Our old school in London, ASL (The American School in London). The school was started in the 50s but this building, where Robbie and I went was begun in 1968 and finished in 1970. The cornerstone was laid by Ambassador Walter Annenberg and The Rt. Hon. Margaret Thatcher, MP, then secretary of state for education and science (aka at that time, Margaret Thatcher Milk Snatcher) spoke at the dedication.
The campus is in St. John’s Wood. I’m guessing the fortress-like street presence was developed to counter terrorist threats. In the early 70s, for us, it was the IRA who called in a couple of bomb threats to the school. We were happy there amongst the army, oil, CIA and State Department brats. We were the swinging divorcee brats and got to see Elton John and do our first acting.
I kissed Sam Robards in my first play — strictly a stage kiss. And was seen by Alan Parker and asked to audition for a movie he was making: Bugsy Malone. I didn’t get it; Jodie Foster did.
But I wasn’t disappointed. With Mother happy and occupied by new people and parties and songwriting, Robbie and I were free and for a couple of teenagers in 70s London, that was easily as much fun as making a movie.
Sometimes, for the sake of narrative flow, style, character–any number of reasons–a writer has to cut passages in order to make a better book. As Faulkner said, “Kill your darlings.” In memoir your darlings are not simply scenes you made up, they are part of your life, part of you. This passage had to be cut from Chanel and I think it’s a better book for its absence but it doesn’t make it less meaningful for me. Thanks to the modern miracle of blogging (like the extras section of film dvds) I can share it with you.
Moccasins of Shame
The hospital was bright and clean inside and smelled like a swimming pool. Mother’s room was all bleached white and glowing with sunlight. Her blond hair was pulled back in a bun. Looking at her in the skinny hospital bed, I didn’t think she looked sick at all. She looked beautiful, like a fairy princess.
Mother laughed and smiled and was so happy to see us. Daddy stood against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, as we climbed up onto the bed to hug her and kiss her. She told us that she got to eat her breakfast in bed and that most nights they showed movies in the dining room after dinner. She told us about a woman she’d met there who had been a famous Olympic diver, but had then dived into a swimming pool with no water in it and now she had problems thinking straight. I wondered aloud why someone would jump into an empty swimming pool in the first place, but Mother said it had been an accident.
Before we left, she gave us each a little pair of moccasins that she had made for us during recreation. I asked what that was, and she said it was a time when everyone at the hospital got to make something with their hands—baskets or pot holders, for example—and that she had decided to make something for us. The moccasins were brown suede and had little beads sewn onto the tops of them—they were so pretty. I told her I loved them. Then a nurse came in and said that visiting hours were over and we kissed Mother good-bye.
“I’ll be home soon,” she promised.
I rode home in the car smiling the whole way with my moccasins on my lap. I told my father that I planned to wear them to school the next day to show everyone. My father said nothing; he just looked out at the road over the steering wheel.
The next day, I pranced into my classroom wearing the moccasins to show everyone how clever my mother was and how much she loved me.
“Look! See?” I said to anyone who would listen.
“Gee,” said Carol Rulnick as I modeled them for her.
“My mom made me these pretty Pocahontas shoes!” I sang.
“Those are nice,” said Tommy Flatto.
“Is your mom an Indian?” asked Phillip Braxton. He was so dumb.
“Can I try them on?” asked Carol but I pretended I didn’t hear her. I was crazy in love with those shoes; there was no way I was going to let her.
I basked in the attention of my classmates and struck a few dramatic foot poses to show my moccasins off to their best advantage.
“Wendy Lawless, you come here this instant,” said my first grade teacher Miss Entus.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said skipping up to her. I figured she just wanted a better look at my beautiful shoes and maybe to ask me where I got them. But she didn’t. She took her glasses off and stuck her hands on her hips.
“Wendy, I am appalled that your parents would allow you to wear bedroom slippers to school.” She looked down at me sternly.
“But…” I said.
