Blast From the Past

Seeing an old family movie in a new light

Nina, Anne and Buck with the Hollywood crew

This is a little bonus content, with a flashback to an era that was weirdly yet perfectly captured on film.

I never knew why Mom remembered certain things over others. In the same way, I never knew what would trigger my own memories of her; what sights, smells or sounds would transport me back to a time when her mind was as clear as our mother/daughter roles.

One such time came several years ago, while driving home from the Montreal Airport. I’d just picked up my son from a long trip, and to avoid a long line at the highway border we took a rural route home through tiny towns of Quebec. It was much prettier than the highway, and there was also a good softserve stand along the way, just across the Vermont border.

We rolled through mature cornfields that rippled with the muted greens of late summer that are so easy on the senses. The mild air, the scenery and the hazy evening light turned our drive into a cruise though comfort and peace. My son called up the playlist he’d created for multi-generation singability and danceability, and we sang —or rather, belted out the music—with mostly the right words. I respect, and also feel responsible for, my eldest son’s appreciation for cheesy music. When Toto’s “Africa” came on, he cranked it all the way up. This would have been torture for many kids, including my younger son, but for us it was heaven.

TIME MACHINE

In that moment I was transported back to being ten years old, driving along I-80 with my own mom, singing over the soundtrack of Annie Get Your Gun. Ever since Nina had taken me to see my first live theater production in San Francisco, I’d been smitten with Broadway musicals, and particularly with sassy Annie Oakley, as played by my then-hero Debbie Reynolds. From then on, like mom, I was a sucker for any soundtrack but especially this one.

It seems like Mom and I were often alone together in the car during that time, which made sense. I was ten, and the solidly nerdy, youngest and least physically developed kid in seventh grade at Sierra Mountain Intermediate School (SMI). We were transitioning from suburbanites to mountain people and SMI was my social entry point. My older siblings had all bridged the chasm of middle school hell and landed in high school as cool teenagers. At least that’s how it seemed from my perspective. They had people to be with, and places to go, so it made sense that Nina was stuck with me and that I was especially grateful for the safety of her company. The car and its stock of cassettes was my sanctuary.

Anyway, back to our moment on I-80. We were in the foothills just past Auburn as we headed back into the mountains from a rare day trip to Sacramento. At some point, probably during the slow, sappy “Girl That I Marry” number on Side A, we noticed blue flashing lights behind us, and mom reluctantly pulled over.

Usually she was nervous when she got stopped. Now she just seemed annoyed. We were, after all, just about to launch into “You Can’t Get a Man With a Gun,” one of our favorites. The CHP who sidled up to the driver’s side window did not look amused; but he also looked more surprised than angry when he addressed Nina:

“Didn’t you see me back there? I was following you for miles.”

“No, officer.”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“Oh definitely not.”

“What were you doing?!?!”

“We were singing, officer.” Nina was polite, as always, but not contrite.

He gave us the ticket. It was totally worth it.

A WINDOW INTO THE PAST

It so happens that I recently rediscovered a time capsule from this era. In our family lore it is known as “The Japanese Movie.” It was a 30-minute film made exactly during this time frame, at the height of my awkward middle school dorkiness. Someone in the world of Japanese entertainment had decided that seeing a day in the life of a young “typical” American ski racer (as if there is any such thing) was just what Japanese kids craved for their scant after school TV time. Thanks to the recommendation from a local coach, that American ski racer was me.

To make it, the film crew (who spoke minimal English) shadowed me for a week, shooting and re shooting every moment of my day. The scene that best captures my mood is the one where I am stomping into the front door of SMI on the 5^th or 6^th take, in tears of frustration and sheer embarrassment. In fact, I was so embarrassed by seeing myself on film that the movie remained buried in my Dad’s pile of hand-labeled VHS tapes. Twenty years later, someone dug it out to make sure my soon-to-be fiancé watched it before making a serious commitment. By then I was over the cringing, but still not super thrilled at any showing.

Eventually the Japanese movie, and whatever clips were saved on the end of the tape, got lost in the family archives (a box in my sister’s garage); but now, thanks to the one sister who found the VHS, the other sister who got it digitized and my niece who put it on youtube, it is available for public viewing. The auto generated subtitles (never seen before its youtube incarnation) are themselves good entertainment, and further confuse the story line.

HINDSIGHT IS KIND SIGHT

Now, finally, I can fully appreciate the movie’s historical value. I recently posted the Japanese movie to Facebook and have actually enjoyed hearing other people’s recollections and observations. It reminds me of everything about that time: the awkward, constant self-consciousness of middle school (for everyone, not just me); the Seventies fashion (especially the after school skiwear of cords and jeans); the freedom that sport allowed me; our treasure trove of incredible coaches; my mishmash of faithful ski friends; and the quiet background work of Nina, doing everything she could to help her kids follow their dreams and embracing whatever wacky adventure came along the way.

Watching it now I think about how hard it must have been for mom, living apart from my Dad all winter while making her own new friends, wrangling three teenagers and constantly propping up her chronically uncool youngest child. She made it all, and me, feel perfectly normal. The time we spent together in that era, singing Broadway tunes in the car and losing ourselves in the moment, made me feel like I did on the mountain, where I didn’t care what anyone thought, where I felt totally free. Maybe she needed that car time sanctuary too.

FLASHING BACK, AND FORWARD

As my son and I drove the home stretch on that trip from Montreal, singing even louder because we knew the end of or guilty pleasure karaoke session was near, I wondered if this moment would someday come back to him; if someday, hearing the song “Africa”, and feeling the urge to belt it out, would transport him back to a time when being with Mom was uncomplicated by regrets of the past or worries of the future. When being with Mom simply meant feeling happy, safe and loved.

If you have any comments or observations on the Japanese movie, I’d love to hear them. Or, you can join into the Facebook convo here