Bonnie's Blog

Truth and Lies

2012-02-24T02:56:00.002-08:00

One of the reasons I so treasure Rachel Maddow author and host of the Rachel Maddow show is her dedication to truth. Tomorrow night in San Jose she receives the prestigious Steinbeck award given annually to an activist who exemplifies the themes and values found in the writings of Steinbeck and his commitment to the common people. Particularly in politics Rachel searches for the facts behind the stories. When her research is wrong, occasionally, she rights it without hesitation. Steinbeck's son, Thomas, comments "Listening to Rachel Maddow is like listening to Walter Cronkite. We have that kind of trust in her."

At a much simpler level the struggle with my own truth, or lack thereof, has long been a theme. Perhaps you will enjoy this story of my remembrance of my first lie. Or was it? You decide. I'm relying on my childhood memories for I have no way to check the facts.

I was six and a half or seven at the age of the first lie. It is imprinted in my memory because I felt so unjustly accused. Maybe you can decide.

My voluptuous young mother whom I loved but could seldom fathom was shunned by most of our neighbors who envied her seductive appearance yet frowned at her scandalous behavior. To us she was funny, flamboyant and loving. Mostly my mother just wanted both of us kids to be inconspicuous to deflect the unwanted negative attention of all but the milkman or travelling salesmen at which times she wanted us to disappear into the basement or the nearby woods.

In sharp contrast to her beauty and outgoing ways I was duck-footed, myopic and introspective. Dancing school did little to improve my coordination or thin, straight hair cut in a boyish bob. My black pit bull, Mike, slept at my side and trailed me everywhere. In his eyes, anyway, I was perfect and could do no wrong.

Arriving home from dinner my mother struck a petulant pose.

“Did you have another fight with Barbro,” she queried? Bewildered, I denied her charge.

“You’re lying to me” she accused. “Barbro’s Mother just called and told me you two were fighting again.” I’m telling your father when he gets home from work that he has to punish you.” How confusing. This was the first time I had ever heard my mother express a cross word. The only punishment I’d known was to sit quietly in the corner for five minutes or to have my flashlight temporarily confiscated for reading under the covers after lights out. I was either a very obedient kid or my misconduct went unnoticed, possibly a little of both. I’d never had a reason to lie that I could recall, and from the Presbyterian Sunday School three blocks away I well understood the moral of honesty and the punishment for sin.

I intuited the wisdom of being invisible as well. Since about four I’d sensed I was different. I did not have a name for it, but I realized I had uncommon feelings from and for other little girls. Unlike my big sister, I felt utterly no interest in the neighborhood gang of boys who habituated the swings in our back yard and played kick the can in our alley till the light faded. Sadly there was only one girl to play with, Willa. Willa lived half a block north. She was chubby and a bore. Besides, her mother was a prude.

A dramatic change happened in the second grade. Playing hopscotch alone one Saturday afternoon on 27^th Ave. I encountered a new girl, Barbro. Not my usual haunt, this was the only street around with sidewalks which were needed to accept chalk markings. Barbro had just moved into a rundown old house a half a block south. Her family was fresh from Sweden. I was smitten. Barbro was petite and graceful. Her thick wavy hair was the color of a newly opened bar of ivory soap. She was dressed in a colorful embroidered dirndl and wooden shoes. Her cheeks shone pink like the peonies in our side garden. Her accent was magical and her blue eyes danced. She played Hopscotch like a pro even in her clogs. She knew how to charm. I was hooked, an infatuation that was destined to last well into our teens.

Barbro turned out to be not only the most popular but the smartest member of our second grade class, and Willa second. I was somewhere down the ladder, though I excelled in reading. I decided their superior achievement was because they were both left-handed, and being a rightie I could never catch up. Surely I was genetically deprived. I saved my weekly 25 cent allowance for gifts and treats for the new object of my affections. I was tormented when at times Barbro would favor Willa over me. I could only stand it so long, and then being a little sturdier I would throw Barbro to the floor, yanking her thick blonde hair until she screamed. Willa would quiver in the corner. Of course Barbro knew I worshipped her and this was a game she invented to get my goat. It ended quickly with no tresses to sweep up. I hardly thought of it as fighting, for I worshipped the ground she walked on, as the expression goes. To me it was a way of showing my undying affection. Apparently her Mother did not understand the ritual or grew tired of her daughter’s screaming.

When Daddy got home he asked me to come sit in his lap in the living room. He explained softly that my Mother had told him to punish me for lying. I still didn’t get it but I lay obediently across his knees as he directed. My Mother was out of sight in the kitchen. His hands made contact with my buttocks seven or eight times with about the force of a puppy batting a kitten. I looked up at his face, still confused. “This is hurting me more that it does you, ” he murmured. It was then that I noticed two tears sneaking down under his thick trifocals. My heart sank. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt my gentle, adoring father. I still felt totally confused but I knew that somehow in the future I must figure out a strategy for coming to terms with lying and furthermore that it meant I might have to construct some kind of a secret double life, which is what in essence I did.

Blue Mood Valentine

2012-02-17T13:30:00.000-08:00

A littler snow graced the mountains this week. Down here we’d welcome more precipitation in any form. Alas, it might be a drought year.
It will soon be five years since my personal valentine departed this life, but not my heart. Nevertheless life is stirring on Cathy Lane, that is except in the loins of this author who is still dragging in energy from last month's pneumonia. Patience, Bonnie, patience. Something for which I am not noted. The good news is that many Guamanians hereabouts have responded to our neighbor’s plea to register to be a bone marrow donor. A gynecologist in Guam has taken up his cause as well and has so far registered 200 residents there. Next door activity in the form of insurance inspectors and septic tank servicers have begun to be noted at the abandoned repossessed house, and the real estate agent hints they may close soon. Birds are seen in profusion at feeders around the neighborhood and one neighbor had a hawk pose in her back yard (eyeing the smaller birds at the feeder of course).

Lucky I love to read, puny or not, but I could use some suggestions for happy books. No kidding. I keep picking morose ones. Is this unconscious punishment for putting off the gym and my taxes? I got half way through the Orphan Master’s Son last week (about N. Korea) before I decided I could take no more. Then I downloaded two equally depressing novels which I promptly rejected for a more cheerful month, like August. Now I’m half way through Killing the Messenger, a non fiction murder story taking place in Oakland. For nine years I taught school two blocks from the site where the action takes place, Our Black Muslim Bakery. I did not know all the facts then but I would shudder inwardly as I putted by in my old ’64 VW bug. There was something eerie about it. How little I knew!

Lacking any ornamental branches I purchased a flowering quince on Tuesday. I painted a flowering almond at my art class last week but could not find any in the nursery. My camellias are almost done, but still fun to paint. I’ve included one above. I hope the spirit of wellness and get up and go strikes me soon.

Time To Reflect

2012-02-10T15:59:00.000-08:00

Though the weather has been stunning and my camellias are in full dress array an air of sadness hangs over Cathy Lane. My next door neighbor, Joey, only 40, needs a stem cell transplant to survive Leukemia (AML). The registry for members of his gene pool must be Guamanian or Pacific Islander, ages 18-60. My genes are not eligible, sadly. So if you know anyone who qualities urge them to get info at 1-899-59-Donor. The test is quick and painless.

Speaking of genes, I want to boast a bit about my cousin Doll. I just got word that she may be visiting again soon from Canada. What’s stirring my joy buds is that every minute spent with her is a delight. Though legally blind and hearing impaired, she infuses every discussion with positive joy. While I grouse and lament about the economy and various body aches, she never complains of a single thing.

Besides that cousin Dolly‘s memory at 95 surpasses most of ours when we were half her age. She was only six when her family arrived by train to Moosejaw. The trip with her parents and older sister Flossie from England was arduous, first by ship and then by train via Halifax. My Mother, a little older, remembered meeting her little cousins at the train station on the day of their long awaited arrival. My grandmother, who ran a boarding house on Fairfax Street, was slowly enticing her family to immigrate to Canada. Doll’s dad, my uncle Alf, soon found work at the flour mill, for of course the vast Saskatchewan prairie was the heart of wheat country. Except for the extremes of weather Moosejaw was welcoming to immigrants. Most Saturday nights the extended family would gather at my grandparents for poker, and singing into the night for her Dad’s voice, once lubricated with a little brandy, enchanted all. My Mother, whose reputation for exaggeration was significant, always said Moosejaw was 120 in the summer and 40 below in the winter. I think it was a rugged life. “Anyways” as Dolly says in her enchanting musical voice, “it was sure different than green and rainy England. “ Life settled down for about five years until like others in the family they elected to move west. Once more the great Canadian Pacific Railway carried them across the continent. After a bit Dolly’s Dad, a small man more fitted to lighter work found employment at a lumber mill but quickly dropped a log on his foot, breaking it. There was no workman’s comp then, of course. Eventually he was employed by the City of Vancouver in various capacities.

Of the two girls, Dolly was the quiet steady one, often lost in the shadow of her outgoing stagestruck big sister. She remained in Vancouver, married and raised four children, meanwhile working most of her life at Eaton’s Department store in downtown Vancouver.
She lives in an apartment there now which she shares with her faithful son Ed. Sadly two of her adult children died of lung cancer. Of course she grieves their loss, but one never hears a whimper from her. The highlight of her life is weekly bingo games at the casino. She can neither see the numbers on the cards nor hear when they are called out, but that seems to make no difference. Her presence alone is enough to keep the staff enthralled. When she fell two years ago at bingo and broke her hip we all thought “oh, no” this is the end. She prevailed and recovered with her usual gusto.
From a photo I took of her on her last visit I painted the rendering on the left. Its painted on tyvek paper. Yes, the kind of paper used in building construction. I call it “Time to Reflect”.

View From The Moon

2012-02-02T20:03:00.000-08:00

Last week I spoke of the challenge of maintaining my sanity as I am housebound recovering from pneumonia. One of the practices I do nightly at 6 for attitude adjustment is to watch Rachel Maddow. I’m indebted to her for the inspiration to compose the following satire.

Recuperating in my Lazy-Boy the last two weeks I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate how to accomplish Romney’s vision of solving our national crises.
Firstly, self-deportation. I am high on his list of undesirables, as are most of my LGBT friends. This also incudes the bulk of my artist clan, for anyone with their own vision is discouraged from belonging to his society. Secondly, converting to the middle class, the class that really matters to him.

At the same time, we could attain Newt’s dream of farming on the moon by 2025.
All of these goals could be accomplished in one swoop by convincing those of us in the undesirable categories (including Newt’s half sister) to self deport to the moon.
Since the Super Bowl is about to happen, I think we should buy three minutes to advertise my concept at half time. I wonder if his Super Pac would finance us? By the way, wardrobe malfunctions would be required in the moon congress at 2pm daily, thus avoiding any cover up operations. Everyone not in congress would be employed as a lobbyist, thus achieving universal middle class, or maybe even upper middle class, as the lack of gravity would allow us to bounce higher and higher. The job of a lobbyist would be to supervise bridge games with the new rules: NO Trump. We might also have to staff the PALE INN.

On the moon we would have many temples. In fact each person would have his/her own, as long as it didn’t weigh too much. Entrance would be allowed to anyone with a thought in his/her head. It would be a utopian society, for only wise old women or men acutely testosterone deprived would be allowed to rule, with the possible exception of older men with erectile dysfunction. All illegals would be welcomed, especially those who know how to milk cows and grow vegetables, which includes all the Mexicans in California and Arizona. Every moon resident would be required to subscribe in principle to joining the middle class, for the day might come all of us would have to stand on the moon’s equator to balance things. War would be out of the question for we would all know that any form of physical aggression might tip the scale throwing us out of orbit, and who wants that?

In order to keep from being bored we’d have convinced Ellen to self deport to lead moon dancing. Skinny-dipping and streaking competitions would be encouraged. At 4pm each day volunteers would hostess the TEASE party where food stamps would be freely distributed. Each citizen would initiate a raucous caucus on the day the lunar eclipse approached. Occasionally all residents might be called out to stand asteroid watch and/or to repair the safety net which Romney wisely included when he accepted our self deportation application. But I doubt any of us would want to return. What’s your hunch?

Getting A Grip On Things

2012-01-27T09:51:00.000-08:00

For a woman with a generously endowed midsection isn’t it peculiar that I am shortchanged in the tummy settling department? For instance just the smell of liver cooking half a block away sends me hurtling to the nearest flushing facility. Likewise a generous wift of cigar smoke is enough to make me puke. I grew up one of those kids with terrible car sickness. “Daddy, go STRAIGHT, I’d wail.” In my teens I got coaxed to ride a roller coaster. Wrong choice. Turning bilious green my friends swore never to suggest that disaster again.

So this week has brought unfair gastronomical challenges, unfair because what is wrong with me is respiratory.

Five days ago, by x-ray, I was diagnosed with viral pneumonia. I suspect I’ve been harboring the virus since before Christmas as I’ve been dragging around like an old rubber galosh. I thought it was just sloth. Rounds of prednisone for allergy and then a magic antibiotic for “a bug” gave temporary relief. Alas, relapse was on my agenda.
Making a sour face I rejected my doc’s hospital proposal. That’s where people really get sick these days, right? In retrospect an i-v might be a gift. Science has provided the perfect antidote. The problem is the new antibiotic comes with a digestion challenge.
Even though I live in the city limits I am still on a septic tank. This week my sturdy old tank in the rose garden has had its work cut out for it as I explore various strategies for keeping down the pills. They are supposed to be taken on a full tummy. My appetite is nil but I try. The current strategy goes like this: eat a bowl of anything, trying not to cough between bites, stand tall, swallow a quarter of a pill with a full glass of water, walk erect for six minutes. Opening the sliding glass doors to the deck do 25 toe raises humming America the Beautiful, all the while waving both arms in the air to distract the contortions going on in my mid section. Open my jammie top to the elements to get in more air. Ignore Kodi’s looks of skepticism and keep one eye peeled for the police helicopter patrol. Return to the kitchen table doing either the polka or the schottische. Still standing tall, march in place while stuffing down four more tablespoons of whatever. After twenty minutes of keeping the pill down I know I have it made. Repeat whole process four times a day. I’m getting pretty proficient at this at last but I may loose my sanity.

Life, Death and Jewels

2012-01-19T16:10:00.000-08:00

Shortly before Christmas Lee’s cousin Patricia fell on the black ice in front of their home in Lodi, cracking her head severely. As she staggered to the bathroom to stop the bleeding, she insisted over and over, “I can take care of this.” Alas, she was bleeding from the front, middle, and back of her brain.
Following a helicopter ride to UCDavis, it was determined it was not something anyone could take care of. Pat’s last words were so much like the way she lived her entire life.

Of course I don’t know the whole story, but it bears repeating in order to understand the context of Patricia’s life. The story, as I heard it, follows: Verne, Lee’s dad, was about 14, living in the family home in Emeryville where his cantankerous father eked out a living truck farming. I once saw the two story frame farm house, but it has now been demolished.
On this day Grandfather Lee was so mad at the plow horse’s behavior he beat it to death, his son, Verne, observing. Seconds after the horse fell down dead so did his father. A stroke of anger no doubt took him.
Altogether Mother Lee bore 21 children in that big house, only ten living to adulthood. The youngest, her favorite, she named Jewel. “Mother’s Precious Jewel” as he came to be known, grew to a handsome adult, with an outgoing personality. I suspect he was spoiled. Her adoration of him was so significant that some of his siblings and later on their spouses felt resentful.
Jewel married a beautiful woman who turned out to be unfaithful. Following an affair with another family member (don’t all families have scandals?) she attempted suicide, but the attempt failed and left her emotionally and physically disabled, or as they said in those days, “never the same.” Patricia stepped up to the plate, and became the mother to her younger brother. Ever afterward her main goal in life was first of all to be a good mother, a goal she accomplished with incredible success.
What is fascinating to me is that Pat and Paul’s four adult children walk such different paths in life and yet all were adored as if each were named Jewel. Considering her roots, how is it that Pat came to be the special mother that she was? I suspect the ten grandchildren who stood on the stage of Montclair Presbyterian last Saturday singing in unison for their grandmother will follow in the same footsteps, each being celebrated for their uniqueness. I am blessed to have them in my life.

Funny Bucket List Story

2012-01-12T19:56:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago I mentioned bucket lists and my lack thereof. Its almost the middle of the new year and I still score zero on both resolutions and bucket list items. So I've been interviewing friends and decided Sue and Jeanne's story was simply too funny not to share.

