Suzy Says

Heading to aquafit on a chilly, dark winter morning, I thought about how our brother inspired Megan and me to start swimming again last year. And I realized how strongly he has influenced our lives, without appearing to do so. In a way, we’ve been following his lead.

Our parents separated when Jonathan was 18. He decided to head out to California, where he stayed with a family friend while he got on his feet. He arrived in San Francisco with his cat and $100 in his pocket, and never looked back.

I visited him every year, or more often if I could, and it got harder and harder to leave. Eventually Dad retired back to his native England, leaving Megan and me on our own, so we decided to follow Jonathan and move to San Francisco.

Megan moved into a boat near his on Pier 39 and married Rob. I found an apartment on land near by, and fixed it up while John drove our stuff, and our beloved cat Buddy, to our new home, arriving in time for our wedding anniversary in December.

One day, Jonathan witnessed a man being stabbed to death at Pier 39. He decided that the time had come to leave the city. A good friend of his was from the Hooterville area, and Jonathan had spent a lot of time visiting, as Bay Area people tend to do. It seemed like a good place to start a new life.

So he did, and it was. After a few years, Megan and Rob decided to follow him there. It was hard at first, but of course having our brother there made it easier and better.

Having most of my family living in a place only accessible by car inspired me to finally learn how to drive so I could visit. In my 30s. I do not recommend this. Parents: don’t let this happen to your kids! They’ll think driving means freedom, when what it really means is driving to work, running errands, and traffic jams.

As usual, I’m an Awful Warning.

As you all know, after several years and several changes of venue, I, too ended up in Hooterville, living a few yards from my sister and about a quarter mile from my brother. In fact, the house he used to live in is on the same property, and it’s still kind of weird for me that he no longer lives there. I still think of it as his house, and so does everyone else. Mark calls it “Jonathan’s house”.

Jonathan started swimming over a year ago, working up to his present ability to swim for 45 minutes without stopping four times a week. He loved it so much that he kept trying to convince his sisters to go, and eventually, he persuaded us. As our mother used to say, he could sell refrigerators to Eskimos (are you allowed to say “Eskimos” now? I always thought the spelling “Esquimaux” was more elegant, anyway). And we love it, too.

The next time I see him, I’m going to thank him for being such a great leader. And the best brother a girl could ask for. Or follow around.

Sure, there are some drawbacks to taking the truck to town. It’s a gas guzzler, for one thing, but the gauge doesn’t work properly, so it’s like it has an eating disorder, secretly consuming huge amounts of gas without your knowing.

Also, you can’t open the doors from the inside. You have to roll down the windows and open the doors from the outside, much like British trains of the past. The kind with compartments which can be found in old movies, or the memories of vintage girls. But if you roll the truck windows down too far, they get stuck there. No bueno.

And then there’s the minor annoyance of the windshield wipers just being there for show.

But it’s fun to be up high, and you can see so much further. And it really makes us feel like country bumpkins going to the big town. I practically feel like I have straw in my hair.

Going to swimming lessons and then the library on a Saturday morning reminded me of being a kid again, when these activities occurred almost every weekend. I was lucky that the libraries of my youth were so wonderful: the historic Southworth Library, recently renovated, during the school year, and the elegant Jesup Library in the summer. I can still remember the wonderful library smell and the echo in the hallway, especially at Jesup, where you entered a little marble floored rotunda before arriving at the galleried main room. I still find walking up those spiral staircases magical. And looking back in the golden haze of nostalgia, I feel lucky to have grown up when and where I did.

One of my favorite pictures of my favorite person

One of the problems with flying in the face of convention and WordPress by freeing myself from the tyranny of the post title is that using the date really makes you think about the date. Especially when it’s the Evil Eighteenth, aka the most dreaded day of the year.

Here it is again, and this year marks the tenth anniversary of my father’s death. I can hardly believe it’s been an entire decade since his life ended and mine changed forever.

I still remember my sister’s voice when I picked up the phone early that morning – evening for her; she had already lived through a day of horror by then – sounding small and stricken.

I still remember my brother grabbing my hand painfully hard with his work-roughened one as we headed to the airport together, his blue eyes, so like Dad’s, gazing tear-filled into the horizon as he said, “Let’s do it.”

I still remember wanting to run down the street screaming outside Dad’s funeral,and how seeing the resplendent Indian wedding across the street – something he would have loved, he who loved beauty (and India) so much -somehow gave me the strength to go in there.

