More Energy Please!

I have been sick for almost 8 weeks and am tired of coughing. Really tired. And think about the people around me. It is disgusting when I cough - it sounds like I am coughing up my lungs. The reason I held off going to the doctor's was all the articles I have read about overprescribing drugs for bronchitis - you just have to work through it. But 8 weeks? When the symptoms exploded last week I finally went - and guess what? I don't have bronchitis. Nope, not at all. I have a sinus infection that needs antibiotics and now, 4 days later, I see light at the end of the tunnel.

Note to Donna:  Remember this next time.  Remember this. Remember this. DUH.

Okay, so is there anything good about this experience? Well, even though I have had no energy for doing much and have been coughing, coughing, coughing, things have been happening:

#1 If I had read Chapter 9 in the Ham Radio Exam Prep Guide when I first started my ham radio endeavor, I would have immediately stopped the process. Chapter 9 describes the many creative ways I can electrocute myself. Granted I never intend to climb a tower to attach an antenna or go up on the roof of my building to adjust current antennas (well, actually I might have done this but not now). And from now on I will let someone else open up any radio equipment that needs adjustments. In fact I would prefer to be out of the room. However, I read the chapters in order and am way too far into the process to back out now. My license exam is Nov 3 - at a local pizza parlor.  Can you believe it? Test-taking in the booths? Easy, though, for my fellow ham club members who will accompany me. Assuming I pass, I pay for their beer and pizza. Wish me well.

#2  I had a wonderful week-long visit from one of my friends from the Monterey Peninsula, right at the beginning of this illness. Emily was the absolute perfect guest. Remember my place is 421 square feet. She didn't blink about the "dorm" conditions. We swiveled the love seat 90 degrees (I bought a new red leather loveseat that is more comfortable than the original futon that was in the unit when I moved here) and moved the twin bed sent up from housekeeping into its place. The coffee table served as her bedside table. We could still sit on the loveseat and use the table. It was amazing how well it worked. So, friends, if you are willing, a bed is waiting. Come visit.

The new love seat - but the light is wrong 
(hey - remember my limited abilities as a photographer)
 It is actually ox blood red

And we had so much fun. While I did my volunteer work and babysat, Emily, on her own, saw much of Portland. I added the bus app to her iPhone and she was off exploring the city. I gave her my bus tickets and would drop her off at a coffee shop (this is Portland, mind you) at 8:00 a.m. and would pick her up at 4:30 wherever she found herself at that time. When we finally had days to share she helped me deal with the fact that I have seen little of Oregon in my two years here. We made a dent in my education. We drove east to Mt Hood to visit Timberline Lodge (one of the "great lodges" of the national park system) and stopped en route to tour the Columbia River Gorge and participate in the pear festival in the Hood River area (part of the "Fruit Loop" of the Gorge).

The next day we drove west to Astoria. The history teacher in me was ecstatic when we visited Fort Clatsop where Lewis and Clark spent that incredibly wet winter after finally reaching the coast. I was thrilled to walk in their steps.

The woods at Fort Clatsop. Imagine the area in perpetual rain.

More amusing was crossing the Columbia to Washington state to take a photo of the site where Lewis and Clark first landed - the spot THEY named Dismal Nitch. Isn't that a great name AND an indication of their feelings about the area?

#3  Time for a hair change - I chopped it all off (well, Jane, my lovely hair stylist, did) and am having so much fun.  I haven't had short hair in maybe 4 years and, oh my goodness, all those products out there make it so much more fun.

Before

After
Fun with an app on my phone.

#4  The grandchildren - they remain perfect in all ways. Finn, at almost 9 months, is the happiest baby I have ever met. All he does is smile and google and laugh. His face breaks into a grin when he makes eye contact with us. He adores Wesley, in fact his eyes follow Wesley when he is in the room.  He is happy, happy, happy so the fact that he may be dealing with a cold (which I probably gave him) kills me. This lovely child who only radiates happiness to everyone does not deserve this (of course, does anyone?).

I adore playing with 4-year old Wesley. Such creative, unselfconscious play comes out of 4-year olds. I love that he isn't embarrassed by talking aloud to imaginary friends who are playing with us, his 4-year old explanations of motivations for the next steps in whatever we are doing, his belief that the world is good and fair.

Today he was home sick (yes, I may be responsible) and I was babysitting. When he woke up from his nap he decided that the couch we were on was a boat on the ocean. He warned me that we had to keep our feet up out of the water. All was fine until he remembered "Uncle Lee's five foot butt squids".  I looked at him questioningly and then remembered - ah yes, the discussion with Uncle Lee and Michelle ("Titi" to Wesley) about their new sailboat. This new boat is bigger than their first sailboat and actually has a toilet. However the toilet is a bit small and problematic so Lee said that Wesley might prefer to poop in a bucket or, as always, can use the standard method of hanging his butt over the edge. Wesley is utterly fascinated by this possibility and suggested that, because this boat was bigger, his butt wouldn't get as close to the water. Lee responded that, "yes, but what about the 5-foot leaping butt-biting giant squid that searched the oceans for soft butts?" Wesley blinked. We assured him Lee was joking but it stuck in his mind and today came back as the "five foot butt biting squid".

