Veteran's Day, personal battles and rewards of forgiveness

In observance of Veteran's Day this week, I posted the following on Facebook, along with a photo of these two special men: 

My two favorite veterans, Papa and my bro.

My two favorite vets! My grandfather served in WWII, crossing the European theater on foot and, among other things, helping discover the gold bullion the Nazis stashed away in salt mines. My favorite brother (editor's note: I only have one) is a veteran of both Iraq wars, having served first in the Navy then much longer in the Marines. So thankful they both came back. In fact, wouldn't be here typing away if Papa hadn't returned, and my brother has blessed our family with three beautiful little ones and the most wonderful sister-in-law anyone could wish for. Wishing a peaceful, gratitude-filled Veteran's Day to all.

The idea of embracing peace and gratitude in connection with Veteran's Day got me thinking about some of the costs of war -- material, metaphorical and spiritual.

Through another Facebook post by one of my mother's first cousins, I learned that my maternal great-grandmother lost her serviceman father in the Spanish American War, a piece of the family story I'd never heard before. I don't know what became of her mother, but apparently after her father's death, Granny -- as she was later known -- was raised primarily by an aunt and uncle. She went on to marry an Idaho farmer with whom she had nine children. Tragically, her husband, while walking down a road, was struck and killed by a car driven by a drunk man. At the time, she still had several children left at home to raise on her own.

Here are recollections the cousin shared about Granny:

They lived on a farm and grandma told me her hands were so calloused from hard work that she could slide the rope through her hands while getting water out of the well with no pain. She sure had quite a life. She had a lot of tragic (experiences), but I hope she had some good times, too. She sure was special and what a baker! And I do have to say, raising 9 children and having her husband killed, I never once heard her complain.

Whether caused by political wars external to ourselves or, perhaps more commonly, by personal battles we wage internally, nearly everyone faces at least one epic struggle in his or her lifetime. Often it's how we deal with such conflict that determines whether we are overwhelmed or manage to overcome. 

Such questions called to mind an interview I conducted in late 2001 with Fred Luskin, a Stanford professor who pioneered research into one of the most essential aspects of the human experience: forgiveness. Here's some of what I learned during our conversation.

Published Dec. 28, 2001 in the Oakland Tribune/ANG Newspapers

Forgiving is good for body and soul

By Monique Beeler

STAFF WRITER

Pioneering forgiveness researcher Frederic Luskin

sometimes sings a Rolling Stones verse to get a

point across to folks enrolled in his workshops.

``You can't always get what you want,

You can't always get what you want,

But if you try sometimes you just might find,

You get what you need ...''

Before he could start teaching such principles to

others, however, Luskin had to learn this lesson

himself.

``I had had great trouble learning to forgive, and I

was a licensed therapist at the time,'' says Luskin,

47, from his office at Stanford University one recent

rainy morning.

Dressed in running shoes and red and gray sweat

suit, Luskin takes a break from his busy schedule

lecturing, leading forgiveness workshops and

conducting studies on the subject to talk about his

first book, released earlier this week <cm released

Wednesday, Dec. 26, 2001>. Titled, ``Forgive For

Good: A Proven Prescription for Health and Happiness''

(HarperSanFrancisco, $24.95), the 220-page volume

is based on six years of research that indicates

significant improvements in health and well-being

come from letting go of past wounds.

Fred Luskin

``All suffering comes from
wanting the world to be
different than it is,'' says Luskin,
who heads the Stanford Forgiveness
Project, a program dedicated to
spreading his techniques and
continuing his research.
 ``Forgiveness is a way of dealing
 with not getting what you want.''

``It's dealing with the word, `no,''' he adds. ``Making peace

is the point.'' 

Using a mix of meditation, visualization techniques, a

bit of emotional re-education and innovative exercises

including a trip to the supermarket to appreciate all

the items one can afford to buy, Luskin has helped

disgruntled Web designers, wronged lovers and the

parents of children murdered in Northern Ireland to

reduce their feelings of hurt and anger, decrease

symptoms of stress and raise their sense of hope.

A one-time health food store owner and a former school

psychologist, Luskin began looking closely at forgiveness

research after enrolling in a doctoral program at Stanford

University in 1993.

He found a few earlier studies, but nothing that

medically proved forgiving is good for the body as well

as the soul. His personal difficulty in forgiving loved ones

whom he felt had treated him poorly, combined with a

lifelong interest in the connection between health and

spirituality, made forgiveness studies a perfect fit for

him, Luskin says.

He started by thinking hard about why he himself

couldn't forgive.

His thorniest personal grudge was linked to the loss

of his best friend, Sam. After years of close companionship,

including serving as best man in Luskin's wedding, his

pal fell in love.

Great news.

The problem was Sam's beloved didn't care much for

Luskin, and the close-knit friendship soon frayed.

