Rings On Her Fingers......

 It's been quite a while since I've written about what's going on in our lives. All the while that I haven't been writing, we've been busy remodeling our old family home in order to rent it out again (at a higher price)... We traveled back and forth from Palm Springs to Richmond, figuring out how to organize all the repairs, and we even put on two garage sales, that let us get rid of many things, but didn't make us very much money toward the cause. Some keepsakes were sold cheaply, or given to those folks that showed a genuine interest in them and the story behind them.

The one things that traveled back and forth and were always with me, are my rings. "You have so many rings on your fingers!" folks exclaim. Well, that's because there's a reason for every one of them.

My wedding ring is a story unto itself. Before Doug proposed to me, he went with his daughter Charity to the Costco jewelry department and got me a diamond ring to present to me at the Nantucket Restaurant, in Crockett, CA. We had been there before, and had even had a special walk out on the pier, where we would lay down on boards and cuddle while looking at the stars. Pretty romantic, eh? 

We sat at a picnic table outside, and he proposed to me with the beautiful ring, and I said yes, and then my cell phone rang. It was my ex-husband, and it was irritating to Doug that he should call at this time. I didn't pick up, but then he called again. I answered, and told him what had just happened, and that he shouldn't be calling me so often, but I would call him. Every once in a while I had to remind him, "Divorce, right?"

Time went on, and I got to tag along on one of Doug's many business trips to Europe to buy antiques for his store. He decided to make a side trip to Scotland once, and after we landed and drove to an inn, I pulled my hand out of my pocket, and a diamond was missing from my engagement ring! The little prongs of gold were empty. When we got home, we went to the Costco jeweler and they seemed to happily replace it. Another diamond fell out once again, though, and then I confessed that I would really rather not have a diamond that was so big, (It seemed like it could be used as a weapon!), so we asked that it could be returned and we ran off to the Oaks Jewelers, on Solano Ave, in Berkeley. I chose a modest, even cloudy diamond, lower than the others, and surrounded by three little diamonds on each side. I was happy, and I even saved Doug some money!

After a while, I wanted to have another ring on my left hand, but since I usually am attracted to silver rings, I thought it should be a gold one so they wouldn't clash. I'd call my left one "my gold hand". So, while on a trip to Capitola, a favorite beach town since my childhood, I went into a shop called Super Silver Capitola. They have lots of choices of jewelry and at least at that time, they only charged you by the ounce. I told the person that I wish they had something in gold, and she showed me a couple of bands that were gold-plated, warning me that the gold would eventually wear off, and it would be silver. For the price, I went for it, and the nice Celtic looking ring lived on the third finger of my left hand. Later, it moved to my right hand when, just as she warned, it lost its golden sheen.

I had bought another silver ring at that store before, which I still wear. It's one of my favorites. It's smooth and strong, and always shines, showing me it's wave-like design, reminding me of Capitola. 

The ring that gets the most attention, even from strangers, is the one that Doug bought me at the ranger station at Olympia National Park for 20 bucks. It has a beautiful swirly setting that catches the eye, and if the sun catches it right, the opal fascinates folks. I explain that it is made from little chips of opals, not a whole one. It's still the winner.

A couple of years ago, our granddaughter, Karis, started a little online business for herself, marketing the rings and other jewelry that she makes. I noticed one that I liked, one that she constructed amazingly out of silver wire, winding it around and around in a very pleasing fashion. She quickly made one for me and sent it to me. I hope you'll check out her website: bishopkarebear.wixsite.com. Tell her "Gramma Patty sent me".

My latest rings happened pretty recently. Doug discovered that we had known each other for 20 years, on April 11th, 2022. He wanted to get me a special ring to commemorate it. The trouble is, that my fingers are rather large, and everywhere we went to try to find that special ring, they didn't have my size 9 in stock. It was the supply chain, because of Covid, they said. (The old story...) Finally, in Macy's, I asked the person to measure my finger for the size, just to be sure. Next day, we looked online on Amazon (of course), for a size 9 ring, and I found one I liked.

It has small diamonds, is silver and has a kind of a twist in it that attracted me....sort of symbolizing our meeting. 

A couple of weeks later, before that ring arrived, we had a reason to look into our safe deposit boxes. There I ran across my mother-in-law, Helen's, (Tutu's) wedding ring. I tried it on the middle finger of my left hand just for fun, (where the new one was supposed to go, and it fit so well!

I always thought that Tutu had smaller fingers than me. It's a platinum band with tiny diamonds as well. I decided to add it to my collection. When the new "meeting" ring came, it was a little too large, and I found that if I put it on first, and then added Tutu's ring on top of it, it held it in place. 

All of these rings have a special meaning to me, and they help me to remember people, and even pray for them. I think of where I was when I got them with fond memories. The only trouble is, that it's a full time job keeping them all adjusted and facing upright! Oh well, that gives me more time to look at them....

I've decided though, in case you wondered, I don't think I'll ever put bells on my toes.

Our Prius "Camper"

Whenever we tell folks that when we camp, we sleep in our Prius, they say, "What? But you're so tall! How could you do it?" Well, for one thing, the clincher that helped my husband in deciding whether or not to even purchase a Prius is to make sure that we could sleep in it. He secretly took measurements before even letting me know he was interested, so as to not get my hopes up, only to be dashed. The newer version, in 2004 fit the bill, and we test drove it around Berkeley. The salesman wondered outloud, "Why is it that all of the Berkeley people want to make sure that the car is long enough to sleep in?" 

Well, we both liked the idea, since in our former lives we had enjoyed long trips across country. Mine was in an oxidized red '69 Dodge van made in to a camper, and his was in an Austin Estate Wagon. We both like saving money on motels, and we have fond memories of waking up in the morning to birdsong and cooking breakfast outdoors. Coffee tastes best that way.

This was the beginning of the hybrid craze. and we were right with the folks wanting to do everything they could to save the planet. The idea of saving money on gas made it even a sweeter deal. The Prius was so popular though, that Toyota couldn't seem to keep up with the demand. If we had wanted a certain color, the time for it to be delivered couldn't be promised, but if we took one of the next ones that were delivered to the dealership, we could get it sooner. When they came, they were all silver. Oh well, we weren't that picky.

Our first adventure was on a trip to Lake Tahoe, just a 3-1/2 hour drive from the Bay Area. We were one of the first in line at Emerald Bay campground, since it was on a  first come, first served basis . We scored a place right near one of the restrooms,  to make life easier for nighttime bathroom needs. We put our food in a bear locker, and then went out to shop for the rest of our supplies. Unsure of the level of propane we had for our camp stove, we bought a new canister, some tall Jesus candles to light our table at night, some pre-made shish kebobs to barbeque, and of course, Peet's coffee for in the morning. Doug found a deal on some Jameson's Irish Whiskey to warm us around the fire later.

Spotting a sign for Fallen Leaf Lake on the way back from our shopping excursion to South Lake Tahoe, Doug said, "Let's go check that out! I haven't been there for years. We've got time." So we turned off of Hwy. 89 and drove past the Fallen Leaf Campground, down the road pointing to the little lake. It became a very windy road and mostly one lane, forcing us to pull way over into the grass to let cars and trucks pass by. We finally made it to the end, saw the lake and turned around to go back, when it started to rain. Really hard. 

