Remembering 2012

The year 2012 will be remembered for many things, and many things from 2012 won't be remembered at all.  It will be remembered for mass shootings with assault rifles, but won't be remembered for the 179 days of happy, productive learning in schools all over the country.  It will be remembered for an ugly and breathtakingly expensive and seemingly endless election, but won't be remembered for all the regular people who did the very best they could with what they had to keep their families safe and warm and fed.  It will be remembered for terrifying acts by Mother Nature, but won't be remembered for all the millions of pounds of materials that made it to the recycling plants.  There will be retrospectives on the high price of gasoline and health care and public employee pensions, and little attention to the millions who made do with what was available and didn't look back.  There will be reminiscences of those “notables” who passed, but little will be said about the people who filled the year with daily events that we will never share again.

Let us remember that this past year was also filled with many miracles occurring every minute of every day, manifested by individuals in ordinary places.  Let us go into 2013 spending more time valuing those miracles and less time ogling at the freak and rare single events that are played again and again and again until they seem commonplace.

We each stand within a circle of influence that overlaps with the circles of others.  Those circles are much wider than we know and are adjacent to, or even shared with, the circles of complete strangers.  If every one of us commits to improving conditions in our respective circles, it won’t be long until everyone in the nation is standing in a better place.  Let this be your New Year’s promise to those you love, starting with yourself.

Peace on Earth 

Thoughts on a Tragedy

The older I become, the more I realize that there is no one thing, entity, or philosophy to blame for the tragedies of life. There is only me making sure that I do that which is healthy, respectful, and joyful for me and the seven generations.

The Cruise

October 15, 2012

I am on the tiny balcony on the port side of the ship.  It is after 9PM, and the darkness is punctuated by an occasional flickering light cast by a fishing vessel waiting for its nets to fill.  While I know that boat is on the horizon, the darkness gives the illusion of one of those black velvet paintings from the 1960's.  The waves rush away from the Inspiration's steel flanks creating a rhythmic heartbeat just above the steady purr of the engines.  I sometimes think I hear a voice from an adjacent cabin or an extra splash from just beyond the ship. 

A raucous group of young passengers laughs as they head aft on the deck below.  "I think we're on the wrong part of the ship."  The voice of a male only recently immersed in adulthood follows the giggles of the young women ahead of him.  They return from their venture, their voices quickly absorbed as they pass the lifeboats.  My sister joins me and at first we share the excitement of a stargazing app on my iPad.  We travel from constellation to planet to satellite, glad that the ambient light of the city that was amplified by the haze is receding behind us.  Soon we sit silently, looking up, as we glide through the skyocean.

October 16

"Oh, look! It's kind of like Jurassic Park!"  We are inching past the headlands of Catalina and into Avalon Harbor.  I had laid awake much of the night listening to my sister's breathing and dismissing my imagination as the ship rolled.  My favorite person in the world is the first one to bring me good coffee in the morning, and that person arrived at 6:45.  I'm thinking of Natalie Wood as the small boat anchorage comes into view and of Huell Howser taking me on a television tour of the Wrigley Mansion.  A similar mansion (maybe that’s it?) is directly ahead of me, like my beloved Mt. Tam is at home, and I am now certain that I am destined to live in such a mansion.  Well, pretty certain.

We coffee, we laugh, we clean up, and I make plans to first go ashore and later to get a massage.  I'm off for a walk while my sis and brother smoke on the balcony.  I dig out my big red hat and head for the promenade.  At 3:30 this morning I wasn't so sure I'm a cruise kind of gal, but now, I'm thinkin' maybe I am.

Suzelle

I brought a small plate of pastries back from the dining room thinking that perhaps my sister or brother might want one last nibble before going ashore.  As I was leaving, our stateroom steward entered and began to tidy up.  "Do you throw away all the food that is left out?" I asked. 

"Yes," she said, "unless you tell me not to." 

We looked at the plate of pastries then at one another; it was unmistakable that we were sharing the same thought.

"I'm having a wonderful time on the cruise, but somehow I feel strangely about it."

She put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side.  I was looking toward the cabin window, and she was a silhouette before me, yet I could see her eyes.  "What do you mean?"

I struggled to find the words that would make me sound neither condescending nor insincere.  " There's just so much here.  So much food.  I think of my students who eat so poorly..." my voice trailed off.

"Back home in Trinidad when I return from a trip, I use my tip money to buy food for five, six families.  One time I feed twelve families.  Each family for $60 I can buy food for a month."

The dam was now broken by our shared sentiment, and though we only exchanged a few more words, there was a joining of spirits that required no further elaboration.  Thereafter, Suzelle and I greeted one another with a sincerity that assured us both of the irony of life.

Catalina

As we began to enter Avalon Harbor, I thought of the story that Jeff told so many times during his last few days, of the sinking of Jeff’s new fishing boat, the Tiburón, on her maiden voyage to net the valuable swordfish.  His version went something like this:

A storm blew up before they could set the nets, so Jeff pointed the bow toward an inlet that was ringed by rocky bluffs.  After some challenging maneuvers, they got the boat anchored in a position that provided enough clearance from the shoals.   He left Russ on watch and went below to sleep for a few hours.  Before bunking in, he admonished Russ to not get too relaxed (e.g., smoke too much weed) that he neglect to reposition the Tiburón should the surge pull the anchor loose. 

