Suzy Says

You know, cleaning is bad enough. But cleaning for three hours only to have your hippie hovel still look like crap explains why I don’t clean more often. Dreams of cleaning ladies danced in my head as I abandoned the whole thing to do laundry in my clothes-eating washer*. I was reminded of the anecdote about Churchill, in which a women’s temperance member held her hand above her head against his office wall and said, “Mr. Prime Minister, if all the brandy you had swilled was poured into this room, it would reach to here!” Churchill gazed from the floor to the ceiling, and then commented sadly, “So little done, so much to do.”

Nothing like housework to make a girl crabbier than thou.

Yesterday, on the other hand, was great. Megan and I took Schatzi for a walk at Big River in the spring sunshine. It was so warm that none of us wore sweaters. Schatzi even took a wallow in the abandoned quarry which doubles as a pond in the winter and spring. It was full of tadpoles gadding about. Schatzi paddled cautiously. She’s not much of a water dog, but we’re trying to improve her confidence.

As we headed back to the car, Meg said, “Hey! Let’s go to Frankie’s for an ice-cream cone!” It seemed like the best idea ever. We couldn’t remember the last time we had an ice-cream cone. In a cup, at Erica’s store, yes. In a cone, no. And to think Megan and Rob used to live at Pier 39 for years, where the whole place smells like waffle cones, year-round.

At Frankie’s, I picked mocha almond fudge and Meg had pear sorbet, thereby negating the entire walk. It’s all about balance for me. All the ice cream is made locally and it was fabulous. We sat in the sun, people-watched, and speculated on what it would be like to live in the water tower that was for rent.

After that, we stopped by Mendosa’s for a few things, and then did a quick investigation of the hardware store that just opened next door. It’s so new that they were still stocking the shelves. Our tour revealed that they have almost as much stuff as they do at Rossi’s in town, but much closer. The boys will be glad to hear that.

Speaking of glad: my brother’s one remaining cat went on vacation for almost a week without telling anyone. We had all kind of given up on his safe return when he reappeared as if nothing had happened. I was so relieved to hear that. For both of us to lose cats in two weeks would be too much, even for our family curse. Also Jinx has been spotted in the woods and seems to be eating the food my brother leaves for him.

So it’s been a mixture of good and bad around here lately. It’s all about balance.

*Rob has appointed himself my agent. He’s already spoken to Mark about replacing the washer, and yesterday asked him to get the junk out of my yard sooner rather than later. I said thank you, and he said, “Well, were you ever going to do it?” and I had to agree that my habitual tardiness with the rent has made me a little reluctant to demand anything. I love Rob.

New cat door!

Rob turned up while I was still sipping my coffee and regaining consciousness. If you ever visit, just walk right in. Don’t bother to knock. The door doesn’t have a lock, anyway, so come on in. Everyone else does.

Of course, if I’ve gone to town (aka the Three Hour Tour), it could be a long wait. Good thing for you there are books, movies, and magazines galore. And cats to let in and out, even though they now have their very own cat door in the door leading to the balcony.

That’s why Rob stopped by, to install the cat door. While I woke up slowly, he installed the door upstairs. It’s very relaxing to watch other people work, I find.

Afterwards, I asked him to put up tiebacks for the curtains in the living room, and he:

• Pointed out that they were made in China, something of which he does not approve for many reasons;
• Pointed out that they have a serious design flaw when it comes to installing them – it’s nearly impossible to get the screwdriver at the appropriate, weird angle (though he did manage it in the end);
• Made fun of the entire tiebacks concept. After all, he is a boy.

They look great, by the way.

When the chores were finished, we watched the news together for a while, and then he went on his way. I made a mental note to buy him some beer to say thanks and was glad yet again to have Rob in my life, even unexpectedly and first thing in the morning.

Megan and her ambulance

My sister Megan is nine years and nine days younger than I am. We always joke that makes us some kind of twins.

Nine years can be a big age difference, especially when one of you is, say, sixteen and the other is seven. Once I was getting ready for a date, and Megan watched me get ready. As I finished putting on make-up, she sighed, “Oh, Suzy, you’re so pretty. But you’re prettier when you’re all colored in.”

Aren’t we all?

As a little kid, she always wanted to tag along, and as older kids, my brother and I never wanted her to. “I’ll catch up one of these days, ” she said. “You’ll see.”

Catch up she did.

She got married six months after I did, and unlike me, she is still married. She became a Montessori teacher, and then an Emergency Medical Technician. She cared for Dad in his final illness and broke the news of his death to everyone, including me. She had Mom living in her house for the last few years of her life, and, yes, was the one to tell me of Mom’s death, too.

All this before the age of 35.

Somehow, the baby of the family has become its matriarch. She is the glue holding the ragged remains of our family together.

