Really???

I know there are big problems out there. Starvation in Africa and Asia . . .  and in too many homes in America. Unemployment that is way too high in most of the nation including right here in Oregon. Medical costs that continue to soar. I get it, I get it. I know my problems are itty bitty in light of what much of the world continues to face BUT given that I have the cold from hell - when everything that comes up is grayish green - did I have to get Pink Eye at the same time? REALLY? So add to the picture of hacking, coughing and sneezing one squinty, oozy, crusty, reddish eye and one that is rushing to match its neighbor. Ah, yes, the total package is uber attractive.

I have had one unseemly idea. Can I make money off this? What about offering myself (for a fee, mind you) as a replacement Stand-In-Liner? I will take your place and move you quickly to the front of whatever line you need to stand in. For example, need tickets for some great show? No problem. I'll take your place, start coughing/hacking, rub my infected pink eyes, slowly turn toward others in line and then wait to see what happens. People will flee. I don't suspect this, by the way, I know it. How? This morning I watched people respond to my presence while waiting to see my doctor. It was not pretty.

It's not the horrid visual that creates the rush to escape my presence. It's the sounds. Not my speaking voice - that's the usual husky of a heavily congested person. If it weren't accompanied by other sounds, it might even be a bit sexy but not when one is in the presence of The Cough. My cough is disturbing. It's low, deep, raspy, bronchial - it sounds like pieces of my lungs are coming up with each cough. People stop in their tracks, turn to gape and then quickly move away. Unfortunately for me, it's not new. No, it started in Hiroshima in 1983. It really did. I was one of 13 teachers representing American education on a 3-week trip sponsored by the Japanese government. I visited lots of schools and factories, met many teachers and government officials, toured temples and monuments and ended up representing the larger group of 100 teachers from the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and Indonesia as I laid a wreath at the memorial at ground zero at Hiroshima. A few hours later I started the cough that now accompanies every cold I get. Yep, Hiroshima. Interesting, eh?,

And of course, the cough made its appearance this morning in the waiting room. What was kind of amusing was the room's response when the receptionist asked why I was there. Everyone, I am sure, assumed the cold brought me in given that I sounded at death's door. So, when I answered, "I need medicine for Pink Eye" - well the whole room turned to stare. I wanted to stand, curtsy and say, "Yep, not just the cold from hell, everybody, I have second reason for you to avoid me." I mean, don't you get kind of itchy when you hear someone has Pink Eye? I certainly do. I pull out sponges and start wiping down anything the person could have POSSIBLY touched - in the past year.

Well, to make to make this too-long story a bit shorter, the doctor saw me, started to write my prescription when I suddenly coughed. Her eyes shot up, "Wait a minute, I need to listen to that." I breathed deeply while she moved a stethoscope around my back. I assured her it was no big deal - just the usual. She seemed a bit surprised that pneumonia hadn't spread throughout my system. Even so, she wants me to come back in a week. We'll see what happens - at least the Pink Eye should be gone by then.  By the way, if I were anywhere near you in the past few days, get out those bleach wipes and start scrubbing.

May Blues

I forgot to take Airborne and am suffering for it. I suspect that some horrid person on one of the 3 flights from France shared their germs with me. My head is pounding, my nose is running, sneezes erupt violently and a room-clearing cough explodes about every 30 seconds or so. Quite attractive.

I am annoyed and exhausted. I made it to the library for my volunteer shift this morning (lots of medication made it possible) but dragged myself back to the bus for the ride home. Not fun. France was definitely worth it but fie on that fellow passenger.

Wesley may have picked it up from me so, right now, I am keeping my distance.

When we are together Wesley and I are having fun. Because I was gone for several weeks he now will say, soon after we get home each afternoon, "You know, Gramma, what we haven't done in AGES?"  Then he will list a book or puzzle or toy we haven't played with since I went to France. Yesterday it was 2 games - one with a white board and one with a jar of different size dice. He loves to hold a fistful of markers and make a big multi-colored spaghetti-like pattern on the white board. He then, with delight, takes the school-size board eraser and whoosh - the colors disappear. Most satisfying. With the dice, I roll them out and ask him to find a pattern ("See if you can pick out all the yellow dice and the itty bitty brown one before I count to 8"). He happily finds the patterns. He will then identify a pattern for me to find. He is now getting a bit more sophisticated. I have started asking if he can make all the dice of one color show the same number facing up. This is harder. He used to enjoy doing jig saw puzzles one by one. Now he likes to overturn them all on the bed, mix the pieces up and then figure out which pieces go with which puzzle.

Because it continues to rain quite a bit (I know, surprise! Rain in Portland - well, actually it is POURING right now with loud thunder and lightning. Welcome, Memorial Day Weekend!) we have not yet gone back to the park near his preschool. The slides don't work well if they are damp. I look forward to hitting those slides, swings and climbing bars when it dries up a bit. I think I am also ready to take a big step. In an earlier entry I admitted that I really hated Candy Land - such bad memories of playing it in the past. Well, I feel obliged to admit to another beloved child's entertainment that I don't like. Get ready - when I usually say this author's name, other mothers/grandmothers clutch their hearts and declare their undying love for the books - here goes, Richard Scarry. In my memory it took FOREVER to get through a book because each page had so many pictures on it. I preferred books that were quicker reads. However, with my new attitude about the joys of grandmotherhood, I am wondering if I might enjoy them now? Why do I care how long each page takes? I have time.

So, today I looked through the children's section of the used books at the gift store of the library where I volunteer. Each month, if I work 4 days, I can select a used book as a thank you and one book was owed me. I looked through both shelves of children's books but no Richard Scarry. Proof, I guess, of how they are loved. Either no one is willing to donate them or they are so beat up from frequent perusals they are tossed rather than donated. Interesting. I just might have to actually buy one. Now, which one? Do any of you have suggestions? Lee and Stephanie certainly had lots of them. I guess I can go to Amazon and check out titles. I suspect ones my kids liked will pop out. Should I also chance buying Candy Land? Maybe my new attitude will even work with that. Ohhhhhh, that's asking a lot. That negativity is much more profound than the one directed at Richard Scarry.

I'll let you know if I buy either and will also let you know the results. I suspect Wesley will love the books and, drat, probably Candy Land as well.

Home Again

I am back in Portland after a bit more than 2 weeks in France.  It was wonderful, every second.  What I can't believe is that I did not gain a single ounce of weight while eating every single thing in sight. God bless the French active life - I am now a true believer.  I know I walked a lot but look at what I ate:

This was a mushroom fricassee with a salad - don't you love the presentation?

Two of our desserts at the Musée d’Orsay.  It was tough, but someone had to eat them.  We did.

Fig stuffed with foie gras - I know, can I be more politically incorrect?  It was deliciously succulent but at the price of a poor goose being force fed.  They tried to tell us that it didn't bother the geese but I find that impossible to believe.  If we are judged by how we treat our animals, I must give it up.  

Our usual breakfasts were fresh croissants or equally wonderful pastries with coffee followed by 3-course lunches (out) then dinners (mostly at home) composed of lots of cheese, wine, bread, foie gras, tapenades, fruit and more pastries. Amazing. I am grateful for both the wonderful food and the walking that kept all those calories at bay.

