Suzy Says

A simple solution

Yikes. Audrey woke me up around 6:00 this morning, making a really scary howling noise (not to be mistaken for her “get lost, boys” growl, which I am hearing right now as I type this). I came downstairs and found her in front of the sliding glass doors in the living room, her fur and tail all puffed out.

I turned on the outside light, but couldn’t see anything out there, so I went out to see for myself. I expected at least a raccoon, but nothing. In the back of my mind, I hoped it would be June Bug and Audrey was trying to alert me to her return in a cinematic fashion, but once again, real life turned out to be disappointingly unlike the movies.

The boys were concerned (or curious), and kept approaching her, despite the constant rebuffs. Audrey was determined to go out, and I was determined to keep her in, even though her fur had deflated by this time.

I know it’s slightly irrational, and mountain lions and other predators don’t punch their time cards and clock out at 6:30, but I have to wait until it’s fairly light outside before I allow Audrey out.

Imagine how much fun it’s going to be keeping three of them in the house all night.

It’s already bad enough keeping the boys in during the day. About two days after their adoption and baptisms, the weather abruptly changed from silvery and cool to sunny and hot. Most people have been referring to this summer as “the summer that never was”, whereas to me it’s been close to an ideal summer, not least because it has kept the wildfires down and my brother out of danger.

One of the many eccentricities of James’s eccentric architectural style is the almost complete lack of windows that actually open. In my house, the only one that opens is in the shower, where, you know, you don’t really need it, especially in winter. The windows in Megan’s house and Jonathan’s former abode don’t open at all. To get any ventilation in our houses, we have to leave the doors open, which is not conducive to keeping cats in. So while I have six doors in the house, I couldn’t open them. Water, water everywhere, but nary a drop to drink!

Needless to say, it was Rob to the rescue.

He came over bearing a wooden baby gate, which he placed in the balcony door, facing west. A couple of minutes later, he appeared at the sliding glass doors of the living room (facing east), and put a metal grid in it (see above). The metal grid used to be outside the pantry door, to scrape boots on in the winter, but it makes a great screen. He then got a ladder and turned the switch on the ceiling fan so it supposedly cools the air*. He found the baby gate at the dump, so everything was free! Also, I hadn’t said a word to him about it, but I guess it all comes of his knowing me for most of his life.

*I can’t tell the difference, but I also couldn’t tell that it drew the warm air up in the winter, so maybe it’s Me. Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling, as my grandmother used to say.

Seems like everyone in California is complaining about the weather, except Me. The media should really be alerted to that important factoid, since it’s practically unheard-of, no matter what the season. While everyone else bewails the fog, I just smile and think how glad I am that I’m not sweltering back east. I enjoy being lightly chilled, like a fine Chablis, almost as much as, well, a fine Chablis.

Having said that, though, summer is the time to go on vacation, or, in my case, daydream about going on vacation. Surprisingly, when I made up a list of places I’d like to go, many were right here in the Golden State. These are all places I’ve never been.

Bodie: The best-preserved ghost town in the state, and possibly the country, Bodie is also subject to extreme temperatures, with winter lows dipping to 0°F, with winds up 100 mph, and summer temperatures in the 90s. I read an article about the town’s lone ranger/caretaker, and it has to be one of the loneliest jobs around.

Burlesque Hall of Fame: I’ve always been fascinated by the golden era of burlesque. Famed dancer Jennie Lee established the Burlesque Hall of Fame in the Mojave Desert to showcase her collection of burlesque memorabilia and costumes. After her death, the equally famed Dixie Evans took over, and the museum is now being moved to Las Vegas. The annual Miss Exotic World Pageant is held every year on or near my birthday – what a gift that would be!

Chandelier Drive-Through Tree is less than an hour’s drive from town. When you get there, you can, as the name suggests, drive through a giant sequoia. Because Nature is much better seen from inside. I could probably combine this with a trip to the Lost Coast (see below).

Hearst Castle: Shockingly, I have never visited one of the Suzy-est places in the state, though Megan has. Even she was impressed.

Hotel del Coronado: Where “Some Like It Hot” was filmed, this Victorian confection has been restored to its Marilyn-era glory. Not to mention being conveniently close to Catalina Island, where you can take a glass-bottom boat* to admire reefs, shipwrecks, and sea life. Catalina is also home to plants and animals found nowhere else on Earth. Bonus Marilyn connection: she and her first husband, Jim Dougherty, once lived on the island.

The Lost Coast: I really have no excuse not to do this one, since it starts about an hour’s drive north of town. This is an exceptionally unspoiled and scenic part of the state, and the only part of it not served by a state highway. We could just hook up a little red teardrop trailer and take off!

Palm Springs: Of course, the best way to tour the fabulous mid-century architecture of Palm Springs would be renting Frank Sinatra’s old pad, at a mere $2,600 a night. You can also tour Elvis and Priscilla’s wildly futuristic honeymoon house.

Santa Cruz Mystery Spot: Supposedly a place where the laws of physics and gravity don’t apply (what girl doesn’t love that?), compasses and GPS devices don’t work there, and no animals, even birds, live within the Mystery Spot. I love it that there are still places, things, and phenomena that can’t be explained away by science. Even if they can, it’s still fun to see a ball roll up hill.