She lived with me for her last few years of high school, when Dad retired back to his native England and Mom wasn’t able to take care of Megan. I moved cities and found a place big enough for both of us. I went to her parent-teacher interviews, waited up for her when she went out on dates (all colored in), and enjoyed having her friends visit and sleep over. I wanted to give her a safe and happy place to live, and I think I succeeded.

I’d like to think that I had something to do with helping her become the amazing person she is. Whenever I’m asked in job interviews what my best achievement is, I always think “Megan.”

As I write, she’s out meeting Monica to rescue a pit bull in trouble (details withheld at my request). When she gets home from that, she’s having company for dinner, and tomorrow is teaching a five hour CPR class before joining Jessica, Erica, and me at the Mad Hatter Tea Party in Mendocino. She worked 48 hours this week, in the form of 12 hour shifts, three of them night shifts. After her last night shift, she drove home at 6 am, got up in the afternoon, and drove back for a two hour staff meeting* at 6:30 pm. This was last night, and today she’s already up and out, fighting the good fight. Because that’s the kind of girl she is. That’s my Megan.

*Where her attire of bee boots, Red Rooster Records (a now defunct record store whose logo was a motorcycle riding rooster with the slogan “In Your Ear”) sweatshirt and hair in braids got a ridiculous amount of attention, including one guy who wanted to take her picture for Facebook. I think they’re just jealous of the bee boots. Also that they have never seen her morning ensemble of scrubs, bathrobe, bee boots and sunglasses.

Somehow the heat got turned off last night, and it was 46 fun-filled degrees in the house when I got up at a semi-respectable 7:30 this morning. I varied my usual routine (turn off outside lights, turn on computer, turn up heat, start coffee) by turning on the heat first. Then I looked out the sliding glass doors and saw that the outside temperature was around 38.

Told you it’s like living in a tent. My thimbleful of coffee was cold before I could finish drinking it.

It’s been sunny all week, and clear, starry nights tend to be cold ones with no cloud cover to tuck us in at night and keep us warm. But temperatures have been 60 or more by early afternoon. It still surprises me that temperatures can change so much in one day.

This particular day is my father’s birthday. He would have been 79 today.

To the rest of the world, it’s a day to drink and dye things green, the weirder the better, but for me, it’s a day of sadness and memories. I feel out of step with everyone else.

At my old job, one of my co-workers had her first baby. We all dutifully trooped to the hospital to visit them, and as I held that day-old baby, I felt as if I were watching my colleagues across a divide. All of them still had their parents, and half of them were older than I was. I was the only one who had lost a parent and knew that particular pain. I both envied them for not knowing what it was like, and pitied them, knowing that one day they would, even that newborn baby.

Today the sun is shining and Dad isn’t here to see it. I can’t call him to wish him happy birthday or look forward to an email telling me what he made for his birthday dinner. Nine years after his untimely death, it can still hurt as much as when I first heard the news and my life was divided into “Before” and “After”.

In these After days, I should try and focus on the many happy memories: Dad carrying me on his shoulders; calling the birds in the woods so they answered him; coming home after work in his white lab coat when I was a kid; reading me stories, even when I was grown-up; hugging me across the barrier at Heathrow; walking his beloved dog Jesse on Wimbledon Common; singing tunelessly as he cooked. I know I’m lucky to have had a father who was also my best friend. But sometimes the loss is hard to bear.

Happy birthday, old bear. I will always love you.

Well, I still got up at 6 this morning (now the new 7). This is turning into a bad habit.

I went to bed around midnight and woke up at 5 with my heart pounding after a nightmare. I dreamed that I heard a big truck coming down the narrow, rutted dirt driveway. I looked down from my balcony door and it was Rob, driving a bunch of old wood and my brother’s ancient, enormous pick-up truck on a flatbed. I ran downstairs and by the time I got there, the wood had somehow fallen off the truck and pinned Rob to the ground (even though, you know, he had been driving the truck).

My brother and sister warned me away from touching him, and the ambulance appeared like magic. Megan said that they do that for family and friends.

As we waited at the hospital, there was a strong earthquake and everything went black.

I woke up.

I lay there for a while, trying to sort out what was real and what wasn’t. I felt like going over there to see if Rob was OK, though undoubtedly my concern would not have been appreciated at that hour. I got up and checked the official page for earthquakes, and the most recent was in SoCal sometime yesterday. it sure felt real in the dream, though.

It was hard to get back to sleep after that, so even getting up at 6 is something of a personal triumph.

As I lay in bed, I thought about how dear Rob has become to me since I moved up here. He and my sister have been married for 19 years this summer, and he has been our brother’s best friend since they were nine years old, so I’ve known him most of my life. But spending more time with him has made me appreciate him more.

