Baths

          When I realized that John was taking Walter out for his evening walk  - to try out the new Gentle Leader - I took advantage of their absence by running a bath.  

          Sitting bolt upright, my legs extended the length of the oval tub, took me back to memories of the tub at Hightree where I lived from age 6 to 18.  It’s hard to even consider it a bathtub, more like a shower with a high rim, one corner cut out for a seat.  Certainly one could not lie down in it. After that horrible date with Michael Wellman in 1966 (I was sixteen), I sat in the tub and cried. I remember thinking, “I’m a slut now”.    He had taken me to a “friend’s house” where no one was home. A guest house in the back yard had a radio and a mattress on the floor. Mike had brought beer.

          I was a virgin who had dated one of his best friends, Bruce, for a year and a half. I had been in love with Bruce and we’d “fooled around” but not gone “all the way”.  I was so naive. I thought by saying “stop” Mike would. But he didn’t. He ripped my brand new hip-hugger bell-bottoms. They were white with little olive green flowers.

          When the awful experience was over he drove me home in his teeny Fiat. I went straight into the house, ran a bath, sat it in and cried. I didn’t tell anyone.  I considered it my fault.

          Two years later I was in love with Marc. I’d just started smoking pot and didn’t know my limits. My parents must have been out. Marc and I took a shower which should have been sexy and fun but I was overcome with emotion and stood under the running water sobbing. After he left, I called my sister’s friend Linda, who came over to console me. Thus began our tumultuous friendship.

          In 1970, in San Francisco, Tom and I were staying with my sister in the basement of the mansion on Broadway. Tom and I hadn’t had sex in months, believing that celibacy would preserve our “precious bodily fluids” (Dr. Strangelove) and make us more creative as poet and songwriter.  The night before he left for LA to see if he could get a record contract (he couldn’t) he decided to make love to me in the tub. I remember the honeycomb tiles and thinking, “Why is he doing this now?”

          In 1992, when I married John and moved in with him, the house had a big sunken shower. A few times I tried to plug up the drain and lie in an inch or two of water.   One day the doorbell rang. It was the woman who had built the house, come to see how it was. I let her in and then said, “I just have to ask, why didn’t you include a bath tub?”  She said, “Because we didn’t have children.”  I found that so odd. But I know many women, including my own mother, who does not take baths.     

        When John and I built our house in 2000, I looked at various tubs. I wanted one in which I could lie as flat as possible and completely relax.   I visited showrooms but most of the tubs were like the one we have now now where you’re supposed to sit up.  Finally, online, I found a Kohler with a slanted back.  I was debating between 5’6” or 6’ when Ed the Plumber called and said, “I need to pick up the tub tomorrow. You need to tell me which one you want tonight!” The tub had to be brought in through the window opening, before the windows were installed.  Which did I want, 5’6” or 6’?  I chose the six-foot cast iron tub.

          It was too long. I should have gotten the 5’6” like Katherine has in NY.  Still, I loved my big tub and the 2” green tiles I selected that John said looked like they came from a 1950s Russian hotel. I’d put my bath pillow behind my head and – in daylight - gaze out the window at the manzanita on the hill, the bright blue sky behind it. Closing my eyes, I’d let my arms relax and float. My entire body – organs, bones –became  buoyant, nearly weightless.

          Before John and Walter returned I shaved my legs and pumiced my feet, which I don’t like to do in the shower, teetering on one leg.  I emerged from that bath relaxed and rejuvenated, filled with affection for my husband and dog who gave me the gift of time alone for that ancient, primal, sensual experience: a bath!

 

Tuesday

Feel like I’m operating on three wheels. Getting sick? Throat kinda scratchy.  Nice walk w/Walter at Kerrville-Schreiner Park this morning. I even - don’t tell anyone! - let him off the leash for a bit, but all he did was what he usually does, stand and sniff and then run in spurts.

 At 9:30 a.m. I went over to the Hill Country Center for Cancer Care and interviewed a cute oncologist, who had attended UCLA medical school in the late 80’s, for the Kerrville Area Business magazine.  I stayed on point this time and the interview ended up being only 600 words (need 800).

The interview I did last month (the issue is out now) was 1300 words. But Dell Sheftall is a true storyteller, I could have written a book about him! (Maybe I will?)

