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Liverpool

This is a difficult post to write.

When I signed up for the tour, I saw that we had “several hours” in Liverpool between Wales and Cumberland and I immediate hit the travel sites to see what we would do with our unprogrammed time.

The Beatles, obviously. Or the Tate Museum. Or the International Slavery Museum….as I read those words a chill went up my spine. Of course I had to visit that exhibit. Every fiber of my being said I had to visit it. Fortunately my progressive husband (who also likes the Beatles) didn’t argue; he was all for it, even as I second guessed myself and wondered why on earth would I want to see such a place while on vacation.

My world perspective was rocked. First, by the accounts of modern people, from every race and country, who had been sold or trafficked into slavery.

Second, by the well documented section on the historical global slave trade, which for the first time made me realize the economic impact of the practice. The untold wealth generated by unpaid humans who were ripped from their homes and bred to provide an unending supply of more workers.

The last few years have brought media attention to economic injustice and the racist institutions that perpetuate generational poverty – I’m not an expert nor am I personally affected by this. But I know that it exists, and the exhibit at this museum brought home the truth.

I’ve heard a lot of people dismiss U.S. Slavery by saying “well, slavery still happens today” like that cancels out the past. It doesn’t. It can’t be swept aside like it’s history with no lasting impact.

It’s a big issue and I have no answers for fixing it, but I am learning. I appreciate the opportunity to learn. It was so important for me to know this.

And when I was shaking with rage and horror, I went to second floor to the Titanic exhibit to cheer up. It was that impactful.

The silver handled ladies whip and the muzzle.

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Day….I have no clue

Wales is exhilarating.

Our local guide is charming and knowledgeable with a great storyteller’s vibe. He mixes Welsh and English and gives us a “potted history” of the country peppered with side comments about how it has been portrayed in film. Note: I hadn’t heard of a “potted history” and thought it had to do with alcohol. It refers to a shortened version of the whole story. More than a summary, less than a chapter. I like my definition better.

Castle Conwy is well preserved by the National Trust and Unesco and it’s fascinating to walk where King Edward surveyed his perimeter. Lots of twists and turns and it must have been cold back in the day. We recognize the “ringed defense” architecture that we saw at Windsor and admire the defensible walls. The day is sunny and clear and it’s all very satisfying. We get the overview and a lot of history and then have time to explore. Les checks out the tower and I pick my away along the stone walls, leaning on my cane to stay upright. Fire knee is well braced and the cane is a necessity. I’m able to move about quite freely without pain so I’m a happy girl.

Conwy Castle – defended by fewer than 25 men

The vistas are marvelous and the site isn’t crowded and there are windy stone stairs and hidden chapels and a few unexpected sculptures. It is all good.

We scatter for lunch and Les and I decide on a tea room close to our next destination. The proprietor is on her own thanks to Covid and labor issues but she welcomes us in and feeds us in good time to make our next stop. Les and I try the Welsh Rarebit which is not what I thought it would be, but delicious nonetheless. (It’s a cheese sauce on brown toast. A bit soggy) We’re table sharing with a couple from our tour and they are slugging down massive milkshakes and cheese and pickle sandwiches. I’m maybe a bit envious.

Our next stop is the “Tudor House” which was, you guessed it, built in Tudor times by a gentleman who worked for the court and accepted a lot of coin for access to the people in power (okay, it wasn’t said quite like that, but that’s the gist). He also went to the continent for soldier duties and had seen the glories of Rome and Greece. When he retired to Wales, he built a substantial home for his sweetheart and eventual family. Alas, she died, but he found a new wife with the same initial (he had worked her initial into the decorative plaster walls) and it all worked out. The house was completed in 1577 or thereabouts.

It is airy and prosperous, lots of rooms, and I am quite taken with the plaster motifs and decorations. The owner really liked the caryatids in Rome and sketched out the general idea for his Welsh craftsmen. The result is a primitive homage. Paint choices take it up several notches and it’s a bit grotesque….a lot groteseque….but very lively. I take a number of pictures and hope that the owner lived a long and happy life.

TBH these were shocking at first sight, then I decided to be charmed

Check out the Welsh Baker to try these in the U.S.

After the tour we pause at a local bakery where I snag a few Welsh Cakes – there’s a place in Southern California that bakes and sells them and I want to compare. I also grab an “Eccles cake” because I’ve never had one.

The evening is capped with a concert by a talented Welsh harpist who entertains with a wide range of medieval songs, classical tunes and jazz. Our guide cajoles us into buying her CDs and we are happy to oblige. Les mentions to her that her style reminds us of Rodrigo y Gabriela and she knows of them! She says she’s tried to blend their percussion into her more modern pieces and we part with the glow of mutual appreciation.

Wales rocks.

Undated but so beautiful; it certainly could be a Tudor era embroidery

Back at the hotel….the most elegant set up

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Day 9/7 Chester

Food on the road is very inflammatory and my joints are feeling it. Lots of bread and potatoes, tons of sweets, the milk that makes the tea palatable, the two sugars that do the same….my knees ache and the deep gnaw of arthritis has begun. Sigh.

Yesterday we boarded our motorcoach for a long trek to Wales. Our driver had been on the job six months and lacked confidence. I heard him muttering about Google maps and sent a brief prayer that we would arrive in grace and good health.

The bus was quiet as 22 seniors caught up on sleep.

I was out for about 90 minutes and then my body rebelled against constriction and I had to get that seatbelt off and I felt a bit queasy and and…I wriggled in my tight window seat searching for a comfortable position but was unsuccessful.

Fortunately I had listened to my inner voice and picked up an extra croissant at breakfast. That distracted me and helped settle my stomach. A sip of water helped as well and then I tuned into the sad story of Tim the driver. He felt like he was doing a terrible job and not representing his company very well and perhaps he should just chuck it all. Our leader spoke to him in bracing terms, saying that the job would get easier and she was certain he’d get the hang of it. “Just project confidence” she told him. Tim was unconvinced.

A foreseen consequence of Brexit was that foreign workers found it difficult to get through the paperwork et al in order to stay employed in the UK. Covid drove many of them home and they weren’t flocking back. It’s fine to complain about “foreigners taking our jobs” but the locals aren’t picking up the slack. Restaurants are short staffed. Tube stations are shut down. Shops can’t stay open. The effects are everywhere.

Tim drops us off in Chester, which is an ancient town noted for its splendid cathedral and many historical sites. It is a walled city that served as a border town between the Brits and the Welsh. I’m a big fan of the Romans and I am thrilled to be in proximity of Roman Ruins – an ampitheater, some walls, a few mosaics. So much history! It is deeply satisfying.

The city is a blend of old and new. There are actual Tudor-era buildings and the town was a popular tourist destination during the Victorian era. The cathedral is vast and highly ornamented. The streets are a mixture of ancient and Victorian cobblestones. My eyes can’t settle but I know Les is capturing it all, from multiple angles and exposures.

There is a famous Chester clock atop the West Gate but another imposing clock has a humorous story. I am told that the square clock tower has three clock faces – one to Ireland, one to Scotland, one to Britain and none to Wales because “we don’t give them the time of day.”

We have a delightful ploughman’s lunch in a pub before exploring the cathedral interior. Then we find our group and tour bus and continue into Wales. Tim has been replaced by another, more confident driver and a new motorcoach. Adventures!!

Our hotel is on the water and it feels like a holiday beach town, with older and fancier buildings. After dinner, Les and I cross the street and enjoy the final moments of an outdoor concert. The sun is setting and the water sparkles – it’s beautiful and reminds me a bit of summer in Seattle. The evening lasts longer, the sun shimmers and bed is impossible. We trek along the bay and enjoy the fresh air and the snap of flags in the evening breeze. Wales is great!

Roman mosaic – the lighter grey is the restored section

Chester was a walled city (and now I’ve seen a weir!)

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Mary Mother Mom Mumsy Mamacita Mi Madre Tu Madre Maritza Mary

The person who made me is gone.

Her legacy is three very different children on wildly divergent paths.

A woman who was ahead of her time yet very much part of her time left:

A daughter who is self-reliant, ruthlessly pragmatic, a veritable mama bear with her children. She left home at an early age and carved her own path

A daughter who stayed home, went to school, got the degree Mary wanted*, married a man who was definitely not what her parents had in mind, and who did not provide grandchildren

*”I wanted to be a librarian but my mom wouldn’t let me. You know, old maids and their cats”

A son whom no one understood, under-loved, determined to do his own thing while shouting loudly for a place to belong

She said in an interview that she was most proud of her children, which suprised at least one of us. I never thought she noticed.

My mom was born with cataracts in both eyes and curly untameable hair. She had a go for broke attitude and was quite matter of fact that “Dad didn’t want kids”. (This shaped her response to her own children and was really difficult for her youngest)

She and her sister worked from a young age; a notable job was in a vitamin factory. “Mom made us change clothes on the porch because we smelled so bad.” There was an extended Italian family that made wine in the bathtub and a step-grandfather who resigned from the Los Angeles City Council after accepting bribes. (He was exiled to the midwest for a few years since my grandmother worked for the head of the IRS in LA and her parent’s disgrace was a little too much).

Mom was visiting her grandmother in North Hollywood on December 7, 1941 and her parents had her return home because of fears that the southland would be under attack too. She swears that Long Beach was bombed and that it was covered up so as not to scare the populace. I think her immediate family was safe from being sent overseas and she remembers her Italian grandparents visiting the Italian POWs at Santa Anita. “They didn’t just put the Japanese in camps” This is the kind of detail you don’t learn about in school.

Post-War, she and her sister entered the Southern California Catholic Youth Marriage Mart (aka the Claret Club) where they met their first and only husbands. My mom served as secretary and fell in love with the club president. The Claret Club is also notable for the lasting friendships formed there – in Mary’s circle there were Pat and Bob and Carol and Larry and Barbara and Paul and the Dupuis….lasting friendships, and the Swift-Sands-Rizzi trio lasted until death.

Mary and Fran lived in numerous houses as Fran pursued a real estate career. Mary worked as a secretary and started her family. First up was Linda Ann Swift, a Valentine’s baby. In the Catholic tradition, she was joined by Deborah Jean Swift a year later (on Pearl Harbor Day) and as far as Mary was concerned, the family was complete. God had other plans, and sent Jonathan Moor Swift (Thanksgiving) as the heir and son. After that, Mary defied the church and went on birth control – she knew her emotional and economic limits and three children were enough!

Fran became a teacher and Mary continued to work. They formed a tight knit group with the Sands and the Rizzis and there were many barbecues and beach days and backyard gatherings with all the kids. The post war baby boom was ON but all the turmoil and social changes seemed to happen outside our bubble. Vietnam, riots, hippies and Japanese cars were present in the news but not in our home.

Mary’s career: you might think that being a secretary is a low key, boring, administrative position. But Mary was in the right place at the right time and she wanted stimulation and challenges. She learned how to send overseas documents using the “TWX” and “Telex” machines, was trained on a Wang Word Processor, had ownership of the company FAX machine, and treated her bosses like kings. Every Christmas she brought huge Tupperware bowls of guacamole made with our home grown avocados and every year the bowls were empty by lunchtime. She adored the attention. She was one of the youngest people to get cataract surgery in the 70’s and it changed her life because now she could drive Heady times.