I'm lucky to have visited Alaska on vacation once, but it was a very warm summer. Imagine! It happened to be 90 when we hit Fairbanks. Sue and Jeanne's experience was the polar opposite. Changing planes at SeaTac, they had packed a Thanksgiving Day picnic lunch to eat in the airport lounge with their friends Leslie and Renee. So far so good. Of course it was totally black out when they arrived in Fairbanks. Still they were able to rent a Ford Expedition and locate their digs, a lodge called Taste of Alaska, which they hold in high esteem. Venturing out the next day to find the Northern Lights they were quickly pulled over by a police car. It seems they had their headlights on high. Trooper Rick warned them and asked where they were going anyway. Clearly these old ladies were bewildered but intent on something.

When they said they were driving all over looking for the aurorea borealis he suggested politely they look out their rear window. A rainbow sky was right there. Chagrined, they turned the car around and followed his instructions to a nice turn out spot. The sky was ablaze. In the excitement they jumped out, leaving the motor running but locking the doors. One passenger only had on a sweater but one of the party had a cell phone. The 9-1-1 operator hardly believed them that it was an emergency but eventually agreed to send help. In a few minutes who comes driving up but Ranger Rick. He shook his head and then bundled them up with blankets in his own patrol car while they waited for the locksmith. It was a dramatic beginning to wonderful adventure.

Nature And the Russians Have the Upper Hand

2012-01-06T07:45:00.000-08:00

Winter skies from my hilltop, as this one two nights ago, implode my senses. They are the jewels which make living in this old house a fair trade-off. They give me visual orgasms. In the last moments before sinking behind the hills San Francisco Bay takes on all the colors spread in the canopy above it. Yet I've never painted even one of them. I think I feel inadequate to the task. Nature has the upper hand. Instead I paint people and old buildings and sunflowers. Musing on this picture I realized it is the same color pallette as many of my sunflower watercolors. How curious.

Yesterday I chatted with my very Russian pilates teacher, Yulia, about the fact that we have Peter the Great to thank for our crops of sunflowers even though the seeds came from America, the Indians having long cultivated it. I had heard this on NPR driving to the gym. Seems sunflower oil was not on the forbidden list of oils during Lent in the Russian Orthodox church and so the clever Russians hybridized the plant to satisfy their palettes and produce the lovely oil which is today used all over the world. Virtually all American potato chips are now fried in sunflower oil.

Introspective

2011-12-30T14:17:00.000-08:00

Though it is late afternoon a cream of mushroom soup fog still cuddles me as I contemplate the almost end of another year. Earlier today as I was denuding the weathered manzanita branch of the miniature ornaments displayed each year to give a semblance of Christmas spirit (for its still hard to be joyful without my life partner to share the task) I felt a welcome tingle of pleasure fingering the memorabilia. It was a feeling of both surprise and tenderness. A number of the objects had been Lee’s folks. Three of the special ones were White House Christmas replicas given to me by Lee’s great niece Julie and family from Virginia with whom we shared Christmas brunch again this year. Some of the ornaments were favored objects in my therapy office sand tray, thus infused with multiple memories, magical and transformative. Does that mean that time has softened my sharp edges of loss? I surely hope so. A surprise stopped my introspection. In the bottom of the plastic crate in yellowed tissue appeared the spectacles shown above. It eludes me where they came from, but they must be at least a hundred years old. The frames are incredibly fragile; thin wire, rusted in places. The lens are intact but the glass is so amber and shattered it looks like ice on a melting mud puddle. For the photo I placed them on a bible I was given at age 12. It opened randomly to the book of John. The bible is not quite 70, but it was the oldest prop I could find around. The set up rather pleases me. Perhaps I will paint it some day, or maybe I will put the thought on my bucket list. Tee Hee.

Lately a number of my friends have been talking about doing things on their bucket lists. How funny, for they are all younger than I. For instance, Catherine and Mary went to New York to see the Thanksgiving Macy’s Day parade because it was on Catherine’s bucket list. And my friends Sue and Jeanne spent part of the holidays flying to Fairbanks to see the northern lights because it was on Sue’s bucket list. My painting teacher Sandy is going to Guatemala in the spring to paint because its part of her bucket list. I’m afraid I can’t think of a thing I’m aching to do that I haven’t already done. Of course I'm a little jealous of my friend Arlene who saw a bald eagle in her back yard last week, but that's not something one could plan for. In retrospect, I do know my grey garden bucket I use for weeds has a big hole in it. Likewise the bottom of the yellow bucket I use to gather Kodi’s turds is dangerously thin. Perhaps the message is I should concentrate on the precariousness of the here and now rather than the promise of the future.

Christmas Conflict

2011-12-23T21:10:00.000-08:00

Ho ho ho. Its almost Christmas Eve and I will spend the day shopping and preparing brunch for Lee's family visiting from Virginia for breakfast on Christmas morn. It will be fun for I do not usually plan to feed three sturdy men with hairy chested appetites.

Its an adjustment in expectations. I hope I get it right this year! Meanwhile I'm sharing an early childhood Christmas conflict of a different sort.

Christmas morning rather than the preceding eve was when we celebrated in my house. Santa was supposed to come after we two children went to bed, bringing the tree, gifts, etc., and restoring himself with the chocolate cake and milk I carefully placed by the fireplace. I remember coveting the cake. It had delicious crackly white frosting. I think all this was my mother’s English tradition, for my Dad grew up so poor they probably did not celebrate at all.

Daddy would jingle bells in the yard outside our window to add to the guise. Mother would stay up most of the night wrapping gifts and decorating the tree and in her usual style irrigating her vocal cords with whatever booze was available so that in the morning the living room looked like a magic show with twinkling lights and piles of packages. This meant that she would not drag out of bed until nine or so, usually hung over, and my sister and I would have to wait quietly in the dining room in agony of anticipation. Our ugly long brown socks which fastened with garters would be hanging by a clothes pin from the fire screen stuffed with tangerines and mixed nuts including one called nigger toes. I had no idea what that meant and I doubt my parents did either, though of course I wince now at the racial slur.

The big problem for me however was I knew there was no Santa. I was reading by age four and had spotted a Time magazine on the hall table with the cover story titled “Should We Tell Children There Is No Santa?” I remember feeling both smug and relieved to have that one settled. Then followed the burden of pretense. The last thing I wished to do was disappoint my parents and this farce seemed so important to them. I was very good at pretense but still it was a struggle for I had been taught that honesty was the greatest of all virtues. I remember having to sit on Santa’s lap at the Bon Marche in downtown Seattle and feeling like vomiting as I recited what I wanted. “Have you been good all year?” he’d ask. Of course I’d been good, but wasn’t I being bad by pretending and denying the truth? It was so confusing.

As I’ve looked at what’s happening in Congress this week I wonder if some of those elected officials aren’t experiencing that same struggle I did as a child: how to be honest and yet compelled out of loyalty to keep up the farce. I wish them resolution, relief from the conflict, and peace.

Its surely the right time of year.

All Things Electrical

2011-12-15T15:09:00.000-08:00

This was the week that all things electrical tested my emotional stability. I longed for the serenity of Bali and wondered about chucking civilization for a quiet island retreat (complete with maid and food service and twice daily massages of course).

For a while I’ve noticed that two of the four burners on my electric cooktop are kaput and the replacement parts are no longer made so last night I ordered a new one, but in the logic of design the new one is ½ shorter and ½ inch deeper than my counter cutout, so I had to buy a kit to fill in the cracks. Drat. I hope it works.

Chris my usually invisible kitchen contractor appeared late Tuesday afternoon and started the ceiling lighting redo. He left at 9 leaving the fixtures hanging precariously by long cords and promising to be back in the morning. Ha! There they hang tickling my ear lobes with every passage and giving me the shakes.

The same day my living room tv reported “no signal”. Meanwhile some connection has been severed on my IMAC, new in February, so the mouse batteries wear out every few days. Or not? Maybe the machine just thinks they are worn out. Apple sent me a new mouse on warranty but the new mouse seems to have scrambled the cordless keyboard so now it won’t connect. Therefore they are sending a new keyboard as well. I wish someone would send me new body parts on warranty! I could use a new knee as well as a new waist line. So a nice direct tv service man just came and informed me my receiver was completely dead. I don’t know if he was referring to my brain cells or my libido but I can assure you that pretty much nothing works on all cylinders around here. Anyway, the tv now has many new parts and a new dish (again onwarranty) and boxes and cords. It also has an annoying blue light when on. The patient service man informed me that I could even get my horoscope on the menu. So after he left I looked for today for my sign and got this:

A burden is eased and the relief you feel about this will bring a surge of self-control. Does this mean I will stop hitting the ice cream when the next thing crashes? Certainly hope not.

Remembering Pearl Harbor Again

2011-12-08T20:38:00.000-08:00

Its 4:40 a.m. and I am watching the western sky outside my kitchen slider in preparation for the spectacular lunar eclipse due about 6 Saturday morning. I'm annoyed because I will be alone. Until a week ago radio listeners would be calling in all over the greater Bay Area sharing their moment to moment celestial experience of the eclipse.

Whereas reading and painting are terribly important to me, radio is my dear companion, especially now that I live alone. Most tv bores me. Last Friday radio station KGO announced it was discontinuing its long policy of talk radio in favor of mostly news. Angry, despondent and devastated I wondered what I would do without my faithful old friend, KGO? I am in the habit of listening to it almost every waking moment and most of my sleeping moments too. That's over now. The new format stinks. Goodbye KGO. I'll survive, but not without a whimper. In the forty years I've been a KGO addict I've only called in twice, once to share the following story, so if you read it in my blog last year, bear with me. My writing is improving even if my disposition is not. Perhaps it will help you understand why radio has always been the media with such an imprint on me.

My father sits in his unmoving mahogany rocking chair good ear pressed to the speaker of the brown Philco radio console. I shiver watching the wetness from under his trifocals spread down his unshaven cheeks. Daddy never shaved on Sundays, so the dark stubble is normal. The other six days of the week he dresses in dark blue business suit, vest, tie and felt hat, his business clothes. Proud of his position, I often accompany him to work on Saturdays. He is a self-educated man but quite brilliant in math and engineering. At this time he is the district plant supervisor for Pacific Telephone and Telegraph in Seattle. His office and staff seem impressive to my adoring eyes. I know he is on the cutting edge of sonar and radar for other cities and government entities are always calling on him to consult. Sometimes I am allowed to ride with him on business trips or on the Telephone Company barge as they are maintaining underwater cable in Puget Sound. You can imagine how all of this is impressive to an adolescent.

What was unnerving on this particular day was that I had never before seen him cry, and in my eleven-year old eyes fifty years was very old to begin crying. It was Sunday morning, December 7, 1941, the day that President Roosevelt said would “live in infamy”. The radio announcer on KIRO was reporting the sinking of our fleet in Pearl Harbor from Japanese bombers. Battleships Oklahoma, Utah and Arizona were sinking, and the death toll was mounting to over 2,000 sailors and flyers. With each new report Daddy’s shoulders seemed to slump more. That’s all I remember of the day. Even now, seventy years later, I can feel the qualms of bewilderment I felt that morning. It was probably ten years later before my sister shared the rest of the story.

It seems that about July of 1941 my sister, four years older, answered our home phone. The party on the other end asked for our father stating it was important: the President’s office calling. Roosevelt was worried about inadequate communication with Pearl Harbor and he was requesting that my father take his family and move immediately to Honolulu to establish a system of better communication between Pearl Harbor and the White House. Daddy shared all this with my sister but I guess I was too young to be consulted. He was torn between answering the call of his country and moving his children to what was then considered a foreign country. Heavy hearted, he declined, mostly for the benefit of my education.

Much historical data now released confirms that Roosevelt was indeed expecting the attack. The bombing of Pearl Harbor served as a means to get Congress to declare war in Europe, something that needed to happen. Perhaps it was scripted. Sadly my father was never to know the true facts, and with each new casualty report Daddy’s pain and guilt mounted. He felt personally responsible for each death.

He lived another four years before his heart gave out. In retrospect, he never quite seemed to regain his spirit.

Hanging A Success!

2011-12-03T05:28:00.000-08:00

On the left, Sandy and I beaming. And why not? The opening was a joyful display of food and talent.
Last night the ten of us artists in Watercolor Connection pulled out all the stops a for a gala reception for our show: A Moment In Time. The gallery adjoining the Hayward City Hall is a terrific venue anyway and last night it was made more stunning with a lighted and decorated Douglas Fir. Just behind the tree two musicians (keyboard and guitar) provided the perfect background as a couple of hundred guests gathered to ooh and aah.

Luckily our group includes cooks of various heritages so the food table was overflowing with ethnic finger foods from dolmas to my own persimmon pecan cookies. Volunteers from the Hayward Arts Council poured beverages and served as lovely hostesses. How dedicated they are!

Husbands, friends, grandchildren, other painters and even a few lookers circled around.

One of our teachers, Sandy Delehanty, drove down from Loomis with two surprise guests: Sylvia and Margaret who have been on French Escapade painting trips with me. Jackie, leader of the French Escapade, having hopped off the plane from Paris just the day before, popped in. My friend Pat braved the traffic from the Peninsula to support our efforts. I think what made the show such a success is that each of us expressed our own individuality, whether nature, portraits, fantasy, or humor. How lucky I am to be a part of this group not just for the painting experience but for the care and support we give one another.

The show continues till Feb. 2 if you are in the area. I'm afraid all the lovely food is down the hatch but there is a good taco place across the street and a great Italian restaurant, Buon Appetit, a block and a half away.

The Universe of Berkeley And Other Gratitudes

2011-11-23T22:10:00.000-08:00

Today being my 55th Thanksgiving in California I pause to count my blessings: 51 of them with the wake up smile of Lee and ten of them with the wake up wags of Kodi.

Dear friends and loved ones are on the list too.

Yesterday turned out to be full of surprises. My kitchen cabinet refinisher arrived to complete the cabinet hardware installation. Then my hairdresser Domenic treated me to a free style. Then I treated myself to my favorite extra crispy pot stickers. Arriving home with my treat in hand I went into shock as I saw the patio gate had been left open. Kodi was gone! Damn the contractor. I screamed at his helper to help me hunt, not knowing that the young man had severe ashma. He sprinted up the hill while I grabbed the car and hailed down every walker and horse back rider on busy Skyline Blvd. Eventually the helper found Kodi visiting a neighbor's dog. My big mutt was not at all interested in returning. Kodi lunged at his arm, not breaking the skin. Dexter had the insight to rip the belt off his pants, leash Kodi and steer him home safely. Then he collapsed with an ashma attack, pants at half mast. It was a lot of unwelcome trauma, though it ended with gratitude.

Nova last night focused on the theory of multiverses, that is the scientific evidence that there exist multiple universes like our own with multiple other earths with parallel existences. The evidence offered by the astrophysicists both pro and con is intriguing. I have a personal theory that there is no room in space for another existence just like Berkeley.

I think back to the spring of '50 when I first set eyes on California. Flying down from wintry Seattle I took the train which once rumbled across the bay bridge. Every mile brought me closer to Berkeley's sunshine and flowering trees. I quickly shed my long yellow wool coat (which I bought for the trip and thought was pretty snazzy) while marveling at the UC coeds in white tennis shorts and halters. It was an instant love affair with the friendly people and the environment. On that trip I saw my first tulip tree and tasted my first artichoke. It was seven years later before I made the big move from the grey-green northwest.

Lee had recently purchased for $3M a 1920's stucco cottage at 1418 Cornell, just above San Pablo near Gilman a few blocks from where REI is now. We lived there happily for two years with three cats, hand-me-down furniture and chests of drawers made from packing boxes.

Even then Berkeley was a city of diversity which welcomed all sorts of beings, especially of the liberal persuasion. It boasted more college graduates than any city in the country. I made friends with pizza, Mexican and Chinese food and learned it was ok to discard my pantyhose and girdle and go to a restaurant. I learned to make bouquets of the pink pelergoriums that sheltered the back porch. The last time it sold that little cottage brought $650M. Imagine!

Later in life when I hung out my shingle as a psychotherapist I was lured back to Berkeley, so for twenty years I observed from my office window the comings and goings of busy Telegraph Avenue just 7 blocks from campus. I rather cherished the street vendors, the book stores, the chanting Hare Krishna's and the chiming of the Campanile.

