Suzy Says

On Monday night, I was engrossed in the second season of the complex and rainswept* Killing, when I noticed a hole in my tooth.

Uh-oh.

Apparently a filling had fallen from its original location. Even more disturbing, I must have swallowed it without realizing. I tried not to think about all the “lead is known to the State of California to cause cancer” signs I have seen, from wine bottles (really!) to lead-based artwork in museums. And what would happen if the tooth blew up on my while en route to my grilling in Detroit.

Of course, this has to happen with the Subpoena of Damocles hanging over my head, along with a national holiday. The jobette was closed for the rest of the week, and I was afraid the dentist would be, too. However, luck was with me, and the dentist who takes care of my siblings and took care of our mother just happened to have an appointment at 4:00 on Tuesday afternoon (aka Independence Day eve). They are closed the rest of the week, so I was lucky to get it.

I was scared about what he would say and what it would cost, not, as it turned out, without reason.

He frowned while looking at the damage, and I said, “Don’t give me that face!” He laughed and said he was concerned that the filling was cracked and there might be decay in the crack. Fortunately, there wasn’t. He removed another chunk of filling and then sealed it up with some clear stuff with antibiotics in it, which should hold me until July 25, when I will be crowned for the first time in my life.

The crown will cost $950.

I wish it was from Tiffany instead of the dental supply store, but adult life is full of such disappointments. At least it’s not a root canal, right?

When I brought Jonathan his Thursday dinner and told him the saga of my tooth, he asked me when I called the dentist’s office. “About ten, ” I said. He laughed and said that the dentist’s receptionist called him around 10 to say that an emergency came up and he couldn’t have the 4:00 appointment.

Small town.

*The show is set in Seattle, but filmed in Vancouver. I hope at least half of the rain is special effects. Otherwise, all Vancouverites would look (and feel) like mushrooms!

It’s a great day for cats. Today (or maybe yesterday or tomorrow or next week, since she’s in Australia) my gorgeous niece Cat turns 30, and my adorable cat Audrey turns 6. Cat asked me whether I thought turning 30 or being subpoenaed was worse, and I said turning 30, since it lasts longer. Audrey just asked to be let out.

In other happy news, Erica and Jessica are back! And better than ever!

They made their triumphal return last Monday, but had to spend several days removing the carpet from their house (Erica’s tenant apparently had an extremely incontinent dog) and painting the floors, tenting out in their own yard until they could start to decant their furniture and things’n’stuff from the giant 26 foot moving truck which Erica had valiantly packed and driven from distant Portlandia.

Because Erica is Super Girl, and missed us as much as we missed her, she made the hour’s drive from her place to Jonathan’s for a barbecue on Saturday evening. Even though it was foggy, and as the evening went on, it started fogging, which is what we call it when the fog gets so heavy that it’s almost raining.

Good thing that Jonathan (note the blondeosity of his hair) showed Jessica how to start a fire in the fire pit:

Every kid should have lessons in matches and fire from a real fireman:

It’s surprising how much warmth the concrete ring can both achieve and hold.

Jessica had wasted no time in learning how to drive the golf cart. I may not have mentioned that Jonathan acquired the golf cart from someone in a non-operational state, fixed it up with Rob’s help, and now uses it to haul equipment and wood and heavy things like that. And, you know, for fun. Everyone, including Star, loves to ride in it.

Jessica was no exception, and wanted to take me for a drive. Jonathan put her on his lap and let her steer:

She seems to be a natural driver. She did very well navigating the twists and turns and even remarked on how you have to look a few seconds ahead and how the longer curves can be easier to drive than the short ones, all of which is true. You can see the concentration:

Also the pierced ears she got for her birthday. Our little girl is growing up!

Back in the golden days of our youth, my siblings and I were all golden-haired. But when puberty reared its ugly head, mine went from gleaming to drab, seemingly overnight. “We’ll take your blonde hair and swap it for decades of menstrual hell and pregnancy scares! Enjoy!”

This was about the time I began to realize that being a grown-up would not be the staying up late, eating pizza, and partying with your friends festival that I had envisioned.

Needless to say, my brother, the only boy, has retained his thick, almost platinum blonde hair into his 40s. He doesn’t really think about his hair, washes it with soap most of the time, and keeps it ruthlessly short year-round. Of course, he also has Dad’s blazing blue eyes and his own absurdly long eyelashes. Just another of Ma Nature’s wickedly unfunny jokes.

Once the plague of puberty had mousened me, I fought back by dyeing my hair, sometimes to its former glory and sometimes pink or purple, since it was the ’80s, one of the most embarrassing and unflattering decades ever, and things like that seemed like a good idea at the time. Like parachute pants and giant shoulder pads that would have made Joan Crawford balk. Or lift her eyebrows even further, if that’s possible.

When the recession hit and I found myself having to sell my jewelry to pay the bills (sob) and even buy socks, personal maintenance fell by the wayside, along with fashion magazine subscriptions. No more highlights, waxing, or mani-pedis. It was a dark and ugly time. Much like my grown-out hair.

