Never Sit If You Can Dance
Page 9
From LAX I called Lovie and told her I was on the way. Lovie was relieved and said, “Girl, she keeps saying, ‘I want to go home.’”
“She’s been saying that for a while.”
“Honey, this is different!”
I arrived in time to spend a sad evening with my brother and his wife. Babe was asleep, breathing so heavily that each slow exhale was a deep, low, guttural gargle. It was a classic death rattle, but I did not want to admit it. For the first time, Babe didn’t notice the marigold jacket and saffron scarf I’d worn especially for her. Or her mother’s horseshoe charm, which I’d pinned on at the last minute for good luck. In the darkened room, I sat next to her bed, expecting that at any moment she’d wake up like she always did, no matter what time I arrived, and say how pleased she was that I was there.
The next morning, I kept peeking in, checking on her, and she kept sleeping and breathing in that exhausted, drawn-out way. She’d defied the odds before, so why not now? Six weeks earlier, my brother and sister had asked me to write her obituary, but she’d rallied again and I’d filed it away. It seemed reasonable to think that she just needed a little more rest and then she’d wake up.
I was puttering around in the kitchen when Lovie called out, “Come, Jo!” I put down my coffee and raced toward Mom. I was certain that she’d come to and wanted to talk to me, to say a few last things. Instead, standing in the doorway, Lovie whispered, “Honey, she just passed.”
Babe died at home, in her own bed, with Lovie and me nearby. How quickly she turned ghostly pale; the right side of her head was resting on her pillow, eyes closed, cheeks sunken, mouth open. The loudest sound in the room was the non-sound of her total, final silence. Her shoulders, exposed above the blankets, showed that she was wearing the prettiest Chinese shirt, which I’d found in Hanoi—pink with silver threads running through it, with a mandarin collar. Lovie must have dressed her especially nicely for my arrival the day before. Later, when I dared to peek under the sheet, her fingers had already plumped up—is that what happens after death?—and, sure enough, her nails had been freshly polished in her favorite Pin-Up Pink.
I could finally crank up the AC full blast, and I did.
My brother and his wife hurried back, and with Roberto and the chaplain we waited for the attendants from the mortuary. Two courteous attendants arrived to wheel Babe out, and if she could have opened her eyes for just a moment she would have approved of how respectfully and formally they were dressed, in crisp, elegant black suits. (For once, somber, serious black was not drab but exactly the right color.) When Babe was being wheeled out, I noticed that Lovie had wrapped a beautiful blue scarf with gold sparkles around her neck.
I could not stand being alone, and Lovie did not leave my side. A Southern Christian who read her Bible every morning and every night, Lovie had the most ample breasts, and I felt such a motherly comfort being held by her.
At the funeral home, with Lovie sitting next to me, among the many awkward questions the undertaker asked was if the family wanted them to style my mother’s hair. They style hair before a cremation? Babe would not have wanted her final blow dry done by the Advantage Funeral Home.
Colorful, fun-loving, party-going, always dressed-to-the-hilt, scotch and soda-drinking Babe lived ninety-seven years, eight months, and twenty-five days. She missed her Mother’s Day party by three days. It was going to be so much fun. She would have liked it so much.
On a previous visit, I’d told her I was writing this book. Babe, smiling, blushing, and suddenly shy, said, “Hurry and finish so I can read it.”
TIMELINE:
GLADYS “BABE” SYLVIA KENNEY GIESE
AUGUST 14, 1916, SEATTLE
Born Gladys “Babe” Sylvia Kenney to Josephine “Josie” Ditter Kenney and George Kenney
JUNE 2, 1934
Graduated Foster High School, Tukwila, Washington Received King County Schools’ Diploma of Honor—Neither Absent Nor Tardy During the School Term
For five years worked telephone sales at Sears Roebuck Catalogue, Seattle
JUNE 2, 1944
Babe, twenty-seven, married James Albert Giese, thirty, Seattle
JANUARY 4, 1946
James “Jimmy” Albert Giese, Jr., born, Seattle
JANUARY 14, 1947
Jo Ann “Jo” Giese born, Seattle
APRIL 11, 1956
Wendy Lee Giese born, Seattle
AUGUST 1959
Family moved to Houston, Texas
MAY 1, 1998
James Albert Giese died, Seattle
2006
Started living with Wendy Giese Barnhart and Irvin Barnhart, Houston
MARCH 2011
At age ninety-five, moved into the Hampton, senior residential community, Houston. The Hampton is now called Brookdale Galleria.