Shortly after he fell asleep, Jeff awoke to the bumping and crunching that could only be the hull against the rocks.  The damage was such that they took on water almost immediately; a mayday was sent to anyone in the vicinity.  The choppy surf made clearing out what belongings they could difficult, but the immediacy of the situation sent them into an adrenaline-fueled frenzy.  They had a plan for such events, but they never suspected that they would need to put it into effect, let along so soon.  Jeff tried unsuccessfully to remove the ship's bell, but the seas were so rough that they had to board the life raft and leave the Tiburón to the rocks and waves and rain.  They were rescued by a nearby Coast Guard vessel. 

Years later as Jeff lay dying of brain caner, Russ joined us all in the living room of our home.  The room was shaped like the bow of a ship with a panoramic view of the valley below.  Jeff talked of a huge swordfish headed toward the boat and of his joy at being out at sea with no limitations but those enforced by nature and his own powerful young body.  At one point he again declared his love for me, then asked, "Where are we?"  "We are home, Jeff, in your bed."  He smiled.  "I wondered how you got on the boat.  I knew you didn't belong there."  We curled together more closely on the hospice bed.

Late that night he told Russ, "You'd better find that goddam bell before those salvage bastards get it."  Thirty-six hours later Jeff slipped out to sea.  I hope the bell is still in that cove. 

One of the miracles of the mind is that such memories can be triggered and play out as though in real time, yet only seconds pass.  When I even hear the name Catalina, I will also hear, "You'd better find that goddam bell."

 Dolphin Dance

"Please forgive the interruption, ladies and gentlemen, but I thought I would point out a special sight."  The Italian accent of our captain coated our ship like a blanket of honey.  (For all I know, he weights 350 pounds, but Italian men always sound exquisite, don't they?)  "On the starboard side of the ship, that is the right side as you face the front of the ship," (he rolled the r's ever so subtly), " you will see a large school of dolphin swimming toward us."

My sister and I were already on our balcony on the starboard side and indeed hundreds of dolphin were leaping singly and in two's, three's, even five's as they raced the Inspiration toward Ensenada.  Dolphins in the ocean seem to symbolize both freedom and community for all humans because soon the decks were alive with voices using the same tone as if looking at a litter of the most adorable puppies in the world.  My brother rushed over with his camera, and I grabbed my iPhone, and the three of us were cooing just like all the others.  This is what Jeff saw on every trip, and he never got tired of it.  He was much like a dolphin; the open sea invigorated him. Although responsible, he chose the rules to live by, and those rules always helped him take care of his loved ones.  Like the dolphins, he led his family to the safe places, the places of beauty, always taking the time to share the moments that we would not know would end so many decades sooner than we planned.  We watched the dolphins until they were no longer discernible from the waves.

Ensenada

This port had the potential to be a forgettable adventure but instead was a benign and pleasant visit with family members whom I had not seen for years.  The company was charming, the setting bucolic, and the meal delicious.  Rather than allow my anxiety manifest in wordiness, I was quiet and thoughtful to such an extent that several people asked if was feeling poorly.  The epiphany of the day:  remaining silent is advice that I should have taken forty years ago.

At Sea

Today I spend most of my free time writing.  I carry my iPod like the devout carry their books of prayer, and I seek out the quiet spaces that inspire me most.  I'm currently on the uppermost deck lying belly down on a chaise with the music of the resort pool area maintaining the party ambience that encourages the imbibing of cocktails.  As my bikini in-the-sun days are behind me, I retreat to the relative quiet of the balcony off my stateroom.  Heather and Rob are there enjoying their smokes and the silence, and I snooze on my bed overlooking my siblings and the sea. 

Our last evening onboard together is delightful.  We meet as usual at the Mardi Gras Dining Room mid-ship and once again share tastes of appetizers, entrées, and desserts.  I skip dessert tonight, attempting to better stave off the inevitable withdrawal from sweets by substituting bread.  It's my version of gustatory methadone, and it works.  We laugh, we talk, we share favorite memories of the voyage, and Karen speaks eagerly of the show we will see after dinner.  She is right:  seeing a show on the ship, no matter how simple it may be, is the cherry on top of the entire adventure. 

I watch those kids working so hard at their profession, knowing how long they practiced to get there, and how quickly these few prime performing years will pass.  I envy them the courage they showed by leaving the comfort of some small town, perhaps some distant homeland, and most certainly the theater friends they had before announcing, "I got a job with Carnival!"  They are singing and dancing their hearts out by night, and quite possibly acting as guest attendants during the day, but they made it:  they are professionals, earning a living doing what they love to do.

After the show, we begin the debarkation shuffle that has the complex choreography that the show seemed to lack.  We must quickly pack and place our tagged luggage in the hallway by 11PM.  We each read and then study and then review the instructions for the morning, and align those directions with the ones Karen gave us orally.  Rob joins me as I attempt to return the walker that I checked out for Dad on the first day.  I had been told to return it to Medical Deck 3 by 6PM, then to guest services before midnight.  I choose the latter option as it provides the most time for Dad to use it. 