France was simply wonderful.  My cousin Loretta and I flew first to Belgium where our good friend Sabine picked us up. It was almost unreal that, less than 24 hours after boarding a plane in Portland, we were floating down a river along the Belgian/France border in a canal boat with Sabine's friends toasting each other with Kir Royal's (bring 'em on - delicious). We visited with Sabine and her family for the next 2 days. Her daughter owns a cheese business and did we ever profit. We must have had 12 different cheeses during our 2-day visit and then Sabine, bless her, packed all the left overs for us to take to Paris. One of my favorite memories of that train trip is the rich aroma wafting up from one of the stinkier cheeses. It was quite strong but I figured other riders were an audience that understood both what it was and how lucky we were to have it.

Once in Paris we connected with another cousin, Bonnie, my sister-in-law, Melinda and a good friend, Sue. The five of us were together for the next 2 weeks - first in Paris and then in Sarlat, in the Périgord/Dordogne region.

Paris was magnificent, no surprise. What wonderful memories as we revisited places we loved (Musée d’Orsay, Cluny, Left Bank neighborhoods, Ile St Louis) and explored areas new to us.  Fun shopping - we all got scarves (it seems like everyone wears a scarf in France - men and women alike), purses and  shoes.

A sidewalk cafe on Ile St Louis in Paris

The Cluny Museum of Medieval Art

The restaurant at the Musée d’Orsay - I felt like I was eating at Versailles

Our apartment was right across from the Eiffel Tower - literally about 100 steps gave us an unobstructed view. It was on the second floor of an old building on Rue de Suffren, between a restaurant and a patisserie. The apartment had 2 bedrooms, a pull-out sofa in the living room and a very modern kitchen and bath. It was perfect for our needs. In visits from the past I have walked by the tall doorways that let into French apartment houses and wondered about life behind those doors. This time, I had a key. I felt very Parisian.

This trip we did not use the Metro. Instead we bought multi-day tickets for the Bato-Bus - a boat that makes 8 stops along the Seine at destinations that beautifully matched where we wanted to go. We would stroll under the Eiffel Tower, board the boat from the quay, and then sail to our destination. I think I most appreciated it on the way home each day. Sometimes we were on the boat for 45 minutes before it got back to the Eiffel Tower - 45 minutes of chit chat about our day, people-watching, views of the gorgeous Parisian buildings floating by - lovely way to travel if time is not of critical importance.  Those of you who have been to Paris, think Bateaux Mouches - but smaller with no upper deck.

We picked up our rental car outside of Paris and drove 6 hours to Sarlat, a world away, where we were plunged into the Middle Ages. The house we rented was part of the ancient wall that once surrounded the city (most of it is gone, just bits remain - including the wall of our living room/back bedrooms).  The historic center has been beautifully preserved and I loved walking through it. It was small enough that we quickly learned the alleyways that never seemed to go in straight lines.  Much more interesting that way.

Melinda adds the necessary scale to a Medieval alleyway.

What I most loved about our ancient house (I figure it was at least 800 years old) was the shutters on the windows. They were just what you imagined a medieval house would have. Large with heavy iron work that propped them open or closed them tight.  I loved throwing open my bedroom shutters each morning.  Such a satisfactory experience.

This is our terrace that backs on the ancient wall.  The open shutters led to the living room, the closed shutters above were Bonnie's bedroom window. Melinda's tiny shutter was above, on the top floor, not visible here. She and Sue had perfect medieval rooms up at the top of the house - exposed stone walls and wood beams spanning the open space up to the roof. Thankfully, the house had modern bathrooms (3 of them) and kitchen.

The Sarlat region is famous for several foods - fois gras, walnuts, tobacco and truffles. It also has a market that is considered among the best in France. We arrived the night before the Saturday market so our first morning in Sarlat was spent walking among all the food booths and shops - amazing.

The cheeses - YUM!

Glacé fruit

How does one choose?  We ate lots of 'em.

Urgh!  I forget what this is called - it's a nougat.  I know someone reading this will tell me.

We used Sarlat as our base to drive around the surrounding area. We visited medieval and Renaissance towns, churches, castles and a chateau in the Périgord, sailed down the Dordogne River to view towns tucked into the hills, visited the model of the Lascaux cave, toured an ancient mill (and shared a drink with the mill keeper in his upstairs rooms), and ate and ate and ate.   

Sarlat in the day time

Sarlat at night

One of the best experiences of the trip was the opportunity to share meals with French friends in their homes. I know the average tourist doesn't get this experience and we were grateful for it. Loretta and I spent time with Sabine and her family at her home in Northern France (just a few miles from the Belgian border) and the 5 of us spent time with some of Sue's French friends she met in Petaluma through the Master Gardener program. The first, Bernadette, had a fascinating home about 20 minutes from Sarlat. The kitchen was ancient (although updated and modernized). Her son built the rest of the house around the kitchen - a modern addition that perfectly matched the style of the kitchen. It was exquisite. We ate lunch on the covered porch that overlooked her magnificent gardens that included wide meadows filled with wild flowers, an ancient grotto (we were very close to the caves at Lascaux), and unexpected small gardens with seats and tables tucked into nooks and crannies of her land. One of my favorite memories is her "laboratory" where she concocts elixirs from the plants on her land and from her wanderings in France and Spain. It was in her cellar - dark, dirt walls, with wood shelves tucked under beams supporting the house - talk about the Middle Ages. I told the others afterwards that Bernadette would have been considered a witch back then! She gave us tastes of the elixirs - heavenly - and then gave each of us a small bottle and another bottle of honey from her bees to take home (and, yes, I got them through customs).

Jean-Paul and Marie-Helene were the other Master Gardener friends we visited.  Their house was about 200 years old and on a large piece of property close to Bernadette's. They used to live in Paris but bought this house 20 years ago as a second home and now live here permanently.  

Jean-Paul and Marie-Helene's house

This is the main house.  They told us that it is so hot in the summer that they use this addition (in photo below) with a separate kitchen and covered porch for preparing and eating meals.

After visiting 4 small towns in the area, we spent a wonderful late afternoon with Jean-Paul and Marie-Helene.  We toured their gardens and bee hives then sat under a tree for aperitifs.

Although aperitifs was the original invitation, once there, they asked us to stay for dinner. We ate at their long wood table in the kitchen of the main house. Marie-Helene is an excellent chef (she smiled modestly while Bernadette and Jean-Paul described her creations) and whipped up a wonderful meal. It wasn't complicated but absolutely delicious. I wish I had photographed it (or rather photographed it well - all of these photos are from my phone camera with all of its limitations).

- First course:  Sliced duck and sausages from Avignon - beautifully presented.  The meat slices were intricately rolled on the platter. It was art.
- Second course:  an omelette of eggs (from the neighbor's chickens) and cepes (a local mushroom that the region is famous for) and salad
- Cheese course - 5 cheeses.  My favorite was the one in little balls with honey in the centers
- Dessert - lightly sweetened yogurt with perfect strawberries and cream
- And of course wine.  At the end they gave us some cherries that were marinated in an elixir and then some Armagnac.

