Suzy Says

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”.

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.

It’s probably Psych 101, but maybe because I had such a conflicted relationship with my mother, I’ve always sought out older women in my life. Since my mother is no longer with us, I thought I might pay tribute to some of the other “mothers” in my life.

First up is the one and only Genevieve. She had the cool elegance and beauty of Grace Kelly, despite her humble beginnings. She was one of thirteen children, and never went to high school. She married and was widowed young, and when I met her, she was somewhere in her 60s. She managed the beauty salon where I worked during college, and carefully planned my work schedule around my school schedule without my asking. If it weren’t for her, I would never have gotten my degree, and my life would have been very different. It was as if, not having an education of her own, she was determined to make sure I did. We stayed in close touch, and I though I was devastated by her death, I am so glad I had her in my life. She was a gift.

Next is my beautiful stepmother, Margaret. Always on the go, always perfectly groomed and dressed, but always had time for me. She was the love of my father’s life. They were incredibly happy together, and she was as calm waiting for a broken-down bus to be repaired in the African desert as she was shopping at Harrods. She built up what we laughingly referred to as “the empire”, buying up houses in London after the war, renovating them, and selling them at a profit. She was flipping houses long before it became fashionable. She learned to drive when she was forty, bought a car and then told her husband* about it, when it was too late for him to object. She always made me laugh. She, too, is gone, but will never be forgotten.

Now, there’s the appropriately named Joy, who really is one. We met each other through my very talented friend Mike, who is her son-in-law, and over time, I have come to rely on her unflagging friendship, cheerfulness, and good advice. I’m always delighted to hear her voice on the phone, with its charming accent, and when she’s away, I miss our near-daily e-mail exchanges and on-line Scrabble games. She’s made me a better Scrabble player, and a happier person, knowing that I have a little Joy in my life.

In fact, we recently exchanged views about Mother’s Day, and I said that although it may be commercial, it’s nice to thank the person who gave one life and gave up so much along the way. Being a parent is sacrifice and hard work and should be appreciated. It’s good to stop and tell someone how much they mean to you, even if takes a made-up holiday to do it.

*I hasten to add that this was her first husband, who died many years before Dad met Margaret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cold weather does make it seem more like Christmas than usual. I know that those of you who live where there’s real weather are shaking your heads as I whimper and whine, but it’s a frosty 40 degrees out there (or 4 degrees, for the metrically inclined) as I shiver at my drafty desk this afternoon. California houses, besides not having basements, don’t seem to have insulation, either, or at least not adequate insulation. It’s like no-one wants to admit that it actually gets cold here in sunny California.

The chilly weather and the holiday season are definitely making me nostalgic.

I grew up near Ithaca in upstate New York, also known as Snow Central. Isn’t it funny that when you’re a kid, you’re never too hot or too cold? You can play in the snow and frolic in the icy Atlantic until your lips turn blue, and your parents have to literally drag you into the house.

Our house was on a hill, and we had five acres of land, with our own grove of pine trees. Legend had it that the land was given to a Revolutionary War soldier as payment for his services. I’m not sure if that was true, but it’s a nice story, and certainly the foundation of our house was very old indeed.

Around the first Saturday in December, Dad would get his red-handled axe from the garage, and we’d all tramp through the snow to choose our Christmas tree. I don’t remember who got to decide, but I do remember the sound of the axe ringing through the cold winter air, the thrill of the tree crashing down, sending waves of glittering snow into the air, the sharp scent of pine resin, the long, violet shadows as we dragged the tree home in triumph, as if we had somehow captured it.

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

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

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

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

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

Dad was still the tallest.

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

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

My brother and his Jed, Christmas Eve, 1993

Fourteen years ago, my brother fell in love.

Like many great loves, his was both unexpected and head over heels. He took one look and never looked back.

It was Christmas Eve. Our father and stepmother were visiting from England (their custom was to celebrate Christmas in England one year and in California the next) and had rented a house in Mendocino big enough for the whole passel of us. Dad and I were making dinner, and Jonathan went to town to pick up a few last-minute items. When he came back, he came into the kitchen and said, “Guess what I did?’

Dad and I said, “You wrecked the rental car.” This made no sense, since Jonathan is a speedy, yet excellent driver. In answer to our unjustified accusation, he reached under his sweater and brought out the cutest puppy I had ever seen. For once, I was actually deprived of speech, as I gasped and grabbed for the little bundle of black-spotted, white fur. Dad got there first, though. Dinner was forgotten as we welcomed Jed to the family.

