About Me

So, what about me? Well, you’ve seen the pictures. That impish little kid—nicknamed Potsy at birth due to an overabundance of baby fat—is me eighty years ago. I came by my impishness naturally as the fortunate only child of a cartoonist-animator father and a fantasy-loving painter mother. In the “big me” picture I’m wearing a hat Iike the one I wore during the years when I cruised with my former husband on a 57-foot yacht we built and sailed from coast to coast. And I actually wore this hat on safari in Kenya and on a few other adventures. I am still in love with Pluto who is sporting his own safari hat. He was my best friend growing up near the Walt Disney Studios in Burbank where Daddy worked animating Donald Duck. We lived on the other side of the hill from the Hollywood Sign, in its imaginary shadow.

Now you know what I look like and a few facts. You can read my philosophy on my shirt. I want to see the world with childlike clarity and wonder. The world I’m seeing now is through a window in the little house where I live in the foothills of the Santa Lucia Mountains in Monterey County, California. I am surrounded by my parents’ art. Here in my office are stacks of books about art. I studied its history along with French, English and a few other subjects at UC Santa Barbara as an undergraduate, UCLA as a graduate and at the Louvre in Paris. And I taught what I learned in secondary schools in California and Switzerland. Now, the books are handy for preparing the presentations I make for the classes I teach locally to share my passion for art as well as for creative writing.

My writer’s nook is chock-a-block with chotskes that I purposely misspelled due to a chronic affinity for alliteration. I have overused this trick of the writer’s trade in articles and book reviews published in magazines and newspapers since I was eighteen. My shelves are lined with old toys I collect and some I created as a product developer. My own book is at my side in case I need to look something up about my life. That’s the sorrow and joy of aging: we forget the stuff that clogs our mind in order to make room for ruminations and reveling in the present.

So, rather than tax my memory buds further, I am going to turn the page over to Gretchen, the woman I consider the child I never had. She knows all about me and describes me well in the Afterword to In the Shadow of the Sign, the book that wouldn’t be if it weren’t for her.

What Renée Didn’t Say

*Renée and Gretchen on safari ballooning over Kenya*

I don’t know anyone who loves life like Renée. She epitomizes the phrase joie de vivre—an exultation of spirit.

Do you know anyone who spent five years building a yacht then living on it for five more years, with no permanent address?

Do you know any 80-year-old women who travel to a foreign country by themselves when things aren’t so incredibly safe there?

That’s our Renée—in the center of a far-away town, blonde, standing out like a bright star with “tourist” practically written on her back, camera in hand taking pictures of the locals, chatting it up with the shopkeepers in their native tongue, oblivious to any possible danger—clearly that child-like wonder overtaking potential fear.

I’ve known Renée for thirty-five years and not only did she generously take me under her wing and teach me everything I know about bringing a product to market, she became a confidante, fellow traveler and another mother to a very lucky me. (Somehow “second” mother doesn’t seem right—no offense to my own mother.)

When we worked together in the toy industry in China or Nuremberg, there are hilarious images of Renée with her bad hip squatting low over an Eastern style toilet (aka, hole in floor with no porcelain fixture) and getting stuck in the down position, unable to stand up without some assistance. Or as guest of honor at a dinner in Taiwan graciously nibbling the eyeballs of a large fish on a garnished silver platter to show gratitude to the host for selecting this amazing delicacy. Or walking twelve miles a day up and down rows of toys, searching for new ideas, showing me how to do it even though she was exhausted and tired of pulling a rolling briefcase.

These are some of her favorite things: Renée loves, loves, loves to play games and win; take daily naps; read and take classes on many topics that most of us would say “no thanks” like how to appreciate the most difficult books ever written; sing “La Vie en Rose” as well as any French cabaret singer; plan itineraries to exotic locales; celebrate birthdays with silly hats; wrap over-the-top presents; and totally over-prepare for guests to the point of getting a sweaty upper lip.

She’s a teacher, toy maker, traveler and tale-teller. Even today, she teaches multiple classes on art and writing in her community. Whimsy is her middle name (no, it’s actually Diane), and she’s got a great big feverish case of wanderlust. She’s also a dedicated journal keeper. I’ve not gotten into journaling but after you read her story, you’ll see what amazing details a journal helps you recall.

I could never figure out why someone who spent a great part of the working day writing would like to spend more time at home writing about the day spent writing...but now I see one of the big advantages. She can recall in an instant exactly what she was doing and feeling on that date 365 days ago—and what her friends were doing.

Over a decade ago, while having lunch in Washington DC, I suggested Renée write down some of the amazing stories of her life and voilà, she’s done it!

Gretchen Van Tassel
Sedona, Arizona