MAY 23, 2014
Enrolled in hospice at the Hampton
MAY 9, 2014
At almost ninety-eight, died at the Hampton, Houston
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful to the many generous and talented teachers and writers who have shown me the way: Nicholas Del Banco and Blanche Boyd at the Bennington Writer’s Workshop; Deena Metzger and her Topanga Writer’s Group; Bruce Brown at the Olympia Writers Workshop; and Linda Venis, Bernard Cooper, and Susan Chehak at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program.
Ira Glass at This American Life gave me an important, lasting bit of writer’s advice. We were working on a documentary, and I’d changed one little word in the script because I didn’t want to repeat the word green in the same sentence: a caregiver was wearing green spandex shorts, and she was in the US on a green card. So I changed the color of her shorts, and Ira called me out on it. “Jo, the truth always rings clear. Stick with the truth.”
I owe huge thanks to Linda Phillips, my chief cheerleader, and her mother, Marilyn, who have been early and positive supporters of all my work. Thanks to Linda’s introduction, I’ve also had a long and productive professional relationship with Robert Asahina, the accomplished publisher, editor, and writer.
The much-beloved and much-missed Carolyn See was so much fun and so smart. She was often my first editor. I’d finish a new piece of writing, and Carolyn would join me at Gladstones or Michael’s or Ivy at the Shore, and she’d whip out her pencil, sip a glass or two of chilled white wine, and do a first edit. Lucky me.
Albert Litewka, chairman, Los Angeles Review of Books, is one of my favorites, a real burst of sunshine. Rarely have I met anyone so generous, who delights in networking and reaching out to solve a problem, and in connecting authors, agents, publishers, and editors. No matter how busy he is, no matter what continent of the world he’s visiting, Albert will drop everything to assist. How can you not love someone like that?
I’m totally grateful to Betsy Amster, who is everything, and more, a writer could ask for in an agent. She’s fun to work with, and she’s been waiting to hold this book in her hands. In spite of today’s changing and challenging publishing environment, I’m so happy Betsy is getting her wish. Brooke Warner, publisher, said, “It’s a charming tale of the way things used to be and probably should still be.” Babe couldn’t have said it better.
I extend a big thank-you to Joni and Michael Hoffman, publishers of the Buzz magazines in Houston, where Babe’s story, in a much abbreviated form, with gorgeous photos, first appeared.
Back when I was a social media illiterate, it was my good luck to walk into the Apple store in Santa Monica and meet Johnnie Tangle. He came on board to create a gorgeous, easy-to-use, social media-friendly author website for me. For a techie guy working with a non-techie writer, Johnnie was endlessly patient and took the mystique out of social media.
Big appreciation goes to Julia Drake and her company, Wildbound PR, for her cool and original idea of launching this book with dance parties. And a huge hug to Carol Smith, a neighbor and friend, for enthusiastically jumping on board to host a dance party at her place in Bozeman, Montana, where she actually has one of
Bozeman’s original dance halls. Much gratitude to other generous and enthusiastic friends—Pamela Conley Ulich of Malibu, California; and Ragan Schneider of Charlotte, North Carolina.
My big brother, Jimmy, said early on that he expected big things of me. I hope I haven’t disappointed him. A big thank-you to Lynn for making my brother so happy. And thanks to Jimmy’s sons—Tony, a promising writer who died too young, and Chris—and Chris’s wife, Jennifer, and their sons, James, Walker, and Thomas. I’m sorry the little boys didn’t know their great-grandmother Babe, but when they learn to read, maybe they’ll get to know and appreciate her through the stories in this book.
Also, for their generosity, kindness, and acceptance, the fabulous families I inherited from my husband, Ed: Wil and Emily and James, Chuck, and Cassie; Zach and Wendy and Chloé, Finn, and Myles; and Ed’s baby sister, Myrta, and her husband, Dave. I also hope it’s been instructional for our six grandchildren to observe what goes on behind the scenes in the writing, revising, editing, and publishing process of getting a book from my little home office out into bookstores.