Got an email from Club Ed asking me to proof the text for their catalogue and realized, oh crap, that the day, and time, I wanted to offer my class is the same day that Daniels Elementary wants me to work with their 4^th graders. So back and forth with emails trying to find a different day or time. The Club Ed class won’t begin until February. I’ll start at Daniel’s next week.

Highlight of the day: conversations with two girlfriends, one in Fresno one in Sonoma.  Thank you Alexander Graham Bell for inventing the telephone!

Going online to read the Sierra Star, I found that Carmen George, a young girl I taught is now writing for the paper!  Several years ago I was allowed to picked a Student Poet Laureate of Madera County and I chose Carmen. I found her on Facebook and wrote to her and she wrote back. It warmed my heart!

Phone message from my mother: she wants to start a blog! Bravo, Alice. I’ll try to explain it to her. 

Walter was naughty on his afternoon walk.  I saw a woman up the street with a black Cocker Spaniel and thought we should turn around but just then he decided to poop, in a rock-filled yard. (Many of the houses around here have white rock yards, or portions thereof, to conserve water, etc.) After he pooped he kicked rocks all over the street. So there I was, trying to grip the bag of poop in one hand, pick up rocks in the other, and hold the leash while he strained to get to the Spaniel. The woman walking just smiled as she, too, tugged her dog along.

I figured I’d keep on in the same direction since she passed me going toward

River Hill Boulevard

. But, naturally, she doubled back, so we encountered each other again.  This time, after we passed, a man just getting out of his car called, “Looks like your dog’s walking you!” which is a comment I’ve heard before and don’t appreciate. “Yeah, well,” I just called back. I’d have thrown my hands in the air, but I was holding a bag of dog do in one and the leash in the other.

I’m sure everyone’s getting sick and tired of hearing about Walter’s walks.  So here’s a promise: I won’t write about them anymore. Unless there’s an improvement, because somewhere deep in my heart I keep hoping that one of these days he’ll be a good doggie.

Discombobulated

          I’m finally starting to remember my dreams again. It’s been two months. I used to write them down first thing in the morning. I’d look outside and check the thermometer on the half-wall that reminded me of a pier. The dark-stained railroad ties had the delicious smell of creosote; and the silty DG (decomposing granite) reminded me of beach sand. It was a comfort. Made me not miss the beach so much.

          Often I’d glace through my dream journal to see if there was a pattern, or if certain people appeared over and over. My favorite part of dreaming is being reunited with old friends. When I packed to move I called Katherine to ask if I should bring my dream journals from 1985  and, because she was driving, Andrew answered her phone and advised me to bring them. “You can always throw things away later,” he said.

          So, because of the two-month gap in dream recollections, I feel like a big part of me is missing. You’d think I’d be happy then, to dream of roller skating. But it’s left me discombobulated.

          In the dream I’m skating over a bumpy, porous surface, a sort of concrete.  I’m enjoying myself but realize that this is only a dream, and that when I wake up I still won’t be able to skate.  I feel as if the message is: just because you think you can do something, you can’t.

          So I woke depressed.  I slogged through the morning.  This whole dog-walking thing has got me down.  Our walks used to be a communion with nature. Today I saw two ladies in long terry-cloth bathrobes fetching their newspapers. The one on the other side of the street, in baby blue, seemed embarrassed to be caught in such private attire, so I averted my gaze and focused on wrenching Walter from whatever he was attempting to ingest.

          But to the woman on my side of the street, in a long brown robe, I said hello. It looked like it might be a struggle for her to reach down for her paper, so I slipped in and handed it to her and saying, “Here I’ll get that for you.”   I wondered how I must look to her, with my Laker hat, big old brown jacket and thread-bare light blue jeans. I should not have worried what she thought of me because she said, “I’ve seen you walking this handsome dog before,” and extended her hand which Walter warily sniffed. 

          I’m surprised how many women have commented on what a good looking dog he is, when to me he’s such a scruffy, disheveled mutt.  Maybe it’s because his muzzle is getting white that he looks distinguished.

          The worst part of the walk of course is the pooping. Because of my  extreme aversion to carrying a bag of warm, redolent poo, as soon as Walter’s done his business, we turn and head for home.  Walks are now 15-20 minutes as opposed to 30-40 “back home.”