``He met a woman and he stopped being our friend,

because she didn't like us,'' Luskin says. ``It was so abrupt.''

In the meantime, Luskin was struggling to resolve past

problems with a family member.

It was around this time he realized that his own

habits played  a role in his inability to forgive others.

``I expected others to behave the way I wanted them

to, not the way they wanted to,'' he says. He calls this

an ``Unenforceable Rule.''

People have all sorts of rules for how things should

be: It shouldn't rain today, there shouldn't be traffic on

this road, my mother should love me better. Luskin says

his insistence that others conform to his rules served

only to make him miserable.

``I'm getting nuts that they're being normal,'' he

says. ``(Sam's) entitled to find someone else to love,

and if she doesn't like me, that's the way it goes. I

developed a strategy for getting rid of those rules.''

Since changing the behavior of others is rarely an

option, Luskin concentrates in his book on helping people

change their own thoughts and patterns. 

He manages to do so in an easy-to-read manner made

more accessible by the use of personal anecdotes about

people who have participated in his workshops and studies.

``I tried to make it as if I was teaching it,'' he

says. ``It doesn't have to take forever. It can be done in a

relatively few hours.''

Although Luskin avoids burdening his readers with the

statistical results of his studies, he points out that forgiveness

is good for one's physical and mental health. Those who

have participated in his studies, for instance, report a 15

percent long-term reduction in anger and a 27 percent

decrease in stress symptoms from headaches to heart

disease.

Many people encounter trouble in surrendering

grievances because they confuse forgiveness with

condoning the offending act or reconciling with the

offender. Forgiveness is not about these things.

Forgiveness is about taking responsibility for how you

feel and acknowledging that the past can't be changed,

Luskin says. It's also about healing, not about those

who caused the hurt.

Several steps must happen before the forgiveness

process begins, he advises. These steps include:

knowing how you feel, understanding what was

wrong and telling a couple of trusted people

what happened.

Without first experiencing these steps, forgiveness is

premature.

Following the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, people

started asking Luskin about forgiving the perpetrators.

The timing made the question inappropriate, he says.

``It's like asking a woman who has been raped the next

day: Are you ready to forgive? It's so insensitive and cruel,''

Luskin says. ``You have to really feel the pain, deal with

the damage, take care of yourself. You sometimes have

to punish people for hurting you.''

Hurt and anger have their place. It's when these

powerful feelings refuse to fade that actively learning

to forgive can help.

``This doesn't mean you give up protecting yourself,''

Luskin says. ``(But) you don't want your heart to be too

hard, because it doesn't do you any good.''

Cultural factors may make forgiveness a difficult

choice for some. In American culture, expressing

anger and resentment may be perceived as signs

of strength, while choosing forgiveness may be

viewed as a weakness.

The wisdom of letting go of grudges is evident in the

positive results it brings, Luskin says.

``Do you want more joy and happiness in your life, is

the basic question I ask,'' he says.

``This isn't rocket science,'' Luskin says. ``It seems

so obvious. It should be part of the water.''

Editor's 2014 note: Re-reading the interview with Fred Luskin was made more poignant by learning that five years after our interview, his 20-year-old daughter died as the result of an auto accident. I can only imagine how living through that tragedy may have tested his beliefs. My sense is that his family is strong and dealt with their loss directly in a way that encouraged and supported healing and resilience.

World Series v World Cup: Or enough already with the low-scoring whinging

I know this is true, because I saw it all over Facebook tonight: The San Francisco Giants have won the final game of the 2014 World Series by a score of 3-2.

Yes, American sports fans, a measly 3 runs to 2, stretched out over nine whole innings. Yawn.

I don't ever want to hear another complaint from a fellow citizen about how tedious it is watching low-scoring soccer matches.

An image from MLB.com shows the final 3-2 score of game seven.

Speaking of complaints against the sport I've played for 83 percent of my life (that's almost 40 years, folks), I'm reminded of one of the first essays I submitted when my former newspaper colleagues and I formed a writing group back in early 2009. 

Despite having played soccer since childhood, including competitively in high school and at the college level, I had rarely, if ever, written about the experience. The following was an early effort to correct that discrepancy, inspired by the 2010 men's World Cup.

It’s not the goals, it’s the game

By Monique Beeler

There’s a secret the rest of the world has divined that still eludes Americans: It’s not the final score that solely matters, it’s how the game is played. The game in question is soccer, but the lessons apply more broadly.

During a recent night out with friends in a swanky, low-lit restaurant with artfully stained concrete floors and woven placemats that conveniently mimicked the proportions of a soccer field, I endeavored to refute a pal’s assertion that “Soccer needs more scoring.”