I still remember my sister and I holding hands across Dad’s coffin before it vanished into the flames, the pallbearers holding their top hats over their hearts and bowing.

But I also remember waiting for him to come home from working at the lab when I was a little girl, the familiar chemical smell of his white lab coat as he swept me up into his arms asking, “How is my pixie today?”

And I remember riding on his shoulders through the woods in springtime, while Dad called the birds and they answered him. He knew all their names. And he could make clouds disappear, mostly on days with a breeze in the air…

And I remember coming icy-cold out of the chilly summer waters of the Atlantic and lying down on his sun-warmed back as he read the New York Times on a beach in Maine.

He never complained.

He was the best father and friend a girl could ever have. I was lucky to have him. Though the grief is the price of the love, it has also given me the strength to get through this first decade without him, as I’m sure it will in the decades to come. As time passes, I spend more time thinking of the happy memories of my father and less time thinking of the sadness of losing him. I think that would make him happy.

I love you, Dad. Always.

Updates: The car is fixed! It seems to be working well. So far, so good. If it doesn’t rain – a fairly big “if” – Megan and I will test drive it to the farmers’ market this afternoon.

Also, A is now allowed home on weekends, though she spends the rest of her time at a rehab center. She still has no feeling in her feet and walks with two canes or a walker. She’s getting pretty impatient with the slowness of recovery, not surprising for a girl who’s spent the entire YEAR in hospitals. I still can’t believe it really happened, while being simultaneously relieved and delighted that she is still with us. Thanks to everyone for your support and caring.

And now, back to our (ir)regularly scheduled program….

While spring cleaning (sort of) a couple of weeks ago, I came across a treasure which I’d forgotten about. I’m not sure what you call it, but it’s from a Toronto streetcar, long ago. Back in the days when you had to crank a roll of fabric to the correct destination. Now that I think about it, I saw one – in better condition – selling for piles of loonies in a gallery not far from my old abode when I still lived in the T.

Anyway…it occurred to me that someone with a certain amount of talent and savoir fare – say, for example, Rob – might be able to find a way to display it in my current residence, curved walls and all. He rose to the challenge, as always, and here you see it in its new location:

Here’s the whole thing, in all its vintage glory:

I kind of like it that I have Toronto on one side of the room and San Francisco on the other – my own east and west coasts, as it were.

And speaking of Toronto: the jobette led to me to a website where I learned that my former home was the National Casket Company, and that it’s a heritage building. There are some great photos* of the building on the website, which is fun to browse, too.

And how, you are wondering, did the jobette in Charlottesville lead to my old place in Toronto? Here’s how. Someone emailed a request for brochures to be sent to a certain address in Toronto (which turned out to be in a posh neighborhood), but forgot their postal code. So I Googled it, and the link I clicked turned out to be a list of heritage buildings. I scrolled through it looking for Posh Street, and passed my old street on the way. Imagine my surprise when I saw it was in fact my old building.

Small world, isn’t it?

*If you look carefully at the photo with the CN Tower, you will see a little brown cottage. That’s where June and Audrey were born and their mother still lives.

A during her modeling years

My friend A is a remarkable, accomplished woman. I’ve been lucky enough to know her since we were seventeen.

She was born in China, and her family fled to Canada to escape the Cultural Revolution (her uncle, if I remember correctly, was Deng Xiao Ping). In Canada, she learned to speak English and French, and in her twenties, became an international model, working for some of the most prestigious agencies in the world and gracing magazine covers. I still remember walking into Harrods and being surprised by huge banners bearing her face in a campaign for Shiseido cosmetics.

As models often do, she fell in love with a photographer. Her particular photographer, C, is from Amsterdam, and that’s where they settled, buying a 17th century house in the heart of the red light district. It is remarkably quiet in their house, which looks out over a music conservatory and the old part of the city. They have lived there ever since they married, 25 years ago, A wearing Comme des Garçons (to her mother’s horror: “Brides shouldn’t wear black!”).

As models don’t often do, A went back to school and received a PhD in pure math (in her fourth language, Dutch). She is currently a vice president at Barclays Capital in London, though they retain their Amsterdam home and go home as often as they can.

