When Jory was 4 years old, we moved into a new house. Actually, it was an older, fixer-upper house in an established neighborhood, where the original owners had aged into retirees. We brought young children to live among them and significantly lowered the average age of the neighborhood, while definitely increasing the noise factor. Our new house was in poor condition, but had lots of potential. We brought with us dreams, ideas, and enthusiasm to update this house into our family home for the next 23 years.
While the empty moving van left us with rooms of cardboard boxes piled high, Darren and Jory were outside exploring their new front yard. When the weeds were gone and the grass filled in, it would be perfect for playing ball, chasing each other, and having fun. Jory, always the romantic, was attracted to the bright yellow dandelions that hadn’t been weeded from the flowerbeds. He picked a significant bouquet, and while Darren wasn’t looking, slipped over to the new neighbor’s house. Standing on his tip toes, he reached the doorbell and pushed the button as many times as he could. 
“What do you want?” barked an out of breath, skinny, old man.
“I brought you some flowers,” replied Jory, as he thrust his hand forward.
“I don’t want any and never ring my doorbell again!” snarled the old man, as he slammed the door shut.
Hearing the ruckus, Darren had discovered that Jory was missing, and rushed to retrieve him.
“Don’t ever go over to his house again,” Darren admonished his little brother.
“But what’s his name?” asked Jory innocently.
“That’s ....... Mr. Nicey ....... and he doesn’t like kids, so never go there again.”
From that day on, we lived next door to Mr. Nicey, and for us, that always remained his name.
One of the highlights in Jory's childhood was Cotillion. Boys and girls were invited to attend the Gollatz Cotillion beginning in fourth grade. He looked forward to dressing up in a suit, tie, and dress shoes for the monthly Saturday afternoon instructional parties. The children were introduced to ballroom dancing, social graces, and etiquette. Young gentlemen learned to greet adults in a reception line, escort their partners to share refreshments, politely open doors, and courteously seat young ladies and women. Even more than refreshments, dancing was his favorite. He learned to waltz and foxtrot, but most of all, he loved dancing with his favorite girls from school.
Jory always pursued his love of dancing. At Bar Mitzvahs and weddings, he led the others to dance. In Marin, he took lessons in Lindy Hop and Swing, surprising everyone when he took to the dance floor. All he needed was music and a partner to jump, jive, and swing. In Oslo, during the summer months, there were bands that played outdoors in public places. He found a partner, often someone he didn’t know, and guided her through the most exciting and active dances of her life. Soon, others gathered around to watch them having fun. At Darren’s wedding, the young women wouldn’t dance with him or Shan, his younger brother, so he grabbed Shan and they wowed everyone by dancing together.
Jory looked forward to attending school dances in high school. There were plenty of girls in his classes and he became quite creative in asking them to Homecoming and Prom dances. One time he wrote the invitation word by word on small pieces of torn paper, before rolling them into individual tiny scrolls. Each one was slipped into a colorful balloon before the balloon was blown up and tied to a stick. Then, he delivered the balloon bouquet to her doorstep with a note containing a pin. The note explained that she was to pop the balloons and reassemble the rolled up puzzle pieces before she called him back. Unfortunately, she already had a date. His luck with girls wasn’t always very good. The girl he took to his Prom went home with another guy and left him stranded.
With his first long time girlfriend, he rented a white tuxedo, with tails, to match her dress. He also added a top hat and a cane. In addition, he convinced Dad to let him drive the silver Mazda RX-7 sports car, to take her to Prom. With a beautiful corsage in a crystal clear flower box sitting in the passenger seat next to his top hat, he carefully pulled out of our driveway, knowing that since this was the first and only time that he would be driving Dad’s car, he had better drive carefully. When he returned, he had put 300 miles on the car’s odometer.
“Where did you go?” questioned Dad the next morning.
“It was such a beautiful night, that after Prom, we decided to get a better look at the nighttime sky. We drove to Angeles Crest Forest to see the stars. It was so beautiful with the black velvet sky and millions of twinkling stars,” he replied with a far away gaze.
“Hmmm! I understand,” was all that Dad could say.