I seldom get to Berkeley any more but Tuesday I had lunch with a dear friend at Cafe Mediteranee on College after which I set out for Berkeley Bowl, the vegetable market of all vegetable markets. A mecca for all things Berkeley. My assignment for Thanksgiving potluck dinner was fruit salad with fresh coconut. Where else could one find fresh grated organic coconut except at Berkeley Bowl? To shop there one has to first incorporate a certain attitude: camaraderie, patience, appreciation, adventure. No one there is in a hurry. Long lines at checkout counters are welcomed as shoppers discuss their produce finds with strangers. Where else can one find fifteen varieties of apples, twelve colors of melons and just as many colors of human beings. I felt my tension drifting away; even my breathing softened. I remembered my love of affair with what my great niece Darcie calls Biz-erkley.

However many universes there are I don't think there will ever be another quite like it.

It too deserves a place on my gratitude list.

Reminiscing

2011-11-18T20:50:00.000-08:00

The traumatic event described in last week's blog is receding in memory, replaced by

a more joyful one. Yesterday I wheeled the Malibu to the Napa Valley to celebrate the 81st birthdays of my freshman college roommates Dolores and Shirley. Once in Yountville we treated our tummies to elegant French cuisine at the Michellin one star Bistro Jeanty. For casual French atmosphere, perfect service and yummy food it rates three stars in my book. Its good that we no longer have to wear panty hose and girdles as we were required to do in sorority pledge days when we first met. Dolores was most adventurous with moules au vin rouge (mussels) while Shirley settled on daube de boeuf (roast beef and mashed potatoes). I took a chance on butternut squash and pear soup. I adored it. We split a tarte au citron for desert. The meringue seemed to nudge the ceiling and it was all we could do to finish it.

After lunch we explored the grounds of a nearby winery. I have probably seen the fall color in the Napa Valley a hundred times in my lifetime but I've never seen it quite so intense in colors of red, yellow, orange and green. T'was a treat for the eyes and the soul as well. At least for a few hours occupy everything was forgotten, as was Penn state, Syria, and arthritis. After all, all is right with the world.

Eleven Eleven Eleven and Flash Bang

2011-11-11T06:10:00.000-08:00

My sleepy pot-holed private lane is five miles from Ogawa Plaza in downtown Oakland where last night a man was murdered by gunfire adjacent to the Occupy Oakland encampment. On the lane nest seven older homes, mostly well maintained. Things are usually serene, if not boring. My '46 rancher fronts beautiful San Francisco bay and I have views of three bridges. Wildcats, great horned owls and turkey vultures hold claim to most of my 3.25 acres. My own home is cuddled at the foot of the curving driveway. The property snuggles a level plateau surrounded by canyons on three sides. A fairly narrow steep driveway is the only access or egress. The west side of the property abuts a creek and regional park. An aging but strong cyclone fence surrounds the immediate yard, orchard and mature rose garden. In my almost fifty years at this address I only began locking my doors and gates four years ago, an acknowledgement to the troubling times, my aging bones and my new aloneness.

The time was last Tuesday night about 9:15. An exceedingly brilliant full moon lit the patio as if by laser light. The reflection on the white plastic roof of the greenhouse was so intense I double checked to see if all the outside lights were accidently left on.

Only one gutteral bark coming from my dozing dog's throat alerted me that my tranquility was about to end. Throughout the ordeal Kodi never moved from his reclining posture on the modern Chinese rug a few feet from my recliner, that is except when trailing me as I walked to various windows trying to determine what in the hell was going on. His head and jaws seemed frozen in alert mode. To his sensitive ears the continued explosions coming from the house next door (about fifteen of them over a fifteen minute period) must have sounded like a herd of wild elephants. But of course the likelihood of wild elephants on sleepy Cathy Lane is ridiculous. But then so is a helicopter circling my home for forty minutes while a federal marshall swat team in full camouflage gear backed up by the Oakland police and highway patrol search the premises of the house next door for drugs, weapons and fugitives from justice. I was not to learn all these details till the next day for my call to 911 only confirmed a major police action was going on and I was advised I should use my best judgement as to what to do to guard my safety. What help is that? No explanation was given of the the booming sounds, nor of what actions I should take. My greatest fear was fire, for if ammunition were exploding it could cause an inferno in the dry shrubbery. Could the booming be guns? In my concentration to remain calm I completely forgot that I suffer from atrial fib and the one thing I am not supposed to do is get frightened. I was doing fairly well until the two gay men in the house up the hill called. The terror in their voices unsettled me. I called the president of the neighborhood watch who lives on the corner. No answer. I called other neighbors who were equally scared. I called my family in Washington state and I called surrogate daughter Catherine in San Francisco. They soothed me. It was an hour before quiet descended again and many hours before I slept.

Later the next day I learned the extent of the raid, for the house next door was suspected to be housing squatters, stolen vehicles, ammunition, illegal weapons and fugitives from justice. I had learned a few days earlier from a realtor that the house had been sold in a short sale and the insides were trashed. So sad. Just now I am learning more about the terrifying booms. They turned out to be what is called Flash Bangs and have the decibels of dynamite exploding. They were used to search the bushes around the property for fugitives in hiding. I will never forget that sound. I am clearly out of the loop in understanding weaponry. Last night when I attended the scheduled neighborhood watch meeting I was horrified to hear of close neighbors planning to purchase guns.

In this country we celebrate this day as Veteran's Day, though I grew up calling it Armistice Day. How unique that it comes on the triple calendar confluence of eleven-eleven-eleven. My maternal grandfather serving in France as a member of the Canadian Princess Pat regiment in the First World War survived mustard gas thrown by a grenade. He suffered all his life from the effects. Now I feel like I should get a ribbon for surviving the grenades next door! Doesn't armistice mean putting down your arms and negotiating a truce? Life goes on. Will it ever be tranquil again?

A Moment In Time

2011-11-04T09:23:00.000-07:00

The newish Hayward City Hall is a beautiful venue and my Watercolor Connection group of ten is mobilizing for a group show there Dec.2-Feb. 11. When I suggested our theme be A Moment In Time it never occurred to me how hard it would be to pick which five paintings I should personally include. Since my drawers are overflowing with paintings, I began to look with a more critical eye as to which ones best depicted the theme. Hard! None of my florals fill the bill, that's for sure, even though some of them are dramatic. Likewise, nix on grapes and persimmons. Too static. What seems to be needed is some kind of drama, happening in the now.

I thought about this yesterday as four of us trekked to Pleasanton for lunch and to visit the National Watercolor Society Traveling Exhibit at the Harrington Gallery. It was desert for the eyes and I plan to send for the catalog today (too bad they don't sell it with the show).

Last night the rich seafood risotto and coldstone ice cream caught up with my 81 year old innards and I spent a lot of awake time regretting my over-indulgence and reflecting on what quality best depicts a moment in time. I decided it was some kind of drama, not just an emotional quality but something happening around that emotion. Moreover I decided I'm going to try to bring this to consciousness from now on as I choose subjects to write about, photograph, or paint. Meanwhile, friends Mollie, Jan, and Beth will help me go through stacks and choose the best five to enter in the show.

The painting above is one Mollie is drawn to, though I think I messed up on the face.

I may try to fix it. The reclining woman above was sleeping soundly on a high stone bench in the Zocolo in Guadalajara oblivious to the the market activities swirling below her.

Some time around five am this morning I moved my still queasy tummy to my recliner in the living room, big white comforter hanging over my knees. Since he has been sick Kodi makes a cave on the floor under my knees where he would sleep for hours if I didn't move.

I awoke with a jolt at six. In the nightmare I was looking out the window and saw Lee coming home for dinner, only to furtively jump in the back seat of a strange car. It looked like she was being kidnapped. I tried to call 911 but in typical nightmare script, had no voice. Soon she returned waving $40 and explaining she had lost it and these nice folk found it and returned it. The drama was ended. The therapist in my believes all dreams are a gift, even the nightmares. I've been missing Lee a lot the last week and it was a gift to see her in my dreams, drama or not.

Elusion of Peace

2011-10-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

A light haze hugs the bay. Predicted high winds have not appeared to blow it away. The roses out my window are still bearing but getting cranky with neglect. Up here things appear calm but that is a deception. Oakland is experiencing trauma once again, not by fire this time but by the tear gas removal of over a thousand wall street protesters camping at the plaza. Meanwhile less than a mile west the last two ton steel section of the bay bridge retrofit is being jiggled into place this morning. Attaching it to the adjoining structure will take 4,500 bolts. Like the rest of the project, it was all made in China. The irony goes without saying.

At Cathy Lane the last of the kitchen crown molding is in place but the cupboard doors remain handleless and a few other things undone. Some days I churn at the contractor but mostly I've become philosophical about it. It seems unimportant in the larger scheme of things. Kodi is eating fairly well but still behaving like a basket case at night.

I've yet to figure out what scares him or hurts him and have no more discretionary funds to invest in doggie specialists. Mostly he wants to build a cave under my recliner which is fine as long as I remember to warn him to move when I go to jump up. I don't wish to deal with a squished Husky.

Last weekend Catherine, Kodi and I refreshed ourselves at Cath and Mary's other house in Santa Rosa. We took in two of the art displays in Santa Rosa's Art Trails which is somewhat like open studios. What fun! It surprised me to see that the vineyards around there are still green as green can be. Its almost November. Where is our fall color?

In my own small orchard my ten year old persimmon tree is exploding. It looks like there will be plenty of fruit and leaves for subjects to paint this year but its going to be late. The photo above is my rendering from another year's crop. I am always seeking peace but only finding it in my paintings. Perhaps I should go back to Bali. I wonder if they'd take Kodi?

Poppies for the Pensive

2011-10-20T17:52:00.000-07:00

A different kind of memorial was held near me today, one covered by the news media but hardly front page except in the Oakland area. October 20, 2011 is the 20^th anniversary of the tragic Oakland firestorm. The evacuation point was two miles west of where my hilltop house sits so we were spared any property loss. In all 3500 Berkeley and Oakland dwellings were turned to ash, among them the homes of eleven of my friends who lost nearly everything as the firestorm spread to the upper Rockridge area. Some of them had ten to twenty minutes to evacuate. After your pets, how do you decide what to take? One of my friends, an elderly woman psychologist who had become agoraphobic, refused to leave her home in the Hiller Highlands and lost her life. Just down the slope from her house two Hiller residents took refuge in the athletic club outdoor pool where they hovered for two hours, their beach bags and cosmetics on the pool deck turning to liquid, before they evacuated safely.

Compared to the fire victims my loss was insignificant. Still, it has affected me deeply, as it has my whole community. In October I find I never sleep deeply and then it hits me why… Shortly after the fire I had my picturesque shake roof removed in favor of somewhat ugly but fire resistant asphalt shingles. As soon as I could afford it I had my wonderful brick fireplace replaced with a metal insert and a fake gas log. Shrubs and trees I loved were pruned back to ten feet of the house. These were appropriate but hardly elective modifications and small accommodations in lieu of being spared the trauma of loss so many suffered. For months one wall of a bank in Montclair was smothered with photos of missing dogs and cats, among them Herbert Henry, a long-haired monster sized cat with an equally monstrous personality belonging to my friends Judy and Marlene. Like most of the displaced animals he was never found.

My old ranch house sits on a natural level ridge with deep canyons on either side, canyons that would be the natural pathway for a fire moving from the west to the east. Of course the pathway of fire is unpredictable in our fall winds. I have careful evacuation plans in event of fire, of course, but I hope I never have to take refuge in my own deep pool, for the unheated water temperature rarely exceeds forty. Double brr. I still keep at least one car gassed up and emergency water and dog food in the trunk. Somehow these concessions to safety do not comfort me. The events of twenty years ago still haunt me and hang like a dark cloud in my otherwise sunny hall of memories.

Nature is fickle. Curiously a 3.9 earthquake hit South Berkeley as I wrote this, reminding me to avoid any sense of complacency no matter how hard I try to feel prepared. To calm myself I finished painting the Matilija Poppy shown above that grows so contently on my front bank oblivious to threat of fire or earthquake. This summer they reached seven feet. Curiously to my pleasure the gophers find them less than tasty. I love their delicate papery leaves and find them amazingly soothing as they flutter in the evening breeze coming in the Golden Gate.

Salute to Jeanne

2011-10-14T05:21:00.000-07:00

This week the ten of us in Water Color Connection stretched our talents in a delightful three day portrait painting class with Pablo Villicana Lara. I still have a lot to learn about portrait painting but I hope you can see from my rendering of my friend Jeanne Squires that she always has a twinkle in her blue eyes and a smile engraved just above her forthright chin. It’s been that way as long as I have shared her friendship, which is certainly over fifty years.

Today she hardly looks 84 and her spirit of adventure is more like 17. To me she is a model of embracing change with grace.

Next week Jeanne and her partner Edith head to Phoenix for the winter, having bought a unit in a retirement complex there. It will be a long winter without her presence in the Bay Area.

Life hasn’t always been a cup of tea for Jeanne. After her mother died when she was eight, Jeanne and her two brothers mostly made out for themselves. In the small Wyoming town of Douglas where her dad ran the local motel and bar, Jeanne helped with the bed-making and other chores. From time to time a housekeeper would appear to cook for the kids, but this was hardly parenting. When Jeanne had decisions to make her father always said, “Well, dear, what would an intelligent woman do?” It must have been good advice for Jeanne grew up healthy, well educated and self-sufficient. She mourned for the older brother that she lost in the 2nd World War but it never deterred her from moving ahead. For many decades she taught P.E. and history at Castro Valley High. That was in the days when girls were given short shift in athletics and PE teachers were low on the totem pole. Later she became a union leader and a cracker jack at negotiating benefits.

As if kidney cancer weren’t enough, Jeanne has also survived two hip replacements and lots of little skin cancers, hence the hat to protect her vulnerable nose.

She’s travelled widely, photographed abundantly, motor homed avidly and partied vigorously. She’s generous and loyal to her friends. Always on the cutting edge of new inventions, she demonstrated her skill on a Mac long before it was the in thing to do. In retirement she taught investing, owned a sail boat, volunteered at the Monarch butterfly preserve, petted whales in Baja, and travelled extensively. Her friendship is precious to me and I take delight in trying to capture her spirit with my brushes.

No One Else To Blame

2011-10-06T18:01:00.000-07:00

If you are following the saga, three quarters of my kitchen cabinets are done now. I’m disappointed with the results so far and if I had the decision to make over, which I don’t, I would have gone with refacing, not refinishing. One thing about living alone is that you have no one else to blame for wrong decisions. But as the Norwegians say, it could be worse. Jenn and I are beginning to move things back into the still doorless cabinets. If she has lost patience with me at least she has not quit. She keeps saying “Where does this go?” I shrug pathetically. If its ceramic it might be something I haven’t contemplated using in over ten years, or can’t even remember. If it’s a food item we check the dates. The bags of throw-aways hauled out match in volume the bags of thrift shop donations, yet the cupboards are still crowded. One reason is that I have in the kitchen four different sets of dishes. Two sets were donations, yet I love them and am willing to rededicate space to them. A third set now nests in a very high cupboard above the fridge. I fear none of this set have been used in thirty years; still I can not part with them, for I bought them in 1953 with my very first pay check teaching school. They are heavy Franciscan ware. To me they were a symbol of being employed in the real world. Kind of emancipation though I don’t know from what, as I was pretty much emancipated from age seven or eight. I brought the symbolic set from Tacoma when I moved down in 1956. The fascination wore off in about 1960. For one thing, the knife would never balance on the side of the plate when one was eating. Guests would be embarrassed and I would be annoyed and apologetic. Tut!

Where we are now in the cabinet refinishing is at least creative. Even sanded down to bare wood the sixty year old Birch doors would not forgive the impression of their original brass knobs leaving a white circle to mar the clean lines of the new Swedish handles in brushed nickel. The arc of the handles is just fat enough to accommodate my arthritic fingers. No backplate was made to cover up the span of the two inch diameter in the original knobs. So a couple of days ago Chris, the contractor, and I made a trip to McBeath lumber in Berkeley. There I picked out a panel of veneer in a contrasting color. Its called Mappa and has gorgeous designs in it, like burl. Today using a plastic template we traced in mechanical pencil the outline of the template in various spots, trying to pick the most artistic burl patterns. From here the pattern will be laser cut for the handles of 25 doors and fourteen drawers. Maybe the results will be stunning and we will be on the cover of Sunset magazine. Dream on, Bonnie.

