The Dedalus Log

The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave
To the dark and the empty skies my love,
To the dark and the empty skies.

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
And felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command my love,
That was there at my command.

The first time ever I lay with you
And felt your heartbeat close to mine
I thought our joy would fill the earth
And would last till the end of time my love,
And would last till the end of time.
(The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face, written by Ewan MacColl: 1957)

The only time I was truly jealous of Kathy was when I saw her with Toñito in the days after his birth. She would be sitting up in her hospital bed, looking down at the blanketed infant with the black shock of hair, or later, sitting back on the couch in our living room. A radiant look of such intimacy and tenderness shone from her face as she looked down at her son that an invisible force field of loving exclusivity barred me from approaching. There was something physical and tangible in the connection I felt between Kathy and her first-born child. It was a phenomenon that I had never seen or experienced before, and it confused me. We had been married for three years, sharing the 9-month pregnancy, talking about the phases Kathy was going through, measuring the physical changes, and anticipating the discomforts. I held Kathy’s hand during the nightlong labor, releasing it only when she was wheeled into the operating room for an emergency Caesarian birth. At first I thought this unique linkage between mother and child had to be about breastfeeding, but that notion disappeared when Kathy gave me Toñito’s graveyard feeding so she could have an uninterrupted night’s sleep. No, I was seeing more than a nutritional moment between mother and child, I was watching an emotional and psychic bonding that I could never be a part of. From that moment, I knew that my exclusive hold on Kathy’s affection had ended forever. With the birth of our first child, the honeymoon, and my sole provenance to Kathy’s heart was over.

We had a two-year honeymoon. That’s the only way to describe the idyllic two years we spent in the two-bedroom, one bathroom apartment in Santa Monica. It was the perfect place to begin a marriage, discovering one another, and starting a family. The apartment was part of a grey, sun-bleached, 18-unit complex on the east side of Ocean Avenue, across the street from Palisades Park, and a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Our doorway exited into a narrow courtyard with decorative patio furniture arranged around two small, widely spaced trees. I never saw anyone sitting in those chairs, or using that area. When the residents wanted to relax or take in the sun (and sunset) they left the complex, crossed the street, and lounged on the lush green grass, gazing at the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, or walking along the 5-mile gravel path that extended from San Vicente Boulevard to Colorado Avenue. I don’t recall ever being angry or unhappy there. Even during our second year, when I was struggling to acclimatize myself to the disciplinary trials of teaching troubled adolescents in an “opportunity” public school (I had taught in a Catholic high school the year before), simply crossing the street to breathe in the fresh, clean, ocean breezes, and absorbing the setting sun, erased all my worries and filled me with blissful tranquility. This was a time when nothing existed outside of our relationship, when Kathy was the whole focus of my life, and we did everything together.

Husbands and wives don’t like admitting it, but even after a long courtship (two years in our case) and countless formal and informal dates, family gatherings, and telephone calls, a man and a woman begin a marriage as total strangers. Everything before the public statement of vows was pretend, everything after is for real. In that apartment in Santa Monica, Kathy and I became WE. We learned to sleep together, wake up together, dress together, eat together, watch television together, walk together, read together, talk together, and be silent and comfortable together. We were two young people learning how to live together.
“Kath, I didn’t know you hated coffee!”
“Tony, I have a confession to make. I’m sorry, but I can’t stand refried beans. I can’t take their smell, taste, or sight. Do you forgive me?”
“Kathy, do you remember how I used to tell you how I loved your perfume? Well, I was pretending, because I can’t smell a thing”.
I revealed all the hidden skeletons in my family’s closets, both the Mexican and American sides, and came to learn that Kathy had not exaggerated her stories of kith and kin. In those first two summers of our young adulthood we began the process that continues today, only then it was bright and sparkling.

During the quiet times in the Ocean Avenue apartment, when Kathy was reading or busy doing something domestic, I watched and secretly studied her. It was a wondrous opportunity to watch this tall, lithesome, and longhaired beauty bend, walk, dress, and comb her hair. I never tired of seeing Kathy’s fluid movements around the apartment – from bedroom to bathroom, from living room to kitchen. If I had my wish, she would never need to dress while in the apartment and I could watch her in her natural state all the time. But that was impractical, and Kathy simply laughed with embarrassment when I mentioned it.

Kathy was naturally outgoing and social, and she forced me out of my solitary and isolating habits by simply modeling her friendly and engaging behaviors. She loved to visit friends and family members, and for them to visit her. In Santa Monica, we learned how to entertain as a couple. When she invited friends and family members to visit, she really meant it. Her sisters, brothers, and friends became regular guests. Hosting Frosty, Carol and Marilyn, and Kathy’s siblings became a regular part of our life. Greg, her youngest brother, was attending UCLA as a senior at the time, so he became our most frequent visitor – bringing along his family’s proclivity for laughter, self-deprecating humor, and excellent stories.

