House on Taylor Court

Oh very young
What will you leave us this time?
You’re only dancing on this earth
For a short time
And though your dreams may toss
And turn you now.
They will vanish away
Like your Daddy’s best jeans –
Denim blue fading up to the sky
And though you want him to last forever
You know he never will.
(You know he never will.)
And the patches
Make the goodbye harder still.
(Oh Very Young: Cat Stevens – 1974)

This essay is about writing a letter to my granddaughter, Sarah Kathleen (Nena). I wrote one on the occasion of her Baptism (see Child of God), and I thought I’d write another in November or December. The problem was I couldn’t think of one preeminent event to focus on. Too many things were happening to Sarah in those last months of 2011: she was on the verge of walking; she was having a surgical procedure on her eye ducts; her birthday was fast approaching; and her parents were purchasing a new home in Gardena. What events merited a letter? I couldn’t make up my mind for a long time. I started one letter in late October about Sarah’s operation and when she started walking (see Nena's Walking Letter below) – and then I went jogging on the Sunday after her birthday.

I get my best ideas while jogging. I don’t know how it works. What happens during the mindless actions of lifting your leg and thrusting the foot forward, and then repeating those motions with the other leg and foot; alternating them, again, and again, and again? Why does the act of leaning forward and letting your body fall forward through space – while catching yourself with every step – take your spirit to another place? Whatever it is, my legs and body function on there own during this earthbound experience while my thoughts soar. On this particular Sunday afternoon, my mind seemed to glide along the thermals of possible topics for a blog essay about Sarah. What about her operation, birthday, or developmental benchmarks? While these subjects seemed appropriate to an adult, were they events Sarah would want to remember or ask about later in her life? When I passed the one-mile mark of my run, the idea hit me. Sarah would be leaving her first home, and moving into a new one in December! This event would be truly dramatic for her – as well as her parents. The family would have to re-orient itself to a new home, new rooms, a new neighborhood, new sights, and new people. Teresa and Joe would be leaving behind memories of their first two years together as husband and wife, and their first year with their baby girl. Yet, Sarah Kathleen would remember none of that. I also realized that I could use multiple mediums in telling this story. I could photograph the interiors and exteriors of the house, write a new letter about the occasion, and incorporate both in an essay for my blog. I could describe how the idea occurred to me while jogging, what I wanted to say in the letter, and then describe the photo shoot with Sarah – going room by room and recalling scenes and images of her first year there. After returning from the jog, I showered, changed, and began writing a new letter to Sarah Kate about remembering.

You see, Kathy and I moved out of our first home in Reseda during the summer of 1988. Toñito was 10-years old at the time, and Prisa had just turned 8. The children had spent all their early lives in that little yellow house on Yarmouth Avenue: sleeping in bunks and sharing the same bedroom; learning to swim in the backyard pool, and ride bikes in the elementary school parking lot nearby; shooting basketballs at the garage hoop in the alley, and playing catch in the front yard; and taking long walks throughout the neighborhood, or driving to the nearby park or shopping malls. I was always convinced that they retained clear and permanent memories of that house and the times we spent together, until one day when they were both in college we drove by it.
“Do you remember growing up in that house?” I asked, eagerly, pointing at the yellow cottage-like structure, and wondering what shared images they would call forth. After a long pause, Prisa responded first.
“No, not really, Dad. I mean”, she added, hesitantly, “I remember some of the people we played with, but nothing about the house or the things you’ve told us we did.”
“What about you, Toñito? I asked, unbelievingly. “You must remember some of those things we did – like going on walks around the neighborhood, or walking to Newcastle School and the candy store on the corner.”
“Sorry Dad,” he replied. “I have some hazy memories of walking around the lake in the park, some railroad tracks near a baseball field, and a warehouse-looking structure with an artillery cannon in the front. But I don’t remember too much about the house and the neighborhood.”
This exchange with Toñito and Prisa was the scene that occurred to me while jogging, and it started my thinking about a letter for Sarah. If my own children could not recall memories of their first house, which they left at the ages of 10 and 8, Sarah Kathleen would never remember her house on Taylor Court unless she had some help.