But it’s always darkest before the dawn, so for this landmark birthday*, Megan bought me highlights for my hair! The artist in question is a charming lady who cuts Lichen’s hair (even the most accomplished stylist can’t cut their own hair). She has a little studio in the former pump house on her property. We had a great time chatting with her as she worked on my hair. She is from Germany, where hairdressers train for nearly four years as apprentices, spending part of their week at school and part of it at the salon, helping and observing and taking on greater responsibility as time goes by.

All I can say is all that training really pays off. My hair looks completely natural, but so much better and brighter. She also cut it, and when she was finished blow drying it, it had never looked so good. Bright and bouncy and fabulous. Unfortunately for you, I had no make-up on that day and was too vain to document my new and improved hair with my old and unimproved face, so you will just have to take my word for it for now. I will be interested to see how it looks after I do it myself tomorrow morning. If I were rich, I would definitely have a stylist on my staff.

In other happy news, Megan and Rob are celebrating their 21st anniversary today!

*Since I had the highlights installed on the next to last day of June, I really did have almost a birthday month!

Well, I wrote a post a few days ago, and then I got paranoid and deleted it, and then I had second thoughts and thought I’d restore it, but it seems that when WordPress deletes something, it stays deleted.

Told you decision-making was not one of my strong suits.

Last Friday, my boss/partner called me to say that I have been subpoenaed to appear in front of the Grand Jury in Detroit in a couple of weeks. This is even scarier than that audit we went through a few years ago.

Also, it’s going to take forever to get there and I haven’t flown in so long that I can just feel my flying phobia in full bloom again. And then there’s the whole court thing.

Right now, I’m planning to work at the jobette on the Monday, drive to San Francisco after work, and take the red eye, arriving in Detroit early on Tuesday morning. I’m supposed to meet with our lawyers that day to be prepared for the Grand Jury on Wednesday. Then I’ll fly to San Francisco on Wednesday night, stay overnight, and drive home the next day.

That’s a lot of hassles and 6,000 miles just to tell people that I don’t know anything, because I don’t. I got paranoid and took the earlier post down because I was afraid that the Powers That Be might somehow find it and read it, even though I hadn’t said anything that could get me in trouble.

I think.

I told my good friend A about the whole thing, and she said to think of it as exciting and glamorous, and being part of a courtroom drama. Another friend said I should feel really special, since there aren’t many Grand Juries convened and your chances of being called to testify in front of one is about one in a million. It will be an experience, he said, but I think it’s one I’d rather not experience.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that this is actually my job. Well, jobette. And that they pay me to do this!

A few days ago, I left work around 11:00 am to go on a tour of artists’ studios. This is a new local business, and the tour operator wanted to take around some people as a sort of test drive. There were 8 of us: me, two gallery owners, my counterpart at the Chamber of Commerce, and the rest worked at hotels.

We were driven around in a comfortable, climate controlled van, equipped with water bottles and a flat screen TV, which showed movies of the artists we were going to visit. It was one of those postcard days when even I can hardly blame the tourists for driving so slowly, and it was great to be able to actually look at the scenery instead of the long and winding road.

We visited Paul Reiber, who does wonderful things with wood. Here is his studio:

He made these mirrors. The round heron one was made for his mother, and he got it back when she passed away. The circle of life…

He also made these charming toys:

And this breathtaking headboard, showing various stages in an iris’ life:

We had a lovely tray of appetizers to accompany our wine tasting at the Wine Shop:

We had a tasting flight of five wines, four from the County and one was what Mark, the sole proprietor, calls a “ringer” from another county, in this case, Sonoma. They were all delicious. Mark says, “The first law of wine is drink what you like.”

Next, we visited Richard Yaski’s studio. He does amazing things with metal:

This is a memorial to his late wife:

It reminded me of what Christopher Wren’s tombstone in St. Paul’s Cathedral says: “Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you.” I imagine this beautiful, hushed place was dear to her when she lived there. It is a very moving piece.

This house on Richard’s property is made out of an old school bus:

He drove it here when he moved from Los Angeles more than 40 years ago, and he lived in it for many years. Now it’s rented out. Here’s another view of the house (note the tail lights beside the front door):

Next was Julie Higgins’ house. By this time, I felt like I was on an episode of “Cribs: Hooterville”. This is Julie’s home and studio:

Here is some of her work, displayed in her living room:

It was a wonderful experience to be able to meet the artists and be welcomed into their homes and/or workplaces. This area is famous for having more artists per capita than anywhere else in the country, so it’s really special to be able to talk to the artists about their work, their inspirations*, and techniques, in the very place that the artwork is created.

*One thing that struck me was that all the artists are inspired by the local ravens, which seem to be very powerful symbols. They are supposed to be able to divine the future as well as being keepers of secrets. Some say they are bringers of light. Whatever they are, they are inspiring and mysterious.

I’ve been promising you some pictures of the garden party palace over on the family property, and here they are at last!

The whole thing started back in March. Or maybe February. Making a garden here in the pygmy is not as easy as it is in most places. First of all, you have to get your friend to bring his heavy machinery over. Then, he hacks up the huckleberry bushes, manzanita, and other various scrubby bushes:

You get to remove the root balls and debris by hand, though. Hours of fun!