C sent me an email a few days ago, telling me that A had a flu which morphed into pneumonia and then got so bad that she has been in Intensive Care for five days. She’s on dialysis and is in a medical coma. Apparently the dehydration of the flu caused strain on her kidneys and in turn, her heart. C and I have been in touch every day, and I hope all my readers will join in me in sending A and C our best wishes for a speedy recovery.

Once again, I am thankful for my sister, who has spent more time on the phone with C than I have, explaining medical jargon and what is happening to A at the hospital. After yesterday’s call, I walked home in the rain, feeling so lucky that I can I breathe on my own, and walk, and talk. I found my brother at my house, and I updated him. As we hugged goodbye, I felt so grateful to have my family close by and know that they are always there for me and the people we love, no matter how far away.

Hey! For the first time this YEAR, I don’t have the heat on. OK, I am wearing a sweater, but still. I consider this a personal triumph. Bonus points since the door was slightly ajar this morning and no untoward visitors such as raccoons, skunks, or mountain lions seem to have taken advantage of that fact.

As far as I know, anyway.

I left the door slightly open, even though it’s a foggy fifty degrees outside, so I can drink coffee and blog in peace. Sometimes a girl just needs a vacation from being a cat doorman, even if it’s a drafty one.

Last night, as you can see above, Audrey settled in on top of my father’s books. Maybe she’s absorbing knowledge just from sitting there. In the picture, you can see one of the two antique spoon molds I bought in Paris about a zillion years ago (the other is supporting my collection of cookbooks on the shelf above). The photo is of my Dad (on the right) and his friend Brian when they were kids, playing with guns they found in a downed German plane near their houses during WWII. They were friends from the time they were babies, when their mothers met, and stayed friends all their lives. Brian was the best man at my parents’ wedding.

I wish we’d found this photo when Dad was still alive, because we could have teased him mercilessly. He was so against guns in the home that he wouldn’t let us have water pistols. I guess living through a huge war when you’re a kid will do that to you. But it would have been fun to tease him about the picture.

You can also see my one and only Barbie, a cedar candle which I’ve been meaning to use while meditating, but have actually only used in power outages, and two of the three little hand-painted metal cups Hoho brought back from France after his service in WWI.

Behind the candle is an ashtray from the Sands Hotel in Vegas, which my friend Paul gave me a few years ago. Just think: Sinatra could have used that ashtray! It gives my hippie hovel a touch of class.

My grandfather (left) and a pal go for a spin

Washing the dishes this morning made me think of my grandfather. Maybe it’s because today is his birthday.

He suffered from arthritis in his hands, and found washing the dishes soothed the pain. He used to sit on one of the red leather topped stools, which usually stood ready at the breakfast bar, and sing as he worked. I loved to dry the dishes and listen to his stories. He had a million of them. In my mind’s eye, I can still see him under the warm kitchen light, our reflections mirrored in the dark glass of the windows over the sink.

Although my grandmother was the gardener in the family, tending to the flower beds (the flowers I always associate with her are lilacs – my own favorite – lilies of the valley, pansies, and forget-me-nots) and fruit trees, my grandfather, who we called Hoho because of his huge, wonderful laugh, had his vegetable garden.

This garden was beside the creek which separated my grandparents’ property from the high school, where Hoho was principal for many years until he finally retired, far too late to do my mother any good. Can you imagine your Dad being your high school principal? Especially the kind of Dad who pulled practical jokes on you when you were home late from dates, like hanging cold, wet spaghetti from the doorframe, so you’d scream and wake him up. Then he’d know exactly how late you were.

Of all the things Hoho grew in his garden patch, his favorite was early spring onions. As soon as they were ready, he’d pull them up and bring them home, eating some on the way, as sunny, careless, and happy as if he were a young boy again, back on his father’s farm.

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.

Audrey inspects the bee boots

I got up at 5:30 this morning. For no particular reason. I can’t even blame the cats, even juvenile delinquent Audrey. As I write, they’re both still outside in the 34 degree pre-dawn chill. Just think: tomorrow it will be this cold and dark at 7 am instead of 6! Nice job, government!

I keep telling myself I can go back to bed later, but I know I won’t. I told myself that yesterday, and it never happened. It amazes me that I actually got to work at 6 am, in time for the markets opening in New York, for almost ten years. It seems slightly insane to me now, and also like something that happened to somebody else.

