I like reading mysteries. It's not so much the who-dunnit piece, though I have fun matching wits with the fictional detectives. It's not the procedures and the structure and the insight into the back rooms of the precincts or the attorney's offices that attracts me, although in the last two years I've begun to enjoy comparing their experiences to my own. It's not the twists and turn which bring me back for more; in fact, they annoy me more than they should. What draws me to these stories are the characters.
John Lescroart weaves a huge cast in and out of his novels. For a while, I tried to read the stories in order by character; it was impossible. Without reading the stories in chronological order, I was missing little bits and pieces of information which made my attempts at character study quite frustrating. James Lee Burke and Patricia Cornwell follow one family and its hangers-on; children grow up and take lovers; relationships begin and end in what feels like real time. Marcia Mueller straddles the two. Sharon McCone has so many relatives and relatives of relatives and employees who end up married to relatives that the stories weave in and out but never go very far from her office by the Bay.
I like them all. I've watched Alafair Robicheaux grow up as her dad won and lost his battles with women and alcohol and his best friend, Clete. Clete's the prototypical side-kick in modern mystery writing, or so it seems to me. He has all the bad habits a dissolute lifestyle might desire. So does Marino, Kay Scarpetta's bete noir. The alternative wing-man, the kindly landlord, is a strand followed by Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton. There are Lords and butlers and I could go on about Peter Wimsey and Richard Jury until even the most devoted of you would would click away. As I said, I like them all.
These series go on and on and on, although I am a little worried as Kinsey Mulhone moves on inexorably to Z is for.... That is another reason I love them. There is always another one on the shelf. That's also why I hate them; they are often not on the shelf. The library has to order it, the book store might not carry it, in any event, it's not in my hands right now, when I want it.
All that can serve as prologue to the topic of this post; I have a new favorite heroine, and she's in my hands whenever I want her to be. I'm in heaven.
I cured myself of playing games on my Kindle by force-feeding them to myself for a week straight. by the seventh day, the very thought of dropping bubbles or matching diamonds made me ill. I haven't played since. The device sat, unused, for a few weeks. Slowly, I began using it as a tablet, checking my email, tweeting (@ABattheBurrow, if you're interested), staying current on Facebook. TBG could watch sports all day and night; I was amused and sitting next to him at the same time. As the days got shorter, I found reading library books to be taxing on my eyes. I needed the large print volumes to read once the sun went down; a good reading lamp is on my holiday list.
Those large print tomes defeated the purpose of reading print books instead of e-books; there was no connection to the author's hand in the binding or the font or the paper quality. I turned on the Kindle and spent an hour with Susan and Oliver in their Angle of Repose and then, when I picked it up after getting a snack it had defaulted to the books homepage which was offering a free mystery, the first of twenty, the last due in February. How could I refuse?
Right now I'm on number ten, and I'm in love with the heroine, Kate Shugak. I have learned more about skinning a moose than I ever thought I'd enjoy. I have a growing sense of the geography and topography of Alaska, and I know how hard it is to slog upstream in the rain. I know this because, like Kate, I hate having wet feet. We don't like to be interrupted when we're reading. We've been known to twirl around on the top of a mountain with our arms outstretched to the sky. Dana Stabenow brings a chunk of the Bush to my Kindle with a tap of my finger.
Yes, it cost some money, and a library book would be free. I'm reminded of my mother's line about not buying green bananas, and I laugh as I admit that getting shot has damaged my ability to delay gratification. I don't want a lot, but what I want, I want now.
It's win win all over the place. I'm immersed in the story line and the characters are following me all over town. I can read without additional illumination. I have a new friend, and I'm less than half way through her saga. Best of all, the newest volume will be released in February.
Kate knew I couldn't wait much longer than that.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
She's Sleeping in Her Car
... and her car is parked in front of my house.
Granted, it's on the other side of the street, but considering the fact that this is a residential neighborhood, with no commercial or long term parking spaces, it's an oddity at best. The house across the way, the one in front of which she is parked, is set in the middle of 25 acres of undeveloped land. Until the road construction began last year, we never saw any activity in or out of the gate. Once it became impossible to enter the property from the main road, service vehicles began using the gate. Gardeners, electricians, pick-ups of all shapes and sizes were going in an out. We never saw anyone who looked like a resident.
Turns out, JannyLou and Fast Eddie have been watching that driveway, too. They haven't seen anyone who looks like they might live there, either. Not until the white pick-up with the 40-something driver arrived the week before Halloween.
It was scary at first. None of us slowed down to see who was behind the wheel, and none of us were brave enough to knock on the window in the dark.... and she always arrived after dark. Was there a baby in the car? Sometimes it looked like the woman behind the wheel was caring for someone or something on the passenger seat. But, since none of us spent too much time staring through her window, we couldn't tell for sure.
Then, one Thursday afternoon, she arrived at 4. I walked out to retrieve the garbage cans, and, disregarding my family's pleas to take care and not put myself in danger from which I would be unable to outrun a pursuer, I rolled the can over to her vehicle and knocked on the window. I figured I could hunker down behind the trash can if she came at me with force.
Instead, she smiled and apologized for taking up space on the street.
I've got to do something about this fear of "the other" that is running through my psyche. The sense of relief I felt was immediately followed by shame and remorse. She wasn't scary at all. She was stuck.
She's a bridge inspector. She lives outside of Phoenix. She was called down to Tucson by her employer specifically; she has a skill set he needed and there was no one else to call. It was work, and she heeded the call. The owners of the property in front of which she has been parking are casual acquaintances. They had offered her a place to stay if she were ever in the neighborhood. Rumor has it that the owners rent the house to UofA grad students; offering it to our transient bridge inspector seems to fit nicely with that narrative.
The problem seems to be that the owners are divorcing, are arguing, are living there or arguing over who is to live there, and "we don't want you to be in the middle of it" has been their answer when she rings the bell.
She wishes she had gotten that information before she accepted the work. Without their hospitality, she's sleeping in her car. She can't afford to maintain her home and rent down here, too. She's sorry that she's worried us, sorry that she's causing problems, sorry that her friends are so ditzy, sorry, sorry, sorry.
So am I.
Fast Eddie and JannyLou offered to let her sleep in their home. TBG and I are not that generous. I'm not comfortable inviting a stranger to sleep in Little Cuter's bed, even if she looks as nonthreatening as our bridge inspector. Then, again, I'm not giving my house up to the wedding party, as JannyLou and Fast Eddie did for Little Cuter in September. They have more of that midwestern if my neighbor needs help I'll do what I can gene than we do.
Instead, I went to Interfaith Community Services this afternoon. I shared her story with the receptionist, and wondered if there were services they could offer. Rental assistance, perhaps? A senior with an empty bedroom who's looking for company? Something? Anything? It was getting harder and harder to drive past her and pull into my driveway; my heartstrings were tugged tight.
I left with the phone number of a women's shelter. She was in her truck when I came home, and we smiled at one another as I drove by. She was surprised and grateful when I handed her the paper with the shelter's information. Once again, she was embarrassed by her friends' locking her out, she was grateful but not willing to accept my neighbors' offer of shelter, she was touched by my generosity in seeking help for her situation, she laughed when I said that I would go with her to ICS or the shelter if she needed company, and then I went inside and she stayed in her truck... parked across the street from my house... where she sits, hours later, waiting for who knows what.
With a tent and a sleeping bag, she could camp on parkland fifteen minutes from here. She'd be just as homeless, but she'd look less out of place. I type this knowing that it's written from a selfish perspective - I don't like being reminded of the have-nots.