          Then there’s the problem of where to store the poop until Saturday, trash day.  I’d been keeping it in a heavy-duty zip-lock bag in the freezer, but, understandably, John nixed this idea. So today I bought a diaper pail.  Supposedly I won’t bowl over when I open the lid to make each deposit because of the special blue plastic bags.  We’ll see.

          The rest of the day was a blur: meeting with teachers and the Principal, about what I’m supposed to start doing next week, left me completely miffed. Thursday I’ll pick up the “rubric” of what they want me to teach to Level 3 kids – ten to twelve 4^th Graders. The goal: get them to Level 4.  Whatever the heck that means! I’ve always designed my own curriculum and often come up with ideas at the last minute.  This will be a big change but if I have enough time to play I hope I’ll be able to supplement with more interesting material, if what’s supplied is boring.

          Tomorrow, Tuesday, I’m to interview a Radiation Oncologist at 9:30 a.m. This time I must keep to the questions the magazine wants me to ask and not get sidetracked.  I better get a good night’s sleep. No discouraging dreams, please! 

Yogurt

         

Occasionally when I was a little girl my dad would do the grocery shopping. I loved to go with him because he would let me buy something new that I’d never had before. I was about six when I tried – and loved - picked herring, or what I called “Harry Pickle”.

          Yesterday I bought a new kind of yogurt: Siggi’s Icelandic style skyr strained non-fat yogurt. Oh my God, it’s heaven on earth.  Thick, rich, not too sweet, sweetened with agave nectar, - hmm, isn’t agave used to make tequila? - no gelatin. And as it says on the inside of the label (which peels off easily so you’re left with a pristine white cup that I’m dying to find a use for), “We source our milk from family farms in New York state where the cows are not injected with any kind of growth hormone and graze freely when weather permits.”  How can I not love these people?

          I remember when yogurt was a “health food” and my dad bought clear glass jars of plain Yami Yogurt at the health food store in Pacific Palisades, next door to Lyle Fox Gym where he worked out, and the first gym I ever joined.  I, like my dad, enjoyed the biting taste, which was similar to buttermilk that he taught me to drink sprinkled with salt and pepper. Yum!

          My friend Katherine’s mother was “into” healthy foods before it was fashionable, too. After school, going to her house, my favorite treat was plain yogurt with dark purple grape juice and wheat germ.

          Katherine and I were in Mrs. Herbst’s science class where she used her bully pulpit to educate us about nutrition. “I don’t have white sugar in my house!” she told us. She was a bit like Julia Child, quite tall, with an expressive soprano voice. I was fascinated, learning about vitamins - particularly the Bs which are dependent on one another. I bought books by Adele Davis so I could use the tables in the back to track my intake of protein, fat, carbohydrates. In those days we were told to eat 70 grams of protein a day, and that breakfast was the most important meal.

          Because I had access to my parents’ studio and cameras and loved to dress up, Katherine and I made a card for Mrs. Herbst at the end of the semester. On the front was a picture of the two of us in leotards, slouched, frowning, stomachs pushed out. We mussed our hair and put dark circles under our eyes. “Before we took your class we knew nothing about health,” the caption said.  Inside was the “after” photo with us standing straight, perfect posture, hair combed, smiling and the caption  “Thank you!” I loved that teacher.

          Soon yogurt became a popular food.  At the liquor store across from State Beach, we’d buy strawberry yogurt and eat it as dessert after out hamburgers and Cheetos, which we rationalized must be good for us because they were made with cheese.

          In a few years I’d be a long-haired flower child living in Mount Shasta.  I’d drive an hour down to Redding and buy whole-wheat flour to bake my own bread, oats to make my own granola. I’d eat maple sugar or carob candy and drink Yerba Matte tea. No meat! Lots of sprouts.

          Nowadays I’m still concerned with what goes in my mouth and am glad there is a huge variety of foods to choose from. I’m one of those women who stands in the aisles reading labels, putting back more than I buy. I’m grateful to my parents and Mrs. Herbst for raising me right, and friends like Katherine with whom I share a love of good, wholesome food. I’m proud that she is working tirelessly to bring information about this subject to the “greater world” in her new book Growing Roots, The New Generation of Sustainable Farmers, Cooks and Food Activists. Check it out: www.growingroots.info

The Women in My Life

          I’ve been thinking about women who have helped me in my life. Today I’m reflecting on the period 1990-2010.