She was the best Christmas gift ever.

It turned out that while Jonathan was running errands, he stopped by what he calls “the pity pit”, which is the local Humane Society displaying pets up for adoption near the main street of the town. He took one look at Jed, and their lives changed forever.

My brother trained Jed carefully and thoroughly. His belief is that a well-behaved dog, like a well-behaved child, can be taken anywhere, but it takes consistent discipline to achieve that goal. People used to tell him he was too hard on Jed, but he wasn’t. He made it possible to take her with him anywhere he went. When he was still a carpenter, she’d go with him to the construction site, and never got in the way. (Once he left his lunch in the truck with her and she didn’t eat it.) My brother is a volunteer fireman, and Jed went with him on every call. He also teaches science, and Jed goes with him to school. It’s hard to know who the kids love more: Jed or Jonathan.

The training was part of it, but there was also her Jedness that made her so special. She grew up to be beautiful, a queenly, fun-loving tomboy. She always jumped on me with joy when I came to visit – the one “bad” habit my brother couldn’t break her of – and one of the great pleasures of visiting was sleeping with Jed the first night I got there. She’d cuddle up to me and I’d have the best sleep with her, loving and reassuring, beside me.

Awake, she’d chase the ball until your arm was about ready to fall off. When my brother moved from his former house to his current one, Jed went into the woods and retrieved her tennis balls, piling them up by his truck as if to say, “If you’re bringing your stuff, I’m bringing mine.” He took her camping, winter and summer, Jed proudly carrying her little backpack full of her own food – that dog pulled her own weight. She loved to swim, and we’d take her to the river, throw the ball, and she’d bring it back. Even in old age, she could out-swim much younger dogs, and she had fun every day of her life.

That happy life ended yesterday. Jed was surrounded by her loved ones and left us peacefully. We were lucky to have known her, from her puppyhood to her adulthood. She is always loved, always remembered, a once in a lifetime friend and companion.

While ambling some errands yesterday (more like practicing my old lady walk, since I kind of overdid the fluff removal the past couple of days), I saw an abandoned glove on the sidewalk. Sleek, dark leather fingers curled toward the sky as if in supplication.

I was immediately reminded of an incident from my now-distant youth:

My father and I were going somewhere in England by train (the destination, I’m afraid, is lost in the mists of time). In those days, there were still corridors in the carriages, and you opened and closed the carriage doors by reaching through the open window of the door and turning the handle.

Just as the train pulled out, a very pretty young lady leaped on board and collapsed into the seat opposite ours. She settled her handbag on her lap, with a glove — and then she looked out the window. There was the glove’s mate on the platform. She flung open the window and gaily tossed the other glove to the platform to join its mate, clearly thinking that whoever found the pair would get some use out of them, whereas the one she had was no good to her at all. She then settled back in her seat, eyes bright and cheeks aglow. The spontaneity and charm of that gesture remains with me still.

Yesterday turned out to be one of those days that seeing Dad’s writing reduced me to a puddle of tears. It’s been almost four years since he died, but there are still days like that when grief jumps out of its lurking place, both surprising and surprisingly intense. Suddenly, you feel as horrible as you did when it first happened.

I was planning to make one of his recipes for dinner, and this one happened to be included as part of one of his weekly letters. The letter was breezy, amusing, and poignant all at once, and whammo! There I was, sobbing over the shrimp.

Here’s the recipe, which I promise will not make you cry. In fact, it will have quite the opposite effect, being as it is, delicious. (Notes in parentheses are mine.)

Shrimp and Artichoke Salad

2 cloves garlic (I tend to use a little more)
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard (I like the seedy kind)
4 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/2 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons shredded basil
1 red onion, thinly sliced (I find half an onion is enough for me)
12 ounces cooked, peeled shrimp
14 ounce can of artichoke hearts
Lettuce (I use mixed greens)

Coarsely chop the garlic and then crush to a pulp. Mix the garlic and mustard together to form a paste, then beat in the vinegar, and finally, the olive oil. Season with freshly ground pepper. Stir in the basil and onion and let stand at room temperature for half an hour, then stir in the shrimp and chill in the refrigerator for an hour or more. Drain the artichoke hearts and halve each one. Make a bed of lettuce, place the artichoke hearts on it, and spoon the shrimp mixture on top.