Remembering Del

2011-09-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

Cotter Street in Hayward is an inviting tree-lined configuration of mostly older well- kept family homes, probably built in the forties. Curiously it is only one block long. The east end abuts busy Foothill Blvd, while the west end stops abruptly at a creek. When I’ve inquired in the past why it is so wide, like a boulevard, I’ve been told that no one knows for sure. One rumor is that a former mayor lived there when the suburb was being laid out. Most neighbors know one another by first name, or if not by name at least by habits of daily life. The geography dictates that. Yet that street safely harbored the anonymity of one long term resident.

Del was a lesbian and an elementary school teacher in the decades when to be outed meant the loss of your job, and perhaps even your freedom. She played it close to the vest. She had grown up on a cattle ranch in Old Castro Valley. When they were living she was close to her parents and siblings; she just never came out to them. She never partnered though I think she yearned to. The photo above shows her in Christmas attire, 2005, Emory mesmerized receiving her affection.

For a number of years after settling on Cotter Street my friends Stacy and Andrea observed a petite sprightly older woman walking past their front yard, a daily occurrence. She lived down the block, they speculated. They wanted to be friendly neighbors but she seemed a very private person, intent on getting somewhere important. Never looking left or right. It turned out she walked for her health, usually miles a day.

Eventually the ice was broken, and slowly Del was assimilated into their intimate circle of friends and family, which is how I came to know her. Del cherished her privacy, her garden, and her pets. Stacy and Andrea in turn cherished her. Trust grew until it seemed they had always been family. I have been fortunate to spend the last dozen or more Christmas day celebrations with her, as well as birthdays, Easter, and even Halloweens. She kept us all in stitches.

A few years ago a drug given Del caused her to have kidney failure. When three times a week dialysis was initiated Del took it boldly in stride. “I worked all my life teaching school,” she would relate, ”and I just figured this was my new job.” She became the darling of the dialysis center, cheering staff and patients alike. I never heard her complain of the challenges life had thrown her. No party was complete without her laughter and joking.

This week her very unique life ended. She was 94. Stacy and Andrea were on a trip to New York. Except for her dog she died alone, as she had lived her life. A friend found her on the floor beside her bed as a result of a phone call from a niece in San Diego who was worried about her. We don’t know how long she had been dead or the exact cause. Cotter Street neighbors will gather tomorrow in Andrea and Stacy’s back yard to remember her. Thanks to them she is no longer the mystery woman who walked and walked. There will be an empty spot at the table and in all of our hearts. I guess what matters is that her playful and courageous spirit lives on in all of us whose life she touched.

The Great Reveal

2011-09-23T05:19:00.000-07:00

Astrological fall is dawning today and some piece of out of orbit space debris is falling too, maybe in Chile. Ditto the stock market, down down. On Cathy Lane the kitchen cabinet doors have come off their hinges and are stacked on the deck in preparation for stripping. Next Tuesday the roofers will come and tear down part of the roof to find some leaks. Bonnie meanwhile is often down on her hands and knees tempting my appetite deficient dog with hand fed tidbits like fresh salmon and grilled chicken thighs.

Whatever it takes, I say.

How amusing to view the exposed contents of my kitchen. I had no idea I had six outdated cans of green beans, three boxes of outdated cold cereal (bought for various house guests) and so many duplicates on spices. Having abstained from alcohol for three decades why am I keeping those dusty cocktail glasses? On a top shelf I found 24 mini packets of sour skittles bought for some Halloween years ago. I can see a big purge is in order. Any volunteers?

What is Life, if full of care...

2011-09-17T08:44:00.000-07:00

...We don't have time to sit and stare? Exactly what I am doing as I struggle to write upbeat news. For all the followers of the Kodi saga, he is slightly better. After three days of incredible testing from the doggie internist and much indignities to him the results show nothing wrong. His bones, parts, and disposition are like that of a much younger character. So for the last two days we are going on the assumption that there is pain somewhere undiscovered which in dogs causes their tummies to cramp and appetite stop. Now treating him with heavy pain medication and that seems to help a little.

Thursday afternoon some kind of beeping started in my house like the warning a battery was going dead. Haven't we all experienced that? It seemed to move around. In desperation I disabled every smoke alarm in the house (now restored) and looked in every cubby hole before I found it was my cell phone in my purse. During that frantic search I looked in the furnace room, a place I seldom go, and found large water stains on the ceiling. Calling the installer of my thirty-year guaranteed roof that is just ten years old I found they are out of business, like so many other small companies. Another victim of the economy no doubt. So Monday I start the search for a new roofer. Tut.

The carpenters that are refinishing my kitchen cabinets are still AWOL. Maybe they will start Monday but I'm not holding my breath. Meanwhile I'm surviving on two plates, two spoons, etc. as the rest of the kitchen is in boxes in the living room.

On the positive side the photo above shows me holding court last Sunday in Emily's

garden where my new art group, Different Dimensions, had their first show. It was lots of fun for all and the income will help offset a few of the vet bills.

Wishing Dogs Could Talk

2011-09-08T12:21:00.000-07:00

Kodi is ten and a half now, my age in dog years. I’m troubled that the last year has seen a steady decline in his wellness beginning with startling hair loss on his tail. My regular vet and two different doggie dermatologists have been unable to solve the mystery. Logical explanations such as Cushing’s Disease have been ruled out.

A week ago a dramatic event happened to further complicate matters. It was a quiet 5am and I was sitting in my living room recliner reading, a normal morning activity. Kodi was sleeping on the cool hardwood floor behind me, his custom. Suddenly he leaped to his feet, heading to my chair. Then he seemed to shudder for about 15 seconds. I thought he might be having a seizure, or a cardiac event. He seemed terrified. Could a cougar somehow be hiding under the house? Was an earthquake coming?

For almost three days he refused to eat. though he drank a normal amount of water. He avoided the house and clung to the farthest points on the outside cyclone fence. At night he would lie in his usual place on the floor beside my bed but with his head raised and his eyes furtively scanning the walls and ceiling. I could not hear or smell anything unusual. Were I a science fiction writer this might be the theme of a mystery story: “Alien possesses Husky” or “Ohlone Indian Ghost Spooks Pet Dog”.

Likewise if I were a canine psychologist I might start behavioral modification. I spoke in person with my regular vet who, like me, is stumped. The refusal of food changed Sunday night when he began taking tiny bites of meat if hand fed, but only out of doors or in the family room.

Abruptly Monday morning a total swing; he behaved and ate normally, but then the no eating strike resumed yesterday. Today, Friday, he clings to me like rubber cement and with serious coaxing he ate a cup of ground beef and brown rice. I’m very troubled and I dismay that I am in all respects inadequate to this task. Like an Olympic athlete I keep chanting: focus, Bonnie. The answer eludes me. I’m worried and stuck. Where should I turn next?

Great Aunt Lizzie

2011-09-02T10:05:00.000-07:00

Though its been about seventy five years since I last saw her, I have chosen to honor my great aunt Lizzie with a painting, for to me she had little recognition in life and deserved better. I hope I've captured a little of the mistique about her. I imagined it from an old sepia photo my cousin sent.

In those days someone a little retarded was known as backward which is probably a lot kinder than the fancy terms we use today for folks born mentally challenged. As a child when visiting my relatives in Vancouver I was never informed how she was related to me nor was her status in the Canadian family explained. I sensed another family secret and knew better than to ask.
I remember her as a pleasant fixture, average build, slightly bent over. What stuck out for me was her name, Lizzie, which I thought totally unbecoming. Gross, in fact, but then I think I was a bit of a snob.

Recently I learned that Lizzie, full name Elizabeth, was the child of my great grandmother Emily. Her father, last name of Hughes, died when soldiering in India. She was likely born in India, unlike the rest of my maternal relatives who were born in England. About 1883 as best my living cousins can figure.

G granny, a tiny wisp of a thing with skin as white and tender as new fallen snow went on to marry a man named Dyer , possibly another soldier in India, and to bear thirteen more children, of whom only five plus Lizzie lived. Ironic since Emily worked as a midwife in England. At some point almost all the relatives emigrated to Moosejaw, Sask.

Lizzie was the type of person who would give you the shirt off of her back, but she would also give others the shirt off your back. Since her stepfather refused to let her marry, she became the spinster aunt.

After G grandfather Dyer died, they moved to Vancouver, where as was the custom they were passed around from relative to relative, probably depending on who had a spare room.

My cousin Ed relates the following story of a time Lizzie was living with his parents. This occurred about 1946. His little brother Tom, about four, put a can of pork and beans into the oven of their sawdust burning kitchen stove. No one was injured but the oven door was blown off and landed at Lizzie’s feet. The ceiling and walls were covered with pork and beans.

My cousin Dollie heard two stories of Lizzie’s death: one version says she choked to death on an orange peel; the other that she was scrubbing the kitchen floor and her half brother Fred, a mean sort, came by and gave her a kick. We all prefer the orange peel version. Lizzie was known to save and store old food, and the dried up orange story makes some sense.

More Shall Be Revealed...

2011-08-25T15:20:00.000-07:00

The puzzling adage in the title above is often given to addicts in recovery programs and to beginning clients in psychotherapy. In lapidary it suggests the process of grinding the matrix to reveal the semiprecious jewel within. It also applies to the subjects of these photos and to the true story I'm about to share.

Before heading to the airport to return to Denver this morning my good friend Nancy strolled my rose garden once more to cement the memory and to pick a fresh bouquet for my kitchen table. The sun was beginning to dispel the drippy fog. It was then Nancy noticed the illumination of the dew on the spiderwebs among the hydrangeas in my shade garden. I quickly snapped the photos above of both subjects before my summer pollen allergies did me in. During this particular visit Nancy and I ate, played, ate, saw the movie The Help, ate, and took the ferry to Pier 39 like any good tourist should. Nancy also shared emails she was receiving from her good friend Maddie who was discovering the wonders of Bali. Maddie's experience with a Balinese massage evoked the following memory for me.

It was my first trip to Indonesia. I suppose I was in my early seventies. My body has kind of ached with arthritis ever since I was in my late thirties so I am no stranger to massage. I find it soothing and healing. Others treat themselves to cruises, fine clothes, big houses, and expensive cars. We all have different value systems. A good thing. Much of my working life I drove an old VW bug yet got a massage at least twice a month. I thought I had tried them all: Swedish, aromatherapy, deep tissue, shiatzu, Thai, reflexology, etc. but though I had heard of hot stone, I had not yet experienced it. So one day while in Ubud, most of our group of watercolorists scheduled a massage at a lovely spa down the street from our boutique hotel. In the garden veranda of the spa we were invited to express our choice of kind of massage from a long list of options. I was the only one to request hot stone. My friends were escorted, one by one, to various garden rooms by pretty young women in saris. So I was startled when a little man, maybe 30, no taller than my armpits, speaking no English, gestured for me to follow him. Down, down, down we went, terrace upon terrace until we came to a secluded room. More like a giant parlor than a massage room. Glass walls opened to an Eden-like sunken garden. In the middle stood an oven, a single chair, and a massage table. An adjoining room contained a large scented soaking pool filled with lotus blossoms. With graceful arm movements the young man gestured for me to remove all my clothing. Then he tiptoed out. Folded neatly on the chair was a thin, soft cream colored towel, about 11 x 18, roughly the size of a hand towel. I disrobed silently before grabbing the towel. Carefully I attempted to arrange it so that it covered my breasts and my crotch. No amount of stretching, squeezing, squirming or churning achieved the goal. Finally I thought that if I took no deep breaths I could balance the towel so that it covered both tits and my pubic hair (ahem, I had a little more then.) This was nothing like I had ever experienced, as usually a large sheet or blanket is provided. I struggled with doubt and anxiety. "Lay calmly," I chided myself. But each time I dared take a breath the towel would shift left, right, up or down so that an intimate part of me waved in the air. I tried to meditate, palms plastered to my hips, but I was shaking inwardly. Suddenly the little man appeared. With one graceful whisk of his wrist the towel was back on chair and hot stones were being massaged deeply into my diaphragm. I hope my gasp was silent. In the next hour and a half the same treatment was applied to almost every exposed inch of my epidermis. Totally skilled, totally professional. It was wondrous and scary at the same time. Finally the treatment was over. The masseuse gestured to the pool. I nodded. The water was fragrant and soothing, but my nerves were jangling. After five minutes I dove for my clothes. He seemed very dismayed at the brevity of my immersion, as if he'd somehow prepared the water incorrectly. There was no way I could explain my behavior in sign language. I tipped him and high tailed it home. Since then I guess I've had two or three more hot stone massages at my gym. All good, but none to equal the first one, either in technique or shock value.

Yesterday I got the results of x-rays taken Tuesday of my right knee which has been acting very cranky for two weeks. I'm tired of wraps, ice packs, ibuprofins and the crimp in my style. Good news: no fractures. Bad news: there may be a tear in the miniscus right where it attaches to the fibula. If the pain persists I'll have to get an MRI to see what is really happening. I'm not sure I want to know. However, like the spider webs, rosebuds, and stone massage, more shall be revealed.

Considering the Future

2011-08-19T08:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's nostalgia was saying hello and goodbye to Jaq and Valerie, my dear friends smiling above who are leaving again next week to return to France where Jaq will lead four more travel trips in the next month, one in Belgium and three in Provence. Their return here will depend on Valerie's continuing successful recovery from ovarian cancer and her gradual return to work. The French government has allowed her the last year off from teaching. She is looking radiant and anxious to get home to her new regime of vegetarian eating, meditation, walking, and learning to play the sax. She will start back in October in a non stressful school position, adding an hour at a time as her health recovers. How sensible and caring the French are!

Jaq is beaming not only at Valerie but as she shows off her new bamboo floors. Aren't they stunning! I was so excited seeing them that I forgot to say I had made the decision on refinishing my old kitchen cabinets instead of refacing or replacing, a decision I've dawdled with for almost a year. With lucky timing I sold stock last week to pay for it, just in between the big yo yos in the market.

Speaking of the economy, I'm totally baffled. Some shopping centers around here are turning into rows of empty store fronts, others are booming. The value of houses in my community just went down another point (fourteen points in a year) and yet many restaurants seem to have long lines. Lee's former business, a commercial framing and laminating business was on wobbly legs two years ago and now its bustling. Unemployment keeps growing except in Texas, if you can believe that. How can anyone make long term decisions, or should we even try?

Two of my friends are having long delayed surgery next week, one for a knee replacement and one for a hip replacement. They've decided to trade their long term pain for brief insecurity and greater future gain, not an easy decision. I try to focus on what Mahatma Gandhi said: the future depends on what we do in the present.

None the less, I've been telling all my friends that when Perry is elected president I'm buying land in British Columbia and changing my zip code. I still remember the first verse of Oh, Canada, from my childhood. Anyone who knows how to milk one cow and feed two chickens can join me, for I haven't a clue how to do it.

So far I've had lots of volunteers, including the darling couple above.

Picasso and Breasts

2011-08-12T08:57:00.000-07:00

Last week I spoke of finding the right bra because my favorite one was no longer manufactured. Though no one wrote a comment many friends shared their experience with the same problem. At my gym we have a wonderful new pilates teacher from Russia, Yulia. She's forever instructing us to tighten our tummies on which we balance an imaginary glass of water and then on the next movement to spill the water on our chests. I'm imagining what its like to have a soggy bra and since mine are old and ill fitting would they slide right off? Fascination with women's upper anatomy is normal in France and not limited to teenage boys. French clothing is softly fitted at women's waists and breast line to outline the torso, big or small. Thus it was normal for me to find this seductive bra shop only a few feet from the sausages and cheese on market day in a small town in Provence.

An interest in art and painting came to me late in life. Not so with most of the masters. According to his mother, Picasso's first words were "piz, piz" a shortening of the Spanish word lapiz for pencil.

After viewing the exhibit at the

De Young in Saan Francisco this week with friend Jan Matsuoka I left confused about his passions: creativity of expression or women's breasts. Maybe they are not so far apart?

Although Spanish by birth Pablo spent most of his life in France. When Jan Hagen and I visited the Picasso museum in Paris a few years ago I came away with his understanding of contempt for corrupt governments and how this influenced his art. But in the San Francisco presentation the emphasis seemed to be on his wives and many mistresses and secret lover's trysts.

Almost every painting seemed to draw obvious or subtle depictions of women's breasts. His famous blue and pastel periods were attributed to the nature of his sexual passions in the moment. I found this most curious. Which was the greater influence on his art: terrorism or testosterone?