Winchester Mystery House: Home of the famous gunsmiths, the last Winchester owner was Sarah, who was convinced that if she never stopped building onto her house, she wouldn’t die. Her bid for immortality failed, but her architectural legacy lives on in San Jose, where her 160 room mansion boasts stairs to nowhere and doors and windows that open onto blank walls.

Places I’d like to re-visit include Bodega Bay, where we used to spend Christmases with Dad (and I think a movie was filmed there once); Monterey Bay and its incredible aquarium; LA, which I’m supposed to despise but don’t; and Lake Tahoe. Megan and I have a fantasy about spending Christmas there with the snow. Isn’t it amazing that you can drive a few hours and be where the snow is, but not have to live with it all winter?

I always say California has everything: the ocean, lakes, rivers, mountains, deserts, ancient forests, snow, sunshine, you name it. And that’s not even including the man-made wonders. Why don’t you come up sometime, and see me?

*Parts of the Doris Day movie of the same name were filmed there. I happen to love Doris Day movies, especially “Pillow Talk” and “That Touch of Mink”.

Rain on the honeysuckle

As you can see, I gave myself a new look for my birthday!

According to my birth certificate, I was born at 10:38 am, which I think is a very civilized hour. So many babies insist on interrupting their mother’s beauty sleep to be born in the middle of the night. Or worse yet, at cocktail hour. So inconsiderate!

Since I was born in New York State, that means I’m turning a year older right about now….

And what an uninspiring day it is. Dark, rainy, depressing. I don’t think it has rained on my birthday since I moved to California all those years ago. The weather seems to have forgotten that it is supposed to get sunny in April and stay that way until November. They say old habits are hard to break, but it seems to have no trouble whatsoever positively shattering them.

It’s not looking good for fun on my birthday. The weather precludes any expotitions anywhere; the dogs won’t want to put as much as a paw outside; the birthday BBQ is cancelled; and I will have to make my own birthday dinner, since Megan is laid up for the duration.

I spent my birthday eve watching a couple of pre-Code movies about wicked women and drinking Cosmoplitans. Not only did they each have my favorite credit, “Gowns By”, they also lasted just over an hour each, which is perfect for me. Keep it zippy, is what I say.

First up was “Midnight Mary”, starring Loretta Young as the unlucky title character whose story is told in flashbacks as she is on trial for murder. Starting out with a poverty-stricken childhood leading to a mistaken conviction for shoplifting and an inadvertent turn as lookout for a couple of gangsters, Mary is rescued from a life of crime and debauchery by a wealthy playboy (former Barbara Payton plaything Franchot Tone), but her past catches up with her…

Filmed in 1933, the movie includes a scene of Mary losing her virginity in the back of car; whispering promises of sexual favors to come into her lover’s ear (while he licks her fingers); a baby born cheerfully out of wedlock to no-one’s chagrin; and women being slapped around by their lovers.

Next up was “Three on a Match”, with Joan Blondell being her wise-cracking self, Bette Davis in frightening platinum blonde hair, and Ann Dvorak as the girl who has everything. To lose. The three girls go to public school together, where Blondell’s character is a wayward hoyden, Dvorak’s a spoiled princess, and Davis hard-working and ambitious.

The girls grow up and run into each other by accident, sharing the title match and laughing about the superstition. Blondell is a stage star, Davis a stenographer, and Dvorak is married to a wealthy lawyer and has a young son, but is discontented with her life. She decides to take the boy and go for a refreshing trip to Europe with her adoring husband’s reluctant approval, but on the boat meets a handsome gambler and runs away with him, taking the boy with her.

Her sexy out of wedlock idyll soon degenerates into filthy rooms scattered with empty bottles and cigarette butts, as she lies on the unmade bed in a stupor, ignoring her hungry child. The gambler owes money to gangsters (one of whom is no less than Mr. Humphrey Bogart, in his earliest tough guy role), they are both addicted to cocaine, and the boy is dirty and neglected. The gangsters discuss killing the child in front of his drug-addled mother, who makes a spectacular sacrifice to save him.

All this and more in just over an hour. Look for Jack Webb’s (“Dragnet”) earliest film appearance as a boy in the schoolyard at the beginning of the film.

The usual

I sloshed some errands yesterday in the pouring rain.

Among them was a trip to the library, where I discovered that my faithful library bag, the gift of a friend, had torn slightly from all its use. I’m hoping to keep it going for a little while longer, but I’m afraid a replacement will have to be found sooner rather than later.

I did my good deed for the day (or possibly the year) while I was there. A young man asked the librarian if he could use their phone, since he was from out of town, his cell phone didn’t get any reception, and he couldn’t find a pay phone (I think pay phones are rapidly becoming a thing of the past – apparently, they are no longer replaced when they break down). She said that it was against policy, so I asked him if he’d like to use mine. He lit up with happiness. The librarian said he’d have to go outside to use it, so he gave me his driver’s license (which revealed that he lives in LA, sparking a remembrance of visits past and a longing to go again) to hold and went outside.

When he came back in, he was grateful out of all proportion. I wished him a happy visit and felt like the Hooterville goodwill ambassador.