We turned on our lights and had the windshield wipers going at full speed, as we carefully navigated the curves in the other direction. Glad to be through that and back out to 89, it started hailing! Huge, golf ball chunks of ice rained down on us, and we pulled over to the side for protection under some pine trees, afraid that our poor new car may get dented. After about a half an hour, a drizzly rain resumed, and we ventured out to our reserved campsite, wondering if we should just get a motel room.

Our campsite hadn't fared very well. We sat in the car and took in the situation. The path to the restroom was flooded, and of course the picnic table was all wet. Doug looked at the radar app we had on our phone, and saw that it looked like the storm was headed north and should stop soon. He said, "Hold on. I'll be right back", as I saw him lift up the hood on his jacket, and run to the back of the car. He was back in a jiffy, a little damp, with our two camping wine glasses, the Jameson's, some crackers, two sticks of string cheese, and a newspaper. "Let's just sit here and wait it out. I don't think it'll be that long." 

I conceded that I'd give it a try, but started to dream of a hot bath in a hotel. We sat there, having a little early happy hour, at 4 pm, and did one of our favorite pastimes together.... the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Doug specializes in the historical clues and I get the more modern answers. He kept glancing at the MyRadar app on our phone to keep an eye on the storm and bet that it would pass by in about a half hour. I looked at the pond that had formed between us and the restroom, still thinking about that hot bath.

 In about 45 minutes, sure enough, the sun came out. Doug opened the car door saying, "Let's go out and build a campfire! I put our firewood in the bear cabinet, so it will be dry." 

Wow, I thought. He really wants to do this. I put away our snacks, and stepped out, gingerly avoiding the puddle that had formed outside my door. I got out our camp chairs, and positioned them next to the fire pit, where he was busily balling up the green sports section of the newspaper to help start the fire. He got out his axe and chipped off some pieces from the pine logs for kindling. 

I ventured off to see how the restroom fared. There was still a pretty deep puddle between us and it, but there was a hill in the middle of it, providing me with a narrow path to navigate my way there. I decided to bring one of the tall Jesus candles with me, and my flashlight, since it was starting to get dark. Setting the candle at the center of the drier path seemed like a good idea to be able to find my way back without stepping into a pool on either side. When I got to the open door, I heard something inside, and a raccoon came running out. I guess he found a nice place to be in the storm! On the way back on the lighted path, I could see the glow of our campfire, and Doug sitting next to it, happily arranging our shish kebobs on a little rack that we carry with us. "See?", he said, "Everything is perfect!"

After a satisfying dinner, sitting in our nice, dry camp chairs near the fire, and a couple of more Jameson's with water, we thought we'd better get busy on our usual chores. Water was heating on our camp stove so I could do the dishes, which I don't mind doing at all when we're camping, since it warms up my chilly hands. 

Doug is the one who tends to our sleeping arrangement. He put as much as he could of our supplies in the bearproof cabinet, and then carried over the small hassocks he bought at Bed, Bath and Beyond that we store our camping supplies in. He made the front seats of the Prius go all the way forward, and placed the boxes on the floor behind them so they filled in the foot space. Then the backs of the seats are folded down, and our foam futon mattress goes on top. As I placed the washed dishes upside down on a dishtowel to dry on the picnic table, I could see him working with the dome light illuminating the inside of the car, and my heart melted. He was arranging our sleeping bags and pillows lovingly and folding back the corners to invite us to bed. All that would be missing was a little piece of chocolate on our pillow.

He had arranged our small suitcases and backpacks on the front seats, so we did what we needed to do to get ready for bed while standing outside the car. No one else seemed to be close by in the campground, I guess they chickened out because of the rain. One more trip over to the restroom with a flashlight, and I noticed that the pond was shrinking already and that the path was a little wider. I put on my jammy bottoms and a t-shirt and filled a bottle with water for us for the night, and walked back to our little nest.  I could see it, glowing ahead of me. Doug had added a colorful throw on top of the sleeping bags, and it looked so cozy. 

As I climbed in, I noticed that he had lowered the two back windows so we wouldn't suffocate, so that was good. We snuggled under the covers and looked up at the grey ceiling, feeling very satisfied and proud of ourselves, stretching our long bodies out comfortably. "And they said it couldn't be done", he said, and turned out the dome light.

I dozed off, but about a half hour later, I thought I heard something outside. "I think I might be hearing a bear!", I whispered, jostling him awake. 

"It's okay", he said drowsily, " They can't get to us in here. Don't worry. Go back to sleep"

I tried to relax, but heard more rustling, and remembered what the ranger at the little museum over at D.L.Bliss State Park told us about how many bears there were around Tahoe. She said that they can smell things like candy and even perfume, and want to break in to get them. "Remember what the ranger said about bears?", I said, poking him once more.

"Oh honey, go to sleep please. I put all of our food in the bear-proof cupboard. We'll be fine."

After thinking a moment, I remembered the candy I always had stashed in my backpack, and the bag of Werther's that we keep in the compartment between the seats for snacks on the road. "I'm remembering the candy we have in here."

"What? You want a piece now?"

"No! Just what if the bear wants to come and get some? What will we do? He could put his big claws inside the open window and pull it out! We have to have a plan!

"A bear can't do that." I could hear sleepiness and a little annoyance in his voice.

"I'm gonna rollup my window and open the one in the front a little so at least his claws won't be so close to my face," I whispered. But when I tried that, "Oh no! It won't go up without the power on!" 

I struggled loose of my warm sleeping bag, and moved my pillow out of the way, to reach between the front seats to the dashboard. Doug opened his eyes to see my pajamaed rear end wriggling past his face as I stretched to reach the power button. "Now what are you doing?", he asked sleepily.

"I have to figure out how to reach the brake pedal with one hand, and then press the power button, right?", I said with my head under the steering wheel.

"Sweetheart, I think if you just press the power button twice it'll work the windows. I read it in the manual."

"Ooh. That's easier!" It worked, and I readjusted the windows to my satisfaction. "I know! We could also honk the horn and turn on the red hazard lights! I think bears wouldn't like to see all that commotion."

"Yes dear." I hate it when he says that. "Are you ready for bed now?"

"Not really, after all that workout, but I feel safer anyway." I couldn't envision sleeping, but snuggled back under the covers, spooning Doug, my face totally buried in his shirt, trying to get my nose warm.

And then it was morning.

Visitations

 It was a busy day at Lowe's garden department. The employees complained that too many plants had been delivered, and it was hard to keep them all watered. Customers were just filled with the hope of Spring and happy to see the abundance of flowers and bushes, even if there wasn't a sale. I had chosen a beautiful white rose, that I couldn't resist, with lots of promising looking buds on it. It even attracted the comments of other shoppers I passed, as if it was a cute baby riding in my cart.

I took my place in the long checkout line, and watched, as an older woman came through the doors from the patio pushing a flatbed cart with things she had chosen. Gosh, I thought, she looks so much like Helen, my mother-in-law who passed away in 1999. Her white, naturally curly, short hair and colorful clothes brought back memories of "Tutu", and made me feel good. 

Then, "Oh!", my heel had been run into by a cart behind me.....and there she was!!

"Oh my goodness! Did I hurt you?"

"It's not bad. Don't worry." She had made a quick u-turn to get into line behind me.

"You know", I said, "I'm glad to be able to talk to you, because when you came in the door, you reminded me of my mother-in-law. I haven't seen her for a long time."

"Oh my! I hope that is a Good thing!" she said with a little wink.

"It definitely is. We were great friends. I've even been wearing her wedding band on my finger for the last couple of weeks. It's made me feel closer to her."