Yesterday, Meg, Schatzi and I braved the storms to go to town and shop, the best form of cardio known to girl. We started at the Feed & Pet, where I personally selected the wild fowl flavor of Taste of the Wild for Miss Schatzi, since she had wild bison and venison the last time. There were baby chicks in incubators, peeping away and just adorable: yellow ones, brown ones, striped ones. They’re a sign of spring, too.

We dashed across the rainy street to the saddlery, so Meg could get laces for her (non-riding) boots, and I wished I had my camera with me, because there was a poster for an NRA fundraiser later this month posted in the window.

Next stop was the Safeway, where Megan ran into the usual number of friends and acquaintances (I think she and Lu between them know half the county – this also happened at the magic show), slowing down the shopping experience, but also making it more enjoyable, as if we were at a local market instead of an enormous chain store.

After that, we went to Harvest Market, where we got another turkey breast for dinner, the last one having been so popular, and assorted other things. Like a shower curtain patterned with goldfish and a plush terra-cotta colored rug for Megan’s bathroom. Instant update for $40! Take that, “Design on a Dime”! She also bought a pair of bright yellow rain boots patterned with bees. Bee boots!

We were amazed that the cute boots came in grown-up sizes. We asked the saleslady for the right size, and she said she was pregnant, indicating a little bulge, but that her associate would be back from lunch in five minutes and he would be happy to dig around in the warehouse to find the boots. While we waited, she told us that she was eight months pregnant and had only gained eight pounds. Also that it was a boy named Liam and that she was never doing it again, pregnancy being a hideous experience. Not beautiful and mystical at all.

The assistant came back and with boots triumphantly in hand and congratulations to the mom to be, we headed out. Poor Schatz was bored out of her mind by now but it was too rainy to walk her.

By the time we got home and decanted all the groceries from the car, it was practically time to start dinner, which was the turkey breast roasted on top of tiny red potatoes, red pearl onions, carrots, and parsnips tossed with very good olive oil and sea salt. Meg snipped some herbs and we put those under the turkey’s skin and put it all in the oven to roast. One dish dinner!

As dinner cooked, Meg put on her new boots and we all went out for a stroll around the storm-tossed garden, drinks in hand. Megan pointed out various plants she is going to put on my deck when the weather gets warmer. We inspected the buds on the lilac tree and the apple trees, carefully stepping over the phone line, which came down several storms ago and now snakes blackly through the garden.

It reminded me of how I used to walk through Dad’s garden with him, glass of wine in hand, when dinner was started and we had a few minutes. His birthday is coming up next week, so he’s been on our minds more than usual lately.

Yesterday, I took advantage of a raylet of sunshine, setting up the clothes drying frame outside. I went back inside for the wet clothes, put them in the basket they had recently vacated in their prewashed state, and took them outside. There was a single pine needle in the bottom of the washing machine.

One of the advantages of my house is there are doors everywhere, so I took the laundry room/pantry/cat dining room door (the one which is also used for the giant extension cord from the generator when the power goes out) into the garden.

Every time I walk through the garden, I mentally clean it out, though I never actually do anything about it. That’s the Suzy way. Maybe in the spring I’ll go through and purge all the weird hippie crap and detritus built up over thirty years.

Or not.

As I carefully placed the clothes on the rack to maximize the limited space (it supposedly has 25 feet of drying space, but it’s a very different experience from 25 feet of clothesline), I enjoyed the sun on my back and the company of Luna, who seems to be constantly wet and muddy without minding it in the least. I did try and keep Her Muddiness away from the freshly washed clothes, though.

As often happens when I do a routine task, my thoughts drifted, and they landed on my paternal grandmother, Grammie. Grammie hung out her clothes year round in her tiny, yet beautiful garden in Surrey. She never had a washer, boiling her clothes on top of her gas stove or washing them in the sink by hand. I was startled when spending the summer with her in 1977 to find her stirring her clothes with a giant wooden stick one morning. Dad finally convinced her to get a spin dryer, which took out most of the water, but she resolutely refused to get a washer and dryer. “Unnecessary,” she said.

She was highly offended when the parquet floor started coming up after 50 years of constant use. “In my day, we built things to last“, she sniffed.

On the other hand and the other side of the pond, my mother’s mother embraced new technology. She had escaped the farm to go to college, shingle her hair, and have a career – she had no interest in the past. She and my grandfather had a color TV years before we ever did, and they always had up to the minute appliances. She never hung her wash out.