I looked around the table at these wonderful new friends who had been so hospitable and thanked my lucky stars that I was sitting there. Our language abilities varied greatly. Some spoke no English or French, some spoke a bit of the other language, a few were fluent. Whatever, we made ourselves understood and had a wonderful time.

So, when I review this amazing trip I have several thoughts:

1. Traveling with 5 women was lots of fun.  We focused on important things - beautiful towns, fun shopping, great food - especially sweets, wine and cappuccinos. We didn't always stick together. 2 of us might go somewhere while the other 3 did something else. Some would go out while others stayed in.  Whenever someone went out, however, they usually brought back something heavenly (food or wine) from their explorations to add to dinner. It was all low key and delightful.  We meshed well.

2.  Renting an apartment and a house was so much easier than staying at hotels.  We had kitchens and washers/dryers - and used them.  It was also cheaper.  Thank you, Melinda, for all your advance planning.

3.  As wonderful as were the things we saw, I also treasure the time spent with our French friends.  Being with them offered unique opportunities to understand issues of importance to the French, exchange viewpoints, and laugh a lot.  I loved experiencing their homes and gardens.  It is also fun to explore towns with locals - they know everything and are happy to share it.

4.  I have never eaten so well - and gained nothing in weight.  Alleleuia.

5.  French wine - YUM!  We drank lots and lots of it.

This is what we drank at home in Sarlat - not to be confused with what we drank

 at restaurants or had in Paris.

6.  I loved the contrast of Paris as Haussman reconstructed it in the mid 1800s (the tall buildings, wonderful rooftops, wide boulevards) and the medieval feelings of Sarlat and surrounding towns.  Both were magnificent.

A medieval cloister

An overlook in a town near Sarlat

Dordogne town seen from our boat

The moat (long since dry) at Chateau de Losse - I mean - Medieval?!?!?!

7  The kindness of strangers. I am continually astounded by the unexpected kindness of strangers that I have experienced world-wide. It is why I go out of my way to help when I notice someone with an accent who appears to be facing a challenge of some kind here in the U.S.. I want to repay what I have received. On this trip strangers helped me in airports, in Paris and in the Périgord.  I am grateful.

The trip home was exhausting.  We left Sarlat at 4:30 am and, this time, the GPS did us wrong. An hour into the trip, when we should have been half way to Toulouse, we were lost in the back roads of the Périgord - pitch black, no houses, no sense of a highway. When the GPS suggested we turn into what looked like a gravel path we balked, pulled out a map and eventually found our way to Toulouse - but just in time.  A quick flight to Madrid and then a mad rush to our connection. We thought 90 minutes was enough time for the layover forgetting that flights to the US require an extra security check. The Madrid airport was large, modern, and in our case, badly marked for our gate but we eventually made it. 11 hours later, we landed at Dallas and then had a long wait to get through the immigration/passport line, through customs and then another race to our gates. This time the layover was almost 3 hours but Dallas always confounds! I waved goodbye to the others and went to my gate for Portland and finally slept on that final 4 hour leg.  In bed 28 hours after getting up in Sarlat.

I remembered why I was here in Portland when Wesley greeted me the next day.  He ran to me, jumped in my arms and snuggled in. He wouldn't look at me, just snuggled, fitting his head under my chin. When he finally got down so he could walk into my house, he waited until I sat and then immediately climbed back onto my lap and snuggled some more. We had missed each other.

Now, 3 days later, I can tell you that Wesley believes that France is a bit of heaven. He can't believe the many interesting things that have come into my house from France. There is the new chicken on my kitchen table that bobs a bit when you touch it. I told Wesley that the chicken doesn't say, "hello" like American chickens,  but "bon jour." He is fascinated. We have read his new books (they are in French, but he doesn't know I am translating - badly mind you - but translating), and he was most excited about a new book that has lots of stickers.  Then there are the tiger slippers I brought him in Paris - they fit perfectly, and the small cushion from the Cluny Museum that shows a reproduction of a rabbit from one of their marvelous tapestries. He used it as his pillow when he spent the night on Sunday. And finally, he loves to stare at the mechanism while turning the handle on the tiny music box that plays La Vie En Rose. I told him that it reminds me of Paris and we hum along together.  Yesterday, he told me that someday he will go to Colorado and then on to France (loved the combination) and that I could go with him. "What a great idea," I said. "Let's go."  I'm ready whenever he is. Well, maybe his parents would like to come along too.

The French Tiger Slippers

A simply wonderful trip.  

Updates

I am feeling reflective - part of aging, you think??? So, a quick review of what has been happening re: earlier entries.

January:
Entry - Snow.
The winter ended up being much milder than I had thought might be the case.  Nothing like Connecticut winters, that's for sure. Yes, we had several snow falls but they never stuck around for more than a few hours - perfect snow, in my mind. It has rained a LOT but suspect this is typical. It seems like it has been gray most days since last December so when the sun pokes through, it is glorious. I can cope.

Entry - Stupidity.
Have not forgotten my keys since that day - the lanyard hanging around my neck may look rather odd but I don't care. And my thumb drive still works! Have needed to get to some of those photos and they all remain accessible. Amazing.

Entry -  My New Volunteer Assignment (at the place that gives emergency food/clothing to the poor)
At this point I do not think I will switch to direct involvement with the Food Bank (my original plan). I like helping out at this local non-profit. It's a few miles from my house in a somewhat trendy neighborhood - but on the straggly end of it. People start arriving about 9 - a half hour  before we open. All I do is answer the phones and am now an expert at answering basic questions. Although I will probably field 40-50 calls in my 5 hour time slot, some will take only a minute so I have lots of free time. I can't, however, get up and do something else because I need to be there if the phone rings. I bring a book and catch up on reading.

The 5-foot partition in front of my desk separates me from the client waiting area (either waiting to be interviewed or waiting to pick up their packets of food) so it makes direct engagements with clients difficult. However, while they fix their coffee, they can see me over the partition and will occasionally engage me in chat, especially when cookies or coffee run out. The extras are stored in my area.

I have enjoyed becoming part of the organization and now experience one of the surest signs of longevity - I understand comments that were cryptic in the past. I now know to whom they refer. Have also noted some organizational dysfunctions (as only a newcomer can) and am so very grateful that it is not my responsibility to fix them. Time to let younger ones get such experiences.