So, I was the squid that made the butt attacks as Wesley screamed in delight. Then he decided the squid had slithered down to the basement where Dan works. Poor Daddy. Thankfully, Dan came up with a solution - Wesley should catch it, fry it, et voila - calamari.  We now added this twist - Wesley went fishing by throwing out a measuring tape, dragged the squid in, cut it up with his play hand saw, fried it and ate it - over and over and over again.

So I cough, cough, cough but am having lots of fun.

LIfe at the OFH

A few days after I moved in last February my sister-in-law Lynne sent me a quick text: "How's life in the old folks home?" I, of course, chortled. Old folks home? Old folks home! Here? With all these vibrant people involved in so many things? It made me laugh - as she knew it would - and I now refer to it as the OFH.

So, how is life in the OFH? It's good. I have settled in, learned lots of names and am getting used to its systems and protocols.

There is one problem however, a growing problem and it is sucking up my free time, time I used to spend writing my blog. What is it, you ask? Well, it is quite outside my comfort zone, keeps me chanting strange litanies while I drive, scatter little sticky notes of incomprehensible formulas and abbreviations around my apartment and has absolutely no association with my past life. No, I have not joined a coven or Scientology but perhaps something as earth shaking. . .

Get ready . . .

I am studying to become a ham radio operator. Yep, I who begged a dean at Berkeley to excuse me from the 6th science course I was supposed to take, who told the nun who taught me Algebra II that I had no idea what sine and cosine actually were, who quietly planned high school social activities during physics class - yep, that person hopes that, in a few weeks, I will be an official, FCC-licensed ham operator.

Bet you  didn't expect that. Just think, if all goes well, I will soon be leaning into a microphone to whisper the dramatic words: This is  Whiskey 7 November Tango Zulu (or whatever call signal the FCC assigns me).

Ah, the joy! The power! The anachronism!

Yes I know, it seems a bit irrelevant. Ham radio in this day and age? Well, actually, it was this seeming irrelevance that piqued my interest. Last April I attended a meeting of our ham radio club at the pleading of my neighbor Jack (probably close to 90 and a ham for the past 4 years). At the meeting an audience member asked the question I had been dying to ask - "Why do you do this in the age of computer technology?" What amused me, at the time, was the quivering among the club members (in their seats, walkers and wheel chairs) - all wanting to answer. They assured us that when true emergencies happen, when communication systems break down, it is the hams who come to the rescue. They quoted chapter and verse. "And," they added, "You can speak with people all over the world!"  I started to say, "What about Skype?" and thought better of it. But their enthusiasm and joy in ham radio intrigued me and I decided I had to give it a try. I am somewhat proud of my use of my iPhone,  iPad, computer and Kindle - why not go back in time to ham radio? Complete the picture, so to speak.

Oh how stupidly arrogant I was. I had no idea of the difficulty of the darn license exam to become a ham operator. Thankfully proficiency in morse code is no longer required but everything else physics-related is. I know for certain that Sister Mary Regina, my senior-year physics teacher, is laughing herself silly up in heaven. "If you had JUST PAID ATTENTION back then, young lady, you wouldn't be in the pickle you now find yourself."

And what a fix it is.  I have charts taped up around my apartment listing band widths, abbreviations and common frequencies. I now understand differences among resonators, capacitors, inductors, receivers, mixers and product detectors. I find myself muttering things like "bipolar junction and field-effect are the two most common transistors" or "thank goodness for integrated circuits, we can do so much with them" or "I think that specific circuit uses a single  pole, single throw switch." I now understand how AM is different from FM and why single side bands (SSB) are so helpful. WHAT?????  None of this ever came out of my mouth before - not recently or when I was a high school. Hmmmm - for that matter were integrated circuits even invented back then?

I must admit I am quite proud of myself as I slowly work through each chapter of the handbook (about 150 dense pages of diagrams, charts and figures) but occasionally I question my sanity. Why am I doing this? I have nothing to prove. Sister Mary Regina has long since gone to her just reward. I think the answer is that it is so completely out of my field that I am just going to darn well do it. And, oh, I do love the other hams who live here. They are helpful, supportive and warm. They are delighted to have a "young one" in their midst and really hope I pass my test. Why, you ask? There is a very good reason. Tradition here states that I then pay for beer and pizza for the whole club because, get this, they all come with me to the exam. Yep, I take the exam, it is immediately scored and then (hopefully) we are all off to beer and pizza on my tab.

