Paradox

Like most Fridays today at 1,

I attend the current events discussion group here, a lively interchange among 60 or so residents far more tuned into national and international events than this writer.  They are mostly armchair experts proudly  tuned in to the breaking news, so in order to appear coherent I pay special attention to the media on Friday mornings. I've even subscribed to the Santa Rosa Press Democrat in order to read the editorials. Its been just about a year since I purchased this modest home in sleepy Oakmont Village which is about to celebrate its 50th anniversary as a retirement community. Who would have predicted I would be more worldly informed in this rural setting?
Whereas the daily news in Oakland centered around muggings and driveby-shootings and gang wars, the local news up here reports a goat got loose from some one's yard, and the dates the various grape harvests are predicted to begin. Its a different world. Of course the international news is the same, today's headline being the riots in Cairo. I feast on the debate, even though the democrats outnumber the republicans 40 to one, so its a fairly one-sided dialogue. The rest of the week I busy myself with visiting guests (many this week including my realtor and her family from Oakland, Catherine with guest Jaymi from Colorado, Michele from San Francisco,  Beth and Barb from Alameda, and Jac and Valerie from France. I'm not lacking in social stimuli.
Every day I admire my garden, picking up buckets of Asian pears which some critter knocks down every night, and hauling them to the food bank. I also am busy making plans for garden revisions. Please come and visit if you haven't already! And painterly friends, there is much to photograph and paint!

Fireside Chat

FDR isn't the only one to do fireside chats---now I can too, for my new gas insert arrived yesterday making my whole living room and indeed my whole being glow with the lovely patina of the copper surround.  Now I have to get busy and  create some paintings with the same scrumptious color. Perhaps dark, dark sunflowers? My new flat files will be coming in two weeks replacing the ones wrecked in the warehouse flood.  Then I can organize my paint studio and get to painting.
The past three weeks have been a medical scramble for me. Tired of me complaining of feeling puny my primary doc ordered some blood tests which showed my heart overworking, probably due to my lifelong atrial fib. I'm in the process of having some other heart tests, some not so fun. My good friend and Oakmont neighbor Sue Dibble who first encouraged me to move up here has been hauling me to and from appointments. What would I do without Sue and partner Jeanne? They get seven stars for devotion. Sue, a retired nurse, informs me that my pee is probably still radioactive from Wednesday's test.  I find that fascinating, do you?
In my side yard is an Asian Pear of impressive size probably nesting five hundred not quite ripe fruit. At the base of the tree there appears to be a small hole in the fence separating me from my neighbor (a renter I do not know). Each morning I find 15-20  Asian pears on the ground, perhaps ten with bite marks. Clearly whatever creature is doing the damage also rejects them as not quite ripe. Is it a racoon, a fox (many here), a skunk, or a rat? I wouldn't mind sharing if whatever it is would pick up after himself.  I'm thinking of going out in the dark and peeing by the hole in the fence. Perhaps then the interloper would get his pinkies wet and

 like my copper fireplace, glow in the dark.

Trayvon Martin (cont.)

     Though he was from humble origins, my father had become a successful business man.  Like me, he may have never seen a black person until the war brought other races to Seattle. This was before the days of television, of course. But growing up in the Rockies near the Mexico border he must have encountered many Indian and Hispanic people, though I was not aware of that at the time.  Raised in poverty, he probably experienced his own kind of discrimination. 

      One of my favorite bedtime stories was the true adventure of when he was a very young man working alone laying telephone cable in rural Mexico. He rode into an empty town at dusk. Not a soul stirred. Then on closer examination he discovered the trees in the zocolo were decorated with dead bodies: men, women and children, all  hanging from nooses. "This must be the work of Pancho Villa and his men" he concluded. He rode out fast, learning the next day that this particular town was suspected of colluding with the government, and indeed Pancho Villa's men chosen them to set an example. It was a week or so later when almost dark, he saw a campfire in the desert. He was warmly welcomed and even fed by the men gathered around. A while later other riders came in, and it turned out to be Pancho Villa himself, who extended a warm welcome as well.  When Daddy saw how much he was worshipped by the other riders he was puzzled. How could a slaughterer of women and children be held in such high esteem? It was the kind of  puzzle we often discussed.  

     Back to me, age 12, and the sailor on the bus experience. “Daddy,” I said, after finishing whatever I’d cooked for dinner with our allotted ration stamps, “something happened on the bus coming home today”. I explained the whole incident, including my lingering discomfort. “Did I do the right thing?”  A significant silence followed.  Even my dog, Mike, looked pensive.  It was then

I peered at Daddy’s tired eyes behind his trifocals and saw them softly watering.  Finally he looked at me gently and said softly, “It’s ok, dear.” “Just don’t ever let it happen again.” 