Wrong choice. The darling girl barely out of her teens at Guest Services looked at me like I was trying to re-gift a fruitcake when I asked her to refund my deposit. She quickly regained her composure, made the necessary notes to Medical, then met me at the door to the office to retrieve it.  I was impressed by her willingness and ability to solve this unexpected twist with charm and flexibility.  I wonder if that is the result of good training, good sense, or both, aware even without her slight accent that she was not from the United States.  How sad is that?

Back at the cabins, or staterooms as the cruise line optimistically call them, we check every wardrobe, every drawer, every horizontal surface at least three times to ensure that we have all of our belongings.  We double-check that we have clothes to put on in the morning.  It is during this ritual that the contrasts between my sister and me once again emerge.

Heather packs precisely, rolling her clothing neatly, rewrapping some of her lovely pieces in the tissue paper that kept them lovely during her travels.  I, on the other hand, advise her not to look while I pack my dirty laundry in the paper bag from the wardrobe drawer, toss it into the bottom of the suitcase, then grab two armfuls of clothing and dump it in on top.  Extra shoes are tucked away on each side of the bag (I only brought two pair and wore flip-flops most of the time), fold my hanging bag in thirds on top and zip the suitcase shut.  Done.  She graciously refrains from whimpering as I do this.  I explain somewhat redundantly that most of my clothes are travel knits and Costco jeans and tee shirts.  The bags are in the hall by 10:45PM.  We are both sound asleep by midnight.

Back to Oceanside

Rather than the clusterfuck I expected, leaving the ship is simple, especially when in the company of someone who requires wheelchair service.  We whisk past any lines as we

follow the Carnival employee who is sprinting to the dock with my father, making us jog to not lose sight of him.  Who knew that a sturdy middle-aged woman could be so swift on her feet, and I am not referring to any of the three of us.  No, apparently the red Carnival polo endows her with Superwoman speed and incredible strength, both of which she demonstrates as she shoves Dad up a steep ramp then prevents him from careening down the other side.  We arrive in the luggage warehouse panting a bit, retrieve our luggage and our pater, and work our way curbside.  The shuttle shows up almost immediately, and we are back in Dad and Karen's condo by 10:30AM.  Trip over.

Home, Wherever It May Be

I'm on Southwest Flight 918 to Oakland in a nearly new Boeing 737 800 series.  I know this because the crew, no doubt relieved to be in a clean plane, have told us so at least four times, and we've just left the gate.  It feels huge and now features better air flow, a new style of overhead bin, increased headroom, and even has wi-fi service available.  It is a wonderful improvement.  The threesome to my right talk about their shared devout Christianity while the funny young man to my right makes a crack about the new plane.  "Hope they've worked all the bugs out before flying this one.  Hope you've made your peace with Jayee-sus Chrast."   I don't think he can hear the conversation on the other side of the aisle.  I crack up.

I've missed my girls.  I've missed my dog and cat, and I've even missed the chickens.  I look forward to a good night's sleep and the comfort of my bungalow. The abundance that spills into excessiveness that made up the last five days will be once again replaced with gratitude and simplicity.  What will never be replaced is the love that I observed between my dad and his loyal wife, and among the five of us as we share the never-spoken truth that every moment is made more precious by the pernicious intrusion of Alzheimer's into our lives. 

November 21, 2012

Some nights I fight off sleep as though I were frightened by it. Sometimes I fight off sleep because the world as seen through my window is too beautiful to shut out. Tonight is a bit of both; I am intensely aware of my mortality. I have so much yet to do, and I will do it, so much to see, and will see it, so much to say, and will say it. There is half a moon in the sky to my right, and the long reflections of red, green, and white lights on the calm water of the river. Cities in the distance are wearing their diamonds. The world as seen through my window is too beautiful to shut out.

The Road Ahead

Tomorrow morning is the first IEP to set Kate's path into adult living. I'm being grabbed by so many emotions, but mostly I am wishing that Jeff were here to make these decisions with me. There have been so many life-changing decisions that I have made these last ten years with only the memory of what he would want: moving to Northern California to get Kate closer to specialists; having her brain surgery; moving her to a board and care home; having the vagus nerve stimulator implanted. Living another 20 or even 30 years isn't enough time to care for Kate. This should not be a burden placed upon Dana, although I know she doesn't see it that way. Making decisions for an adult who will be a child for her entire life is more wrenching than I ever dreamed it would be. And to not be able to provide for her the way I want to is most terrible of all. I feel helpless and frightened and very alone, just as I have before all of those decisions.

Dear Creator, take care of my girl who, although she cannot care for herself, has inspired so many of us to care for those with special needs, those innocent ones who through no fault of their own need so much more of us.

For jiingo geshik

Watching people die in little tiny pieces,
Little pieces that go unnoticed or
Appear to be confetti as they tumble by.
I never saw the fragments until after
The final piece drifted aloft without a sound.