Oh, and there is a bit more pressure. The last club member to take the exam was Louise. She had let her license expire (I now know that a license lasts 10 years with 2 additional years to renew). Alas, Louise let more than 12 years pass so she had to retake the exam. She got 100%  Here's the kicker. When she went to fill out the FCC paperwork, the space for age gave only 2 boxes - one for each digit - and she was 102. The FCC asked her to please list her age as 99 as they couldn't change the form at this time. Do you love it? Today Louise, at 104 and sharp as a tack, is the oldest licensed ham operator in the country.

If she can do it, so can I.

Wish me well.

I will keep you informed.

This is potential Whiskey 7 November Tango Zulu (or whatever) signing out.

Week #3 The Attic in Pacific Grove

Ah the attic. I have dreamed about what was crammed inside it. Two years ago, when I made the very impetuous decision to move to Oregon, I had 4 weeks to go through every single thing I owned.

I sorted it into 5 piles:

1) Stuff for Oregon (I knew the size of the small duplex I had rented)

2) Stuff to pass on to my children (just about anything they wanted) 

3) Things I wanted to keep but didn't make the cut to go to Oregon (this was the stuff in my attic)
4) Things to store in my cousin Pattie's garage - stuff for the annual Yosemite camping trip and other odds and ends that didn't fit in the attic.
 5) Goodwill - lots went to Goodwill. Why do we save stuff we never use?

One goal of this trip was to deal with what remained in California - items #3 and #4. When I arrived in early July I went though the 10 bins stored at Pattie's. I decided to keep about 2 boxes worth of stuff and will take these back to Portland at the end of the month. The rest I gave to Goodwill or to family members. All that is now left at Pattie's is my Yosemite camping stuff. Thank you, Pattie!

Now I had to face the attic. It is a small attic - maybe 15 feet long by 5 feet wide but with a sharply slanting roof. It is more of a crawl space than a true attic. In my memory it was stuffed with cartons, bags and 35 boxes of books. The reality was much better than I remembered. There were only 19 boxes of books and I could actually see space around things - it wasn't stuffed to capacity. It only took 20 minutes to unload it all into the small bedroom where the attic entrance is located. It took another 40 minutes, using the bucket brigade method, to pass all the boxes and bags down the narrow stairs to the living room, from the living room to the side deck, and from the side deck to my neighbor's driveway across the street (I didn't want to use my own driveway given that it technically belongs to my tenants)

My house

I thank Lee and Michelle who drove down from Oakland to help, Francia's friend René (who laughed when I asked him to please arrive at 4:00 American time, not Honduran time), and my tenant Albert. I couldn't have done it without them. René happily took all the bedding that I had saved - no need for it now - and some small pieces of furniture. What he could not use, he told me, he would pass on to people at his church. 

René and his daughter Frances

René's wife and Francia

Lee and Michelle took Lee's great grandfather's desk and chair and my old dog Bayley's very comfortable bed for Buloot.

What was left was piled on my neighbor's driveway. Several years ago my wonderful neighbor Greg had filled his driveway with the contents of his business from which he had just retired and odds and ends from his life's work. His equally wonderful wife, Robin, despaired that "Camp Greg," as she called it, would never disappear. It took 4 years but, eventually, all was stored away. I now asked if Camp Greg could reappear for about 10 days as a place for me to sort the attic contents. Robin is a good friend and not only did she agree, Greg had a table and dolly ready for me to use. These are great neighbors.

Views of portions of the New Camp Greg

Then the sorting began. It was actually much easier than I thought it would be. I tackled the boxes of stuff-other-than-books first. I opened a box, took out what I thought I would want then texted photos of the rest of the stuff to family members in California and Oregon. I described each item, gave approximate sizes and history and then asked the key question - do you want it? Here are a few samples:

My dolls and clothes - Candy took them.

Garden tool hooks - Mary took them.

Aborigine bark painting from a 1968 trip to Australia and my brother's clock -
Pattie took the painting, Mary took the clock.

China from my Aunt Ethel. Candy will repair the broken creamer then pass them on.

An odd combination - a crucifix from a church in Rome and
a boomerang and spear head from that trip to Australia.
Steph took the boomerang, Pattie took the spear, Candy took the crucifix.

Celtic angel from Ireland - Loretta took it.