As I write, it’s still dark and rainy, and the weather forecast is gloomy. I’ve been waiting for a clear day to do the laundry, but at this rate, I’m going to have to put it in the dryer, propane bill be damned. It looks like my birthday barbecue will be rained out just like Megan’s, for the first time either of us can remember. There’s a bet I would have lost. My birthday BBQ was to be chicken tikka masala, and I was planning to put it in its repulsive yogurt marinade today in preparation for tomorrow, but now it looks like I may have to come up with a Plan B. And possibly a Plan C, D, E…

Birthday pie

Because, really, who doesn’t like pie better than cake?

I have to admit that I kind of threw together Megan’s birthday dinner. I couldn’t think of anything, but then I remembered that she likes a recipe I haven’t made for a while, and I had everything to make it except the chicken broth. So I ventured to the local store in the pouring rain, surprising a flock of ducks (and myself) on the road along the way. The ducks are new residents, and much more welcome than the pig part buffet (now vanished), though slightly more hazardous. Despite the rain, the bull in the field across from the store was in his usual spot, which is always reassuring.

While in the store, I noticed cherry pie filling and decided to make a pie, too. After all, when all you have to do is pour the filling in, it’s pretty easy. So my shopping consisted entirely of cans, which I guess is a step above shopping that consists entirely of sugar (PopTarts and SweeTarts). Sometimes I wonder what the staff at the store thinks of the shoppers. They must know everyone’s vices, since they’re the only store. There’s the guy who always gets beer and potato chips, there’s the cigarettes and cat food guy…

Back home, I put on the oven and put on Janis Joplin to keep me company as I cooked.

Pre-dumpling stew

Chicken Stew with Cornmeal Dumplings

4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into pieces
4 cups chicken broth
1 bay leaf
2 celery ribs, diced
3 carrots, sliced
3 potatoes, diced
1 onion, diced
1 teaspoon dried thyme, or a couple of sprigs of fresh
Flour and water for cold flour paste (see directions)

For the dumplings:

1 cup flour
1/2 cup cornmeal
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons butter
2/3 cup milk

Slice and dice the chicken and veggies.

Heat large pot over medium heat (my Dad always said, “Hot pan, cold oil,” so that’s the way I do it). When warm, add enough neutral oil and a piece of butter (a mixture of oil and butter browns best, I think) to just cover the bottom of the pan. Add chicken, celery, and onions and sauté.

When veggies are softened and chicken nicely browned, add chicken broth. Make sure to scrape up all the brown bits. I use mostly Swanson’s low-sodium broth and then cancel it out with a can of Campbell’s, which has the best flavor, but most of your daily requirement of salt, too. Bring to a boil.

Make a cold flour paste. I learned this from my grandmother, and I don’t know the exact measurements, but put about 3 tablespoons in a teacup and add cold water from the tap, mixing all the time until you have a thin paste. Add to broth and mix in. If it doesn’t thicken to your desired consistency, repeat.

When broth is thick enough, add carrots and potatoes (I had some frozen peas on hand, so I threw those in, too) and simmer until tender, about half an hour.

To make the dumplings, combine flour, cornmeal, salt, and baking powder. Work in butter – I use a fork, and then my fingers – until crumbly. Stir in milk.

Drop tablespoons of dumpling batter on top of stew. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer until dumplings are cooked through, about 15 minutes. Serve immediately.

Note: if you have leftovers, remove the dumplings before refrigerating. Seriously! If you don’t, the dumplings will soak up all the broth overnight and then you’ll have to go to the store again.

Megan gets a kiss from Shiloh, Monica’s foster puppy

It’s Megan’s birthday today. For the first time we can remember, her traditional birthday BBQ has been rained out. When we were giving Schatzi her walkette yesterday, Megan mentioned that Hooterville’s longest and most beloved resident had recently told her that one year long ago the rain had lasted until the Fourth of July. Let’s not try and break that record, ‘k?

Megan worked last night, but took the rest of the week off in honor of her birthday. She did this several months ago (both of us having a long-standing belief that working on your birthday is just wrong), before we had any idea that it could possibly still be raining. It’s supposed to stop raining on Friday, but even if it doesn’t, we will still have fun, because Monica, Lu, Megan and I have a date to see “Sex & the City 2” that night.

We’re hoping to have a combined birthday BBQ on the weekend. And at some point, we have to have a Juneapalooza, because Erica, Lu, Monica and I all have June birthdays.

Megan was supposed to be born on my birthday, but Mom’s obstetrician had a feeling something was wrong and took her out early (my brother was a Caesarean, and in those days, that meant that the next baby was one, too). Good thing, because the cord was wrapped around her neck, so she might not have made it.

Instead of being born on my birthday, she came home from the hospital on my birthday, and I couldn’t wait to peek in the bundle of blankets to see her. She was the best birthday present I ever had.

Early morning ficus shadow against the ceiling

What’s more annoying: the cats prying the door open so a cold breeze immediately freezes you (bonus: expensively heated air wafts out at the same time!), or having to get up when you’re in the middle of something (and/or insufficiently caffeinated) to let them in or out?

I hope it stops raining one of these days so I can leave the door open.

Despite the unseasonable and unreasonable rain predicted for this week, I’m gambling that the power won’t go out. I finally emptied out the buckets of water on the back porch, which were standing by in case of an outage, but were now home to a horrifying number of mosquito larvae. I should do the same with anything water-containing in Junk Alley beside my house, but much like the cat dilemma, I can’t decide which is worse: emptying out countless pieces of junk in various stages of decomposition now, or being eaten alive by mosquitoes later.