After that, your friend comes back and tills through the soil and smooths it out:

Then you spend a zillion dollars on real dirt, which you can (and do) have delivered. Then you make it into raised beds.

Now, the pygmy soil is a dustbowl in the summer and a mud pit in the winter. To help keep the garden from blowing away, you buy lots of hay and purple vetch seeds, which you strew liberally on the spread out hay and hope for the best. The idea is that the vetch’n’hay combo will anchor the soil.

It worked like a charm:

Next, you plant fruit trees (apple and peach) for future shade (and cider making) and almost everything else you can think of: potatoes, lettuce, broccoli, spinach, arugula, strawberries, tomatoes, beans…

Of course, all these plants need water. Good thing you have a big water tank:

and that well (the white cap on the left; the cement square is where the pump house was built later) you dug a couple of years ago. And have another machinery-wielding friend who can dig trenches for water pipes:

While he’s at it, you realize that you might as well lay electricity in as well as water, since there’s plenty of room in the trenches. So you do. Then you fill in the trenches.

I forgot to mention that you also need Friend One to dig post holes in the hard soil, and you have to buy posts and deer fencing and then install all the posts with cement which you have mixed and poured yourself. Little details like that.

And you need a couple of gates, one big enough for machinery and one for you to go in and out. Might as well make them pretty while you’re at it.

Rob and Jonathan made the framework for the gate (which they painted blue) and built the planter boxes and lattice (on which our father’s favorite flower, sweet peas, will grow) entirely by hand:

Same goes for this redwood lattice gate:

Just add a fire pit (a repurposed well ring):

a couple of hay bales, barbecues, and you’re ready to party! The enclosure, at 6,400 square feet, is even big enough for camping when you’re finished partying:

We’ve been picking salad from the garden for the past couple of months, and strawberries are beginning to ripen. It’s kind of like magic to just go over there, pick food, and eat it.

We also bought an additional hive for the bees:

Last year, they swarmed before we were ready, so some of the bees moved on to greener pastures somewhere. But enough were left to keep going, and they were thriving enough to need more room this year.

Megan and Jonathan moved some queen cells to the new hive, so some bees stayed in the old one and some moved to the new. There seems to be a little confusion around the entrance of the new hive, but on the whole, they seem to be doing well:

Sometimes when I’m over there, I look around at the garden, the bees, the windmill, the well, the solar panels, and even the tree where little Henry Etta sleeps peacefully and am amazed by how far the property has come with the hard work of my brothers and sister, through imagination and dedication and love.

One of my many defects as a grown-up is my inability to make a decision. My usual method is to procrastinate until one course or another becomes inevitable, and then go with it as though it were my idea all along.

Sometimes a girl’s sloth gets unfairly rewarded in this manner.

Remember my concerns about road tripping to distant Portland to visit Erica and Jessica? The problem has been solved, without my having to do anything.

Erica and Jessica are moving back to California!

They should be back some time this month, and I can’t wait to see them. Unlike Self, Erica actually made an actual decision, and I think she was right.

Essentially, she was up against many of the same problems I had when living in Oaktown (aka the Bad Old Days): expensive rent (especially for the living space it paid for); huge water and electricity bills; the impossibility of finding a part-time job to defray these expenses.

She also mentioned that Jessica had concerns about the lack of other adults in her life, hardly surprising in a girl who was already thinking three years ago (at the age of six) about what would happen to her if anything happened to her mother. Here there is no shortage of grown-ups (faux and otherwise) to step in and help out when needed. Or just for fun.

I’m looking forward to having those two back in my life. More Jessica stories to come! Stay tuned!

Well, for this year, anyway.

On Saturday, we had my family birthday celebration. It was at my house for a change – Jonathan’s place has become the summer party pad, mostly due to the fabulous 80 foot by 80 foot garden, equipped with two barbecues, a fire pit, and hay bales to sit on. Now it even has electricity and running water!

But I felt like having the party at my house, where my kitties and Schatzi could meander in and out (and I could keep an eye on the Stanley Cup playoffs). The menu was simple: barbecued chicken breasts with grill bread* and salad from the garden. Rose’s daughter Catrin stopped by for a little while, and so did Mark. It’s good to have an outdoor living room.

Megan had already given me a gift of highlights, which we are still trying to schedule with the stylist who cuts Lichen’s hair (he’s too busy landscaping this time of year to girlscape), so I was surprised when she handed me a long, wrapped box.

Inside were these wonderful light up branches, which remind me of pussywillows:

They really look fabulous, don’t they?

We stayed outside under the stars (and by the twinkly light of the branches), sipping wine and talking, remembering our increasingly distant childhoods and feeling lucky to be part of each other’s lives.

I could not have asked for a happier birthday, or for better friends and family.

*It’s sort of like naan, or pizza dough, cooked quickly on the BBQ grill over the coals and served with olive oil mixed with Megan’s secret blend of herbs and spices. It’s magically delicious.

Well, Wednesday was a little unexpected.

I thought I’d have a relatively quiet day, since most of our staff would be at a meeting out of town. Turned out, I was the one at the meeting out of town.

