A green mini-van pulled into the adjacent driveway. The family of four emerged as I observed from a discreet distance. Could they be the ones? The neighbors we'd never had in the past whose lives might now intersect with ours. Soon there were two of us standing silently, just watching and wondering who might be exploring next door. Two toddlers, totally blonde, accompanied the adults.
Hesitating no longer, we walked casually to the low wall dividing the properties, and welcomed the foursome to our neighborhood. Perhaps we were a bit overly eager in our description of the location's assets. We definitely tried to sell its positive attributes.
Within a month, the family settled into their new home. Since that momentous day, the parents have told us often that they really thought we'd been hired by the realtor to encourage people to buy the vacant house. Not so. Our efforts were purely selfish. Somehow we knew immediately that we wanted them to make the purchase and we simply did our best to convince them to want us, too.
In October, the two families will have lived side-by-side for five years. It is difficult for us to recall life without our neighbors being so close.
During this period, an inseparable bond has developed between me and the mom next door. She calls me 'Jacks.' I call her 'Gill.' I've grown accustomed to her distinctive English accent. I've learned the nuances of her language and am charmed by every utterance.
I know that my backyard is her 'garden.' I realize that going to the store means the 'shops' for her. I listen as she calls her girls 'dollie' and I suspect that I would say 'darling.' I know that she will 'lay the table' and I will 'set' it. Each difference is embraceable.
Gill is unconditionally selfless. She considers others first and always. Sometimes I think that this fine character trait is associated with her chosen vocation. As a nurse, she's worked in hospitals and clinics in London, Los Angeles and more recently, the desert. For any sick or injured person fortunate enough to encounter her ministrations, healing begins the moment she appears. The gentleness that seeps from her countenance is instantly recognized, even by the most acute patient. She speaks with authority laced with humanity. Her medical knowledge is clearly evident and through years of practice, she can assess even the most dire situation and execute the right course of action.
When Gill was a very new neighbor, we had the occasion to seek her advice. A workman in our house had injured his arm. He was obviously in pain and very frightened. We were unsure whether we should take him to an immediate care facility or the local hospital emergency room. His boss wasn't nearby and the seriousness of the condition could not be easily ascertained. Then we remembered our nearby nurse. Though she didn't know us well and had never met the injured gentleman, Gill handled the dilemma with aplomb. She carefully checked the painful area, pronounced the bones intact, and assuaged the fears of the concerned man.
Seeing Gill in her role as a parent causes me to wish that I'd known her during my own early parenting days. What important lessons I could have learned. She is ever encouraging, utterly calm, always positive and imminently fair as she interacts with her two little girls who share the same birthday yet remain separate, independent spirits.
Gill has the ability to be an integral part of her daughters' lives without smothering them. She inquires into their activities without prying, praises their accomplishments and beams with pride as she watches them grow into lovely little girls. She's taught them the most exquisite manners. Their cute little voices echo with 'please' and 'thank you.' She recognizes and encourages their individuality and never, ever favors one over the other. She's constantly physically demonstrative, giving the girls a sense of peace and belonging.
It is Gill who remembers everyone's special day and assures that cards and gifts are plentiful. She's genuinely appreciative of all kindnesses to her family and seems unable to accept a gesture without responding in a similar manner. Our house is routinely transformed by floral bouquets brought by Gill in recognition of some small favor to her family. She lovingly composes copious notes acknowledging even the most mundane of gifts.
On days when life's stresses seem significant, Gill is still able to retain her ebullient personality. She dispenses limitless cheer and appears to effortlessly alter the ambience surrounding a challenging circumstance. One of her hugs can cure almost anything.
If there were a television show in which outstanding examples of spousal behavior were heralded, Gill could be the star. She is unfailingly supportive of her engaging husband. I marvel at her ability to anticipate his needs and meet them, even, perhaps, before he is aware of them himself. She understands instinctively the meaning of the word 'team' and she applies the concept to her daily life. I see her smile at her man and I know that the love they share is rare and richly refined.
As a nurse, Gill is devoted to her profession. She's a natural teacher who thrives on sharing her wisdom with students or fellow professionals. She has the respect and admiration of the doctors and administrators with whom she works. Her popularity in the workplace is a testament to her indefatigable dedication to the healing arts.
Though I am unquestionably old enough to be Gill's mother, she never behaves as if I am redundant. Instead, she accords me the luxury of her friendship. Gill shares the joys of her day, queries me about mine and reminds me that we are inextricably connected. Sometimes she asks my advice on a topic and I know she's listening intently to my response.
As the years unfold, I'm confident Jacks and Gill will continue to climb life's hills together. I know she'll try to fix whatever ails me and I trust that she'll receive solace from me as well.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Looking Glass
Somewhere between husbands and houses, I lost it. I'm not really sure the last time I glimpsed the pages, neatly folded and containing younger script. It may have dated from about eighth grade, but I'm not sure anymore. What I do know is that there was an assignment. Perhaps loosely described, the subject was left to the writer. I was in my pensive stage which lasted, at times, for months. Couple this frame of mind with my potent craving for another address, and the essay practically composed itself.
My unsophisticated self titled the effort "Life Through Windows." The paragraphs related what I saw as I rode the bus each day from our farmhouse to school in town. What I actually recorded has been subsumed by decades of memories since the words' conception. I doubt if I viewed anything profound. Most likely I speculated about what I glimpsed, thus creating stories tinged with fantasy.
Recently I thought about this early writing effort as I sat at my home office desk. It's in a room whose window affords me a magnificent mountain view of the 10,000 foot grey mountain which rims our desert city. I look at the house across the street whose colors seem more beachy than sand. With stark white as the base and pale blue trim, I wonder if the owner were hoping to match his equally white car.
Remarkably tall slender palm trees are scattered about the neighborhood. They seem a bit incongruous so close to an imposing mountain. Rocks populate yards and silently speak of environmentally aware homeowners. Sizes and colors proliferate and here and there, a cactus protrudes, needing little liquid for its life.
My eyes fall upon our front yard kelly-green grass swatch. I know it is a luxury in winter and that its thirst is no longer defensible in this conservation conscious society. Still, the richness of this ground cover assures me that not everything in the desert appears in shades of brown.
People parade nearly endlessly up and down our street. It is aptly named Sunset and most days I marvel as the sun disappears behind our mountain and offers yet another magnificent sight. Curiously, this street is east of one named 'Sunrise.' I've always wondered how this naming anomaly happened. True, Sunrise is a major thoroughfare, stocked with both retail and residential buildings. Our own 'Way' is much more modest, a neighborhood place.
Often, as I type, I glance through the open shutter and catch the mail carrier delivering his temporary wares. There's a white truck that belongs to Thalia, the delightful lady who cleans our pool. As one of the only houses on the street with a sidewalk, I've noticed that it is utilized by walkers, bike riders, and the occasional skateboarder. With a rather large mailbox planted in one of the sidewalk squares, maneuvering around this impediment can be a bit tricky. Little kids especially enjoy the challenge.
There are days when I am bemused by the apparel that passes by my looking glass. I wonder if there are people who do not possess mirrors or who ignore their reflections prior to leaving their homes. Perhaps there are those who ponder the same about me.
This time of year, the number of visitors to our town increases dramatically. While most of the nation struggles with repeated winter storms, our mild temperature is extremely enticing. As someone who has not ever embraced excessive warmth (anything beyond 90 degrees qualifies), I'm happily clad in jeans and long-sleeved shirts during our brief hiatus from sizzling days and nights. Thus when I witness people strolling by my window clad in tank tops, shorts and sandals, I have to shake my head. Few of them will still be here when triple digits assault us and wearing such garb actually is a necessity.
As an almost obsessively inquisitive (read 'snoopy') person, I imagine incredible stories that I link to those who languorsly stroll past my observation post. Many of these individuals are accompanied by a dog, or two or three. I often wonder if these animals arrived by car or airplane and if they're able to appreciate their temporary homes. Naturally I muse about their owners as well.
A few years ago, I heard a terrible crash and, along with my husband, rushed to the front door. A mangled car sat entangled with a stop sign. No occupants were nearby. Soon the police arrived and a helicopter soared above us. Officers on foot spread into neighboring yards, guns drawn. The fleeing suspects had burgled a nearby house, fled that scene and soon lost control of the car while attempting to turn down our street. A bit of excitement on an otherwise quiet afternoon.
Since we painted our house late last year, I've noticed that more than a few people actually pause to look at the refreshed color scheme. I'm beaming inside.
Lately I've become curious as to whether those who amble past our address ever notice the open shutter. If so, do they look beyond the glass?
My unsophisticated self titled the effort "Life Through Windows." The paragraphs related what I saw as I rode the bus each day from our farmhouse to school in town. What I actually recorded has been subsumed by decades of memories since the words' conception. I doubt if I viewed anything profound. Most likely I speculated about what I glimpsed, thus creating stories tinged with fantasy.
Recently I thought about this early writing effort as I sat at my home office desk. It's in a room whose window affords me a magnificent mountain view of the 10,000 foot grey mountain which rims our desert city. I look at the house across the street whose colors seem more beachy than sand. With stark white as the base and pale blue trim, I wonder if the owner were hoping to match his equally white car.
Remarkably tall slender palm trees are scattered about the neighborhood. They seem a bit incongruous so close to an imposing mountain. Rocks populate yards and silently speak of environmentally aware homeowners. Sizes and colors proliferate and here and there, a cactus protrudes, needing little liquid for its life.
My eyes fall upon our front yard kelly-green grass swatch. I know it is a luxury in winter and that its thirst is no longer defensible in this conservation conscious society. Still, the richness of this ground cover assures me that not everything in the desert appears in shades of brown.
People parade nearly endlessly up and down our street. It is aptly named Sunset and most days I marvel as the sun disappears behind our mountain and offers yet another magnificent sight. Curiously, this street is east of one named 'Sunrise.' I've always wondered how this naming anomaly happened. True, Sunrise is a major thoroughfare, stocked with both retail and residential buildings. Our own 'Way' is much more modest, a neighborhood place.
Often, as I type, I glance through the open shutter and catch the mail carrier delivering his temporary wares. There's a white truck that belongs to Thalia, the delightful lady who cleans our pool. As one of the only houses on the street with a sidewalk, I've noticed that it is utilized by walkers, bike riders, and the occasional skateboarder. With a rather large mailbox planted in one of the sidewalk squares, maneuvering around this impediment can be a bit tricky. Little kids especially enjoy the challenge.
There are days when I am bemused by the apparel that passes by my looking glass. I wonder if there are people who do not possess mirrors or who ignore their reflections prior to leaving their homes. Perhaps there are those who ponder the same about me.
This time of year, the number of visitors to our town increases dramatically. While most of the nation struggles with repeated winter storms, our mild temperature is extremely enticing. As someone who has not ever embraced excessive warmth (anything beyond 90 degrees qualifies), I'm happily clad in jeans and long-sleeved shirts during our brief hiatus from sizzling days and nights. Thus when I witness people strolling by my window clad in tank tops, shorts and sandals, I have to shake my head. Few of them will still be here when triple digits assault us and wearing such garb actually is a necessity.
As an almost obsessively inquisitive (read 'snoopy') person, I imagine incredible stories that I link to those who languorsly stroll past my observation post. Many of these individuals are accompanied by a dog, or two or three. I often wonder if these animals arrived by car or airplane and if they're able to appreciate their temporary homes. Naturally I muse about their owners as well.
A few years ago, I heard a terrible crash and, along with my husband, rushed to the front door. A mangled car sat entangled with a stop sign. No occupants were nearby. Soon the police arrived and a helicopter soared above us. Officers on foot spread into neighboring yards, guns drawn. The fleeing suspects had burgled a nearby house, fled that scene and soon lost control of the car while attempting to turn down our street. A bit of excitement on an otherwise quiet afternoon.
