Thank You Mrs. Brown

A Foreign Language

2011-12-30T12:40:00.000-08:00

I have never lived in another country where the native language wasn't English, except on a short vacation, which doesn't count. I do not speak another language, unless you count three years of high school French, dusty from 30 years of non-usage. However, two years ago I did move back to the New York City area for six months.

In the New York City area the culture is so different from California, where I make my permanent home, that it certainly qualifies as a "foreign" to me. They claim to speak English here, but sometimes I wonder if the California bay area and the New York metropolitan area are even part of the same country.

I know that I am in New York as soon as I board the shuttle from JFK and hear the airport traffic cops yelling at the vehicles. "Hey buddy, MOVE IT!" said with a New York attitude and a New York accent, difficult to translate to the written page.

When my sister came to visit me in California, she was amazed. "Are they always this polite?" she asked me after returning from a simple trip to the grocery store.

And so, as I visit the east coast for the holidays this year, I am constantly asking myself if I can see myself living back here, an eventuality which I am more and more certain will one day happen the older I become.

The cold grey winters, the wariness of strangers, the conservative politics, the old dilapidated buildings, the small minded attitudes, the rudeness of strangers....it all seems so depressing to me. While it is true that everyone speaks English, it is the general attitude that seems so foreign to me.

I miss the California sunshine, the cultural diversity, the friendliness of Californians, the liberal politics, the diversity and acceptance of alternative lifestyles.

Even though literally we all speak English, figuratively speaking, we do not speak the same language at all. And I am at a loss for how to translate.

The Newest Fad

2011-12-20T22:07:00.000-08:00

No, its not the iPad. Or some fashion wear from "Forever 21". Or designer shoes or handbag. I'm talking serious fad here.

I am speaking of the newest "diet". And I know this how? Because this new diet has finally made the magazine slots by the grocery check out stands. I have seen the magazine, and it is called "Gluten Free".

I have known about the gluten free diet for several years because my sister jumped on the bandwagon a number of years ago. This was after her "no-white-sugar" diet of several years. And her "eggless" diet, which I think she still follows. Now she touts the gluten-free-way and preaches its merits to any bread or pasta lover willing to mend their ways.

Over the past few years, more and more products have been sold in a gluten-free variety. At first, Rice Chex and a few other products that had never contained wheat gluten to begin with, began advertising that they were gluten free. Then some gluten free products that were usually sold in health food stores started appearing on Safeway shelves - pancake mix and the like. A year or two ago, Betty Crocker came out with a gluten free brownie mix. And now, this.

Not an article in a magazine, not a magazine devoted to health food devotees, but a $4.95 recipe magazine at the checkout counter, with all the other women's magazines.

Does this mean the gluten-free-way has moved from fad to mainstream? My sister seems to think so. Ask me again ten years from now. Only time will tell.

37 Degrees

2011-12-18T10:08:00.000-08:00

I am the first to admit that I am not good with cars. I am speaking of fixing them or keeping them properly maintained. I suppose I could be better at it, I am simply just not interested. And as I get older, and my memory gets worse, my car maintenance becomes more lacking. If there were a service to keep track of my car maintenance and drive my car to Jiffy Lube at the appointed times, ideally while I am at work, I would gladly pay for such a service.

Within two months of getting my current car, a 2005 Toyota Prius, I ran out of gas, not a great thing to do with any car, but really, really bad for a Prius. My beloved red 1990 Toyota Corolla met a similar but slightly worse fate when I bled it's lubrication system dry. (Not 100% my fault - the oil gauge had stopped working.) I also managed to blow out a very worn tire on this same vehicle, before it met its untimely end. The tow truck driver really blasted me for driving with having such worn tires, saying I was a menace on the road.

Yes, we drivers are responsible for making sure our cars are in good working order, lest we cause an accident due to poor auto maintenance. I am aware of this. But the thought just never crosses my mind to check my tires or my oil. On my older cars, I was used to bringing the vehicle into the mechanic every 15,000 miles, whereupon he would check the tires and the oil and the brakes and fluids and other important things. (Truth be told, I did change my oil in-between check-ups, although I wasn't religious about it.)

Because I know all of this, when a bright red flashing light starts blinking on my dashboard, I take it seriously. Out of gas? PULL OVER NOW screams the light. I get it.

And so, I was confused when an orange light began staring at me the other night from the dash. Not urgently critical, but still, it was a dash light, trying earnestly to tell me something that must have been important. I didn't understand the symbol, and had to pull over under a street light and pull the car manual out of the glove compartment.

37 Degrees. That's what the symbol means - 37 degrees outside temperature. Okey-dokey. What happens when the temperature drops to 37 degrees? I have absolutely no idea. This must mean something universal to the Japanese, but its a mystery to me. Perhaps if it was warning of freezing temperatures (as in "remember to put antifreeze in the coolant system") I could understand it. But 37 degrees? What the heck that mean? The manual was of no help in explaining why a dashboard light goes on at 37 degrees, as if everyone should know why this information is important.

It is December, that is true. Temperatures have been known to drop to freezing in December and January, at least overnight, even in California. But we usually don't panic about these things, unless we are headed to the mountains. Our daytime temperatures never stay below freezing, ever.

I am still at a loss as to the importance of this information, so if anyone out there has a clue, please let me know. In the meantime, my odometer says 94,000 miles, which is 34,000 miles since this car was last "tuned" up, which is about 4,000 miles overdue.

Anyone know a good mechanic in the Redwood City area?

The Question

2011-12-15T20:33:00.000-08:00

I think Shakespeare had it all wrong. According a query I recently saw on Facebook (the touchstone of our times) the major life question today is not "To Be or Not to Be", but "To Go or Not to Go".

My friend's son Nicolas is a freshman in college. He is attending college on a wrestling scholarship. But he hates it there and wants to come home. Hmmmm....he could always go to school elsewhere, but the other scholarship opportunities that once begged for him are long gone.

When I lost my job (and house), there was no question that I would move back "home", to the area where I was born and where most of my family still lives, which is 3,000 miles from my beloved California. I didn't want to "go"...but finances dictated otherwise. Fortunately for me, some six months later I was able to return to CA and find a job. But sometimes it doesn't work out the way you hope.

I watched a documentary on life in China the other night. The filmmakers followed a Chinese couple who had left their two children in the country with grandma while the couple moved to the city in order to find work, so that their children could have a better life. The thing is, it was a two day journey from the city back to the farm, and the couple could only afford to make this trip once a year. Perhaps unfathomable in the US, but this is not uncommon in China. Which is not to say it is not difficult. How hard it must have been to make this decision, for this couple to leave their young children and not see them for a year at a time?

My ex-boyfriend is from Israel. When he was 40, after spending all of his life living on a kibbutz, he moved to the US after his marriage fell apart. He left his young children in Israel, and left his homeland, to find better job opportunities than he was facing in Israel, and he made this move in order to support those very children he left behind. I don't think that his children, who are now adults, ever fully understood this very difficult decision he made. He was able to see them more often than once a year, but still ended up spending huge blocks of time away from them.

I think of all the people who have tried to escape brutal dictatorships. Some made the decision "to go" early, and got out. Others waited too long, and didn't have a chance. By the time they changed their minds, it was too late to leave.

To Go or Not to Go? To college? Across the country? To the City? Halfway across the world?

There are all major life decisions certainly. But then there is the other question, the other decision, the more difficult one, the one much closer to home, the one that involves a relationship with a spouse or "significant other". Many of us have been there. At what point do you stop trying to fix the relationship, and move on? And how much more difficult is this decision if children are involved?

To Go or Not to Go, that is the question.

Its Raining Cats and Dogs...and Pine Needles

2011-12-01T22:35:00.000-08:00

When I moved up to the hills, to foggy redwood country, I expected dense fog, which results in weather that I call "dripping". Dripping is like a soaking rain, except that the heavy drops fall not directly from the clouds but from the ends of the redwood tree branches.

I did not expect to need a four wheel drive vehicle to get through three inches of "green" that fell yesterday, a particularly windy day. Small redwood twigs and branches littered the ten miles of skyway I take to get home. In some places I had to drive on the wrong side of the road, or slow to 10 miles an hour, there was so much debris on the road. And still, I got stuck - with a large branch that got jammed in my undercarriage for the last two miles of my drive home.

Seeing the road covered in several inches of greenery was bizarre to say the least. I felt like I had landed in one of Dr. Seuss' books.

I fully expect that winter storms are a comin' my way, with wild rain and wind, and the inevitable fallen trees blocking the road. There may be mud and rock slides and even roadway washouts. I am expecting these.

I just did not expect pine needles to be a hindrance to my commute.

The Non-Custodial Parent

2011-11-27T11:20:00.001-08:00

I would have thought we as a society would have come further in 25 years. But this does not appear to be the case.

My husband and I split up 25 years ago, when I left our marriage and our home, taking my four year old son with me. I won't splatter the private details of our married life all over the internet; if you are looking for salacious tidbits, I can refer you to another blog.

By the time we finally divorced after living apart some two years later, it was an amicable separation. I got the kid, he got the house. Sort of. I had physical custody of our son; we had joint legal custody. Jim stayed in the cabin he had built (on land that did not belong to us) and in which had all lived as a family, up in the peninsula hills.

I don't recall much squabbling over legal papers. It was a do-it-yourself divorce; there were no attorneys, only a paralegal. There was not much property to separate; the cabin was not ours; we each kept one of the two cars we owned. Custody was the only issue for discussion.

By the time I started legal paperwork two years after we had split, our emotions had calmed down. We had established a routine for physical custody and visitation. I had rented a house on the peninsula and Jim would visit Sean at the house one night a week and every other weekend. This arrangement gave Sean great stability in having only one place to call "home". At some point, we put the arrangement on paper, and filed it with the court. It was a pretty typical divorce, mom gets physical custody, dad has visitation rights.

Fast forward 25 years. In this much changed world of today, at least technologically speaking, I have come across a blog written by a divorced mother of three children, who gave up physical custody of her children ten years ago to her ex-husband. She gave up physical custody solely in the best interests of her children at the time of the divorce, not because she didn't love her kids and want to be with them and not for any other reason. So here's the rub: why do I even find myself explaining this? Because we as a society still expect the mom to get the kids, unless there is "something wrong" with her, as in she is an "unfit mother".

And I know one or two who are unfit mothers. Drug addicts, alcoholics, emotionally unstable women whose ex-husbands ended up being the custodial parent. But, why is this the assumed reason if the wife does not end up with the kids today? We are living in a time when women can have just as successful and demanding careers as men, have just as much earning power to afford a nice place to live, in a time when dads have more flexible work schedules thanks to the ability to work from home, in a time when dads taking "paternity leave" is not unheard of - why do we still poorly judge those women who have chosen to give up physical custody?

We do, still, jump to that conclusion. At least, according to one woman's story.

But I have also read a few comments on Facebook regarding this issue, which indicate that there is some progressive thinking out there on the topic. So perhaps we are making progress, even if I find that progress glacially slow. Couples living together was not socially accepted by my parents generation when I met my husband some 35 years ago. Today, unmarried couples living together is hardly questioned, if not always sanctioned. Perhaps there is hope for other alternative lifestyle choices, such as non-custodial mothers. I certainly hope so.

How I Forecast the Weather

2011-11-24T09:15:00.000-08:00

There is no weather.com location for mountain weather. I live outside city limits of the nearest town. Even if I lived within the limits of the nearest town, the town center is at the bottom of the hill....and the mountain makes its own weather.

I have to check three different locations (north/west, south, and east) to get any reasonably accurate predication of the coming weather. And even then my "forecast" is often not reliable.

Today it is raining and foggy up here on the mountain. According to Weather.com, it is merely "cloudy" in San Francisco, Woodside and Redwood City, while the mountain is getting doused. I live high enough up the mountain to be right smack dab in the middle of the "cloudy" part of that weather prediction.

But, sometimes, I am above the forecasted "cloudy" weather. On those days, it can be brilliantly sunny at my house on top of the mountain. When I drive down the ribbon of skyway towards town, I am above the tops of the clouds on either side of me, pink or orange or rose colored from the rising sun.

And so, I have learned that a "cloudy" weather forecast on Weather.com could mean sunny...or raining...or foggy....up here on the mountain...or, it just might actually mean cloudy. I guess I will just have to look out the window to know for sure.

Who Gets the Kids?

2011-11-20T16:12:00.000-08:00

A common theme in a common scenario. Mom and Dad divorce, and the big questions are: Who gets the kids? Who gets the house?

Yep. Been there. However, in my divorce, there was never any question of who got what. He got the house, I got the kid. Technically we had joint custody, but realistically I was the one who made any decisions related to the kid. It was helpful that our values are pretty similar. Jim built our cabin, and I was the one who left, so he got the house.

But...what happens when a couple splits up and there are no big ticket items to split up? What happens then?

I guess you fight over smaller things, like who bought the lamp or the patio furniture. And for pet lovers, "who gets the dog?" is probably a big concern. Divorce is never easy.

What about an unmarried, not living together couple? Easier yet, at least physically. There isn't any "moving out" for one thing. But still, "breaking up is hard to do".

With all of these various scenarios, there are some things not so easily divided up - friends. Who gets the friends? If I am a friend of one, can I remain a friend of the other? In theory, yes, in reality, this is difficult if not impossible to do.

Which brings me to my last point - what about places? You know - places you used to go together, things you used to do together. Do you still go to that restaurant the two of you used to frequent? Do you still go to the same church, the same grocery store, the same hardware store? What about the same coffee shop, the same entertainment spot? Do you split these up? If not, do you change your behavior to not run into your former lover?

Curious minds want like to know. Let me know what you think.

Giving Thanks

2011-11-19T22:17:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday. Everyone can participate, regardless of ethnic or religious origin. There is no wondering what to buy for Aunt Martha, no lavish spending on displays of lights and plastic reindeer, no maxing out the credit card on gifts that no one will use.

There is no exclusion from this holiday for those who do not believe in the reason behind it. No requirement that you attend some religious ceremony. Just family, friends, food and drink, and giving thanks. I can not think of a better reason to celebrate, essentially, to have a nationwide party.

For the past eleven years I have spent Thanksgiving with my family in Connecticut. But this year, I will not. This year, I will be staying in California. I decided not to fly across the country this year because I only have four days off from work.

And so I will stay here in California, spending the day at my cousin's house across the bay. On Thursday, I will eat, drink and be merry. And I will give thanks - for my family, for my friends, for my health, for the beautiful state of California that I am lucky enough to call home....and for my job.

Transplanted

2011-11-19T19:25:00.000-08:00

By late November, most of the trees have lost their leaves on the East Coast. In California, our oranges and yellows and reds still adorn tree branches. Our "fall" starts a little later, and lasts a little longer.

"What fall?" my sister asks, incredulously. By east coast standards, we don't have "fall" in California; we have a warm green season and a cool green season. It is true, we have many trees that don't lose their leaves at all. But this only makes those trees whose leaves do turn color even more brilliantly spectacular.

And, yes, sister dear, we do have some trees whose leaves turn burning orange and flaming red. We have brilliant red maples, and fiery orange Chinese pistachios, and bright yellow gingkos that can compete with any east coast tree. These trees may not be native to California, having been planted as shade trees in neighborhood front yards or to line city streets, but they are flourishing here now, just like many a transplanted Californian.

Just like me.

Our Own "Miss Rumphius"

2011-11-13T10:44:00.000-08:00

It was a memorial to a man who made the world more beautiful, or, at least, his part of the world. Officially it was a dedication ceremony, to dedicate the grounds at Fremont High School as "Stahl Gardens". The ceremony was short and sweet. The high school band played on the large front lawn, friends and colleagues spoke, the plaque designating the grounds as "Stahl Gardens" was unveiled by Bob's family.

I can't say I knew him well. I can't say I really knew Bob at all, except that I knew who he was. Everyone knew who Bob was, at least everyone who set foot on the Fremont High School campus over the last 25 years.

Bob had been the head custodian at Fremont High School, for many, many years. But Bob was more than a custodian. Bob was legendary for his gardening skills, skills that he brought to fruition at the high school. Tall red roses adorned the front walkways of the campus. Hundreds of brightly colored tulips bloomed in early spring underneath the roses. And in May, the tulips were replaced with red and white petunias, Fremont colors, just in time for graduation, while red roses bloomed over their heads, all surrounded by an expanse of bright green grass.

Fremont High School, the step-child in an otherwise wealthy school district, is not a school with funds to spare, and flowers are expensive to purchase and maintain. But people loved to donate to Bob's "flower fund". People not connected to the high school in any way would often stop to admire the flowers that graced the lawn in front of the high school. The local community was enhanced by Bob's gardening talents - as cars passed by on the busy street, or stopped at the light on the corner, people would glance over to the front lawn to take in the colorful displays.

Never in all the time I have spent at Fremont HS over the past 15 years have I ever seen or heard of any Fremont student ruining the flowers in any way.

Although students can learn without a flower garden, the flower garden at Fremont is important to keep. Especially for a school that struggles to purchase the amenities that other wealthier high schools in the area have, the garden is something tangible in which its students can, and do, take pride. For that reason, if for no other, Fremont High School should continue Bob's legacy of making the campus a nicer place, and maintain Stahl Gardens with tulips, roses and petunias, for many years to come.

Besotted

2011-10-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

I cannot think of any other word to describe my feelings. I am besotted with music. Drunk with the music, infatuated with the music, made stupid by the the music. (Definitions curtesy of dictionary.com.)

In the past week, I have been to several live music performances. American Bluegrass (church auditorium); Bulgarian music (house concert); Czech Republic blue grass concert (coffee house); Quebecquois fiddle music (house concert). This upcoming Friday night there is Irish singing; on Sunday I am going to hear a classical music concert, with a world famous violinist, at Stanford University. I get to hear all of this wonderful music without having to drive into "The City" (ie, San Francisco).

We are most fortunate in the SF bay area, to have so many varied musical options, most of exceptional quality. There is folk music, and bluegrass music, classical music, and Celtic music; there are coffee houses, and house concerts, universities, and major symphonies. All of these venues are within an hour's driving distance from any central bay area location.

I have attended so many wonderful concerts lately that I have become quite drunk from the local bay area music scene. It is both intoxicating and addictive. With just about every concert, I take home a little bit of the music with me, in the form of a CD, so I can listen to the music over and over and over again.

I love this wonderful bay area, for many reasons - cultural diversity, great weather, proximity to the ocean, incredible county parks for hiking - but I think that I love it most of all for its musical diversity.

