Suzy Says

Things have been on the dark side during these bright spring days. My boss/partner/friend of decades lost his father and aunt within days of each other; his uncle received Last Rites last night; my brother’s friend lost her mother just days after her first grandchild was born; and, lastly and most shockingly, my friend J died last week.

J was one of the grooms in the beautiful wedding last summer that was one of the high points of the year for me. I will never forget the joy and love with which these two were finally able to claim each other after a quarter of a century together. I expected their married life together to be a long and happy one. It was happy, but it was cut short by J’s death of complications following surgery. His widower has nothing but good words to say about the dedicated and hard-working staff at the hospital, who all worked so hard to try and save him.

He was 69.

I have been in daily touch with his widower, who is doing better than I expected. He stopped by the jobette this week after making the necessary arrangements and I was impressed by his strength and courage. He will plan a celebration of his husband’s life at a later date, which will be presided over by the Sikh who married them just nine short months ago.

It just feels like there’s been too much death, too much loss lately. May has been the new August this year. I hope things get brighter and happier for all concerned, and I wish those who have lost loved ones the comfort of happy memories as well as the strength to bear the sad ones.

Visiting the prisoner

When Dad returned to his native England – about a dozen miles from where he grew up – he brought his muttley dog Jesse with him. He knew that Jesse was facing six months of jail, aka quarantine (which I think has now been abolished), but there was no way he was leaving his beloved companion of nine years behind him. Prison was the lesser of two evils.

When the time came to take Jesse home, he went so crazy at the sight of his leash and collar that it took about 20 minutes before he calmed down enough to get it on him and off to the leafy glades of Wimbledon, where he lived out his remaining days like a king. Dad always said he had a deal with Jesse that he expected five years from him, considering the cost of quarantine, and Jesse lived up to his end of the bargain. When Dad died, his ashes were scattered under the same tree as Jesse’s, so they are still together.

Megan definitely inherited Dad’s love of dogs along with his science gene. With her love and care, Star has blossomed, and in the three months she has had Stella as a foster dog, she has come a long way. Just yesterday, she passed her Canine Good Citizenship test:

The fact that it happened on Dad’s birthday eve made it even more special to me. I know he’d be proud and happy. Happy birthday, Dad. We love you.

Always.

We love you and miss you, Dad. You are always in our hearts.

The other day, I was mixing a vodka and tonic, enjoying the civilized tinkle of ice in the glass and the refreshing scent of lime. For some reason, the sharp lime fragrance reminded me of the cocktails my parents used to have with friends of theirs, the Kixmillers. We often stopped off and stayed overnight with them, breaking up the epic annual summer trip from New York State to Maine.

The Kixmillers lived on and owned an island in Lake Champlain. Even as a child, this impressed me. Dr. K would pick us up in town and take us to the island in his motorboat. Apparently boat is still the only way to reach the lovely island with the unlovely name of Fish Bladder Island.

I curiously Googled the island and discovered that it is for sale for nearly $2 million dollars. I was surprised to see that the house I remembered, with its lovely wood paneling, gracious porches, and, most impressive to me, the wraparound upstairs gallery where the many bedrooms were located, is long gone. In its place is a new house:

which bears an uncanny (although luxe version) resemblance to my current home:

In the old days, the grown-ups would sit on the porch overlooking the lake and sip their gin and tonics in the evening while we played on the lawn and in the lake (where we acquired leeches, removed by salt after much squealing). Dr. K raised the flag – I can see no sign of the flagpole in the listing – every morning, and in the evening, he lowered it to the sound of “Taps”, finishing off the ceremony with firing a very small cannon. You can see why this place impressed itself so strongly in my memories.

Sometimes I think I’d like to go back and see the house where I grew up, and my grandparents’, and revisit our old stomping grounds in Maine. I haven’t been to Bar Harbor in 20 years, and found it refreshingly unchanged at that time, but perhaps it’s better to remember things the way they were.