My second volunteer job at the main branch of the library is a lot of fun. I enjoy interacting with library patrons. We all love books. The library gift shop where I work on Saturday mornings sells used books that patrons have donated (along with notebooks, cards, other reading-related stuff). It means that a lot of discussions come up about books customers are thinking about purchasing, have read, or want to know more about. It's like talking about films - so interesting to exchange viewpoints. And, as stated in other blog entries, I enjoy being downtown. Each Saturday, when I leave the library, I go explore something new. Last Saturday it was the Museum of Contemporary Craft - an article in The Oregonian about the latest exhibit (the work of sculpture Betty Feves) intrigued me. I really enjoyed her work. It was inspiring - so inspiring that when the museum offered a table with bits of materials to play with, I sat down and composed my first piece of sculpture as a mature artist. I say mature because one of my Pacific Grove artist neighbors actually spent more than a year, every other week, helping me explore the possibilities of my developing ANY level of artistic expression.  I kindly label my style Primitive.  Here is an example:

No, God did NOT give me artistic talents but maybe sculpture could work.  Here is my creation, now sitting on my kitchen table, in front of the small cement planter box I dragged home from London:

Let's see - how would a museum describe it:

Title:  Cogito, Ergo Sum (Latin always impresses, and an historic reference as well - a winner of a title - although, in reality, he doesn't look like he is thinking - kind of empty headed - maybe waiting for the perfect wave?)

Media:  rock, clay, bead, torn snippet of cardboard

Height: 2.5 inches

Time to Create: 1 minute in thought (hence the title), 1 minute in execution

Now, the proper place to display this new work of art:

Near real art? 

Oh, my goodness, no.

Near candlesticks?

No, too overpowering.

Near something closer in size? 

 No, too scary.

Perhaps back on the table were Wesley can play with it?  

Yes, that's best.

Entry - The Devil and Me - about Comcast

It's all going fine.  One problem arose but Comcast solved it - after another $50, of course.

Entry - Urban Intrigue -  about my interaction at the bananas at Trader Joe's

Never heard another thing.  Assume the device I sold is working fine and I am used to all my new passwords.

February

Entry - Schondecken's Coffee Shop

I continue to enjoy experiencing coffee shops throughout my travels in Portland.  Am now something of a native - if I am out for any length of time I am walking with coffee in hand.

Entry - Running the Gauntlet of 4-Year Olds

Interesting thing has happened with the 4-year olds. I haven't been greeted as Milk Shake or Hot Dog, etc in quite a while. They sometimes ask me what my name is but with smiles on their faces and, when I don't respond, they drop it. Lovely. What they now do is run over to tell me what has been happening in their lives especially if it involves THEIR grandmothers.  I enjoy it.  They don't do this at a fever pitch so I am sure their teachers enjoy it more as well.

Entry - Portland Couture

It continues to amuse me.  As my sister, Mary, says, "You don't even have to ask which airline gate you are flying from. Just look for people dressed in the Portland style and you're probably right."  Quite true.

March

Entry - Driving in Portland

I remain "unhonked."

Entry - Big Boy Underpants

I continue to be intrigued with Wesley's language development. He likes words. When I say a word he doesn't know, he will ask me what it means.  His favorite right now is Rhododendron.  They are blooming everywhere and he likes to point them out - "Look, a pink rhododendren, oh there's a red rhododendron," etc.  I think he likes the sound of it rolling around in his mouth.  He also likes to repeat phrases that I have used.  A favorite, when he doesn't understand something, "It's a mystery, Gramma, it's a mystery." Perhaps his favorite expression (and it plays into a favorite activity) when ANYTHING is misplaced - a piece of silverware, a book, a doll - "Let's get the flashlight."  Apparently, one can only find something with flashlight in hand. And, by the way, potty training is going swimmingly. Accidents happen but, on the whole, he is doing well.

The rest are all recent enough that updates aren't needed. All in all, life is good and I am adjusting to the great northwest.

A Grandmother House

When you decide to live somewhere for just 5 years it affects how you approach both selecting and furnishing your living space. On the one hand, hey, it's only 5 years. I can cope with just about anything as long as I feel safe. On the other hand, why not create a space unlike any I have had in the past? If it doesn't work, no big deal, it's not permanent.

In my case the selection process was a bit more challenging because the rental market in inner Portland is tight; the vacancy rate is less than 1.5%. This meant I had to jump quickly when I found anything of interest. God bless Craig's List. I used their search filters, google map and photos to quickly eliminate places outside my area of interest (within 1-2 miles of my daughter's house) and could drive by anything that looked promising before making contact with landlords. But pressure was on to move quickly - to find a place in my 10-day trip up here last July. My minimal requirements? 2 bedrooms, 1 bath, living room, eat-in kitchen, and an outdoor space that was useful. Then add the next layer of wants - I crave nooks and crannies. My favorite architectural style is Craftsman - you know, the built-in bookshelves, cabinets, fireplace, wood windows, etc. Thankfully Portland is full of such houses - chock full.

The duplex where I now live was the only place I actually looked at (drove by maybe 5 others, peered through vacant windows of another 3) but knew, after stepping into this living room, that I was home.  It is very small. Although the landlady says it has 1100 square feet I really doubt it. The living room is tiny but has the requisite built-in bookcase and fireplace. The kitchen is an odd shape but Gary's grandmother's small enamel table fits perfectly under a bank of windows. It also has lots of cupboards. My bedroom is adequate as is the bathroom. The upstairs attic space captured my heart - windows, a built-in bookcase and a dormer.  What more could one ask?  Hardwood floors throughout.

My unit is on the right.

Although my landlady put me through a wringer (the major problem being lack of rental history - it had been almost 40 years!) I was able to fly back to Pacific Grove in mid-July with floor plans in hand to start the packing process. I can't believe what I accomplished in 3 weeks - I handled and packed every single thing I owned - including the contents of my garage and 2 small attics. Everything. Of course, as you can guess, I frequently found myself staring at something wondering WHY HAVE I SAVED THIS???? Many car loads ended up at Goodwill or the Last Change Mercantile at the local dumps. I returned treasures loaned by a beloved sister, set aside things that belonged to Stephanie, gave my son in Oakland just about anything he was willing to take, tucked about 10 cartons into a cousin's garage in Marin, and then shoe-horned into an attic crawl space any small furniture and boxes of things I couldn't bring but wanted to save. Today, when I can't find something, I find myself wondering where it is. Is it with a family member? Goodwill? Oakland? Marin? Or in the locked attic crawl space in Pacific Grove? It will be interesting to unpack that attic when I return. What did I store there? I made so many decisions in such a short time that I can't quite remember what made the cut.  And will I still want that stuff after being without it for 5 years? And, perhaps, more interesting, how are the renters dealing with that locked door? I must admit, it would drive me crazy to have a locked space staring at me. Have they broken in? If so, I bet they were disappointed. In my memory a phalanx of boxes of books is staring back at them.

What came with me? Anything that supported inclusion in a Grandmother House - that's how I view this space. After the moving van left, I had much fun unpacking and distributing my things among the rooms and I can most definitely state that every space now screams Grandmother. The living room has baskets that hold all the train stuff from Lee's childhood - the tracks, the engines and cars, the blocks to make tunnels and towns and mountains.  There is enough room on the floor for Wesley to set up tracks that weave across the rug and around furniture legs.

Built-in shelves hold his toys and books.

In the kitchen - one small cabinet has the baking stuff that is safe to play with.  We use the measuring cups in water play as well as when cooking.

He has another drawer that stores his plastic dishes as well as play dough and chalk. Note our two aprons hanging from hooks on the refrigerator:  His is the orange one.