The CEO called me and said that no-one else could attend the meeting. He asked if I could go to the meeting and take notes. I barely had enough time to print out extra documents on our creaking, ancient printer, get gas, and head out of town to Willits.

Willits is best-known (if known at all) as the home of Seabiscuit. You can visit the stables and ranch where he lived out his retirement, if you aren’t rushing to a meeting. Willits is also the home of the oldest continuous rodeo and Fourth of July celebration in the state.

I was more interested in finding the hotel where the meeting was to be held. I was told it was between the McDonald’s and the Taco Bell, and it was. Ironically, I hadn’t had any time to eat that day, and they actually looked pretty good to me as I drove past into the hotel parking lot.

I barely had time to race up three flights of stairs with the conference call phone, my co-worker’s laptop, my handbag, and a bunch of documents. It didn’t help that was over 80 degrees there. I made it with seconds to spare. Then I had to figure out how to set up the phone and the computer, pass out the materials, and take notes.

Whew.

The meeting went on for four, count ’em, hours. When it was finally over, I packed everything back into the ovenesque car and headed home with the radio blasting along with the air conditioning.

Those of you who live in cities and have real commutes will laugh when you learn that it’s 32 miles from Willits to Charlottesville (and a further 25 to Hooterville). Ha! You say. What’s 32 miles? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s the longest 32 miles of your life, is what it is. Up hill and down hill, getting high enough to be snow-dusted in winter and as curvaceous as Jayne Mansfield on steroids, the road is frequently signposted at 25 or 15 miles per hour. You feel like you’ve been driving forever, and it’s only been 10 miles.

The part of the highway (two lane road) I was driving on is actually the last part of the California Trail, blazed by emigrants in 1850, the other end being the interchange to Truckee and the Donner Pass (where you may remember my furniture being marooned a few years ago). It has been a paved highway for more than 100 years. It took me an hour to get to Charlottesville, and it had never looked so beautiful. I took a detour to drop off the computer and phone at the office and pet Digit, and then pick up a much-needed burrito (I was starving and there was no way I was cooking when I got home) and while I was waiting for it to be made, stopped in at the library, which stays open late on Wednesdays, to exchange the week’s books.

It was a long day, but I certainly got a lot done. And it was…interesting.

It’s been quite the birthday week so far, and it’s not over yet.

On Tuesday, I returned to the jobette a year older, but no wiser (definitely sneezier, though). On my desk was a beautiful card, filled with even lovelier sentiments* from everyone I work with, and a bright pink straw tote bag (I guess my handbag addiction is obvious to the most casual observer). Inside the bag was:

• Two tickets to the beautiful Botanical Gardens, 47 acres of plants and flowers that front the wild Pacific Ocean. They are famous for their rhododendrons and roses, and also have great bird watching. And yes, it’s 50 years old!
• Two tickets for a round-trip journey on the famous Skunk Train, probably the premier attraction in the Big Town. The steam trains, dating from the early 1920s, follow the same tracks laid down in the 1880s, through pristine redwoods, past rivers and flowery meadows. It’s like a time machine!
• A voucher for dinner at the lovely, historic Little River Inn, whose dining room overlooks the ocean. The original house dates from 1853, and the current innkeepers are the fifth family generation to welcome guests, including Myrna Loy, Joan Fontaine, and James Dean.

There was also a bottle of organic local wine, befitting America’s greenest wine region.

I was totally overwhelmed and very touched. As I said to my colleagues, any one of these things would have been enough!

Then they took me out to lunch at the Wharf, the scene of Girls’ Night Out. On that day, it looked like a postcard, with fishing boats sailing in and out of the harbor.

I may well be the most spoiled girl in the County. Other than Audrey, that is.

*For example, from the CEO: “Happy, happy birthday! It is SO GREAT to have you as part of the team! I hope this year is the best yet!”. From Erin: “You’re the best – I couldn’t do it without you!” No wonder I nearly cried.

Rainy birthday to me!

I woke up to rain pattering on the skylight. I could hardly believe my ears. At first, I thought it was dreaming, but no. At least I won’t have to water the garden today.

Megan and Rob did a better job of getting the cats in at night when I was away than I have since I got home. The first night, Roscoe stayed out all night – I finally got him to come in at 5 am, when he came trotting home from the direction of Megan’s place. Last night, it was Audrey who stayed out until 3 am. Between waking up all night to call the missing cat of the day and having a horrible cold, I’m feeling that half century today.

I took the day off, as I always do, so the kitties and I curled up and watched Doris Day movies together. Megan and Rob stopped by, and Rob not only gave me a beautiful scarf/shawl that had belonged to his late Mother:

but he also installed my new “rainfall” shower head. I figure, if I have to have a shower, it should be as good as possible. He also is planning to fix the window in the shower to eliminate the draft – it doesn’t really close and the draft can be a little too drafty, especially in the winter.

Between the cards and presents and phone calls and Facebook love, I am feeling pretty spoiled right about now. And I haven’t even opened the champagne yet.