Since we painted our house late last year, I've noticed that more than a few people actually pause to look at the refreshed color scheme. I'm beaming inside.
Lately I've become curious as to whether those who amble past our address ever notice the open shutter. If so, do they look beyond the glass?
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Card Carrier
We drove along a country road that very dark night, headed for Aliceville. Four of us in the car, ready for a weekend celebration. One was touching fifty, the other a new eighteen. A family brought together by the proximity of natal days. Suddenly we're involved in an almost cow collision as a bovine ambles into our path, is nearly hit by the car's front bumper and then simply continues her stroll to the other side of the highway. Fortunately the driver has seen her approaching at the last moment and quickly applied the brakes. The only catastrophe is the duo's birthday cake which is jettisoned off the back seat and lands upside down on the floor. All of us are grateful that nothing worse has happened. Cake can be eaten even if smushed. Cars and cows, however, are another matter if they encounter one another.
Sitting in my office, I'm engaged in a conversation with my boss, the College President. He seems a bit uncomfortable but perhaps it's because usually we chat in his office. I look up and see my husband at the door. He knocks, enters and hands me the end of a pink crepe paper streamer. He says, "Pull." I look at him quizzically, but I do as he says. I can't help but notice that my boss's face is relaxing, maybe even smiling. I tug on the streamer and wonder what I am doing. I'm at work, after all. Soon I know the answer. I'm beginning to think that somebody might be at the end of the paper line. Perhaps my friend Barbara from Arizona. How nice. How wrong. There she is, holding the other end of the streamer, cousin Marilyn from Marietta. I scream. Scream some more. Stop to hug her and cannot keep my mouth closed. There are so many questions. My staff gathers. I look in the hallway and find that several people, including the Vice-President, have pulled up chairs and are peering over a wall of filing cabinets to witness this scene. Everybody knew except for me. I am the most gullible of all. I never get the clues and can be fooled easily. Even little kids figure things out before I do. It is February and another incredibly thoughtful and well-planned surprise has unfolded. My dear husband is a master at seeing inside my heart and giving me that which often I don't even know I want.
Twice I've been feted with unexpected visits from our daughter in time to celebrate a new birthday digit. One Saturday I was at the neighbors' house when, rather suddenly, they retreated into the kitchen to get a cake with candles. As they returned singing "Happy Birthday," someone slipped out from behind them. It was Caitlin who said simply, "Hi Mom." The look of astonishment on my face acknowledged my incredulity. He'd done it again, that master of birthday surprise. Not satisfied by this coup, the very next February, I was innocently watching television on a Friday night. The neighbors appeared at the door around 10 pm. This is most unusual, but still I am unsuspecting. They're carrying the baby monitors because their girls are fast asleep in their own beds next door. I'm startled and ask what's wrong. "Nothing." they say, very convincingly. While speaking, they move out of the doorway, and Caitlin magically appears. Good gracious. How can I be so lucky? After two such surprises in a row, she says no more for a while. Henry resorts to new schemes. He's undaunted in designing ever more complicated surprises.
Last year I opened our front door one day in mid-January and standing just outside was cousin Dottie. The resulting reaction caused both she and Henry to worry that I was having an asthma attack because of my repeated screams and constant covering of my face with both hands. Having arisen in the early morning hours for the first flight from her part of the Gulf coast, Dottie retained her buoyant spirit and spent her first few moments in the desert trying to calm me. Again, I had no clue. The five year old twins next door were in on the surprise and never hinted at what was about to happen.
More than a month ago, the subject of this year's birthday became part of an ongoing discussion. What should we do? Go to Arizona? Texas perhaps? Not Oregon. Much too cold. San Francisco? Stay here? Skip the whole day? I wavered. Considered the various options. We'd driven to Orange County less than a month before. Wouldn't it be quite indulgent to go there again? Hmmmm. Maybe not. The Marriott website is accessed. A new venue is found. It looks perfect. Make reservations for two nights.
Birthday nirvana. South Coast Plaza, my shopping haven/heaven. More than one day to dawdle, admire, select. Not quite the same as unexpected and much loved visitors, but very high on the happiness quotient. We arrive at the shopping shrine to witness a Chinese New Year's celebration in progress. Nice touch.
I'm ready to escape everyday life and adjust to my new status as a card carrying member of the Medicare brigade. This year's number is a difficult one for that reason alone. I know I'll acclimate. It's inevitable.
Throughout my life, I've observed birthdays with relish. Not only mine, but more importantly, those of my family and friends. I keep a bulging file of birthday cards ready to be mailed across the country to commemorate that special day for a loved one. I choose these cards with an intensity that may be just slightly overwrought. I browse through racks of cards to find the perfect one and affix a sticker with the name of the intended recipient on the final choice. In that way, the card is waiting when the date approaches.
My daughter's birthdays have always been celebrated with abandon. Ingrained into her psyche is the importance of such days and she insists on treating 'her' day as extra special. If blame is to be assigned, I must shoulder much of it with a very willing assist from her dad.
Even a serial shopper such as myself eventually tires and must retreat. Our hotel is located in Newport Beach and we drive through several quaint little communities before arriving at the nearly sequestered entrance. With no restaurant on the property, we'll find a portable feast and return to dine in our spacious room. Unfamiliarity with the area causes us to seek a grocery store where we expect to find a fully stocked deli that will meet our culinary needs. What luck! Tucked in small spaces adjoining the parking lot are several restaurants. It must be serendipity. There's an Italian place which serves not only the requisite pizzas but several sandwiches that appeal to Henry. Next door, a Mexican restaurant featuring rotisserie chicken. I'm happy.
Back in the car with our food booty, we're ready for a quiet evening savoring a meatball sandwich and grilled chicken with skewers of freshly cooked vegetables. Better than a restaurant. We are the only 'customers' in our hotel room.
The next morning, we decide that a bit more shopping will satisfy my birthday buying thirst and we can return home in the evening. After checking out, we wander around the center of the property looking for photo opportunities. There's a beautiful fountain to capture.
We notice another couple intent upon the same experience. After offering to take a photo of the two of them, we introduce ourselves. Ed and Suzanne have escaped from Wisconsin. The sunshine of Southern California is balm for battered midwesterners. They've spent time during previous winters in a property near our desert home. We enjoy an almost instant rapport. Trade life histories, the shortened versions. Suzanne is a shopper. She loves Dillard's and Nordstrom's. Must be a cousin.
We're reluctant to say good-bye to these delightful people and so we invite them to join us at South Coast. I'm sure Ed would rather be any place but there. Suzanne, however, is intrigued. She's never even heard of the place that holds such an allure for me.
We've proven once again that many of the best memories from any excursion occur spontaneously. They cannot be foretold or planned. They often happen if you are willing to extend yourself, to be open to those whom you don't know, and to reflect upon the gift of adding new people to your friends' list. Perhaps this chance encounter was one of the best birthday presents of all.
By mid-afternoon, the ladies have visited many stores, selected and discarded many possible purchases, left the men to talk without interruption, and embarked upon a friendship. We've shared personal insights, responded honestly and gently when asked if a particular choice is the right color, fits attractively, costs too much, or is just plain laughable. In a department store where a 20% discount is offered if the customer is wearing red, I've briefly borrowed Suzanne's bright red coat and claimed my discount. The clerk didn't seem to think it odd that the color clashed with everything else I was wearing. She simply applied the reduction.
At the end of this indulgent shopping spree, I've almost forgotten the momentousness of the day. I think about previous birthdays when 'zeros' were significant or how much I anticipated my twenty-first. How startled I was when a vicious flu flattened me that day. Yes, it was unforgettable but not in a good way. I am sobered by the fact that having a birthday is quite an accomplishment, regardless of the numbers attached. I am deeply enriched by the extraordinary people who share my life, remember my day, and make it so very special. I am chagrined to reflect upon my own shallowness when I relate how shopping can buoy my spirits. I'll need to work on that trait in this next year.
In the meantime, I'll be using my new red, white and blue identification card for a lab appointment next month. Perhaps the kind receptionist will say I don't look old enough to be a card carrier. The issuing agency knows my numbers and my face tells the rest.
Sitting in my office, I'm engaged in a conversation with my boss, the College President. He seems a bit uncomfortable but perhaps it's because usually we chat in his office. I look up and see my husband at the door. He knocks, enters and hands me the end of a pink crepe paper streamer. He says, "Pull." I look at him quizzically, but I do as he says. I can't help but notice that my boss's face is relaxing, maybe even smiling. I tug on the streamer and wonder what I am doing. I'm at work, after all. Soon I know the answer. I'm beginning to think that somebody might be at the end of the paper line. Perhaps my friend Barbara from Arizona. How nice. How wrong. There she is, holding the other end of the streamer, cousin Marilyn from Marietta. I scream. Scream some more. Stop to hug her and cannot keep my mouth closed. There are so many questions. My staff gathers. I look in the hallway and find that several people, including the Vice-President, have pulled up chairs and are peering over a wall of filing cabinets to witness this scene. Everybody knew except for me. I am the most gullible of all. I never get the clues and can be fooled easily. Even little kids figure things out before I do. It is February and another incredibly thoughtful and well-planned surprise has unfolded. My dear husband is a master at seeing inside my heart and giving me that which often I don't even know I want.
Twice I've been feted with unexpected visits from our daughter in time to celebrate a new birthday digit. One Saturday I was at the neighbors' house when, rather suddenly, they retreated into the kitchen to get a cake with candles. As they returned singing "Happy Birthday," someone slipped out from behind them. It was Caitlin who said simply, "Hi Mom." The look of astonishment on my face acknowledged my incredulity. He'd done it again, that master of birthday surprise. Not satisfied by this coup, the very next February, I was innocently watching television on a Friday night. The neighbors appeared at the door around 10 pm. This is most unusual, but still I am unsuspecting. They're carrying the baby monitors because their girls are fast asleep in their own beds next door. I'm startled and ask what's wrong. "Nothing." they say, very convincingly. While speaking, they move out of the doorway, and Caitlin magically appears. Good gracious. How can I be so lucky? After two such surprises in a row, she says no more for a while. Henry resorts to new schemes. He's undaunted in designing ever more complicated surprises.
Last year I opened our front door one day in mid-January and standing just outside was cousin Dottie. The resulting reaction caused both she and Henry to worry that I was having an asthma attack because of my repeated screams and constant covering of my face with both hands. Having arisen in the early morning hours for the first flight from her part of the Gulf coast, Dottie retained her buoyant spirit and spent her first few moments in the desert trying to calm me. Again, I had no clue. The five year old twins next door were in on the surprise and never hinted at what was about to happen.
More than a month ago, the subject of this year's birthday became part of an ongoing discussion. What should we do? Go to Arizona? Texas perhaps? Not Oregon. Much too cold. San Francisco? Stay here? Skip the whole day? I wavered. Considered the various options. We'd driven to Orange County less than a month before. Wouldn't it be quite indulgent to go there again? Hmmmm. Maybe not. The Marriott website is accessed. A new venue is found. It looks perfect. Make reservations for two nights.
Birthday nirvana. South Coast Plaza, my shopping haven/heaven. More than one day to dawdle, admire, select. Not quite the same as unexpected and much loved visitors, but very high on the happiness quotient. We arrive at the shopping shrine to witness a Chinese New Year's celebration in progress. Nice touch.
I'm ready to escape everyday life and adjust to my new status as a card carrying member of the Medicare brigade. This year's number is a difficult one for that reason alone. I know I'll acclimate. It's inevitable.
Throughout my life, I've observed birthdays with relish. Not only mine, but more importantly, those of my family and friends. I keep a bulging file of birthday cards ready to be mailed across the country to commemorate that special day for a loved one. I choose these cards with an intensity that may be just slightly overwrought. I browse through racks of cards to find the perfect one and affix a sticker with the name of the intended recipient on the final choice. In that way, the card is waiting when the date approaches.