Another cabinet has pots and pans that are safe for him to use when he "cooks" with me - he frequently takes the contents out and leaves them strewn all over the floor.  I step over them, quite content.

My favorite part is the long wall going down to my bedroom - I took all the art that I thought he would appreciate and hung it at his level.  We talk about some of the art, but no big deal. I just hope exposure will make an impact.

His favorite? The turquoise dog painting.  He often pats it as he runs by.

My bedroom book case has a climbing pull toy that my own children used. He is almost able to do it by himself.

The bathroom has a basket for his rubber duckies. We use them at bath time when he spends the night. On occasion he helps them jump into the water when we wash dishes in the kitchen. He thinks the ducks enjoy these auxiliary swims.

Upstairs is all his - as described in an earlier entry - where we spend time each afternoon. Right now he likes to make "charts" (a reference to his potty training chart at home, I suspect). I pull out the plastic bin of colored paper, stickers, deckle scissors and we go to town. His charts now decorate walls around my house.

In back is a covered play area with a cement floor that shows the remains of much chalk play. He can ride his learner-bike on the driveway. He likes to work in the garden with me. We have planted bulbs, cleaned up existing plants and revel in the signs of spring appearing in the yard. Right now we are watching the unfolding blossoms on a neighbor's rhododendron bush.

Given all the above, you would assume I am in heaven. And I am - most of the time. Here's the fly in the ointment. My lovely duplex-mates, a young couple, moved out last month. They were charming, helpful and quiet. We fed each others animals when one of us was on vacation, collected mail, shared garbage duty and I never heard them. Never. That has now changed. The new neighbors, although absolutely lovely, can be quite noisy at times. It is understandable - there are 4 of them living in what I consider a small space for just me.  2 Moms and 2 young boys - ages 3 and 5. To be completely fair, the noise level is not extraordinary, given the ages of the boys and their space limitations, but that doesn't make it easier to deal with.  Although they are out of the house much of the time, when they are home there are moments when I wonder if I am going to survive. The walls seem to shake.

But oh dear, even the thought of moving . . . . can I really do it again? So soon? Get out the packing boxes? Go buy some more tape? I love my street, my neighborhood, my unit - just not the noise coming from next door. I suspect I was naive to think I could adjust to duplex living after 40 years in a detached house.

But move? Again? You know what I really need to do? I need to channel Scarlett O'Hara. Yes, that's it.  I'll think about it tomorrow. Fiddle-dee-dee. Can't deal with it right now. However, to be safe, I just added Craig's List to my bookmark bar.  Oh dear.

Keep Portland Weird

This is a common bumper sticker around these parts.  The first time I saw it, my reaction was, "No way. Santa Cruz has ownership of THAT slogan." However, after 7 months here, I recognize that the slogan is both appropriate and, I think, a source of pride. It honors a different type of weirdness than that vibrating from Santa Cruz and I'm glad I have been able to experience both weirdnesses.

I think Portland's weirdness is beautifully showcased in the television program, Portlandia. If you haven't see it, get ready. It is very different from the usual TV fare. Think early years of Saturday Night Live. It has the same unevenness - some skits work, others don't, some need editing but when they hit, they are so very funny. I'd describe the premise as taking something unique to Portland - a local trend, fashion statement, political event and then tweaking it. Exaggerating it. When I am watching it, I am in awe of the writers' abilities to capture an essence of Portland. Unlike SNL, there are only two main characters and many of the skits are ongoing. Very funny - in its own weird way.

Today's outing illustrates the unique style of life in Portland. It started out with an incredible weather forecast. It's going to be sunny and warm this weekend - 81 degrees tomorrow. No rain expected at all. It has been so gray for the last several weeks that this is truly amazing. Right now it's 74 degrees and, for the first time since last Fall, I am in shorts and my very favorite beat-up-but-fit-perfectly flip flops are on my feet. Ah, heaven! And the view out my attic window?  Bright sun shines on my SE Avenue and all the tulips, rhododendron blossoms and daffodils sparkle. Lots of kids outside playing. Bee-you-tee-ful.

But this Saturday morning didn't start out that way; it was the usual overcast and cool. Even so, I made the decision to leave my hoodie behind when I left for my volunteer job down town at the main branch of the library. I didn't want to have to carry my hoodie when the sun broke through so I hugged my light knit short-sleeved top close as I stood on McLaughlin waiting for my bus. Another man came up and we chatted - the usual bus stop chatter - the weather, what was happening in the neighborhood around us, etc. Suddenly a car pulled over into the bus zone and the woman driver waved at us. The man stepped forward, leaned in, listened and then turned to me, "She wants to talk to you." Much surprised I leaned forward to hear her ask, "Are you warm enough? If not, do you want this jacket?" as she pointed to one on her passenger seat. I was stunned, shook my head, thanked her, and assured her I was okay. As she drove off, the man and I looked at each other and agreed this was amazing, although he added that he too was surprised at how I was dressed. At this point another horrid thought entered my mind but I did not have the nerve to ask, "Do I look pathetic and homeless?" Didn't want to hear his answer but, in thinking about it, I KNOW I didn't. I know the homeless look - they arrive at the front steps of my other volunteer job every Monday morning. Yes, I was wearing jeans - but they were dark, neatly pressed, and worn with bright red flats. My knit top had black and white stripes. I looked nice, I know I did. Well, maybe I looked a tad cold but nicely cold. What can I say? Stephanie says the fact that I was standing at a bus stop may have contributed to the woman thinking I was homeless. I am working hard at convincing myself it was just part of the unique Portland experience. Either way, what an incredible thing for her to do. Also possibly embarrassing.

Once at the library, I helped my shift partner open the gift shop where we volunteer. You may remember that, in an earlier entry, I noted that I was not looking for new friends, that I am enjoying this new anonymity? Well, God was listening, and made sure I got what I asked for. My shift partner, Leif is a young man, 28 years old, a part time student at Portland State, who hopes to become an engineer. So why did I originally think he may not be possible friend material? Due to surgery he can only speak in a very low whisper, so low that I have to stand right next to him to be able to understand what he is saying. It is a tad awkward to keep saying, "What?" or "Excuse me?" or "I didn't quite catch that" so we probably exchanged less than 50 words during our first shift together. He asked me nothing while I carefully worked around him. Today, 5 shifts later, we are becoming friends, and chat throughout our 3 hours together. It is helped by the fact that the store is very slow on weekends so we have a lot of time with little to do other than talk. Today he was working on some math - algebra. I told him this was a topic I wished I knew better - I had not paid attention in freshman year of high school, and it really affected my later efforts in geometry, algebra II and trig. I don't know how I survived those higher levels of math when my understanding of basic algebra was so weak. As we talked, a customer came in to peruse our used books for sale. As we kept talking - "What was the rationale for the order of operations?""Why did multiplication precede addition?""Could the square of a number ever be negative?" the customer joined in. He asked for a piece of paper and soon had it covered with algebraic equations as he tried to explain the use of the imaginary number, i, to both of us. Not sure how this pesky i got into the discussion and I remain clueless, mind you, about what was happening on his piece of paper, but I was charmed by his interest in sharing his love of numbers. Another bit of Portland.