Do any of us?
Monday, December 3, 2012
Do We Tell G'ma?
My great-aunt died. The timing wasn't great; Superstorm Sandy had just finished washing away the east coast, where she and all her relatives live. Her grandson's school was closed for the disaster, and there was no back-up child care. She had been child care. My sister drove in from New Jersey to collect him and amuse him and take him to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; that will be an odd memory for him to fold into the tale he tells of his grandmother's demise.
She was old, Aunt Lilly was. She had been sick for a while, and palliative care was the most recent prescription. It was only a matter of time. As TBG describes these events, it was sad but not a tragedy. It was also a fact.
Aunt Lilly and G'ma weren't close. G'ma wasn't close to anybody, except, perhaps, my sister. There was no antagonism, there was distance and disinterest. Still, the woman was married to her brother; she was a part of my mother's life.
The question is, should her death become a part of that narrative?
I wrestled with it alone. I talked about it with TBG. I slept on it. Now, I am writing about it. I'm not sure what to do.
I asked my siblings for their advice. My sister urged me to have the conversation, because "death is part of life and life has unhappy moment in it." Since my oft-stated goal for my mom is "No Unhappy Days," this presents a dilemma.
I sat next to her at Thanksgiving, watching her remind herself that she was at my house, with my husband and that young man who must be my son and her grandson sharing the festive table. There was turkey; it must be Thanksgiving. The short-sleeved linen top was anachronistic; what was she doing wearing a spring top in the fall? Oh, right, she's in Tucson, the desert, and it's hot.
All that in five minutes.... and then we started in again.
Why didn't my limp go away? Would it ever go away? "You were shot... in the ass... and a little girl died"..... over and over again.
Could she help? Was there anything she could do? "I am just sitting here, watching," she'd laugh, and then, after a pause, she'd ask, again, if she could do something for me. I reminded her that she'd unwrapped the butter and opened the bag of croutons and then she laughed at herself sitting and doing nothing.
The next time she started in on my limp, I pre-empted her: I'm limping because I was shot. I'm in therapy and they say I will get better but they don't know when. Exercise is boring but I do it because I have to. Over and over again.
She has no memory of the wedding or the rehearsal dinner or the wonderful time she had at both events. She doesn't remember being surrounded by her grand-daughters' love. She doesn't remember that her skirt fell to her hips as she stepped into my living room (sometimes having no short term memory is a blessing) nor does she remember that I wore pink sneakers to the party.
She knows she doesn't remember and she's sad about it when I remind her that it happened. What's the upside to that? I can't find one. She's oriented to herself and her tv and her remote controls. She knows she's supposed to love me, even if she sometimes forgets who I am. If I don't visit for several days, she holds no grudge. She doesn't know if I come every day or once a month.
I recognize the importance of staying connected to the world around her; we went over every nominee and every proposition on her ballot, and she was engaged and thoughtful throughout the process. Of course, I could have gone over the same races all over again and she'd have had no trouble voting all over again without any memory of the first time around, but, in the moment, she was there.
Does she need to have that moment with Aunt Lilly?
My brother says no. I'm seeing both sides. I'd love to know what you think.
Friday, November 30, 2012
A Shopping Secret
I have been stressed about this post for the past week. I have absolutely no suggestions to give. The whole topic is distasteful to me right now.
It started when I realized that stores would be open on Thanksgiving Day... and yes, it counts as the day even if the sun has set. It got me thinking about shopping in general and about a small item on NPR last week. It seems that Governor Chris Christie revoked New Jersey's Blue Laws, saying that the post-Sandy recovery required it.
And here we have a clear division among the denizens. Those of you old enough to remember Blue Laws, or who live in New Jersey, know exactly what I mean. Those of you who have always been able to shop on every day except Christmas (and, until this year, Thanksgiving) are scratching your heads. Blue Laws, children, are regulations enacted to enforce a strict, religious standard. Can't buy alcohol on Sunday in your neighborhood? That's a blue law. New Jersey still enforces them.... but then, again, you can't pump your own gas in New Jersey, so who's to say where the craziness starts and stops?
Enough digression; back to shopping.
I was never much of a shopper, except in stationary and book stores. Still, it irked me no end that someone was telling a shopkeeper that her doors must stay shuttered. The notion that another could decide how I chose to spend my day was worrisome.... my initiation into the concept of the slippery slope... not that I wanted to shop but I wanted the option. It was like the High Holy Days. No money could be touched.... I might go days without using cash, but the prohibition made me nutty every year... even those years when Hebrew School really touched my soul. I want to make my own decisions, thank you very much.
As I mellowed with age, or just aged, I began to appreciate the absence of options. Sharing the same experience with almost everyone else didn't happen that often; it was special. The mall lots were empty. The streets were silent. There was a peacefulness to being restricted. No one was telling us not to shop; we just didn't do it. Shopkeepers were at home with their families, too.
Then the shopkeepers weren't running the shops any more. Instead, there were stockholders and corporations (even before they were people, too) and they were interested in profit above all.... as well they should, since that is their purpose in life. Just as government can't be run like a business, a business cannot be run like a family... or so the argument goes. A corporation exists for the benefit of its owners. Owners care about maximizing their investments. Therefore, profit becomes the most significant factor.
And so, the managers leave their families with the dirty dishes, the sales clerks and cashiers abandon home and hearth. We give up leisure to boost the economy. The shareholders may be shopping, and so might the CEO's. The working class is working. They have no options.
BlogHer has a poll this week on the same subject. What Is Your Status With Holiday Shopping? they ask. Most people are shopping on-line and continuing until they are through. That makes sense for the site's web-centric audience, but it makes sense to me, too.
Every year for the last decade or so, our family has ordered design-your-own sneakers from Nike. We create them on-line, and it's a collaborative process. We'd gather 'round the laptop, changing laces and mid-soles and mesh and colors and patterns. We were laughing and teasing and oohing and aahing. We were doing it together. There's something wonderful about getting exactly what you want, about anticipating its arrival, about remembering the fun you had creating it. There's an extra shot of joy in the phone call announcing that those pink laces do look as good as you'd predicted; it's not only self-congratulatory, it's remembering the moment.
That's what has been bothering me about this post, about shopping, about living so far from those I love. What I want is what I felt at the wedding - family and warmth and perfection. No one wanted anything else than to be right there, in the moment. There were no cell phones recording the moment; there were only humans enjoying the moment. Everyone had everything which could possibly be wanted, and those who didn't had friendly shoulders right nearby to help carry the load of the loss. There was no music (remember the noise ordinance and the sheriff's appearance?) except the quiet jazz on the radio. There weren't any gifts or fireworks (we put the kibosh on the floating lanterns; setting fire to the desert wasn't deemed a good idea). There was just love. Lots and lots of love, oozing from the pores of those we wanted to see.
That's what I'd suggest for this week's shopping secret: spend some time with those you love. Maybe the gift involves tickets to an exhibit at the museum or the planetarium or the bird sanctuary or the arboretum. Maybe it's my Wordscraper-buddy Steve's 150+ pieces and 55 pages of instructions ..... 4-inch by 6-inch beauty shop. Maybe it's the game on the tube and the chips open on the coffee table.
It's whatever puts you next to those you love. It's sharing the experience, not the credit card.
And now that I've written this, it seems obvious that our be-finished-with-your-holiday-gifting-before-December-first series ends here. If it's not in your house by tonight, don't get it. You're done shopping. From this moment forward, your gifting is coming from your imagination, your knowledge of the recipient, your interests, your memories, your love. It's not coming from a store.