All went smoothly until this image appeared on text messages in California and Oregon:

This is an oil painting done many years ago by my sister-in-law Melinda. She gave it to my parents. When my Mom moved to Canterbury Woods after Dad died, she took it with her and hung it in her living room. When she died there was much jockeying among the 5 offspring to get it. Of course Melinda had the most right - she was the artist after all, but all 3 sisters wanted it as well. While we tried to come up with reasons why it best belonged to each of us, I took it off the wall to look at it more closely and there, on the back, written in my mother's handwriting, was the sweetest message of all: "For Donna." Of course, if I had been gracious, I would have quietly acknowledged it and then, just as quietly, put it in my pile but of course nothing like that happened. I whooped and hollered and bounced up and down as I pointed out the message, made sure each one of them read it, reveled in it as I walked around the room, parading as if I had just won the gold. I ignored my brother, Melinda's husband, who pointed out that I had, on many occasions, forged my mother's name when signing papers that couldn't wait until I was actually with her. Of course this was her writing! Ridiculous.

For the past 9 years I have been the proud owner of this painting and it hung in my living room in my sweet house in Pacific Grove. Now I do not have enough wall space. However, I am not stupid. I announced, in the text, that it would still be mine but if anyone wanted to "store" it on a wall in their home I would gratefully consider it - but it must be understood it remained MINE. Pattie answered first, "Are you kidding??? Of course I could find room!!"  Mary was next, "There is ALWAYS room for another Melinda painting." But then Melinda came in with "I will take that one!" The artist won out. She assures me that she knows it is mine and I can visit it whenever I am at her house which is good because I love it. Thank goodness I have 5 of her other paintings hanging in my wee unit. I couldn't go Melinda Miller Collins free. No way. If you don't know her work, go online at melindamillercollins.com. It is spectacular.

Then it was time to tackle the books. At the end of the day I had 7 boxes set aside to donate to the Carmel library, 9 to send to Oregon, 2 to give to Candy for the Mercy Retreat Center and 1 to give to Pattie. However, during the night, when I couldn't sleep, I reviewed what was in the boxes for Oregon. I didn't need 9 boxes of books. In the morning I went through all 9 and removed enough to add 2 more boxes to the pile for the library. It was with great relief that I schlepped all 9 boxes to the library and took 7 to the post office to mail to Oregon. Phew. Greg's dolly came in quite handy at both the library and the P.O.

So now I have about 7 plastic bins of things to take back to Oregon plus the dollhouse that Gary built for Stephanie. It is fragile, parts have become unglued, but I think Stephanie and I can restore it. I filled the rooms of the dollhouse with plastic air bags and packed the whole thing in bubble wrap. Oh I hope it survives the ride to Oregon.

It is done. I can't quite believe it. My goodness. Stuff-free.

Week #2 Yosemite

I do love Yosemite. It was hot this year - in the high 80s, low 90s, but Loretta brought a fan and what a difference that made. The Housekeeping campground is about the lowest form of camping you can do at Yosemite (well, setting up your own tent would be lower) - the tents are old, the ground around the cement apron in front of each tent is pitted, the attached table is a bit wobbly, the counter can be precariously attached to the outer stockade wall, the mattresses on the beds can be a bit lumpy, ground squirrels annoy you no end but there are a few things that makes it all quite wonderful - it is right on the Merced River, it has views of Half Dome and Yosemite Falls, the lovely scent of forest trees fill the air  and, get ready, each camp site has 2 electric outlets. This makes all the difference. We brought a water heater and a French press - et voila, coffee! We could charge our iPhones and laptops, plug in the fan. Yea electricity.

This year our group's ten sites were in the inner zone of the campground (we are assigned sites right on the river every other year) but I really liked our particular site. We were close to the river, had areas with open sky views (for nighttime stargazing), were not far from the little store, were able to park right next to our tent site so unpacking was a breeze - all in all, a good site.

This year my cousin Pattie and I decided to continue with the tradition of minimalist camping we had established last year but this is not quite possible for Pattie's sister, Loretta, who joined us for the first time. She is at the other end of the spectrum - she tends to pack a lot. For example, I was a bit surprised when she brought 2 pairs of scissors on our trip to Egypt. I didn't think to bring any (but all concerns about her overpacking disappeared when my luggage was lost for the first 4 days of that trip and her amply filled bag helped supply things I was most grateful to use). So Loretta brought lots of baked goodies, 2 fans, a large cooler, kitchen supplies, tablecloths, wine and champagne and appropriate glasses  - well, what's not to love about what she brought?!?!? I became a fan.

The kitchen area of our housekeeping unit - the new floats are behind our table. 

Pattie and I learned from last year - we bought inflatable tubes on Amazon and used them to float down the river. The cost of all 3 was less than the rental price of one ride down the Merced River on a Yosemite inflatable boat. But what we most enjoyed was tying all 3 together, latching them to a tree on the shore and then reading, talking and laughing while we looked up at Half Dome and Yosemite Falls. Quite a view.

I know, not a close up, but what can you do? Our floats attached to the shore. 

