Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
So here we are in Carmel. And it's Christmas. We're on our own, with Todd & Christopher on a cruise in South America, Carole (Todd's lovely sister who has been part of our Carmel Christmas expat group) at home in Orange County, and Shirley, Billy's mom, at her home in Phoenix. My mom is at her board and care in Los Angeles. She isn't really aware of the holidays the way she was in the past. She will do fine with us out of town. Only I will be remembering the holidays past.
I'm not complaining. It's lovely to be here in this beautiful place. The house is wonderful, and we are comfortable in it. We had a nice dinner last night at Montrio, where we have spent the past few Christmas Eves. We went together to Mass at the Mission today. The new pastor is fine, but I miss Father John immensely. Still, weather is good. We took a walk this afternoon. We will stay in tonight, and enjoy the clam chowder which we take out from Flaherty's restaurant in town.
As I've written about before, one of the things that I enjoy the most about being here in Carmel at Christmas is that you really feel the holiday spirit. You don't get that much at home. Here, everyone seems quite into the cheer of the holiday. People smile, people say Merry Christmas. It's much more It's A Wonderful Life, than The Ref (though, truth be told, The Ref has been my favorite Christmas movie for the past several years. Watch it, and you'll grasp my concept of the Christmas spirit...).
Brendan and Diana will arrive on Sunday to celebrate New Year's Eve with us. We're both looking forward to it. Carmel is a wonderful place to be on your own, which is one of my favorite ways to enjoy it. It's also good when we are here a doux, but more and more I find that I look forward to the time we spend here with my fristers and frothers. I think what is most special to us all is what we want to share with the people we love. How is that for Christmas spirit?
And so I close both this post and the year with the following. If you are lucky, you can hear Judy Garland singing this...
From now on we all will be together
If the fates allow
Hang a shiny star up on the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now...
Thank you for reading my blog. And merry Christmas!
December 25, 2013
December 15, 2013
All Are Welcome
Los Angeles, California
I can't recall exactly when I first attended Mass at Carmel Mission Basilica, but I remember that Billy and I went with Sandra and John. They were staying with us at the little rental we had on the north side of town. I had attended Mass with them once while I was staying with them at Glenbrook in Tahoe, after attending the Intensive Spanish Summer Institute at South Lake Tahoe Community College (I attended this three times and did manage to gain a superficial knowledge of spanglish). But, back to Mass at the Mission...
We were late arriving and ended up sitting in rather ornate wooden chairs making a row ahead of the first pew at the very front of the church. Sandra leaned over and whispered to Billy, lapsed Catholic that he is, Sorry. She didn't have to apologize to me. I was in awe. I'd been in the Mission before as a tourist. And I had attended Mass a handful of times throughout my life. But from that moment, with the music and the choir and the colors and the incense and all in that beautiful structure, it all came together for me.
But that is not to say that it all came together for me in a way that informed me that Catholicism was what had been missing in my life. There were and are aspects of Catholicism to which I have always felt drawn. But I have had an ongoing problem with organized religion since adolescence, and I disagree strongly with some more political aspects of the Church -- it's position on women's issues, LGBT rights, and allowing priests to marry. But politics disapparated on that day.
After that experience I began to attend Mass regularly when I was in Carmel. There was already a lot going on with my family and in other private areas of my life. Increasingly, I was feeling an absence of and a longing for some spirituality in my life. And, I didn't even know exactly what I meant by that. I just felt something was missing and believed that I would know it when I felt it. And I did.
Mass in Carmel provided me with quiet, prayerful space which, in turn, jumpstarted my growing connection to God. Prayer, and the repetitive responses in the order of the Mass, allowed my mind to focus and pare away all of its usual clutter and noise. It allowed me to do something I can very rarely do, and that is to be still. With my mind focused and alert, I felt something else in my being. A conviction that I needed to have that stillness, that focus in my life. It filled a void that I knew had been there. But how it was filled is still a mystery to me, though clearer as time passes. I don't think it's something that I even need to articulate to myself, and even less so here. It's just something that I know, and what I understand about it is becoming more succinct as my journey progresses.
And in 2010, when my Las Chicas fristers were visiting me there, Lydia accompanied me. Lydia was raised RC but converted to Judaism during her first marriage. Unlike my stammered articulation on this drifting path of spiritualism, she was able to articulate her shift quite well -- saying that the conduit to faith was not as important to her as her faith per se. Also that she liked the fact that Judaism was more about the questions; whereas she felt that when she was growing up in Catholicism you were not supposed to question; rather just accept what you were being told.
And on that first Sunday in 2010 when Lydia and I attended Mass together, the homily was based on a hymn we sang which is entitled All Are Welcome. The homily was given by someone who I believe was a deacon, not a priest. In fact, he mentioned that his children were attending school there at the Serra School. In the course of the homily he implored us to question what was our purpose in life. And to faithfully follow that purpose. I found it a good and interesting message. But Lydia came away with a lightbulb over her head. I think I've figured out what my purpose is, she told me as we were leaving the Mission. I think my purpose is my work to maintain the two families together. After her first marriage, Lydia married a man with grown children. She brought her young son to that marriage, and now there is a third generation of young children. Lydia is the glue. I could have told her that, but, like Dorothy in Oz, it was important that she realize it herself. She also has a career in special education, and other interests (see post here entitled Shopping, Shopping, and Shopping). But, as she realized that morning, her purpose is clear.
And that is what works about those times. I think going to Mass (or services at your temple or meditation at a Transcendental Meditation center or whatever) is much like purchasing a cookbook. It doesn't even have to be your kind of cooking. But if you acquire one recipe from it that will become a lasting addition to your cooking repertoire, it was worth the purchase price. Lydia got that recipe that day, as I had received it the first time I attended Mass there, and several times since. And that makes it worthwhile.
There is commentary somewhere on line about that hymn, All Are Welcome, which raises the issue that the Church, as well as many other denominations, do not really welcome all. And that is a point well taken. But I have to believe there will be changes coming. And, in the meantime, an epiphany or two on my own spiritual path gives the journey purpose and meaning. And that is a recipe worth repeating again and again.
I can't recall exactly when I first attended Mass at Carmel Mission Basilica, but I remember that Billy and I went with Sandra and John. They were staying with us at the little rental we had on the north side of town. I had attended Mass with them once while I was staying with them at Glenbrook in Tahoe, after attending the Intensive Spanish Summer Institute at South Lake Tahoe Community College (I attended this three times and did manage to gain a superficial knowledge of spanglish). But, back to Mass at the Mission...
We were late arriving and ended up sitting in rather ornate wooden chairs making a row ahead of the first pew at the very front of the church. Sandra leaned over and whispered to Billy, lapsed Catholic that he is, Sorry. She didn't have to apologize to me. I was in awe. I'd been in the Mission before as a tourist. And I had attended Mass a handful of times throughout my life. But from that moment, with the music and the choir and the colors and the incense and all in that beautiful structure, it all came together for me.
But that is not to say that it all came together for me in a way that informed me that Catholicism was what had been missing in my life. There were and are aspects of Catholicism to which I have always felt drawn. But I have had an ongoing problem with organized religion since adolescence, and I disagree strongly with some more political aspects of the Church -- it's position on women's issues, LGBT rights, and allowing priests to marry. But politics disapparated on that day.
After that experience I began to attend Mass regularly when I was in Carmel. There was already a lot going on with my family and in other private areas of my life. Increasingly, I was feeling an absence of and a longing for some spirituality in my life. And, I didn't even know exactly what I meant by that. I just felt something was missing and believed that I would know it when I felt it. And I did.
Mass in Carmel provided me with quiet, prayerful space which, in turn, jumpstarted my growing connection to God. Prayer, and the repetitive responses in the order of the Mass, allowed my mind to focus and pare away all of its usual clutter and noise. It allowed me to do something I can very rarely do, and that is to be still. With my mind focused and alert, I felt something else in my being. A conviction that I needed to have that stillness, that focus in my life. It filled a void that I knew had been there. But how it was filled is still a mystery to me, though clearer as time passes. I don't think it's something that I even need to articulate to myself, and even less so here. It's just something that I know, and what I understand about it is becoming more succinct as my journey progresses.
And in 2010, when my Las Chicas fristers were visiting me there, Lydia accompanied me. Lydia was raised RC but converted to Judaism during her first marriage. Unlike my stammered articulation on this drifting path of spiritualism, she was able to articulate her shift quite well -- saying that the conduit to faith was not as important to her as her faith per se. Also that she liked the fact that Judaism was more about the questions; whereas she felt that when she was growing up in Catholicism you were not supposed to question; rather just accept what you were being told.
And on that first Sunday in 2010 when Lydia and I attended Mass together, the homily was based on a hymn we sang which is entitled All Are Welcome. The homily was given by someone who I believe was a deacon, not a priest. In fact, he mentioned that his children were attending school there at the Serra School. In the course of the homily he implored us to question what was our purpose in life. And to faithfully follow that purpose. I found it a good and interesting message. But Lydia came away with a lightbulb over her head. I think I've figured out what my purpose is, she told me as we were leaving the Mission. I think my purpose is my work to maintain the two families together. After her first marriage, Lydia married a man with grown children. She brought her young son to that marriage, and now there is a third generation of young children. Lydia is the glue. I could have told her that, but, like Dorothy in Oz, it was important that she realize it herself. She also has a career in special education, and other interests (see post here entitled Shopping, Shopping, and Shopping). But, as she realized that morning, her purpose is clear.
And that is what works about those times. I think going to Mass (or services at your temple or meditation at a Transcendental Meditation center or whatever) is much like purchasing a cookbook. It doesn't even have to be your kind of cooking. But if you acquire one recipe from it that will become a lasting addition to your cooking repertoire, it was worth the purchase price. Lydia got that recipe that day, as I had received it the first time I attended Mass there, and several times since. And that makes it worthwhile.
There is commentary somewhere on line about that hymn, All Are Welcome, which raises the issue that the Church, as well as many other denominations, do not really welcome all. And that is a point well taken. But I have to believe there will be changes coming. And, in the meantime, an epiphany or two on my own spiritual path gives the journey purpose and meaning. And that is a recipe worth repeating again and again.
November 30, 2013
Bungee Cord of Life
Los Angeles, California
And that is the thing about life...it has its ups and downs. September, October, and even this month of November, were tough. There was Mom. And there was Sandra. But in early autumn, I threw myself into salsa dance in a way that I hadn't really done before. Salsa dance became all. I started dancing at a club in Pasadena which wasn't too populated. There was a decent-sized dance floor and room to move. I danced in a variety of my Toms-brand shoes there. The floor was concrete and rough on dance shoes. I was still dancing in Westlake Village and in Glendale. Have shoes, will travel. And I saw a lot of the same people at any club I frequented.
The thing about salsa dance is that it is musical. And it is creative. And, lastly, it is aerobic. And there is nothing like those three things to pull you up by your boot, or dance-shoe, straps, and shake you out of your blues. Was my mom still blind. Yes. Was Sandra still struggling? Yes. Was I salsa dancing as fast as I could? Si.
I now had a favorite band, Son Miron, who frequently performed at two of the clubs I went to regularly, and also performed at another club in Thousand Oaks. I was hanging with a group, and we often stayed until closing, then went out to eat...usually at McDonald's. I was probably eating more McDonald's french fries than I had in my entire senior year of high school. Sometimes you need arrested development. And that is what was happening through these months.
Todd & Christopher invited us to have Thanksgiving at their house. That was a blessing. We were at complete loose ends, no longer tied to what had become a downward-spiraling family tradition. At T&C's we enjoyed good company and conversation, and wonderful food in their beautiful, downtown, sorta loft space. Hard to explain the three-story, former industrial building, now divided into units where they now live. But it's really lovely.
So now we are rounding the corner towards our return to Carmel. We leave in three weeks. It will just be us for Christmas, with Brendan and Diana coming in for New Year's. Last hurrah for that house, though hopefully not for Carmel. At this point I don't know, I'm just riding it out.
The bungee cord of life was in a Peanuts cartoon, where Charlie Brown lamented that he was suspended from the bungee cord of life. But the thing about the bungee cord is that you get ups, and you get downs. It's all movement. And as I dance around trying to make sense of all that has happened in life; as I reflect on the good memories that are still being made . . . . . memories with Sandra, the Thanksgiving with good friends, and all of the dance in my life, I remind myself that when you are down with the bungee cord, you just have to be patient and wait momentarily, and then you will rise back up. You just need to remember...to keep it in mind. Oh...and try not to throw up. Thank you for reading my blog. Remember the world according to Roxy Music, and Dance Away...
And that is the thing about life...it has its ups and downs. September, October, and even this month of November, were tough. There was Mom. And there was Sandra. But in early autumn, I threw myself into salsa dance in a way that I hadn't really done before. Salsa dance became all. I started dancing at a club in Pasadena which wasn't too populated. There was a decent-sized dance floor and room to move. I danced in a variety of my Toms-brand shoes there. The floor was concrete and rough on dance shoes. I was still dancing in Westlake Village and in Glendale. Have shoes, will travel. And I saw a lot of the same people at any club I frequented.
