Suzy Says

Home sweet home?

You will be amazed to hear that I’m thinking of moving. Again. But you might really be amazed to hear where.

It’s no secret that I hate living in Oakland, or that I’m deeply tired of spending nearly every penny I make to do so. I can’t afford to live in San Francisco, or anywhere desirable in the East Bay. I’m sick of the BART station of death and the weirdness of strangers.

So here’s my possible Plan B: move into my sister’s house (back view from the garden is pictured above). Our brother has already moved out to the property (more or less), so his house is vacant-ish, and my sis and her husband can move there, and I can move into their house. Musical houses!

Yes, it’s even teenier than my current house. It’s in the country. The separation between outside and inside is extremely blurred (and dusty or muddy, depending on the season). It’s a four hour drive from my job. I’m worried about the cats going outside and disappearing forever, which has happened to both my brother and sister.

But…

I’ll be close to my family and friends. I can spend more time with Jessica. Rent will be a third of what I’m paying now, and there will be no more insane water bills. There aren’t any locks on the door, even if I wanted to lock them. Sure, I’ll have to drive everywhere, but I do here, too. And who wouldn’t prefer driving by the ocean to the freeway?

I can consign The Boxes to my brother’s storage container. I can pile up meetings on a couple of days a month, stay in the familiar hotel near my old place in San Francisco. With 24 hours’ notice, I can be there if my boss/partner needs me.

I can even take the good bridge to get there.

Can I do it? Will it be like Green Acres? Will my boss say OK?

Stay tuned.

Thoughts, opinions, notions and moving cartons are welcome. if you’re too discreet to comment, email me at speakall at earthlink dot net. I’ll be glad you did.

As often happens in the summer, the Golden Gate Bridge was so fogged in that you couldn’t see most of the towers, let alone the ocean, the city, or the Bay. I was disappointed on Jessica’s behalf, since she was so looking forward to the view. I hope she got to see it on her way home.

By the time we passed the Presidio, we were out of the fog. No matter how long I live in or around San Francisco, the microclimates will never cease to amaze me.

Erica decided to drive down Union Street, a well-known and expensive shopping district near my former residence. I hadn’t been there in a while, being unable to support the economy in the style to which I used to be accustomed, and it was fun to see which stores were still there and which were different.

Erica noticed that there was actually a parking space in front of one of our favorite stores, Lush. Not only that, but there were 28 precious minutes left on the meter! It was too good to resist.

We drifted into the store on wafts of delicious fragrance, and were greeted by a charming French guy who spent the next half hour flirting with Erica as we sniffed and envied our way around. One of the great things about Lush is that you can try some of the products, so Jessica and I had fun trying things and splashing around in the basins provided. Somehow, we both ended up with glitter on our noses.

Erica told me to pick out something and she’d buy it for me. I was astonished – surely driving me home and letting me play with Jessica was enough for anyone! But she put her arm around me and said, “I know how much you miss shopping.” I was incredibly touched. In the end, she gave me all these things:

• Sugar scrub (which I used to scrub off the country dirt when I got home, though my long-suffering sandals may never be the same);
• A tiny pot of Potion solid perfume (spicy, delicious carnation scent);
• Sexy Peel soap (selected by Jessica); and
• Eau Roma water (get it?), which was perfect for a sunburned face.

When I thanked Erica, she said simply, “You needed some luxury,” and gave me a hug.

It was time to say good-bye. Along with my hay bale/Beverly Hills haircut, I brought a box of produce with me: tomatoes, almonds, peaches etc. from the Mendocino farmers’ market, tiny potatoes from my sister’s garden (she stores them in a pail of sand so they won’t go green or sprout; some of them were the size of a debutante’s pearls), and Betty eggs. Betty works at the hospital with my sis and brings in her extra eggs from her happy hens. You would not believe the difference between Betty eggs and Safeway eggs.

I went home by modern stage coach: my sis drove me to Boonville, where we planned to meet up with Erica and Jessica at Erica’s shop, Erica having kindly offered to chauffeur me the rest of the way. Megan and I were a bit early, a frequent family flaw, so we poked around the small farmers’ market for a few minutes.