Well, I’m back home in my humble Hooterville abode, and it’s my birthday eve already. I haven’t even told you about my trip to the City yet. So little time, so much slacking! But then, Slothfulness is one of my special skills.

After my meetings on Thursday, I made my way to Chinatown to pick up something for dinner on my way back to the modest motel. I decided to stop by Great Eastern on Jackson Street, figuring that if it was good enough for the President, it would be good enough for me. I was right, and it was delicious, worth the wait and the madding crowds. I had forgotten how crowded Chinatown is and how its denizens have a very different definition of personal space. It’s been a while since so many strangers have smushed my boobs and butt.

On my way to the bus stop with my to go order, I couldn’t help but notice a very reasonably priced handbag that was practically begging to be added to the Suzy Collection. How could I refuse?

Triumphantly clasping my Prez-approved food and Suzy-approved handbag, I hopped on the bus up Union Street, making sure to sit on the side where I could enjoy the view of the Bay, which was looking its best in the spring sunshine.

Friday saw me back at my old stomping grounds in the Financial District. Meetings were about a block from where I used to work on California Street. Crossing the street, I found it kind of incredible that I used to walk up and down that hill nearly every working day for more than a decade:

I left in what I thought was plenty of time to get to Berkeley and have dinner before seeing the Beach Boys at the Greek Theater. However, the traffic was indescribable:

Eight lanes, all waiting!

Eventually made it to Berkeley and had my hand henna painted:

There was still an hour and a half before the show started, so I thought I’d park the car and look for somewhere to eat dinner. Unfortunately, half of the 8,500 people attending the show had the same idea, so finding parking pretty difficult, and pretty expensive when I did find it.

By then, the gates were open, and the line of thousands was inching forward slower than the traffic on the approach to the Bay Bridge. In their infinite wisdom, the powers that be who run the Greek Theater did not see fit to have separate lines for those with tickets and those without, so it was a long wait to get in.

When I finally did, I was happy to see that my seat was much closer than I’d thought (about ten rows back) and on the same side of the stage as Brian Wilson and my two long-standing crushes from his band, Scotty Bennett and Darian Sahanaja.

The theater itself is beautiful and historic, and there’s nothing like seeing live music in an outdoor setting. And there is nothing like seeing the Beach Boys perform on their 50th anniversary tour just days before your 50th birthday. I felt like they were singing just for me:

During the show, images were projected on the screen behind the band, including footage of the Beach Boys in their youth. As Brian was singing the poignant “I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times”, he got so absorbed in watching the pictures of his late brothers that he forgot to sing, and Mike Love stepped in to cover for him. I saw Brian realize what happened, give Mike the OK sign, and Mike wink back at him. There is a real bond when you are not only cousins, but band mates going back half a century.

Another moving moment was when the band “backed up”, as Mike put it, footage of the late Carl Wilson singing “God Only Knows”, playing along as Carl sang in that angelic voice of his, and then to Dennis Wilson singing “Forever” shortly before he drowned in the Pacific. Wild spirited and sexy, Dennis packed more into his brief 39 years than most of us do in 80.

The show was nearly three hours long, but it just sped by. It was a wonderful experience and a memory I will always treasure. I feel so lucky to have been there on that beautiful spring evening.

It turns out my feeling of doom on Tuesday was correct – Rob’s Mother died around 9:00 Eastern that evening.

I believe Rob was with her and his siblings. He called Megan last night from the Philadelphia airport between flights, and with the background noise of the airport and the always bad cell to cell reception, he kept cutting out, so they kept the call short. As I write on this sunny San Francisco morning, Rob is (hopefully) peacefully asleep at Clayton’s Garage Mahal* and Megan has probably let my cats out to play** and is waiting to hear from Rob on when to pick him up in Santa Rosa.

I’m glad that Rob reconnected with his sisters and especially his brother, Bill, who was just a child when Rob moved to California 30 years ago. They found that they had a lot in common, and Rob stayed at Bill’s house in Ottawa. I’m sure that they will keep in closer touch now, so something good came out of something sad.

*Clayton has a former, vintage mechanic’s garage which he used to live in. It has a little kitchen, bathroom, office, and a living space with a hammock slung under a skylight. He lives in an apartment around the corner, so the Garage Mahal is his guest house and party pad.

**Megan texted me last night to let me know all the cats were safely inside. Finally: an actual use for cell phones!

Everything seems to have been too strange for too long.

First there was Rob’s difficult trek to his Mother’s bedside, then it was Megan’s birthday and he wasn’t here, then it was Memorial Day and I didn’t have to work but Megan did, so I was on dog patrol, people came up to visit, then I worked one day at the jobette – where I had a feeling of doom all day – and now I’m in San Francisco for some meetings.

It all seems really weird.

Despite all the weirdness (and all the nightmares I had last night), it was a lovely drive. The sun was shining and it was like driving through a big postcard or a Visit California ad. Turning the other way on the highway (instead of the way that leads to the Big Town), I drove past the ocean, then down some hairpin turns to the river, which regularly overflows in the winter and traps Hootervillians and their visitors when the road is closed.