The thing about salsa dance is that it is musical. And it is creative. And, lastly, it is aerobic. And there is nothing like those three things to pull you up by your boot, or dance-shoe, straps, and shake you out of your blues. Was my mom still blind. Yes. Was Sandra still struggling? Yes. Was I salsa dancing as fast as I could? Si.
I now had a favorite band, Son Miron, who frequently performed at two of the clubs I went to regularly, and also performed at another club in Thousand Oaks. I was hanging with a group, and we often stayed until closing, then went out to eat...usually at McDonald's. I was probably eating more McDonald's french fries than I had in my entire senior year of high school. Sometimes you need arrested development. And that is what was happening through these months.
Todd & Christopher invited us to have Thanksgiving at their house. That was a blessing. We were at complete loose ends, no longer tied to what had become a downward-spiraling family tradition. At T&C's we enjoyed good company and conversation, and wonderful food in their beautiful, downtown, sorta loft space. Hard to explain the three-story, former industrial building, now divided into units where they now live. But it's really lovely.
So now we are rounding the corner towards our return to Carmel. We leave in three weeks. It will just be us for Christmas, with Brendan and Diana coming in for New Year's. Last hurrah for that house, though hopefully not for Carmel. At this point I don't know, I'm just riding it out.
The bungee cord of life was in a Peanuts cartoon, where Charlie Brown lamented that he was suspended from the bungee cord of life. But the thing about the bungee cord is that you get ups, and you get downs. It's all movement. And as I dance around trying to make sense of all that has happened in life; as I reflect on the good memories that are still being made . . . . . memories with Sandra, the Thanksgiving with good friends, and all of the dance in my life, I remind myself that when you are down with the bungee cord, you just have to be patient and wait momentarily, and then you will rise back up. You just need to remember...to keep it in mind. Oh...and try not to throw up. Thank you for reading my blog. Remember the world according to Roxy Music, and Dance Away...
October 30, 2013
Grateful
Sacramento, California
Billy and I are flying back from Sacramento this evening. Yesterday was my birthday, and I wanted to spend it with Sandra. Memories of my birthdays have been flooding over me. Until last year I spent over a decade of birthdays with Sandra and John, first at the Kona Village Resort, then two years ago, after the resort had been decimated by the tsunami following the earthquake in Japan, at their home at Glenbrook on Lake Tahoe.
We hadn't seen them since late July at Glenbrook, and I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do for my birthday, except spend it with Sandra. We spent two consecutive days visiting with them at their home. Sandra is no longer leaving home except for medical appointments. She is painfully thin. But she is so still Sandra in every other way. We spent my birthday looking at photo albums, eating green burritos from Del Taco, and then cupcakes.
When I would wake up on my birthday at the Kona Village the first thing I would receive was a birthday greeting email from Max. He lives on the east coast six hours ahead of Kona time, so getting the first birthday greeting in was not a huge feat. Still it meant a great deal to me. When we would leave our hale, Lava Samoan 8, to walk down to Hale Moana for breakfast, we would often find a birthday balloon tied to the railing of our hale. This, compliments of the thoughtful and very fun Director of Rooms, Cindy. When Sandra and John arrived at breakfast I would put on my birthday tiara, which I wore most of the day. In the evening I would change to my birthday queen crown. Often strangers would say Happy Birthday as they passed me on the path, or when they saw me at lunch. It would take me a moment to remember: Ah yes, the tiara. Once after I changed into the crown, before we met John & Sandra at the Bora Bora Bar where we had originally been introduced to them, a guest commented to me: You've changed your tiara. Yes, this was the evening one. It was all so silly and delightful.
I don't think that I will have birthdays like that again. And, like all special memories, I'm not sure I appreciated just how good it was at the time. And now, seeing Sandra struggling, but with the same spirit that has always been Sandra, I miss those times more than is imaginable. Sacramento is not Kona. But Sandra is still Sandra, and thankfully is still with us.
It wasn't an easy trip. But it wasn't about my birthday, really. It was about visiting a friend, a sister, a frister. My frister extraodinaire. And appreciating all of the good times that we have shared. It's like she said to me, you know we have to be really grateful that we had all those times there. And I am. And I am beyond thankful that one evening, our bartender Carole, introduced us to each other. From there we became friends who traveled together around California and Nevada, and to Tahiti and Panama. We had good times, and made the best memories. Spending birthdays with her has been the best gift I could receive. And for all of the other times, and for the pure joy of knowing her, I am and will always be eternally grateful.
Billy and I are flying back from Sacramento this evening. Yesterday was my birthday, and I wanted to spend it with Sandra. Memories of my birthdays have been flooding over me. Until last year I spent over a decade of birthdays with Sandra and John, first at the Kona Village Resort, then two years ago, after the resort had been decimated by the tsunami following the earthquake in Japan, at their home at Glenbrook on Lake Tahoe.
We hadn't seen them since late July at Glenbrook, and I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do for my birthday, except spend it with Sandra. We spent two consecutive days visiting with them at their home. Sandra is no longer leaving home except for medical appointments. She is painfully thin. But she is so still Sandra in every other way. We spent my birthday looking at photo albums, eating green burritos from Del Taco, and then cupcakes.
When I would wake up on my birthday at the Kona Village the first thing I would receive was a birthday greeting email from Max. He lives on the east coast six hours ahead of Kona time, so getting the first birthday greeting in was not a huge feat. Still it meant a great deal to me. When we would leave our hale, Lava Samoan 8, to walk down to Hale Moana for breakfast, we would often find a birthday balloon tied to the railing of our hale. This, compliments of the thoughtful and very fun Director of Rooms, Cindy. When Sandra and John arrived at breakfast I would put on my birthday tiara, which I wore most of the day. In the evening I would change to my birthday queen crown. Often strangers would say Happy Birthday as they passed me on the path, or when they saw me at lunch. It would take me a moment to remember: Ah yes, the tiara. Once after I changed into the crown, before we met John & Sandra at the Bora Bora Bar where we had originally been introduced to them, a guest commented to me: You've changed your tiara. Yes, this was the evening one. It was all so silly and delightful.
I don't think that I will have birthdays like that again. And, like all special memories, I'm not sure I appreciated just how good it was at the time. And now, seeing Sandra struggling, but with the same spirit that has always been Sandra, I miss those times more than is imaginable. Sacramento is not Kona. But Sandra is still Sandra, and thankfully is still with us.
It wasn't an easy trip. But it wasn't about my birthday, really. It was about visiting a friend, a sister, a frister. My frister extraodinaire. And appreciating all of the good times that we have shared. It's like she said to me, you know we have to be really grateful that we had all those times there. And I am. And I am beyond thankful that one evening, our bartender Carole, introduced us to each other. From there we became friends who traveled together around California and Nevada, and to Tahiti and Panama. We had good times, and made the best memories. Spending birthdays with her has been the best gift I could receive. And for all of the other times, and for the pure joy of knowing her, I am and will always be eternally grateful.
Thank you for reading my blog.
October 5, 2013
There Are None So Blind...
Los Angeles, California
My mom's retina continued to fray after the surgery. There had simply been too much damage done by the shingles virus which had run rampant in her eye for six weeks before she started treatment for it. The rehab facility had never diagnosed it. They were too busy bringing in all kinds of specialists who could get a slice of her Medicare pie. You learn a lot through a process like this, including cynicism about it…
Ultimately, we opted not to put her through another surgery. It would only improve her vision from being able to see a hand waving in front of her face to being able to count fingers in front of her face. She would not be able to read. The two facilitators at the board and care, whom I trusted a lot, and the doctor supported this decision, as did Billy. My sister was not consulted, as she has not been in the loop on Mom's medical care since she opted out in 2009.
Along with the change in my mom's condition, upheaval is afoot all around me. Autumn is now here, and I am predictably mourning the loss of summer. This is something I always do, but even more so now that I don't really look forward to the holidays, and especially this year with Todd and Christopher taking a South American cruise instead of renting the house in Carmel as they have done for the past two years. Still, we will return to Carmel just before Christmas for our last stay at Casita de la Mar. Another chapter closing...
There have been so many closings and endings of late, or at the very least, upheavals: the demise of my family; Sandra's illness; the disappearance of my sister at a time when her support was needed in the care of my mom; the destruction of the Kona Village Resort, and the soon-to-be loss of our rental in Carmel. In so many ways I feel adrift, looking about for anything to hold onto, to keep me afloat, while I scan the horizon for land. And maybe that's a way-too-cheesy metaphor, but still, it feels that way to me.
Perhaps what is hopeful is my ability to scan the horizon. I am fortunate that I have sight, and even, on the odd occasion, insight. So while I have seen much of what sustained me in my life sink to the sandy bottom, I am still looking for what can buoy me up in my future. I have always been someone who held fast to traditions, but as those traditions have evanesced, and in some cases, disapparated, what will replace them? I know I am fortunate. I have Billy. I have LOL, and other friends, I have salsa dance, and the circle I know within the salsa community. And finding salsa was truly finding my bliss. Still, these days, as I look about for meaning in my life, I admit that sometimes my eyes fail me. That is when I remind myself of that old adage that there are none so blind as those who will not see. It's just that when you are trying to see from under water, everything can look a bit, well, blurry. Still, I know that my sight will adjust. Alas, my mom is not so lucky. . .Thank you for reading my blog while I am treading water.
My mom's retina continued to fray after the surgery. There had simply been too much damage done by the shingles virus which had run rampant in her eye for six weeks before she started treatment for it. The rehab facility had never diagnosed it. They were too busy bringing in all kinds of specialists who could get a slice of her Medicare pie. You learn a lot through a process like this, including cynicism about it…
Ultimately, we opted not to put her through another surgery. It would only improve her vision from being able to see a hand waving in front of her face to being able to count fingers in front of her face. She would not be able to read. The two facilitators at the board and care, whom I trusted a lot, and the doctor supported this decision, as did Billy. My sister was not consulted, as she has not been in the loop on Mom's medical care since she opted out in 2009.
Along with the change in my mom's condition, upheaval is afoot all around me. Autumn is now here, and I am predictably mourning the loss of summer. This is something I always do, but even more so now that I don't really look forward to the holidays, and especially this year with Todd and Christopher taking a South American cruise instead of renting the house in Carmel as they have done for the past two years. Still, we will return to Carmel just before Christmas for our last stay at Casita de la Mar. Another chapter closing...
There have been so many closings and endings of late, or at the very least, upheavals: the demise of my family; Sandra's illness; the disappearance of my sister at a time when her support was needed in the care of my mom; the destruction of the Kona Village Resort, and the soon-to-be loss of our rental in Carmel. In so many ways I feel adrift, looking about for anything to hold onto, to keep me afloat, while I scan the horizon for land. And maybe that's a way-too-cheesy metaphor, but still, it feels that way to me.
Perhaps what is hopeful is my ability to scan the horizon. I am fortunate that I have sight, and even, on the odd occasion, insight. So while I have seen much of what sustained me in my life sink to the sandy bottom, I am still looking for what can buoy me up in my future. I have always been someone who held fast to traditions, but as those traditions have evanesced, and in some cases, disapparated, what will replace them? I know I am fortunate. I have Billy. I have LOL, and other friends, I have salsa dance, and the circle I know within the salsa community. And finding salsa was truly finding my bliss. Still, these days, as I look about for meaning in my life, I admit that sometimes my eyes fail me. That is when I remind myself of that old adage that there are none so blind as those who will not see. It's just that when you are trying to see from under water, everything can look a bit, well, blurry. Still, I know that my sight will adjust. Alas, my mom is not so lucky. . .Thank you for reading my blog while I am treading water.
September 18, 2013
Autumn Again
Carmel-by-the-Sea, California
We've been receiving a steady stream of bad news…some of it really bad. So when the news came that we had lost our rental in Carmel for the month of January, we tried to put it in perspective. Nowhere in that news was anyone hurt, ill, or in any desperate straits. But, we were losing the rental house, Casita del Mar, which we have loved for this and the past three stays before this. So we have come to Carmel once again in September, having worked out a split schedule on the rental here which will have us here for three weeks now, and ten days at Christmas & New Years.
The weather has been glorious--much warmer and sunnier than last September. But storm clouds have been gathering on the family front. Before I left I learned that my mom needed to have surgery for a detached retina in the eye that had been damaged by the shingles virus. I debated long and hard whether to stay home for this, but the doctor, the facilitator at her board and care who I trust completely, and Billy told me that it wouldn't make any difference to my mom whether I was there or not. She wouldn't be that aware of the what and the why nor that I was ostensibly missing-in-action for this battle. So it would be more for me to be there, than for her. Still, I had reluctance when I left, but it all worked out fine.
The doctor's office worked with me, faxing consent forms here which I signed as her power of attorney, and faxed back. The hospital set in place a 'phone consent' protocol for the morning of the surgery. After the surgery, the nurse in recovery called to update me on the surgery, and Mom's condition, which was good. The board and care facilitator kept me up to date on her recovery once she was home. It was an outpatient procedure, and all went well.