She decided to learn how to make new friends before she retired and volunteered on the Monrovia Days committee. She moved Dad to Green Valley Arizona where his childhood friend had retired and her sister and a few friends followed. She learned to use the Internet and email and persuaded Dad to join the Elks club so she’d have a place to play Bingo. They built a new home in a new development that was filled with light inside and an eclectic fruit/vegetable/cactus garden outside. They explored Southern Arizona and fell in love with the desert. No visit was complete without a trip to Tubac or Tohono Chul or Madera Canyon.

Dad passed away in 2002 and, as she predicted, mom’s friends rallied around to support her. “I want to move to a place where they know what to do when your husband dies” she told me. And they did.

At this point, her children learned that mom was quite impulsive and just how much of a calming influence dad had been. Within six months she bought a smaller house with a tiny yard that she felt she could manage. It was the first time she’d ever lived on her own and she was determined to do so on her own terms.

Mom continued to be active with the Elks and her church. She visited her friends and family in California and supported Carol and Pat when their husbands died. She loved and was proud of her grandchildren. Linda would visit and they’d do road trips and attractions, Debbie visited and went shopping and read, Jon visited and fixed things around the house. It was a good life.

We are very grateful to Pat Rizzi who, in her last days, encouraged Mom to move back to California to be closer to her children. It was a whirlwind declaration – “I’m selling the house, oh, the house sold and I need to move out in a few weeks” – but the family rallied and got her to California. (There are stories, but they probably won’t be funny for another decade or so.)

She settled into an assisted living facility near Linda who took on the yeoman role of managing her life. Linda balanced oversight and interference masterfully and got Mom on track with finances and health.

Mom died a few years ago – she had a heart attack, called the paramedics and coded on the way to the hospital. They revived her and put her on track for a lingering, managed death. Linda fought with the doctors to change the situation and with the help of Patricia Sands, got her into a rehabilitation center where she started to mend.

I honestly think that episode was a gift because it forced her children to work together and broke down the walls that develop between siblings when they grow up. I made a vow that I would stand with my big sister and support her however I could. Mom had a tendency to play her children against each other and we decided there would be no more secrets, no hurt feelings and no brokered communication. I am so happy we came together. It’s made the last few years so much easier.

This final journey isn’t my journey. It’s not Linda’s journey, or Jon’s. The final days in your life belong to you alone as your body winds down and your soul journeys toward God. As her daughter, my role is to ensure she has the medical support she needs and that she knows how much I love, appreciate and honor her – she gave me life and I would not be Debbie without her influence.

Mary, Mom, Mumsy, Mamacita, Mi Madre, Tu Madre, Maritza, Mary. Go swiftly and easily to your home. Say hi to the gang.

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Day 8/5 Honey Colored Cotswolds

(Santa is still our tour guide, so a bit light on facts).

Gentle rolling hills carpeted with lush green grass, bisected by hedgerows and low stone walls.

Honey colored limestone buildings that proclaim “you are in the Cotswolds” (There is a cozy mystery series set in the Cotswolds and the protagonist always describes herself as living in the ‘honey colored cottage my aunt left me’ so this is imprinted on my brain now.)

The area was settled by the Conqueror. It is bucolic, prosperous and the site of a million British cozies. (One of the sisters thinks I’m referring to tea cozies and I’m not going to correct her).

There are spare angular Norman buildings with implacable flat facades.

And beautifully curved arches and saints and noblemen gazing down.

At some point the Victorians moved in and decorated the place.

Artists, craftspeople, poets descended and drew inspiration from the beauty of the English countryside. My soul is stretching and loosening under its aspect.

Such a beautiful corner of the world.

And dogs, so many dogs.

They outnumber children and shops offer dog incentives – a favorite seems to be a scoop of puppy ice cream. The Brits love their dogs.

Chipping Camden, Broad Way and Stow-in-Wye – charming villages with little to see but so much to discover.

A restful day. Tonight we do laundry and tomorrow…..Wales!

And if you don’t obey, the Smart Water will come for you

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Day 7/4 Stratford upon Avon

Straight talk: Stratford on Avon is less amazeballs than I expected. It’s a tourist town filled with postcards and bric a brac and tea shoppes all up and down the streets. There are Shakespearean quotes everywhere and street performers busking for a quid or two. The damp weather doesn’t help and I feel a bit steamy in my triple layers.

Shakespeare’s birthplace is interesting as his rise to fame and fortune. He was from a solidly middle class family. Married a woman 6 years older. Had multiple children, most of whom died young. The rooms are low and small and yet were undoubtably comfortable for the period. Once again I skim, admire, move on. My husband reads every caption and dutifully photographs objects in low light.

The garden is enchanting – a beautifully layered mix of grasses and flowers. Roses climb the building walls – flat, single blooms in pink and deep red. It’s envy-inducing. California doesn’t grow like this.

I see wattle and daub and learn what a “tester bed” is – more phrases from my reading.

The “new home” on the site of the “original home” is well documented, much treasured and a fitting tribute to the town’s favorite son. It is artistic and literary and as rain begins falling, very atmospheric.

Our group is mostly docile, dripping, milling about. We have finished the new home and are waiting for an on-off bus in the mizzle. Our tour escort leaves us with Santa as she has food poisoning and needs to sort that out with a chemist. Santa is not so good with logistics or planning and he’s got 20 tourists hanging out waiting for something to happen. His anecdotes are no substitute for actual facts and the group is getting restless. Some of the ladies smell blood in the water and are attacking him with pointed questions about the bard.

After a lengthy wait we board a bus and are commanded by the operator to put on special headphones so we can hear the commentary. She’s not taking no for an answer and she’s not sharing personal information. We learn about commerce, the plague and how people handled illness in those days. (They tended to die) We are learning about Elizabethan life and it’s grim, let me tell you. My tour companions are delighted. I nap against Les’ shoulder.

Our group disembarks at Anne Hathaway’s cottage which is beautifully landscaped and very well preserved. The house has low doorways and period furniture and knowledgeable docents. It’s an interesting 20 minute tour and then we are ready to return to town for promised free time. Unfortunately we don’t have individual bus tickets to get back. Also unfortunately the next bus driver doesn’t know Santa and won’t let anyone on without a ticket. Our group reassembles at the bus stop and waits grumpily for Santa to join us and get us on the next bus, which is about a 30 minute wait. It’s raining again and no one wants to walk a mile back to town. We are hungry and damp and a bit mutinous but there aren’t a lot of options.

Finally our chariot arrives and we slog into seats and doze back to the town. Everyone hares off in different directions. The Connecticut faction is looking for the oldest pub in town. The sisters meander off the main drag. I drag Les in the opposite direction because my mood isn’t great and I need food and no distractions. We duck into a café that luckily serves “afternoon tea for one” with a nice selection of sandwiches and meat pies for those otherwise inclined. Hot milky tea and a ginormous scone with Devonshire cream and jam go a long way to lifting my mood. In good spirits we return to our lodging.

Dinner is early and on the far side of town at the Royal Shakespeare Company. The good news is they are willing to open up and serve us dinner. The bad news is that the company is on break and there will be no behind the scenes tour or performance. The weather, which has been mizzling on and off all day, morphs into a driving rain. We huddle in the doorway and await admittance. Santa entertains us with more stories, namedrops Judi Dench and does a little soft shoe to accompany a vaudeville song. The mutinous spirit returns but just in time we are let in, ushered past the gift shop which remains closed, and seated upstairs in a nice restaurant with a great view of the river being bombarded with buckets of rain. Dinner is not amazing:

The starter is a “fish cake” topped with a poached egg and hollandaise sauce over a frisee. It’s fried, crunchy and not terrible.

The entrée is pasta primavera. Long fettucine noodles, a few overcooked vegetables, greasy cream sauce, unspiced and very little flavor. These people don’t use garlic.

Dessert is a big finish – coffee mousse in a bitter chocolate cup topped with a baked merengue and a chocolate straw. There is unidentified greenery draped artistically over the plate. But it’s very tasty and coma inducing and almost makes up for the pasta.

I finish my meal with a cup of terrible tea that’s been polluted with coffee. Blech.

Stratford, I expected better.

We set off into the downpour to a local theater and see a well reviewed (but not very uplifting) play. (Neville’s Island if you are interested; there is a movie; I don’t recommend) The sky is clear when we leave and the walk back to the hotel is uneventful. We sleep.

A modern addition to Anne Hathaway’s cottage

An herbaceous border (another literary mystery solved!)

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Day 6/3 – Oxford

Today we boarded a coach and headed to Oxford. I’ve heard so much about Oxford. Dorothy Sayers, some television shows, a few movies….the phrase “the dreaming spires of Oxford” floats in my brain. Turns out it’s a town, a market city, and a bunch of colleges. There is no “Oxford College” There is Magdalen and Balliol and Bracenose and a whole host of others.

We admire stone buildings, manicured lawns, many gargoyles and statues. There are gangs of students in academic dress because it’s exams week. Exams are given to freshmen and seniors and I guess the middle years are taken on faith that you’re learning something. The students are garbed in “sub-fusc” (I’ve read that phrase and now I’ve seen it!). There are lots of bicycles and deadly silent electrical scooters. It’s all very dense and very busy.

The streets are actual cobblestone – river rock laid out in a slippery pattern that would be lethal in heels. Other areas have “Victorian commercial cobbles” which are more like what I’ve seen in America. In any event, walking is a bit tricky – you have to watch for traffic and try not to turn an ankle at the same time.

Our guide looks like Santa Claus and is filled with anecdotes about his life at Oxford as a student and his adventures as a Morris dancer and his various odd jobs involving coeds and film stars. He sounds like a Person of Great Importance, but I’m not yet convinced that he is. He IS entertaining, which is helpful in a guide, but light on facts, which is not.

Arch designed by Christopher Wrenn; me in my mathematical hat (wait for it)

The Bodleian Library is beautiful and historical and shut down because of exams. It seems to function a bit like the Library of Congress – it receives copies of all published books. I wish I had looked up the cataloging scheme for the British Library System – surely they don’t use LoC? I can’t get to the stacks to find out. (Post trip note – they switched over to LoC recently. Would love to know more about that.)

The tour people are sorting out. There is one who told me that without a hair dryer in her room her hair “dries like yours” which I’m pretty sure is not a compliment. I quite like the sisters – one is a retired science teacher and the other a retired nurse. One lives in Seattle and the other in Phoenix. They are liberal of mind and quite entertaining.

We have a cluster from Connecticut and two ladies from Fresno. Hair comment lady told me there were too many people from California for her taste and that her home city of Pittsburgh has quite temperate weather and it’s one of the best places to live in the U.S. I’m not going to challenge her belief. We Californians know temperate weather and Pittsburgh ain’t it.

It is hot, SO HOT and we weren’t expecting this heat. Santa leads us on a forced march through covered markets, down narrow roads, up the main drag and barely stops for a breath. We end up at Magadelen college and I see actual punters on the river. Cross off another literary reference for Debbie.

The college is a feast for the eyes and it’s not hard to imagine legions of students laying out on the grass, drinking lemonade in the canteen, checking in at the gate. If only I had some water, it would be perfect.

The group splits up at that point for an hour or so of Oxford exploration. I really wish I could visit the Ashmoleon Museum which has a pre-Raphaelite exhibit going on, but the thought of trekking all the way across town in the heat for a quick in and out defeats me. We follow our tour guide back up the main road and I am distracted by an air conditioned gift shop. And here’s where some Oxford magic takes place. As I’m checking out, the sales clerk is squinting and peering at me. She abruptly asks me:

“What is ‘B’”

“B?”