Dinners were the only meals we ate regularly together. Since we both worked at different schools, breakfast was an on-the-run affair, and lunch was something we did at work. Dinner was our time together, either at home or in a restaurant. Actually, in those early days, it was easier to drive or walk to a restaurant than to prepare a meal. The Bellevue Restaurant on Ocean Avenue was our favorite place to go. The French cuisine was light and tasty, and I loved experimenting with new dishes like bouillabaisse or frogs legs. We also learned to shop together for groceries, maneuvering the supermarket aisles of Santa Monica and discovering our gastronomical likes, dislikes, and preferences. Thankfully Kathy took the lead in the cooking department and I was happy to devour anything she prepared.

We did a lot of walking in those days. If there were a lull in the day, if conversations, chores, or lesson plans became tiring or annoying, someone would suggest a walk. Suddenly the complexion of the day changed when we exited the apartment, and walked, hand in hand, along the palisades, or up Montana Avenue looking at houses and neighbors.  Our usual destination was the liquor store and pharmacy on the corner of 7^th Street. At that point we sometimes bought something and then doubled back on Palisades or Alta Avenue. Occasionally we’d see Don Ameche, the film and radio star of the 1930’s and 40’s, taking his afternoon constitutional along Palisades. Walking gave us a chance to air out our differences, discuss our opinions or disagreements, and plan a course of action – for that day or the week. The future we discussed in other ways.

We didn’t pay much attention to finances during our first year together, because it didn’t seem important and we found that the two of us could live as cheaply as one – especially with Kathy working in a public high school. Her salary easily covered housing, transportation, and living expenses, while my wages from a Catholic high school barely took care of restaurants and entertainment. We paid the bills jointly because I wanted to learn the process, and budgeting consisted solely of maintaining a balanced checkbook – a frustrating operation that I never mastered. It was only in our second year of marriage, when I was hired by Los Angeles Unified School District, that we seriously began saving money by depositing my salary into a savings account. The plan was to eventually buy a house, although the time frame for that transaction was hazy - but we were in no hurry.

We learned to depend on each other more than we trusted long time friends, or relatives. A less romantic mind would say that a “partnership” was forming based on honesty and trust, and grounded in love. This was the alliance that became especially vital in later years. I gradually learned to communicate my anger, fears, and disappointments (despite my initial reluctance and stoic tolerance), and we grew in love for each other. My only apprehension was raising children. We spoke of “having” children as though it was a natural by-product of marriage, but the prospect of actually raising them was scary. The difficulties of parenting were exaggerated for me in 1976 when I began teaching in an “opportunity” junior high school. All my students were adolescents who had been “kicked out” of at least two schools before coming to us. They were hardcore disciplinary problems, emotional kids who acted out in anger and defiance. These children were so complex and resentful that I came to believe that it was impossible to raise any child correctly. There were too many genetic variables, too many emotional pitfalls, and too many unforeseen circumstances to guarantee a successful upbringing. Child rearing and parenting seemed an impossible task. Luckily our professions allowed us to observe the children we were teaching and listen to their stories.  As I came to know and care for them in the course of the year, and they grew to trust me, my students began talking and showing me the awful consequences of poor adult decisions. The actions of their parents were so childish and arbitrary, that by the end of the school year, I announced to Kathy that I was absolutely sure that – with her as my partner – we could do a better job. In fact, I told her, I was convinced that as parents we were an excellent bet, a sure thing!

When I saw how the mere presence of that tiny, black-haired baby changed the emotional equation of our marriage, I was shocked. I thought a baby was simply the addition of one more person to the family. Together, in love and partnership, Kathy and I were suppose to raise them, play with them, educate them, and care for them. I failed to anticipate the unique connection that exists between a mother and her children, and I felt left out. Kathy carried Toñito for nine months and he (and later Prisa) was a physiological extension of her. She shared a bond with our children I would never have, and never really understand. Until that first child, our marriage had been a tandem enterprise, an emotional monopoly between Kathy and me. Family and friends, apartments and houses enhanced it, but never changed it. The birth of our children rewrote the relationship between Kathy and me. Toñito’s birth was a revolutionary event, a life-altering occasion. A part of Kathy’s body became whole and independent. In a way she became two people – she and her child. This phenomenon repeated with Prisa, but by then I had come to accept this special bond and adjusted to it. Kathy has a unique tie with our children. It’s a tie I no longer envy because it carries an emotional burden I could never sustain. Her psychic ties to Toñito and Prisa make her think of them, worry about them, and feel for them at any moment of the day. I established different connections with the children – but they are pale imitations when compared to Kathy’s physiological ties. My relationship with Toñito and Prisa is close and loving, but it’s different. Women have a greater capacity for loving, I think.

Thirty-two years have passed since that January day when I first saw Kathy and Toñito together. With Prisa’s marriage and my retirement this summer, I believe we are entering a new phase in our married life, a phase that again changes the dynamic of our relationship. It may be just as scary as when children were first added, because it seems to separate and isolate us. Our ability to respond to this new situation (Prisa married and I retired) really depends on the groundwork we laid over the past 35 years. I suppose the best way to describe it is by relating an incident that occurred on the first night of our trip to New York City. I remember it clearly because it was a moment of pure panic, and one I had experienced before. It happened in the Time Warner Building at Columbus Circle (see NYC 1: A Helluva Town), while Kathy was exploring the different floors looking for a jazz nightclub and museum in Time Warner Plaza.

