Dry in Utah, more Travels With Our Prius

Evidently, in Utah, because of the Mormon influence, liquor is sold in separate state-run liquor stores. We were staying for the night near the border in Kanab, UT, and thought we'd save a little money by not ordering wine in a restaurant. A merchant in town told us that the nearest "packaged" liquor store was just across the border, in Arizona. We entered "liquor store" into the maps app on our iPhone, and the directions popped up. We headed for the border of Utah, into Arizona.
Sure enough, a lone, weathered building stood in a gravel parking lot with a peeling sign that said  "Liq or". It had the look of a business that was either closed or was neglected. From the outside, empty cardboard boxes could be seen piled up against the window. Doug said, "The man said there were two stores, maybe we should try the other one..."
There were three cars in the parking lot, and I said, "SOME people shop here. I think this looks interesting. Let's both go in."
The screen door creaked as we walked in. Doug ventured ahead of me down a narrow aisle. I was greeted by a little black bulldog. When I bent to pet him, flakes of dandruff appeared on his dusty looking coat. There was a slight scent of a litter box. The dog followed behind as I turned to take in the scene.
Some of the nails were sticking up above the weathered floorboard. On either side of the aisle were big bags of cat food, dog food, and garden soil. Something for everyone. What was really encroaching on the aisle were stacks of old newspaper, and discarded packaging that never made it out to the garbage.
Behind the counter sat a rather tall old woman with waxy skin and and long gray hair. She made eye contact with me, and I noticed the bags under her eyes and the deep wrinkles from years of smoking.
"What's your dog's name?", I asked, trying to be social.
She looked me up and down and then shouted ,"He's Bull! B-U-L-L!" at the top of her voice, as if she was hard of hearing, or she thought I was.
Behind her was a another stack of newspapers and magazines, this time intermingled with three bottles of what I recognized as little plastic bottles of homeopathic remedies. I was going to be bold and ask her about them, since I've taken the different "cell salt" tablets before for different ailments, but I refrained. Maybe I felt that it made me more like her...
I walked back to where Doug was examining the different bottles of wine that were displayed amazingly neatly, but with no prices.
In the mean time, the lady smoked the last of a cigarette, flicking the ashes off her stained down vest, chatted with other customers, asking about their families; how she hadn't seen them for a couple of days, etc. A young man with a bowl haircut and missing a couple of front teeth, emerged from a big refrigerated room with a 24 pack of cold beer. She asked him when he was leaving for his new job. "Tomorrow", he said.
We made our selection, a Turning Leaf Merlot, but wondered about the price. "Seven ninety-five." she called out. She called out "See ya!", to some other customers, and then asked if we would pay by cash or credit.
"Visa if that's okay", said my husband.
"BOBBY!!", she hollered. "Seven ninety-five!!"
Turns out Bobby is her grandson, who arranges the bottles and runs the credit machine.
As he was ringing us up, Doug asked the lady if the road to the North Rim of the Canyon was open yet. The boy from the beer refrigerator said, " It won't open till May 15th, I'm going up to work there. We have to get it ready in the next coupla weeks." He smiled and shrugged his shoulders proudly.
"So I guess we'll head on up to Bryce or Arches", Doug said.
Trying to make a little more conversation, I said,"I bet you do a pretty good business here right on the border!"
She looked at me oddly with her rheumy eyes, and in a moment said, "Yeah, some tourists come through here."
The young man with the beer offered, "Well, ya got a lotta regulars!!", grinning from ear to ear.
"Well, tomorrow I think I'll just close for the day", she said, "I've got a lot of errands to do." She moved an overflowing ashtray to a neater place directly in the middle of an old Oprah magazine.
Her grandson had Doug sign his receipt, and then went back to straightening the liquor bottles.
We said our good byes, and headed for the door, once again followed by Bull. Near the door I saw a big white ice machine and opened it thinking we might need some ice for our ice chest. I closed it quickly and made for the door.
Doug said, "You don't want to get ice?"
I shook my head and said, "There wasn't any ice in there, only old pizza boxes..."
We walked to our car thinking that perhaps we should wipe down the wine bottle before we opened it. I guess you can see that we aren't fine wine connoisseurs....

The Velocity of a Cough

"You should gargle with salt water". I can still hear my mother's voice in my head after all these years. I've been reminded more recently, since after hearing me cough off and on through the night, I heard my husband's sleepy voice giving the remedy high praise. "I really think it's helped me dodge the flu that you have darling. I swear by it."

I don't know why I fight gargling. Finally giving in, I added the salt to some warm water, and gargled. First, I tried to gargle making it sound like the "Star-Spangled Banner", since that was my way of encouraging my kids to get the salty solution all around the uvula and throat. (Either that, or they'd laugh trying).

It didn't work for me, though. Once the water hit the back of my throat, it set me off with such a cough that a Blast of water came flying out of my mouth that covered the 3 by 4 foot mirror over the sink with salty drops. I was shocked at the force of a cough!