Driving home I commented to Jan "Now I know what's wrong with our personal paintings. We need to go out and have some wild sex orgies in order for our work to improve."

Following lunch we soothed our passions and sublimated our fantasies with rich chocolate ice cream and blueberry sorbet. A delicious substitute.

No Longer Made

2011-08-05T05:46:00.000-07:00

“No Longer Made” is a depressing announcement. Yesterday’s agenda included a trip to the appliance parts store with my somewhat tottering 84 year old friend Jeanne to purchase replacement parts for my nice Kitchen Aid electric stovetop. Jeanne shows no impatience with my aging preferances in fixtures. I rather love my stovetop although only two burners work. It is because its bisque color and I shun stainless steel. The clerk (or do they call all clerks sales associates these days?) was solicitous even after we rejected his offer to recruit us to join his Tai Kwan Do self defense class. It seems to me I had installed the stove top about ten years ago, but the helpful young salesman informed me this model had not been manufactured since 1990 and was so old parts are no longer made. Uff da.

From there we went to Staples to buy, what else, staples for my very old but favorite Bostitch desk stapler. Nothing in stock, such an unusual size, but they found some they could order if I was willing to wait a few days. (I silently mentally calculated how many gross I should order to last the rest of my life, because surely they’ll stopmaking the needed size.)

All of this after two trips to the hardware store last week to find a replacement tap handle to my driveway water faucet. Neither of the replacement parts worked. So I laid the problem in the lap of Lee’s nephew, Mike, a semi retired contractor. Carefully examining the broken part he announced the old screw in it had 15 tiny points and the new ones all had 12 points. The broken part is only 60 years old. How dare they change the gauge! He will look in his old hardware collection at home to see if he has any, or else I may incur a healthy plumbing bill to change the whole antique apparatus. Yuck.

I think I first incurred this “no longer made” syndrome about age 32 when my favorite bra disappeared from the store shelves. I don’t know any woman who has not been affected in this particular realm. If I ever find a bra again that fits like the missing one I’ll try to buy a dozen.

I’m chuckling as I write this because when I first moved in with Lee she had a chrome Sunbeam toaster. It had beautiful lines and chrome like smooth silver silk.

When the toast was done the perfectly browned pair popped up proudly with a sweet click. The exposed margin was at least an inch and a half so that the half asleep user did hot burn her fingers. Sunbeam used to have a repair store near us and I could drop down to have it repaired when something called for it. I expected it would last forever. One day the store disappeared. No one could be found to repair it. Seven or eight worthless toasters later I still grunt as I gaze at the old Sunbeam stored in the shed. Unlike the handles on my doors and windows, the chrome is as shiny and flawless as ever. So now my seven year old Oster is on the replacement list. Its chrome is thin and pocked and only one side toasts. Besides that it never popped up more than ¼ inch. Most folk today use toaster ovens which never suited me. If anyone has a good brand to suggest you are on my gratitude list!

I heard last week that many school districts are eliminating cursive writing from the curriculum. Seems in this electronic age it has become obsolete like touch typing and shorthand. Reluctantly I admit the kids are a whiz at fast texting.

One day my old body parts, like my stove top, faucets, toasters and good bras, will become obsolete too. I hope my friends will smile and say that, after all, they don't make 'em like they used to.

The Many Faces of Pat

2011-07-29T12:50:00.000-07:00

Six years my junior, Pat Moorehead Ewens turned 75 this week, Though I don’t remember it, I first met Pat when she was a camper at Camp Killoqua, a lovely but less than rustic Camp Fire Girls Camp near Everett Washington. Pat was from a rural logging town, and the camping experience must have been thrilling for her. Pat has the pictures to prove it! Who knows, I might have taught her to swim for I was the Assistant Waterfront Director on tiny Cranberry Lake. I was Miss Bonnie, 19, and I think I thought I was big stuff. It was many years later we were to discover this confluence of our lives.

Last Sunday Pat hosted a most unusual birthday party at a delightful English tea house in Menlo Park , about an hour’s drive from here. Lisa’s Tea Treasures is anexperience in English elegance..

The invitation encouraged we bring favorite poems, wear hats, pearls, and gloves. What fun! Most of us wore long dresses as well, as we marveled over the tea cozies, bone china, and cucumber sandwiches.

As I reflect on Pat’s accomplishments, I smile at how she has always steered her own course for her life has been as unique as her 75^th birthday party. I’m indebted to dear friend Andrea for bringing Pat and I back together.

At one time Pat, then Sister Pat, was Andrea’s English teacher in a convent in Yakima, WA. Just as she has been for so many others, Pat was a steady anchor in Andrea’s young, rather troubled life. They always remained dear friends. Eventually Pat changed vocations, went back to school, married, and moved to California where Andrea and Stacy lived, Sadly, her dear husband died, which gave Andrea a chance to be there for Pat. For more years than I can count we have celebrated holidays and birthdays together. Time marched on and eventually Pat surprised as all by adopting two children from Russia, first Mila and then Maria, both young adults now.

As the girls matured a new page was turned when Pat reunited with a college friend who had left the priesthood. Love bloomed, which is the story of how Pat has made yet another transition. She now hangs her hat most of the year in another rural setting: North Lake, WI, where I’m sure her new family rejoices in her energy, talents, and poetry. I salute you, Pat. You are an inspiration to so many.

Whats on the front burner

2011-07-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the many thoughtful notes I got last week about trust. The kitchen remodelling project is still in limbo. Meanwhile, so many other strange things have happened this week I can't decide what to focus on. In general I'm feeling stronger and more flexible. My only physical complaint is I seem to have poison oak or some other allergy in my eyes. Annoying, but as the Minnesotans say, it could be worse. Its wonderful what five or six days a week of pilates classes will do for an old timer. Hope my commitment has steel girders.

Yesterday to my pleasure had a visit with Stephanie visiting from London. (Steph was Lee's caregiver the last four years of her life). She looks wonderful and her stories of UK living are so enlightening to one who has never travelled there. To my delight Kodi remembered her well and could still do a high five, a trick she taught him about seven years ago. Steph sports a new piece of body art on her right arm which Steph designed but even she agrees it looks remarkably like Kodi.

Trust

2011-07-15T17:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a certain theme seems to run through my life. This week it is trust.

For this Balinese woman walking a country lane near Ubud balancing a heavy load on her head is something she has probably practiced all her life. Balinese women have studied temple dancing since childhood and they exhibit exceptional grace as well as spiritual centeredness. Still, she looks tentative, doesn’t she? Likewise, I once caught these dear Parisian dogs on the corner by my small hotel trying to decide the attractiveness of each other. Thinking about this dilemma as I waited for friend Carol to arrive this morning for coffee at the Rockridge café I thumbed though the local newspaper. The first page concerned property values and stated in bold letters “First Impressions Are Not Always What You Think.” Too much.

I confess. Trust has always been an issue for me. It probably comes from growing up insecure, for after all I am a depression baby, and WW2 hit when I was 11. Many times in my childhood my mother was not the Rock of Gibralter and my dad's death at 15 left me bereft. Many times I’ve perused this subject with my niece, Cheari, who has impeccable trust in herself, relying on research and personal experience. Such self confidence in believing in yourself is beyond my reckon and I envy it greatly. When I asked her thoughts on the subject she responded in part : “When I think of the word trust, I ponder whether it means trust in someone or something else, or in oneself, and my immediate thought brings me to a place of having trust placed in me. How often have any of us heard the phrase “I would trust him or her with my life”? She went on to say:

“For more years than I can count, my dogs and cats have trusted me with their lives, and ultimately with their deaths, although the consciousness of that resided in me and not them.”

Of course, as a psychotherapist I often dealt with the issue of partner/marital trust.Sadly it is an issue that touches many lives and I feel like I have experienced it deeply through the pain of others. Last Tuesday I woke shivering with summer fog swirling around and decided to skip the gym and curl up with the heating pad and a book, so downloaded on my kindle (bless it) Jaycee Dugard's book, which I finished by dark. One thing different about the book from the tv showings is how many times she spoke of her struggle with the issue of trust. But what is up for me right now is a more nuts and bolts issue. I’ve been toying with having my sixty -year old kitchen cabinets replaced, refaced, or refinished, and/or my yucky pink kitchen tiles replaced. I’ve had five different companies/designers here to give me ideas and bids. I’m exhausted with weighing one against another, as they all have something different to offer. I can’t trust my experience as I’ve never contemplated this before, and it feels like too much money and confusion to take a wrong path. I may end up doing nothing just so I can get a good night’s sleep without obsessing on who to trust.

A Promise Unkept

2011-07-08T10:37:00.000-07:00

One of the things I did yesterday, my 81ast birthday, was to celebrate by having lunch with a dear friend who helps to bridge the losses in my life. Between the bean and barley soup and the salad estiva Dolores and I caught up on each other’s lives and relived tender memories of her brother, Bill, and his lifelong partner Dean. Though not genetically related, Bill and Dean were like brothers to Lee and I. Most birthdays were spent in their loving company. Like us if they were living they would be celebrating that the Defense of Marriage Act is finally being challenged by higher courts as unconstitutional. How fair is it that neither Dean nor I could claim our spouses social security? Some things in life are not fair but this is one injustice I hope to see changed perhaps even in my lifetime.

After Bill’s sudden death from brain cancer leaving us all in despair, Dean decided to relocate to the state of Ohio, where his family lived. Distraught over the loss of Bill, Dean’s Parkinson’s disease was progressing rapidly and in Ohio his two sisters would care for him. It turned out to be a bad call, for as much as his sisters loved him and cared for him in his last year of life they fought like bull and torreador in a ring with each other. Then there was the religion thing. Growing up gay in rural America in the thirties had to be agony for any kid, let alone a quiet, sensitive one like Dean.

I’ve never been to Ohio but Dean’s childhood was peppered with rejection, guilt, torment, and revival meetings. He reported that by age 16 he had been saved eleven times. It never worked, of course. He was emancipated from the arms of the Southern Baptists by a stint in the Navy, producing masculine looking tattoos from a drunken binge in Japan and a commitment to living a life as a hair dresser in the more gay friendly Bay Area, which he did the rest of his life until Bill’s death.

The last thing he said to me before he left to drive across country with his brother was “Bonnie, promise me you won’t let the Southern Baptists get me.” This is the story of how I failed in that promise.

Now I’ve never even been to a Baptist church, and I suppose the name of any other evangelical religion could be substituted, but once in Ohio the local minister, at the sisters’ urging I’m sure, was relentless in converting this sinner. Dean would call me often, urging me to visit, complaining how lonely he was for any gay contact, making jokes about the minister. When he had his new bedroom painted purple it comforted him a bit. I never found the time to visit, a regret on my part.

As he was dying in an Ohio VA hospital, the sisters kept loving vigil. Dean was in a coma and I couldn’t speak with him.

I intuited the sisters would be calling the chaplain to save their beloved unrepentant brother. Remembering my promise to Dean that I would protect him from this, I called the hospital and spoke at length to a chaplain, explaining my promise and Dean’s wishes. A long silence followed. Finally I asked the religion of the chaplain. “Southern Baptist” he said. My next inquiry: ”Are there any chaplains in the hospital who aren’t Southern Baptists?” Long silence. Finally the chaplain said, “Miss Crosse, what can I do for you? You sound upset. Shall I pray for you?”

I tried to hang up the receiver softly, but I think my rage was not totally held in check. I comforted myself that Dean was unconscious and could not know what was going on. I probably checked the freezer for Chunky Monkey.

As I shared this story with Dolores yesterday, my rage is gone, and I feel only gratitude for Bill and Dean’s love and caring in my life. How could I be so blessed?

As the Minnesotans say, it could be worse.

I love the picture of Bill and Dean shown above because to me it captures their love for each other and their tenderness as human beings.

It Could Be Worse

2011-07-01T05:49:00.000-07:00

A week from today I'll be counting eighty-one candles on my crown and celebrating the passage of same sex marriage in New York state. I think this means it will become constitutional all over the country, though maybe not in my lifetime. Sadly I'll never be able to claim Lee's social security, but my younger friends may be more fortunate. I'm doing pilates four or five times a week, painting a little, eating and sleeping well, and blessing my friends and furry tail wagger. IT COULD BE WORSE!

Even though I promised not to write anything more about my Provence trip, I just have to share one more insight. Among the painters on my trip were three Northern Minnesotans. Not only their accents but their down to earth humor and good sportswomanship kept us all entertained. Most often we giggled or convulsed at their colloquialisms. Since coming home I’ve decided that these three expressions address almost any celebration, event or catastrophe one could encounter in a lifetime: “you betcha’ ”, “it could be worse”, and “oof da”. The latter expresses something bad, sad or distasteful. For me that means liver, raw oysters and quail eggs.

Listening to Obama’s speech Wednesday I found occasion to mutter each of the three at different points. As I observed more and more Tea Party members declaring for president this week I fantasize what if it split the Republican party throwing a majority to the Democrats? A fun fantasy, you betcha'.

Last weekend Kodi and I visited surrogate daughter Catherine at their new (to them) someday-to-be retirement home in Santa Rosa. We had a glorious time. I thought I didn’t overindulge but when I came home I was up two pounds on the scale. (OOf da.) Tuesday when I planned to work in the roses we experienced a major downpour that beat many of the stalks to the ground. In the Bay Area this is unheard of; we’ve had more rain in June than we had in January. Yesterday I clipped all the branches that were broken and dotting the ground and now I have overflowing vases of roses all over the house. (It could be worse.)

According to Rachel Maddow ‘s program, as of this Friday the Kansas legislature has manipulated regulations to virtually eliminate all abortions in the state, including rape and incest. What happened to Roe v Wade? (Oof da.)

Yesterday I heard that one of Sandy Delehanty’s paintings had been accepted to another national show. That will make her a signature member of the Watercolor Society. You deserve it, Sandy. Congrats. (You betcha).

Earlier this week I painted the scene above of two French ladies deep in conversation on market day in Ile Sur la Sorgue. I can’t figure out if they are saying oof da, you betcha’, or it could be worse. You decide!

Instant Aging

2011-06-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

What kid doesn’t love sloshing in water. Playing in the lawn sprinklers was a childhood addiction of mine. Even in the short and sometimes pitifully cool Seattle summers I turned brown as a chipmunk by the 4^th of July. I remember the date because that’s when the Telephone Pioneers of America had their annual picnic at Lake Wilderness and I got to dive into the sawdust pile for dimes. I was always six tones darker than the sawdust.

Except for my thin, straight, brown hair, which bleached to blonde in the summer, I could have been mistaken for Mexican or Hawaiian rather than English and cowboy. My first swimming lessons were from my mother who was drop dead beautiful in a two-piece jantzen and an excellent swimmer as well. Her favorite quip was “Who’s going to look at you with me around?” An accurate observation I might add. I was about age 17. It was a wide spot in the Icicle River near Leavenworth, Wash. Brr. Nevertheless I didn’t really learn to swim until I was 18 and a Campfire Girls counselor on Vashon Island: another bizarre place to learn to swim. The water temp in Puget Sound was around 36. Sometimes I was assigned to jelly fish watch, which meant balancing on the teetering soggy floating dock and scooping up the orange colored stinging creatures in a net so they didn’t float into the shivering limbs of the innocent Bluebirds. Often I joined in with the kids’ lessons. By that fall at the University of Washington I was getting my Lifesaving and Water Safety Instructor’s certificates, and for the next ten or fifteen years I joyfully supplemented my income by teaching swimming and lifeguarding. My specialty was teaching kids and adults to swim who were afraid of the water, an activity which continued to delight me once we bought this house in which I still live (though I gave it up teaching swimming fifteen years ago when the price of gas made it impossible to keep heating the enclosed pool). These days I seldom swim anywhere, though on roasting afternoons like Tuesday when the patio temp was 96 I dangle my feet off the pool stairs and wade in until just before the icy water hits my crotch.

Crunching up my eyes comes natural to me. Until my mid forties I never owned a pair of sunglasses. No wonder I scowl. Of course sunscreen had not been invented so for too many decades I lathered my face and bod with baby oil as did the rest of my contemporaries. My face seemed no worse for wear until my fifties. Overnight it seemed deep canyons appeared around my squinty eyes and my once peachy cheeks reminded me of my driveway in need of re-asphalting. So it is that I have come to invest in facials once or twice a year for the last twenty-five years. This has helped my gravelly face a lot. Unfortunately my rescue relief estheticians keep dying, moving, or just plain disappearing. Sometimes it takes a couple of years to find a replacement.