Kathy had been very patient with me after our dinner at P.J. Clarke’s Restaurant. I was clearly slowing down her brisk walking and explorations of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Everything I saw at the Lincoln Center Complex for the Performing Arts, and along our walk down Broadway begged to be photographed and recorded. I posed Kathy by the fountain next to Koch Theatre, seated in front of the Museum of Biblical Art, and standing in front of the sign announcing Jazz at Lincoln Center in the Time Warner Plaza. Even though she didn’t show it, I felt that Kathy was becoming impatient to move quicker and continue exploring. This urge was amplified by the biting arctic winds that were penetrating our coats. When she scooted into a towering building at Columbus Circle, I thought it was to get out of the cold, until I gazed up at the dazzling lights and colorful displays in the lobby, and the multiple levels of shops, restaurants, and stores ascending up the glassed-in skyscraper. Everything fascinated me, especially the people. Instead of simply taking static pictures of objects, I found myself waiting and studying the actions and behaviors of the people around me, especially the tourists, and then taking their candid photos. This was hugely entertaining, until I spotted Kathy pacing and waiting for me to catch up. We ascended the building this way, Kathy looking for the Jazz at Lincoln Center club, and I people-watching and taking pictures, until I saw the Time Warner Office. The office was impressive enough, but it overlooked a balcony with a spectacular view of the Columbus Circle Monument and 59^th Street, with the illuminated Upper East Side skyline in the background. I was lost taking pictures and watching people, and when I turned to locate Kathy – she was gone. She had completely disappeared. “Okay, don’t panic!” I said to myself, as I felt my heart beating faster and the adrenaline surging through my body. “Kathy’s just around the corner”. But she wasn’t around the corner, or anywhere on this level. “Where did she go?” I repeated to myself, over and over. “Where could she have gone?” I was lost inside a strange building, in a foreign city, on the first day of the trip. Kathy on the other hand felt comfortable in New York. She had visited the city twice before and knew how to negotiate its streets, sidewalks, and buildings. My biggest worry was the temptation to rush around searching for her on other levels. She wasn’t on this floor, but I had not seen her going up or down the escalator, so if I guessed wrong, I only increased the distance between us. I fought down this flight behavior by reaching for my cell phone and calling her. No answer. She either couldn’t hear the ring, or there was no reception in the building.“Okay,” I said to myself, “calm down and think. What would Kathy tell me to do?” Thinking of Kathy, and the many difficult situations and problems we had discussed and solved together, relaxed me and allowed me to better review my options. I decided to stay exactly where I was and trust that she would find me. I marked the time and decided to wait 20 minutes. If she did not return by then, I’d walk back to the hotel and wait there. It seemed the logical, practical, and thoughtful course of action. The next 10 minutes were the longest in my life, and then I heard her calling my name.

 We resumed our exploration of the building and floors as if nothing had happened. Kathy wasn’t angry or annoyed. She had simply been surprised when I hadn’t followed her up the escalator in search of her goal. When she noticed I wasn’t behind her, she calmly retraced her steps back to my location. I, on the other hand, was immensely thankful and relieved. The episode reminded me of the time I’d lost touch with Prisa and Toñito in the Northridge Mall when they were 8 and 10 years old. I’d left them at one location with directions to meet at another, only they weren’t there. Somehow my instructions had been unclear or muddled, and we were in different locations. To make matters worse, I started rushing about in search of them. Luckily, they heard my whistle and knew I was somewhere in the mall, so they stayed calm and located a security guard. We were reunited in the security office after about an hour separation – a nightmarish hour I will never forget. Besides the fear of loss and the emotional state of the children, what I hated most about both experiences was the sensation of being utterly alone with a huge problem. I have never experienced that panic and sense of isolation with Kathy. Life is a difficult journey to navigate, and we’ve been frightened and nervous along the way - for each other and for our children. But WE never panicked. Kathy’s presence or prayers always gave me solace and confidence, and I believe mine gave it to her as well. I breathed easier as we walked to the balcony and I showed Kathy the glassed vista along 59^th Street. Together we found Dizzy’s Club on a floor above, and moved effortlessly together through the corridors of the jazz museum in Fredrick P. Rose Hall.

I can’t imagine my life without her. The trip to New York was significant for two reasons. It recalled those idyllic early days in Santa Monica, when our life revolved around just the two of us, and it raised the fearful specter of how it would feel to face life’s paralyzing problems and dilemmas without her. What would my life be like without Kathleen Mavourneen? Brrrr, that’s a chilling thought. After 35 years, I plan to continue facing this life together – with all its unlimited expectations and endless possibilities - because alone I’d be lost.
“Kathy, if you were not a part of my life, I’d have to search for you - regardless of the level or floor I was on. I’d risk becoming The Flying Dutchman of the Time Warner Plaza to find you. On this Valentine’s Day of 2010, I just want to say, I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I loved you”.