I loved that house on Taylor Court. At first it was because it reminded me of the little, yellow house, with white trim, that our own parents bought in Venice, California, in 1960. It too was a small, two-bedroom house (that would expand to three), with only one bathroom. How a family of six managed to survive with one bathroom has always been a mystery to me that thankfully Joe and Prisa never had to solve. But I grew familiar with Prisa and Joe’s house through the eyes of the infant I cared for twice a week for one year. The bookend memories I will always have of the house on Taylor Court are of parties: celebrating Christmas Eve (and a house-warming) with the Delgado, McDorman, and Williams families in 2009, the year Prisa and Joe were married and began renting the house; and celebrating Sarah’s first birthday, on November 12, 2011 (See Sarah Kathleen’s First Birthday). In between those two events, Sarah’s birth, growth, and development dominated my thoughts, attentions, and photographs. It somehow seemed fitting that her parents were purchasing their first home, and moving out of the rented house on Taylor Court just as Sarah was starting to walk on her own. Walking is a transitional event – an act of separation and independence. Buying your first house is too.

I started photographing the last images of the Taylor Court house five days after Sarah’s birthday party. The best place and time to take pictures of Sarah was always in the soothingly painted, violet nursery, after her morning nap. There she usually awakened happy and refreshed, and I could quickly engage her interest by discussing aloud her choice of clothing apparel for the day. I pulled out shirts, pants, and socks, from the dresser drawers and draped them on the crib bars for her appraisal. After a quick change of diapers and clothes, I’d play with her on the nursery floor for awhile: coaxing her to crawl through the tent-like tunnel, as she moved from stuffed animal, to bookcase, to dresser; or calling out the names of the alphabet letters she pointed to on the floor mat on the ground. My own favorite piece of furniture in that room was the wooden rocking chair, tucked away in the corner. It was there that I would settle, cradling Sarah in my arms, rocking and singing “Duérmete mi niña”, until she fell asleep for her nap. The clearest memory I still hold of that nursery was the day Joe and Prisa returned unexpectedly from a morning of visiting child-care facilities. Prisa’s maternity leave was drawing to a close, and she had come to the final realization that strangers would be caring for her baby, three days a week, when she went back to work. The pain of separation would eventually fade for Prisa and Joe, as the caregivers grew familiar and learned to love Sarah, but seeing the invisible bonds between mother and child in that room is an image that will never fade.

A whirlwind photographic tour of the house followed, with my trying to keep up with a swiftly mobile Sarah Kathleen. She burst out of the nursery on unsteady legs and strode precariously down the long hallway to her parent’s master bedroom. In the middle of the room was a bed draped with a comforter depicting wolves in the forest. This is where Joe and Prisa read aloud each night to Sarah from a book called Goodnight Moon before placing her in the crib for the night. That bed always provided Sarah a safe haven from an interrupted slumber of painful teething, and was her first playground for tickling gymnastics. The wolf’s face on the comforter was of infinite interest to Sarah. Once I tossed her onto the bed, she would position herself in the middle of the cover, point at the wolf’s nose, and ask, “Dat?”  I honestly believe that our response, “nose”, was the first word she learned as a baby, and she would point to her own nostrils, or mine, when prompted with the word. But my favorite scene of that room will always be of Sarah sleeping soundly on her stomach, before she was able to flip over or crawl on her own. There was something magical about watching a baby sleeping peacefully alone, without fears or constraints.

From the bedroom, Sarah guided me back up the hallway to the Study or Library. Despite its academically sounding title, this room, which also held a desk, computer, and television monitor, actually provided a wonderful playground for Sarah. With a wide expanse of open, wooden flooring, it was here that she first bounced in her Baby Einstein jumper for long periods of time, and took her first unimpeded steps from one side of the room to the other. As she got older, she would hoist herself up on the bookcase against the wall, and systematically emptied the shelves of books, music CD’s, and video DVD’s. From the library, Sarah scampered into the laundry room, heading for the kitchen and dining room, pausing only to manipulate the control dials of the washing machine. Since turning six-months old, Sarah imitated every adult action that caused a mechanical result, and washing machines and electronic devices gave off the right kind of aural and visual effects to catch her attention.

Sarah’s high chair dominated the dining room. There she consumed her meals at breakfast and lunch when I babysat. She was always ready to eat. All I had to do was ask, “Are you hungry?” and she would respond by saying, “Num, num!” while raising her arms quickly into the air, begging to be lifted, carried, and positioned into her high chair, in preparation for a meal. Then she would watch me, while munching on the cheerios I placed on her tray, as I mixed and micro waved her bowl of oatmeal, counting aloud for her benefit to 10: “1-mississippi, 2-mississippi”. Feeding Sarah was when I had her fullest attention, and I preferred spooning the finger-foods Prisa had prepared for her myself, rather than letting her eat it on her own. I would talk to her as she ate and ask question about the food in English and Spanish.
“¿Que dice la comida?”I would ask at every meal.
“¡Cómeme!” I would reply for her.