My Reaction to the Trayvon Martin Case

This is the story of my first encounter with  a black-skinned person and the confusion and humiliation I experienced because of it. (Surely he did too.)

The year was 1942. Prior to that time the area I lived in Seattle was populated with white folks like me, the preponderance being of Scandinavian origin.  My roots however were English on my mother's side and Colorado cowboy on my father's. Often I felt inferior because I was different. It never bothered my glamorous young mother, however. She was a party girl and often entertained strange men at home when my father was working. Such was her reputation that when the other mothers of my friends formed a Blue-Bird group I was excluded. It hurt. One might say that was my introduction to discrimination.

The only person I ever met who looked visibly different was a gypsy foretune-teller working in a tea house in Vancouver. Years later I was to learn she was really English made up to look like a gypsy to fool the customers. I was crest-fallen. No wonder the glamorous fortune she predicted in my tea leaves never came to be.

In my school were two children of Japanese origin. How com I never noticed their skin was a different color than mine? Perhaps because they were shy and inconspicuous? Their modest home was on a skinny lot near the steep top of Dravis Street hill, and their garden, arranged in terraces,  glowed with color year-round, outdoing all the others. Everyone envied it and marveled at the construction. I hardly noticed the day the children disappeared from school. Taken, with their parents, to a relocation camp I imagine. What I did notice was how the beautiful gardens and terraces disintegrated to a crumbly weed-patch. I felt a lump in my chest.

With the war came workers and military personnel from all over the country.  My bus to and from school on Queen Anne Hill required three transfers even passing by a busy naval installation, Pier 91. The trip was a little scary for a twelve year old. Today Pier 91 is the berthing place of giant tour ships but at that time it was just an industrial pier framing, on a clear day, Mt Rainier.

Here is my memory: Gathering rain clouds colored the air over the harbor light grey. I was sitting next to the window on the Elliott Bay side, about half way back in the bus. I remember the very seat today, so profound was the experience. At the Ballard Interchange a young  sailor with dark skin boarded. I more than stared; I gaped. I had never seen a black-skinned person. I deduced he was what we then called a negro, although I had never seen one except in pictures.. His sailor uniform with white middy looked sharp and fit snugly. He seemed young and tentative. I imagine he was only 17 or 18. With extreme  care he took the empty seat next to me on the almost full bus, being careful to avoid any bodily touch. We both looked straight ahead, never making eye contact. I felt a growing discomfort and a feeling of bewilderment.

"Was it wrong for him to have sat down next to me?" I had no idea. But soon I noticed other bus passengers squirming, some even staring at him or me or both of us. A sense of tension grew. "What are the rules?" I wondered. I tried to melt into the side wall of the bus putting more distance between us, but of course that was not possible.  We had gone about half a mile before I could not bear the tension. I gave up, and slipped past his knees to stand in the aisle a few feet forward.  There were no other empty seats on the bus. Still, so many eyes were focussed on me. I flushed, my insides squirming. I could not wait till dinner time when my dad would get home from work and I could ask him what I should have done.

To be continued next week.

What Makes Friends?

What circumstances occur to make two persons previously unknown to one another become bonded as close friends? More than accident, I suggest. Many times it is a shared experience, one of unusual or memorable quality. For instance, I remain bonded to my freshman sorority roommates Shirley and Dolores some 66 years later because we shared the same big life transitions together.
In the case of Nancy who is visiting me now from Denver it was humor more than anything else that brought us together. Nancy is one of those people who was blessed with a funny bone parallel to her spine. Interacting with her is always such fun.
The circumstance that brought us together was attendance at an Elderhostel in Trinidad, Colorado eighteen years ago. Nancy had just retired from teaching second grade, whereas I, her elder, was still shrinking heads as well as learning to paint.  Nancy picked this Elderhostel because she wanted to learn more about the Santa Fe Trail (which ended in Trinidad) whereas I wanted to learn about the small town in which I believed my father was born.
As it turned out the content of the Elderhostel was wonderful. What was stressful was where we were assigned to hang our hats. Our large group of men and women attending were housed in the aging dormitory of the local junior college, women on the first floor, men on the second.  Clearly these halls had seen too many years of college freshmen. The walls of the gang toilets and showers were crawling with cockroaches. To confuse matters, the facilities were reversed: the men's john on the first floor and the women's on the second. At night we would put out a sign on the door reversing the genders to shorten the walking distance, however we were forever mixing up the order.
In the midst of all the complaining I sought out the company of one other participant, Nancy, who turned every challenge into a humorous adventure.  Toward the end of the experience, on a bus trip,  I stepped off the edge of a hill in the dark, badly twisting my ankle. The only surgeon at the tiny local Catholic hospital was famed all over the country for performing sex change operations (I'd seen him on 60 Minutes). I chose to avoid the hospital and limp around the last few days, learning after I got home that I had seven bones broken.
Like me, Nancy loved her Mac, and over the last decade we have emailed each other almost daily.  I've travelled to Denver to enjoy her hospitality twice and she has visited me in California numerous times, this being her first visit to Oakmont. She is so easy to entertain for she loves to go out to restaurants to eat. You can see how intent she is on every morsel.