I was in Carmel alone while this was happening. Billy and I had come here together, but he had already returned home. Lydia was coming for a few days after. Debra was unable to make the trip this time. After the surgery situation settled down, I got into my alone routine here in Carmel. It used to make me a little nervous to be here alone--especially in the other house we used to rent, but not any longer. I think I really needed this time to be on my own. As time passes, especially with this situation in my family, I have a harder and harder time dealing with the clutter in my head. I long for a simpler routine, simpler days...a simpler life. I think I have written before that being here affords me that, as I need little, and bring less. At home, I am overwhelmed by all the stuff, all the responsibilities, all the space junk in my brain. Luckily, while this was happening with my mom I was able to be clear and focused. Not always the case…
A lot of things in my life feel like they are spinning out. It has been a hard couple of years and a sense of balance between the good and the bad is suffering. But when I come to Carmel, attend Mass at the Mission, and walk through town and along the beach, I feel centered in a way that doesn't happen to me at home. So, with Betty's sight restored, and the weather here warm enough to sit outside until dark, and a few weeks still ahead of me, I am feeling good and welcoming autumn, which will soon arrive. Then. we will be back in December for our last stay here in this splendid house in Carmel-by-the-Sea. After that, who knows? Thank you for hanging with me during this long hiatus and for continuing to read my blog...
We've been receiving a steady stream of bad news…some of it really bad. So when the news came that we had lost our rental in Carmel for the month of January, we tried to put it in perspective. Nowhere in that news was anyone hurt, ill, or in any desperate straits. But, we were losing the rental house, Casita del Mar, which we have loved for this and the past three stays before this. So we have come to Carmel once again in September, having worked out a split schedule on the rental here which will have us here for three weeks now, and ten days at Christmas & New Years.
The weather has been glorious--much warmer and sunnier than last September. But storm clouds have been gathering on the family front. Before I left I learned that my mom needed to have surgery for a detached retina in the eye that had been damaged by the shingles virus. I debated long and hard whether to stay home for this, but the doctor, the facilitator at her board and care who I trust completely, and Billy told me that it wouldn't make any difference to my mom whether I was there or not. She wouldn't be that aware of the what and the why nor that I was ostensibly missing-in-action for this battle. So it would be more for me to be there, than for her. Still, I had reluctance when I left, but it all worked out fine.
The doctor's office worked with me, faxing consent forms here which I signed as her power of attorney, and faxed back. The hospital set in place a 'phone consent' protocol for the morning of the surgery. After the surgery, the nurse in recovery called to update me on the surgery, and Mom's condition, which was good. The board and care facilitator kept me up to date on her recovery once she was home. It was an outpatient procedure, and all went well.
I was in Carmel alone while this was happening. Billy and I had come here together, but he had already returned home. Lydia was coming for a few days after. Debra was unable to make the trip this time. After the surgery situation settled down, I got into my alone routine here in Carmel. It used to make me a little nervous to be here alone--especially in the other house we used to rent, but not any longer. I think I really needed this time to be on my own. As time passes, especially with this situation in my family, I have a harder and harder time dealing with the clutter in my head. I long for a simpler routine, simpler days...a simpler life. I think I have written before that being here affords me that, as I need little, and bring less. At home, I am overwhelmed by all the stuff, all the responsibilities, all the space junk in my brain. Luckily, while this was happening with my mom I was able to be clear and focused. Not always the case…
A lot of things in my life feel like they are spinning out. It has been a hard couple of years and a sense of balance between the good and the bad is suffering. But when I come to Carmel, attend Mass at the Mission, and walk through town and along the beach, I feel centered in a way that doesn't happen to me at home. So, with Betty's sight restored, and the weather here warm enough to sit outside until dark, and a few weeks still ahead of me, I am feeling good and welcoming autumn, which will soon arrive. Then. we will be back in December for our last stay here in this splendid house in Carmel-by-the-Sea. After that, who knows? Thank you for hanging with me during this long hiatus and for continuing to read my blog...
August 15, 2013
Summer, Revisited
Los Angeles, California
Awhile back, I stopped using the term middle-aged to describe myself after Billy uttered the infamous line: How many people do you know who live to 104? It was a rude upbraid, as it was sad but true. The good news was that in moving on to that next, awkward stage of life (too old to be middle-aged and too young to be a senior citizen), I now had an excuse for my faltering short-term memory. But I cannot blame my memory issues on the fact that I have fallen short of my contract with myself to write at least two blogposts a month. It is now long past August, though I will ultimately post this for that month. Cheating? Yes. But, I mean really, what is a contract with yourself truly worth? To toy with the quote from Sam Goldwyn: It is probably not worth the the paper it is written upon.
After the trip to Glenbrook I settled back down to summer as I know it. The Dodgers were continuing to do well, breaking records while they streaked from last place to first. I enjoyed the warm summer nights that I have always loved since I was a child. It was now time to dance salsa outside at The Autry Museum -- something that comes each summer through the months of July and August. I hosted a Las Chicas Pool day with DG and LOL. And I visited my mom frequently, now at her new board and care facility.
My mom's careworkers and her home health nurse reported to me that she was having headaches and earaches. There was a lot of postulating as to what was causing these. The facilitators thought she might have an ear infection or a wax build-up in her ears. But on one of my visits to her, I noticed that her pain was topical, not inside the ear nor inside her head. When you touched her skin, she jumped. Obviously, it hurt a lot. And that got me thinking.
While she had been in the skilled nursing facility, she had suddenly developed a rash on her face. It was on one side, on her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, and around onto her cheek, more or less circling her left eye. That is her good eye (she has only had 5% vision in her right eye since childhood, a result of what is called Lazy Eye Syndrome which had gone untreated). When I asked the charge nurse about the rash, she commented that it looked like bug bites. And being someone who tends to defer to authority, I accepted that.
But now, a month later, I reported my suspicions to the doctor. Could it have been shingles? I pointed out where you could still see redness from the lesions, which the doctor tapped. She levitated at the pain. At that point, he agreed that clinically it appeared that she had suffered from herpes zoster while in the facility.
Shortly after that, the caregivers reported that she was having vision problems so she was taken to her ophthalmologist, who in turn sent her to a retinal specialist who diagnosed inflammation in the eye. I told him about the shingles, and he immediately put her on steroid eyedrops, and the antiviral medication, Valtrex. I did my usual response to that. I take Valtrex, I exclaimed. Then I immediately pointed to my lower lip and added, for cold sores!!! Somehow I have never been quite able to master that TMI thing.
And after that, summer continued (the Dodgers continued to do well). We were now at about six weeks after her shingles outbreak, and all was mostly right with the world…Thank you coming back to read my blog!
Awhile back, I stopped using the term middle-aged to describe myself after Billy uttered the infamous line: How many people do you know who live to 104? It was a rude upbraid, as it was sad but true. The good news was that in moving on to that next, awkward stage of life (too old to be middle-aged and too young to be a senior citizen), I now had an excuse for my faltering short-term memory. But I cannot blame my memory issues on the fact that I have fallen short of my contract with myself to write at least two blogposts a month. It is now long past August, though I will ultimately post this for that month. Cheating? Yes. But, I mean really, what is a contract with yourself truly worth? To toy with the quote from Sam Goldwyn: It is probably not worth the the paper it is written upon.
After the trip to Glenbrook I settled back down to summer as I know it. The Dodgers were continuing to do well, breaking records while they streaked from last place to first. I enjoyed the warm summer nights that I have always loved since I was a child. It was now time to dance salsa outside at The Autry Museum -- something that comes each summer through the months of July and August. I hosted a Las Chicas Pool day with DG and LOL. And I visited my mom frequently, now at her new board and care facility.
My mom's careworkers and her home health nurse reported to me that she was having headaches and earaches. There was a lot of postulating as to what was causing these. The facilitators thought she might have an ear infection or a wax build-up in her ears. But on one of my visits to her, I noticed that her pain was topical, not inside the ear nor inside her head. When you touched her skin, she jumped. Obviously, it hurt a lot. And that got me thinking.
While she had been in the skilled nursing facility, she had suddenly developed a rash on her face. It was on one side, on her forehead, down the bridge of her nose, and around onto her cheek, more or less circling her left eye. That is her good eye (she has only had 5% vision in her right eye since childhood, a result of what is called Lazy Eye Syndrome which had gone untreated). When I asked the charge nurse about the rash, she commented that it looked like bug bites. And being someone who tends to defer to authority, I accepted that.
But now, a month later, I reported my suspicions to the doctor. Could it have been shingles? I pointed out where you could still see redness from the lesions, which the doctor tapped. She levitated at the pain. At that point, he agreed that clinically it appeared that she had suffered from herpes zoster while in the facility.
Shortly after that, the caregivers reported that she was having vision problems so she was taken to her ophthalmologist, who in turn sent her to a retinal specialist who diagnosed inflammation in the eye. I told him about the shingles, and he immediately put her on steroid eyedrops, and the antiviral medication, Valtrex. I did my usual response to that. I take Valtrex, I exclaimed. Then I immediately pointed to my lower lip and added, for cold sores!!! Somehow I have never been quite able to master that TMI thing.
And after that, summer continued (the Dodgers continued to do well). We were now at about six weeks after her shingles outbreak, and all was mostly right with the world…Thank you coming back to read my blog!
August 5, 2013
Billy Loves Salmon
Los Angeles, California
I was going to entitle this post Coming Clean, and confess to my dishonesty. Then I realized, I'm a pretty honest person -- even to a fault, one could say. Do I occasionally embellish my stories? You betcha. Have I been known to stretch the truth, or perhaps slant it for my own devices? Ok, yeah. But do I ever outright lie? Not as a rule, and only if I can cover it by claiming I was being ironic. Truth is that, recently, Billy has NOT been loving salmon. In fact, in recent years he has developed almost an aversion to it.
This was startling to me, as we used to eat a lot of salmon. It was our go-to fish. On a trip to various islands around the Puget Sound, we ate salmon almost every night. And I would say that until Billy developed his issue with salmon, roasted salmon was served at Casa Healy about as often as roast chicken, which is saying a lot. We used to coat a large filet of salmon (with the skin on) with lemon oil, salt & pepper, then roast it in a large cast iron skillet, surrounded by sliced fennel and onion, and some sprigs of rosemary. The skin crisped up, and the roasted salmon and vegetables were fragrant and delicious. Unfortunately, the cast iron pan also got crispy, and Billy and I had some vociferous discussions about how it should be cleaned (Bronte: never immerse / Billy: scrub with abrasives underwater / Bronte: now I have to re-season the freakin' pan). This might even have been the genesis for Billy's aversion, though he is not, as a rule, somatic by nature.
Anyway, Billy stopped eating salmon. I tried preparing it a couple more times, but the most he could muster was a bite or two. When I prepared it for myself a few times before going out to dance, he tried it again but said that even the aroma of it was sickening to him. Then, earlier this summer he tried cold, poached salmon and he was ok with it. I just needed to find a good recipe with a new technique, and here it is:
Cold Poached Salmon With Mustard-Lime Sauce
6 cups water
2 1/2 cups dry white wine
6 (7-8 oz.) center-cut salmon fillets, skinned
Quatre Epice*
1 cup sour cream
6 tablespoons Dijon mustard
4 teaspoons honey
1 teaspoon grated lime peel
Finely sliced fresh basil
Pour 3 cups water and 1 1/4 cups wine into each of 2 large skillets. Bring to a boil; turn off heat. Season salmon with quatre epice. Place 3 fillets in each skillet; let stand 6 minutes. Turn salmon over in liquid; let stand 5 minutes. Bring liquid in skillets just to simmer; cook until salmon is just cooked through, about 30 seconds. Using slotted spatula, remove salmon and place on platter or large plate. Cover and refrigerate until cold, at least 1 hour.
Stir sour cream, mustard, lime juice, honey and lime peel in bowl to blend. Cover; chill until cold, at least 1 hour. Can be made 1 day ahead. Keep refrigerated.
Arrange salmon on plates. Drizzle with sauce; top with basil. Serve, passing remaining sauce separately.
6 servings
That is the recipe, as I found it on Epicurious; originally coming from Bon Appetit magazine circa 1995. And it was pretty good as is. Just a couple of points. I think I would tweek the sauce a little. Maybe use creme fraiche or even cut the sour cream with good mayonaise. I might go for chopped tarragon instead of the basil. We used really good wild salmon from Santa Monica Seafood (our best local purveyor). The night before I made this, a friend of mine informed me that I should only buy/eat wild salmon. I love it when my friends treat me like the village idiot. But she is a beloved, good friend, and maybe I am the village idiot, so we'll let it go at that.
*and lastly, Quatre Epice is called by its translation: French Four Spice (forgive me if I am treating you like the village idiot). The variety I have is excellent and is from Penzey's spices, their website is to be found here.
I made this for a Hollywood Bowl picnic, and four of us seemed to enjoy it. Most importantly, Billy did fine and dandy with this cold poached salmon. In fact, he said he loved it. Awww, he loves it (cold); he loves it not (hot). So, come to think of it, I didn't lie after all: Billy loves salmon. That's what he said. Thank you for tuning in and reading my blog.
I was going to entitle this post Coming Clean, and confess to my dishonesty. Then I realized, I'm a pretty honest person -- even to a fault, one could say. Do I occasionally embellish my stories? You betcha. Have I been known to stretch the truth, or perhaps slant it for my own devices? Ok, yeah. But do I ever outright lie? Not as a rule, and only if I can cover it by claiming I was being ironic. Truth is that, recently, Billy has NOT been loving salmon. In fact, in recent years he has developed almost an aversion to it.