Here I am, two centuries after they were born, a combination of the two. I work, I have a washing machine which mostly works, but I hang my clothes out to dry, either inside or outside. I like to think that my grandmothers are still with me in some ways. And they both inspire me.

Livin’ La Vida Suzy

I was thinking about how Elvis named his private plane for his daughter and how cool it would be to have a yacht or a plane named after you. If only I had a more glamorous name!

Apparently surveys show that Susan is considered a sexy name. I’ve always considered it a boring one, and when combined with a middle name of Jean, it’s hardly a surprise that I ended up living in Hooterville. Even though the consummately glamorous Marilyn and Self share the same unglamorous middle name, it still makes me feel like I should be chewing on a piece of straw and scratching under my overalls.

Seriously, can you think of one gorgeous Susan? Can you?

While you’re thinking about it, I’ll go empty the gross green bin contents into the woods and see if I can find Lucky, who’s been scarce lately. I wonder if she’s looking for a boyfriend.

(Later)

I’m back and slightly disgusted. I bet you couldn’t think of a beautiful Susan. The closest I could get was my idol Suzy Parker (seen above), but her real name was Cecilia, not Susan, so I’m not sure if she even counts.

My mother’s father, he of the great charm and humor, used to be the only person in the world who called me Suzy. I always felt we had a close bond. We both had green eyes, though he wasn’t related to me by blood, and I loved to listen to his stories. When he was well into his eighties, nearly blind and walking with a cane, he would still attract clouds of pretty girls while waiting for my grandmother at the mall.

“Let’s go home, Ernest, you’re tired, ” she’d say, taking his arm and steering him away. “I’m not tired,” he’d protest, with a backward glance and wink at his audience.

I was fifteen when he died. I used to sleep in on a cot in my grandparents’ bedroom, and the night before his funeral, I dreamed that he was lying in his coffin (both of my grandparents had open coffins and three visiting days at the funeral home, some of the worst days of my life) with black plastic billowing around it. Peeking into the coffin in my dream, I saw that he was laughing. When we arrived at his grave the next day, there was the billowing black plastic of my dream. I knew it meant that he was happy to join my grandmother, who had died three months earlier. It wasn’t scary at all, it was reassuring.

I missed him so much that I started asking close friends to call me Suzy. It made me feel as if he wasn’t really gone forever. Now friends and family call me Suzy*, and work-related people and grown-ups call me Susan, so I have my real life self and my work self. Perfect for a Gemini.

*The other day, Megan and I were laughing about how she and Jonathan can call me “Floozy” or “Boozy” or variations on this theme and I always answer without even thinking about it.

When I first moved to San Francisco many years ago, I found an apartment in Russian Hill (not coincidentally, the same ‘hood featured in my beloved Tales of the City series). It was in a pre-1906 Quake building, and on the top floor, reached by a spiral staircase. When I think about the clawfoot tub, hardwood floors, formal dining room and wood-burning fireplace all at a now laughably low rent, I feel very lucky to have lived there.

Megan and Rob, who lived on a boat at Pier 39 in those days, helped me to paint the place before John arrived with the furniture and our fabulous cat, Buddy. We were starving by lunchtime, so I headed out to Polk Street in search of food. After a couple of blocks, I smelled something utterly delicious. Following my nose, I found myself at Victor’s Pizza.

I brought the pie back to the apartment, and an addiction was born. I always lived within the Victor’s delivery area when I lived in San Francisco (indeed, the apartment we bought a few years later was only five blocks from that first place on Jackson Street), and back when I used to work 50-60 hour weeks, would often have Victor’s and champagne on a Friday night.

Victor’s is more than just pizza, though. When Dad used to visit, we’d have at least one dinner there, in its dark little dining room with wooden booths, decorated with grape-shaped lamps. The service was always wonderful – Victor’s has career waiters, and delivery boys are often promoted to waiters – and it was a delightfully comfortable atmosphere. Every meal comes with soup or salad and house made rolls, and we always had to get a box to take home the leftovers.

When I lived in Oakland, I’d get Victor’s every chance I got, so this visit to the city was no exception. On my way to the Legion of Honor yesterday morning, I was lucky enough to get a parking space right out front. I went in to collect the order I had phoned in earlier, and as the cashier made out the sales slip – by hand – I told him that the pizza was going all the way to Mendocino.

