Disappearing into a seated darkness with the expectation of being enveloped into another world, a different world planned, managed and directed by a good storyteller – relaxed, readily accepting the experience projected by flickering lights, moving objects, images, action and sound emanating from a big screen – that’s my good theatrical movie experience. Maybe something to drink, popcorn or a hot dog – a good movie, at times, is the best therapy for me.

Walking into a movie theater alone, unlike, for instance, eating alone, is a well-accepted ‘social’ experience. The patrons at a movie only care that you turn off your electronic gadgets before the trailers start. Unlike eating alone where one has to bring a book, magazine or other electronic device for busying oneself while the others (pairs or more) talk together or not, a movie is the experience of escaping into somewhere else for a couple of hours.

There are those movies that I can watch over and over again still enjoying every frame to the fullest. One of those movies is the finest western ever made (in my humble opinion), and that is George P. Comatos’ magnificent “Tombstone”. From the heartbreaking beginning to the dance in the snow at the end, I always remain hooked!

Again, in my opinion, Hollywood goofed in regard to Val Kilmer not being nominated, therefore, not even considered for an academy award for his outstanding performance as John Henry “Doc” Holliday, the well-educated dentist with tuberculosis (called consumption in those days). My sons and I would offer in jest to one another “I’ll be your huckleberry” or “I’m your huckleberry” for months after viewing the director’s cut DVD at a family night get-together. My eldest looked up the meaning of the huckleberry term spoken by the ‘good’ Doc and he found that it refers to “I’m the right person for the job” or a huckleberry is also described as a pallbearer for the dead. Either way, Doc meant business.

 I can look back at my life and the lives of my children and grandchildren and movies play an important role in our living and loving. “King Kong” the movie is a remembrance that I have written about. I took my two sons to see the Jerome Robbins and Robert Wise’s musical “West Side Story” when they still allowed me to hold their hands as we walked together.   They still watch it on DVD and sing those wonderful songs with their children.

I use movies as a way to open discussions with my granddaughters regarding issues in life. For instance after watching “The Notebook”, the opportunity arose regarding the impact of first love and the effect that has on the psyche no matter what other opportunities are offered in life. After watching the ever so cute “The Courtship of Eddie’s Father” with the young multi-talented Ron Howard as Eddie and Glenn Ford as the widower father (who could forget him in “Gilda”), we discussed death and its impact on the remaining family members.

I had a life changing experience at the movie theater, one that was embarrassingly bad, but a good thing in disguise. I was an eighth grader and finally not required to take my brothers with me to the Saturday and Sunday special showings that included two full-length features, seven (7) cartoons, trailers for coming attractions and a newsreel. I had plans. I had surreptitiously saved money to buy a pack of Kool Menthol filter-tipped cigarettes that I had forged a note from my parents to purchase (in those days, one could smoke in the theater). As I slipped them into my purse along with the dollar bill for spending money and bus fare home I thought ‘at last, I was going to get Jeffery Weekly’s attention.’ He was the finest, tall, lanky, long drink-of-water that walked the Longfellow Junior High campus. My plan included lighting my cigarette, holding it in that certain way as I sauntered down the aisle, then I would slide into the row of seats behind Jeff and his crowd, lean over his shoulder from behind and offer him a cigarette as I coolly blew smoke into the theater air. I imagined that he would turn, smile at me, gladly take one and light up. He might even ask could he offer one to his friends and I would smile at him and say “of course”. I wanted to let him know that this was an everyday thing with me and we could share this wonderful habit together, just as Bette Davis and Paul Henreid did in “Now Voyager” although I had never smoked in my life.

I arrived early for the 2P showing, sat near the back of the theater in order to see all who entered the double-doored center aisle, while being able to see anyone who entered the side doors as well. At last, I saw his talk lanky frame enter with two of his friends. After they found seats in center row, middle, and sat down talking in low tones with each other, I waited patiently until the trailers played and the cartoons finished. When the lights lowered for the first movie, I slipped out into the concession area and turned left towards the rest rooms. I entered the ladies’ room in a “Now Voyager” frame of mind and confidently pulled out my precious pack of menthol tipped Kools, placing one between my lips and the pack back into my purse. I pictured the scene in the Irving Rapper directed film, when Paul Henreid lit two cigarettes at once and so sensuously placed the other one into Bette’s waiting lips. Ms. Davis held it between her fore and middle fingers and took a long drag as she threw her head back and exhaled an even longer trail of smoke from perfectly pursed lips while looking sexily into his eyes. Even though it was my first time, I could do the same, no problem. Seated behind him, I would not be able to stare into his eyes as Bette did, but what the heck; it was not going to be quite as perfect as in the movie scene.