“B”

I realize she is referring to my hat.

“’B’ means ‘Be’”

“What does it refer to?”

“Be better than average” – I point to the explanation printed under the mathematical equation (take THAT V&A)

“OH!” she explodes into laughter “It’s a meme!! I’m a maths student and I was trying to work it out!!”

Only in Oxford.

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Day 5/2

We have been away from home for five days but it’s Day 2 of our Road Scholar experience. Does that make sense to anyone but me?

It seemed like the best choice of some terrible options

I will begin with last night’s dinner – which was honestly appalling. It’s my own fault for ordering it, but I so wanted flavor don’t you know….

The item in question was a “Korean Chicken Burger” – and it consisted of a chilly whole wheat bun (I promptly discarded the top half), a cascade of brown gravy with a mild brown curry tang, some cooked onion strips, some chilli jam and a lightly breaded chicken breast.

The chicken was oh so dry which maybe explained the curry flood. The flavors….well, point 1 is that there were flavors. Point 2 for the not unpleasant presence of cooked onions. Minus 1 for a very dull butter knife that sent chunks of chicken and bun skittering across the plate. Plus 3 for actual American catsup for the chips. Plus 1 that I didn’t get terrible indigestion. Plus 1 more for the entertainment value.

In all fairness I wanted fish and chips but the pub was out (Royal Ascot week). My sandwich was weird. It was fusion. I was an American eating a millenial brown gooey mess with a knife and fork.

Travel broadens the palate.

I’ve read a lot of Britain-set mysteries and at least one character always refers to an historic home as a “pile” as in “Yes, it’s the family pile”. I decide that Windsor Castle is a splendid pile. It has satisfying round turrets, double wall defenses, sturdy architecture. Not a lot of embellishment. It is lovely and tidy and if you have to live in a castle…it’s not a bad choice. Our local guide is a knowledgeable gent named Mike and he keeps us entertained as we wait in line to enter.

(BTW, this is my travel journal, not a compendium of history, so what you’ll read from here on out are my impressions. Check the interweb if you want facts. I’m on vacation.)

Named for the dearly departed husband of Queen Victoria

Henry VIII lived here as did some of his wives and children. He’s buried with his third wife in St. George’s. The current Queen will likely join her parents and grandparents there. It’s all quite civilized; living near your final resting place among the ancestors.

I’m very amused by the knitted/crocheted tableau atop the post office box. It depicts her majesty on a throne, her majesty in riding garb with a horse, a scepter, a tiny crocheted tea set and a few corgis. It is ridiculous and hand crafted and quite satisfying to see.

We witness the changing of the guard – it’s the Irish Guards this week – and I let Les jockey for position to get photos while I take a break in the shade. I can’t imagine standing around in wool uniforms in the blazing sun. They are disciplined and they carry modern weaponry over their shoulders. I think the castle is pretty well defended. The new guard is announced with a marching band that gathers in formation and plays a selection of music. They’re all in the sun and I’m drooping in the shade. I hope Les is getting good pics.

After this we queue up to see the state departments and we are no sooner inside than I see a cafe sign and peel off in search of water. It feels good to sit for a bit in a cool room. Our guide winks at us as he sits down with a coffee and snack. Refreshed, we head up the stairs.

The state departments are sumptuous and grand – lots of gilt and ornamentation and a few astonishingly preserved old masters. The colors are deep and well lit; they glow like they were painted yesterday. I’m beginning to pick out symbolism and note postures and garments (all tell a tale). There is a portrait of a previous queen holding a lamb. She looks very motherly. The lamb is the size of a Maine Coon cat. I am entertained.

We find a little Greek restaurant down the street from the castle and have a tasty lunch and a beer. It’s hot, but there’s a tiny breeze from the river. After, we trek back up the hill and get some souvenirs – postcards, a Jubilee tea towel, stamps, some British money from an ATM. We then decide to trek down a side street in hopes of some interesting local sites on the way back to our hotel. There are a number of backyards, garages, a park….no sign of High Street….oh dear….hot, so hot. After many, many steps we find the right road and exit into the hotel for some packing. Tonight is a no host dinner at the Duchess of Cambridge pub and tomorrow we leave for Stratford on Avon.

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Day 4, Meetup Day

Today is “on the move” day. We have an arduous journey to Windsor that involves a tube ride, transfer to a train, transfer to another train and a walk. Oy.

Our bags are packed, mostly and we’ve managed to fit coats and jackets into the nooks and crannies. My hat finally showed up. My cane is fully extended. I ate half a coffee/chocolate bar and my burgeoning caffeine headache is at bay. We ate yogurt and granola bars for breakfast.

The plan is to leave the luggage at the hotel, bus to the British Museum, visit the Elgin Marbles and meet my London compatriot. Following that we’ll return for luggage and begin our multi-step journey to Windsor. I’m wearing a knee brace. Wish us luck!!

There comes a point in every vacation when you run out of steam and tolerance and just hate where you are and what you’re doing. Turns out that “on the move” day coincides with me kind of hating the world.

The British Museum is hella crowded and with a long security line, crammed with tourists and schoolkids and essentially it’s a zoo. We find the Elgin Marbles, which continue to thrill me (although it was more lovely the last time when hardly anyone was in attendance and I had the hall to myself). My husband is thoughtfully taking photographs. Of each marble. Every marble. Multiple exposures. He is in heaven. Deep heavy sigh. I open my Kindle app and start reading.

45 minutes later it’s time to meet up with my London cohort who buys us a coffee and tea and chats with us for just over an hour. He is a lovely man and this is a pleasant interlude. I’m really glad we took the time to meet him.

He heads back to the office and Les heads back to the Elgin Marbles to finish his photography project and I find a bathroom and a bench and resume my book. So. Crowded. Very. Warm.

I dig out a Kind bar to tide me over while waiting. We regroup and discuss lunch options. I’m hot and hungry, my knee is killing me, and I’m bored. It’s a lethal combination. We can’t agree on a lunch plan so head back to our hotel to collect luggage and begin the journey to Windsor.

It’s tedious – we have one big suitcase, one little suitcase, one carry on bag, Les’ 30 pound camera backpack and my backpack. We take the lift to the right level for our train, haul everything across the gap and stand, swaying while the car fills up and up…..exit and backtrack to find another lift, another train, exit at Paddington and trek a long, long way to the main station.

We wait in line to buy tickets for Windsor and snag a couple of meat pies and some water for lunch. We’re not sure which train is the ‘right’ train and then I think I see it. We can’t agree, there’s no signage, Les backtracks, we start hustling and the doors close in our faces. We are left on the platform with our luggage, our pasties and thoroughly bad tempers.

There is nowhere to sit while we wait for the next train. I think there’s another option on a different platform but it is decided that we’ll wait for the train we know. We finally board and are in a car with a very young child who is playing a screaming game with mommy’s best friend. Screaming game morphs into a running game. The child careens down the car, bounces off a stranger, and hurtles back. Repeatedly. Les and I are united in our dislike for the situation and the game in which the child slaps the friend, who laughs hysterically every time a blow lands. We are old. We are crotchety. We are not amused.

The train drops us at a little station in Slough (pronounced sluff). We are directed up a lift but then face a choice of tracks. I direct Les to figure out which one is the correct track and wouldn’t you know that our train puffs off just as I get onto the platform. Another 20-30 minute wait. It’s hot. We are drenched in sweat and thoroughly dehydrated. We have little to say to each other.

Finally we board a tiny little train that puffs into Windsor. I think it’s like 90 degrees when we arrive around 5:15 and our program orientation starts at 5:30. We haul the luggage out to High Street and finally make the correct turn to get to the hotel.

We follow an extremely well-dressed couple inside – he’s wearing a splendid outfit that I think is a morning suit, and she’s decked out in a floral chiffon dress and fascinator. They head for the bar and she says “I think I’ll spend a penny first” as she disappears into a loo. First time I’ve heard that outside of a book and I’m delighted.

The main floor has multiple stairs and no elevator to the lobby so we bump and drag our luggage to a really hot reception area and receive our keys and directions to go down a flight of stairs, cross the parking lot to another building and our tour orientation is in there. This building also has stairs and no elevator but fire knee and I persist and we take the last two chairs.

We’re the last ones to arrive at the orientation and we droop in our chairs slurping water while introductions are made. But at least we are here. The group seems pretty nice (we might be the youngest people at the table) and there are 2 other librarians, 3 nurses, a semi-retired physician and some teachers. Most people have gone on multiple Road Scholar journeys and know the drill. We get “whisperers” and directions to dinner which starts in an hour.

Upstairs, our bags have arrived, and we get settled. The room is quite comfortable, and the bathroom is bigger than a postage stamp, which is nice. The group dinner is fun – we are a congenial group – and the only confusion is who ordered what. If people don’t figure this out, then it’s going to be a long trip of “Did I order that? What did I order?” My fish and chips are quite tasty and the Guinness goes down smoothly.

After, most of us head outside for a brief guided walk to Eton. This also serves as our “whisperer” training. The sun is setting and the sky is golden. There are very few people around as we wend our way down the hill and across the river. Eton seems to be a nice campus with ancient buildings and our guide points out the school uniform and sporting goods shops that line the road. It feels good to be walking. Tomorrow we storm the castle!

I regret not popping in to see this exhibit

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On the road

Day 1

I am in a tiny London hotel room, not much bigger than the infamous Hotel Metropole where Vickie and I stayed a hundred years ago when we were on our Catalina adventure. You can’t quite touch both walls at once, but the suitcases and jackets require wrangling. The chair barely fits my butt, the pillows are wafer thin and the bathroom is best enjoyed with an open door.

We are weary, jet lagged and not quite able to believe we made it. Our 10.5 hour flight was mostly sleepless and mostly uneventful. I broke up a gang of passengers who were looting the mid-cabin galley for liquor. The air stewards were pretty dismissive when I mentioned it to them but one of them decided to check out the crime tip and then there were reinforcements hustling up the aisle. Much later I got a grateful thank you for bringing it to their attention. My fantasy is that they will upgrade me to business class for the flight home. (They do not)

For a wonder we packed early so there was a minimum of last minute drama and crisis. Everything fit and I don’t think we forgot anything. Of course, one of us was feeling his feelings, but we made it onto the plane, and later we got through the endless halls of Heathrow and onto the right train to London.

The Heathrow express dropped us at Paddington where we caught the Circle Line to San Pancras/Kings Cross. Then an exhausting bumpy walk to our lodgings. They are not luxurious but should do for a start.

The latest jet lag wisdom is to nap for 30 minutes and then get on local time. We manage the nap and find a neighborhood bistro for some much needed food. I have a delicious egg with salmon and hollandaise and start to feel human. The eggs are that peculiar bright orange that one finds in the UK but since I’ve seen this before, it doesn’t quease me out. My tea is hot and strong, milky and sweet and my consciousness comes back.

The streets around here are filthy – it’s a well used neighborhood. There’s grime, trash and homeless people. A polyglot of cultures. A street preacher reminds us that God loves us and some Muslims line up for prayer. A Hassidic couple with baby check both ways before crossing the street. Suitcases are everywhere because this is a great crossing place in London and people have places to go.

We pause at the Black Sheep coffee house and I see “brown cheese with jam” on the menu…is this the trip where I finally try brown cheese? (It is not).

Day 1 – we made it, we have lodging and caffeine, we are good to go. Adventures await!

