whose hair is salt and pepper, keeps reminding me that there’s nothing wrong with gray hair and he’d prefer that I go au natural. Some people look distinguished with a head of gray hair, but I don’t put myself in that company just yet. One of my good friends from college feels that gray hair makes women look older than they are, which is true depending upon how the hair is styled, how the woman dresses herself, and the coloring of the gray. While dull gray is not a flattering color, white or silver can be stunning.

Comfortable with gray
While one can argue whether or not a woman looks better with colored hair, I’ve come to see it as a personal decision, which should be respected and even celebrated. My sister, Heidi, who turned 53 in mid-August and noticed the gray in her mid-30s, has never colored her hair, which is even more dramatic and pronounced given the longer length of her locks. She prefers low maintenance when it comes to grooming, which was especially critical when she was an elementary-school teacher (she has since retired this past year). She doesn’t blow dry her hair because she feels it’s a health hazard and has the same health concern about hair coloring. My sister grows her hair long so she can cut it every three years and donate it to such organizations as the American Cancer Society and Ulta, which require hair to be free of chemicals. She tells me that they don’t accept donations with too many gray hairs, so this may be her last contribution.

My sister, Heidi, and me at Rockefeller Center, New York, September 2012.

My sister, Heidi, and me at Rockefeller Center, New York, September 2012.

“There have been a dozen women who have told me that they are following my example and are not coloring their hair anymore,” Heidi wrote to me in an e-mail. “They just don’t like the look when transitioning from not coloring to going all gray. I think they are becoming more comfortable with the idea of having gray hair. I think they also got tired of coloring their hair and they’re doing it for themselves and not for appearance anymore.” (Although I feel compelled to note that you can color your hair and do it for yourself and not for others.)

A friend of mine, who has a lovely thick mane of silvery hair, decided to dispense with the many years of maintenance, time, and expense associated with hair coloring. “You’re finally comfortable with it, and you just grow into your gray hair,” she told me in an e-mail. Through the years, she had gotten close with her colorist, whom she considers an adopted daughter and also followed as her colorist changed salons. While my friend doesn’t get to see her former colorist on a regular basis anymore, when they do get together it’s “for coffee instead of coloring,” she wrote.

Hair as an ‘artistic medium’
One of my colleagues from my company, Diana Manos, 53, who is a senior editor with Healthcare IT News, said that turning 50 has liberated her to experiment with hair color. “I like hair as an artistic medium (involving color),” she wrote to me in an e-mail. Diana doesn’t believe that hair color should be age-related. She sported a big bright fuschia stripe, noting that getting the flash of color was something she has wanted to do her whole life. “I feel that being my current age finally freed me to do it,” she wrote, although she has since moved on from pink because it fades too easily.

My colleague Diana sporting her fuschia streak.

My colleague Diana sporting her fuschia streak.

“Color is color. If you don’t like the color gray – and I don’t – you don’t have to wear it, in our day and age,” she wrote. “I feel hair is a very distinctive aspect of our outer selves. If we want, we can use our hair to represent our inner selves. How you feel about your hair is very important to how you see yourself. No one at any age should accept hair they don’t want to wear.”

While Diana noted that she doesn’t like the color gray on her, she recognizes that some women can carry it off. “I am always fascinated by and on the lookout for women who wear it like they mean it,” she said. “Emmylou Harris is one famous example, but I see good examples around me all the time. If I had to one day wear gray hair, I would probably put some black stripes in it to spice it up.”

Celebrating silver - in my dress for now, Las Vegas, February 2012.

Celebrating silver – in my dress for now, Las Vegas, February 2012.

What feels right
As for me, I’ve made the tentative decision that I’ll go completely gray when my wrinkles become more pronounced. I’ll admit that I raise my eyebrows when I see an elderly Filipino man or woman with jet-black hair and wrinkles to rival an elephant because it seems like a disconnect between hair and body. I can’t imagine that I’ll do anything to my face, so when the wrinkles deepen, the gray will be let loose.

I’m always fascinated by other women’s opinions about and reasons for coloring or going gray, but the bottom line is: Respect other women’s decisions and do what feels right for you. Whatever you do, first and foremost, do it for yourself. Once you embrace that, the decisions come – of course – nice and easy.

The best way to accent silver and gray is with lots of beading, sequins, rhinestones, and shiny metallic.

The best way to accent silver and gray is with lots of beading, sequins, rhinestones, and shiny metallic.