This was startling to me, as we used to eat a lot of salmon. It was our go-to fish. On a trip to various islands around the Puget Sound, we ate salmon almost every night. And I would say that until Billy developed his issue with salmon, roasted salmon was served at Casa Healy about as often as roast chicken, which is saying a lot. We used to coat a large filet of salmon (with the skin on) with lemon oil, salt & pepper, then roast it in a large cast iron skillet, surrounded by sliced fennel and onion, and some sprigs of rosemary. The skin crisped up, and the roasted salmon and vegetables were fragrant and delicious. Unfortunately, the cast iron pan also got crispy, and Billy and I had some vociferous discussions about how it should be cleaned (Bronte: never immerse / Billy: scrub with abrasives underwater / Bronte: now I have to re-season the freakin' pan). This might even have been the genesis for Billy's aversion, though he is not, as a rule, somatic by nature.
Anyway, Billy stopped eating salmon. I tried preparing it a couple more times, but the most he could muster was a bite or two. When I prepared it for myself a few times before going out to dance, he tried it again but said that even the aroma of it was sickening to him. Then, earlier this summer he tried cold, poached salmon and he was ok with it. I just needed to find a good recipe with a new technique, and here it is:
Cold Poached Salmon With Mustard-Lime Sauce
6 cups water
2 1/2 cups dry white wine
6 (7-8 oz.) center-cut salmon fillets, skinned
Quatre Epice*
1 cup sour cream
6 tablespoons Dijon mustard
4 teaspoons honey
1 teaspoon grated lime peel
Finely sliced fresh basil
Pour 3 cups water and 1 1/4 cups wine into each of 2 large skillets. Bring to a boil; turn off heat. Season salmon with quatre epice. Place 3 fillets in each skillet; let stand 6 minutes. Turn salmon over in liquid; let stand 5 minutes. Bring liquid in skillets just to simmer; cook until salmon is just cooked through, about 30 seconds. Using slotted spatula, remove salmon and place on platter or large plate. Cover and refrigerate until cold, at least 1 hour.
Stir sour cream, mustard, lime juice, honey and lime peel in bowl to blend. Cover; chill until cold, at least 1 hour. Can be made 1 day ahead. Keep refrigerated.
Arrange salmon on plates. Drizzle with sauce; top with basil. Serve, passing remaining sauce separately.
6 servings
That is the recipe, as I found it on Epicurious; originally coming from Bon Appetit magazine circa 1995. And it was pretty good as is. Just a couple of points. I think I would tweek the sauce a little. Maybe use creme fraiche or even cut the sour cream with good mayonaise. I might go for chopped tarragon instead of the basil. We used really good wild salmon from Santa Monica Seafood (our best local purveyor). The night before I made this, a friend of mine informed me that I should only buy/eat wild salmon. I love it when my friends treat me like the village idiot. But she is a beloved, good friend, and maybe I am the village idiot, so we'll let it go at that.
*and lastly, Quatre Epice is called by its translation: French Four Spice (forgive me if I am treating you like the village idiot). The variety I have is excellent and is from Penzey's spices, their website is to be found here.
I made this for a Hollywood Bowl picnic, and four of us seemed to enjoy it. Most importantly, Billy did fine and dandy with this cold poached salmon. In fact, he said he loved it. Awww, he loves it (cold); he loves it not (hot). So, come to think of it, I didn't lie after all: Billy loves salmon. That's what he said. Thank you for tuning in and reading my blog.
July 29, 2013
There Are No Palms in Palmdale
Glenbrook, Nevada
Billy and I have come to Glenbrook to spend time with Sandra and John. Sandra, my frister extraordinaire and blog namesake has been struggling with cancer and the difficult treatment that goes along with it. We had not seen Sandra since last September when they came to Carmel for a visit. She was gaining her strength back at that time, and the prognosis was good. But, alas, as Sandra wrote to me late last year, the cancer came back big time.
The second round of chemo took a lot out of her, but was successful in shrinking most of the tumors. I attribute that to the chemo, but I'm not so sure that the chemo did all the work. I cannot imagine how many prayers have been sent up for her. Bizillions, I think. And, if that didn't do the trick, I'm sure it worked in concert with the chemo.
Sandra looks thin, but with attractive, short, spikey hair. But most importantly, she is the same Sandra. She has a glow that comes from within and from, I believe, being the best person I know on this earth. She is kind, generous, a rock when you need one, and yet is the wickedest-funnest person I know. The chemo has taken a lot out of her, but it hasn't changed who she is. I just wish there was more of her, but she is trying hard to put weight back on.
Billy and I drove up to Glenbrook on US 395 which my family used to call the back road. I grew up with cousins who lived in Nevada, and we traveled there often when I was young. 395 takes you to Carson City. It's Mojave Desert for the first third or so of the drive, and then you begin to see trees. You have to slow to drive through little towns like Bridgeport and Tom's Place. Quaint places that look like they provide some civilization for folks who are mostly in those parts for fishing. Lots of sporting goods stores with big fish signage.
Once we turn onto Highway 50 at Carson City, and proceed up Spooner Grade, we begin to look forward to our first glimpse of the lake. It's a lot like driving into Carmel and anticipating the cypress trees, or, as we did when we were kids, trying to catch that first sighting of the Matterhorn on our way to Disneyland. I generally don't use the overused word awesome, but...it kinda is. When I first went to study Spanish at the Intensive Spanish Summer Institute at Tahoe in 2009, I thought I would hate being in the mountains. I'm a beach girl. But I found the lake to be so splendidly gorgeous, that I fell in love with the area. And Glenbrook, which is on the east shore, is about as idyllic of a community as I have ever seen. It is perfect.
We probably never would have heard of Glenbrook had we not been introduced to John and Sandra at the Bora Bora Bar at the Kona Village Resort. But we were, and we became fast friends. I have written before that we have traveled to various places together in addition to our annual October stays at the Kona Village--Rancho Santa Fe, Napa, Las Vegas, Carmel, Tahiti, and Panama. But I think of all of the places we've spent time together, besides the Kona Village, Glenbrook is my favorite. And, because John and Sandra have a lakeside home there, it is feels so relaxing to be with them. Often their large house and the guesthouse are filled with family and friends. But this time it is just us, and we have had a quiet visit together. Hopefully it feels similarly for them when they come to Carmel to stay with us.
We have made plans to see them again when we are in Carmel this September. Billy and I look forward to this. In my mind's eye I see Sandra gaining weight and strength. I see her now-spent energy increasing with each day that passes. I see us traveling together again, and having some of the wicked fun we have had in the past. Throughout her illness, Sandra has said that she believes in miracles, and so does her doctor. And so do all of us who are sending up those prayers.
We will drive home tomorrow, back down 395 through those small towns and speed traps. Eventually we will hit Palmdale. When we drove through Palmdale last Friday, Billy remarked: Have you ever noticed that there are no palms in Palmdale? Sometimes things aren't the way you expect them to be. And you just have to accept that. I do that every day as I watch my elderly mom diminishing. But I cannot do that with Sandra. She's the best of the best, and everyone who knows her wants her to rally and recover. Miracles happen, even in modern times. And while nobody needs palms in Palmdale, everyone who knows Sandra needs her. For me, she will always be my special friend/sister; my role model, my travel companion partner-in-crime. For me, she will always, always be Girlfriend--my irreplaceable Frister Extraordinaire.
Billy and I have come to Glenbrook to spend time with Sandra and John. Sandra, my frister extraordinaire and blog namesake has been struggling with cancer and the difficult treatment that goes along with it. We had not seen Sandra since last September when they came to Carmel for a visit. She was gaining her strength back at that time, and the prognosis was good. But, alas, as Sandra wrote to me late last year, the cancer came back big time.
The second round of chemo took a lot out of her, but was successful in shrinking most of the tumors. I attribute that to the chemo, but I'm not so sure that the chemo did all the work. I cannot imagine how many prayers have been sent up for her. Bizillions, I think. And, if that didn't do the trick, I'm sure it worked in concert with the chemo.
Sandra looks thin, but with attractive, short, spikey hair. But most importantly, she is the same Sandra. She has a glow that comes from within and from, I believe, being the best person I know on this earth. She is kind, generous, a rock when you need one, and yet is the wickedest-funnest person I know. The chemo has taken a lot out of her, but it hasn't changed who she is. I just wish there was more of her, but she is trying hard to put weight back on.
Billy and I drove up to Glenbrook on US 395 which my family used to call the back road. I grew up with cousins who lived in Nevada, and we traveled there often when I was young. 395 takes you to Carson City. It's Mojave Desert for the first third or so of the drive, and then you begin to see trees. You have to slow to drive through little towns like Bridgeport and Tom's Place. Quaint places that look like they provide some civilization for folks who are mostly in those parts for fishing. Lots of sporting goods stores with big fish signage.
Once we turn onto Highway 50 at Carson City, and proceed up Spooner Grade, we begin to look forward to our first glimpse of the lake. It's a lot like driving into Carmel and anticipating the cypress trees, or, as we did when we were kids, trying to catch that first sighting of the Matterhorn on our way to Disneyland. I generally don't use the overused word awesome, but...it kinda is. When I first went to study Spanish at the Intensive Spanish Summer Institute at Tahoe in 2009, I thought I would hate being in the mountains. I'm a beach girl. But I found the lake to be so splendidly gorgeous, that I fell in love with the area. And Glenbrook, which is on the east shore, is about as idyllic of a community as I have ever seen. It is perfect.
We probably never would have heard of Glenbrook had we not been introduced to John and Sandra at the Bora Bora Bar at the Kona Village Resort. But we were, and we became fast friends. I have written before that we have traveled to various places together in addition to our annual October stays at the Kona Village--Rancho Santa Fe, Napa, Las Vegas, Carmel, Tahiti, and Panama. But I think of all of the places we've spent time together, besides the Kona Village, Glenbrook is my favorite. And, because John and Sandra have a lakeside home there, it is feels so relaxing to be with them. Often their large house and the guesthouse are filled with family and friends. But this time it is just us, and we have had a quiet visit together. Hopefully it feels similarly for them when they come to Carmel to stay with us.
We have made plans to see them again when we are in Carmel this September. Billy and I look forward to this. In my mind's eye I see Sandra gaining weight and strength. I see her now-spent energy increasing with each day that passes. I see us traveling together again, and having some of the wicked fun we have had in the past. Throughout her illness, Sandra has said that she believes in miracles, and so does her doctor. And so do all of us who are sending up those prayers.
We will drive home tomorrow, back down 395 through those small towns and speed traps. Eventually we will hit Palmdale. When we drove through Palmdale last Friday, Billy remarked: Have you ever noticed that there are no palms in Palmdale? Sometimes things aren't the way you expect them to be. And you just have to accept that. I do that every day as I watch my elderly mom diminishing. But I cannot do that with Sandra. She's the best of the best, and everyone who knows her wants her to rally and recover. Miracles happen, even in modern times. And while nobody needs palms in Palmdale, everyone who knows Sandra needs her. For me, she will always be my special friend/sister; my role model, my travel companion partner-in-crime. For me, she will always, always be Girlfriend--my irreplaceable Frister Extraordinaire.
July 21, 2013
Same Time, Next Year
Los Angeles, California
But. Then. In the midst of all of this, Brendan and Diana came to stay, as they have done every summer since...a while back. We've tried to figure it out, and have decided that it's been about a decade since their first visit here. The first two years, they brought their lovely daughters, who were high school and college-aged. Then they began coming a deux.
Since shortly after Diana and I became friends, after meeting on a cruise ship where we had been assigned as dining tablemates along with our moms and my errant sibling, I labeled Diana and her family as family, but in a good way. And I feel that the most when they are sharing our home. They remind me of some of the best times I have had with family.
From the time when Billy and I bought our first home, my parents would often join us for dinner. We lived about ten minutes away from each other, and often those dinners were last minute throw-togethers. We had a nice patio at our first, small house, and bought our dining room table a few years after we purchased the house. Up until that time we were using a table made from an industrial spool, which my boyfriend (*see ex-fiance--I'm kidding there is no reference to this, so far...) had finished for my use. It was popular to use these as coffee tables, but I had a marble coffee table which had been my grandparents', so what I really needed was a dining table, since I was already cooking up a storm. But I digress, once again, to the past...
The best part of having family over is that you are already in a familiar pattern. You know what everyone drinks and what they will or won't eat. We were a family who set a good table with cloth napkins and decent glassware. During this time, my eclectic period, my glassware, silverware, napkins, and even plates were carefully mismatched, by design. I was already collecting table linens, and napkin rings (which I have ceased to use). And I was cooking from The Silver Palate, Gourmet, and Bon Appetit, as we all were at that time.
When we moved to our current home, which was about twenty to twenty-five minutes from my parents home, the parties continued. We now had a large courtyard in the shade of a gigantic old oak tree. Billy and one of our male guests (often my brother-in-law), would move our dining room table out onto the courtyard, and we would dine under the oak tree. Our homage to Tuscany. And it was a magically fun time.