His ill-informed comment reflects the greedy, give-me-more American sportsman’s mindset that more is more; that the means don’t matter, only the ending score. And the numbers better be big or what’s the point? Ah, my friend, let me recite the ways that the playing of the game matters beyond the ultimate points tally. There is a reason South Americans dubbed the sport la Joga Bonita, “the beautiful game.” (Can anyone imagine such adjectives of beauty applied to inelegant American football?)

His comment, uttered at the halfway mark in the month long sports soap opera called the World Cup, came at a moment when it couldn’t have struck my soccer-attuned soul as more ludicrous. Soccer needs more scoring? He had to be kidding, or from another planet. Oh, wait, he’s from the U.S. When it comes to soccer and being in spiritual alignment with the rest of Earth’s inhabitants, many Americans might as well be extraterrestrials.

For perspective, consider that in the opening week of play, tournament favorite Spain fell in its first match 1-0 to Switzerland, a solid but historically unremarkable side known for conservative, defensive tactics. It was a potentially confidence- and dream-shattering upset for la Furia Roja. The red-clad Spanish had never captured the title in the world’s most sought-after competition, and this squad represented the country’s best hope in generations. With two more games left in the first round of group play –– in which each of 32 teams assigned to eight groups must emerge with enough points to rank first or second in their group to continue on in the tournament –– Spain needed to place a few well-struck balls in the net in upcoming matches. In other words, every shot on goal could be a potential fate-decider. It’s a clear example of the maxim: when we have less, we value what we have more.

By comparison, if every basket scored in an NBA match –– where the average final score is about 99 to 98 –– carried such weight, the collective cardiac arrest that would result in the basketball fan base would overwhelm emergency rooms and heart surgeons across the nation. Speaking as an enthusiastic supporter of the U.S. squad during its nail biting appearances in the 2010 World Cup, my nervous system barely sustained the defibrillator-intense charge released with every shot directed at our opponents’ goal. When the opposing side blasted a ball toward Team USA’s goal box, the adrenaline burst felt even more unendurable. After a relatively high-scoring game against Slovenia, in which the U.S. came from behind to secure a 2-2 tie, I felt as emotionally wrung as if I’d scaled a mountain and sprinted back to base camp after reaching the summit. The U.S.’s third match against Algeria proved no less exhilarating or exhausting. Following the only goal of the game –– the U.S. found the net in the 91st-minute of play with fewer than two minutes till the final whistle –– I yelled so loud in my empty house, it left my throat raw and raspy. It was a fortunate goal, for the sake of national pride and my health.  

Fine, goal scoring though rare can be joyful and climatic, soccer neophytes may concede. But what are they to do for the remaining 88.5 minutes of the game?

Just as there’s no need to be a connoisseur to dive in and begin learning about and appreciating fine wine, it doesn’t take lifelong soccer experience to enjoy watching what we call off-the-ball play.

In lieu of double-digit scoring, the viewer leisurely sips in a refined blend of aesthetics and athleticism displayed by each player. From a standstill or running at top speed, a professional must be able to receive a short or long pass –– whether rolling lazily at the pace of a putted golf ball or careening crazily toward his head –– and drop the spinning orb to his feet, silencing its motion with one, at most two, deft touches of the ball, using foot, thigh, chest or forehead. Any part of the body, save the arm or hand, is fair.

Much of the point of the game becomes focusing on the athletic skill, movement and muscularity along with grace and improvisation on display as 11 people sight one another between the clustering horde of the opposing team, stringing together seemingly impossible series of passes, collaborating as a whole that amounts to far more than its individual parts, reading teammates’ body language and anticipating their actions and reactions and adjusting one’s own position on the field accordingly. If my right forward receives the ball at half field, I know she will accelerate up the wing before looking to pass it to our center striker at the 18-yard line, where he’s prone to flick the ball to our center midfielder who’s been trailing the offense up the field. After a final, controlled pass to his feet, the mid fielder rushes into the penalty box for a close-range shot on goal. Put me on the field with a different line-up of players and, despite decades of soccer experience, I will likely be at a loss about where to run or who to pass to and when. The success of the individual is that connected to familiarity with his comrades’ mentality and style of play. Soccer may be the ultimate team sport.

Those 90 minutes of official game time, plus the obligatory two to three minutes of injury time, represents the earthbound equivalent of synchronized swimming, without the monotony of synchronization. If orchestra musicians ditched their cellos, flutes and timpani, strapped on cleat-studded shoes and took to composing movements with a ball instead of musical notes, it might resemble an elite soccer match.

Played at its best, soccer mimics a lush orchestral suite in which long, fluid passes glide from teammate to teammate, who in apparent feats of mind reading instinctually know into which open space to sprint to receive a gorgeously-timed pass, when to flick the ball nonchalantly off a heel backward to a teammate who connects with the spinning orb in flight. If the offensive player strikes the ball at the right spot, with the right force, he may blast it just beyond the goal keeper’s reach sending it between the goal posts, where it thuds against the nylon net leaving it quivering in the air, humming out an inaudible tune as the spinning ball comes to rest.