If I ever have to leave the SF bay area, it will truly be a sobering reality.

Mothra, Revisited

2011-10-20T22:20:00.000-07:00

I am not afraid of spiders, or venomous snakes, or as it turns out, coyotes, having encountered all of them up close and personal. But, the giant moths kind of freak me out.

These are not your typical flimsy-winged flutterers that hover close to the lights. These are mountain moths, and they are gigantic. You know, like "Mothra". (OK, well maybe not quite that big.)

For the uninitiated, those of you who don't watch 1950s Godzilla movies, Mothra is a Monster Moth who battles with Godzilla. (And I know this how? Lets just say my son loved watching old "B" horror movies.)

These moths up here on the mountain have enormous bodies, which take enormous amounts of energy just to become airborne. As a result, their wings sound like mini chain saws buzzing at a million flaps per second just to keep them aloft. And when 25 of these creatures are beating on your sliding glass door to get close to the light - well, its just creepy that's all.

Then again, perhaps I have watched one too many Alfred Hitchcock movies. ("The Birds" comes to mind.)

"Life"

2011-10-16T08:45:00.000-07:00

It was a memorable event. The dignitaries were introduced, official proclamations were presented. Stories and accolades to his memory were told. The plaque was unveiled, songs sung, reception held. And then, the show went on. (Literally.)

The auditorium at Fremont High School has now been officially dedicated as the Shannon Theatre.

Tim's step-son wrote - "As true as "What, I had to die to get the theatre dedicated to me!?!" might have been, I know this would have really meant a lot to him." Yes, it would have Drew. It certainly would have.

The real reason that the auditorium was named after Tim is not because he died at a relatively young age (49); it is because of the effect that he had on the lives of all of his students. As drama alumnus Andrea Nysen pointed out so well at the dedication - Tim didn't just teach drama and stagecraft; Tim taught "life".

October 11

2011-10-09T10:15:00.000-07:00

The sun is shining, the sky is a clear blue and a hint of coolness fills the air. Crows in the redwoods are cawing to each other, back and forth. Periodically, I hear the muted roar of motorcycle engines, as they race up and down the ribbon of asphalt that is Skyline Boulevard. It is a beautiful fall day up here on the mountain.

And yet...there is a melancholy to my happiness. Last night, I dreamed of Sean, eleven years gone, still a boy in my dreams. I dreamed that I had forgotten him, that he was alive and I had not seen him in years.

Part of that is true - I have not seen him in years. Eleven years in fact. But I have not forgotten you, Sean. I will never forget you, ever. I have been distracted lately, I will admit that. But I have not forgotten.

Later today, Jim and I will meet at the Land. We will winterize the bench, the bench your friends built in your memory, like we do every fall. We will go up to the old cabin, what's left of it, and think of all the good times we had with you up there when you were young. We will walk to the deck and to the pond. And then Jim will come with me to see my new place on Skyline. Yes, I have a new place. Life moves forward, without you; I cannot change that.

Tuesday I will visit the high school and the auditorium, your home-away-from-home. It will be hard, because Tim won't be there, but I will visit none-the-less. And I will remember you both, and miss you both, the two of you, forever entwined in my heart, forever associated with Fremont High School and its auditorium.

And on Tuesday, I will lay a red rose - one at the condo where we lived, one at the railroad tracks where you breathed your last breath, and one down at the high school, as close as I can get to the auditorium. Because, now matter how busy or otherwise distracted one gets on this earthly world, a mother never forgets her child. Ever.

Third Class

2011-10-02T21:46:00.001-07:00

Despite efforts at integration in America, we are not a class-less society. In the US, there is the upper class, the middle class and the lower classes. We have premium, super and regular; first class, business class, and economy. And now, there is third class.

I am speaking of the airlines. I thought there were just the three seating classes, but I have found out today, when booking my winter holiday vacation, that I am mistaken. There is definitely a class lower than the "regular" economy class.

It appears that American Airlines, who usually has the best times and prices for my wallet and destination, has created this extra class. I have now been relegated to the very, very, very back of the airplane, right by the lavatories. First class and business class sit much further up front, and have all kinds of amenities which the "economy" section lacks, such as a place to put your legs and feet. For years, economy class has been where most of us "regular" (ie, non-business, non-wealthy) people sit.

But now, it appears that American Airlines has split economy class into two sections. If I want to sit closer to the business and first class sections, and board and exit the plane two minutes sooner than those at the very back of the plane, I now need to pay an additional $75. I refuse to pay $75 for this "privilege". We regular folks already bring our own food, our knees hug our chests, and we are (or were) the last group to board.

What scheme will the airlines think of next to wring a few dollars out of air travelers? Perhaps they could sell tickets to use the lavatory, or require payment to reserve an oxygen mask or flotation device. I wouldn't put it past them.

The Sooner, the Better

2011-09-30T18:50:00.001-07:00

I admit that my Prius is not the fastest car on the block, but I chug along at the speed limit or better most of the time. In general, I have no problems on the bay area major highways. But up here in Foggy Redwood Country, they all think I'm a slow poke.

The main drag up here is called "Skyline Boulevard". Long ago, locals realized this gently curving two lane ribbon of road was their own "Autobahn". It is a favorite of bay area motorcyclists on the weekends. I hear them roar by from my humble abode and I see them in the parking lot of the local eatery if I head out to town in that direction. Bicyclists love riding on Skyline, and on downhill sections they whiz by just as fast as motorized vehicles. I have no problem with either kind of cyclist.

Its the weekday commuters who drive me crazy. I drive the speed limit, more or less, mainly because I never know if I might run into a deer or a bicyclist as I come around the bend at 50 mph, especially with limited visibility in foggy weather. But the commuters seem to think they are race car drivers on a limited access road. Seriously.

They tailgate me, at night, with their headlights on BRIGHT, until I pull over. Or they stay 10 feet from my bumper as we navigate through thick morning fog. At some point, I usually end up pulling over to let them pass. The funny thing is, when we reach the end of the road, at a yield sign at the entrance to the highway, I usually pull up right behind them. So they can't really be saving any time to speak of by streaking down the road a few seconds ahead of me.

The only thing I can figure is that an "autobahn complex" is responsible for such behavior. And, I doubt anything I do will change the situation. In the meantime, I think we should rename the roadway, to reflect the driving conditions. I propose that the name be changed to "Skyline Speedway" - immediately, if not sooner.

68 Degrees

2011-09-29T22:47:00.000-07:00

Its the new normal - 68 degrees.

When I was a kid, my mother used to make her children wear sweaters if the temperatures dropped below 72. Of course, once out the door, we kids would run around and get all hot and sweaty in minutes, and the sweaters peeled off in no time. But at least we walked out the door with our sweaters on, which probably made my mother think that she was being a good mama. Parents forget that kids engines run at much hotter temperatures. Kids and women with hot flashes that is.

As if I would know about things like hot flashes. Just saying, you know? (Unhhhhhuhhhh....)

They keep the air conditioning pretty cool where I work. I am very comfortable in my typical workday attire, which essentially consists of a fancy tee shirt, brightly colored, and stretchy black slacks, while my (younger) co-workers wear long sleeves and additional layers. They must have grown up with that 72 degree rule and a mother complex.

I am happy to have slightly cool-to-the-touch skin and an engine in my chest that's not on fire. Sounds like an advertisement - "Never burn with the Cool-Touch iron". Right. That's me. Cool-touch.

I used to LOVE wearing turtleneck shirts; now I cannot stand wearing them, even in the coldest winter, in Connecticut. I must have my neck open, as a major component of my ventilation system, in case I get overheated, which I do, quite easily and quite often.

I read a post on a friend's Facebook page recently, whereby she was talking about how her family was complaining because she had the A/C set to 68 degrees, and they felt cold. But 68 degrees sounds pretty comfortable to me.

When I get in my car after work, in my fancy tee shirt and no sweater, unless the outside temperature is less than 70 or so, I turn on the car A/C, to 68 degrees. (Well, until I hit the fog bank, which is a very consistent 55 degrees.)

68 degrees - its the new normal, at least for women of a certain age.

Horse Country

2011-09-25T19:07:00.000-07:00

On top of the mountain today, our foggy weather was "dripping", all day. Regardless, I pulled on my rain jacket and set out to get the mail. In the mail box was the town newsletter, which I have not seen before. Instead of the newspaper rag pages I am used to seeing in my San Jose neighborhood free newsletter, this newsletter is printed on glossy paper and dropped in every mailbox with a town mailing address. (I live outside of the official town limits, but received one anyway.)

The newsletter appears to be issued quarterly, as this edition simply says "Fall 2011". So, what is going in Woodside these days? Let's take a look inside. There is a Rummage Sale in early October at a local church. That's pretty exciting. There is a town "clean up" day in early November. Hey, there is a Barn Dance on October 1st. Big time excitement here! And, the biggest spread of all - the Horse Fair, on October 8th at Woodside Town Hall. Whoopee-do!!! And this event is Free!! It features a Progressive Trail Ride through town, live music, and pony rides! Petting zoo and a carrot cake and apple juice social! How can I resist? This is must attend event!

I live in a converted barn. It is not unusual to see people on horseback on the trails behind my house, or even in town. I pass by the "Horse Park" on my way into town, which is a large parcel of land on which you can ride your horse and socialize with other riders. So, having a Horse Fair should hardly surprise me. In fact, it doesn't. I am actually kind of excited about the Horse Fair and the Barn Dance. After all, I live in Horse Country. I might as well embrace the local culture.

Robin's Egg Blue

2011-09-18T18:21:00.001-07:00

As I clean up, the liquid swirls around the kitchen sink drain, the color and consistency of skim milk. At least the paint is water based and not oil.

A small patch up paint job turned in a two hour late Sunday afternoon project. There were no signs of late afternoon fog, no chill breeze whispering over the hills from the coast. In fact, there was no wind at all this afternoon. A good day for paint to dry up here in foggy redwood country.

The landlord painted my small deck two months ago, the day after I moved in. I moved my few small plants, in rust colored terra cotta pots, onto the deck after the paint had dried. A few weeks later, when I went to move them into sunnier spots on the deck, they took the paint with them. So, I thought I would patch up the bare spots with a few swipes of the paint brush.

Except, when I was done, the rest of the deck looked - well, dirty, after only two months. I ended up painting the whole damn thing. It looks nice, right now. Give it a week or two, and it will probably be covered with dirty footprints again.

Who in their right mind paints a deck robin's egg blue? (Which is basically white with a little blue tint thrown in for coloration) Especially up here in the hills, where we have dirt driveways. Dirt, people, dirt. As in "becomes mud in the rainy season". Painting the house a light color, that I can understand. But the stairs and deck will look dirty in no time.

My landlord, whose house I can see through the trees, has painted all the buildings on the land he owns up here in the same colors. The barn, the house and the garage are all the same robin's egg blue, with dark blue trim. And all the decking and stairs to the decks (each one of the three building has stairs and a deck) are robin's egg blue.

As I wielded the paintbrush this afternoon, I couldn't help thinking that maybe a medium grey would be a better color for a surface that gets a lot of foot traffic.

For now, as we head into fall, I have a deck painted robin's egg blue. Come spring, I'm going to see if my landlord will let me paint it the same color that I am sure it will have become by then - a nice shade of Sierra Foothills Brown.

Fitting In

2011-09-17T18:16:00.000-07:00

A young friend of mine, who moved to Israel almost a year ago, is having trouble "fitting in" among other kibbutz members who have lived on the kibbutz since they were born. They view her as a outsider, an "other" as she calls it. She is young, pretty, blonde and from LA. "It will take time", friends tell her. She may never be truly accepted by some people on the kibbutz, especially those who have difficulty accepting those who are different from themselves.

I cannot say that I have ever experienced similar problems. I have always lived in my home country, always spoken the native language. And yet, her situation reminds me that "home" is where we feel the most comfortable, and that is not necessarily where we were born.

I am the oldest of a large Catholic family of six kids, raised on the East Coast, in southwestern Connecticut. And as much as I love my siblings and feel that we are quite close, in some ways, I have never quite fit in with the rest of them. My five siblings always seem at ease in the mainstream of the local community; I never did.

My siblings like playing tennis, and listening to popular music on the radio, and are happy going to the movies for entertainment. There is nothing wrong with those activities, I just always seemed to be just a little different. I am a terrible tennis player, a sport my step-mother encouraged as a family activity, and I have never warmed up to popular music.

In my younger adulthood, I enjoyed playing adult soccer; I like international folk dancing and listening to world music, all pursuits I learned to love in California. These things do not exist in the small towns of Connecticut, even today. I love going out and listening to live music performances. My favorite genre, bluegrass, cannot even be found on the radio stations in Connecticut. (I have checked, as recently as a year ago.)

So, what's the problem you might ask? You live in California. True. However, I have accepted the fact that I may have to move back east someday, if one of my siblings or my dad becomes ill. It is likely that I will have to re-establish myself somewhere close to east coast family members at some point.

While the landscape will be familiar, I know that it will not be easy to make new friends. People in California are more open and accepting, since just about everyone is from someplace else. It is harder to make friends on the East Coast, especially with people who have lived there all their lives and have enough friends, thank-you-very-much. Nothing personal, just not interested.

And so I dread the day I have to leave my beloved California, although I am quite sure that one day it will happen. I will have to leave Foggy Redwood Country, and my wonderful friends, and the great bay area cultural experiences....some day.

One day, that day will come.

Long Island Voices

2011-09-11T20:48:00.000-07:00

The dirty dinner dishes sit on the counter. The bills remain in their envelopes. Tonight is the first time I've had all week to sit down and write. But the mundane tasks can wait.

I've been looking forward to sitting down and being able to write all day. All day, in between routine household chores, I have had time to think what about I would write about when I sat down tonight. The feral pigs and goats I saw on my late afternoon hike up here in Foggy Redwood Country? The San Francisco bay during a recent unusually warm evening? My friend's foray into growing vegetables for the first time?

But today is "9-11", the tenth anniversary of that terrible day, which we as a country remember with sorrow for the victims and their families and with reverance for the first responders and with renewed patriotism and courage for our country. How can I not comment on this bittersweet day, a day that will not be forgotten by anyone who has lived through it?

I cannot do justice in a blog posting to all the wonderful articles I've read written by writers with better wordsmithing skills than I . Indeed, words fail me when I see the heart wrenching photos of family members touching a loved one's name on the wall at the Ground Zero memorial in New York City.

But reading my brother's Facebook posting after dinner tonight brought it all back to me. You see, my brother lives on Long Island in New York, only twenty minutes from New York City. While the terrorism event affected everyone in America, I think that New Yorkers felt it more intensely than most of us.

Everyone in the New York City area, which includes surrounding suburbs north of the City where my sister lives, on Long Island where my brother lives and south-western Connecticut where my dad and two siblings live, knew someone or of someone who had lost a loved one that day. In my dad's church alone, five members of his parish died that day, all family men who commuted to and worked in the City. Some of the firemen who responded when duty called that day lived in the suburbs of Long Island.

A while back, a musical director on Long Island decided to create a concert to commemorate the anniversary of 9-11. He also composed his own choral music for the concert. In addition, proceeds from the concert are to benefit local veterans, some of whom were in the audience tonight. When the veterans and First Responders in the audience stood up to sing one of the songs with the chorus, my brother said he almost lost his composure, he was so choked with emotion. My brother, who is a not only a singer but also a community theater actor and director, said that it was the first time he had ever received a standing ovation at intermission.

Even though I didn't hear the concert, I read the heart felt tributes to the choir on the choir Facebook page. It sounds like there was not a dry eye in the house. I can only applaud from afar for the Long Island Voices, directed by composer Michael Bussewitz-Quarm, who presented his own original work "Dies Magna", a major choral piece with instrumental accompaniment, written in honor of the heros of September 11, 2001 and sung with sincere emotion on this tenth anniversary, September 11, 2o11. We will not forget.

Labor Day

2011-09-04T21:37:00.000-07:00

It is often referred to as the Last Day of Summer, although tecnnically the "summer" season doesn't end for three more weeks. It used to mark the last few days of summer vacation before school started up again in September, but these days, school usually starts sometime in August. As a child, I remember the holiday being celebrated with family barbeques, a day off from work for my dad to spend with his family. Now, it seems it is nothing more than a holiday for shopping bargains, or perhaps a day at the beach.

Do most people in the U.S. know how our "Labor Day" holiday tradition began? I doubt it; I didn't know, until I looked it up on the internet. (President Cleveland declared it a national holiday in 1894, which was an election year. Meant to appease striking workers, the gesture was obviously politically motivated.)

Perhaps knowing the exact origins of the holiday does not really matter, because the name of the holiday says it all - its a holiday for the working man. It is a paid holiday for most, except, if you work in retail or the tourist industry or the restaurant business. Ironically, those workers, mostly paid hourly and with few benefits, often do not have this day off.

Technically, I have the day off. Realistically, I do not. Accountants march to the beat of a different drummer, namely the immovable deadlines set by the SEC. Unfortunately, my company's "quarter end" is August 31st, which means we work long hours the week before and two weeks after that date "closing the books". We have another quarter end on November 30th. I don't even have to ask if I will get any holiday off time at Thanksgiving.

The labor unions in the US have long pushed for a standard 8 hour workday and over the years Congress has passed laws that limit certain industries to an 8 hour workday for their workers, unless the workers get paid for "overtime".

Considered a "professional" (CPA) I am exempt from those labor laws. I am not paid on an hourly basis, but on a salaried one. I make good money...until you factor in all the overtime hours I put in. Then, I am not so sure that I make any more money than the typical factory or retail worker.

For me, at least this for year, Labor Day is just another day to go to work. (Well, except for the two hours mid-day that I ducked out to join a friend's barbeque. Just dont' tell my boss.)

Plain Jane

2011-08-28T22:26:00.001-07:00

It is not yet quite the end of August, and yet the leaves are already turning color. The buckeyes are the first to go. In a week's time, they have all turned from supple green to curled up brown. Right behind, as if cued by the buckeye, are the leaves of the poison oak vine, still shiny but turning from bright green to hues of orange or dark red. These are the first sign of impending autumn here in the bay area of northern California.

And yet, when I walk down the trail behind my house, what I notice most is the crunch of tan leaves underfoot, and here it is not yet September, the buckeye leaves not yet fallen. These are the leaves from the tan oak, fully brown by mid-summer and already underfoot. Some tan oaks have a few brown leaves amongst the green, many have leaves half brown; some trees stand fully leafless like gaunt skeletons; other have already fallen over onto the forest floor.