          As a newcomer to Oakhurst in 1991, I planned to go to a meeting of the Eastern Madera County Arts Alliance to see if they would sponsor me to teach a creative writing class. A group of us stood shivering outside the library, waiting for the person with the key to arrive. But whoever was supposed to have gotten the key hadn’t.

          “I live just around the corner,” I said,  “We can go to my apartment.”

          There wasn’t enough seating for everyone, so some had to sit on the floor but I distinctly remember Nancy Clute, the director of the Madera County Arts Council, sitting in the middle of my couch, in a red wool dress.  Nancy came up with idea for the PACES program – (Presenting the Arts to Children in Elementary Schools) – that was funded until just this year. She would eventually encourage me to teach in the PACES program and after she was killed in a car accident, her replacement Dr. Pamela Beecher was hugely instrumental in helping me work in both County programs as well as Rivergold Elementary; she would eventually hire me to write the Arts Council quarterly newsletter and together, for four years, we worked on Poetry Out Loud.  She has been a great promoter of the arts and artists, working tirelessly to raise funds to keep programs going and now she, too, is leaving. I know she will be sorely missed.

          Another woman who I met at that meeting in my apartment, Lynne, became one of my best friends. As an art teacher we shared a love of teaching, but we also loved to have fun together: hiking, dancing, entertaining. She brightened my life for eighteen years and she still does, from afar. When I feel down all I have to do is put on one of her beautiful dichroic glass necklaces and I feel her love and laughter brighten my mood.

          In 1991 I became secretary of EMCAA and we changed the name to Mountain Arts Council.   A new organization was formed shortly thereafter, Vision Academy of the Arts.  I became secretary, then President and worked with Jackie Byers, music teacher and arts promoter. For years I taught creative writing in the wonderful “Arts Around the World” summer art camp she developed.  I weep to think that I’ll never again be a teacher in that great program, or watch the kids at the end of the week put on their show, with Jackie at the piano. . .

          When I was new to Oakhurst I offered a free one-day writing workshop at my apartment. Roz, a teacher at North Fork School, called and asked if I would come talk to her class. I did, but I also made the kids write. She then was able to hire me to do a residency in her class and another class. I really had no idea, before this, how much I would love teaching children. Years later Roz would attend my adult workshops. She is not only a great teacher, but a great student, who writes delightful poems.

          I am so grateful for the “women of the mountains” who shared their time and talents with me: Carole, my acting teacher, who brought me back to the stage and Liz who directed me in three plays.  Barbara shared her knowledge of birds and wildlife, sushi and art with me.

Diane – ah those pies! and your elegant poems; Robbie, your celestial voice!; Pat – entertainer extradinaire, thank you for all those parties!; Julie, my Scrabble pal; Izabel my spiritual mother who still keeps me on track from afar.  Plus, the PTA presidents, principals, teachers, and office staff who trusted me to teach your kids.  Thank you!

          Yesterday, my dear friend Karen who I met in1984 in a poetry workshop in L.A., called to tell me she’s been offered a job that sounds perfect for her.  I was so thrilled I embarrassed myself by not being able to shut off my tears. I’ve known and loved Karen through her years as a poet, teacher, artist, gardener, print and book maker – everything she does she does perfectly. Every day I look at her paintings in my home and feel honored to have such a darling talented friend.

          The fact that Karen has found the right job, after a tough time being unemployed, gives me faith that there are people “out there” I’m still to meet,  who will be a joy to work with. For, I’ve found that the basis of so many of my friendships (including the Sand & Sea years 1977-90, or even further back to my school days in the Duprees) is working together at things we love.  I can’t wait to be part of a team of creative women again!

           

Latitude

I’ve always loved looking at maps.  Everywhere I've ever lived I've had maps on the walls. I often look at my globe. I have a map of Kerrville on our refrigerator, which helps me understand where I am when I go out and about in our new community.

A lot of my friends asked how far south we are. I decided to look it up.  As I did I got curious about what other cities are on the same degree of latitude.  I tried to include cities where my friends live, so you can find yourself (or perhaps your favorite city) and see where it is in relation to other places on the globe.

I’ll start way up in Alaska. Remember these are degrees north of the equator and I rounded off so some may be a teeny bit further north or south of the ones on the same degree.