It’s not just that he fixes things for me, or that I come home sometimes to find that he’s taken my trash to the dump or is putting up curtains for me. It’s his kindness and gentleness and loving nature that somehow survived his parents’ complete lack of affection. It’s his courage and refusal to feel sorry for himself, despite his many health problems and constant pain. It’s his intelligence and ready wit and sense of humor.

It’s Rob. My other little brother.

I woke up with a headache this morning. I’m not sure if it was the nearly sleepless night or the endless allergies or an unlovely combo platter of the two, but when I wake up with a headache, it’s usually my close companion for the rest of the day.

Thoughts of Advil danced in my head as I started the coffee brewing, but I have finally learned my lesson that taking anything to offset a headache results in what I refer to as “aspirin tummy” as well as the headache. Better to keep calm and carry on.

On the bright side, there was no Henry barf on the rug this morning. On the down side, the flash heater was out again and refused to respond to my lame-ish ministrations. I have to admit that I didn’t invest a lot of time in trying to resuscitate it, partly because I was uncaffeinated and partly because it was a two sweater morning and standing outside shivering and ineptly assaulting an inanimate object was not the most appealing prospect. I’ll call Mark later.

The night had started out well enough. I finally had the new Michael Connelly, which I requested from the library in October, and the reassuring thought that there is another one coming out this October. I had changed the sheets and fluffed up the feather bed and feather pillows, so the bed was a haven of comfort. I just settled down for a cozy read when I heard a tiny sound. I put the book down and listened. There it was again. I got out of bed and peered down the stairs.

It was Henry Etta, sitting on the stairs and sounding tiny and sad.

I called her and she came up the stairs slowly, then jumped on the bed (thank you, metacam and Sea Flex!). June, who was already ensconced in her usual place, gave Henry Etta the stink eye until I told her to knock it off. She turned her back on me and huffily resumed her beauty sleep. Henry sat next to me for a while and I petted her and talked to her while I read.

I must have bored her, though, or else the heat came on, because after half an hour or so she repaired to her cozy bed by the heater. It was nice while it lasted and I hope she does it again. She hasn’t been up there in months, as far as I know.

Sleep was hard to come by last night, and when it finally arrived, I was woken up by a heavy storm, slashing rain against the roof/walls and wind howling through the trees. I was almost sure there would be another power outage and waited anxiously in the dark, listening to the storm crescendo and thinking about the precarious electrical arrangements on the property and the foolishness of not clearing enough trees around the houses.

The power didn’t go out, though I eventually did. I dreamed of Dad. We were making dinner for a party of unknown dream people, and we were marinating fish in lime juice. One of the party goers asked Dad if he’d take a drink from his wineskin, which he offered. Dad laughed and said no, he’d stick to his 1952 Margaux. He would have in real life, too, since excellent wine rarely, if ever, comes out of a bag. Or box.

In my dreams, Dad is never dead.

I was awakened by the balcony door slamming open in the wind. I lay in the darkness for a long moment, remembering all over again that he’s gone. That’s the worst thing about dreams: waking up to reality.

I got up and closed the door.

Magnolias at the library, Saturday afternoon

Hey! I successfully lit the oven tonight without exploding it, or Self, or even burning off eyebrows or other valued body parts. This always gives me a feeling of accomplishment, especially since it’s a new month and so far I’ve gotten through a whole day without even a minor injury. Hopefully it’s not like “In like a lion and out like a lamb” and I end the month in traction.

Here in Hooterville, March came in more like a lazy cat than a lion or a lamb. it just kind of sat there, grey and unmoving, all day. Yesterday, however, it was sunny enough for a local beekeeper to come and inspect the remains of the hive.

On the bright side, the Queen is alive (long live the Queen!), but the population is pretty much decimated. I’m not sure if it was mites or the fact that the bottom of the hive is mesh (which the previous owner failed to mention) and they probably froze to death, the poor things. But the Queen is still reigning over her depleted realm, and there is a LOT of honey. I hope the bees recover and/or we can find a new colony to join the survivors.

We had a more festive dinner than usual last night. I had the genius idea of making Thanksgiving Lite, so I got a couple of turkey breasts (since none of us likes the dark meat and there’s no carcass to deal with) and roasted them. I made dressing/stuffing with leftover bread and et ceteras, including corn bread (score!) and herbs from Megan’s garden. I learned at Safeway that they don’t carry fresh cranberries after the holidays, so canned it was. Add in some fresh green beans and too many bottles of local-ish wine (from the next county over) and you have a fun dinner on your hands. The boys gradually dispersed, and Meg and I stayed up too late, listening to music and having just one more glass of wine.

Perfectly innocent

So are the cats of our lives…

On Thursday night, I made yet another unnecessarily elaborate dinner at my sister’s house. My sis happens to have a much better equipped cuisine than I do, even though she – if you can believe this – has even less counter space. In fact, my very act of choosing to cook at her place led to a flurry of cleaning off the old wooden table in her kitchen to give me a little more operating room.