A fellow hiker passed by me, an older gent, swinging a pole in each hand as he walked swiftly past me up the steep slope, watching me look at the trees. "Sudden Oak Death Syndrome?" he asked. "Think so" I replied.

The tan oak is especially susceptible to this particular oak disease. SODS is ravaging our northern California forests, leaving skeletal remains of once healthy trees.

The tan oak is kind of a mundane looking tree. One hardly notices the tan oak amongst its taller and more glamorous cousins - sky reaching redwoods, thick Douglas firs, sexy madrones with mango colored skins, sweet smelling bay laurels and mighty California oaks. The tan oak is a "plain Jane" amongst its tree cousins.

But now that they are dying at alarming rates, the plain tan oak is finally quite visible amongst is bretheren. And I wonder - what species will take its place once the tan oak becomes nothing more than mulch on the forest floor?

Hurricane Hype

2011-08-26T22:25:00.000-07:00

The powers that be are closing New York City subways tomorrow. Trains and planes won't be operating in the Tri-State area. East Coast residents are hunkering down and stocking up for a week without power.

Some say, the mayor of New York City doesn't want to be caught by surprise, as he was in December when a storm unexpectedly dumped two feet of snow on NYC and the city came to a standstill. Some say, all the talk about the storm is just a lot of hype. The truth probably lies somewhere in between.

My dad is taking refuge at my sister's house, where at least he won't be all alone for a week, living on canned beans. My sister has a gas stove, so at least they can cook. And she lives on a main road, which is likely to have power restored more quickly than my dad's house. But, the rain is gonna fall, and the wind is gonna blow, and trees are gonna come down, and the power will surely be out. The only question is - for how long?

My step-mother, who died ten years ago, would have stayed put and toughed it out, even at the age of 83, I am sure of it. "Nah" I can hear her say, "what's a little wind? We'll just stay inside and play Monopoly til it blows over" with a big smile on her face. She wasn't afraid of the weather, ever.

When I was 15 or 16, there was a big ice storm in the middle of winter. My grandmother, who had power and lived in the next town over, offered to let all eight of us come stay at her house until our power came back on. But, no. My mother lined us kids up in front of the fireplace, with the dog, for warmth, while she and my dad took turns stoking the fire throughout the below zero degree night, while we kids (and the dog) huddled next to each other under piles of blankets.

When Mother Nature dumped three feet of snow in a hurry, Mom got out five shovels, one for each of us kids. When it rained and rained and rained, we bailed and mopped and bailed and mopped the basement floor. Our driveway was always shoveled and our basement floor always dry. Need to put in a drywell to help keep the water that always ran down the hill away from the basement? No problem -- Summer project for the teenage boys (and, of course, the dog, whose middle name was "Dig").

But my mother was not afraid of hard work herself. If we weren't around, she would be up to her knees in snow shoveling herself, or bailing the basement, or painting the house, or pulling weeds, or dragging the dead deer up from the back 40 to the road so that Animal Control would come pick it up.

My step-mother, Pat, died ten years ago - exactly ten years ago this month. She died the way she had lived. She died of a massive heart attack, while cutting down a tree, at the age of 73.

Above the Clouds

2011-08-22T22:29:00.000-07:00

I am sometimes, above the clouds, quite literally.

Sometimes I find myself in the middle of a heavy fog,with water dripping from the redwood trees like icicles melting in a sudden thaw. At times like these, when I have to drive at 25 mph in a 50 mph zone because I cannot see more than ten feet in front of me, driving home quickly becomes very tiring, like driving in a whiteout.

But tonight, on my way home from work, I reveled in all the reasons I moved up here. Tonight I sped down a gently weaving ribbon of highway, above the clouds. The sun set into the never-ending cotton to the west, splattering the tree tops with an intense orange rosy glow that made them look as if they were burning from within.

Nature is capricious, often bringing us fog and wind and bitter cold But occasionally, nature is generous with her beauty. Like tonight.

Dripping

2011-08-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

We have an unusual weather condition up here in Foggy Redwood Country. When it the sun is out, it is sunny. When the rain falls, it is raining. And when a heavy fog rolls in, it is dripping.

I can stand in the meadow where the Blue Barn sits, and see the fog swirling above me. The ground is dry beneath my feet. However, a few yards behind the Barn, it is dripping.

I learned something a week ago, when my niece and I visited the John Muir Redwood Forest just north of San Francisco. I learned that our very tall redwood trees collect moisture from the fog on their needles, and then those needles funnel those tiny droplets down the needles to the end of the branch, and then to the forest floor, where they are picked up by the very shallow root system of the redwood tree.

If you walk down our road in a heavy fog you will be drenched in minutes, as I found out the other day, in my jacket that was not waterproof. "Dripping" is like the first few minutes of an approaching thunderstorm. Big, fat drops of wetness falling from above in uneven patterns, quickly soaking the ground. Dry ground over here, puddles over there. The soft patter of heavy drops splatting on the matted forest floor. That is "dripping", up here in foggy redwood country.

In fact, sounds like its going to drip all night.

Yep.

I Am Not There....

2011-08-17T21:42:00.000-07:00

I had an idea for my next blog post....I really did. But by the time I recovered my un-remembered password, my idea had dissappeared into thin air...or wherever ideas go when they vanish like wisps of mist at the edge of a fog bank. Truly, the fog was beautiful on my way home tonight, through the hills of the mid-peninsula, painted pink like cotton candy, pulled apart in thin faint layers against the baby blue of the twilight sky. Quite lovely.

Ah, yes...now I remember...I was going to write about a slightly more serious topic - grieving. A much more serious topic actually. This post could also be called "other people's behavior - when its none of your goddamn business".

Sometimes other people's behavior is your business....for instance, when a family member you are concerned about is having a difficult time emotionally, physically, or financially. And even that one is a "maybe". If your adult children have told you to butt out of their business, then its probably none of your business. Unless your aged parent appears to have Alzheimer's disease and is still driving for example. Lets just say this is not a cut and dried issue; judgement is involved concerning each situation.

But, back to grieving. Everyone grieves in his or her own way, in his or her own time, and on his or her own terms. Some people cry; some never do. Some like people around to comfort them; some like to spend time by themselves. Some people like to talk about their grief; others prefer silence. For some, visiting a grave site is important; others feel the spirit of the deceased elsewhere - in a favorite photo, in a favorite memory, in a place special to the deceased.

Personally, I am partial to "place", and by this I do not mean grave site. My mother died when I was 13 and I can count on one hand how often I have been to her grave in the forty-plus years since then. And yet, every chance I get I visit the old neighborhood in Connecticut where I grew up, where my birth mom was a mother to me for 13 years. My 17 year old son died ten years ago; we scattered his ashes in a place he loved, the place where he grew up, in the peninsula hills. Its a long trek to get there but I go out there when I can. I go out there not because his ashes were scattered there, but because this is the place where we lived, this is the place that he loved, this place is where I remember my son best.

What is that poem? Do not grieve for me, I am not there.....

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
-- Mary Elizabeth Frye

I think my son would understand.

Locked Out

2011-08-14T09:07:00.000-07:00

I had been meaning to make a duplicate house key ever since I moved into my new place a month ago. In fact, I was planning to have a duplicate key made the day I dropped my niece Caitlin off at the airport to head back east. I just didn't get it done soon enough.

I suppose it was bound to happen. Lately, I seem to have an adversarial relationship with keys. I often misplace them or forget them or take the wrong set with me. Which is odd, because for thirty years I had the same key ring from college, which I never, ever lost. Until I sold my house two years ago and my keys mysteriously vanished. After that, wham, bad key karma.

I clearly remember the time I got locked out of my dad's house in Connecticut, where I had moved temporarily to wait out the recent recession. My dad was out. It was winter, and bitter cold. I had only ventured out for a minute, to get something from my car, when the front door blew shut. Shut and locked that is, with me on the outside of the door, in flip-flops, a tee shirt and sweat pants, in 32 degree weather, with no cell phone and no car or house keys. And no idea where my dad went or when he would be home.

I tried the other two doors; no luck - locked tight. As I went up the wheelchair ramp from the slate patio to check the sliding glass doors, I slipped on a patch of ice and landed on my knees on the slate, hard. Over a year later, I still have scars on both knees from that fall. I checked the family's secret place to hide the spare key, which used to be in the garage, but the garage door was also locked.

I didn't seem to have any other options, so I set out to meet the neighbors. In my dad's town, there is minimum one acre zoning, with houses tucked away up long winding driveways, which means sometimes you have a long walk just to go" next door". I don't remember trudging through side yard and two feet of snow to get to the "next door" neighbor's house; I might have gone the long way - up my dad's steep driveway, out onto the street, over the hill and then down the neighbor's long and winding driveway. In any case, no one was home. So I trudged on to the next neighbor a little further away. Fortunately, this neighbor was home, and he made me some tea while I called my dad on his cell. My dad, who had planned an afternoon of errands, interrupted his plans and came home to let me in. The neighbor let me stay at his house, sipping tea, until my dad came home.

When I moved back to California, to San Jose, my housemate had the habit of keeping all the doors locked, all the time, even when she was home. This drove me crazy, as I am always puttering in the back garden and I don't always bring my keys with me. Fortunately, I had a great neighbor across the street, who helped me several times when I got locked out, before I got smart and had half a dozen duplicate keys made, which I hid in various places in the back yard.

So now, here I was, up in foggy redwood country, locked out. I had car keys but no house key. Landlord up the hill - not home. Downstairs apartment neighbors - not home. What to do? It was 4 pm in the summer, so weather was hardly an issue. I washed my car, which was streaked with dirt and road grime from my recent vacation. Left the landlord a note to please unlock my apartment. Did some exploring down a backyard trail. Went on a short hike to get the mail at the bottom of the road. Checked my dashboard clock - 6pm and no landlord in sight. I started to think about possible overnight plans. And then, I remembered Barry helping me open the backdoor at my house in San Jose - with a plastic credit card. So I tried it, with my health insurance card, in case I mangled it while squeezing it between the doorframe and the door. After a few tries, the door popped open, much to my surprise.

Such good security we have up here, although not any different than my house in San Jose. However, my landlord is in the process of putting in a locking gate at the end of the driveway. People are gone all day at work here in foggy redwood country, just like anyplace else, and stuff gets stolen up here, just like anyplace else. On my way to get the mail, I ran into a group of people who don't live out here, car pulled to the side of the dirt road, picnic blanket and food laid out on the ground next to the car, even though there is a red "Private Road" sign nailed on a tree at the entrance to our road. These people were probably harmless, but you never know.

Me: This is a private road. Guy: Yeah, we know. Me: incredulous look on face. Guy: We'll be out of here in 20 minutes. I think to myself as I continue down the road: What is it about "Private" that you don't understand? There are six different county parks within a few miles of my house, including the one in my backyard, which has trail access forty feet from where you parked your car and a dirt parking lot across the street. Yet you drive your car and spread your picnic things on a road that you know is a private road. I don't get it.

The group had packed up by the time I returned with the mail, and I assume drove out shortly thereafter. The whole locked out and private road incident made me stop and think. If I can do it, anyone can get into my place with a simple plastic library card. I figure I have two choices - change the lock on my door to a deadbolt, which seems like overkill....or just throw away the damn keys and not bother with locking the doors at all.

I just hope the landlord gets that gate working soon.

All Grown Up

2011-08-13T21:59:00.000-07:00

My 22 year old niece, Caitlin, who recently graduated from college, just spent a week with me traveling around northern California. Before this trip, she had never been away from the East Coast. In fact, she had never even flown in an airplane.

I wasn't sure how spending an entire week with my niece would work out. I have been living in California since before she was born. In the past, I would go back to Connecticut once or twice a year to visit my family, take the nieces and nephew to an amusement park, or the beach, or the movies. The day after Thanksgiving, we would have a "family day" with all of my siblings, and their kids, and play board games, make cookies, and play ping-pong in the basement. But the "kids" were always together - Caitlin, Michael, and Chloe; Chloe and Caitlin; Caitlin and Michael. Caitlin and I never spent much one-on-one time together.

I took Caitlin to see the requisite Golden Gate Bridge and redwood trees and ocean beaches; I could have played tour guide to any distant relative and had an "OK" vacation. But I was pleasantly surprised at how well Caitlin and I got along. Not only were we good traveling companions, we also enjoyed being in each other's company 24X7 for a whole week.

It turns out that Caitlin likes to do many of the same things I do - hiking in the woods, walking along the beach. That certainly helped our vacation compatibility. But in addition, I found that my niece has grown into a funny, intelligent adult who is a joy to be around. We had many interesting conversations, and quite a few hilariously funny ones. And that made all the difference in turning a "nice" vacation into a great one.

California, Here I Come

2011-08-05T19:22:00.001-07:00

I remember the first time I visited California. I was 21 years old. It was my first time ever flying in an airplane. The plane from New York to Chicago was enormous, some big jet fuel wasting machine, and less than half full at that. I had a connecting flight to Sacramento. My rock climbing buddy, Greg, was going to pick me up at the airport in California.

Except that Greg thought I was arriving in Fresno, some three hours away. BC - Before Cell phones, you just waited. Sometimes, a long time. I didn't think it was unusual . Finally, I heard my name being announced on the airport loudspeaker "Nancy Emro, please pick up a white courtesy telephone". I did. I was connected to my friend Greg, calling from the Fresno airport. He would just drive to Sacramento to get me. No big deal. I sat down to wait some more.

After he picked me up, we headed in the direction of Rock Climber's Heaven - Yosemite. Somewhere along the way, we stopped for the night. We slept in the car, in the front bucket seats, and finished our drive in the early morning.

I spent a week in Yosemite, camping in tents, climbing during the day, and a week in Colorado, doing pretty much the same thing. Drove back with three other rock climbing pals, in a Volkswagen van, straight through from Colorado to New York, sharing both the driving and back of the van for sleeping. I remember waking up to dawn in some midwestern state, flat as the eye could see in every direction.

My niece is coming to California for the first time tomorrow. From Connecticut. I have sent her tons of travel advice via email - what to do and what not to do at the airport; how early to get to there; what to bring; how much to tip the skycaps. We spoke on the phone last night, and I went over a few last minute instructions.

And then I thought back to my first trip. I made it, certainly not without a hitch, but I arrived safe and sound, without email or cell phone, just a little late to my final destination. Life was simpler then. We didn't have to worry about not packing liquids in our carry-ons, or going through security checks. We slept in the car on the side of the road. Someone actually put a call through from Greg at the Fresno airport to me at Sacramento airport. I cannot imagine that happening today.

And so, I think Caitlin will do fine traveling on her own. If something unplanned happens, as the young people of today say, we will "just deal". The vacation will go on.

The Fog

2011-08-02T20:57:00.000-07:00

Carl Sandberg was a well known poet, but I don't think he ever lived in San Francisco, and he most certainly did not live up here on Skyline Boulevard. Sandberg wrote a famous poem called "The Fog".

"The fog comes in on little cat feet.
It sits looking over the harbor on silent haunches
and then moves on."

Fog does not come in on little cat feet up here in foggy redwood country. It gallops over the hills and roars through the mountain passes. There is nothing cat-like about it.

From afar, fingers of fog gently grip the hillsides, filling the empty spaces between the ridges, like a giant white-gloved hand creeping over the top of the mountain. But in the thick of it, there is nothing gentle about it. The temperature suddenly drops ten degrees as soon as I start my ascent up the mountain. As I climb higher, the fog races over my windshield like the North Wind itself is blowing it, hard, from behind.

The tiny droplets collect on the redwood trees, and I can hear the drip-drip-drip of the collected water raining down from the evergreen needles onto the matted forest floor.

And then, at some point, unpredictably, the fog simply vanishes, like a wisp of smoke disappearing into the atmosphere.

My Mother

2011-07-30T21:29:00.000-07:00

I had two actually. My birth mother and my step-mother. My birth mother died when I was 13, the oldest of five kids. My dad married my step-mother about a year later.

My step-mother had her faults (what step-mother doesn't?), but she raised five step-children (and one birth daughter) and we all turned out basically all right. We all finished high school, are responsible adults, and have regular jobs. None of us have been in trouble with the law. She taught us, through difficult and sometimes even harsh lessons, how to be independent. She died ten years ago, of a heart attack. I knew her for 34 years and have many memories of my step-mother - how she loved growing flowers, how she loved her dogs, the countless hours she spent volunteering, how important religion was to her, how important "family" was to her, how much she loved my dad. Even after ten years, I remember her Brooklyn accent, which my dad sometimes teased her about and which she could never change.

My birth mother is a different story. Her youngest three children do not even remember her. I was barely 13 when she died; I was twelve the last time I saw her. How much can a 12 year old remember? I remember her telling us every year that she didn't want any gift for Mother's Day - that having her children was enough. I remember she wore a bright red lipstick. I remember her curly reddish-brown hair and green eyes and freckles. I remember she was compassionate, and when we did something wrong, we could count on her compassion and understanding. I remember her teaching me how to bake cookies and cakes. I remember her often with a baby in her arms. But I don't remember her voice....or her laugh. I can see her laughing, but it is like a silent movie.

She died in a hospital, of breast cancer, at the age of 37. She never got to see her children grow up. I never got to know her as an adult. All I have for memories are a few hazy silent movies in my mind.

Walmart

2011-07-30T18:24:00.000-07:00

I never thought I would actually appreciate Walmart. At least for today, I do.

When you shrink everything you ever owned into a 10X12 storage space, and a year later return to set up a household, after you've purchased a couch and dining table on Craigslist, it is amazing to me all the little things you still don't have - wastebaskets, desklamp, broom, and vacuum cleaner to name a few. I have no idea what happened to these mundane household items in the packing, but somehow they did not make the cut for the storage unit. On the other hand, I have enough dishes and silverware to serve a Thanksgiving feast for twenty people. I will not run out of mugs in the foreseeable future, even if I break one every week for a year.

It is the little things that make me happy. I bought a flowered shower curtain to go with my very pink bathroom (think 1950s pink). I looking forward to taking down the gun metal grey plastic curtain and replacing it with something pretty.

Most important of all, I bought a phone. A landline phone. (Cell phones don't work up her in foggy redwood country.) I have a landline phone number. I have a phone jack in my bedroom. Once I recover from spending two hours scouring Walmart for wall hooks and sliverware trays and dish drainers, I'm going to find out if I have dial tone, and maybe a friendly voice at the other end of the line.