The little specks on the left side of the photo are other folks floating down the river. What waited ahead of them made us (and all the people playing on the nearby beach) laugh a lot. A group of young kids, maybe 3, 4, 6 and 8 year olds, gathered on the beach. Half hid across on the opposite bank in some tall grasses, while the others stood in plain view on the shore. As a person on a raft approached, the kids appeared indifferent but, as soon as the raft hit the deepest channel (where all the floaters had to go - it was too shallow on the rest of the river bed), the kids, stationed on either side, pulled out their water guns and blasted the poor folks floating by. They were so young you just  didn't expect such mischief. Everyone laughed, including most of the surprised rafters.

Three of the mischief makers - the rest hid across the water in the grasses.

Then the most wonderful thing happened. A man, alone, spread out on his back, sunglasses perched on his nose, almost asleep, floated by - right towards the imps. We all held our breaths - what a sitting duck he made! Just as he got to the kids he surprised us all by suddenly sitting up and drenching them with his hidden water cannon. It was priceless. The kids were completely unprepared and the beach crowds applauded madly. We joined in. He got 'em. 

What a wonderful way to spend a hot sunny day on a river. 

The days slid lazily by. Pattie and Loretta climbed up to Vernal Falls - I wished them well. I had said goodby to Vernal Falls several years ago. Those of you who have been to Yosemite know what it is like to climb the steep uneven stone stairs of the Mist Trail as you get sprayed from the Falls nearby. We toured museums, rode the shuttle around the park and I read lots of sixth grade books for my new library volunteer job (I am going to be a "Book Lady" who, every other month, shares synopses of 8 books with sixth grade classes and leaves them copies of these books), visited others in our group, stared up at the evening sky - so incredibly clear - and enjoyed every single second.

Candy, Pattie, Me, Loretta

And, of course, I had an "Ahwahnee Day" when I pretend I am staying at that grand old lodge instead of in the Housekeeping Campground at the opposite end of the luxury scale. We had lunch in the restaurant, drinks at the outside bar, lounged in chairs scattered throughout the public rooms and shopped in the elegant gift shop. And then I went happily back to Housekeeping.

Oh it was all lovely as were the beautiful drives to and back. I am now on my way to Pacific Grove for week #3 of my time in California - I will be emptying the attic in my house that is now rented. What awaits me?

Week #1 An Odd Start

I left early Saturday morning for California. It was 85 miles past a McDonald's north of Ashland when I realized, with sickening horror, that I had left my purse back in the McDonald's bathroom - the purse with my money, credit cards, bank cards, medical cards, 2 checkbooks, driver's license, Triple A card, iphone, all forms of id - the works. I checked the gas gauge and knew I had enough to get back to Ashland, but not enough to get to Portland if my purse were gone - and I had no way to buy more gas. I whipped the car around, drove back over the mountain pass into Oregon while starting the prayers, "Please . . .  if I had found a purse I would have turned it in, let the same thing happen now." "Please, they can take the money, just leave my bank card and license." Then the bargaining, "If they leave a credit card, they can have the phone." And, "Why am I speeding? It has been 90 minutes since I left the purse - it has either been turned in or stripped and thrown out a car window. My getting back faster won't change anything."

It was there - and nothing had been taken. I thanked the staff at McDonald's, said another prayer in thanks to the kind person who turned it in then drove the 85 miles back over the pass and down to Shasta and then on to my cousin's in Marin - the unexpected round trip added an additional 3 hours to the usual 11 hours on the road. 14 hours, 798 miles. One long trip - but I remain grateful.

Sunday Lee took my cousin Pattie and me out in his sail boat. Michelle was home with a neck injury and we missed her sorely. Well, she was much sorer than we were. Lee sailed us out through the Alameda estuary where we slipped among huge cargo ships moving back and forth from the Oakland shipyards, sailed past the former Alameda naval shipyard (where some of the episodes of Mythbusters are filmed) and then out into the Bay.

Lee's dog, Buloot. A wonderful sailor.

We sailed under the new portion of the Bay Bridge (so fascinating from underneath) and then out into San Francisco Bay, around Treasure Island and slowly back.

We hoped to catch a glimpse of the America's Cup ships at practice but no such luck. It was, however, a simply wonderful way to spend a hot sunny day. Perfection. Then back to his place in Oakland.

The thing I like about Oakland is its unpredictability. Lee lives in the Jingletown neighborhood of Fruitvale. Parts of it are extremely dodgy, this is Oakland, after all. Lee's immediate neighborhood is, however, most interesting. It has warehouses, light industry, new condos, funky houses, industrial lofts - a mish mosh. There have been drug deals and guns fired but also lots of artists who call it home and have started the gentrification process. His loft combines both living and work spaces.

While driving toward the marina, Lee said, "There's Seppie Mayes." "Seppie Mayes?" I asked. Yep, Seppie Mayes who, I quickly learned, is someone we all know. When Seppie was young he was the stunt double for the boy in the film ET. Seppie was the one who rode the bike with ET on his handlebars. You know the poster with the boy and ET in front of the big fat moon? That's Seppie. Unfortunately he took $650 instead of a percent of the returns. Bad choice.