Gray is the perfect backdrop or a lot of shine from different materials and accessories, both vintage (earrings, ring, and bracelet) and new (necklace, stack of rings, pumps, and skirt).

Gray is the perfect backdrop or a lot of shine from different materials and accessories, both vintage (earrings, ring, and bracelet) and new (necklace, stack of rings, pumps, and skirt).

A Tribute to my mother, one year later

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Sweater, n.: garment worn by child when its mother is feeling chilly.
– Ambrose Bierce, American journalist, from The Devil’s Dictionary

My mother in the Philippines, circa 1950s.

My mother in the Philippines, circa 1950s.

At the age of 85, surrounded by her three daughters, my mother took her last breath in the early morning of January 3rd, 2012. We are journeying to our hometown this weekend to celebrate her one-year anniversary with our relatives.When I think of my mother’s life, I think about the decisions she made and the decisions made for her through the years. After World War II, as a teacher in a mountain province, she fell in love with a Filipino soldier who was enlisted in the U.S. Army. He wanted to marry her, but her strict parents demanded that she choose between them or him. She chose her parents because, she explained, they loved her and she loved them. It was as simple as that, she told me when I was home from college on winter break, in a years-removed, matter-of-fact tone of voice. My mother, the oldest daughter, in a family of seven siblings (two others had died during the war as a result of malnutrition), continued to help support her younger brothers and sisters through school.

My parents' wedding in the Philippines, May 11, 1957.

My parents’ wedding in the Philippines, May 11, 1957.

By the time my father’s cousin – a co-teacher of my mother’s at the school where they both taught – matchmade my parents, she was nearly 32 years old. The local priest had to convince my grandfather, my lolo, who was a layman at his church, to let his daughter go. My father, who was 19 years older than my mother, had been in the States with his cousins since the 1920s. After a short courtship, which my mother described as an exchange of photos and letters, they got married in the Philippines and he returned to Los Angeles. She followed him months later on a ship. My parents lived in a house that my father and his brother bought in Los Angeles. My mother not only took care of her three daughters, born within four years, but also kept house for my father and her brother-in-law and his wife, who all three worked outside of the home. My mother did not want to raise us in an urban environment, especially during the time of civil unrest in Los Angeles, and longed for a home of her own. Some of my father’s relatives had settled in Terra Bella, which my father likened to a camp (New York was the city, Los Angeles was the country, my father reportedly told his cousins). Nevertheless, in 1965, we moved to the small Central Valley town, two-and-a-half hours away, and my parents bought a gray-brick house for $7,000, paying it in full. By 1968, my mother had a ranch-style house built next door on our lot, and paid that house off within five years.

A family outing in Long Beach, CA, summer 1962.

A family outing in Long Beach, CA, summer 1962.

My mother didn’t work while in Los Angeles. In Terra Bella, however, she eschewed becoming a teacher, unlike a couple of Filipino townmates who did go back to school and secured teaching positions at our local elementary school. My mother felt that she couldn’t take the time off to get her credentials. She needed to work right away. And so she spent three seasons at the packing house, which required her to be on her feet for 12 hours a day, sizing or packing oranges and other citrus fruit. In the wintertime, at the height of the season, she would be at work at 6 in the morning, come home for dinner, and then return to the packing house. In the summers, she picked table grapes in the nearby farms. I remember how she would wake us up early in the mornings to ensure that we had a good breakfast, and then leave the house while it was still dark outside. I remember watching one of our relatives rub tiger balm on her swollen fingers and the long steaming baths she took when she came home in the summertime, leaving a pile of dusty clothes that smelled of dirt and sweat outside the bathroom. I don’t recall when she retired. But she packed oranges and picked grapes somewhere in the range of 30 years.

Graduation day at UC Davis, June 1985.

Graduation day at UC Davis, June 1985.

School was very important to both my parents. My father only had a second-grade education. Of course, only A’s were acceptable grades. We would attend and graduate from college and our degrees would provide us with solid careers. When I was a senior in high school, my mother helped me fill out financial-aid documents. She had to disclose her yearly salary in one of the forms, and when I looked at what she’d written I was stunned. Wasn’t she missing another digit, I asked. I still remember how she leaned towards me, her eyeglasses perched at the edge of her nose, her hands anchored on the kitchen table. “No,” she said, smiling. She had made sure that we were never for want of anything. Not food or shelter, clothes or non-necessities.It made me think of the time I was into sewing – back in the day when girls took home economics in elementary school. It was summertime. I had waited for my mother to come home from work because I wanted to go into town and buy some fabric to make a blouse. She came home too tired to eat lunch and in want of a nap. She berated me, telling me I always sewed a garment that I would either never wear or discard soon afterwards. In truth, it was rare that I liked something I had made, though I enjoyed sewing itself. I went to my room, lay prostrate on my bed, and cried. Soon afterwards, she came into my room and curtly announced that we would go to Montgomery Wards and look for fabric.

