Monday, Monday

The story begins with a classic homespun adventure- I go to be with the person who gave me life on my birthday. Back home, we are in “Crown of the Valley” the language of the Chippewas, an Indian tribe that never set foot in the area, the land on which the city was built occupied originally by the Gabrielino Indians and then by the Spanish and the Mexicans who built adobes. As in most of Los Angeles County, the greatest amount of fine architecture is domestic, but the city of Pasadena is ahead of most of her neighbors in public architecture. Still it's where I was born in the Lower Arroyo Seco section favored by bicyclists, joggers and people who like to stroll because they have something to experience-lovely scenery and well-kept gardens. And there is the ostentatious simplicity of the Arts and Crafts movement. Craftsman style homes, bungalows that are brown and woodsy, many remain in pristine condition that were once and still are attractive to people of moderate means and often of intellectual and artistic pretension.

Inside a Mexican restaurant there are two strolling mariachis, one strumming his guitar the other shaking his maracas. The minstrels serenade listeners with buoyant Mexican folk songs. It is indeed another perfect autumn morning. The sun shining softly in a high blue sky dotted here and there with ragged wisps of cloud. The air clean and fresh, the birds are singing, and the hours spooled before us. We were poised at another stretch of time in which anything can happen. The musicians join us and sing “Las Mañanitas” the traditional Mexican birthday and Mother's Day song, often used to wake the guest of honor early in the morning as the lyrics are about waking up and celebrating the day you were born. My mother bursts into tears. I, unable to keep dry-eyed at another's tears and having shed tears of many varieties, follow.

I think about the lineage that brought us together, and about my Grandmother. How as a child, there seemed to be so much time, as she pointed out, that I wished my life away. In my heart, I knew there was more to a day than how many things I played with, but also, in my heart I didn't know what that something was.

Now that I am older, there never seems to be enough of it, provoked by a growing awareness of my own mortality. I remember her often, more so in October, two weeks before my birthday would have been hers, and the more things speed up, the more I try to track it. I suspect it comes from believing if only I control time, I will keep it. Ironically, the opposite is true.

Past, present, future. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Paradoxically, the more I think about time, the less I can make sense of it. It eludes me. The same thing can be said about dreams, words, and love. All I know for certain is that the time my Grandmother was with me, I was living both inside and outside of time and beyond it. And this time that I have with my mother will be the same, she has always been and ever will be with me. As a daughter and as a woman, I am predisposed to eternity.

Home to America's Camelot

In 1773, the British Parliament, imposed a tea tax, on the young colony of America, partly as a way to exert control and in a contest of rebellion, in Boston, the indignant colonists disguised themselves as Native Americans and threw the tea into the harbor. The crisis escalated and initiated the American Revolution.

I was in the fourth grade and we were having social studies in suburban Los Angeles when I first became aware of Boston. Walking home from school, I chanted the mantra, “One if by land and two if by sea”. The timing coincided with my brother and I having started a hobby together; a coin collection, so my interest in the historical, financial and geographical realms of Americana was coming full spectrum.

A friend's Bostonian born mother still subscribed to the Boston Globe and at their house I'd pore over the “Lifestyle” section, which included gardening, as rapt as an archaeologist sitting in a cave. The details of what I read have been blurred but I do remember snippets of the images and the sensation I felt while I read; a combined anticipation and nostalgia so keen it bordered on longing. Although I had never been there, I was homesick for the land of the founding fathers.

Decades later, living in beguiling New York as a tonic to break free from the grime, and to end 1994, I forged a trip along with a friend to Boston to understand and appreciate the impulse that draws visitors there.

Disembarking the train, at South Station, we hailed a cab, once inside peering out the window I had a special moment, a thought of recognition, and of San Diego, and drew parallels from one small city to another, where a litany of urban social problems still exist- but would be manageable, and I as a curious cat I would find out what the fuss was all about.

Passing the first glimpse of a landmark, the Boston Public Library, I remember the grand Beaux Arts style of libraries in Europe, but the Boston Library with its massive exterior and pink granite indicated there was more to explore and I was smitten in an instant. In the haze of a late afternoon, I saw lofty skyscrapers and the John Hancock tower splendid in its arrogance and power.

Because my friend believed in excess; as a limousine crawled lazily to take us-- it's pampered passengers to a luxe destination, it rolled past a threadbare homeless person sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk seeking the warmth that steams from the city's underbelly. He caught my miss nothing stare, “It's a subway grate condominium” he called out. It was a ludicrous cartoon and a sobering documentary, combined.

The next morning while at Faneuil Hall, abustle with tourists, I couldn't help but think-- it's no wonder the Kennedy's' were drawn to politics! History is everywhere. A security guard stood in the corner. I recalled having been at the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center, two months before, as a birthday present I splurged and went to a performance, Turandot by Puccini. Alone, I took in the magnificence of the chandeliers, the marble, the rich interiors. While at intermission, I went up to the gum-cracking guard “Excuse me, sir, this is my first time inside the Met, would you happen to know who designed it?” He sneered, his body stiff from city armor, “Who da hell wants to know? Why ax me? “ He turned to another guard and stated, “How bout them Yankees, Mac?” His stereotypical rudeness rerouted me back to my seat reminding me it's slippery to ask a New Yorker a question.

Having left the Hotel that morning without my guidebook, I start to pace the Hall looking for literature, a pamphlet, anything to get my hands on. The security guard breaks a smile and says in a pleasing voice, “May I help you with something?”. When I tell him what I'm searching for, he asks me where I'm from. “This is the Cradle of Liberty, Miss” and goes into the history of the building concluding with his recommendations on what to see in the city including directions and where to go for chowdah. All of which are precise.

At Trinity Church later that afternoon, there's a concert, with a high-level choir and Renaissance music complete with an education of string instruments, primarily from 16th century Italy. That entire week is devoted to the sounds of the Holidays at no cost, as part of the rich musical landscape of Boston.

Staying in Copley Square everything is arm's reach. A visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum includes three floors of galleries filled with paintings, sculpture, tapestries, furniture, and decorative arts from cultures spanning thirty centuries. But it's the garden courtyard that blooms with life in this cold season that takes my breath away, I can only gaze in wonder and recall my love of flowers from the days of my childhood. Now, I experience much the same thing.

After the museum we're off to Freedom Trail and a stop at Newbury Street to buy myself a new hat. I choose a black velvet toque commemorating the last day of the year. Then I hear of the birth of my first nephew, that I have long awaited. I swing my hat up into the air, impromptu and buoyant from the maddening thrill that is beyond parallel.