It was a serendipitous moment when I saw a post on Threads last Friday from my editor at Business Insider asking if anyone collected pennies. I knew the last penny had been minted in Philadelphia the day before. And then I remembered my own collection, inherited from my grandparents. I sent her a message and ended up sending the essay later that day. I’d just had another piece, about being a grandma and also having kids in college go live a few days prior.
An interesting tidbit that was edited out of the penny piece involves this anecdote:
One night in the mid-80s, a group of teenagers came into the coffee shop in Running Springs, California, where I worked the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift, at 10:45 p.m. They wanted milkshakes, and I’d already cleaned the machine. I told them we don’t usually make shakes that late, but I’d make an exception for them. I was also intimidated and wanted to show them kindness that most people in town didn’t.
I was a teenager myself at the time and so, waiting on kids my own age was always a little intimidating. These kids in particular, happened to be from the infamous, and now defunct, CEDU “school” for troubled teens. In the mid-80s the population of Running Springs was around 3,000 and everyone in town referred to the kids who would occasionally be allowed to leave the grounds as the “CEDU kids.” I don’t think anyone knew back then what a horrific place it was.
Rachel Uchitel spent time at CEDU and talks about her experience on her Miss Understood with Rachel podcast. Netflix’s limited series, Wayward is apparently inspired by CEDU. I’ll be watching and curious to see if they filmed in my home town of Running Springs.
Thanks as always for reading– Oh–and hope you find a lucky penny today!
Preserving my latest for Next Avenue which, sadly, will not be around much longer thanks to federal funding cuts to PBS. I can only imagine the letters she’d be writing today.
After she died, I learned Gram had a flair for a strongly worded letter — and regrets I never knew
I spent the first eight years of my life in a blissful bubble with my grandmother Martha. She worked as a bank teller and was separated from, but still entangled with, my gregarious grandfather George, who would occasionally take us out for fancy dinners or whisk us away on a PSA jet to San Francisco to the horse races. He was the love of her life and the bane of her existence.
Jennifer Cannon and her grandmother | Credit: Courtesy of Jennifer Cannon
I came to be with Martha — I called her Gram — as a baby when it became clear that my mother was unable to care for me due to mental health issues. I lived with Gram in the historic Chase Knolls apartments, an idyllic, predominantly adults-only community in Sherman Oaks, California.
Born of a generation that kept secrets, she was strong and introverted.
We were extremely close and when I was a young adult, she was typically my first bright and early Saturday morning phone call when my friends were still sleeping. She was the greatest model of gratitude and positivity in my life. Born of a generation that kept secrets, she was strong and introverted. Her small circle of friends consisted mostly of three of her five sisters who lived nearby. Gram lived a quiet, humble life.
Easter was her favorite holiday and I have fond memories of the annual family reunion style picnics at a local park. By the time Easter 1996 rolled around, the annual picnic had long since evolved into gathering at my great-aunt’s home in Encino, California. I looked forward to it every year, knowing Gram would bring Armenian-style rice pilaf to go with the ham, tabouleh and asparagus.
That year, on our drive over to her sister’s, she complained about an ache in her right shoulder. I massaged it in the car and suggested she see a chiropractor.
I wouldn’t know that the breast cancer she’d had a partial mastectomy for a couple of years earlier had returned and metastasized into bone cancer until Mother’s Day weekend when I went to visit her and was shocked at her suddenly skeletal appearance. It was the final time we would spend together in the apartment where I’d grown up with her, and the only place that had ever felt like home.
We’d buried her mom, my sharp as a tack until the end great-grandmother, who passed peacefully after washing her face one evening in March. She was 96 and, according to Ancestry, a distant cousin of Abraham Lincoln.
Five months later, on August 13, 1996, Gram died and the one sure and constant thing in my life was gone. I was angry that no one told me she was sick. She likely didn’t want to worry me because I had my own problems. Knowing what I know now, maybe she thought she deserved it somehow.
The Contents of a Folder
After she died, I drove the 100 miles from my place in the San Bernardino, California mountains to the Valley to collect what I wanted to keep of her belongings. It was a blur and to this day I regret not taking her Nat King Cole and other record albums. Among the few things I had the wherewithal to keep was a large blue folder filled with smaller folders containing photos, newspaper clippings, letters (lots of letters) and loose notebook pages filled with the innermost thoughts of a tortured soul. It would be many years before I sat down and really sorted through it all.
Gram wrote eloquent, intelligently thought out letters tempered with an appropriate amount of outrage and snark to editors of newspapers, radio and news outlets.