My daughter's birthdays have always been celebrated with abandon. Ingrained into her psyche is the importance of such days and she insists on treating 'her' day as extra special. If blame is to be assigned, I must shoulder much of it with a very willing assist from her dad.
Even a serial shopper such as myself eventually tires and must retreat. Our hotel is located in Newport Beach and we drive through several quaint little communities before arriving at the nearly sequestered entrance. With no restaurant on the property, we'll find a portable feast and return to dine in our spacious room. Unfamiliarity with the area causes us to seek a grocery store where we expect to find a fully stocked deli that will meet our culinary needs. What luck! Tucked in small spaces adjoining the parking lot are several restaurants. It must be serendipity. There's an Italian place which serves not only the requisite pizzas but several sandwiches that appeal to Henry. Next door, a Mexican restaurant featuring rotisserie chicken. I'm happy.
Back in the car with our food booty, we're ready for a quiet evening savoring a meatball sandwich and grilled chicken with skewers of freshly cooked vegetables. Better than a restaurant. We are the only 'customers' in our hotel room.
The next morning, we decide that a bit more shopping will satisfy my birthday buying thirst and we can return home in the evening. After checking out, we wander around the center of the property looking for photo opportunities. There's a beautiful fountain to capture.
We notice another couple intent upon the same experience. After offering to take a photo of the two of them, we introduce ourselves. Ed and Suzanne have escaped from Wisconsin. The sunshine of Southern California is balm for battered midwesterners. They've spent time during previous winters in a property near our desert home. We enjoy an almost instant rapport. Trade life histories, the shortened versions. Suzanne is a shopper. She loves Dillard's and Nordstrom's. Must be a cousin.
We're reluctant to say good-bye to these delightful people and so we invite them to join us at South Coast. I'm sure Ed would rather be any place but there. Suzanne, however, is intrigued. She's never even heard of the place that holds such an allure for me.
We've proven once again that many of the best memories from any excursion occur spontaneously. They cannot be foretold or planned. They often happen if you are willing to extend yourself, to be open to those whom you don't know, and to reflect upon the gift of adding new people to your friends' list. Perhaps this chance encounter was one of the best birthday presents of all.
By mid-afternoon, the ladies have visited many stores, selected and discarded many possible purchases, left the men to talk without interruption, and embarked upon a friendship. We've shared personal insights, responded honestly and gently when asked if a particular choice is the right color, fits attractively, costs too much, or is just plain laughable. In a department store where a 20% discount is offered if the customer is wearing red, I've briefly borrowed Suzanne's bright red coat and claimed my discount. The clerk didn't seem to think it odd that the color clashed with everything else I was wearing. She simply applied the reduction.
At the end of this indulgent shopping spree, I've almost forgotten the momentousness of the day. I think about previous birthdays when 'zeros' were significant or how much I anticipated my twenty-first. How startled I was when a vicious flu flattened me that day. Yes, it was unforgettable but not in a good way. I am sobered by the fact that having a birthday is quite an accomplishment, regardless of the numbers attached. I am deeply enriched by the extraordinary people who share my life, remember my day, and make it so very special. I am chagrined to reflect upon my own shallowness when I relate how shopping can buoy my spirits. I'll need to work on that trait in this next year.
In the meantime, I'll be using my new red, white and blue identification card for a lab appointment next month. Perhaps the kind receptionist will say I don't look old enough to be a card carrier. The issuing agency knows my numbers and my face tells the rest.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Missing Valentine's
A peanut patch plays a prominent role in my personal history. It is where, incongruously, my parents met for the very first time. World War II wove their story as it did so many thousands of other men and women. Without this great conflict, I would not exist.
My mother, who brought cool water to my soldier daddy as he guarded German war prisoners in the abovementioned location, was a tenant farmer's daughter. She'd been born at home in north Georgia, the eleventh of what was to be thirteen siblings. With six brothers and five surviving sisters, it is unlikely that she received appreciable attention from her overburdened parents.
The small farmhouse must have teemed with bodies. Creature comforts would have been scarce, even the most basic amenities were absent. No faucets emitted running water. No indoor bathroom, even the most rudimentary, provided a space for cleansing one's body. A wood stove stayed in constant use with multitudinous mouths to feed. Perhaps a large fireplace provided warmth on cold Southern nights. Summer brought sweating but no fans offered relief. Electricity hadn't reached this rural area.
To say that life was primitive might understate the harshness of the environment. Couple the living conditions with arduous farm labor and life might be viewed as bleak indeed. School attendance had to be blended with crop requirements, even for the youngest child. There was no insurance, no savings, no car, maybe little hope.
My mother really never talked about her childhood except to retell a few stories. One of the most poignant involved her emergency visit to the local hospital when her appendix burst. Not only were her parents fearful for the life of their daughter, but the cost of her care was clearly beyond their meager means. Mother said that on the day after the operation, a nurse inadvertently left a hot water bottle on her stomach and she received third degree burns. The hospital administration was so alarmed by this accident that my grandparents were told they owed nothing for Mother's visit. As unsophisticated country folk, there was great relief that the financial burden had been lifted, but more importantly, that their daughter would recover completely.
However, the convalescence lingered for quite a while. During this period, Mother was unable to attend school. No lessons were sent home for her to keep up with her class. Thus, at the end of the year, she was unable to move forward to the next grade. Feeling that she would be shamed to remain in the eighth grade a second year, she decided to quit school altogether. Her parents must have agreed as she never returned. How sad for a child to relinquish her education prematurely.
With scant funds and a dozen living children, capturing childhood faces would have been unimaginable. As the older siblings married and left the family home, life eased somewhat. Whether a camera was purchased, and that is unlikely, or friends photographed the Carter crowd is unknown. When Mother died, a cache of early photos was discovered in her bedroom closet. These precious poses were previously unseen and now offer a glimpse of a young woman who obviously loved fashion, especially shoes. (It should be noted that the next two generations of females share this affection passionately.)
I look at these pictures, now aged, in some cases, over three quarters of a century, and try to see the mother that I knew. She seems carefree, happy, well-groomed, stylish. I wonder what she is thinking and what her dreams contain. I am confident that she never envisioned living her last two decades in a California desert town with her daughter's family.
Did she sew these dresses herself? Did she trade frocks with her favorite sister who was a few years younger? What colors were in her closet? I know she preferred soft pastels of blues, yellows, and pink. Occasionally she'd wear red or black and look quite stunning. Did her taste in hues shift with the decades?
On the farm, washing was a tedious and never-ending chore. Large galvanized metal washtubs were filled with water heated on the wood stove. A washboard was used to scrub out the most obvious stains. Rinsing occurred in another tub. All freshly washed pieces were hung to dry on a line that stretched across the backyard. Ironing required the use of heavy cast iron appliances which were heated on the stove's burners. During months of oppressive heat, these chores created a cauldron like atmosphere.
Mother traded her Georgia farm life for a similar one at Daddy's ancestral home in Mississippi. The house may have been a bit larger and less populated but modern conveniences hadn't been adopted at the new address either. A significant difference, however, was that she no longer washed anything. Daddy was a partner with his three brothers in a laundry and dry cleaners business. Surely this fact eased Mother's life tremendously.
As a young wife whose first fourteen months of marriage were spent husbandless as her groom fought in Europe, Mother eagerly awaited the advent of her second wedding anniversary and the birth of her first child. This baby was due on Valentine's. Yet, on Mother's birthday sixty-five years ago today, she ran across one of the farm's pastures and accidentally initiated early labor.
The baby, a girl, delayed her arrival for two more days. I suspect that she wasn't a bit happy about being born so close to her mother's birthday. She's always been somewhat selfish about birthdays. I think she might have been chagrined to have missed Valentine's as 'her' day.
Mother left us in June 2002. She had a long and fruitful life and remained a farm girl forever. She never learned to ride a bicycle, was terrified of water because of a scary incident in her childhood, adored her many brothers and sisters, cherished her immediate family and mine, retained her Southern accent throughout her lifetime, and kept her dignity even as her faculties became ever so frail. Her spirit roams our house and I find that many of her characteristics are now manifested by me and seem to be seeping through my being more and more with each passing year. Happy 97th Birthday Mother. We'll miss you always.
My mother, who brought cool water to my soldier daddy as he guarded German war prisoners in the abovementioned location, was a tenant farmer's daughter. She'd been born at home in north Georgia, the eleventh of what was to be thirteen siblings. With six brothers and five surviving sisters, it is unlikely that she received appreciable attention from her overburdened parents.
The small farmhouse must have teemed with bodies. Creature comforts would have been scarce, even the most basic amenities were absent. No faucets emitted running water. No indoor bathroom, even the most rudimentary, provided a space for cleansing one's body. A wood stove stayed in constant use with multitudinous mouths to feed. Perhaps a large fireplace provided warmth on cold Southern nights. Summer brought sweating but no fans offered relief. Electricity hadn't reached this rural area.
To say that life was primitive might understate the harshness of the environment. Couple the living conditions with arduous farm labor and life might be viewed as bleak indeed. School attendance had to be blended with crop requirements, even for the youngest child. There was no insurance, no savings, no car, maybe little hope.
My mother really never talked about her childhood except to retell a few stories. One of the most poignant involved her emergency visit to the local hospital when her appendix burst. Not only were her parents fearful for the life of their daughter, but the cost of her care was clearly beyond their meager means. Mother said that on the day after the operation, a nurse inadvertently left a hot water bottle on her stomach and she received third degree burns. The hospital administration was so alarmed by this accident that my grandparents were told they owed nothing for Mother's visit. As unsophisticated country folk, there was great relief that the financial burden had been lifted, but more importantly, that their daughter would recover completely.
However, the convalescence lingered for quite a while. During this period, Mother was unable to attend school. No lessons were sent home for her to keep up with her class. Thus, at the end of the year, she was unable to move forward to the next grade. Feeling that she would be shamed to remain in the eighth grade a second year, she decided to quit school altogether. Her parents must have agreed as she never returned. How sad for a child to relinquish her education prematurely.
With scant funds and a dozen living children, capturing childhood faces would have been unimaginable. As the older siblings married and left the family home, life eased somewhat. Whether a camera was purchased, and that is unlikely, or friends photographed the Carter crowd is unknown. When Mother died, a cache of early photos was discovered in her bedroom closet. These precious poses were previously unseen and now offer a glimpse of a young woman who obviously loved fashion, especially shoes. (It should be noted that the next two generations of females share this affection passionately.)
I look at these pictures, now aged, in some cases, over three quarters of a century, and try to see the mother that I knew. She seems carefree, happy, well-groomed, stylish. I wonder what she is thinking and what her dreams contain. I am confident that she never envisioned living her last two decades in a California desert town with her daughter's family.
Did she sew these dresses herself? Did she trade frocks with her favorite sister who was a few years younger? What colors were in her closet? I know she preferred soft pastels of blues, yellows, and pink. Occasionally she'd wear red or black and look quite stunning. Did her taste in hues shift with the decades?
On the farm, washing was a tedious and never-ending chore. Large galvanized metal washtubs were filled with water heated on the wood stove. A washboard was used to scrub out the most obvious stains. Rinsing occurred in another tub. All freshly washed pieces were hung to dry on a line that stretched across the backyard. Ironing required the use of heavy cast iron appliances which were heated on the stove's burners. During months of oppressive heat, these chores created a cauldron like atmosphere.
Mother traded her Georgia farm life for a similar one at Daddy's ancestral home in Mississippi. The house may have been a bit larger and less populated but modern conveniences hadn't been adopted at the new address either. A significant difference, however, was that she no longer washed anything. Daddy was a partner with his three brothers in a laundry and dry cleaners business. Surely this fact eased Mother's life tremendously.
As a young wife whose first fourteen months of marriage were spent husbandless as her groom fought in Europe, Mother eagerly awaited the advent of her second wedding anniversary and the birth of her first child. This baby was due on Valentine's. Yet, on Mother's birthday sixty-five years ago today, she ran across one of the farm's pastures and accidentally initiated early labor.
