RED

          There’s a triangle of red on the J key of my ergonomic keyboard.

It isn’t blood, it’s nail polish but it looks like blood that has had a chance to dry - burgundy, maroon. The rare times I decide to paint my nails I can’t sit still long enough to let them dry completely.

          This red reminds me of the perfectly round drops of blood on worn wood floors of my apartment on

Pacific Coast Highway

. No matter how hard I tried squeeze my innards as I made my way, half-asleep, from bed to bathroom, the drops escaped. I remember the “th-wump” as the tampon fell out of me, completely saturated. I’d have to grab hold of the slippery string to keep it from falling into the toilet and plugging up the pipes. 

          How much blood did I lose, in my thirties, the prime of my life, my sexual peak?  I remember the day I was in Fireside Market, leaning on the shopping cart with cramps so bad I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stand upright in the checkout line. I’d bought a paperback of The World According to Garp. This was before the movie with Robin Williams which I believe is one of the rare occasions when a movie does justice to the book.

          I came home from the market, retreated to Earl’s enormous king-sized bed which nearly filled the bedroom in that little noisy apartment where cars whizzed past twenty hours a day. In the few quiet hours, between 2:00 and 5:00 AM, if I happened to get up to pee, or change a tampon, I could actually hear the ocean, I could hear waves breaking on the sand. 

          The only other time I remember quiet was that winter it rained so much the highway flooded, whole portions of bluffs simply melted onto the highway, like chocolate cake batter. Jane and I had to work, one Monday, to get the payroll done.  She parked in Santa Monica Canyon and walked to the Club and I simply walked from my apartment past the Nugent’s house, through Tee’s parking lot. We spent a couple hours adding up time cards, filling out the ADP sheets. Then we literally went out and stood right in the middle of the closed highway. The sun was out by now and maintenance crews hadn’t yet arrived to clean up the mess.     We stood in the silence of that sparkling January day, taking in the beauty of the Malibu mountains, the wide white sand, and an ocean that was slowly calming, like a baby recovering from a crying fit.  The beach was littered with all sorts of driftwood and debris and we, two young blondes, strolled down the highway feeling as if we were the first white people to ever set eyes on that magnificent bay.

PET PEEVES

          I gave my adult students the assignment to write about a pet peeve. I find that I have a whole menagerie of peeves and find it interesting that so many of them are traits or habits possessed by my husband.

          Why did I choose to marry someone who would constantly get my hackles up? The simple answer is I was lonely, horny and tired of being single, so when I met a nice-looking, employed man, my age, with a clean car, I was drawn to him like a meat bee to a picnic. 

          So you won’t think I’m totally heartless, the deal was clinched when I met the rescued cat he brought from Texas in a U-Haul. And when he got tears in his eyes talking about his daughter . . . I was a goner. 

          However, if we hadn’t gotten married after only knowing each other four months I wonder if we would have gone through with it. At first I found it so charming that we had different tastes in food, I took a picture: his whiskey, my tequila; his steak, my tofu; his mayonnaise, my hoisin sauce; his potato chips, my dried seaweed.  I was forty-one years old but as excited as a seventeen-year-old thinking how marvelous it would be to change his diet, in effect, change him.

          Of course it never happened.  Twenty-years later one cabinet holds his nuts, crackers, chips and coffee creamer while across the kitchen another cabinet is my Asian pantry.  The refrigerator crispers hold green, orange and red vegetables he never eats.  And yet, I continue to let myself be irritated by his diet and worry about his health.  When he dips a fork into the mayonnaise jar and spreads it on a saltine, then tops it with a slice of summer sausage my whole body trembles.

          Then there’s the dishwasher.  I have this “thing” about order. I love to open drawers and see everything placed like a puzzle, in individual compartments I’ve devised from various sized boxes. This is the case in my desk, my dresser, and all the drawers in the kitchen. Every item from a roll of tape to a shoelace has a place and everything sleeps peacefully until I need it.

          So, it follows that when I put dishes in the dishwasher, I place like with like, dishes with dishes, glasses with glasses, forks with forks, etc.  This not only presents a pleasing picture when I revisit it, but makes putting away more efficient.  Perhaps I over anthropomorphize – but how can I not? When I hold the cup Katherine and I purchased together on

Montana Avenue

twenty-five years ago, I remember that day. Everything I own has a story behind it. I didn’t create the story.  I’m not that crazy!

