Suicide - a Father's Legacy

I’ve been told that the majority of suicides in the United States occur in June, and my father’s was no exception.

In a cruel irony, the anniversary of his death falls on Father’s Day every seven years or so, but I don’t think he planned it that way.

The reality is that people who are suffering at that level of despair or clinical depression are not, as my mother was the first to remind me, in their right mind.

And my father’s mind, as evidenced by a track record of sparkling accomplishments, was a brilliant, sensitive one.

Although he was a successful attorney by profession, I’ve often wondered if he should have been a forest ranger as he’d once dreamed, rather than a lawyer trapped in a Los Angeles office and nightmare traffic. Oh, how he loved the outdoors.

I do know that if he had been in his right mind, he would not have made a choice of such radical permanence, and left the life and daughters he loved so much.

On that long-ago June morning in 1976, I frantically attempted to absorb all at once the fresh tragedy in my teenage mind in an immense effort to remain sane, saying to myself over and over: “You can handle this, you can handle this.”

Behind those words I knew that a whole future had been annihilated and that in fact it was going to be very difficult to handle the coming days, weeks, months, and years.

Heartbroken is too small a word to capture the sense of devastation.

I had an intense desire to make it okay somehow, to feel as if my life and my future had not been instantly and irrevocably shattered, that my heart was not broken.

But of course it wasn’t okay, and I had to survive somehow without shutting down. I could not conceive of a future without my dad, yet I had no choice but to begin.

Fortunately, until he became the ultimate absent dad, my dad was the ultimate loving one, so I have no dearth of happy memories to cherish in the wake of this tragedy, and it is those I choose to honor around this time of year.

It was he who introduced me and my sisters to the beautiful high country of the Sierra Nevada - to Tenaya Lake, pictured above, and Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite National Park - he who took us horsebackriding in the Santa Monica Mountains, he who shared his love of folk and classical music (most especially Bob Dylan, Chopin, Bach).

In short, Jayme was a father who taught me how to live even as he suffered from a complex despair.

And so when people ask why he did what he did, I prefer to stir the dialogue towards the finer points of the man - his humor, his affability, his boundless curiosity. I have tried not to allow my father’s suicide to be the act that defined the whole of his life - either for myself or for others with whom I share his memory.

But it is a complex, challenging legacy.

The reality is that while the immediate emotional impact of my father’s suicide has waned, the devastating loss is one that will forever endure in my heart. One does not “get over” a suicide.

Nonetheless, time is the great healer. As the painful immediacy of grief has moved further and further into my past, I have learned that the heart does mend strongly in the broken places, that there is a corresponding hunger for joy, and that there may be a greater capacity for joy because the sadness and the loss have cut so deep.

I have had the emotional fortitude to wait out the darkest moments that life has thrown my way.

How I wish my father had.

Dead Show, Frost Amphitheatre, Stanford, circa 1987

There was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert.

I was 27 years old.

Pure joy.

Photo by CJ.

No Long Strange Trip for Mammoth

“And when I die, bury me deep,
with a pair of speakers at my head
so that I can listen
to the Grateful Dead.”
– New York City graffiti,
late 20th century

There really was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert, as the saying goes, and my idea of heaven is listening to the best of the bootleg recordings forever.

I’d not want those speakers buried deep, though. I’d want them up by heaven’s version of a Sierra alpine lake, music reverberating from around a glacial cirque and plenty of space for my soul’s dance in the alpenglow.

Would it not have been a version of heaven, then, for some of us Deadheads to hear the band play in Mammoth Lakes in 1990?

Recently, I learned that they were indeed slated to play at Main Lodge then, but town council expressed collective personal opposition because of population and fire concerns, so it was nixed. Religious groups weighed in with drug-related concerns.

Were they nuts?

Unfortunately, there’s some truth in the stereotypes about pot-smoking, drug-taking, urinating Deadheads – although Bill Graham himself appeared at a council meeting to say he had never witnessed drug use at a Dead show, according to one of my sources. For the vast majority, Dead shows were all about the music, the joy, the hippy-happy scene. It was a scene began in the mid -1960s and ended with lead guitarist Jerry Garcia’s death in August, 1995. In that time, the band crossed generational lines to endure for three decades.

I arrived relatively late in the game as a student at Berkeley in 1981. Call it the best part of my education there. Of the 65 shows I attended in 15 years, most were in the Bay Area.