As always this time of year, Dad has been on my mind more than usual. Having said that, not a day goes by that I don’t think about him, and I don’t expect that to change.

On Thursday, Megan and I shared a glass of wine and toasted Dad: “Here’s to the Old Bear. He wasn’t so bad!” This was a joke Dad used to make – he said that he’d leave us his wine collection in his Will, and every year, we should drink some and toast him in this way. I think the wonderful Margaret inherited the wine – and I hope she drank it – but my siblings and I do toast Dad this way, more than once a year.

On Friday, Megan and I ran a few errands in town and then took Star for a walk on the headlands. It was a beautiful day:

Dad loved the ocean, and he loved to walk. And he loved to walk with dogs. I’m sure he would have appreciated how Megan rescued Star and how happy Star is now:

After all, his beloved dog Jesse was rescued* by Megan as well, and Dad adored that dog:

Not too many people would have paid a couple of thousand dollars to fly and quarantine a 9 year old mutt so he could live out his golden years in golden splendor in Wimbledon. But Dad was a special person.

We enjoyed the sunshine and each other’s company and the smell of the ocean. In a way, he was there with us. After all, he is always in our hearts.

*You can read about Jesse’s rescue here.

When my father died, all I wanted was to have him back. But I knew that if that wish were granted, it would be in a horrifying Monkey’s Paw manner – he would be an autopsied zombie knocking at my door instead of the delightful companion who walked with me on the moors, enjoyed the artwork at the Hermitage, cooked the best food I ever ate, knew his wine, and still told Pooh stories.

I have always loved children’s books where magic becomes part of the every day life of otherwise ordinary-ish kids, such as the wonderful work by E. Nesbit and Edward Eager, but even as a child (and while enjoying these books), the whole three wishes set up struck me as silly. All you have to do is wish for as many wishes as you want, and use the second wish to ward off the possible Monkey’s Paw consequences. Then you still have the third one in reserve, not to mention all the unlimited ones.

I’m sure there is some secret condition that makes sure you get the Monkey’s Paw and not the unlimited wish-filled life of bliss, though.

So, as the old saw says, be careful what you wish for…

When I said that I was having a hard time getting back into my routine, someone heard me and decided to throw me a curve ball, in the form of my boss/partner telling me that I have to return to San Francisco next week.

Since we are trying to grow our business, we really need a good website, and part of this new and improved website will be our bios and accompanying professional photos. Boss suggested that I get the photo taken this week. He was astonished to learn that there are no such photographers in the Big Town, which also has no dry cleaner, for example. He said he’d set up something in the distant East Bay town where he lives, so I will have to take a day off from the jobette (with no pay) and drive back to the Bay Area next week.

We’ll go together to the photographer, and it will be good to see him. We were supposed to get together when I was there last week, but his 90 year father had health issues and Boss had to fly to his bedside back East. So it will be good to see him, and I might get to see the exhibit at the Legion of Honor which I did not get around to last week despite my plans. I’m not looking forward to doing that drive again so soon, though.

Farewell, 2012

It’s really fun going back and seeing what happened during the year, even if it wasn’t that great a year, like this one. Pay cuts and grand jury summons do not make for a good year. Hopefully the new one will also be improved.

Power outages: 6, including one in October due to someone driving into a power pole at 8:30 am – go figure – and two from a big storm in late November.

Rainfall: 24.20 inches for the season so far, vs. 11 inches this time last year.

Books read: 103 (vs. last year’s 118). Working more means reading less.

Favorites this year were Damien Echols’ astonishing, moving memoir, Life After Death; Gillian Flynn’s clever Gone Girl; William Landay’s surprising Defending Jacob; James M. Cain’s just-discovered final novel The Cocktail Waitress; Jess Walter’s Beautiful Ruins; and the beautifully written and moving Stoner (it’s not what you think).