He put down his pen and gazed at me in amazement. “You’re not serious!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I am,” I told him, handing over the money. I told him how I used to live in the neighborhood and still missed the place. “Don’t they have good pizza up there?” he asked, making change. “Not like yours,” I said, putting it away. “Thank you so much, ” he said, holding the door open for me. “Wait ’til I tell the guys.”

There was a thunderstorm last night.

I hate thunderstorms.

Fortunately, we don’t get them very often, and when we do, they don’t have the verve and ferocity of East Coast storms. I still remember the storms we had during the summers in Maine when I was a kid: lightning smashing a tree in half right outside our cottage (conveniently located on a pond, for extra lightning attraction); lightning crackling out of the outlets in the walls; the house shaking with the might of thunder.

I shook right along with it, but my father and brother would count the time between the thunder and lightning, calculating how far away the storm was and when it was (thankfully) going to bother someone else.

Here in my little house surrounded by trees threatening to blow down in the storm and crush roof, car, or Self, it’s impossible to escape the storm. The living room has big sliding glass doors, a window above them, and from the couch I can also see the glass-paned front door and the skylight in the bedroom. In the bedroom, there’s the shaky balcony door, which blows open in the wind, and the afore-mentioned skylight. Since it’s a loft, I can also see the glass doors and living room window, even when I’m in bed. It’s like living in a fishbowl, especially when you’re trying to avoid the sightning of lightning and the rumbling of thunder.

It’s not a completely unreasonable fear. I mean, people do get struck by lightning. My grandmother once told me the story of a relative who was engaged to a man with a crotchety old mother. Apparently, he couldn’t get married until the old lady had shaken off this mortal coil, and she took her time about it. Eventually he was free to marry, though the parties involved were no longer young. But before they could make it to the altar, she was hit by lightning when crossing a field and died an old maid. The horror! I’m not sure if it’s a true story or an Awful Warning meant to keep silly girls from venturing out in thunder storms, but considering that I still remember it after more than 30 years suggests that it made an impression.

The storm seems to passed during the night, and I was happy to wake up and find that the power hadn’t been knocked out. Every time it’s rainy and windy I worry about that. Megan and Rob have had two trees fall in their garden so far this winter, but both of them fell politely away from the house and damage was avoided. For now.

The sky was grey and depressing today. There are a lot more grey days up here, and a lot more rain, and this tends to dampen my spirits along with the ground. Even yesterday’s early violet turned to overcast skies. I think we should invent some kind of festival requiring lights and sparkliness and maybe even fireworks to get us through the gloomy hibernal months after the holidays are over and you can no longer eat candy and drink with impunity any time of the day or night.

My brother dropped by yesterday to borrow a couple of movies, and pointed out that I could have left the Christmas lights up if I wanted to. It hadn’t even occurred to me to do that, since yesterday was Twelfth Night and that’s when we traditionally took down our decorations when I was a child. I still think it’s bad luck to take them down on any other day, and given the family curse, I’m not willing to tempt bad luck. Especially since I’m still injury-free so far this year. I even managed not to burn myself on the oven when I put the scalloped potatoes in for dinner tonight.

I make the potatoes the way my mother’s mother did. I couldn’t tell you what the recipe is or the amounts of the ingredients. Megan was fascinated to watch me put together the layers, always in a certain order, and asked me why. The answer was that it was the way Nana always did it. It’s the same reason that I crimp the edges of pies against my fingers and then cut a design in the crust showing what’s in it, such as an apple. I wish I’d asked Nana why she did it when I did still had the chance, but I’m still part of the tradition that was handed down to her. I love that feeling.

I’m not sorry to see this year end, characterized as it was by violence, financial disasters, physical injuries, and general bitterness. It wasn’t all bad, though: I did get out of Oakland, and somewhere along the way I started blogging nearly every day, instead of at my usual languid pace.

As Adrian Monk would say, here’s what happened:

January: President Obama’s inauguration. My first ever participation in the annual Day of Service (but not my last). Captain Sully’s triumphant return to his native Bay Area. The beginning of the great storage clean-out. Rob’s emergency neurosurgery.

February: Rob’s surgery successful (thankfully). Conference in Sacramento starring Madeleine Albright. A visit to the Academy of Sciences with a visiting friend. Mini film noir festival.