'If you have any questions, don't call me,' a singular interview with Annie Leibovitz

After spending a decade or so as a daily newspaper reporter in a major market, you can get a bit spoiled. Not in terms of the paycheck, heaven knows. Rather, in terms of the amazing individuals one gets the opportunity to interview.

The first celebrity I posed a question to in an interview was poet and writer Maya Angelou. I went on to interview a range of cultural contributors and well-known personalities from the first woman secretary of state Madeline Albright to comedic actor Jack Black.

As a member of the lifestyle section of our newspaper, based in the suburbs a good hour away from San Francisco, it could become tedious to drag one's self to the city, for instance, every time the stars came calling to plug their latest films. Generally, the movie critic or TV writer would cover these stories, but when their plates got too full or schedule conflicts arose, other staff writers got an option to rub elbows with Hollywood elite.

The artist personally signed a copy for me.

While it seems ludicrous now, there were times when no one would jump at the chance. I distinctly recall not raising my hand when the opportunity came along to interview Mel Gibson -- back before he got the crazies and was still considered pretty cool. I didn't need another assignment, taking two hours out of my workday was too exhausting, I hadn't seen his recent work, blah, blah, blah. Who knows what the excuse was? I may have this wrong, but I seem to remember a similar blasé response to the prospect of interviewing actor Viggo Mortensen.

Happily, I took my beat as an art writer seriously and seized every interesting opportunity, including
the offer of a one-on-one tour by photographer Annie Leibovitz of an exhibition of her work on display at a San Francisco photography museum. In my memory of the interview, I am not over-awed by the meeting. To her credit, Leibovitz -- who was very pregnant at the time --was sufficiently down-to-earth. She was so gracious, in fact, she offered to personally sign a copy of the show's catalog for me. Her parting words amused me and stay with me to this day.

Looking up from the large format catalog, she set down her pen and slid the book toward me, saying "If you have any questions ..." A noticeable pause followed before she added the unexpected conclusion: ''don't call me." I'm sure I chuckled, thanked her again for her time and went off to write the following story on deadline.



Published May 21, 2001, Oakland Tribune/ANG Newspapers
NOTE: All photos by Annie Leibovitz

Through Annie's Lens

By Monique Beeler
STAFF WRITER

Truth be told, Annie Leibovitz wasn't crazy about the
idea of photographing a bunch of women for a project to be
called, appropriately, ``Women.''

Sure, she's shot scads of portraits of female figures
during a career spanning more than 30 years. In the early
1970s with Rolling Stone magazine, she took close-ups of folks
like Grace Slick and Diana Ross. More recent images, such as a
nude and pregnant Demi Moore taken for Vanity Fair, also won
the artist acclaim for originality and risk-taking.

But capturing the essence of an entire sex seemed

Hillary Rodham Clinton/The White House, Washington D.C. (By Annie Leibovitz)

beyond the range even of her lens.

``It's like going out to photograph the ocean,'' says Leibovitz, eyes squinting in contemplation behind her trademark tortoiseshell glasses.

On the wall behind her hang almost-large-as-life
reproductions of portraits she originally shot for the 1999 coffee-table book, ``Women.'' An exhibition by the same name opened
earlier this month at the Ansel Adams Center for Photography in San
Francisco. The traveling show runs through July 15, then heads to
Seattle.

``I was looking for a project to do in America. It was actually Susan Sontag who suggested I do `Women,''' Leibovitz says.

Serena and Venus Williams/Tennis players (By Annie Leibovitz)

Leibovitz initially rejected the idea.

After photographing a series of showgirls _ before and after they donned garish makeup, sequins and feathers _ for a New Yorker magazine assignment, Leibovitz's enthusiasm for the Women project skyrocketed.

``I did the showgirls and I got very excited about it and said, `There's something to this,''' she says.

``There's another agenda,'' she adds. ``It's for the women.''

Around 70 large-scale photographs in the exhibit introduce us to icons and workers, artists and academics.

Hillary Rodham Clinton, Serena and Venus Williams and Gloria Steinem garner space in ``Women.'' Bay Area figures represented include, chef Alice Waters, Hewlett-Packard chief executive officer Carly Fiorina and AIDS organization executive director Rebecca Denison.

In an introductory statement printed on one wall of the Ansel Adams Center, writer Susan Sontag suggests that capturing images of women on film amounts to a global political statement.

Gwyneth Paltrow and Blythe Danner/Actresses

In some regions of the world, Sontag tells us, taking photographs of women is forbidden.

``In a few countries, where men have been mobilized for a veritable war against women, women scarcely appear at all,'' Sontag writes.

