Catching Up

In the months since I last posted on this blog my mother had a stroke and was unable to speak but has since recovered somewhat. She had her ninety-third birthday in April and is getting excellent, loving care from her round-the-clock caregivers and the staff at Ocean House. On my visit last weekend we sat on the roof/deck (she in her wheelchair) and took in the breathtaking view of sunny Santa Monica Bay with walkers, joggers, skaters and a few wetsuit-clad surfers  languidly waiting for waves. When I got home from the trip I sent Mother a pair of silver shoes which she wore yesterday to "Happy Hour," and got many compliments.

On what would have been my father's 97th birthday, April 3rd, (he passed away in 2010), my memoir Posing for My Father was published. I did not select this date, it just worked out that way.  The book tells of my life growing up in the home/studio of famous photographers.  Though not great at promotion I did schedule a reading at Beyond Baroque in Venice (during the mom-visit) with two of my California poet friends. We had a good turnout and I sold some books, even to total strangers!

On September 14th my husband of twenty-one years moved in with an older woman he met just about a month before. In the last six weeks I've gone through more emotions that I knew I had -- shock, anger, grief, relief, wonder, jealousy, sadness, hope, confusion, numbness, nausea, insomnia, hysteria, rage, forgiveness, disorientation – some emotions hang around for a few hours, others come and go in minutes.

I've done a lot of writing and talking to girlfriends.  The best part of going through a hard time is connecting with friends, both old and new.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, has a sad story.  By the time we're in our sixties we've all had heartache and loss.

Because he has a home office we've agreed that he will continue to come to work each day and then leave at night. Don't know how long this will go on. Some days I dread seeing his car pull into the driveway (I can see the street from my office window). Other days, perhaps I've had a good night's sleep and am feeling rested and happy, I'm glad to have his male presence in the house.

I have not told my mom or her caregivers about any of this. John put up a curtain rod for me this week and plans to cover the pool this weekend. I can usually say something about him when I call. I wore my wedding ring when I traveled but took it off when I got home. Still feels weird. Being a wife was so much a part of my identity.  On bad days I think, what if I slip in the tub or have a heart attack and no one finds me for days . . .

What I realize is that the John I miss is the Coarsegold John – he who cleared that beautiful land so we could build my dream home, and how he maintained it for the ten years we lived there. My favorite image of him is the view I had walking up the trail west of the driveway and seeing him barrel up the drive on his red tractor. I also love the memory of him in his white socks and underpants, in the garage with the door open to that magnificent view, working on his speakers.

But that John is no more. Now he has a life with someone I've never met, a widow, four-years older than us, who he says likes his snoring. Twenty-five years ago, when I was single I wrote a poem about my mother. Some of the lines echo in my mind now –

she likes having

the warm body in the bed

I choose a bed

big enough to thrash around in

and I do

What do I miss? Going out to eat on Saturday nights and having leftovers the next day, sitting on the deck with John listening to the birds, with the dog and cat nearby. 

Other than that, I don't miss the political lectures where I was not allowed to disagree. I don't miss the hateful glares and days on end when he would ignore me because I'd pissed him off.  I don't miss him saying, "I gotta find you a boyfriend," when I approached him for a hug.

For years I've grown used to sleeping alone, eating alone, showering and bathing alone, dancing alone, walking my dog alone, going to church alone, watching TV and listening to the radio alone, reading alone, writing  alone – including the poem for our yearly Christmas card.

On this cloudy Saturday morning I sit alone at my desk, with my dog and cat peacefully sleeping nearby. Today I'll work on the new Hill Country Poets anthology for our November 10th reading at the library, and tonight I get to take pictures at the Harvest Moon fundraiser for Riverside Nature Center. 

Perhaps I'll have a good dream tonight, like the one I had night-before-last, of swimming in a beautiful clear green swimming pool with a tiny green frog and a dark green turtle the size of my hand.

Today in Kerrville

"I look like a bug," I say to the cute, young, male clerk at Walmart, who leans against the frame display. "Oh well, they can't be any worse than these," I say, taking them off and putting back on my even bigger dark glasses.

          He nods.

          "You're not supposed to say that!" I cry. "You're supposed to help me decide."

          He shrugs.

          I turn toward the seated, young, female clerk with long, black-hair "I need a woman's help!" I say.  Then I see she's on the phone.