The baby, a girl, delayed her arrival for two more days. I suspect that she wasn't a bit happy about being born so close to her mother's birthday. She's always been somewhat selfish about birthdays. I think she might have been chagrined to have missed Valentine's as 'her' day.
Mother left us in June 2002. She had a long and fruitful life and remained a farm girl forever. She never learned to ride a bicycle, was terrified of water because of a scary incident in her childhood, adored her many brothers and sisters, cherished her immediate family and mine, retained her Southern accent throughout her lifetime, and kept her dignity even as her faculties became ever so frail. Her spirit roams our house and I find that many of her characteristics are now manifested by me and seem to be seeping through my being more and more with each passing year. Happy 97th Birthday Mother. We'll miss you always.
Monday, January 24, 2011
A Dog's Tale
His name was Kitty Tom, a farm feline who feasted on fallen birds, rodents and scraps tossed from the table. He may have been orange striped or perhaps black and white. My memory doesn't stretch back that far and those who would know are long departed. As a rural cat, he spent his time prowling the yard, barn and chicken houses with infrequent coddling. Several times a day he'd wander up the wooden steps to the back porch, looking for food. As the resident toddler, I'd give his sleek back a rub or two.
One day Kitty Tom, normally quite docile, took offense at my intrusion or mistook me for food and left a long scratch on my tiny arm. The adults panicked. With domestic animals everywhere as well as woods rife with other critters, the potential for disease was high. After consulting the family doctor, my parents made a grave decision. The cat must be tested. Doing so ended his life.
Though the state lab found no evidence of dreaded infections, three of us began a series of injections. Thankfully I was so very young that I have only stories instead of real memories regarding those unbelievably painful inoculations. My mother often said that I would begin crying the minute they put me in the car and wouldn't cease until we had gone into town for the next shot in the series and returned home. I'm sure this scene was heart wrenching for everyone. Rabies shots are administered around the belly button and remain excruciating even today.
I choose to believe that this experience poisoned me forever with respect to cats. There is the little problem of dander which causes me to sneeze uncontrollably with eyes watering and a throat that threatens to constrict. Kitty Tom's innocence has not mitigated my aversion to his species.
No more cats came to live at our house. Dogs, however, were welcome. I recall a large, somewhat loopy, Lassie look-alike named Pal. He disappeared one day and I was told that he'd wandered away. In retrospect, the truth was probably that the beautiful collie been hit by a car or had died a natural death. Frequently, the yard teemed with assorted German shepards. Daddy firmly believe that this breed knew instinctively the ways of moving sheep and cattle from one place to another. He never tired of trying to get the newest dog to practice this technique. I'm not sure why, but none of the dogs through the years ever became proficient at a skill which was supposedly inbred.
As puppies, the shepherds were adorable. Fat and cuddly, lazy and loving. My brother and I would romp with them across the pastures, down to the barn, and into the orchard. We weren't the most attentive of pet owners and were distracted by having our own horses to ride at any time. The dogs always lived outside and sought shelter beneath eaves or in their doghouses. Not much thought went into the selection of individual names. The only one that I can recall with clarity is 'Blackie.' I'm certain many dogs bore that moniker.
By the early 1970's, I was married and living in suburban Phoenix. For reasons I simply don't recall, a decision was made to get a dog. No breed other than English bulldog would do. A newspaper ad alerted us to a litter for sale in nearby Mesa. Once we saw him, we'd made our choice.
Were we prepared to be dog owners? Not at all. Was our yard secure enough to keep this adventuresome animal secure and enclosed? Not at all. He was a purebred, so what could go wrong? Plenty.
But first, the selection of a name. Purebred puppies come with papers and names. We discarded his birth name immediately and began calling him "Thaddeus." Not the commonly selected name of "Winston" or some play on his ugly/cute face. He'd have a name worthy of his breed.
As two people who appreciated American history, we'd named our new dog after the Civil War era Radical Republican Congressman Thaddeus Stevens (1792-1868) from Massachusetts. Maybe there was some facial resemblance.
The name felt right. It was strong, manly, uncompromising. Our Thaddeus proved to possess all these attributes and more.
Possibly we should have sought a dog training class as we began our lives with our first pet. Today, we could watch "The Dog Whisperer," purchase numerous books on the subject, find a Facebook site devoted to bulldog owners. Instead, we began attending the Phoenix bulldog owners meeting. It did not go well. Thaddeus, perhaps excited about seeing faces that mirrored his, misbehaved badly. We were chagrined but our naivete made us rather helpless to correct his actions. We were politely, but firmly, asked to leave him at home. Feeling rejected, we abandoned the group entirely.
Our house was new, built as part of a development where one could choose among three or four styles and floor plans. Neighbors were mostly young marrieds with a sprinkling of older couples and retirees. The gamut of professions included certified public accountant, air traffic controller, Xerox salesman, graphic designer and librarian. At least one dog lived at each residence.
In the evenings, a parade of people and their pooches meandered through the neighborhood streets. Thaddeus seemed to relish this activity and we thought he might have a social side. With his very low center of gravity and fully grown weight of almost eighty pounds, it was he who took us for a walk and not the other way around.
While we were away for very long work days, he must have gotten bored. His innate curiosity could not be controlled and often there would be a message on our answering machine regarding his wanderings. Some kind person would have found him, coaxed him into his or her backyard, and called the number thoughtfully included on the tag of his collar. A few voices were almost shrill and seemed to infer that we were negligent pet owners. With fallen faces, we'd retrieve our Thaddeus and admonish him (again) for his misbehavior.
Grape stake fences were no deterrent to this determined bulldog. He could paw his way through a section and be on his way. Some drastic action was necessary to contain our canine. Replacing the wooden fence would have been too costly so we searched for alternatives.
In homage to the raging heat of Arizona summers, we'd installed a doggie door which led from the covered patio directly into the kitchen area. Not wanting Thaddeus to be loose in the house when we were away, a three foot wire mesh and wood cage was built and attached to the kitchen wall. He could escape the weather by popping through his own door and splat on the cool kitchen floor. Water and food were plentiful in his enclosure. It seemed ideal.
One night, a colleague from work was staying with me while my husband was away on a business trip. This very tall and gracious lady loved dogs. She owned several adorable daschunds and was completely devoted to them. Our evening progressed nicely and sometime around 11, we said good-night and were soon asleep. That slumber was instantly interrupted by a cacophony of doggie noises. My sleepy mind couldn't comprehend how Thaddeus could sound like several dogs at once.
My friend Merle appeared at her bedroom door at about the same time I arrived at mine. She looked very alarmed as did I. Cautiously, we approached the sounds, by this time even louder than when we'd first awakened. Turning on the lights, we saw, with startled faces, a trio of dogs in the pen meant for one. Each was standing on his hind legs with paws casually draped over the wooden slats.
Immediately I recognized the two intruders. They lived next door. Picture the scene. Short, squat, brown Thaddeus flanked by a lumbering white Old English Sheep dog and his companion, a tall, sleek black Labrador Retriever.
If I hadn't been so outraged and tired, I might have laughed. Obviously, my pet had clawed his way through our fence and made enough of an opening for the next door dogs to bound through. I suspect he may have had some assistance in this endeavor. Perhaps it took several days or hours to complete the task. I believe I detected the slightest look of smugness in their eyes, if dogs are capable of such emotion.
What could we do? With great effort, we separated the threesome and sequestered Thaddeus in our backyard. Hastily, we tried to repair the fence. Then, we managed to hold on to the larger dogs long enough to take them next door, ring the doorbell, and deliver them to their owners. Not the most neighbor friendly action in the middle of the night. We are fortunate not to have been shot on sight.
That episode brought a new era into our lives. A fence company was contracted and a dog run built which attached to the patio and disallowed any more fence tampering or social gatherings with other dogs. Thaddeus could not leap the wire fence nor was he able to dislodge it at all. He was stuck. Home for good unless we deigned to take him some place.
During the coming months, we learned that dogs get sick much like humans. A trip to the vet confirmed old-fashioned flu. Maybe we gave it to him. He stepped on a thorn and required surgery. His front paw bandaged and his body filled with antibiotics, he wobbled when he walked and we felt pity for his suffering. Another time, the vet informed us that bulldogs have a natural proclivity for ingrown eyelashes. Strange, but true. A second operation was required to correct this problem. Thaddeus was tough and survived these maladies with dignity.
One unusually cold January day in the desert, I was helping move Thaddeus' doghouse from one part of the yard to another. Not watching my path, I inadvertently stepped into the deep end of the pool and sank to the bottom. Wearing a heavy sweatshirt, tennies, and jeans, I was sodden immediately. Why didn't I allow the doghouse to be drenched instead of myself? Truly I couldn't blame Thaddeus for this frigid mishap.
The last time I saw Thaddeus, I began to cry uncontrollably. I was taking my belongings from the house and leaving forever. He looked confused and I like to think, almost sad. I could not retreat. I turned from the kitchen and walked out the front door.
I don't know his fate. By now, maybe he's been in the equivalent of doggie heaven for decades. I hope he's totally free, mingling with friends, gnawing on fences, dragging people down beautiful streets.
Thaddeus taught me that though pets aren't people, they require much the same care and direction. I probably failed him though my intentions were otherwise. He's been the subject of many conversations with my daughter over the years. She's especially fond of the middle-of-the-night debacle. It's quite funny to her. She knows that her childhood was pet bereft primarily because of my earlier experiences. Once she was living elsewhere, Leaky, her beloved tuxedo cat, joined her household. Now Leaky has grudgingly accepted an unwanted 'sister' named Georgia. These cats enhance the lives of my dear daughter and her husband. She has her own pet tales to share.
One day Kitty Tom, normally quite docile, took offense at my intrusion or mistook me for food and left a long scratch on my tiny arm. The adults panicked. With domestic animals everywhere as well as woods rife with other critters, the potential for disease was high. After consulting the family doctor, my parents made a grave decision. The cat must be tested. Doing so ended his life.
Though the state lab found no evidence of dreaded infections, three of us began a series of injections. Thankfully I was so very young that I have only stories instead of real memories regarding those unbelievably painful inoculations. My mother often said that I would begin crying the minute they put me in the car and wouldn't cease until we had gone into town for the next shot in the series and returned home. I'm sure this scene was heart wrenching for everyone. Rabies shots are administered around the belly button and remain excruciating even today.
I choose to believe that this experience poisoned me forever with respect to cats. There is the little problem of dander which causes me to sneeze uncontrollably with eyes watering and a throat that threatens to constrict. Kitty Tom's innocence has not mitigated my aversion to his species.
No more cats came to live at our house. Dogs, however, were welcome. I recall a large, somewhat loopy, Lassie look-alike named Pal. He disappeared one day and I was told that he'd wandered away. In retrospect, the truth was probably that the beautiful collie been hit by a car or had died a natural death. Frequently, the yard teemed with assorted German shepards. Daddy firmly believe that this breed knew instinctively the ways of moving sheep and cattle from one place to another. He never tired of trying to get the newest dog to practice this technique. I'm not sure why, but none of the dogs through the years ever became proficient at a skill which was supposedly inbred.
As puppies, the shepherds were adorable. Fat and cuddly, lazy and loving. My brother and I would romp with them across the pastures, down to the barn, and into the orchard. We weren't the most attentive of pet owners and were distracted by having our own horses to ride at any time. The dogs always lived outside and sought shelter beneath eaves or in their doghouses. Not much thought went into the selection of individual names. The only one that I can recall with clarity is 'Blackie.' I'm certain many dogs bore that moniker.
By the early 1970's, I was married and living in suburban Phoenix. For reasons I simply don't recall, a decision was made to get a dog. No breed other than English bulldog would do. A newspaper ad alerted us to a litter for sale in nearby Mesa. Once we saw him, we'd made our choice.