Celebrating her 85th birthday with her grandchildren, Folsom, CA, June 25, 2011.

Celebrating her 85th birthday with her grandchildren, Folsom, CA, June 25, 2011.

This past year, I have gravitated towards listening to music from the 1970s and 1980s – thanks to Pandora radio. While I have always had a weakness for music from those decades (and go through the motions of apologizing for my bad taste in music to friends), as I listen to the songs now, it brings me back to a time when you never ever doubted that your parents would always be there to protect you. They would always be this age, full of vitality even when they were weary of their lives.

I have found that when you discover your parents’ history – and this oftentimes only happens when you are an adult, and for me this happened when I was in college, after taking many Asian American Studies classes – you understand the root of their actions and decisions – good and bad, hurtful and big-hearted. And in that understanding, you receive the power of forgiveness, the weight of sacrifices, and most importantly, the burden and comfort of unconditional love with open arms.

Flowers for my mother's memorial service, January 9, 2012.

Flowers for my mother’s memorial service, January 9, 2012.

Christmas past and present

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Christmas Day is in our grasp, so long as we have hands to clasp.
Christmas Day will always be just as long as we have we.
Welcome Christmas while we stand, heart to heart, and hand in hand.
– Theodor Seuss Geisel, American writer, poet and cartoonist,
from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas

My mother and father in our living room, Terra Bella, CA, Christmas 1982.

My mother and father in our living room, Terra Bella, CA, Christmas 1982.

Christmas is my favorite holiday. When we watch A Charlie Brown Christmas or How the Grinch Stole Christmas with our kids, it reminds me of the tradition of watching them as a kid. Of course, back then we had to wait impatiently for the night it aired on television and endure commercials, but no Christmas season was complete without having seen the two animated shows. Now our kids watch them several times in a season, and we have added the Polar Express to our Christmas viewing repertoire, complete with hot chocolate and popcorn.

In high school, I was in choir so we always sang Christmas songs for the annual winter concert. When I was in college, Christmas was a time to get together with all my high school friends to compare college experiences. It’s a Wonderful Life became a staple for me going into adulthood. I still get teary-eyed when, in the last scene, Mary Bailey’s eyes glisten with pure joy as she watches her husband George realize how rich and blessed he is with the many friendships he has made throughout a life of giving.

Since then, Christmas has become the holiday associated with loss. On Christmas Eve 1995, as I drove my parents from their home in Terra Bella to my sister’s family’s home in Folsom, near Sacramento, my 88-year-old father’s heart and kidneys began to shut down. Of course, my mother and I didn’t know that at the time. It was a tense four and a half hour-drive. After we arrived, we took him to the hospital.

My parents' last Christmas together in Folsom, 1994.

My parents’ last Christmas together in Folsom, 1994.

We spent Christmas Day going back and forth from Folsom to the hospital in Sacramento. It wasn’t really Christmas. That’s what I thought to myself when we drove back to Folsom that evening to take a break, staring at the blinking and streaking outdoor Christmas lights from the car window. Not long after we had returned to my sister’s house, my brother-in-law, who was still at the hospital, called to tell us we needed to come back. We didn’t make it to the hospital in time. The presents were left unopened that year.

As the years passed, I didn’t associate my father’s death with Christmas. The mind would not allow that to happen. After all, it didn’t seem like Christmas; therefore, it did not happen at Christmastime.

Last Thanksgiving, my 85-year-old mother was stricken with pneumonia and was in the ICU for two weeks with a coma. When she awoke, she was transferred to an acute-care facility that dealt with patients with ventilators. Last Christmas, my sisters and I took turns watching over her. She had her first setback on Christmas Eve, as we were preparing for midnight mass. When we asked her if she was done fighting, she nodded.

Dumbly, and numbly, we waited for her body to comply with her wishes. It wasn’t until after my oldest sister returned to her home in San Antonio, and a week had passed that on New Year’s Eve my middle sister and I realized my mother could not do it on her own. We were at her side during her last hours. She did not “slip quietly to the other side,” as the veteran nurse had assured us that she would, but she was not alone when she took her last breath.