String Theory

Gray sky gray river gray mountains beyond

A red hyphen on the corrugated surface

Of the incoming tide briefly

Joining my string of time and space and thought

Before the kayak slips away and our strings move on.

Self Control; Control of Self

Every day presents a new crossroads, new decisions to be made, new options to be considered.  Every day I have the opportunity to make my life different from the life I had the day before.  Every day that I choose to remain the same, I affirm my prior decisions.  Every time I make a different choice, I affirm my creativity.  The possibilities are infinite, the time is limited, and I must choose wisely.

Prologue

I cannot go on avoiding some of the unpleasant perceptions of my childhood.  I refer to them as “perceptions” to allow forgiveness to those involved on the chance that my childish self erred.  Since those perceptions permeate and distort my perceptions in my adulthood, and since I will soon be sixty years old, I must stop to deconstruct those perceptions and clear the path for the next twenty years or so.  To that end, the anecdotes begin with The Time She Laughed at My Book.

            I don’t actually remember when I began writing, but I think it must have been shortly after I learned to read fluently.  I was about five when I could pick up a children’s book and clearly see the movie in my head, even when I read without moving my lips.  My earliest memories involve books, reading, and storytelling, just like those of millions of other biblio- and logophiles.  I had plenty of time to read because I was often ill with asthma, bronchitis, allergies, and whatever childhood disease of the month was floating through the late 1950’s.  I remember reading under the blankets with a flashlight, only to have both the flashlight and the book confiscated by a frustrated parent.  I remember lying in the darkness of my bed retelling the stories to siblings who shared the bedroom but did not yet read.  I exceeded the maximum number of books every week when I went to the library check out desk, but continued to try to take home more than just five volumes.

I especially remember the two weeks when I was seven lying in a darkened room while measles took its turn in my spindly body.  I was desperately bored and wanted to read while confined to the cave of a bedroom off the kitchen.  “If you read when you have red measles, you will go blind.”  As I couldn’t think of anything worse, I gave up the blue cloth-bound copy of An Illustrated Book of Children’s Literature that I had tucked between the twin bed and the wall.  I entertained myself instead by making up my own stories.

            Like all the other eight-year-old girls I knew then and many of the eight-year-old girls I’ve met subsequently, I was crazy about horses.  I read every book that mentioned horses, both fiction and nonfiction, that could be found on the shelves of first the classroom and then the school library.  I don’t remember if National Velvet first entered my world as a book or as a film, but either way I whipped my imaginary Pie over every jump and along every backstretch of the Grand National whenever I was outdoors.  I sometimes rode in the house while watching television (Walt Disney Presents had some great horse stories back then) or when I was so inspired by the words on the page that I was no longer able to be still.

            My book began, “’Sal, Sal!  Come in for supper now!’  Mrs. Masson called from the open screen door.”  I had spent hours at my parents’ little black manual Royal typewriter. I remember typing every word laboriously, frustrated that my fingers didn’t know their way around the keyboard fast enough to keep up with the images in my head.  I knew I was writing a book, and to that end, I used carbon paper to capture a second copy for my future readers.  It took forever.  In fact, Sal’s family name became Masson instead of Mason because of an early typographical error. Erasing both the original manuscript and the carbon copy would create a mess, and I had already started over once.  Books didn’t have mistakes in them.  I didn’t know about double-spacing, but I did know about indenting and proper punctuation, including in dialogue, and I knew that each paragraph had to tell its own little story.  We hadn’t mastered those mechanics in school; I knew them because I had seen the pattern repeated dozens and dozens of times in books.  Since all the different authors used the same patterns, I knew that to be an author, too I must use them.

            I distinctly remember walking into the kitchen with its clear birch cabinets and trendy turquoise oven and cook top and handing the first chapter of my book, all three pages, to my mother to read.  I have no recollection of what she said after she stopped laughing, nor do I know why she laughed.  As an adult, I have played through that particular perception repeatedly, inserting my mature knowledge into the situation: she was delighted; she didn’t know how painful ill-timed laughter could be; she was caught off-guard by this precocious skinny child with asthma and couldn’t help herself; she was mocking.  My perception at the time, and to this day, is the last.  From that time on, I only shared my work on demand.  I don’t recall writing any more stories after that except for those required for school assignments, although I might have.  I wrote funny poetry later on, things that were intended to rouse laughter, including a self-published collection of silly rhymes based on our fifth grade study of A Child’s Garden of Verses.  The collection was called, “A Birdseye View of Vegetables.”

A mushroom is really a kind of a fungus

A fact you know doubt have been told,

However, I’ve found there are many among us

Who think it’s a kind of a mold.

But I’m glad they are called what they are

Because of a dish that some people make,

For it’s nicer to say, “On your meat you have mushroom sauce,”

Than, “Hey, you have mold on your steak!”

There were some about broccoli, peas, and one about asparagus that was already self-censored because I wanted to write about how it made your pee smell, but I didn’t dare.