There were books which were supposed to swapped, but having nothing to trade, we were allowed to take our selections for free. I scored a 1965 edition of James Beard’s Menus for Entertaining (which is, very) and Meg found a sci fi book for her husband, which it turned out he hadn’t read. I also got a Sunflower Soother lotion bar from MeadowSweet Soap, based in Ukiah. I am pleased to report that daily applications of it, besides smelling and feeling great, completely prevented my sunburn(s) from peeling.

We went across the street to the store, where Erica was loading up the car. She and Jessica were lucky golden ticket holders for Neil Gaiman’s signing in San Francisco the following day. Only 100 tickets were available, so they were very lucky to get them. And Mr. Gaiman was very lucky to meet his youngest fan in person.

It was a delightful drive. We ate brownies, giggled, and talked. The topic of Halloween costumes came up. Jessica is beginning to learn how to sew, and she wants to be the Oogie Boogie Man from The Nightmare Before Christmas this year. She observed that it would be easy to sew, and Erica agreed, saying it would be a fairly simple shape. She also suggested that Jessica might want to sew some decorations on her Christmas stocking, such as gingerbread men. Jessica said she’d like to put on candy canes, and I asked what was her favorite flavor (last year, we had cinnamon ones). She considered, and then said “I like the classic candy cane flavors, like peppermint.”

As we approached San Francisco, we saw a blimp flying lazily over head. I pointed it out to Jessica, and she said, “That’s an airship!” Later, I mentioned this to my sister, wondering how a six year old would know about airships. Megan said that lately Jessica’s been reading the dictionary in bed at night. One night, it was long after lights out and she didn’t want to stop reading. One of the things that makes Jessica such a charming child is her remarkable obedience about going to bed and staying there, so this was unusual. She explained to her mother, “I’m between diamonds and dinosurs and I just can’t stop!”

Backseat Bale

On our way home, we stopped off and bought a bale of straw. Little did I know that there is a difference between hay and straw, and that there would be a choice of straw. Whenever I run an errand for my brother, I’m always lacking an essential piece of information, so it’s good I had my little purple cell phone handy.

The winning straw was rice! Though fairly modest in size compared to some of the bales on offer, it refused to fit into the trunk of my sister’s trusty and dusty Saturn. But it did settle nicely into the back seat (see above). The straw seller kindly placed a sheet of paper on the seat before depositing the bale, but the car, our hair, and our clothes were soon as straw-strewn as the March Hare on a particularly maddening day.

If you’re wondering why our brother required a single, smallish straw bale, it’s because he’s planning to build a cob oven with the straw and the clay on the property. If you’re curious about these ovens, you can read all about them here.

We unloaded the straw and other BBQ fixin’s at his place, then went on to Megan’s. I stowed the groceries while she created the pie. She makes them so quickly it looks like a breeze. She does something with almond meal that makes the crust magically delicious. And with four pints of fresh local strawberries going into her pie, you can see that she doesn’t hold back.

Pie perched precariously on my lap, and Schatzi in the now vacant backseat, we made our way to our brother’s place. Friends gradually assembled, including Lichen, who brought Schatzi’s good friend Padawan. They play together at least once a week. Padawan is another terrifying breed, a Rottweiler who immediately cuddled up to me, then lay down and allowed me to rub his tummy until my arm felt like I’d pitched ten innings. I guess that’s the real danger!

As Padawan and Schatzi ran off to play, I perched on the straw bale while Lichen cut my hair. He had the cape and the fancy scissors and everything. It turns out that he used to be a stylist in Beverly Hills in a former life, working his magic on stars and starlets. I bet they never had their cut on a straw bale! He refused to let me pay him, even though my hair looks Hollywood fabulous.

In the meantime, my brother was barbecuing free range chicken breasts and farmers’ (thank you, Mike!) market corn, so dinner was ready. There was also salad and cheese buns which my brother had made earlier. For dessert, there was the pie.

As we sat around the dying flames of the barbecue, with the sun dipping lower in the sky, I thought how lucky I am to have such a wonderful family and friends.

I’m back!! With a sunburn, assorted bug bites, a box of farm-fresh produce, a brand-new haircut, and a slightly better understanding of what constitutes sensible footwear. At least in the country.