Mosquitoes love me. I am magically delicious to them. Now, you’d think someone as bitter as I am wouldn’t make good skeeter eating, but you’d be wrong. Possibly I’m like bittersweet chocolate to them. All I know is that it’s been like this my whole life, and when I was a kid, my parents used to joke that if the mosquito kids were good, they’d get to have me for dessert. The mosquito kids must have been a lot better behaved than we kids were.

One of the great things about San Francisco is that it’s mosquito-free, for some reason. It’s basically bug-free, as I recall, though there was the occasional fly. This may be why every apartment I ever lived in or visited in San Francisco had no screens in the windows. As time goes by, my requirements for an ideal home have reduced down to basics, such as screens in the windows (and windows that open and close); closets; counter and cupboard space in the kitchen; thorough insulation; and adequate heating.

What does your dream home look like?

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before:

It’s 35 degrees outside, dark enough that I have the lights on, and it’s pouring. The cats and I are huddled by the heater, the girls in their fur coats and me in two unmatching sweaters. The calendar claims it’s May, but I think there’s been a mix-up somewhere. Or I’ve somehow found myself in Early Narnia, where it’s always winter, but never Christmas.

Everyone is saying this is the coldest and rainiest spring they can remember. “Worst May ever” comes up a lot, and I’ve noticed people eyeing me askance as they make the connection between my moving to Hooterville and the increasing crapitude of the weather. If I don’t look out, I’ll get run out of town on a rainy rail. At least it will be too wet and windy for the tar and feathers to really stick.

Megan and I took a break yesterday to walk Schatzi briefly on the headlands. She looks almost normal when she walks, though she is undoubtedly wondering why we won’t let her off the leash and why the walks are so short. It’s three more weeks of leash duty, and Dr. Karen is going to check her again next week.

You will be relieved to hear that I obeyed the sign. Actually, I may have jinxed myself by observing to Megan that we are almost halfway through the year and I have managed not to damage myself so far. Finally, a New Year’s resolution that lasted beyond January!

It was a very low tide, so something smelled fishy, all right. Also there was a very loud Canada Goose honking his fool head off on one of the rocks. And I thought Canadians were so polite. Maybe he picked up some native ways during his visit.

We ambled amble a couple of errands in the village between rain showers. We got some blueberries and lettuce at the fledgling farmers’ market – there’s not that much available this early in the season – and attempted to get the ingredients for the magical soup, planning to make it for dinner last night. But there was no joy in Mudville, since there was also no chorizo. We grumpily made shepherd’s pie with ground turkey instead, and consoled ourselves with a “Sex and the City” marathon, just in time for the movie’s release next week, thoughtfully located between my birthday and Megan’s.

I feel a girls’ night out coming on.

Repeat Offender

Dear Rain,

I only use the word “dear” as a formality, since it is well-known to both of us that I do not like you, Sam I Am. Not in the day. Not at night. Not in the woods. Not leaking through my roof.

I would like to remind you that your term is long since up. You should have left at the end of March. I might have made an exception for late departure into the first week of April, but that would have extended my goodwill toward you to its outmost limit, and you might want to keep a favor in your back pocket for a rainy day. Know what I’m saying here, oh damp one?

300% of normal rainfall in April is not funny, even if you think it is.

How can I miss you when you won’t go away? You can blame it on Mother—- Nature, you can blame it on El Nino, both of whom have wicked senses of humor, if you can call it that, and neither of whom have the slightest compunction in ruining humans’ lives, preferably in a spectacular and semi-permanent manner.

In the words of the old song – and there’s a reason these things become cliches – rain, rain, go away. Now.

Very, very sincerely,

The sodden remains of Suzy

Thud! Splat!

That was my head exploding and falling off. It’s raining yet again. I can’t remember it raining in May since the evil El Nino winter of 1996-1997, when it rained from September until May, and rained every single goddamn day in February. I worked in a cool old brick building in downtown San Francisco in those days, and the constant deluge took its toll. Rain came down the exposed brick walls, so I had to keep a plastic hood on my computer like a grandma protecting her fresh beauty shop ‘do, and I had no fewer than three wastebaskets collecting rain around my desk.

Sitting here in my sweater by the heater in May just seems wrong. I also have that east coast feeling of “Will winter ever end?” while simultaneously lamenting the fact that the lilacs have already bloomed and gone.

It takes a Suzy.

People have been asking me how June and Audrey are doing. They don’t actually accuse me of being a negligent cat doorman or dumping them in favor of doggier pastures, but I can read between the emailed lines.

Audrey catnaps on the balcony

The girls are doing fine. Since they now have the great outdoors, they’re a lot less destructive in the small indoors. They generally come in to eat or nap, though I have seen them napping outside from time to time. I was slightly surprised by that: I thought they went outside to play and hunt, but apparently they also use it to increase their living space, much as we do.

Excuse me, you interrupted my bath!

June spends more time inside than Audrey does. June sleeps with me most of the night, pinning down the covers so parts of my anatomy are exposed to the chill night air in her patented manner. Audrey’s in and out all night, though thanks to Rob, I’m no longer the night watchman.