After breakfast, we adjourned to the backdoor. There I lifted Sarah up so she could look out the window that occupied the upper quarter of the portal. She would knock on the window with her baby knuckles and then reach for the doorknob. Stepping through the doorway onto a cement landing overlooking the backyard, I’d always pause so Sarah could gaze at the two items hanging over the entrance: a wind chime made up of tiny, tinkling wizards on one side, and a twisting sparkler made of glassy crystals on the other. Then we would descend into the backyard that was composed of a narrow strip of grass and a cement walkway leading around the house to the garage. A painted cinderblock wall separated the yard from the neighbors to the rear and on one side.

On re-entering the house, we made our way to the living room – Sarah’s first playroom. As a newborn and infant, this area was covered with blankets, quilts, and floor mats that allowed adults to watch and engage Sarah as she lay on her back, inspecting the world within eyeshot, until she eventually progressed to turning her head, flipping onto her stomach, sitting up, and crawling away. Toys slowly began filling the periphery of the room until they were piled into a playpen located next to the solitary pillar that divided the living room from the dining room. Now Sarah crisscrossed the room on her feet, searching the tops of coffee tables, lamp stands, and couches for toys, cell phones, keys, or electronic remote devices. Inevitably she would make her way to the front door where we would repeat our ritual whereby I lifted her so she could look out the peephole window, knock on the thickly glazed windowpane with her knuckles, and then reach down to open the door and walk outside.

Thick hedges and bushes framed the front yard of the yellow house, and thick, course grass covered the lawn. Stalks of miniature bamboo reeds sprang from the flowerbed under the front yard windows, and a row of dense shrubbery curved around the perimeter of the lawn, separating the sidewalk from the grass. This was the area that Sarah only started exploring when she was able to walk – and even then, very unsteadily. When weather permitted, I would take Sarah outdoors to play on the grass. We always borrowed the neighbor’s neatly manicured lawn next door. The first time I sat Sarah on the grass, she remained motionless in confusion, shocked by the strange sensation of cushioning grass against her pants. Tentatively reaching out to touch the blades with her finger, she soon began inspecting the rest of her surroundings. It was on that putting green-like surface that Sarah first spied and touched leaves, branches, and flowers, and soon her curiosity compelled her to crawl around and grasp them. The next time I placed her on the grass, she quickly started crawling toward the sidewalk, where the texture and coolness of the cement fascinated her. When she was able to walk, the flat and gleaming surface seemed to beckon her like a ribbon tied to a balloon. It was a foreshadowing, I think, of what was to come. That cement sidewalk, and the street beyond, would soon be taking her to a new home, new neighbors, and eventually more and more independence. With that thought I put away my camera and offered my hand to guide her on the walk.

Taylor Court Letter

Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Letter to Sarah # 3

Dear Nena:

I’m writing to you on an occasion that is really more important to everyone but you. Yet, it is an event that will always be brought to your attention. In years to come, whenever you pass by, or go near, the intersection of 162^nd Street and Taylor Court, in the city of Torrance, adults will inevitably ask if you remember the little yellow house on the corner. Of course you won’t remember, and for awhile you will probably simply say,
“No, I don’t.”
Nevertheless, your mom and dad, aunts and uncles, and even Mima and I may continue pressing: “Are you sure you don’t you remember anything about that house?”
After hearing this question repeated over and over again, and perhaps sensing or seeing the disappointment on our faces with your reply, you may be tempted to change your answer by saying,
“I’m not sure, maybe I do remember something about that house.”

You see this was the house in which you were born and raised during the first year of your life. This was the house that greeted you on November 15, 2010, when your mom and dad drove you home from the hospital. This was the house that sheltered you and protected you as you slept in a crib in your parent’s room for the first weeks of your life, until you moved to your own nursery room down the hall. It was there that we watched you grow and marvel at your surroundings as you lay on your back, on a quilted floor mat with hanging devices hovering overhead. Those scenes and more during your first year of life are so fixed in our memories that we find it hard to believe that you won’t remember any of them. But that’s all right. I used to ask your mom the same question about her first home on Yarmouth Avenue in Reseda, and she didn’t remember it either.

The Taylor house was where you mastered your earliest development skills: raising and turning your head and body, sleeping through the night, eating solid foods, crawling, speaking, and walking. All of those things were done in the confines of that house. I won’t make a list of all the scenes and images I associate with this house in this letter. I’ll save that for a blog I’m writing. Instead, I’ll just reassure you that you knew the old house very well. Once you were able to crawl and walk, you explored every nook and cranny of that house. Every room became your playroom. You especially loved bookcases, cupboards, drawers, and closets. The only exception was your own front yard. Since the front lawn of your next-door neighbors, Betty and Tai, was so well cared for and manicured, I used it as our tiny park. There you could crawl and roll around on the grass, picking up and trying to eat leaves, twigs, and flowers. You would point at their lawn figurines in the garden, and stare endlessly at the knothole face in the tree – the one with two blue button eyes, a white button nose, and a red paper-sliced mouth.