Summer’s been showing me who’s boss for the past couple of weeks. No matter how much I tell it that it’s won, it won’t let up. It’s definitely one of your more stubborn seasons (winter being the other). So I’ve been keeping the blinds closed and wearing sandals every day for so long that I’ve stopped thinking about it. When I packed for my country visit, it never crossed my heat-struck mind to bring sneakers or boots.

I would soon realize my mistake. Others would follow…

My brother has moved onto the property he and our sister are buying, just down the road from her house. It’s thirty pristine acres, five miles from the coast, so it’s sunny there when it’s foggy by the ocean. He moved our mother’s trailer there, took out the carpeting and the old couch, replaced the floor, hooked up solar panels to power the generator so there’s electric light, the refrigerator runs, and even has internet access. My sister and I stopped by before taking her adorable and adored dog Schatzi for a walk/stroll/run (depending on participant) on the property.

I was multi-tasking, because I had to run a report for work. I hooked up my iBook to my brother’s satellite dish ethernet (don’t ask me how it works), started the report, and took off with Megan and the dog while it processed.

It soon became apparent that sandals were not the best choice for walking along a dusty, rocky, unpaved road. Later, it turned out that having your hair up in the blazing sun for over an hour makes you an instant redneck. Just add a beer and a tube top and you’re ready for NASCAR!

When we came back from the walk, the report was ready, and I emailed it to my boss. It’s kind of magical to be able to do that in the middle of nowhere. Shortly after that, he called my cellphone from Detroit, and I was thinking that you couldn’t get much different than each end of the phone: me in a meadow bordered by redwoods; my boss in downtown Detroit. Would have made for a great split screen in a movie.

Up next: cemetery stroll and the attack of the late night banana slug!

The last of the backyard plums, June 24.

Wow, guys. I can’t believe that not one of you wanted to trade with me, even for a weekend. And here I was, thinking I might have missed my calling by not becoming a professional writer of real estate ads.

See if this* changes your mind!

In the meantime, I’m going to visit my brother and sister for a few days, where the dogs don’t bark, the doors don’t lock, and you leave your car keys in the ignition, so you know where they are. It will be a budget adventure, since I’m catching a ride with one friend on the way up and one with Jessica and her mother on the way back. Plans include walking dogs at the local shelter and visiting the farmer’s market.

Maybe we’ll get lucky on the way up. When i think of how many times I’ve driven that stretch of road…

*I did find the pronunciation of “Oakland” pretty funny. Also it’s totally true about Zachary’s. People go nuts about it, yet I personally found it to be on the icky side. Actually, the whole movie is pretty much true – I laughed out loud when I watched it.

I haven’t been up to see my brother and sister since Christmas, so I’m definitely overdue for a visit. Tomorrow I’ll pick up some oil and a filter so the Jelly Bean Mechanic can take care of my car, stop by Trader Joe’s for booze’n’food, bring the final boxes to the auctioneer in Petaluma, and stop off at Jessica’s mother’s shop in Boonville to say hi (and maybe have something delightful to nibble). Add in the traditional stop at Gowan’s, and you have almost as much stopping as going.

Things have changed since I was there last. Mom’s trailer has been hauled to the property*, and my brother has set up some solar panels – enough to keep the refrigerator running and a light bulb or two lit. We’ll probably have a barbecue there this weekend – my first one on the property, though my sister and brother do it often (they were celebrating the summer solstice there when the wildfires broke out last summer).

My sis and I will go to the quaint village of Mendocino on Friday to see what we can get at the farmer’s market. Cherries, arugula and spinach are in season, and I might replenish my supply of fabulous soap from Lovers Lane Farm.

Life moves slowly in the country, and so does the internet. So you’ll have to wait until Sunday or Monday to read all about it. But don’t worry: I’ll be having fun. And I already miss you.

*My brother and sister are buying some property about a quarter mile down the road from where they currently rent their little houses. The ultimate plan is to move onto the property. I’ll probably end up retiring there, assuming I can ever retire. Yes, it will be exactly like “Green Acres”.

Thanks, everyone, for your thoughts and emails and everything. I give you credit for Brother-In-Law doing so well – that, and his iron constitution and refusal to feel sorry for himself, even when he should.