Trips to San Francisco: 3. I went 4 times in 2011, but one of those was to keep Megan company while Rob endured more spinal surgery, so that doesn’t really count. I’m starting the new year off right by heading to San Francisco tomorrow morning for a few days to meet up with my boss/partner and make some plans for the future. And maybe do some shopping…

As for this year:

January: Hockey, Suzy-style. Little did I realize there wouldn’t be any when October arrived. Or December, for that matter. The case of the ransomed Christmas cards. Ordeal by utility company. Technological difficulties. Why I’m here. Outs & ins. One man’s trash…an unexpected visitor.

February: Cops and a movie! Third power outage of the season. Musing about one grandfather…and another. Coffee break. Finally, a break for Rob! In which our heroine learns that she is just as annoying as everyone else. Maybe more. A surprise wedding.

March: Small town moments. Home repairs. A visit with Jim (and other things). Dad’s 81st birthday. A date with my family. Getting a jump on spring. Suzy the screwup. Surprise present!

April: Megan’s new (to her, anyway) car! Mom’s 80th birthday. Spring planting. A rainy trip to the City. Impersonating a responsible adult. San Francisco storm. A lovely last day in the City. Jessica’s ninth birthday. The arrival of Digit, the Office Cat. Kitty update. A girls’ day out. With my favorite girl.

May: A new (well, to me) couch! My 12th blogaversary, among other things. Festive. A dilemma. License to drive. Scarred for (or by) life. An eclipse, and other things. Rob’s epic trip to see his Mother one last time. My considerably less epic trip to San Francisco. Farewell to Rob’s Mother.

June: A magical evening with the Beach Boys. Fabulous fifty! An unexpected trip. Birthday party. Dilemma solved. Birth of a garden. A wonderful tour of artists’ studios. The arrival of my first (and I hope only) subpoena.

July: A belated and fabulous birthday present. Erica and Jessica are back! My first crown. Sadly, not the Queen kind, though almost as expensive. The looming trip to Detroit makes my humble home look like paradise. The unlovely itinerary. The trip does not go according to plan. Finally in Detroit. Court of horrors. Home at last. Changes at home and at work. Time for an engine check. The neighbors stop by. A snake in the grass. I mean, house.

August: A quick trip to San Francisco. The splendid pool reopens. My 2,000th blog post. And Roscoe’s mystery injury. A lousy day with a better ending. The 11th anniversary of Dad’s death (post won’t link; it’s August 18). A new home for the adorable Digit (who is very happy there). First day at the new office – and more car problems.

September: The money fairy stops by. First foray into retail, and an update on Digit. Two very sad losses for two very dear friends. A fabulous County Fair. A check up for the Schatz. Could, woulda, shoulda – or not. Appreciating the simple things.

October: A small town moment. A very special event. A great evening with family and friends. Swimming lessons resume. Now with Jessica! The 15% pay cut rears its ugly head. So does winter. An eventful day. The Giants win the World Series again! Oh, and we go to the circus.

November: A happy Halloween. The President is, thankfully, re-elected. This campaign was brutal – I can’t believe we have to go through it again in four years. But I won’t think about that now. A beautiful way to remember. An evening at the theatah. A look around the garden. Some new beginnings. Getting ready for Thanksgiving. A wonderful Thanksgiving. Jarrett adopts the World’s Cutest Puppy.

December: Christmas decorations. Church concert. Getting ready for Christmas. A happy holiday. Lighting up the night.

Thanks for joining me for another year of adventures. I wish you all a very happy and healthy new year!

Long ago and far away

I have been keeping in better touch with my former neighbor Patrisha since she lost her beloved dog Hamish, so I have recently learned more news about my old neighborhood.

As you may remember, I used to live in the woodworking shop of a Victorian coffin factory. My front door opened onto the building’s courtyard, and to get to my place, you passed through a slightly creepy brick passageway like the carriages of old. Living in an old factory had its advantages. The brick walls were thick, muffling the city sounds while keeping in heat in the winter and coolness in the summer.