After the long-awaited dinner*, Harriet showed up with a mouse in her mouth. I opened the front door but she ran upstairs. Later, we discovered that Harriet had left the (dead) mouse under the coffee table Dad made out of an ancient door. Meg’s first step, unsteadily, was taken from that table, which she held onto before letting go and walking into her life. She never looked back.

Fearing for Jinx and my brother in almost equal measure, I went over to his place last night and called the cat with no real hope of success. I left an open can of very good quality cat food on an outside table for him, and called him for almost an hour with no results. As I walked around the bushes and the shipping container and the shed and the trailer with my flashlight, I thought, “Well, there’s a million places he could be.” I didn’t even raise Twilley, who was undoubtedly thrilled to be released from his unaccustomed prison.

I called my brother and told him of my lame efforts, and he was really touched. I told him how surprised I was to be so upset by the loss of a cat I never knew, and offered the hope of a Hav-A-Hart trap baited with something really good. The truth is, my brother does so much for me, and I can do so little for him. This was all I could do, other than locking the gate when I left, which he appreciated.

That’s another story, and it’s not a nice one, having to do with the kind of people who will knock down your gate and steal your redwoods for profit.

When I got home, I horrified June and Audrey by sweeping them into my arms and hugging them, making them wiggle frantically to escape my maniacal clutches. I was just so glad they were safe. All night my thoughts kept turning to Jinx, out there in the deep country darkness.

Henry Etta distracted me from these morbid thoughts (and the finale of “Monk”, which was excellent) by jumping onto my lap. I petted her messy fur and was glad she was safe forever from the perils of the Oakland streets. When the heater went on, she dumped me in its favor as usual, but she left a not so lovely parting gift. Unwisely putting my hand on the couch cover, I discovered an even bigger gift there. I took off the couch cover, changed into my pajamas, and threw the whole mess into the washer.

Then I got a paper towel, dampened it with warm water, and wiped Miss Henry’s butt with it. After I threw out the paper towel, it occurred to me how remarkable it was that she actually allowed me yank up her tail and undignify her like that without resorting to hissing or clawing.

I am now keeping a tea towel on my lap at all times in self-defense.

Note to Self: better throw that cat bed into the wash, too.

*It was manicotti, stuffed with turkey sausage and fresh spinach, etc. I deviated freely from the recipe. It turned out well, but stuffing the manicotti is a skill I didn’t pick up when I lived in Italy for a few months. If only I’d thought to ask!

Yesterday, Megan met up with Lu in Mendocino. I was planning to make dinner* at Meg’s house that evening, and she called me from town to see if there were any last-minute ingredients I needed.

She called me from Lu’s phone, though, because her own had decided to jump suicidally into a public toilet.

Lu, in the next stall, heard Meg’s vocal despair and asked what was wrong. When she heard what it was, she said, “You’re on your own, kid.”

You really are in a situation like that.

Meg retrieved it, dried it off, and treated it with hand sanitizer that she always carries with her, just for occasions like this. Lu reminded her to remove the battery.

I’m sorry to say I laughed when my sister called me and told me about her potty phone.

On the bright side, they were able to assist at a car accident until the ambulance came. Nothing gladdens the heart of an off-duty EMT more. And they demoted my brother to traffic duty at the scene, which made it even more fun. When he arrived for dinner, bearing home-made cinnamon rolls, the first thing he said was, “Hey, you bogarted my call!”

I made chicken with cornmeal dumplings, and we had wine and talked. It was great having Lu there. Her schedule makes it really hard to get together, but now she’s convalescing from her ankle injury, we get to see her more often. She had just had a “cold laser” treatment, which magically removed the swelling and made it much easier for her to walk. Amazing.

As I walked home with my bag – when I go to my sister’s house, I pack an extra sweater, and a flashlight, along with any ingredients needed, borrowed books, Tupperware, etc.** – my flashlight spotlit June, who walked me home under the stars.

*We usually decide what to make by comparing the contents of our refrigerators, freezers and pantries and going from there. The dish with the least ingredients to buy and/or the easiest to make is the winner. Though sometimes we try new things. It’s always more fun together.

**My dream is to have one of those Radio Flyer red wagons to carry things in. But they’re surprisingly expensive. And anyway they’d probably flip over on the puddled, rutted dirt driveway. But a girl can dream, especially at night.

Henry Etta gets comfortable

On the Sunday Megan and I wallowed in “Gone with the Wind”, we noticed that all was not well with Henry Etta.

Though she’s always had a stumbling, arthritic walk, this was really bad. Henry dragged her back leg behind her when she walked, and you would be surprised by the noise the lame leg of a four and a half pound cat can make on a wood floor. It was horrifying to watch her drag herself through the cat door.