The next morning, while brushing my teeth, another creeper cough surprised me while I was brushing my teeth, (perhaps my gentle readers don't want to hear this), with "shock and awe", toothpaste and water were sprayed all over the aforementioned mirror and on my arms. Upon closer investigation a snotty, green, "luggie" had been "hacked" out and projected by the cough onto my arm! It was disgusting! (Hence the warning) 

The next day, my doctor prescribed an inhaler for me. The pharmacist instructed me to exhale as much as I could, and then inhale while squirting the mist into my mouth and try to then hold my breath. .... Now this was difficult, since inhaling instigates a tickle in the back of my throat lately, and as hard as I tried, the cough would burst out like I was a stoner trying to hold in smoke from a hash pipe. (as seen in movies, of course)
Again I wondered at the velocity of this cough that was expelled  from my body with such power!

So of course, I went to Google.
Evidently I'm not the first person to wonder about this. The explanation that was easiest for me to understand was written by Richard S. Irwin, MD, FCCP. He said "during vigorous coughing, expiratory velocities of up to 500 miles per hour may be generated."
Well, I'm just saying...... Cover your mouth when you cough! Do it the new approved way, by coughing into your elbow. Even our grandkids know how to do that.
Gesundheit

Sickroom Supplies

It's been so long since I've been sick with a cold and cough I kind of forgot how far down you can be dragged. Certain things have been known to either take me out of a funk or make me feel better when I'm ill. Last night when I couldn't sleep because of coughing, I found myself wandering around the house at 3:00 a.m., looking for remedies of any sort. Mostly found were daytime cold medicines, expired, and threatening side effects of nervousness and irritability. What I really wanted to find, was an old bottle of spray Chloraseptic that I used when my kids were still living at home. Maybe I never sorted it out and tossed it. Maybe it still had a bit left in it, enough to numb my throat so it wouldn't want to cough and wake me as I finally dozed. No such luck.
In the morning, I would gather together all the supplies I needed to get better.

When this began, a few days ago, I thought all I needed to knock this thing out was to gargle with salt water, and have some tea. Left at home alone in the morning, my husband went off to work by himself and I ventured down to the kitchen for that cup of tea. Peach Ginger tea sounded perfect, and I waited for the teapot to whistle. There came a tapping noise from the living room, and I peered around the corner for signs of life, but none. I went over to the various electronic devices that were humming away, unused. No tapping. Standing in the middle of the room, waiting..... a tapping to my left on the window. The culprit was right there! It was a  bushtittie! Well, a Bushtit, a small round ball of feathers that travels in flocks that have been known a couple of times a year to come to our yard, cover our lemon bush, making cute little noises like a bunch of squeeze toys outside the window. I've always announced with an English accent, "The Bushtitties are here!" to extract a bashful grin from my kids. Never, have I seen one fly right up to a window and peck at it. As I was watching that one, another one did the same at another window, taking a rest on a vine and then throwing itself at the window to peck again! I tried to take a picture, but it doesn't do it justice. This was still going on even after I drank my tea and came down 2 hours later. My sister says it must be mating season, and they are trying to get together with their reflections!

This experience reminded me that one of my favorite things in our room (whether sick or well) is to watch the birds at the bird feeder hanging outside the window. Today is a beautiful, springlike day. The finches, sparrows, and chickadees are all making delightful entertainment for me. I see them take turns sitting on the branches of the plum tree (with new blossoms), to fly over to the feeder to peck at the seeds and throw even more on the ground below. Occasionally I'll get a visit from a local Scrub Jay, that I call Blue Boy. He makes a huge "thump" on the metal hook that holds the feeder, helping us to greet the new day with him. His favorite munchie is the dripless suet made from peanuts and other seeds that you put in a little cage to hang. (If you don't get the dripless variety, the hot sun will melt the suet, or grease, all over the ground underneath.) Blue Boy goes into all sorts of contortions to get at the good stuff and to entertain us.

One thing about this cough, is that if I talk, it makes me cough. My husband might be enjoying this just a little bit too much. Many times I started telling a story that something reminded me of on tv, started coughing and then, waving my hand, said, "Never mind!" since it wasn't worth the telling. We went out to have a nutritious lunch of Shrimp Hot and Sour Soup at our favorite Vietnamese restaurant, Nong Thon, in El Cerrito. Since I was about to cough, I didn't blurt out our order to our server, I more politely waited for Doug to do it. This "condition" of mine has also brought to mind that I have been known to "talk over" someone. Not sure if it was ever worked in to a character on Seinfeld, but in an excited state, without realizing it, I've tried to get out my information about a subject before, or at least louder, than a friend. If I've ever done that to you, I'm sorry, and evidently I'm getting some time to think about it, with laryngitis. We'll see if the lesson sticks. I think it's a darned good Lenten practice.

Anyway, we went to the store for the supplies, the Chloroseptic, (the original disgusting flavor), some daytime and nighttime cold medicine, new menthol cough drops, more birdseed, and some carrots, apples and ginger to make myself some juice in my new Jack Lalanne Power Juicer. The latter is to keep me on the track I've been on to try to detox my body! Could this cold be all the toxins trying to fight their way out? (I've heard people say things like that before : p)
No..... but the words seem to be fighting their way out, and not through my mouth, through my fingers!
So , have some tea. Bottoms up!.....and good health to you all!

Moon Over My Waistline

Today I thought of a silver haired lady that we used to see gardening outside her apartment house in El Cerrito. The corner was a busy one, and most times she'd be there taking really good care of her hedges with an old-fashioned hedge clipper. Unfortunately, more often than not, when she bent over, her loosely banded sweatpants revealed her butt crack. I thought, "She must know that she is flashing everyone who is  sitting, waiting for the  light", but year after year she kept putting in her time on her corner lot, mooning everyone who passed.