My sister and I got up in the dark, pre-dawn hours when everything seems at its most hopeless, especially after a sleepless night. Driving into the city, the sky was a perfect parfait of lavender, violet, pale gold, and ethereal blue. The Bay Bridge at 6:30 on Sunday morning has no traffic. It’s slightly unsettling.

At the hospital, it was even more unsettling that it was locked and we couldn’t get in. A guy walking his dog told us to go to Emergency and we could get in there, which we did. We raced up to BIL’s room and to our relief, found him still there. Time ticked by for an hour and half, during which we all pondered the fact that we could have slept later, and tried to keep the patient’s spirits up.

I don’t know what was harder: seeing his slight frame moved onto a gurney, or the look on my sister’s face, watching her husband of 18 years wheeled away to meet his fate. At times like this, the amount she knows about what can happen is a definite liability.

We went and had breakfast, since we knew we had at least two hours ahead of us. As we emerged from Peet’s with a triumphant mocha, we ran into my friend R from high school days, who gave us both hugs and encouragement.

As we arrived at the hospital, the surgeon unexpectedly came out of the front doors and told us BIL was OK, though he warned that there are more problems with his back and he may well face more surgery. He can certainly never be a carpenter again. My sister asked the surgeon if her husband could move his arms and legs, and he could.

We rushed to his bedside, to find him remarkably responsive. After he recovered enough, he went back to his room, and when the physical therapist came to visit, was able to sit up and walk with a walker!! Just hours after having his spine operated on and bone taken from his hip to reinforce it. He is so strong and so courageous. And I believe, all the love around him has made him stronger.

Thanks again for all your thoughts and caring, and if you haven’t already, hug the people you love and make sure they know you love them. It can make all the difference in the world.

Tiny pic of my parents on their wedding day, December 5, 1959. Standing at the front door of Dad’s childhood home in Coulsdon, Surrey.

It was, of course, a beautiful cloudless day as I headed toward the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge yesterday. It is not lost on me that one has to pay for the privilege of leaving Oakland, either via that bridge or the Bay Bridge, yet one has to pay for the honor of entering San Francisco*. Leaving it is free, and it’s your loss.

As I drove the familiar route, past San Quentin**, sleeping vineyards, the oil refineries in Richmond, through the rolling hills of the Sonoma countryside, green despite the lack of rain, I imagined just keeping going up to my brother’s and sister’s. I rarely, if ever, go this way unless I’m going to see them, and for a moment, I thought, what if. My sister was finished her shifts that day and would be glad to see me…

But I knew I had to keep my appointment and be a grown-up, with all the horrors and lack of fun that entails.

I got to the storage half an hour before the appraiser was due, so I started going through some things before he got there. There was my American grandfather’s World War I uniform in his trunk; my mother’s wedding dress, which I had preserved a few years ago – you can see a tiny picture above – it is a gorgeous, heavy, ivory satin dress; a silhouette of my mother as a very young child; the beautiful watercolor of a Scottish stream my father bought for a shilling when he was 12 years old.

I had to walk away and take a moment to pull myself together before the appraiser appeared and I had to pretend to be a rational adult. I went to the window and looked out at the sunny day, wondering how my grandparents’ and parents’ lives had been distilled down to these few pieces in a place none of them had ever seen or known, to be looked over and assessed by strangers, who would never know their true worth lay in who had touched them, worn them, used them, loved them.

Rest assured that the items I mentioned, along with some others, will never be sold. But as I headed home, slower in the late afternoon traffic, my eyes filled with tears as I passed Frank Lloyd Wright’s Civic Center in Marin, the familiar and always beloved skyline of my beautiful San Francisco. Because the ghosts of the past were closer than usual.

*Once when returning to the City, I discovered that I didn’t have enough cash for the then $2 toll. The toll person told me to go to the office and radioed my license plate to the office. I was driving my 1966 Mustang convertible in those days, so was a little more noticeable than I am now in my humble Taurus. I wrote a check in the office, blushing with embarrassment. They cashed it immediately.
**My sister used to teach across the Bay from San Quentin. Her students thought it was a castle, and it does look like one a bit, especially in the fog. She never corrected this impression, though I can’t help but wonder why some of the best real estate in the Bay Area (Alcatraz and San Quentin) is devoted to prisons.