Were we prepared to be dog owners? Not at all. Was our yard secure enough to keep this adventuresome animal secure and enclosed? Not at all. He was a purebred, so what could go wrong? Plenty.
But first, the selection of a name. Purebred puppies come with papers and names. We discarded his birth name immediately and began calling him "Thaddeus." Not the commonly selected name of "Winston" or some play on his ugly/cute face. He'd have a name worthy of his breed.
As two people who appreciated American history, we'd named our new dog after the Civil War era Radical Republican Congressman Thaddeus Stevens (1792-1868) from Massachusetts. Maybe there was some facial resemblance.
The name felt right. It was strong, manly, uncompromising. Our Thaddeus proved to possess all these attributes and more.
Possibly we should have sought a dog training class as we began our lives with our first pet. Today, we could watch "The Dog Whisperer," purchase numerous books on the subject, find a Facebook site devoted to bulldog owners. Instead, we began attending the Phoenix bulldog owners meeting. It did not go well. Thaddeus, perhaps excited about seeing faces that mirrored his, misbehaved badly. We were chagrined but our naivete made us rather helpless to correct his actions. We were politely, but firmly, asked to leave him at home. Feeling rejected, we abandoned the group entirely.
Our house was new, built as part of a development where one could choose among three or four styles and floor plans. Neighbors were mostly young marrieds with a sprinkling of older couples and retirees. The gamut of professions included certified public accountant, air traffic controller, Xerox salesman, graphic designer and librarian. At least one dog lived at each residence.
In the evenings, a parade of people and their pooches meandered through the neighborhood streets. Thaddeus seemed to relish this activity and we thought he might have a social side. With his very low center of gravity and fully grown weight of almost eighty pounds, it was he who took us for a walk and not the other way around.
While we were away for very long work days, he must have gotten bored. His innate curiosity could not be controlled and often there would be a message on our answering machine regarding his wanderings. Some kind person would have found him, coaxed him into his or her backyard, and called the number thoughtfully included on the tag of his collar. A few voices were almost shrill and seemed to infer that we were negligent pet owners. With fallen faces, we'd retrieve our Thaddeus and admonish him (again) for his misbehavior.
Grape stake fences were no deterrent to this determined bulldog. He could paw his way through a section and be on his way. Some drastic action was necessary to contain our canine. Replacing the wooden fence would have been too costly so we searched for alternatives.
In homage to the raging heat of Arizona summers, we'd installed a doggie door which led from the covered patio directly into the kitchen area. Not wanting Thaddeus to be loose in the house when we were away, a three foot wire mesh and wood cage was built and attached to the kitchen wall. He could escape the weather by popping through his own door and splat on the cool kitchen floor. Water and food were plentiful in his enclosure. It seemed ideal.
One night, a colleague from work was staying with me while my husband was away on a business trip. This very tall and gracious lady loved dogs. She owned several adorable daschunds and was completely devoted to them. Our evening progressed nicely and sometime around 11, we said good-night and were soon asleep. That slumber was instantly interrupted by a cacophony of doggie noises. My sleepy mind couldn't comprehend how Thaddeus could sound like several dogs at once.
My friend Merle appeared at her bedroom door at about the same time I arrived at mine. She looked very alarmed as did I. Cautiously, we approached the sounds, by this time even louder than when we'd first awakened. Turning on the lights, we saw, with startled faces, a trio of dogs in the pen meant for one. Each was standing on his hind legs with paws casually draped over the wooden slats.
Immediately I recognized the two intruders. They lived next door. Picture the scene. Short, squat, brown Thaddeus flanked by a lumbering white Old English Sheep dog and his companion, a tall, sleek black Labrador Retriever.
If I hadn't been so outraged and tired, I might have laughed. Obviously, my pet had clawed his way through our fence and made enough of an opening for the next door dogs to bound through. I suspect he may have had some assistance in this endeavor. Perhaps it took several days or hours to complete the task. I believe I detected the slightest look of smugness in their eyes, if dogs are capable of such emotion.
What could we do? With great effort, we separated the threesome and sequestered Thaddeus in our backyard. Hastily, we tried to repair the fence. Then, we managed to hold on to the larger dogs long enough to take them next door, ring the doorbell, and deliver them to their owners. Not the most neighbor friendly action in the middle of the night. We are fortunate not to have been shot on sight.
That episode brought a new era into our lives. A fence company was contracted and a dog run built which attached to the patio and disallowed any more fence tampering or social gatherings with other dogs. Thaddeus could not leap the wire fence nor was he able to dislodge it at all. He was stuck. Home for good unless we deigned to take him some place.
During the coming months, we learned that dogs get sick much like humans. A trip to the vet confirmed old-fashioned flu. Maybe we gave it to him. He stepped on a thorn and required surgery. His front paw bandaged and his body filled with antibiotics, he wobbled when he walked and we felt pity for his suffering. Another time, the vet informed us that bulldogs have a natural proclivity for ingrown eyelashes. Strange, but true. A second operation was required to correct this problem. Thaddeus was tough and survived these maladies with dignity.
One unusually cold January day in the desert, I was helping move Thaddeus' doghouse from one part of the yard to another. Not watching my path, I inadvertently stepped into the deep end of the pool and sank to the bottom. Wearing a heavy sweatshirt, tennies, and jeans, I was sodden immediately. Why didn't I allow the doghouse to be drenched instead of myself? Truly I couldn't blame Thaddeus for this frigid mishap.
The last time I saw Thaddeus, I began to cry uncontrollably. I was taking my belongings from the house and leaving forever. He looked confused and I like to think, almost sad. I could not retreat. I turned from the kitchen and walked out the front door.
I don't know his fate. By now, maybe he's been in the equivalent of doggie heaven for decades. I hope he's totally free, mingling with friends, gnawing on fences, dragging people down beautiful streets.
Thaddeus taught me that though pets aren't people, they require much the same care and direction. I probably failed him though my intentions were otherwise. He's been the subject of many conversations with my daughter over the years. She's especially fond of the middle-of-the-night debacle. It's quite funny to her. She knows that her childhood was pet bereft primarily because of my earlier experiences. Once she was living elsewhere, Leaky, her beloved tuxedo cat, joined her household. Now Leaky has grudgingly accepted an unwanted 'sister' named Georgia. These cats enhance the lives of my dear daughter and her husband. She has her own pet tales to share.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sensing Civility
When my daughter is at home, she knows that any clothes she leaves outside her door will magically disappear and be returned all clean and folded. It's a perk of visiting the place where she spent her childhood. I've heard her mention to her friends who might be staying overnight, "Be careful. Anything you leave on the floor will be scooped up by my Mom and washed, dried and folded." Thus far, not a single friend has objected to this service.
While having your own personal laundress is definitely a plus, I believe that I was even more indulged (spoiled) as a young person. My own mother simply handed any items needing washing to Daddy. He took the bundle to the laundry and dry cleaners that he owned with his three brothers. The care was exquisite. Blouses or dresses with special buttons were set aside. All buttons were removed before the laundry process commenced and were re-sewn afterwards. Skirts with multiple pleats were carefully ironed. The business's customers paid by the pleat. I paid nothing.
Giant washers tumbled with mesh bags filled with assorted laundry. Huge metal pins with numbers assured that clothing could be identified and the owners would be able to retrieve exactly what had been left at the plant.
Steam pressers and a flatwork machine created a cauldron of heat that few people could endure. No air conditioners and few fans dotted the area. Workers endured these unhealthy conditions and were paid little for their service. As a child, I was oblivious to these matters and I'm sure I focused on the condition of my clothes, not the sacrifice of those who prepared them so expertly.
With this background, I emerged from my teens never having encountered a washing machine personally. What a shock to learn that quarters were required if one did not own a washer. Lots of mistakes and ruined clothing ensued.
Through the years, I've discovered that home washers are not designed to accept large pillows. No matter the placement of these items, the washer becomes unbalanced. Trying to heave a water soaked pillow into a different position and coax the washer to continue it task is exhausting. I will admit that I actually wrecked one washer some years ago. When pillows became entangled, I was not vigilant enough and the motor simply burned out. A very costly error.
With these experiences haunting me, I decided to start the year by taking a collection of pillows to a local laundromat. If there were going to be a malfunction, let it be at a business, not my house.
The back seat of the car was piled high with an assortment of seven pillows. Two standard sized, two king, and three rather large square-shaped decorative pillows.
Before taking the pillows from the car, I stepped inside the laundromat to inquire if the machines would accommodate my cargo. I immediately encountered a young man who may have been the manager. Though I was obviously not a regular customer, his attention to my question could not have been more helpful. Machines were available but he needed to warn me that pillows were finicky. (As if I didn't already know.) It did not matter if they cost a little or a lot, things happened. Sometimes the results were ruinous. Lumps, uneven sides, disintegration altogether. Horrors.
I responded with calming aplomb. Even if the pillows were less than perfect, at least they'd be clean. We'll proceed. He suggested pairings of the various sizes and showed me how to pack three extra chubby pillows into an oversized washer. Two more machines were needed for the remaining pillows.
All around me, other customers were unloading laundry, stuffing it into machines, getting change, and settling into the chairs to wait for the cycles to conclude. One lady asked if I needed a washer and said she'd mistakenly plopped nearly $5 into a machine before she realized it wasn't a dryer. Oops. At least I was not guilty of that error. I agreed to move my pillows and return to her what had already been deposited. She said that wasn't necessary at all.
Before I could move anything, the congenial attendant rescued her. He brought a bedspread and put it in the ready-to go washer and returned the money she'd mistakedly inserted.
Feeling very confident and $10 poorer after feeding my own machines, I walked over to the nearby grocery store to get a jar of peanut butter. Upon my return, I learned that one of the washers had a mechanical problem. Again, the affable attendant had identified the difficulty and resolved it without being asked. My pillows were now rotating in another washer further down the line.
As I sat reading a few pages of the book I'd brought with me, I couldn't help but overhear continuing conversations between arriving and departing customers and this angel of the laundromat. All people were treated with dignity, no matter the appearance of their personal circumstances. Smiles were dispensed with quiet decorum and genialness. Assistance was offered without being requested. The atmosphere exuded friendliness and made a routine chore much less onerous.
My pillows survived their tumbling and I toted them out to the car, still wet. With our winter days creeping into the 80's, setting pillows outside to dry in the sun seemed like an excellent choice. I detected no lumps or shrunken sizes. The fresh clean aroma remained later in the day when the perfectly dried pillows were returned to their spaces on the master bed.
During the intervening days since the pillow pilgrimage, I've thought about people I encounter whose demeanor assures me that civility survives. The ladies who work behind the deli counter at Ralph's, my grocery store, smile when they see me. Most of them ask immediately if I want my usual order of 1 1/4th pounds of Boar's Head low-sodium turkey, sliced super thin. I do realize that I order the same amount of meat twice a week but I am only one of so many customers. I appreciate the personal attention and feel a bit badly that my needs are so specific.
Down the street there's a Rite-Aid drugstore. It's in somewhat neglected condition and will soon be abandoned for a brand new facility a few blocks to the west. Whenever I enter the store, the clerks smile and greet me. If I'm picking up a prescription, the Pharmacy Technician calls me by name and hands me my medicine. How does she remember me so clearly? I am a very irregular customer yet she knows me and my husband.
Aspen Mills Bakery prepares delicious and good-for-you whole wheat Omega-3 rolls, studded with flax seeds. They also make sinful cookies, croissants, muffins, and huge brownies. I have relinquished the desserts and other baked items with slight regret. Here, too, the staff is unfailingly engaged with customers. The owner is nearly always present and he consistently thanks me for my continuing patronage. A couple of times, I've ordered rolls and upon arriving to get them, learned that they weren't ready yet. Immediately, the owner stepped forward and offered to bring the rolls to my house. I politely refused his generous overture and returned later for my packages.
