HOUSE HUNTING

          Yesterday I looked at a house for rent. The ad said "4/2, secluded with gorgeous hilltop views." The owner warned me about a steep driveway. He did not tell me the drive was unpaved, full of white rocks and deep ruts, or that it went up and down, then up again, to a hilltop of dry scrub, caliche and a dismal pre-fab house.  True, the view was unobstructed, and looked out over miles and miles of same-size rolling hills. 

          I greeted the owner in the driveway, as a workmen carried a door out through the narrow laundry room entrance. A woman appeared in an orange tank top, her orangey hair pulled back in a messy pony tail.

          "I'm so embarrassed," she said folding her arms tightly across her chest. "I'm not wearing a bra. I have shingles." She indicated a patch of angry skin below her collarbone.

          "I'm so sorry," I said nearly gagging on the smell of stale cigarettes.

          "The previous tenants left their dog in the pool," the man said. "My ten-year-old daughter cleaned it out."  I saw what he was talking about: an above ground cement pool with a deck on one end, set back from the house with no yard in between, just rocks.  "They trashed the latticework, too."  Shreds of thin wood strips dangled in the air.

          "That's a shame," I replied.  I took a tour: little dark rooms that appeared unfinished.  Purple paint on one of the small bedroom's walls looked like tempera, with no sheen at all.

          "You can paint over this if you want," the woman said gesturing toward a pink and yellow peace sign and several 1960 style flowers stenciled into the wall.  I nodded.

          I followed her husband up steep brown-painted wooden stairs with no balustrade. "I took it out," he said, "I didn't like the way it looked.  I held on to a sticky, wooden, wall-mounted rail. 

          The upstairs rooms were cramped with muddy looking carpets and unfinished wood-plank balconies, too narrow to hold even one chair. Screens on the doors were loose in their flimsy frames.  The "Master" bath had fixtures from the seventies, a sad little sink and dirty shower.

          I reluctantly held on to the grubby railing as I walked back down into the dark kitchen. I said having no garage would be a problem because my husband needs a place for his workshop.  I bid the couple goodbye and bumped down the driveway. When I got to a place where I could pullover, I called John and told him simply, "P.O.S."

          Today I ventured out again to look at another house, $175 a month more than yesterday's. I met the owner in the back yard where he and two workmen are installing a privacy fence.  He's a cute guy, mid forties, in shape, with clear blue eyes; but my own eyes went directly to a magnificent tree.

          "Is this a sycamore?" I asked, for the multi-pointed leaves reminded me of my favorite tree.  The owner didn't know. He yelled to one of the workmen who said it's a cotton-less cottonwood.  I then noted that the rough bark was uniformly grey, not smooth and mottled like a sycamore. I stroked it anyway.

          "I miss trees," I explained. "Where we're living now, in Riverhill, we have no trees."

          "There's a big oak on the property line," the owner said and I saw it, nicely trimmed at the fence line.  Another big tree complimented my "new friend" as I already felt this tree to be. 

          I pulled myself together and followed him to the front yard, so we could enter the house from the front door which opens into a living room that looks out onto a deck, then the yard. To the right is a dining room and kitchen.  A small passageway with space for washer on the right, dryer on the left, leads to a huge tiled room which I imagined could be John's workshop.  Two windows face the street. A door leads out to the carport.  This room used to be the garage.

          A sunny tiled room faces the back yard, perfect for John's office. Back at the front door a narrow hallway leads to the left: master bedroom and bath, two more bedrooms and another bath.  I called John to tell him I like it. He said, "Take it," but I told him we had to fill out paperwork and he should see if the tiled room would really work to build and listen to his speakers. It has a huge echo. "I can put down a rug," he said.

          When I told the owner I was from California he told me he was from Woodland Hills.  He was born the year I graduated high school and is married to a woman only three years younger than I am.  He retired at thirty-five and spends his time maintaining his rental properties and playing golf.  

          When mentioned that he has a friend in L.A. who is a photographer, I told him maybe his friend can help me figure out how to sell my dad's darkroom equipment. He said his friend has a darkroom where his students actually print pictures. I told him my dad's name and he texted it to his friend, to see if he recognizes it.

          The previous tenant bolted in the middle of the night, breaking her lease, but he doesn't feel it's worth pursuing her.  I told him both my husband and I have been landlords and will never do it again. He said sometimes a person who seems perfect turns out to be a terrible tenant, and vice versa. I told him landlords should look at prospective renter's current residencies to see how they live. He said he didn't think that was legal. I said, yeah, but it's like when you date someone divorced, you should talk to the ex.