My brother came over to my sister’s house before I left and took the helm at the stove, making pancakes with the huckleberries that didn’t fit into the Christmas pie. Just add pure maple syrup and leftover apple wood smoked ham, and you have the real breakfast of champions!

While we ate, he told us that he had just returned from a call to a chimney fire. The directions weren’t very useful, so dispatch called the guy to ask for clarification – do you live on Road A or Road B? – and the guy couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer. When the firemen finally found him and the remains of the fire (apparently, about 90% of chimney fires are contained by the time firemen get there, but they still have to go), he actually yelled at them for taking so long. Can you believe it? I think I know someone who got some coal in his stocking this year.

The sun was sunny, and the trip home uneventful, other than a disagreement between my car’s side mirror and a tree (which the tree won, necessitating an immediate trip to Kragen to avoid a ticket for driving while mirrorless) and a mysterious slowdown on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, which allowed me to admire the San Francisco skyline for quite a long time. When the cars finally speeded up again, it was for no particular reason: no visible construction, accidents, or anything like that. Still, it was much better than the trip out. Note to Self: do not attempt to go anywhere on Christmas Eve unless you’re Santa.

When I got home, the kittens came running to the door. I was as happy to see them as they were to see me. It’s embarrassing how much I miss them when I’m away, no matter how much fun I’m having. The tree, on the other hand, looked quite dejected, leaning against the window as if sobbing quietly, with one of its branches amputated and halfway across the room.

Henry also seemed to be glad I was home, even though he had lots of food and water left. He even let me pet him before settling back onto the couch.

It’s good to be home, and to have happy new Christmas memories.

There was a power outage during the transition from Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. I’m secretly convinced it was Santa, protesting the total lack of cookies and milk and carrots for the reindeer. He did drop off Jessica’s gift on the front porch, though. I guess by the time he gets to Albion, he’s too tired to mess around with chimneys and things like that.

I feared the worst, since I know Albion is low priority for power restoration (which is why my brother has a generator), but it came back on in less than two hours and – thankfully – in time for coffee. After coffee, my sister and I took Schatzi for a muddy walk during a sunny break in the rainy day. Just minutes after we returned, it started raining and hailing and looking a lot like Christmas.

Jessica and her mother arrived sometime after noon in a flurry of hugs and kisses. It’s so great having a rental kid for Christmas: getting to sleep in and getting the wide-eyed wonder. Naturally, Jessica was the exception to the stockings only rule, and it was fun watching her open her gifts, which included no fewer than ten books. She is already reading the “Little House” books, and has written a letter herself to Neil Gaiman – and received a response, handwritten in fountain pen. Look out, world!

After the presents, we all pitched in to make dinner. The boys cut apple wood, put it in the barbecue, and set the ham to smoke with a maple-bourbon glaze for a couple of hours, while my sister made pie from the huckleberries she picked this summer and I made my world-famous cheese biscuits. Oven-roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes rounded out the meal (and us)!

After dinner, my brother read some of Jessica’s new books aloud, and I have to say, he really inherited Dad’s gift for reading stories to an audience. We were all mesmerized as he did all the voices. I think we may have a new Christmas tradition on our hands.

Schatzi, with the sun on her fur and love in her eyes.

My sister pointed out that there have been, to date, no pictures of her beloved dog, Schatzi, on my blog. I endeavored to redress this egregious wrong by taking some pictures at Thanksgiving, but, alas, the sun was too sunny and the photographer too inept to give Schatzi her considerable due.

In this picture, she is looking up at my sister, and I think it’s pretty clear that there is love in those big brown eyes. The whitish thing in the background is either the glare of the sun or a ghost passing through in a hurry – you decide. I wish I had taken a better picture, since she really is a beautiful dog.

Those who are not Germanically inclined may wonder about her name. It’s only fair to say that our mother had the worst taste in pet names (and men, but that’s another story). Her cat L’il Bit and dog Baroness von Hershee (known by the slightly less embarrassing diminutive “Bear”) spring to mind. Anyway, Schatzi means “treasure” or “sweetheart”, and she is both.