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Migraine city

Some day I’ll write about my migraine journey – it’s been a hoot, let me tell you. But today I wanted to talk about my current migraine. My current painful migraine. I haven’t had pain like this in…years.

In a few weeks I’m having a medical procedure that requires me to go off all anti inflammatories for two weeks prior and 8 weeks after. So of course my head decided to play games and as I was working on Tuesday I felt my brain flip over. That’s the only way I can describe it. I was sitting in a chair and my brain flipped. There was a brief moment of vertigo and I felt a bit lightheaded and I knew that the migraine was on its way (I’m very familiar with this phenomenon so I know it wasn’t a stroke or an aneurism or anything)

I went to my first line defense: Relpax. Swallowed it and went back to work. It seemed to be working – the pain didn’t progress by much and I was still able to concentrate. I cut out of work a bit early and rested a bit, babied myself, felt the pain grow….dug out some peppermint tea to drink with honey (an old, old tactic suggested to me by a chiropractor back in the dark ages)….had some chamomile and valerian to help myself sleep. Hoped it would diminish by morning.

It did not. My migraines are generally less intense after a night’s sleep, then the pain builds as the day wears on. This was my Wednesday. I took a few tylenol, drank more tea, started pounding water to make sure I was hydrated, got a neck rub, did some yoga, dug out the essential oils…the pain continued to build and grow. I managed to join the evening dog walk but it was slow going and I had a very light dinner. Sleep was painful – I’d nod off and the pain would wake me up.

I seriously considered taking Thursday off to rest, but I had a lot of work to do and I wanted a distraction from the pain. At this point it was sharp, all encompassing – like a tight iron cap over my head with tiny thumbtacks poking into my skull. I put an ice pack on my head, drank some strong black tea and tried some biofeedback. (40 years of migraines has given me a lot of pain mitigating options.) Mid morning I asked my hubby to source some Hot and Sour Soup. This is another remedy (possibly folklore) for migraine management. The story goes that a man noticed his wife’s headaches got better when she ate spicy food so he brought it to his doctor’s attention and it made the news. Dr. Google tells me that studies have shown that capsaicin is effective in pain management AND that spicy foods can trigger migraines. Such is the way.

Two ineffective drug and three ineffective non drug interventions. Or maybe this would be much, much worse if I’d done nothing.

I had some spicy soup for lunch and felt better for 90 minutes, then the pain returned. Took a couple of non-NSAID pain pills that haven’t touched the pain. So much for that. Sigh.

So Why am I sharing this? What’s the point?

This is not a plea for pity or understanding, it’s my way of grounding myself during a trying week. If you’ve ever wondered about migraines, maybe this will help you understand the sufferers in your life. If not, aren’t you glad you don’t get them?!

So, what have I figured out about migraines this week? I’ve had to cut pain medications in the past for various reasons and I am always reminded that even though I feel like the meds aren’t doing much to treat my headaches, they ARE actually helping because there is reduced pain with medication. Going without reminds me that what I’ve been doing works pretty well.

I am amused at myself because while I know that exercise, stretches, ice, regular sleep schedules etc. will help my migraine life, I get lazy and careless and don’t do them regularly. And then when I don’t have the crutch of pain meds, I go back to the tactics that served me in the past. They may not be terrifically effective, but at least I feel like I’m doing something to help myself. They distract me. And the cat and I had a nice floor interaction when I was yoga-ing.

I always fought through my headaches and do my best not to become an invalid. I would say most of my friends have seen me in the midst of a migraine and not noticed the difference. As much as I can, I want my life to be about more than pain, more than sympathy, more than this condition. It’s my own business.

Chronic migraines – they’ve been a life journey. I’ve tried many therapies and talked to a lot of people who have the solution. My observation is that the cause is complex and combinatory and sometimes I can have a little citrus and cheese but most of the time that’s a ticket to Pain Central. I won’t even FLIRT with dark chocolate and red wine – the reward can’t begin to compensate for the damages.

Curious to see where this one goes and how long it will last. Time for another mug of peppermint tea with honey. And I give myself permission to take a sick day if I need one to kick this pain to the curb.

Day 4 – pain is better and I had a few hours of energy and a clear head. And now it’s back. Hoping it breaks by the weekend.

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New Normal

I am beyond tired of this pesky pandemic.

I am tired of masks. Tired of surveilling my surroundings at all times to make sure I’m not getting too close to others in the vicinity.

Tired of my judgey brain when a shopping cart barrels by, narrowly missing my hip.

Weary. I am weary.

So, I got one of my deepest desires – I am working from home and no longer face that miserable commute to Westwood every day.

But my neck is still tight and my sciatica still flares and I’m taking my 2.5 hours of reclaimed time to sleep and play video games on my phone.

So much for the dream.

In fairness, 2020 has been unkind. Some of us are just starting to notice social injustice, with millions of people risking their lives to protest the murders of unarmed people of color. Social and traditional media are more polarized than ever. Since we can’t hash things out in person we are lighting up the Twitterverse/Instaworld/Facebackward with memes and inflammatory posts. People have revealed themselves in surprising ways – or is it that now we have time to pay attention to how they’ve always been? And that may not square with my personal beliefs.

When I look back at this year, what will I see? I think I’ll see layers peeling off and truth exposing the lies. I will think about my failings as a friend and family member and note that my pandemic priorities have shifted. 2020 is the year that I’ve made a significant effort to be with my mom. In that sense, it’s a bonus year because everyone (including mom) thought she’d never live to 91. But she has and her needs have shifted. (My sister still carries the primary load, and I’ve done my best to support her in that endeavor which means miles on my Honda going from the SFV to Riverside County)

2020 is the year I’ve seen my husband at work – his job – and it’s been eye opening to witness his process. I don’t mean that in a bad way. The ways in which he interacts with me are not that different than the way he interacts with others. I’ve come to realize that he’s someone who works best in what I consider a chaotic and overwhelming pile of paper. We’ve struggled with this for years in our home life and I truly now understand that this is integral to his personality and I need flow with it or be forever in a state of fury.

I’ve discovered that some of my friends need to be checked on and other are great at checking on me. We’ve had to work at our relationships this year and figure out the core. The activities and busy-ness that we took for granted are unavailable, so the core values and commonalities rise to the top. We are going deeper and increasing intimacy. I do not find this altogether comfortable but it’s a journey I’m willing to take.

Most of all, 2020 has been a year when I’ve learned to let go. I choose my battles and realize that standing my ground over trivialities is wasted energy.

Who do I want to be in the future? I’ve always gotten through today by looking to the future – making plans, scheduling trips, postponing a cookie today for a chocolate sundae next week. But now, surrounded by NOW, I ask myself, what do I want?

I had vague plans for retirement and used those to endure my current situation. But I see that retirement and the rest of my life is less about activity and more about who I am. I don’t want to argue people about politics. I don’t want friction because something that should have been filed is buried in a book. I want a warm comfortable home that suits me. I want room to grow and blossom – and there is no reason those things can’t start now.

2020 is a watershed year, and as the commercial says “let’s not go back to the way things were.” It would be a shame if we canceled 2020 and went right back to careless consumption, unvarnished racism and the push pull between what’s right and wrong. Surely there is a way for us all. Surely we don’t need to double down on issues. Surely we can look at the person behind the mask and at the person who refuses to wear a mask. The change is upon us and we’ve had months to prepare.

Time to get to work.

11/20

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Judge-y

It is so easy to be judgy when you have no skin in the game. Easy to have scruples, follow the rules, sit in judgement of decisions that someone else has made.

She is our fifth corgi, rescued from a neglectful family. We call her our “feral one” because she was a yard dog who escaped an coyote attack

And then, if you are lucky, you find yourself in a parallel situation and suddenly life and death decisions have to be made in the blink of an eye.

And then, you get to sit in judgement of your own decisions, your own choices, your own outcomes.

“Never judge lest you be judged” said Matthew in his book. And yet, humans do. I do. My brain runs in all kinds of judgement. I try to keep it to myself but I know it leaks out.

For years, YEARS, I have judged pet owners. When I am waiting at the PT place with my dog Fiona I see dogs in slings, dogs in carts, paralyzed dogs, injured dogs, owners of every stripe and kind. I look at the aged German Shephard dangling from a sling and think “oh, put that poor dog out of its misery.” I assumed that a damaged dog was better off dead. What was the quality of life for for an aging, disabled pet?

In the blink of an eye, I faced that decision. My 12 year old corgi, whose been getting physical therapy for at least two years, lost control of her hindquarters and couldn’t stand. She tripped coming into the house and her legs slipped to the left while she drank some water. In an instant we had to decide on a course of action.

Our vet was overbooked and the PT place was closed “due to Covid” and, with Fiona on ice, we started typing and texting whoever we could. One of our former vets got back to us and told us the first 24 hours is critical and we should take her to one of three hospitals for a workup.

We hung out in the car while our little girl was taken inside by a stranger.

The first hospital had a broken MRI machine. We went to a second hospital and waited over an hour in their parking lot, perspiring, filled with nervous energy and a very quiet corgi. Another stranger reached for our pup and we gently removed her harness and collar. Then we waited.

They recommended an MRI in the morning immediately followed by surgery if, as expected, the scan showed a disk problem. And there was our stake – had we just said goodbye to Fiona and let a stranger take her into a foreign building, never to be seen again? What if she needed surgery? We were on the cusp of becoming the people who spend extravagant amounts on our aging dog.

We are a frugal family and can afford to pay a large vet bill without going into debt. So money was not at the root of the decision. But our values were front and center. What kind of animal parents are we? Would the surgery afford Fiona a good quality of life? Or would she be on pain meds and steroids for a few years before dying. How willing are we to roll the dice with her life?

She passed an uneventful night and the MRI started around noon. Then the call “As we expected, her disk is damaged and is putting pressure on the spinal nerve. We also found a large cyst on her bladder. There’s no way to tell if it’s cancerous and she might have had it since birth so we think it should be left alone. Do you want us to do the spinal surgery?”

An agony of decisions. My husband texted Fiona’s rehab veterinarian. I listened numbly to the neurosurgeon’s prognoses – 50-50 chance of regaining 80% of her mobility. Rehab Vet was cautiously optimistic and that Fiona might “walk like a drunk, but have a good quality of life.” What to do?

If we had learned of the cyst because of bathroom issues, we wouldn’t have operated. Our feeling has always been “no heroic measures.” We wouldn’t consent to abdominal surgery – at 12 we’d feel she’d had a good life and we’d let her go when she showed signs of distress.

But this had happened in an instant – and it’s an insidious slope. We looked at each other, eyes pleading for a decision. “Go ahead,” I said. “Do the operation. Be careful.”

The surgeon signed off and I asked the question “How will we feel if she’s crippled and needs a sling? How will we feel about owning a damaged dog? What if she’s in pain for the rest of her life?”

There’s the crux of it. The nub. Is a damaged dog worth less? Is our love for Fiona predicated on her being healthy and whole? If we put her down, would it be for our sake or for hers?

It’s such a personal decision. Les threw himself into work and emails from Rehab Doctor. I texted my animal parent friends who were carefully supportive – whatever decision we made would be the right one. The day was emotionally exhausting and part of me had already said goodbye to my little feral friend while part of me magically hoped she’d be cured with no aftereffects.

