May Tribute: My Sister Angie

Angie is the smallest girl, sitting next to our  mother.
Angie would have been around three years old here.

May is skin cancer awareness month. It’s also the month when my younger sister, Angie, was born. Angie died in 1990 from melanoma, the deadliest form of skin cancer. When I remember her birthday each year, I am saddened that melanoma is still the easiest form of cancer to detect and treat early, but still one of the deadliest if treated late.

Angie was a freckled child, with blue eyes and auburn hair. We were California girls and our frequent trips to the beach often left Angie with angry red sunburns that blistered and peeled. It was the age of Coppertone—the 1960s—when billboards and magazine ads iconized that cute little girl with the frisky puppy nipping down her bathing suit bottom to reveal that distinct tan and white demarcation. While Gidget lived it up under the sun, the rest of the world burned and baked their skins to achieve the “perfect” tan.

Angie never got that perfect tan. My parents smeared her down with sunscreen while she compared herself to our older sister, Robin, and me, who tanned easily. As a teenager outside the watchful eyes of our parents, Angie tried her skin again at sun tanning. The results were always the same—scorched skin.

At the age of 15, a mole on Angie’s back began oozing a clear, sticky substance. The doctor didn’t seem overly concerned, telling my mother Angie was “too young” for skin cancer, but thought that removal was a good idea. Following the removal, I remember Angie telling me the doctor said the mole was so deep he couldn’t get it all out. When the biopsy result came back, it said, “Juvenile. Melanoma. Benign.” The doctor told my mom there was nothing to worry about.

Years went by. Angie went to college, married, had a son, and obtained a job as a medical assistant for a large medical group in Southern California. When she noticed odd swellings in the lymph nodes under her arms, she received immediate medical attention from her friend and physician for whom she worked. When a battery of lab tests didn’t identify a source of the swelling,  the doctor decided to remove the troublesome nodes and do a biopsy.

My sister Angie (28) and her son Jacob (5) 1989.

The results of that biopsy shocked and dismayed even that seasoned physician. At age 29, Angie was diagnosed with advanced melanoma—the deadliest form of skin cancer. What pathologists erroneously deemed “benign” back in 1976 was actually an early malignant melanoma that would raise its hideous head 13 years later.

By the time my sister’s melanoma was correctly diagnosed in 1990, she had already lived 12 years beyond most advanced melanoma patients. Perhaps it was her youth, her love of life, or being a mother; or maybe it was the lives of those she touched and cared for in the clinic which helped her surpass her life expectancy. Nevertheless, it was less than four months from the time of her diagnosis to the day of her passing.

Angie’s premature death at the age of 29 compelled me to share her story with anyone who has ears to hear. I know at least one blond-haired, blue-eyed girl who routinely wears her sunscreen—my own daughter Elisabeth.

Angie would be 51 years old today if the lab at Kaiser had correctly interpreted the melanoma diagnosis and the doctor had been more proactive about his own education in skin cancers. You can learn about your own risk for melanoma or other less deadly forms of skin cancer here:

Melanoma: Melanoma Research Foundation.

Basal cell or squamous cell: American Cancer Society.

The majority of this piece was first published in Focus magazine, May 1997.

Three Views Of An Iris

Okay, it's true. I'm on an iris kick. But how could I not be when these amazing beauties are blooming all around? Have you ever smelled fresh irises? They have the most delicate scent; like newborn fairies, I'm told. I got my nose nice and close to these today in my front garden.

In Praise of Spring

Ode to Joy

On this Easter morning I set out to find one video clip of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" portion of his Ninth Symphony to post on my Facebook. I found such a wealth of expression for this musical masterpiece, it was hard to select just one. I narrowed it down to a vintage clip of the legendary Leonard Bernstein conducting the Vienna Philharmonic, posted it on my timeline, then decided to bring a selection of the diverse expressions over to Ovations. If you have the time to listen, here's a musical tour of this magnificent classic.

Leonard Bernstein conducts the Vienna Philharmonic in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony's "Ode to Joy."

Opening ceremonies of the 1998 Winter Olympics in Nagano, Japan, World Chorus symphony conducted by Seiji Ozawa.

Here is Zubin Mehta with Italian Maggio Musicale Fiorentino Orchestra, a concert to benefit Japan earthquake relief in 2011.

The complete "Ode to Joy" sung in German, with English subtitles.

From the 1994 film Blessed Immortal, the scene when Beethoven recalls his childhood.

National Children's Choir, Ireland 2007.

Children's recorder choir from Arden Cahill Academy.

Ode to Joy as expressed by the National Ukulele Choir of Great Britain.

Folk singer Pete Seeger's banjo and whistling rendition of "Ode to Joy."

Soulful funk now from the film Sister Act 2, choir conducted by Whoppi Goldberg as Sister Deloris.

Traditional choral by Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church Chancel Choir.

Concert harp by Jon Kovac.

Celtic harp by Mike Gurule.

Folk expression on the autoharp.

On the mouth harp (harmonica) by Chris Mayka.

By Jamie Turner on "glass harp" (water-filled glasses).

Beaker the Muppet in Sesame's Street's "Mee, mee, mee."

A Clockwork Orange "Ode to Joy."