Sadly, a big enough percentage of the badly behaved Deadheads ruined it for the rest of us in many terrific venues. By the end of the 80s, the band had been kicked out of two of my favorites – the Berkeley Greek Theatre and Stanford’s Frost Amphitheater.

The show at the Boreal Ridge Ski Resort near Donner Pass on Aug. 24, 1985 provides a good comparison of what might have been had the band had played in Mammoth. Billed as the “highest” Dead show ever, it was the worst I ever attended. Technical difficulties plagued the band from beginning to end, as I recall. The band members, usually in sync, seemed at odds. And Jerry forgot his lines more than he usually did in the good old bad mid-80s. Was it the altitude? Probably not. He forgot them at sea level, too.

But altitude clearly affected many in the crowd that hot August day. They wilted in the heat, dust and thinner air, which some exacerbated with excess amounts of alcohol. People staggered obnoxiously into each other in a crowd otherwise known for its peaceful coexistence.

“Nothing good about it. Dead in a dust bowl,” wrote one fan on a blog devoted to the Boreal Ridge show. “The altitude, Bobby’s equipment problem, the dust and Jerry’s sour mood lead to a disaster of a show.”

“It was hot and dry, and the elevation – ‘highest Dead show ever’ – took its toll,” wrote another.

Would it have been better, somehow, if the band had played in Mammoth? Just think of the marketing potential among forever-young aging Deadheads. They would make pilgrimages here to recall their fond moments among the Jeffrey pines. After all, Boreal Ridge wasn’t a disaster for all who attended, and the environment survived.
“I was at this show and had a blast,” wrote a positive fan. “The band certainly had an off-day music-wise, but the beautiful Sierra surroundings made for a pleasant experience.”

Well, the beautiful Sierra surroundings part was true for me, at least.

I like to imagine that if the Grateful Dead had played in Mammoth, I’d have been there, too, and it would been one of the best shows I ever saw.

I like to imagine Mammoth Lakes bootlegs as a must for every collection, stamped on the side with dancing bears or red-rose decorated skulls.

And if it had been an exceptional show, I like to imagine it would have made the historic Dick’s Picks CD archival series – the best of the best.

But that’s all over now, baby blue.

Today I’m told that the popular wisdom is that town council canceled the concert. However, they didn’t actually have authority to do that. What they did was express collective personal opinion, which boiled down to concern about the 20,000 to 40,000 folks who would be camping on forest service lands for the Dead show. I’m unclear why it would have to have been 20,000 to 40,000 people.

Despite enormous local support for the Grateful Dead in Mammoth, I’m told council may also have been swayed by community fear-mongers who latched on to the “riding that train, high on cocaine” lyric from “Casey Jones.”

A shame. They likely knew nothing at all about what was once an incredible scene. Their loss.


A version of this piece will appear in the Mammoth Times on May 14, 2009.

Christmas in March!

Sistahs!

What I mean with that title is that in the midst of my ridiculously busy schedule as a staff writer at the Mammoth Times - making a fraction of what I'm worth but nonetheless grateful for the pennies that flow in - I've just now gotten around to downloading the Christmas shots. I thought I'd better get that done before the first of April tomorrow!

So that's me in the bunny hat with my sisters (identical twins, for anyone who hasn't noticed or didn't know) taken during one of many joyful moments last Christmas at my sister Carolyn's home in Astoria, Oregon. Bunny hat comes from Elevation Mountaineering store in Lone Pine and is perfect for really cold winter days. I gave a ladybug one to Cindy for Christmas (she doesn't know I also bought one for myself).

Below is one of the ole yuletide with golden retrievers Friday (left, Cindy's dog) and Maddie (right, Carlo's dog) in front. Cindy's other dog Rufus also joined us, but somehow I don't have any shots of the sweet canine guy.


Often, I spend Christmas on my own, not wanting to travel in the madness and weather, but this year it seemed appropriate with so many changes in the air - my niece about to graduate high school and my nephew in his senior year at UCLA. Many roads were forking into new directions at the end of 2008.