Taken in this context, Leibovitz's images of a muscular Marion Jones in motion or a war correspondent flanked by her camerawomen constitute acts of assertiveness and of vindication for the years when women were relegated to the shadows.

Armed with a camera, Leibovitz commits to film the
range of female experience in the United States, from sad-eyed street woman to self-assured astronaut.

``The more I photographed, (I realized) it was about individuality,'' Leibovitz says.

Railing against mainstream American images that depict women as ornamental or as sex objects, Leibovitz showcases each woman for who she is and for what she has contributed, be she mother, Pulitzer Prize-winning author or Olympic gold-medalist.

``Most of the work was done for this project specifically,'' Leibovitz explains. ``And some of the work came from my past files.''

Osceola McCarty/Washerwoman, philanthropist

True to her reputation as photographer-to-the-stars,
Leibovitz sprinkles plenty of celebrity images into the show, which got its start in 1999 as a millennium exhibition sponsored by Vogue magazine.

Visitors to the show encounter rap artist Lil' Kim in a see-through knit top and bleached-blonde curls; former model Jerry Hall suckling her infant son, Gabriel Jagger; and actress Blythe Danner embracing her daughter, actress Gwyneth Paltrow.

It is access to the upper strata of society, including two Supreme Court Justices and three former first ladies, mixed with a sense of responsibility to those with less status, from Las Vegas showgirls to victims of domestic violence, that raises the collection's impact.

Individual portraits of a three-star general in a skirt or a farmer hoeing her crops may not wow on their own. Collectively, however, the photos form a satisfying whole.

``Good portraits are deceptively simplistic,'' says Nora Kabat, curator for the Ansel Adams Center. ``(Leibovitz) brings out the personality of the subject.''

Leibovitz affirms that it was rarely an effortless process.

When she visited Osceola McCarty, a lifelong washerwoman who saved then donated $150,000 to form a university scholarship, Leibovitz arrived to find her subject wearing a suit and a wig.
Wandering around McCarty's Mississippi home, Leibovitz

Eileen Collins/Space Shuttle Commander 

spied an old house dress hanging on a hook.

``I asked if she wears this,'' Leibovitz says. ``She
said, `I wear it every day.'''

At Leibovitz's request, the white-haired McCarty agreed to slip back into her daily costume. Such subtle details add honesty to Leibovitz's photographs.

``A lot of the women are looking straight at you whether it's with an astronaut's helmet, a machine gun or a piece of chalk (in their hands), they have a presence,'' Kabat says.

For the exhibition, Leibovitz enhanced her subjects'
presence by printing the photographs using a large format
technique. The largest photos measure 6-feet by-8 feet.

``I was a little nervous about it, but I wanted to go
big,'' Leibovitz says. ``I like the idea of going bigger than
life and giving them an iconic presence.''

All the single ladies -- and one writer's role in changing their status

A dear friend has asked me to deliver a toast at her upcoming wedding. I’m part of a triangle of people who only half-wittingly brought the bride and bride together, so, of course, I agreed.

Engagement party photo props.

Basic background: at lunch one day I casually introduced my friend to a coworker, a happily married straight woman. The next day at work, my colleague asked about my friend, a new-to-town single lesbian. “I know someone!” my coworker exclaimed. We promptly began brainstorming ways to introduce the two lucky lesbians. My coworker’s poodle pal -- they both adore and own poodles -- fell into the mix, offering to host an upcoming brunch where we could introduce our matchmaking pawns.

Our intentions were pure. Our information was not.

It turned out that the potential partner we had hoped to hook up my friend with was a straight gal. Oops. Not a problem, since another lady in attendance at the Saturday meet-up brunch we had concocted was available, worthy and looking and -- almost immediately -- intrigued by my friend. There was one glitch, however. At their first meeting, Ms. Worthy mistakenly thought my friend was straight and that I -- who could not attend the brunch, due to a death in the family -- was the lesbian who’d been a no-show.

The new addition to my friends' happy family.

Confused? Probably. Suffice it to say, it all worked out in the end and my friend and Ms. Worthy are over-the-moon ecstatic, recently bought a home together and have just added a second poodle to their little family. Ms. Worthy told me not so long ago that my friend is “a dream come true.” I can retire my Yente hat, satisfied that I helped arrange at least one happy union.

Non-traditional paths to matrimony calls to mind a fun series of stories I worked on during my newspaper reporting career. We put an ad in our lifestyle section inviting readers to submit a letter explaining why we should pick them to participate in a story in which the reader would propose to their beloved in the pages of the newspaper. As I recall, we received only one letter taking us up on the offer. Fortunately, as Amy March instructs us in “Little Women” (I paraphrase): “You don’t need scads of suitors; only one -- if it’s the right one.”