In the picture below, you can just about see the passageway leading to my place on the far left:

The former factory was home to a thriving and eccentric community of artists, filmmakers, photographers, architects, woodworkers (though not coffin makers), and, well, eccentrics. It is also enviably located within walking distance of the Lake and in sighting distance of the CN Tower, not to mention its proximity to the delights of Queen Street and King Street West.

Shortly before I moved back to California, a building of fake lofts began construction at the corner of the street, to the horror of the coffin factory dwellers and those in the Victorian rowhouses beside it. How ridiculous is it to build a building of pseudo lofts across the street from a building of authentic ones – thus ruining the very artistic atmosphere and look they were trying to imitate? I had a feeling even then that the coffin factory’s days as an artist community were numbered, and they are.

The owner of the building is planning to build two huge, hideous towers where the (very modest) parking lot for the building is and in the secret garden overlooking the train tracks where the lovely Rita and I used to play:

Then the whole building will be made into condos, so adios to all the artists who currently live there. Apparently many have already moved. Patrisha is so sad at the changes to – I almost wrote “destruction of” – the street that she is seriously considering moving back to her native Scotland.

Ever since the recession, or economic downturn, or whatever you want to call it, especially in an election year, I have often thought that I should have stayed in the coffin factory, surrounded by friends and neighbors, within a pleasant train ride of Kelly and Joy and a streetcar ride from Mike and his lovely family, where I would have medical coverage and access to delivery food of any ethnicity you can think of. True, there are the sweltering summers and the freezulating winters and the whole ridiculous liquor store business, but still…it’s sometimes hard not to feel that leaving might have been a big mistake. Sometimes I think of how my life might have been different or better if I had stayed. Coulda, woulda, shoulda – can anyone ever resist playing that game?

But hearing this news, I realize that if I had stayed, I would be homeless in a very expensive place – not notably cheaper than San Francisco, as far as I can tell – and that would be very scary indeed. At least as it is, I can always camp on my siblings’ property and they will always be here to help me out whenever I need it. Maybe I’m not such a bad decision maker after all.

It’s kind of surprising that I have gotten to this advanced age without having worked retail before. Or waitressed, for that matter. Nearly everyone I know has done either or both of these during their misspent youth.

Looking back, I’m not completely sure how I escaped it, though I’m happy for those long ago diners’ sake that they were spared having Calamity Suzy spill coffee on them.

For the last few years of high school, I worked at a hostel which was in a former jail dating back to Victorian times. When I wasn’t checking people in and out, or making breakfast for dozens of people in the ancient kitchen, I gave tours of the jail, including Death Row and the gallows, the favorite part of the tour for school children of all ages.

In retrospect, it’s a bit odd that whoever was in charge let a teenage girl close up at night (11 pm, if I remember correctly) and open up in the morning, but nothing untoward ever happened, unless you count the couple who fled their Death Row accommodations right before closing time due to a ghost sighting.

So far, the best part of doing retail is meeting the visitors and hearing their stories. I think my favorite so far is a couple visiting from Albuquerque*, though they have a very special attachment to this area.

The husband is originally from Maine, and was in the airforce. During the Vietnam War Police Action**, he was posted at the Point Cabrillo Lighthouse, where there was a radar station. This was news to me, since all traces of it have vanished. While posted here, he stayed at a motel north of town. The motel owner’s family lived on site, and their children worked at the motel. One daughter was cleaning the airforce man’s room when he turned up unexpectedly. She said, “I can honestly say – we met in a motel room!”

Forty-three years later, they were back to check on the motel, which they now own, and take a stroll down memory lane. I’m glad I was one of the stops on that stroll.

*Which always makes me think of Bugs Bunny. Also Prefab Sprout.

**I was taught in school that the US has never lost a war. Seriously! They referred to the Vietnam War as a “police action”.

Dad and Megan at our home in New York State, early 1970s

Dad was never much of a swimmer. He’d edge gingerly into the water and finally, when it was inevitable, he’d plunge in – always keeping his head out of the water.