          Now, before I tell you this, I want you to be sitting down and preferably holding on to something: when I open the dishwasher after John’s cleaned up the kitchen here is what I see: chaos, the aftermath of a tornado, or what would happen if a super hero tossed everything in the air and let it land willy-nilly.  Sometimes small glasses are actually upside down.  He prefers the top rack, so he doesn’t have to bed over. This means it’s overcrowded with plates, cups, spatulas, knives, all going in different directions, some diagonal.

          He does use the basket for flatware, but flings them face down so that fork tines are inevitably wedged in the basket and have to be forcefully yanked out. Plus, I never know which is a fork or spoon because upside down they all look the same.

          I’ve made it a habit to clear the dishwasher when he’s not within ear shot, so I can apologize as I take all the items out and position them back in drawers and cupboards.  I imagine how happy they must feel being reunited.  The stack of salad plates, a nest of bowls, that lone hand painted Chinese bowl with the adorable children in their little caps!

          John is not going to change. Neither am I.  If I want something done my way it’s up to me to do it.  If he does it his way I live with the results. As he says, “the dishes got clean, didn’t they?”

          I nod in agreement as he walks back into his off-limits office and closes the door.  When I do the laundry I’ll deposit his clean socks on the stack of banker boxes that line the hall, the stack he was going to take to storage three weeks ago.  But that’s another issue. . .

         

         

RINGING IN THE NEW

          Because I’m really a cat, I have a problem with this whole time thing. To me every day starts with the day growing light, having to pee, reluctantly drawing myself out of the dreams that entertained me through the night. Then I’ll remember there’s a dog who needs a walk.  My morning companion will put her sweet little face next to mine and let me inhale her feline sweetness before letting me know she wants to check out the day.

          And so it goes – breakfast, lunch, dinner, conversations, laundry and other satisfying household chores, forays into literature or interesting articles in the Wall Street Journal and the Kerrville Daily Times.

          Some days are hot, some days are cold. Some days are both. Perhaps because I’m myopic, I concentrate on what’s immediately in front of me and let the blurry future spread out in big, expanding circles 

without trying to focus on what may or may not lie ahead.     

          So, when it comes to the end of the year I don’t really set goals, make resolutions, and let go of the past. I do, however, read through my Daily Reminder before I place it on the shelf along with all the others, going back to 1973.  I transfer major events to my Master Chart, which goes back to the beginning of my life and add the books I read to my ongoing list. 

          It used to be I saw a lot of movies, when I lived in Los Angeles, in the 1980s. I had a lot of sex then, too. My life was concerned with finding a husband and having a baby but due to karma, or fate, or an inability to distinguish love from lust, the husband and baby eluded me.

          Now I have a husband who tolerates my quirks, checks on me when I’m napping to make sure I’m not dead. Instead of grown children I have cats and a stinky dog who, on our afternoon walk, found a dried up lawn to roll in.  Following behind him as he pulled me along the sidewalk I couldn’t help but find it endearing to see how happily he pranced along, glad to be “in disguise,” and found it hard to stay mad at him.  Before coming in the house, he loved the rubdown I gave him.  I carefully avoided the shiny black growth on his leg, now big as a ping pong ball, and the “little warty thing” on the top of his head. I saw how white his muzzle has become. 

          He doesn’t know it’s January 1^st. Nor does my cat, lying on the couch with her stomach full. She just let out a big contented sigh.  I can hear John bringing the plants back inside after two weeks on the patio. He says it’s going to be twenty-nine degrees tomorrow morning.  I’m prepared. My long-johns and thick socks are folded on the end of the bed. 

          As usual I’ll reluctantly bid farewell to my dreams filled with a cast of interesting characters and steep mountains and/or ocean views. I’ll be one day further from my birth and one day closer to my death. I’ll try to be graceful as I traverse the high wire of my life, keep my balance and not look down.

WHERE I AM

          I am sitting at my desk, in my office of the house we rent in Kerrville, Texas, United States, planet earth.  I am sixty-two years and 213 days old. My first residence was on

Overland Avenue, Los Angeles

; then a rented yellow house in Rustic Canyon, followed by the house my parents built in 1955. I lived there until I was nineteen-years old. Then I moved into a white shack next to the Malibu Feed Bin where I met Charles Manson who didn’t impress me one bit.