Unfortunately, the reason I thought of the lady, (she, I'm sure is no longer with us), was because when I was gardening today, I think I resembled her. We had just dug all the weeds out of our raised bed, and chucked them into a couple of piles. I wheeled the green bin the city gives us on to the sidewalk, and started bending over repeatedly to pick up the weeds and chuck them over the rock wall into the bin. My pants have had a harder and harder time remaining on my so-called waist of late. It was the end of the day, and this was the last thing I had to do. I was tired of hitching up my pants, and I'm sure I may have flashed someone! (Well, there wasn't anyone around, but if they had been there, they would have been flashed.)

This whole observation may seem silly, but I found out the other day, why my pants don't stay on my waist..... I  took my measurements. Without confessing the actual data, suffice it to say that my chest measurement was only ONE INCH MORE than my waist OR my hips! This was an eye opener. Something to be dealt with.

We HAVE just come back from a vacation, but this isn't anything new. Sitting with a laptop on the bed and watching TV, and being less active has an effect on our bellies. Our bellies are also important for our back health, as I've been told by my physical therapist, and I have known, but not paid attention.

So, with instructions that I have been given for exercises, a regime that has been suggested to me for cleansing toxins, I'm on a mission to be healthier in my retirement. My mission is to not have to hitch up my pants every 5 minutes while gardening.

In the meantime however, I'm going to drag out my old pair of overalls...

Connected To Our Phones

So, it's come to this: On a three hour layover in LAX, I've tweeted and texted and e-mailed so much that my iphone is almost out of battery. Most airports now have big towers of plugs next to the seats at each gate. American Airlines at the Los Angeles Airport doesn't . There are only two stands with the four plugs up high with no appropriate seats next to them. When those eight plugs are taken, folks resort to sitting on the cold marble floor next to a couple of pillars with two outlets each. After those are all used, the rest of us are screwed.
After sitting and reading an entire 1998 Martha Stewart (pre-prison) magazine I had found and finishing a crossword with my husband, a wonderful sound was heard. It was an overhead page announcing a flight that was now boarding for New York. People were starting to gather their things together and unplug their wires, cutting their lifelines.
By the time I had gathered my things together, one set of charging stations was already overtaken! Turning and walking briskly toward the other station, I noticed that there was a vacant outlet near the bottom of one of the pillars, but I shunned the cold floor. At the other station I saw a man answering the call to NY, but before I could make it over, another passenger whipped out his cord and plugged it in.
Turning around, I resigned myself to the hard floor. Oh, but just ahead of me I spy an older man wearing a cowboy hat, holding a cell phone in one hand and its cord in the other. He was glancing in the direction of the vacant plug,but didn't seem to see it.  Deciding not to push by him, I gave him half a chance, and when he looked the other way, I swooped in for the save. I slid my back down the pillar and quickly stuck in the plug...but it wouldn't insert! After turning it and shoving, and checking the size of the prongs, I looked beseechingly at the young woman using the other plug for her laptop. She saw my frustration, and said, "You must have to push harder. A man was just using it." She gave it a shove and I was in business!
I only felt a little guilty as I looked up to see the man in the cowboy hat wandering, searching, to no avail.

The Participant

The tire business was in San Pablo, about 10 miles from my home, but I decided to treat it as if it was far away. I needed to get two new tires for my eight year old '90 Isuzu Trooper, and I wanted to wait the four hours for them to be installed so I could have some time to myself.
I left the car at the tire place, and ventured out into the.......what I hadn't planned for......
The mall around the area was tired, worn out, and most of the businesses were closed.
Walking around the few businesses that were hanging on, I noticed a travel agent's shop, and stopped to peer at the dreams portrayed on the faded posters in the window.
Surprisingly, in that lonely place, a cable car pulled up, a conductor jumped off,  tipped his cap at me, and walked in the door to talk to a man inside. He talked for a few moments, and then both of them came out so he could show his friend his mode of transportation, his new job. I joined the travel agent in marveling over the shiny maroon and wood San Francisco cable car on wheels. Darrin the driver was to drive the cable car in a parade that day. We all ended up talking and once they found out I had time on my hands, it was suggested that I hop on the front of the car and accompany him. Perhaps I hadn't had much excitement in my life, and this seemed like such an unusual adventure, I said, "Why not?!
Leaving the travel agent to his business, we clanged our way out of the empty parking lot, and drove on to Hiway 80 freeway. The wind whipped through my hair, and I was having second thoughts about taking off with this stranger, when we got off at the next exit, at San Pablo Dam Road. Darrin said, "We're supposed to turn right here and go in to the shopping center." I held on to the brass pole, as the big cable car lumbered on it's soft tires into the driveway, rocking me as if I were riding an elephant. Instead of parking, we headed around the back of the Payless Drug Store, where I found that we were supposed to take our place in line.
Darrin jumped off, saying he'd be right back, while I took in the spectacle.
Stretched along the back of the shopping mall, were cheer leaders, flag girls, caballeros on horseback, a marching band tuning up, a spiffy pink convertible, some clowns and a man on stilts, to name a few. Darrin came running back, saying,"We're kinda late, we'll pull up a little and get our people." He handed me a red ribbon to pin on my sweater that said "Participant", saying, "If anyone asks what you're doing here, just say you're with me."
 He slowly pulled forward alongside each group, calling out to the scouts, "On your right!", and being careful not to clang his bell and spook the horses. He pulled us into place behind the marching band, and waved some folks over, brightly dressed in traditional Mexican clothing: the men with big sombreros and women with colorful peasant tops and skirts, all with banners across their chests. Some said "San Pablo, Our Sister City", and others had the name of their city, "San Manzanillo, Mexico" emblazoned across their front. They climbed aboard, shyly nodding and smiling to me, I suppose wondering what this gringo was doing on their cable car! I smiled back, saying "Hola" or "Buenos dias", the best I could do at the time.
This group including the mayor, had been brought in from San Pablo's sister city in Mexico to ride in the parade. Everyone filed in and sat down and we started to slowly move forward as the bass drum and snare drums started to give us a beat. We moved along the back side of the mall, band in front of us, horses behind, and the man on stilts coming along side.
I couldn't believe this was happening. As we came out on to San Pablo Ave, there were people, whole families, sitting at the edge of the sidewalk. They were waving flags and clapping to the beat of the marching band. I found myself getting a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat as I heard the bass drum beating right in front of us. (For some reason that happens when I see a parade.)  It was as if it was the 4th of July, only it wasn't. It was the celebration of the 50th anniversary of the birth of the city of San Pablo. ....and I was suddenly part of it. Serapes and all.