It started when I realized that stores would be open on Thanksgiving Day... and yes, it counts as the day even if the sun has set. It got me thinking about shopping in general and about a small item on NPR last week. It seems that Governor Chris Christie revoked New Jersey's Blue Laws, saying that the post-Sandy recovery required it.
And here we have a clear division among the denizens. Those of you old enough to remember Blue Laws, or who live in New Jersey, know exactly what I mean. Those of you who have always been able to shop on every day except Christmas (and, until this year, Thanksgiving) are scratching your heads. Blue Laws, children, are regulations enacted to enforce a strict, religious standard. Can't buy alcohol on Sunday in your neighborhood? That's a blue law. New Jersey still enforces them.... but then, again, you can't pump your own gas in New Jersey, so who's to say where the craziness starts and stops?
Enough digression; back to shopping.
I was never much of a shopper, except in stationary and book stores. Still, it irked me no end that someone was telling a shopkeeper that her doors must stay shuttered. The notion that another could decide how I chose to spend my day was worrisome.... my initiation into the concept of the slippery slope... not that I wanted to shop but I wanted the option. It was like the High Holy Days. No money could be touched.... I might go days without using cash, but the prohibition made me nutty every year... even those years when Hebrew School really touched my soul. I want to make my own decisions, thank you very much.
As I mellowed with age, or just aged, I began to appreciate the absence of options. Sharing the same experience with almost everyone else didn't happen that often; it was special. The mall lots were empty. The streets were silent. There was a peacefulness to being restricted. No one was telling us not to shop; we just didn't do it. Shopkeepers were at home with their families, too.
Then the shopkeepers weren't running the shops any more. Instead, there were stockholders and corporations (even before they were people, too) and they were interested in profit above all.... as well they should, since that is their purpose in life. Just as government can't be run like a business, a business cannot be run like a family... or so the argument goes. A corporation exists for the benefit of its owners. Owners care about maximizing their investments. Therefore, profit becomes the most significant factor.
And so, the managers leave their families with the dirty dishes, the sales clerks and cashiers abandon home and hearth. We give up leisure to boost the economy. The shareholders may be shopping, and so might the CEO's. The working class is working. They have no options.
BlogHer has a poll this week on the same subject. What Is Your Status With Holiday Shopping? they ask. Most people are shopping on-line and continuing until they are through. That makes sense for the site's web-centric audience, but it makes sense to me, too.
Every year for the last decade or so, our family has ordered design-your-own sneakers from Nike. We create them on-line, and it's a collaborative process. We'd gather 'round the laptop, changing laces and mid-soles and mesh and colors and patterns. We were laughing and teasing and oohing and aahing. We were doing it together. There's something wonderful about getting exactly what you want, about anticipating its arrival, about remembering the fun you had creating it. There's an extra shot of joy in the phone call announcing that those pink laces do look as good as you'd predicted; it's not only self-congratulatory, it's remembering the moment.
That's what has been bothering me about this post, about shopping, about living so far from those I love. What I want is what I felt at the wedding - family and warmth and perfection. No one wanted anything else than to be right there, in the moment. There were no cell phones recording the moment; there were only humans enjoying the moment. Everyone had everything which could possibly be wanted, and those who didn't had friendly shoulders right nearby to help carry the load of the loss. There was no music (remember the noise ordinance and the sheriff's appearance?) except the quiet jazz on the radio. There weren't any gifts or fireworks (we put the kibosh on the floating lanterns; setting fire to the desert wasn't deemed a good idea). There was just love. Lots and lots of love, oozing from the pores of those we wanted to see.
That's what I'd suggest for this week's shopping secret: spend some time with those you love. Maybe the gift involves tickets to an exhibit at the museum or the planetarium or the bird sanctuary or the arboretum. Maybe it's my Wordscraper-buddy Steve's 150+ pieces and 55 pages of instructions ..... 4-inch by 6-inch beauty shop. Maybe it's the game on the tube and the chips open on the coffee table.
It's whatever puts you next to those you love. It's sharing the experience, not the credit card.
And now that I've written this, it seems obvious that our be-finished-with-your-holiday-gifting-before-December-first series ends here. If it's not in your house by tonight, don't get it. You're done shopping. From this moment forward, your gifting is coming from your imagination, your knowledge of the recipient, your interests, your memories, your love. It's not coming from a store.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Sports Shorts
That's my IU graduate... or her husband.... just before the game began. My Hoosier Mama shirt was still in the laundry after last week's game against Georgetown; I wore the IU Mom GO HOOSIERS shirt, instead. It's only weird if it doesn't work, as they say.
The good guys were up by 30 points for most of the second half, and even Dick Vitale wasn't quite as annoying when he was cheering for my team. He only referenced Bob Knight once, which, given his screed last weekend when IU met Georgetown, was nothing short of remarkable. I wonder how vociferously he was told to tune it down?
Tom Crean is a marvelous steward of the Indiana basketball tradition. He was as engaged in the last two minutes of the game, coaching guys-who-were-never-going-to-see-nationally-televised-action-ever-again, benchwarmers who deserved as much attention as did the starters.
Up thirty or three, these kids play hard all the way to the final buzzer. It's good, solid, mid-western basketball, flavored with Cody Zeller.
*****
Alex Smith, concussed-former-starting-QB-for-the-49'ers, graduated from the University of Utah one semester earily, with a 4.4 GPA.... or maybe he graduated in two years with a 3.74 GPA ... the interwebs are so unreliable and the facts are less important to the story than the gestalt: he's a smart kid. He's married to a former Oakland Raiders cheerleader, and they have a baby boy. His base salary is $5,000,000. He's got a nice life.
Still, it's hard to be demoted so publicly, even if the coach does go out of his way to say very nice things about you at his press conference. "We can win with either of them.... They are both our guys...."just doesn't mean as much when you're sitting on the bench and your replacement player has become the starting quarterback.
*****
The 49'ers were on the 103" screen at the sports bar on Sunday. I was there for part of the first half, which was just enough football for me on a sunny afternoon. The scene was fun; our section filled with 9'ers jerseys of all sizes and descriptions.
They are not very obvious in this ad from the NFL Shop, but they were particularly jarring to my eye on Sunday. Some ideas aren't worth acting upon.
There was a father and son wearing San Francisco's red and gold sharing a table with the mom and another son wearing New Orleans's black and gold. We three had a good time wondering what other, deeper divisions in their family this might reveal.
Right next to us was a big guy and a little guy, each wearing a red Crabtree jersey. When Michael ran 15 yards they were shuffling their feet in time with his. It was almost as much fun to watch as their tablemate's 49'ers knee socks. Not many men could carry that off; personally, I credit his Chucks for saving the day.
*****
Tonight there's Duke vs Ohio State, a #2 vs #4 match-up that has piqued TBG's interest. With real claim to the #1 team in the nation (GO I U!!) and to the much-overlooked-but-up-and-coming Hoyas (who, though unranked, acquitted themselves with more aplomb than did the #14 Tarheels against IU), and to our #9 ranked hometown Wildcats, this looks to be a season I can really follow. I won't be reading in the library; I'll be on Douglas, cheering for a good game.
The last time I knew this much - or cared this much so early in the season - about college basketball was when DePaul and Ray Meyer made a run for it all..