I woke up the next morning realizing that for better or worse, our life with Fiona is forever changed. We’ve taken a sharp turn to the left and her new normal will be different. Her new normal will be more PT and slower walks. No more drag races around the living room. I’ll look carefully before I get up because she’s been wrapped around my ankles since I started working from home. The cat will have to direct his restless energy elsewhere.

She’ll be our “Frankencorgi” this Halloween

But our sweet girl….the one who endured a horrendous first year, who survived a coyote attack and knew Owain, who knew Jeeves, our first corgi. When she’s gone our last link to our perfect gentleman will be gone too which brings a new type of mourning.

I wrote: “if you are lucky, you find yourself in a parallel situation and suddenly life and death decisions have to be made in the blink of an eye.”

Yes, lucky. Self awareness and empathy are never bad and life is better if you learn those lessons early. I have hope. I now have experience and hopefully more empathy for friends who have to weigh the cost and benefit of expensive veterinary care. Next time I’m at the Rehab Center, I’ll have new eyes for the other patients and their humans.

So yes, lucky.

Update: Fiona’s first day post surgery is promising! She has movement in her hind legs and sensation in her toes. They are replacing IV pain meds (I wonder if she had a self administration pump?) for a fentanyl patch. She should be able to come home in a few days. I’m breathing again.

Another Update: She’s home and on bed rest but her pain is being managed and she seems happy to be with us. Her little stump wriggles furiously when we lean over her crate for a word and a pet. She can eliminate with assistance and her appetite is voracious. We are all breathing.

She and I have been bonded since the day I rescued her from the Gulag in Newhall. My sweet precious Fiona.

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Blech, Change

I recently joined a service organization, was asked to serve as Treasurer, and agreed, which probably wasn’t a good idea.

But that’s not the subject of this post.

When I agreed, it was with the understanding that the group had a certain way of doing their books and they wanted to fully leverage their QuickBooks investment. There were several years of transactions in the system and it was up to date, but reports were still being copied into Excel. The Board didn’t care for the way the Excel sheets were formatted and wanted a better presentation of current and past expenditures.

I agreed, for many many reasons (which are not the subject of this post) and spent over 100 hours learning to use QuickBooks, tracking down accounts and procedures for accepting money/recording money/writing checks etc etc. Thank goodness I had a mentor! My first report to the Board, based on emails and random Excel spreadsheets was an unmitigated disaster.

I pulled my grown up panties on and kept going. I made good progress. I began to understand basic accounting principles like income and expenditure and accounts and subaccounts. I saw the relationship between subcategories of income and subcategories of donations. It began to fall into place. I felt good. My mentor felt good. I generated a financial report at the next Board meeting and it was another unmitigated disaster. There was loud outrage and pushback. They wanted their spreadsheets!

I had a solid alcoholic drink and regrouped. I set a meeting for my Budget Committee to discuss the situation and get some answers to outstanding questions I had about how some of the deposits. All went swimmingly until we got to the report. Lots of noise. There may have been some shouting. A standoff ensued of “we want our spreadsheets” vs “I’m not keeping two sets of books for you ladies.” That devolved into “If you really want spreadsheets, then you need to find a replacement.” I admit, I secretly hoped they would replace me (I’d already written a letter of resignation and it’s a beaut).

To close this out – cooler heads prevailed and the old guard started to listen and realized that everything on their beloved spreadsheets was in the new report – it just looked different! The decision was made to carry on because change is inevitable. The organization needs to modernize and take their money seriously and having multiple versions does not serve that end. As the new kid on the block, I was frustrated and annoyed and ready to chuck it all and have another drink. But for now I’m going to forge ahead.

Meanwhile, at work, I was trying to help out a local staffer who got some information from one of my colleagues, who is new, and still learning the ropes. I was inwardly indignant and snarky that the new person hadn’t followed the procedures and there were missing pieces, her work hadn’t been documented and I essentially had to start over to get my person on the road. Then I slid off my high horse and laughed at the universe for showing me both sides of the equation.

I’ve been in my job since 2011 and, honestly, it took me 2 years to figure out our convoluted processes and filing systems. I’ve been raked over the coals for not knowing something and my boss has said, thoughtfully, “I realize you don’t know this, but I don’t know how you would know you don’t know this” (Because you don’t know what you don’t know).

I understand the systems now and I’ve paid dearly for that knowledge, so changing anything up is not a pleasant prospect for me. I think of how things were and how they are now and I assume the process is so easy everyone can do it. But they’re not. Things still aren’t streamlined, and there is a steep learning curve for anyone coming on board. But I digress.

Change is hard! Learning is hard! Our brains find shortcuts and soon we’re on autopilot and we cruise along thinking we’re following the same set of rules, but we’re not; not really. We’re human and we all want things done the way we want them done.

And for many, the reaction to change, is resistance. Change is threatening. Change is different. We don’t want to put ourselves out, other people have to accomodate us. We forget that change is a constant and refusal to adapt results in others bypassing us and soon we are all alone while the world goes whizzing by.

I remember how hard it was to learn my job. I remember deciding that my purpose there is to be compassionate and empathetic to my coworkers, or as I phrase it “to be a calm and steadying influence in the workplace.” That means keeping my snark to myself.

And in my new organization, I’ve been there less than a year (oh, why did they ask me and why why why did I say yes?) I bring a fresh eye to their process and mad organizational and project management skilz to the table. There will be adjustments on both sides, no doubt. Both sides need to move.

Meanwhile, the world goes on and we’re looking at all kinds of external change. I recommend you take a deep breath, exhale, and figure out your bottom line. Then find alignment and a way through. Life isn’t going to stop while you’re screaming about the new.

/dsh

9/16/20

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Cancer cookies

I’ve been baking cookies.

Oatmeal raisin, molasses, espresso chocolate chip, brownies, blondies.

Some of this is anxiety baking – I’m so tired of being cooped up while a pandemic rages outside. I ask myself if it’s worth getting Covid over a box of stale cookies, and it isn’t. So I bake for myself and my carb-avoiding husband is also stressed out because he’s snacking too. The pre-pandemic cycle of denial and rules has been fractured. Every other week I bake my feelings and we stretch out the results.

Early in the quarantine, I did some Covid crafting and made tie-dye items for a friend. I delivered them with a dozen oatmeal raisin cookies. She loved the items and her family loved the cookies. Then her mom got sick and wasn’t eating. I delivered a few dozen espresso chocolate chip cookies without nuts because her mom couldn’t handle the chewiness and abrasiveness of walnuts. Those were well received. Her mom has good days and bad days and last week was not so good. I offered more cookies to tempt the appetite. I gave her a choice of Snickerdoodles or Lemon Bars. Her eyes lit up and she eagerly asked for Snickerdoodles.

I stood in my hot summer kitchen packing dough into balls that would be rolled in cinnamon sugar and felt the supreme satisfaction of taking simple ingredients and creating deliciousness. There is something about cooking for people, even people you haven’t met, that warms the soul. The time I used to spend on the road, at work, shopping, dining out, distracting myself from my emotions and body pains can now be used to plan and cook healthful meals. I can do a yoga workout at lunchtime or spend it reading with the cat. Time feels more elastic and forgiving.

My mind and thoughts however, are not.

I am a caretaker by nature and I want to heal the world with neck massages, comiserating chats and baked goods. I don’t really have an outlet for that right now and I worry that I’ve become the crazy cat loving touchy feely sugar dealer who thrusts unwanted home crafted tchochkes and indifferent baked goods on people who are too nice to say no thank you. (That’s not really true; the cookies are outstanding but everyone’s taste is different and maybe you don’t want my particular brand of oatmeal raisin) [I know this is psychosis]

I ask my husband if I’m overdoing it out of a deep rooted sense of insecurity or if I’m just an amazing caring friend. Is this my ego, I wonder. Or is this my manipulative nature – I’m not baking these for US (as if that’s a bad thing) I’m baking for my friend’s MOM. She’s the recipient of the bounty. You can’t complain about unnecessary snacks when they are cancer cookies.

In the end, I’m going to do what my heart tells me to do. I have friends who can’t get my healing back rubs, silly jokes or nourishing food right now. I wish I could bake for all of them, near and far. Some day I will be in need of cookies or companionship or compassion and I believe that my deeds will circle back around.

The Snick’s were a huge success….mom said she hadn’t had them since she was a girl. I had one with my tea this morning. It was gently crunchy, buttery and not too sweet. A nugget of love, baked with caring, seasoned with kindness.

/dsh; 8/10/20

#Winning

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We are halfway through the summer and the pandemic continues. Still mostly confined to home, wearing masks, ordering takeout twice a week to support small local businesses. Am I winning the pandemic? Time to take stock.

Sun ripened organic figs are a joy each summer

I am extraordinarily fortunate to have a job that lets me work from home and acutely aware that not everyone has that. So I practice gratitude for the petty annoyances via email and chat. I roll my neck as I boot up a program that I’ll use for the next hour to download data for a project. I bite my tongue when the team comes back and changes the parameters and I have to redo that work. Job? Definitely in the positive column.

I’m also fortunate to live in a nice home with multiple places to isolate. We are getting through some home tasks that have been put off for years – cleaning out closets, shredding papers, re-stucco-ing the outside. My bed is comfy and I have a few places to stretch out and read or watch TV. Home situation? Positive.

I’m not by myself – I’m married and still interacting with my spouse (I’ve heard STORIES). Tempers are a bit short and patience is something we have to dig for. But we’re civil and of like mind. He’s been heroic in taking on the job of getting supplies and interacting with the public. I’ve prepared nutritious and usually delicious meals for us and planned 3 meals a day, every day, since the quarantine began. Marriage? Positive

But there are things that haven’t happened and they overtake me in random moments making me want to rage or stomp or tantrum. Like, where is the #justiceforbreonnataylor? Why haven’t I lost 10 pounds? Why is my bicycle still lost amid clutter in the garage? Where is our vegetable garden? Why am I not meditating/stretching/excercising/praying/learning/sewing/writing in my newly found free hours that used to be spent on the 405? Where are my new crafting skills? That nuno felting kit is still unopened. I should have finished double the number of scarves for soldiers in this time. Why, oh why am I still getting migraines when I should be feeling amazing now that I am getting sufficient sleep and time to rest?

As my best friend says – there are days when we are “digging deep” to get out of the funk. And we are angry that we still need to dig deep when we should be grateful for our blessings.

I miss my friends. I miss the scent of suntan lotion mixed with grainy sand and an ocean breeze. I miss hanging on a patio drinking craft cocktails. I miss chicken wings and garlic toast.

I have a physician who gently questioned me about my mental state and asked me what I missed. I appreciate his concern and I get what he was trying to do. But there are no substitutes for lunch with my 90 year old mom. Zoom calls are difficult when one of you is mostly blind and partially deaf. We sort of expected this to be her last year, but what a way to live your last year – under lock and key with very little interaction.

Digging – My cat is a joy and entertainment all in one. He is thriving with the extra attention and the freedom to roam the house. The corgis snooze nearby, generating fur drifts that gather in the corners.

Deep – The fig tree is loaded, and figs are ripening a few at a time. Cherry tomatoes are coming in and zucchini blossoms are bright yellow accents against green leaves. My church has amazing livestream services and small group sessions (#hopeshouse). Our neighbors have posted Black Lives Matter signs and drawn rainbows and hopscotch grids on the sidewalk. It’s summer and I’ve got boozy grapefruit popsicles in the freezer made with our own organic fruit.

I am indeed “digging deep.” Fortunately there is a flinty vein of positive gold in my character. And it shines.