We chatted about the flowers we bought and how busy it was, and I noticed her nice wrinkly Irish face, and her sparkling blue eyes. Hi Tutu, I thought. As I left, I told her how nice it was to meet her, and almost asked for her name. Then I thought better of it. It would have been too weird if it had been Helen.

I'm remembering another time I "saw" Helen. I was shopping at a Long's Drugs, looking for the perfect shampoo. A lady near me started chatting with me about which one to choose, there were so many types. Once again, the curly white hair and familiar face and attitude. I said, "My goodness, you certainly look a lot like my mother-in-law!"

She said, "All my life people have said I reminded them of Janet Gaynor. You probably don't know who she was."

"Actually I do! My Helen always said she was mistaken for that actress, since they were about the same age when she became popular in the movies in the 30's. Now I can see why there's such a resemblance! Thanks for talking to me first, it's exactly what Helen would have done. She was always so friendly to strangers."

This has happened to me at other times. Years ago in a church where my family attended. My husband, with teary eyes, elbowed me as he watched someone coming down the aisle. I looked and sure enough, a salty haired man who was identical to Wally, my father-in-law, took the seat a couple of pews ahead of us. Wally had passed away a few years before. Every so often we'd see the man again, never having a conversation, but aways nodding at each other and remembering.

One other time, when I worked as a waitress at a Baker's Square, a woman came in for lunch who reminded me of my Grandma Diddo. Talking to her, her voice sounded so familiar, even with the little chuckle I recall. I confessed to her what I was thinking, and she thought it was nice. After that she always asked to sit in my section, and sometimes I'd even say, "Bye Diddo" as she left. She'd smile.

What does all this mean? Probably nothing. They were all just what I call a visitation, a surprising little gift from God. I've heard that when a hummingbird comes and flutters near your face, it's called a visitation. This may be something a little bit more. My little visits bring back fond memories of loved ones, and make me think that perhaps they want me to still be thinking about them, and praying for them.

Helen "Tutu" and me

Wally Romer with baby Walt

One Maria Too Many

One of the good things about marrying my husband, is that he was used to having a cleaning lady come to the house every two weeks. So when he and a couple of his kids moved over to my house he kept up the habit. I called her "Mi Esposa", (my wife, in Spanish), not to her face, of course. Her name was Maria, and we hit it off famously.

When we moved to Palm Springs to a mobile home that we call "our cottage", the place was so small, we decided to only have someone come help us clean every couple of months, usually if company was about to arrive. We got a reference from a neighbor, and this woman came to our little trailer and accepted us as clients. When I asked her her name, she said, "Maria".....

So, every winter, when we're in Palm Springs, we call for Maria and her crew to come clean. They always marvel at the changes we've made, like painting, or new curtains, or lately, the new washer and dryer. When we were getting ready this time to make the change to the north, we had scheduled a cleaning day, but there were still a lot of painting and plumbing projects going on. It just didn't seem sensible to have the cleaners come when the place was in such an uproar. Doug called Maria to postpone for 2 days later. He usually does the arrangement, since he likes to practice his best Spanish with her. She answered and said that would be fine, and for some reason, asking if we would be there. Doug said, "Por supuesto!" ("Of course!", in Spanish). She'd see us on Friday.

Since the pressure was off to finish the projects, we went out to lunch. When we came back, the strong odor of something like Lysol surprised us as we opened the door. The house was clean, the bed made nicely, and the kitchen floor was mopped, ......except the 2 rooms where the projects were happening. 

"But I told her to come back in two days! Her crew must not have gotten the message!", he said. When he called Maria back, she said that she never got the message. Puzzled, and figuring it was just some sort of language misunderstanding, she agreed to come back in 2 days and finish the job. We'd pay her then.

Later in the day, we got a call from our property manager for the house in Richmond. He said the tenants were irate that "a friend of our son", who lives in the apartment downstairs, came into the house through the front door which was unlocked, evidently looked around, and then went in to the bathroom and used it. When the flushing was heard, their twin girls, who were home alone at the time, came from their room and asked what she was doing there. They told her to leave, or they would call the police.

Confused, our cleaner, Maria, left the house, and seeing son John working in the garden, she asked him if we were home. He was surprised to see her after so long, and said, "No Maria. They're living down in Palm Springs." He called us soon after, and told us he saw Maria, and that got our minds reeling.

I looked at our phone to see our last calls, and discovered that Doug had chosen "Maria Lopez cleaner", rather than "Maria Palm Springs" from the list of contacts. 

Poor, bewildered Maria! No wonder she sounded kind of hesitant to come. We imagined her, walking in the door, as usual, but finding it totally different looking from what she was used to. Before we rented it out, we totally painted and carpeted it and did new window treatments. Now it was decorated in the tenants taste, which I would love to check out, but it must have been so confusing to her. Then, I suppose she thought she might as well take a pee before getting down to work, and then was discovered by two irate teenagers! 

One lesson learned. Apologize to Maria, but make sure we have the right number.

Traffic Stop

This story has been brewing in my mind, and I feel enough time has passed now, that the cop that stopped me may have forgotten all about it.

The day started out with breakfast at IHOP in Palm Springs. We had our usual, sharing a vegetarian omelet, and fruit instead of pancakes. Always watching the waistline, you know. We read the paper, Doug did the Jumble, and I, part of the crossword.

Coming out to the car, everything seemed fine, until we got in. It REEKED of skunk.....not the animal, but the scent that we've been smelling more and more around here since marijuana has been legalized in  California. We looked at each other, shocked. Our Prius' windows were all rolled up, and the car had been locked. Could someone have left a burning joint under our car? We immediately opened all the windows, turned the air conditioner on full blast, and drove along Hi-way 111 trying to air it out.
We were on our way anyway, to Trader Joe's in Cathedral City, and thought that would do the trick. Almost there, we noticed that the light on the dashboard that tells you it's time to get gas, was blinking. It actually started blinking yesterday. It's pretty embarrassing to think of running out of gas in a plug-in Prius, so we drove a little past Trader Joe's, and I pulled into an Arco station. After Doug finished pumping, washing the windows, and paying, I pulled over to a driveway to exit the gas station.

Hi-way 111 is a pretty busy street, and folks drive along at quite a clip, so after waiting awhile to turn left to go shopping, I gave up and turned right, so I could make a u-turn at the next corner. I scooted across the 3 lanes, and got into the left turn lane. When I looked up, I noticed a "No U-Turn" sign. While sitting waiting for the light to change, I noticed that there was a 7/11 on the corner. Thinking fast, as I turned, I decided to do something, that some of you may have done before..... Doug may have been surprised, as I turned left in to the 7/11 parking lot, since it wasn't in the plan. As I turned in, I said out loud, "Oh, let's go to 7/11", but I was about to then say, kind of laughing, "Oh never mind! We don't need anything here", and then I was going to go out the other end of the parking lot, thus performing a U-turn.