March: Gorgeousness at the Legion of Honor. Start to look around for somewhere to live other than Oakland. Remembering Dad’s birthday.

Started tracking books read. Between March and December, I read 125 books.

April: Consider selling jewelry. Another conference, but a local one. Jessica’s birthday. A year of Henry. My blog turns eight. Heat wave. Finish clearing out the family storage.

May: Police standoff starring gas-coated neighbor. The company audit begins. Cat-caused eye injury for my sis (happy birthday!).

June: Visiting with Jessica. Birthday wishes. Cat tips and Covets. Broken teapot. Heat wave.

July: The girls turn two. Attempted life swap. Silly shoes, sunburns, and scenic cemetery. A slimy encounter. Farmers’ market and hay bale haircut. Erica’s gifts. More Coveting. A garbage encounter. My beautiful diamond ring finally sells. ~sob~

August: Another heat wave. My Mustang is sold. Bill bummers. Loss of shopping ability. Thoughts of moving. Landlord invasion. Eighth anniversary of Dad’s death. A decision is made. New teapot. Why I don’t Twitter. Puppies!

September: Yet another heat wave. Packing. A happy anniversary. Yet another landlord invasion. Champagne software. Beating the heat. A day at the beach. The funeral fiesta.

October: The interview. Terrifying drive. Spa day. Packing. My sister’s 15 minutes of fame (Yay, Megan!!). Escape from Oakland. Henry moves in. Knee injury. Fall from sleeping loft. Learning the truth about painkillers. Job rejection. Rob’s continuous glucometer. A new library card. Free bees!

November: Suzy proofing. Cat flap, but no cat fights. Memories. Junk world. Bookstore and bees. A Thanksgiving to remember.

December: Internet annoyances. Well digging. Henry’s secrets. Quick trip to Berkeley. Henna tattoos. Cold snap. The horror of Nature. Christmas decorations and cookies. Bear proofing the bees. A quiet Christmas.

Things I have learned this year:

• Gravity can be dangerous.
• Painkillers do not actually kill pain, as previously thought.
• My brother and brother-in-law can do almost anything with almost nothing.
• Country life is a constant battle against dirt. And you ain’t gonna win.
• How to feed bees.
• You can’t always get what you want.

New Year’s Resolutions:

• Avoid damaging Self further.
• Finish unpacking and organizing.
• Answer emails,both work and personal, within 48 hours of receiving them.
• Categorize blog posts from now on.

It’s that feral cat again*.

Here’s Henrietta, relaxing on the duvet in the sunlight. The only thing better than the heater is sunlight in her world. Even when it’s cold outside, the California sun has its warmth.

This evening, she was cuddled up to me, and I petted her as I watched the final, heart-wrenching episode of the latest season of “Mad Men”. I wondered if she had ever dreamed of sleeping safely on a duvet on a couch, with the heater on and petting on demand, and a limitless supply of food. Or did she, in the dark, scary Oakland nights, wish for nothing but safety and warmth, and not sweat the small stuff?

When our journey started, I never imagined that she’d ever sit on my lap, or be so trusting. She’s come a long way in the mere two months that we’ve lived together.

On Christmas Eve, I spotted her sitting on a bench, basking in the sunlight. I rushed out to take a blurry picture of her before she moved:

I was so glad to see her feeling safe enough to go outside and enjoy the sun. As I watched her, I remembered how my father loved to feel the sun when he visited us from England, and recalled one particular Christmas Eve when it was warm enough to have a picnic on the beach at Point Reyes. Somewhere in The Boxes is one of my favorite pictures of Dad, taken that day as he strolled in the surf laughing, lifting his face up to the sun.

*I overheard one vet technician tell another one that when I brought Henrietta in the second time.

The other day, I spent hours polishing my grandmother’s silver.

It belonged to my father’s mother, and I imagine it was one of her most treasured possessions, as it is one of mine. Above you can see it, along with a couple of other treasures from Dad’s family: a Wedgwood salad bowl and servers and a biscuit barrel, dating from the early-mid 1800s.

There is a big wooden chest with service for twelve, and a small one with a fish set serving a more modest six. The fish set may be more modest on the outside, but the knife blades are ornately chased and lovely, and there’s a special surprise: a note my grandfather wrote my grandmother. The fish set was a gift from him to her the Christmas before they were married, and it is signed “from your loving husband-to-be, Ernest*”. The note has been in that box for about 85 years, but you can still feel the pride and joy with which he wrote those words.