When my shift ended, I walked a block over and caught MAX (their BART equivalent) down to Saturday Market at Riverfront Park to look for some gifts for friends I am visiting in France next month. I haven't been back to Saturday Market in several years and, my, it has grown. The maze of booths selling products made by local artisans located under a highway overpass along the Willamette River is now spread over 3 blocks. Today the bright sun (See? I was right to leave my hoodie home.) brought out hordes of people. I had fun moving among the booths, looking for the perfect gift. When I found what I thought would work, I asked the artist who made the two necklaces to model each while I snapped photos of her which I then texted to a cousin who is going with me. Are these okay? You gotta love technology!

With gifts safely stashed away, back to MAX and a transfer to my bus home. Sat next to a young mother with her 2-year old son on her lap. She recently moved here from San Diego and is having a bit of trouble adjusting to the weather but agreed that today was simply lovely. Her child was adorable - almost as cute as Wesley. As I walked home from my bus stop I stopped to chat with folks gathered around new planter boxes constructed outside a small apartment house near my street corner. I had noticed the new empty boxes when I walked past last Saturday but now they were full of dirt with lots of plants, still in their plastic pots, marking the spots where they would soon be planted. To me, they seemed way too close - just wait until those zucchinis take over the rest of the box - but I said nothing. Gardening is a learning process, a delighful learning process, and is best learned from experience, not from nosy neighbors like me horning in with unasked for advice. Instead I played with the two labs who cavorted among the boxes and the families gathered to plant.

A lovely Portland day.  One in which, please dear God, I did not look homeless.

Rocking It Out?

Last night I went to a concert  - yep, got out of the house. Trying to raise that low grade I gave myself on becoming urban. Was I out there, experiencing what the big city has to offer? Well, not really. I didn't go hear a new band, see some outrageous dance performance, watch an indie film, or even do something out of my comfort zone. Nope, not at all. It was someone from my generation and an entertainer I have seen in the past. I saw Arlo Guthrie at "The Lamp", the nickname of an old local movie theater, the Alladin, now used for live performances. It was fun - a lot of toe tapping going on. We all joined in for The City of New Orleans and his one verse of Alice's Restaurant (with the opening line, "It all started 2 - no, make that 47 Thanksgivings ago." He said he can only bear to sing the whole 30 minutes of lyrics every 10 years or so and is, therefore, not due to sing it again until 2015. However, he told a wonderful story about his wife getting arrested at a Connecticut airport that had much the same flavor as Alice's Restaurant. He IS a good entertainer.

While waiting for the concert to begin (when I wasn't checking email or texting as were others around me) I took note of similarities and differences from concerts I attended in the past.

#1 Generally I am so far out of it that I am not even in the back row in the arena of coolness. Proof? I got my hand stuck in the back of my sister's seat while trying to get up to give Arlo a standing ovation!  Pathetic. Geriatric.

 #2 I forgot they stamp your hand when you go in. Not sure why it made me think of a concert I attended in NYC (I think it was Bonnie Raitt) when 8 months pregnant with Stephanie. As I recall I waddled through the door, watching people ahead of me get frisked. When it was my turn to step forward, my stomach got there before the rest of me and the frisker was suddenly confused, ill at ease. His hands hovered over my stomach and then paused. He just couldn't do it. I silently thanked his mother for her good training and got in frisk-free but with a nice stamp on my hand.

#3 Unlike the Bonnie Raitt concert of oh so long ago, the predominant hair color at this concert was white. These WERE my peeps.

#4 An audience of white hairs does not preclude the existence of idiots screaming out comments to Arlo between and during songs. Maybe more annoying than when I was young.

#5  I didn't see anyone get up to dance at their seats. Miss that.

#6  No obvious smell of illegal substances wafting around the room. No comment.

It was a lovely evening. Great music, lots of fun. Am sorry that my brother-in-law had to miss the event but am grateful that my sister picked me to take his place.  Thank you, Colin and Mary.

As I sit here typing another memory comes flooding back, a memory of music and white hairs but this time the venue was the warm water pool at the Monterey Sports Center. There were perhaps 25 of us in the pool and I don’t think anyone was under 60. At 62 (at the time) I was probably the youngest. Most were women. One of the few men present set his portable oxygen tank on the side of the pool with the tank's thin hose attached to his nose. It definitely limited his movements. At the top of the wide steps into the pool were two walkers and a bin that held canes of other participants. Get the picture? These were the members of the Wednesday Morning Shallow Water Aerobics Class for Seniors.

I was new to the class. I usually did deep-water aerobics in the large pool but added this as a warm-up to the deep-water class that followed it. So there I was, figuring out where I fit into the procedures and policies of this new group. They all knew each other and I couldn't help but notice the nasty looks I kept getting from the woman next to me who had arrived late to class. Had I inadvertently taken the space in the pool she usually occupied? Was she interested in the man next to me, the one with the portable oxygen tank? Was I the "younger woman" horning in?

Our instructor played music to help us keep to the rhythm of the exercises. I was grateful for her choices  – mostly mixes of “our” music. So on this particular morning we were moving to the voices of the Everley Brothers, Beatles and Neil Sedaka. I sang along, softly mind you, given that I don’t have a voice appreciated by most. “When I want you (push) in the night (kick kick) When I want you (pull) to hold me tight (stomp stomp), Whenever I want you (kick) All I have to do (stomp) is dre – ee- ee – ee- am (pull) dream dream dream”. We made that water churn.

I entered a zen zone so as to ignore everyone around me, to focus on moving to the music. I was successful until I recognized that something had changed. Something was different. I opened my eyes and looked around, astonished. Everyone was singing. Everyone. It was under their breaths, mind you, but they were all engaged. What had happened? It was the song. Mick Jagger’s “Satisfaction” was pouring out of the sound system and all 25 white hairs were bobbing and shimmying along. The stink eye lady was preening, the guy with the oxygen tank was strutting, and the looks on our faces - it was the same look we had when we sang it in high school. With chins jutted out, we were a bit surly, a lot aggressive and we had attitude as we swaggered up and down the pool. We were cool, we were hip – and, damn it all, WE CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION! I collapsed in laughter and, as I resurfaced, wondered if this was Mick Jagger's worst nightmare? 

So, thank you, Arlo and Mick. You help me adjust to my surroundings and I appreciate it.  

Cycles

Oh my goodness my last entry has had interesting responses. They generally fall into two camps - those who think I am, perhaps, losing my mind and those who cheer me on. The latter are mostly from friends who are grandparents, the former are not. I completely understand those who think I am a bit nuts. How can one explain inherent joy in endless repetitions of an activity with a 2-year old? I have decided that, for me, it is the opportunities of grandmotherhood combined with the fact that I have refocused my life.