But actually, as I made the left turn in to the 7/11 parking lot, I saw lights on a patrol car following right behind me! I thought, what I consider now, to be quickly, and skidded in to a parking spot, bumping into the cement berm in front, making quite a loud noise. I then, conspiratorially looked at Doug, and said, "You really need a Coke Zero now, right?"
I saw the officer get out of his cruiser, and as I casually got out of my Prius and closed the door, I looked back toward the officer. He was walking toward me saying, "Are you feeling alright Ma'am?"
"Yes, I am officer," I said, "What's going on?"
"Well, I think you were driving rather erratically."
"You do?"
"Yes, well, you made an illegal turn in to this driveway."
I looked past him, over his shoulder to see what was so illegal about my turn. "Hmm, well, there's a double line out there, not a double-double line, right? I think it's okay to turn in to a driveway if it's only a double yellow line", I explained, looking straight into his eyes.
"Well not at this intersection, Ma'am, it's very busy".
"Well, that shouldn't make a difference though, should it?", I asked.
"Um, uh, I had to check to make sure you were okay, as I said before."
"I'm fine, sir. Thanks."
"Okay then", he said. "Drive carefully."
He turned to get back in his police car, and to turn off the red lights that were still flashing. I walked in to the 7/11 to get the planned can of Coke Zero.
As I entered the store, I noticed that the checker's back was facing a big window and I could see our car right outside. The people in her line were all chatting together and then smiled over at me as I walked toward the soda fridge. When it was my turn at the register, I commented to the girl, "I guess everyone saw me outside with the police officer. You must not get much business coming from Hi-way 111, if people can't turn left into your driveway."
She looked at me quizzically, and said, "Oh, no. They turn in that way all the time."
"Hmm", I thought.
When I went back out to the car, Doug said, "Do you know how lucky you are?"
"That did turn out pretty well, didn't it?", I said, proud of the way I had talked to the officer.
"No", he explained, "You were lucky you got out of the car, and didn't just roll down your window! Can you imagine what would have happened if he had leaned his head down and smelled this skunk?"
Eyes wide and feeling my face turn red, I very carefully backed out of the parking space, the low front bumper on the Prius, scraping once more on the berm, reminding me to "drive safely".

In The Kitchen

We've lived in this old house for 33 years, and have been emptying it out, getting it ready to rent. The kitchen is one of the last rooms to evacuate, since we've still been cooking in it, but today is the day to empty the cupboards of food and pans, but for me, the memories are still there.
There are three of us working in the kitchen. My husband is changing the funky old knobs to cute chrome ones shaped like a cup and saucer and a teapot.

A friend is emptying out the cupboards so he can clean them, and putting the contents around the kitchen for me to sort through. I call my job "search and destroy", but it's not true. For each item, I have to decide if I want to keep it, (does it give me joy?)...... does someone else want or need it?..... Should I put it out in the changing pile of "leavings" that we've left by the curb for passers by to take?..... Can it be recycled?..... or, is it truly garbage?

The hardest part of this sorting for me, is to also consider if the item suits our mobile home in Palm Springs, or the condo at Lake Tahoe, or could we use it in the little "in-law" we're making for ourselves downstairs. Our kitchen there, will consist of a microwave, a crockpot, a coffee maker, a George Foreman Grill and an electric pot to heat tea water......no place for pots or pans. Storage is at a premium, so I have to be brutal, but if I have fond memories of an antique cookie sheet or muffin tin, I'll bring them to Palm Springs to replace things that were already in the kitchen when we bought the place. Things for entertaining go there too, since there are always a lot of pot lucks.

It must look as if I'm moving in slow motion, to my co-workers in the kitchen. I see the clutter on the counter of bowls and utensils and half used cleaning products growing, it's upsetting to me that I can't seem to keep up with the flow. My brain, in the meantime, keeps playing movies of times past. As I get out the muffin tins from a corner of the cupboards, I fondly remember the "apartment" that Tigger, our orange tabby had made in there. We found that he opened the cupboard door with his paw, crawled in and didn't come out. Turns out, he could see the side of the drawer that had dishtowels in it, and he reached into the drawer, and pulled out a few towels with his claw to make himself a nice little nest in the cupboard. I discovered his lair one time when I was suspiciously low on dishtowels. He watched as I cleaned it out, and in a few days, he had refurnished it.
Another time, I caught Tigger rubbing up against Tessa, our dog, and ending up with his head in Tessa's gentle open mouth!

The soon-to-be-replaced kitchen sink brings back a vision of a favorite photo of my kids, Jennie, 5, and Lucas 1-1/2, way back when, standing on chairs, "doing dishes". Lucas especially concentrated on the Tupperware cups that were unbreakable. Both of them had vintage child's aprons on, and Jennie's hair cascaded down to her waist. This has always been one of my favorite photos, and it has been the problem with getting this story done. It has gotten temporarily lost in this huge shuffle we're in the midst of, but when I find it I'll add it in. I promise.
The kitchen sink was also captured when someone got a picture of Polly, our cherry headed conure (one of our menagerie) perched on my back as I washed my hair.

This reminds me of more animal activity in the kitchen, which, when I think about it, was pretty common.

A few cocktail glasses appeared on the counter. Some were Christmas glasses with poinsettias on them, that would probably be sent to Goodwill.....but others were etched glass, ones that had been brought over from Hawaii, when Helen "Tutu" and Wally, "Grandpa" came over on the Lurlene, a cruise ship that brought my kid's Dad, Walt, at 3 years old, laiden with leis, to the mainland.

 I remember in 1998.. ., Wally was gone, Helen lived with me, and when I came home from a days work at Kaiser, I'd find her sitting in the old rocking chair in my kitchen, decked out in a nice Muu-Muu with matching nail polish, and sometimes a silk lei. While I jumped right in to cooking dinner, still in my scrubs, I told her what happened at work that day. She told me what happened at the house, and we had cocktails. We made up our own, one time calling a tequila and apple juice drink a "Juanie Appleseed". Good times.

There were so many other memorable things that happened in this old kitchen. Lucas shot magnetic darts past my back onto a target on the refrigerator as I did the dishes when he was 5, and Jennie practiced her shuffle-ball-change on the linoleum when she was seven. I truly hope that the new family that moves into this home has as many wonderful, wholesome memories in this kitchen and in all the other rooms. God bless them.

A Stroke of Bad Luck, From Dependence to Independence : A story I wrote in 1998

I saw something tonight that made me cry while I was waiting at a stop light. A man started across the wide street, slowly, with a cane in his right hand, his left hand curled up in front of him. He did the slow step-together walk of the wedding march, that I've become used to.  It's not that I've been in so many weddings, but because Walt walks that way, since his stroke in 1987.

Walt in 1988

I wondered about the man who was slowly crossing the street.  "What kind of life did you have before? ...before life as you knew it was changed in the twinkling of an eye? Your blood flowed through your brain and got stuck there for awhile, long enough to damage crucial parts. What was your life like back then? Did you have big plans? Was it your birthday? Do your children recall what you used to be like? Maybe not. Some of them may have been too small to remember the warm hugs and the rides on your shoulders."

As I sat there in my car, I prayed that the man would make it all the way across the street before the light changed. I imagined the tension of the people in the other cars as they thought about the places they had to be 5 minutes ago. I thought that the folks in this man's family and those who know Walt, should acknowledge the people that these men were before, but should also appreciate how courageous any disabled person has to be to go out into the world on their own. We all must remember how they used to be and then appreciate how difficult it is for people with strokes and for other disabled and even blind folks to go out, and on with a new life....a completely changed life with fewer skills to draw upon.

This is not something you would wish on anyone, and you hope doesn't happen to you or anyone you care about. Just imagine someone you love suddenly not being able to sit up, or walk or speak with you in a simple conversation. It's not a dream. It's really happening and it won't go away. "What will I do?",  you think. But what will THEY do?......these people that are struck down? They're given a lot of support through physical, occupational, and speech therapy, but they have to have a strong spirit to pull themselves out of an hospital bed and into their new lives.