The rest of the week was both restful - time spent over coffee in Pattie's garden - and fascinating with visits to vineyards in Napa (yum) and the Walt Disney Museum at the Presido in San Francisco (I need to go back to fully take in all the information about his life). We finally caught a glimpse of the America's Cup ships in San Francisco Bay - they are huge.

Pattie's garden - so restful!

The Fremont Diner outside of Napa -what a combo - delicious food and a great truck.

Friday, I met a friend at Half Moon Bay for lunch (perfect clam chowder and fish tacos) then over the pass to my sister's house when my car started acting up - it missed when I pressed on the gas, steam came out from under the hood - not good. I pulled over at a rest stop, called AAA and my brother-in-law. He connected me with his mechanic where the car was towed and today, Saturday, I have a new radiator - fixed in time for Yosemite.

Today, my birthday, was a day of mixed emotions. I had breakfast with a former student, Julie, and her husband and children (all charming).  I hadn't seen her in many years and it was wonderful to catch up.  Then came the call about the death of the uncle I am named for - Uncle Don. He (and his first wife) are the last of my relatives in the generation above me. Phew.

Then came the news of the plane crash at the San Francisco airport - just a few miles from my sister's house where I am staying. Lots of fire engines streamed by. We watched the news while dressing for the wedding of an extended family member. It was a lovely wedding - perfect in every last detail - but as I type this, late in the evening, planes are flying overhead - not following the normal flight pattern  because the usual runways remain closed. I keep all 181 injured in the crash in my prayers.

It has been a most interesting 65th birthday. I send thanks to Julie for the lovely breakfast, to friends and family for all their wonderful notes (Facebook is so amazing), and to the bride and groom for a fantastic afternoon and evening.

Onwards and upwards to a week camping at Yosemite.

New Glasses

My kind optometrist took this photo.  Thanks Heidi.

I ordered new glasses. I really like them because they have an unexpected band of white around the edges - and even a little bit of white on the corners. I usually get serious frames.  Hmmmm, let's review. I have rimless glasses from those long ago hippie years, super huge frames from the late 70s, some horn-rimmed frames for that college professor look, rimless again when they came back in the late 80s, more recently, the narrow black ones that were popular a few years ago and the last pair had those frames that you can twist into all kinds of shapes and they spring back (but the lenses also continually popped out - maybe I shouldn't have twisted them so much) - so very many types of serious glasses that now that I use an OLC (old lady cart) and live in a retirement community, I felt it was time to be a bit more playful. Thus my new glasses.

After wearing them for all of one week I have begun to wonder if I could have used them while teaching. Would "teacher looks" still work if wearing playful glasses.

Well, you be the judge. I have numbered them so feel free to add more captions - just let me know which photo they match. 

#1  You dont' really think that essay is worthy of what you can do?

#2  I don't think so!

#3  Good Job!

#4  Just PUT IT DOWN, Put it down immediately!

#5  As if!

#6  Do you think I was born yesterday?  Really?!?!?!

#7 I can't believe you said that!

Thanks, dear sister-in-law, Lynne, for taking all these photos.  It was fun!

Life with my OLC

Chortles? It's laughter combined with snorts and coughs and it makes communication completely impossible. I like chortles. They are, of course, unplanned and the resulting merrymaking can create lean-on-someone-to-hold-you-up-from-laughing-so-hard conditions. It can even create chortles in the listeners. Of course the best were in elementary school because, if they happened while someone was drinking milk from those little waxed containers, the laughter could make the milk spurt out the chortlers' noses. Ah the simple joys of youth. 

My latest chortle was caused by my sister Mary when she caught sight of a new purchase standing near my front door. She glanced at it, stopped dead in her tracks, turned to me and said in a slightly accusing tone, “OMG, tell me you did NOT buy an old lady cart? Not when you have moved into a retirement community.  Really???” 

I looked over at my new sparkling bright blue purchase (see below), went into that laugh/snort/cough combo chortle and, after I recovered, was able to answer, “Never thought of it quite that way, but, yep, I guess I did.”

A typical load in my beloved OLC

I love my old lady cart, or OLC as I now call it. I use it anytime I have more than a handful to carry from my car to my apartment. It is perfection. It quickly goes up the few stairs between the parking lot and the elevator, folds down to easily fit in my trunk, stands upright waiting to be unloaded in my unit - so what not to love? My only regret is that I did not buy one years earlier. All the lost opportunities!

Here it is filled with Wesley's things for a sleepover.

