Welcome to my column! You may have read some of my past stories in the commentary section of this paper, and many of you sent favorable comments to my editor and fearless leader, and for that I thank you profusely. I have been given a monthly column and byline with my mug at the top. Yes, that is what I really look like. They say rules were made to be broken, but sadly, gravity isn’t one of them.
Allow me to re-introduce myself and my cast of real characters. I am Ariel Waterman (formerly Presta) and am married to a London-born gentleman. Together we raise his grandson, whom we have adopted. (We decided we would be his parents on weekdays and grandparents on weekends.) We live with a calico cat named Nell on a hill overlooking fields and the sea. Although I am now pushing 60, I’m still on top of the hill and a long way from going over or down it.
My lovely spouse, The Brit, has his peccadilloes, most of them involving football, which is Brit-speak for soccer. The Brit’s family is mostly still in England, and includes some of his late wife’s relatives. Talk about extended family!
Being wed to an Englishman is wonderful, and I have it all. There’s the lovely accent, the quirky charm, the handsome looks, and the fun of taunting him every July Fourth and Thanksgiving Day. “You know, dear, if you guys hadn’t kick out those Puritans, you might not have to eat turkey leftovers for a whole month!” I purr. “Pipe down and make me another turkey sandwich, please,” he growls.
Our grandson, Mini-Brit, is now nine. He has been with us since he was 3 1/2 and is what keeps us both young, at the top of our game, and on top of the hill. His first grandmother was the Brit’s late wife, and, as a step-grandma, I have stepped in and stepped up. But most important, I have endeavored to preserve, with the Brit, some memories of her for our grandson (hers, his, and mine). Photos gently preserved and mementoes carefully packed and stored for him to cherish in his manhood, along with stories and memories recalled and shared by The Brit at bedtime, are all part of Mini-Brit’s birthright. There can be no rancor or jealousy on my part of a woman whose spirit clearly dwells in the little boy she loved for three years before cancer took her from him.
My Italian family immediately adopted Brit and Mini-Brit as one of their own. Of course, anyone who shows up to eat immediately becomes a member of the family. My mother and her two sisters are referred to by my siblings, cousins, and me as “The Presta Mafia.” When those three get together for one of their “Summits,” we know something major is up. This year it will be a huge family reunion in July in Newport Beach, the nexus and “Vatican” of this curious curia I call family.
My grandparents owned a dairy farm in the Pacific Northwest. I grew up in Spokane, Wash., and loved spending time on that ranch, helping round up the cows, avoiding the cow pies, and eating my grandmother’s homemade pies and cooking. She was a remarkable cook, and I was 8 before I realized gravy is not a main beverage! Oh, why is comfort food that tastes so good so bad for you?
When I was 9, we moved to Phoenix, Ariz., and for 30 years, I lived in one of the hotter Circles of Hell. Mom still lives there and loves it. “It’s a dry heat,” she extols. “So is a blast furnace,” I explain, “but who wants to live in one?”
I grew up in Catholic schools and at a very early age decided I would become a nun. But in 1964 the Beatles came to America, and, at age 9, I was smitten with Paul, John, George, and Ringo. So I reneged on that promise and decided to pursue music. I later changed that career plan (in college) for a major in theater, but eventually saw there was more money to be made in steady work.
I went from working as a secretary for several years at the university I had attended, then returned to college and attained all three degrees in art history, moved to Los Angeles, taught art history as a free-way flyer (an adjunct faculty member), and worked in the curatorial departments at three prominent museums and one film studio. Like a monarch butterfly, I flitted from place to place, seeking that perfect flower. Fifty-seven years in the making, and I am still a work in progress! I finally found my perfect flower, my niche, when I moved to the Central Coast where I met my lovely husband, and now write and do my grandma thing. I must confess that in spite of its ups and downs, milestones and millstones, life is wonderful and the view is grand!
Ariel Waterman loves all flowers, perfect and imperfect. Send bouquets via her editor at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Apr 7-14, 2011.