I had carefully dressed and my hair was perfection as I placed the menthol tip to my waiting lips and lit it. I took a deep drag, pulling as much smoke into my lungs as possible, I wanted it be somewhat smoked as I approached my dreamboat.

As the rancid smoke hit the back of my throat, I coughed a cough so deep that it caused my whole body to tremble. I bent over choking in agony; I could not straighten up. My eyes teared and turned red. My nose let go of the grossest string of mucus ever from each nostril. My cheeks, eyes, and nose changed to a deep reddish-purple color as I tried to get control; however, I couldn’t stop coughing. My carefully coiffed hair flew every which way all over my head. The snot, tears and spit covered the front of my freshly ironed sweater and the cigarette and my purse somehow had landed on the tiled restroom floor. I looked into the wall-to-wall mirror in horror at this thing I had become. Still coughing and holding my throat, I grabbed my purse from the floor and through blurry eyes, ran down the hall and out the theater door. The fresh air helped as I staggered to the bus stop and waited for the long embarrassed ride home.

Jeffery moved away shortly after my experience with cigarettes at the movies. He never knew that I had a crush on him, or that I was willing to place my life in jeopardy for him (at that time Camel’s were the rage and Marlborough guy was still alive and touting the greatness of smoking cigarettes).

Nobody had to tell me not to smoke cigarettes. All the advertisements over the ensuing years warning of the health risks of smoking fell on deaf ears as far as I am concerned. Smoking was not only dangerous for your health; it was dangerous for getting the attention of the finest boy in school.

Today is October 31, 2014, All Hallows Eve or Halloween, the start of the holiday season.  The good thing is the parade for the San Francisco Giants, winner of baseball’s World Series, is being celebrated on a rainy day in the city.  The bad thing is it’s raining, which is a good thing.  No one likes rain on a parade day. However, California really needs the rain.

It’s an exciting rainy day. The streets of San Francisco are crowded with thousands of hats and gloves, umbrellas, plastic poncho wearing fans waiting (some since 4:00AM) along the parade route on Market Street, dressed in orange and black representing the colors of both the San Francisco Giants and Halloween and it all fits. The University of California, (CAL) marching band is playing, leading the parade. The rain is inconsequential – the excitement palpable, I can feel the joy through my television screen. Cable cars on wheels, marching horses, with the human scoopers walking behind with their ever-ready shovels, fire trucks, vintage cars, double-deck buses, white and yellow plastic rain coats, happy, smiling faces of all colors with cameras of all shapes and sizes, great floats, confetti and lights – it’s amazing to watch. I am so proud of the Giants. They were incredible to watch during the nail-biting series and edge of the seat last game win. The Parade of Champions – Go Giants!

I once looked forward to this season as my favorite time of the year. It’s not so much anymore. Regretfully, rather than the celebrations, this time of year reminds me of the losses in my life. What was once fun on Halloween has become a chore. Waiting for the doorbell to ring, with the big bowl of candy, I now worry that I’m part of the problem of childhood obesity and maybe ADHD in children by doing so. I could give fruit or some other healthy choice; however, I’m tired of trying to do what’s right and feeling guilty when I’m not. The few children who ring aren’t so cute anymore with their store-bought costumes so different from the ones we made for ourselves when I was a child.

Thanksgiving is no longer the easy holiday of eating, family enjoyment and thankfulness that I remember when growing up. Now as a family, we must first reach agreement on where we can have dinner with everyone because of family issues and uncomfortableness between family members. I look in the mirror and ask, “Is it me?”

Christmas was my favorite, now, the putting up trees and shopping for others is a chore and I’m always wondering if I am offending my saying, “Merry Christmas” when that’s what I grew up saying as I walked through the happy throng of shoppers at the mall. Now I feel a low-lying anger when I say “Happy Holidays” although I really mean it (I wish everyone would have a happy holiday season), but I really want to say, “Merry Christmas”. How far must I go to be PC?

I’ll watch the ball come down on New Years Eve, if I’m still awake. I now drink a glass of champagne well before midnight knowing that I will probably fall asleep before the ball drops, missing the old Dick Clark for the past few years and wishing him well.

I miss my mom and dad more and more and am reminded of the “good old days” when the holidays with them were so much fun. Am I remembering correctly, or am I painting the past with a forgiving brush and only remembering the good or is this a natural part of aging where memories of the past seem to trump the living of the present?

My chest started blossoming when I was nine years old. I tried to hide the budding embarrassments by hunching my shoulders forward and wearing loose clothing. Nobody else my age had these “things” growing on their chests. Why me?