          "Oh, sorry!" I say to her; then to my clerk, "I'll take them!"

          He says, "Are you sure?"

          "Yes. I hate making decisions. They'll be fine."

          We sit. He asks my birth date and types it in, then my first name.

          "Your prescription expired," he says.

          "What! I can't believe this! I thought they're supposed to last a year! I just got my eyes checked three months ago!"

          "This one's from 2011," he says.

          "Oh, then, here. . . " I open my wallet and find the new prescription.

          The customer, who was seated across from the female clerk, but hidden to me by her computer, stands.  Now I see he has long, grey scraggly hair and a short grey-and-white beard. He's a little stooped and approaches shyly.

          "Excuse me for saying," he says, "but you would look good in anything."

          I want to say, You really must need glasses!  but I'm gracious and say, "Oh, you're so sweet," as he turns and leaves.

          To my cute young clerk I say, "I almost said 'I used to look good in nothing' but I stopped myself."

          He chuckles. He may be thinking, Yuck, what a sick old woman. But, maybe not. Maybe he's thinking I bet you did.  

II.

          Today in Kerrvile, I tore a sheet from a little cube tablet in the kitchen. The sheet underneath says, Cube bought 12-15-02 in my handwriting.  I like that I wrote a note to my future self, just like I used to do when I was a kid.

          Someone recently asked me, "Do you write every day," and I said no but then I told her I write in my diary every night, so that's writing.  I also write dialog in my head every day, practicing what I will say when I call my mother. I want to have something bright and cheerful to tell. I don't want to talk about her fragile life, her weakening body, her diminished mind.

          So I call in the afternoon, when the day has had time to bring me a gift that I can share with my mother, even if it's only over the phone.

Jury Duty

          My first reaction when I see the pale, dark-haired kid hunched over the table, looking like he wants to be under the table, is oh! Poor boy, let him go! But when he looks up with only his smoldering eyes, a

tentative squint, I think rotten kid. 

      Which of course, I feel bad for thinking, because he reminds me of the incorrigible third-grader, who was so disruptive in my after-school writing club, one of the few children I just didn't like.  He was so unlikeable, so ugly in his need to be disruptive. As a last resort I went to the principal and told her I just couldn't deal with the little devil. His writing was intentionally shocking, violent, meant to gross us out. He upset one girl, made her cry.

          When I met his mother my heart melted. Barely an adult herself, she had those big, hollow, scared eyes of someone who has lived in fear her whole life. I wanted to put my arms around her, tell her to sit down, I'd make her a cup of tea. I wanted to take her home, cook her a nice dinner, let her pet my dog.

          Her husband, the boy's father, terrorized the whole family. In and out of jail, he was currently home, on probation, trying to behave. I told the mother the boy could stay in my class. Maybe just talking to his mother would make him realize someone was paying attention to him. For wasn't it attention he wanted?

          Today in the courtroom I learn the definition of Criminal Mischief. It's similar to vandalism but the damages are less than $500.00. The second offense, for which the boy is charged, is Evading Arrest.  The defense attorney asks us, "Is it okay to run from the law?"

          Like good children we shake our heads, no, but how many of us are thinking hell yes - if the cops are chasing you with their pepper spray and stun guns and real guns? How many times have we seen videos of cops beating protesters?  How many incidents of police brutality have we read about? How many cops cover up for each other?

          My husband says I wasn't picked for jury duty because I asked too many questions, I was too talkative. "They don't want people who think," he says, "you're just supposed to sit there and listen."

          "But the attorneys said they wanted us to ask questions!" I say in my defense. 

          The trial is set for tomorrow morning. I could go and sit in the courtroom and find out what that skinny white kid did to get arrested.  I could watch the twenty-eight-year-old prosecutor call witnesses and explain to us the letter of the law. I could hear the sixty-something defense attorney plant doubt in our minds.

          It's probably good I didn't get selected. I don’t think I could consider the facts, and only the facts. Life is more complicated than that.

          

Today's Poem

HELL TO PAY

There's hell to pay in heaven today

A council has been called

Someone's ass is on the line

The Creator is appalled

He stands before our multitude

With anger in His eyes

It's rare we see this attitude

From one so mellow and wise

"Who decided to take these lives

Small children and their teachers?

Some were only as young as five

With complexions fresh as peaches."

Silence hangs like a London fog

We've all become so meek

I look around, we're shy as dogs

No one wants to speak

"Tell me!" God shouts and pounds his fist

"I need to understand."