Originally published Jan. 6, 2005 in The Oakland Tribune/ANG Newspapers

From Tina to Bradley: A real life love story with a surprise ending

By Monique Beeler

Call it a chronic case of procrastination.

They meant to get married years ago, but life _ and the threat of death _

got in the way. But more on that later.

They're not a fancy couple.

T-shirts and jeans are their clothing of choice. They work hard for their money.

She's a hotel front desk clerk, he hangs drywall.

A big night out for this Fremont couple is a rare visit to a neighborhood

steak house. For fun, they love rooting _ win or lose _ for their favorite

baseball club, the San Francisco Giants.

Their music of choice may be classic rock, but their love is the lofty,

enduring kind that inspires operas and plays. Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo

and Juliet, meet Bradley Matlock and Tina Birdsell.

Bradley is a sweetheart of a guy with a mile-wide loyal streak _ to his

beloved and to his baseball team. You might recognize him by his

ever-present Giants baseball hat _ he's got four. A laid-back homebody, he's

happy spending Saturday night on the sofa watching movies with his sweetie.

His honey Tina is a good-natured, no-nonsense gal who values straight talk

and has no patience for pretense. And she loves to laugh, especially at her

favorite TV shows, such as ``Everybody Loves Raymond'' and ``That '70s

Show.''

The pair first met in the mid '80s when Tina's friend dated Bradley for a

few years. Tina and Bradley always got along well and enjoyed joking around

and teasing each other.

Later, Bradley and his girlfriend split up, and Tina didn't see him again

for several months.

Then, Bradley gave Tina a call. ``We were always friends,'' he says. ``She's

just an awesome person.''

They met for lunch and clearly had a good time on that 1988 afternoon. They

started dating and have been together ever since. He's now 40, and she's 38.

Bradley had marriage and a family on his mind early on, but Tina wasn't

quite ready.

``We were being smart and waited,'' she says.

Finally, they made plans to exchange vows in 2000.

``I (was) thinking, `I'm 35, let's get married and have kids,''' says Tina.

Then a routine gynecology appointment threatened to destroy their dream.

Tina's medical test revealed abnormal cells. The diagnosis? Cervical cancer.

``I was devastated,'' she says. ``He asked, `Do you still want to marry me?'

And I didn't, because I felt damaged.''

The disease _ and its treatment _ ravaged her reproductive system, leaving

her unable to bear children. Bradley didn't mind. He told her, "We'll get a

dog.''

``He brought my spirits up the whole time,'' Tina says.

Bradley drove her to radiation treatments. He sat with her in the waiting

room and brought her bags of peanuts and other treats. He picked up her

prescriptions and took her out to breakfast after appointments. When

radiation left most of her skin as red and tender as a severe sunburn, there

was little he could do but hold her hand.

A low point for Tina came when she skipped a dose of anti-nausea medicine

and became extremely sick to her stomach. Bradley didn't hesitate to come to

her aid.

``Most men would say, `I can't handle this. I've got to go,''' Tina says.

``He'd clean me up. CLP (Bradley's employer) let him go to every

appointment, then he'd work at night.''

The treatments lasted for eight months, ending in May 2001. Regular

check-ups every three months reveal that Tina has remained cancer-free.

Today Tina and Bradley will sit down for a romantic lunch at Fremont's

Pearl's Cafe. They'll enjoy some food and conversation, then after the main

course head waiter Abran Dreyfus will deliver this newspaper story to the

table as a special pre-dessert bonus.

Bradley, just like you, will be reading this story for the first time. And

he's in for quite a surprise.

``I've known a lot of people who go through sickness and (split up),'' Tina

says. ``He stood by me the whole time. I just want to do something to show I

appreciate everything he's done for me.''

Bradley, Tina has something she'd like to say to you:

``Bradley, You are my best friend, my lover and my soulmate. We have

been through a lot since 1988. You were there for me through hard times and

good. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to peel your

grapes and grow old together. I promise the future will be filled with lots

of love, laughter and adventures. Because together we can conquer anything.

I love you so much. Will you marry me? Love, Tina.''

Tina says she expects Bradley to be stunned when he sees this marriage

proposal in the newspaper.  

``He's probably going to be in shock,'' Tina says. ``But I want to spend the

rest of my life with him.''

And, so how does Bradley feel about Tina?

Under the guise of writing a story about cancer survivors, we interviewed

Bradley.

Tina, this won't come as news to you, but Bradley says you're his best

friend, and you make him feel ``good to be alive.''

When you told him you had cancer, he admits he was caught off guard.

``I didn't know what to think (except), `Just deal with it,''' he says.

``That's all you can do.''

He tried to be supportive, but it wasn't always easy for someone who has had

a lifelong fear of hospitals. Between the ages of 8 and 12, Bradley

underwent nine surgeries, including a corneal transplant, after a rock

struck him and left him blind in one eye. Hospital visits normally are so

uncomfortable for him that when his step-mother was hospitalized a few years

ago, he sent his love and a get-well card via his father. Anything to avoid

hanging out in those antiseptic-scented white halls.