I read the note every time I open the box, and it always makes me happy, especially since they were devoted to each other for the half century of their marriage. They really did live happily ever after.

The silver all has politically incorrect ivory handles, but after so many years, it’s hard to feel guilty about it.

My views on housework are well-known, and polishing silver is messy and manicure-damaging, but there’s also something really satisfying about it. I feel the same way about ironing, which I do about as often as I polish silver. In fact my ironing board is leaning against the house under the side deck.

My father’s mother taught me how to iron, and Dad used to save up his shirts for me when I was away at college. When I came home, I’d iron them, and the motions were kind of zen. It was satisfying to see the wrinkled pile diminish and the army of ironed shirts on hangers grow. Clearly this is some kind of control thing for me, even though I generally seem to live in some degree of chaos these days.

As I polished, I wondered if I would ever actually require service for twelve. Our Christmas guest list seems to be diminishing. One friend may not come because of pressure from his family; another because of his complicated love life; and it looks like Jonathan may well have to work that day. But it will still be fun, and I’ll still use the silver, and think of Christmases past, present, and future. May they all be merry and bright.

And polished.

*Coincidentally, both of my grandfathers were named Ernest. And they both fought at some of the same battles during WWI.

I’m kind of surprised by how upset I am over losing the original of this post. I had a hard time putting it back together. And it’s not as good as the original.

Also, since I had internet problems when I was up there last week, I got out of the habit of writing nearly every day. I find the more I write, the more I write. If I take a few days off, I have a hard time getting back in stride. Go figure.

Here’s the reconstituted post. Sigh.

Rose’s funeral fiesta was amazing. It was held at her former house, which will soon be my house. Dozens and dozens of people were there; kids ran around the garden and played on the trampoline. It turns out that I also have a swing, seen here being modeled by Jessica:

There was a buffet, and a bar with red and white wine, water, lemonade, and of course margaritas. Overhead, there were beautiful hand-cut banners with images traditional for Mexican Dia de los Muertos* (Day of the Dead) celebrations. Here you can see skeletons bearing a coffin, with lit candles on either side:

There were little shrines all over the garden, with flowers, candles, little sculptures, shells, and some of Rose’s work (she was a gifted potter and artist). I love the saw repurposed as art in the last photo:

There was an altar for Rose, covered with photos from every stage of her life. My favorite was one of her sitting happily in a hammock, beaming with joy.

All over the garden, there were notes and letters to Rose and her family pinned to the trees. We also wrote messages in a little book. I have to admit that I was as proud as a mother when I saw Jessica write “I miss you Rosemarie. Love, Jessica” in the book. She signed her name in cursive writing, a new accomplishment.

A mariachi band had come all the way from Santa Rosa, and serenaded us as we ate, drank, and talked. Erica set up a tip jar for the band before setting to work carving a watermelon to look like a flower.

Mark, who was Rose’s son-in-law, announced the last song the mariachis would play. It is a traditional farewell song, and sounded to my untutored ears like “Los Galindos”. Mark says the title means something like “Little Birds”. It was a lovely and moving song. As the artists took their leave (and their tip jar), we moved our chairs to the part of the garden where Rose’s altar was.

A microphone was set up, and people got up and spoke about Rose, including her granddaughters and, remarkably, their friends, all of whom were less than 10 years old; the woman who had introduced James and Rose many years ago in Baja; and James’s cousin. There were laughter and tears, and many shared memories. Rose’s daughter Citlali recited a poem, and played a tape of Rose’s brother Axel, who couldn’t be there, singing Charlie Chaplin’s Smile.

As the sun began to set, Mark set a large chunk of clay beside Rose’s altar and invited everyone to take a piece and make a bead, which would be fired in Rose’s kiln. I patterned mine with little dots in spirals, and Erica made hers look like a little face. Here are some of the beads on Rose’s altar:

The celebration went on long into the night, with impromptu music provided by the guests, playing guitar, harmonica, and conga drums. Candles were lit and flickered in the moonlight. As Mark hugged me good-bye, he gestured around the garden and said, “She is everywhere here.”

*It’s on November 1. My new landlords have offered to celebrate with us, so we can do something special for our parents. It’s the day after Halloween, when I will be the newest member of Jessica’s trick-or-treating entourage. Last year’s numbered six.