It was during his junior year in high school that Jory began writing music. He spent hours at night in his room playing his guitar and notating by hand the music that danced inside his head. The lights were dimmed and the melodies leaked under the door. Softly, if I listened carefully, I could hear short rifts evolve into phrases, and then into melodies, forming beautiful songs.
“Jory, are you doing your homework?” I’d call from the hallway.
“I’m writing a book report,” he’d answer.
“It doesn’t sound like it,” I’d reply.
“You’re interrupting me. I’m writing my book report,” came his retort.
A few days later, the principal called our home. “Jory has asked permission for you to attend his English class on Friday. “I’ve never had a student request that his mother come to sit in on a class. Most high school kids would never be caught with their parents on campus, but it’s a request that I’m granting because it’s so unusual. The students will be presenting their book reports and he has arranged with the teacher to write a song for this assignment,” explained Principal Jerry Atkin.
I quietly slipped into an empty seat near the classroom door, hoping that the students wouldn’t notice me. Soon it was Jory’s turn. He removed his Ovation 12-string guitar from the case and walked to the front of the room. Sitting on the teacher’s stool, he quickly rechecked to make sure the strings were in tune. Then, he proceeded to sing his book report, a song called "The Bell Tolls Now," based on Hemingway's For Whom The Bell Tolls. It was clear from the silent audience that they were surprised and impressed. When he sang the last note, his classmates burst into applause and the teacher was definitely pleased. It was a first for all of us.
The following year, Jory convinced himself that all he could write was poetry. That didn’t sit well with his senior year English teacher, whose class assignment was to write a term paper. Jory fumed and complained.
“This is a dumb assignment. When in my future, will I ever need to write a term paper? Composers write music, sometimes they write lyrics. They don’t write term papers.”
“You never know,” I replied. “and it doesn’t matter. Your assignment is to write a term paper and that’s what you need to do. Go write it and I’ll help by proofreading it for you.”
Of course, he wrote his “term paper” on the computer, which was a good thing when it came to editing. He had followed most of the guidelines, including a proper title page and a bibliography page. He had selected a decent topic, which he had introduced, described, and discussed with footnotes and references. His spelling and grammar were perfect. He had even drawn thoughtful conclusions, but the entire paper was written line-by-line in verse.
“I suggest you hand in 2 copies of your term paper. You can print it exactly as you have it now, and you can print a second copy that combines all the lines into paragraphs. You can hand in both versions.”
He thought long and hard, eventually caving-in to modifying the second copy into traditional format. We sat together at the computer forming sentences and paragraphs from his verses. Neither of us cared much about the grade his paper would receive, as he had already been accepted to CalArts for the fall semester, and we were simply choosing not to battle and checking the box toward high school graduation. The goal was to pass the class and graduate.
Sometimes Jory’s original songs were silly ditties, like “Bertha From Bolinas,” patterned after Tom Lehrer’s satirical songs, like “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park.” When he’d come to me and say, “Listen to my new song, Mom,” and the song was sweet and tender, I knew that there was a new “love interest” in his life.
“Who is she?” I’d ask.
“A girl I just met. She’s really nice.” Then he’d begin playing his guitar and singing a beautiful ballad. Of these love songs, only one was recorded at studio.jory.org. Gazing up at the nighttime sky, he wrote “Shooting Stars” one night while he sat on the bleachers at the baseball field behind his studio in Fairfax.
When Sam and I were in Oslo to dismantle Jory's design studio, two of his friends took us to a magical place that Jory had discovered from a fellow passenger on a flight to Norway. It was a huge, windowless, brick building, with a high roof, constructed in 1926 in the quiet Oslo suburb of Slemdal. Standing silently among private homes, it consisted of a humble vestibule leading into one enormous, barrel-vaulted enclosure. The passage into the cavernous hall had 2 doors. The exterior, bronze, vault door separating the anteroom from the chamber, was heavy and cut short, requiring those who entered to bow low upon admittance. When closed, it sealed off the room from the rest of the world. An interior, ornate, wrought iron gate opened a few inches later, into a pitch black chamber. The room was filled with silence and darkness, except for a few very dim lights that allowed one to almost see the faint outline of a few, simple wooden chairs, centrally arranged in a row.