61 – Anchorage AK

57 – Inverness & Aberdeen, Scotland

55 – Edinburgh, Glasgow, Moscow

53 – Edmonton, Liverpool, Dublin

52 – Berlin, Amsterdam, Warsaw

51 – London, Calgary

50 – Krakow

49 – Vancouver BC

48 – Paris, Vienna

47 – Ulan Bator, Seattle

45 – Portland OR, Montreal, Milan, Venice, Ottawa

44 – Minneapolis

43 – Florence, Nice, Toronto

42 – Boston, Detroit

41 – Rome, Chicago, Barcelona, Istanbul

40 – Salt Lake City, NY City, Madrid

39 – Bejing, Indianapolis, Denver, Reno, Kansas City

38 – Washington DC, Lisbon, Louisville, Athens

37 – San Francisco, Seoul, Coarsegold, Durango CO

36 – Algiers, Las Vegas, Tulsa, Nashville, Fresno

35 – Tokyo, Oklahoma City, Memphis, Kyoto, Albuquerque

34 – Osaka, Los Angeles, Ventura

33 – Atlanta, Phoenix, Baghdad

32 – Dallas, San Diego, Tel Aviv

31 – Shanghai

30 – Austin, Cairo, Kerrville

29 – New Orleans, Houston, San Antonio, Lhasa,

28 – New Delhi, Chihuahua, Orlando

25 – Miami

23 – Havana

22 – Hong Kong

21 – Mecca, Honolulu, Cancun, Hanoi

20 – Puerto Vallarta

19 – Mexico City

18 – Bombay

14 – Manila

13 – Bangkok

10 – Ho Chi Minh City, Maracaibo

9 – San Jose, Costa Rica

Where we are in the time zone affects what time the sun rises and sets. It's been strange to have the sun set just before 7:00 p.m. this late in the year and even weirder to get up in the dark and watch the sun rise at 8:00 a.m. But of course, this will change  when we turn back our clocks this weekend. 

Insurance Shopping

Who knew when you move from California to Texas, your health insurance rates automatically increase?  Is this added to the yearly increase, or an add-on?  At what age will we qualify for Medicare? Should we get a PPO or HSA?  Beware! When Blue Cross quotes 25% on office visits, this means they pay 75% of the office visit – Hooray – Not so fast: only after you’ve reached your $5000 deductible.  Does this include medications? Is there coverage for medications? Maybe. But only for new ones prescribed. If you’re now taking a cholesterol lowering drug you may not be covered for any or all of the side affects that may occur such as but not limited to . . everything! Or in other words, anything that may happen to your body including and/or mind such as, but not limited to, getting old, cranky, hard of hearing, blind, amnesiatic or insane will automatically disqualify you from a discount on the drug that’s keeping you healthy.

Auto insurance is more forth right: each item you want has a separate fee. You can pick and choose. And the rates are quoted yearly, mainly because they’re so much cheaper than health insurance which, if the companies really want us to feel better should break it down even further, to say, “only $1.66 an hour!” instead of $1,200.00 a month or the amount they don’t dare quote: $14,400 per year.

I think I’ll go into the insurance business, and cover the things that are not covered by life, auto, health or homeowner/renter insurance, such as Shopper’s Insurance.  What woman would not pay premiums to protect herself from impulsive buys?   Just look in your closet, ladies, and see the money you wasted on those boots you’ve never worn and the black pants that fit perfectly but pick up every bit of white lint and cat hair within a three mile radius.  What about that sweater that was on sale that makes you look like a sack of potatoes?  Or the lime-green jersey that shows off your still not-bad breasts but makes your skin look like day old meat?

Or how about Grocery Insurance? Don’t you need protection from all those plastic containers filled with leftovers that seemed so tasty when you cooked them but now are as appetizing as fermented cardboard? That bottle of salad dressing with one serving used, are you going to wait until you faint from sniffing it before you throw it out? With Grocery Insurance you won’t care how much food you waste because you’ll be able to sample everything in the store at a fraction of the cost.  Sure, your premium will be $475 a month (only 66 cents an hour) but think of how fun it will be to buy a bag of Parmesan-Sun-Dried-Tomato-Garlic and Fennel Whole Grain Baked Pita Chips!  You can eat one and then give the rest to the dog.  (Dislaimer: resulting dog farts not covered).

Buying insurance is so depressing! It makes you look at the worst that can happen and then back off toward what probably will happen – you’ll catch a cold, get a rash, strain your back, pick up a bug, find a lump, and eventually just wear out.

Guess I better start looking into death insurance . . .