So I drove from Mammoth to Reno and from there flew to Portland. We in the family thought I'd be the one who'd have trouble getting from my outpost home in Mammoth to the Reno Airport 150 miles north because of the major winter storms happening at the time. Instead, I made it up there in my Bronco without any trouble at all, and it was Cindy and my mom who faced a cancelled flight from Portland from Burbank - and virtually no other options because everything was booked solid. They rented a car and drove the 22 hours north - with two dogs in tow. I told Cindy to get chains - which she needed at the Oregon border. I'm turning into a regular winter regular here in Mammoth! "Always carry chains."

It was all worth the effort in the end, though. I'd say it was one of the happiest and loviest Christmases in recent memory.

So here is a photo of my nephew, Erik, as his grandmother takes a photo of his joy at receiving her $100 gift certificate to In-n-Out burger, his favorite place!



A deliciously lazy moment on the couch with Carolyn (left) as I dive into the "Private Diaries of Catherine Deneuve," a very thoughtful and appropriate gift from Cynthia who always gets it right with me and books. She uncovered this gem at Book Soup on Sunset Boulevard - one of the few things I miss terribly about Los Angeles!




Erik has taken over a portion of Grandma's sumptuous spa package gift from Cindy. The robe is on her lap, but Erik has decided to don the hair piece!



That's my beautiful niece Katie showing off the pair of earrings I gave her for Christmas. (I also gave her a Ralph Lauren down jacket with a fur-lined hood, but I'm not sure she liked that as much!).


And here's Katie with a classic comic face as her father, my brother in law Peter, opens the traditional gag gift featuring cats. Peter detests cats. Here, it's a cat calendar. In the past I believe he has also received cat astrology books.



And here's one of Cynthia, exuberant over Katie's charcoal rendering of Hillary Clinton - Cynthia's heroine for all time! Did I say that my niece is as talented as she is beautiful? For my birthday in February, she conjured up a brilliant charcoal of Jerry Garcia.



Now here's an archetypal photo of the twins. I can't believe my mother actually gave them identical sweaters for the first time in probably 30 years! The Santa hat distinguishes Cynthia from Carolyn, but I've always been able to tell the Taurus brats apart!



Much later in the day, or maybe the next day: I am still reading Catherine Deneuve's thoughts on life, characters, and film, this time on the white couch near the window with the great view out over Columbia River and Astoria.

Valentine Birthday in Topanga Canyon

Okay, so I'm over a month late in posting these photos, but I guess it's better late than never. I had a delightful birthday with my immediate family on February 14 at the Inn of the Seventh Ray in Topanga Canyon. We were situated in a really cool gazebo that fit exactly six!

The gentleman poking his head in from the left of the frame is my friend Steve, who fortunately has not mysteriously disappeared like my friend Grant. I'm in the middle and to my right is my niece Katie (who I am proud to say will be entering the Portland Art Institute later this year!) and my nephew Erik is on my left (who I'm proud to say just graduated UCLA!). Rounding it out are my mother and sister. You pick who's who!

And here's my beautiful niece doing what she does very well indeed - posing! In my younger days, that would have been me. But the mantle has passed, as it were!

Cousins

Is that adorable or what? The year is 1971. The place is my Aunt Pholey's house in San Diego. That's my sister Cynthia on the far left, 9 years old. I'm the one in purple, 11 years old, my sister Carolyn (Cynthia's identical twin) is next in line, followed by my first cousin Patricia at 5, and my cousin Matthew at 7. My great grandparents were still alive and living in San Diego, too. Clearly we have all been on an Easter egg hunt! My cousin Lee sent this to me. Thank you, Lee. God does it take me back to the best moments of childhood!

And here we are again, only this time with our very much loved great grandma! She would have been 86 at the time. She lived to be 101 years old.

Visiting Mammoth

View of Lake Ediza on a day hike out of Mammoth Lakes in August, 2008.

It’s almost a joke at this point. I’ve been in Mammoth for nine months, long enough to give birth to my new life here, and none of my friends or family in Los Angeles have come to visit me.

Well, okay, just one.

But he was here with his partner and they rented a condo in town, so that wasn’t the same as visiting me, me, and staying at my house, which is what I’d really really like one of my friends or family to do.

The town of Mammoth Lakes benefitted, however, since my friends paid their TOT tax on the condo. See, I know what that means now. It means visitors who aren't renting illegally here in town pay a 13% condo hotel tax, and that helps support the economy here by paying for necessary services like police, fire, and road repair.