But when Tina got cancer, he valiantly overcame his unease to support her.

``We'd been together a long time,'' he says. ``You can't just walk away. I

will never be lonely as long as I live, because I have Tina.''

As he enters his fourth decade, Bradley observes that he has spent nearly

half of his life with Tina, and he can't imagine what his days would be like

without her at his side.

``I like to think that what we went through made me and Tina stronger,''

Bradley says. ``I'm looking forward to the next 20 years.''

Well, Bradley and Tina, your lunch dishes have been cleared and dessert is

on its way. Will champagne soon be in order?

Calvin, Hobbes and an intergalactic-inspired cat

Nearly every animal lover at some point in their life had that one pet that stood out from all the others. For me, it was the slightly scruffy, not entirely attractive kitten my sister’s soft-hearted friend adopted on impulse outside a grocery store one summer afternoon. At the time, the three of us shared an apartment. I was a lifelong cat person, but hadn’t felt particularly moved by or interested in this miniature feline — until my roommates started calling him by the wrong name.

The mostly black kitten sported four milk-white paws, a pale downy-soft belly and white markings around his face. Inspired, they said, by his slightly beady eyes, they dubbed him Calvin.

Calvin? A horrible choice, in my not-so-humble opinion. A good friend had taken to bestowing on her cats monosyllabic human names like Frank and Ray. No, thank you. I was not from the name-your-pet-after-grumpy-sounding-men school of labeling. So no cat of mine — he had, after all, been a gift to me — was going to be called Calvin, even if the title tyke in my favorite comic strip, “Calvin and Hobbes,” had inspired the misapplied label.

So, out of contrariness, as much as anything, I dubbed this tuxedo kitten Spiff, after Calvin’s intergalactic jet pilot alter ego, Spaceman Spiff.

As Spiff metamorphosed from kittenhood into full-fledge catdom, he grew to be the most delightful, handsome and, at times, exasperating of feline companions. One friend described his body language as a swagger. Spiff did not lack for self-esteem. I wouldn’t have had him any other way. Among his superpowers: a penchant for hopping on my car hood each night as I parked to greet me as I arrived home from work; contorting into the most preposterous positions on the carpet, then peering up at his human observers with an expression of utter nonchalance; and preferring to take his liquids from a water glass or running faucet (resulting in countless upturned water glasses!).

Spiff often insisted on entering my then-apartment through my second floor bedroom window. This required him to first leap onto a stone wall, scurry up a tree trunk, fling himself onto the roof, then somehow drop  a good four feet or more onto the wide windowsill below. It was a fine system, except that not only was the window screen not designed for easy removal, but Spiff often found himself stranded on the window ledge for hours awaiting the arrival home of one of his humans.

Spiff didn’t go in for cuddling much, but when I’d come home in the evening, he’d graciously allow me to flop him over my shoulder where he would contentedly hang for a minute or more while I petted him and he purred happily. Aside from twining my fingers in his silky, short fur — and telling him how fabulous he looked in red, the color of his collar — I will forever miss the distinctive trilling coo sound he inevitably uttered anytime we reunited after an absence.

In honor of Spiff, I’d like to share a story I wrote for the newspaper’s lifestyle section in 2002 about a rare exhibition of “Calvin and Hobbes” art by its creator Bill Watterson, then on temporary display at the Cartoon Art Museum in San Francisco. Notice how I worked in a reference to Spaceman Spiff in the story. It was no accident, a move I suspect Calvin — and my dear Spiff — would no doubt approve.

Published Feb. 19, 2002 Oakland Tribune, et al (ANG Newspapers)


True Originals:

Calvin and Hobbes still tickle our funny bones after 6-year absence


By Monique Beeler
STAFF WRITER 


``There's never enough time to do all the nothing
you want.''
_ Calvin lamenting summer's passage


As a kid, Mark Arnold of Dublin collected all of the ``Calvin and
Hobbes'' books and made a point of reading the strip regularly. As
far as he's concerned, the cartoon world isn't the same without the
spiky-haired Calvin and his stuffed tiger, Hobbes.

``It should be in the newspapers, but it's not,'' Arnold, 20, says.
``For it not to be in the newspaper, it takes away from what (the
comics page) could be.''

Cartoonist Bill Watterson quit drawing the antics of the incorrigible
Calvin and his striped pal Hobbes six years ago, leaving a hole
in the daily funny papers that some fans argue remains unfilled.

Was it his unabashed disgust for gloppy foods, cootie-ridden girls
and homework that endeared Calvin to a generation of comic strip
readers? Maybe it was his daydreams of dinosaurs piloting F-14s,
zooming through the universe in his own spaceship, or snowball
fights with ``snow goons'' come to life, that kept our eyes glued
to the page.