          Now John is over there having a look. When I left the house this morning I thought I don't want to move, I know this neighborhood and I don't want to stress the animals. But now I'm visualizing Walter sitting on the deck and Audrey climbing one of the beautiful old trees in the yard. I can see John's containers of vegetables and flowers spread around the yard, adding color to an already private, peaceful setting. 

          I see myself out there too, reclining on a chaise, which I'll have to buy. Maybe for the first time in my life I'll be able to nap outside.

          P.S.  John's back. "Start packing," he said. "We're out of here September first." 

HOUSEPLANTS

          I wonder how many of my friends have house plants. I lie in the tub looking at a small Elephant Ear in a plastic milk jug that John got free when he placed his annual Burpee Seed order.  (They also sent him a blueberry bush and a potted palm that are part of his container garden, outside.)

          I grew up in what is now called a Midcentury Modern house, with planters built into the terrazzo floors.  I didn't know until recently that the twining fig that still thrives there had been a houseplant of my grandmother's before the house was built in 1955. That amazing plant twines up around windows and spreads across the ceiling, held up by hooks my dad screwed into the ceiling many years ago.

          In an adjacent planter huge peace plants reach up toward skylights making for a tight squeeze when you come in the front door. The third planter is fallow, but for tiny creepers of split-leaf elephant ears sneaking in from a planter outside.

          The first houseplants I remember, after I moved away from home, are the coleuses Roger and I had in Berkeley in the early 1970s, tropical plants that come in various shades of red, yellow and purple.  I remember a photo of me with long hair, holding Junior, Roger's and my black and white Manx. The hanging coleus takes up most of the frame. The cat "ran away" after we had him neutered. Roger thought UC medical students nabbed him.  I don't know what became of the plant, or the wandering Jew that flourished in a sunny window, or the African violet that used to grow on Roger's horse-trough desk.

          One of my favorite houseplants was a Boston fern. It perched on a white octagonal column.  I used to pretend I was the wind, and ruffle it, then vacuum up the little brown leaves that fell from its fronds.  When I moved from Los Angeles to Oakhurst I gave it to my parents who planted it up in their shady canyon. I always forget, when I visit, to see if it's still there. I got another one when we built our house in 2000. It lived for ten years in my sunny bathroom. My darling Abyssinian Amber, who was strictly an indoor cat, used to lie under its feathery fronds. I think this somehow satisfied her primal instincts.

          When I met John, in 1992, he had a small corn plant that had belonged to his mom in Iowa. He took it to Texas where it lived many years, then to California. It lived with us in YLP, then Kirk's house, and our house on Quartz Mountain, where it sprouted new growth.  Now it occupies a window in the dining room.  I love stroking the sleek long leaves, when I give it a drink, every week.

          We had over forty houseplants when we moved from California. Most of them found homes with friends. John managed to bring six with him in the U-Haul. The vegetable garden was left behind, as were the natural plants – wildflowers, trees, shrubs, and vines that I miss daily.

          I'm learning to love the trees of Texas, the flowering crepe myrtles, and the gnarly old oaks.  Outside the post office a sycamore struggles to survive. The top is dying but new sprouts push out from lower limbs. I wish I could be in charge of this tree. I would get someone to trim it and fertilize it. I would ask that the grass around its base be weeded and watered.  I would like to sit under that tree and gaze up at the sky. But judging from the window that's been boarded up for six-months and weeds sprouting in the planters I know my wish to see the sycamore thrive is just a dream. 

Early Fourth

          So much of my time is spent sitting: reading, writing, re-writing, researching.  I'm learning that I need to get up every hour and move. Otherwise I'm just a bundle of aches and pains.

          I was thrilled to find the yoga teacher I like has returned from maternity leave. I went to her class Tuesday and Thursday. She sits facing us. Behind her a big window looks out onto Kroc Center's three swimming pools. A sheer blind dims some of the light coming in, but through it I can make out little wet children, fat people in wet tee shirts, and fat women in bathing suits enjoying themselves in the hot Texas sun. Every so often a gigantic bucket spills a waterfall into the kiddy pool, and happy shrieks punctuate the air.

          On Saturday night John and I had dinner at the Guadalupe River Club for the first time.  I always thought it was a "dive" but John went there recently to listen to live music and said it was okay, so we thought we'd give it a try. I liked it. We sat on the large wooden deck, high over a grassy bank on the river.  Silvery clouds obscured the setting sun.