Mom was walking the unfortunately named Bear one fine day, when she heard a noise coming from inside a Dumpster. Peering inside, she saw an emaciated young pit bull, whimpering for help. Mom flagged down a couple of passing guys, who hauled her treasure out of the trash. Mom cleaned her up and brought her to the local shelter. On being told that the dog would be euthanized immediately for the capital crime of being born a pit bull, Mom of course turned around and took her home.

Although Schatzi had been through things far too terrible to relate here, she is, true to her name, a total sweetheart. I can tell you this from personal experience, when I had her stay with me for a month while Mom was away. Eventually, Mom and her dogs moved in with my sister, and time has now left Schatzi in charge. She and my sister are devoted to each other, and there could be no happier ending for the little dog who went from being one man’s trash to one girl’s treasure.

Samsonite Fashionaire for the Fashionista

It’s 6 am! Why am I up? It’s because my brother is picking me up bright and early (well, early) to do a few errands and then go back to his place and my sister’s on the beautiful Mendocino coast. Carpooling there and taking the bus back makes me feel so greenly smug! Also I get to use my fabulous Samsonite Marimekko luggage, which is almost as old and charming as I am.

I’ll be computer-less and email-less until I get back. But don’t feel too sorry for me. It’s not only Thanksgiving, it’s Dungeness Crab season. There’s a farmer’s market on Friday, and there will be long walks in the redwoods and long talks by the fire.

In the meantime, Merry Thanksgiving to all, and to all a good pie (my sister is making three: pumpkin, apple, and huckleberry)!

For a different reason: yet another of those “unusual” heatwaves. This is Day Four of the latest serving of Hot’n’Heinous Hell.  The kittens are melted by the door gasping for breath, and what little is left of my mind has finally melted away.  Hence the lack of posting in my fancy new blog, and the inability to grasp how the fancy new blog works.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it (and the unfortunately black leather) couch.

Of course, the heatwave arrived in Oakland at the exact same time I arrived back from visiting my brother and sister in the coolness of the redwoods, where – oh, imagine the bliss! – a girl needs a fleece right about cocktail time if she’s planning to continue hanging out in the garden.  Timing really is everything.

It was great to be away for a few days.  My iBook was in the hospital (now restored to health, thank you for asking), so I went computerless, and cell phone reception there is patchy, so I was quite delightfully incommunicada.  Instead of checking emails and voicemails, I went to the farmer’s market with my sister; had lunch by the ocean*; bought six completely delightful and wholly unnecessary glass peacocks with real feather tails for the Christmas tree (yes, in August); walked the dog on my siblings’ property; poked around in bookstores; had my fortune told by a swami in a tie-dyed turban; drank local wine in my sister’s garden while hummingbirds and bees buzzed around; and watched the sun set and the moon rise, accompanied by glittery, diamond-bright stars.  

*If you find you’re hungry while visiting Mendocino, get a hot smoked chicken and Swiss sandwich at the Mendo Deli and eat it outside overlooking the wild, rocky Pacific.  You’ll thank me later.

I met with a gentleman this week who brought his teenaged daughter along for the ride. She waited in reception with our handsome receptionist, CNN, and homework to keep her company while her father and I sat in the conference room and talked about dreary things like shorting and buy/sell disciplines. When we finally emerged, she shook my hand politely and told me that she was studying for school – which starts in two weeks. Two weeks!

When I was a girl, school ended around June 20 or 25, and the next day, we were packed into the car and on our way to Maine. School didn’t start again until (appropriately enough) the day after Labor Day, so we had nearly three months of total freedom. We had such a luxurious feeling of time stretching before us, time we could fill any way we liked: swimming, sailing, painting, visiting friends, going out on our friend’s lobster boat, climbing mountains, tea at Jordan Pond House (you haven’t truly lived until you’ve had their popovers), pool at Geddy’s, buying blueberry coffeecake and chocolate chip cookies from that lady in Southwest Harbor (she sold them out of her kitchen, and if she wasn’t home, you just left the money)…and then there were the Fourth of July Fireworks and Boat Race, the Lab picnic, and the library’s* annual book sale. Life was good.