I'm trying not to think about how that turned out.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Little By Little (with digressions)
That's my mantra for the season. I'm applying it to the physical and the emotional pieces of my life. I wrote about Kaizen after we came home from Canyon Ranch. I didn't think of it until I typed it, but it's obviously the same thing.
This is why I love you, denizens. I think out loud, and you are there to listen. Without you, I'm a raving lunatic. With you, I'm a thoughtful blogger. But, as usual, I digress.
I was feeling overwhelmed over the weekend. I had some post-holiday blues to mix in with the Halloween decorations festooning the edges of the garage, haphazardly piled atop one another, earrings next to plastic pumpkins from Happy Meals gone by. Thanksgiving was in a box on the kitchen table, awaiting strong, young legs to transport it. There were boxes and boxes of Christmas and Chanukah stacked higher than my achy hip was willing to lower.
I pushed away the random nastiness which was threatening to creep in from the sidelines. Sure, two years ago this was no problem. It's really too bad. It's also a fact. Dwelling on it won't make me any stronger.
My brain repeated it as my heart and soul tried to embrace it. Brain was losing, rapidly. I cried.
For once, TBG heeded my pleas and didn't try to solve the problem. He just listened. It was lovely. Then it was over and I asked for help in moving the boxes and all of a sudden I had Fall put away on the shelves and Winter on the gardening bench, ready to be unpacked.
Did I mention that there are lots and lots of boxes? I once complained about not having any Chanukah decor; FAMBB took care of a lot of that and now I've moved most of it to Amster's, since she'll be hosting our-now-annual-Chanukah party forever and anon. Even with that purging, I have boxes for the Jewish half and boxes for the Christian half and even some boxes for the heathens, too.
Heathens? Well, how else can I explain the fact of a snow man in the desert? To whom am I appealing? It made sense in Chicago, it never came out in California, yet here, in Tucson, it smiles at me from under a saguaro. Holiday iconography is an interesting subject; I wish that Nance were still writing Mature Landscape so that she could research it and tell me what I need to know. But, again, I digress.
JannyLou and Fast Eddie, the world's most wonderful next-door-neighbors, put away my holiday after I was shot. Yesterday I opened boxes left untouched since then, and I was covered with love.... in the shape of styrofoam popcorns attaching themselves to me and everything around me. It was snowing in the desert, and I laughed.
Small steps, denizens. I'm taking small steps. I didn't bring the whole box into the house. I unpacked what I could carry in one trip, and brought it in and set it out. Little Cuter was the recipient of many of my ornaments and tchotchkes when she and SIR set up housekeeping. What remains are the special things, the ones that make me smile.
I'm taking my own sweet time. When I go out to the garage, I bring in another item or two. I'm amazing myself; I polished the silver reindeer before I put them away. What a lovely gift to have given myself. How thoughtful of me. It's the little things, remember?
There was less and less of G'ma at Thanksgiving. There were times when she knew a phrase was called for, but she didn't know which one it was. She's losing track of the conversation more frequently. And then, there are those damn, clacking dentures. Little by little she's fading away. Little by little I'm learning to let go.
We sat outside on Thursday night, under the stars, on the much-too-low-for-her lounges. I was in shorts and a t-shirt; she was wrapped in the grey cashmere throw. We watched the bugs then the bats then the birds. The sun set and she asked to go home.
She never asks to go home. She always wants to stay and enjoy the party. Thursday night she was finished, and it wasn't even 7 o'clock.
I took her home and got her settled and walked away. Little by little is easier than all at once, but, for me, it still takes some work.
This is why I love you, denizens. I think out loud, and you are there to listen. Without you, I'm a raving lunatic. With you, I'm a thoughtful blogger. But, as usual, I digress.
I was feeling overwhelmed over the weekend. I had some post-holiday blues to mix in with the Halloween decorations festooning the edges of the garage, haphazardly piled atop one another, earrings next to plastic pumpkins from Happy Meals gone by. Thanksgiving was in a box on the kitchen table, awaiting strong, young legs to transport it. There were boxes and boxes of Christmas and Chanukah stacked higher than my achy hip was willing to lower.
I pushed away the random nastiness which was threatening to creep in from the sidelines. Sure, two years ago this was no problem. It's really too bad. It's also a fact. Dwelling on it won't make me any stronger.
My brain repeated it as my heart and soul tried to embrace it. Brain was losing, rapidly. I cried.
For once, TBG heeded my pleas and didn't try to solve the problem. He just listened. It was lovely. Then it was over and I asked for help in moving the boxes and all of a sudden I had Fall put away on the shelves and Winter on the gardening bench, ready to be unpacked.
Did I mention that there are lots and lots of boxes? I once complained about not having any Chanukah decor; FAMBB took care of a lot of that and now I've moved most of it to Amster's, since she'll be hosting our-now-annual-Chanukah party forever and anon. Even with that purging, I have boxes for the Jewish half and boxes for the Christian half and even some boxes for the heathens, too.
Heathens? Well, how else can I explain the fact of a snow man in the desert? To whom am I appealing? It made sense in Chicago, it never came out in California, yet here, in Tucson, it smiles at me from under a saguaro. Holiday iconography is an interesting subject; I wish that Nance were still writing Mature Landscape so that she could research it and tell me what I need to know. But, again, I digress.
JannyLou and Fast Eddie, the world's most wonderful next-door-neighbors, put away my holiday after I was shot. Yesterday I opened boxes left untouched since then, and I was covered with love.... in the shape of styrofoam popcorns attaching themselves to me and everything around me. It was snowing in the desert, and I laughed.
Small steps, denizens. I'm taking small steps. I didn't bring the whole box into the house. I unpacked what I could carry in one trip, and brought it in and set it out. Little Cuter was the recipient of many of my ornaments and tchotchkes when she and SIR set up housekeeping. What remains are the special things, the ones that make me smile.
I'm taking my own sweet time. When I go out to the garage, I bring in another item or two. I'm amazing myself; I polished the silver reindeer before I put them away. What a lovely gift to have given myself. How thoughtful of me. It's the little things, remember?
There was less and less of G'ma at Thanksgiving. There were times when she knew a phrase was called for, but she didn't know which one it was. She's losing track of the conversation more frequently. And then, there are those damn, clacking dentures. Little by little she's fading away. Little by little I'm learning to let go.
We sat outside on Thursday night, under the stars, on the much-too-low-for-her lounges. I was in shorts and a t-shirt; she was wrapped in the grey cashmere throw. We watched the bugs then the bats then the birds. The sun set and she asked to go home.
She never asks to go home. She always wants to stay and enjoy the party. Thursday night she was finished, and it wasn't even 7 o'clock.
I took her home and got her settled and walked away. Little by little is easier than all at once, but, for me, it still takes some work.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Progress
I must confess - I love my new Smartphone. Every day it reveals another, more intimate, side of itself. The more I trust it, the more I am rewarded.
It's a very thoughtful little machine, my Galaxy S3. It lets me clean up my Contacts List; I press the chain link icon and I can join one contact to another. Join... isn't that a lovely word? Combine implies mashing and smashing while join is like that icon over there, neatly fitting one inside the other, each retaining its own particular charm.
Somehow, it knows to include a picture, even if it appears only on one of the three entries I've found for the same friend. Three entries, you wonder? Yes, the darling device has imported contacts from Google as well as those on the phone's SIM card, saved from the dearly departed stupid phone it replaced, and from Facebook, too. For all I know, it's included the DEX or Yellow Pages from my area code. Like my pictures, they just kind of appeared one day.