As I gazed at my sweet girl in horror, Megan swung into action and called Dr. Karen. Yes, we have our vet’s home number and cell number. And she called us right back. I could hear her family in the background as we spoke.

She suggested metacam, which is basically ibuprophen for cats, and treats with glucosamine and chondroitin called Sea Flex, carefully calculating the dosage for the tiny old cat. She said that she’d be in her old office in Fort Bragg on Wednesday and could dispense the meds there. This wasn’t good enough for the EMT in the family. Before Meg went to work on Monday night, she went to the Feed and Pet and picked up the Sea Flex.

She also stopped by Lu’s house, and it turned out that Lu had some metacam on hand from one of her cats’ past illnesses, and being Lu, gave the whole thing to Meg to give to me.

Anxious about Henry Etta, I slept badly that night, and woke when I heard Meg come in early on Tuesday morning – the same day I was leaving for the city. She dosed Henry Etta and said she’d come by each morning to do so while I was away, and that Rob would keep an eye on Henry Etta while I was gone.

Meg called me on Tuesday afternoon before she went to work to tell me that Henry was already better! And on Wednesday morning, Henry Etta actually ran to the door to meet Megan. Just one dose made such a difference!

Before I left, I put the cuddly bed you see above right next to the heater. This is the same bed I bought her years ago and which used to be under the porch in Oakland. She had scorned it since we moved here, but now it’s her place of choice. I’m happy that June and Audrey have left her alone on it and not tried to take it over or harass her.

Now I give her metacam every 72 hours and Sea Flex every day. She seems well and happy. I feel guilty that I didn’t notice it sooner and worry that she was in pain for a long time before I noticed. I’m just glad that we were able to help her. And I love how my sister is an EMT for animals as well as people.

Dazzled with glittery splendidness, I headed to 19th Avenue to start the trip home.

As I sped through the retro tunnel on Park Presidio, I tried (and failed) to remember the last time I had approached the Golden Gate Bridge this way. It was fun to take a different route, though it was sad to bid farewell to the beautiful city, gleaming in the pale, watery winter sunshine.

I have to say that it is so much easier and faster to go from Hooterville to San Francisco than it is to Oakland. Going to the East Bay adds anything from half an hour to an hour to the trip. And it’s much less scenic.

I stopped off in Boonville to give Erica and Jessica their long-delayed Christmas stockings and presents. Being Me, I managed forget my own gift for Jessica. Yes, the one I finally did a good wrapping job on. But she hardly noticed in the blizzard of gifts from Megan and Rob, Jonathan, and Lu. I noticed that she opened each one, spent some time looking at it and showing it to her friends who happened to be on hand, and then went on to the next one.

She also asked her mother if she could have a chocolate coin from her stocking, and then shared the remainder with her friends.

Their schedules are so hectic these days that it’s hard for them to visit. Meg and I are planning on going to get Jessica and keep her for a weekend soon.

Hugged and kissed, I went on my way. I noticed that it was not yet dark at 5:00, and that there were daffodils in the grass by the side of the road. The river had definitely receded.

When I got home, I was disappointed at the lack of greeting committee. Henry Etta didn’t bother getting up, and June and Audrey were nowhere to be seen (they didn’t reappear until 10:00 that night). I called Meg to tell her I was home, and of course her greeting and Rob’s made up for the cats’ lack thereof. Humans: picking up cat slack for thousands of years and counting!

We all enjoyed the extreme pizza delivery extremely. I think I’ll try and do that every time I go to the city.

Last night, I was sure that my dreams of the city would be washed away in the rain that pounded away at my roof as I prepared for a possible power outage and anxiously scanned the National Weather Service advisories.

When I went to bed, the power was still on, and the rain had stopped.

When I woke up, it still wasn’t raining! I called Caltrans and learned that the road was open. I threw a few things in a bag, did a conference call, and just after noon, I was on my way.

The road was still dotted with yellow FLOODED signs (probably staying nearby to be ready for the next one), and the Navarro river was pretty darn high. The brown, muddy waters reached high up the tree trunks on its banks. But the sun actually peeked out, and traffic was a breeze: I made the trip in three hours.

I have to admit that I enjoyed crossing the good bridge. Also that I feel like much less of a loser coming in from the country than I did from the suburbs. I’m now safely ensconced in a modest motel about a block from my old apartment (is it weird/sad/pathetic that I always stay in my old neighborhood?), enjoying the lightning-fast WiFi, Thai delivery menu at hand.

I called Meg to tell her that the Mouse had done its job and I had arrived safely. This is another of our family traditions, like waving until the departing person is out of sight. If one of us goes to the city, or, rarely, ventures further afield, we always call when we arrive.