He had a style all his own, a sort of determined, modified dog paddle which changed little over the years and seemed to be relatively effective both in the chilly waters of the Atlantic or a Maine lake on a summer afternoon.

You can’t really blame him for his lack of swimming technique, since he grew up in London during World War II and was probably a lot more interested in dodging bombs and investigating downed enemy planes than he was in perfecting the breast stroke. And I imagine that swimming pools were harder to come by in that neighborhood than fresh eggs*, and less desirable, too.

Today, on the eleventh anniversary of his death, Megan and I are taking our next to last swimming lesson for the summer. As I wade into the warm water – like Dad, I tend to wade in. whereas Megan jumps in fearlessly, which pretty much sums up our approaches to life in general – I will think about the golden summer days when Dad took us swimming on our Maine island, long ago but still in my heart, the way he always is.

*Dad’s mother used to tell me how one day she was granted a ration of a fresh egg apiece for herself, her husband, and her two children, a delight after years of powdered eggs. She took the children with her to get them, and on the way home, they were bombed. My grandmother hid under a bus with her children by her side, clutching the precious eggs and praying, “Please don’t break my eggs!” They all survived – at least, until dinner time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today would have been my mother’s 80th birthday. She lost her long, valiant battle against cancer seven years ago this summer. She was a fighter, and fought until the end. Her ability to withstand pain and not complain about it was astounding. Sometimes I wonder whether she would have been diagnosed sooner and maybe had a better outcome if she had complained more and earlier about the pain she was in, but that kind of speculation is pointless.

Though it’s hard not be a little concerned about the dwindling life expectancies of our rapidly dwindling family. My great-grandparents lived well into their 90s (my father’s maternal grandfather dying in style while doing a complicated math problem – come to think of it, maybe that’s what caused it); my grandparents well into their 80s (Dad’s father dying in style on Christmas Eve in his special armchair while his beloved wife of more than 50 years made him a cup of tea) and my parents barely making it to 70 (Dad lived 5 months after his 70th birthday; Mom made it to 73). So if I’m lucky, I might have another 10 or 15 years. Shouldn’t I be working less and having more fun?

Speaking of working: an unexpected side of effect of the jobette is that it’s brought me closer to Mom, proving once and for all that it’s never too late to work on your relationship.

The jobette requires driving to and from the Big Town three times a week, about 40 minutes each way. Mom loved to drive, and drove rapidly and skillfully, whereas I am not a big fan. To make the experience more bearable*, I always have music in the car, like Mom did, and for safety reasons, I have my Mouse**, which has never failed me yet. And most days, I wear the hand-forged silver bracelets that Mom always wore.

Listening to the radio so much inspired me to start a Song of the Day playlist on my iPod. It started out as the song that made me happiest when I was driving that day, but I have to admit that some days, there was more than one song.

The songs were a revelation of sorts. Though there’s a fair amount of new stuff, I definitely seem to enjoy the songs of my youth, songs that date back to when Mom was driving the car and I was the passenger, instead of the other way around, as it is now. Apparently, I like disco (who knew?) and never met a Steve Miller song I didn’t like. Go figure.

Megan’s gift from Mom was Schatzi, and mine was the love of music.

Mom inspired the playlist and I know she would love it, and have one too. When a song comes on the radio or the iPod which she really liked, I feel like she’s right there with me. In retrospect, she really had great taste in pop music. And when I finally pull into my rocky, potholed, muddy (or dusty) driveway, I always say “Thank you, Mom” as I take off my seatbelt and lurch toward my house.

Thank you, Mom. And happy birthday***.

*I do realize that complaining about a 40 minute commute beside the Pacific and through groves of ancient redwoods is very non Mom, and also annoying to the rest of you who have real commutes. Or wish you had one.

