Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit

by Catherine James

  The next thing I knew, without any explanation, I was being sent away to an unknown abode. My grandmother James packed a small suitcase, and the two of us drove to a most extraordinary house in downtown Los Angeles. The place was an enormous four-story Victorian mansion sitting on a slope off a wide sumptuous avenue. This elegant neighborhood was the once affluent Adams district. The historic residence, called “Kiddy College California”, was like a turn-of-the-century boarding school, privately owned and run by an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. March.

  Mrs. March was slight and ailing, a wisp of a woman with a snow-white braid perfectly coiled and neatly pinned around her shrinking head. She was all but lost, propped up in layers of feather-down pillows. Her marble-top nightstand was overflowing with an assortment of vials, pills, and interesting-looking amber tinctures. In a deliberate drawl she forewarned, “Children should be seen and not heard.”

  I was only four years old, but it was clear that Mrs. March and I weren’t going to be friends.

  Although the old girl was frail, she still possessed a strict, authoritarian shrill that could be heard two floors down. She mostly ruled the roost from her ornate Edwardian bed, but on rare occasions she’d stroll the dorms in her ghostly white nightgown and give all the children a fright. Some nights, after checking her wards, she’d stand in front of the oval mirror in the dormitory and pluck the tan tortoise-shell pins from her tightly wrapped braid. Her hair was so long that the plait would unravel like a coiled rope and hit the carpet with a soft thump. I wondered if my hair would ever grow that long. If it did, I would wear it exactly like Mrs. March.

  Schooling took place in a detached building on the estate that appeared to be a small theater. It had an elevated stage that spanned the length of the room. This is where the girls learned to curtsy and the boys became proficient in folding the American flag. If the Stars and Stripes even brushed the floor it would have to be kissed or else burned. We sat in tight rows of wooden desks, and you’d better not be caught slumping, or you’d spend the rest of the day standing and holding a broomstick vertically across your back to keep your posture straight. And none of us escaped the dunce cap. If we were called upon in class and lacked a satisfactory reply, we were made to sit on a stool, center stage, wearing the tall pointy red dunce cone while the other kids sang a humbling little ditty they called “The Sad Little Tomato.”

  When school let out we were free to roam the pastoral fairyland gardens. There was a grand pond teeming with squishy fat bullfrogs and fragrant bushes of anise where ladybugs thrived. I delighted in catching the gentle orange bugs. I’d put them in a glass jar with a sprig of green and hide them deep in the briar and catch more the next day. On warm summer weekends the kids who didn’t go home were allowed to frolic, and to cool off in the front-yard sprinklers till the sun set.

  Along with Mr. and Mrs. March there was small staff of three. Miss Owen was the heavyset schoolmarm who walked with a limp and labored for breath. She wore flesh-tone stockings that matted the thick hair of her legs into swirling, spidery patterns. Her fleshy hands always smelled like fish cakes, and she wore a shiny silver thimble on her middle finger. She took pleasure in creeping up behind us in class and bonking the top of our innocent heads with the metal device, making sure we were alert and paying attention. Lizzy was the rail-thin black woman who did house chores and tenderly bathed the children every Saturday. Lizzy would lather me up in sweet-smelling baby soap, and then rinse me down with a warm, handheld shower hose. She called the water on my pink skin “rain-drops”.

  “Be still, baby girl, we got to catch all them raindrops.” And she’d gently pat me dry with a soft white flannel.

  Her husband, Old John, was the handyman who repaired broken windows and squeaky doors. He was also the gardener, and kept the extensive grounds and gardens flourishing. He was quite the character in his Farmer John overalls and wide-brim straw hat, a dead ringer for the old gent in Song of the South.

  Our schoolmistress, Miss Owen, lodged in an apartment directly upstairs from the classroom. If the children got too boisterous while she was taking her afternoon rest, she’d lean out of her second-story window and douse us with a bucket of cold water, and we’d all squeal and scatter off to the pond to chase the bullfrogs.

