Reflections on Turning 85, almost.

Today along with the country I celebrate my 85th only for me it is three days before the actual date. Who would have ever guessed I'd live so long or that I would also be celebrating the supreme court decisions in the last few weeks to uphold the affordable care act and to allow same sex marraige throughout the country.  When I was little my mother always told me that I would have been born on the fourth of July, except the obstetrician went on a fishing trip over the holiday so I wasn't born till the 7th. I guess I was ten or twelve before I figured out that was another of her fantasies along with the goal that I would inherit her looks (gorgeous)  and talents (arty and sexy)  and ambitions (join the merchant marine and travel the world). Instead I inherited my father's physique (flat footed, webbed toes on both feet, myopic eyes) a home body with simple aspirations including love of books and nature.
When Lee came into my life at 26 I dreamed we would grow old together and magically pass into oblivion in the same breath. We bought the house of our dreams with an indoor swimming pool and a sweeping bay view and lived in mostly bliss for 51 years. How lucky can a girl get. After her death eight years ago I gradually transitioned to acceptance and almost three years ago purchased this house in Oakmont. Of course I didn't know it would coincide with a broken hip and a warehouse flood which destroyed half my belongings. With the special help of my old bay area friends and Oakmont friends Sue Dibble and Jeanne DeJoseph and caring support of Catherine Dodd and Mary Foley I made it through, which is a big miracle in itself. My niece Cheari and her husband Alvie from Arlington, Washington pitched in enormously as well.
So today I thank my mostly new Oakmont friends, 25 of you. If the house were bigger I would have invited a hundred. No kidding. Oakmont and Santa Rosa has been warm and welcoming, especially Rainbow Women. In the old days we would have skinny dipped (lots of us had cute figures) and then gathered on the deck on Cathy Lane, forty or fifty of us, to watch the fireworks and drink champagne. Today we eat hot dogs and drink bottled water and mostly watch our calories. I'm blessed with a big bank of old memories and a heart full of new ones.

Bizarre Story

Those who have heard this story say "you've got to put this on your blog" so here goes....
Last Sunday night about 8 pm my old friend Mary Butler arrived from San Miguel Allende, Mexico, for a visit. We reunited joyfully of course. About 8:45 I was showing her around my study, where she would sleep. I was explaining that the overhead light and ceiling fan, instead of working on a wall switch, worked on a remote. To demonstrate I held the remote up close to my face, with Mary standing close to my right shoulder. I clicked the button on the remote and a horrible wailing sound commenced. For those old enough to remember (like me) it sounded like an air raid siren. We assumed it was a smoke alarm, although it was even louder and more piercing. Mary is only about five feet tall but considerably younger than I. Carefully I held Mary's knees while she balanced on the ladder disconnecting every smoke alarm in the place but  the wailing continued. So I disconnected the carbon monoxide alarm. No effect. At this point I called my neighbor Jim who got into some clothes and came over and repeated all of our motions. No effect. Fifteen minutes had ensued. Neighbors doors were opening and they were beginning to gather in the street in front. "I'm calling 911" I said, but the task seemed almost impossible for I had to scream into the telephone to have the operator hear me, so I went out to the back deck thinking it would be quieter, but it was the same. Then Jim and Mary came out to the deck and said it had become quieter in the house. I went back in and the roaring continued again. At this point Jim pointed at me and yelled "Bonnie, its coming from YOU". All I could imagine, then, was it was my pacemaker screaming. I hurried out to the front walkway to meet the firemen, understandably in a state of panic. By this time seventeen minutes had elapsed of this deafening noise. Four fully clad fireman came running up and I announced that we had just discovered the blaring was coming from me so the fire captain said "Take off your hearing aid". I looked puzzled but took off the left hearing aid and held it in my palm. It continued to blast about four more seconds. Then silence. The fireman in the lead told me to turn down the volume on it but of course my hearing aids, engineered in Germany, are preset just for me, and there is no volume control. I was too rattled to explain this to the helpful firemen. What a relief to have the noise end.
How embarrassing to me in front of the gathered neighbors. Eventually we went to bed but I was too wired to sleep, and in fact the next day I could not keep my food down. But I did solve the mystery after I talked to my nephew-in-law in Arlington, Washington. Alvie is an electrician and explained that the radio frequency on the remote for the fan must have been the same as for my hearing aid, and it set up a kind of loop. When I called Dr. Gil, my hearing aid doctor, he confirmed this likelihood. Meanwhile I checked with the electro-physiologist in my cardiologist's office and he assured me that I had not harmed my pace-maker. "If the pace-maker was failing" he said, "you would feel a vibration in your chest, not hear an alarm".  Good to know.
Do these wild and bizarre things happen to everyone, or is it just me?

Serious Contemplation

Returning yesterday from a delightful afternoon of film (French Impressionists) and early dinner at a fun place in Sebastopol, a sense of gloom overcame me as I contemplated the hour's appointment at the dentist today. Seems that the new bridge coming from the lab did not fit, after another hour's effort on Monday. Both the dentist and I bewailed our fate. So we have to start all over. New impressions and everything. Heart weary as I am, novocain and hours in the dentist's chair are not my cup of tea. So climbing the three stairs to my front yard, feeling abused, I was transfixed by this medium-sized  lizard perched on a rock. He or she stopped me in my tracks. Everything about his posture said "patience". I stood there immobile for at least four minutes, waiting for a twitch of an eyelid. But no, it was as if he were carved in stone, his coloration blending artfully with the boulder. I asked him what he was thinking so hard about, but his response was mute. Note how exquisitely his posture blends into the block. The experience transformed my mind set. so I was able to put my dental troubles in perspective.
Well, I survived the dentist today and came home to find a covey of baby quail in the back yard. They were adorable, but too wary to let me get close enough for a picture. What is the moral of this story? When all else fails, take a lesson from nature.