***There was a breathtakingly beautiful full rainbow over the ocean this morning. I thought of you.

Today would have been my father’s 81st birthday. He never cared that much about his birthday – though he went along with how much I care(d) about mine; our plans for my 40th birthday were to go to Pompeii together, so I could be around things that were older than Me – and he would almost certainly dislike the way I cannot help but commemorate both his birthdays and his deathdays.

Indeed, Megan and I were talking about Dad’s birthday on Wednesday morning, when she brought the car back. Her co-worker asked her to switch shifts with him, which means that she will work Saturday and Sunday, then Wednesday and Thursday. So she’ll be working St. Patrick’s Day night. Any night of a drinking holiday like St. Patrick’s Day or New Year’s is not a good one in the ER. But Meg said, “The whole world is throwing Dad a party!”

As it should.

Here are some things you need to know about my father.

• He was my best friend. He knew the worst things about me, and still loved me. Also? vice-versa. He never judged me. Indeed, he admired my brother’s free-spirited, full-bore approach to life, though his own was the opposite. He never made me feel bad for anything I felt, thought, or did. This is not a small thing.
• When he was a small boy, his scientific gifts soon became obvious in a very practical way. Everything was rationed in England during (and after) World War II, including the coal that heated the house. Coal, as you may or may not know, tends to create dust, which was usually swept up and thrown away. Dad, at the age of eight, decided to see how much cement he could mix with the coal dust which would still produce a viable briquette to burn and warm the family house. It was fun! And useful. Even then, he couldn’t stand to waste anything.
• He used to walk five miles to school and back every day. When he first retired back to his native land, I made him go on a sentimental journey to the house he grew up in – a whole 12 miles away from his home – and was kind of shocked by how far it would be for a young boy to walk every day. Or, you know, a grown-up.

  One day when walking these miles home from school, there was an air raid near the train station. My father, about ten years old, buried himself under bodies to stay alive. His terrified mother, knowing he was walking home, stood in the front garden, watching for him. Nothing would induce her to go inside the house or into the bomb shelter. When Dad made his way home, bloodied and exhausted, nothing could express her joy.

  He had nightmares for the rest of his life.

• He was an amazing cook. His mother was a very good, even excellent Victorian cook, one who made a roast on Sunday and made the leftovers into shepherd’s pie on Monday and baked once a week. I don’t think a clove of garlic ever appeared in her kitchen. But Dad loved the garlic, and made food that would have appalled his mother.

  Yet…I remember when Tesco made its unwelcome appearance in the village where my father grew up and his parents lived all their married lives until their deaths in their 80s, my grandmother was appalled, and not without reason. She continued to shop every day, at the butcher’s, who knew what she liked, and the Lincoln sisters’ greengrocers (the five unmarried sisters had inherited the business from their father), where they knew that Daddy’s Daddy liked bananas and Grammie did not, and where they would cut a hothouse cucumber in half and keep the best peaches for you.

  There are so many things I do in the kitchen that I do because of him: hot pan, cold oil; when making an omelette, put in half an eggshell of milk; roll a lemon or lime hard on the counter before cutting it to get the most juice; the less done to good fish the better.

• His parents never said to their only, over-achieving son, “I love you.” That was understood. But he never stinted his own children in saying that. One of my earliest memories is waiting for him to come home from work, and when he did, he rolled around on the floor with us in a very un-English manner.

  When we went to Maine in the summer, I would swim in the cold, cold Atlantic until my lips were blue and chattering, and I would emerge from the frigid waves and go and lie on my father’s sun-warmed back, where he was lying reading either the “New York Times” or the “International Herald Tribune”. I’d pull my towel over my back, and snuggle my wet, cold head into his neck. He never flinched or complained. It’s still one of my best memories.

• The last thing he ever said to me was “I love you lots”

Ernest Raymond, my mother’s father, was not a mystery to me, or anyone who knew him. He was a charmer until his dying day. When he was in his 80s, more or less blind and bald, my grandmother would leave him sitting on a bench outside when we went shopping. Almost every single time, we’d come back to find him surrounded by young women who were laughing at his stories. Nana used to grab his hand and tell him it was time to go. “You’re tired, Ernest”, she’d say briskly. “No, I’m not”, he’d protest as he was led away to the car.