  I got along at the home okay, but I suffered from recurrent nightmares. I’d always dream that I was being kidnapped by strangers or that I’d be lost on a desolate street. I also had a fear of the dark. When the lights went out, and the other children were asleep, I saw armies of imaginary king-sized insects crawling on my bed sheets and covers. I got so terrified I’d often wet the bed. When old Mrs. March got word of the bed-wetting I was summoned to her room. Lizzy led me to the foot of her bedstead, then abandoned me to the furry of the missus. Trying to avoid her angry glare, I concentrated hard on the pattern of pink florets on my damp flannel nightdress. Mrs. March, with no warning, took a full glass of water from her nightstand and flung it straight into my scared, repentant face. As I stood stunned in my wetness, she said, “I’ve heard you like to be wet.” Then she waved her hand toward the door, scowling, “You may be dismissed.”

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  I wouldn’t be going back to the big house on Ozeta Terrace. My grandmother James said my parents didn’t live together anymore, and that I’d be living in a new house with my mother.

  Diana had moved into a small 1920’s bungalow apartment just a few blocks away, below Sunset. My erratic, twenty-two-year-old mother was now on her own, and even though she was saddled with a four-year-old daughter, it didn’t seem to slow her down.

  My mother stayed out most nights with an array of handsome, hopeful suitors. I’d watch in devotion as she got dolled up for a night on the town. She’d swoop her blond mane into a carefree twist, and smudge her pretty lips with fiery red. In the mirror she’d flip up her collar in that cool fifties way, and slather on creamy hand lotion that smelled like fresh tuberose. Then she’d be off to check out Lenny Bruce at the Unicorn or slip across Sunset to her friend Mickey’s jazz club, the Renaissance, which is now the House of Blues, for some late-night Miles Davis. On the rare occasion she took me along, I’d fall asleep in the smoky light booth upstairs to the dizzying sound of jumpin’ jazz. When she left me home alone, I’d be under strict orders: “Do not answer the phone or open the door to anyone.

  She’s serve me my usual little bowl of Uncle Ben’s cream of wheat, switch on the television set, and be gone like the wind, leaving a lingering trail of her lovely perfume wafting in the air.

  Like a bored puppy I found plenty of mischief to get into. One night I passed the evening painting the bottom half of the walls with coal-black boot polish. Another night I played with the electric mixer till I got my little fingers stuck in the spinning prongs. When I found the scissors and cut the front of my hair like she did (except I cut mine to the scalp) my mother decided I could no longer be left to my own devices.

  Now whenever Diana went out she’d sit me in front of the television set and secure me to a wooden chair with one of her wide leather belts. She’d fasten the strap around my waist and buckle it taut to the back of the seat, then tie my feet to the legs with extension cords. The last TV show of the night was the news with George Putnam. At the end of each show “George would say, “That’s the news at ten, I’ll see you then.” Then he’d give a firm patriotic salute. When “The Star Spangled Banner” followed I felt uneasy, because I was completely alone. I’d eventually doze off to the drone of the Indian head TV test pattern. When Diana returned home, she’d unfasten the cinches, and I’d scurry to my spot on the sofa. In the morning I feasted on bits of steak and squishy desserts from whatever fancy restaurant she had dined at the night before. This was our dreary routine.

  One night I squirmed my way out of the chair and toddled out the front door, which closed behind me and locked me out of the apartment. A neighbor heard me crying in the night and took me in till Diana got home from the Sunset Strip. From then on I slept in a dinky locked cl
oset in the hallway.

  Curled up in the pitch dark, on top of Diana’s entangled mound of spiky heels, with crowded clothing suspended over my head, I heard the sound of heavy, alternating crashing waves and had the feeling I was about to drown. Then a faint choir of angels began singing in my ears. I could even see angel silhouettes floating in the darkness. I hadn’t yet been exposed to religion, but I had an innate sense of God, and knew I came from someplace better. I prayed to go to sleep and never wake up; I wanted to go back to heaven. Every night I’d close my eyes tight, ready for takeoff. After what seemed like hours I’d take squinty, hopeful peeks in the dark, but still only felt the hems of my mother’s coats and dresses resting on my head.