I'm aware that many companies insist that their employees continuously display a sense of welcome to customers. I believe I am able to discern the forced from the truly friendly. I also understand that the 'whole person' arrives at work each day. He or she may not be feeling well, may have a sick child or spouse, could be facing the loss of a home or is just having a bad day. It is difficult, if not impossible, to shed these concerns at the door of the workplace and be transformed into an amiable associate who displays pleasant attributes.
With economic conditions imperiling so many people's lives today, I am even more cognizant of those who remain steadfastly courteous. The zest for life which I glimpse reflected in their eyes gives me hope and reminds me to ingrain my own behavior with greater graciousness.
While having your own personal laundress is definitely a plus, I believe that I was even more indulged (spoiled) as a young person. My own mother simply handed any items needing washing to Daddy. He took the bundle to the laundry and dry cleaners that he owned with his three brothers. The care was exquisite. Blouses or dresses with special buttons were set aside. All buttons were removed before the laundry process commenced and were re-sewn afterwards. Skirts with multiple pleats were carefully ironed. The business's customers paid by the pleat. I paid nothing.
Giant washers tumbled with mesh bags filled with assorted laundry. Huge metal pins with numbers assured that clothing could be identified and the owners would be able to retrieve exactly what had been left at the plant.
Steam pressers and a flatwork machine created a cauldron of heat that few people could endure. No air conditioners and few fans dotted the area. Workers endured these unhealthy conditions and were paid little for their service. As a child, I was oblivious to these matters and I'm sure I focused on the condition of my clothes, not the sacrifice of those who prepared them so expertly.
With this background, I emerged from my teens never having encountered a washing machine personally. What a shock to learn that quarters were required if one did not own a washer. Lots of mistakes and ruined clothing ensued.
Through the years, I've discovered that home washers are not designed to accept large pillows. No matter the placement of these items, the washer becomes unbalanced. Trying to heave a water soaked pillow into a different position and coax the washer to continue it task is exhausting. I will admit that I actually wrecked one washer some years ago. When pillows became entangled, I was not vigilant enough and the motor simply burned out. A very costly error.
With these experiences haunting me, I decided to start the year by taking a collection of pillows to a local laundromat. If there were going to be a malfunction, let it be at a business, not my house.
The back seat of the car was piled high with an assortment of seven pillows. Two standard sized, two king, and three rather large square-shaped decorative pillows.
Before taking the pillows from the car, I stepped inside the laundromat to inquire if the machines would accommodate my cargo. I immediately encountered a young man who may have been the manager. Though I was obviously not a regular customer, his attention to my question could not have been more helpful. Machines were available but he needed to warn me that pillows were finicky. (As if I didn't already know.) It did not matter if they cost a little or a lot, things happened. Sometimes the results were ruinous. Lumps, uneven sides, disintegration altogether. Horrors.
I responded with calming aplomb. Even if the pillows were less than perfect, at least they'd be clean. We'll proceed. He suggested pairings of the various sizes and showed me how to pack three extra chubby pillows into an oversized washer. Two more machines were needed for the remaining pillows.
All around me, other customers were unloading laundry, stuffing it into machines, getting change, and settling into the chairs to wait for the cycles to conclude. One lady asked if I needed a washer and said she'd mistakenly plopped nearly $5 into a machine before she realized it wasn't a dryer. Oops. At least I was not guilty of that error. I agreed to move my pillows and return to her what had already been deposited. She said that wasn't necessary at all.
Before I could move anything, the congenial attendant rescued her. He brought a bedspread and put it in the ready-to go washer and returned the money she'd mistakedly inserted.
Feeling very confident and $10 poorer after feeding my own machines, I walked over to the nearby grocery store to get a jar of peanut butter. Upon my return, I learned that one of the washers had a mechanical problem. Again, the affable attendant had identified the difficulty and resolved it without being asked. My pillows were now rotating in another washer further down the line.
As I sat reading a few pages of the book I'd brought with me, I couldn't help but overhear continuing conversations between arriving and departing customers and this angel of the laundromat. All people were treated with dignity, no matter the appearance of their personal circumstances. Smiles were dispensed with quiet decorum and genialness. Assistance was offered without being requested. The atmosphere exuded friendliness and made a routine chore much less onerous.
My pillows survived their tumbling and I toted them out to the car, still wet. With our winter days creeping into the 80's, setting pillows outside to dry in the sun seemed like an excellent choice. I detected no lumps or shrunken sizes. The fresh clean aroma remained later in the day when the perfectly dried pillows were returned to their spaces on the master bed.
During the intervening days since the pillow pilgrimage, I've thought about people I encounter whose demeanor assures me that civility survives. The ladies who work behind the deli counter at Ralph's, my grocery store, smile when they see me. Most of them ask immediately if I want my usual order of 1 1/4th pounds of Boar's Head low-sodium turkey, sliced super thin. I do realize that I order the same amount of meat twice a week but I am only one of so many customers. I appreciate the personal attention and feel a bit badly that my needs are so specific.
Down the street there's a Rite-Aid drugstore. It's in somewhat neglected condition and will soon be abandoned for a brand new facility a few blocks to the west. Whenever I enter the store, the clerks smile and greet me. If I'm picking up a prescription, the Pharmacy Technician calls me by name and hands me my medicine. How does she remember me so clearly? I am a very irregular customer yet she knows me and my husband.
Aspen Mills Bakery prepares delicious and good-for-you whole wheat Omega-3 rolls, studded with flax seeds. They also make sinful cookies, croissants, muffins, and huge brownies. I have relinquished the desserts and other baked items with slight regret. Here, too, the staff is unfailingly engaged with customers. The owner is nearly always present and he consistently thanks me for my continuing patronage. A couple of times, I've ordered rolls and upon arriving to get them, learned that they weren't ready yet. Immediately, the owner stepped forward and offered to bring the rolls to my house. I politely refused his generous overture and returned later for my packages.
I'm aware that many companies insist that their employees continuously display a sense of welcome to customers. I believe I am able to discern the forced from the truly friendly. I also understand that the 'whole person' arrives at work each day. He or she may not be feeling well, may have a sick child or spouse, could be facing the loss of a home or is just having a bad day. It is difficult, if not impossible, to shed these concerns at the door of the workplace and be transformed into an amiable associate who displays pleasant attributes.
With economic conditions imperiling so many people's lives today, I am even more cognizant of those who remain steadfastly courteous. The zest for life which I glimpse reflected in their eyes gives me hope and reminds me to ingrain my own behavior with greater graciousness.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
A Shoe Full of Champagne
Looking for the greatest number of 7's, it didn't occur to us that we'd chosen a date so near to the Christmas holidays. With so much preparation, celebrating, and storing away involved in those two weeks, this very significant day has often gotten somewhat short shrift. Regaining our energy, tackling tasks ignored or postponed for too long, we acknowledged each succeeding year of togetherness with a card, perhaps a quiet dinner at a favorite restaurant. Nothing fancy, no need for that. Nine years ago, when the numbers read twenty-five, we returned to Arizona where the nuptials took place. A silver moment and one which buttressed my then recent retirement. I suppose we might have been commemorating both events.
My dearest husband, being the selfless person I've always known him to be, offered me an anniversary gift perhaps only a woman could appreciate. He'd take me to my favorite shopping center, join me for lunch, and then leave me alone to troll the stores for hours while he occupied himself nearby. How could I possibly resist? This may well be what love looks like after nearly three and a half decades.
A few days before our departure, I was reading the "Calendar" section of the Los Angeles Times, when a snippet seemed to speak to me directly. A performer whom we both greatly admire would be giving a one woman show adjacent to my beloved mall on the very day we planned to visit. Is this kismet? serendipity? fate?
I mentioned her name to my supportive spouse and he began to research the venue. Tickets were still available. The fare was reasonable, not that he cared. Timing couldn't be better. We might extend our jaunt, take the appropriate clothes in the car, have two meals instead of one, enjoy the show, and come home afterwards. Sounds divine.
Wait a minute. Should we spend the night? Will it be too late to travel home after a long day? As the passenger whose energy will be utilized wandering from store to store hopefully laden with shopping bags, I am not concerned about myself. My husband, however, will take us through terrible traffic, wile away his afternoon, and then drive another two hours after an exhausting day. We discuss. I dither. Which hotel? Near the mall, further away? What would we do the next day? Get up, dress and come home? Seems unwise. Our house looms as the best destination, regardless of the time factor.
As a retired lady, I dress the part. During our endless summer which lasts most of the year, I am not so fetching in cotton tops and mostly capri pants. When our mild winters descend, I'm encased in jeans, longer shirts, sweaters and light jackets. Flats, sandals and tennies cover my feet. I am, in a sense, unfashionably boring. My closet contains a few items that have a smidge of style. I say so because my fashionista daughter has combed it critically. Many of her comments go something like this: "Too big." (Very common.) "The print is sooooo loud." "Those pants aren't worn any more by anybody." (I'm paraphrasing.) Occasionally there's a hint of acceptance, even more rare, embracing of some article of clothing. During her most recent visit, I returned home from an errand just as she came into the kitchen area. Something about the shirt she was wearing seemed familiar. At first I thought I might have bought it for her, but then, she confessed. "I was tired of everything in my suitcase and I found this in your guest closet. You don't mind if I wear it, do you?" Well, no, actually I was flattered. It was a favorite shirt. Later in the day, I asked if she wanted to keep it. She hesitated and then said yes, but only if I didn't want it myself. Being the dutiful mom, I washed the dark purple shirt and put it in her suitcase.
I've digressed, as I often do. My immediate problem was what to wear to the performance. Men are effortless, or so they seem to me. Pants, dress belt, nice shirt, shoes that aren't tennies or deck shoes. Done. Gorgeous. Comfortable, or mostly. Women have choices. Too many. A dress, skirt and blouse, pants, fancy, businesslike, casual. What to do? Where's my daughter when I really need her outfit advice? I'll go through the closet containing my old stuff, have a style session for my sweet husband, and make a decision. Bless him, he likes everything. What a guy! Lovely, but I still have a conundrum. Maybe I like a certain outfit but don't have the right shoes. Perhaps this older frock has, gasp, shoulder pads. Even I know they are passe. After much hand-wringing, I choose, or settle for, a cranberry colored sheath with an Oriental motif. High collar, dragon enclosures on the bodice, tiny black threads throughout the fabric. It is old but who will know? The maker, Jones of New York, is classic. The event will be in a darkened room, so less exposure. My New Year's Eve shoes are just fine. Whew. I'm not exactly thrilled, but .....
Friday morning we leave the house around 9 am and arrive at South Coast Plaza in Coast Mesa in time for lunch. Because we frequent this mall more than Henry might like, we have a favorite restaurant. It is the Corner Bakery and Cafe, tucked next to Bloomingdale's. With an impressive array of sandwiches, salads, soups, pastas, and desserts, we're very comfortable with the menu. As we place our order, we're given a number to display at our table so the server can deliver our food. I notice that it is '107.' I can't help but remark that '7' is our lucky number and that it is our anniversary. The staff member just happens to be the store manager. She says sweetly, "In honor of your special day, choose two desserts as our gift to you." I knew I liked this place. Henry has forsaken desserts (well mostly) in homage to his health and he insists that I decide which ones will go home with us. It is difficult, but a brownie and a lemon bar make the final cut.
Sated, we're on our way to Macy's where men's belts are our quarry. Henry, the most reluctant shopper I've ever known, acquiesces to my entreaties, and in a brief amount of time we are at the counter with two new belts for his wardrobe. Then, we part. He's off to spend the afternoon with a high school classmate and her husband who live in nearby Laguna Niguel. I'm free to flit from store to store, fiddle with merchandise, try on/discard/purchase items that entice, and remember to meet him promptly at 4 pm at the concierge desk at Nordstrom's. No problem.