The attention they're given is like water on a plant. Sometimes Walt would brighten up all through his physical therapy sessions, and swear enthusiastically to the therapists that he would do all the exercises, only to come back the next time to charm her once again with his crooked smile, without having practiced one exercise.
As these people are given the skills they need to get on with their new lives: how to sign their name, cook without  being burned,

Making his own lunch.

and how to make a phone call, they bravely go out into the world using their canes, wheelchairs or electric Lark carts, to try to take care of themselves. Walt, for one, hasn't let the stroke keep him at home. Even when family members tried to protect him, and keep him there, he found ways to escape from his home in Richmond, CA, take BART to San Francisco riding his Lark cart, and visit some of his old haunts. He used to work at the Hilton as a banquet manager, and fight for the union rights of Local 2. He'd have lunch, and then come home a little too late to keep the family from worrying.

Soon it was realized that he still had his sense of direction, and even though he had trouble communicating with speech (aphasia), and was paralyzed on his right side, he could still have adventures and have his longed-for freedom. His daughter made him a little card that he hung around his neck with his ID, explaining about the stroke and his difficulty with speech. In order for his family to know where he had been that day, he collected souvenirs, like matches from restaurants, business cards, notes from people he met or sometimes he took a photo.

Perhaps since he has had more "time on his hands" (not really, if you count the extra time it takes just to get dressed), Walt notices things that are wrong about the world of the disabled. He likes to feel he can do something about them. Conditions that effect disabled people are at the top of his list. People in wheelchairs (including Walt), have gotten off at BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station where it's necessary to go to a different level to transfer to another train, only to find out that the elevator has been out of order. Very frustrating! "ADA!", he shouts, pointing his left index finger to the sky. (FYI: ADA is the Americans with Disabilities Act, which was passed in 1990).

On the night that I write this, he tells me through a series of charades, words, and faces, that handicapped people who have had trouble with the elevators on BART have a class action suit going on. "Class Action!", he shouts. He and some of his friends documented all the times they were left stranded without an elevator, leading to the suit being won. The result of the suit was that everyone who sent in a form stating that they had had a problem with this, could get a free BART pass. Also, if you are standing in a BART station you'll most likely hear an announcement about which elevators are working, or which ones are out of service. There is also a number you can dial to make sure the elevator is running at a station you are about to go to.

Walt is always proud to think he had something to do with that. He likes to think he's a helper. Sometimes he's hard to understand, and he can be very exasperating, but he really would like to make a difference. This new person he has become is one of those people riding around on a Lark cart with a red flag sticking up for safety. He could also be the person walking slowly in front of your car as your stop light turns green. Give him the time he needs and smile at him. Give him a little wave. He could be YOUR husband or father. He could be YOU. Think about it. He's on a mission ....to live his brave new life.

Walter Romer is living now (in 2015), at the California Veteran's Home, in Yountville, CA.  He still makes regular trips in his electric wheelchair by bus, BART and even the train. The folks at the Veteran's Home have gotten used to his comings and goings. He still has a good sense of direction.

Giovanni's Mama

Back in 1974, I worked as a hostess at Giovanni's Restaurant, in Berkeley. I was hired, as most employees were, because I was related to someone. My husband had worked there as a waiter in times past, and as was the tradition, I became part of the restaurant family seemingly by osmosis.

The family atmosphere of this Italian restaurant was heightened by the frequent visits of Mama, Giovanni's mother, to share cakes and cookies she had baked herself  with the customers. Her portrait hung over the mantle piece of the fireplace. There she sat, a proud Italian mama in her black dress with a white lace collar and her hands folded on her lap, looking out over the customers as they ate some of the recipes that she had invented. (Our favorite is Chicken Marsala).

Last Saturday, Doug and I decided to have a "date night", including dinner and drinks at our beloved Giovanni's. As we approached the building, we saw yellow caution tape over the windows, and the bar gate was closed over the front door. As we strained to look inside, we could smell charred wood and saw that the fireplace had been torn apart. There was a note on the door that a fire had occurred on April 22 at 6 AM, and that no one had been hurt. I was heartsick, as I stood at the door with an old story in my hand that I had written for a newspaper about the owner John's "Mama" way back in 1980, right after she had passed away. I had wanted to give it to Giovanni, his wife Anna, and daughters Anastasia and Sarah, since it is close to Mother's Day. I couldn't, so I'll copy it out here instead.
                ________________________________________________________________

From the Archives.     Written in 1980, by Reilly Romer (AKA Me, Pat Reilly Harbo)

                                                                 MAMA

Mothers are wonderful people. They nurse us and care for us and cherish us, spoil us and discipline us, protect us and love us. Many young people think that once they've left the nest and are flying on their own, all that nurturing and worrying ceases.

But they've never been mothers before. I haven't been a mom for very long myself, but I know it's a very special thing to be one. It's even more special to be called "Mama" not only by your children, but by everyone who comes in contact with you.

Mama Savaria (Sarah) Schipani was that type of person. She died in San Pablo, CA, on December 30th at the age of 75. When she was a child in Calabria, Southern Italy, little did she know that she and her cooking would be the wellspring of at least five fine restaurants.

Cooking was to become Savaria's life. While growing up, pasta and bread making were everyday events and she became adept at the recipes that were indigenous to that region of Italy. Eventually, the couple left Italy for West Virginia, where Bill worked in the coal mines. They lived with Bill's cousins, so Savaria helped with the household chores and the cooking, picking up additional recipes from her new-found family. The region that these immigrants came from was richer than Savaria's, so they had more meat in their concoctions and they used slightly different spices. With these recipes added to her repertoire, she was becoming quite creative in the kitchen.

While living in West Virginia, Savaria earned the title of "Mama" by giving birth to four children: John, Frank, Rosie, and Katherine.

Next, the promise of big money in the steel mills brought on a move to Indiana. Like most immigrants, Bill worked hard and saved his earnings. He subsequently opened a bar in Gary, IN, called Bill's place. It was only supposed to be a bar, but there was a kitchen, so Mama was naturally in it, cooking. Customers got a whiff of the delicious aromas and asked if they could buy some of whatever she was making. Mama loved to see people enjoying her good cooking, so it didn't take long for Bill's Place to develop into both a bar and a restaurant.

During the years in Gary, tragedy struck, and daughter Rosie drowned at the age of eleven, but Mama's family continued to grow. Bill and Savaria had three more children, Fran, Bill Jr., and Jim.

In 1962, California lured eldest son John away from home to open his own restaurant in Berkeley, called "Mr. Pizza". Gradually, his brothers and sister Fran followed and also fell in love with California. Mama and Papa wanted to be close to most of their family, so they too, relocated in the Bay Area.




Forever the cook, Mama enlarged John's pizza and salad only menu, by cooking her spaghetti and meatballs. The customers loved the addition, and that encouraged Mama to come in a couple of days a week to concoct her recipe for lasagne.

The restaurant's name was changed to Giovanni's, (John's), and in 1967 business was so good, a move was made to a couple of blocks down Shattuck Avenue to a larger building. Caffe Giovanni continues to be a popular place to dine mainly because its fare is based on Mama's recipes, like her Veal Scallopini and her stuffed Eggplant Parmesean.

Mama's special touches always made dining out a pure delight. She made the customers feel at home by passing among them with a tray of cookies. Many regulars began calling her Mama and asking for her when they came in to eat. Mama never spoke much English, but she managed to communicate her appreciation to the people who enjoyed seeing her.