          "This feel's like Hawaii," John said."I know you've never been there. . . as an adult."

          I'm glad he amended his statement because I very well remember bailing water from a catamaran when I was eight.

          I enjoyed my gumbo and salad and shared John's Guinness.  On the way out I thanked the owner, who was watching baseball at the bar. It might be fun to come here in winter to watch a football game . . .

          We left at about 8:15.  A firework display was planned for dusk. John decided to find us a good place to watch, which turned out to be the post office parking lot.

          He backed into a parking space and opened all the windows, including the tailgate. While we waited for the sun to set we saw more and more families arrive. Many set up chairs on the grass. Little children played with red, white and blue light sabers. Someone had their radio tuned to an oldies station. "Little Latin Loopy Loop" filled the air.

          John reclined his seat all the way back, leaned back, pulled up his shirt and put his stocking feet on the dash board. I decided to see if Penney's across the street was still open. Maybe I could pee.

          Being out of the car I got to see the whole, magnificent sky, blazing yellow and pink. As I headed toward Penny's the first firework went off: BOOM!  I felt like I was shot in the chest.  Instinctively I put my hands over my ears. BOOM! I turned and headed back to the car.

          I passed a Latino family with a lot of children. I looked at the youngest one, about two, a tiny, frail little girl.  I wanted to grab her and run for cover. I kept walking, holding my hands over my ears. Finally I reached our car.

          "Can we close the windows?" I asked John through the open window.

          "No!" he said emphatically. So I kept walking.  I walked to the side of the post office and sat on a curb. I put my hands over my ears. BOOM!  My chest hurt. I thought I might throw up.

          Stop it, I told myself. Get a grip. I looked up just as the dark night sky was filled with blinding light that pierced my irises, searing my retina.

          I tried to take deep breaths. Every explosion felt like I was being shot. A thought dawned on me: in my last life I must have been killed in battle. Probably World War I, from the way I was feeling. Where was my foxhole?

          Then the wonderful realization struck me: the post office is always open! I opened the door and entered the cool, impersonal, institutional, fluorescently lighted building.  Ahhhh. Safe!

          I spent the next half hour sitting on a table in the lobby of the Kerrville Post office listening to muffled pops of the patriotic display outside.  My feet dangled as I took deep breaths and reminded myself it would be over soon. I thought about my dog and cats at home, glad they were far enough away from this madness.

          I've always hated the Fourth of July. At the age of three my nine-year-old sister tried to get me to see the beauty of sparklers but I just threatened to call the police if she lit one in our back yard. When we moved to Rustic Canyon I hated having to go down to State Beach and sit in damp sand for the fireworks display on the Santa Monica Pier. In my thirties, working at a beach club, I dreaded the drunken crowds and burning bluffs that filled the foggy air with smoke. 

          I continually try to like this holiday.  One year John and I went to Bass Lake with a friend who owned a boat.  I remember floating in the murky water, with the stink of smoke and how it settled over the lake. When we finally got to head back to our cars, I felt like a refuge.

          When we lived on Quartz Mountain, John and I would stand on our deck and watch tiny red, blue and green pin pricks appear, then disappear, thirty-five-miles away in the San Joaquin Valley.  Above us the sky was clear and still, punctuated only by a bat flittering past - the way night is supposed to be.

I Finished My First Draft!

        I wrote the last sentence of my memoir, Posing for My Father, this weekend. I had wondered, when I started, how I would end it. John Irving says he knows the end of his story before he begins writing, and writes to the pre-determined end.

        I've written about my life for many years, but mostly in poems. In 2007 I decided to write a prose piece for Valley Writers Read in Fresno. They want half-hour length stories, which meant about fifteen pages. I chose to write about State Beach a unique one-block-long strip of sand in Santa Monica.  I had fun selecting music for the breaks.  When my dad listened to it, he said the music was too loud.

        The next year I wrote about a trip I took with my family when I was nine. I had my tenth birthday in Paris. This became "Europe on Five Dollars a Day" and was recorded in 2008. 

        The next year I took two poems I'd written and expanded them to tell the story of how my mom thought it would be fun to pretend to be strippers and do a dance for daddy, "because he photographed a stripper today."   The story is called "Daisies", which is what my mom pinned on a black velvet ribbon and tied around my six-year-old chest.  That piece aired in 2009.

