Good Stuff Page 12

  For my sixteenth birthday, Dad bought me a brown Honda Civic four door. It was a great car; it never broke down. Not once. A few years later, I hungered for something a little racier, something that would show me off for my junior year at Stanford. The agreement was that if I saved half of the difference between my old and new cars, Dad would cover the remaining half. I waitressed six days a week all summer. Dad and Barbara occasionally visited me at the Pioneer Boulangerie in Santa Monica. Big pressure. With six or seven tables to tend there was no time for chat. Dad loved seeing me hustle. They were excellent tippers and Dad quite liked the rumaki appetizers, so it was all good. Within three months I made a few thousand dollars and a beeline for a convertible VW. The scary part was negotiating for my periwinkle blue beauty. Dad sent me to the dealer with his secretary in tow to witness the bargaining. Dad abdicated his customary position alongside me. He well knew that “CG’s” presence at a dealership would immediately drive up the price. It was a several-day process of haggling our way through L.A. Why not just buy it at the closest place? “Make them compete for your business, Jennifer. Watch your back. We know you want the car, but that guy wants a commission. You’ve always got to think about what’s in it for the other guy.”

  Even in structuring his will Dad chose a thoughtful, educationally sound method of giving. A tiered approach. Dad worried his money might hinder instead of help, like Lotto winners dramatically crumbling under their longed-for blessing. Tendering my transition, the money was placed in a trust, to be doled out in three separate portions at three-year increments. Two trustees were assigned to guide my financial hand. It helped. This was Dad’s hard-earned dough. How could I work to respectfully enhance the gift of his money? What if I blew it? What were responsible choices? What did it mean to be a millionaire at twenty-six? Oddly enough, I never once considered not working. Both Mom and Dad’s Capricorn work ethic is deeply ingrained. Thank God Dad provided me with the resources to handle my new resources.

  My father had a rare combination of traits. He was an artist who perceived himself as a businessman. Dad earned his money and studied to increase it. He loved the stock market. Dad was a blue chip guy, but he followed the latest trends, bulls and bears, even if he wasn’t a big risk taker himself. Still, money was never his main focus. Dad wanted me to learn to cut hair. “If there’s a war, soldiers always need a good haircut.” He was passing on millions, but plan B was still worth considering. The point was learning, being responsible, and appreciating life’s gifts. Money was a gift to respect and work with. He wasn’t driven to make more more more. He was happy.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Phantom Pot Smoke

  Dad could be a bit extreme at times. In tenth grade, I was “caught” with eye shadow. Preparing to mail a longed-for sweater to my boarding school, Dad happened upon the offensive brown and gold multipack among my things. It looked like a mini artist’s palette with a brush/wand in the center. Spiffy. It was in my closet, at home—I wasn’t even wearing it! Mere possession of the stuff obliterated all allowance for a few months. The sexy adult eye glitter had taken major effort to procure. If only he’d known I’d stolen it from the Colony mart … No allowance for a year? There was no possibility of buying the stuff, after all. Steve, the store’s owner, might have ratted me out. “Mr. Grant, Jennifer was seen buying eye shadow.” NEVER! I loitered in the makeup aisle for weeks after school plotting my crime. The plan: wait until Steve was busy filling a prescription, ensure his distance from the security mirrors by listening for the movement of the rolling pharmaceutical racks, pretend to be looking at the Luden’s cough drops, and woosh! grab the stuff off the wall. I wore my blue parka to hide the square bulge in my pocket. Getting that Maybelline was a coup. Twenty years later I saw Steve at the same Super Care Drugs and confessed my crime. What was the interest on that $4.99 item? We shared a good laugh.