It’s funny how when I first moved, I thought I could bring them in at dinner time and that would be it for the night. In retrospect, I find this hilarious.

I visit Henry at least once a week. She’s safe and cozy under the chinkapin tree. I always bring her flowers and fill her in on the latest news. I miss her so much. She was such good company. I wish we’d had more time together, though as Rob says, it’s never enough time.

Star went to her first obedience class on Wednesday. She was fearful of strangers, barked at kids, and it was generally a somewhat depressing experience. I was surprised, since she adapted so quickly to us and is so friendly and affectionate with us. She’ll go every week and hopefully will improve. We have to get her properly trained and socialized before we can even hope to find a family for her.

Schatzi seems to be doing better. Dr. Karen thought so, and will have another look at her on Friday. Keeping her still is a real challenge. I took care of her yesterday while Megan taught a CPR class, and she followed me everywhere. Finally she settled down on the couch, but you can tell she’s really depressed at being kept inside all the time. A friend of Megan’s is giving her a sort of dog playpen so she can be out on the garden but not wandering around. I’m still hoping we can avoid surgery.

Which is more wrong: being up at 5:30, or it being 34 degrees outside?

Toss up, I’d say.

I forgot to put the heat on last night, so it was 46 in the house when I got up. For me, it’s a two sweater morning, whereas for June and Audrey, it’s just another mouse-hunting day.

Hurry up, coffee maker!

While I’m waiting for the coffee, wondering why on earth I keep getting up so damn early, and why it’s still winter when the calendar clearly says it’s nearly May, you can enjoy some pictures I took of Megan’s garden last week on one of those days which actually seemed spring-like. Maybe they’ll cheer me up.

Lilacs in bloom. My favorite flower.

Heather.

Japanese maple.

Curly willow (so sci-fi!), setting sun.

It’s 4:30 in the morning.

Do you know where your Suzy is?

Sitting by the heater with the radio on, blogging and wondering if the rain is ever going to stop. Not when, if. I passed when sometime in March. It’s not supposed to be raining this time of year, and we’ve had nearly 50 inches so far. Enough already. Is there some way to evict the weather and send it where it belongs? Say, Seattle or London? There are lots of destinations more exciting than Hooterville, my little low pressure system. Surely you’ve seen all the sights here by now.

I woke up about an hour ago and lay there for a while, listening to the rain slash the roof/walls and the wind howl through the trees, thinking how you’re supposed to find it all soothing and ponder the beauties of nature. But it makes me think unromantically about trees coming down and the power going out. Just the thought of the cold, dark boredom was enough to get me out of bed, especially since my brother had to repo the generator when his blew up. Might as well enjoy the warmth and light while I can.

We did have a break from the rain this weekend to celebrate Miss Jessica’s birthday en famille. I was once again the hostess with the leastest. Erica turned up with lasagna and a three layer cake. Not to mention decorations, a string of paper fairies wearing tulle skirts, which we fastened across the sliding glass doors. My brother turned up with little buns sporting chocolate icing faces. At least I had a present for Jessica, though (as usual) it was totally trumped by my sister’s.

Mark and his family came by for cake – Jessica loves playing with his daughters – and we all sang “Happy birthday” to her. I can’t believe she’s seven years old!

The wind was howling yesterday as I drove into town for some errands. I felt as if it were trying to blow me off the road, and I wasn’t surprised to hear on the radio that there was a wind advisory in effect. With a haul of library books, groceries, and a tank full of gas for today’s dog rescue adventure, I headed home.

As I turned onto the Ridge, I thought “I bet I’ll get home and find the power’s out.”

This is one case where I wish I hadn’t been right. I unloaded the groceries in the cold, sunny house and plugged in the emergency phone. My brother called to say that the outage was caused by a downed line on the Ridge. This was good news, because a) it wasn’t a whole pole which would have to be replaced; and 2) it was local, so we wouldn’t have to wait for the higher-ranking towns and villages to be restored before ours. Our turn is always last.

Meg, Rob, and Schatzi came over to sit by the heater and eat frozen pizza with me until the power came back on. I was very thankful for Rob and his generator-generating abilities, and for Jonathan, keeping me posted in his official capacity as fireman and unofficial capacity as brother.

Today dawned sunny and only slightly breezy. I know, because I was there to see it. I woke up before the alarm went off, and lay there considering whether to try and get back to sleep for half an hour, or just deal with it and get up like a grown-up. You will be pleased to hear that I chose the latter, so maybe I’m actually maturing. Just really, really slowly.

Meg should be here any minute. We’re taking my car, since it has about half the mileage that hers does, and it doesn’t make a slightly alarming metallic whine, either. We’re meeting Star at 11:00 or so at the Twisted River Cafe in Colusa. Stay tuned for details!

The scene of the crime

When it’s cold here, it’s usually clear, and as you can see in the picture above, that was the case yesterday (can you spot the Schatz?). I surprised Schatzi in her sunny patch, where she was catching some rays and some z’s (girls are all about the multi-tasking, you see). I let her jump around when she saw the leash, instead of taking the opportunity to make her behave the way my sister would have. There are perks to being an aunt, whether it’s to a kid or a dog.