It feels intrusive. Big Cuter reminds me that once I've downloaded the app (a shortcut to a specific site on the interwebs, configured to display properly on my 4.8" screen) I've given them permission to invade my personal space.... which leads him neatly into his rant about privacy being overrated and the fact that it is an old-fashioned construct and as long as you behave in a proper manner (yes, he says things like that) there's really no reason to worry.
Be that as it may, I was startled into yelping aloud when my Picasa galleries appeared on my phone. Yes, I'd told the phone my Gmail address. No, I didn't realize that it would bring my on-line life into a handheld device... one that I might lose... one that contains phone numbers and emails of my friends. I am certain that I appear in similar devices living in my friends' handbags and backpacks.
Is this progress? Now I have something new to worry me. Big Cuter's pronouncement announcing the absence of privacy in the 21st century has suddenly taken on a much more personal relevance.
And yet, I love the damn thing.
It fits perfectly in my hand. It's a comfortable cover for my ear and my mouth; there's no reason to raise my voice because the mouthpiece seems so very far away. Once I figured out the motion, I've become addicted to swiping my finger across the screen, to answer a call, to respond to any one of a number of notifications... of tasks and events and notes I've left myself. I've become my own worst enemy, and I love it. I annoy myself, and I'm rewarded by swiping.
I remember going to the 1964-5 World's Fair in Flushing, New York. We were all of 12 and 13 but our parents let us take the train and tour the Fair without adult supervision. Feeling very grown up, we wandered over to the AT&T pavilion where the latest gadget was on display: a push button phone. The rotary phone was no match for the speed of those perfectly shaped buttons. It was a whole new world, quicker and newer and unimaginable just a little while ago.
I'm feeling that feeling all over again.
Monday, November 26, 2012
A Thanksgiving Olio
An olio, a miscellaneous collection, a good word to know if you do crossword puzzles, and, perhaps, the new name for the Random Thoughts series. There are so many stories to tell....
*****
It was a little bit of Love Actually at Tucson International Airport on Wednesday night. Grandmas were hugging and being hugged. Girlfriends were standing aside, letting parents and sons embrace, patiently waiting for their own hugs and kisses. Little ones were asleep on shoulders and in crooks of arms and in strollers.
By the time Thursday morning rolled around.... at about ten past midnight.... there was only Big Cuter's plane left to land and the crowd had thinned considerably. We were hunkered down in front of the tv monitor, which broadcasts from the arrivals hallway, just after the security station. Travellers in the know smile and wave at the camera, much to the delight of their relatives in the lobby. We all wondered why the security guard chose that particular spot to rearrange his undergarments, wriggling his butt in the camera's lens.
We wondered.... and we laughed.
*****
Big Cuter lives in sweats and t-shirts when he's here. There's a stash of them in his closet. His suitcase contains underwear and reading material.
"Dad, can I borrow a pair of socks?" has become a recurring theme this vacation. Though he says he doesn't need any more socks at all, I think Santa will have to bring some that he can leave here.
Yes, it's all part of my fiendish, not very subtle, plot to entice my children to move to the desert. It's not likely, but a girl can dream.
*****
I started to transition from Fall to Winter this morning. Big Cuter lifted two boxes of decorations up to the top shelf in the cabinet in the garage. He didn't need a ladder. He didn't need to organize his hips and his legs to lift them. He did it all in one fell swoop, not needing two forays to accomplish the task. He didn't grunt or groan or find the boxes particularly heavy.
I knew there was a reason I had children.
*****
While I am extolling the virtues of having a strong young man around the house, let me also give him credit for figuring out how to turn Pandora off on my new, not-that-annoying-any-more Galaxy S3 smartphone.
Now, if he could only figure out why the desktop computer won't turn on, I'd be totally content.
*****
I made two turkeys this year. It was a mistake. I meant to make one turkey and one breast, but I picked up the wrong bag in the grocery store and didn't notice my mistake until 10am on Thursday morning, ten minutes after I sat up in bed, panic stricken. Who sleeps in on Thanksgiving morning?
Without Little Cuter to spearhead the effort, I was a wreck. She's taken charge since high school. She's the much better cook, and I like to clean up, so we're the perfect pair. This year, the mashed potatoes weren't creamy, the creamed spinach was from a microwaveable freezer pack, and I was dripping sweat by the time I sat down at the kitchen table.
How did G'ma and Daddooooo manage the holidays without their kids surrounding them? I barely made it through dinner.
*****
The last person to wear the too-small white apron with the turkey embroidered on the breast was Christina-Taylor. I put it over my head without making the connection.... and then I remembered..... and I cried.
I couldn't help it. She's gone, there's less of my mom every day, my girl and her guy weren't here, and it was the anniversary of my dad's death. I was trying as hard as I could to feel grateful - and there is so much for which to be grateful - and, eventually, I found my way out of my funk.
It was the first time I had an up-close-and-personal relationship with The Holiday Blues. How lucky am I to have reached 60 before I knew what it meant, for real?
*****
The boys went to the neighborhood sports bar in the mall where Big Cuter's 49'ers were playing on the 103" screen. They were hiding in a quiet nook, surrounded by San Francisco fans, drinking beer and iced tea and cheering Colin Kaepernick. TBG gets credit for picking the 6'5" back-up quarterback as a winner back when the kid was playing college ball. I have to mention that. It's a fact. He's proud of it. Thanks for reading it.
I had half a hamburger and shared my fries with the table and then, when Big Cuter ordered spicy hot wings, I had to leave. These were seriously hot hot wings. The spices made my eyes tear. I moved closer to TBG, but that didn't help. Our faces were sweating. Our son, meanwhile, was smiling, laughing, and devouring an entire plate of bright orange.
It's good to be young.
*****
I'm trying as hard as I can to get into the holiday spirit. I've begun mailing the brownie list. Thanksgiving is put away and so is Halloween. The first nutcracker has made his appearance by the back door. I went wreath shopping on Friday.
The problem is, the temps are still in the 80's during the day, and the pool is looking awfully inviting.
I have to remind myself that this was Jesus's weather.... and it's his birthday, after all, right?
*****
I hope your holiday was filled with warmth and love and joy. I know that mine was made infinitely better, just knowing that you were out there. Please, do not underestimate how much I value, love, revel in your presence. You help me think, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
*****
It was a little bit of Love Actually at Tucson International Airport on Wednesday night. Grandmas were hugging and being hugged. Girlfriends were standing aside, letting parents and sons embrace, patiently waiting for their own hugs and kisses. Little ones were asleep on shoulders and in crooks of arms and in strollers.
By the time Thursday morning rolled around.... at about ten past midnight.... there was only Big Cuter's plane left to land and the crowd had thinned considerably. We were hunkered down in front of the tv monitor, which broadcasts from the arrivals hallway, just after the security station. Travellers in the know smile and wave at the camera, much to the delight of their relatives in the lobby. We all wondered why the security guard chose that particular spot to rearrange his undergarments, wriggling his butt in the camera's lens.
We wondered.... and we laughed.
*****
Big Cuter lives in sweats and t-shirts when he's here. There's a stash of them in his closet. His suitcase contains underwear and reading material.
"Dad, can I borrow a pair of socks?" has become a recurring theme this vacation. Though he says he doesn't need any more socks at all, I think Santa will have to bring some that he can leave here.
Yes, it's all part of my fiendish, not very subtle, plot to entice my children to move to the desert. It's not likely, but a girl can dream.