You and your parents moved into a new home on Saturday, December 3, 2011. This will be the house and neighborhood that you remember as you get older. Taylor Court will become the house of myth and legend, the home that old people talk about. At this point in your life you are concentrating all your senses and powers at mastering language and the world around you. Memories are still the domain of older children and adults. But when the time comes when you are asked about that house on Taylor Court, you can say:
“I don’t remember much, but my grandpa told me about it in a letter and a blog.”

I love you, Nena Chula,

Poppy

Nena's Walking Letter

Saturday, October 29, 2011
Letter to Sarah #2

Dear Sarah Kathleen:

On Friday, October 28, 2011, just sixteen days before your first birthday, you started walking. I mean seriously walking, not just standing upright after hoisting yourself up on a piece of furniture or table, and taking a step or two before falling. You raised your knees from a crawling position, pushed away from the floor with your arms, and balanced yourself upright on two legs. Wavering a second or two on bowed knees, you proceeded to step forward once, twice, and thrice, before falling forward onto your hands and knees. With the verbal encouragement of your parents in the background, you quickly repeated the process, taking two more steps before another face-plant on the floor. None of this independent locomotion occurred the day before when your grandmother and I babysat on Thursday. On that day your were putting on a demonstration of all the skills and physical benchmarks you had reached so far:

·      Pressing plastic connecting blocks together and pulling them apart;

·      Fitting shaped objects through their matching openings;

·      Dropping a miniature basketball into a hoop;

·      Scampering quickly throughout the house on hands and knees;

·      Kneeling upright and hopping forward;

·      Pointing at objects you were curious about, or wishing to hold, and saying, “dat”;

·      Pushing up on your arms from a prone position, and lifting your knees off the ground to form an inverted V-shape;

·      Using any handhold or wall to straighten yourself into a standing position, and then proceeding to step free and balancing yourself on two feet before collapsing on the ground.

You were so close to walking that we both held our breaths, willing it to occur – but it wasn’t meant to happen on that day. What is so surprising is that it happened when it did. You see, on the Friday morning before you walked, you were in a hospital having a surgical procedure on your right eye.

Of course, you won’t remember anything about this hospital visit or the surgical procedure when you are old enough to read or understand this letter. And that’s how it should be. For you, it was just an earlier-than-usual car ride with your mother and father to a place that had new faces and new surroundings. You won’t remember the extra care and tenderness in the way your mom and dad talked to you that morning, the way they held you, and the way they glanced at each other when you smiled back, made sounds, and followed their directions as they dressed you and packed you into the car seat. Parents have a great capacity for hiding their nervousness and worry when trying to make you feel safe and comfortable. And by doing so, it makes them feel better too.

Mima and I did not accompany you or your parents to the hospital that morning. I’m a coward when it comes to witnessing medical procedures that might cause pain or discomfort to a baby. Your Uncle Toñito had an operation when he was 2-years old to remove skin tags from his right ear. It was the only surgical procedure we experienced as young parents, and it was nerve-wracking for me. I still remember his cries and tears when a nurse fumbled at trying to install an IV connector into his tiny arm. But Mima and I were wide-awake at 5 a.m. on the morning of your operation, knowing that your parents were waking you up, and going through the necessary tasks of getting you ready for this journey. We held you in our minds all morning, remembering your actions of the previous day, the things you did, and how you acted. At 9 a.m., Mima received a text message from your mom saying, “Everything fine. Sarah was a champ.” I took a deep breath and murmured a prayer of thanks.

Later that morning your mom sent us a video of you eating a late breakfast. You were still feeling the effects of the anesthesia, and your movements and actions were woozy and uncoordinated. You had difficulty grasping food with your fingers, and couldn’t locate your mouth to chew. Your mom said that perhaps after a long nap you would feel better and your reflexes would return. I doubt anyone expected the amazing rebound of your muscles and coordination. I’ve heard it said that our bodies and muscles rebound and recover quickly after an injury or trauma. Something obviously happened after your nap, because later that day Mima told me that she had received a phone call from your mom saying that you were walking. A video soon followed and we saw for ourselves how you had mastered this new skill. After a surgical procedure that required anesthesia, you were walking. You are amazing!

I love you, Nena Chula,

Poppy

If you are interested in seeing more pictures of our photo shoot at Taylor Court, click on the link below to my Flickr Album:

2011-11-17 Sarah Kate's First House