Then it’s through dappled sunlight and groves of ancient redwood trees that almost blot out the sky. There is something really special about being in the midst of these great trees. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it has elements of spirituality, eeriness, serenity, and the feeling that they have been here for centuries and will be here long after you’re gone.

Next up is the beautiful Anderson Valley:

Bedecked by vineyards and apple orchards:

This is where it was time to put on the A/C.

The Valley gives way to rich farmland, dotted with peaceful cows and glossy horses, the trees still that fresh, translucent green of spring, the rolling hills still verdant from the winter rains, but with hints of the “golden” summer to come. The live oaks make deep pools of shade for the farm animals.

Of course, I had to stop for lunch at the Hamburger Ranch and BBQ in Cloverdale:

Past San Quentin* and the Marin Civic Center, Frank Lloyd Wright’s last commission, and you’re almost there. From the Waldo Grade, I could see that the Bridge was lightly accented with fog, so it was time to turn off the A/C and open the windows. Crossing the Bridge, which had just turned 75 to much fanfare just three days earlier, the fog blew mistily over the towers as if in a movie. There was still lots of sun to highlight the International Orange always worn by the grand old lady of San Francisco – she didn’t need Sephora to tell her it was the Color of the Year.

Now I’m at my home away from home, the modest motel about four blocks from my former home and four hours from my current one. I called Megan when I got here, but just got her voicemail, so I have no real update for you on Rob’s Mother.

She is in hospice care, and the doctors withdrew everything but painkillers several days ago, so it’s surprising that she still (as far as I know) is with us, though not conscious. I have to admit that it makes me sad that Rob went through all that hell to get to her side as quickly as humanly possible and he never got to talk to her or hear her say a word. I hope that people are right when they say that his Mother was aware of her children’s presence, and I further hope that she is in no pain and will pass peacefully.

Rob is flying back tonight, from Ottawa to Philadelphia and then Philadelphia to SFO. As I write, he must be in the air. He will arrive at the San Francisco airport at about midnight and take a cab for our friend Clayton’s house in the Haight. Tomorrow he’ll take a two hour bus ride to Santa Rosa and Megan will pick him up there, and together they will make the two and a half hour drive to Hooterville.

It makes me tired just thinking about it.

I realize that Rob and I will be in San Francisco at the same time, but we won’t see each other.

Everything really is weird.

*Megan used to teach some preschoolers whose classroom had a distant view of San Quentin. They thought it was a castle, and Megan never disillusioned them. Discuss: why does California persist in allocating prime Bay front real estate to prisons (Alcatraz and Quentin)?

Megan and I had a good time on her birthday evening. We ended up talking and listening to music instead of watching the movie. She loved her present, a garden bench/kneeler:

Having repeated knee surgeries makes groveling around to weed and garden pretty painful, and when you have an 80 foot by 80 foot garden, that can be a problem. I still owe you a post about the garden on the property, but in the meantime, here’s what it looked like after a neighbor and his big machine tore up the existing scrubby huckleberry bushes:

And here it is after months more of hard work:

It turns out that Rob gave her a pair of Felco pruners for her birthday before he left, and they will fit nicely in the pockets of the bench, along with things like sunscreen (for Megan and Star) and her sun hat when she’s not wearing it.

Rob’s mother is not expected to survive much longer. She is in palliative care, so we all hope she is comfortable. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to be able to communicate and is sleeping a lot. I hope that she knows her children are with her, even if she can’t express it. They say that people often hear and experience more than they can say in these kinds of circumstances.

If there is a bright side, it’s that Rob is with his siblings and they are supportive of each other and glad to be together. We are all lucky to have our families, both in good times and bad.

Too much has happened since I last posted, and none of it has been good.

Rob’s sister called him earlier this week to tell him that their Mother is gravely ill. The truth is that she is not expected to make it.

We made rushed arrangements to get him to Ottawa, hoping that he would be able to talk to her and at least that she would know he was there.

The ticket cost a zillion and one dollars, and Megan made several calls to the airline and the Canadian consulate to make sure that Rob could travel to Canada and back on his Permanent Resident Alien card (aka “Green Card”). Everyone said it would be fine.

Rob got a ride to Santa Rosa, then a bus to San Francisco, where he stayed at the Hotel Clayton. He got up at 2:00 am to catch a shuttle to the airport for his 6 am flight, which connected through Philadelphia. At the gate, he was told that he could not travel on his Green Card. Tired and stressed, he got pretty upset and left the airport.

He called Megan, and she calmed him down and told him to go back to the gate and ask to talk to a supervisor. He did this, and the supervisor said he was fine to travel on the card. They rebooked him on a 10 am flight. Megan called Rob’s sister to let her know of the delay.

When she called Rob to tell him she had spoken with his sister, an Asian lady answered the phone. It’s hard to say who was more confused by this encounter. Eventually, Megan was able to explain to the lady to bring the phone to the airline desk. She then called the SFO paging department, who obligingly paged Rob.

Unfortunately, by now Rob’s blood sugar had dropped. He kept looking for the white courtesy phone instead of getting something to eat or drinking a soda, so by the time he got to security, his blood sugar was at alarmingly low levels. They had to call an ambulance to get him cleared to travel.