I learned she had a flair for the strongly worded letter. There are letters to Presidents Ronald Reagan and George H. W. Bush, expressing concern over everything from tax cuts to conflict in the Middle East. Gram wrote eloquent, intelligently thought out letters tempered with an appropriate amount of outrage and snark to editors of newspapers, radio and news outlets.
In a letter to President Ronald Reagan dated February 18, 1982 she writes, “I want to back your cuts, I planned on buying shorter belts to be sure I tightened mine.” She went on to share that she was “appalled at the large tax break voted for Congress that was slyly attached to the Black Lung Disease Bill.”
She encouraged the President to “crack down on the power people, not just the helpless.” She signed off, “I am sincerely dreaming of satin sheets but thankful for my cotton set, a 59-year-old eight-to-five brown bagger, who respects and am proud of our President. Female. Martha Dordigan.” She received a ‘handwritten’ thank you note — a “My Fellow American” stamp — on White House stationery the following month.
Not surprisingly, many of her concerns for our country are mirrored in today’s news. Her published letter to the editor of the Daily News in 1989 begins, “What has happened to the American way of life? When an elected official can call efforts to get rid of greedy, sleazy and power-hungry men “cannibalism,” we have sunk to a new low.”
While Gram was open minded, I learned she apparently had her limits. In an undated draft, typewritten in all-caps exasperation she writes, “Now I have heard everything! The American taxpayer is about to foot the bill for the study of lesbianism in seagulls, yes, I said seagulls! Does anyone really care!”
Martha’s letters | Credit: Courtesy of Jennifer Cannon
I read with great amusement a letter she wrote to Oprah Winfrey in 1988 singing the praises of her talk show, and offering thoughts on how to cut back on commercials to make it even better.
‘Poems/Homelies/Thoughts’
Tucked between clippings and letters to the powers that be is a folder that is labeled “Poems/Homelies/Thoughts.” Its contents stopped me in my tracks.
On a faded piece of notebook paper, in ink that has turned a brownish maroon, she wrote, “I was born February 2, 1923. It is claimed by some that if you concentrate hard enough and let your memory sink inward, you can remember being born. I cannot. I do not want to remember. All babies are cute, even the ugly ones, so I guess for a short time I was cute. Then my mother took me home and then I died.”
“I was born February 2, 1923. It is claimed by some that if you concentrate hard enough and let your memory sink inward, you can remember being born. I cannot. I do not want to remember.”
While there is no context around this, it’s written just above a poignant essay about my Uncle Gary. In May 1975, Gram’s only son, 32, was killed in a small plane crash, along with the wealthy real estate developer he was training, on Frasier Mountain in Southern California. It is written from the perspective of Gary’s car waiting for him to return to the Van Nuys airport. I published and titled it “Little Blue Maverick” in 2011 and continue to receive comments from people who knew him.
I never knew the excruciating regret she carried as I read, weeping, the water stained page — from her tears? — about how cold she was to Gary the last time she saw him one month earlier at our annual Easter picnic. Not yet legally divorced, he’d brought his new girlfriend and Gram didn’t approve.
In a subsequent entry referencing my mother: “God, can I thank you for leaving my girl with me? I do not deserve her either. My beautiful, sharp baby girl. She knew that I didn’t know how to give her the right answers. She knew even before she could talk. I still see her eyes, knowing I did not know.”
And yes, there is bittersweet irony in the way she was able to give me what she wasn’t able to give my mother.
Just below, on the same page she recounts, “something precious and delightful that Jennifer did when she was barely 4 years old.” We’d gone to dinner in Laguna with my grandfather the night before his horse was going to race at Hollywood Park. While we waited to be seated, I sidled up to an older boy in line, looked over my shoulder and out of the corner of my mouth said, “Irish Mafia runs in the 4th.”
Almost 30 years after her death, I still feel my grandmother’s presence — this blue folder, a portal into her mind. I have now read and reread its contents countless times in an effort to squeeze out any new detail. Had her life circumstances been different she might have been a journalist. Her writing has informed my own.
Her distinctive scrawl, the depth in which she expressed privately the things she didn’t say aloud, reveal so much about the woman I was closest to in this world and the cruel fact that I hadn’t really known her at all.
***
An additional word from Gram is a cautionary sentiment to never take whatever time we’re given here for granted.
“I have lived my life without adventure or real risk. What a shame, what a waste. I have not really lived.“
This is my third piece for Business Insider since December 2023.
Sometimes it takes more than half a lifetime to realize the dream of doing the thing you love. Thanks to the guidance and support of Susan Shapiro and fellow classmates, I’m building my byline while navigating the self-doubt every writer battles.