When I discovered Amy this spring, just down the hill, I was delighted. She seemed healthy, authentic, and besides that she kayaks and rock climbs. On my first appointment I explained I was a shriveled ancient specimen, allergic to a couple of dozen common cleansing ingredients and most cosmetics, weather beaten, and just interested in maintaining what clarity was left. I thought we made a good connection.

Thus returning from sun-drenched Provence two weeks ago, I called to make a second appointment. Her return call inquired what treatment I wanted? “Waxing” perhaps? I howled as I explained I had last shaved my legs at 16, being a person with very little hair anywhere on my outside layer, although once in my thirties I had one hair on my left boob. “How lucky you are” she responded. Was she referring to my left boob or my hairless torso? I mused that I had never thought of it that way.

As she lathered up my epidermis I quipped “I suppose I’ll eventually get hair on my upper lip and my chin…most old ladies do.”

Amy continued to lather, stroke, squeeze and palpate. Suddenly she shrieked “eek”. “What is it?” I inquired with alarm. “I just found a hair on your upper lip” she exclaimed.

After which she inquired if she had permission to remove it.

I convulsed. Instant old age had come!

Since I miss wearing any lipstick or gloss, on the way out of her lovely salon I sampled one of her mineral-only lipsticks to see if it would make my lips burn and welt as most products do, even chap stick and Burt’s Bees. Three days later, lips still intact, I returned to purchase the color most suited to my sagging mahogany dotted jowls.

Guess the name: Lust! How perfect for my 81^st birthday coming in two weeks. You have my permission to convulse at the effect pictured above.

Once More With Love

2011-06-17T14:39:00.000-07:00

Next Sunday marks the 4th year since my beloved partner of fifty-one years died. Like most folk in a loving relationship I wish I had a time machine so I could push the calendar back and relive those wonderful years. Alas, like learning to speak French that is one of the goals I will never achieve. Nevertheless I have travelled to France four times (three with French Escapade and painting teacher Sandy Delehanty) and I always come home passionately wanting to return. Perhaps it is the croissants? Every village in France no matter how petite boasts a bakery; a matter of consequence as St. Exupery would say in The Little Prince. Tiny as it was, Venasaque was no exception. Shortly after dawn I could smell the aroma from the gate of our inn. A magnet. One sunny afternoon I propped my folding camp chair facing the bakery door and painted the entry you see above. And of course every morning at breakfast I delighted in the buttery light delicacy you see in the photo. How come the French aren't fat? Now I think I have indulged my readers with enough Provence calories and memories so I promise to move on to other trivia in the weeks ahead.

draft

Cherries and Smirks

2011-06-10T15:47:00.000-07:00

The second night at our quaint inn in Venasque, France, I asked Jackie, our tour leader, to teach me how to say "Please may I take your picture?"in French. My mouth just couldn't get around even the first word, sending both of us into hysterics. So I wrote it on a piece of paper and carried it with me where ever I went with my camera. I wanted to be the gracious American tourist, as much as possible with only English and high school Spanish to my credit. Venasque was having a cherry festival (Festival de la cerise) and the mouth watering fresh cherries were something to celebrate, indeed. Rounding a corner on the narrow cobblestone streets I spotted these two boys perched on an ancient stone wall, empty basket of cherries between them. Pulling out my paper I read the script I'd practiced. They smirked and nodded "yes".

That night at the inn while the rest of the group were eating poached quail eggs (I love quail in my yard too much to consider this) I reported my success story. Then another member of our group shared that an hour later she had come upon the same scene and asked (I presume in English) the same question. "Three euros" they said! Either they are fast learners or my massacre of the French language brought me special favors.

What's Wrong With My Paintings

2011-06-02T15:18:00.000-07:00

Is it just old bods like mine that resist change? It’s a given that whenever I return from the European continent (ha, don’t I sound cool?) it takes me about four days to recover from jet lag, and then it is another week before I’m in synch with the western world. As delighted as he is to have me back Kodi stares one wolf blue eye at me as I carefully detour around his otherwise slumbering torso between 2 and 3 am each morning.

The first thing I did in the wee hours today was make a list of to-do’s: wash the rest of my travel clothes; prune the roses if it stops raining; do the pool chemicals; unpack my paints; clean up email on my computer; shop for vitamins; call friends; try out a new WW meeting; pay another installment to the tree company who removed my beetle infested pine; etc. The list took two pages. With luck I might get half of one page done. Then about 4pm I’m ready for shut-eye. I still haven’t looked at my paintings from the trip knowing they are not memorable. Everyone but me did sketches for their travel books but stubborn Bonnie sticks to quarter sheets. Another manifestation of resisting change. Above you see the only travel sketch I did---an olive tree at St. Remy---using the tombo pen Catherine gave me. I did this while eating lunch last Friday as I realized, with awe, that the stone bench on which we spread bread, cheese, and other goodies may have been hewn in the 11^th century. I am stirred in my groin.

I can’t stop thinking about Van Gogh. I hadn’t known before that he was epileptic as well as bipolar. The absinth and bromides he took , while contributing to his insanity, were no doubt an effort at self medication. And if he had tinnitus, as is suggested, cutting off his ear would be a last ditch effort to find relief. Makes perfect sense. Perhaps every great artist, whatever their media, has to be a bit mad. Hey, maybe that’s what’s lacking in my art? I’m too sane.

Vive le France

2011-06-01T04:57:00.000-07:00

Rather than publishing my blog last Friday from my usual nest in the computer corner in my spare bedroom, I found myself perched on a bench in the inner courtyard of the St. Paul Mausole hospital in San Remy de Provence France where Van Gogh took solace from his mental illness the last year of his life. In this magical setting its easy to transport oneself in time to imagine his tortured yet brilliant life. All around are reproductions of his famous works painted there. As I try to capture the essence of it all a tall man, maybe 70, stately with angular limbs, comes strolling down the wide cobblestones and plunks beside me to rest. His slightly younger sweet smiling wife goes on inside. He distracts my composure at first but I get over my annoyance by chatting about his life in Capetown and the reason for his visit. His voice is musical and his speech articulate. A sculptor by trade, he hails originally from England where his work was to restore the cloisters in an ancient cathedral in Gloucester, originally built in 681. He also sang tenor in the choir there. (Ah, his lilting voice.) It is easy to picture him hanging from ancient scaffolds. Unsolicited he gives me a lesson on how to determine which cloisters in the garden are originals and which are restored. I would not have noticed. He also gave me a lesson in love, referring to his attractive wife who married him ten years ago after her husband died. "Beautiful" he said, not referring to her looks but to their relationship.

When I inquire how things are in South Africa now, he nods his pert blue visor and states with pride "Just fine, just fine". Then he pauses and adds "not so in Johanesburg, where things are bad." The last word is slurred as if he feels ashamed.

I move on to the outside gardens where my fellow tour members are sketching and painting. Some are doing the olive grove so famous in Starry Night. As if by plan Jac is wearing new olive colored pants and shirt today, which complement the setting. Sandy shares that olive trees continue to live for centuries. The same olive trees which I run my fingers across may be the ones Van Gogh painted, and may have been alive before the French revolution. Unlike the Monterey pines in my driveway, they feed the residents and are not subject to pine bark beetle, and their life span seems to be 60. Mine just went out in wood chips.

Van Gogh was only 37 when he died. It seems clear to me that his mental illness was genetic. I must reread Lust for Life with my therapist's hat on. I think back to Vincent's anguish as well as to the kindness offered to him here and am grateful.

Time for Travel

2011-05-13T12:37:00.000-07:00

My neighbors up the hill appreciate their improved view of SF Bay now that the big pine you saw last week is just a pile of wood chips. The writer’s current old house challenge is a leaking water pressure regulator. I should have been a plumber! Repair and replacement is scheduled for next Tuesday. Cross your fingers it goes well as I have a small window to get it fixed.

Next Friday at this time I’ll be somewhere over the North Pole via Icelandic in route to France. I expect to be in painting in Provence on the 21^st, the date the world is supposed to end. I’m sure I won’t notice. Meanwhile I have a lot on my palette. Today at 8:30a.m. with the help of painting friend Nancy Overton I picked about 60 iris of all colors to take to the painting class I attended for many years at Merritt college. Its always fun and a bit nostalgic. Van Gogh painted iris as do almost all watercolorists, but Dorcas Moultan, the Merritt teacher, does them better than most any one I know. Bearded iris are one of my favorite painting subjects, hence I now grow them all over the property. For some reason the gophers do not relish them if there are better choices. The word iris comes from the Greek word for rainbow, and indeed I have every color from deep black (“Almost Midnight”) to pure white, though the browns are my favorites. A smattering of this year’s crop appears in the collage above.

If you are interested you can probably see daily photos of me and my painterly friends as we soak up the sights (and food) of France. I’ll be home on the 30^th.

For French Escapade, www.traveltofranceandmor#1964AC

For Sandy Delehanty, www.havepaintswilltravel.blogspot.com

MORE THINGS GOING UP AND DOWN

2011-05-05T05:41:00.000-07:00

Life is Up for This Old Montery Pine

What else is UP? Recently I wrote about a big snail climbing way UP my newly washed picture window. Last Sunday many friends came UP for lunch to celebrate my spring garden. Over 100 iris are opening UP, colors from midnight black UP to stark white. Though my head was still stopped UP with allergies life in general was looking UP indeed. Then on Monday my old friend Bonnie Burke who has two years UP on me in age mailed me a funny forward that is a play on the word UP so I thought I’d add to the hysteria. Bonnie had driven UP from Sunnyvale the previous day. Seems that the two-letter word UP has more meanings than any other in the English language and that it can be an adverb, verb, noun, preposition or adjective. (don’t believe me, look it UP). Bonnie B says that in Pennsylvania Dutch country everyone speaks of going UP the down staircase. Does that make any sense? But then neither does writing UP this story.

What’s UP in your world? The jig is UP for Bin Laden at last just when we were all beginning to give UP.

When Francisco my tree man came strolling down the driveway on Monday afternoon to trim my three junipers that grow UP through the deck (artistic, but a pain to maintain) he greeted me with the news that looking UP he could see the next to last of my huge Monterey pines previously infected with the pine-bark-beetle had suddenly given UP the battle. They do that, looking green one day, and giving UP the ghost the next. The downside of this is that the removal will strain my budget $2M, so its good the market is UP this week. The UP side of this is that the driveway will stay cleaner. If it were just UP to me I might postpone the removal a month or so till I get back from France but every year since the Oakland fire the annual fire inspection comes UP in early June and the fines are going UP annually if one does not pony UP. I believe in this, but UP till now I haven’t given UP any investments this year.

So thinking about it I realize old men are always worried about getting it UP, whereas young women are worried about getting knocked UP. Is this sexist? As for me, I’m worried about anteing UP the funds for the tree removal. Cheer UP Bonnie, its not the end of the world. I’ve already picked UP my euro’s for the coming trip.

My niece Cheari and hubby have just given UP their long planned motor home trip to Alaska because the price of oil has gone UP so much its not feasible.

I note this month’s Sunset magazine has an article titled “UP your Budget Savvy” but I passed it UP in favor of an article on an UP and coming sorbet spot on Telegraph Avenue. My stomach always rules! Now I’ve used UP my play-time and its time to pick UP the kitchen and contemplate packing UP my gear for Provence. Anyway, your patience with my silliness must be about used UP. (Please don’t UP chuck.) I invite you to write UP a comment as long as you don’t UP stage this author who has had great fun thinking this UP. Speak UP! What you do is not UP to me. My time is UP.

Things That Go UP and DOWN

2011-04-29T09:02:00.000-07:00

Like many around the world I've been up in the wee hours viewing the royal wedding. Like Kate (who prefers Catherine but nobody seems to respect that) I wonder what the future will bring? The terrible tornados hitting the south seem to have taken second fiddle in the news and if I lived in Alabama I think I'd be very resentful. Likewise, though I am half English, I resent the fact that if the newliweds have a girl child first the English laws of progeny will prevent her from taking the throne. Tsk Tsk.

I recently wrote about the implosion of the Naval Hospital down the hill from me. Now in the distance I feel sadness as I see just a pile of concrete. However its hard to frown for long because my garden has exploded with color in the last week. Our unusual spring weather has made the iris and roses explode. I've been so excited about it I've been entertaining a lot (Easter, May Day, etc.) This morning I had a serious conversation with the gopher who has his eye on the flower bed right outside my study window. I found one iris laying flat on its side, stalk chewed off. I explained that there was plenty for both of us as long as he didn't invite his cousins, but I'm not sure he understands English any more that I understand the monarchy. I took the photos above between the replays of the exchange of vows in Westminster Abbey.

Celebrating Earth Day, or whatever

2011-04-22T14:59:00.000-07:00

Thank the elements, or whatever, for my spirits are more chipper this week. Breathing is easier. Debilitating allergies have subsided and the outlook for myself, if not the planet, is perkier. Besides, my garden is popping with color.

For Christians today is Good Friday. For Jews it is Shabbat. For 500 million folks in 175 countries it is Earth Day, a celebration invented when I was already 40, so I don’t quite get it. Two different sources claim to have invented it one being Senator Gaylord Nelson a senator from Wisconsin who insisted it be called National Environmental Teach In Day (no one else did, though). The other is a group founded by John McConnell introduced at a UNESCO conference in 1969.

This group settled on the vernal equinox, the moment when night and day are of equal length. That’s today!

And how did I celebrate it? I’ve always been passionate about nature. Part of my life indoctrination by my dad, as well as lessons learned in the Camp Fire Girls and Girl Scouts. (My gospels.) Both organizations were decades ahead of the times, teaching ecology before the Sierra Club heard the name. The older I get the more environmentally conscious I get, although I don’t think it has anything to do with Earth Day. Maybe it’s related to my own immortality? Its getting so I can’t stand to take the life of any sentient creature. When I find spiders in my bathtub I carefully catch them in a clear class tumbler and move them to the rose garden.

On Wednesday I startled a very large garter snake taking a spring sun bath in the middle of the path as I was carrying out the dog poop. Instead of annoyance I found myself apologizing to the snake. Accordingly I spent part of this Earth Day morning relocating garden snails to the bank in the orchard. (Much juicier picking there, I told them.) One had crawled way up my clean living room window. I smiled as I dislodged him tenderly. I have yet to embrace the wood rats, but who knows where I will go next?

A few weeks ago in San Francisco I came across an exhibit by the Long Now Foundation of a model of a 10,000 year clock. The goal of the organization is to get folks to think about the environmental legacy we are leaving not for just our grandchildren but for our grandchildren’s grandchildren, and beyond that. It stirred me deeply.

Perhaps I should shun plastic and my now one year old gas burning vehicle and return to my teenage passion of back packing and primitive camping? Young bracken fern is almost as soft as toilet paper, after all.

On the other hand, I’m loving my new IMAC computer and if I’m adept enough you’ll see above a collage of my garden right now, thanks to modern technology. I’d dearly miss that. For now, guess I'll stay with the now.

Balancing on the Pitty Pot

2011-04-15T09:07:00.000-07:00

Compulsive (or perhaps boring) as I am, April 15 holds no dread for me, for I usually have my taxes filed at least a month in advance. Thankfully I have no ancestors who died on the Titanic on this date in 1912. Still April has come to be the hardest month of the year for me. It used to be my most favorite month but now its the month I struggle hardest to pull myself off the pitty pot. Its not only filled with sad personal grievances, including the birthdays of my deceased partner Lee and my niece Jill, it’s the month allergies hit me hardest. Now days, rather than rejoice, I look sadly out the house windows at the beautiful gardens it has taken me four decades to cultivate. Just now there must be thirty iris in bloom (the whites and yellows come first, the darker ones will explode soon) and from my bedroom window I can count at least 100 buds on the roses. I mostly wear a breathing mask just to get to the car port. Poor Bonnie. In desperation for my compromised breathing I’ll be getting a big shot from the doc this afternoon. That will help a bit. This indoor confinement usually lasts till the end of July. What a downer! I remind myself how much I love to read and paint, two activities I can limit to indoors. I think about the contaminated air in Japan right now and those poor folks. I play all kinds of mind tricks, but still my head screams “NO FAIR”.