When we got to the logging road, I let her off the leash and off she went to explore. I love seeing just her tail moving along above the scrubby huckleberry bushes, like a shark’s fin in the ocean.

She always trots ahead of me. You’d think I was the old lady here, though I’m a mere thirty-seventeen to Schatzi’s thirty-forty. But she is very lean, muscled, and strong, and looks and acts about half her age. Kind of like Me. At one point, she turned around to see where I was, and I told her I was coming. She came bouncing up to me and pushed her head against my hand, the universal dog sign for “pet me”.

I did, petting her and talking to her in the crazy lady way I always do when we take a walk (I’m sorry to report that after a recent viewing of the delightful “Top Hat” I was also inspired to sing). She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and I realized that this was the best possibly therapy for a Henry-broken heart. I was so touched that Schatzi actually came to be petted instead of exploring. It had never happened before, and when I told my sister about it, she said that Schatzi had never done it with her, either. I think she knew I was sad and was trying to comfort me.

Off she went again, and I trailed behind her in my official lady-in-waiting capacity, enjoying the unusual sun and blue skies. Coming around a bend, I came across a truck.

Schatzi was past the truck, and I called her. She came running like a racehorse and I clipped her leash on before approaching the truck. Its occupant had a barky dog, but Schatzi didn’t bark. She also sat like a good dog. I was really proud of her.

It turns out that the truck driver is the security guard for the lumber company which owns the logging road and the surrounding land. Rent-a-cops look a little different in the country. I explained that my brother has lived here for 15 years and my sister for 10, and we never knew it was wrong to walk on the road.

He took my name, address, and phone number (I only had to give him the last four digits, since all local phone numbers start with the same three), and gave me his card. He wrote another guy’s contact info on the card and told me to call him to get a permit to walk on the property. Apparently it’s basically a waiver of liability, which I can understand. We shook hands and he went on his way. Schatzi and I headed home. Even though I knew the guy was gone, I felt weird about continuing to walk down the road once I knew I shouldn’t.

When I got home, I dutifully called and left a message. I was rewarded by a phone call at 7:30 this morning, when I was dreaming of not marrying a handsome prince (even when I’m asleep, I never accept the rich guy’s proposal). I took off my sleep mask and ear plugs, picked up the phone, and stared at it for a ring or two. What am I supposed to do again? Eventually I figured it out and I’ll get my dog walking permit in the mail, so Schatzi and I can pick up where we left off.

I woke up around 5:00 this morning. I tried to get back to sleep, but going back to sleep is not one of my fortes, so I decided to embrace the inevitable and just get up.

June and I came downstairs together, me in two sweaters and June in her always elegant (and not politically incorrect) fur coat, to find the heater already on, trying to keep the room at 52 degrees. As I write, June is sleeping on top of the heater and Audrey is still outside, getting into trouble somewhere. I turned the heater up and checked the temperature outside. It was 35 degrees and there is a frost warning until 9:00 this morning. Apparently, I put my orchid back outside a little soon.

It is April 15, isn’t it? The most important day of the year? I have a feeling I’m not the only one around here who was up early this morning.

Today, Miss Jessica turns seven, though you’d be forgiven for thinking she was about 30 if you went only by what I’ve written about her. It’s rare for a child to be precocious without being annoying, but she is a rare person. To celebrate this special occasion, she and her mother are going to San Francisco, where they will visit Lush and the Exploratorium and other cultural attractions before going out to dinner and spending the night at Jessica’s favorite hotel.

She’s a girl after my own heart.

I woke up yesterday morning to a bluish sky through the skylight. Encouraged, I got out of bed to start the day. By the time I made coffee and was settled on the couch reading my fan mail, the sky had clouded over and gloom reigned once more. At this rate, I’m going to become like an English person and start saying it’s a lovely day if it’s not actually raining.

Or not.

A glance at the weather-tossed (sometimes literally) thermometer on the back porch revealed that the needle had once again failed to reach the 40 degree mark by noon. I can’t get over how different the weather is from San Francisco, a mere 150 miles away. There, other than seasonal fog, the weather you wake up with is pretty much the weather you’re going to get that day. Here it’s like a severely under-medicated manic-depressive. And 40 degrees was reserved for a shivering overnight low, not a mocking daytime high.

I went over to my sleeping sister’s house, threading my way through the rain-filled potholes. As I sneaked in the front door, my wet sneakers squeaked on the floor and I could hear myself breathing. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke from the ghost of last night’s fire.

Schatzi was not on her chair, so I retraced my steps and went into the garden, calling her softly. It’s always a dilemma, since I want Schatzi to hear me, but I don’t want Megan to hear me. Fortunately, the Schatz heard me and came running. She bounced around with joy as I put the leash on and led her to the logging road.

There I took the leash off and followed her as she trotted down the muddy road, with detours into the brush for scent adventures. I could hear water running far below, and she was interested in exploring, but there was no way I was letting her climb down the steep cliff to check it out. The best case scenario would mean calling the fire department (aka my brother) to rescue her if she lost her footing. The worst case scenario involved leaving the country immediately under an assumed name. Fortunately, she obediently came away when I called her, and we went on our way.

The walk was Luna-free until the very end. Luna was between Schatzi and me, and Schatzi wasn’t too happy about this. But I was pleased that she ran to me for protection. I put her leash back on and took her home. She trotted off, looking for water or gophers in her garden, so I was spared the Sad Eyes* and could simply enjoy having made her happy.