In the solemn quiet, I slipped out my iPhone and played Jory’s song, “Shooting Stars.” His voice reverberated in the mystical chamber with the love he felt for life, wonderment, and the people he knew. Then softly, it was absorbed into the space to remain forever. (By clicking on "Shooting Stars" above, you can hear Jory accompany himself on guitar while singing his original song.)
As we prepared to depart, I turned toward the small doorway with the ornate, wrought iron gate, noticing that it completed the ornamentation of the wall paintings across the portal. I happened to gaze up to discover an unobtrusive dark niche built into the wall above the doorway. Inside, overlooking the entire room, was a black metal stand stabilizing a large stone.
“This is a mausoleum and that hollowed stone contains Emanuel Vigeland's ashes. He’s the artist who created all these paintings and sculptures and built this mausoleum for himself,” explained Jory’s friend.
We stared in reverence before ducking through the doorway, back into reality, leaving “The Jorwegian’s” voice and song safely inside.
COMMENTS:
Click on Jorysmother@gmail.com to send comments.
Jory 2009
My parents sent me to the Gollatz Cotillion from 4th-8th grades. I thoroughly enjoyed it, since it meant I got to dance with the girls I liked from school. One day at Cotillion, I found two $20 bills on the sidewalk outside. Mr. Gollatz said that if no one claimed the $40, I could keep it. At the end of the evening, I got to keep the money, which began my saving toward the purchase of my first nice guitar 7 years later!
I enjoy partner dancing. I am trained in ballroom & swing, but don't dance nearly enough.
I am a born romantic. I enjoy doing things for a girl I'm interested in just because it'll make her feel special and loved. I want her to have stories she can be excited to tell her friends.
I strive to communicate well at all times. My spelling and grammar are always impeccable and I expect something approaching that of everyone I interact with.
I recognize when magical things are happening to me and to others.
Karen Herzog
What a wonderful gift to all of us this blog is! Cannot believe Jory did cotillion! There was so much more to know of him! I’m sorry he’s gone - very sorry, but thank you so much for the lovely memories you’ve shared!
Molly Presser
This blog, by itself could turn into a book!! I just love, love, love your descriptions of Jory's personality, his "joie de vivre", his caring for other people's feelings. Finally, I love your description of that secret Chamber, including the photos and your feelings as you entered it. To finish it off, you close with a quote from his diary!! You bring us back to the reality of a beautiful young boy who was smart, talented and caring beyond his years. Your writing is a treasure and a gift to us all.
John Edward Armstrong
Thank you for writing about Jorys life, it's an inspiring read and amazing to learn more about the great man I knew.
Rita Blumenstein
As always, I enjoyed reading your account of Jory.
Steph Leon
Keep up the stories.
Masha Veytsman
Thank you for sharing Jory’s stories on your blog, they are wonderful and heart warming!
Carol Murray
Jory sounds like a great guy—very human and relatable.
Kendra Zien
He's dancing with Jenn Mariposa Garcia.
Jenn Mariposa Garcia
Yeah! I visited him for a few days in Oslo and he took much pleasure in showing me all around. I was on my way to Sweden for a swing dance camp and he knew I love dancing and made a point to stop at this outdoor weekly dance.
Cat Wilson
I am keeping this post and stealing this pic so I can print it one day and remember to no matter what, think WWJD (what would Jory do), keep peace and dance/sing somewere, somehow, every day. This is "so Jory" - not that any of his pics aren't! - but this, and to put him singing with it will be my reward later on this day. How poignant, but how can you not smile? Thank you…☮️😇😍🐾❣️💜❤️💛
Linda Birtler
Jory shared fun and love as he traveled through this world--that is for sure!
Rayleen Williams
Jory's stories are so impressive! Your telling of his stories are equally impressive.Beautiful and touching and descriptive. I hope that you will compile these into a book--it is so inspirational.
Judy Sowell
This was a really beautiful story. I enjoyed listening to his song, and your description of the mausoleum in Norway. Who would have thunk? It was kind of amazing. I’m not sure I would have thought a mausoleum could be enjoyable, but the way you described it, it certainly was. Thank you for sharing your beautiful stories with me.
Photo Credits:
http://www.emanuelvigeland.museum.no/mausoleum.htm
© Leslye J. Prum 2017 All Rights Reserved