My friends also treated me to a lovely dinner at Petra’s, my favorite restaurant in Mammoth, which sort of made up for the fact that they were just too tired on their way down south after three days of skiing on the mountain to stop by my place, um, just off the 395.

Let it be known that my San Francisco friends are off the hook because the passes are closed most of the year and it is a bit of a haul for them even when it’s open. They’re more likely to say, oh, let’s meet in Tahoe!

My mother is also off the hook because she doesn't drive on freeways or highways. Plus she's almost an octogenarian. That means my sister Cynthia, who lives in Los Angeles, has to get off her ass. Or on it, in order to drive up here.

But come to think of it, there was another friend from Los Angeles (Orange County, to be exact), who came up for a visit in November. But he was staying in Reno for a convention and instead of driving down for a visit in Mammoth, guess what he said? Let’s meet in Tahoe!

I was not ungrateful for that. He made all the reservations and booked a nice cabin on the North Shore, and it was a very nice visit in Tahoe, which I hadn’t seen in twenty years.

I just can’t help but wonder, though, why didn’t he want to drive an extra hour or so to Mammoth?

Was it really the same reason my cousin from Denver had, who will be flying to Reno in April? “I’m coming to Reno for business,” she emailed. “I’d really love to see your place in Mammoth - maybe this summer, okay? But for now, let’s meet in Tahoe!”

And that's fine with me, because I love Tahoe and we're going to have fun. But why isn't Mammoth equally alluring? Well for one thing, Tahoe is closer to the wine tasting district in El Dorado. Another is that it has a really big lake and much cuter 1800's type towns and buildings and stuff. Mammoth is kinda ugly strip malls and stuff. Until you get to my house at McGee Creek, which is really beautiful, with spectacular views, and lots of open space public lands to roam.

“Okay,” you’re probably thinking, “that Catherine isn’t really very good at advertising Mammoth, is she? Has she remembered to describe how beautiful it is in the fall when the leaves are turning? Maybe some of her friends - if she really has any, that is - would have come then. Or what about the glories of hiking in the Lakes Basin in the spring, summer or fall? Has she mentioned that? Or cross-country skiing there, right now?

“Or what about how close Mammoth is to June Lake, Mono Lake, and other great day trips and public lands? Has Catherine, obviously so deficit in her descriptive abilities, told her friends and family about that?

“Or about how divine it is after you’ve stretched your limbs and lungs hiking or skiing to freshen up and enjoy libations and repast in any number of terrrific local establishments, such as Skadi, Lakefront, LuLu, Side Door, Alpenrose, Convict, etc.?”

Yeah, yeah, I have, so that’s not why they’ve not visited. In fact, I’ve even posted photos on my blogspot to further entice my Southern Californian no-excuse lazybonesjoneses comrades to get off their butts and make the drive. But they haven't. And in fact, two of them recently got mad at me when I got confused about scheduling during one of my rare visits south and couldn't see them. Excuse me, why haven't they made a point of visiting me up here, huh? huh?

“There’s really no excuse now because they can fly,” said my colleague and new friend Stacey Powells, originally from Encino. Somehow, I was reassured when she told me that in the past seventeen years she’s lived in Mammoth, there are still friends she’s known all her life who have found excuses not to make the trek. So I might as well not expect any of mine to show up in the next seventeen years, either.

I did have one friend who was originally from Los Angeles who came to visit me from where he now lives in Utah. And he stayed for a solid three weeks in August, allowing for all kinds of summer hiking in the backcountry and good times in town. So maybe it takes moving to Utah to make the visit to Mammoth. Utah people get it about the mountains and snow. They know it's worth the drive.

So, back to my friends and family in Los Angeles, here is the only reason I can think of why they just can’t seem to make time for the five hour drive up the 395 to Mammoth and back.

They really want to go to Yosemite.

Recently I asked my niece if she’d like to fly here for her 18th birthday in March.

“I’d really like to see your place, Aunt Cathy, but I was thinking it might be fun to meet in Yosemite. I’ve never been there. Isn’t that close to Mammoth?”

I had to explain that Tioga Pass will be closed until June or so.

“Oh, are you really that far away?” she wondered.

Yes, apparently, I'm really that far away.

But here is where you can go hiking just outside of Yosemite when the pass has opened in June. Shot taken on June 29, 2008, two days after I moved to Mammoth. It's basically less than an hour from where I live. Take that, you lazybonesjoneses!