Kitchen frustrations

There are a lot of 65 year old women in Oakmont and I don't think any of them aspire to look like Caitlyn Jenner.  Likewise I  doubt that many of them are rejoicing at the FDA approval of  Viagra for women. But what most of us  65 and plus lament is the lack of strength and dexterity to open jars, bottles, and plastic packages. In this house I have plenty of kitchen drawers. The top one contains a hammer, a screw driver, pliers and a pick . These utensils are not for household projects, alas, but for trying to open containers. Now don't tell me to go to SurLeTab and buy a special opener; I have three of those, and none work. Sometimes I remember to ask the clerk at Safeway to open something. Occasionally they groan "I can't open it either" but usually they comply with tender smiles. Invariably, whether it is mayonnaise or soda pop, I spill it on the way home.

Bt the way, now that Safeway has sold, have you noticed the clerks can have facial hair and visible body art? They are delerious with joy. I appreciate they are happier.
Kelly, my treasured housekeeper, brought me fresh oranges from her tree on Tuesday. I could not resist painting them. I know they don't look as orange as most oranges, but the color I painted them is accurate. It makes me wonder if the oranges I buy at the store have artificial color.
Anyway, these sure are good.

Joy of Writing

Yesterday two friends from my former writing group at the Lafayette Community Center trekked up.
For over eight hours we alternately wrote, ate, or caught up in each other's complicated lives (theirs, not mine although I bragged a bit about all my activities on the Oakmont site.)
Such delight. First we each rewrote an old story, then critiqued it. Then we wrote a new story, and did likewise. Lastly we wrote a story about our own writing. That was a novel idea. Here's my effort.

It's curious to me that I can't write fiction for indeed I love reading fiction. I've puzzled a lot about this, since I am not without imagination, and express myself creatively in painting, gardening, photography, and general mischief making. In fact my friends would say that imagination is the essence of me. And yet when putting words to paper all that comes out is fact (sometimes slightly exaggerated, I confess). 

Why can't I just make up a story from scratch? Perhaps it is just that I have lived so long and have so many untold stories brewing in that word repository inside me? Or is it possible I have some kind of fiction block? 
I tend to write about whatever is brewing for me. Usually it is something stewing on my mind. Something with a kind of discomfort or tension, and once I write about it I feel an immediate sense of relief. Yes, relief is the right word to describe the feeling. It's almost but not quite orgasmic at times. I feel pleasure and fulfillment. Sometimes I feel tickled. Sometimes I feel amused. At times I feel resolved. I don't think my style leads to improving my ability to write, extends my limited vocabulary, or contributes anything significant to the world, but it fullfills me. 

Besides all that, what fun to share my day of joy with you. 

Go West, Old Lady

Back in 6th grade (about 1942) a new teacher came to our Seattle elementary school, staffed in general by kindly but stuffy old schoolmarms. Miss Johnson was full of innovative ideas, one of which was to have the whole class recite each day a poem that started "If you can't be a tree on the top of the hill, be a bush in the valley; but be the best little bush....something, something, something."  I'm sure it was intended to make the less high achieving students feel better about themselves. We all adored Miss Johnson, but worried that her chubby legs were the deterrent to her finding a husband.

So, since my problematical heart now prevents me from going to the hills, I'm trying the seashore, my vacation investment for the year
with the goal of producing the best watercolor waves of anyone around.
So, with friend Nancy from Denver, I set out last week for a trek up the coast. I had heard of Mar Vista, in Anchor Bay (about two hours drive North) from Lee's cousins. It is a hoot! Very old but clean cabins are spread around the generous acerage. The spongy ground cover is carefully mowed. Spare blades of grass are manicured by Lola the goat, who took a fancy to Nancy.
 Instead of a golf course, the featured attraction is an estate like chicken coop. The weather was perfect, and for three days I dug my Tevas in the sparkling sand. (Friend Nancy tackled the 100 steps to the beach; Bonnie drove around.)
At Mar Vista one finds two baskets in each cabin, the larger for picking vegetables from the extensive organic garden, and the smaller for fresh eggs, multicolored of course. I accomplished little painting, but I did thrive with the sea air. The whole experience is a treasured memory.
Above, the view from cabin #9.

Persimmons to Chuck

At my urging this afternoon, Steve allowed me to accompany him to the mortuary to make arrangements for his partner Chuck's cremation. I didn't want him to go alone. I'm guessing  Chuck will leave us tonight or tomorrow. Yesterday when I saw him he opened his eyes a crack and tried to mouth "I love you". Today he is in a much deeper coma.
We picked out the cheapest mortuary in the list provided by the Hospice nurse. Entering the long driveway I noted it was a circular driveway."What is this?" I chuckled, "Drive through cremation?"
Chuck is  87, but Steve is about fifteen years younger, and their beautiful life together has exceeded 43 years. Pretty special. I met them shortly after I moved here because I was longing for persimmons to make my famous persimmon bars, and their back yard sports two trees. I never met a sweeter, kinder, or more intelligent couple. Chuck fell in love with my persimmon bars, and  ever since I have treated him when I made them. I wish I had done it more. Chuck was a writer all his life, and what a spinner of tales.
I'm very sad to see this sweet, sweet man leave this planet.