Guess who didn’t make the 10 am flight?

On the bright side, he got his phone back.

Eventually, he was released from the hospital and made it through security for a 10 pm flight. Yes, he was at SFO all day and half the night, arriving at 4 am and not leaving until 10 pm.

He called Megan from Philadelphia, and when I went over this morning, he was on the phone with Megan, wishing her happy birthday and telling her that it was hot and humid in Ottawa. He was fine, other than being exhausted and having the cold Megan is just getting over. He hadn’t seen his Mother yet, so I will keep you posted on that. Good thoughts and prayers and what have you are all appreciated.

I had to work all day, so it’s been a pretty lousy birthday so far for my wonderful sister. I am hoping to redeem its crappitude with:

• A bottle of Skinny Girl White Cranberry Cosmos, which has been chilling all day;
• A card (which can be planted) and present (a gardening bench to make it easier on her poor knees); and
• A DVD of “One for the Money”, which we enjoyed so much at the movies this winter.

Hopefully that will redeem today a bit. I still say she is the best birthday present I ever had.

Weekends have a magical ability to disappear. They speed by with lightning rapidity – unlike work days – and by Monday morning, it’s like they never happened at all. All that fun seems so far away…

On Saturday, we had a BBQ at Jonathan’s place. The 80 foot by 80 foot garden has become the summer party pad. I owe you some pictures of the spectacular transformation from hardscrabble pygmy to flourishing vegetables. The latest enhancement is having both water and power piped into the garden, an endeavor which required some serious trench digging (and filling in).

Our friend Clayton, who hosted us in the city during last summer’s popular HospitalFest, arrived after dark and thought he was in the wrong place at first. Some of his friends came up the next day, bringing dirt bikes and a three month old baby girl named Josephine*, an unusual combination. They took turns babysitting and biking, and Josephine took it all in stride. I have rarely met a better natured baby.

After the biking, we gathered around the fire pit (made from a cement well ring) and had dinner while Josephine cooed and napped. It was a nice evening, and it was good to see Clayton again. Hopefully they will come back up again now that the summer visiting season is in full swing.

Also on Saturday, a hummingbird meandered into my house. I had all the doors open, so it must have come in to explore. I heard the distinctive buzzing before I saw it. It was iridescent green with a red throat. I should have taken a picture, but I was so worried about the little guy getting out of there safely that I stayed out of the way and watched him zooming around. Eventually, he went out the balcony door and I heaved a sigh of relief.

Good thing the cats were all outside.

On Sunday, I had yet another memorable encounter with my old friend the moon. That evening, she glided in front of the showier sun and eclipsed its blaze for a little while. Mark came by with his family and a welding helmet, so we all trooped through the house to the balcony and took turns peering at the eclipse through the helmet’s tinted window. It was amazing and spooky to see the sun covered by the moon. Eventually it became a “ring of fire”, and it was spectacular.

It was also eerie, the light becoming dimmer and with an unearthly quality that made me understand why it freaked out the ancient people so much. It kind of freaked me out, and I understood why it was happening.

The cats came in from outside, and Roscoe hid under the bed for the rest of the evening.

*As you may remember, I once had a beautiful Siamese cat named Josephine, after Jo March in “Little Women” (“Such a little name for such a person”), and an equally beautiful sliver-blue 1966 Mustang convertible, the color of my cat’s eyes. So I was delighted by their name of choice, as well as the name’s bearer.

I’m up earlier than I’d like. As usual. When I’d like: 8 am or so. When I am: anywhere from 4:30 to 6:00. If I don’t stop these bad habits, I will never attain my lifetime goal of idle rich. Also, a girl must surely need more beauty sleep as she gets older, not less.

The boys found a new and novel way to get me out of bed today (and more importantly, to get breakfast and then outside into the early morning sunshine). This one involved rolling around on top of my unsuspecting body, clawing and biting each other’s heads with accompanying sound effects.

At least I didn’t get a new bruise to add to my collection. The old one is still there, now turning yellow at the edges while retaining its alarming lumpiness. It’s about 6 inches long and three inches wide, with the power to frighten innocent passers-by and co-workers. At least it doesn’t hurt any more and will eventually vanish into the mists of time, unlike some of the other scars I still have:

• The triangular one on top of my left hand. I got this one while ironing my father’s shirts when I was home from college. His mother taught me the proper Victorian way to iron his shirts, so when I was home, I’d iron them for him, usually while watching TV. I think it was an episode of “I Dream of Jeannie” which led to my being distracted enough to mistake my hand for his Ben Sherman shirt (which I now have).
• The long, lumpy one at the base of my left thumb. For someone who’s right-handed, I seem to be unduly hard on my left hand. I broke a goldfish bowl in Megan’s room, again when I was home from college, and rescued the fish. I picked up the broken glass and it slipped. Instead of letting it go, I clutched at it and sliced open my hand to reveal its inner workings (there’s a reason why they hide all that stuff under our skin). I immediately turned into a six year old, yelling, “Mom!” She took me to the ER for several stitches, which surprised me by being black and wiry, and held my hand when they injected novocain into the wound.
• Above my – yes, you guessed it, left – eye is a small wrinkle which I acquired while Mom in the hospital in the final months of her life. There is no tired like hospital tired. The little line mostly appears when I am tired at a normal level, but I notice it whenever I put on makeup and think of Mom. Accessorizing the line is a scar mostly hidden by my eyebrow, which comes from having a few glasses of wine too many after sharing Christmas dinner with Mom at the hospital and realizing there wouldn’t be any more to come.