Now neither of us has a thing to worry about. When I lived in Oakland, I was always worried about someone breaking in when I was away, in addition to worrying about the kitties. Now Rob is hanging out at my place during the day while Megan is sleeping. He can watch TV, play guitar, and listen to music with no fear of waking his sleeping wife. The cats have company, and so does Schatzi, since she goes with him. It makes me happy to know that Rob can enjoy himself there, since he does so much for me.

Yesterday, Megan, Rob and I braved the wind and rain to attend the Fourth Sunday Breakfast at the Caspar Community Center.

We met up with Lu, still limping from her recent ankle injury at work (she’s an EMT), and her boyfriend Rick. Despite the pain, Lu couldn’t resist the book sale across the hall from the room where breakfast was being served. It was an interesting selection of books, and Megan snared one on spicy sauces and dips, which will have to be toned down for me. I always say that food should be hot, medium, mild, and Suzy.

The breakfast room had long tables covered with bright table cloths. You collect your silverware at the door, find space at one of the tables – a challenge for a party of five – and a server takes your order. We had huevos rancheros made with organic, local ingredients and a basket of “bread”, which was really tiny corn muffins, banana muffins, currant scones, and cranberry scones. I had a thimbleful of local organic apple cider, too.

It was nice to catch up with Rick and Lu, and we stayed talking until the servers started to roll up the table cloths and give us meaningful looks.

In the parking lot, a man was playing with his dog. He bent over with his arms making an “O”, and the dog jumped through! I was so delighted that I asked him to do it again, and he did. We laughed all the way to the car.

On the way home, I noticed that the cherry trees are beginning to blossom.

When we got home, Megan brought her laundry over and got that done while we watched “Gone with the Wind”. It was the perfect thing for a rainy Sunday afternoon. No matter how many times I see it, I get swept up in the epic story, Vivien Leigh’s exquisite beauty, and the tragic romance. I always get choked up at the end, and tried to hide it by going to put on the porch light to light my brother’s way when he came over for dinner that night.

When he did, he arrived with cloverleaf dinner rolls he’d invented and made. Meg and I made macaroni and cheese and a salad of spring greens and curly endive. It was a particularly cozy evening, with the rain pouring down outside and the light and warmth inside.

As I write, the rain is still pouring down, and I’m hoping that the one road which leads to the city won’t be closed again tomorrow. I’m planning to go to San Francisco tomorrow and attend to business on Wednesday. Of course, being me, I’m also planning to take in one of the films at the Noir Festival and the Cartier and America exhibit.

We’ll see!

So it took me this long to notice that the peacock ornaments match my painting. The painting is by Keith Wicks, and it’s called “Russian Hill”. It’s one of the few remaining vestiges of my formerly gracious life, like my diamond watch and my Manolo Blahniks.

Amazingly, the cats have left the peacocks alone so far. I guess chasing real birds makes glass ones a lot less interesting.

I left the cats in charge and went to my sister’s last night, armed with a bottle of sorta-Champagne (it was from Sonoma). My brother and his friend K turned up with split pea soup and cornbread for dinner, along with another bottle of Sonoma’s finest. We listened to music, laughed, and talked. My siblings are confident that this year will be a good one, maybe because they have the well is going now and that’s one step closer to my sister moving there, too. So we talked about the past and the future, memories and hopes.

We didn’t manage to stay up until midnight, but the moonlight was bright enough that I didn’t need the flashlight on my way home. I have learned to look up at the sky between the trees instead of at the ground. In the still of the night, I could hear the ocean.

Happy new year, one and all. Here’s hoping my sibs are right, and it’s a good one.

My sister’s tree

Christmas Day dawned bright and sunny. I know, because Audrey woke me up so I could see for myself.

The first order of business was taking Schatzi for a walk. We went over to our brother’s place, checked on the bees, and let Schatzi run and roam to her heart’s content. It was warm enough that Megan and I took off our sweaters, enjoying the sun on our skin. When it was time to leave, Schatzi was nowhere to be seen. We called her and Megan whistled loud enough to summon a New York taxi, but no dog. Megan was ready to leave without her, but I freaked out, so we gave it one more try. She finally showed up then, covered with mud. Including her nose.

Merry Christmas!

After that, it was time to start on the feast, which somehow took up most of the rest of the day. Rob pruned an apple tree so he had wood to smoke the ham, which was basted for hours with maple-bourbon glaze invented years ago by our brother, a formerly professional cook. While Rob tended the barbecue, I made my famous cheese biscuits and gratuitous stuffing (at Megan’s request). I invented the stuffing and it turned out great: cornbread, multi-grain bread, pecans, apples, celery, onion, herbs from the garden, leftover wine, chicken stock, and butter.

I also made an unnecessarily complicated side dish of cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, and red onions with a seedy mustard vinaigrette. Add in my apple pie and Megan’s pumpkin pie, both adorned with stars in the pastry, and you have a festive dinner!