            I wrote a few short stories between marriages (there were three), and

I began writing again in earnest during my third husband’s premature and drawn-out death by cancer.  During that hellish time, I wrote what would later be referred to as a blog, a series of nightly email messages to a list of dozens who forwarded it around the world.  For a while I filled journal after journal with observations that reek of grief, self-pity, and booze.  I have gone through periodic dry spells when I am either struck wordless by depression or else too undisciplined to get to work on time, let alone something as demanding as writing.

            These last several weeks, however, as I begin to comprehend that I’m on the last leg of my steeplechase, and as I grieve the slow leave-taking of the witty father I love, and as I read the wonderful words of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, I know that it is time for me to write.  It has always been time for me to write.  This time there is a book, and this time people will laugh when I want them to laugh.  My writing will be faithful to all of my perceptions, mundane, triumphant, and tragic, because they are the only truth I know.

            

Teeth

The 20-Teens at 60(copyright 2012):  Teeth

            I am really getting worried about my teeth.  I had great teeth as a kid:  gleaming, straight and with no cavities. My parents were young and dental insurance was hard to come by, so dental care consisted of twice daily brushing, not eating candy, and regular visits from the Tooth Fairy.  When I was about six, I remember going to the dentist to have my upper baby teeth pulled because the next set had taken its position at full attention behind them.  I don’t remember much about that episode other than it was really scary, really painful, and cost my parents a large amount of their meager income.

Since then I have been haunted by nightmares of losing my teeth, and as I became an adult, those dreadful dreams were set in increasingly humiliating locales.  As a new teacher, I not only dreamt every August of being unclothed behind the podium, (aka “The Teacher’s Nightmare”), but in it my teeth waggled insecurely in their sockets. Facing a class of grinning second graders could send me home with a panic attack, so instead I taught high school.  In my slumbers, I’d be giving some profound presentation at an international conference when I would be reduced to mumbling and forced to send my fingers into my mouth to retrieve yet another lost bicuspid.  When I could finally afford excellent dental insurance, I used it regularly to prevent the possibility of either a repeat of the extraction or the manifestation of the night terrors.

Like millions of others in this wonderful, inequitable, yet equal nation of ours, I find myself in my sixties after decades in the workforce without the funds or the insurance (pension plans dropped coverage decades ago) to take care of my teeth when I most need the care.  Years of enthusiastic brushing led to weakened enamel (who knew?).  Old fillings are giving way, requiring root canals and crowns.  My smile is still bright and sincere, but now I am awakened by dreams of tooth loss that are too close to reality to be ignored.  Every person I see during my daily adventures who lacks any piece of the complete dental mosaic inspires me to bite down gently and inhale through my teeth to make sure they are all still there.  Any hint of dental pain sends me to debating the pros and cons of tooth loss versus financial disaster.

So what is to be done?  I ask this on both a micro- and a macro- level:  what can be done to help aging Americans in today’s unexpected circumstances to keep their teeth as long as possible? Medicare won’t cover routine dental care but will pay if a botched extraction results in infection.  It will cover dental care if the lack of dental care prevents treatment of an unrelated severe condition (like___???).  In other words, Medicare won’t pay for prevention, but it’ll cover the things that are about to kill you.  Some friends and family have gone to Mexico for their dental work, but many of us who worked so hard and have lost so much in The Great Recession will simply eat softer food.  I wonder if there is any chance we can get care from Bernie Madoff’s prison dentist?

I will continue to be grateful for the affordable (just) dental plan that sends me to a smudgy office in a nearby strip mall.  If it comes down to saving a tooth or making a house payment, however, I may have to really ponder.  My smile has helped me to teach, to learn, to love, and to face life’s tragedies; it only makes sense to continue to take care of my best feature first.  And while it is true that one cannot live in a grin, you sure as heck can’t chew with a house.  In the meantime, I’ll continue to brush (and floss), not eat candy, and hope that our national medical and dental care dilemmas can be resolved before The Tooth Fairy starts visiting again.

More on Homelessness

As a few of you know, I took in a homeless individual whom I had known for almost 30 years.  During the seven months he was here, I learned a great deal about homeless culture (he had been on and off the streets for the last 10 years California, Idaho, and Hawaii).  He spent some time with many of the local waterfront homeless and shared their stories with me.  The culture is fascinating and is far more complex than simply folks who are down on their luck.  

I spent days at shelters for homeless individuals talking to directors and to the clients.  "Do-gooders," "churchies," "Junior Leaguers," or "charity ladies" were mocked unless they were in attendance day in and day out, cleaned up puke, and personally handed out the food.  Shelters take families first, then single individuals; shelters are exclusively faith-based as per the political preference for such facilities, and as such have requirements like the ones previously cited.  Homeless individuals who are disabled refer to their monthly support checks as their "crazy money," i.e., funding because of their diagnosed mental illness.  All of the mentally ill with whom my friend and I had contact self-medicated with non-prescribed substances.  Those who do not qualify for crazy money or Social Security (all who were eligible drew their SS at 62), were designated as panhandlers.  There is a strict hierarchy for preferred sleeping areas.  I will not share in this forum how they disposed of their waste (dumpster diving is not recommended unless it's a restaurant dumpster.  Do not open boxes you find in other dumpsters). 