On organ by M.P. Moller at St. Mary's Catholic Church, Hudson, Ohio.

Smooth jazz by Larry McDonough Quartet.

Matt Lemmler's New Orleans Jazz Revival Band at Williams Trace Baptist Church, Sugarland, Texas.

Samuel Ramey solos in German.

Steady breath from 2008-2009 East Peoria Woodwind Quartet.

Contemporary rock expression by Casting Crowns.

Happy listening on this Easter day.

Again To Spring, A Columbine

Again to spring, a columbine raises its pure white face. A reminder that life cycles through the fevered brushes of love, the falling leaves of failure, the frigid grip of fear. That after death there is life. (Photo c 2012 by Carolyn Burns Bass)

April Fools Circa 1967

Enjoy this April Fools Day excerpt from my yet-to-be-published novel, The Sword Swallower's Daughter. This scene is from protagonist Sheila as a nine-year-old girl. In later years Sheila pulls the same trick her grandmother uses here to get back at her sword-swallowing father.

Mama hated April Fool’s Day and let it be known she would not tolerate any jokes at her expense. She said that growing up with Uncle Teddy had been like April Fool’s Day every single day of the year. That didn’t stop us from pooling our tricks on Grandma.

A penny in a gumball machine had recently rewarded me with a black plastic spider about the size of a quarter. Holly and I tied a long piece of thread around one of the spider’s legs and placed the prop on the kitchen floor just under the counter in front of the coffee percolator. Holly held one end of the string while we sat at the kitchen table eating Cheerios and waiting for Grandma to appear in her fluffy robe and floppy slippers.

“Good morning, Grandma,” I said, as she stepped through the kitchen door.

Holly tugged the string just enough for the spider to appear out from under the cabinet.

Morning, girls.” She cast us a sleepy smile and headed directly to the coffee pot.

Holly tugged the string again.

Grandma’s face went white. She lurched forward and stomped onto the spider with her floppy-slippered foot, while Holly and I went into peals of laughter. Grandma lifted her foot and Holly pulled the string again. Holly and I doubled over as Grandma shrieked and repeated the stomp and twist. When Grandma pulled her foot away the second time, Holly pulled again and Grandma’s eyes followed the spider’s movement to Holly’s hand. Her face went hard, then soft, then relieved, then something I couldn’t read. She collapsed into a chair and exhaled.

“I’m too old for this.” Grandma shook her head at us. “Go on now. I’ll make your lunches today—just leave me alone to gather my wits.”

Grandma gathered her wits and put them in our sandwiches. Sitting next to Dorris and Tracy at lunchtime, I bit into my bologna sandwich and couldn’t pull the bite away. I drew the sandwich back and lifted it apart to find a slice of brown shopping bag cut in the shape of bologna. Printed in big black letters were the words: “April Fools.”

Later that afternoon I was up in the bedroom reading when the phone rang. Most of the time I raced Holly to the phone, suffering her shoves of the shoulder or elbows in the chest. Today I let the phone ring, immersed in the problems of Julie Trelling in Up A Road Slowly.

Holly burst into the room and said, “It’s for you. It’s Lee-roy.”

I laid my book aside, raced down the stairs to the kitchen, and picked up the receiver resting on the floor in a tangle of cord.

“Hello?” I accentuated the question mark, hoping to mask the exclamation points of excitement.

“Hey, baby. Wanna braid my hair?”

So off was the voice, so un-Leroy-like the question, that it took a moment to sink in. “Who is this?”

“Not that long-hair hippie freak. April Fools!” I heard a cacophony of laughter before the phone clicked on the other end. It wasn’t until I noticed Holly staring at me with mocking eyes did I get it.

Holly burst into laughter, doubled over, and pointed to me. “You should have seen your face! You can thank Cassius for that.”

I slammed the phone into the cradle and stormed back up the stairs and closed myself away with my book.

Dr. Frankenstein of Typewriters

My stepfather was a typewriter repairman when I was growing up. He still is, in fact. The inside of his shop, Montclair Business Machines (in Ontario, Califorinia), looks remarkably like the one in the video of Typewriter Man below.

Harold gave me my first clickity-clackity beast when I was in seventh grade. It was a huge Underwood that he'd repaired from a heap of junk machines he'd purchased in bulk. He had a knack for the exacting work of setting springs, replacing screws, and oiling the parts that made the keys strike cleanly, the platen turn smoothly, and the carriage return with a single swipe. He could take an old iron chassis, clean it of rust, oxidation and inky grime, then shine it like a showroom model. Some machines needed more than just a cleaning, though. From the stacks of old machines in our garage, he would cannibalize the terminal machines for the good parts, and place them into shined up or repainted frames. He was the Dr. Frankenstein of typewriters. Every Christmas he made extra money for gifts from refurbishing and selling from his stockpile of broken typewriters.

I can't say I wrote my first novel on that seventh-grade typewriter, but I did hack out crazy stories about kids and animals, fashion models, rock bands and movie stars. And aliens. I sure did love the idea of escaping earth and starting a new life somewhere else in the universe. I wish I had some of those old stories to reminisce and laugh over, but back then, I never saw myself as a writer.


Typewriter Man from Daniel Lovering on Vimeo.