*****
I started to transition from Fall to Winter this morning. Big Cuter lifted two boxes of decorations up to the top shelf in the cabinet in the garage. He didn't need a ladder. He didn't need to organize his hips and his legs to lift them. He did it all in one fell swoop, not needing two forays to accomplish the task. He didn't grunt or groan or find the boxes particularly heavy.
I knew there was a reason I had children.
*****
While I am extolling the virtues of having a strong young man around the house, let me also give him credit for figuring out how to turn Pandora off on my new, not-that-annoying-any-more Galaxy S3 smartphone.
Now, if he could only figure out why the desktop computer won't turn on, I'd be totally content.
*****
I made two turkeys this year. It was a mistake. I meant to make one turkey and one breast, but I picked up the wrong bag in the grocery store and didn't notice my mistake until 10am on Thursday morning, ten minutes after I sat up in bed, panic stricken. Who sleeps in on Thanksgiving morning?
Without Little Cuter to spearhead the effort, I was a wreck. She's taken charge since high school. She's the much better cook, and I like to clean up, so we're the perfect pair. This year, the mashed potatoes weren't creamy, the creamed spinach was from a microwaveable freezer pack, and I was dripping sweat by the time I sat down at the kitchen table.
How did G'ma and Daddooooo manage the holidays without their kids surrounding them? I barely made it through dinner.
*****
The last person to wear the too-small white apron with the turkey embroidered on the breast was Christina-Taylor. I put it over my head without making the connection.... and then I remembered..... and I cried.
I couldn't help it. She's gone, there's less of my mom every day, my girl and her guy weren't here, and it was the anniversary of my dad's death. I was trying as hard as I could to feel grateful - and there is so much for which to be grateful - and, eventually, I found my way out of my funk.
It was the first time I had an up-close-and-personal relationship with The Holiday Blues. How lucky am I to have reached 60 before I knew what it meant, for real?
*****
The boys went to the neighborhood sports bar in the mall where Big Cuter's 49'ers were playing on the 103" screen. They were hiding in a quiet nook, surrounded by San Francisco fans, drinking beer and iced tea and cheering Colin Kaepernick. TBG gets credit for picking the 6'5" back-up quarterback as a winner back when the kid was playing college ball. I have to mention that. It's a fact. He's proud of it. Thanks for reading it.
I had half a hamburger and shared my fries with the table and then, when Big Cuter ordered spicy hot wings, I had to leave. These were seriously hot hot wings. The spices made my eyes tear. I moved closer to TBG, but that didn't help. Our faces were sweating. Our son, meanwhile, was smiling, laughing, and devouring an entire plate of bright orange.
It's good to be young.
*****
I'm trying as hard as I can to get into the holiday spirit. I've begun mailing the brownie list. Thanksgiving is put away and so is Halloween. The first nutcracker has made his appearance by the back door. I went wreath shopping on Friday.
The problem is, the temps are still in the 80's during the day, and the pool is looking awfully inviting.
I have to remind myself that this was Jesus's weather.... and it's his birthday, after all, right?
*****
I hope your holiday was filled with warmth and love and joy. I know that mine was made infinitely better, just knowing that you were out there. Please, do not underestimate how much I value, love, revel in your presence. You help me think, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Friday, November 23, 2012
One Shopping Secret
Shop local.
I'm out of fresh ideas on the interwebs. I haven't been in the garden in so long the catalogs are mere teases, tempting me with items I can't appreciate in full. Since I am feeling the love this year, I'm avoiding things which make me grimace... like thinking about Elmo's muppeteer resigning... and I'm concentrating on the good.
So, back to my idea for this Friday's Shopping Secret : Shop Local.
The city of Fresno says that either $73 of every $100 or 45 cents of every $1 will stay in the local economy if you stay away from the big chains. I have issues with mathematical analyses so I checked with my boys; they can't have it both ways. Of course, Big Cuter suggests that it's really $118 out of every $100 but that's more a by-product of lying on Douglas with his Dad than any real math-ness...... but I digress.
There are little shops you've driven by a dozen times - go in.
There are bakeries and fruit stands and wine shops that have tempted you from afar - give in.
Ask the waitress where she found those fabulous earrings; I'll bet it was an artisan whose work you can find just down the street.
I, for one, am going to get an early start on the brownie list. It doesn't get more local than my own kitchen, after all.
Have a wonderful holiday weekend, denizens.
I'm out of fresh ideas on the interwebs. I haven't been in the garden in so long the catalogs are mere teases, tempting me with items I can't appreciate in full. Since I am feeling the love this year, I'm avoiding things which make me grimace... like thinking about Elmo's muppeteer resigning... and I'm concentrating on the good.
So, back to my idea for this Friday's Shopping Secret : Shop Local.
The city of Fresno says that either $73 of every $100 or 45 cents of every $1 will stay in the local economy if you stay away from the big chains. I have issues with mathematical analyses so I checked with my boys; they can't have it both ways. Of course, Big Cuter suggests that it's really $118 out of every $100 but that's more a by-product of lying on Douglas with his Dad than any real math-ness...... but I digress.
There are little shops you've driven by a dozen times - go in.
There are bakeries and fruit stands and wine shops that have tempted you from afar - give in.
Ask the waitress where she found those fabulous earrings; I'll bet it was an artisan whose work you can find just down the street.
I, for one, am going to get an early start on the brownie list. It doesn't get more local than my own kitchen, after all.
Have a wonderful holiday weekend, denizens.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thanks for the memories.......
..... of sunny freezing Thursdays, waking to the smell of Nannie's turkey in the oven, rolling over on the old bed on the third floor, surrounded by my babies.....
..... of full bellies lying on the couch, begging for relief, as Hough's creamed spinach wound its way through an overloaded digestive tract.....
..... of my first niece, a veg even as a toddler, eating cucumbers for dinner and feeling just fine.....
..... of walks around the neighborhood, wrapped in scarves and hats culled from the front hall closet, surrounded by all ages and temperments, mellowed by tryptophan and love.
Thanksgiving was in Cleveland Heights. My family was too far and too expensive to visit, plus, there were all those arguments which never seemed to end. TBG's folks put out the welcome mat for us, and we wiped our feet and joined the fun year after year after year. The drive from Chicago wasn't too onerous, especially as we crooned Over the River and Through the Woods... we really were on our way to Grandmother's house. Somehow, that song felt as if it had been written especially for us.
I fought with my brother-in-law for the remains of that spinach; I wasn't into pie, so I had plenty of room. We'd sit in the dining room (using it, for once, as more than an inconvenient space between the kitchen and the tv room), sideboards groaning, waiting for Nannie's yearly screech; Thanksgiving wouldn't be Thanksgiving without my mother-in-law jumping up from the table just as the first fork was lifted and yelping, "Oh, shit... I burned the rolls!"
Some things get better with the passage of time. That was wonderful in each and every original moment.
Over time, as the kids grew and sports schedules interrupted our travels, we made our own memories. The Bride taught us about ketchup on turkey. Big Cuter needs horse radish since he scorns the gravy. Little Cuter's mashed potatoes are creamy and not at all lumpy and will be sorely missed this year as she makes her own way, over the river and through the woods, to her own mother-in-law's house for the holiday. I'll try my best, but the boys are already moaning over their loss.
That's the way it is, though, isn't it? Time passes and nothing changes and everything changes and we all look for what's missing and there's a moment when all you can do is sigh. Christina-Taylor helped G'ma choose the serving pieces two years ago; I'll never put them out again without feeling her right beside me. I'll make my own creamed spinach, and feel my brother-in-law's eyes on the last bite in the bowl. I'll try not to burn the rolls, and I'll laugh at myself and Nannie at the same time.