Homeless individuals create small cohorts for protection and sustenance, each group consisting of crazy money recipients, recyclers, panhandlers, and ideally someone willing to turn tricks, and a SS recipient.  This provides a regular source of income for the group until about the third week of every month.  At that point, depending on their individual needs, they may turn to soup kitchens and church meals.  My friend was a lifelong vegetarian (whodathunk) and was forced from time to time to eat ground beef, pork, chicken, or turkey as part of the food provided.  It upset him, but his choice was violating his beliefs or suffering malnutrition and starvation.  

Burglary was restricted to checking for unlocked doors and open windows, so-called "crimes of convenience."  Since the entire community numbs the pain with their individual substance of choice, the idea of planning anything other than who would be panhandling for the day was out of the question.  Whenever possible, shoplifting was done by all members of the group, even those who had once been middle class homeowners, business owners, and family men, like my friend.  The attitude was, "They shoulda taken better precautions."

Homeless cohorts will do their best to protect the weakest in the group, but my friend, the oldest at 68, was often left to be beaten and robbed of his money by other younger or better armed groups.  Protection was best guaranteed by providing alcohol (or drugs if one had access) to the group when money was available, but sometimes the memories were short.  Women must have a male protector even if they are lesbians as the violence ignores sexuality.  

Rehab programs are referred to as "spin dries," and are, according to my friend, completely ineffectual.  Attendance at AA and NA meetings, whether court-ordered, shelter-ordered, or family-ordered, usually end with a shared 40 (40 ounce beer) on the way home from the meeting (at least the meetings on Tennessee Street).  There are several conveniently located liquor stores on the way back to the waterfront.

Being cold is treated by passing out.  Doesn't take but one pint of Takxa (sp?) vodka ($1.95) to put you under if you've been drinking beer or smoking week all day.  It apparently gets one through the coldest part of the night, and then it's time to go recycling, checking doors, parking lots like the Bay Terrace, hitting up restaurant dumpsters for food or wine, etc. until dawn.  After dawn, the job in most cities, if you're not a panhandler, is to keep moving so you don't get cited for vagrancy.  Here in Vallejo, that isn't a problem.  

Sometimes, if things have been really bad for a while, an individual may choose to get arrested to provide her/himself with the proverbial "three hots and a cot."  If one is lucky and chronic drunkenness or drug use is determined, one is sent to "spin dry" where health can be somewhat restored and one can contact family if one chooses. 

This is just a synopsis of the pages of notes I have taken from personal observance and first-hand narrative.  It is a much bigger problem than creating a tent city.  The LA experiment was well-intended, but created even greater problems.  We are (thank god) not LA or SF or any other metropolis, but our issues are proportionally as big.  

I mean no disrespect to those who dedicate time to helping the homeless, and I know that for at least a few days of the month, their help is greatly appreciated by the members of the targeted community.  But the bottom line is:  something must be done.  Current interventions do not work.  Is this a law enforcement issue?  Is this a human rights issue?  Is this a morality issue?  Is this a substance abuse issue?  I think it can be agreed that on some level or another it is at least a public health and quite possibly a public safety issue.  The question is:  what next?

June 17, 2012

The cannons thundered from the waterfront less than a block away.  The dog looked up in concern, turning to her for reassurance that all was still well.  The haze over the bay had been lingering for days now, and the endless and repetitive song of a nearby mockingbird was becoming part of the ambient sound scape.  Occasionally the recently-fledged peregrine falcons would fly over, crying out like the sophomores they were to hunting.  All four hens in the garden continued their scratching and pecking as though the small squadron above were hummingbirds in the jasmine.  Apparently, the falcons were as harmless as the cannon fire.  It was Pirate Festival weekend, and sun burnt buccaneers were swarming the ferry terminal staging swordfights, walking planks, and groping their buxom wenches.  Traditionally, there was a great consumption of ale as well.

            She had a small desire to join the festivities, but felt obligated to do at least fifteen minutes or one page of writing in order to keep her recent vow to become a writer.  She changed the formatting on the word processing program to “double space,” but it made little difference.  “Anne Lamott I am not,” she wrote,

“Nor ever shall it be so.  I am instead an empty head,” and she ran out of thought.  It rhymed with “Lamott,” but she needed a rhyme for “be so,” so she gave up.

            She looked out the window.  The river was frequently her muse, as was the mountain, as well as her strangely functional family.  To call them a muse seemed an oxymoron.  Do muses cause such frustration?  Do they hurt your feelings like that?  Which muse is responsible for humiliation and depression?  Is it the same one that provides the sense of humor?  One of them is surely responsible for perseverance, as evidenced by her continual confidence in her ability to be a good wife in the face of the two divorces.  It was this gift of denial that had kept her from stepping off of one of the conveniently located bridges here in the Bay Area.  She was absolutely certain that there was a book, or a play, or a decent poem in her somewhere.  The challenge was to find it and release it without losing control of what it might bring with it.