A memory popped up yesterday from a post I made several years ago which provided a bit of self inspiration.
When one of my favorite editors put out a call for pitches looking for stories about being an ‘old’ parent, I had one of those hold my beer moments as I grabbed for my laptop. Having had my first child at 18 and my last at 38, I am grateful for the opportunity to share my experiences as both a too-young and also ‘old’ mom.
The Cannons – Longwood Gardens – Kennett Square, PA 2008
As a teen mom (decades before the MTV reality show) I lacked patience and life experience among other things.
At one point, I was doing crack-of-dawn surveillance for a PI firm investigating fraudulent Workers Comp cases “down the hill” from the San Bernardino mountains where I lived, and would be back in time for the 3-11 shift waitressing at the local coffee shop. The ends rarely met. It wasn’t unusual to float a check to our local taco joint on ‘my’ weekends.
My three – Lake Worth, FL
“As an old parent, I have stability and a healthy marriage. I stopped working after the birth of my oldest daughter, and was fortunate (thanks to my husband’s job) to be able to transition to full-time stay-at-home mom. I overcompensated for every past mistake, changed almost every diaper, and never missed a thing. Every milestone moment of my daughters’ early lives was a painful reminder of what I’d missed with their brother. We’ve done a lot of healing.”
“Standing at the kitchen sink one summer morning in 2010, the warm prickle of hives took shape down my legs. Intense worry about my beautiful son and juggling his two little sisters was draining. The memory of our first “talk” about drugs at age 9 taunted me.“
This very personal piece was written with the support and encouragement of my son. I hope it might provide a sense of hope for even one person or family member of a person struggling with addiction.
My grandmother Martha was one of six girls raised almost solely by my great grandmother Martha “Dee Dee” in the 1920’s and ’30’s. I’m fortunate to have ‘long livers’ on both sides of my family, even though Gram was taken too soon as an active and vibrant seventy-two year old. Cancer. Dee Dee passed in April of 1996, from natural causes, washed her face and went to sleep I was told- still sharp as a tack. Gram followed four short months later. I was devastated because, as close as we were (like mother and daughter), I was not made aware of the fact that her breast cancer had returned and metastasized. Here they are back in the day. Aren’t they a gorgeous gaggle?
A rare pic of all six of my grandmother and her sisters, including their mother and grandmother. L-R Top Row: Virginia, Dana, Dee Dee (their mother), Katherine, Dee Dee’s mother!, Bottom Row: Martha (my Gram), Rosalie, Norma
Gram loved hummingbirds. At the time of her death, she had one made of brass with crystals displayed in her living room window, attached by a suction cup. When she passed away, it was one of the things I kept. Hummingbirds have since become a sign from her and not typically the live ones.
Twelve years ago, I wrote about how that brass hummingbird turned out to the be the sign I needed when deciding on the purchase of my first home in 1998. It was crystal clear – a hummingbird moment.
A few weeks ago my Aunt Rosalie passed away, leaving the only remaining sister, my Aunt Dana. While I haven’t kept in the best touch with my great aunties, I love them dearly and have some of the best memories of them from childhood. After sending my Aunt Dana a sympathy card, I received a card from her a few days ago. A little shiver ran through me when I opened the card.
She was writing to tell me she appreciated my card and how much she missed her sister. They were very close.
“No more sisters to talk to. No reminiscing about the ‘old days.'”
So of course I had to write back and tell her all about the hummingbird and the bittersweet significance of the words she wrote behind its shiny wings. I reassured her they are together now and still with her. She just needs to look for the signs.
For too many years, I’ve viewed Mother’s Day through a less than rose colored lense.
Not today Satan!
In 1985 I became one. I was kind of a disaster and, relative to the above sentiment, it is finally no longer necessary to revisit the shortcomings of my eighteen-year-old self.
There was no question in my mind at the time, nor that of my baby’s father, that we wanted our baby.
But I had a choice.
Families, all families, no matter how perfect they look on the outside, harbor some level of dysfunction. It just is. Often passed down from generations before and, upon close review, logical explanations are revealed.
Five generations – L-R My Great Grandmother Martha “Dee Dee”, Gram (also Martha), Sandra (Mom), and me with Bryant 1987
My great grandmother, Dee Dee was twice widowed and mother of six girls in the 1920’s and ’30’s. From what I know, she worked very hard as a corsetiere in Los Angeles. It sounds like there was little time for maternal things.
My grandmother, who became a mother in the mid 40’s, wrote with what had to be heartache that she “didn’t know what to do with this precious little girl God had given” her. Notably, Martha almost died in childbirth, and she and my mother spent their first few months as mother and daughter together, apart, in the hospital… which explains a few things.