  I lost my balance – which I am perfectly capable of doing with no alcohol involved – and hit my head on the open door of Megan’s desk. I was slightly stunned. Megan cleaned me up and called our brother. We still laugh about her calling him late at night and saying, “I’m drunk, but Suzy’s drunker, and she cut her head open.” He sighed and came over, and by his account, “When I opened the door, the smell of vomit wafted out.” In the meantime, Megan had butterflied my eyebrow together really well.

  Not my finest moment, but as usual, I was lucky to have my family there to rescue me. I think I threw up all the next morning. Merry Christmas!

• The chicken pox scars on my legs. I had mumps twice, and I had chicken pox twice. Both poxes were memorable. The first time, I was 8 and my parents had taken us kids and Mom’s aging parents to England to visit Dad’s parents. On the way home, the flight was delayed at the airport for many hours. But that was the least of our parents’ worries – we had broken out in chicken pox that very morning. Mom was convinced that if the officials found out, we’d be forced to stay in England until we were healthy again. “Don’t you dare get any on your faces!” she said as we approached Customs. We didn’t, and after an overnight stay at Charlie Chaplin’s suite at the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne, we finally went home.

  The second time, I was 15 and spent hours lying in an Aveeno bath, complaining about the utter itchiness. Though I did get out of midterms.

Considering my ability to damage Self in nearly any circumstances, it’s somewhat surprising that I have never had major surgery, broken a limb (though I did break two fingers recently), and still retain my tonsils, appendix, and two of my wisdom teeth. I need all the help I can get.

Ironically, after posting that last entry about how much I hate driving, I went to the DMV yesterday.

Ever since I got my license, I have renewed it by mail, but this year, I got a notice saying that I had to go in person. I couldn’t help wondering if it was because I’m about to be really old in a couple of weeks. After all, Jessica had observed a couple of years ago that I no longer look as youthful as the Self pictured on my license, and I imagine that the sands of time have not started rolling backwards in the meantime.

Not for the first time, I find it incredible that our only two options are old age and death. Isn’t there a nicer “none of the above”, where a girl can retain her cuteness and vigor?

Such deep thoughts occupied my shallow mind as I walked the two blocks to the DMV from the jobette. Already the Big Town DMV was ahead of the Oaktown DMV, which had to be driven to in a dismal area of town. Arriving at the office, there were two people sitting quietly reading the paper, instead of the disgruntled hordes in Oaktown.

I had an appointment, so I was able to jump the modest queue. I did an eye test, had my right thumb scanned (twice), and was relieved of $31 before having my picture taken. The photo part made me realize that I probably should have worn my contacts, but DMV pictures are notoriously bad and I am notoriously unphotogenic, besides already looking ancient to six year olds.

I was given a paper license, which looked a lot like my original permit, and was told that I could expect my new and unimproved license in the mail in a week or two.

The whole thing took about ten minutes, and nothing was stolen. Big Town: 1. Oaktown: 0.

Ever since Erica and Jessica decamped to Portland last summer, the fabulous quotient in Hooterville and environs dropped by about 1,000%. I’m glad that Jessica is living a Ramona life in the land of Beverly Cleary and that Erica is revelling in city amenities, but I miss them.

Megan wants to go and visit the Dynamic Duo this summer, but her older sister has some reservations.

Number One: It’s a twelve hour drive. TWELVE HOURS. It used to take me 12 hours to fly non-stop to London from San Francisco, and even with the ability to get up and walk around, drink cocktails, read, sleep, and watch movies on my laptop, I could hardly stand it. At least there was Dad, London, and Europe at the other end.

The whole problem with driving is that it’s the worst of both worlds: really boring, but you have to pay attention. Also, it is simultaneously too fast and too slow. On the freeway, if you’re going 70 mph and everyone else is going even faster (as they usually are), if they hit you, not even Rico from Six Feet Under could make you fit for human viewing ever again.

And then there’s the whole dead thing.

At the same time, you are speeding along at 70 mph or whatever it may be, and it will still take you half a day or more to get to the next state.

And then you’ll have to do it all again in a week’s time.

Add in the fact that I don’t get paid when I’m not at the jobette and gas will be around $300 plus whatever other money we spend while we’re away, and you can add “expensive” to “boring” and “scary”.

On the other hand, we haven’t seen Erica and Jessica since Christmas, and they braved the hideous trip with their dog to see us, so we kind of owe them. Also, Megan is afraid that if we don’t make the effort, E & J will drift out of our lives, and that’s a fate worse than road tripping.

What to do, what to do?

*Honestly, have you ever seen a cuter school picture? None of mine even came remotely close.