When the oak tree went down, we pondered what to do. That oak tree was about a century old, and we could not replace it with a tree even a quarter of that size, plus there was a root fungus in the ground which would make it risky to plant any tree in that location. Our house is U-shaped and lined with french doors which all looked out to the tree as a focal point. I missed the tree desperately, but I saw water there. We talked about a pool, but Billy was hesitant. I persevered. I told him if he didn't want a swimming pool, we should install some kind of a shallow water feature. I had it in my mind's eye. We consulted a pool contractor who designed a small, narrow pool for us--only 10x28, and edged in the same terra cotta tile as had around the courtyard. We built and finished it in 2001, and our friends arrived with their daughters a year or two after.
What I love about having Brendan and Diana as house guests is that, like with family, we fall into an easy routine. This year, they arrived on July 4th, coordinating with our plan to have all of the pre-visit prep done by the evening before. Of course that didn't happen, but we were close. By the time they arrived, we were in our swimsuits and ready to hold down the teak lounge chairs at the far end of the pool--an extension of the pool area supported by a retaining wall on our hill. OK, too much information, I'm thinking...
We hung out by the pool all day. This is what we do every day during their visit. We eat a mid-afternoon lunch in the style of tapas or mezes (which Billy calls snackies). As the sun dips, we go inside to shower and dress. Cocktails on the patio, followed by an easy dinner, eaten by candlelight. Then we go inside and play cards until early in the morning. There is usually cake involved. Later, off we go off to bed, to rise easily and on our own schedule in the morning, pouring coffee or tea and wandering back out to the patio to hang around, chatting and laughing, before a late (very) breakfast. And then to the pool...
We laugh a lot with Brendan and Diana. And we talk, and share, and eat, and drink. And for the past two years, we pay pool basketball. They brought the hoop and balls last year. Not that we're competitive with all this card playing and basketball lobbing. We're as happy when someone else wins as when we do. Well, almost...
So now, July has passed, and it will be another year before B&D come to visit us again. Then, once again we'll toast, and talk; laugh, and light candles. What with all of the sadness and upheaval in my life, it is sustaining to have these events to count upon and eagerly await. One thing I know for sure is that a year goes so fast these days, and soon it will be July again--the same time, next year. Thank you for reading my blog, and thanks for the memories, D&B!
But. Then. In the midst of all of this, Brendan and Diana came to stay, as they have done every summer since...a while back. We've tried to figure it out, and have decided that it's been about a decade since their first visit here. The first two years, they brought their lovely daughters, who were high school and college-aged. Then they began coming a deux.
Since shortly after Diana and I became friends, after meeting on a cruise ship where we had been assigned as dining tablemates along with our moms and my errant sibling, I labeled Diana and her family as family, but in a good way. And I feel that the most when they are sharing our home. They remind me of some of the best times I have had with family.
From the time when Billy and I bought our first home, my parents would often join us for dinner. We lived about ten minutes away from each other, and often those dinners were last minute throw-togethers. We had a nice patio at our first, small house, and bought our dining room table a few years after we purchased the house. Up until that time we were using a table made from an industrial spool, which my boyfriend (*see ex-fiance--I'm kidding there is no reference to this, so far...) had finished for my use. It was popular to use these as coffee tables, but I had a marble coffee table which had been my grandparents', so what I really needed was a dining table, since I was already cooking up a storm. But I digress, once again, to the past...
The best part of having family over is that you are already in a familiar pattern. You know what everyone drinks and what they will or won't eat. We were a family who set a good table with cloth napkins and decent glassware. During this time, my eclectic period, my glassware, silverware, napkins, and even plates were carefully mismatched, by design. I was already collecting table linens, and napkin rings (which I have ceased to use). And I was cooking from The Silver Palate, Gourmet, and Bon Appetit, as we all were at that time.
When we moved to our current home, which was about twenty to twenty-five minutes from my parents home, the parties continued. We now had a large courtyard in the shade of a gigantic old oak tree. Billy and one of our male guests (often my brother-in-law), would move our dining room table out onto the courtyard, and we would dine under the oak tree. Our homage to Tuscany. And it was a magically fun time.
When the oak tree went down, we pondered what to do. That oak tree was about a century old, and we could not replace it with a tree even a quarter of that size, plus there was a root fungus in the ground which would make it risky to plant any tree in that location. Our house is U-shaped and lined with french doors which all looked out to the tree as a focal point. I missed the tree desperately, but I saw water there. We talked about a pool, but Billy was hesitant. I persevered. I told him if he didn't want a swimming pool, we should install some kind of a shallow water feature. I had it in my mind's eye. We consulted a pool contractor who designed a small, narrow pool for us--only 10x28, and edged in the same terra cotta tile as had around the courtyard. We built and finished it in 2001, and our friends arrived with their daughters a year or two after.
What I love about having Brendan and Diana as house guests is that, like with family, we fall into an easy routine. This year, they arrived on July 4th, coordinating with our plan to have all of the pre-visit prep done by the evening before. Of course that didn't happen, but we were close. By the time they arrived, we were in our swimsuits and ready to hold down the teak lounge chairs at the far end of the pool--an extension of the pool area supported by a retaining wall on our hill. OK, too much information, I'm thinking...
We laugh a lot with Brendan and Diana. And we talk, and share, and eat, and drink. And for the past two years, we pay pool basketball. They brought the hoop and balls last year. Not that we're competitive with all this card playing and basketball lobbing. We're as happy when someone else wins as when we do. Well, almost...
So now, July has passed, and it will be another year before B&D come to visit us again. Then, once again we'll toast, and talk; laugh, and light candles. What with all of the sadness and upheaval in my life, it is sustaining to have these events to count upon and eagerly await. One thing I know for sure is that a year goes so fast these days, and soon it will be July again--the same time, next year. Thank you for reading my blog, and thanks for the memories, D&B!
July 12, 2013
Falling Off the Edge of the Earth
Los Angeles, California
Remember when I wrote funny posts? Do you recall my writing two, even three posts per month? Can you think back to my missives about the joy of those three things in my life: cooking; dancing; writing? How about: Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow, and oh so mellow (if you're very lucky, you hear Jerry Orbach singing this in the ear of your brain)? Anyway. Mom was hospitalized, and now continues her residence in the rehab facility. And. Still. I am the only family she has who is willing to help.
Lest we forget, I do have a sibling. An older sister. But she opted out of Mom's care, let's see, just about as soon as Mom needed care. Billy has stepped into her shoes (well, not literally). So I have those Chinatown moments: he's my husband/he's my sister/he's my husband, he's my sister . . . Come on, you know what I mean. Like we all don't have those moments.
So I've been absent from my blog -- giving my faithful (or faithless) posse a respite while I have been spinning out, trying to figure out what happens next in the morass of complications that make up elder care. All the while watching my mom diminish to a shadow. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Anxious? Depressed? Hurt? Yes, yes, and yes. But as I wrote to a frister recently: We've either been through this; are going through this; or will go through this. And that is probably the truth, mas o menos.
Life becomes a run when you have someone in the hospital. You get up; you get dressed; you do some work; you run. A lot of things fall by the wayside: hanging up clothes, balancing checking accounts (with taking on the responsibility for my mom's finances, I currently have seven); spending quality time with the spouse. Because he's running, too -- picking up the slack around the house, if not the pile of clothing on the bedroom chair.
I always think that she will be ok each time. But her congestive heart failure is weakening her. This stint at rehab to try to shore up her diminishing mobility is not as successful as in the past. And as she nears the fifty-day mark, she will need to leave rehab. Why? Because Medicare only pays for 100 days, and you cannot regenerate those days until she has avoided hospitalization for several months. Therefore, I always try to keep some days in reserve. So I will request her discharge shortly. And after that; who knows? My goal is to find the best place for her. As I have traveled this path, deeper and deeper into the woods, I have learned what she doesn't need. I have learned what to look for in board and care. And, what, at all costs, to avoid. Again, I just want to find the best place for her. All of this requires practical education in maneuvering the minefield of elder care. There is a lot of care to be had, but one quickly becomes cynical when you get caught up in the system. It's all about keeping the person going, my friend, Lydia (a doctor's daughter), recently commented about elder medical care. No, I corrected her. It's all about keeping the Medicare going. I know that sounds awful. I want my mom to keep going; to live out her lifespan. But when a myriad collection of "specialists" are called into the rehab center to see my mom and bill Medicare -- dentists, ophthamologists, podiatrists, it makes me wonder whether the Medicare pie is set out, and then everyone scrambles for their piece of it. After the doctors go away, Mom might be left to languish in bed if I were not there to advocate that she be up, and dressed so that her energy isn't further sapped.
I wish I could be around to see how you do when you're my age, my mom once snapped at me. And it was food for thought. My mom tells everyone that she was an acrobatic dancer. I'm not exactly sure what that means, as the story has changed throughout the years. My mom's bendable legend is that she was a dancer -- ballet, tap, and what was known as acrobatics, which, presumably, was like gymnastics. She also played tennis, and she bowled and roller-skated. But from the time I was born, when Mom was in her thirties, I never saw her engage in any physical activity, much less the ones listed above. When she reached her seventies, and we could see she was spending too much time sitting, I implored her to get moving. Use it or lose it, as the saying goes. But even as I talked to her about this, I knew that I was not the boss of her. The atrophy continued, and she is now wheelchair-bound.
Maybe I will be the same when I am her age. And, perhaps, that is the irony--that I will find that her statement about wanting to see how I do when I am her age is prophetic. But I am past middle age. And, unlike my mom, I move. I do Pilates. And I really dance -- last night, for about six hours, until my hair was literally dripping. Well, as I have written before, salsa dance--not for the squeamish.
Meanwhile I ponder where she will go from here. And I question the wisdom of elder care. I want to give her the gift of dying of old age as both her parents did. But you have to rage against the machine. You have to learn about palliative care. You have to focus on comfort. And it is a constant battle. Even as I write this, I was talked into authorizing metabolic lab tests for her, though I suspect it was, ostensibly, just about one more charge-off to Medicare. Elder care is a business. It is for profit. And, it is a shame.
So, at times it does feel as if I am balanced on the edge of the earth. Billy; my fristers and frothers; salsa dance; Dodger baseball; a brand-new taste for Negronis made with bourbon (thank you, Christopher!); a prospective return to Carmel in September, this ALL keeps me from falling off that edge. When I start to waver, I get pulled back. But even if you don't really fall, it still feels like the edge of the earth. And that is plain, damn scary...Thank you all for hanging in with me. Believe me, I KNOW it's not been pretty...And I thank you for reading my blog.
Remember when I wrote funny posts? Do you recall my writing two, even three posts per month? Can you think back to my missives about the joy of those three things in my life: cooking; dancing; writing? How about: Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow, and oh so mellow (if you're very lucky, you hear Jerry Orbach singing this in the ear of your brain)? Anyway. Mom was hospitalized, and now continues her residence in the rehab facility. And. Still. I am the only family she has who is willing to help.
Lest we forget, I do have a sibling. An older sister. But she opted out of Mom's care, let's see, just about as soon as Mom needed care. Billy has stepped into her shoes (well, not literally). So I have those Chinatown moments: he's my husband/he's my sister/he's my husband, he's my sister . . . Come on, you know what I mean. Like we all don't have those moments.
So I've been absent from my blog -- giving my faithful (or faithless) posse a respite while I have been spinning out, trying to figure out what happens next in the morass of complications that make up elder care. All the while watching my mom diminish to a shadow. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Anxious? Depressed? Hurt? Yes, yes, and yes. But as I wrote to a frister recently: We've either been through this; are going through this; or will go through this. And that is probably the truth, mas o menos.
Life becomes a run when you have someone in the hospital. You get up; you get dressed; you do some work; you run. A lot of things fall by the wayside: hanging up clothes, balancing checking accounts (with taking on the responsibility for my mom's finances, I currently have seven); spending quality time with the spouse. Because he's running, too -- picking up the slack around the house, if not the pile of clothing on the bedroom chair.
I always think that she will be ok each time. But her congestive heart failure is weakening her. This stint at rehab to try to shore up her diminishing mobility is not as successful as in the past. And as she nears the fifty-day mark, she will need to leave rehab. Why? Because Medicare only pays for 100 days, and you cannot regenerate those days until she has avoided hospitalization for several months. Therefore, I always try to keep some days in reserve. So I will request her discharge shortly. And after that; who knows? My goal is to find the best place for her. As I have traveled this path, deeper and deeper into the woods, I have learned what she doesn't need. I have learned what to look for in board and care. And, what, at all costs, to avoid. Again, I just want to find the best place for her. All of this requires practical education in maneuvering the minefield of elder care. There is a lot of care to be had, but one quickly becomes cynical when you get caught up in the system. It's all about keeping the person going, my friend, Lydia (a doctor's daughter), recently commented about elder medical care. No, I corrected her. It's all about keeping the Medicare going. I know that sounds awful. I want my mom to keep going; to live out her lifespan. But when a myriad collection of "specialists" are called into the rehab center to see my mom and bill Medicare -- dentists, ophthamologists, podiatrists, it makes me wonder whether the Medicare pie is set out, and then everyone scrambles for their piece of it. After the doctors go away, Mom might be left to languish in bed if I were not there to advocate that she be up, and dressed so that her energy isn't further sapped.