            While toweling her hair earlier, she had thought about naming her next dog Yorick.  She was amazed that she had remembered that.  Ann Lamott carried around index cards.  She could never find hers.  She wished she had a tape recorder built into her head for conveniently taking down ideas.  They came at her from all directions at all times of the day.  Lately the ideas were bombarding her activities like the cannons bombarding the pirate schooner down the river.  There were no cannonballs, but a whole lot of smoke and noise. 

            She left a message with her therapist; it was time for an appointment.   According to Ann Lamott, this feeling of either impending or encompassing insanity is common among writers.  According to the many authors she read, ugly families were too.  Augustin Burroughs and the Sedaris siblings kind of had the corner on that market.  Besides, at sixty, she still lived in fear of her mother’s fury if any of the family secrets were liberated.  She didn’t want to be hateful, she just wanted to be truthful, but she knew her mother wouldn’t get it.  She also knew that her sister, from whom she hadn’t heard in days, wouldn’t speak to her again.  Another syllogism of her life:  if she told the truth about the relations who rarely spoke to her anyway, she’d never hear from them again.  “Why do I even care?”  She hoped she didn’t have to wait long for the appointment.

            She suddenly realized she had written two full pages.  She could get out of her chair now.  She had accomplished something besides showering, cleaning her desk, and vowing to write.  She had actually written.  How about that.  Did that make her a writer, or like the pirate costumes, would the entity be retired after the weekend?

            

My Relationship with the Sun

            Prior to my skin cancer diagnosis, my relationship with the sun was very laissez faire.  I loved being outdoors, but was never one of those teenaged girls who broiled in baby oil all summer.  I played in the sun as a child, worked in the sun from time to time as an adult, and never considered the sun to be anything other than the provider of beneficent energy.  I only remember one summer, the last one as a classroom teacher, when I spent every day at the beach and developed a really deep tan, believing that tan pudginess was better than white pudginess.  I have no idea what, if anything, the sun considered me to be.

            Now, however, I find myself having to avoid exposure to direct sunlight.  It reminds me of the days when my parents would order me to stay away from certain friends whom I thought were fun and they thought were dangerous. I haven’t yet completely automatized my habits now post-cancer.  I purchased two fabulous floppy hats, and I sometimes forget to wear them.  I have sunscreen that makes my skin feel horrible, so I don’t put it on every day.  Now, six months after the procedure to remove the basal cell invasion, I can hardly see the scar, so I don’t have the visual prompt to cover up.  Besides, seeing the scar involves looking in the mirror and if I’m not going to work, I rarely look in the mirror.

            The sun and I have had to work out a new agreement.  It goes something like this:  the sun continues to rise and set, providing warmth and energy and light, and I am reminded by its presence that I must protect my light olive skin.  I hope that all the people I love will develop a new agreement with those things that give them pleasure but cause them potential harm:  sun, cigarettes, alcohol.  I want to be here, sitting in the shade enjoying the day with those people for many more years, my relationship with the sun not withstanding.

Not Beautiful Enough

I will never be more than "cute," so I must be the smartest.
I will never be more than "attractive," so I must be the wittiest.
I will never be more than "interesting," so I must be the best informed.
I will never be more than "present," so I must be the most passionate.

I've spent 55 years working hard to be smart, witty, informed, passionate, and I have exhausted myself and those around me in the process.

It would have been less costly to simply have accepted my sameness and to have lived a more ordinary life.

Naaaaah...

Emails to Heaven

I just sent some photos to my aunt via email and for just a flash, I thought of sending them to my grandmother, too.  However, my grandmother has been gone for over five years now, and I do not have an email address for her in her heaven.  The inspiration reminds me of the last six months I spent in the house that Jeff and I had shared.  At least once an evening the computer printer would spontaneously pull up a blank sheet of paper from the tray and run it through the rollers, leaving no marks.  At first I would check the paper, hoping against all logic for a message from Jeff.  Silly, I know, but the computer and printer were such a part of our lives those last years that it somehow seemed plausible.  He wrote his papers for school on that computer before the headache necessitated his withdrawal from the program.  I sent my nightly missives beginning with his first hospitalization, continuing even beyond that day in April when he finally left us.  Kate learned to talk, and count, and spell thanks to the computer's endless patience and consistent repetition.  I waited for a hard copy from Jeff for several years, even after I had bought a new printer.  I do not think I would be surprised if one actually did appear someday.  What a story that could become.

It would be wonderful to have an email address to God.  I'd have a whole series of daily items for which to thank Her, many questions to ask, and the occasional complaint to register.  I'd also want to let Nana and Papa know that I think of them daily and to tell Lenny what fine young women his daughters have become.  I want to say "hi" to Uncle Stan.

I desperately want to tell Jeff how beautiful Kate has grown, and how Dana, Kim, and I have done our very best to care for her.  I want to hear him say that it was the best thing to move her to a board and care home and for me to abandon my career, and that it was okay for me to take the last few years to attempt to heal and begin again.  I want to let him know that the seizures have gotten worse, and I want to cry with him over the real possibility of Kate joining him long before I do.  I want to tell him how his mom has stayed in touch with me even though she's had a stroke, and how Kate's other grandparents have welcomed me into the family after all the other relatives turned their backs.  I want to send him a message, and get his quick reciprocal response, about my unending love for him and about how much I miss Us.  Ten years is a long time with no correspondence, no arm on my shoulder, no joyful, sweaty lovemaking, no foot at the end of the bed.