        In 2010 my father died and my husband and I moved to Texas.  Having so much geographical distance from California gave me a new perspective on my upbringing and I decided to take those three pieces and expand them into a memoir that would end when I left L.A. for the first time, in 1970.

        I am not a "two-page-a-day" writer.  I write in spurts, usually about fifteen pages at a sitting.  The next day I edit what I've written. Then I may not write for a week.  I do research, re-reading my calendars and old letters, looking at pictures, looking things up on the internet.  I love that I live in a time when I can so easily fact check.  I hope this adds interest and dimension to my story. For even though I'm telling a story unique to my life, I know many people will remember where they were when, say, JFK was shot, the Watts Riots happened, or we heard about Charlie Mansion orchestrating the horrible Tate/LaBianca murders.

        Now long ago I went to a writing conference and met my neighbor who has also written a book. We decided to proof reach each other's manuscripts. Her book is a charming story of her parents' courtship in 1926. I'm enjoying it immensely.  But I'm only half-way through because it's over 600 pages.

        My book on the other hand is about 250 pages of text and will include another 100 pages of pictures, I hope.  I'm now trying to find an agent. Today I filled out my first query form, which I think is a terrific idea. It forced me to be succinct and think about why people would want to buy my book over all the others out there.

        This fall I'm offering an Adult Ed class called "Get it done!" about how to finish and submit and/or publish your book.  I should mention that I got my first book published when I was nineteen because my parents took photos to illustrate my poems.  Without the pictures and their connections at Crown Publishers it never would have happened.  I'm grateful to my parents for setting me on my path as a poet/writer. Each of my subsequent books was a very different experience.

        I'm looking forward to seeing my book through to publication, and I'm already thinking about the second part of my three-part autobiography. Many of the people I've loved are no longer on this planet. Writing about them is a way for me to spend time with them again remembering the happy, sad, scary, or weird experiences we had together. 

I Volunteer at Riverside Nature Center

          Third graders from Nimitz Elementary descended from the bus and converged around me. I held a sign with their teacher's name on it. I felt like I was greeting someone at the airport. But as we began moving through the nature trail, I turned into a curious ten-year-old.  The short-grey haired nature volunteer led us to a Bald Cypress, which was about a foot in diameter, the lowest branches just above my head. Around it a circle of bricks indicated the circumference of the largest Bald Cypress in Texas. 

          The nature instructor asked the children to stand on the bricks. Twenty children went about three-quarters around it. I wanted to know how old that big tree is, where it is, and what its diameter is.  She didn't know. I'll have to find out.

          We followed her through the butterfly garden and saw a patch, about as big as bedroom carpet, that had not been watered – see, the drought is still with us.  I took pictures, trying not to let any of the kid's faces show, because we did not have permission slips from parents.

          A plant specialist gave us a lesson in identifying poison ivy. Don't confuse it with baby box elder which looks exactly the same when it first comes out of the ground.

          I helped herd the children into a classroom where a young woman with shoulder length brown hair, from the Upper Guadalupe River Authority (UGRA) talked to us about Aquatic Invertebrates (water bugs).  My favorite has always been the dragon fly.  But I learned about Damsel Flies and other insects that lay eggs in water. Their eggs become nymphs which look nothing like their adult selves. One day they crack out of their nymph bodies and emerge as a completely different looking creature. They pump up their wings and off they go!  Dragon flies live only "one season."  I remember the big-eyed dragon flies in Coarsegold that took drinks from my pool. I loved how they zigged and zagged across the summer sky.

          Then we went outside and looked at actual, real critters captured from the river by a gangly young man from UGRA in ironed jeans and wire rimmed glasses: tiny fishes, crawfish, water scorpions, and even an invasive Asian Clam about as big as a thumbnail. Makes me think differently about swimming in the river. I sure hope I don't get bitten by a "hot fire" bug!

          I conversed with a smart little girl in a pink top and black skirt. She reminded me of Darla from the Little Rascals, with her dark bobbed hair, bright eyes and little button mouth.  She expressed real interest in everything, unlike most of the kids who went where they were told but didn't really engage.

          Our last stop was inside the Nature Center where a dark Latino man with a big belly, wearing a plaid shirt, told us he was with the Parks and Wildlife service. He had set up a long table that held various skulls. Behind it photographs of dangerous wild creatures stared out at us: mountain lion, javelina, wild pig, bobcat, badger, skunk, fox, coyote, opossum etc. One panel had venomous snakes: coral, cottonmouth and two types of rattlers.