I hadn’t noticed the grey skies at all.

*Schatzi has a highly developed talent for looking incredibly sad when you leave her behind. Which is why we hardly ever do. She has us well-trained.

Cozy Audrey

It rained all day yesterday. In San Francisco, the Giants game had to be postponed for four hours, something which is practically unheard of there. Here the power flickered but stayed on, and the needle on the thermometer hovered dispiritedly at 40 before giving up completely and creeping down into the 30s again around 3:00 in the afternoon. Four weeks into spring, I can’t say that I’m overly impressed with its performance so far.

Audrey drove me nuts yesterday by demanding to go out in the torrential rain, then noticing the torrential rain, and then demanding to be let back in again. She did this five or six times in half an hour, clearly thinking that the rain had gone away each time. Megan says that her dog Jesse used to go out the front door in bad weather, then come back in and go out the back door, just in case the weather was better back there.

So you can see that my job as doorman remains secure. I think the cats think that the cat flap is for nighttime use only, just like the slightly open balcony door used to be. I have yet to see them use it in the daytime, and they will come downstairs and ask to be let out. I wonder if they used the cat flap while I was in the city, or just waited for the substitute doormen to come by. The idea of their changing their habits or being that patient are equally unlikely to me.

Maybe it’s the cold and rain, but the girls have been spending more time with me in the evenings than they used to. Audrey’s been sitting next to me on the couch, as you can see above, for the past three. I wonder if it’s because Henry is no longer here to claim that spot, or because she can tell I’m sad. I have yet to go a day without crying, sometimes at inopportune moments (fleeing to the ladies’ room in the Four Seasons springs to mind, where I startled and slightly alarmed the hapless cleaning lady), and I miss that tiny little cat more than I ever imagined.

Rose’s daughter Catrin brought me a red candle in a glass votive holder to honor Henry Etta. I’ve been burning it every night in Henry’s memory, and when I blow it out, I say goodnight to her. I say it again when I go to bed, looking down on where her bed used to be from the stairs, just as I used to every night. Some habits are hard to break.

I feel like there’s some lesson to be learned from having Henry so briefly in my life, but I have no idea what it is. All I know is I love her and miss her. My little love.

It’s a good thing we enjoyed Friday so much. It’s been pouring ever since. Yesterday the weather was so depressing that I bagged on going to town with my sister and ate Pop Tarts and watched “Gilmore Girls” instead, occasionally interrupted by Mark chain sawing falling or fallen trees.

You’d think it was February around here.

As you must have noticed by now, dark and stormy weather calls for dark and stormy movies. Last night’s double feature featured two ladies who were more scandalous in real life than any character they played on screen.
Barbara Payton

First up was “Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye” (1950), starring Jimmy Cagney and Barbara Payton. Cagney plays a – wait for it – gangster recently escaped from prison. In doing so, he kills off the lovely Barbara’s brother, one of his aiders and abettors, though he understandably fails to mention this minor fact after he gets a look at her.

There’s a breathtaking scene where Cagney beats Payton in the face with, oddly, a bath towel, she swoons into his arms in masochistic bliss, and they share a passionate kiss. No wonder the film was banned in Ohio. That scene still shocks more than all the murders in the rest of the film, and there’s no shortage.

I was surprised by the power of Cagney’s personality. He’s a short, funny-looking guy, but with such intensity and charisma that you can’t stop watching him whenever he’s on screen. He personally selected the 23 year old Barbara Payton to be his co-star, and her sultry beauty just glows. White heat indeed.

A year after this movie was made, Barbara was engaged to Franchot Tone, one of Joan Crawford’s many exes, but was also carrying on an affair with actor Tom Neal, a former college boxing champion. The two men brawled over Barbara, and Tone ended up in a coma. When he recovered, he and Barbara got married, but she left him a few weeks later for…Tom Neal. That lasted a whole four years, much longer than Neal’s two wives (or any of Barbara’s four marriages). One died of cancer a year after giving birth to his son, and Neal shot the other in the head, ultimately serving ten years for manslaughter. He died a year after being released from prison.

In the meantime, Barbara’s life was in a downward spiral. Just five years after making “Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye”, she was arrested for a string of offenses: passing bad checks, public drunkenness, drug abuse, and prostitution. She died of liver and heart failure at the age of 39.

Gloria Grahame

Next up was “The Big Heat” (1953), directed by Fritz Lang and starring Glenn Ford and Gloria Grahame. Ford plays a detective trying to shut down the mob who killed his wife (played by Jocelyn Brando, sister of Marlon, who managed to have a long and happy life in real life). Grahame plays the head gangster’s moll, hard-drinking, tough-talking, dripping furs and jewels. When the virtuous Ford points out that these things are the proceeds of crime, she says, “I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Believe me, rich is better.”

Grahame becomes a witness against her lover eventually, and in keeping with our sado-masochistic theme, he scalds her face with hot coffee, fortunately off-screen, though the damage is later revealed in all its horror.

This role was just one in a series of sexy, troubled roles Grahame played, starting with town sweetheart Violet in “It’s a Wonderful Life”, and these roles weren’t much of a stretch for Grahame, who specialized in stormy romances and failed marriages in real life, too. While married to director Nicholas Ray, she had an affair with his then thirteen year old son, whom she later married. She had children by both men, making them…cousins and half brothers?