  Dad was not a fan of artifice, in any form. Fussiness bothered him. I’m not sure where the saying “never gild the lily” originates, but I heard it all the time. Meaning, to work at beauty is a paradox. Working at it means you’ve missed the point. Makeup was a huge offender in Dad’s book. Nature drew a woman’s face—how could cosmetics enhance that? Mucking about with makeup was stupidity. “Terrible stuff. It makes you look like a clown, stains your clothes, and tastes awful.” Sparingly used, makeup was acceptable, but never preferable. I remember going to visit my father for one of his “Evenings with Cary Grant.” Dad visited community colleges, where he sat for question and answer sessions in packed auditoriums. Dad was candid, natural, visibly at ease onstage, and great with the impromptu response. I was in college. My boyfriend Mack and I drove to hear Dad speak and eat dinner with him and Barbara. At the time I was into a golden-hued lipstick. Very frosty. On my return from the ladies’ room that evening Dad remarked, “What is that horrid sparkly stuff all over your lips?” Mack laughed. “It’s awful. And why are you wearing so much mascara?” It was true. Mimicking an early Madonna phase, I had caked the stuff on. It even felt cumbersome. Dad asked Mack what he thought. “I agree with you, she looks much better without it.” A compliment, but I saw it as only an indictment of my taste. Dad enjoyed individuals, not their accoutrements. He admired natural beauties, like Jacqueline Bisset, Diane Keaton, and Grace Kelly. These women didn’t cover themselves in “colored goo.”

  I could live without makeup … for the most part, I still do. Then there was the issue of the phantom pot smoke. Once, when I was fifteen or sixteen, I had five or six friends over for a dinner party at 9966. Happily, Dad left us to ourselves. For an hour or so things went just fine, until Dad called me to his room. “Who is smoking pot?!” Oh dear. He smelled my breath. Phew … innocent … but what of the rest of the crew? Was it my wild “long-haired” surfer boyfriend? No clue. Tail tucked, I approached the group, but no one copped to it. Was Dad imagining the pot smoke? Had one of my friends snuck out and lit up a joint without telling me? Never. Dad had a pretty good sniffer, but could his sometimes hypervigilant ways have created pot smoke out of … a gust of fertilizer? What is certain is that everyone had to leave, pronto. That was it for my wild party career at 9966.

  Behind the backstretch of Hollywood Park racetrack, circa 1978. Dad watched for hours as I tended to my first horse, Specks.

  Dad was serious about my curfew. At fifteen it was ten thirty. At sixteen and seventeen it jumped to 11 p.m. Even in college, at twenty years old, eleven thirty was tops. Tardiness wasn’t an option. Tardiness meant Dad would worry. I could feel it brewing from miles away. By ten forty-five, I was on edge. Will there be traffic? Will we make it home on time? Dad always waited up. He waited for my “good night” from the hall. When I was fifteen, my friend Jonathon and I exited Raging Bull somewhere midway because we’d underestimated the film’s running time. If late, I might suffer the silent treatment. Nothing was worse than the silent treatment.

  When Dad got mad he shut up. If he were forced to speak, he would do so only in a low, lethargic tone. As if he were communicating with a moron robot. The silent treatment slayed me. I’d been careless. He’d lost sleep. Silence made the whole house gray. Dad used the method with Barbara, too. Whichever one of us wasn’t on the silent treatment received extra sweet attention. The good one seemed a perfect peach. This punctuated the evildoer’s woe. Three days was max. Three days of the silent treatment was eternity. Generally, a day or two sufficed. By day three all the wind was knocked out of my self-righteous sails. It worked. Suffice it to say I was rarely late.

  Growing up, it was all too important for me to please my father. Pleasing him, I errantly thought, meant being perfect. If that’s a normal childhood illusion, it was certainly exacerbated by having an iconic dad. Here’s the guy I look up to for everything. Oh, and by the way, so does the rest of the world. He’s the the. So if he thinks I’m messing up, one long internal scream, and then … better fix it fast.

  Dad’s criticisms crushed me, but I bounced back. In sixth grade I approached Da
d for help on a creative writing project. Can’t remember the topic. I quite liked my handiwork and craved applause. His critique was gentle, specific, and direct. Edit this or that, clean up this or that, and well done. Wait a minute, something needed to be changed? It wasn’t the best thing ever? He was right … imperfection revealed! Fix it fast! Grants are perfect, right? We just start that way. Who am I? I thought my name was Grant. No pressure. Then again, Dad had certain less than perfect traits. For instance, he was consistently in a terrible humor for the two or three days that preceded travel. He skulked and whined about the house. Some unarticulated fear, perhaps? The silent treatment could be regarded as a fault as well, it was truly extreme at times. Though his silence cut like a knife, lucky for me, another Grant trait is resiliency. Bruise easy, heal fast. I’m still that way. I’ve generally used Dad’s unflinching eye on myself, without always remembering his unflinching love.