Until this moment I had loved Miss Entus with all my heart. She was thin and blonde like my mother and she gave us lollipops during the spelling test.
“I’m afraid that it’s against school rules,” she said folding her arms across her chest.
I wanted to tell her that they weren’t bedroom slippers and that my mom had made them for me, that she had sewn the little beads on herself.
“You go to the office right now and you tell them that you are to be sent home,” Miss Entus said.
“But…” I tried again.
She pointed to the door. I looked down at my feet, heartbroken. There was hush as I walked out of the classroom and down to the office to wait for my father.
Apparently no one had told Miss Entus that my moccasins had been hand-made by my crazy mom during her recreation period at the loony bin.
“For those who prefer a kooky story of a glamorous woman living like a grown-up Eloise in New York, to the detriment of her daughters, there’s Wendy Lawless’ fizzy Chanel Bonfire.” “Fizzy” — the definition of a great beach read!
Mother and Robbie in we think maybe Canada but it could be a state park in Missouri we’re not sure.
As you can tell by her chic movie star bathing suit, she was already dressing for Saint Tropez. It would be a few years and another marriage before she made it there. But she did.
If you will be in or near Beverly Hills on Friday, May 31st, I’d love to invite you to breakfast at the Beverly Hills Women’s Club. I’ll be speaking about family, mental illness and crazy moms and reading from Chanel. It’s a fun smart group of women. Hope to see you there!
We interrupt this holiday weekend to remind you that…
So if you live in Southern California or you’re visiting the Los Angeles area for the Memorial Day weekend, check out Vicki Abelson’s website and get a ticket. In Chanel, I describe visiting my father in the summers and him taking Robbie and me to Dayton’s department store in Minneapolis to buy playclothes which we never had in New York. Dayton’s is the store in front of which Mary Tyler Moore tosses her hat into the air in the opening credits to The Mary Tyler Moore Show, co-starring none other than my reading buddy this Tuesday, Valerie Harper. Small world.
A terrific looking woman caught reading Chanel Bonfire in Grand Central Station.
As the publication date for my book came closer, I began to realize that I was about to expose myself and my life to many (if I was lucky) complete strangers as well as people who knew me or had known me and yet did not know very much about my childhood. It’s not that I didn’t realize what I was doing as I wrote the book; I just didn’t realize how completely exposed I might feel.
And when the book was published in January and people began to read it, I did hear a lot of expected responses: I had know idea, You seemed so normal, I did wonder…, I had the same experience, My mother too was insane, I’m glad you wrote this, I don’t feel so alone. What I didn’t expect were the little joys of random sightings of the book and people reading the book. Friends and strangers started sending pictures of the book in airports and bookstores and peoples hands like the one above (Sent by my step-sister Mary while she was on a long weekend trip to New York from her home in Detroit.). I also did not expect the heartfelt praise and gratitude from readers who had also had difficult childhoods and nowhere to turn, or the reconnections with some people who knew me as a kid or are characters in the book.
I like hearing from readers — their reactions to the book, their own stories. One of the most fun things I’ve been doing is Skyping with Book Groups. These Skype sessions are even better than book tour and book store readings and events because they’re so much more intimate. People always have questions or ideas I’ve never thought of. And they like hearing stories which, for narrative reasons, I had to leave out of the book. In a way I suppose these Skypes are like the director’s commentary in the special features section of dvds. Often I get to hear stories from people in the groups too which I would never get to do at a book store.
So if your Book Group is reading Chanel and would like to get together, please email me at chanelbonfire@gmail.com and we can set up a Skype Chat.
Flower Children: Striking a pose next to Daddy’s Mustang convertible.
One summer, before Mother took us away to London, Daddy had some time off from the Guthrie and rented a little place in Wisconsin. He’d drive along the back roads at what felt like a hundred miles an hour with the top down and Robbie and I jumping up and down in the back seat as the wind blew back our hair and rushed through our fingers. I still get that feeling of freedom sometimes on a long drive.