So it was with pure joy that I welcomed a visit last week from my fun loving friend Nancy from Denver. Nancy entertains me and plays indoor word games with me. Sometimes she lets me win. She even went to watch my pilates class. One of the best things we did was to attend the exhibit Pulp Fashion at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. It featured the Art of Isabelle de Borchgrave, a Belgian painter who interprets early European paintings in paper. Somehow she makes paper look like cloth. Its fantastic, and runs through June 5. A must!

Thanks Nancy, for making my day.

Going, Going, G---o---n---e...

2011-04-08T16:06:00.000-07:00

I can't help but wonder what's next. Maybe a hidden nuclear fallout shelter? Now that the dust has settled the big pile of concrete rubble does not give us much insight into the lives of folks who were doctors or nurses or patients there. For that matter, there could be a hidden tunnel from my property to enter the debris. Only the deer and a curious wild cat would discover it, as I've never ventured to the front of my three and a half acres. Too much poison oak, and an occasional rattler. As long as I have lived in this house, which is almost 50 years, the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital has stood as a tall landmark in the valley about two miles to the south outlining the horizon between me and the salt flats of San Francisco bay. I’ve had a perfect view of it, but only occasionally visited sick and retired servicemen hospitalized there. I wonder why? Before that the beautiful rolling land was a country club and golf course which fell to disuse in the Great Depression. In ’42 a military hospital was needed. Needs change as do parties in power. A magnificent hospital was erected on the bucolic 186 acres. It served thousands of wounded. Now empty since the 1993 base realignment legislation, the stately eleven story concrete building has become a victim to abandonment and politics, so that demolition was the only logical answer. Like perfect clockwork, some 800 pounds of dynamite accomplished that task at 12:10 pm today. I counted eights blasts, (though the tv saids 12) and then it was gone in three seconds. As I watched from the deck I thought of what memories those walls must hold. Stationed nearby, my good friend Ruth Talley, now in her nineties, once served in the Waves as a 2^nd class personnel officer for service women assigned to Oak Knoll. She was billeted on the grounds in an old psychiatric hospital. “I took care of the girls in the barracks,” she laughingly recalls.

When she was about seven, dear surrogate daughter Catherine, daughter of an army officer, did not want to take a school spelling test for which she was unprepared. Her mom hauled her, over protests, to the hospital. They had at first ignored her complaint of feeling ill until they discovered a high temp. She had put the thermometer in her Oma's tea to avoid school. At Oak Knoll they feared meningitis and performed a spinal tap, not believing her even after she confessed. She was a mighty scared and unhappy kid. No more will she drive by and shudder at the memory.

If you or anyone you know has personal memories with Oak Knoll I'd welcome them.

One day this sixty year old house where I sit writing, like the hospital, will fall from use and be demolished. I wonder if all this land will someday return to its native habitat of redwoods and streams leading to the bay, or if it will become military bases for space shuttles or the like? Perhaps aliens will inhabit it! Its intriguing to speculate.

Enjoy the photos.

Facing Your Fears #2

2011-04-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

FACING YOUR FEARS #2

Lee’s mother was an incredibly brave woman, having left home at 14 to housekeep and baby sit for strangers in order to send wages home to her mother.Perhaps it was not so uncommon in those days.

Hardly the shrinking violet, she married Lee’s dad at 16.Life was hard, but she plunged ahead with courage. Still there was one thing she greatly feared: if she bore children in a hospital the hospital would somehow mix up the babies.So she chose to bear both kids in the bedroom at home. No one was going to switch her babies! If the weather in Berkeley in 1920 and 1925 was anything like today she would have needed all the doors and windows wide open, as I have just now.

Amazing. Its 80 degrees outside and our thirteen days of rain have dissolved into sliding hillsides, gigantic weeds, and pulsating pollen counts. Not only is it April Fools Day but today is the one year anniversary of my blog. It has been a joy, as well as a piece of learning. I encourage everyone I know to try it. As of two weeks ago I have my new 27” IMAC up and running, and I am even learning to use Skype. Thankful hugs to Sheila, Peggy, Beth, Cheari and Jan for all the tutoring.

I dedicated my first story last year to my life partner, Lee, who would have been 86 today (or perhaps tomorrow). Why the choice?When her brother died in his forties she choose to honor his memory by celebrating her own birth day on his birthday, thus giving her both April 1 and 2. I was touched by her gesture, though I failed to comprehend it, since the stories I heard of his behavior in childhood were not exactly to be cherished.Perhaps they were just big brother antics? I never knew what it was like to live with a brother. Things like throwing her china doll through the living room picture window were not unusual. Never having had either a big or little brother such things are out of my realm of understanding.

As I recall my big sister was forever kind and helpful, cooking me special treats, loaning me her doll, and patiently tutoring me in math, my worst subject.

I understand April Fools Day is celebrated all through the Western world but the exact origin is vague. For me in childhood I would begin calculating jokes to play on family members about the third week in March for there was a family tradition to see who would be the first in the morning to catch another in a tall tale. If the victim believed you the game would end with “Caught you!” I would rehearse stories in my mind so they would almost sound real, but end with a whopper of a fish tale. It was such a fun challenge that it tweaked my imagination and delight. And yes, I miss it.

Has anyone caught you in a trick today? If so I hope it was a whopper and produced generous laughter.

After The Rain

2011-03-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

I painted the picture above from a photo I took in Leon, France. I recall it had just finished raining and the little boy seemed untrusting of his footing. I remember his wanting to hang on to his mother’s hand, but her hands were already full.

In so many ways it has been a lost week for me. It seems like the rainstorms, so unusual for us, will never stop. Of course in my personal fog (more on that later) it brings memories of Seattle. Across the street on 26^th Ave. West where I grew up till age 12 was a large wooded area, eventually sloping down to the railroad tracks and Elliot Bay. An overgrown deeply rutted road, long unused by cars, ran through it, leading gently downwards to what was then Pier 91. During the depression homeless men from many parts of the country would jump the freights, sometimes cutting through the woods up to our house, on the edge of the bluff, asking for food in exchange for work. I remember them as polite and grateful for a piece of white Langendorf with sandwich spread, which was mostly mayonnaise and dill pickle. Sometimes my mother, sensing their pride, would have them sweep the small front porch.

When I think of it now, “the woods” as I called this area, was not a very safe place to play for a little girl alone. Yet I was most content there. The alder and madrona and bracken fern sheltered me from the heaviest downpours. I knew how to avoid the stinging nettles. I made countless secret paths through the salal. In the spring I was mesmerized by the gigantic banana slugs and the hatching tent caterpillars. In my child’s world I thought I owned these woods. As soon as a heavy rain would start I would don my dark brown three button galoshes and head for the abandoned road, for the best mud puddles were to be found there. Splat! Splat! Such joy. With my toe I would carve rivulets, delighting in the process of making new channels for the water to flow. The rain was my personal friend for it led me to intimacy with nature. Most of all, it was such fun. I wish I could remember and relive that special joy, but alas, I can’t.

How changed I am now. Two days of rain and my chin is in my lap. Since this has been going on about two weeks my spirits are in the pits. Also my memory is on sabbatical. Perhaps it is waterlogged like my long awaited blooming iris, which now resemble mush. Last Tuesday I missed an important meeting, having it on my calendar for next week instead. And for over a week I’ve been searching for the bill for my house taxes, due April 10. I remember putting the bill in a special place so I wouldn’t loose it. Yikes! I’m clueless.

Wednesday morning I took some serious tranquilizers and a bunch of other meds at the periodontist’s orders, for I was having surgery to do a sinus lift .

I don’t remember much of Wednesday at all. It seems my left sinus was hanging down like an old lady’s boob. I do remember thinking I wish it were a face lift on the outside, not the inside. He filled the vacant hole with cadaver material. Yikes again.

The weather man predicts sunshine by next Monday or Tuesday. Then it will be time to put on a happy face, lift or not.

Emotional Reprieve

2011-03-18T14:40:00.000-07:00

I skipped Rob’s funeral on Wednesday to attend Bouquet’s to Art at the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco. He would have approved of my decision I know. This year’s show was breathtaking, inspiring, blasting with creativity as always. Somehow the cosmic Gods were with us: the Bay bridge, usually jammed at the commute hour, was smooth and welcoming. To my shock we arrived at Golden Gate Park 45 minutes early, and found street parking generous. Before the museum opened we watched a Japanese Tai Chi Master lead a solemn group on the lawn. The timing was touching, as our hearts were hurting with the trauma going on concurrently in Northern Japan. My companion on this art trek was my good friend Jan Matsuoka. Jan has family in Japan. She is as smitten with flowers as am I. After the show we had a yummy vegetarian lunch at Green’s, gazing at the Golden Gate between bites. The chocolate cake was the best! It was so good for us both to have a day of serenity and reprieve from what is going on in the world. .

Sunshine and Shadows

2011-03-10T16:02:00.000-08:00

When one lives on the income from their investments, as I do, life is a little tenuous. Sadly financial decisions become more challenging when one does not have a partner to bounce things off on, and where monthly income yo-yos up and down, sometimes dramatically. Last month when I considered on impulse signing up for the French Escapade trip to Provence in May, the first thing I did was to call Rob, my broker, for advice. We’ve been at this management/decision-making task for about twenty years, even though he is much younger than I. At times he feels like a wise old father, at other times like a caring adult son, but most of the time I think of him as a trusted friend. Well, trusted, and caring both. He has guided me through the deaths of my mother, my sister, Lee’s mother, and finally Lee. It’s been a rich and tender relationship for us both, even though we have little in common in the usual sense of things.

As always he listened carefully to all the pros and cons, checked the market, my portfolio and speculated on the economy. Only then did he advise me what to do: “Go for it.” I made the decision the next day, and just yesterday Sandy advised me the final leg was confirmed (2^nd class, 4:57 pm-8:11pm TGV train from de Gaulle airport to Avignon, $162.)

The day I made the trip decision Bob advised me thoughtfully how he would juggle things a bit to make all the expenses come out ok.

When I called him two weeks ago to confirm stock arrangements he had hardly any voice, but he assured me it was because of a problem with a stopped up ear; that he felt just fine.

A phone call today at 10:30am from his boss advised me that Rob died this morning at 9:15, in his sleep. Just recently he fulfilled a lifelong ambition to go to Hawaii to learn to snorkel, which he did with his wife and adopted daughter. I guess he too decided to “Go for It.”

Rob has been battling pancreatic cancer ever so bravely for over three years, going in and out of remission. From first diagnosis, Steve Jobs has been an inspiration to him.

Last week I was rejoicing that Kodi, my dog, did not have a terminal disease. Suddenly my mood is reversed. My spirit is truly sagging, and it feels like a black cloud moving in on me. The photo above was taken a couple of weeks ago from the deck when a storm was coming in. I hope I can put on a happy face for those coming to my art show this weekend, and if I can’t that they will forgive me for the tears that are currently under all the happy flowers and children I paint.

2011-03-03T09:13:00.000-08:00

Looking Back and Facing Forward

This has been a week of worry followed by rejoicing. A welcome letter came yesterday from a client of many decades ago reminding me of the God, Janus, the powerful Roman God of gates, doors, beginnings, endings, and time. What a talented guy. He could see both ways, it seems.

As I sat on pins and needles waiting for the results of a blood test for my dog Kodibear (whose name is in the title of this blog) I felt terrified that the results would be positive that the radical hair loss on his ten year old tail meant he had canine Cushing’s disease, not a happy diagnosis. Was it a genetic defect of his special heritage (half Siberian Husky, half traveling salesman)?

What would I do without my big mush-pot guard dog?Would I even want to live here on this remote hilltop?

Were she still alive, what would Lee say, for after all he was her special love and constant shadow the last six years of her life?

I tried to wait patiently seven whole days for the results. Finally the doggie dermatologist called. “Negative!” Suddenly a big rock was lifted from my chest. The hair loss on his tail is completely cosmetic. It looks pretty bizarre, but since he does not care, neither do I. We can grow older and balder together.

Suddenly I was able to read, write, and paint again. I had denied to myself that the anxiety was what had immobilized me.

So now I’m madly getting paintings ready for the two day annual show at my gym March 12 and 13. I’ve scrounged the cabinet drawers sorting possibilities from rejects. So far I have 57 matted and ready to go and I’m not even to the bottom of the pile.

Whereas I’ve never painted a picture of Janus, I did include in the for-sale stack the painting above of a statue of a very happy God (anonymous to me) which l painted near the beach on my first trip to Bali.

He’ll remain nameless for now, but he matches my mood.

The Wind Doth Blow, But Will We Have Snow?

2011-02-25T08:44:00.000-08:00

The weather forecasters are occasionally right. In the bay area this morning the raging wind confirmed we were experiencing the storm of the decade, or maybe even century. Right now, however, it looks like a summer day. Still they are saying we may have snow by midnight. Since I keep my old Monterey Pines and fruit trees well maintained, my main concern is loosing power.

The painting shown is one I did several years ago when I was trying to learn dry brush. Lacking the model of a real snowy landscape, I copied a photo from an old magazine, adding touches from my own childhood memory album, for my house on the bluff faced the year round snowy Cascades, Mt. Baker, and Mt Rainier.

Age surely changes perspective, doesn’t it? As a kid growing up in Seattle one or two snowfalls a winter was the norm. Like all kids, I delighted in the opportunities presented. Sledding down Davis street hill was the most spine tingling adventure one could imagine, and that was only two blocks from where I lived.

By age 12 I had joined Cunningham’s Ski School. I wonder if it still exists? Besides owning a sporting goods store owner Cunningham’s passion was to offer ski trips for teens to Snoqualmie or Stevens Pass. It was a treasure for me. Despite a right leg amputated at the knee, Mr. Cunningham escorted every trip, making sure all of us had a safe and wonderful time. He was usually at the base of the rope tow, offering gentle coaching in boarding without falling, sometimes even holding us on until we got the knack of it. I was always a bit slow in muscle coordination skills. That is an understatement. Quite plainly I was a motor moron. Never the less by thirteen he had taught me an adequate snow plow, which is how I climbed most slopes. My bag lunch was always a baloney sandwich on white Langendorf, with a Baby Ruth candy bar, and enough money in my pocket to buy a cup of hot cocoa. By 14 I had advanced to a T bar lift, and burst with pride that I could hang on. Of course I had never even seen a chair lift. Our ski clothes and equipment were pretty primitive in today’s world.

Still, every winter Saturday that I could afford it I would head up to the mountains. In the beginning my equipment was rented and modest. By 16 I had my own skis, boots, and powder blue ski suit. They were not the top of the line but I thought I cut a pretty cute picture. The same equipment got me through high school and college, where my down slopes changed to Mt. Baker. The temps in winter were sometimes below zero.

So it was that when I moved to California at age 26 my high school ski equipment came too. I remember my 6’6” heavy wooden skis just fit balanced from front to back seat in Lee’s ’56 red Ford.

It was a spring weekend three or four years later before I found the opportunity to experience skiing in my new home state. What a shock! The sun was beating down. Skiers were sporting tee shirts and slathering on sun bloc. Some were even clad in shorts and halters and designer sun glasses. I timidly approached the chair lift for there were no familiar rope tows or T bars. Sadly there was no Mr. Cunningham to coach first timers. Still I somehow managed, but on the top when I exited the lift I felt my balance precarious, though I did not fall. People stared. I felt my confidence wavering.

After two or three rides with this same problem I asked the chair operator at the bottom of the lift what I was doing wrong. He offered the advice that just before I got to the top I should call to the kid attending at the top tower and ask him to watch me disembark so he could tell me what I was doing wrong. Good idea, I said, and so I did.

“Hey,” I shouted to the teenager in the tower on the top, “Will you watch me get off and tell what I’m doing wrong?” There was a long hesitation. I thought he had not heard me, so I yelled again, even louder.

This time he responded with a full throated derisive snarl, “Lady, you’re too OLD.”

My face turned the color of the sun burned teeny boppers. Did my old age (30) and old clothes make me look that much a misfit? When I reached the bottom of the hill I took off my skis, forever, as it turned out. My embarrassment and wounded pride got the best of me.

Much later I learned that I was exiting the chair a little too soon, so that I was still on the up-slope instead of on the level or facing slightly downhill as I skied off. This is what was affecting my balance and skills.

Every experience offers a lesson, doesn’t it. I hope that most of the time I remember that words can encourage or words can wound. It was a lesson painfully learned. I often wish I were more aware.