  LOVE IS THE THOUGHT BEHIND HAPPINESS

  Dad was generally a happy man. I believe he was happy because he filled himself with conscious, loving thoughts. I’ve heard it said that “sometimes love isn’t enough.” Well, that depends on one’s definition of love. My father made a world of love: love of people, love of learning, love of nature, love of country, love of one’s fellow man, love of family, love of beauty, love of the arts, love of … you get the picture. Dad closed most of his letters with the phrase “happy thoughts.” The way I break it down, if thoughts produce actions, then happy thoughts produce kind and loving actions.

  This letter was accompanied by Grandmother Elsie’s circular diamond brooch. I treasure it still.

  GIVE PRICELESSLY

  My father earned his wealth and he enjoyed sharing it. Perhaps he earned his wealth because he enjoyed sharing it. He rarely, if ever, flaunted his money. Nothing overly extravagant or self-aggrandizing. Dad was sensible with money and he didn’t care what others thought of his choices. He made the dough and he wasn’t going to waste it by carelessly tossing it about. Giving was never about money. Giving only cost if it wasn’t of service. A gift should truly be of benefit to its recipient. Dad gave for the sake of giving, because he enjoyed it.

  Dad’s choice, Dodgers season tickets, were the perfect light-spirited gift. They were a minor extravagance, but one he didn’t take for granted. Great loge-level seats. When we were unable to attend he could have sold the tickets or offered them to friends, but instead Dad gave them to people who may not otherwise have had the opportunity to go to a game. Tickets probably meant more to the “fellows who worked at the market” than they did to the Sinatras, for instance. Dad would pop into Market Basket on occasion and have a little Dodgers chat with the guys about the previous night’s game, who threw what, and what he’d missed. After months of this, we found out they’d been scalping the tickets. Dad was so let down. He couldn’t stomach people who easily contrived lies, particularly in the face of generosity. How unkind. Thereafter Dad went to the guards at the Colony gate, and having issued fair warning about not duping him, he found a way to give the tickets to guys who actually enjoyed going to the games. I dug Dad’s sports talk. Whenever we’d come through the gate…“Mr. Grant, did you see Garvey’s throw to second?”

  Common ground.

  Dad wasn’t a fan of overly lavish displays, at least not in the worldly sense. Our home was beautiful and not a mansion. What did we need with a mansion? Our parties were small parties. We had a white, modern-looking oval table that at most sat fourteen. You could see and hear everyone. The mood was festive and intimate. Barbara made scrumptious, home-cooked meals and decorated the table with her own arrangements of flowers. Dad was so proud. I understand why. Our home had love, warmth, and personal care. It was overflowing. That’s what we shared when we shared meals. Abundant love. One may enjoy huge parties, or elaborately catered affairs, but no event feeds my soul as well as an intimate, homemade dinner. Dad, Barbara, and I were largely homebodies. We ate at home most nights. When we did eat out, if Dad liked the place, and the service, he would act on it. If the staff was attentive, but not overly ingratiating, or if the waiter showed uncommon kindness by, say, asking if we wanted to have the car brought around, Dad might leave a huge tip. Double-the-cost-of-the-meal-sized tip. But only as a surprise, never the rule. He liked rewarding work well done.

  Dad urged me never to buy him a gift—“I already have everything I need. Make me something, instead.” So … I learned to knit. My grandma Clara Friesen taught me. Grandma was a spectacular knitter. She made beautiful throw blankets. My favorite was orange with large black horses on it (Grandma had given me the choice of colors and I was a big horse fan). I was just okay at knitting. Straight lines were my forte. Knit one, pearl two. The turn at the end of the line was a bit challenging. Still, I managed to make Dad a dark blue scarf one Christmas. I thought he could wear it over his suits. Like the cashmere scarves he wore so handsomely. Well, Dad loved the scarf. Not because of my knitting acumen. No. Dad treasured it because he found the stitch I had dropped precisely in its center. Oh, it made him smile. He would show it to his friends, sticking his finger through the dropped stitch, “Look! My Jennifer made this.”