Christmas and New Year’s Eve would never be the same again, I remembered thinking, as we drove in silence back to my sister’s house in the early morning hour.

A wintery scene from one of our lighted Christmas in the City streets.

A wintery scene from one of our lighted Christmas in the City streets.

It’s true that the holidays will never be the same, and I admit that I approached this holiday season with panicked moments full of fear and uneasiness. However, whereas last year I returned from the long Thanksgiving weekend and found that my husband and kids had completely decorated the house to welcome me home, I was able to decorate the house with them this season. We put up the seven displays of our lighted Christmas in the City buildings throughout the house. The final and traditional touch was the kids’ “letting it snow” over the city buildings and streets with fine plastic bits of snow. We decorated our seven-foot tree with treasured ornaments, many with memories associated with them, and instead of spending our evenings in the family room we moved our activities to the living room, as we always do at this time of year, so we could enjoy the fire in the fireplace, the smell of the pungent tree and the lighted Christmas villages. We’ve had a few friends over for Christmas cheer and enjoyed listening to Christmas music. It’s a Wonderful Life is on my list of things to do before New Year’s Day.

I survived the sadness of not being greeted by my mother at the front door when we first arrived at my sister’s house or seeing her bedroom now home to a new treadmill and a relocated futon couch. We are enjoying a respite from the rain and frantic last-minute Christmas shopping. This morning we are preparing to visit my mother’s niche, where her ashes are laid to rest. My 10-year-old daughter is excited to deliver the Christmas card she made for her lola.

I am navigating these new traditions. It is a part of life – learning how to embrace loss and honor our loved ones by celebrating the present.

Welcome, Christmas. Celebrate the holidays, be it Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or other honored day.

Welcome, Christmas. Celebrate the holidays, be it Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, or other honored day.

Celebrate in style with hints of gold.

Celebrate in style with hints of gold.

 

Transitions and Transformations Profile*: Laura Leventer of Personal Pizazz

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Without leaps of imagination, or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities.
Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.
 – Gloria Steinem, American journalist and women’s rights advocate

Laura Leventer, proprietor of Personal Pizazz.

Laura Leventer, proprietor of Personal Pizazz.

I first met Laura Leventer three years ago at a New Year’s Eve party thrown by a good friend who has known Laura since high school. I was struck by her utter confidence and fashion style – a fusion of classic, vintage and glamour. It was not a surprise to learn that she was proprietor of a clothing store called Personal Pizazz (3048 Claremont Avenue, Berkeley, CA, 94705, 510.420.0704).

What’s interesting to me is that Laura, now 45, was a teacher for 10 years and then spent the following six years as a department chairperson, principal, and district administrator. Though she loved teaching, working in administration proved to be unrewarding, very political and extremely stressful, especially on her family, with her son being very young at the time. The idea of opening her own clothing store for mostly women but also men wasn’t far-fetched, as Laura had always loved fashion and owned a business license for her personal shopping gigs on the side. She had worked in retail in college and gained valuable knowledge about the entire range of retail processes, and attended a couple of shows and made a few connections in her capacity as a personal shopper. Laura took a district-level administrative position to start saving for her big investment. When her father passed away and left her with enough money to add to her savings, she felt comfortable taking the risk and made that life-changing leap.

Purple walls provide a vibrant backdrop to highlight the luxurious clothing and accessories.

Purple walls provide a vibrant backdrop to highlight the luxurious clothing and accessories.

Filling the fashion niche in Berkeley
When Laura was an administrator, she wore business suits that many admired for being original, different and the antithesis of the retail-chain business suit. “That was the niche I wanted to fill,” she explained. “That was my original direction when I opened – nice-looking business wear that was functional enough for work but interesting enough so you didn’t feel like you were putting on a boring suit.”

Inviting armoires full of stylish clothes.

Inviting armoires full of stylish clothes.

Although she has clients who come to her store for that very reason, they are few and far between. Personal Pizazz’s clientele are mostly women 35 and up, although the timeless styles she carries appeal to all ages, such as formal dresses for proms and bar mitzvahs. Laura has found that many women are no longer dressing in business suits and the ones who do, for whatever reasons, are sticking with the retail-chain look. It’s been a challenge to reach out to them. “I’ve had to evolve to who comes in and what people want,” she explained. Berkeley is already home to artistic, flowing, interesting clothing shops. “It’s done; there are tons of that,” she said. There are, however, very few shops that offer fitted clothing. “I have people come in all the time and ask me if this is a vintage shop because the clothing is more classic style,” she said. And with its purple walls, chandeliers, carved sales-register desk, antique armoires and curio cabinets, and velvet dressing-room drapes, the vibe is definitely vintage.