Visions and Musings

2011-02-18T09:31:00.000-08:00

Never a good sleeper, I’m annoyed that my daily rising has moved from 4 am-ish to 3-am-ish. I accept this practice as something that comes with old age, aching bones, and no partner to cuddle me back to dreamland. Perhaps, as well, my brain is too stuffed with trivia? Sometimes when sleep eludes me I find acceptance by groaning expletives out loud, for no one but my old dog can hear me. Looking up from his bed in puzzlement, even Kodi seems ambivalent, putting off his anticipated daily peanut butter treat until I have guzzled my first cup of tea.

The trade-off is that I have quiet time to peruse my email and to read by the gas fireplace, for winter or summer, its nippy at dawn on this hilltop facing San Francisco bay. And I cherish both diversions.

A lull in the unusual rainstorm visiting us has produced a view to the west that looks frozen in time. A low cloud-bank blankets the city, but strangely nothing is moving, as if it too needs sleep before rejuvenation. The setting full moon was my unexpected treat this morning. About 6:30, it gently slid into the bay. As softly and delicately as I can ever remember. I opened the kitchen sliders to fully appreciate it. The air was still. The moon grew in texture and magnitude, its surface looking like a crumpled piece of Masa paper, as it sunk over Sausilito. Oh, I wish I could capture it!

A compensation to my aging, myopic, astigmatic eyes, I’m getting a new 27” IMAC soon. My big old desk is grumbling in anticipation but my heart is singing. A couple of years ago my sweet friend Andrea introduced me to the Kindle which, like the computer, allows me to increase the print size. .I have now read about 80 books on it. Recently she taught me to download and play Every Word, so now I have another addiction to strain my eyes!

Last month I saw my dear optometrist, Dr. Eng, on his last day of practice. His retirement is a loss for me and many others. He explained to his daughter, who is taking over the office: “Bonnie is one of our patients who has interesting eyes…” I know this is a nice way of saying my eyes are complicated and challenging. Then this past week I saw my beloved opthamologist, Dr. Vastine, for my six month check-up. He happened to have an intern studying to be a corneal specialist who examined me first. I thought she was precious, as she did the initial exam. But then he examined me and pointed out to her not unkindly but without hesitation the things she had missed. He also confided to her that on the next exam he wanted to do some “special tests”. Perhaps he took her aside later and explained his concerns. I was too busy worrying about her feelings to coax him to tell me what he was worried about. Perhaps that is just as well. I don’t wish to worry about my eyes, for I have had instilled in me since childhood that my eyes are the most precious thing I have, and I believe it more every day.

I’m looking forward to Monday when I’ll be trekking to Books, Inc. in the city to buy Christmas books for cousin’s Cynthia and Michelle’s three teenager girls, an annual tradition which I started when the kids were little. The joy of it, other than seeing them, is that they love books passionately and always have, a credit to their Moms great child–rearing.

The painting above is from a photo I took of their youngest, Ella, in the process of choosing her gift books at the bookstore a couple of years ago. One can see that the children are as mesmerized in this process as am I. Can’t wait!

Meanwhile, thanks to all the readers who sent word they appreciated my two stories about Helen K. I enjoyed writing them as well.

Helen's Story, Part 2

2011-02-10T06:44:00.000-08:00

Why polio? Bill Gates, in his hour long interview with Charlie Rose this week, recounted why he had chosen polio as the #1 disease in the world to eliminate: 1) it saves kids, 2) it is possible to raise the money to do it, and 3) it will prove that global health can improve the quality of all our lives. He explained with sincere passion that as families in poor countries experience more of their children surviving childhood illnesses they will have fewer children, the surviving children will have higher IQ’s, (from 80 to 100, statistically) and from a human and environmental prospective our world will improve.

So on with the story of a survivor whose body but not IQ was afffected, my old friend Helen. In Russian tradition, a girl child receives her father’s first name as her middle name, which identifies her evermore as his child, thus Helen Kravetzky bears the name Helen Eugenia, after her father Eugene. (It make me, the writer, wonder how I would have turned out with the feminine of Augustus, my own father, had I been born Russian rather than English and cowboy? Would I have developed a different personality as Bonnie Augustina rather than Bonnie Eloise, belle of the Mohawk Vale?)

When polio first struck, the young immigrant family was predictably distraught. All they knew was that their precious baby girl was in bed with a bad fever, and they were alone in a strange land with few resources. Might she die? A Russian doctor was summoned from San Francisco to diagnose her. Helen’s mother Ludmila, who had been teaching piano for extra income, went to pieces. One must remember that the young Ludmilla was a romantic as well as dramatic. Eugene was forced to quit Cal. It seemed like their world came crashing down. Helen was fitted at the Shrine hospital with many braces and other apparatus. The brace on her left leg came all the way to her hip, and even so she walked on the side of her foot. It was explained to the family that she would need surgery as a teenager to correct this. (It did, but one leg is shorter.)

Yet, here they were in a great new country whose president, FDR, was himself a polio victim. It gave them courage and hope. All her childhood it was drilled into Helen that in life she could accomplish anything she set her mind to. After all, the president had polio, too. When other kids would tease her on the playground, as kids will do, she thought of Roosevelt and tossed off their remarks. Her disability did not really bother her until adolescence when she yearned to dance. That was her first and only recognition of loss.

In Helen’s memory she was always lame. She did not perceive it as a disability because she knew nothing else. When she was about six her father graduated from Cal and the family moved back to Harbin to be with his family. Eventually he found work with the Ford Company in Tiensin, where they remained until just before Pearl Harbor. At thirteen it was time for Helen to have surgery, but now she was too old for the Shrine Hospital. The same Russian doctor in San Francisco who had first treated her performed the operation. She missed a year of school and was in a cast for a very long time once more. Still, she remembered the imbedded command: Helen, you can be ANYBODY. Likewise she embraced the knowledge that she had the genes of her White Russian great grandmother, the strong woman who grew wheat.

She set her sights on helping others, and eventually graduated from USC with a master’s in social welfare. a career she followed all her life. I’ve never heard Helen complain nor give in to adversity. She just keeps plugging. In her lifetime she inspired thousands of young women to love the outdoors , to take risks in life, and to set high aspirations. She inspires me today: smiling, gutsy, caring, as always. Moreover, she believes to the core that polio is what made her who she is.

Thank You Bill Gates

2011-02-02T14:45:00.000-08:00

Growing up in Seattle in the thirties the fear of polio always put a crimp in summer. Often pools and lakes would be closed. My younger cousin, Blanche, got it, as did some classmates. This week Bill Gates declared polio his top priority, donated more of his millions to the cause, and vowed to challenge world leaders to finish the job before the disease roars back. Its scary that it has now reappeared in Nigeria, Tajikistan, India, Pakistan and Afghanistan for we once thought it was eliminated forever.

To comprehend how my old friend Helen, a polio survivor, structured her life one must dig a bit into her heritage. “I’m a better person because I had polio” Helen insists. Today at 85 Helen lives independently, with all her mental faculties, in her Berkeley brown shingle, that is except in summers which she spends alone in a cabin in the deep woods of Idaho. Incidently it was not that many summers ago she defended herself against a bear who invited himself to crash through the living room window and partake of her home-made huckleberry jam. During the attack Helen hid in the bedroom, all energies going to protect her aging border collie.

In both environs Helen is surrounded by Russian memorabilia, like the samovar above. In recent years she finds herself drawn back to the Russian Orthodox church, though she is not quite sure why.

I first met Helen in ’55 when we both worked as Girl Scout professional workers. I don’t remember if I thought it strange that a crippled woman would be a resident camp director, but there was no doubt it was her calling and her passion.

Like so many other Russians, her parents, unknown to one another, fled Russia for the safety of China prior to the revolution in 1917. Both families were probably on the side of the Tsar. Helen’s mother’s roots were in the Volga region (White Russia). Like so many of us, parts of the real story were withheld from the children because of family secrets. This much is known: there was a great grandmother who was of some wealth, distinguished because she owned and operated many fields of wheat, an incredible feat for a single woman. She was known in the village as the STRONG woman. Helen attributes much of her power of character to this distant unmet relative. At some point this woman grabbed up her grandchildren, then about three and four, for their parents had both died. There had been some scandal. Perhaps they were even kidnapped.

Part of the story revolves around the Trans-Siberian Railroad for Helen’s Mother and younger sister soon came to be adopted by an uncle, Alexander, who was a contractor on the last leg of the railroad construction, which ended in Harbin, China. Life was good in Harbin, which is to say they had means and servants. . Eventually Alexander took in three other children. All went well until the wicked step mother came into the picture. Around age 12 Ludmilla and younger sister Tonia and the other children were sent to a Catholic convent in Shanghai, where they were given the best of classical education, including speaking four languages. Helen’s mother, a promising pianist, was sent in 1924 to America to study at Julliard (which she secretly never planned to do but did not reveal). Ludmilla had already met Helen’s father and had eyes for love, not music. She soon won the heart of Helen’s father, whom she had met in Harbin.

Helen’s father grew up in Siberia (Nikolisk). The Kravetsky family also fled Russia for the safety of China, living in various cities there and finding comfort in small Russian communities wherever they went, including Harbin. As a young man he yearned to study Business but because of his language deficiency ended up graduating from UC as a civil engineer.

While attending school, he was employed as a night watchman in a book bindery in Oakland. As it turns out, this link to the night watchman job became an important factor in Helen’s survival. Starry eyed, her parents were married in ’25 at the Russian Orthodox church in San Francisco.

When she was born Jan. 15, 1926, in what was then called Alta Bates Sanitarium, Alta Bates herself ,the famous founder of what is today Berkeley’s Alta Bates Hospital, admimistered drops of brandy to the wee premature babe. It was not an uncommon therapeutic measure in those days, but Helen’s mother, a Russian immigrant, though of a wealthy and well educated class, worried all her life that Helen would become an alcoholic. Thankfully that never came to be. Had she been able to see into the future however she would have worried instead that her beautiful only child would become lame. Polio struck Helen between age two and three.

The owner of the book bindery, on learning of Helen’s illness, took from his pocket a calling card. He explained that he was a member of the Shriners, and from here on out the struggling young immigrant family would have no medical concerns: the Shrine Hospital would care for her Helen.

Both legs and one arm became paralyzed. Eventually the movement came back to all the affected limbs except the left leg. Helen still remembers her father cradling her in his arms as they rode the ferry to San Francisco to see the Russian doctor, because of course no American doctor could be trusted.

This story is a little long but compelling, so I’m choosing to continue it in the next installment.

Maui Madness

2011-01-28T07:20:00.000-08:00

At his annual physical yesterday the neighborhood vet who is almost as ancient as I, by the way, announced that Kodi is not only fit (except for his balding tail) but that his heart and weight are perfect, and that in people years he is now 80. “That makes us the same”, I chortled. “He’s still doing one hour walks twice a week with the dog walker” I reported, “he’s wild with joy at the prospect of each hike and usually he’s not gimpy afterwards”.

Driving the two miles home in Lee’s ’89 pickup (which must be nearing 80 in Toyota years) I smiled at the irony. Both dog and truck are in such fine fettle, full of pep, and here am I struggling to pull my pants over my hips, keep up with therapy exercises for my hurting shoulder, and fretting about my atrial fib. Must be my attitude needs adjustment!

On with the story. I started the painting above in Maui on Thanksgiving day, 2009, my ninth trip, I believe, to paradise, but my first trip there alone. This week I ‘m motivated to get both the painting and the memory out of my psyche. I tried to finish it last Tuesday, without success, by smearing matte medium over parts of it and collaging tissue paper over some of the leaves, for any painter can see I left no whites! There is no center of interest. It’s a jumble of ununified color which mimics my mood when first composed. I call the painting Maui Madness, but other names could be Botanical Bombardment or Makawao Hysteria. Instead of plein aire, I composed it in my tiny apartment gazing out at an unhospitable and unkempt tropical garden. As my head filled with pollen and chemicals (it turned out the building had been tented to kill the vermin just before I arrived) I grew more sick and angry and added more and more layers of granulating paint.

Sight unseen (except for the internet) I had rented a little apartment for ten days, upcountry. In earlier decades I always wanted to live in the islands in retirement, a fantasy I abandoned in my sixties, finally realizing that the beauty of nature there would always call me but that the culture was not a fit for me for steady living. Still, I looked forward to painting and soaking up sun as well as delighting in spending time with loved ones who now call Maui home.

Things went downhill almost immediately, The rental was a disaster. My allergies ended me in the ER after a few days. The trip was a bust. Thus started a year of one health challenge after another, none critical but most draining and annoying.

In 2011 I’m trying to make happier choices. For instance, I’m not going to see the film Black Swan, even though I’m drawn to the acting. Who needs more dark in their life? Certainly not Bonnie or Kodi, who finds nirvana in the simplicity of a heaping tablespoon of peanut butter. Surely its time for a different viewpoint and a happier outlook, leaving lots of empty spaces for the sun to shine through.

Whimsy Or Not

2011-01-21T11:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon, by plan, I experimented with collage painting under the generous tutorage of my friend and neighbor Nancy Overton. We’ve become friends since Nancy and Chuck, both artists, live nearby and work out at the gym with me. As you, the reader, can intuit, I’m working at being more playful in art and in life. Did I say work out and working at? Now there’s an oxymoron. But of late “working at” is the only path I’ve been able to figure out. Playing just gets lost in the daily pattern of boring responsibilities which seem to consume all my energies. I’m recalling now that I got all A’s when I was a Recreation Minor in undergrad school and enthused at making PLAYING my life’s work. That was only sixty years ago, I mutter to myself. Where oh where has my enthusiasm gone?

Nancy exudes playfulness. She has many talents both as a writer and an artist. In addition she’s a dedicated garage sale shopper, an activity that leaves me blank but gives her joy as well as treasures. She walks Lake Merritt with enthusiasm three times a week. I marvel how she stays so upbeat.

What’s most delightful to me about being with Nancy is her laughter. It’s not a feminine giggle nor is it stifled by clipping short her breath, as many women are programmed to do. In volume it’s neither boisterous nor gentle, but with or without my new hearing aids, just right. It’s musical and vigorous and seems to come from her toes, gaining momentum as it travels upwards, and then really filling all the empty spaces in the room. I’ve noticed when she is in a group that it is contagious. I’m not sure how she achieves it, or even if it is partly genetic, but I treasure being around it.

As we experimented with collage we shared ideas and techniques. It was messy and fun. Truth be told I felt slightly cautious. Without inhibitions Nancy puts almost anything in her collages including reconstituted seaweed which she gathers at Stinson Beach. I came home with blue and orange fingers. I’m hoping Nancy’s confidence and non-judgemental attitude will be catching. Maybe so, maybe not. As in most things, more will be revealed.

Shall We Play?

2011-01-14T11:59:00.000-08:00

Previously I shared that one of my goals in art (and life) was to be more playful in 2011. Easier said than…, as the expression goes. I find its not exactly something I can will myself to do, for if will were the source I would have accomplished it a while ago. It seems I am not short on will, which is synonymous for stubbornness in my book. On the other hand, I am short on patience. Spontaneity seems like the open door to the process. Kittens, puppies and little kids have no trouble being playful. But me? I think I was never that way even at two. Somehow I got shorted on the playful gene. It was somewhat easier when Lee was alive. Without a loved one to grin and celebrate one’s uninhibited behavior the effort seems to lack motivation.

Once, about forty years ago, at a fund-raiser for JFK University, I bought a ticket to have face painting. What possessed me! First the artist covered my whole face with white paint. Then she drew exotic designs on both eyes and cheeks. Then she added symbols and cerulean color around the eyes, The result was gorgeous and transforming. I felt silly, delighted, and tickled. It was me but not me. Yearning to share my delight, I was annoyed to discover all my friends had gone home. Rats! This transformation had to be shared. So as I drove home in my little VW bug I slowed down passing every house of friends. To my dismay everyone’s lights were out already.

Even when I got home I found Lee asleep. But this was too good not to share. So with a gleeful shout and much posturing I switched on the overhead bedroom lights all the while dancing around the footboard. Lee screamed then laughed and laughed.

It was hard to finally go to bed, and I ended up not removing any of the face painting and tried to sleep on my back without disturbing the facial art. Such a fun memory.

I adore playful people. Who doesn’t? Being with them is such fun.

So this week with my water-color buddies I took a three day painting class, determined to be uninhibited. Despite my intentionality it wasn’t until the third day I began to feel playful. Perhaps playfulness is a left-brained thing and it takes that long for my factually stuffed brain to make the transition or to bypass performance expectations?

I surely invite your ideas on how to accomplish this. The year is still young so I have plenty of time to experiment.