Unfortunately, Erica was too sick to attend, so that meant no Jessica, either. However, their presents and stockings are still under the tree, so we can have another celebration later.

Jonathan got off work early, so dinner was still hot when he arrived around 7. After dinner, we all opened our stockings. It’s so fun to see the person whose stocking you made opening it. I got Megan again this year, and a couple of weeks ago, she brought* a box from Sephora to my house, commenting that she wished it was for her. It actually was, containing a travel size skincare kit, and I was delighted to finally tell her that. We couldn’t stop laughing.

While we were opening our stockings, the cats were playing outside under the stars. Audrey showed up at the sliding glass doors with a live mouse in her mouth, clearly proud of her hunting prowess. Needless to say, I was horrified, and my sibs were amused at my horror. “Just wait until they figure out how to eat them!” they said gleefully, adding that cats don’t eat the legs or tail, so there’s always leftovers. Yay! I tried not to think about Audrey sitting on my lap later, licking my hand with her mouse tongue and kissing me with her mouse breath.

I didn’t let the cats back in until there was no sign of that mouse, or any other mouse, for that matter.

*We all share a post office box, so we’re always picking up each other’s mail. Also, all the Fed Ex and UPS packages for everyone on the property are dropped off at a little shelter near the road, and whoever sees the package first brings it to its recipient. It’s not unusual to come home and find a package on your table.

Yesterday Megan had a long day, so I volunteered to make dinner. I decided to make a couple of recipes I picked up in Florence: chicken breasts with fresh sage* and lemon-herb risotto, because we had most of the ingredients on hand. I commissioned Meg to pick up the others: mint and Parmesan.

Around 5:30 I headed over to her house, flashlight in hand. The heavy fog danced in the light beam as I walked down the dirt driveway. As I approached a curve, I saw headlights coming toward me and stood back against the bushes. It turned out to be Megan coming home, and I thought it was funny that we met up like that. She thought I had heard or seen her car and then started over, but it was just a coincidence.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I hadn’t made the recipes for a while, so I had completely forgotten how long it takes to make risotto (which is Italian for “delicious”). Of course I had to pick the slowest possible recipe to make for people who were tired and hungry. I really should have started sooner. I’ll remember next time.

Or not.

*It’s always satisfying to go out and pick herbs from the garden. You can pick as much as you like and not waste any. I can never use up the giant bouquets of herbs from the grocery store before they wilt or rot, and always feel guilty, even when I put the leftovers in the compost.

When I came downstairs this morning, Lucky the deer was attempting to eat the Chico bag I had hung outside to dry yesterday. It probably tastes better than ancient futon filler, but I took it away before she could make a meal of it. Mark and his family are visiting family in Mexico for a month, so I expect more visits from Luna and Lucky while they’re away.

It was so sunny and cloudless today that it was hard to believe it had rained so hard the day (and night) before. Megan and I took Schatzi for a walk after checking in with the boys. They’re working on something to do with lawnmowers which will make it possible for me to run the internet (I can hear you all sighing with relief) and the refrigerator in addition to the heater if the power goes out, mainitaining, as my brother put it, “some level of civility”.

I didn’t ask them to, and am really touched that they thought of doing it and are spending what little free time they have to work on it.

In addition to creating an oasis of civility for me, they’ve capped off the well (Rob added the year):

and made the bee hive bear-resistant with electrical fencing and a little gate. Apparently actual bear proofing is a very difficult and expensive undertaking, so we’re hoping that the first encounter with the electrified fence will be unenjoyable enough that the bear will go elsewhere for a less hazardous and easier snack:

Interestingly, the bears are more interested in the baby bees (grubs) than they are in the honey. Winnie the Pooh led me astray on that one.

Jonathan explained to us how to turn off the electric fence, and hopefully I’ll be better at remembering that than I am at how to reset the pilot light on my flash heater, which is perched precariously on the side of my house so it’s easier for the pipes to freeze during cold snaps and the pilot light to blow out when it’s breezy.

Sometimes I worry that the whole house will just explode one day, what with the unpredictable gas stove, the propane heater in the living room, and the back-up car batteries in the studio. Not to mention the open area on the front of the dryer so you can see the flames of the propane hard at work. All that expensive gas all around me does make me nervous, though it’s undoubtedly irrational, since I had a gas furnace and stove in Oakland, too. Not that being irrational has ever stopped me from worrying.

Christmas cookies

Wow. It’s pouring out there. It’s raining so hard I can hardly hear myself try to think. Between the glass roof on the back porch and the skylight in the bedroom, I feel like I’m under a waterfall.

It’s dark enough to have a light on, and I’ve lit the Christmas lights on the banister:

Here’s my little tree. I thought lights on the tree and the banister above it would be too much, so I just settled for ornaments. Now I kind of wish I’d gotten the lights, and also the light up star shaped topper which was on sale at Rite Aid, but still seemed too expensive at the time.