Thoughtfully written and creatively conceived and drawn, whatever
the reason for its success, ``Calvin and Hobbes'' entertained and,
at times, enlightened readers of many ages.

In the introduction to one 1986 Sunday strip, for example,
Watterson equips the precocious Calvin with an army helmet and
Hobbes with a dart gun.

``How come we play war and not peace?'' Hobbes asks.

``Too few role models,'' Calvin says.

``(Watterson) hit a nerve with Calvin and these characters,''
says Jenny Robb Dietzen, curator for the Cartoon Art Museum
in San Francisco where a  rare exhibit of Watterson's original
drawings is on display. ``It's just universal what Calvin
experiences _ it appeals to older people, it appeals to children,''
she says. ``On top of that, it's funny. It was subtle enough, yet
he's still making statements.''

Carter McLennan, 13, of San Francisco was too young to read
``Calvin and Hobbes'' in the newspaper, but his friends introduced
him to Watterson's books a few years ago.

``I like the different characters. In this one he'll be Spaceman
Spiff and in this one he's a different character,'' says Carter,
as he studies a strip on display at the museum. ``And the whole
idea with Hobbes being a play animal who comes to life and they
do everything together.''

After a successful 10-year run as a cartoonist, a period in which
Watterson stretched the possibilities of the medium _ and at
times the patience of newspaper editors _ the artist announced he
would end the strip and turn his talents toward painting and music.

Dropping out of the spotlight, however, hasn't killed off interest
in Watterson's mischievous duo, whose treehouse club was called
G.R.O.S.S., or Get Rid of Slimy Girls. Bookstores continue
catering to Watterson's fans by selling copies of the 16
``Calvin and Hobbes'' collections, which have sold more than
30 million copies.

At Giant Steps Children's Books in Fremont, manager Leona Hoegsberg
and her staff pride themselves on stocking only books and toys
of high educational merit. This includes the catalog  ``Calvin
and Hobbes: Sunday Pages 1985-1995,'' developed to accompany the
exhibit of Watterson's original art. Published in September, the
95-page book has sold 350,000 copies.

``They're more literary than the regular comic books,'' Hoegsberg
says. ``We try to have some cartoon books. Especially the kids who
are a little older like to read them.''

When Watterson disappeared from public view in 1995, he tucked
his original sketches and watercolors of the comic strips into
his personal collection. Curators at the Ohio State University
Cartoon Research Library last year persuaded him to dust off the
artwork for an exhibition looking back at ``Calvin and Hobbes.''

The exhibition ended a four-month run there in January and headed
for the Cartoon Art Museum, where it opened Saturday <cm Feb. 16>
and continues through April 14. San Francisco is the only place
the works are being displayed.

``This is the only exhibition he's ever authorized,'' Dietzen
says. ``This is really a once-in-a-lifetime chance for people to
see these originals.''

For comic strip buffs or ``Calvin and Hobbes'' devotees, the
show provides an ideal opportunity to stand within inches of
the original artwork and admire Watterson's hand-drawn panels
executed with pencil, pen and india ink.

Considering how elusive the artist is _ Watterson gives few
interviews and won't be making any Bay Area appearances _ this
is as close as most of his admirers will get to Calvin's creator.

``There's something different about seeing the original,'' says
Dietzen, leaning in close to examine one of 36 black-and-white
drawings on display. ``You see his sketches, sometimes you see
the Wite-out. This is the hand of the artist, which you miss in
reproductions or in the newspapers.''

As a practicing cartoonist, Watterson pushed the art form
further than his contemporaries.

Hemmed in by a strict newspaper format that dictates where
breaks between panels should occur in a strip, most cartoonists
must make their plots and visual action accommodate these rules.
Around 1991, Watterson pushed for a change in the rules as they
applied to his Sunday strips.

Given his popularity, Universal Press Syndicate, which sold the
strip to newspapers, agreed to market ``Calvin and Hobbes'' as
an unbreakable half page. The change in format presented a layout
headache for some editors, but it gave Watterson new artistic
freedom.

Whether or not his readers noticed the innovations, they
appreciated the capers of his flawed, life-like characters.

Pressed to choose a favorite, Mark Arnold picks Calvin.

``He's like a 3- or 5-year-old kid, but he talks totally
intelligently and comes out with these big words,'' says Arnold,
half suppressing a laugh. ``He's always up to something no
good.''


``Calvin and Hobbes: Sunday Pages 1985-1995,'' runs at the Cartoon Art Museum,  655 Mission St. in San Francisco, through April 14 [2002]. Hours are
11 to 5 p.m. Tuesday through Sunday. Admission is $2 to $5. Call (415) 227-8666.