Surviving the PARTY!

Thank dog, it's over. The whole "I'm old and I get to plan my own party, but you and your sister get to do all the crap for it" party. As expected only a smatering of the guilty and true showed up to make it a memorable occasion. Wouldn't it be a pity if the honoree had dimentia, then we would have to do it over, and over, and over.

I put on my best game face, but thoroughly delighted in seeing my two lovely nieces, whom I hope have either resolved themselves to, or forgiven the fact, that I have been and am really absentee in their lives (sort of like the outline of the person on facebook-your's for the viewing--if you dare). Maybe it is a blessing, since too much of family that can take you adrift from what you want is need, is really counter productive to peacefulness and harmony with the phases of the moon.

Anyway, the day is over; the holiday is now defunct; and it's time to get back to work. Wahoo, turkey left, too.

Yesterday in History

Yesterday, the newspapers noted the 30th anniversary of Jonestown and the terrible mass suicide. What I did not see in the paper, was a mention of the numerous Air Force Rescue & Recovery Squadron fixed wing and helicopter pilots, pararescue, and airmen (55th ARRS-Ft Walton Beach, Fl.), or a mention of the many Special Operations personnel from Ft Bragg, N.C., who were part of the massive effort to search for potential survivors in the jungle, protect the troops on the ground, clean up (sanitize) the site, and pack up and return the bodies back to the United States mainland.

I can tell you, that when our squadron members returned from Jonestown, they were changed in a way that only compassionate, caring and loving people can be changed. The terrible incident in Jonestown affected our lives through Thanksgiving and Christmas as our personnel dealt with the memories of the traumatic and dramatic loss of life, especially innocent children. For reasons I won’t explain here, candy canes or anything mint was verboten.

From now on, when you read of Jonestown, please remember the unspoken heroes who performed a job for their county that was far beyond their call of duty.

No (More) Duh

The baby dove (dovelings? squab?) have fledged. Their parent gave up the nest, and the mom returned once to feed the slow starter one last meal. The baby danced and worried her until she disgorged his prize, and by afternoon she was gone. The older bird flew off two days before, and returned that night to keep the smaller bird company--huddling together to scare off the cold, and the strange creatures lurking near by. The older bird left the next morning, and the baby waited another day before consigning himself the the fact that he was on his own-and flew off.

The nesting process was time consuming, from what I could tell from my window; and the parents were more concerned with getting their nest under the eaves ready, than they were my curiosity. Once the mom sat and the babies arrived, three sets of eyes met mine one morning as I peered out the window. The babies, once left alone would keep vigilance, stare intently, and note every movement, until mom or dad returned.

We call them Duh. A while back, I was working in the garden, and my husband came out to talk to me. As he approached, he was talking, and as he approached I noted the Dove pecking peacefully away on the tidbits of bird seed by my feet, scattered by the careless jays. "Dove", I said. "Well, Duh to you too. Don't be such a smart ass," he said. "I said, "Dove"," I said, and laughed. He did too.

So now, one baby approaches me with out fear--walks calmly up to me in the garden, and then slips by to forage on tidbits. "You had better get smart real fast buddy, or you're cat food," I said.

I want to take the remnants of the nest down so I can wash the windows, but maybe it can wait.

Decide

Did you decide if you loved him
Enough to blend your life with him
And let the things that really didn’t matter go?

Did you decide to make the warmth of his smile
Something you wanted to see everyday
And not let another one take your place?

Did you remember wondering
If someone would ever want to fight to keep you
And not let you wander and stray so far from their heart?

Did you realize that so many are alone because
In love, terms are not negotiable
And love is take it or leave it – all?

Did you decide that being cherished is better than
To be alone like your drifting friends
And to accept the time he takes from you?

Did you frighten from the completeness
The never ending day-to-day of together
And think that you wanted to run and hide?

Did you decide to keep him
Or should you release him
And let him offer his soul to another?

Scraps of Paper

My Grandma wrote snippets of information on scraps of paper that I found lying around the house, "Nixon is a crook", "Buy bug spray", and the names and dates of birth and baptism for her and each of her siblings. Finding and reading the scraps gave me insight to what when on in her life in the last years, and were an affirmation of my gerenal belief that she stayed pretty well "with it" until her death. The scraps not only eschewed her existence, but herald signs of things to come for me.

In our house, we use post-notes and other reminders to the extent that someday everyone will think that my kitchen cabinets are white, yellow, pink, and green. Should I collage them on to the cabinet doors so the kids and the next owner have to deal with them? Would they see the notes and their substance rather than the hippie throw back of making everything art? Could be fun..........

Lactose and the Quirky

I have an affinity for lovely cheeses, and was thoroughly in my element in England. My bi-weekly trips to Cambridge were made to visit the cheese monger to ensure that the fridge always had a ration of Stilton, Leicester, Edam, Brie, and "hard" cheese. Now that the U.S. has finally caught up it's a pleasure to go to our farmers market and find quark, Portuguese Dry Jack, Cheddars and other delights, in additon to fruits and veggies.

Having recently raided sausage factory, my lunches currently consist of bits and pieces--bread or crackers, sausage, cheese, fruit, and alas, soda (not wine!). Others I work with think I'm just too frugal to buy a sandwich or burger. Some even think I'm quirky. Tomorrow, lunch will be ledt over Caprese, sausage, french bread, and iced tea. A sweet Pluot and (golf course) blackberries will round out the meal.

So sorry for the Quiznos and Carls set. Eat your heart out!