And tomorrow, I am going back....to buy a vacuum cleaner.

Turning Thirty

2011-07-29T21:24:00.000-07:00

I don't remember turning 30. I remember turning 40. I had a large pot-luck birthday party at the big yellow house I shared with two other single parents and our three kids. I remember turning 50. I had an even bigger party, outdoors, in a county park with a contra dance band to play for listening or dancing. I had not one but two scrumptious cakes from the Prolific Oven, chocolate fudge and orange-almond. I have not yet reached the big 6-0. I have time yet to plan for that one. I'm thinking smaller and simpler. Maybe just a party for one, someplace I've never been, Greece perhaps.

The summer I turned 30, Jim and I did not have a permanent home address. We were house-sitting for various friends, with a five month old in tow, moving from one gig to another with motel stops in between. I was still on crutches, having broken my femur six months before. For most of that summer, I was hooked up to an electro-magnetic stimulation device for twelve hours a day, taking care of a baby while Jim worked on building our cabin. For one month of that summer, before I found out I needed to be connected to the grid twelve hours a day, we camped out on the land where we were building our cabin, up in the hills above the peninsula, all three of us, in a large tent, with running water from a spring. We drove to town five days a week for work. I don't remember what we did for showers. A quick plunge in the cold creek probably sufficed. We had no phone in case of emergency, just an hour long ride into town.

It didn't seem daunting at the time, as it does now when I look back on those days and wondered how I coped. We just did it. We were young and strong. We were willing to take risks.

So today I have been thinking of my friend Sarah, who turns thirty tomorrow. During the past year, she has uprooted her familiar life in LA and moved to an Israeli kibbutz with her husband and two young pre-school age children. She has started a new life in a new land, with a new language and new culture, a new life far from her LA home, her family and friends.

And I wonder...when Sarah looks back at her 30th birthday thirty years from now, what will she remember?

Exciting Times

2011-07-27T21:25:00.000-07:00

I met a neighbor this evening on the dirt road that has become home to me over the past ten days. He was going to check out the dead deer down the way. That's what passes for excitement out here in foggy redwood country. Yep.

He asked he if I had heard the coyotes last weekend. I hadn't but I am sure I will in the future. We watched the little bunnies cross the dirt driveway, back and forth and back and forth. "Bunny" is just another name for "snack" to the wily coyotes. We talked about the local trails and the other (TWO) houses on our dirt road. (Apparantly the families like each other about as much as the Wyatts and the Clantons did.)

I watched the golden sunlight filter through the trees on my way out for a short walk. On my way back, I found a spot on the road where I can actually see the ocean.

The other day, I actually got some mail in the community mailbox. (A birthday card from my sister.)

Exciting times up here in foggy redwood country. Yep.

Goodbye Willow Glen

2011-07-24T21:40:00.000-07:00

I passed the Starbucks on the corner where I used to stop after my mile long walk from my home to downtown Willow Glen; the Nicknacks and Doodads used goods store where I got my flowered armchair in which I can sit cross-legged; the wonderful Vietnamese restaurant that has lines down the street during Chinese New Year's; John's Greek restaurant, where I left my green sweater, never to be seen again; the old-fashioned Candy Store that has several real theatre seats in the back and runs "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" on infinite do-loop; Aqui, the Mexican restaurant, a favorite spot for friends to gather; the Kids Clothing store where I bought summer dresses for Maytali; the frozen yogurt shop on the corner of Lincoln and Willow, worth the very long wait in line in the summertime; and last but not least, Bill's Cafe, where Tim and I would occasionally meet for breakfast.

I turned the corner on Lincoln and Willow and headed north to my new place further up the peninsula, and thought about my 18 months in Willow Glen. I will miss the big backyard, where I could grow flowers and vegetables, or just go out and sit way in the back of the deep shady backyard. I will miss the neighbors - the older gentleman across the street, who sells home grown vegetables from his garden in the summertime, right on the sidewalk in front of his house; the family across the street, the Frorens, who helped me out time and again when I got locked out of the house, or needed a garden tool, or help moving; the next door neighbor, with whom I discussed gardening over the fence.

Yes, there are some things that I will miss. But I am already looking forward to new adventures up here, in foggy redwood country.

Big Blue Barn

2011-07-23T20:30:00.000-07:00

It sounds like a name from Sesame Street. I can hear the television show announcer now: "Today's episode is Big Bird and the Big Blue Barn". Yup.

But the truth is that I now live in the big blue barn. Well, it was at barn, at one point. The barn has been converted into two separate apartments, one upstairs, one downstairs. The outside has been painted sky blue with dark blue trim, the barn doors still visible, although sealed. Kind of strange color for a barn, or building of any kind. But I like the fact that its a bit unusual. Most of the people who live up here in foggy redwood country march to the tune of a slightly different drummer.

My part of the big blue barn, which is upstairs, has a small deck off the living area. The deck is also painted sky blue, with dark blue railings, where I can commune with nature in my pajamas in the morning, drinking my guava juice. Or check my emails in the evening, sitting in a chair on the deck, laptop on my lap, feet up on a footstool, as the sun paints golden colors through the trees.

It may be a Big Blue Barn in the woods, but that's just fine with me.

Joe Wouldn't Like It Here

2011-07-21T21:27:00.000-07:00

My sister said that our brother-in-law (my other sister's husband) has mastered his goal of keeping bugs out of his house. As this was an instant message on Facebook, I didn't get details. But it is no secret that Joe is not fond of hiking in the woods, communing with nature and encountering all kinds of nasty little critters.

My new place is in the woods. I see a forest of redwood trees out my back door. The new place is a converted barn and somewhat funky, although everything works. I even have indoor plumbing! (Don't laugh. When I lived out here 25 years ago we had an outhouse for a toilet, and an outdoor shower.) Not all the windows have screens, but I don't really care. I open the windows anyway to let in fresh air. So far, the bugs that have come in have been amenable. A few Daddy Long Legs. No yellow jackets, no misquitoes, no flies, no brown recluse spiders. If it ever gets hot out here this summer, I may resort to closing the two screen-less windows at dusk to keep out misquitoes.

We are fortunate in the Bay Area. Our summer weather is fairly dry. Many insects prefer their weather both hotter and wetter. We rarely have Lyme's disease and only an occasional case of West Nile virus.

Yes, some bugs can be deadly. But I've decided to take my chances. The view out my back door is worth it.

Lions, Tigers and Bears

2011-07-17T07:52:00.000-07:00

...Oh My!

They were young and athletic and sometimes graceful. And naieve. The "boys" of All Reasons.

They ran up and down the stairs like teenage boys, complity-complity-clump. And yet when their profession called for amazing grace, they went into slow motion ballet. With furniture.

I asked if they had done this before. "Yeah, we seen it once in a movie."

The four "boys" were from All Reasons Moving. They weren't really boys, but they seemed so to me.

I paid extra to have the four of them. Four is better than two. At the large house in town, ballet as they danced my large and heavy desk around the corner and down the stairs. Packed and loaded in an hour; closed-my-eyes truck manuevering up the treacherous steep narrow and winding driveway; unpacked with amazing speed as they passed the boxes from the back of the pickup, up the stairs and onto the landing.

One after the other they asked me "how did you find this place?" (Craigslist) "Are there animals in the woods?" "Bears?" "Snakes?" No to the bears, yes to the snakes. California rattlers. I have seen a few rattlesnakes, up close and personal. But mostly deer, and an occasional bobcat. And the incredible beauty of the woods. (Yes, I have done this before.)

So now I sit early on a Sunday morning, looking out the patio doors into foggy woods, the only noise collected water dripping from the trees onto the forest floor. The still unpacked boxes sit behind me, some unopened, some with contents scattered about.

It is serene. I am happy. I am home.

I've Been Probed

2011-07-12T21:04:00.000-07:00

It reminded me of those abduction scenarios you see in science fiction movies. Bright lights. Steel tables. Having your body physically probed.

I have now been officially probed through every orafice of the human body, without the benefit being lifted up into the belly of a starship. The routine colonoscopy celebrating my 50th birthday occurred several years ago. For the uninitiated, they stick a flexible camera up your colon. I had an endoscopy a few years before that, where they stuck a camera down my throat to see the lower end of my esophogus, which did not turn up anything serious.

Most females endure invasive procedures on regular basis. We are used to having hands and metal instruments shoved up into our "private parts" and I am no exception. The doctors don't need camera to perform this procedure; they have a bird's eye view at eye level. (Maybe they should use a flexible camera; it would certainly make the procedure more comfortable.)

Today, I think I had my last orafice probed - and I'm not even sure what the procedure is officially called. They stuck a tiny camera up my nose and down my throat. I got to see my vocal chords in action, which was actually very interesting. (No, I don't have Lou Gherig's disease, just a tiny polyp on my vocal chords.) He even looked into my ears with the flexible medical marvel.

There is no need to go back to the mother ship. All my inner workings have already been probed and have been captured in glorious living color on some data chip in some computer somewhere. On Earth.

Can't Wait for Saturday

2011-07-09T20:15:00.000-07:00

The green pickup truck was gone from its ubiquitous spot in the driveway, my housemate gone for the evening. A few minutes later, I watched as the twenty-something year-olds rattled keys and stumbled out the front door.

Yes! The house was mine for a few hours. The evening air was cool, the house was quiet. The cat had even stopped her incessant whining. A cool summer salad, corn on the cob simmering on the stove. I headed for the dining room.

The dining room table was covered with a corrugated box and packaging material. The living room floor looked like Jeff just turned his gym bag upside-down and dumped his dirty gym clothes on the floor. Dirty plates littered every surface. My plan for eating dinner downstairs had been thwarted.

I headed upstairs to my room, where I usually eat dinner sitting in a chair with my plate on my lap. Plate in hand, I kicked Andrea's shoes, which had been carelessly discarded at the bottom of the stairs, out of the way.

After dinner, I planned to ice my back, injured in a recent minor car accident. I usually lie down on my back on my folded comfortor, which I place on the floor, with an ice pack under my back. However, the cat peed on the comfortor the other day, after getting shut in my room by mistake for the day.

My life with housemates is over, or will be on Saturday. I can't wait.

Not In My Town

2011-07-03T16:41:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to stay cool over this swealtering 4th of July weekend, I plopped myself down in front of the downstairs TV, where it is 10 degrees cooler than my upstairs rooms. I turned the TV on; the station was set to KQED, the local public television station. The show that came on when I pushed the button on the remote was called "Not In My Town". And it was filmed at a local bay area high school, Gunn High School, in Palo Alto.

"Not In My Town", or "Not In My School", is a campaign against prejudice and discrimination and about creating an atmostphere where everyone feels accepted whether they are black or Asian, gay or straight, Mormon or Muslim. "Not In My School" has been celebrated at Gunn High School with a week of activities for several years.

As I watched this show while I ate my leftover spaghetti lunch, I was thinking: Here we are, celebrating Independence Day for a country supposedly founded on "freedom" - freedom of thought and of belief and of expression. Any American schoolchild knows those first few familar words from the Declaration itself: "We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal." I suppose your interpetation of those words depends on your defintion of "equality" and "men".

And so, we continue to have "Not In My School" week, until the day arrives when there is no longer a need to have it. And I wonder....if that day will happen in my lifetime.

Moving

2011-07-02T15:06:00.000-07:00

I am moving. Again. Fifth time in two years. You would think I get some kind of bizarre pleasure from the experience. But, no.

This time I am moving ostensibly to be closer to my "new" job and to cut my commute time in half. And to be rid of my inconsiderate housemates. I have had many housemates over the years. Quite frankly, we are all inconsiderate some of the time, myself included. But I have been able to work things out with most. This time, I am just tired of the whole dang housemate thing. Maybe I am getting too old and crochety to live with other people. At least, without getting pissed off. And without the occasional accompanying yelling and screaming, on my part and/or theirs.

I am tired of the kitchen looking like a WWII battlefield. I am tired of the bin of Christmas decorations that still graces our back porch and several cardboard boxes of junk that have been sitting on the porch dining table for just about as long. I am tired of coming outside to smashed flowers after someone threw a heavy duty hose on top of my delicate flowers. I am tired of tripping over gym bags in the front hall and garbage waiting to be taken out in the back hall. I am tired of the pile of gravel that has been sitting in the driveway for months. I could go on, but you get my drift...

Mostly, I am tired of housemates who treat you like you are some kind of intruder into their space when both of our names are on the rental agreement. Someone who rearranges the shared space furniture in my absence. Someone who screams at me for parking in the driveway. You might have been here first, but that does not give you the right to make all the rules. Or, in my opinion, it should not give you the right.

Good luck with the next housemate, DonnaLou. I think you are going to need it.

Pay It Forward

2011-06-26T22:47:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I had to cross one of our bay area bridges. When I got to the toll plaza, I had my five dollars cash in my hand, ready to hand over to the toll taker. When my car finally rolled up to the window, the toll taker pointed to the driver in front of me, and said "He paid your toll". Me: "Excuse me?" "He paid your toll." Me, incredulously: "What?" "That driver paid your toll. You can go!"

Hmmm....what is the world coming to? I thought. Later that day, a colleague mentioned to me that the concept of "Pay It Forward" had been mentioned on the radio, and one of the suggestions was to pay the toll of a complete stranger. I had heard of the concept, seen the movie. So, I thought, OK, I'll try it. The next day, I handed my Starbucks card (with a ten dollar balance) over to a complete stranger behind me in line. I added five dollars, because if I only handed over five dollars, then I figured I wasn't really paying it forward, I was only passing it on.

But, you know what? It didn't really do anything for me. Did the well dressed guy behind me really need someone to give him ten dollars? Probably not. What about the homeless person sleeping under the bridge down the street? Or children in third world countries without schools? I would rather my five dollars go to help re-build Haiti, rather than someone in a Mercedes crossing the bay bridge.

"Pay-It-Forward" is not a new concept. It has been done for years by volunteers who mentor children, by anyone who has stood up for civil rights or peace, and anyone who has worked to clean up our environment. These are the people who are trying to make the world a better place for the next generation, and generation after that. Tossing five dollars to the guy behind you in line is easy. Giving of your time takes more effort but in the long run, this is what really pays it foward.

Judy and Sarah

2011-06-26T16:59:00.001-07:00

One lives in San Francisco, surrounded by the pulse of the city where there is always something happening, on the edge of the Haight, within a few blocks of the Golden Gate Park, the DeYoung Art Museum, Japanese Tea Garden, Arboretum, and new Science Museum. The symphony, the ballet, theatre and numerous museums are a short bus ride away.

The other lives on an idyllic campus-like setting, with lots of open space, grass, and trees, in an environment that caters to pre-school age children like her own, a place that is generally quiet and peaceful, and where you can have all of your meals in the communal dining hall without ever cooking or washing a dish.

The city slicker, who moved to the City two years ago to live with her boyfriend , would rather be back in the suburbs where all her friends still live. The kibbutz transplant would rather be back in the glitzy city of LA where she grew up, despite its sometimes sordid underbelly.

It seems ironic. But of course there is more to each of their stories than the single paragraph above.

The city slicker has been housebound for most of the two years she has lived in the City due to an accident that happened shortly after she moved. Getting up and down the stairs in the three story Victorian has been a challenge at times; getting around the City has been difficult at best.

The LA-kibbutz transplant has uprooted her LA lifestyle and moved halfway across the world, to a different culture, language and lifestyle. Her kids are thriving, but she feels isolated, even though connected to her friends by Facebook and Skype.

We have cell phones, internet, Facebook, cars and jet planes. We can live in a bustling metropolis and still feel cut off from the world....from "our" world....the world we have grown up in or the world we have created for ourselves. We can live in the friendliest of places, and still long for "home".

I myself was involuntarily transplanted from East to West coast over 30 years ago. I too moved in with a boyfriend, who later became my husband. A temporary job turned into a permanent one, and here I am, 30 years later, still living in California. Over many years, California became "home" to me.

I have asked myself recently how would I feel if I was needed by my family in Connecticut. There is no question in my mind that I would drop everything and be on the next plane, no questions asked. I am just not sure how long it would take before Connecticut felt like "home" to me again, or if it ever would.

Home can be many things. It is where you feel loved. It is where you are most comfortable. It is your favorite place, the place you can relax and be yourself. The place you "fit-in". It is where your friends are. And, as was once said, "Home is where the heart is." Exactly right my friends, exactly right.

Hot Fudge Sundae

2011-06-10T17:38:00.000-07:00

I was in the neighborhood, had stopped to make a phone call to the East Coast on my way home from work, before everyone in my family had gone to bed. (I don't call friends after 10pm, but I can call certain family members until 11pm, at least the night owls in the family.) And I had a hankering for a hot fudge sundae. It didn't hurt that one of the late night eateries that serves hot fudge sundaes was across the street.

Hot fudge vanilla ice cream sundaes should be made as the name implies. That's HOT as in H-O-T, and vanilla as in REAL and ice cream as in CREAMY. Not too difficult. The "fudge" needs to be thick, and not some thin, runny syrup. Did I mention it should be HOT? Hot and thick and melting right into the scoop of chilled vanilla ice cream like lava pouring down a mountainside.

The sundae I had the other night was a disappointment to say the least. The fudge was not hot enough, so the frigidly cold ice cream quickly congealed it. It tasted like fudge, but it pooled into clumps like tar poured on a winter's day in Canada.

Does anyplace make a decent hot fudge sundae anymore? If you know of any place in the bay area, please let me know. There used to be ice cream "parlors" that did nothing but make sundaes (and ice cream floats, and banana splits, and milkshakes), places you could go and sit at wooden tables or in booths, not in some tiny airless room on some brightly colored, very hard plastic chair.

Frozen yogurt stands, seemingly ever more popular and possibly more healthy for you (if you don't load them up with sugary calorie laden toppings) are a poor substitute for a good, old-fashioned ice cream parlor. Because once in a while, you've just got to splurge.

Here Comes the Sun

2011-06-07T23:10:00.000-07:00

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it's all right
It's all right

- George Harrison, the Beatles

Not Happy Campers

2011-06-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

My lavender June flowers are NOT blooming. They bloom EVERY June first, right on schedule, EVERY year - but they are not blooming yet this year. Its June 5th. They are not happy campers.

Please, someone, send this gloomy Seattle weather back where it came from.

The constant grey overcast skies are depressing. Enough already! My tomato plants need SUNSHINE!!

Lord, hear my prayer.

Even atheists get down on their knees sometimes.