  My mother took sleeping pills that knocked her out cold, and she slept deep as the dead with a classical radio station turned down low until mid-afternoons. For hours on end I’d stand silent and still by her four-poster bed, waiting, watching for the slightest sign of life. Just the faintest quiver of her finger would put my baby heart at ease, and I thanked God she was still alive. I’d tiptoe back to the kitchen, climb up on the stool, and whisper to Al, “It’s okay, she’s still breathing.”

  Al was our miniature pet turtle who lived in a clear plastic tureen of water with a dwarf palm tree in the center. He’d pop out his tiny spotted head and we’d have long, meaningful conversations. Al was a stunning listener. When my turtle mysteriously vanished from his dish one morning, never to be seen again, there was no longer anyone to confide in, and my house felt gravely lonely. I searched every corner of our apartment but never did find out what happened to Al.

  When my mother got a new boyfriend sometimes she wouldn’t come home all night. On New Year’s Eve she found a couple of babysitters in the classifieds, and she and I went for a long drive, deep into the San Fernando Valley.

  My sitters were a pair of white-haired spinster sisters trying to make a little extra cash on the side. I don’t remember their names, but the older of the two was blind, half deaf, and bedridden. Her stagnant room was decked out like a hospital, rigged with an IV, oxygen tanks, and an assortment of walking aids. I could smell the piney scent of disinfectant mingled with the distinct odor of stale urine. Her short-tempered sister was the reluctant nursemaid, and also hard of hearing. She spoke to me in a blaring screech that hurt my sensitive ears. They were an interesting duet, but it was not the ideal environment for a five-year-old. The plan was for me to stay overnight, and my mother would collect me in the morning. We watched the entire New Year’s Day parade on their black-and-white Philco, and my mom still hadn’t called or shown up. I could sense the woman was becoming agitated.

  “Where is your mother?” she snarled. “Ya know, I can’t have you here all day!”

  She’d been had, and I had the familiar feeling my mother wasn’t coming back. The weary old girl had her hands full changing bedpans and IVs, and now she had a child to wrangle with.

  For the next few days while she ate Swanson TV dinners, she fed me a diet of canned beans and cornflakes. She also took to pulling me around the house by my hair. I’d complain, “Ouch, you’re pulling my hair”.

  She’d snap back, “I’m not pulling your hair, dearie; you’re just trying to get away.”

  I tried standing perfectly still, but I’m certain she was yanking my locks on purpose.

  After trying to figure out what to do with me, the three of us packed into their old model tanker, oxygen rig in tow. The old nags dropped me off at MacClaren Hall, a kiddy pokey for lost ragamuffins and unwanted waifs.

  I didn’t miss staying with the crusty sisters. I was happy back in a dormitory just like at Mrs. March’s, with rows of iron beds and other children to play with. Unlike at my mother’s house, the mornings were cheerful, no dark closets, tiptoeing, or monitoring for vital signs. There was a routine, a reassuring, comforting order. After chores the children would line up single file and march off to the dining hall. Aluminum platters heaped with warm scrambled eggs and stacks of buttered toast were served on long tables. The afternoons passed happily in the dayroom with cupboards of old toys and well-loved dolls. I wanted to stay there forever.

  Late one night I was awakened abruptly, dressed, and taken down a long corridor to the admissions office because someone had come to see me. Waiting in reception was a radiant blond woman dressed in a black overcoat and stiletto high heels. I could smell her powdery Shalimar perfume all the way down the hall. The lady had a gentle smile, and was holding out a brand-new baby doll. This charismatic creature was my eccentric maternal grandmother.

  At forty-nine she was still a stunning dish, with flawless powder-puff skin and luminous green eyes. Her glossy black ’55 Lincoln was waiting out front for my getaway.

  Her name was Evelyn, but for an unknown reason I called her Mimi. Throughout the rest of my life, Mimi would be my guardian angel. I never knew how she found me, but from that moment on, she was always there to rescue me.