          He talked mostly about what to do if you encounter a dangerous animal in the wild – he advised that we use our walking sticks to fight off an attacking beast and if we got bitten by a rattler, stay calm and walk back to where you came, unless you have friends that can carry you.

          The precocious little girl seemed to know most of the answers to his questions. She said she watches a nature show for kids. Hearing information and remembering it are two different things.  The little girl impressed me by how much information she retained.

          Now, remembering my day, I'm ashamed to realize how much I don't remember. This is why I usually take notes. Writing things down helps commit them to memory, and the notes are always there for you to refer back to.

          My two hours zipped by. The rain that had been forecast didn't come till late in the day. The morning was cloudy and mild, a perfect day to learn about plants and critters. I was sad to leave after the school bus pulled away and we volunteers waved good bye to each other and headed for our cars.

          When the rain did come, later in the day, John was out washing the cars. He came inside and said, "Soft hail!" and handed me a white pellet of ice. I popped it in my mouth and looked out the window. What looked like white marbles were bouncing off the vacant lot next door.  It only lasted a little while and by the time I took Walter out for our before-dinner walk, the sun was shining on puddles in the black, steaming asphalt.   

TIRED SUNDAY

Rare for me: got up, walked the dog then went back to bed.  The smell of pancakes roused me.  Threw chopped pecans and banana chunks into the batter John had made. Ate. Read the San Antonio Express. Back to bed. Read for two more hours, my friend Paula's manuscript. She's the woman I met at the writing conference, who lives two blocks from me.  Then got up and edited more chapters of my book, Posing for My Father. Paula has motivated me. Before I met her I wrote when I felt like it, edited or did research when I didn't feel like writing. But now, with her asking for more chapters, I'm pushing myself like a real writer.  

Also tired from the roller coaster ride my team has me on. I assumed the Lakers would get killed by Oklahoma. First game was a total route. Next game they lost by two points. Then they rallied in the third game. Last night they were so hot in the first half.  I willed myself to stay awake until midnight only to have them lose in the last few minutes.

I still miss players who've been traded to other teams: Jordan Farmar, Sascha (playing in Europe), Ronnie now plays for the Heat. Derek Fisher in a Thunder uniform breaks my heart.  Tomorrow night I expect the Lakers to lose, so the season will end for them. Then we have the long boring summer to get through.  Then Dancing with the Stars ends Tuesday. One-two punch. Bye-bye basketball. Bye-bye dancing.

Wednesday I make a trip to see my mom. I feel like I've already lost her. She is a shadow of her former self. I dread seeing her in person. At least over the phone I can try to remember how she used to look, my now tiny, frail mama.

But I'll get to see girlfriends, too. I love my friends and miss them. I'll miss my cats when I'm gone and my doggy.  Last night I took him out to pee just as the game was starting.  Bobby, our neighbor, was coming down the block with a flashlight and his two dogs, Midge a wiggly shitzu and River, a docile sheltie. They are the first friends Walter has ever had.  As Bobby and I chatted the leashes got all tangled.  He agreed to take Walter on their walk, so I could go back to the game.  Bobby's going away for three weeks. We'll miss him and his dogs.

As I said, the game was great for the first three quarters. During half-time I flipped over to Saturday Night Live. Mick Jagger was hilarious! When I first saw him I thought he looked like a caricature of himself. He has such a big head, small shoulders, skinny legs and big feet. But he was very funny playing characters and doing various accents.

I listened to an Oldies station tonight, when I walked Walter before dinner. So sad to hear Barry Gibb died, and right after Donna Summer. What fond memories I have of their music. Meet the Bee Gees was the first stereo album I ever bought, in 1967.  When I taught aerobics in 1983 I used Donna's "She Works Hard for the Money" as my opening song.

I hope I have enough years left in me to finish my entire autobiography. For now volume one takes me up to when I left L.A. in 1970.

Wait! I hear cats caterwauling . . . .  Back inside now.  A black and white long-haired cat who I've seen pissing on neighbor's bushes, was lying on the pavement near Jane, who sat by the front door. Inside Walter and Audrey were trying to peer out at it.  I went outside and it got up but didn't go far. I asked what he was doing.

He said "nothing, just hanging out."  I let him sniff my hand. Pink nose. Pointed face. Weird eyes, the "second lid" showing. Sick?  I told him we had enough cats and walked him away from the house. He flopped on the pavement. I petted him. Kind of skinny but not starving.