No Response

2011-05-28T10:54:00.001-07:00

When did "I'll call you" become a man's way of avoiding an uncomfortable situation by lying to a first date when he had no intention of ever seeing her again? Probably with the invention of the telephone. Before the invention of the telephone, I am sure men had other "lines" to offer instead. ("Nice to see you at the church harvest social, ma'am. Hope to see you at the barn raising in June.")

I am not letting women off the hook here. If a guy calls and a woman has no interest, it is common for the woman to not return the phone call. Eventually, the guy will get the message. Most of the time it works and its easier than having to tell someone you are not interested.

We run into casual acquaintances in the grocery store, and promise to get together for coffee or lunch "sometime soon". We tell another little white lie, for the necessity of social graces.

With email, the little white lie often runs along the lines of "I never received an email from you", implying that we would have responded if we had seen it in our inbox. Or "Your email must have landed in my junk mail folder." Right.

And so we come to Facebook well prepared in lying or avoidance techniques. "I rarely check my Facebook account" is popular with the older generation, and it is probably true for some of my friends. The younger generation just shrugs it off, with attitude. ("Oh, you expected a reply to that?" or something along those lines. Trust me; I have teenage nieces.)

But at what point did it become appropriate not to reply to email messages in the work setting? Maybe not responding has always been around the workplace. Perhaps it has been around as long as there have been uncomfortable situations, power struggles and office politics.

Or maybe with all of the electronic communication available these days, not responding just seems a little more blatant.

Fangs

2011-05-26T09:59:00.001-07:00

I've had them for almost a year now. They appeared virtually overnight, as if I were bitten by a vampire. Their sharp points took some getting used to at first, as they poked into the soft tissue on the inside of my mouth. But over the past few months, I've grown rather fond of them.

But my fangs are going to be removed next month because I am done. I am SO done with the transparant technology wrapped around my teeth like hardened Saran Wrap 24 hours a day.

I never did get used to biting strangers on the neck though...

Foam Rollers

2011-05-21T15:55:00.000-07:00

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" a famous author once penned. The saying is true of course, but lets face it - a product name can be a crucial factor in determining its fate. After all, who would buy a perfume called "Stinky"?

Which brings me to the point of this post. You see, I wear "Aligners" - braces for adults. These braces are made of hard plastic instead of that metal-wear that filled the mouths of some of my friends when I was a teenager. I didn't have a terrible bite, its just that some of my teeth had shifted over time, and when my dentist suggested it one day, I guess I was just in a mood to say "yes". It didn't hurt that my dental insurance was paying for a big chunk of the bill.

I think "Aligners" is a great name, very descriptive of its purpose. So, why does a company that sells a product called "Aligners", encourage its dental customers to use another product which is given to you with the aligners -- and which they have named "Chewies"? You see, the "chewies" are a foam-type of product, shaped like a small Tootsie Roll, that you are supposed to chew on to make the aligners fit more snugly. Whenever my dentist asks if I need more "chewies", I feel like the family dog. ("Arf, Arf, yes I would love more Chewies! Arf, Arf!! Slobber, slobber, slobber.)

So, I came up with a few substitute names for the "chewies". One was "snuggies", but not only is this name too cute, it also sounds too much like "Huggies" the diaper products for babies. My best suggestion so far is "Refiners". Aligner Refiners. I like the sound of it. It sounds descriptive, yet not too cute.

The main reason this product is still named "Chewies".....is because they don't need to sell it to anyone!! Several packages are provided with the Aligners, and my dentist hands extras out like candy. They could be called "Rot-Your-Teeth", but since they are provided for free, no one seems to care. Except me.

So I am asking my readers (all 15 of them) if you might be able to think of a better name for these teething rollers. I have just one request -- just don't call them "wedgies".

My Favorite Place

2011-05-14T23:10:00.001-07:00

When my son was in third grade, he had a writing assignment - to write a poem about his "favorite place" at home. My husband and I had been divorced since Sean was four, so he had two homes to chose from. At the time, my ex-husband still lived in the cabin we had built, up in the hills of the Santa Cruz Mountains. "The Land" is still is a wonderful, magical place, with a fast-moving, clear water creek, sounds of coyotes howling at dusk, and sunsets that bathe the landscape in golden light and create tall black silhouettes out of nearby fir trees.

I've been thinking about "home" lately. What makes a place your "home'? Is it the place where you grew up? Is home the place that is most familiar to you? Is it where your family lives? Or is it the place you most fit in and most prefer to be? Is it on the road and out of a suitcase? Is it the land of your ancestors? Or is it, as the saying goes, "where the heart is"?

I find I have no answers. And so, as I contemplate whether or not to leave my West Coast home, the place I am most comfortable and where I have lived the longest, to move back to where I grew up on the East Coast, the poem my eight year old son wrote sprang to mind.

My Favorite Place - by Sean Emdy

My favorite place is on the porch.
It is so peaceful too.
And when the sun is setting,
who would know such a beautiful view.

We lived in many places, Sean and I, before his untimely death at 17. Even though neither Jim or I lived at The Land at the time of Sean's death, it is the place we chose to scatter Sean's ashes. By any definition, it was certainly "home" to Sean.

Guilt Dreams

2011-05-14T18:16:00.000-07:00

I am one of those people whose unconscious emotions are reflected in my dreams. I often have dreams where I come to school unprepared to take a test, or I cannot find my classroom, or I am trying to catch a plane but I am late or I am traveling but don't know where I am going. I have read that dreams such as these are not uncommon.

I also have "guilt dreams". Dreams that I have not been a good enough parent have plagued me for many years. Now that I have matured into later adulthood, I am having dreams that I am not a good enough daughter either.

Friends of mine have recently had to deal with aging parents. One had to put her dad into institutionalized care because his Alzheimer's disease was no longer something his wife could handle. Another good friend's dad has been diagnosed with lung cancer, and has come back to California to live with her. And yet another slightly older friend's husband dropped dead recently from a massive heart attack.

My dad is 85, lives by himself in a big old house, and as far as I know, is in relative good health. I have five siblings, four of whom live close enough to keep tabs on him. I have been fortunate to be able to live in California for over thirty years. The bay area has long been the place I think of as "home". When I lost my job two years ago, I went to stay with "family" back East (ie, I moved back in with my dad). While I loved spending time with my dad when I was there, I couldn't wait to get back to my beloved California and my friends.

Now, I am having second thoughts, partly because had a dream the other night. My long dead grandmother was lying in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. I stood right next to the bed looking at her face. Her grey hair was piled in a bun on her head, as it had been in life, but the skin on her face was a mottled dark purple. She open her eyes, wide, and stared at me. And with a deep raspy voice that sounded more like the wolf than grandma, she said "You're too late".

And so I wonder. Is it time for me to give up the luxury of living in California, to go back to Connecticut and spend more time with dear old dad? That is, before it really is too late.

Trend Setter

2011-04-24T21:56:00.000-07:00

I admit, I am not up on most current fads. I have had the same haircut since I was 30. I wear comfortable "old lady shoes" (clogs) rain or shine, casual or dressy. I wear the same style of Jockey underwear I have worn since I was 25.

I have had a vegetable garden in any place that had dirt and a little bit of sun ever since I can remember, even if it was a single tomato plant in a pot on my north-facing patio. In fact, I had a vegetable garden when I was still living at my parent's home in Connecticut. Some habits die hard.

This year, after many hours spent improving the dirt last year and getting minimal results, I have thrown in the towel and said "enough". Enough back breaking shoveling. Enough spending lots of money buying plants, only to end up with a single tomato, cucumbers that had no flavor and a basil plant eaten up by slugs. This year, after many years of growing vegetables, I have planted only flowers - brightly colored and hardy - yellow rununculas, violet and magenta petunias, and red Gerbera daisies.

So I was somewhat surprised to hear that some young people I know have recently gotten "into" vegetable gardening. My thirty year old trainer has plants in the community vegetable garden behind the gym. My housemate's twenty-something son has brought home vegetables in pots and plans to plant them in the same spot he was planning to build a firepit only a year ago. My college student next door neighbor has vegetable plants in his backyard. Why the sudden interest in vegetable gardening by the young people?

Well, it figures....now that I am no longer growing vegetables, doing so has become popular. I am once again not following the trend.

I guess that makes me a Trend Setter.

Poppies !

2011-04-17T12:43:00.000-07:00

The poppies are blooming, everywhere. Bright, orange poppies. They grow along the side of freeway entrance ramps, and in the strip between the sidewalk and the street. The plants pop up, seemingly out of nowhere, frilly floppy stems a muted green color, in the springtime during the rainy season, where seeds have been dropped from flowers the previous year.

I planted poppy seeds last year, in a planter box that I stuck on top of strip of dirt along the driveway where it gets a lot of sun at mid day. This year, they popped up, not in the planter box, (which I might add is now filled with weeds) but in the hardpacked dirt alongside the planter box, between the planter box and the house. That is where they seem to thrive best. Not in the planter dirt which I spent hours nurturing with compost and other soil nutrients last year. Nope. They like the plain old undisturbed dirt.

Someone once defined weeds as "plants that grow where you don't want them to grow". Poppies are weeds, in the truest sense of the word. And yet, we love them so, these bright harbingers of warmer weather and longer days to come.

George

2011-04-15T19:55:00.000-07:00

George on "Seinfeld" calls it "Breakup by Association". That sounds like what has happened to me several times. I have lost friends just because I was associated with someone, or was once associated with someone.

You can only be friends with ONE of the divorced couple, but not both. You can't be "friends" with a former boyfriend, at least if he has a new girlfriend. These former friends take other friends and family members with them in the breakup. The daughter of a friend of mine, who is now a mature 17, was bereft and confused when someone she considered an "uncle" all of a sudden ended contact with her when she was only 4 years old, because his new wife was jealous of their relationship - the new wife was jealous of this guy's relationship with a child.

As for me, one of my break-ups was with a guy I was only friends with. And I don't mean a friends-with-benefits kind of friend. He was my housemate. Period.

On the Seinfeld episode, after the friends-with-benefits experience, Elaine decides that she and Jerry can't go back to being friends. But they can't go back to being lovers either.

And, since Seinfeld mirrors real life, I believe it to be true. Friends and lovers beware --you cannot go back.

My Ex

2011-04-15T07:42:00.000-07:00

He has whitened his teeth. In the photo, he is wearing a blue undershirt instead of his ubiquitous sleeve-less white undershirt that I hated. He has lost weight. She even got him to dance, and in public.

He is solicitous of his new love like he never was with me. He has made changes for her that he never would have made for me.

I can see it in the photos, the way they look at each other. He is in love with her, and that hurts.

Fallout

2011-04-15T07:29:00.000-07:00

It was bound to happen sooner or later I suppose. Collateral damage from a break. I should have expected it, because its happened before. The thing is that the collateral damage hurts more than the original break.

Two years ago I had a falling out with a friend. Our disagreement remains unresolved, mainly because he refuses to get together to talk about it. But the sad part is that he took his family with him. By "family" I mean his young children, who lived with me for four years ,who I no longer see. A year later, his 20 year old niece was all of a sudden no longer talking to me after seeing him at a family wedding. I had been very close to this particular niece since she was born. The rejection stung.

What the heck did I do that was so terrible you might be wondering? Nothing in my opinion. Lets just say his (new) wife was very jealous of me (for no reason I might add). "He" was my housemate, nothing more.

And now, its happened again. I tried to say in touch with his daughter-in-law after she moved to Israel, but she is a busy mother of two very young children. She used to read my blog posts. She used to send me emails occasionally to see how I was doing. "She" is the daughter-in-law of my ex-boyfriend. Now she is "liking" photos of my ex-boyfriend on Facebook - photos of him with his new girlfriend.

I have been replaced. And that hurts.

You've Got Mail

2011-04-10T19:38:00.001-07:00

We need a new "mailbox" at my house. You know, one of those metal boxes that sit outside your house where the postman puts advertisements and bills. For those under the age of 25, this may be a new concept, but trust me, some of us older folks still use the postal service. Although, since the "mail" is mostly bills and advertisements, sometimes I wonder why. Heck, you can even do all of your business with the IRS online.

I suppose official documents still arrive via the old-fashioned mailbox. You know, like court orders and subpoenas. Not that I would know anything about things like that. And some of us still pay our bills through the mail, even though I cannot figure out why anyone would choose this method of payment over the ease of online bill paying.

So why do I even need a mailbox? They throw the morning newspaper (which admittedly I can view online) in my driveway. If I paid my bills online, maybe I wouldn't even need a physical mailbox. Bank statements and investment statements might pile up on my front porch, but these can also be viewed online.

As I walked around the neighborhood the other day, specifically looking for what other people used for mailboxes, I was struck by the fact that every house actually HAS a mailbox. Whether or not it gets much use is a separate question.

Aliens

2011-04-10T19:24:00.001-07:00

There are still two wicker chairs on the front porch. The bushes are neatly trimmed and the yellow rose bush in the corner is just starting to bloom. There are lemons on the tree by the side door. Yes, it is still Tim's neat grey house with the white trim. Except that its not.

Its not where Tim lives anymore. The front door has been painted a maroon color and the wicker chairs are a dark brown instead of white. The orange tree by the garage has been cut back into an odd shape. And the dog just inside the picket fence across the driveway is not Tim's old faithful beast Truff, but a playful cocker spaniel instead.

It is as if aliens came down in the night and replaced Tim's house with something similar but not quite the real thing, populated by Pod People and Pod Pets.

Yes, its been a year. Things change. I just don't have to like it.

The Big Burn

2011-04-10T10:12:00.001-07:00

There is a book I am fond of my the same name, by Timothy Egan. He is a columnist for the New York Times and a Pulitzer Prize winning reporter. He is an amazing author and has written several books, one about the Dust Bowl era, one about the burning West in the early 1900s.

But, title source acknowledged, this is not what my post is about today. Its about something more mundane...the dangers of the gym.

Most people are probably used to using the equipment at the gym. Me, not so much. Of course, I have long realized the dangers of, say, dropping a heavy weight on your toe. (I have had the toenails from both of my big toes removed, at different times. Don't ask. Lets just say gracefulness isn't one of my finer qualities.)

My trainer (yes, I have one, theoretically so that I don't injure myself in the process) has "graduated" me from the small gym (no equipment in the small gym, just floor mats) to the big boys room. You know, the room with all the barbells, and strange looking machines. "You're ready" she says. (Ha, little does she know.)

She has tried to get me on one of those exercise treadmills for the past two weeks. The first day, I just watched as she showed me how it was done. Last week I actually got on one, holding on to the handles for dear life. You see, I have visions of the treadmill speeding up (on its own of course) and me not being able to keep up, and getting sucked into the end of the tread, in cartoonish fashion. I think this image comes from watching "I Love Lucy" re-runs over and over and over again in my youth. (If you are of my generation, you will know what I am talking about. Its the episode where Lucy works in a candy factory.)

So, yesterday I came in early for my training, so I could "warm up". Thought I'd try the treadmill. Started off nice and slow, then "upped" the speed gradually until I was walking at a nice pace. Even took my hands off the handles.

I was shooting for ten minutes of walking on the treadmill. I was so proud of myself. After I had done about nine minutes, my trainer came over to the treadmill. She was standing right next to me. I was ready to get off the treadmill. And so, I stepped off. With my left foot, treadmill still running. Big mistake.

My trainer caught me as I went down and kept me from getting sucked into the machine. (OK, I am being a little dramatic here.) But she did save me from possibly further injury to say, my face or hands.

There is a BIG RED STOP button on the machine, that I now know you are supposed to push BEFORE you get off the machine. Lesson learned, the hard way. I escaped with minor injuries to my knee and leg, in the form of burns from the fast moving rubber tread, the one on my leg the size of my palm.

My trainer was concerned, and treated my injuries with Neosporin and bandaids. "I'm fine" I insisted. Being a clutz, I am used to minor injuries. As she put a bandaid on my knee, she thought I had a second burn. "No, that's not from the treadmill" I explained.

That's the scar from last year's fall, on my dad's slate patio.

Man Day

2011-04-09T20:15:00.000-07:00

My friend Rick posted a note on Facebook that he was "attending" National Man Day. I had never heard of this, so naturally I looked it up online.

National Man Day is something that was started on Facebook by, naturally, a bunch of guys. Basically, its an excuse for men to retreat to their Man Caves, watch sports all day on TV, drink beer, and scratch in places I won't mention. Like most of them don't do this already? Well, I suppose that making it an official "Day" allows them to do whatever they want without their wives or girlfriends nagging them about the lawn that needs mowing or the leak that needs fixing.

I'll give you this: when I went to visit my friend Rick the next day, he was up to his knees in a dirt trench he was digging to replace the sprinkler system in his front yard, not an easy task. My friend Rick is no slouch; he works hard to provide for his family. He fixes things around the house. He is a ham radio buff and loves tinkering with his Camaro. (His man toys.) He deserves some relaxation time as much as anyone does.

Rick told me he thought National Man Day was created because there was a National Women's Day first. So I looked it up online. And he's right. Sort of.

There is an International Women's Day. The 100th anniversary of International Women's Day was celebrated on March 8th. Guess what happens on International Women's Day? A day for women to indulge themselves, buy new shoes, get a facial, a manicure and pedicure? Uh, no.

International Women's Day is celebrated to embrace women's victories in civil rights, gender equality, and leadership around the world. Somehow it doesn't quite sound like the same thing as the male version to me.

Maybe when women actually have equal rights all around the world, we will have the time to indulge in a "Day" for ourselves.

TIM-ness

2011-04-06T21:47:00.000-07:00

Joe Howard calls it "TIM-ness". Its an acronym he came up with for our teacher friend, Tim Shannon, who died a year ago.

The acronym stands for qualities Tim embodied - Teach, Inspire, Mentor.

When I went by Fremont High School today on my way to work, there was a memorial in Tim's honor on the one year anniversary of his death. In front of the auditorium, a table had been set up with some photos of Tim and a long sheet of paper for students (or anyone else) to write on. Next to the table was Tim's old oak chair that he'd had for 25 years, a "ghost light", and an old pair of Tim's very paint splattered sneakers. I suspect Tim's office-mate and long time friend Joe Howard of setting the scene.

When I passed by the table shortly before lunch and I headed over the to Music Building to see Joe, the paper was blank. When I returned thirty minutes later, many students had scribbled messages to Tim, telling him that they missed him and that he would never be forgotten. But what caught my eye was the fact that many of messages spoke of "TIM"ness -- that Tim had taught them about life, that he had inspired them to follow their dreams, that he had been a mentor to them in addition to being their drama teacher.