There will be no shopping on this Thanksgiving Day. There will be fewer people at the table, but just as much love. We are here. We are fed. We are happy.
Thanks for being part of the wonder that is my life. Each and every one of you makes it that much sweeter. Who needs pie? I have all of you.
..... of full bellies lying on the couch, begging for relief, as Hough's creamed spinach wound its way through an overloaded digestive tract.....
..... of my first niece, a veg even as a toddler, eating cucumbers for dinner and feeling just fine.....
..... of walks around the neighborhood, wrapped in scarves and hats culled from the front hall closet, surrounded by all ages and temperments, mellowed by tryptophan and love.
Thanksgiving was in Cleveland Heights. My family was too far and too expensive to visit, plus, there were all those arguments which never seemed to end. TBG's folks put out the welcome mat for us, and we wiped our feet and joined the fun year after year after year. The drive from Chicago wasn't too onerous, especially as we crooned Over the River and Through the Woods... we really were on our way to Grandmother's house. Somehow, that song felt as if it had been written especially for us.
I fought with my brother-in-law for the remains of that spinach; I wasn't into pie, so I had plenty of room. We'd sit in the dining room (using it, for once, as more than an inconvenient space between the kitchen and the tv room), sideboards groaning, waiting for Nannie's yearly screech; Thanksgiving wouldn't be Thanksgiving without my mother-in-law jumping up from the table just as the first fork was lifted and yelping, "Oh, shit... I burned the rolls!"
Some things get better with the passage of time. That was wonderful in each and every original moment.
Over time, as the kids grew and sports schedules interrupted our travels, we made our own memories. The Bride taught us about ketchup on turkey. Big Cuter needs horse radish since he scorns the gravy. Little Cuter's mashed potatoes are creamy and not at all lumpy and will be sorely missed this year as she makes her own way, over the river and through the woods, to her own mother-in-law's house for the holiday. I'll try my best, but the boys are already moaning over their loss.
That's the way it is, though, isn't it? Time passes and nothing changes and everything changes and we all look for what's missing and there's a moment when all you can do is sigh. Christina-Taylor helped G'ma choose the serving pieces two years ago; I'll never put them out again without feeling her right beside me. I'll make my own creamed spinach, and feel my brother-in-law's eyes on the last bite in the bowl. I'll try not to burn the rolls, and I'll laugh at myself and Nannie at the same time.
There will be no shopping on this Thanksgiving Day. There will be fewer people at the table, but just as much love. We are here. We are fed. We are happy.
Thanks for being part of the wonder that is my life. Each and every one of you makes it that much sweeter. Who needs pie? I have all of you.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
The First Big Guy
My father-in-law would have turned 100 today. He'd have been very proud of what he saw.
His youngest child, his namesake, the Junior, was teary-eyed, looking at thefinally arrived aren't they here yet? absolutely gorgeous wedding pictures.
Sergio captured the moments perfectly. My house has never looked lovelier and my daughter has never looked happier and I wish that TFBG could have been here to enjoy the party.
He'd have been very proud.
He was self-reliant and independent and managed his own affairs without interference or consultation. His retirement planning ran through A to Z and ended, on graph paper, in pencil, each letter occupying its own space and nothing more, with PP. He shared them with TBG, but only as a curiosity. He would own the result as he owned the preparation.
Ownership was something he took seriously. He had the same woolen bathrobe for his entire adult life. His shoes were works of wonder; treed every night and polished by day, they lasted for decades. Every tool had its proper place, and none were ever put away improperly, or unclean.
What I view aspersnickety nit-picking annoying TBG's acute attention to detail, TFBG saw as the only way to be. All his pencils were always sharpened. All his scrap paper was always neatly cornered. His coins were stacked, separated into appropriate piles, atop his dresser each night before he went to bed.
My closet, which, last week, looked like a bomb exploded underneath the hanging clothes, tossing things off shelves and out of jewelry boxes, would have been beyond his ken. But he would never have said a thing. If it worked for me, that would have been just fine. I was Suz-eye, the one his little boy had chosen. I must be okay.
It was that acceptance of the world around him which made him so special to me. He may have been different when his children were small, and he was travelling, and there were issues. I will never know. By the time we met, he was settled into a routine which worked for everyone.... and there he stayed. It wasn't boring, it wasn't habitual or without thought. It was a plan. There really is a difference.
With his life organized, TFBG could concentrate on the things which were interesting. Look up at the ceiling of the room you're in and then come right back here. How many light fixtures were up there? How many square drop-ceiling panels? How many holes per panel? TFBG wouldn't have looked down until he knew. Then, while the rest of us were trying to remember, he'd be creating mathematical puzzles and pictures with the information newly stored in his brain. He was never bored; there was always something to count.
He loved me because I loved his son and didn't annoy his wife and that was enough for him. He took me as I came,family warts and all. Without judgment, without strings, without anything but affection and warmth, he was a rock on whom to lean.
He wasn't perfect, but he was close enough that we named our own son The Third.
No, it wasn't ego on Dad's part. It was homage to the grandfather who embodied that title.
He truly was a Grand Father.
Rest in Peace, Paw. You are missed.
His youngest child, his namesake, the Junior, was teary-eyed, looking at the
Sergio captured the moments perfectly. My house has never looked lovelier and my daughter has never looked happier and I wish that TFBG could have been here to enjoy the party.
He'd have been very proud.
He was self-reliant and independent and managed his own affairs without interference or consultation. His retirement planning ran through A to Z and ended, on graph paper, in pencil, each letter occupying its own space and nothing more, with PP. He shared them with TBG, but only as a curiosity. He would own the result as he owned the preparation.
Ownership was something he took seriously. He had the same woolen bathrobe for his entire adult life. His shoes were works of wonder; treed every night and polished by day, they lasted for decades. Every tool had its proper place, and none were ever put away improperly, or unclean.
What I view as
My closet, which, last week, looked like a bomb exploded underneath the hanging clothes, tossing things off shelves and out of jewelry boxes, would have been beyond his ken. But he would never have said a thing. If it worked for me, that would have been just fine. I was Suz-eye, the one his little boy had chosen. I must be okay.
It was that acceptance of the world around him which made him so special to me. He may have been different when his children were small, and he was travelling, and there were issues. I will never know. By the time we met, he was settled into a routine which worked for everyone.... and there he stayed. It wasn't boring, it wasn't habitual or without thought. It was a plan. There really is a difference.
With his life organized, TFBG could concentrate on the things which were interesting. Look up at the ceiling of the room you're in and then come right back here. How many light fixtures were up there? How many square drop-ceiling panels? How many holes per panel? TFBG wouldn't have looked down until he knew. Then, while the rest of us were trying to remember, he'd be creating mathematical puzzles and pictures with the information newly stored in his brain. He was never bored; there was always something to count.
He loved me because I loved his son and didn't annoy his wife and that was enough for him. He took me as I came,
He wasn't perfect, but he was close enough that we named our own son The Third.
No, it wasn't ego on Dad's part. It was homage to the grandfather who embodied that title.
He truly was a Grand Father.
Rest in Peace, Paw. You are missed.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Change of Seasons
It's happening to me once again. I have no idea what day it is. I am certainly confused about the season.