I wish I could be around to see how you do when you're my age, my mom once snapped at me. And it was food for thought. My mom tells everyone that she was an acrobatic dancer. I'm not exactly sure what that means, as the story has changed throughout the years. My mom's bendable legend is that she was a dancer -- ballet, tap, and what was known as acrobatics, which, presumably, was like gymnastics. She also played tennis, and she bowled and roller-skated. But from the time I was born, when Mom was in her thirties, I never saw her engage in any physical activity, much less the ones listed above. When she reached her seventies, and we could see she was spending too much time sitting, I implored her to get moving. Use it or lose it, as the saying goes. But even as I talked to her about this, I knew that I was not the boss of her. The atrophy continued, and she is now wheelchair-bound.
Maybe I will be the same when I am her age. And, perhaps, that is the irony--that I will find that her statement about wanting to see how I do when I am her age is prophetic. But I am past middle age. And, unlike my mom, I move. I do Pilates. And I really dance -- last night, for about six hours, until my hair was literally dripping. Well, as I have written before, salsa dance--not for the squeamish.
Meanwhile I ponder where she will go from here. And I question the wisdom of elder care. I want to give her the gift of dying of old age as both her parents did. But you have to rage against the machine. You have to learn about palliative care. You have to focus on comfort. And it is a constant battle. Even as I write this, I was talked into authorizing metabolic lab tests for her, though I suspect it was, ostensibly, just about one more charge-off to Medicare. Elder care is a business. It is for profit. And, it is a shame.
So, at times it does feel as if I am balanced on the edge of the earth. Billy; my fristers and frothers; salsa dance; Dodger baseball; a brand-new taste for Negronis made with bourbon (thank you, Christopher!); a prospective return to Carmel in September, this ALL keeps me from falling off that edge. When I start to waver, I get pulled back. But even if you don't really fall, it still feels like the edge of the earth. And that is plain, damn scary...Thank you all for hanging in with me. Believe me, I KNOW it's not been pretty...And I thank you for reading my blog.
June 20, 2013
Groundhog Day
Los Angeles, California
My mom was hospitalized a month ago and is now in her familiar rehab/skilled nursing center; a facility which considers her to be a "frequent flier." It was her fourth hospital stay; and is her fourth stay in this rehab facility, in less than three years. At the rehab center, she is even in the same room and bed where she has resided over two of her other stays. A lot of the employees there know me. I like them, and I feel they take good care of her. But a rehab facility is a place that you want to get out of as quickly as possible. Both she, and me.
I spent almost nine hours sitting beside her bed after the paramedics took her the ER. You don't dare leave, because that will be the time that the doctor will show up at her cubicle. You must trust me about this, because when it comes to ERs, between my dad and now my mom, I am also a frequent flier. I know the drill. The call came, from the owner of her board and care home, that 911 had been called, and Mom had experienced yet another episode of syncopy, and had been taken to the hospital. Which hospital? I asked to no avail. She had neglected to find out, so some hurried investigative telephone work ensued. Once I learned where she was, I packed up an at-hand copy of her Advance Directive (never give the copy, make them copy it), two Luna protein bars, and a two bottles of water, and headed out. Then the sitting ensued.
After it was determined that she had a urinary tract infection, there was a time in the middle when they were going to send her home with antibiotics, but I pleaded that I was not secure with her care at the board and care home, and mentioned the fluid buildup that her primary care physician had heard in her chest when I had accompanied her to an appointment two weeks before. Dr. Baca took pity on me. At least I think that is what happened, because he changed his mind and decided to admit her. Meanwhile, Billy and several of my friends, including Lydia, were texting me. Each time, after the doctor would round by, I could escape into the hall to make phone calls. I told Carol that once she was admitted I was going to go home and have a big glass of scotch. She offered to bring it to the hospital for me. Another amigo offered to bring tequila and a burrito. They all provided that necessary sense of a safety net, while I went it alone, with only the Luna bars and water.
The nurse who had been with us all day (12-hour shifts, don't ask me how they do this), finally came to take her upstairs to a room. I kissed her goodbye and told her that she was in good hands with John, the nurse, and I drove home, calling Billy on the way. While I was updating him, a call came in from the hospital. While again, I'm very good at this drill, I had, nonetheless, forgotten that she can't do the intake because of her memory issues. And the stupid thing is that they don't transfer information from emergency to the hospital at large upon admission (really, people?). So I needed to answer about 20-minutes of information pertaining to her medical history. I finished off the last ten minutes in the garage. Billy came out of the house into the garage, saw me sitting in the car talking, and gave me the universal palms-up gesture for wtf? I had just answered the question about previous surgeries (four, including two knee replacements) and could hear the nurse keying away. I gestured to Billy, the size of a tumbler and mouthed: scotch, one ice cube. He slipped back into the house and returned with one of our crystal glasses. I sipped the scotch, still in the car, still talking to the nurse, still into the ethos of Bluetooth.
The next day I got up and did it all over again. And continued to do it through a week at the hospital, during which time there was a suspicion of pancreatic cancer which, after two days, turned out to be a large cyst on her pancreas. Billy and I were her only visitors during that week. The day she was in emergency, Billy phoned my sister to tell her that Mom was in the hospital with an uncertain diagnosis and outcome. "I'm leaving on vacation tomorrow," she reported. "And I can't change my plans because I've already boarded the cats."
Huh? So she flew away the next morning, and we never heard from her for the entire week. The hospital would only give general information to anyone, besides me, who might call, so she had no access to what was really going on. But, when you're on vacation, who wants to be bothered by a little thing like your mother being in the hospital? Seriously.
I visited my mom every day for the week when she was in the hospital, and exactly one week after our day together in the ER, she was transported to the rehab center. I had left the hospital at 8:00 pm, and picked up Billy. We were at the facility when she arrived. Billy helped her get settled, while I did the intake with the nurse, and turned over her Advance Directive (again, for copying). At 9:45 we walked into the bar at Kate Mantilini's. The Dodgers were still playing, and probably losing (but that's a whole other post, as we like to say in blogtown). I ordered a Glenlivet with one ice cube. It was a nice pour. We shared good sourdough bread, some fat, roasted asparagus, and their macaroni and cheese which tasted insanely amazing after enduring the week that had began that long day that had ended with my knocking back that glass of scotch in my car. It had been a long week, and would be a long week to come. I would visit her every day that week as it was her first back in a place which was familiar to me, but, because of her failing memory, much less so to her. Now, after her third week there, I can get by with visiting only 3 or 4 times each week. We had a Care Plan meeting in the second week. Their plan is to keep her for the one-hundred days that Medicare will cover. My plan is to get her some physical therapy to hopefully strengthen her a bit, and get her out much sooner than that. Meanwhile, each day I have spent with her, in the hospital or rehab facility, is Groundhog Day.
I know how it is when you visit someone in the hospital, Mom says, looping this phrase over and over. I don't know what it is, but it doesn't feel good. I tell her that it doesn't bother me. And, in some ways, it is the truth. It is so familiar to me that I fall into the pattern easily, in spite of the stress and fatigue that rides along with me in the process. I know who to be nice to (everyone), I know what to bring with me in a heavy tote bag, I know how to listen to her and how to respond. I tell her every time when I see her that I will always be there for her. I remind her that we are family. When, each time before I leave, she tells me she loves me, I always respond I love you more.
My mom wasn't there for me when I needed her the most. When I was a teenager, even though my mom was a housewife and was ostensibly at home each day, I was left to flounder around and rely on my friends and my friends' families for the support and grounding all teenagers need. My dad wasn't really around. He was working long hours with a ridiculously far daily commute. I was left to find my own way when I was too young to do so competently. Now she is too old. And I won't do to her what she did to me. So, I loop along with her, telling her what I hope will be a comfort. I've done this over and over and over again, and will continue to do so for the rest of her life. Groundhog Day.
My mom was hospitalized a month ago and is now in her familiar rehab/skilled nursing center; a facility which considers her to be a "frequent flier." It was her fourth hospital stay; and is her fourth stay in this rehab facility, in less than three years. At the rehab center, she is even in the same room and bed where she has resided over two of her other stays. A lot of the employees there know me. I like them, and I feel they take good care of her. But a rehab facility is a place that you want to get out of as quickly as possible. Both she, and me.
I spent almost nine hours sitting beside her bed after the paramedics took her the ER. You don't dare leave, because that will be the time that the doctor will show up at her cubicle. You must trust me about this, because when it comes to ERs, between my dad and now my mom, I am also a frequent flier. I know the drill. The call came, from the owner of her board and care home, that 911 had been called, and Mom had experienced yet another episode of syncopy, and had been taken to the hospital. Which hospital? I asked to no avail. She had neglected to find out, so some hurried investigative telephone work ensued. Once I learned where she was, I packed up an at-hand copy of her Advance Directive (never give the copy, make them copy it), two Luna protein bars, and a two bottles of water, and headed out. Then the sitting ensued.
After it was determined that she had a urinary tract infection, there was a time in the middle when they were going to send her home with antibiotics, but I pleaded that I was not secure with her care at the board and care home, and mentioned the fluid buildup that her primary care physician had heard in her chest when I had accompanied her to an appointment two weeks before. Dr. Baca took pity on me. At least I think that is what happened, because he changed his mind and decided to admit her. Meanwhile, Billy and several of my friends, including Lydia, were texting me. Each time, after the doctor would round by, I could escape into the hall to make phone calls. I told Carol that once she was admitted I was going to go home and have a big glass of scotch. She offered to bring it to the hospital for me. Another amigo offered to bring tequila and a burrito. They all provided that necessary sense of a safety net, while I went it alone, with only the Luna bars and water.
The nurse who had been with us all day (12-hour shifts, don't ask me how they do this), finally came to take her upstairs to a room. I kissed her goodbye and told her that she was in good hands with John, the nurse, and I drove home, calling Billy on the way. While I was updating him, a call came in from the hospital. While again, I'm very good at this drill, I had, nonetheless, forgotten that she can't do the intake because of her memory issues. And the stupid thing is that they don't transfer information from emergency to the hospital at large upon admission (really, people?). So I needed to answer about 20-minutes of information pertaining to her medical history. I finished off the last ten minutes in the garage. Billy came out of the house into the garage, saw me sitting in the car talking, and gave me the universal palms-up gesture for wtf? I had just answered the question about previous surgeries (four, including two knee replacements) and could hear the nurse keying away. I gestured to Billy, the size of a tumbler and mouthed: scotch, one ice cube. He slipped back into the house and returned with one of our crystal glasses. I sipped the scotch, still in the car, still talking to the nurse, still into the ethos of Bluetooth.
The next day I got up and did it all over again. And continued to do it through a week at the hospital, during which time there was a suspicion of pancreatic cancer which, after two days, turned out to be a large cyst on her pancreas. Billy and I were her only visitors during that week. The day she was in emergency, Billy phoned my sister to tell her that Mom was in the hospital with an uncertain diagnosis and outcome. "I'm leaving on vacation tomorrow," she reported. "And I can't change my plans because I've already boarded the cats."
Huh? So she flew away the next morning, and we never heard from her for the entire week. The hospital would only give general information to anyone, besides me, who might call, so she had no access to what was really going on. But, when you're on vacation, who wants to be bothered by a little thing like your mother being in the hospital? Seriously.
I visited my mom every day for the week when she was in the hospital, and exactly one week after our day together in the ER, she was transported to the rehab center. I had left the hospital at 8:00 pm, and picked up Billy. We were at the facility when she arrived. Billy helped her get settled, while I did the intake with the nurse, and turned over her Advance Directive (again, for copying). At 9:45 we walked into the bar at Kate Mantilini's. The Dodgers were still playing, and probably losing (but that's a whole other post, as we like to say in blogtown). I ordered a Glenlivet with one ice cube. It was a nice pour. We shared good sourdough bread, some fat, roasted asparagus, and their macaroni and cheese which tasted insanely amazing after enduring the week that had began that long day that had ended with my knocking back that glass of scotch in my car. It had been a long week, and would be a long week to come. I would visit her every day that week as it was her first back in a place which was familiar to me, but, because of her failing memory, much less so to her. Now, after her third week there, I can get by with visiting only 3 or 4 times each week. We had a Care Plan meeting in the second week. Their plan is to keep her for the one-hundred days that Medicare will cover. My plan is to get her some physical therapy to hopefully strengthen her a bit, and get her out much sooner than that. Meanwhile, each day I have spent with her, in the hospital or rehab facility, is Groundhog Day.
I know how it is when you visit someone in the hospital, Mom says, looping this phrase over and over. I don't know what it is, but it doesn't feel good. I tell her that it doesn't bother me. And, in some ways, it is the truth. It is so familiar to me that I fall into the pattern easily, in spite of the stress and fatigue that rides along with me in the process. I know who to be nice to (everyone), I know what to bring with me in a heavy tote bag, I know how to listen to her and how to respond. I tell her every time when I see her that I will always be there for her. I remind her that we are family. When, each time before I leave, she tells me she loves me, I always respond I love you more.
