A Hint of Freedom

Yes, I am on the way to freedom. No, I can't yet walk BUT, just about one hour ago, I wheeled to my car, got the trunk open, collapsed the wheelchair, got it inside the trunk, got it out again, got it into the backseat, got it out again (giving me options), got into the driver's seat, got back out and into my chair and wheeled back into the building - all by myself. I can now get out! So if you hear any news story about a white-haired lady in Oregon who will not stop driving around, it's me. I have had lots of outings to hospitals for surgeries and infusions and doctor appointments since mid-January but now I can go where I want as long as there are no stairs - not doing so well on stairs yet.

My life with physical therapy continues and I am most grateful for my therapist, Maureen. She is wonderful (but also quickly caught on that I would prefer to do more than less, am impatient to walk NOW, want to be independent as quickly as possible. She insisted that I have someone go with me for my practice session to make it to the car - she looked at me and knew I was planning on doing it by myself. She was right and I was good - Dan and Wesley accompanied me.) So, with her instructions I can now walk about 300 feet with a walker before I need to rest. My bad knee still cannot bear my full weight but I am working towards it.

The big event this week (well, prior to getting to the car) was getting back into the pool. I am a water baby; I love swimming/playing in the water and have really missed it. Last Wednesday Maureen met me in the pool and showed me exercises I can do to stretch my knee.

Three surprising things happened - two were great, one not so.  Let's go with great first. The first? I was able to quickly swim 1/4 of a mile in freestyle laps. I was amazed. I haven't swum in 3 months and, in the past, an absence of that length would mean I would struggle to get 8-10 lengths done. Wednesday I plowed through all 23 lengths. My legs weren't much help but my arms - the arms that have been wheeling me around in my manual wheelchair for 3 months - they are BUFF.  I didn't realize how buff they were until I roared through the swimming. It was incredible. I don't think I have ever called any part of my body buff but my arms certainly qualify. Buffness as part of my life - who knew?

The second great thing almost made me cry. After I finished the swim to loosen up my knees Maureen had me get in 4 feet of water and walk. Yes, I walked. I walked completely normally. My toes and heels operated as they should, my two legs worked together. I could stride across the pool. There was some pain - but not much. I couldn't believe it; I could walk. I did it for 5 glorious minutes, back and forth. Then Maureen had me walk backwards - much much harder. Then sideways and then with little jumps. It felt so normal to have everything work. God bless the buoyancy of water.

The not so good  - boy, does my knee affect swimming. Forget the breast stroke. When I tried I could hear the pity in the voice of the lifeguard who has watched me swim for more than a year. I can't get my right knee to bend as it should. It goes part way than jerks to a stop. It was a shock to see how little movement I have in that knee. However, Maureen insists I can get a lot of it back if I just keep working on it. She showed me several additional exercises. I intend to swim everyday.

So my life remains restricted but I am working on dropping barriers - even those pesky stairs. I will do it.

A Unexpected Surprise

A few months ago (before the problems with my knee) I submitted a story to a contest for residents of OFHs (Old Folks Homes) here in Oregon. Almost 200 people from around the state entered and, I found our recently, I was one of the 6 winners (an honorable mention)! What a lovely surprise.

Here is my story about an event that happened in 2006. I can remember every second of that landing.

St Barts

I love to fly. I love the escalating speed of takeoff that pushes you back against your seat. I close my eyes and wait. When I think I feel the hint of lift off, that very first instant when the wheels leave the ground, I crack one eye open to check. Yes, I was right, we are on the way up. It is glorious to look down as the earth falls away. But as great as takeoff is, my favorite part of flight is the landing. The long final curve to line the plane up to the airfield below, landing gear clicking in place, the shock of wheels hitting the tarmac, the race down the runway and then the incredible rush as the pilot slams on the brakes to bring the plane to a shuddering stop. Physics in action. You've got to love it, and I do, but I was still unprepared for the reality of my flight from Guadeloupe to St Barts.

My friend, Barb, had called me two weeks before with a last-minute invitation. Did I want to join her and her family for a few days at a friend’s villa on St Barts in the Caribbean? The owner was off-island and the home was available to celebrate a family event. Could I come?

Of course not. My daughter’s wedding was 5 weeks away and I had an unending To Do list sitting in front of me. It was last minute - flights would be exorbitant. It would take most of 2 days to get there and back. All of this for a few days in the sun? Don’t be silly. But a villa? On an island I had never heard of? Sitting by a pool, piña colada in hand? “Count me in,” I said, and pulled my suitcase out of the attic.

So there I was, standing in the airport in Guadeloupe, listening for my flight to be called. I had already flown from San Francisco to Texas, then on to Guadeloupe. I was hot, tired and dusty – just like the airport I was standing in. One more leg to go.