7/29/20

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Anticipation

I read the Lord of The Rings trilogy in about a week.

I was in high school and started The Fellowship of the Ring over the weekend and read it off and on all week, finishing up on a Friday afternoon.

The story, which started a bit slowly for me, suddenly grabbed my imagination and I picked up The Two Towers and read early into Saturday morning. It fell from my nerveless fingers around midnight that night and I snatched up The Return of the King to read just a few chapters to see what happened next.

I spent Sunday in Middle Earth and finished the book after school on Monday. My brain felt three sizes too big for my skull. I took out my contacts to give my dry eyes a break. The only words in my brain were One ring to rule them all, one ring to bind them, one ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them. My imagination had been captured like never before, and I was dizzy from reading.

When I returned to my body I wondered why on earth I stayed up so late to finish the series. I had deprived myself of the lingering joy of a great story, rolling it over in my mind and thinking about the plot. I hadn’t savored the book. And looming ahead was….oops.

Well, looming ahead was The Hobbit and assigned reading for school and within a few months I received the trilogy as a gift and read them more slowly. But I’ll never forget the feeling of drowning in a book, falling in love with the characters, and letting myself run free in a different world.

That happened to me with with other books and I learned how terrible it can be to start a series, work through it, and then have to wait until the author publishes again. Torture! When the next book comes out the temptation is to devour it all at once, knowing that a yawning emptiness lies ahead when you turn the final page. The terrors of being a reader!!

I am in that situation now. My talented neighbor cowrote a book – The Royal We – five years ago and it was delightful. I bought it in hardcover and then as an ebook when “bonus content” was released. I’ve loaned it and read it and recommended it and loved it every single time. I thought perhaps there would be a sequel. Maybe. But I didn’t want to presume on our acquaintance.

My patience was REWARDED this week when, in exchange for a neighborly deed, she offered me an ADVANCED READING COPY of the sequel. Oh frabjous day! I never expected, I never thought, I was prepared to wait a few months and nab the book when everyone else did.

The book came with delicious chocolate chip cookies.

I finished the book I was reading. Checked the due dates on the others. Cleaned up my Kindle library and ate a cookie. Who was I kidding? Saturday night I cracked the spine and managed to close it before midnight. I’m not a teenager any more and can’t stay up reading all night. I’m about halfway through and debating picking it up again to see what happens next or moving onto something more useful, like cooking dinner.

I don’t know how she and her writing partner did it. The plot is so creative and so different than I expected. Pretty much nothing I predicted would happen has happened. It is more than a sequel that ties up loose ends from the first book. The characters are in a sprawling predicament, establishing new relationships and growing in new directions. I am delighted because the sequel is equally absorbing and interesting and engrossing as the original.

I will try not to finish all the good stuff immediately. Try not to end up fuzzy headed and distracted when I return to work tomorrow. Try not to deprive myself of all the deliciousness of a really satisfying book.

Then I’ll give it a day or so and reread the first book for the 5th time and reread the sequel for the second.

And maybe bake some cookies.

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Love/Hate

I have an adversarial relationship with my sewing machine. I can’t count the number of times bad things have happened:

the feed dogs suck fabric into the bobbin mechanism
the needle hits a pin and bends and starts hitting the bobbin case
fabric catches underneath and part of the shirt back gets sewed to the sleeve
the thread winder goes crazy and I end up with a big loop of thread poking through the bobbin
- then I have to decide if I should unwind and call it a loss or use it and see what happens
  - (I NEVER use it to see what happens because I know that would be a catastrophe)

Mr. White (he’s a White Blue Jeans machine) has a mind of his own most days, and oftener than not we do not align.

Still, I sew. I am a sucker for gorgeous fabrics, soft and liquid against my forearm. I fall in love with a store bought shirt that finally tatters and I can’t find a replacement so I buy a pattern. I am out of step with the beat of fashion and I think, “I could make this.” And then I buy a pattern and fabric and spend way too many hours pinning and cutting and then Mr. White gives me attitude and we break up.

And yet….I return.

What I’m good at:

–Home sewing – pillows, bolsters, curtains, drapes, duvet cover. I excel at at taking a three dimensional shape and figuring out how to cover it in fabric.

What brings me low:

–Anything with a pattern or precision including clothes, purses, and quilts. I once sewed a quilt patch for a charity quilt that was so misshapen they couldn’t use it.

(I took it apart and put it together maybe four times. The ladies were very kind and insisted I sign the finished quilt. I gave chair massages to everyone during the final push).

What has worked for me:

–As soon as things start going wrong, (I’m on the floor with the bobbin parts in pieces as I jiggle a stuck needle out of the underworld), I stop. I never ‘soldier on’ – in sewing, I quit while I’m behind. I gained this wisdom from a 1970’s era book on fixing your Beetle – the writer instructed that when things stopped going well, stop and have a beer and come back to it. That advice is sound.

Right now I am sewing contoured face masks with a pocket for a nose wire for better fit and a pocket for a reusable filter. I looked at several patterns and thought this was the most protective and would fit the best. I downloaded a template from the interweb and watched the video twice. I went through my stash and found a lot of unused quilting fabric that I bought to make camp shirts (I had a sew-my-own camp shirt kick a decade ago). I also had a fair amount of elastic, pipe cleaners, thread, ribbon…everything you could want to make face masks for the pandemic.

I actually thought ahead this time and decided to make a practice mask from start to finish to see how it went. The designer pegged it as a 30 minute project. It took me over 90 minutes, which included ripping out an edge (unfortunately Mr. White sewed it using a very small stitch and my thread didn’t contrast enough to make deconstruction simple). I stopped twice to take a break and eat some lunch. I found some spare fabric so Mr. White could go full steam ahead on a nice long seam (he likes to go full out). By the end of the afternoon, I had a working face mask. I snapped a picture, sent it to all my phone contacts and posted it on my ‘gram. People loved it.

I woke up and there were questions about “what other fabrics do you have?” and “I need 4”. Very flattering and good for my ego. I have supplies. I could make more. I could SELL them and make money!

Today I made four more masks – two for my honey, one more for me, and one spare. Mr. White was grumpy, but I opened a conversation, thanked him for his work, gave him a couple practice runs full steam ahead and he settled down. The fabric was unruly though – one of the masks has a wonky lining. I don’t know why – I used the same template, the other ones are fine, but it went wonky on me. Mr. White messed up the staystitching on one and when I turned it inside out there was a cave that required excavation. More unpicking of stitches. It took me about 3 hours to do four masks. And I am spent.

My husband said the results were impressive and he thanked me repeatedly for doing the work. I wrestled with my perfectionist tendencies and decided to take the win. They are functional and the mistakes are not terrible. The next batch (if there is a next batch) should be better, go faster, be easier.

I not going into business with these. To be honest, they are priceless – I am using my limited skills to make protective gear for people I love. The going rate for a mask on the street is $5.00. At that price, I’m spending at least that in materials not to mention time. I will probably donate my fabric stash to someone who is making items for local healthcare workers.

It might be different if my skills were better. I’d love to be a COVID19 warrior, sewing to save the world. But life is too short to stay in a frustrating relationship. I’ve been knitting scarfs for soldiers in my spare time and that is soothing and easy. But Mr. White and I, well, we go way back and I’m not sure we will ever be besties. I see a breakup on the horizon.

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Notes from the lockdown

It’s Sunday, not even 3 days into the “shelter in place” order that went into effect in L.A. So far, I am doing fine. The last time I was “out” out was Thursday morning, to my physical therapy appointment. I was last at a store a week ago Friday. I’m walking around the neighborhood, cooking, cleaning – might as well write.

After my store visit I came home and told my man (MM) that he is now in charge of foraging. He has agreed without hesitation. He has a strong protective bent and we both know who has more tolerance for lines and silliness (I was going to say stupidity but that seems harsh). Silliness in terms of stores not posting directive signs – This way to add to your Toilet Paper hoard and This way if you just need some bell peppers. Silliness in term of completely full parking lots. Of small children holding paper towels to get around the limits. Empty store shelves. That stuff.

I, meanwhile, am the at-home logistics officer. I like to cook and enjoy being creative with leftovers. (I just wish I could recreate some of my inspirational leftover dishes, but they never taste as good the second time around). I’m extremely conscious of not wanting to waste food and of planning meals that will incorporate ingredients on hand. It’s triage meal planning. Do I really want to use 5 cups of flour on Irish soda bread or should I use the box mix of Beer Bread in the cupboard? How can I sneak in more vegetables? Answers: not yet, yes, throw some spinach into the soup.

We are fortunate – our tap water won’t kill us and we have a whole house filtration system so we’re good for hydration. We had a decent stock of hand sanitizer. We have enough TP and paper towels for few weeks. We have home projects to work on together and we’re really good under pressure so I think we will weather this okay.

In other news:

Arti the rambunctious teenage cat veers between utter obnoxiousness to warm purring sugar. He has developed a talent for identifying my bathroom needs before I do. Within a few minutes of his sugar I inevitably have to disturb him for a bio break.

Louis the former show dog (but still and always a champion) is bravely hanging out in the hallway so he can keep an eye on us. He is a frequent target of Arti’s boredom and they haven’t worked that out yet. We break up any bullying and give the cat a time out when needed.

Fiona, who has been featured in this blog, is getting home based physical therapy and massage (really, not just pets; I’ll post a photo next time she’s in session). She alerts us to intruders on the sidewalk and heaven forbid a delivery person should come to the door! The dogs still get walked twice a day which is beneficial for us all.

MM and I just celebrated his birthday with lobsters – not an essential store trip, but it felt essential to our emotional well being. I used 13/4 C of milk to make a lemon pudding cake. He feels special even if his birthday present (Peter Sagall at the Soraya got cancelled).

And me? I’ve got chicken Avolegomo soup planned for dinner (lots of lemons around here) and I’ll make the beer bread to go along. I’ll sneak some spinach in there too. Tomorrow I’m planning an Ina Garten recipe of pounded and fried chicken breasts on a bed of fresh spinach. I spent some time reorganizing one shelf in the linen closet and put away the pile of completed books on my nightstand. And I’ll write. See you soon.\

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Be Aware, Prepare!

I took the bus to work this morning.

There is just something about public transportation that I find so freeing.

Once I’ve boarded and gotten settled, all decisions are out of my hands. Heavy traffic? I’m on the bus. Road closed? I’m on the bus. I’ll get to my destination when I get there. My only job is to get to the stop early or on time and then if something happens, it’s not my problem. I get comfortable, close my eyes and let someone else worry about the traffic. I’m good.

And then getting home – I can’t stay late because I have to catch my bus. Whoops, gotta go – don’t want to miss my bus.

The bus helps me manage my stress and relieves me of decisions for just that period of time. I am grateful for the option to take the bus and let go.

Faith can be like the bus. For me, having faith is not optional. I absolutely believe in God and require His presence in my life. I have free will and can choose to follow His precepts (or not) – but my life is so much better when I do. My faith is foundational. When it is strong, the bumps and hurdles in life don’t affect me as much. I can deal with them more easily and I don’t need to worry about every little thing because I know that I am in His hands.

When I take the bus, I have to prepare – carefully pack my bag, ensure that I have adequate funds or a valid ticket, bring the good travel mug that doesn’t leak, wear shoes that will let me walk the last quarter mile. I question my faith preparations – am I reading my bible app, going to church regularly, praying and seeking His guidance? Did I leave myself enough time to make the journey and am I carefully listening and studying to ensure that my armor is on and I’m ready to meet the day? If not, I tell myself I will do better tomorrow. The consequences of ignoring God are not as immediate as a 90 minute drive to work.