So, what is so great about being a grandmother? I get a Do-Over. I get a chance to do a better job of how I choose to spend time with a child. When I was a young mother I was so busy, had so many demands on my time, that I did not want to use time I had in repetitious play. It bored me. For example, I internally groaned whenever my children pulled out Candy Land. Oh how I loathed that game. It seemed that every time I got close to the end (a few jumps away from the door to the gingerbread house - you remember it?), and a possible end to my misery, I'd pull the card with the candy hearts and have to go almost all the way back to Start. Much gnashing of teeth. Could I bear to start over? So I figured a way around it. No, I didn't do the obvious - hide the box - but, instead, loaded the cards. I would, oh so casually, plant the melting block of ice cream (the card that took you to the location closest to the end of the trail) about 15 cards down from the top. I would make sure one of the children got it, by the way, to make it less obvious. And, voila, the game ended quickly with great delight on the part of the child who won. I would then suggest we do something else.

Even active play, like hide-and-seek, paled for me after about 20 minutes. Walks were better - the scenery changed, we could talk while we walked - and I spent hundreds of hours as a Girl Scout leader. Campouts, cookie sales and badge work became part of our family life. Lee was young enough that he attended most meetings and went on all the camping trips with the girls. Repetitious play, however, was harder for me. I encouraged my children to entertain themselves or play with friends. While I consider both important life-skills it was also a bit self-serving. It gave me time to complete other tasks.

I was so busy back then. I was a full-time teacher as well as a mother and committed to doing a good job in my classroom. I look back, with a degree of regret, on the hours I spent each week on school work. I wish I didn't remember how often I said, "I can't do that because I have to grade papers." Or, "Later, honey, I have to type up a test." Or "I can't come, I have to stay late for a meeting." I wish the balance I chose to maintain had been one with more time spent with my family.

Gary's illness played another role in my busy-ness.  He was diagnosed with MS when we were 32; the children were 5 and 2. Although his disabilities didn't immediately affect our lives, they were waiting around the corner. I had to take on many of Gary's jobs as well as my own. Stress certainly took its toll on my attitude about how I spent my time.

I understand that I did the best I could. There were good reasons for every decision I made and, thankfully, I have many wonderful memories of time spent with my children - and photographs show much time spent togther. I know we laughed a lot. I just wish I could go back and redo some of it.

And now I feel I have been given a second chance. Not with my own daughter, unfortunately, but with her son. This is why my time with Wesley is so precious. This time around, I can do better. Constraints that existed in the past are no longer present. I'm retired, Gary no longer needs me, and other activities can wait. My time is his.

Okay, so that explains my motivation but how can I now endure somewhat mindless play when I couldn't in the past? I think it is the quieter life I lead. I really like having nothing to do so when I do something, I enjoy every minute of it. Ravishankar are you listening? Can you believe this is coming from me? Who knew?

When I am playing with Wesley I love every second of being with him. When we sit on my bed pretending we are on a bus, I love holding him close, smelling his hair, watching expressions flit across his face. I notice the softness of his hand in mine, the sound of his voice, the joy of his gestures. It doesn't really matter that we are singing the same song over and over. I am not paying much attention to that, I just enjoy being with him.

It's the same when we do chores. When we wash dishes, for example, we talk about the feel of the bubbles and the warmth of the water. Our hands splash in delight while we pass silverware to the dish rack. Yes dishes get clean but the process is actually more important.  

So, odd as it may seem, I am perfectly content playing with my grandson. Of course, all of this may be hooey. The true test will come when he is old enough to want to play Candy Land. Will my efforts to stay in the moment be strong enough to overcome my aversion to that game? Don't know; it's asking a lot. On the other hand, I think I still possess the slight-of-hand skills needed to fix the cards - or at least I have time to start practicing.

Missing the Wee One

I got up at 4 this morning and was out the door with coffee in hand to drive Stephanie, Dan and Wesley to the airport.  They are flying to Austin to spend Easter with family friends of Dan's.  This is their third Easter trip to Texas and, I must admit, for the first time I am a bit jealous.  It's still cold and damp here but not in Austin - 90 degrees today. Normally that's too hot for me but right now it sounds awfully good.  I will pick them up on Tuesday and, no surprise here, I am already missing them.

My afternoons with Wesley are delightful.  The daily drive from pre-school to my house has become a treasure hunt.  First we have to find "Gramma's car."  I lose it everyday. Given that there aren't a lot of parking spaces in front of the preschool, it is quite easy for him to be successful finding it.  Once he is in his car seat, we begin the search for buses (3 types - city, school and "Grampa Tom Buses" - Dan's dad is disabled and rides to Dan's house in one of those small city vans that carry wheel chairs).  Then there are the trains.  Wesley loves trains so we stop at the local industrial park near his preschool to find the 2 red engines that service the businesses.  I drive around the park until we find both.  Then, closer to my house, we pass the train tracks.  If we are lucky enough to spot a train, I pull over so we can count the cars.  When we are almost to my house we pass the train yard.  Here the 2 "Buddy Engines"(as he calls them) - #1243 and #1214 - are often working, but not always, so that makes it interesting.  Will they be there?  If not, will we say "Drat!" loudly or softly?  Wesley gets to decide.  We also look for what he calls the "tunnel of trees." Right now the trees are bare.  Each day we look to see if the first growth of leaves has popped out.  He also hunts for daffodils.

We chat the whole way.  Yesterday something he said caught me by surprise. Remember he is a bit over 2 1/2 and is still perfecting pronunciation.  I now understand about 75% of what he says but the remaining 25% is often a mystery.  What surprised me was his response to the sudden rain.  As I  turned on the wipers this little voice from the back seat piped up, " Gramma, that's rain, not condensation."  In slight shock, I looked at him in the rear view mirror and said,  "What did you say?" He repeated it slowly, being kind to his apparently impaired grandmother, the same grandmother who loses her car everyday, "Condensation, Gramma,  con-den-sa-tion." When I asked him what condensation was, he said it "wasn't rain, it's wet but not rain."  Later, when I asked Dan, I found out he had had this discussion with Wesley.  Ah, the abilities of brains at this age - truly little sponges.

Once home Wesley helps me with chores - he loves to vacuum, sweep and cook (he prefers making cookies but stirring soups is also fun). Then we do whatever he wants.  A favorite game right now is recreating our Zoo Lights experience of last Christmas.  The Portland Zoo has a gorgeous light display over the holidays and Wesley loves it. In reality, I am not sure which - the ride in the school bus from the parking lot to the zoo entrance or the light display itself - has the stronger impact.  In our version we climb up onto my high bed and sit facing the pillows.  This is our bus.  I am a passenger and Wesley is the "conductor." We start the song, "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round" and vigorously move our hands in circles to represent the spinning wheels. When we get to the verse "The doors on the bus go open and shut" Wesley's toys (4 teddy bears, a bunny, Stephanie and Lee's Cabbage Patch doll from their youth - Frankie Hal, and, most interestingly, his tall crane with about 7 small railroad cars dangling from it - he calls them all his "kids") enter the bus one by one.  When we sing the verse "The driver on the bus says 'Move on back'" I move them, one by one, behind Wesley.  Once everyone is on board, he has me read one or two books so that all the "kids" can hear. At that point, we have arrived at the zoo.  To get to the actual Zoo Lights display we get off the "bus" and climb up the attic stairs.  Once there Wesley moves all the "kids" into the little storage space over the stairs.  When they are seated on boxes inside, he creates a light display by flipping the storage room light off and on. Sometimes he leaves them in there while we play with other toys.  This whole process, from climbing on the bus to the culminating light show, can take 45 minutes and we have been doing it every day for the past few weeks.