Like me (and Mom), he had green eyes and crooked pinkie fingers, and I have to keep reminding myself that he wasn’t my blood, being my mother’s adopted father. But just as she always regarded her parents as simply her parents*, I regarded them as my grandparents.

Ernest Raymond was born on May 11, 1896, so he was a mere 18 years old when the Great War started. He was also a naive farm boy from New York state, unlike my urban paternal grandfather from the slums of London.

But both Ernests were stationed in France**. My mother’s father told me that his feet literally rotted in the trenches, and he saw his boyhood friends blown to pieces in front of his eyes. He was the only survivor of his unit, simply because he caught the measles and was in the infirmary when everyone else was being blown to pieces.

After the war was over, he had a week in Paris before being shipped back to the farm. That was it. Obviously it’s not as bad as the jeering and harassment that my friend Paul and other Vietnam veterans received on coming home, but Ernest didn’t get any help readjusting to civilian life, or dealing with the horrors he saw in battle.

He grew up to become a teacher, and then a high school principal (unfortunately for my mother, of the high school she attended, since it was the only one in her small town). He and my grandmother were married for more than half a century, and like Ernest Victor, he and his wife adored each other until the end of their days.

I used to sleep on a cot in my grandparents’ room when we visited my mother’s parents, and I know for a fact that my grandfather suffered from nightmares nearly every night. In some ways, I think veterans are always fighting a battle, even if we can’t see it.

*Mom was about three when they adopted her. They always told her, “We chose you out of all the children in all the world. Other parents just have to take what they get.” No wonder she never cared about her biological parents, or felt stigmatized by being adopted.

**I recently came across his infantry drill book from the war, with his own notes in it.

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.

Mike’s most recent post reminded me of a long-ago episode in the sitcom of my life, starring Dad, Self, and a cast of thousands. Spiders, that is.

I spent a summer brat-bashing on the French Riviera when I was in my teens. Despite the presence of, you know, children, it was pretty much the best job I ever had. I was paid to hang out on the beach, had a whole tower to myself, and if I had a license then, I would have had access to a white MG to drive à la Grace Kelly up and down the Corniches (though probably with the same results, so maybe it’s just as well).

When I came home, I went to sleep in my room and woke up in the wee hours, as the jet-lagged tend to do. Seeing a spider crawling toward me across my previously unsullied pillow made me scream and wake up simultaneously. I went racing to my parents’ room, where my light-sleeping father was already awake and annoyed.

I gabbled crazily about the spider invasion and the urgency of its immediate removal as he grumped toward my room. He suggested that we make sure the spider wasn’t merely the advance scout for an army of invaders, and pulled my bed away from the wall. There was, as he had predicted, an entire nest of the little monsters, all just waiting for me to go to sleep so they could attack me.

Grinning evilly, he scooped them up in his hand and chased me through the house with them. We all ended up outside on the dark,dew-soaked grass, me screaming, Dad laughing, and the spiders wondering what the hell was going on.

On Dad’s next trip to Sweden, he bought me a silver choker in the shape of a spider in its web. He thought it was hilarious.

He’d probably find it hilarious that one of the major house-keeping challenges (and I am not good at house-keeping of any kind, even in the Zsa Zsa sense) of my hippie hovel is spiders. They are everywhere, as are bugs, and they are constantly festooning everything with cobwebs. While they are slackers in bug catching, they are over-achievers in web spinning. No sooner do you remove one, whether web or spider, than another takes its place. It’s like an arachnid Sorcerer’s Apprentice around here.

A couple of days ago, I brushed every single cobweb from the balcony, a much bigger undertaking than it sounds. The very next morning, there was a giant, outsized spider web in the arch of the balcony, a spider “Screw you”.