Tomorrow I leave for a month in California and I already see its many uses - carting lose stuff from my car into the houses of the many friends where I am staying; the same to my camp site at Yosemite; even better, carting bags of ice from the small camp store to the coolers in my bear lockers (and  now I can carry ice for other family campers as well) – I say it again, what NOT to love?!?!?  

Okay, yes, you see little old ladies walking down a street hauling their stuff in them, and yes, some of them are homeless, but I now see all of them as wise in their ways. For a mere $28 and access to Amazon you too can have a sturdy, washable OLC of your very own. What a deal. So, yes, I have an OLC and am quite proud of myself. You may want to try one. Believe me, once you try it, you'll never  go back to an OLC-free life. That's how great they are.  

Hmmmm, maybe this is a slight exaggeration.

I am YOUNG!!!

Never, in all my life, have I felt so young. Never have I received so many comments about my age - or lack of it to be more precise. When you are the youngest person in a community, younger by a decade than the average age of 75, it causes comments.

In the first days residents would ask which parent I was visiting. Or, when I asked to join people already seated in the dining room, they wanted to know which new position I had taken on staff. Or they would stop me, when walking down a hallway, to ask if they could direct me somewhere. When I was asked at the Wellness Center (the gym area) for a copy of my medicare card, the staff member visibly gulped when I told her I didn't yet qualify.

I quickly realized that this was a unique opportunity, that this would never happen again, so why not enjoy it? I loved answering, "Oh, no, I'm a new resident. I live in E Wing" and then watch their responses. It was priceless. First, always, a bit of confusion crossed their faces, then good manners surfaced and I would receive a warm welcome with some comment like, "Oh my goodness, you are just so young."

When I entered the dining room in those first weeks I could see messages being communicated among tables, "There she is." The funniest was when a man I didn't know stopped behind my chair, pointed down to me, and said aloud in a delighted tone, "Look how young she is." Whenever I met new people, they always wanted to know why I had chosen to move in when I was so young?

Generally people like it when you agree with decisions they have already made so my reasons for moving in at the YOUNG age of 64, pleased them. A few whispered to me, in asides, that they wished they had moved in earlier - they would have been better able to enjoy the amenities and activities. It made me think of my mother who moved to Canterbury Woods in Pacific Grove at age 80 - she enjoyed it but also recognized how limited her abilities to participate were.

Now that I have been here all of 3+ months they are more playful. One staff member recently called out, "Do you have a hall pass, young lady?" A resident asked, "Are you really old enough to have a library card?" They step aside to let me pass as they hear my more rapid steps approach behind them. "Go on, young'un," they will say as I pass by. And they take advantage of me. I am now asked to hand out programs at auditorium events. Or to jump up and get things when needed. But my favorite was when I realized I had been seated at "the kid's table" at a small community dinner. I was the one asked to get up and clear plates! So very funny. When, when, when will this every happen again?

As truly charming and welcoming as everyone has been (no, one exception - a really unpleasant rude woman I sat with at dinner - and quickly realized I was grateful she existed because otherwise I would suspect I lived in Brigadoon!) I have not met as many residents as I would like because I remain so busy. Most weekdays I am either with a grandson or volunteering in Portland. I rarely have lunch here and get home just a bit before dinner. It is, as I had suspected, the same life I had before, I am just sleeping in a different unit. But this time the neighbors are quiet and absolutely charming.

They all adore Wesley (as they should!). In reality, he has 400 additional grandparents. Most days I eat breakfast in my unit but on Fridays (after Wesley has spent the night) we go down to breakfast together.  After all,  says Wesley, "It's bacon and pancake day!" They all know he is coming and greet him when we walk in - residents and wait staff alike. His favorite table is right against one of the windows that look down on the Willamette River. It has become "our table." Last week he graduated from preschool (he enters pre-Kindergarten next year in the same school. To keep things straight, he graduated from their child care section last year - fine gradations here) and was awarded a "gold" medal on a ribbon to wear around his neck and a balloon. He insisted that he wear the medal and bring the balloon to breakfast the next morning. He wanted everyone to see and they responded perfectly - congratulating him quite seriously as he smiled proudly. When he brings a stuffed animal they ask how it is doing. When he fell face first on the dining room carpet they asked if he was okay (and then whispered to me that if any one of them had taken such a tumble, they would be down for the count!).

You know, I think I am going to be a bit annoyed when someone younger than me moves in.

Favorite bench where I sit and read at my new home

Gardening - Again

I thought gardening was over. Forty-one years ago I dug my first garden in the backyard of my husband's best man's mother's garden. Follow that? We moved to Connecticut right after our wedding and Mrs. Hinde was an incredibly generous woman who shared many things with me - her love of garage sales ("tag sales" in New England), redecorating (let's see - she lived in 4 different houses in the 16 years we lived in Connecticut - all charming historic homes that were much fun to explore) but most of all, gardening.  She had a large garden in her house in Westport (where Martha, THAT Martha, also has a house and garden) and rototilled a space twice as big as she needed so that I could "experience the joy of a vegetable garden."  I wasn't so sure about that "joy."