Employees grew to expect a huge cake baked expecially for them each week. Daughter Fran read the recipes to her in Italian, but Mama couldn't let a chance go by to change a recipe and make it her own. She added an extra egg or two this time, maybe four next time, or perhaps some pudding (before it was even thought of by Betty Crocker). Mama would especially delight in watching the thinner employees devour her creations , commenting in her dear broken English and sign language something like, "You gotta eat! You too skinny! Mangia!"




At Mama's house one day, Franny told me, that the milkman finally confessed to her that every day after making his delivery and smelling the aroma of Mama's cooking, he had to run out to his truck and eat his sandwich because he became so hungry. Fran laughed and relayed this loudly into Mama's ear, for her hearing was impaired. Immediately a chair was pulled out for him, and he was told to "Come! Eat!" So began a weekly routine for that milkman....every Tuesday for over two years, Mama had a luncheon waiting for him.

At one point, he said his wife wasn't sure she believed his innocent story of eating at a nice Italian lady's house every week. When Mama heard this, she had him take his wife a picture of herself and said, "Tell her I old! No worry!" She also sent a jar of her special spaghetti sauce home with him. When that milkman left the company, his replacement was hoping he would get the same fringe benefits. In Mama's eyes he never qualified for a free lunch.....maybe a piece of cake.

Mama Savaria is what the restaurant business is all about. She loved to cook and she loved to watch people eat what she had cooked. She treated employees with respect and warmth. An example of her big-heartedness to everyone, she was instrumental in training her offspring to be generous. The sense of "family" seems to permeate anything Mama has had anything to do with. The Schipani's have acquired a reputation for hiring people who, if they aren't related to them or their present employees, they are old friends, or friends of friends. This provides the atmosphere of caring of which Mama was very proud.



Savaria was full of pride when it came to her family. She has a right to be. Sons Billy and Jimmy helped Johnny operate Caffe Giovanni's for years until they each decided to branch out on their own. Bill and his wife, Karen opened the popular Shattuck Avenue Spat's Restaurant. Fran Bisbiglia, Bill's sister, also helps to run the Berkeley restaurant, and Mama regularly came in to prepare several of her specialties and to ply the employees with cake.

John decided to enlarge upon what he did best, and opened Baci's, a seafood restaurant on Pier 39 in San Francisco, while brother Jim moved to Reno to open the elegant Washoe Zephyr Restaurant. Even daughter Katie, still in Hobart, Indiana, owns a restaurant called the Mortor Joynt.

There's only one son that isn't in the restaurant business. Actually, he used to have a restaurant, but he's found something more lucrative. Frank is a professional blackjack player.

It seems to me that Mama has left quite an inheritance. There's not only her legacy of love, but of recipes, aromas, and happy taste buds....of memories, values, and old ways......of family ties that are strong. What more could a Mama want?
                                                                         The End
             __________________________________________________________________
Post Script: This story was written 35 years ago. (hard for me to believe too!) The lives of the people in this great family have had many twists and turns, as all of ours have. I was just going to hand my typed copy to the family when we went to eat at Giovanni's, but since we saw that there had been a fire, decided to post these memories for all to see. Our prayers are with Johnny and Anna, Anastasia and Sarah, and all the crew at Giovanni's.



We hope that the damage wasn't so much that many folks' favorite restaurant won't reopen. There are still many taste buds waiting to be tantalized!       Pat Reilly Harbo

An Old Cat and Dog Story from 2001

In the last few years, my family's pet population has dwindled from two cats, one dove, one cockatiel, one cherry-headed conure, two parakeets, 19 bunnies (it's true that they are prolific), and 12 goldfish in the pond. The menagerie has declined, due to old age, bunny sales, birds flying the coop or being buried in the side yard, racoons, and no replacements. We are now down to two pets.

Alas, our cat, Tigger, a 14 year old orange striped tabby, has cancer. All of six months ago, he had a surgery which supposedly removed the whole tumor from his abdomen. Because of his age and our fondness of him, I figured the $180. for the surgery was affordable, but I knew I didn't want to invest in chemo. When the tumor returned, the vet said, "Just let him have anything he wants. If he starts to feel bad, let me know and you can 'bring him by'." On the way home, I stopped at the store and bought Tigger some special kitty treats.

That's how my morning ritual started. Tigger directs the scene as it opens from his post outside the kitchen window over the sink. It's 6:30 A.M., and my dog Tessa, and I come down stairs to the kitchen. The rather heavy pit bull/lab scrambles down ahead of me and anxiously waits for me to fill my whistling tea kettle with water for my cup of coffee. She finally makes eye contact with me, and then pushes her way past me down the laundry room stairs, wiggling her whole body impatiently till I get the back door open. She runs in place on the cement like a cartoon dog, before bounding out to pee under the plum tree. She is noisily greeted by the dog next door, but doesn't take time to respond. I close the door just enough that Tessa can push her way back in.

Tigger stands on his hind legs outside the window doing his morning stretch, reaching almost to the top of the second pane, showing me how bad his sore is on his belly. He scrapes his nails luxuriously down the upper window pane. I raise the window and he jumps to the counter and then the floor, where he stops to rub against my leg. Next, he saunters over and sits in front of the little bowl I've placed on the floor in the corner for his morning treat, instructing me to open the cupboard and get out his first course.....salmon-flavored kitty treats. He munches on them and makes a strange guttural sound, as if he's devouring a bird he has just killed.

In the meantime, Tessa has made her entrance through the back door and looks toward the cupboard for her "usual". I toss her one small bone-shaped biscuit, which she handily catches in her mouth and takes to chew on the living room rug. She comes back wagging, happy to find that I've hidden another bone on top of the recycling basket. I'm touched that she remembered from yesterday and the day before.

Tigger's not finished. He meows when I get my milk out of the fridge for my coffee, and sits by his bowl again. I act like I don't notice, and he rubs against my leg and meows a pitiful cry. I say, "Of course I'll give you some."..... but I think to myself that I never used to give him milk very often. The vet did say though, to "give him anything he wants". Now, for the first time in these last few months, this athletic, lanky cat is finally getting some meat on his bones, cancer and all. I wonder if he's noticing the pampering... that I'm honoring him and showing him my love in this little ritual of ours. Whatever he notices, he's got me trained pretty well.

Lucas with Tigger 2001

Zion National Park: More of the Travels With Our Prius, the 13th day of our 2 week trip

For those of you who have been following my stories about my husband and I camping around the U.S. and sleeping in our 2004 Prius, I have a few more to tell you.....

We drove to Zion National Park, in Utah in early May, and stayed for 2 nights, once again sleeping in our car as a camper. The only place that was left to stay was in the group camp, called Watchman, below the peak of the same name, so we shared our campfire with others.

We are surprised that there are so many Europeans camping everywhere. That night, we had a UCSB chemical engineering graduate from Israel, doing a road trip across the US before going to work in Germany, and also another little family from Israel who have been grad students at Stanford. The woman said "It is so Israel", that they would meet someone else from Israel.

The only problem with this campground is the caterpillars. They must drop down from the cottonwood trees, since there are a lot of nest-like things in the trees. As I was reading in a camp chair in the sunshine, a furry creature came into my peripheral vision as it crawled over the top of my book on to the page. I scared Doug when I jumped up, dropping my book in the sandy soil. Then I found one on my pants leg  and then a couple on his shirt! They're so sneaky!!... and quiet! We saw four little cocoons lined up along the wood frame of the restroom with another caterpillar making plans to spin his own little "sleeping bag".