My mom wasn't there for me when I needed her the most. When I was a teenager, even though my mom was a housewife and was ostensibly at home each day, I was left to flounder around and rely on my friends and my friends' families for the support and grounding all teenagers need. My dad wasn't really around. He was working long hours with a ridiculously far daily commute. I was left to find my own way when I was too young to do so competently. Now she is too old. And I won't do to her what she did to me. So, I loop along with her, telling her what I hope will be a comfort. I've done this over and over and over again, and will continue to do so for the rest of her life. Groundhog Day.
May 30, 2013
A Piece of Cake
Los Angeles, California
I write a lot about cake. And I write some about faith and religion. I probably even write occasionally about sex, though not so much. One thing I don't write much about is politics, though it wouldn't take a fine-toothed comb to sift through the information contained in my posts and figure out where I stand on the conservative-liberal spectrum.
It's not that I don't care about political and social issues. It's not as if it is a missing link in my life, like visual art seems to be. It's just that, in my life today, I can't throw enough attention at it to be really knowledgable. I don't devote the time to keep up. My news comes to me through NPR, the NYTimes online, and other print and online sources. But, when I am not in Carmel, I simply don't read news cover-to-cover. Other interests, responsibilities, and, let's be honest, distractions take precedence.
But I am not unaware of the movement of LGBT rights. And it is important to me. And would be, even if Billy and I didn't have several friends who are gay, including one couple who are very close friends. I know this is wrong, but I don't think I've ever really stopped to think that they are denied anything in life and society, because that seems so incomprehensible to me. Denial is not just a river in Egypt?
Not that it should be an issue when it comes to rights, but I believe that each of the couples we know are in every way as close and committed as are Billy and I. I don't accept preference as making much of a difference when it comes to our human emotions, including our love for another human being. And, frankly (here comes one of those times when I will bring sex into my blog), our sexuality is only one aspect of our lives, intimate or otherwise (albeit an important one). Lastly, when it comes to marriage equality, I am always reminded of what I once heard Tom Selleck (I think it was Tom Selleck--I know it wasn't Tom Cruise) say: Why shouldn't they be as unhappy as the rest of us? That's a joke, people!
Years ago, Billy and I watched a documentary entitled Eyes on the Prize. It was a profound piece of work about the civil rights movement. And even though it was only three or four decades after the movement, what we saw in the footage--of children being severely knocked about by the force of firehoses held by grown men, was shocking and appalling. You forget, after the movements have accomplished their goals, how hard it was. How wrong the pre-movement thinking was. I don't often think about the fact that my gender has only had the vote for less than a century. I don't reflect upon the fact that we were thought too stupid or too emotional to be given that right and responsibility.
As I look about my community of friends and fristers (and frothers), I realize that there is a great deal of diversity in all areas of my life. I remember that when I was a Brownie and Girl Scout, in Burbank, California, we sold fund-raising calendars with pictures of racially and ethnically diverse Scouts. But that didn't represent my troop. We had no Latinas, no African-American nor Asian girls in my troop. We had one Jewish girl. We had a quite a few Italian-Americans, but the rest of us were mostly of mixed middle and northern European heritage. My high school had one(1) African-American student attending, and I did not get to know him. I remember looking on him with curiosity, nothing more. As I've aged the diversity amongst my community has more or less just unfolded, and I think I've taken that for granted. In fact, in the community where we live, Billy and I are in the minority, except in the obvious, but nevertheless all-important, sense that we are all of the human race. All. Important.
When I first saw the symbol for equality on someone's Facebook page, I had to surf for the meaning of it. When I saw the cake version of it, shown above, I had to download it. The truth is that this movement for LGBT rights should be so accomplished already. And maybe that's why I tend to forget that it isn't. And that is wrong of me. I should show support. I should show that I care. Because, like the movement for women's rights, and the movement for civil rights, this should have been done already. In fact, it should have been a piece of cake. Thank you for reading my blog.
May 20, 2013
The 5000 Hits of Bartholomew Cubbins
Los Angeles, California
My favorite Dr. Suess book is The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. SpoilerAlert: In this book, a young lad attempts to doff his hat when the king is passing, but discovers that there is another hat under it...and another under the next, and so on. The hats are increasingly ornate including the 499th hat which he removes before the executioner, after he is sentenced to death for dissing the king by not removing his hat in the king's presence. Great fun, eh?
The above picture of my friend, Christopher, was taken on Christmas night in Carmel. We had attempted to make balloon animals, and actually, Christopher and Carole quite capably made balloon dogs, as I recall. Dachshunds. But most of us just had fun twisting the balloons into odd shapes and, ultimately, party hats. And what does this have to do with the subject of this post, which is about reaching five thousand hits on my blog? Absolutely nothing. But it's a great photo.
And so. And so my blog has hit the high water mark of 5000 hits. And this is what I have learned: Writing a blog requires some perseverance. You don't always feel like writing. You start off with some ideas in mind, like my idea to include recipes in, as I recall, every other post (really? Really?!) or to try to make the posts humorous (nice try--some of the posts have been downright dismally depressing, I'm afraid). Truth is that no matter what you think you're going to make, something else will come out. And in blogdom, that, as my friend Lydia often says, is ok.
I recently noticed that a couple of the blogs I've read in the past have been abandoned. The other whatwouldsandrado blog (whatwouldsandrado.com) is one of those. Sad, that, for I enjoyed her writing. But I get it. I don't always come to my Macbook raring to write. And that shows in the posts, I know. But I do like to surprise myself--sometimes even in a good way. Writing is like other forms of alchemy. You start with a blank page or a blank canvas or a space on the dance floor, and, for better or for worse, you create. This is my 105th blog post since I started my blog back in early 2010. I doubt that three years is a long span in the life of a blog. But I cannot think, at this time, that I will stop writing it. And, I am sorry if that is bad news to you, for...
I might leave by the door
After writing some more.
But I will be back,
To write on my Mac.
For this is my blog.
Where I write in my fog,
or I write in my sleep,
When it's cold or there's heat.
I won't write in a day,
But I won't go away.
While you might find it poor,
It just will not be o'er...
...at least not for awhile! Thank you for reading my blog.
My favorite Dr. Suess book is The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. SpoilerAlert: In this book, a young lad attempts to doff his hat when the king is passing, but discovers that there is another hat under it...and another under the next, and so on. The hats are increasingly ornate including the 499th hat which he removes before the executioner, after he is sentenced to death for dissing the king by not removing his hat in the king's presence. Great fun, eh?
The above picture of my friend, Christopher, was taken on Christmas night in Carmel. We had attempted to make balloon animals, and actually, Christopher and Carole quite capably made balloon dogs, as I recall. Dachshunds. But most of us just had fun twisting the balloons into odd shapes and, ultimately, party hats. And what does this have to do with the subject of this post, which is about reaching five thousand hits on my blog? Absolutely nothing. But it's a great photo.
And so. And so my blog has hit the high water mark of 5000 hits. And this is what I have learned: Writing a blog requires some perseverance. You don't always feel like writing. You start off with some ideas in mind, like my idea to include recipes in, as I recall, every other post (really? Really?!) or to try to make the posts humorous (nice try--some of the posts have been downright dismally depressing, I'm afraid). Truth is that no matter what you think you're going to make, something else will come out. And in blogdom, that, as my friend Lydia often says, is ok.
I recently noticed that a couple of the blogs I've read in the past have been abandoned. The other whatwouldsandrado blog (whatwouldsandrado.com) is one of those. Sad, that, for I enjoyed her writing. But I get it. I don't always come to my Macbook raring to write. And that shows in the posts, I know. But I do like to surprise myself--sometimes even in a good way. Writing is like other forms of alchemy. You start with a blank page or a blank canvas or a space on the dance floor, and, for better or for worse, you create. This is my 105th blog post since I started my blog back in early 2010. I doubt that three years is a long span in the life of a blog. But I cannot think, at this time, that I will stop writing it. And, I am sorry if that is bad news to you, for...
I might leave by the door
After writing some more.
But I will be back,
To write on my Mac.
For this is my blog.
Where I write in my fog,
or I write in my sleep,
When it's cold or there's heat.
I won't write in a day,
But I won't go away.
While you might find it poor,
It just will not be o'er...
...at least not for awhile! Thank you for reading my blog.
May 5, 2013
I Am My Own Worst Idiot
Los Angeles, California
Ever seen Albert Brooks' film, Defending Your Life? There is a scene during his hearing to defend his life where his prosecutor runs a reel displaying times during his life when things went wrong. A few have to do with power tools, and one, if memory serves, has him falling off the roof while attempting to fix his TV antenna (shows you how old that movie is). I often think about that scene. It was hilariously funny when I first saw it. And frankly, it reminded me of Billy, who could have a reel of his own like that, for example: putting extra spark-arresting screens on the chimney of our first home so that smoke backed up into our freshly-painted living room; dropping a bottle of Eau Savage cologne into the toilet of our apartment, while it was flushing, causing it to lodge and ultimately causing the toilet to have to be removed and replaced; shipping our clothes to the Kona Village so they would arrive on Sunday, except there is no FedEx delivery on Sunday and he didn't pack any back-up clothes (as had I, smugly) to get him through the next day-and-a-half. Please stop me here, because I got a million of 'em.
This is not to say that I don't do similarly mindless things myself. Believe me, I do. It's just that it's more fun to recount the things that Billy has done over the decades we have been together. However. However, lately I have been saying and doing a lot of idiotic things. And I thought, for a change, I would focus on a few of my own stumbles.
Now, of course salsa dance is going to be in this litany, because it's something I do. A lot. It's a jungle out there on the dance floor, and we've all been hit, kicked, and stepped on. I have caused some damage myself, though not generally by stepping on people because I no longer take those large steps that mark the beginning stage of all salseros. And I don't have big feet; I'm more or less average-sized. Also, I don't wear spike heels which can really do some damage, as in the case of my friend, Joy, who fell on the dance floor (it happens), and then had someone skewer her hand with a spike heel. Yikes. And I'm smart enough to stay away from a certain salsera who allegedly slaps other salseras deliberately. She came to salsa by way of roller derby, we think. But here is what I did Tuesday night: I stepped on my own foot. Yep. I don't know how I did it, but one of my feet got under the other, and I stepped down fairly hard. Ouch, and how stupid is that?
I also notice that as I get older, my tongue occasionally gets tied, or my thoughts become verbalized before I have a chance to run them through my brain's filter. Case-on-point when recently Billy and I were talking about North Korea's ability to shoot an armed missile at the US. I had remarked that if they can only reach Texas (as I had heard on NPR), what were we so worried about? Even judging only by the political figures who have come out of Texas, I think Texas is, more or less, well, expendable? But then Billy said that they didn't have that range, but that they could probably reach Hawaii. Hawaii? I exclaimed. That's ridiculous! Who would attack Hawaii? Who indeed? I've always thought geography was one of my weakest areas of knowledge; but evidently history is creeping up.
Lastly, I was hanging out with my salsera frister, Carol, last week when I uttered a phrase in response to feeling overwhelmed: My eyes will turn to pinmeals. Now, I'm not sure if I was hungry at the time, or if my tongue twisted, or if I just decided to turn that W upside-down to an M. Regardless of reason, we got a good laugh out of it, and it became part of our lexicon for that day, and beyond.
Mind you, I am only sharing a few recent faux pas(es?). The older, and more stressed I get, the more I lose things; say ridiculous things, and display that non-discriminatory curse of aging--forgetting things. Actually, the items on that list shouldn't all be attributed to age. For, I have always lost things since I was a little kid. I recently left my favorite coat behind at the Canary Hotel in Santa Barbara. We phoned when we arrived in Carmel, our next stop on the trip and the place where I really needed the coat. Luckily, they did recover it. But the stories of backtracking in an attempt to retrieve things (and, happily, usually successfully) that I have left behind is pretty-much legendary amongst Billy and my inner-circle fristers.
Maybe I get scattered because I spend a lot of time writing. Not, sitting-down-at-the-computer, or with my journal on my lap, writing, but in-my-head writing. I love words. I love combining them into sentences. I love the play of them. So, I guess it's not such a stretch that I would try to create my own language, with the first word being pinmeals. It will be an interesting, vocabulary-driven language. One with no real structure nor grammar. It won't be easy to learn. Don't even try. If you do, it will, most certainly, turn your eyes to pinmeals. You must trust me about this. Thanks for reading my blog, and if you are from Texas, I apologize. Kinda...
Ever seen Albert Brooks' film, Defending Your Life? There is a scene during his hearing to defend his life where his prosecutor runs a reel displaying times during his life when things went wrong. A few have to do with power tools, and one, if memory serves, has him falling off the roof while attempting to fix his TV antenna (shows you how old that movie is). I often think about that scene. It was hilariously funny when I first saw it. And frankly, it reminded me of Billy, who could have a reel of his own like that, for example: putting extra spark-arresting screens on the chimney of our first home so that smoke backed up into our freshly-painted living room; dropping a bottle of Eau Savage cologne into the toilet of our apartment, while it was flushing, causing it to lodge and ultimately causing the toilet to have to be removed and replaced; shipping our clothes to the Kona Village so they would arrive on Sunday, except there is no FedEx delivery on Sunday and he didn't pack any back-up clothes (as had I, smugly) to get him through the next day-and-a-half. Please stop me here, because I got a million of 'em.