I picked up Jane and carried her through the house to the garage. Walter and Audrey wanted to get out and check out the trespasser. I had to hold Jane and close the garage door; I didn't want her running away.

There was still food in Jane's dish. So the stray cat can't be too hungry.  I washed my hands and returned to my writing. Whose cat is he? Ours now?

No Bean Sprouts, No Bread, No Butter

Tonight John and I went to dinner at the River's Edge, Tuscan Grill to celebrate my birthday – he was out of town for it last Sunday. The restaurant juts out over Guadalupe River, which after our week of rains, is gorgeously swollen and wide. To our delight, silver, grey and blue clouds obscured the sun so the light was soft and easy on the eyes.

        I was thrilled to see a ginger-sesame salad with bean sprouts, Napa cabbage, etc. on the menu, because I have not been able to purchase bean sprouts in the two markets I frequent. When I asked the produce managers, they both said "We don't carry them anymore, they go bad too fast." 

        This is a major hardship for me, who craves all things Asian, especially in times of stress.  It's true, even in California I had a hard time finding really fresh, crisp sprouts and when I did I celebrated – the white shoot, the firm green mung bean. Yum!

        So I asked our darling young waiter if it was true, were there really bean sprouts in the salad? And if so, could I talk to the chef and find out about his source? Could I perhaps purchase bean sprouts directly from the restaurant?

        He looked at me as if I was crazy but said he would find out.

        The only California Chardonnay on the wine list turned out to be too oaky for my taste and not nearly as good as the Kendall Jackson reserve I have at home. But, oh well.

        John ordered a steak that was supposed to come with a side of veggies.  We drank our wine, admired the view and waited for bread, which never came.  A different waiter brought our meals.  No bean sprouts in my salad.  John got a big square plate with a steak on it and a side dish of zucchini and yellow squash swimming in a garlic cream sauce. 

        "May we get some bread?" I asked the new waiter.

        "It's in the oven, almost done," he replied.

        A while later our waiter returned. By now I'd eaten about a third of my salad and John had made headway into his steak.

        "You're right," the waiter said. "The owner's here. His wife ordered the salad last week and asked why there were no bean sprouts."

        "Because we live in a bean sprout free zone!" I replied. "The markets don't carry them."  He didn't know quite what to say to that.  "May we get some bread?" I asked.   He left and I said to John, "Maybe I should become the Bean Sprout Lady of Kerrville. Certainly there's a need. Think of the health food stores and Chinese Restaurants."  But then I thought about my kitchen full of cat and dog hair, and this week, "little anty things" as John calls them, crawling all over the sink.  They're little teeny ants which he says will go back outside once the ground dries up. There's no way the health department would give me a license to grow bean sprouts for sale. Still, I might just start sprouting beans for my own use. After all, we have a whole truck garden growing in our patio . . .

        The waiter returned with a little basket of bread. "I'm sorry but there's no butter. Well, there's butter but we're out of ramekins."

        The bread was good, real sour dough with a crisp crust and warm soft center. I tore of a chunk and shoved it into my mouth.  When he brought take-home containers and proceeded to box our dinners at an adjacent table, I made sure to not let him take the bread away. I opened one of the containers and tucked it into a corner.

        When we left the restaurant, the sun was just setting. A sliver of orange appeared over the river. John drove us a little ways down Guadalupe Street until we came to a small dam. "Stop here!" I said and opened the window. The sound of rushing water filled the car.

        I noticed pretty white wildflowers, long stalks with six pointed petals. I got out of the car and picked one. I brought it back into the car to look at.

        "We have those growing in the side yard," John said referring to the vacant lot next to our house. I don't remember seeing them. I got out and picked four more.  He poured bottled water on a napkin and wrapped it around the stalks.

        Next to the dam is a little park with a path along the river. "The best time to come here is between nine and ten o'clock at night John said."  I have no desire to be out a after dark, but I did think about asking my writing teacher to come here with me after class Tuesday, because it's only a block from where we meet.  I wonder if I'll remember to ask her.

        John dropped me off at home and went to Azul to listen to music and analyze the handwriting of one of the waitresses.  I was bummed out when I found out the Laker game wouldn't start for another hour.  I'm so sleepy, how will I stay awake?

        I trimmed the wildflowers and stuck them in a tall shot glass. Then,

putting the food away, I opened one of the containers and found the bread.  I spread butter on it and stood in our little rented kitchen watching teeny tiny ants meander over the Formica counter top. The bread tasted like San Francisco. Delicious.