For the next few hours, I'm in a trance, a shopping induced trance. It's almost as if somebody set a whole chocolate cake in front of me and declared, "Eat." Oh, and said with surety, "No calories and you won't get sick." Like that could happen. I forget about chores that are undone, correspondence that is unanswered, a long list of tasks that beckon me to respond and I SHOP.
In Macy's, I wander from floor to floor with my arms piled high. I've learned over the years that much of what looks divine on a hanger, looks revolting on a body. I suppose in a way, that's a good thing. Many items are rejected but two are compelling purchases. A steel grey soft wintery dress once cost $139 and now sports a tag announcing, $45.95. Bargain. I run the tag under the scanner and am astonished that it's now a measly $29.99. Who could leave this treasure in the store? Not me. I muse, might I wear it tonight? Perhaps.
Enough self-indulgence for a while. I'll peek into H & M and see if there's anything that ought to live in Portland. The pickings aren't plentiful. I also remember that Portland has its own Swedish mercantile store and so I'm not driven to find something suitable to send northward. As a treat for the neighbor girls, I stop at Sanrio and find two very cute Hello Kitty water bottles. I can already see their smiles as they tote these gifts on hikes or around the house.
All this shopping has made me mighty thirsty. A tall glass of iced tea is the perfect antidote. I've made my way to the Petite section of Nordstrom's. Since my last visit, the department has moved to a different part of the store. It seems smaller. Are there fewer petite women shoppers? I think not. I am undeterred until I inadvertently swallow wrongly and commence coughing and can't stop. I've made this mistake in the past and nearly had to visit an ER because I triggered an asthma attack. This cannot happen. I'm alone in the store and far from home. I concentrate on breathing but continue shopping. Several ladies approach me and ask if I need help. I can barely talk but I mumble that I am fine. I am not. Somehow the fit subsides after a few minutes. By that time, I've discovered a bonanza of potential acquisitions. I meet the manager of the department and she becomes my fashion guide. I'm going through a 'top' phase and seem to concentrate on this particular article of clothing. More discards litter the dressing room but there are some prizes, too. I'm more than happy with the finalists.
In chatting with Stephanie, the manager, like I always do, I ask about her career goals. She wants to get into merchandising with the store but that would mean relocating to Seattle. Her boyfriend/hoped-to-be fiance is a surfer. He's in the water every single day. No surf in Seattle. A relationship dilemma. I wish her well. I also ask if I might be able to change in one of the dressing rooms later in the day before we leave for the theater. She assures me that there'd be no problem. I'm not interested in peeling out of my clothes in the ladies' restroom.
Down one floor and I'm at Brass Plum, aka 'BP' to its loyal customers. I've been in this department often in Nordstroms across the country. It is filled with clothing and accessories for the young, hip, stylish young lady. Because I am self-conscious about my presence in a department where I obviously do not belong, I always explain that I'm shopping for my daughter. Yes, I do realize that the salespeople don't care if I'm shopping for my elephant or if I'm a hundred years old. They want to sell stuff and my demographic is immaterial. Still, I continue to explain. Almost always, I'm torn among many terrific possibilities, but not today. I guess the shopping gods are in my corner this day. I mull a couple of jackets but each one has something that doesn't seem quite right, so they're left on the racks. I find a sweet, inexpensive silver and faux pearl necklace for myself. The daughter has said I need some 'fun' jewelry. Probably this necklace doesn't qualify, but it's a start.
The meeting hour has arrived. Together again, we're off to look at furniture. After a short twenty-four years of usage, it may be time to get new couches and a chair for our living room. Macy's is having a sale. We meet Doris as we're testing the comfyness of couch cushions. She's knowledgeable, friendly, eager to assist. We discuss delivery timelines, colors, heights, whether to get another sofa bed, when the sale actually commences, and myriad other details. She gives us her card with a cell number which she says can be utilized even when she isn't at work. We like her and believe she deserves this sale, if we decide to buy.
During our conversation, she tells us to remember her first name as in 'Doris Day' and her last name as in 'Red Skelton.' She elaborates further, sharing that her husband has researched his family's genealogy and that he is a fifth cousin of the famous comedian. We relate that we once were on a commuter plane going to Las Vegas and Red Skelton was one of the other passengers. Small world. Charming lady.
Past experiences at Nordstrom's Cafe led us back there for dinner. Scrumptious sandwiches fill the menu and both of us are happy with the selections. I'm off to change. The nearest department is Kid's. Clearly marked are boy's and girl's dressing rooms. I suppose such segregation is a good idea, even at young ages. I ask the salesperson if I may dress in one of the rooms. She's busy with a customer and I'm in a bit of a hurry. She says, "I shouldn't tell you this but there's a trick to opening the locked doors." She demonstrates how to use the crook of a hanger to jiggle the lock and open the door. It works. Soon I'm removing the tags from my new frock, pulling on panty hose, stepping into my slip, strapping my heeled sandals, and tossing the new necklace around my shoulders. I'm ready. I'll freshen my face and hair after dinner.
Driving to the performance venue takes about five minutes. We find a parking garage and ask the attendant where to locate the Samueli Theater. She also tells us that after 9 pm, parking is free. Nice bonus. Unfortunately, the theater is rather far from the garage and walking in fancy shoes is a challenge. We arrive early and mingle in the lobby for a while. Two fascinating ladies engage us and learn that it is our special day. They want to know our story. I'm sure they never imagined its content. Once we have told the abbreviated version, the mother of two college aged girls who are sitting next to her, turns to them and says basically, "Don't expect it to turn out like that. It rarely happens." We demur. You have to trust your instincts. One of the beautiful daughters says our story should be made into a movie. She's obviously enchanted by the romanticism. Believe me, it's still very much alive.
Our table is labeled '155.' Two people are already seated. They introduce themselves as sister and brother. He's an incredibly astute theater aficionado. No matter what show or performer we mention, he can discuss the subject at length. He's seen everything except "Rent." I recommend it highly. Henry discusses the new production of "Ghost: The Musical," whose score has been written by cousin Glen Ballard. This man has seen the rehearsals on the Internet and has made the photo of the cast walking across Abbey Road his screensaver. We are startled and deeply impressed with his unpretentious manner. How fascinating it would be to talk with him for hours. He saw this show the previous evening and will return a third time. That's a true fan.
The lights dim, the show is about to begin. A waitress threads her way through the crowded tables, clutching a tray crowded with drinks. She stumbles and liquid pours over my foot. By her reserved reaction, I gather that this happens frequently. I'm wondering if my shoe will disintegrate due to the wetness, and whether the stickiness will create havoc when I try to walk. The server says simply, "Don't worry. It's champagne. There'll be no stain." She proffers a handful of napkins and exits. I dab my foot and stuff the toe of my sandal with the rest of the napkins. What's a little mishap on such an enchanted evening?
We've come to be serenaded by the incomparable Miss Sutton Foster. We first were in her presence a few years ago when we saw "Thoroughly Modern Millie," her Tony Award-winning performance. What a glorious voice, superb dancing ability, perfect stage presence. The night is blissful. She sings as if she were born specifically for Broadway. No note is too high, no gesture unattainable, no smile withheld. She's funny, engaged with the audience, well aware of her gift but ever so willing to deposit it with her fans.
As part of her routine, she uses few props. She's accompanied by an excellent pianist who matches her talent without intruding. I'm struck by her length, her angular quality. With an endless energy reserve, she begins the show with three songs. Immediately we know that we're in the midst of a unique audience. These people know theater. They're more aware of songs than any group we've ever encountered. Nothing is foreign to them. With just one or two notes played, they respond with alacrity. Though we've been to numerous theater productions on Broadway, in London, Los Angeles and other cities, this is a rare experience. As a whole, the audience resembles a grand graduate class in theater. We are humbled.
Sutton soars. We want her to sing forever. It is, after all, our anniversary. How can she not continue? We laugh when she uses a cup labeled 'Pimp' and another labeled 'Ho' from which she draws the title of a song and then proceeds to sing it flawlessly. I want her to dance but she doesn't, not tonight. She pauses once or twice for a swig of water and plunges into lyrics that would waste the less gifted quickly. A young co-star from "Little Women" joins her for one song. They have a singular symmetry as their lilting voices fill the room.
We listen to Sutton's stories including a harrowing episode when the plane in which she was flying from the west coast to New York encountered mechanical trouble and made an emergency landing in Chicago. She says that incident impressed upon her the value of life and love. A lesson for all of us to remember. In a less dramatic tale, we learn that she's very proud to have been an answer on "Jeopardy." Oddly, none of the contestants was able to form the correct question. Bummer. Not theater fans, evidently.
Nearing the end of a year-long tour, she'll travel to Washington, DC and Florida for sold-out shows and scurry back to New York and its frigid weather. In March, she'll headline a revival of Cole Porter's "Anything Goes" on Broadway. She'll be extraordinary as always. Maybe another Tony is in the wings.
Two encores and she's vanished. Taken her water bottles and departed. Probably spent from her performance. The audience is reluctant to disburse. There's something magical in this room. It is the essence of Sutton, a star. With the surname of Foster, she must surely be a distant cousin. I recognize that spirit, see some facial resemblance and would be so proud to call her family.
Walking to the car, we reminisce about our day, our decades together. We're happy to be going home. As we travel without impediments along the freeways toward the desert, I feel as if we are being teleported. In less than ninety minutes, we're opening the garage door. There's still time to check the mail, do a load of laundry, put away the purchases, and get to bed just after midnight. A day of jubilation is done. Let the next year begin.
My dearest husband, being the selfless person I've always known him to be, offered me an anniversary gift perhaps only a woman could appreciate. He'd take me to my favorite shopping center, join me for lunch, and then leave me alone to troll the stores for hours while he occupied himself nearby. How could I possibly resist? This may well be what love looks like after nearly three and a half decades.
A few days before our departure, I was reading the "Calendar" section of the Los Angeles Times, when a snippet seemed to speak to me directly. A performer whom we both greatly admire would be giving a one woman show adjacent to my beloved mall on the very day we planned to visit. Is this kismet? serendipity? fate?
I mentioned her name to my supportive spouse and he began to research the venue. Tickets were still available. The fare was reasonable, not that he cared. Timing couldn't be better. We might extend our jaunt, take the appropriate clothes in the car, have two meals instead of one, enjoy the show, and come home afterwards. Sounds divine.
Wait a minute. Should we spend the night? Will it be too late to travel home after a long day? As the passenger whose energy will be utilized wandering from store to store hopefully laden with shopping bags, I am not concerned about myself. My husband, however, will take us through terrible traffic, wile away his afternoon, and then drive another two hours after an exhausting day. We discuss. I dither. Which hotel? Near the mall, further away? What would we do the next day? Get up, dress and come home? Seems unwise. Our house looms as the best destination, regardless of the time factor.
As a retired lady, I dress the part. During our endless summer which lasts most of the year, I am not so fetching in cotton tops and mostly capri pants. When our mild winters descend, I'm encased in jeans, longer shirts, sweaters and light jackets. Flats, sandals and tennies cover my feet. I am, in a sense, unfashionably boring. My closet contains a few items that have a smidge of style. I say so because my fashionista daughter has combed it critically. Many of her comments go something like this: "Too big." (Very common.) "The print is sooooo loud." "Those pants aren't worn any more by anybody." (I'm paraphrasing.) Occasionally there's a hint of acceptance, even more rare, embracing of some article of clothing. During her most recent visit, I returned home from an errand just as she came into the kitchen area. Something about the shirt she was wearing seemed familiar. At first I thought I might have bought it for her, but then, she confessed. "I was tired of everything in my suitcase and I found this in your guest closet. You don't mind if I wear it, do you?" Well, no, actually I was flattered. It was a favorite shirt. Later in the day, I asked if she wanted to keep it. She hesitated and then said yes, but only if I didn't want it myself. Being the dutiful mom, I washed the dark purple shirt and put it in her suitcase.