This is not to say that I don't do similarly mindless things myself. Believe me, I do. It's just that it's more fun to recount the things that Billy has done over the decades we have been together. However. However, lately I have been saying and doing a lot of idiotic things. And I thought, for a change, I would focus on a few of my own stumbles.
Now, of course salsa dance is going to be in this litany, because it's something I do. A lot. It's a jungle out there on the dance floor, and we've all been hit, kicked, and stepped on. I have caused some damage myself, though not generally by stepping on people because I no longer take those large steps that mark the beginning stage of all salseros. And I don't have big feet; I'm more or less average-sized. Also, I don't wear spike heels which can really do some damage, as in the case of my friend, Joy, who fell on the dance floor (it happens), and then had someone skewer her hand with a spike heel. Yikes. And I'm smart enough to stay away from a certain salsera who allegedly slaps other salseras deliberately. She came to salsa by way of roller derby, we think. But here is what I did Tuesday night: I stepped on my own foot. Yep. I don't know how I did it, but one of my feet got under the other, and I stepped down fairly hard. Ouch, and how stupid is that?
I also notice that as I get older, my tongue occasionally gets tied, or my thoughts become verbalized before I have a chance to run them through my brain's filter. Case-on-point when recently Billy and I were talking about North Korea's ability to shoot an armed missile at the US. I had remarked that if they can only reach Texas (as I had heard on NPR), what were we so worried about? Even judging only by the political figures who have come out of Texas, I think Texas is, more or less, well, expendable? But then Billy said that they didn't have that range, but that they could probably reach Hawaii. Hawaii? I exclaimed. That's ridiculous! Who would attack Hawaii? Who indeed? I've always thought geography was one of my weakest areas of knowledge; but evidently history is creeping up.
Lastly, I was hanging out with my salsera frister, Carol, last week when I uttered a phrase in response to feeling overwhelmed: My eyes will turn to pinmeals. Now, I'm not sure if I was hungry at the time, or if my tongue twisted, or if I just decided to turn that W upside-down to an M. Regardless of reason, we got a good laugh out of it, and it became part of our lexicon for that day, and beyond.
Mind you, I am only sharing a few recent faux pas(es?). The older, and more stressed I get, the more I lose things; say ridiculous things, and display that non-discriminatory curse of aging--forgetting things. Actually, the items on that list shouldn't all be attributed to age. For, I have always lost things since I was a little kid. I recently left my favorite coat behind at the Canary Hotel in Santa Barbara. We phoned when we arrived in Carmel, our next stop on the trip and the place where I really needed the coat. Luckily, they did recover it. But the stories of backtracking in an attempt to retrieve things (and, happily, usually successfully) that I have left behind is pretty-much legendary amongst Billy and my inner-circle fristers.
Maybe I get scattered because I spend a lot of time writing. Not, sitting-down-at-the-computer, or with my journal on my lap, writing, but in-my-head writing. I love words. I love combining them into sentences. I love the play of them. So, I guess it's not such a stretch that I would try to create my own language, with the first word being pinmeals. It will be an interesting, vocabulary-driven language. One with no real structure nor grammar. It won't be easy to learn. Don't even try. If you do, it will, most certainly, turn your eyes to pinmeals. You must trust me about this. Thanks for reading my blog, and if you are from Texas, I apologize. Kinda...
April 25, 2013
The Hayride
Los Angeles, California
My mom was my sister's Girl Scout troop leader, and I was the troop mascot. It wasn't an elected position. I mean, they didn't really choose me as a mascot, but since I was little, and often hanging around with my mom during the course of their meetings and events, I became that. The young girls were mostly wonderful to me, except for once, when one of them chased me around our backyard with a toadstool in her hand. Girls will be girls. My dad had made sure that I had a fear of toadstools. He was probably aiming for healthy respect, but part of my dad's methodology in protecting us was to make sure we were scared to death of anything that had the power to harm us. So when that scout pulled up that toadstool and took off after me with it, I thought I was going to die. Note to parents out there: There is such a thing as installing an antenna for danger without making your kid into a whimpering scardicat. But I digress...
The troop was going on a hayride, and I was excited about this. I was probably about four at the time. My sister had already "flown up" from Brownies to Girl Scouts, as she is quite a bit older than me, though you wouldn't know it from maturity levels especially with regard to the current care of my mom. Anyway, about that hayride. Shortly before the event I came down with some childhood disease...measles? Mumps? Something. My mom told me that if I got better I would still be able to go. And I tried to get better, but, I didn't. The afternoon of the hayride was fast approaching, and then it arrived. I watched my mom and sister pull out of the driveway in my mom's station wagon. I watched from the window in my bedroom which faced the street. My heart was broken, and I cried as only a broken-hearted four-year-old can cry.
I am so much older now. But when, last Sunday, I missed Josephine's birthday party, at Noypitz in Glendale, because I had come down with some upper respiratory plague, I was sad. And, I was reminded of that hayride, and the disappointment I feel when I have to miss an event. There was a gathering of favorite salseros and there was: dancing, of course; laughter; fun; frivolity, and cupcakes. Carol's cupcakes. These cupcakes:
It was a tough week for salsa dancing. I had canceled plans with Carol twice already, before I woke up with that sore throat on Sunday. I had only danced on Thursday, at a club I don't generally go to. It was an ok night, but not what I would call stellar--stellar being those magical nights which only occur a couple of times a year. But, it probably goes without saying (but when does that stop me?) that even a non-stellar salsa event is better than any night staying at home with upper respiratory distress. And that was Sunday. Today is Thursday, and I'm still in the throes of it.
Recently a good friend of mine, who lives up in Northern California, sent me an email exclaiming that I was out of the darkness and into the light!! She even wrote: HOORAY!! It was in response to an email I had sent her which was, evidently, fairly upbeat. We exchange newsy emails pretty much about the highlights of activities, and I don't think my email was atypical of the usual. Her response took me aback, as they say, because I just don't think of my life in those terms, except at the resolution of a neighborhood power outage. My life is anything but black and white. It is gray to the core, a mix of, amongst other things: despair; distress; family and health issues; contentment; joyfulness; and, as Helen Hayes once said, ecstatic moments. One thing my life is generally not, is boring. And I am thankful for that.
I would say that missing Jo's birthday event fell into the category of health issues. That stuff just happens. But I do regret that I missed it, and that I also missed out on the contentment and joyfulness of those cupcakes, and the possibility of an ecstatic moment while salsa dancing. Still, quoting my mom's oft-repeated quote from the Bible, this too shall pass, and there will be more dancing in my future, on many more nights. And about that missed hayride. I became a Brownie, and my troop went on a hayride that I did not miss. How was that? Stellar. Thank you for reading my blog. Happy birthday, Mama Jo Stardancer!
My mom was my sister's Girl Scout troop leader, and I was the troop mascot. It wasn't an elected position. I mean, they didn't really choose me as a mascot, but since I was little, and often hanging around with my mom during the course of their meetings and events, I became that. The young girls were mostly wonderful to me, except for once, when one of them chased me around our backyard with a toadstool in her hand. Girls will be girls. My dad had made sure that I had a fear of toadstools. He was probably aiming for healthy respect, but part of my dad's methodology in protecting us was to make sure we were scared to death of anything that had the power to harm us. So when that scout pulled up that toadstool and took off after me with it, I thought I was going to die. Note to parents out there: There is such a thing as installing an antenna for danger without making your kid into a whimpering scardicat. But I digress...
The troop was going on a hayride, and I was excited about this. I was probably about four at the time. My sister had already "flown up" from Brownies to Girl Scouts, as she is quite a bit older than me, though you wouldn't know it from maturity levels especially with regard to the current care of my mom. Anyway, about that hayride. Shortly before the event I came down with some childhood disease...measles? Mumps? Something. My mom told me that if I got better I would still be able to go. And I tried to get better, but, I didn't. The afternoon of the hayride was fast approaching, and then it arrived. I watched my mom and sister pull out of the driveway in my mom's station wagon. I watched from the window in my bedroom which faced the street. My heart was broken, and I cried as only a broken-hearted four-year-old can cry.
I am so much older now. But when, last Sunday, I missed Josephine's birthday party, at Noypitz in Glendale, because I had come down with some upper respiratory plague, I was sad. And, I was reminded of that hayride, and the disappointment I feel when I have to miss an event. There was a gathering of favorite salseros and there was: dancing, of course; laughter; fun; frivolity, and cupcakes. Carol's cupcakes. These cupcakes:
It was a tough week for salsa dancing. I had canceled plans with Carol twice already, before I woke up with that sore throat on Sunday. I had only danced on Thursday, at a club I don't generally go to. It was an ok night, but not what I would call stellar--stellar being those magical nights which only occur a couple of times a year. But, it probably goes without saying (but when does that stop me?) that even a non-stellar salsa event is better than any night staying at home with upper respiratory distress. And that was Sunday. Today is Thursday, and I'm still in the throes of it.
Recently a good friend of mine, who lives up in Northern California, sent me an email exclaiming that I was out of the darkness and into the light!! She even wrote: HOORAY!! It was in response to an email I had sent her which was, evidently, fairly upbeat. We exchange newsy emails pretty much about the highlights of activities, and I don't think my email was atypical of the usual. Her response took me aback, as they say, because I just don't think of my life in those terms, except at the resolution of a neighborhood power outage. My life is anything but black and white. It is gray to the core, a mix of, amongst other things: despair; distress; family and health issues; contentment; joyfulness; and, as Helen Hayes once said, ecstatic moments. One thing my life is generally not, is boring. And I am thankful for that.
I would say that missing Jo's birthday event fell into the category of health issues. That stuff just happens. But I do regret that I missed it, and that I also missed out on the contentment and joyfulness of those cupcakes, and the possibility of an ecstatic moment while salsa dancing. Still, quoting my mom's oft-repeated quote from the Bible, this too shall pass, and there will be more dancing in my future, on many more nights. And about that missed hayride. I became a Brownie, and my troop went on a hayride that I did not miss. How was that? Stellar. Thank you for reading my blog. Happy birthday, Mama Jo Stardancer!
April 10, 2013
Spring (Mini) Break
Santa Barbara, California
Easter has passed, and Billy and I are taking a five-day mini-break up the coast. The origins of this exodus, from LA and our business, goes back to last year, when Billy declared that he would never again go all the way through mid-winter and all of spring without a break. Last year, he was working six-days a week, and it was killing. But with the housing market and economics looking up, he is back to his normal five-day work week. In spite of that, I had it in my brain that he needed a spring break. He was resistant. I persevered.
We've come to Santa Barbara for a salsa event at Santa Barbara Museum of Art. One of my favorite groups, Ricardo Lemvo and Makina Loca, is performing there. I figured this was exactly the kind of high-browed salsa event that I could get Billy out to, what with food and drink along with the salsa music. I don't know if there will be dancing, but frankly, where there is salsa music, there is dancing--dance floor not necessary under all circumstances.
From here we are returning to Carmel. It's been almost four months since we left, and a longing develops. The difficulty will be to narrow down our favorite activities. Billy wants us to golf. I want to go to the Mission. There will be shopping. And the restaurants: our trad first nighter is Rio Grill. But we absolutely must get to The Bench at Pebble Beach. And at the tail end of January we discovered 1833 where I had the most amazing cocktail called Commander-In-Chief which you can learn more about here. In our short time there, we will need to pack in, like, a lot.
When we return home on Monday, it will be the middle of April and we will begin our progression towards summer at Casa Healy. We are busy prepping the house for this time of long afternoons and warm summer nights. We have houseguests coming in just before the solstice, and that is always a good excuse to spruce up. Carpets have been cleaned, trees will be trimmed, windows will be washed and lots of food will be stocked. I love the change of seasons and the different produce it provides. I'm looking forward to roasting asparagus in the manner of Roasted Broccoli and Shrimp (recipe available right here and now on this very blog). I am looking forward to the fragrance of barbecued ribs and grilled corn. I am looking forward to the tomatoes that Billy planted. Hell, I'm just looking forward to summer, as usual.
But that doesn't take away from the delight of a road trip, taken in the early spring when the hills of the California coast are lush and green, and we listen and sing along with a playlist designed for the road, just as we have been doing since we first met in our twenties. That's part of the beauty of a mini-break. You get to break away from it all: work; responsibilities; the long slog of the dark days of winter. You get to sing, play, and make memories in favorite places. It's spring. And, while we're no longer crazily celebrating the spring break of our school years, for us, our spring mini-break is every bit as joyful. Happy Spring to you all, and thank you for reading my blog!
But that doesn't take away from the delight of a road trip, taken in the early spring when the hills of the California coast are lush and green, and we listen and sing along with a playlist designed for the road, just as we have been doing since we first met in our twenties. That's part of the beauty of a mini-break. You get to break away from it all: work; responsibilities; the long slog of the dark days of winter. You get to sing, play, and make memories in favorite places. It's spring. And, while we're no longer crazily celebrating the spring break of our school years, for us, our spring mini-break is every bit as joyful. Happy Spring to you all, and thank you for reading my blog!
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.