Slowly I start to raise my wrist

And then I raise my hand.

"It was I," I say, and rise from my chair

I'm pierced by looks of derision,

Mouths drop open the angels stare.

"It was I who made the decision.

"I'm tired of bodies mangled by war

Battered and bruised and starved

I'm tired of AIDS victims covered in sores

And people mangled in cars

"I'm tired of junkies and teenage ODs

And old farts, long in the tooth

I'm tired of smelling the stench of disease

I wanted the sweet scent of youth."

After I speak I sit back down

My chest is heavy and tight

"Ach," says God, "you stupid clown.

Go, get out of my sight."

My shame is heavy as I leave

And no one follows after

But in the distance I perceive

The music of children's laughter.

Sidewalks

         Over the course of sixty-three years, I've lived in a lot of places. I've loved something  about each of them. The canyon where I grew up had lots of trees, a creek, and was close to the beach.  Coarsegold, where I lived for twenty years, had magnificent views of the high Sierras, the San Joaquin Valley and the Coastal Range.

          In the fall of 2010, when I had to say goodbye to the beautiful house my husband John and I built ten years before, I knew nothing would ever replace it. We'd chosen the design, the site, how to situate it to take in the best views, yet not compromise the mountain. 

          I had several months to take "goodbye walks" through my manzanita grove. I still think about those beautiful smooth-barked trees. In the spring they are covered in clusters of pale-pink, bell-shaped flowers that turn into sweet, apple-flavored berries in the fall.  Raccoons, coyotes, my dog and I loved to eat those "little apples" which is what manzanita means.

          Because we were moving to a town, I knew I would miss the rabbits that came out at dusk and the coveys of quail that skittered across the road. I had been living a rural life for twenty years. Our mailbox was two miles from our house. The closest market was seven miles away. I drove between fifteen and thirty-five miles to teach in after-school programs.  I knew there would be benefits to living in town, but I wasn't sure how I'd adjust to "civilization" after having complete privacy for so many years.     

          Then, one day it dawned on me. "I want to live where there are sidewalks," I told John. 

          I didn't mean the noisy strips of concrete that line Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. (Although, when I lived in my condo in the late '80s, I did most of my shopping on foot, coughing when a bus spewed disgusting fumes.) I meant a quaint, old-fashioned sort of town, with a town square, and shops in buildings that had been around for more than a hundred years.

          Last Saturday night, after dinner at the Branding Iron at the Y.O. Ranch resort – a restaurant reminiscent of the 1960s with a high-ceilinged, muffled dining room, white tablecloths, and heavy silverware – I asked John if we could drive by the courthouse. Earlier in the evening there had been a parade that culminated with a holiday lighting ceremony.  I wasn't sure what to expect.    

          He found a place to park a block away and told me he was going to use the restroom at Azul, where he goes to listen to music at least once a week. I said I'd meet him back at the car and set off toward the courthouse.

          I could see a small crowd and hear an announcer talking on a stage lighted red and green. I hurried as he called out, "Are we ready to see some lights?"  And began to countdown, "Ten . . . nine. . . eight. . ."

          Just as I stepped onto the grass, lights came on: red, green and white strands wrapped around trees, Frosty the Snowman,  Santa and his reindeer, candy canes, wreaths and over on one corner, a wooden manger scene.  The crowd "oohed" and clapped. 

          "Let's go see Santa!" a teenage girl called to her friend and the two of them, dressed in shorts, darted past me.

          I meandered through a multiracial crowd: young parents with toddlers, elderly couples with canes, middle-aged men and women, boys and girls clutching red-and-green light sticks.  On stage, a female County-Western singer, accompanied by a guy strumming a guitar, began to sing.

           I headed back toward the car but walked past it, looking in shop windows.  I passed the historic Schreiner house, now a museum. In Azul, I found John talking to the bartender.

          "This is Doug," John said, and Doug and I shook hands.

          As we left the bar, walking up the basement steps to the sidewalk, I felt a huge affection for my new hometown. 

          Kerrville is the perfect place for me.  It may not have spectacular views of mountains or the ocean. I don't run into movie stars in the supermarket, like I do when I'm back in Pacific Palisades.  (But I have had breakfast with Kinky Friedman.) It's simply a friendly, unpretentious place to live, with parks and a river, wide-street neighborhoods where herds of whitetail deer greet me each morning. We have shopping malls, tons of churches, theaters, and cafes. And yes, well-maintained sidewalks in the charming, revitalized, historic section of town.  