After dinner one night, our cell phone rang, with it's characteristic "Quack quack quack", startling us from our idyllic reverie in the woods back into reality. Tenants from a house we were renting out with utilities included had their power turned off! They were sitting in the dark with their new baby and found out the bill hadn't been paid. We could barely hear them over the bad connection, but the frustration was heard loud and clear. I was ashamed to think that I had organized so many other things for this trip, but this had slipped through the cracks. What else had I missed?
We told them we'd call them back and called PG&E, and promptly got put on hold, all the while watching the battery on our phone dwindling away. We turned on the car, and plugged the phone cord into the charger, (formerly known as the cigarette lighter). Someone answered finally, and said it would be restored within an hour. We relayed the message to the tenants and apologized. Hanging up, we cracked up laughing that we were conducting business while camping in the woods! What a difference a cell phone makes!

Doug proceeded to make up our bed in the Prius while I finished washing the dishes by our solar lamplight. The water I heat on the camp stove is always so welcome to my chilly fingers after the sun goes down.
We walk together up to the restrooms to get cleaned up for bed. On the way back to camp, our sweet Prius is seen through the trees, waiting for us, with the light on inside. I commented on how cozy it looked, since Doug had arranged the pillows so nicely and the covers were turned back, beckoning us to get in. After that stressful call, I was ready to relax. I went to open my passenger side door, but it wouldn't! Doug tried his, and no go....and then another and then another. Frantic, we went over what could be wrong. Both sets of keys were locked inside, but that shouldn't happen. You're not supposed to be able to lock your keys in the car. It shouldn't let you....in fact it beeps at you till you figure out to remove your purse or whatever they are in. We circled the car as if it was prey, trying each door over and over, and of course praying. It was getting cold, and we were so close to our nice warm bed. A man walked by and asked us what was up. We told him and as soon as I went to show him, all of a sudden, the door opened! The only thing we can figure is that since both of our keys were in the car , it thought it was protecting us from robbers who were trying all the doors to get at us. Thank you Prius, I guess.
After all that, nice and cozy in our bed, no caterpillars, no more phone calls, no more civilization. We just rolled down the windows a crack, listened to the sounds of the forest and folks around a nearby campfire, someone softly strumming a guitar, and slept.

The next two days we took the free shuttle around the park. We walked along the River Walk. It was about 3 miles round trip, not so difficult......but even so,we were proud of ourselves for doing it.

 Other more athletic folks were all geared up with their paraphernalia to walk into ""the Narrows" at the end of the River Walk. They walk in to the 47 degree water through the canyon walls that are closing in overhead, with walking sticks to help them keep their balance. Doug went so far as to take off his shoes and walk into the water to cool his feet. I sat on a rock and talked to a nice lady from England.

Our very favorite area was at the Weeping Wall. You have to walk pretty much up hill, about a quarter mile in, so for us, we were puffing pretty hard. Just as you break into a sweat in the 91 degree temp, the big rock wall shows itself in a sort of cave/grotto shape, seeping water. A knowledgeable sounding person said that the water coming from the stones was thousands of years old. It drips cool water on your head and shoulders welcoming you. Tiny purple Columbine flowers grow out of the damp rock. When you finally turn around, you see the valley from which you've climbed, but only the tops of the tall deciduous trees framed by the reddish mountains on either side.

We broke up camp that day, sorting through all our old camping supplies and replenishing expired things. When checking if we left any last minute things, I found our friend's Yamaka, from when he said his prayers at the spot where we read in the morning. It's my favorite souvenir.

To get out of the park, we drove toward the east gate. In 1931, they blasted a long dark tunnel, that has a few arched windows to let you peek out to the scenery. There is a different look to the sandstone on that side.... almost a melting effect. It's so astounding, that you have to stop about every few feet to get a better look and take photos. Zion was a gift to our senses.

Next we drove to Kanab, Utah, a little town known as the "Hollywood of Utah", since many old westerns were filmed here. The beautiful red and tan sandstone mountains that surround Kanab drew producers of westerns to use it as their backdrop. The Hollywood Museum in town is free, and they have well preserved buildings from movie sets. We're thinking we will rent "Outlaw Josie Wales" some time to spot the house that we were in today.

It was about then that Doug proposed that our two week retirement trip wasn't set in stone. We didn't have to go back right away, since everything was basically being taken care of at home for a while. The great beginning of our extended retirement trip began with Doug saying, "I wonder if my friend from high school is home in Colorado. Maybe we could go there and visit him!" Well, he was.....and we did.

Being Auntie Pat

I've always told people that I was an "afterthought". My parents had already had 3 girls, the youngest of whom was 12 years old, and the eldest, 19. There is some proof, however, that I wasn't a surprise...I was planned. I felt some comfort in the fact, that my mom had a miscarriage before me, but still, even at 41, tried again. Perhaps I would have had another sister or brother, or maybe I wouldn't have been around.

When I was four, my oldest sister had her first baby, a girl. They lived a couple of hours away, so when they came to visit a couple of years later, my sister helped me bring her to my first grade class since it was my turn to "show and tell". I imagine that I educated the class about what a niece looks like, and the fact that I was the youngest auntie in the class.

Over the years, my sisters ended up having 10 more babies, and I found myself delighted with my little playmates. I was, after all, closer to their ages than I was to many of my own cousins. Most of them lived close by in the Bay Area, and would often come over to my house, where I lived with my Mom and Dad.

This is during a time way before video games or cell phones. We had a great time just being outside playing together. Running around my parent's white stucco house, chasing each other, was a major pastime. One game was called "the farmer and the chickens". It consisted of one kid being the farmer, trying to catch all the chickens before they ran all around the house and crept in to the "chicken coop", aka the porch swing, in the backyard. Much giggling and shrieking was involved in this game, as we tried to get by the farmer, who clearly was at a disadvantage being on his or her own.

Another memorable game was played on the cement front steps that were painted the obligatory red. It was called "school", and one child, the teacher, held a rock in one hand, and put forward both fists for a student (all of whom were sitting on the bottom stair), to choose a hand. If they chose the one with the rock, they graduated to the next step, but if they didn't, they either stayed where they were or, later in the game went down one step. This game was really good for all ages, except for the times when one of the littler kids felt bad about losing all the time, cried and wouldn't move. The first one to get to the top stair was the winner, and was the next teacher. I remember everyone having red chalky stains on the back of their pants after sitting on the stairs.

The lawn in front of the house was on a hill, so it was great fun to take turns rolling on our sides, over and over on the cool grass down to the sidewalk. The sidewalk usually had a hopscotch drawn on to it with chalk. Some of the older kids played hopscotch, while the younger ones tumbled down the hill. I learned from recess in grade school, that you should have your own bit of chain as your marker. I think it is called a taw. My dad gave me a few links of a toilet chain he found in the garage, while my friend had a small chain that hooks at either end, usually used as a key chain. The chains landed and stayed put where a rock might roll around, so it was preferable. A chain, being  longer though, might drape over a line when tossed, causing you to miss a turn. Sometimes, if there was a taw in each of the first three squares, you'd have to get a running start to make a flying leap over all the squares, and keep your balance on one foot after you picked up your chain, and then finishing the grid. We all had to keep an eye out for the toddlers, though, that they didn't randomly walk through the game, picking up the chains.