But they are far more dire.

I guess it’s trite, comparing my bus ride to my walk of faith.

Both make my days and nights easier and provide space to think, to breathe, to be intentional. My life is blessed and I am truly grateful to be aware of my options. I choose what makes me better. It’s past time to put God above the rest.

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The Perfect Gentleman

I was team cat, through and through. Dogs were foreign territory, unpredictable lickers who got underfoot and drooled all over your hands. NOT a dog person.

But I married a man who loved dogs and when it came time to bring a dog into our lives, we chose corgis. And our first corgi was perfect for someone who was by no means ready for a dog in her life.

He came from a breeder in Arizona and was 7 months old. He could’ve been a grand champion except for one small testicle that descended, saw the world, and retreated. She had experts and amateurs searching for that ball like it was the Ark of the Covenant. By the time he stepped off the plane, this dog had been probed by experts.

His name was “Pinafore, for Pete’s Sake” and he responded to “Petey.” His red and white fur was soft and his demeanor was a bit anxious, but he politely trotted out to the parking lot and rode home in the back seat with my husband crooning endearments into his ears.

We renamed him Jeeves. And what a gentleman he was.

Loving, soft, beautiful corgi. The cats were a bit intimidating, but he learned to avoid them and gravitated towards us like a flower to the sun. I read up on puppies, dog training, monks training dogs, positive reinforcement….we both took him to obedience class and he won a handsome first place trophy at the last class. He sat, stood, stayed – all this was revelatory to me because my childhood dogs did none of this.

One day I got home from work, let him out to do his business, and collapsed on the couch with a migraine. All I wanted was to disappear. At some point I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He was patiently sitting in front of my face.

I put a hand out and patted his head and fell back. When I reopened my eyes he was still there.

I could not get rid of him. I just wanted to retreat, and he just wanted to comfort. By the time my husband got home I was mildly hysterical “I have a migraine and the dog won’t go away! What does he want?”

“To love you. That’s all.” He joined me on the couch and greeted us both.

“I gave him love. I petted him and talked to him and he wouldn’t go away”

“Why would he?”

“Cats go away if you give them too much attention.”

“He’s not a cat. He just wants to love you.”

The two of them took a walk and I took some medication and a few days later realized that we now had a sociable companion who wanted to hang out and be part of whatever we were doing. I would never have another migraine without the comfort of loving brown eyes, soft fur and scratchy stubby legs. Jeeves was a perfect first dog. He melted the bars around my heart and made room for all the rest.

/dsh

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Authenticity

My dad used to say “too soon we grow old, too late we grow smart.” I can relate to that. I’ve spent a lot of my life in a self-centered haze, not thinking about other people and what they might think of me or measuring my affect on them. But a few years ago I took a few steps back, and then a few more, and then decided to change the way I relate to the world. One of my actions was to live more authentically and to be more transparent about how I feel.

I started reaching out to people in my life and explicitly telling them what they mean to me. I’m more open about what I need in our relationship and if someone is unable to meet my needs, I’m adjusting my perception of our friendship and moving on. (I’m not denouncing them or cutting them out, I’m adjusting my expectations).

I’m also working on discernment and how one person may talk the talk but someone else is actually walking the walk, and THAT person is my ride or die partner.

I recently went to a retreat and came out with some revelations. You probably already knew about this, but they stood out for me in a fresh way.

Everyone wants to be happy – this rocked me. I know people who are profoundly unhappy and they hang onto that with every ounce of strength. Do even those people want to be happy? I guess they do. I suspect that life experiences have soured their perspective. Some may have given up. But deep down in their core they do want happiness. It just doesn’t look that way from the outside. How can this alter my behavior and demeanor?

Since I can’t change anyone’s behavior or outlook, I need to focus on MY behavior and outlook. I can put my thoughts and intentions toward a different outcome and that will change my demeanor and behavior.

There was a woman in our class who wanted to know if she should TELL the person about whom she’s meditating that she is doing this – and our instructor said she could, if she wanted, but it really wasn’t necessary. The point being that you can only work on yourself and you can’t change someone else.

I just had a milestone birthday and I was clear in my own mind how I wanted to celebrate. I had a lovely party with an eclectic group of friends old and new. And in the process, I received some lovely tributes. One person completely surprised me by their behavior and I thought – wow, it’s true. I changed my outlook and expectations and moved out of my comfort zone and we have moved into a brave new country. That gives me hope for the future. I will bravely step out and be authentic, present, and honest. I have no idea what that will look like and I expect surprises!

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Let there be light

The distress call was clear – “Mom needs a new lamp”

and the followup – “her lamp broke I will replace it”

then – “they don’t make it any more”

finally – “can you bring out your old lamp on Saturday”

And mom herself “I think I need both of you”

I shifted into Fix for Mom mode. That’s my primary role these days. I’m not just a daughter, I’m second in command of her quality of life.

Saturday was clear and sunny. I found my “old lamp” in the garage – it was missing a shade and a lightbulb, but it could be rehabbed. Loaded it into the SUV and set out. It was a clear November morning – the best season of all in Los Angeles. The San Gabriel Mountains rose to north and the road was clear. Got up to a steady 70 mph and hit cruise control. Looked like this was gonna be an easy run. I should have curbed my thoughts – the traffic gremlins were put on alert.

I sailed along the 134–>210 freeway and as I approached Glendora well ahead of schedule I felt an itch. There was time so I took a detour and stopped at Tuesday Morning to see if I could find a new replacement lamp. I enjoyed a pleasant 20 minutes browsing and buying things I didn’t need but did not find the item in question. As I paid for my purchases I asked….they showed me a small stash…and I triumphantly carried out a brand spanking new floor lamp with the “natural daylight” bulb.

I felt good. I felt GREAT. Loaded that baby into the vehicle, snapped a victory photo and shared it on social media. I was the bomb.

Fate never hesitates to pop your balloon when it’s riding high on pride. I decided not to retrace my steps to the freeway but to forge a new path. Without a map. I passed “Compromise Lane” (has to be a story there) and found a freeway on ramp but it was in the middle of an interchange and headed in the wrong direction. I exited, reversed course, drove by instinct….and missed it again. Pulled a U-turn and tried to find the right road. Turned around in a parking lot and 20 minutes later made it onto the 57 south. My balloon trailed sadly in my wake.

My time advantage had vanished and I called to change my ETA. Exited the 71 at the wrong place. Got back on the freeway and back on track. My mood was flattening out.
A brief return of good fortune when I located parking. Hauled the lamp to the third floor, pulled it out of the box and started assembly. I did not read the directions because I didn’t have my specs and the apartment was dim. I inserted part A into part B and moved right along.

There were two working floor lamps in the room, and Mom was in her usual chair, reading, so I wondered why a new light was needed. But I was committed to my Fix for Mom mission so I tamped down my doubts as I connected the components.

I made light conversation while I tried to get the base attached to the pole. Mom was fretting about her ability to use the lamp because her favorite on/off device wouldn’t work with it. I demonstrated the rocker switch (no twisting, no pulling) and she insisted she only wanted a light with an on/off cord. Feeling like Anne Sullivan, I placed her hand on the switch and showed her that a gentle press would turn it on. Another would turn it off. On. Off. I was confident she could manage this. She was not.

Time was wasting and I knew her blood sugars were dropping. It looked like I would need those directions after all so I put everything down and announced that we would finish it after lunch.

We collected reinforcements on the way to the restaurant. The city was having a parade, which hosed the traffic but we made it. The blood sugar crisis was avoided. Things seemed to be back on track.

But, delays. We had to swing back to my sister’s house for a forgotten item. Then back to base to finish the mission. Parking was difficult so I had them go ahead. I caught up at the elevator in time to hear Mom asking if she could just use the light she had and keep the new light as a backup. My sister asked her why we were doing this exercise if she had a lamp that already worked. Silence.

My sister sees better than I do, so she did the heavy mechanics and we wrestled the new lamp into place. It has a long flexible neck so mom can adjust the height and angle. Lo and behold, she was able to reach the on/off switch. Operation New Lamp was completed. In summary:

–The reading lamp was broken at the base and was wobbly but still worked

–It’s not made any more

–The new lamp was bright but didn’t work with the light switch for the old lamp which was perceived as a problem

–The perfectly good floor lamp across the room would not do for reading

–It was designated for the housekeeper

–The reading lamp with the wobbly base and preferred on/off switch took its place and put on a timer so it would turn on automatically

–The timer was suspect because it wasn’t going on/off at the correct time despite the end of DST

–Meanwhile a different lamp was delivered to my sister’s house as a backup for Mom

–My old lamp is still in my vehicle

–We now have three superfluous floor lamps and I have two extra light timers

But there were other problems.

The timer for the old lamp wasn’t working correctly – the light went on mid-afternoon and turned off before bedtime. No one could figure out the digital timer. We dug out an analog timer and set it for standard time since the clocks would be switching back. I stuffed the new timer into my purse to get it off the premises. “Take the old one too!” my mom urged. I added it to my pile.

Meanwhile my sister started clearing out the kitchen – stale food, empty plastic water bottles, empty shopping bags. We opened a new 12-pack of water and twisted off the lids for easy access. I set out the fall holiday decorations and put the Halloween items away. My sister found an unopened 12 pack of water and shook her head.

We prepared to take our leave, but first:

“You need to call the eye doctor about your eye” my sister said.

“I will, but I have an appointment in February and it can wait.”

“No, your vision is changing so you need to let him know and see if he wants you to come in”

“Did you know that my new insurance pays for glasses and frames which is great!”

“So you’ll call him tomorrow?”

Oh I can’t call him tomorrow. I see the chiropractor in the morning”

(me) “What about the afternoon?”

“I have things to do in the afternoon”

“like what?”

“Things.”

“Call him Tuesday?” my sister coaxed

“I’m not sure….”

“I don’t want excuses, I want you to say you’ll call him”

(me, sotto voce) “can’t you call him?”

“I’ll call him.”

“On Tuesday?”

“Yes, on Tuesday”

I returned my sister to her home and we applied alcohol to our nerves. As I hit the road home I congratulated myself on mission accomplished. We had two new action items: the failing eyesight and how to pay for a new medication which is not generic and is hella expensive. But the lamp was installed.

On Sunday she thanked us and told us the new timer wasn’t working correctly.
On Monday she said the new lamp was wonderful and she could see really well.
No word on the Tuesday phone call.

Thursday update – doctor has been called but the light timer is still a problem. There have been daily reports. Not my mission, thank goodness!

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My First Corgi

Her name was Amy. She was short and sweet and so darn cute. Amy lived on a farm in Washington State and she had a great life.

I met her while I was on a college tour for grad school. UDub was high on my list and since I was in the area, my folks arranged for me to catch up with Cousin Clare who had moved to the state years before. What do I remember….

The dark grey pavements of Seattle

Spending a couple nights in the dorm on campus

Touring the program with an official of some sort

A delicious and filling pastrami on bagel sandwich

Feeling like I could definitely make a home there

Then up to the border. My cousin and I chatted easily and she told me all about the cows who lined the road “belted”, Jerseys, Guernseys….(this passed for entertainment in the sticks). She and her partner lived in a half built farmhouse with a beautiful stained glass window that they made. I hung out, read, met Amy, walked the property, petted Amy, read some more, visited a few tourist sites, fell in love with Amy, took an amazing bath in a freestanding claw footed tub in the unfinished upstairs part of the house, admired Amy, asked myself how this cutie pie could be of the same species as the terrible Pepper and Ginger, and generally had a great time.