This is my wreath. I put the ornaments on it and I think it’s cute. It’s on the side/front door.

Yesterday, I helped Megan decorate her tree. It’s a living one, and lives outside, so Rob dragged it over near the sliding glass door* of their living room, so we can see it from inside the house. We put on lights and hopefully rain-resistant ornaments, and it’s beautiful. Pretty soon we’re going to have to haul it to the property and plant it in a place of honor. I think I’ll get a living tree next year, too. At least up here I won’t have to see the depressing sight of trees unceremoniously dumped at the curb the day after Christmas.

We also made Christmas cookies. I can’t even remember the last time I made cookies, but it probably wasn’t during this decade. I found a couple of recipes in the Chronicle which looked intriguing: Russian tea cakes and molasses-black pepper cookies. It was a butterpalooza, I tell you what. Megan made calzones from scratch during the baking process, so the house was toasty and warm.

Later Jonathan came by after work, and we all ate calzones for dinner and enjoyed the sparkling tree, glowing in the darkness.

*It doesn’t actually slide – the house has settled too much. Not that it’s scary or anything. Also it will be really hard to get their furniture out when they move, since the only other door is about half the width of a regular door. And purple.

I just had some really bad in-room coffee and burned my tongue. The beverage which I sort of enjoyed turned out to be extremely hot. Maybe I can sue the motel and stay somewhere better next time. Actually, the room is, as Jacques Pepin would say, pairfectly fine, and it is conveniently located within walking distance of last night’s party. It is also located in a strange convergence of sari shops, marijuana growing suppliers, and gas stations.

Yesterday afternoon Megan and I left our remarkable amount of stuff in the room and took off for Telegraph Avenue to do some shopping, mostly of the window variety. It’s full of students, hippies, and general weirdos there, so we fit right in. We also fulfilled one of Meg’s long-cherished dreams: getting a henna tattoo.

Megan’s dream comes true

The world being as miniature as it is often claimed to be, the artist who did our tattoos happened to be the very one whose work Meg was lusting after at last summer’s reggae festival. Megan and Lu go every year to work as medics at the festival, and didn’t have a chance to get their artwork. But this year, they’re going to meet up with the artist a day before the festival begins, and get artwork all down their arms. Yay! Megan picked out this design for me:

After that, we had some coffee at Peet’s and then put on some make-up and went to the BAD RAP party.

When we packed for the party, I laughingly set aside my Manolo Blahniks, but I both could have and should have worn them. You should have seen the girls there! Black stockings with rhinestone seams, the latest in handbags, shoes, and accessories – I loved the girl wearing a black and white dress with a red hem and red stiletttos, and the elderly grande dame with the fur-trimmed cashmere sweater and suede kitten heels – these women don’t just read “InStyle” and “Vogue”. they do something about it.

While I was admiring the fashionistas and considering that I had never considered pit bulls to be a fashionista cause, Megan managed meet the founders of BAD RAP and talk to them about her goals, and they were not only impressed, but willing to help. It was a win all the way around.

Today we might go to the city before heading back to Hooterville. It’s been a fun little break.

Story time

Even though Thanksgiving is not generally considered a gift-giving occasion (to my mind, one of its more delightful aspects), Jonathan couldn’t resist bringing Jessica a book which gives the real dirt on the Three Little Pigs. It’s authored by the Wolf himself, and you can see that it held Jessica spellbound. She wasn’t the only one, either. Jonathan seems to have inherited our father’s gift for reading stories and doing all the voices. It was great.

When the story was over, Jessica went up to bed. She had permission to read as long as she liked on this special occasion, but spotted my jewelry box. Immediate exploration was called for, and here you see Jessica wearing the earrings I wore at my wedding (my dress was a 1940’s emerald green taffeta gown), along with a string of jade beads my Dad brought me from China and a string of rubies from India:

Sparkle time

In going through the collection with Jessica, I realized how many beautiful things he had given me over the years on his many travels.

While Jessica was being delighted and I was getting nostalgic, there was channel surfing going on downstairs, and we were alerted to the fact that the Rockettes were on. I dragged Jessica down the stairs as fast as I could, and sat with her on my lap as the Christmas Spectacular unfolded in front of us in all its glory.

During the first number, where the Rockettes were wearing their Candy Cane outfits, she observed, “They look like little Christmas presents.” After a while, she said, “They’re the most beautiful girls in the world!” I was about her age when I became enchanted by the Rockettes and the Weeki Wachee mermaids, and the enchantment has lasted all these years. It was so fun to share it.

The next day, Erica told me that Jessica dressed up in a leotard and danced around the house saying “I’m a Rockette! I’m a Rockette!”