All of us on the cable car waved at the folks at the curb. Sure, I looked a little bit out of place, but I smiled and did a little side-to-side wave as if I were the Queen of England. And, remember, I DID have a "Participant" ribbon.

Golden Gate Bridge Walkers ....1987

Can't believe it's been 25 years since May 1987. That was the year the Golden Gate Bridge turned fifty and my family joined in the famous Bridge Walk.

Since my husband was working in San Francisco's Hilton as a maitre'd, he belonged to Local 2. The union offered a bus to carry anyone who wanted to the front of the line to walk across the famous span.
We put the kids to sleep in their clothes the night before, and then woke them at about 3 AM to drive to the union hall. There was a festive atmosphere as they served us all hot chocolate, and then co-workers and their families piled into buses to ride along together. When we were let off near the entrance to the Golden Gate, we had to wait because, if I remember correctly, Mayor Feinstein and some council people were going to lead the way.
Once the parade began, we fell in with our group.In the early morning light the orange towers looked pretty magnificent. It took quite awhile to actually make it on to the actual span. Our kids were already getting a little tired of walking, at ages 4-1/2 and 9, and the farther we walked, the crowd seemed to get denser. It was becoming less parade-like all the time.
We were surprised when we had crossed the half-way point, heading toward Sausalito, that we were all instructed to turn around, and keeping to the right, go back the way we came. I don't remember there being any Port-a-Pottys, and we all wished we could pee. Some men and boys used their male privilege, and relieved themselves over the side.
In the morning sun we watched helicopters fly overhead, probably reporting on this big event that we were uncomfortably a part of. My husband, Walt, picked up our son and put him on his shoulders. I tried to carry our daughter, but couldn't for very long. I worried about her being the short one in the crush of humanity, and I tried to protect her from elbows and such.Even now, 25 years later, I remember thinking that it was getting so crowded, I bet I could have lifted both feet up at the same time, and been carried along. I looked down at my daughter, sometimes with tears in her eyes, no doubt wishing that she could ride on Dad's shoulders.
Remember also, that this was before cell phones. A few people had transistor radios, and were listening to the coverage on the news.
Word was going around that the bridge was sagging with the weight of people. That sounded like a crazy rumor, since this famous span has held so many cars and trucks at once over the years. Never the less, it was interesting to see that the reaction to this news wasn't outright panic, but silence.
Everyone moved eerily slowly. What were they thinking..... that if they were quiet, they wouldn't weigh as much? Just "Please God just get us off this bridge!"  I was thankful they weren't in a trampling mood, since so many would have been hurt.  No..... just silence.
Then a man started singing "Trailers For Sale or Rent", a lonely voice, at first. I was happy to hear the familiar song, and joined in with just a few others. Anything to let us take our minds off our situation.
None too soon, we finally came to the end of our adventure, found a public restroom and began our long trek back home across the Bay. Safe at home we watched the fireworks display from our deck while listening to a symphony playing the "1812 Overture" on television.
The kids had the mementos of the foam bridge hats we bought them, and we all probably came away with a little aversion to crowds.

Fighting Bumblebees!

Yesterday I got out of my car in Berkeley California, went over to the sidewalk, and noticed a fuzzy sort of ball rolling around on the ground. I realized right away that it was two bumblebees fighting!

As they fought, the big one was on top, and then the smaller one gained the upper hand. But the advantage switched again, and the big one tried to fly off, carrying the small one under him!

I was fascinated by the yellow and black blur, standing close by, watching the action.
The larger bee sank with his victim to the ground as if it was too heavy, but as soon as he dropped it, they rolled about on the sidewalk a couple more times and then he was on top again and grabbed the smaller one and attempted to take off once more! He faltered, dropping his victim, and I swear,....HE .LOOKED AT ME!!!!!