I added my own scribbled message to the sheet. ("Tim, you promised you would not retire before you turned 55. So not fair!")

On my way back home from work tonight, I decided to swing by the high school one last time. The students had all gone home. The only sounds were of a basketball game in the gym and the splash of adults doing laps in the pool. Some lights were on in the administration building. I walked around campus in the twilight and tried a back door. It opened, so I walked in. The table was still set up in the hallway.

A janitor walked by and pointed to the table, to the photos. "Tim" he said as he pointed to the photos. I asked him "Did you know him?" "Oh, yes" replied the janitor. "Everyone knew Tim".

And then I remembered. I used to come down to the high school at lunch time, often to sit in Tim's office to breathe in the teenage banter that went on around me unabated, as if I was just another high school student. But occasionally, Tim had errands to do and dragged me around campus with him. One time, we actually had lunch in the staff lounge. We ate lunch at a table, not with other teachers, but with the school janitors, all of whom Tim knew. This was a lesson for me, a lesson in humility. Tim didn't think he was a better person than the janitors just because he was a teacher. They considered him a friend.

If I am not mistaken, there is an "H" in Timothy.

The Show Must Go On

2011-04-03T19:38:00.001-07:00

Its an old saying we've all heard. People paid their money to see a show, and regardless of cast illness or other calamity, they expect a performance. Its the reason there are understudies in theatre to take someone's place if an actor breaks a leg or loses his voice. Theatres have burned down, especially in Shakespeare's day of wooden buildings and candles. Or have been damaged in earthquakes, a more likely scenario in current day California.

It took over ten years and millions of dollars in fundraising to restore our local Campbell Heritage Theatre to its former glory. The thing about a building is just that - its just a building, and can be restored, or rebuilt - and in the meantime, a replacement space can usually be found. This is exactly what the Fremont Union High School District did during a several year period when three of the five high schools in the district had their auditoriums closed for 18 months in order to make them earthquake-proof. They used the gym to stage some of the productions. They collaborated on the annual musical. But some things are not so easily replaced.

My friend Tim was the Drama teacher at Fremont High School. He had built up the drama program during twenty years of teaching at the same high school. Tim died suddenly just about a year ago. A new drama teacher was hired to take his place, someone with years of experience teaching drama. From all I've heard, he is doing a great job.

Tim always told me that eventually he would retire and a new drama teacher would take his place, someone with a different perspective on teaching and a new vision of high school drama - and that would be OK, in fact it would be good for the students. I just didn't expect Tim to retire so suddenly, and so permanently. Over the past year, a new drama teacher has been handed the baton at Fremont High School. The Drama Program at Fremont High School will continue (well, state and local funding willing) and incoming freshmen will learn the art of acting and building sets.

But Tim Shannon will never be replaced....because in real life, there is no understudy.

Miss Manners

2011-04-02T00:08:00.000-07:00

There are ways of doing things, and there are ways of doing things.

One of my closest friends is from Mexico. One year I helped her set up for her daughter's birthday party. My friend had told the people she invited that the party was to start at 2pm. (No "end" time of the party was given.) At promptly 2 pm, some of the "gringos" she had invited started showing up - but my friend and her husband were still out at the grocery store, not expecting anyone to arrive until close to 3 pm. A little later, her daughter's Latino friends showed up - with their siblings and their parents and with other friends. They came at 3, at 4, at 5, and at 6pm, and didn't leave until late, late, late. And they all came with food. This was a party, Mexican style. You don't arrive until an hour after the official invitation time, you stay late, and you always bring some food to share.

The French think Americans are rude, probably for more than one reason, but to start with, all French conversations start with "Bonjour madame" or "Bonjour monsieur" no matter who you are speaking with, and even if the building is on fire. Americans start conversations with "hey you". No wonder the French think we're rude.

Once I was at Davies Symphony Hall in San Francisco, the orchestra was in the middle of playing a piece and smoke started drifting through the hall. No one, not one single person, interrupted the piece until it was finished. Seriously. The hall could have burned to the ground, but not a single concert goer was going to interrupt the orchestra with so much as a cough. (A few people slipped out quietly to inform management and management came on stage as soon as the piece was finished. The smoke was from a nearby fire and had come in through the ventilation system.)

So what's my point? Well, I guess my point is....when in Rome, do as the Romans do. But the problem is that this is the US, and we live among Mexicans and Irish, Israelis and Muslims. We interact with people from different cultural backgrounds and different religions, not to mention different socio-economic backgrounds, and different generations. ("Dude".) Even different families have different expectations of how things "should" be done. Heck, even people who grew up in the same family end up with different expectations of how things should be done, my own sisters being a case in point.

I think we should all start by lowering our expectations. Yes, I will still report the guy I see beating his wife or his kid, which might be acceptable behavior in some Middle Eastern countries (this is the "when in Rome part"). But I will "chill out" and relax when my twenty-something year old friend lets her pre-schooler eat ice cream for dinner or when my sister doesn't use a coaster under her glass. (Actually, I do not own any coasters, but one of my sisters does.)

I would like others to lower their expectations as well. I would like others not to label me "rude" if I don't meet their behavioral expectations. No, I didn't grow up in a barn, and yes, I know how to use a napkin. But perhaps others were not as fortunate.

I am writing all this, putting it out for public consumption, knowing that I will be put to the test when I go "back East" to visit my family. I can always tell when I enter New York City, without even opening my eyes. We will see if I can be less judgmental next time I visit.

A Year Ago

2011-03-28T23:38:00.000-07:00

A year ago, I borrowed a screwdriver from my friend Tim to fix the bureau I was refinishing, my son's old bureau. A year ago I was picking dusty oranges from Tim's tree. A year ago, I borrowed his van to pick up an armchair at the second hand shop down the street. A year ago I was having a conversation with Tim in his driveway about a drama student, a student who had died suddenly his sophomore year in college. A year ago, Tim was the first person to see the house I had just rented, a few blocks from his own house. A year ago, I sat in the drama office, reading the high school newspaper and pretending to be a fly on the wall while he had a serious conversation with one of his students. A year ago, when I returned the screw driver, Tim had just returned from taking his Drama students to a debate, which amazingly they had won. He was so proud of his very smart drama students, standing on the sidewalk, talking to Rick, his neighbor, about their victory.

I taped the screwdriver to Tim's shirt with packaging tape. And I walked away, not realizing that would be one of the last times I would see my friend. A year ago.

Work

2011-03-27T23:26:00.000-07:00

I spoke to my sister on the phone today, the one who's teenage daughter is going through a serious rebellious phase. Yesterday, I stopped by my friend's house on my way back from the gym to see how she is doing. Her father has just been diagnosed with cancer and is staying at her house while he sees some experts at Stanford Hospital. A week ago I called to check on another friend whose husband just dropped dead from a heart attack two weeks ago at the age of 63. My dad was thrilled to hear me wish him a Happy St. Patrick's Day on the 17th, even though it was almost 11 pm at night. I try to see my friend Judy on a somewhat regular basis, who moved from the suburbs to San Francisco two years ago and is still recovering from the back surgery she had performed last summer.

I am trying....to be a good friend, a good sister, a good daughter. And yet, it plagues me that I have lost some friends along the way. Some I have lost to attrition - we just don't have time for each other anymore in our lives, we move on, we find new interests or make new friends better suited to us. But some friends I have lost to what one friend likes to refer to as "a falling out". An argument, a fight, a difference of opinion, a misunderstanding, or an issue of trust. I know I am not the only one who has "lost" friends over time, but it bothers me none-the less.

When I was a kid growing up, the friends I had in elementary school were not the same friends I ended up with in high school. Something happens when you are growing up; your interests change, your personalities change. You wonder how you were ever friends with this idioit or that jerk in the first place. Perhaps growing up is not the only time one feels this way.

I have lost two good friends over the past two years. Both men. One took his whole extended family with him. I am angry at him for what I perceive is his cowardice to hash out our different perspectives in person. I am angry that he would just rather walk away from our long standing friendship. But I cannot really do anything about it.

The second friend I have lost is my most recent my ex-boyfriend. Granted, "ex-es" are tough to keep on as friends in the first place. But I try anyway. I try because there is usually a good reason that I was attracted to that person in the first place. I have a great relationship with my ex-husband. I have in the past remained good friends with other men I have dated (some, but not all). So I have tried to salvage a similar relationship with this particular ex-boyfriend. But, our "friendship" is not working out as well as I had hoped.

And so, I leave this post with a question: Should I just walk away from trying to make our friendship work out with my ex? It certainly would be easier to walk away than trying to make it "work". At what point do you say, its just not worth the effort? Perhaps in asking that question, I have found my answer.

Marriage is hard work. Friendship shouldn't be.

Perspective

2011-03-27T19:47:00.000-07:00

A year ago I had just moved back to California from the frigid cold of the East Coast. A year ago I was picking sweet tangy oranges from my good friend Tim's tree. A year ago I had no job and felt I had lost my career.

Now I commute an hour each way to a job that's just a job. Someone else is living in my good friend Tim' s house and I don't even know if the oranges are ripe.

A year ago I had just moved into a shared housing arrangement in San Jose, and was thinking of painting my bedroom a different color. Today, I am thinking about moving out and getting my own place, so I don't have to deal with the cat hair on the stairs and the dirty dishes on the kitchen counter.

A year ago, I wanted to live in California as long as I possibly could. Today, I am missing spending time with my 85 year old dad and wondering how much longer he will be with us in good health. Today I am thinking that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to live back East for a while.

What a difference a year can make. And who knows how I will feel about things a year from now.

The Bucket List

2011-03-06T11:21:00.001-08:00

I watched the movie "The Bucket List" the other night. For anyone who has not seen the movie or heard of the concept, the "Bucket List" is a list you compile of things you want to do before you die (or "kick the bucket"). After they get out of the hospital, the two main characters in the film, who both have terminal cancer and who have become friends while hospital roommates, set out to accomplish the things on their combined list, together.

But the Bucket List concept is not what "stuck" with me after seeing the movie.

At one point early in the film, the every-workingman Morgan Freeman character is trying to explain a certain concept to the arrogant-and-rich Jack Nicholson character. He relays the following story. After you die, when you arrive at the Pearly Gates and your fate is being determined by Saint Peter, whether or not you are admitted to Heaven depends on your answer to two questions. Jack Nicholson says, "OK, I'll bite. What are the two questions?" Morgan Freeman says "Question One: Did you find joy in your life?" Nicholson smiles a big, broad smile and slowly nods yes. "Question Number Two: Did you bring joy to others?"

Whether or not we believe in the Pearly Gates concept or not, towards the end of our lives, if we are fortunate enough to have the time and the mental capacity to reflect on our lives, we may ask ourselves if we lived a good life, if we did all we set out to accomplish, or if we had any serious regrets. Instead, I think I will ask myself those two simple questions. And I hope I can nod "yes" to both of them with a broad smile on my face.

MY Friends

2011-03-04T22:25:00.000-08:00

Within the last two years, two friends in my age bracket (one a few years older, one a few years younger) have dropped dead of heart attacks. Both men. When the first one died, I thought "anomaly". Now, I'm not so sure.

Does this mean I am entering the age when I routinely check the obituaries in the newspaper each morning? By this I mean SERIOUSLY checking the paper with the expectation of seeing the names of MY friends in MY age bracket listed therein. You know, like my dad does.

My dad is 85. When I call him on the phone (not often enough, I'm sure), he is very likely to ask "Oh, did you know so-and-so? Didn't you go to school with one of his/her kids? Well, he/she just died."

My dad has been doing this for years. I just didn't expect to be following in his footsteps quite so soon.

Now What?

2011-02-28T23:11:00.000-08:00

The funeral and memorial services are over, family members and friends have flown home...yet you still cannot believe that your teenage son won't coming lumbering in the front door any minute, a sly grin on his face. The sympathy cards are piled up, still unread...your son's favorite jacket still hangs over his bedroom chair, but his bed has not been slept in in over a week. Every night when you go to sleep you hope that when you wake in the morning, you will find its all just a bad dream...but every morning you wake up and the nightmare that your life has become still continues. Sleep is a double edged sword....you dream that your child is still alive, and the story of his death is just a big joke...but then you wake up and you find that he is still gone.

Your mind cannot fully grasp that your child is truly gone from your earthly life....

And the heavy pain in the middle of your chest is never ending....the physical manifestation of the grief in your heart....that serves as a constant reminder...as if you could forget for an instant...

Oscar

2011-02-27T19:40:00.000-08:00

I'm not referring to the hot dog, or the Grouch. I am talking about THE Oscars. The awards are happening tonight, and like every year, I'm not watching. You know, the red carpet welcome, the Hollywood stars strutting their best (dresses) and their borrowed (jewelry), lame jokes from the hosts, one long (yawn) celebratory event revolving around movies I've never seen and actors I've never heard of.

This year, while the statuettes are handed out, I find myself watching a movie that just happened to be showing on TNT - "Saving Private Ryan". While I am generally not a fan of movies with a lot of violence, I love this movie. Its a movie I insisted my 16 year old video-gaming son watch when it first came out in the theater so he would understand that the reality of war is far different from the wars portrayed in video games.

"Private Ryan" is a movie about a subject no one ever wants to live through. It a movie about war at its ugliest, war up close and personal. No one is spared in this film. Even the leading man ends up dying. Its the only movie I ever saw my dad, a World War II veteran, tear up while watching.

It won five of those little statuettes in 1998.

Gavin and Matt

2011-02-26T22:23:00.000-08:00

For the past week, I have not been able to get Gavin and Matt out of my mind. Type "Gavin and Matt" on Google and a dozen news stories pop up. Their names made local headline news. But the headlines were not the type any parent wants to see.

Gavin and Matt died while rafting down a local rain-swollen bay area creek last Saturday. They were seventeen years old, teenagers out to have some fun on a rainy afternoon, unaware of the hidden dangers that lay ahead. Its a story that touched the hearts of many people, people who didn't personally know the two boys, myself included.

Their friends posted tributes to the boys on Facebook, including a couple of videos of Gavin that just made me laugh, and reminded me of my own son at at that age. So creative, so funny, so full of life, so unaware that anything bad could possibly happen to them.

When your kids are toddlers, parents have to constantly watch that they don't wander into the street, or fall into a pool. When they become teenagers, you have to gradually let go, and let them make their own decisions. Sometimes they make good decisions and sometimes they make decisions that have less than optimal outcomes. Regardless, most of our children survive to adulthood.

A few are just not as lucky.

The Way We Were

2011-02-20T21:28:00.000-08:00

"When someone close to you betrays you, can you ever be close again?" asked a character on tonight's "Desperate Housewives".

I suppose it depends on the circumstances of both the relationship and seriousness of the breach of trust. The closer the relationship, the more the betrayal hurts. If you are very close to a family member, spouse or friend, the better the chances that both of you will want to mend the breach.

But, I have found that no matter how close you are, or once were, being close again is not always possible. Sometimes, you just cannot go back to "The Way We Were".

Shocked

2011-02-19T21:31:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I am shocked by what I see -- on television, in the movies, and on the internet. I never thought I would be on the other side of the generation gap, but, it turns out that I am, several times over.

Growing up, my parents always told us not to discuss family finances, medical issues, or other personal/family problems with friends, never mind strangers. Alcoholism? Not discussed. Divorce? Unspeakable. Drug addiction? Anorexia? Suicide? Not in a million years.

In our current technological age, the younger generation post all kinds of personal information in cyberspace with wily abandon, information that is retrievable seemingly forever. Sometimes that information is the written word, sometimes it is a photo, sometimes its a YouTube video. Better not say or write anything you might later regret, because the internet doesn't come with an eraser.

When I was a teenager, my grandparents were shocked at the fact that teenage girls wore mini-skirts and tight sweaters. They were shocked at unwed teen mothers having babies, even though I am sure it occasionally happened in their heyday as well, it was just hidden and not discussed. Today, I can watch a TV show (on Lifetime) where women have the births of their babies televised and broadcast for all the world to see. (Certain anatomical parts are creatively not visible to the camera.) Photographing a live birth would be inconceivable to my grandparents, even if the technology had been available at the time.

Don't get me wrong -- I am glad that many topics are out in the open and can be discussed more freely. But I do believe judgment is required. Just because we can, doesn't mean we should.

Just Call A Cab

2011-02-18T09:13:00.001-08:00

Last night I had a dream that I was trying to get to the hospital to see a friend before she went into surgery --- but my only mode of transportation was a tricycle. It was quite an ordeal to get where I was trying to go, pedaling a tricycle, and it was painfully slow.

Growing up, my family lived in a small house in a blue collar neighborhood. Dad took the car to work, leaving Mom home with five kids, and no vehicle, unless she drove my dad to the train station in the morning, which she did occasionally. When my sister punched her fist through the porch glass window and needed to be taken to the hospital for stitches, I ran to the next door neighbor's house to get help. We didn't call an ambulance; the neighbor drove my mother and sister to the hospital.

I grew up in the suburbs outside of New York City. The only place I ever saw a taxi, or took a taxi, was in The City. Going into The City was a rare occasion, even though we lived only an hour away. The few times I was in the city, we took the train and the subway. Needless to say, growing up I never took a cab. Taking a cab was considered an extravagance.

I now live in the San Francisco Bay area, aka West Coast "suburbia". I have taken a cab once or twice while in San Francisco. But if I my car gets stuck someplace on the peninsula, I am likely to do one of two things: 1) call AAA or 2) call a friend. Calling a cab is just not part of my experience.

The other day, my car got "stuck" in the CVS parking lot late at night about twenty miles from my house (ie, I could not find my car key). I called a friend who happened to be close by. My friend drove me to my house, where I got my spare key. Then my friend drove me back to my car in the parking lot and I drove home.

And so, I was somewhat shocked when when my friend's girlfriend suggested that I should have called a cab instead. Calling for a cab never even entered my consciousness. The way I was brought up, you don't call a taxi..... you call a friend.

My friend didn't even bat an eyelash at my request to drive me to my house. My friend grew up on a kibbutz in Israel. Something tells me that in times of emergency, his parents called their friends for help.

What Happened to Kindergarten?

2011-02-13T10:49:00.001-08:00

Kindergarten is the new first grade.