          From there I spent several months in an apartment in Venice that had a salami monster under the floor.  Then Tom and I moved to Beverly Glen Canyon where I’d hike up my antique white nightgown to climb the dusty hill, and walk across a wooden plank to the artist’s studio, which had no running water. If I needed to pee, I squatted outside. When our landlord got busted, Tom and I fled to North Hollywood and lived in a house with linoleum floors and ate fake turkey on Thanksgiving. We’d become vegetarians because after Tom got out of the draft—he only ate grapes for a month–his sister, to celebrate, presented him with a bloody steak, so he swore off meat. 

          A pink summer cottage in Mount Shasta followed. I baked bread, listened to Joni Mitchell and cried. Tom needed to have his wisdom teeth pulled so we stayed with my sister in Pacific Heights, San Francisco, in the basement apartment of a mansion owned by her best friend from school.  When Tom went back to LA to try to get a record contact, I went to Wales to visit Katherine and got a telegram saying I had to move out. 

          I sublet a room in an apartment on Potrero Hill from a meditator who decided I was a whore because I had three different guys visit me that month. I moved into the living room of an old mansion on

Laguna Street

where we all shared the kitchen and bathrooms. I got strep throat and herpes and a yeast infection so I returned to Rustic Canyon, worked for two months at United Professional Planning, met Roger, went to Wales (again) and fell in love with him through letters.  

          I stayed with him on

Hearst Street

in Berkeley until I found an apartment in San Francisco near the Opera House that had cockroaches running up and down the walls.  I found a kitten but it was schizo so I gave it to the SPCA. I got strep throat (again) and this time Roger felt sorry for me, so he let me move in with him.

          Somehow he met a guy who let us live for free if we managed an apartment building where one of the tenants was a drug dealer who never paid his rent. After we evicted him we found the balcony covered in dog shit, and crayon marks all over the walls, boxes of sugary cereal under the sink, and bullets in the refrigerator.

          For a while we lived on the ground floor of a lovely sunny house on Benvenue with lavender wisteria dripping over the wide front porch. But after my tonsillectomy they found I had hepatitis, so I returned to Rustic Canyon and once again my mother nursed me back to health.

          I rented an apartment on

Yale Street

in Santa Monica with a sauna and a pool and when Roger said he was in love with me I told him he had to marry me.  So we got married and rented an apartment on

4^th Street

in Ocean Park until we thought we should buy a house, which we did, in Olivenhain, four miles from Encinitas in San Diego County. It came with a pool, twenty-one fruit trees and grapevines where I found him sound asleep one morning.

          Seventeen years later he told me he had been addicted to Demerol but then I didn’t know what was the matter. One day he confided he’d been working for the Israeli secret service and could fulfill his obligation by going to Israel, living on Kibbutz, and I could come too, if I would convert.  I looked out the window toward the lovely view of Rancho Santa Fe and looked at my cats lounging on the floor. I knew I could leave the house but I could not leave my cats, so I didn’t go with him.

          Once again Mother came to my rescue. She found me an apartment in Santa Monica, a sweet, old two-story with a courtyard and found me a job and for the next thirteen years I worked at the Sand and Sea Club. I fell in love, had my heart broken, became a “real” poet, became an aerobic teacher, wrote a novel. Nine of those years I lived in an apartment on PCH, became a Laker fan, then bought a condo because Mother thought it was time I had some financial security. She gave me the down payment.

          When the Club closed I drove up to Ahwahnee to visit an ex-boyfriend. Sitting on his boat, in the middle of Bass Lake, I looked at the pine-covered mountains and sunlight sparkling on the water and decided to move to Oakhurst.

          After a year I met John, got married, moved into the house he had rented in Yosemite Lakes Park. Then for seven years we lived in a shady white chalet. I did community theater and John looked for the perfect property for us to build a house.

          Eventually he found it: seventeen acres of manzanita, bull pine, huge oaks and the most beautiful views of the high sierras, the San Joaquin Valley and the Coastal range. I was so happy there with my cats, my above-ground pool, the steep hills, wildflowers I knew by name. But we lost our jobs, lost money, lost my father, lost our home.