In those halcyon days, Dad just dropped us off in Bar Harbor or on Sand Beach and came back for us later. He was occupied working in the lab most of the day, but he always found time for us. Of course, his idea of taking us swimming was lying on the beach reading the International Herald Tribune or the New York Times, but he always packed a picnic. Sometimes he even doggy paddled quite grandly, keeping his chin in the air and his eyes open.

While in Maine, we lived in the same cottage across the road from the lab. The biggest danger in those days was crossing the two lane highway to get to the lab or the tiny general store or post office in Salisbury Cove. Thanks to the magic of the internet, you can tour the very cottage** we lived in, many summers ago.

My last visit there was in the mid 1990’s with my father and sister. Unsurprisingly, the door wasn’t locked (we never locked it, either – in fact, I’m not sure it had a lock), and we walked right in. It was exactly the same, and had the same sweet, familiar smell of resiny pine boards warmed in the sun, surrounded by fragrant balsam firs. Our heights were still pencilled on the wood beside the door in the kitchen.

Dad was still the tallest.

*How I adored that library! I can’t count how many hours I spent in its dusty embrace. I wish they still stamped library books and had those little cards in the cute pockets. Since we came back every summer and/or were affiliated with the lab, we were able to take out as many books as year-round patrons, a benefit I always appreciated.

**Looks like the kitchen has been fancied up a bit, but the living room and bedrooms look he same.

The red sun against the smoky Oakland sky, Thursday evening

My brother and sister’s Summer Solstice party was suddenly ended by an unexpected and wildly out of season rain-free lightning storm. There were thousands of lightning strikes, setting the dry trees and shrubs on fire. California usually only gets rain in the winter, so wildfires are a real danger every summer.

I am proud to say that my brother has been a member of the local volunteer fire department for many years. He sleeps with his boots beside his bed, and never leaves home without his pager. He and his fellow fire fighters leapt into action. My sister went down to the firehouse to make food and wash the tired men’s sweaty, sooty clothes as they cycled in and out of the relentless flames.

She called me with updates, and for a while each was scarier than the last. At one point, my brother called from the front lines and told her to pack up all the essentials from both houses and get ready to evacuate. Fortunately, the wind shifted and spared them, leaving their houses and gardens coated in ash, like a light snowfall. I have rarely been so frightened or felt so helpless, 150 miles away from where my siblings could be losing their houses – and in my brother’s case, his life.

I am so incredibly thankful that they are safe and sound, though the fires rage on. One hundred and twenty one fires have burned 42 acres and threatened 900 homes in their county. Fellow firemen from Nevada and Oregon have come to help. The skies here are still hazy with smoke.

Volunteer fire departments aren’t limited to small rural communities like the one where my brother and sister live. According to the US Fire Administration, 87% of fire departments are volunteer or mostly volunteer, and protect 38% of the population.

Have you thanked your fire department today?

Update:

When my brother came off a 24 hour shift this week, he found a thank you note in his car – along with $50, a bag of cherries, and some chocolate. All along the roads, there are signs telling the fire department “We love you!” “Thank you!” – and the amounts of water available on that particular property, with directions for the fire department to take what they need. And the lone grocery store is taking donations. Nothing like a small town, especially one with such heart.

Last night’s lunar eclipse was eclipsed by clouds here and sadness at my sister’s house. After a battle with acute leukemia, her beloved 14 year old dog Bear was laid to rest in the red moonlight, beside our adored Jed. They are together under a big tree in a sunny meadow where the wild irises grow. And my sister’s little house seems so empty now.

Well, my little muse-lette seems to have flown the coop. Knowing my muse-lette, she is currently ensconced in a luxury hotel, ordering room service, booking a mani-pedi, and not even thinking about working.

Oh, to be my muse-lette! Next to my lifetime (so far unachieved – possibly due to overwhelming sloth and lassitude, as well as the total lack of the right, millionaire-type connections) ambition of idle rich, that may be my perfect job. Or maybe dilettante. Personal shopper to the stars? I can think of few things more fun than spending other people’s money on the most fabulous things in the most fabulous stores.

A girl can dream.

While being on hiatus here, I’ve been on the road. The greatest hits of the trip were: Niagara Falls, Cleveland, and Albion.