Yesterday after Weight Watchers (we are both struggling often straying life members) we skipped the salad place and opted for Goji's Kitchen two blocks away where we feasted on grilled prawns and rice noodles. Who knows what yummy restaurant we will find today.  I am so lucky to have Nancy in my life.

Celebration and Elation

Eighty-three year. Egads. What fun. Last Sunday my dear housekeeper Kelly surprised me with a special birthday cake from a fancy French bakery here in Santa Rosa. It must have been superb because there was only one piece left after my fifteen house guests left.  I had it for breakfast Monday morning along with other leftovers including two chocolate dipped strawberries.  Yum.
Checking the scale Tuesday I groaned and determined to reenroll in Weight Watchers, which I did Thursday. Like life, the scale goes up and down, often but not always by one's own efforts.
The supreme court decisions re DOMA and Prop 8 are affecting so many lives, including many in my lesbian family. For some its a complicated decision with multiple legal and tax implications. Old friends Gayle and Marilyn who will celebrate their 20th anniversary in December spontaneously decided to marry and last night at Rainbow Women a lesbian couple who have been together for 47 years announced their marriage right here on the site..
I don't envy the CPA's and tax preparers who are going to have to figure all this out come tax time next year.  It makes me wonder if Lee and I would have done the same, although neither of us would have expected same sex marriage to be legal in our lifetimes.
Below are pictures from Sunday: the new gang of friends at my potluck, neighbor and good new friend Joyce and I, and old friend Jennifer Chandler (just back from Bhutan) and the birthday girl.

Reflections on Bucket Lists

Ask me "What's on my bucket list?" and I do a double take. I know folks mean, without saying succinctly, what is it I want to do before I die? Since my 83rd birthday is coming up Sunday and I have invited many new friends to a potluck, I expect someone might ask me that very question. I know they mean well, but it frustrates me since I come up with zero. Usually I scramble for an answer and end up stuttering.
First of all, I never heard of the term until the terrific 2007 movie with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman.  Secondly, what it implies to me is when am I going to kick the bucket and/or what will I regret on  my death bed (assuming one has the wherewithal to
reflect such trivia on his/her death bed.)
There are several explanations for the historical meaning of the term, kick the bucket,  one being a method of suicide in which one stands on a bucket with a noose around their neck and kicks the bucket to complete the scenario. Surely that is not the meaning assigned by kindly inquirers.
When I was in my late 40's my bucket list (though I did not know the term yet) consisted of one goal: ride on the back of someone's motorcycle in the Dykes on Bikes in the Gay Parade, streaming purple ribbons. Then someone gave me my first ride on a motorcycle and it was so scary I chucked that aspiration.
In earlier decades I would write yearly goals, which invariably included "loose ten pounds". Other common listings included make more time to play with the dogs, clean my study, answer letters to relatives, etc. I would make a stab at these.
But in the current decade my wish list gets shorter and shorter.
This last six months it has centered around getting unpacked and my taxes done, neither of which is accomplished, though I'm getting closer. But the last four days we have been in a heat wave and of course that is the time my almost new house air conditioner decided to be temperamental. It was 107 on my deck when it sighed "I quit".
Calls to PGE and the contractor who installed it went unanswered for a day while I camped out at friend's house. Finally both sources showed up, each blaming the other for the malfunction. Some folks say its all the fault of the PGE smart meters; PGE says that is nonsense.
Anyway, the PGE smart meter is now disemboweled from my house, I paid the contractor $309, but the guaranteed fix only lasted half of one day. So now I am once again on the wait list for service. Can you see why my bucket list contains only one item?