I celebrate the wonderful friends who let me try out chapters on them: Nanette Bercu, Lana Sontag, Shelby Basso, and Ann Buxie. They were disappointed if they visited and I didn’t have a new chapter to read to them. I’m grateful for their careful listening and their smart feedback. And Karen and Arnold York, publishers of Malibu Times magazine and the Magazine Times, for promoting my writing in their publications.
Babe wasn’t my only role model for aging well. I’m also indebted to my long friendship with Luchita Mullican, the Venezuelan artist, for role-modeling graceful aging.
Many writers find it crucial to have an active exercise program that goes along with their writing. I was fortunate to have Bert Mandelbaum, orthopedic surgeon to top athletes (and me!), to keep me in top walking and hiking shape. Roya Gowhari, my morning walking companion, was an excellent and enthusiastic listener, and I was blessed to have Flavio De Oliveira keeping me in shape at Gold’s Gym in Venice and Brad Coffey as my hiking partner in the big sky mountains of Montana.
And a big thank-you to John Banovich, the African wildlife artist and family friend, who also knew Babe. On a recent trip to Africa, John wrote, “Remember, when you get the chance, dance.” We’re all on the same page, John.
My husband, Ed Warren, is my first sounding board and editor, the first person I eagerly look to for wise feedback. I used to say that he was on my team. Actually, in the early days of writing Never Sit If You Can Dance, we joked that he was the team! He’s been delighted by my progress every step of the way, eagerly popping open more champagne to celebrate every success, little and large. A writer couldn’t wish for a better, smarter, more fun partner. And he likes to dance!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jo Giese is an award-winning radio journalist, author, teacher, community activist, and former TV reporter. As a special correspondent, she was part of the Peabody Award-winning team at Marketplace, the most popular business program in America. At Marketplace she won an EMMA for Exceptional Radio Story from the National Women’s Political Caucus and a GRACIE from the Foundation of American Women in Radio. She has contributed to Ira Glass’s This American Life. The author of A Woman’s Path and The Good Food Compendium, Giese has written for scores of publications, including The New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Vogue, LA Weekly, European Travel & Life, BARK, Montana Outdoors, and The Malibu Times. She lives in Southern California and Bozeman, Montana, with her husband, Ed Warren.
Author photo © Dana Fineman
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
Motherlines: Letters of Love, Longing, and Liberation by Patricia Reis. $16.95, 978-1-63152-121-8. In her midlife search for meaning, and longing for maternal connection, Patricia Reis encounters uncommon women who inspire her journey and discovers an unlikely confidante in her aunt, a free-spirited Franciscan nun.
Flip-Flops After Fifty: And Other Thoughts on Aging I Remembered to Write Down by Cindy Eastman. $16.95, 978-1-938314-68-1. A collection of frank and funny essays about turning fifty—and all the emotional ups and downs that come with it.
The Shelf Life of Ashes: A Memoir by Hollis Giammatteo. $16.95, 978-1-63152-047-1. Confronted by an importuning mother 3,000 miles away who thinks her end is nigh—and feeling ambushed by her impending middle age—Giammatteo determines to find The Map of Aging Well, a decision that leads her on an often-comic journey.
Her Beautiful Brain: A Memoir by Ann Hedreen. $16.95, 978-1-938314-92-6. The heartbreaking story of a daughter’s experiences as her beautiful, brainy mother begins to lose her mind to an unforgiving disease: Alzheimer’s.
Don’t Leave Yet: How My Mother’s Alzheimer’s Opened My Heart by Constance Hanstedt. $16.95, 978-1-63152-952-8. The chronicle of Hanstedt’s journey toward independence, self-assurance, and connectedness as she cares for her mother, who is rapidly losing her own identity to the early stage of Alzheimer’s.
Filling Her Shoes: Memoir of an Inherited Family by Betsy Graziani Fasbinder. $16.95, 978-1-63152-198-0. A “sweet-bitter” story of how, with tenderness as their guide, a family formed in the wake of loss and learned that joy and grief can be entwined cohabitants in our lives.