When it was Mom’s turn to mother, she just couldn’t. Too much unaddressed childhood trauma and other complications. I know without a doubt she loved me beyond measure. Ironically, it was her mother who stepped in and came to my rescue. I spent the first eight years of my life in what felt like a magical bubble with Gram.
Gram and me 1967
Some families are cursed or blessed with more than others, but the collectiveness of imperfect motherhood in my family has made me the person and proud mom I am today.
My Three L-R, Bryant, Sydney and Sophia
I’m lucky to have experienced two very different lifetimes of motherhood and my kids continue to teach me invaluable lessons. I’m lucky to have had exceptional mother figures to guide me through life.
Today I can confidently say that I am more proud than ever to be Mom.
Happy Mother’s Day with love to all of you strong, beautifully imperfect, amazing, persevering moms!
Proud and thankful to my daughter Sophie for creating original artwork and imagery for #dontshowme
Updated Monday, November 7, 2016
On the heels of International Day of the Girl and now, Safe Schools Week, there is no time like the present to launch #dontshowme.
Please excuse missing apostrophe in “don’t”, as there is no punctuation in hashtags.
WHAT IS #DONTSHOWME?
First, picture this (no pun intended) – two middle or high school aged kids huddled together before first period over a phone, gasping at the sight of a leaked photo of a half naked classmate. Cue drama. Rumors of the girl who had sent it, to a boy she thought she could trust, had spread virally a few days before in a group text, and now someone had the actual photo (now we’re talking distribution of child pornography). Fast forward to a crowded hallway filled with whispers of the “sexting” and “can you even believe its”. This devolves quickly into snickers of “what a slut”, “she’s a whore”, and worse. Soon, many have happily jumped on the free wheeling shame-wagon with nary a thought as to what the victim of such a personally humiliating betrayal might be going through. Between facing family, friends, law enforcement, school administrators, teachers, and anyone who lives within a ten mile radius, it has to be hellish.
SEXTING FACTS:
Today, girls are more likely to be asked to share an inappropriate photo before their first kiss. This is happening in every school district in every city in this country and, I’m sure, around the world. The shaming that follows is devastating and sometimes deadly for the person whose trust has been shattered.
Anyone who would ask you to share an inappropriate pic is a) not worth your time and b) not to be trusted. I can promise you there is a 110% chance the photo WILL be shared and/or gossiped about. every. time. Don’t do it.
DON’T SHOW ME DARE CAMPAIGN:
Aims to inspire tweens and teens to stand together in the name of respect and potentially save a life.
By taking the #dontshowme dare, you are saying to your friends and classmates:
🔅I respect you and will never ask you to share an inappropriate photo.
🔅I respect myself and will not share inappropriate photos of me or anyone else.
🔅I will not participate in humiliating a classmate after an inappropriate photo or other potentially embarrassing information about them has been leaked.
🔅I will take a moment to think, “Hey, what if this was happening to me?” before commenting or spreading gossip about a classmate- no matter who they are.
🔅I will stand together with my friends and classmates in the name of self respect and respect for others and say, “Don’t show me.”
Some of the young people who have taken the #dontshowme dare
Since its launch on October 13, 2016, the #dontshowme dare campaign has gained national and international media attention with additional mainstream media outlets expressing interest daily.
WARNING! ACTIONS ARE CONTAGIOUS:
This is one social media dare every parent, grandparent, teacher, coach or anyone who has influence among young people, should be talking about. Round up your friends, students, team, crew, squad, whoever- and take the #dontshowme dare! Share your pics via Instagram, Facebook or Twitter, using the hashtag and don’t forget to tag me @jjcannonauthor so I can see!
Proudly introducing this, my first published book! Reviews are coming in, and they are sweet to say the least!
“J. J. Cannon has written a cute and clever book that’s chock full of social media etiquette tips. @Sophie Takes a #Selfie brings timeless parenting advice into crisp focus for the digital generation!”
“I need to download @Sophie Takes a #Selfie for my little grand children right now! Wow!
I always felt I was ‘too special’ to be part of the pack. Keep special darlings! Happy Days from ‘Mrs. C.’”
“After reading @Sophie Takes a #Selfie, my mom and I understand social media much better. The #SweetSixteen have taught me how important it is to think before posting, and I know they will help other families take good care before they share!”
“As a parent, trying to navigate social media has been confusing to say the least. Thanks to @Sophie takes a #Selfie, I am able to guide my tween daughter in the right direction so we can both feel comfortable when she’s online.”
Jennifer J. Cannon 