One-woman business
As the sole employee, Laura is at the store six days a week. “It’s just me doing everything,” she said. As such, being organized is extremely important. She does her own accounting and all administrative tasks, which she tries to complete during store hours to keep work and life in balance. That said, her priority is to always be available for her customers. Despite the creation of charts and graphs to identify trends and make forecasts, there’s no logic to traffic flow into her store. “When I unlock the door for business, I never know what to expect,” she said, which is another reason to be organized and to plan ahead.

Tidying up the winter scarves near the Personal Pizazz neon sign before the first customers arrive.

Tidying up the winter scarves near the Personal Pizazz neon sign before the first customers arrive.

Laura goes to Los Angeles for market week four to five times a year. “Since I’m here six days a week, I’m very organized about what I do,” she said. She flies down Monday morning, attends 20-minute, pre-arranged appointments all day, and flies home that night. The few times she flies back East for appointments with her New York City-based vendors, she takes the Sunday red-eye flight and flies back Monday night. She previews vendors’ digitized line sheets ahead of time, which streamlines her appointments. “I’ve learned to never buy at the show because you will make mistakes,” she said. “You never know if another company will offer similar clothing at a better price or different color.” Laura takes detailed notes and snaps pictures with her iPad, which help her determine what she will order when she returns home. “I am particular and I know what I like,” she said. “I know what works for my customers.”

Laura has learned to always be prepared for the unexpected. Case in point: The ceiling lights died last Thursday, on the day that her store is open until 8PM. While her husband was willing to replace them, the lease calls for professional servicing. “That’s money I didn’t plan on spending, but I don’t have a choice,” she said. Therefore, Laura noted: “Always give yourself wiggle room.” She’s learned from a neighboring business that anything can go wrong and when it does you need to know what to do and whom to call.

Despite the challenges of being a business owner and sole employee, Laura revels in her son’s assessment of her career – indeed, her life: “As my son says, now my job is my hobby and my hobby is my job,” she said.

Personal Pizazz finds - Tocca coat and Asian Eye scarf.

Personal Pizazz finds – Tocca coat and Asian Eye scarf.

Q&A: In her own words
Q: Describe Personal Pizazz in 10 words or less.
A: Classic, quality clothing with a twist.

Q: What are some of the challenges you’ve encountered?
A: I’ve lived in and near Berkeley my whole life, and I dress the way I dress, but there aren’t that many people who do. Even people who want to, think they can’t because other people don’t. There is pressure to not care about clothing. That’s a constant battle. If it [an article of clothing] makes you happy, then your outlook is better, you feel happy, and in turn you look better.

 

Q: What’s the best thing about being the proprietor of Personal Pizazz?
A: Not having to answer to anyone else. My previous boss was the school board and I was jumping through hoops. There’s a lot of bureaucracy – forms to fill out, things you have to do. I still have a lot of forms to fill out and things I have to do, but I don’t have to justify or explain it to somebody else.

Personal Pizazz find - Zelda coat.

Personal Pizazz find – Zelda coat.

Q: What advice would you give to women who are looking to make a career transition or transformation?
A: Do your homework. To be honest, I thought I’d be making a lot more profit by now. There are decisions you have to make along the way. You have to create a nest egg. I was saving and saving until I got to the point where I could say, okay, I can go this amount of time without bringing home any money. And I have this much that I can invest and don’t expect to be able to take out because you’re not going to turn a profit quickly. People have to discover you and they have to become faithful. Whatever the business happens to be, you’re going to make mistakes in the beginning until you figure out what your niche is and what’s going to work. You have to have enough exposure so people know you’re there.

Personal Pizazz is located on beautiful, tree-lined Claremont Avenue in Berkeley.

Personal Pizazz is located on beautiful, tree-lined Claremont Avenue in Berkeley.

Post script: If you’re a local and this blog has whetted your interest, make your way to Personal Pizazz and let Laura know that you read about her store here. If you’re not a local but find your way to the San Francisco Bay Area, make Personal Pizazz a destination point.

*My Transitions and Transformations profile series chronicle stories of amazing women, not limited to women 50 and above, who have made inspirational and creative transitions or transformations in their lives. The series will run bi-weekly.