The Floor and I

I grew up in a 900 sq. ft. house that my father had built with the help of his brothers. They installed radiant heating, a series of hot water pipes, in the concrete slab. On cold winter mornings the floor was toasty and warm. When I was 10, I must have weighed all of 65 pounds, and I was frequently cold in the winter. So in the mornings I could be found on the floor in the bathroom where the radiant heating worked most effectively through the linoleum. My sister would pound on the door and shout “Ronnie, get out of there; I have to get ready for school”. Sometimes my brother would join me, and then we were twice as difficult to budge.

In the 1970s I developed a primitive practice of yoga. I learned to take the position of the plow and stretch my legs and back. I was taught in the course of actor training that the floor was my friend. I was encouraged to get friendly with it and know where it was at all times. I’m not sure what actor training is like today, but in those days we spent a lot of time on the floor, being snakes and bears and what have you.

In the 1990s as MS began to impact my locomotion, I developed methods to assist myself. I would lean on furniture and eventually had grab bars installed in the bathroom. But like most humans, I get distracted. One weekend Tom was away from home visiting his mother in Florida. I was transferring from my chair to the bed with the aid of a tall pole installed in our bedroom. I could usually make the transfer in one smooth movement, but my legs didn’t really have the strength to hold me up. So on this particular evening, I pulled my pants off and accidentally slipped to the floor. I couldn’t get back up. I tried to crawl up into the bed, no dice. My arms weren’t strong enough. I thought about spending the night on the floor, I could pull bedding down on top of myself, but I would still have the same problem in the morning unless I wanted to spend three days on the floor. So I reached the phone off my nightstand, and called my next-door neighbor, the San Diego police officer. He came over and got me into the bed, and told me I would be surprised how many times the police get called for similar situations.

I don’t spend much time on the floor anymore. Today most of my transfers are assisted by someone. But if I make a misstep, my old friend the floor is still there, waiting to embrace me with open arms.

High School abuse

When I was in high school in the late 1960s I was the victim of a roughing-up. I had to walk through a long hallway to get from one class to another. I was late to class and found myself the only person walking down the hallway. But there were eight or nine boys lining the walls on each side of me. They were dressed in T-shirts and baggy denim trousers, the 60s version of what might have been called ‘pachuco’ style in the 1940s. As soon as I entered the gauntlet, they closed in on me and pushed me to the ground. Then they scattered my books around and kicked me in the ribs for good measure. As quickly as it all happened it was over and they dispersed. I got to my knees and picked up my books. I realized I could stand and breathe and nothing was all that damaged. I felt fortunate and went on to class.

In retrospect, I was probably the victim of opportunity. The event may have had some racial overtones, or some fashion implications, (because I wore some hideous slacks from JCPenney). All in all I got out of high school without much tribulation. Today when I read the alarming statistics about teenage suicide, I know a lot of it has to do with how teenagers treat each other badly. I know it’s not a new problem but it is a tragic one. A young person might get targeted for having bad skin or speaking with a lisp or wearing hand-me-down clothing. Whatever the catalyst, it’s no excuse for this treatment.

I had so many positive experiences in high school; in sports, in student government, in drama, that my brief encounter with violence was easily shaken off. I shudder to think what would have happened if being jumped was my daily experience, and my primary experience. I understand teenage despair. If a youngster feels different and isolated, it can feel like a lonely prison cell. Spread the good news; after high school it gets better.

See the ‘it gets better’ campaign on YouTube.

Names

I watched a royal wedding recently and I was interested to note the name of the groom. Prince William Arthur Philip Louis. His moniker evokes centuries of history- and a complex labyrinth of family relations.

My father’s name was Ewing Lee Robertson. I once asked my grandmother why she had chosen the name Ewing. Dad was her sixth son, and she said after all those boys she had run out of other names to use. She already had a Harry and a George and a Carl and a Glen and a Gaylon, so when she met someone named Ewing, she thought ‘That would be a nice name for a boy.’

Ewing was a fine man, honest and decent. He always left a place better than he found it. On his deathbed he said to my husband and me that he was glad we’d found each other and he encouraged us to continue taking care of each other.

As a young adult I wondered where my parents had come up with the inspiration for my name. My middle name is Ewing, and I’ve always felt privileged to carry a little bit of my father around with me. But my first name has no obvious familial origins. As a young adult, my politics began coalescing. And I started to worry that my parents had named me after a certain Ronald who had become governor of California. My mom reassured me that Mr. Reagan had never been a hero of hers. Long before him, she was enchanted with the name of another actor, Ronald Coleman. A film critic of his time said this of Coleman:

“For such a gentle man, he had a core of strength, an adherence to his own code of honor like steel - incorruptible and immoveable.”

Need I say more.

I believe that names carry a certain indescribable influence. They imbue a person with certain qualities and they radiate a personality before the person is fully formed.

Our niece and nephew, Jennie and Kevin, had a baby boy last month. He was their third child after giving our family two beautiful daughters, Ainsley and Hadley. I have to admit I was moved to tears when I learned they’d named the boy, Ewing.