          We moved to Texas where we are now, where I am now, just before dinner on a Thursday night, with an unknown number of years spread before me, a blur, a mystery. And Mother, who always came to my rescue, is now in an assisted living facility overlooking Santa Monica Bay. She suffers from long-term and short-term memory loss and eats lots of chocolate because, as she told me today, if she’s going to die, she wants to die happy.

THE YEAR IN BOOKS

          After losing our house and my father in 2010, 2011 was a year of gains – people, places, adventures. Not least was purchasing a Kindle. Of all the books I read in 2011, only two were book-books.  The rest came to me over the air, magically, at the touch of a button.  I read in bed, on the couch, waiting in doctors’ offices, at the airport and on the recumbent bike at the gym. Some samples didn’t quite grab me but I may reconsider.   

          I’d love to hear your recommendations.

NON-FICTION

Excellent: In the Land of Invisible Women by Qanta Ahmed, a female doctor’s year in Saudia Arabia; Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, a World War II survival story. 

Good: The Autobiography of Ben Franklin; Animalish by Susan Orlean about her love of animals; The Getaway Car by Ann Patchett, on writing; In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson, American ambassador to Germany on the eve of WWII; Time to be Earnest by P.D. James, a memoir; Bossy Pants by Tina Fey, a memoir; Like Fallen Snow by Ruth Rosenthal, stories from her life.

Samples not finished: Gotham, a History; Prime Time by Jane Fonda; Walk with Me by Mike Birgiglia; Unfamiliar Fishes by Sarah Vowell, A History of the World in Six Glasses;  If You Ask Me by Betty White.

FICTION

Excellent: Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese, Ethiopia in the 1960s; People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks, follows an ancient manuscript back to its creation.

Good: Caleb’s Crossing by Geraldine Brooks; Driving on the Rim by Thomas McGuane; The Little Bride by Anna Solomon; The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Patchett; Please Look After Mom by Kyung-Sook Shin; The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest by Stieg Larson; Half Broke Horses by Jeannette Walls; Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood, U is for Undertow by Sue Grafton; Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson; Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier; Room by Emma Donaghue.

Couldn’t finish: The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson.

Samples not finished: State of Wonder by Ann Patchett; The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides;  Everywhere That Mary Went by Lisa Scottoline; V is for Vengeance by Sue Grafton; Fearless Mrs. Goodwin; The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbach.

Kindle also has some fun games that help wake up my brain when I get tired:  Scrabble isn’t as much fun as playing with friends on Facebook; Everyword Crossings sometimes stumps me; my most recent free purchase is Jig Saw Words, check it out!

Tis the Season

          I’m trying hard not to clench my jaw and hold my breath until the “holiday season” is over.  But honestly, there are only two things I like about this time of year: lights and cards.

          I think Christmas lights should be put up right after the finale of Dancing with the Stars and left up until Daylight Savings Time returns. I love driving through the Hill Country – or anywhere – and seeing the festive colors. I enjoy seeing which houses go all-out.  Here in our rental house, I hung white (golden) lights over the security door that we leave open all year, and John put colored net lights on the hedge. They’re  pretty and lift my spirits. I like looking out my kitchen window and seeing Dan & Jan’s house at the end of the cul-du-sac, with a string of golden lights outlining their roof.

          Inside I have a string of white lights on the mantle with my favorite decorations accumulated over the years - Jo Lathwood’s three felt Santas she made from a pattern in Sunset Magazine, I must have had them at least thirty years; the wooden St. Nicholas carved by Helen Smith of Oakhurst, in 1991, before Parkinson’s took her skill away;  Hawaiian Santa sent by Holly and Michael who now live in North Carolina; and the green glass Christmas tree from Jeff and Sarah when they lived in Indianapolis, now they’re in Tennessee.

          The other thing I love is getting Christmas cards. However, coming up with ours is a struggle and this year was no different. It’s hard to encapsulate the major events of the year in a fourteen line poem. Then there’s the photo. Because we’d brought the planters inside when the nights got frosty, we thought it would make a nice picture. 

          I set up the tripod and took a bunch of pictures of me and Walter. But he got so excited each time I said, “Walter come!” that he thought I meant for him to munch on the carrots!