This has not happened overnight. I am aware that it has been creeping up over the years. But the "red-shirting" I just read on-line about is shocking. (Red-shirting is holding your child back from starting school because they are "not ready", even though they are age-eligible, so that they have an advantage over their peers.) One elementary school teacher wrote that in his school, kindergarteners were expected to be able to read a simple sentence BEFORE starting kindergarten. When did this happen????

I thought kindergarten was a time for kids to get ready for learning. Fifty years ago, most of us knew our colors, the alphabet and could probably count to ten before entering kindergarten. During our kindergarten year, we learned to obey the teacher's instructions. We learned when it was time to be quiet and when we could talk. We learned that we needed to raise our hand if we wanted to speak. We learned how to stand in line without shoving each other. We learned to listen during story time. We learned that when it was time to move onto another activity, we had to put away our favorite toys/crayons/blocks.

Fifty years ago, learning to read was reserved for First Grade. At the end of the kindergarten year, if someone was deemed not ready for First Grade, he/she spent an additional year in kindergarten, maturing so that he/she would be ready to learn when they entered First Grade.

By the time my son entered kindergarten twenty years ago, things had changed from when I was in elementary school. Twenty years ago, most children went to pre-school or daycare prior to kindergarten, while I had stayed at home with Mom. The children of my son's generation had already learned all the things that were expected of me in kindergarten, before they even entered the classroom door. My son's kindergarten teacher did a lot of pre-reading (and pre-math) conceptual assignments with her students, so that when they entered First Grade, he/she would be ready to learn to read and understand first grade math.

Fast forward to today. It sounds like today's "kinders" are expected to "be able to read" when they enter kindergarten. Perhaps many are able to read simple sentences, with the access and variety of electronic learning available at home today, in addition to socialization skills learned in pre-school. Perhaps we even need our children to learn to read in kindergarten, if we want to be competitive in a global environment.

But if parents are holding their children back another year, entering their children in kindergarten when they are six and have already learned how to read, then what is the point? If this trend is true and widespread, then Kindergarten has just become the new First Grade. Its just a matter of semantics.

Don't Leave Home Without It

2011-02-11T22:32:00.001-08:00

I'm not talking about your American Express card. I'm talking about cash.

Most of us carry at least a few dollars with us whenever we are more than a block or two from home. In fact, I usually do so myself. But for the last few days I have managed to get by with only a dollar in my pocket. You see, my sister from New York was visiting, and she brought a lot of cash with her. And so, I worried not as we trekked to the woods, the ocean, and the city, the cash safely tucked away in my sister's wallet.

That is, until we approached the toll booth on the Golden Gate bridge. In case you were wondering, they don't take American Express at the toll booth, just cash (unless you have a prepaid electronic device). It was time to get out that giant wad of cash my sister bragged about having in her purse.

When she turned around to pull out her stash, her purse was no where to be found in the backseat. She had left it hanging over the back of the chair in the restaurant in Sausilito.

What do you do when you have no money to pay the toll? Backing up over the bridge we had just driven across did not seem like a very good idea. So, I trudged up the stairs to the toll office, which fortunately was on our side of the bridge, and explained my plight to the officer on duty.

Much to my surprise, he lent me the $6 for the bridge toll. Maybe it was his good deed for the day, maybe I reminded him of his favorite aunt, maybe I have an honest face -- I really have no idea why he lent a total stranger $6 to pay the toll. He gave me his business card and asked me to mail him the $6 back.

As he pulled the cash out of his pocket, he asked me, "You are going to pay me back, aren't you?". "Of course, of course!" I answered. "You will have to pay the toll twice, you realize?" "Yes, no problem!" I told him I would be back in 30 minutes with his money. True to my word, we retrieved the purse, drove back over the bridge and rolled up to the toll office about half an hour later. I made my sister go up to the office and pay the officer back his money. I hope she thanked him profusely.

Today, as I returned to work from a medical appointment, I again found myself on one of the bay area's bridges. I still had that same solitary dollar in my wallet, but no sister with a big wad of cash with me this time. And no toll office or nice officer on my side of the bridge. The toll attendant let me drive through the toll plaza so I could get back to work. Whatever authority controls the bridge will mail me the bill for the $6 toll....and for the $25 fee for not having the cash on me when I crossed it.

Next time, I will not leave home without it.

Beat

2011-02-08T18:27:00.001-08:00

I just dropped my sister off at the San Jose airport. She is continuing on to Pasadena for a work related conference. My year-younger sister lives outside of New York City, and she usually visits for a few days every year or two. We do some sightseeing, some relaxing and hanging out, some eating out at nice restaurants, and usually spend some time with my two cousins who live in the Bay Area. This year was no different, except that after three days, I am absolutely beat! My feet hurt, and I have that tired feeling you get after spending the whole day in the sun at the beach.

Our schedule was rather relaxed, as in we didn't get out of the house before noon any of the three days she was here. But we did some strenuous hiking, some serious shopping, and spent a lot of time in the California sun (and wind). Ocean beaches, redwood forests, Sausalito, San Francisco, and Los Gatos. It may be that I am just not used to being a tour guide, trying to think up new places to go, driving all over the bay area, and hopping from one scenic place to another. But I really think that the "shopping" we did today tired me out most of all. (She "shopped"; I looked for chairs or benches where I could rest my weary feet, or ran back to the car to move it before it was ticketed, more than once.)

So tonight, I am going to cook up some pasta (gluten-free foodies, eat your heart out), put my feet up and vegetate in front of the TV, watching my favorite show, NCIS. I think I've earned it.

Signs and Symptoms

2011-02-05T21:29:00.001-08:00

A friend of mine writes a humor blog about being a twenty-something parent of very young children. (Read her column at "TheCrazBabyMama.com".) Recently she posted an article about all the physical symptoms no one ever tells you about before you become pregnant. I have to say that being pregnant is nothing compared to being over 50.

Changes related to aging happen more slowly than pregnancy changes, so perhaps we don't notice them as they sneak up on us. However, some of the symptoms of aging are similar to being pregnant. Your belly protrudes more than it did when you were younger. Your back aches more often. You can't bend over as easily. There are many things you can no longer eat or drink without your stomach complaining, and many other things you shouldn't.

Of course, there are many other changes that are not similar. Your hair thins. Your breasts droop. Other parts of your anatomy are slower to rise up to the occasion. You cannot read the fine print on medications without reading glasses. Teenagers ask us why the TV is so loud. Tylenol PM graces our nightstands for those everyday aches and pains. A few of us have already had knee or hip replacements. Or even open heart surgery. (Robin Williams, Charlie Rose, and David Letterman, to name a few.)

Someone once said "Aging is not for sissies". I think whoever said that was right. I am sure that there are many more changes up ahead, and it doesn't thrill me to think about them. I already own bifocals and color the grey in my hair, not to mention bearing the long-term residual effects of several accidents that happened while I was in my twenties and thirties.

These days, open heart surgery is routine (although still very serious business). People who would have died fifty years ago can get a new lease on life and live another 20 or 30 years. It is amazing what medical science can do today to prolong life.

Yes, I remember what it was like to be pregnant. (Well, sort of. Memory is something else that declines with aging.) But you have a choice whether or not to bear children. One does not choose to grow old; it just happens. However, as the saying goes, getting older is usually preferable to the alternative.

Starting Over

2011-01-30T16:40:00.000-08:00

Well, at least it feels that way. Like I am starting over, career-wise. I know I should be thankful that I have even been offered a JOB in the current economy. And I should be thankful that my new job is not as a Wal-Mart greeter making $8/hour.

I am working in a very nice office building, in a spacious well-lit cubicle, working with very nice people. I am making good money, far above the Wal-Mart greeter salary. So, what's not to like?

I just expected to be at a different level at this point in my career. You know, CEO of Facebook or something. Well, maybe not exactly, but entry level accountant was not part of my future career path. Been there, done that, several times.

I don't need to be "the boss", or even a people manager. I just want to put my experience and skills to good use and I am having just a little difficulty getting used to working several levels below my capability.

I am thankful for the job. I'm just not happy about it.

Shameless

2011-01-25T17:43:00.000-08:00

The suggestion has been made. And so, I am doing it.

Yes, I am baring all in a public forum. But no, its not what you might think. (Ah, I can hear the sighs of relief...)

I am shamelessly linking my blog to the thread of a conversation on someone else's very popular Facebook account -- the very funny, and often poignant, columnist who writes about life as a young mother of two small children at TheCrazyBabyMama.com.

To Cut or Not To Cut

2011-01-23T13:00:00.000-08:00

This is one of the questions my friend humorously offers up for comment from her blogosphere friends. She writes about circumcision, breastfeeding in public and many other issues that affect parents of young children today. (Read her LOL column at TheCrazyBabyMama.com.)

Other friends of mine are dealing with teenage issues - drugs, sex, and college choices are topics of recent discussion. Whether or not to get your teenager an iPhone or laptop. Video games. Facebook. Privacy (the internet kind). Some topics change over the years, and some topics (amazingly) stay the same, but the truth is that there are always going to be numerous parenting issues for discussion and decision.

Its easier when your children are small because you make the decision and your kids just have to live with the decisions you make. Whether or not to live in the U.S. or in Israel. At what age to send your toddler to preschool. Circumcision or foreskin intact. Bassinets/cribs/beds/sleeping in the parents' bed. Bedtime and bedtime rituals. (This last one seems to be a re-curring theme on "The Nanny" TV show. Not that I've ever watched it or anything.)

It becomes more difficult with pre-teens and teenagers. How to monitor their internet usage. When to let them start dating. Driving privileges. Grades. Clothing that is acceptable (or not) to wear in public. The friends they choose to hang out with. How much time they spend on the phone/internet.

Life in today's world is complicated, and parents cannot be with their children all of the time to oversee their children's lives. I think the most difficult decision is when to hold firm on a parental decision....and when to let your child make his/her own decision. And, even harder.....to let your child make mistakes. Because the only path to true adulthood is via making our own decisions....and by making, and learning from, our own mistakes.

Groundhog Day

2011-01-22T21:42:00.000-08:00

"Groundhog Day is almost upon us and I just can't seem to get into the spirit." Such was the caption of a Guindon cartoon that featured some sad looking characters, a cartoon I cut out many years ago and tacked on my bulletin board.

Groundhog Day is highly underrated. I will bet that most people don't even know the date, or what it represents, especially in "sunny" California.

On Groundhog Day, Punksatawney Phil, the "official" groundhog kept in Punksatawney, PA, is taken out and, depending on the weather, either sees his shadow or he doesn't. Punksatawny Phil is the unofficial predictor of six more weeks of winter or an early spring here in the U.S. In the frozen and snow-bound East Coast, Groundhog Day has a little more significance than in California.

Today I had lunch with my good friend Esperanza, who is from Mexico. She remembers the exact day she arrived in the United States -- February 2nd, which is Candelmas Day in Mexico, or Groundhog Day in the U.S. When she was a young child, everyone in her village celebrated Candlemas Day by collecting hay from the fields, piling the hay in the front yard, and lighting the haystacks on fire. A night when every household up and down the street was literally lit up, at a time when not every household even had electricity.

Groundhog Day, or Candlemas Day, occurs in the middle of winter, supposedly halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. In medieval times, on Candelmas Day priests blessed candles for use in the homes for the rest of the year. Candlemas Day also had religious significance for Catholics, as the presesentation of the baby Jesus in the temple 40 days after his birth, and/or the purification of Mary, his mother.

But Candlemas Day is basically unknown and little celebrated in the U.S. in the present day, even in the Catholic church. My feeling is, why not bring Groundhog Day back to its rightful prominence as a holiday that can be celebrated by everyone, regardless of religious background.

I am thinking greeting cards, tee shirts, mugs. Cute little groundhogs poking their heads up out of the earth. The commercialization potential is huge -- a true American holdiay.

All Good Things....

2011-01-21T17:52:00.000-08:00

must come to an end. Or so, it has been said.

Only four more days until the end of my "sabbatical". Yes, I have accepted a job offer. And I am estatic to be back in the workforce. Believe it or not, I am looking forward to sitting in a cubicle in an office building. But not so thrilled to be commuting to work on a crowded freeway.

Looking forward to putting money in the bank, instead of taking it out. But not looking forward to the ring of an early morning alarm clock. Looking forward to working with people and doing something productive with my day. Not looking forward to giving up long hikes at midday or nursing a cup of Chai Tea at Starbucks all morning while reading the local newspaper.

Having had a significant dose of time off, I think I could get used to retirement. But, not quite yet.

Unclear on the Concept

2011-01-18T17:56:00.000-08:00

There is a wonderful theatre in the town just west of where I live, which is now used to house all kinds of musical events. I heard Judy Collins sing in this venue several years ago; this was my first experience in the Campbell Heritage Theatre.

The Heritage Theatre used to be the auditorium of a local high school back in the late 1930s. The school was demolished eventually, and a park now graces the site, but the city never tore down the theatre. The theatre sat vacant for years and years...no one wanted to take on the expense of not only refurbishing the theatre, but also paying for a costly earthquake retrofit. Eventually some community members who were interested in preserving local history raised several million dollars needed to preserve and upgrade the structure.

The refurbished structure re-opened in 2004, and it is a delight. While advances in modern technology have been added to make it a workable venue for the 21st century, it has thoroughly retained its 1940s style.

Later this month, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, an all-male a capella chorus from South Africa, will be performing in the Heritage Theater. As someone who is quite fond of World Music, I decided to attend the performance. Which meant I had to buy tickets. No problem - I could easily buy them online at the theatre's website.

Right up front the website tells you that there are FIVE (not two, but FIVE) ways to purchase tickets. Online, in-person at the box office, by phone, by fax and last but not least, by postal delivery. (Does anyone even use fax machines these days?)

I checked out their online system. It was easy enough to choose individual seats (click-click-click and done)...until I got to the checkout line and realized they were charging me $5 per TICKET to use the online system. In person, or over the phone - no charge. But it cost $5 extra to buy EACH ticket online.

I don't get it. Shouldn't we be ENCOURAGING people to buy things online, to reduce the cost of paying someone to sit at the box office? Perhaps volunteers are sitting at the box office, and the organization has to pay someone to process the online credit cards. Five dollars per credit card order I can understand, but $5 per ticket is a bit steep.

So guess who is going to be driving over to Campbell to visit the box office tomorrow and save herself $30 in "fees"?

Salad Days

2011-01-16T18:57:00.000-08:00

When I was very young, "salad" was iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers, with Italian salad dressing. We only ate salad in the summertime when fresh tomatoes and cucumbers were in season on the east coast. Dinner was always meat-and-potatoes....and canned vegetables. Canned fruit for dessert, or maybe, chocolate pudding. On special occasions, like birthdays or holidays, my mom might bake a cake or less often, a pie. And on summer nights, if we were really lucky, we'd have store-bought ice cream that would drip down the sides of the cones and down our chins as we licked them in the backyard on a hot summer evening.

Things changed a bit after my mom died and my dad remarried. We moved to a bigger house with a bigger yard. We still had meat-and-potato dinners, but now they were accompanied by frozen vegetables, a step up from the canned variety. In the summertime, my step-mom grew her own vegetables in a patch of dirt next to the garage. It was a small garden, but I remember green beans and lots and lots of tomatoes. We ate tomato sandwiches for lunch (white bread, mayonnaise, lettuce and fresh tomatoes). We still had salads of iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers with Italian salad dressing - but now with fresh, home-grown tomatoes.

Then I moved to the West Coast and (eventually) got married. My husband, having grown up in the mid-west, was also a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. But he didn't care for cooked vegetables (unless artichokes count). However, he loved salad. His basic salad was romaine lettuce and an-oil and-vinegar salad dressing of his own making, which I never could seem to master. We would toss in the tomatoes and cucumbers from the vegetable garden we kept in the front yard of our rented cottage, and perhaps mushrooms and red bell peppers and radishes and avacadoes from the never-ending variety of fresh vegetables available most times of year in California grocery stores. Thrown on top would often be peppery watercress that Jim would pick from the creek on his way home from work on Stanford campus.

Jim and I divorced after ten years of togetherness. And I experimented with some new things in my life. I discovered that "salad" need not contain only romaine lettuce. I ventured out into different kinds of lettuce and other greens such as arugula and baby spinach. I thought I had seen it all. But, no.

About six years ago, I ended up with an Israeli boyfriend, who wrinkled his nose at my concept of salad.

"What? Green salad? That is not salad. This is salad"....and he proceeded to make a red salad -- lots and lots of tomatoes, plus red and orange bell peppers, some scallions, and a liberal dose of a good olive oil. "Now this, THIS, is salad."

I ate many a red salad in the four years that my Israeli boyfriend and I were together. I still sometimes make myself an Israeli salad, especially if I have access to fresh vine ripened tomatoes from my neighbor across the street.

But today I could not pass up the dark purple, ripe avocadoes in the grocery store. So I stocked up on the "Spring Mix" of varietal lettuces, some fresh mushrooms, and a few ripe avacadoes and went home to make myself a nice green salad.

I am waiting for summer at the local Farmer's Market, where I can get tomatoes that are both tangy and sweet, picked only hours before. Maybe I'll make myself an Israeli salad. Or maybe, just maybe, I will buy some cucumbers and iceberg lettuce to go with my fresh tomatoes.

Dog People

2011-01-15T13:22:00.001-08:00

There are "dog people" and there are "cat people" in this world. There are a few "animal people" who love animals of all kinds, but when given the choice, most people seem to have a preference for either dogs or cats. (This premise was tested scientifically during a recent chorus rehearsal, when our director asked the chorus members if they tended to be either cat people or dog people. Most chose one or the other; only a very small percentage said "both".)

As everyone knows, dogs love to be taken on walks or runs with their owners. (Cats, not so much.) I went on a walk on a recent sunny afternoon, at Los Gatos Creek Trail, not too far from my San Jose home and was accompanied by numerous humanoids walking or running with their pets. Los Gatos Creek Trail is very popular with 1) dog owners and 2) bicyclists. In fact, without an animal companion, or a bicycle, I felt quite in the minority.

I think cyclists like the Trail because it is a long, paved, fairly flat asphalt trail that runs next to the creek. And dog owners like it because there is a very popular dog park a short way down the Trail. (This fact has also been scientifically verified, by way of my talking to some of the dog owners as they exited the park with their pets. I didn't speak with any of the dogs directly, but most appeared to be very excited to be there.)