Time Happens

The alarm bell goes off when you go into Forever 21.
The clerk at the Gap asks you if you are shopping for something for your granddaughter.
You have to have a breast lift to wear a Bebe shirt.
Your husband answers you by saying, “Yes Ma’am”.
You wish you were driving a car that didn’t talk to you.
You talk back to the instructions from the Navigation system in your car.
You have no interest in the feminine products aisle in a drug store.
You have to make a choice between sneezing and not sneezing, on a sneeze-by- sneeze basis.
Your children don’t laugh anymore when you do something out of character.
Comfortable shoes don’t look so unfashionable anymore.
You read the small print on the restaurant menu to see if they offer a senior discount, and then ask the waitress if you don’t see one offered, and then order from the child's menu.
You invite the kids along on vacation so they can do the driving.
You store single serving dried plums (prunes) at your desk.
Coordinating your outfit is no longer a requirement, it’s an option.

If any of this sounds familiar, it's time you thought about eating less, exercising more, complaining less, laughing more, and taking time to smell (plant) the roses.

High Desert

We drove along at a fast clip, the trip from Gorman to Palmdale always a ho-hum leg of our journey, with the desert scrub, sage, and yucca dotting the landscape in the foreground, and the high desert mountains protecting the horizon in the distance. Sand, pavement, scrub, sometimes wind.

This spring, the shock of what opportunist plants and flower can be came to us with a slap to the senses. Rioting waves of California poppies, goldenrod, and lupine filled in the void between the sage and scrub in every meadow and vernal dip in the landscape. The orange from the poppies so electric, that it shocked our eyes with violence of their color.

The lupine seemed to find its way into every rocky crevice, seeking out the sun on the sides of the mountains. From far away, the color of the lupine blended from dark blue to lilac, and from purple to the dark gray of the rock. The waves of poppies hugged the base of the hills and mountains, and the goldenrod and lupine shared the upper spaces with a dusting of color that almost seemed like it was a mirage from the sun’s intensity.

We took pictures, but they don’t do justice to what the desert shared with us.

Urban Legend

The girl behind the counter gave me her best welcome-to-Starbucks-may-I –take-your-order-God-this-is too-early-I wish-I-was-home-in-bed-still-asleep smile. She sporting what I think is the prerequisite for hiring as a barista: the “body piercing”, a small gold ring in her right eyebrow. “Let’s see the grandkids get a hold of that someday.” I smiled back, “Grande half-caff, room, please. My smile was more a quick spasm or jerk of the face muscles, something boring between a nervous twitch and an involuntary seizure.

The coffee came. I gave her my card. The sound that came out of her made me wish that she was at home-in-bed-still-asleep. “Oh, I’ve never seen this one before. When did we get this one? She chirped. “It’s the 9/11 card. The Walt Whitman card--Nations”, I said. She continued to look at the card. “It looks like it has a poem on it”. “Yes”, I said, “Nations.”

The next week, same barista. “Cool card” she said. “I read the poem.” “Cool”, I thought. “It’s a quote, but a good start. One barista down”.

"Here is not merely a NATION, but a teeming nation of NATIONS."

Fire

The sound of a gate to a chain link fence clanged shut. Imagine my irritation at the sound of someone crumpling cellophane in the middle of the night. “Whasat?” I said. A moment later, a faint scent of smoke made my eyes explode open, entirely awake now, “Call 911”, I said to my husband. I grabbed my glasses and scrambled to the screen door. The moon was high, and I could see the faint dancing white glow of fire behind the back fence, as though a child was playing with a flashlight—shadows and then light. “Call 911, there’s a fire on the greenbelt.” I tore down the stairs, slipped on my clogs, and raced out the back door. Once I reached the back of the garden, I unlatched the gate, and lifted the pin. The gate swung open.

The heat of summer had flattened the once tall riot of foliage of weeds into a flat mat of straw and scattered foxtails. The fire crackled in the dry grass, and jumped and flashed as it consumed small pockets of weeds. The smoke, once wispy, started to swell into puffy forms and rise into the sky. Unfurling the hose, I shot a long stream of water along the edge of the fence; and the fire hissed and backed away. An ember leaped into the air, trying to jump the path, but landed on a patch of hardened dirt—dying a quick death. A faint siren sounded.

I kept shooting water at the fires edges, willing the fire to not run away; and the fire started to die. Footsteps sounded down the path. The fire was almost out. One man took the hose. Others used shovels to turn dirt on the smoldering embers, and smashed them like bugs. My husband and I stood and watched while they finished. “Shit”, I though, “I looked like hell.” One fireman found a smoldering cigarette. “Do you smoke, ma’am?” “No”, I said, “neighbor’s kid.”

Kindred Spirit

That’s what the slim strip of paper in the fortune cookie said. “You will find a kindred spirit”. I was relieved to know that I, too, like Anne of Green Gables, would soon have someone bonded to me heart and soul. Someone to share every small irony; someone who would know what I was always thinking, and not think the worse of me; someone who would not think me insane for relishing bizarre thoughts at inappropriate times.

I tucked the small prophecy in my pocket, and we left the café.

The next day I set off on my usual travels to work, expecting a serendipitous moment at anytime—it could be anyone, anyone of the people I meet, or see, or work with during the day. But I didn’t leave the building all day. Nothing happened. There was a time, I thought, just a moment when someone in the elevator snickered at one of my better sarcastic comments, then nothing.

When the day was over, I sat on the sofa and asked the family dog what I should do, and she just looked at me. She is old, and deaf, and almost blind. She has survived the kids, survived breaking free, getting lost and then found, tolerated eating things she shouldn’t have, spent endless hours in the garden digging and sniffing about, slept and snored in the mound of covers on the bed; but her look let me know, without a doubt, that she thinks I am her kindred spirit.