          John took a picture in which I looked good but the dog had red-eye.  He, John, didn’t want to be in the picture, because he’d been sick for three weeks with a wracking cough, but I decided he had to be in it.

I “staged” everything beforehand, propping up the peppers with a toilet paper roll, covered with leaves, placing parsley and basil to one side and making a spot for John to stand where he would be framed by the window.

          I said, “Just stand there and do whatever you want.”  I put on the timer, ran into the shot and smiled.  “Okay,” I said looking at the picture, “you’re done, you can go back to what you were doing.”

          And so I’ve been working on getting the cards out, one batch at a time. I don’t have the right computer program to make cards, so I do it the old fashioned way: print the card, get pictures made at CVS, glue on the picture, trim, sign, address envelope. 

          As I go through my list – in the past we’ve mailed as many as 125 – I know that most of the people I mail cards to will not mail one to us. But so what?  I like picturing my friends getting the mail, opening the envelope, looking at the picture, reading the poem. I know that for thirty seconds or so I’ll be connected again to someone I love.

          As of now I’ve mailed seventy-cards. We haven’t done “John’s people” yet. If I decide to do an e-version, I’ll need to take my camera to John’s computer and email myself the photo, because, as previously stated this 2002 computer doesn’t have a place for me to plug in my camera, of if it does, it’s where I can’t get at it.

          I plan to take John to a Christmas party at my church’s minister’s house, this Sunday. I’m always hoping I can find him a friend.  But I should know by now I married a loner, whose few good friends are far away.

          Christmas day I’ll watch the Lakers with low or no expectations. Of the last thirteen years when they played on Christmas day they only won twice.

          I must add that I’m grateful for the lovely weather we’re having. After those days of frost – which I enjoyed – it’s warmed up. Today was tropical, 72 degrees and cloudy.  I sat out front with Jane kitty on my lap smelling the sweetness in the air, watching the sunset.  Then I went into John’s office and wrenched him away form his computer. I took him out into the patio where we picked sweet peas, bush beans and radishes.

          Today I’m in my zories. Tomorrow I’ll be back in boots. Life is change.  And here in South Texas the changes come quickly. Before I know it it’ll be New Years, then the Superbowl, the Oscars, the return of Dancing with the Stars, then hot summer. 

          Dear Santa, please see what you can do about finding us a house with a pool . . .

Eat, Drink, Dance

         John’s feeling better, thank God. He finally went to the doctor and got antibiotics and a chest x-ray.  He’s still coughing intermittently and his energy is low, but he’s on the mend.

          I’m in my annual December funk—working on my Christmas poem and taking various pictures to go with it, but not happy with the results.  Last Wednesday I went to Alexandra’s Tea Room with my “neighbor ladies.”  I hadn’t been to a tea room since Oakhurst. I must say I liked it  very much. It’s in an old house, next to Schreiner University, set far back from the road, so there’s a feeling of going back in time, a delightful intimacy.  The food was good—spinach and feta quiche, and my own pot of Oolong tea. 

          This was a farewell lunch for my next door neighbor who returns to Colorado every winter. She’s waiting for her busy grandson to get a break from work so he can drive her.  I admire how laid back she is, all packed,  on hold, but not letting it bother her.    

          On Friday I tackled the irises.  When we moved here, our friend Pat gave us iris bulbs from her garden.  John planted them in three black plastic containers, they bloomed and now were root bound.

          “That’s a good job for you,” he told me, “get your hands dirty.”

The weather was cool and overcast so I stepped outside the patio into the vacant lot and dumped out the containers.

          I imagined the bulbs would have produced clones that I could gently pull apart. Wrong.  What I confronted was a huge mass of long tangled roots and thick masses, sort of like ginger root.  It soon became clear that “separating” meant I’d have to do surgery, very much like separating conjoined twins.

          I told the irises, “This is for your own good,” as I squatted and tried to make space for my fingers to find purchase.  After ninety minutes I succeeded in filling five planters from the original three containers. Every muscle in my body ached – fingers, palms, wrists, forearms, elbows, shoulders, hips.  No need to go to the gym that day!

          I took it easy on Saturday, doing laundry, reading the paper, etc., so that by evening I was ready to go out.  We hadn’t been out since before my trip to L.A. because of John being sick.