This scandal took a toll on the Oscar-winning actress’ career, as did some unsuccessful plastic surgery which caused scarring and nerve damage. She died of cancer at the age of 57, after refusing surgery.

Life really can be stranger – and more tragic – than fiction.

Spot the kitty!

It’s almost noon, and my battered thermometer claims it’s barely 40 degrees outside. Some of the hailfall is still clinging to icy existence beside the house, and the house is filled with that eerie white snow light.

Megan stopped by yesterday on her way to work and brought my orchid inside so it will survive the cold snap. It’s now taking up valuable real estate beside the stairs, where I brush past it every time I sidle through the 18 inches of space between the refrigerator and the stairs.

The cold, dark weather this week has inspired me to watch a few films noirs from my favorite decade. Last night’s double feature featured my own true love, the City by the Bay. Henry Etta came up on the couch with me, where she relaxed with her head on a pillow, covered by one of my sweaters (see above) as the rain and hail stormed outside.

First up was “Impact” (1949). Though lacking in my favorite credit (“Gowns By”), it made up for it with “Furs By” and “Jewels By” and an apartment in the illustrious Brocklebank Building, where Kim Novak’s character lived in “Vertigo” and the late, great Herb Caen lived in real life. You can rent a little place there for $9,700 a month if you’d like to join that celebrated company.

Brian Donlevy plays a millionaire industrialist going out of town on a business trip. His lovely wife, played by the seductive Helen Walker, convinces him to bring along a “cousin” of hers, who is, in fact, her lover. The lover attempts to bump off Donlevy, but only succeeds in bumping off himself and a gorgeous cream colored roadster in a spectacular crash.

Dazed and confused, Donlevy ends up in a small Idaho town, where he finds a job and a room with the world’s most attractive and least likely garage owner, played by Ella Raines. But when he discovers that his wife has been arrested for his own “murder”, he returns to San Francisco to set the record straight.

Oddly, Helen Walker, whose character engineered a murderous car crash, endured a career-ending car crash in real life. She picked up some GIs who were hitchhiking, and crashed the car. One soldier died and the other two were severely injured, as was Helen, who was tried for murder. She was acquitted, but her career never recovered, and she died of cancer at the age of 47. Her life was more tragic than any movie she ever starred in.

The second feature was the somewhat misleadingly titled “Woman on the Run” (1950), starring the glamorous Ann Sheridan and a cast of unknowns (at least to me). Ann’s husband is out late one night walking their dog when he accidentally witnesses a murder. When the cops arrive and want to put him in protective custody, he thinks they suspect him and “takes a powder”. The police question his wife, and learn that their marriage is on the rocks. The wife learns that her husband has a secret heart condition, and tries to find him before the cops or the real killer do.

The movie ends with a breathtaking and frightening night time roller coaster ride, predating Hitchcock’s carousel horror in “Strangers on a Train” by a year. It was filmed at Playland at the Beach, an amusement park which perched on the dunes of Ocean Beach for nearly a century before being dismantled and replaced by, God help us, soulless condominium boxes. It was great to see it in all its tacky glory, with the terrifying sounds of Laffing Sal (who can still be seen and heard at the Musée Mécanique, now at Pier 45) providing the perfect backdrop to such a scary scene.

And it was wonderful to see that beautiful city in all its glory. Some things haven’t changed at all in 60 years, and others have changed completely. But one thing never changes: the beauty of San Francisco.

Hail in the garden, 7 am

It was wild and stormy last night. It rained so hard that it woke me up a few times. I lay there listening to the storm rage, wondering why James never cut down the trees which are just a few feet from the house. If one of them gets knocked over by the wind…

Amazingly, the power stayed on and the cats stayed in.

This morning, I was awakened by hail crashing heavily against the roof and skylight. Risking life and limb (well, limb, anyway), I dashed out to take photos for you, dear readers, before the rain melted the evidence. Here you can see the hail on my porch steps and beside the roof/wall:

When Rob dropped by with some mail, I was glad to hear that Megan had escaped the hailstorm on her morning commute. I was also entertained by the three census forms he brought. They all have the same street address, but are differentiated by additional descriptions:

12345 Blank Road
A Frame Cabin (me)

12345 Blank Road
Two Story Cabin (Megan & Rob)

12345 Blank Road
Unknown Unit-A (Jonathan’s former residence, now unoccupied)

I’d love to know how they described Mark’s place and the front house. Apparently the front house has new occupants. I have never met them, but I have waved at them while driving by and noticed that they have done a great job cleaning up the long-neglected garden.

And in other news, I have an appointment with Dr. Karen on Friday afternoon, so my medical advocate (aka my sister Megan) can join me. When I called and gave the receptionist my name, she asked brightly “Is this for Henry Etta?” Celebucat!
Update: Turns out that this morning’s storm was just a preview for the real storm, at 3:00 this afternoon:

The air smelled strongly of pine resin – I guess from the hail battering the trees.

The light in the house immediately took on that strange, white light that it does when it snows.

The temperature dropped to 40 in just a few minutes.

Hard to believe it was 80 degrees here a week ago!