Most of the cyclists I see on the Trail are muscular guys dressed in black cycling spandex, who pedal furiously to get their exercise, and practically run over "walkers" like me. But on my trek the other day, I noticed this one particular guy on a bike who was not like the rest. He was a middle aged, slightly overweight fellow, pedalling slowly down the path. And every once in a while, he stopped some dog owner and offered to give the pooch a treat. He was a doting dog lover, no doubt.

Except after a while, I noticed that he had a particular pattern, since he was pretty slow on the bike and I kept catching up to him. He never stopped male dog owners, only female dog owners. Young, slim, pretty female dog owners.

Maybe he has found that giving out doggie treats is a good way to meet members of the opposite sex. After all, who doesn't feel comfortable talking with a fellow dog lover? Maybe he has found that meeting female dog lovers gives him better results than online dating.

But it kind of left me wondering - if he truly is a dog person, where was his own canine companion?

How to Find the Right Person

2011-01-14T21:20:00.000-08:00

We spend a lot of time, money and effort trying to find the right person. We spend hours reviewing profiles online and go on innumerable, boring coffee dates in search of that person. However, most of us don't marry someone after only one dinner date. We usually spend weeks, months or even years in the company of that other person before "tying he knot". For good reason - it is difficult, and painful, to undo that knot once it has been tied.

Certainly, finding a lifetime mate is a very good reason to spend signifcant amounts of time, money and effort on the process. But, many of us spend more "awake time" at work than we do with our "significant other". So, it baffles my mind that, in order to get a job that we could end up staying at for years, we spend such little amount of time on the interview process.

Send in a resume, spend an few hours in an interview, and bam, if you are lucky, you are hired. Many people end up working in jobs they hate, for managers they cannot stand, for companies they do not respect. It seems to me there should be just a bit more "dating" in the hiring process before signing on that dotted job offer line.

Yes, separating from a company is defintely easier than going through a divorce, especially if you are moving on to a better position. But if the pairing is less than ideal, leaving a job can still be a painful process, regardless of whether you are laid off, fired or quit.

Once (or Twice) Around the Looney Bin

2011-01-09T22:39:00.001-08:00

A young friend of mine has decided to write a book. She has written a humor blog (The Crazy Baby Mama) about being a new Mom for about two years now. She is really a good writer, a very funny writer. So, if the CBM can write a book, I figure, so can I. I have blog. I can write. I'm not intentionally funny, but I think I am a pretty good writer. And, since I do not currently have a job, I have plenty of time on my hands, so why not give it a try, even if my story is never published.

The question is, what would I write about? I am not interested in writing fiction, making up stories and characters and finessing plot twists and turns. Therefore, I would have to write about a subject I know something about, which seriously limits the topics available.

But it does bring to mind a subject I have had recent experience with: severe depression, from a patient's point of view. Not only a patient, but a patient who has been lucky enough to spend some time in a mental health institution, which just may be an oxymoron.

There is just one problem with actually publishing such an book - I might never get a "real" job again once my story gets out. This story is not going to be the crowning jewel on my resume; the corporate world will not be welcoming me back with open arms.

So while I prepare for an accounting job interview tomorrow morning, the possibility of writing my heart out lurks in the back of my mind. But if I don't ace that job interview tomorrow, maybe it won't be such a bad thing after all.

No, They Are Not Friendly

2011-01-09T20:42:00.000-08:00

I went on my "usual" hike today, at Rancho San Antonio, where I seem to find myself several times a week. Rancho San Antonio is a bay area county park with acres and acres of trails and beautiful views of the entire bay on a clear day. Vegetation includes bay laurels, oaks, ferns, and lots of poison oak. This time of year, in the middle of the rainy season, new green shoots are bursting through last year's dead brown stalks.

Sometimes you are lucky enough to see wildlife - wild turkeys, deer, gophers and birds of all kinds are usually in close proximity, and not afraid of humans. And sometimes you see rarer species, such as coyotes stalking gopher prey or hawks circling above, as I was lucky enough to see today.

As I was heading up the last part of the trail to the very top of the hill with the fantastic view of the entire bay area, a couple was making their way down the muddy trail. They had just spotted the coyote on the hill, when, referring to the coyote, the wife said to the husband "Do you think he's friendly?"

Yes, I know he looks like your neighbor's friendly german shepherd, but a coyote is a WILD animal. While they have become accustomed to humans in their environment, they are NOT domesticated. They have very sharp teeth. For your own safety, please, do not pet the coyote.

And even though the shiny green leaves have fallen, and the tall, slender, upright stalks look innocuous, like any other forest scrub in winter, I also suggest staying on the trail. Unless, of course, you like being itchy.

Friends and Enemies

2011-01-02T22:28:00.000-08:00

I admit to watching "Desperate Housewives" on TV. On tonight's episode, when one of the characters gets shot, the cops show up at the hospital and ask the wounded victim if he has any enemies.

I never thought that I had any "enemies". But now, I'm not so sure. There are certainly people who have "dropped out" of my life over the last fifty years for various different reasons. Old boyfriends, college and high school friends who no longer stay in touch, people I used to work with, former neighbors, and friends from various social networks (by this I don't mean online networks), such as folk dancing, outing clubs, chorus or my old soccer team.

There are certainly people who I have seriously disappointed occasionally, including a former boss or two, and certainly my parents at times. But your parents have to forgive you -- after all, they are your parents. Hopefully you never end up working with your former boss again.

In more recent years, there have been a few people who have hurt me by their actions or words and with whom I have not been able to reconcile. And for some reason, at the start of this New Year, I feel that I should try to mend fences with these former friends. The problem is, that down deep, I don't necessarily want to reconcile with these folks, because that means I have to forgive them for real or perceived offenses.

I am very close to my ex-husband, but I have not spoken to his forty year old daughter, my step-daughter, for many years, after being on good terms with her for over twenty. She has had some problems in her life, and I have tried to help, but ended up severing ties several years ago after she made untrue accusations about me.

I no longer speak with a once close friend, who was my housemate for four years. I cannot forgive how he and his wife took advantage of my generosity at a time when I was severely depressed over losing my job two years ago.

I have tried to remain on friendly terms with recent former boyfriend, who is a really nice guy, but I am having some difficulty being on friendly terms with him, after running into him with his new girlfriend. I don't want him back, but cannot seem to forgive him either, since he was the one who broke up with me at a very difficult point in my life.

Although he lives on the East Coast, and I have seen him only once in thirty years, I have never truly forgiven my college boyfriend, who broke up with me by sending me a "Dear John" letter one summer.

I did once hire someone to "protect" me from a jealous girlfriend of a former lover for a short period of time. But she had some understandable emotional issues to resolve and while not really ever a friend of mine, I no longer consider her a threat to my physical being.

I suppose none of these people currently considers me an "enemy", at least to the extent that they might want to kill me, which is not always the case in the television world. Perhaps I just have to come to terms with the fact that not every person I encounter in my life will become my friend, and not all of my friends will be my friends forever.

Being Jewish

2010-12-27T19:12:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up in a blue collar area in Connecticut, right off "the thruway" (ie, I-95), I lived in a close knit neighborhood where people tended to stay for years. As matter of fact, I can still go back to that same neighborhood 30 years later and find one or two people I knew as a child, although they are in their sunset years now.

We lived on a dead end street, a great place for young families. As kids, we often played in the street, without any fear of traffic. The neighbors all knew each other, and each other's kids. Our house was smack dab in the middle of the street, at the "T" intersection of two dead-end streets. Kids took a shortcut through our yard to get to yet another dead-end street behind our house. Nobody minded kids taking a shortcut through your yard in those days. Well, except for the old couple across the street with the six foot tall evergreen hedge; we wouldn't dare try to get a ball back if it got accidentally thrown over that particular hedge.

I attended the public school, two blocks away, from kindergarten through third grade. Then, our parish school opened, so my dad sent all of his school age children to Catholic school, at great expense, since he had five children to educate. At the Catholic school, we wore uniforms, blue and green plaid jumpers over white shirts for girls and grey pants and navy blazers for boys. We got out of school an hour earlier than the public schools, and had different vacation schedules. We got out two of school weeks earlier in the summer, and had the day after Halloween off (yea! All Saints Day), which was great because we could sleep in after trick-or-treating the night before.

More than anything, I wanted to be like all of the other neighborhood kids. I wanted to wear my own dresses to school, not ugly uniforms. Most of the neighborhood kids, whose families tended toward the Protestant variety of Christianity, went to Sunday school. Our whole family went to Mass on Sunday mornings; religious education was just another subject to study during the school day.

But I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to go to Sunday school. I didn't want to be seen as special or different from the other kids in the neighborhood, which is the way the one Catholic family in the neighborhood (ours) was viewed by some of my friends.

And that is why have never understood why my (very few) Jewish schoolmates seemed so happy to be different, to be off from public school for special Jewish holidays, to go to Temple on Saturdays while the rest of us slept in and watched cartoons on TV. I figured there must be something really special about being Jewish that they would not want to believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. When I was six, in my childish attempt to make sense of this, I came up with the conclusion that Catholics believed in God, Jews didn't believe in God, and Protestants didn't know what to believe.

Fifty years later, I still don't understand why my Jewish friends love "being Jewish". Maybe one of them can clue me in.

Peace to All

2010-12-23T19:17:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve is almost upon us. And, I have done nothing to get into the holiday spirit. No tree, no cards, no gifts.

Christmas has never been one of my favorite holidays, thanks to the commercialization that we enjoy here in the US. I am not religious, and not into ostentatious decorations or spending more money than I can afford buying gifts. I would prefer Christmas be celebrated simply as a holiday about "Peace" and "Goodwill Among Men", the message preached by the man whose birth is remembered by many on December 25th.

But, the "youngsters" in our family, now teenagers, still expect festively wrapped packages, replete with shiny bows and ribbons, under the tree on Christmas morning, even though their belief in Santa was abandoned long ago. Fortunately for me, living 3,000 miles away, money or gift cards are very acceptable alternatives for teenagers.

This year I am starting a new tradition. The teens' presents will be New Year's Day gifts instead, given in celebration of the start of a new year, and winged across the country by an angelic cherub instead of a fat old man in a red velvet suit. And I will be very happily celebrating Peace and Goodwill Among Men on Christmas Day, in the company of good friends of various religious beliefs.

If Only

2010-11-29T09:46:00.000-08:00

The photos were taken when I was almost thirteen and wearing a two piece bathing suit for the first time. My usually pale skin looks tanned next to the light blue of my suit in the photos taken of my siblings and myself splashing in the waves of the Atlantic ocean off the Rhode Island coast in early summer. "A typical family on summer vacation" the photos say, two parents, five kids, having fun running around at the beach.

Except, we were anything but typical that summer. That was the summer my mother died of breast cancer. But you can't tell that from the photos.

One last holiday with the family, before she went into the hospital for the last time. Her cousin lent us their family beach house for a week. And then, she went away, and we children never saw her again.

My mother looks pretty normal in the photos, a mother of five kids in her mid thirties in a 1960s style bathing suit. But I could tell something was very wrong. In the evenings, at the beach house, after the younger children were in bed, she would take very strong pain medications, which made it seem to me like she was drunk. All I wanted was a normal family vacation. And so, I acted out. I got in trouble, and was punished for it. This I remember very clearly. But I didn't care. I wanted my parents to act like parents, normal parents of a normal family. And this woozy mother didn't fit in at all with my vision of the way things were supposed to be.

We human beings have a very strong tendency to ignore what we do not want to see, to pretend things are normal even when they are not. "If only" we didn't eventually have to face the harsh reality of life (and death). "If only".

Big Brother

2010-11-13T17:55:00.000-08:00

My wallet was stolen way back in....June. In Paris, as I was exiting the subway. Not only did they steal my wallet, but my brand new camera and my old cell phone. The camera I could easily replace but I liked my old cell phone, even if it didn't play movies. It was functional, plus it had all my friends and family's phone numbers stored it in.

But worst of all, of course, was losing the wallet. Cash - gone. Credit and bank card - gone. California driver's license - gone. Luckily I had stashed my passport someplace else, or I might still be in France trying to get out of the country.

As soon as I got back to my friend's flat, I canceled the credit and bank cards and cell phone account, and spent several hours on the phone the next day trying to get replacement cards, which was not quite so easy, not to mention that the effort it took wasted half a day of vacation time. But it all worked out, except for the hassle and my financial loss. I finished my trip through several European countries and arrived back in California without significant incident several weeks later.

But guess what detail I postponed indefinitely? Yep, the trip to the DMV. Past visits must have left me traumatized from having to wait indefinitely. Despite three traffic tickets in the past two years (not one of them really my fault, I swear), I continued to drive, without a license in my physical possession for...over three months. (I rationalized this as OK because I do have a valid license, I just didn't keep a copy of it on me for a short period of time.) I did sign up online for an appointment - the system gave me an appointment 30 days out! By the time the computer generated appointment week arrived, I had a conflict in my schedule, so I set up a second online appointment - again 30 days out. All I can say is that the appointment system didn't work for me.

But, alas, this is not a tale of woe. It actually has a happy ending. With Thanksgiving around the corner, and me planning to spend it on the East Coast, the thought occurred to me that I might need to rent a car...for which I would need that hard copy of my driver's license. So, yesterday I hopped on the computer to see which DMV office was closest to my house. And, much to my surprise, I found that the California DMV has actually incorporated some 21st century technology. Each office posted current wait times online, both for appointments and walk-ins! Stunned, I located an office with a low wait time not too far from my house, and 20 minutes after walking in the door, I had my temporary driver's license.

However, California drivers, be forewarned. As of early October, California began issuing a "new" type of driver's license, one with enhanced security features, to make hard copy licenses more difficult to counterfeit. Having had my own license stolen, I'm all for that. But, these new security features include one I'm not so sure that I am happy about - you now also need to get fingerprinted to get a California driver's license.

I'm in the system now. And I am sure Big Brother will be watching.

Thanksgiving

2010-11-09T18:40:00.000-08:00

Fall comes late in northern California. Its the first week in November before the leaves turn colors, the temperature drops, and the sky clouds up with winter rain. Halloween has come and gone, and if you are not a retailer, you begin to think about Thanksgiving. Even our chorus director, in his way of getting us all to know one another, asked the chorus members about their Thanksgiving plans last Monday evening. (He is hosting a Macedonian thanksgiving dinner at his house this year.)

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Its simple - eat, drink, give thanks, and be merry -- what could be better than that? Spending time with family and friends. Four days off work in a row (unless you are in the retail business.) Football and shopping for some. Deer hunting for others.

My son did not have a chance to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family in Connecticut. Sean and I always visited my family in the summer, when the weather was not both cold AND rainy, and there was usually someplace I could take a restless child for a few hours, like the beach or the park. But the year Sean turned 17, he wanted to go back east for Thanksgiving to spend it with "family". Unfortunately, Sean never got that chance. I went back east by myself that November, and silently cried during the entire five hour plane ride east.

Now this year, my youngest niece, not quite sixteen, would like to have Thanksgiving at a friend's house, rather than with our extended family. While I understand her desire to do something different occasionally, and her boredom spending the whole day with her aunts and uncles, I can't stop thinking that my son would have given anything to spend just one Thanksgiving with "family".

In the Back Row

2010-11-07T14:22:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to hear one of my favorite bluegrass bands, "Blue Highway", at our local bluegrass hot-spot. Blue Highway is highly professional band; they have been nominated for two Grammy awards in recent years, and their dobro player is a twelve time national champion. All of the five members of the band have been together for the past 16 years, a rarity in the musical world. And, they can sing. All five of them. Together. In harmony. Wondrous harmony.

Redwood Bluegrass Associates, a group of bluegrass lovin' volunteers, arranges for bluegrass (and newgrass-gospel-country and sometimes jazz) related music once a month at a church in Mountain View, CA. Sometimes local bands play; sometimes groups come from Nashville. (And West Virginia-Kentucky-Virgina-Tennessee-Arkansas...) Some bands are youngsters just getting started, and some bands are well-known old-hands, at least in the bluegrass world.

Me, I came by myself, hoping to run into a friend or two as I often do. But, no one I knew was there last night, so I sat by myself, about two-thirds back in the church hall. Blue Highway was as good as ever musically speaking. And their jokes actually a bit better than I recall. But I was having a harder time than I usually do understanding the words to the songs. This I found quite vexing, and it was not the first time.

A few weeks ago, encouraged by a friend, I went to a political rally to support the Democratic candidate for governor of our great state of California, Jerry Brown. After hours of standing and waiting, my arches gave out and I opted for a seat in the back of the cavernous gym, in the handicapped section. After a near riot by the masses over seating, my friends finally ended up in the bleacher seats about midway back. When the speakers finally arrived (Gavin Newsome, Bill Clinton, and Jerry Brown), I found I could only understand what they were saying if I also watched their lips...on the BIG screen monitors. (I was too far back to even SEE their lips, even with my bifocals on, without the help of the large screens.) At the time, I blamed it on the "muddy" sound in the cavernous gym and my placement in the very back of it. My friends heard everything just fine.

My dad, who just turned 85, cannot "hear" you unless he can also see your face. I fear I may not be far behind.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

2010-10-29T16:31:00.000-07:00

I have lived in California for over 30 years, over half of my life, having spent the first 25 years growing up in Connecticut. Somewhere during that time, California became "home" to me, the "home" I would long to return to after a long vacation or after visiting friends and family "back East".

Thirty years is a long time to live in one place. But I remember exactly when California first felt like home to me. I had been living in California for about three years. I had just returned from a trip to the East Coast and was so glad to see the golden brown hills of northern California, dotted with dark green oak trees, and the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean, foaming white waves crashing against the seemingly endless shore. Glad to return to our small, rented wooden cottage just south of Stanford University, to a mild temperature winter, and relaxed and accepting California attitudes.

And yet, there was a time, years later, when I thought about returning to Connecticut -- I would return after my son had graduated from high school, in order to spend more time with my five siblings and parents. But life has a way of not always turning out the way you expect. My son never graduated from high school, and when he was killed in his senior year of high school, I realized that California was where I truly belonged, where I truly felt at home. And California is where I have stayed.

Don't get me wrong - in my very worst of times, my family has always been there to support me, immediately and without question. And I would not hesitate to move back East if there were a family crisis, either theirs or mine. My siblings and I have an incredibly tight bond. I might not always have the luxury of living in California, which I love so well, but I am blessed with a loving family, which is something that not everyone experiences.

And while I'd hate to choose between the two, if it came down to that, I know I would move back East. I might be homesick for California for a long time, and I would definitely come back to visit every once in a while, but I know deep down inside that my love for my family trumps all, even my beloved California.