  Mimi lived with my grandfather Albert in a stately residence in the Hollywood flatlands. Al was a towering, blond German with two missing fingers who played the boogie-woogie like he’d invented it. I’d sit on his lap while he played, and it felt like the piano was about to take to the air. He’d make the whole house rock with his soulful music. Albert Newman played with the big-band leaders Abe Lyman and Phil Harris. He also orchestrated films at RKO and 20th Century-Fox for the likes of Al Jolson, Fred Astaire, and Bing Crosby. My grandparents’ home was always filled with music and parades of actors. I remember being mesmerized by gangster matinee idol George Raft, who I’m sure charmed the panties off all the pretty girls of his time. He had an elegant, impeccable style with a delightful glint of danger in his eyes…. one of the original Hollywood bad boys. The first time I encountered Mr. Raft was during breakfast with my grandparents at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel coffee shop. I fell in love with a life-sized stuffed standard poodle in the gift display that was big enough to ride. Mimi said I couldn’t have the pooch, but Mr. Raft plucked the dog from the counter and set the furry black hound in my arms. After that morning he never came to visit without a gracious gift in hand.

  The Marx Brothers were regular visitors, and I called each one “Uncle.” Harpo was my favorite. Once I was backstage with my grandparents at one of their charity revues when Harpo picked me up and perched me on his lap. As he was speaking with my grandfather I noticed something curious about his hair. There were odd metal pins peeking out from his temples. I gently tugged at a section of curls and the whole curly wig slipped off in my hand. He looked as surprised as I was.

  “Oh no, don’t do that,” he whispered, then swiftly slipped the wig back in place. Harpo and Chico would pretend to fight over which one of them would marry me when I grew up. After serious deliberation I realized it was only fair to choose uncle Harpo, as he’d been the one who had asked me first. My future was secure: When I was old enough I’d become Mrs. Harpo Marx.

  My Mimi had a romantic nature, and a high sense of drama. She was a gifted healer and an amazingly accurate psychic. She taught me the mysteries of numerology, palm reading, and how to interpret the Tarot cards. She once solemnly confided that we were from another planet, which I never questioned. We often went for long drives in the country and stopped in fragrant orange groves to picnic on lemon tarts and fresh raspberries. She read and recited poetry to me in her loving, soothing tone. My favorite was “The Dandelion.”

  Oh Dandelion yellow as gold, what do you do all day?

  I just sit here in the tall green grass ’til my hair grows old and gray.

  Dandelion, what do you do when your hair turns long and white?

  I sway in the tall green grass ’til the children come to play.

  They pick me up in their little hands and blow my hair away.

  Her words were like pictures that came to life. I lived each and every story, and loved the lilt of the rhyme. She knew the names of every blossom and flower of the wayside, and our special favorite was the delicate face of the p
ansy. Mimi loved Mozart and Chopin, but most of all she relished the quiet. Usually after my grandfather left for the movie studio, we’d get ready to go on one of our dreamy little outings. One morning I was so excited to go, I was bouncing on her white silk sofa like a whirling dervish. When I ignored her requests to settle down, she sighed, put her hand to her heart, and fell dead to the carpet. She definitely had my attention. I leaped off the couch, leaned over her still body, and whispered, “Mimi, Mimi.” I tugged on her hand, but she was lifeless. I thought I had killed her. I quickly turned on my Cinderella record player and put on the yellow vinyl “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.” I turned the volume too high, and danced around her still body Isadora Duncan style, hoping to revive her. I believed classical music had something to do with heaven and would bring her back to life. After several airy pirouettes and graceful leaps, my appeal was heard, and she miraculously awoke, and all was forgiven. Mimi was a dramatic as she was original.

  Mimi enrolled me in the Beverly Hills Catholic School, where I learned to spell Catherine, and got to play the part of an angel in the Christmas play. I instantly loved Catholic school. I liked the clear, crisp order, and I finally knew what was expected of me. I was born with an overdose of spirituality, and at the school it was revealed in living color: The Holy Spirit wasn’t just in my head, he lived here. I loved the sacred splendor of the church and felt a deep affinity with the blessed weeping statues of Jesus and the Virgin. I was in awe of the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost, and mesmerized by halos, holy water, the crucifix, and the taking of sacrament. I wanted to be a nun like the mother superior, wearing the golden wedding band and flowing hallowed habit. When I grew up I wanted to be married to Jesus.

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