I realized that I was the focus now of this ferocious insect, and I fled in terror to run faster than I ever have,.all the while thinking that I have broken a hip before and should be careful!
All of that was included in the movement that carried me racing along that sidewalk into my husband's store.
After I opened the door I rushed to him, turned my back, and said,"Do you see any bees on my back?!!"
"I don't see anything", he said.

We found later on the Internet that I may have interrupted a couple of male bumblebees vying for the female.   Sorry.

Keesha Says To Wrap!

While sitting in a labor and delivery waiting room at a little after midnight, hoping for updates on the arrival of our grandbaby, I noticed a young woman crocheting an afghan. Her fingers were flying nimbly as she poked the crochet hook in and out and twirled the yarn here and there. The growing blanket was already so far along that it covered her legs.
My husband nudged me and said "She moves a little faster than you do, eh?"
I rolled my eyes and said, "That's for sure".
The girl looked up and smiled. "He's referring to the little patch I've been working on, trying to teach myself how to crochet," I said. "The yarn is probably for someone more advanced than me. It's fuzzy and has little ribbons hanging from it. The whole piece comes out too tight or too loose and the edges are unpredictable. They wave in and out. I keep trying to tell myself that it looks arty!"
She commiserated, saying,"Don't worry, I've been doing this since I was 12 and now I'm 30. You'll get better!"
Turns out, she, Keesha, had been waiting since 1 p.m. for her friend's baby to arrive and she had been crocheting and visiting with the family all that time. By 2 a.m., it didn't look like our baby was going to come any time soon, so we thought we should rest for a while. We wished everyone well, and went home
By morning, we decided to do errands, since phone calls and texts had told us that the baby situation had changed. Her water had broke, so labor wouldn't be induced, slowing the process.
I took time to grocery shop and then stopped at the local Joanne's Fabrics. I remembered how our daughter had marveled at what I considered to be my pathetic attempt at crochet. Since it was pink, I think she thought I was making something for the baby.
Inspired by the woman at the hospital, and the imminent grandchild, I ventured down the aisles displaying a vast array of colorful yarns. Some were too scratchy, or thin, or fuzzy. (I didn't want to repeat THAT mistake.) Then  I found a thick, baby-soft, yellow, aqua and pink ball of yarn that looked perfect, and a big fat crochet hook. I told myself that I could do better if I studied a little.
Since I didn't know exactly how to do certain stitches or how much yarn to get, I decided to look at a how-to book and st in a chair near the pattern-book table.
This used to be an old haunt of mine, since I was a teenager, at a different fabric store that is long-gone. I remember sitting for hours studying the Butterick, Simplicity and even Vogue patterns from which I actually fashioned many of my own clothes, and later some for my little girl. It was a de-ja vu moment. I felt "back in the club", as I sat studying the stitches. Could I really make a baby blanket? Would I actually finish it?
Back at the hospital waiting room, at about 5 p.m., I was pleasantly surprised to find Keesha, (kind of sorry for her), still waiting for her friend's baby to be born. I dared to ask her for a lesson, since the memory of the book's explanation was fading from my memory.
Keesha had me sit next to her as I showed her my new yarn and big fat hook. I showed her I could do a chain stitch to start out, and she was a little impressed that I at least new that. The Double Crochet Stitch is what I wanted to use, since it seems to make a more loose "fabric".
She showed me how to find the next link in the chain stitch, wrap the yarn around the tool, push it through with the hook, wrap it again, pull through 2 stitches, wrap it yet again, and pull through the next 2, then go to the next link and repeat.
Just as soon as she praised me for catching on quickly, she'd catch me  pushing through the loop without wrapping first, and say, "Wait! Don't forget to wrap!" I'd do okay again for a little while, and she'd just coax, saying "wrap", and I smiled, saying,"I'll have to have a mantra, saying 'Keesha says to wrap'".
As I write this, my project is about 36 inches long (from my nose to my out-stretched fingers), and about as wide as an ace bandage. The baby is about to be born, so I'd better get back to work and pick up my speed.

Brooklyn Accents

Recently we took a trip to Brooklyn to visit my son, and to go to NYC for a Broadway show. My birthday was on Monday, May 7th, and after we found a good cup of coffee, my husband and I spent a couple of hours walking around the neighborhood on Bedford Ave. 
It seems almost European to me. The shops are all so close together they share walls, mostly brick. It took me a couple of walks on each block to realize or really notice many of the stores. Either they weren't open before, or my mind just couldn't take in all the sights.
Also on the lookout for a pharmacy, I saw a Duane Reade's, which seems like the Walmart of the east coast. It was the usual small storefront, and had one checker and a few items like cigarettes locked up. I asked the checker if she had contact lens solution. She pointed to the escalator, which brought me down, down to a huge basement super drug store! A surprise to me, making me wonder what was behind all those other storefronts. I wondered how people who bought more than I did could bring their purchases to the checkstand. The kind lady pointed and said "on th' el-le-va-ta". (I was so happy to hear her Brooklyn speech, I smiled.)
Further down Bedford, near Metropolitan, is a Municipal Pool. The high vaulted ceiling of the pool can be seen from the street, and people were coming out the door carrying their towels. We have a renovated pool near us,  the Richmond Plunge, so I walked into the lobby to ask if I could take a look. The lady said it was members only. I asked if they ever took walk ins. She said, "Well, only on the first Monday of the month." "Then that would be today, right?", I countered. "Could I just take a peek inside?"
"Oh yeah", she said. "Go in through the ladies dressing room", waving me along.
It was another world in there. Lots of older ladies were in different states of undress, mostly with wraps around their wet hair. There was another group standing barefooted in wet suits holding towels waiting in line for the showers. I stepped through the puddles on the floor past them, explaining that I'm just gonna take a look at the pool.
One woman piped up, "It's not a good day De-ah. ... It's va-ry gar-een.", with an accent to remind me what city I was in. Even though I had packed my bathing suit, I decided to pass.