Halloween 2012 (An Alphabet Poem)

Ah, what a beautiful afternoon, Halloween, golden light, just

Before sunset, cat sitting in the window (I had to wake her up

'cuz she was napping, missing out on this gorgeous

Day) and the stinky dog (he rolled in deer poop) completely

Enervated, fast asleep. Today we averted a small catastrophe. I

Found Walter on the porch, hunkered down, he couldn't

Get up, I thought something might be broken, but what

Happened was his choke collar was stuck in the slats of the deck.

I can't figure out how that happened.  He was freaked out,

Justifiably. He'd been there a while and was so hot, panting.

"Keep calm," I assured him, stroking his head. I went inside

Looking for John.  I knew he'd be annoyed, but I hoped he

Might have lock cutters, so we could cut the chain. He said

No, he didn't but he'd see what he could do. I went back out and

Petted Walter's head. I said, "John will help you. Just keep

Quiet."  I had horrible visions of him strangling himself. John

Returned with a screwdriver and a hammer. Under the

Stairs, he found the problem, gave one quick bang and

Ta da! Walter sprang up and rushed to the door

Unharmed. Thank God!  I hate it when I have horrible

Visions of bad things happening. Once you think something

Whether it's good or bad, it seems to become part of your memory,

eXactly like it really happened. I can still hear Walter's little

Yelps, see him pinned there, panicky. I wish I were more

Zen, not re-imagining my dog, dead, strangled, on the sunny deck. 

Election Season

Narrator

Joining us now is APR correspondent Niles Overblown. Niles, tell us the latest on the flip-flopping allegations of congressional incumbent candidate Melanie Squatblatt.

Overblown

Thank you, Jeremy. Last week at a congressional town-hall debate Ms. Squatblatt said she was in favor of farm subsidies for family-owned farms. She said that contrary to what the Supreme Court ruled, '"Corporations are not people. Family farmers are people."  She went on to mention her meeting with the Burnedout family of Dungtown who have been growing asparagus for seventy-five years. Let's listen to what Congresswoman Squatblatt said:

Squattblatt

I grew up on a farm in Poor Me County. I remember milking cows, rain or shine. I remember my mother's red hands and my father's stooped back. Back then we were proud of our muddy truck and out of style clothing.

Now family farmers are being thrown under the bus. Federal subsidies keep afloat Monsanto and Con-Agra while families like the Burnedouts struggle to keep Spam on the table. This must change! We must not abandon our asparagus farmers. We must offer a hand to what I like to call The Backbone of America. We must close loopholes for big corporations so that they crumble like drought-stricken fields.   

Overblown

Today a group calling itself Citizens for Candidate Credibility released a video of Ms. Squattblatt, purported to have been recorded at a family dinner in 1965. Let's hear a clip.

Child's voice

Eeeewww!  That's disgusting. I'm not going eat that.

Adult female voice

You are going to sit there until your plate is empty young lady. I don't work sixteen hours a day so you can turn your nose up at my cooking. Right, father?

Adult male voice

Pass the potatoes.

Child's voice

I hate asparagus. It makes my pee stink. I'm not going to eat it. I don't care if you punish me. I refuse to be abused!

Adult female voice

I just hope that when you have children they make you as miserable as you make me.

Overblown

Citizens for Candidates Credibility sites this as an example of Ms. Squattblatt's flip-flopping. After years of denigrating asparagus she is suddenly supportive of the very people who harvest this niche crop. In order to offer fair and balanced reporting, I have her opponent Martin Notsosmart on the line. Are you there Mr. Notsosmart?

Notsosmart

Yes, Niles, I'm here. It's always a pleasure to talk to you.  Let me say that I have always supported small farmers and still do. I also support companies such as those Ms. Squattblattt impugns, because they employ thousands of hard working Americans. We cannot afford, as a people and a nation, to continue to outsource jobs to China and India where workers live in squalid conditions. It's immoral and adds to our trade deficit.  I say, America for America! Asparagus for all!

Overblown

Thank you, sir. Unfortunately Ms. Squattblatt did not return out calls. For APR this is Niles Overblown.

Narrator

We turn now to the issue of immigration . . .