You see, my history with gardening was not good. I was raised in a typical 1950s household - we 3 girls did the inside work, our 2 brothers did the work outside . . .  except for one horrid weekend each spring. We sensed its approach when we were told to not make any plans for the weekend. UUUUUUURRRRGGGGHHHH. Saturday morning Mom would throw open our bedroom doors, flip on the lights and call out in a hideously cheerful voice, "Good morning!  Rise and Shine!" The drill sergeant was on the move and there was no escape.

By spring each year our garden was completely overgrown. The hedge between our house and the neighbor's was probably 15 feet high. Ivy had worked its way over fences and sheds, bushes had grown into each other and were each chock full of leaves fallen from overhanging trees. Weeds grew with abandon in the beds and in the gravel walkways around the garden. It was a mess.

Mom took the best job - she directed. She was so good at it that her nickname in college was "Butch."They had quickly caught on to her skill set. Two of us were sent to deal with the hedge (I still remember clambering up the fence to reach the tallest branches then bending them down so a sibling could hack 'em off). Others were set to weeding, removing sludge from the fish pond and pulling out ivy and rotting leaves. Mom attacked the bushes and fruit trees. She hacked, whacked and slaughtered. Around her grew piles of debris which we dragged off to toss into the back of a truck. It took all weekend and was absolutely hideous. It was at this time that I learned an important skill - work avoidance. I would sweetly volunteer to go into the house to make lemonade. It was a brilliant maneuver. I was left alone in the kitchen to wander SLOWLY about gathering pitcher, glasses, tray, etc. It was cans of frozen lemonade, mind you, but I could drag that process out for 45 minutes - minutes spent blissfully out of dirt, grime and thorns.

Ah, horrific memories.

So fast forward to Connecticut - a vegetable garden? By choice? Who knew that I would love it and from that year forward we always had one. I remember digging out the garden at our first little house on a lake in the Connecticut countryside - I couldn't believe how many rocks we removed from that space. Yes, glaciers had indeed passed over New England.





Here is Stephanie, maybe 3 years old, standing by that garden.






Below is the photo I call "Abbudanza" - the abundance of the onion crop at the end of the season.

When we moved back to California in 1987 gardening changed. Pacific Grove has a gentle climate - rarely hot, rarely cold - but not warm enough for a lot of veggies. Instead I grew herbs (until I noticed my dog Murphy peeing on them). And I grew flowers - masses of them. In beds and in window boxes that Lee and Gary built.  I loved it.

The back door

Back Yard

Side deck

Entry

After Gary died I moved to the house on Bentley Street and gardening changed once again. A corner lot, closer to the ocean's salt air, offers challenges. The back yard was tiny - I scattered little gardens around.

One corner of the back yard

The side deck had lots of sun (when sun chose to show itself in Pacific Grove) so that is where I concentrated pots of flowers.

The one thing I never grew were roses - Pacific Grove does not have the right weather. But not so Portland. Here they are everywhere. After all, we are the Rose City.

What to do? What to do? Is it time to have a rose garden or time to hang up my trowel? My community offers plenty of garden space. I can own a patch in which I can plant whatever I want or I can take over a patch in which roses already grow. Hmmmm.

My first thought was to pack it all in - I have done my bit for beautifying the earth - but then spring came and the scent of fresh turned dirt made me itch to get my hands in the soil.

So I set out to discover  what it takes to get a rose patch here in my new home. When I heard the level of commitment I had to laugh. These are rules:


1. You put in a request and are told which plots are available. You pick one.
2. They put a little plaque with your name on it so the world knows these are YOUR roses.
3. If you don't like the roses currently growing you can buy others and the staff gardeners will pull up your old ones, rototill and plant the new ones (THIS I liked!)
4. You weed and water.
5. All the roses are yours to pick - or share with others.
6. If you don't have a rose garden there are rows of plants that are "open cut" - help yourself (well, only three roses at a time, please).

What do do? What to do? While waffling a new friend mentioned that she was having trouble weeding. Her legs weren't quite strong enough. I like to weed (unless it is in clay then never mind) - it is mindless, there is immediate gratification, and it is lovely to sit in dirt while you smell plants around you. When I offered to weed her plot she told me to pick as many of her roses as I want. Perfection. I can now cut roses from her plants PLUS add 3 roses a day from the open cut. Glory be.

I then discovered that if you have a small unit and a small table you don't have a lot of space for large vases of roses - 3 - 5 are just about perfect.

Ah, life is sweet! It is good to have my hands back in the dirt. Next year I will get my own patch but for right now weeding and picking is just fine.