I spent our first winter in Marin wearing hiking boots, woolen socks, corduroy shorts and a polar fleece vest over a long sleeved t-shirt or sweater. My winter coat was a yellow, unlined, floor-length cotton duster which was only snapped up tight when I wanted to protect what was underneath from the raindrops. It was never cold enough to warrant a scarf or a hat or gloves; when I wore them, it was a fashion statement rather than a concession to frigid temperatures.
A friend suggested that I choose colors for each season, and rotate my closet accordingly. The weather was pretty much the same year round, once you crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. Woolen sweaters were relegated to the storage closets there, as they are here. Pale yellow is reserved for April through August; dark brown for November til Valentine's Day.
Or so it has been until this year. Our temperatures remain in the eighties during the day. I'd like to wear a sleeveless tank top but it's November, for crying out loud. I feel ridiculous. Thanksgiving is Thursday... and I'm still not wearing a cover-up into the gym. My short sweatshirts are glaring at me from their hangars; they're lonely and I, apparently, am to blame.
I love Fall clothes. I love snuggling into a sweater that's going to insulate me and hug me and keep me warm. Right now, putting on a sweater would be suicidal; every convertible in town is out with the top down today. It feels like the middle of summer on Long Island, right after a rainfall, when the air is clear and crisp and the humidity is only a faint memory.
I still haven't bought my turkey. I haven't brought out the Thanksgiving napkins and pot holders and dish towels. My rose bush is blooming again, its magnificence mocking the calendar. Don't roses bloom in the spring? The small, migrating finches are nibbling on the crepe myrtle's seed pods, but there don't seem to be that many of them.
Are they additional harbingers of global warming? Is their home up north still toasty enough to entice them to stay? The quail are fattening up, and I haven't seen many bunnies or ground squirrels, so the native beasties are still paying attention to the month and the season, it seems. The coyotes are plump and not as noisy; the babies are growing to maturity and have learned to control themselves. The sunsets are the bright oranges of the nearing solstice, and I remember that the shortest day of the year is but six or so weeks away.
So, why am I wearing shorts?
I spent our first winter in Marin wearing hiking boots, woolen socks, corduroy shorts and a polar fleece vest over a long sleeved t-shirt or sweater. My winter coat was a yellow, unlined, floor-length cotton duster which was only snapped up tight when I wanted to protect what was underneath from the raindrops. It was never cold enough to warrant a scarf or a hat or gloves; when I wore them, it was a fashion statement rather than a concession to frigid temperatures.
A friend suggested that I choose colors for each season, and rotate my closet accordingly. The weather was pretty much the same year round, once you crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. Woolen sweaters were relegated to the storage closets there, as they are here. Pale yellow is reserved for April through August; dark brown for November til Valentine's Day.
Or so it has been until this year. Our temperatures remain in the eighties during the day. I'd like to wear a sleeveless tank top but it's November, for crying out loud. I feel ridiculous. Thanksgiving is Thursday... and I'm still not wearing a cover-up into the gym. My short sweatshirts are glaring at me from their hangars; they're lonely and I, apparently, am to blame.
I love Fall clothes. I love snuggling into a sweater that's going to insulate me and hug me and keep me warm. Right now, putting on a sweater would be suicidal; every convertible in town is out with the top down today. It feels like the middle of summer on Long Island, right after a rainfall, when the air is clear and crisp and the humidity is only a faint memory.
I still haven't bought my turkey. I haven't brought out the Thanksgiving napkins and pot holders and dish towels. My rose bush is blooming again, its magnificence mocking the calendar. Don't roses bloom in the spring? The small, migrating finches are nibbling on the crepe myrtle's seed pods, but there don't seem to be that many of them.
Are they additional harbingers of global warming? Is their home up north still toasty enough to entice them to stay? The quail are fattening up, and I haven't seen many bunnies or ground squirrels, so the native beasties are still paying attention to the month and the season, it seems. The coyotes are plump and not as noisy; the babies are growing to maturity and have learned to control themselves. The sunsets are the bright oranges of the nearing solstice, and I remember that the shortest day of the year is but six or so weeks away.
So, why am I wearing shorts?
Monday, November 19, 2012
A Neighborhood Atop a Cemetery
Tucson's built in the caldera of a volcano. It's ringed by mountain ranges, growth beginning in the middle of the hole and spreading out as far as the mountains allowed. The original presidio is in the center of downtown, the dead were buried further north, just east of Main Street.
Then, civilization began to encroach. Development was moving in the direction of all those bodies, and the survivors were told to dig 'em up. Evergreen Cemetery was created further north and west, and plots would be available for the displaced remains. Some were moved. Some were not. Homeowners in the Dunbar and Spring neighborhoods are still digging up caskets and clothes and bones. Were the bodies buried with all their clothes victims of contagious disease? Was burial the safest method of disposal for things they'd touched?
The answers are unknown, but the history is commemorated by signage in the roundabouts.
Then, civilization began to encroach. Development was moving in the direction of all those bodies, and the survivors were told to dig 'em up. Evergreen Cemetery was created further north and west, and plots would be available for the displaced remains. Some were moved. Some were not. Homeowners in the Dunbar and Spring neighborhoods are still digging up caskets and clothes and bones. Were the bodies buried with all their clothes victims of contagious disease? Was burial the safest method of disposal for things they'd touched?
The answers are unknown, but the history is commemorated by signage in the roundabouts.
I visited this slice of Tucson with the Streetwalkers, another piece of the Happy Ladies Club. Boas optional, this group wants to move but prefers pavement to gravel and flat surfaces to hundreds of feet of elevation change. At this point, they are more my speed than the Desert Hikers, who take on miles at a time. It's not as adventurous, but it turned out to be just as much fun.
There's a lot to be learned on these excursions, as our fearless leader shared details about the houses we passed. I'm trying not to think about what the residents thought of my photography. People drive by our house and take pictues and it's kind of creepy; somehow, I didn't feel intrusive at all. It's all in the eye of the beholder, isn't it?
We admired the blue fence posts and railings,
and marveled at what less than $200,000 can get you within biking distance of the University.
We learned that many of the original stores have been repurposed as houses, like this one which served the ethnic Chinese who lived out here, on the outskirts of town.
The door opens out to the corner; it's a feng shui thing.
This property is gated, but there's a nice garden outside for the neighbors to enjoy, too.
Don't those chairs look like they're waiting for us to sit down, cocktail in hand, watching the world go by?
The fence is made of recycled wood and the planters are barrels and the irrigation is everywhere to feed the roses.
And there were roses everywhere.
Gotta love the desert southwest; our roses bloom a second time for Thanksgiving.
Without an HOA and its restrictions and covenants, relics of mini-golf parks past can be relocated in the front yard with impunity.
This is a community in the true sense of the word; it even has a bulletin board.
There are murals, historic
and ethnic
and directional signs pointing you to the mountain ranges.
There are gates made of bike parts.
And there's a blacksmith shop.
This is the blacksmith.
He showed us how to make a curl.
He selected the pieces to be heated.
Then he put them to the coal fire; it gives a better result than a gas flame.
Yes, he has only one glove.
He was braver than I'd ever be.
Then, he took the heated pieces to the anvil and flattened them, then curled them using the pointed edge in front and the rounded edge in back.
He's been at it for 34 years; his son is the welder.
The neighborhood boasts a theater owner who puts on big musicals in a tiny Red Barn,
and a barber school (where photos felt intrusive) offering low-cost instruction in a field where jobs are available. Student haircuts are $5; the teachers check everyone before they walk out the door.
It's a community, after all. They'll be seeing their handiwork on the streets.
Next time you're in town, give me a call.
I'll be glad to take you and show you around.
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