I did not attend the UDub library school for a variety of reasons – expense being one of them. The Pacific Northwest called to me and my life would be so different had I heeded that call. Instead I went to a one year program in Denver that offered me a half tuition scholarship, moved back to Los Angeles after graduation and got on with my dog free life.

A decade later my husband and I were ready to move out of our townhouse and into a house house. He was firmly Team Dog and pro-Dalmatian. His childhood dog was a liver spotted Dal from a “backyard breeder”. Lady was biddable, sweet, loving, and everything a boy could want in a dog. I was braced to be a Dalmatian household, right up until he told me that our tiny backyard was not suitable for the breed. My face fell and I was desolated – we had purchased a house that denied him his dream.

This did not, however, mean that we were to remain a cat only household. We discussed other breeds and decided on an Airedale. His family owned one when he was born and there were good stories about that dog.

Someone suggested we go to a dog show and talk to breeders, so off we went. We found an Airedale breeder and she was kind but firm “This is a great dog, but, it’s the puppy from hell. It will need exercise, lots of training, and lots of attention. If not, it will eat your furniture and cabinets and make your life miserable.” We enjoyed meeting her dogs but as we walked away I whispered to Les that I did not want a puppy from hell.

No Dalmatian. No Airedale. What next?

I spied three golden faerie dogs across the way “What about a corgi?” I suggested. “Corgi? They have super short legs.” “But they reach the ground” I quoted (from Anne of Ingleside), “C’mon.” We introduced ourselves to the breeder and she gave us permission to meet her dogs. Les knelt down and they swarmed him. He laughed in delight as he tried to pet them. They were wiggling and shaking and putting paws on his knee and he tumbled to a sit and felt the corgi love. Happiness. Corgis are happiness.
We left the show and I shared my enthusiasm for the breed. He started researching the breed and began the search. A few months later we drove to the airport and met “Pete,” a young corgi who was on the show circuit until an unfortunate incident. We renamed him “Jeeves” and began our personal corgi journey.

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East Frisian

My tea of the moment is East Frisian, a hearty and robust tea from Harney and Sons. (I am not paid to write that sentence). It is warm and filling; the kind of tea you want when it’s raining outside. It stands up to milk and sweetener – warm the milk while the tea is steeping and add a spoonful of demerara sugar and roll it across your palate. I think it’s sublime and comforting and it reminds me of being in London with a crispy roll and a pat of butter for breakfast.

Is it overkill for October in Los Angeles? October is notable for hot days and warm nights and if I lived near the coast there would be early-morning-low-clouds-and-sunshine-later-in-the-afternoon. The San Fernando valley doesn’t get that cold in October, but Fall has arrived. A native can scent the change in the air, a hint of crispness, a lack of smog. The hills begin to appear in sharp relief in October and by November the valley will be glorious.

But it’s the first week in October and I savor my mug of East Frisian, straight. 4 minute steep. The tannins burn a bit but I feel my shoulders straightening and my brain waking up. I’m glad I moved to this tea a few weeks ago. It is just what I need, and what more could I want in a morning cuppa?

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Swish, swoosh

The modern Hula Hoop was introduced in 1958 and for a while the country was obsessed with it. It was still popular when I was in grade school and my parents bought one for us kids. I quickly monopolized it. I could spend hours hooping in the backyard. The swish swoosh of the beads inside the plastic tube. The rhythm of my hips as I swayed back and forth. The gentle sensation as it started on my right hip, passed over my belly, then hit the left hip for a final push back to the beginning. It was mesmerizing and I was good at it. (There was so little physical mastery in my life that I embraced this wholeheartedly).

Swish swoosh. Swish some more. If it started sliding down I sped up the movement. Some geniuses were able to let it go to the knees and back up their bodies. The really good ones let the hoop travel to their upheld wrists. On TV you could see athletes working multiple hoops to massive applause and admiration. Did my sister strive for that perfection? I think her ambitions were loftier than mine. I was content to stand in place, rocking gently back and forth, self hypnotized by a spinning toy.

My parents both worked so we kids went to a summer program at our elementary school. I remember painting plaster of paris turtles, gluing pom poms to construction paper, dodgeball, tetherball, Koolaid in Dixie cups. I don’t remember the people (I was quite introverted). And then one day they announced a Hula Hoop contest. My sister assumed I would enter; after all, I could hoop like nobody’s business. It seemed harmless.

On the appointed day we gathered on the blacktop in the hot smoggy air with our equipment. A whistle blew and hips began moving. I found my rhythm and stayed in my own world. There was a little anxiety when the unfamiliar equipment began to drift south of my waist, but I was able to stop the trajectory and reseat it around my hips.

One by one the hoops fell. I sort of noticed that the field was getting smaller, but kept my attention on my own hoop. Finally there were two of us, locked in rhythm. The crowd got bored. The teachers were ready to go back inside and serve Koolaid. A shout went up.

“WAR! War! HULA HOOP WAR!”

I had no idea what this meant. Hula Hoop war? With whom? With what?

My opponent knew this game. She purposefully started moving toward me and someone shouted to me that the object was to use my hoop to knock hers to the ground. I had no idea how to do this. “Debbie! MOVE” someone shouted. I took a few tentative steps, still rocking my hips. I made her come to me. She thrust her hips viciously in an attempt to knock me off my rhythm. I still didn’t understand the concept. As a solitary, lonely child, I had no knowledge of playground dynamics. I held my ground, she advanced, there was an awkward wobble…

I won. My naivete kept me focused on myself and since I wasn’t trying to do anything – no offense, defense, avoidance…I won.

I was not the crowd favorite. The contest ended with a thud and a whimper as everyone picked up discarded hoops and trailed back to the classroom. My sister and some of her friends congratulated me and cast triumphant looks at the crowd. A teacher patted my shoulder. I was excited, nervous, awkward…I wanted to be invisible again.

A few weeks later our group boarded buses for a summer field trip. I was on the curb waiting for a full bus to pull forward so I could get on the next one. I heard jeering above my head and looked up to see the person I beat at Hula Hoop with her gang of friends – boys and girls. They were mocking me from the bus and suddenly one of the boys hawked and shot a loogie in my direction.

He missed my face, but scored a direct hit on my shirt. Snot and saliva mingled on the cotton and I stared at it in horror and embarrassment. The bus pulled away and I got on the next one.

I didn’t tell anyone. I must have borrowed a kleenex from a teacher to wipe it off. My brain was blank and my mind was buzzing. Who does that? Who spits out a window at a child standing on the curb? I was fearful and shocked.

All those years ago. My mastery of a silly childhood game led to my first instance of bullying. I had walked in a bubble, unnoticed, unseen, unaware. In an instant that changed. Not everyone was like me, not everyone was my friend, and bleagh. Loogies. Ick.

Day 3 London

Tuesday AM

My knee is killing me – the tendonitis is red hot and feels like fire. I kept waking up last night trying to find a comfortable position. While Les is getting ready, I drape a cold washcloth and imagine ice. We’re moving slowly this morning and decided to revisit Le Pan Q for breakfast.

My original plan was to trek to Hampton Court but it’s closed today so we tube back to Oxford Circle and Regency Street in search of Sotheby’s. They have a free of charge display of tiaras. The day is warm and breezy and it’s a pleasant walk past the rich and wealthy. Think Rodeo Drive, times 3.

The Sotheby’s exhibit is fantastic. The tiaras are delicate, floating in space, refracting light as they twirl slowly. Diamonds, emeralds, pearls. They are wonders of engineering, many convert to broaches, necklaces, bracelets. I’m quite taken by a butterfly design and the ones with botanical inspirations. Ivy and palm motifs are charming when rendered in diamonds and topaz.

Apologies, professional cameras and flash were disallowed

Unfortunately, all that glitters does not inspire us for the rest of the day. I’m tired of planning things and Les has no ideas. I suggest a few things but get little response. It’s hot, we are tired and dehydrated and things are not going well. We trek to Fortnum & Mason’s for tea shopping and are overcome by too many choices and not enough luggage space.

Empty handed, we retrace our steps and stop at a bookstore cafe with air conditioning. This shop has three cafes so we take the lift to the top and settle in with beer and snacks. The cool air revives us and we’re able to make it back to the room without incident. It will be an early dinner and a better night.

We lie down for another nap and mine is brief because I had an iced coffee from Black Sheep and my veins are singing. Les has a higher caffeine tolerance and he drops off like a baby. I abandon the nap and do some preliminary repacking because tomorrow we join our tour and I am READY. For some strange reason things that didn’t fit into the suitcase in LA do fit now. This is not bad news!

At 5ish we head up to the “Coal Drop” – another redeveloped area past the redeveloped mixed use office space and cross the canal to an area where they’ve installed posh shops and a ton of restaurants. We don’t have reservations but hope we can get dinner before 9:00 PM. It’s hot, and the late afternoon sun is blazing as we trek past the greenspace, office buildings, fountains and restaurants that shunned us the previous night.

We’ve chosen a Tapas bar and are greeted with the familiar “Do you have a reservation? No? We can seat you at 9:00” “We’ll wait,” I hiss at my husband. My fire knee is not going on walkabout tonight. Despite the attitude, it all works out. The hostess reluctantly seats us at the bar with other non-reservation slackers and we settle in for some vino and small plates.

Our server is on day 3 of his new job and his spanish-inflected english is charming. We order a house version of sangria – red wine with a wedge of orange, sparkling water and a mist of sherry. It’s refreshing. He leaves us a carafe of water – first time that’s happened! On Les’ right is an intense Japanese couple who meticulously document every bite of food and on my left is an older British couple who communicate with the server in rudimentary spanish, which he seems to appreciate.

We’re hungry so we begin our meal with meat – chicken thighs and romesco sauce and lamb skewers in pimento sauce. The lamb is aromatic and tasty but the chicken is ambrosial. It’s garlicky and crunchy with nuts and the smooth romesco sauce chases it perfectly.

Next up is a spanish tortilla that is a perfect hockey puck of satiny potatoes and onions that runs with a creamy eggy filling. Our forks dance as we vie for each bite. We almost lick the plate.

By now our server is a friend and he glows when we order the spanish cheesecake – “Made famous in the pandemic!” he announces. It’s a rich eggy concoction redolant of sheeps milk that is lightly burnt on top and beyond delicious smoothness. It’s not too sweet and it’s a measure of our relationship that we share it more or less equally.

I leave Les at the bar while I check out a store that’s popped on my Insta – Wolfe and Badger. True to form, it is more interesting online than in person and has nothing that I need or want. We take an alternative route back to the hotel and are charmed by potentially edible artichokes blooming by the road. I’ve read that artichokes are members of the thistle family, but never expected to see them in a garden. It’s fun to see them emerge from a bright purple stalk.

I think that’s a pleasure of traveling. You can read about something, but you gain understanding when you see it out in the wild.

I think about how greedy we are – how entitled – that water would be free and bread and butter or chips will magically appear on the table for no extra charge. We expect leftovers and aren’t used to paying a fair wage for service. It’s very different here.

And then the strident voice of a lost soul shrieks obscenities into the evening. We navigate around a sad human sleeping in the street. Maybe it’s not so different.