The plane was small, sitting out there on the tarmac. It held maybe 15. When I climbed on board I saw it was old and a bit decrepit. Actually, quite a bit decrepit. The seat belt felt like it would snap if any pressure were applied. The plane hadn’t been cleaned in a while – reminders of earlier passengers were scattered about. There was no dividing wall between the pilot and passengers – we were all one happy family on this plane. The pilot, wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a stained t-shirt, was last on board. He reached back, hauled the steps up behind him, and then pulled them through the only door on the plane. As he walked toward his seat he gave us our safety instructions. “If you see me run past and jump out, there’s a problem. Follow me. Hope you can swim.” That was it. “Succinct,” I thought.  “Basic info has been transmitted.” He put the plane in gear and we were off. 

I think rides in small planes are more interesting than those in big ones. You really feel the wind and it was blowing that day in Guadeloupe. Our plane buffeted sideways as we sped down the runway but then, suddenly, as always, we were up and away through rich blue skies. 

The flight was short. After what only seemed minutes our pilot twisted around in his seat and announced we were approaching St Barts. I wondered why he was aiming the plane straight at the mountain ahead. I actually held my breath when we flew through a cleft in a ridge, barely clearing cars traveling on a road along its crest. I suspect we gave them quite a shock. But I – and my stomach - were completely unprepared for the sudden swoop straight down the back of the mountain to the airport at the bottom. 

But that was not the final thrill. As we sped down the runway I saw sunbathers straight ahead, oiled up, oversized sunglasses firmly in place, stretched out on towels on a beautiful beach just beyond the airstrip. The only thing that would keep our plane from running into them was a chain stretched across the end of the runway, strung between two 4-foot poles. That was it- one chain between us and the beach. Our pilot brought the plane to a screeching halt about 10 feet from the sunbathers who didn't even glance up. Welcome to St. Barts.

Although I was wobbly when I climbed down from the plane I forced myself to remain objective when rating this landing. Yes, one result of 34 years of teaching is a compulsion to grade things and landings is one of them. Although this landing was terrifying, it was smooth. No bounces after touching down. No wasted landing strip. That sudden dive down the back of the mountain landed us on the first available foot of airfield and we needed every inch. No one appeared to be hurt in the plane, on the beach, or in the cars we almost strafed as we barely cleared the mountaintop. We were in one piece and so was the plane. The airport’s tricky location wasn’t the pilot’s choice. Incredibly, according to my rubric, the pilot earned not only an A, but an A+. He didn’t just meet my requirements; he exceeded each and every one. It wasn’t his fault that I had failed to include a “scared the pants off me” factor in my rating scale. I shook my head in amazement as I turned to wave my thanks but he was already walking toward the small group of passengers awaiting his return flight to Guadeloupe. Ah yes, my return flight. I have to get back in that plane. I assume foreknowledge of conditions, several days of relaxation and many gallons of piña coladas will prove adequate preparation.

Selling Bentley

Gary and I moved back to California with children in tow in the summer of 1987. After looking at communities throughout the Monterey Peninsula we honed in on Pacific Grove. It had a small town feel, was right on Monterey Bay, had affordable modest homes and was not in the community where I taught (Carmel). We probably toured 25 houses looking for that perfect home. I wanted charm, Gary wanted easy maintenance, Stephanie wanted sidewalks (our home in Connecticut was on an acre bordering a lake on a curvy narrow road with no sidewalks in sight),  Lee could have cared less.

When out driving one afternoon we spotted a For Sale sign at 222 Bentley Street - and instantly fell in love. There were  problems, however (aren't there always?). Yes it had LOADS of charm but no sidewalks and needed work. How did we know? Well, no one was home and we didn't hesitate to walk the lot and peek in the windows. Phew - work to be done.

Front of house

Side view

Over the years of ownership we had totally redone our house on that lake in Connecticut but Gary's worsening MS meant that this was no longer realistic. Could we truly afford the time, energy and money to fix the most challenging features of the house? I remember the two of us sitting on the porch steps, discussing possibilities. Yes, we decided, we could - so called our realtor who called the agent and, unfortunately, found out that the owners had just accepted an offer from someone else. DRAT!

Front Door

Eventually we found another house and, in reality, thank goodness we didn't get the house on Bentley - we could not have done the work needed. It would also have been really difficult for Gary to navigate with the wheelchair that was soon to land in his future. The home we eventually bought, although it had zero charm, was easy to maintain, perfect for a wheelchair and had sidewalks.

Stepping inside the front door into the enclosed porch

We settled into our house on Gibson Avenue and lived there quite happily. This didn't mean, however, that I forgot the house on Bentley. Every few years I would drive by and report back to Gary. We called it "The House That Got Away."

The far end of the enclosed proch

Fast forward 15 years to October of 2002. Gary had died 6 weeks before and college friends of his were visiting. On the way back from a trip to the local beach, on a whim, I turned into the neighborhood of the "House That Got Away" and there, incredibly, was another For Sale sign posted out in front. I copied down the realtor's phone number and, to make a long story short, 5 days later put in an offer that was accepted. On December 23rd I moved in.