I've digressed, as I often do. My immediate problem was what to wear to the performance. Men are effortless, or so they seem to me. Pants, dress belt, nice shirt, shoes that aren't tennies or deck shoes. Done. Gorgeous. Comfortable, or mostly. Women have choices. Too many. A dress, skirt and blouse, pants, fancy, businesslike, casual. What to do? Where's my daughter when I really need her outfit advice? I'll go through the closet containing my old stuff, have a style session for my sweet husband, and make a decision. Bless him, he likes everything. What a guy! Lovely, but I still have a conundrum. Maybe I like a certain outfit but don't have the right shoes. Perhaps this older frock has, gasp, shoulder pads. Even I know they are passe. After much hand-wringing, I choose, or settle for, a cranberry colored sheath with an Oriental motif. High collar, dragon enclosures on the bodice, tiny black threads throughout the fabric. It is old but who will know? The maker, Jones of New York, is classic. The event will be in a darkened room, so less exposure. My New Year's Eve shoes are just fine. Whew. I'm not exactly thrilled, but .....
Friday morning we leave the house around 9 am and arrive at South Coast Plaza in Coast Mesa in time for lunch. Because we frequent this mall more than Henry might like, we have a favorite restaurant. It is the Corner Bakery and Cafe, tucked next to Bloomingdale's. With an impressive array of sandwiches, salads, soups, pastas, and desserts, we're very comfortable with the menu. As we place our order, we're given a number to display at our table so the server can deliver our food. I notice that it is '107.' I can't help but remark that '7' is our lucky number and that it is our anniversary. The staff member just happens to be the store manager. She says sweetly, "In honor of your special day, choose two desserts as our gift to you." I knew I liked this place. Henry has forsaken desserts (well mostly) in homage to his health and he insists that I decide which ones will go home with us. It is difficult, but a brownie and a lemon bar make the final cut.
Sated, we're on our way to Macy's where men's belts are our quarry. Henry, the most reluctant shopper I've ever known, acquiesces to my entreaties, and in a brief amount of time we are at the counter with two new belts for his wardrobe. Then, we part. He's off to spend the afternoon with a high school classmate and her husband who live in nearby Laguna Niguel. I'm free to flit from store to store, fiddle with merchandise, try on/discard/purchase items that entice, and remember to meet him promptly at 4 pm at the concierge desk at Nordstrom's. No problem.
For the next few hours, I'm in a trance, a shopping induced trance. It's almost as if somebody set a whole chocolate cake in front of me and declared, "Eat." Oh, and said with surety, "No calories and you won't get sick." Like that could happen. I forget about chores that are undone, correspondence that is unanswered, a long list of tasks that beckon me to respond and I SHOP.
In Macy's, I wander from floor to floor with my arms piled high. I've learned over the years that much of what looks divine on a hanger, looks revolting on a body. I suppose in a way, that's a good thing. Many items are rejected but two are compelling purchases. A steel grey soft wintery dress once cost $139 and now sports a tag announcing, $45.95. Bargain. I run the tag under the scanner and am astonished that it's now a measly $29.99. Who could leave this treasure in the store? Not me. I muse, might I wear it tonight? Perhaps.
Enough self-indulgence for a while. I'll peek into H & M and see if there's anything that ought to live in Portland. The pickings aren't plentiful. I also remember that Portland has its own Swedish mercantile store and so I'm not driven to find something suitable to send northward. As a treat for the neighbor girls, I stop at Sanrio and find two very cute Hello Kitty water bottles. I can already see their smiles as they tote these gifts on hikes or around the house.
All this shopping has made me mighty thirsty. A tall glass of iced tea is the perfect antidote. I've made my way to the Petite section of Nordstrom's. Since my last visit, the department has moved to a different part of the store. It seems smaller. Are there fewer petite women shoppers? I think not. I am undeterred until I inadvertently swallow wrongly and commence coughing and can't stop. I've made this mistake in the past and nearly had to visit an ER because I triggered an asthma attack. This cannot happen. I'm alone in the store and far from home. I concentrate on breathing but continue shopping. Several ladies approach me and ask if I need help. I can barely talk but I mumble that I am fine. I am not. Somehow the fit subsides after a few minutes. By that time, I've discovered a bonanza of potential acquisitions. I meet the manager of the department and she becomes my fashion guide. I'm going through a 'top' phase and seem to concentrate on this particular article of clothing. More discards litter the dressing room but there are some prizes, too. I'm more than happy with the finalists.
In chatting with Stephanie, the manager, like I always do, I ask about her career goals. She wants to get into merchandising with the store but that would mean relocating to Seattle. Her boyfriend/hoped-to-be fiance is a surfer. He's in the water every single day. No surf in Seattle. A relationship dilemma. I wish her well. I also ask if I might be able to change in one of the dressing rooms later in the day before we leave for the theater. She assures me that there'd be no problem. I'm not interested in peeling out of my clothes in the ladies' restroom.
Down one floor and I'm at Brass Plum, aka 'BP' to its loyal customers. I've been in this department often in Nordstroms across the country. It is filled with clothing and accessories for the young, hip, stylish young lady. Because I am self-conscious about my presence in a department where I obviously do not belong, I always explain that I'm shopping for my daughter. Yes, I do realize that the salespeople don't care if I'm shopping for my elephant or if I'm a hundred years old. They want to sell stuff and my demographic is immaterial. Still, I continue to explain. Almost always, I'm torn among many terrific possibilities, but not today. I guess the shopping gods are in my corner this day. I mull a couple of jackets but each one has something that doesn't seem quite right, so they're left on the racks. I find a sweet, inexpensive silver and faux pearl necklace for myself. The daughter has said I need some 'fun' jewelry. Probably this necklace doesn't qualify, but it's a start.
The meeting hour has arrived. Together again, we're off to look at furniture. After a short twenty-four years of usage, it may be time to get new couches and a chair for our living room. Macy's is having a sale. We meet Doris as we're testing the comfyness of couch cushions. She's knowledgeable, friendly, eager to assist. We discuss delivery timelines, colors, heights, whether to get another sofa bed, when the sale actually commences, and myriad other details. She gives us her card with a cell number which she says can be utilized even when she isn't at work. We like her and believe she deserves this sale, if we decide to buy.
During our conversation, she tells us to remember her first name as in 'Doris Day' and her last name as in 'Red Skelton.' She elaborates further, sharing that her husband has researched his family's genealogy and that he is a fifth cousin of the famous comedian. We relate that we once were on a commuter plane going to Las Vegas and Red Skelton was one of the other passengers. Small world. Charming lady.
Past experiences at Nordstrom's Cafe led us back there for dinner. Scrumptious sandwiches fill the menu and both of us are happy with the selections. I'm off to change. The nearest department is Kid's. Clearly marked are boy's and girl's dressing rooms. I suppose such segregation is a good idea, even at young ages. I ask the salesperson if I may dress in one of the rooms. She's busy with a customer and I'm in a bit of a hurry. She says, "I shouldn't tell you this but there's a trick to opening the locked doors." She demonstrates how to use the crook of a hanger to jiggle the lock and open the door. It works. Soon I'm removing the tags from my new frock, pulling on panty hose, stepping into my slip, strapping my heeled sandals, and tossing the new necklace around my shoulders. I'm ready. I'll freshen my face and hair after dinner.
Driving to the performance venue takes about five minutes. We find a parking garage and ask the attendant where to locate the Samueli Theater. She also tells us that after 9 pm, parking is free. Nice bonus. Unfortunately, the theater is rather far from the garage and walking in fancy shoes is a challenge. We arrive early and mingle in the lobby for a while. Two fascinating ladies engage us and learn that it is our special day. They want to know our story. I'm sure they never imagined its content. Once we have told the abbreviated version, the mother of two college aged girls who are sitting next to her, turns to them and says basically, "Don't expect it to turn out like that. It rarely happens." We demur. You have to trust your instincts. One of the beautiful daughters says our story should be made into a movie. She's obviously enchanted by the romanticism. Believe me, it's still very much alive.
Our table is labeled '155.' Two people are already seated. They introduce themselves as sister and brother. He's an incredibly astute theater aficionado. No matter what show or performer we mention, he can discuss the subject at length. He's seen everything except "Rent." I recommend it highly. Henry discusses the new production of "Ghost: The Musical," whose score has been written by cousin Glen Ballard. This man has seen the rehearsals on the Internet and has made the photo of the cast walking across Abbey Road his screensaver. We are startled and deeply impressed with his unpretentious manner. How fascinating it would be to talk with him for hours. He saw this show the previous evening and will return a third time. That's a true fan.
The lights dim, the show is about to begin. A waitress threads her way through the crowded tables, clutching a tray crowded with drinks. She stumbles and liquid pours over my foot. By her reserved reaction, I gather that this happens frequently. I'm wondering if my shoe will disintegrate due to the wetness, and whether the stickiness will create havoc when I try to walk. The server says simply, "Don't worry. It's champagne. There'll be no stain." She proffers a handful of napkins and exits. I dab my foot and stuff the toe of my sandal with the rest of the napkins. What's a little mishap on such an enchanted evening?
We've come to be serenaded by the incomparable Miss Sutton Foster. We first were in her presence a few years ago when we saw "Thoroughly Modern Millie," her Tony Award-winning performance. What a glorious voice, superb dancing ability, perfect stage presence. The night is blissful. She sings as if she were born specifically for Broadway. No note is too high, no gesture unattainable, no smile withheld. She's funny, engaged with the audience, well aware of her gift but ever so willing to deposit it with her fans.
As part of her routine, she uses few props. She's accompanied by an excellent pianist who matches her talent without intruding. I'm struck by her length, her angular quality. With an endless energy reserve, she begins the show with three songs. Immediately we know that we're in the midst of a unique audience. These people know theater. They're more aware of songs than any group we've ever encountered. Nothing is foreign to them. With just one or two notes played, they respond with alacrity. Though we've been to numerous theater productions on Broadway, in London, Los Angeles and other cities, this is a rare experience. As a whole, the audience resembles a grand graduate class in theater. We are humbled.
Sutton soars. We want her to sing forever. It is, after all, our anniversary. How can she not continue? We laugh when she uses a cup labeled 'Pimp' and another labeled 'Ho' from which she draws the title of a song and then proceeds to sing it flawlessly. I want her to dance but she doesn't, not tonight. She pauses once or twice for a swig of water and plunges into lyrics that would waste the less gifted quickly. A young co-star from "Little Women" joins her for one song. They have a singular symmetry as their lilting voices fill the room.
We listen to Sutton's stories including a harrowing episode when the plane in which she was flying from the west coast to New York encountered mechanical trouble and made an emergency landing in Chicago. She says that incident impressed upon her the value of life and love. A lesson for all of us to remember. In a less dramatic tale, we learn that she's very proud to have been an answer on "Jeopardy." Oddly, none of the contestants was able to form the correct question. Bummer. Not theater fans, evidently.
Nearing the end of a year-long tour, she'll travel to Washington, DC and Florida for sold-out shows and scurry back to New York and its frigid weather. In March, she'll headline a revival of Cole Porter's "Anything Goes" on Broadway. She'll be extraordinary as always. Maybe another Tony is in the wings.
Two encores and she's vanished. Taken her water bottles and departed. Probably spent from her performance. The audience is reluctant to disburse. There's something magical in this room. It is the essence of Sutton, a star. With the surname of Foster, she must surely be a distant cousin. I recognize that spirit, see some facial resemblance and would be so proud to call her family.
Walking to the car, we reminisce about our day, our decades together. We're happy to be going home. As we travel without impediments along the freeways toward the desert, I feel as if we are being teleported. In less than ninety minutes, we're opening the garage door. There's still time to check the mail, do a load of laundry, put away the purchases, and get to bed just after midnight. A day of jubilation is done. Let the next year begin.
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