Phew! We Made It Through Another April 21st!

Most people don't think one way or another about April 21st, unless it happens to be their birthday, or as it is this year, the day before Earth Day. My husband and I usually find time to remember our dads, and as we get older, we try to have a "safe" day.

On one of our first dates, 10 years ago, we were sharing our histories. We talked as we looked out at the view of the Bay Area from a parking lot at Cal State Hayward, where I was taking a few classes. Doug asked me about my father, who I have very fond memories of, and I volunteered  that he died rather suddenly when I was 16 years old, leaving a large hole in all of our lives.

Doug said, "Oh, I know, my dad died when I was 16 too." I'm sure we both felt that was quite a thing to have in common. 

Keeping up the conversation, I volunteered that my dad had passed away on April 21st, and it was weird when it came time that my father-in-law should die it was ALSO on April 21st (of course several years later).

"Oh!", he exclaimed. "My dad died on April 21st too..... when I was 16!"

I was thinking to myself, "now what kind of a guy would make this up? This is creepy!" Then I looked at him, and he wasn't fooling! It was almost as if we could hear the theme from "Twilight Zone" in the background.

April 21st was yesterday, and as we're getting older, I've started thinking we should be a little careful. I don't want to be paranoid, but we did say a little prayer for our safety along with the one remembering all the dads. It didn't help that Doug had to climb a ladder outside to clean off a greenhouse window, and both of us had to re-install a heavy wooden door after he painted it, huffing and puffing the whole time. I kind of over-did and felt exhausted after a day of painting and working in the garden. The thought did cross my mind that we don't want any more "coincidences" to talk about in the coming years.

a good day for gardening

Tonight I feel the achiness in my bones of a couple of really good days of hard labor.
I worked alongside my husband on a project today, a new piece of property, and we were working on it together. He was sanding, priming and painting the front door a nice eggplant color, and fixing up the inside and I focused on the garden. Curb appeal seems to be our focus.
While I pulled the weeds from between the California Poppies and allysum, I had intermittent visitations from two little neighbor boys. They were brothers. I asked the oldest one how old he was, and he said "four and a half".
"So", I said, "Are you going to go to kindergarten next year?"
"No, I'm gonna go to judo." Did I mention he was really cute? (From now on I'm going to call them Seth and Micah).
Later on in my digging, I found a worm, so I held it up in my garden gloved hand to show the boys. Seth held out his hand and I gave it to him. I've seen his mom next door doing all kinds of vegetable gardening, so I figure these kids are used to insects and such. He looked at it writhing in his hand and I said," Just set him down next to that flower I planted over there so he doesn't get hurt while I'm digging." He did, and we watched the little worm squiggle down into the soft earth.
Next 3 year old Micah found a ladybug. He had picked it up, dropped it, it landed on it's back on the sidewalk, he at my urging tipped it right-side-up, and it walked on to a leaf. Whew!
They showed me their little bicycles and how they could race down the hill, and I kept digging. When they came back, I said, "Look! Roly-Polys!" Seth took one, crawling from my finger onto his palm and then showed his brother how, no, it didn't sting, it tickled his hand, and then it rolled up into a ball.
I flashed back on how much my daughter loved those little critters when she was little, and how cute she said "Roly-Poly".
The idyllic scene was broken when Micah spotted the ladybug again on the sidewalk and stomped on it and Seth, outraged, kicked him in the leg. We saw the tiny yellow guts splayed out on the concrete and I quickly calmed Micah's tears, swept the little red wings over to a hole in the dirt, said, "you know, it's ok, let's bury him."
The boys were called home, and I had time to listen to the sounds of the birds and the far away train, and the occasional siren or overhead plane. I pulled out weeds with roots that amazed me. On some of them the earth clung in such big clumps I had to shake and hit them with my spade to get it off.
That brought back a memory of when I was about eleven, my mom wanted me to pull weeds on the parking strip in front of our house. I thought I did a great job, even cleaning out the gutter, that had a bunch of mud that had also sprouted of weeds. When my mom took a look at the garbage can later, she was appalled, and called me back out to have me correct what I had done. Every weed in there was heavy with soil, and there were shovel fulls of "my dirt!", she called it, .... silt that had run down the gutter from other neighbors yards, and got caught in our weeds. She made me rescue all the soil from the bin, shaking each weed. She said this was wonderful soil that we should put back into the ground, not throw away. I'll never forget that. She thought of her property as her Tara, like Scarlet O'Hara, just how my husband always says I feel about my home.
Today, when we went back to work  on the house, I worked on the side, doing more weeding and planting. The boys weren't home today, so it was quiet. For a while I listened to Andrea Bocelli on my iPod, but I missed the sounds of nature. That's when I heard clucking. I had heard that the neighbors had chickens, but hadn't heard or seen them. There were about 4 hens peeking at me and softly murmuring through the fence. I love to cluck back at chickens, and I wanted to feed them something, but wasn't sure what they could eat. Suddenly spotting sour grass, I figured if I could suck on the stuff when I was little, it couldn't hurt a chicken. Besides, one of them was poking her head through the fence to get some anyway. We became fast friends when they found out I had a sourgrass connection. Five of their friends showed up. I think I'll be getting to know these chickens pretty well. I'm finding that they are pretty intense about finding food. There are partially dug holes along the adjoining fence. I think I know now why the chicken crosses the road.