First stop…

Niagara Falls

It was 96 degrees when I arrived at the Falls, which made it the perfect day to go on the legendary Maid of the Mist. This something I have always wanted to do. It is a tribute to the slothfulness and lassitude listed above that I didn’t do any of these things until I was 40 or better. However, I think I appreciate the glamor and splendor of these national treasures more at this stage of my life than I would have in my careless youth.

Wearing my souvenir blue rain slicker (which was completely unequal to the mist) along with my fellow passengers, we approached the magnificent Falls. Either we actually entered the Falls or were so close it made no difference, since we were all delightfully and deliciously soaked. It was a breathtaking experience to feel part of such a powerful and magnificent force of nature. I was so moved and so delighted. If you go to Niagara Falls, you have to do this. Suzy says.

And onward to…

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Cleveland

In case you were wondering why I was going to Cleveland (the usual reaction when I told people I was going there), now you know. The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame is sited spectacularly on Lake Erie, and full of more fascinating exhibits than any one person could see in any one day, or possibly week. It is the Louvre of rock. My advice to potential visitors is to choose the exhibits which interest you most and visit them first. If your feet and mind can handle more, then check out the optionals.

My first stop was the special Beach Boys exhibit, which was small but full of gems. I’m always fascinated by hand-written notes and lyrics, since they give a little glimpse into how the artists thought and wrote, and by their clothes and instruments, as if these objects can somehow bring us closer to these remarkable people and make us understand them better.

I was horribly disappointed to learn that I had missed a lecture by David Marks, one of the original Beach Boys, by only one day. However, I was consoled by the rest of the museum, particularly the fab fashions of the great Motown era, Joey Ramone’s and Sid Vicious’ leather jackets (Sid was approximately the size of a 12 year old. His pants and t-shirts are oh so teeny!) and the exhibit on the beautiful and doomed Rick Nelson. Once again, Suzy says go there. You’ll have fun.

The Indians meet the A’s at Jacobs Field

Of course, I couldn’t pass up the chance to check out the smokin’ hot Cleveland Indians on a smokin’ hot day. It was an afternoon game, but very well-attended, and the ballpark is lovely. There were a lot of families there, and it was charming to see two or three generations sharing the experience. Beside me, a grandfather with shaking hands carefully showed his engrossed young grandson the art of the boxscore. Grandpa’s hands weren’t too shaky to catch a foul ball and present it to his thrilled grandson. I was pretty thrilled myself.

And the Indians beat the A’s.

Last but not least…

My sister’s garden

How’s this for an office? I had an early moning conference call while visiting my sister and brother, so I took my coffee and phone and sat in the garden while being really quite business-like. Other than my business blather, all that could be heard was the wind in the trees, the slowly awakening bees, and the busy hummingbirds dive bombing the fuchsias. Ideal working conditions, especially since it was over in an hour and I could go and do fun things with my family.

Among the fun things was the 46th annual BBQ to raise funds for the volunteer fire department, of which my brother is a dedicated member. I can think of at least one girl who would gladly pay the $14 admission fee to be surrounded by firemen. We had a good time and I’m glad to help such a worthy local cause.

I finally signed the divorce paperwork (which informed me in a big box in big letters on the second page that I was BEING SUED) and had it notarized. When I brought it to the Fed Ex office in my sister’s town to have it notarized and shipped to John, the woman behind the counter asked cheerfully, “And what are we notarizing today?” When I said, “Divorce papers”, her face dropped and she said she was sorry while scurrying for the notary stamp. It kind of cast a pall over the whole proceedings, if you want to know the truth. I kept telling her it was OK, but she couldn’t wait for me to get my gay divorc?e butt outta there.

John can file the papers in mid-August (there’s a 31 day waiting period, I guess in case one of us changes our minds), and then 6 months until it’s final. So in February of next year the bureaucracy will be behind us. It’s about time. And really, it’s OK.

Next on the list, next week, is Detroit, where I will enjoy the company of the delightful Kathleen, her Tigers, and the new exhibit at the Henry Ford Museum. I’m hoping for dinner at TJ’s to make the Detroit Experience complete. I might stop by our brand-new office, conveniently located near Tigers Stadium, but I’m not planning to work. How Suzy is that? Go to the office, and not work.

I may already have the perfect job.