If there is time afterwards we go downstairs and read books on the couch.  It is still cool enough that we turn on the gas flames in the fireplace and "get cozy" while we read.   Dan picks him up a bit after 5. As we wave goodbye I am already looking forward to the next day's adventures.

I wonder what new games await?  Perhaps they will have a Texas flair.  Are cowboys and wrangling cattle in my future?  Or will we revisit some games from the past?  We haven't played Hide and Seek  with flashlights in a long time.  Whatever new idea pops into his mind, I am sure the "kids" will be up for it and I will happily go along for the ride.   I am in my element.

The "kids" waiting for Wesley

Car Mechanics

I am sitting in a local Starbucks waiting for my car to get fixed.  Surprise - I need new windshield wipers and the mechanism that supports them.  Who would guess this would happen in Portland?  The weather has been bizarre.  Last week we had 7 days of gray, 3 of these with snow (short, didn't stick long, but it was there), and one afternoon so warm and sunny that Wesley and I played in the backyard without jackets.  Today I am back to a heavy sweater watching the drizzle outside.   All in one week.  I guess I now understand what they mean about, "if you don't like the weather, wait a minute."

I am getting used to a new car shop.  I loved Tom's Auto Shop in Monterey.  When I first moved to Pacific Grove, I asked a new neighbor, Lowell, for a recommendation.  He worked with me at Carmel High - the wood shop teacher - and I figured he would know where to go.  He said, "If I can't fix it myself, I take it to Tom's."  So off I went and was happy for the next 24 years.

The folks at Tom's knew my cars, told me what needed to be done, fixed them quickly, backed up their work, gently urged me when it was time to get replacements - and all this in a shop so clean you could literally eat off the floor.  Our lives became entwined.  They knew my cars and I knew his kids.  I taught Tom's two sons at Carmel High and was delighted when I would see them at the shop in the intervening years.

One of my favorite memories involved Tom's shop, my car and my dog, Murphy.  Any of you who knew Murphy are probably shaking your head right now as you recall Murphy the Wonder Dog - oh, that dog led me on a merry chase.  She was the first dog of my life and I did NOT understand effective dog training.  We coexisted.  She occasionally did what I asked but only if it met her needs as well.

Murphy disobeying tide pool rules at Asilomar

On this particular day I dropped my car off at Tom's on my way to  Carmel High.  When I came back to pick it up I was really surprised to find the work not finished - so unlike Tom's.  One of his mechanics explained, "We didn't want to finish, given the costs, until we got permission but when we called Gary, he didn't answer." With that, I burst into tears.  Other mechanics came running over.  What had happened?  What was wrong? What could they do?  This was NOT my usual response to car maintenance issues.

I don't know about the rest of you but I have a really hard time talking while I cry.  I gulped and sputtered and tried to get words out.  "I guess you didn't know," (sob, hiccup, sniff) "that my husband died last month," (dawning horror on their faces as they understand why Gary didn't answer), "and I didn't think," (gurgle, hiccup) "to give you the Carmel High phone number." At this point I was  sobbing and thoroughly embarrassed by my emotional outburst - it happened whenever I was blindsided by unexpected reminders of my husband's death.  As I tried to contain myself, they scurried about fixing my car.  I have never seen work done so quickly.  While some worked on the engine, others gave me tissues to dry my face, pushed Tom's Automotive trinkets (a little calculator, notepads and a calendar as I recall) into my hands, and looked away while I desperately tried to gather my wits.  I have never loved these men as much as I did that day.

As I got into my finished car, one of the mechanics came over to hand me my keys - and a box of See's candy.  He said how sorry they were about Gary's death.  I drove away, touched by their concern.  About two miles into the drive I started to giggle, recalling the whole scene.  It really was funny if one could unemotionally step away and watch it unfold.  Not the sweet men but the situation.  The tears, the scurrying, the handholding, the tissues, the gift-giving, the repair work and then the candy.  If Gary had been alive this is a story I would have enjoyed telling and one he would have loved hearing.  His world was so small -  bed bound from his MS, unable to move, a bright mind trapped in a body - but thankfully his sense of humor remained undiminished.  As I looked over at the box of See's sitting on the passenger seat I said aloud, "Well, Gary, I know you would have enjoyed all this, especially the candy, but unfortunately for you, I get it all myself."

I spoke too soon.

As I turned into the alley behind my house I saw a neighbor, Mike, standing by my garage.  When he spotted me, he began to wave frantically.  Well, he waved with one hand - the other was holding Murphy by the collar (yes, remember, Murphy is part of this story).  I rolled down my window and got an earful.  It seems that earlier that day Murph had worked her way under my back fence and escaped down the alley.  Mike, good friend that he was, grabbed her and tossed her into his dog run along with his own sweet Labrador, Billy.  Here is where the story got messy.  Murphy, the master escape artist, quickly figured out how to outwit Mike's system.  Not only this, she encouraged Billy to join in.  Billy was a dog who had happily spent much of the previous 5 years in this dog run with never a thought of making a run for it - until he met Murphy.  And now, Murphy had both a co-conspirator and an avid learner. The result was that my neighbor spent much of the afternoon trying to stay one step ahead of my dog.  He would improvise a plan, Murphy would find a way around it, would leave with Billy in tow and Mike would have to go chase them.   And it happened over and over.  By the time I got home Mike was so mad I suspect he would have let my dog go except that I was a new widow. This is what saved Murphy.  Mike was just too decent to let the miscreant run off.

This, however, did not prevent Mike from enumerating all of Murphy's failings of which there were many.  I realized decisive action was needed.  I grabbed the box of See's candy, waved it in front of him and said, "Oh, please, Mike, take this.  I know it won't make up for your troubles but it might help."  I was right.  A chocoholic stood before me. His eyes lit up as he zoomed in on the easily identifiable white box with the gold stickers. He scooped that box away from me as fast as Murphy escaped from his dog run.  As much as I regretted the loss of the candy, I knew not to press my luck. I whisked Murphy out of his sight, into my garage.  Murphy, true to form, had no regret. She pranced ahead of me into the house.  I shook my head as I followed Murphy in. Let's see, I got the dog, Mike got the See's, and Tom's Auto Shop ended up fixing far more than my car.

I wonder what my relationship with Barrett's Automotive here in Portland will be.  They seem nice, have done previous work promptly, recognize that I am waiting for my car so move it up on the list of jobs to be done - no complaints.  But do they have See's candy waiting if unexpected outbursts occur?  This is the kind of thing not covered in online reviews.   Only experience will tell.   I am not counting on it - there are only so many Tom's in one's life.

Murphy teaching Stephanie the correct way to mouth a ball 

(okay - to be fair to Stephanie - she had a clean ball in her mouth)