  Dad took care of people. He took care with tiny thoughtful gestures. When I was too young to remember, Dad chose to treat Willie and me to dinner at Madame Wu’s.

  Auntie Sylvia hadn’t yet met Willie, so Dad sent a note in advance to let her know that Willie was a black woman. Certainly Auntie Sylvia would’ve recognized that fact.

  Was Dad’s note unnecessary? What if we’d arrived unannounced? My guess is that knowing Sylvia’s savvy, Dad wanted to make sure we’d be properly seated. L.A. now is a far better picture in terms of racial equality than the Los Angeles of the early seventies.

  Auntie Sylvia knew her patrons. If there were bigots in the house, she could steer us clear of them. Truly. Dad was pretty far out in his caring quota. He cared about everyone’s happiness and did his level best to ensure that if you were with him, you were well protected.

  Sometimes I imagine Dad’s responses to life in 2010. The world has changed in myriad ways since my father left us. We’re all closer now. Information at the touch of a button. The global community. Dad would marvel over the Internet, cloning, stem cells, Google, blogs, but I can just hear the Brit in him riffing on some of it. “Excuse me,” he’d say, “I have a very important [pause, then with added emphasis] blog to write. Couldn’t they come up with a more dignified term? Bloggers?” When Dad moved to Los Angeles, Burbank was still covered in horse trails. Dad used to gape at the 10 freeway overpass on the way to Palm Springs. The engineering boggled his mind. “Imagine”—he’d look up in awe—“someone actually built that.” He presaged that in my lifetime there might be shuttles to the moon … and that perhaps I would visit. “Oh darling, the many things you’ll know that I don’t! Isn’t it wonderful.” Mmm … perhaps. Dad was happy because he loved well.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Don’t Marry the Guy You Break the Bed With

  I’ve often wondered if Dad wanted a son. I know Dad wanted me, but perhaps if he were given the choice, he’d have chosen a boy? How different it would have been for him to raise a son. Imagine being that son. The pressure to be charming, wildly talented, suave, stylish, graceful, dapper … the all-around guy. Perhaps it was a relief to have a girl. By the time I was born, Dad was in his sixties, and not much into athletics. An occasional swim suited him. That, walking around doing the day-to-days, and breathing in and out was enough. So no need for the whole “teach me soccer and football” at the local park routine.

  I enjoyed spectator sports just as much as Dad. At ball games we ate smoky foot-long Dodger Dogs (Dad liked mustard and relish) with chocolate malteds and listened to Vin Scully announce. So, while we didn’t pitch and catch fastballs together, we devoured baseball games from the O’Malleys’ box. Maybe having a daughter was a simple case of karma. With a daughter Dad might examine his own conscience. How had he treated women as a boy? A young ma
n? A star? Was he fair to women? What inequities from his past might he project onto my suitors? Dad used to say that I was “just his type.” I look like my mom, so that makes sense. As far as other characteristics, while I’m not exactly sure to what he was referring, Barbara and I share a love of nature, quiet, home, and kindness, which suited Dad well. Not sure if that served much comfort when the boys came a-callin’ for his pip of a daughter.

  Dad always found a way to get through.

  At a certain point, Dad dutifully unleashed me to the wonderful world of boys. He’d taught me to ride a tricycle and a ten-speed, to swim freestyle and backstroke, to sit a trot, to modulate my voice, to calculate taxes, and to eat marmalade on muffins. His general directive with all things was “Start slow.” One thing he couldn’t instruct me in (much to his chagrin) was the opposite sex. In Dad’s eyes, no boy was ever good enough for me. At the dating age of sweet sixteen, reluctantly, he let me go. More than any other endeavor, Dad cautioned, “For God’s sake, darling, go slowly.”

  In my experience, most parents tutor their children in love as though breeding livestock: look for lineage, a prominent name, money, marry into a “good family,” or some such fascinating characteristics. Dad did nothing of the sort. In fact, Dad often cautioned, “You know, you may have a lot more money and a great deal more advantages than the man you fall in love with. That’s all right. If you believe in the man, stand by him. It’s tough to make a living.” Whoa. Dad was a scrapper who’d made his way up the ladder. He believed in self-determination and he believed in love. He wanted me to have options besides the guys who look good on paper. Pretty revolutionary for a dad, I find.