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions...

....or Confessions of a lazy protester.

The quote in my title came to mind this morning when we arrived too late to get arrested at the Occupy Livermore protest at Lawrence Livermore Nuclear Weapons Lab. By the time we arrived at 9:15 the last row of Alameda County sheriffs had marched off in formation, leaving a still-imposing line of officers dressed in camoflage, their billy clubs across their chest. There were a few of the usual protesters still standing around and they thought  I supposed, it was comical when we walked right up to the barricade and said "Can we still be arrested?" One officer said "No, it's all over Ma'am." Chagrinned, we turned around to find one of the lifelong white-haired activists near us. She smiled and said softly, "Next time maybe you should leave a little earlier."

The Good Friday Protest has been happening faithfully for about 30 years at Lawrence Livermore Lab to make sure people don't forget that we are making weapons of mass distruction right here in the USA. Wondering why it's suddening affiliated with the Occupy movement, we know it's always been called an Ecumenical protest, attracting all sorts of peace-loving people from different faiths and walks of life. My husband Doug first heard about it from the late Father Bill O'Donnell, who is still there in spirit usually with his picture on a placard that says "Presente". He would have gotten arrested if he could.

The first time Doug introduced me to this group of folks was about 8 years ago, and we were about to be married. We came early, around 6:30 or 7:00 to the rally and to listen to the speeches. It was very cold, and we were glad when everyone started walking toward the gate on Vasco Rd to block it. There was singing of songs and people carried signs, following a big wooden  cross with an arty Jesus on it. We watched as the cops marched out to meet them and blocked the gate. The folks that agreed to make a statement and be arrested lined up  in rows in front of them, and we were among the others that cheered them on from the curb. Besides, we didn't know how long we would possibly be detained, and we didn't want to miss our honeymoon.

The next year we came a little later, enough time to catch the end of the speeches, march along with the others to the lab's gate, chant and sing, and cheer on the arrestees. Once again though, we couldn't stay.... we had a trip planned to Europe. Similar excuses presented themselves until about four years ago.

Another Good Friday we decided to get more involved, we got there just as folks were nearing the gate. We had decided to be arrested that day. We had been observers long enough. Stepping off the curb, we were the participants, staring back at the young men in their black uniforms,in fully regalia, looking back at the gathering through their dark sunglasses. (I wondered, "Are you listening to our songs? Did your mother teach you these songs of gentleness when you were small? Do you hear me? Do you see me?) We kept singing peace songs and spirituals and my favorite, "Dona Pacem" (grant us peace) as a "round". When it came our turn, the sheriff read those of us in the front row our rights, and said if we didn't leave we would be under arrest. We didn't, so each sheriff put our hands behind our backs, surrounded our wrists with handcuffs, and pulled up on our hands in the back to remind us of their control. People in the crowd rooted for us and called out "thank you" as we were led back toward the busses. I was handed over to a female officer, who frisked me and asked if I had anything in my pockets that could injure her before she plunged her hand in. All of our belongings were put into a bag for us, and we were taken, still handcuffed, to a bus. Sitting forward in the seat because of the cuffs, we chatted a little and shared with the other detainees. We told them that Father O'Donnell used to call this an "easy bust", and they agreed, having come here for so many years in a row. They hoped that each year more young people will come out and realize that nuclear weapons shouldn't be a choice for anyone.
When it came time to get off the bus, because of the closeness of the seat in front of me, I found out I couldn't stand up in close quarters without being able to hold on to something in front of me. The driver came back in to find out why I was lagging. He helped me up. Then we were all put into one of 3 cyclone fence cages to wait. We wondered about other prisoners that have been put in much worse places. There were a couple of nuns and priests and ministers and a number of activists, many who recognized each other from other years. ...... Within an hour and a half, all of us had been removed from the cages two at a time, brought to a staging area where we actually had a photo taken with an arresting officer, were fingerprinted, ID'd, and released to be driven to the street and let go. I guess we hadn't had to worry about missing our honeymoon because of jailtime.

The next year was about the same, but we arrived a little later, coming just as the folks were about to be arrested, and we were able to join in.
Next time, we realized we could park in the neighborhood across the street and we arrived just as a couple of lines of protesters had walked with the sheriffs and asked if we could be arrested. They let us. We were arrested, booked, and back at our car by 10:30 AM.
This year. This year.... We don't want to give an excuse. There was traffic, yes, but we didn't account for it. As we drove past the gate of the lab to park our car, the last protesters were being led away. We were late. We were lazy protesters, and we're sorry.