Back in the house, my Dad was always willing to answer the pleas of the grandkids to let them do "flips" on him. He'd hold their hands as they walked their little feet up his legs and on to his chest. Then they'd flip over backwards. The older, more experienced ones could flip back the other way, face beaming, and then get back in line for another turn. By the time all this was happening, I was about 12, and a little too tall for such things. I remembered wistfully that I had had my share of flipping in my day.

A couple of years later, I sat in front of the TV every couple of nights for my Laura Weber guitar lesson on KQED. I was very devoted and practiced every day, sitting by myself in the living room in my Dad's big chair. That's where I'd sit after a while with all my attentive, darling nieces and nephews, singing along with me, as I played and sang, "Oh They Built the Ship Titanic", and other songs that I still have in my Corduroy Book, a binder full of folk and pop songs. They had been painstakingly printed by hand on binder paper and many of the chords and words had been,.carefully transcribed by me and a friend by listening to records on my portable record player in the living room.
The Corduroy Book is still in use, as last May, I was asked to bring my guitar and music to my first niece's 60th birthday party. Her special request was to sing the Titanic song. We were sitting around a campfire, and as I looked out past the flames at the crowd, I saw many of my sweet nieces and nephews next to their own grown kids, singing along with their Auntie Pat once again.

Palm Springs Musings

Twelve years ago, I met my husband. Just a few months later, we traveled to Palm Springs together to see his elderly mom. She was being cared for by his stepsister and her husband. I was happy to see that she was in such good, loving hands in her own home.... even though she was in a hospital bed. This made a good impression on me, that he hadn't put her in a nursing home. I had experienced caring for my relatives and thought it was an humane thing to do, (even though, admittedly, it could be difficult at times.)

We visited his Mom at the mobile home park where she had lived with her husband as "snowbirds". They traveled there from Washington state for the warm winter in Palm Springs for 23 years. Her brother visited at the same time with his wife, and he was teary-eyed to see his sister in what seemed to be a failing state. He spoke a little Dutch in her ear, as she lay there with her eyes closed.

Doug's family of 5 kids have many fond memories of traveling during the holidays to visit Grandma and Grandpa for a nice warm Christmas. They stayed with them at their mobile home, swimming in the pool and enjoying a great Christmas dinner. Their grandparents were popular, involved, making friends at happy hour with the Canadian "Snowbirds", and played in tournament shuffleboard.

After holding his Mom's hand and in a spiritual sense, bonding with her and meeting her, we went out for awhile. Doug said later, "I just love that trailer park! That's where I'd like to retire some day!" 

"Hmm", I said, "I don't think so.... at least I wouldn't."

Doug seemed very hurt.

The next part of the story is 11-1/2 years later.

We got married 10 years ago. I retired from my job a while ago, and then we worked together to close his store in Berkeley and he retired a year later.

Standing in the closed store.

One of the trips we took was to Palm Springs, for a week, but it was too cold....not at all the experience we had hoped for.  I said,"It doesn't even feel like we've been to Palm Springs!"

Doug had the idea to see what was going on at the mobile park. We went to visit his sister, but she was very busy. There was a shuffleboard tournament going on, and she was taking in the money for the bbq burgers, pie, etc that were being sold. There were lots of happy people mingling around.

We visited with some of them, and Doug said, "I wonder if there's a place we could rent for a week or so. There's supposed to be a warming trend."

When asked, folks said, "Nope, there's nothing for rent."

Those were fighting words to Doug. He pulled a map off the bulletin board of the park, and to prove them wrong, we drove up and down each street, looking for a "for rent" sign. The only sign was a faded "for sale" sign, and it had a phone number. A friendly neighbor came up to our car and said, "Call the number! Maybe they'll let you rent it!"

We did. The owner said he would come meet us the next morning. He was driving from San Diego and was late. We opened the gate and sat in the yard, waiting, and imagining what it would be like to stay there. Folks started coming in the open gate, since it hadn't been open for so long and was for sale! Luckily, everyone was gone when the owners came, and we signed a week-to-week lease for 2 weeks. 

Just then, a man came in and said he wanted to buy the place! Within a few minutes, our lease was turned over, and we had a new landlord. We could still stay the two weeks.

This was a great time. We got to know the community, and I figured out that they had a library, an exercise room, and  we joined the aqua-size class in the huge, warm pool. It was filled daily with friendly Canadian couples and their families, seniors who had lived there for years, and also friendly Gay men. Everyone seemed to get along famously.

The location is also fabulous. The Palm Springs Senior Center and the public library are right across the street, and all the stores, cafes, that you could ever need, including a frozen yogurt shop. There's even a thrift shop within walking distance, plus many, many more within the city. (It's amazing how excited I get about a thrift store. Doug calls me a "cheap date"). Plus, the weather, six months a year is lovely, encouraging folks to dress as if they're on a tropical island. The spectacular view of the close-by San Jacinto Peak is fascinating to look at as the sun sets behind it early every night at around 4 pm, providing a very long twilight.

Doug's sister, also a resident, "had her ear to the ground", and found out that someone in her neighborhood was looking to sell soon. She thought that Doug would be too tall for this darling place, but he wasn't. 

When we first saw this '55 Columbia Trailer with a long room with vaulted ceilings added on each side, I first thought of my Grandma Diddo's "Greenhouse" in Capitola. It looked like a beach house to me, and was artistically decorated from many garage sales. I told the owner, "I feel like I've gone to a thrift shop, I like everything, and I can have it ALL!'

We made a quick decision to buy it, at what we think is a very reasonable price. Many new cars cost less! We had looked around at other places that might be coming on to the market soon, but I kept holding on to the idea of the "beach house". It didn't look like any of the others to me, and Doug soon knew that this was the one for us. (Especially since I had had such an aversion to trailers before.....he thought he'd better go with what I liked!)

We drove back up to the Bay Area to tend to business, and couple of weeks later we were moved in. Participating in the Park's rummage sale, we sold all we didn't need that the owner left. We went to a dance (and danced!), and we swam again in the aqua-size class with fun people we've come to call friends. Within 2 weeks, we both bought bicycles and were practicing on the nice flat terrain.

Pat with our colorfully painted wall.

This little cottage has been anointed as "ours", since we painted the cinder block wall surrounding our patio in desert colors of olive, rust, bamboo, and marigold. We named the huge palm tree on our patio, "Connie", since the previous owner planted it. (She cried when I told her, saying, "You guys are so sweet!)

Doug with the newly painted door at our "cottage".

We are not snowbirds, but rainbirds, we say, since we only escape the rain of the East Bay, in Northern California, rather than the iced over lakes and deep snow of Canada. Alas, there are only 5 or 6 months that you can appreciate the nice warm climate of Palm Springs. Snowbirds are heading north now, telling us tales of how to "close down" our winter home. 120 degree temps have been known to melt plastic salt and pepper shakers and weather and dry up bicycle tires. After interviewing several folks at the pool, we followed instructions and put two big garbage cans full of water in each side of the cottage. They say when we return in October, the water will be almost gone! This keeps up the humidity during the hottest temps. We also had to put mineral oil in the toilet, and then cover the tank and the seat with plastic wrap, so that the water doesn't evaporate too quickly, allowing animals to find their way in....!

The previous owner left covers for all the windows to put on the inside, with the foil facing outward to deflect the sun. A good neighbor will be coming around to water my "test" plants, succulents, lantana, feather grasses, and bougainvilia. A lot of those are planted all over Palm Springs, so I opted to be safe. We'll see if anything's left when we come back.

"Connie" our palm tree with view from the patio.

 God Bless you little cottage. We'll miss you. Be safe.