          We went to an Italian restaurant that is always packed. The interior is the ugliest restaurant I’ve ever seen: a round room with a low, rain-stained ceiling, linoleum floor, windows that look out on the town’s busiest street, square, oil-cloth covered tables—absolutely no ambiance whatsoever. 

          I ordered cannelloni which came unaccompanied by any vegetable.  The sauce had been reduced so much that it was like eating tomato paste.  (It was much better the next night when I sautéed zucchini, red bell pepper, onions and fresh beans from our planters, cooked some pasta and made a complete meal out of it.)

          John and I each ordered a glass of white wine. Halfway through the meal I said we should have split one. He poured the rest of mine into his glass, but somehow I ended up reaching over and finishing it off.

          Outside the air was fresh, the rain-soaked parking lot was strewn with wet leaves from tropical afternoon showers. I suggested we walk on

Earl Garrett Street

and see the stores decorated with lights. The last time we were there it was summer and too hot to enjoy it. 

          On the corner of Water and Earl Garrett Streets the historic  Schreiner building has been remodeled.  A very posh

Rodeo Drive

-like store fills the Earl Garrett side.  It was closed but I peeped in the window at the unaffordable items, wondering—who buys this stuff?

          Stairs lead down to a new bar called Azul that was featured on the front of the Kerrville Daily Times recently. I suggested we check it out even though I felt underdressed.  I had on jeans and 99 cent flip flops, a black long-sleeve tee decorated with cat-hair, and my colorful new scarf.

          As soon as we walked in I knew I wanted to stay a while. A three piece combo, grand piano, sax and bass, were playing old standards. The sound was great and the stained concrete floor beckoned. John ordered himself a Crown Royal and I got a glass of water.

          I was prepared to dance alone but then I noticed a woman on a bar stool by herself. She had on my same scarf. I sidled up to her and said, “My husband doesn’t dance, but I do!”

          That’s all it took! She was off her stool and we were dancing. I usually dance independently but she took my hands and somehow, instinctively, I knew what to do. Once a dancer, always a dancer.

          When we returned to our stools she told me her name, that she was married but her husband didn’t feel like coming out tonight. She’s from San Antonio but has lived in Kerrville for twenty-eight years, and has an eighteen year old daughter.

          I said, “Eighteen, twenty eight, thirty eight . . .so you’re about forty . . .two?”

          “I love you!” she said, slapping me on the thigh.  “I’m fifty-two!”

          “No!” I exclaimed, “I would never have guessed.  I’m sixty-two!”

          “No way!” she said, “I don’t believe you! Let me see your driver’s license!”  So I fished it out of my bag.

          “I love you!” she said again, “You are so beautiful!” Then, “I’m inebriated!”

          I pushed her glass of wine away and told her, “Drink water. My father taught me, when you go out always drink water in between drinks, that way you won’t get drunk.”

          She wanted to dance a slow dance but I nixed it. I could see how drunk she was and didn’t want to get too friendly.  When I told her I teach at the Kroc Center she told me she works out there every day, either spin classes or cardio-pump. She goes early because she has a full time job with a CPA firm.  

          I checked on John, to see if he felt neglected. He was standing with a hand over one ear, concentrating on the music. For him it’s all in his head, he doesn’t even tap his food! For me, when I hear good music I must move.

          The married woman and I had one more dance. This time I kicked off my zories and danced barefoot. It’s always so much better to connect directly with the floor. I danced over to two women sitting together and beckoned them to join us, but was told “We haven’t had enough to drink yet!” so I backed off. 

          None of the couples seated at the bar, or in booths along the wall joined us, which was fine with me, I like lots of room to move.

          After fifty minutes, it was time to go. I’d had my two dances. On the way home John and I wondered how long the married woman would stay, if she’d get home okay.

          Before bed I washed my face and my feet, the bottoms were filthy. I really don’t like wearing shoes. In some ways my feet are more sensitive than my hands. I prefer the feel of a clean floor under my feet, or beach sand, or a mowed lawn, or a smooth sidewalk, or a dusty stage.  When we were kids our feet would get so calloused every summer we could walk across a hot parking lot and barely feel the burn.

          I went to sleep happy. And when I woke up to pee at 2:30 A.M. my calves were stiff, in a good way, like they used to be when I was young and danced every day.