There really shouldn't be any nuclear bombs. They don't keep anyone safe.

Cabo San Lucas.....First Day 2010

They stand facing us, three in a row, like birds waiting for us to offer them a crumb. We're reclining on our hotel's cushioned lounge chairs, facing the surf. They seem to honor an invisible barrier, about 20 yards away, but then we notice the red flags keeping them from our private beach territory.
The one with the open case of silver jewelry tries to make eye contact with me, but I close my eyes, trying to look exhausted or preoccupied. The man selling scarves and colorful wraps opens them one at a time. He flutters one about in the wind to show off the rainbow colors, before folding it carefully, and then brings out another one in an animal print should that be more to my taste.
Another vendor, with five or six hats stacked on his head, and with another twenty or so forming a column balanced in his arms, reminds me of a story I used to read to my kids, "Caps For Sale, Fifty Cents A Cap".
Since we had had an upsetting experience at the Cabo airport today,with salesmen attacking us like piranhas, I come up with the suggestion that when we do venture out on to the beach we each wear our hat, discouraging at least one salesperson from approaching us.
Upon further contemplation from beneath our lowered lids, we observe that many folks head directly for the beach clad only in bathing suits, and are rarely approached by people selling their wares. At first we think they're brave, and then realize they're probably not approached since they don't have any place to carry cash...... Maybe tomorrow.

Earthquake!

A few days ago, the subject came up in our home about how prepared we would be if there was a devastating earthquake. There are four of us who live here in a neighborhood directly across the bay from the Golden Gate Bridge. We're on the Hayward Fault.
I was here at home when the '89 quake happened that flattened freeways and injured the Bay Bridge. That day I was sitting in the back yard, cleaning my fish pond. Suddenly I heard a roar, and the rocks under me shook. I looked up to see the length of the house seem to kind of lean up the hill and then I swear it straightened back up. Car alarms in the neighborhood were blaring away and as I looked down the hill to the street, all the telephone wires were bouncing up and down between the poles. We sustained a few cracks in the plaster, but the only things that fell off shelves were a Batman doll my son had displayed in his room and a tube of mascara that I had standing on a shelf. Everyone was safe.
Our home is almost at the top of a hill that is made of bedrock. I think that this stone is so hard it is difficult to break down. We found that out a few years ago when we made a raised bed for gardening. It was necessary to altar our plans since we couldn't dig down any further because of the bedrock.

So here we were. A meeting was called by our son to make sure we were all on the same page should an earthquake happen. I used to be more prepared than I am now. The canned food I had collected at one point had gotten so old that some Dinty Moore Stew had exploded in the cupboard of my laundry room, dripping down the cupboard, staining it so badly it had to be repainted. At another point I had 2 new Rubbermaid garbage cans stocked with water I had saved in former apple juice containers, and a few first aid supplies and cans of tuna. The bottles of water were given to a friend who was going to a peace rally in San Francisco to weigh down his tent on a windy day, and the garbage cans were commandeered for the use they were originally intended for during a wedding reception in our yard.
The one good idea I had to offer in our new preparedness plan was that I would get a new plastic garbage can and stock it with some supplies, a little food, and a first aid kit. We go through diet tonic water a lot around here, so when those big bottles are emptied, I'll clean them and fill them with water to use for washing things.
We made plans about how we would contact each other in case of a disaster, and we each made lists of things we would contribute to the effort. The next day, I bought an extra box of bandaids, and a little lighter and some matches.

Who would have thought that we'd have a 4.0 earthquake with an epicenter in El Cerrito the next day? At about 5:33 a.m., we were jolted awake by something that felt like a giant was outside our house and picked it up and shook it from side to side to see if it rattled, and then set it back down. Doug and I both jumped up out of bed, said, "Earthquake!", and then decided that since it stopped so quickly, to jump back into bed and hold each other, waiting for the other shoe to fall. They say there was another jolt, but I didn't feel it, even though I swear I didn't go back to sleep. Everyone else went back to bed as fast as we did, and in the morning we found a few things shifted on shelves, (you could tell because they had shifted off their dust mark). Little knickknacks fell off of a display in the bathroom onto the toilet seat. Miraculously, the lid was down! One picture frame fell of the mantle and a couple of candlesticks. Not much damage at all.

So now I really had the incentive to stock up my garbage can and first aid kit today. I hit Walmart, and bought lots more. I purchased a couple of propane cylinders for our camping stove, candles, matches, first aid necessities, TP, a few snacks, some vitamin waters, and even some dental floss (evidently it's very strong and can have multiple uses in an emergency). To the folks standing in line behind me, it probably looked like I was furnishing a new apartment. The bin will be stored outside in a corner of the yard, not in the garage, so if the house isn't as secure as we think it is, all our supplies won't get crushed in the rubble of the upstairs bedroom. They say that you should also pack some of your medicine you can't do without and an extra pair of glasses or contact lenses. That's next on my list.
I really don't think we're going to even need these things, since our house is so secure. We'll probably be able to eat the food we have. I'm not going to open the canned beans and tuna fish until we'll emptied out the refrigerator. We'll just be able to sleep better,  giving us some peace of mind just to know that we've tried to beat the odds.
Oh, better pack a Bible.