One day as I walked home from the “Corner Store” as we referred to the relatively small supermarket three blocks away, distinguishing it from the much smaller local stores owned by Mr. Taylor (the mean one) which was right across the street from our apartment and Mr. Daniels (the nice one), which required a five-minute walk across an empty field.

With a small bag of the purchases I had made in one hand, I watched as Alex Rawlings walked toward me. Alex was tall for his age and I had become aware at school and around the neighborhood that he noticed me. I was not impressed and always ignored and avoided him.

As we passed each other on the sidewalk, Alex reached over and grabbed one of my budding boobs and squeezed. I screamed in embarrassment and horror and ran the rest of the way home suppressing tears as I ran. As I entered the door, my father looked at me and said “Baby Girl, what’s wrong?” I replied,  “Alex Rawlings messed with me” as the tears broke loose as I held my hand over my chest. My father did not say another word. He went over to the closet, got a baseball bat and disappeared into the fading sunlight for about three hours. When he returned, night had fallen; he said nothing to me.

I didn’t see Alex for quite sometime after that; however, whenever I walked through the neighborhood and he saw me coming (or going), Alex hastily crossed to the other side of the street or turned and went in the other direction. I always smiled when I saw him.

I miss my dad.

Looking through the prism of the past, and the jolting reality of the present, what can one expect as the promise of aging. More important, is there any promise in aging or does one just live one day at a time feeling blessed that you wake up each morning?

I may have mentioned this in a previous blog; but it’s worth repeating because of the unexpected shock of passing a mirror one morning and glancing at an old woman whom I didn’t recognize, staring back at me. I stood stupefied looking at the messy hair, the sagging skin, and the washed out coloring, and asking myself “when in hell did I become this?” I had a bootylicious butt and small waist, with big sparking brown eyes and plump lips. That was the young “thing” I once was. I was never the beauty that my friend Shane was. I remember once walking into a bar with her and an up and coming business man, whom we both knew, came toward us and as he dropped down onto his drunken knees; he proposed marriage to Shane. He was not embarrassed and no one in the crowded bar seemed to take notice. Shane had that kind of effect on men. She was beautiful.

The fabled fountain of youth has been found and is being offered in the form of Botox and plastic surgeries. This fountain can be bathed in; submerging oneself into the painful waters that only hurt for a relatively short while with the promise of smooth skin and fat-free bodies. The moneyed and the wanna-bees hock their lives and/or inheritance trusting the promise of those knives and needles that have become the mystical waters searched for by voyagers and explorers of yore.

It’s not just women who wish to dive into and swim in the dangerous waters of the fountain. Men, bravely and boldly choose to navigate the knives and needles of the precious fountain too. They too, hang on to what used to be. After the shock of seeing myself as I am now, I wonder where did my youth go? When did the years sneak up on me and surreptitiously and criminally change my appearance? As I looked in the mirror each day, why couldn’t I see the changes as they occurred? It was really a jaw dropping experience to, at once, see oneself as an “old lady.”

Younger men refer to me as “mam” now. Even the ones with bald heads or grey hair no longer turn as they used to when I walk by. These days, the new reality is a relative going into hock for breast implants in her fifties. Another friend, a few years older than me, claimed that her swollen face and puffy eyes was due to “problems with aging” – well she didn’t actually lie. Her facial skin is now as smooth as a baby’s butt. She really looks marvelous.

Aging gracefully is the answer. But, how do you do that? A nip here, a tuck there, a needle as well – is that graceful? A good example of the dichotomy is Tippi Hedren, who starred in Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” and her daughter, Melanie Griffith who starred in “Working Girl.” Google each of them and it’s amazing how beautiful the mother is with her aging face still beautiful and obviously not cosmetically altered, compared to her daughter. It’s not about the genes – Melanie was a beauty in her day. The difference in how they each have aged.

For a price, doctors offer the murky waters of that sought after fountain that I once dreamed of as a warm inviting place like the waters of the Caribbean, is now filled with knives, needles, strong lights and a doctor’s/surgeon’s steady hands that renders pain, blood and gobs of fat. Joan Rivers has swum too often in the dangerous waters, in my opinion. However, she seems as happy as one with her personality can be.

Am I going to take a chance on getting into the water? Maybe Botox. But, not plastic surgery; however, a little suction for getting rid of that stomach roll might not be so bad!

Aging brings about the break down of the body requiring pills, salves, other required surgeries and every kind of restriction imaginable from food, drink and activities. Can you blame one for wishing to look good as you break down?

However, as of right now: with acceptance and promise, play the music, take away the mirrors and sing with me as I gracefully dance into the daylight, laughing and unafraid.