I will instead continue to send photos to my aunties, to my siblings, to my mother-in-law, to my dad and Karen, and to grab every hug and kiss I can get from my daughters, my friends, and my extended family.  As I sit every day watching the sky spreading out over the bay, the mountains, and the ocean, I continue to feel that just as I can send a message to an acquaintance in Indonesia, I can somehow get my hands on the address of the server in heaven ;-)  Then no one would rest in peace, would they?

Morning

I have grown familiar with the morning sounds my house makes as I sit in the Hawk's Nest to write. The east wall pops as the sun warms its bones. The southern window snaps a bit as it relaxes into its frame for the day after hours of standing rigid in the cold. The clock strikes the hour and the half hour to remind me that there is a world beyond this window.

Things I am definitely over as of March 1, 2012

Balsamic vinegar.  After a while, it just tastes like tar.

Static electricity everywhere, all the time.  Try to find 100% cotton clothing and household linens on a limited income.  It all contains at least 1% of something that causes static in every environ regardless of the weather.

Along those lines, I cite microfiber, a notorious cause of static electricity.  It should not hurt to take off your bathrobe.

Working full time at a job that is no longer exciting.  Considering my age and the state of the economy these last few years, it makes much more sense to do a few part-time jobs that I really like.

The smell of cigarette smoke both fresh and stale.  It makes me cough and wheeze. 

People who seem to believe that it is more important to have guns than to keep young people safe.

Snails.  They eat my vegetables.  What is their purpose in the greater scheme of things?

Underwear with the seams on the inside.  Who the hell thought that was better than having the seams away from the skin?

Vacuuming, at least until spring.

The Homeless Encampment

The following post was a response to an email strand regarding a recently cleared homeless encampment in the neighborhood.  The prior message made reference to the Vietnam era vets and others who found re-entry from war impossible.  I had acquired another perspective from my own research.

Thoughtful commentary.  I remember those days as well. 

However, many other homeless individuals are addicts who have given up or chosen not to sober up.  I have had first hand experience of this with someone whom I once loved dearly.  He told me many, many stories of why most of the people he knew remained, by choice, on the streets.  I interviewed a few others for material for a book.  The stories were mostly the same.

The subculture fluctuated between incredibly peaceful and terribly harrowing.  Individuals would occasionally go to a charity-sponsored rehab, what's referred to as a "spin dry," then go back out to the street.  Many of them suffered from mental illness, particularly schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder.  Meth and alcohol were the drugs of choice as they were easily available, inexpensive, and alleviated the symptoms and/or eased the pain.  Monthly "crazy money" and social security checks were sometimes shared among specific small groups, but usually the recipient had been robbed or swindled out of those funds by the third day of the payday bender.  That left them eating donated food, what they could find in the garbage, or could could be swiped from a convenience store.  There were no big crimes committed, primarily because none of them could develop and implement a plan.  Instead there was lifting of unattended objects, pilfering of an unlocked car, grabbing clean clothes from the temporarily unwatched dryer at the laundromat.  There was always money, somehow, for a bottle of cheap vodka for a nightcap and the requisite "forty" for breakfast, even if the bottles had to be shared.

Panhandling was left to the experts.  I was told that there would be one or two, usually men, who would ask for "change for breakfast" or "a couple bucks for gas" with success.  So when the "crazy money" or other government support was gone, it was the panhandlers' turn to provide until the next check arrived.  Of the group of 15 or so that I observed, only two were Vietnam vets.  The rest were a wide range of ages with a wide variety of diagnoses, but one thing in common:  an inability and often unwillingness to live within the agreements that the rest of us call "society."  It is not easy to live the "American Dream," especially now.  Just ask the kids currently under 25; I feel we will see more and not fewer such encampments unless some changes are made to our schools, our social services, and our health care.

Maybe I ought to get to writing that book...

Loving an Alcoholic

Loving an alcoholic sometimes seems

Like having to endure that person's death

Over and over and over and over again.

One day, however, one way or another,

There will be a final day of mourning.

February 17, 2012

Today's soundscape has a new virtuoso, one I haven't heard in a long time. Somewhere nearby a woodpecker is adding his staccato percussion to the morning music.

"When You're in Debt" with apologies to Mr. Sondheim

"When you're in debt, go in debt all the way, 

From your first TV set to best seats at the play! 

When you're in debt, let them piss, let them moan,  

You can charge it all off except your student loan! 

You can't find a job, there's nothing in your bank vault; 

You feel like a slob and now the house ain't worth salt: 

STRATEGIC DEFAULT!"

Wrote this is September. I must remember to finish it before the recession is over...

January 31, 2012

It's one of those mornings when it looks like the world is wrapped in a gray flannel sheet. There is no dimensional quality to the view beyond Mare Island. The birds are silent and still except for the occasional crow. He flies along the marshes, but even he has silenced his voice in honor of the quiet morning.