Stepping into the living room (you can see the open front door at the top of the photo)

The rest of the living room

I have never had so much fun - the perfect distraction for mourning the death of my beloved husband. My sisters and sister-in-law jumped in to help. The whole process was like playing house. We brought home stacks of wallpaper books, paint chips and fabrics and then spent countless, utterly delightful, hours making plans. They helped me arrange furniture, figure out curtains and rugs, and the best placement of art on the walls. In those intervening 15 years all the challenges of the house had been fixed, I just got to play.

The kitchen nook

The rest of the kitchen

Exchange students

I look back at the 9 years I lived on Bentley as a time of great joy. I lived in a house that was 100% mine, that I filled with friends and family, exchange students, cats and dogs, friends of friends who needed a place to stay - my guest book is filled with wonderful memories of several hundred visitors who spent anywhere from overnight to months, and in Francia's case, several years. It was a blessing, every single day.

My office

My room

Thank you, Lowell, for figuring out how to add a dog door
to the small fenced back yard. It is so cute!

What memories, what joys, what fabulous neighbors, what a wonderful location. When you own dogs you walk your neighborhood - and between the 3 dogs of my life I covered the town. I now know that it is a 15-minute walk in one direction to Monterey Bay, a 15-minute walk in another to the ocean, and a 10-minute walk in still another to get to the heart of downtown. The adult school where I took evening classes was one block south, the woods where I let the dogs roam off leash began 4 houses east, favorite cottages were in surrounding blocks.

One upstairs bedroom

The second upstairs bedroom - I love the slanted ceilings.

But then came the call of the grandchildren. I still remain surprised at how easy it has been to make the decision to stay in Oregon rather than return to Bentley Street as had been my original plan. My friends all knew I wouldn't come back - they understood the lure of family - but I was SURE my move to Portland was temporary. Not the case, however, not the case at all. I am here for good and so it is time to let Bentley go.

The side deck - gardening that was safe from the brazen deer that strolled Bentley.

It never crossed my mind that I would not be able to return to Bentley before selling it but it looks like that might be the case. I can never thank my across-the-street neighbor and realtor, Robin, for all the work that she is doing in my place. Her taste is exquisite (I adore her house), she has the knowledge of what sells, and has the wonderful capacity of being both practical and artistic at the same time.  I could not ask for a better person to handle the house preparations.

Wonderful memories

And so I sit here, in my wheelchair, waiting for PT to start on Monday - I WILL walk soon -  reminiscing with such fondness about my time on Bentley Street. I look forward to hearing from my neighbors about the new owners - how they, hopefully, will also fall in love with the house and enjoy its wondrous location. I was so very very happy and wish the same for them.

  

Onwards and Upwards

It all started so simply - in mid-January I strained my bad knee. Then came the cortisone shot that didn't do a thing except, perhaps, give me the staph infection that settled in. That was followed, a few days later, by emergency surgery when doctors realized the infection was causing a heart murmur. A second surgery, 2 days later, further drained the knee. Today, almost a month later, I go to my local hospital for a daily infusion of antibiotics. Next week an MRI and then I hope both the infectious disease doctor and the surgeon will sign off and I can start PT. You see, I can no longer walk - I haven't walked since mid- January. It was easy to learn how to do it 65 years ago so why can't I do it now?

That is why there has been such a long silence. I am still on meds, but less than before, so I think I can now sit down and write - and the words may actually form sentences that make sense. I also honor and appreciate the people I dearly love who are facing far greater challenges than mine. You keep me balanced.

What have I learned from all this?

1. I now better understand those old novels and movies where men fell in love with their nurses. Nurses are the most wonderful people on earth. Bar none. I have dealt with 6 doctors, each countering what previous ones said, often abrupt, leaving me somewhat confused - but not the nurses. I am comforted and nurtured by them. I never leave without fully understanding what is going on. They answer questions I barely knew I had. I have been in 3 different hospitals for different procedures and each and every nurse has kept me going. Then, add the incredible gift that Lee and Michelle gave by visiting two weeks ago. Nurse Michelle made sure everything was done; she stayed with me through procedures; she kept me sane. So, nurses are the absolute best. Go hug a nurse - they are WONDERFUL!

2.  I now know I made the right decision to move to this retirement community. At Christmas, when I was reflecting about how much goodness is in my life, I recognized that yes, my impetuous decision of Feb 2013 was correct. I am really, really happy living here. It has, in fact, surpassed my expectations. Then, along came this mess and it has solidified these thoughts. The help I have received over the past 6 weeks is amazing. Friends stop by to ask what I need and it appears; I can hire a driver to take me to appointments if family or friends aren't available; interesting books appear at my door to borrow as long as I want; and my little unit ends up being perfect for swinging, via wheelchair, from bookcase to bureau, to wall, to bed - as I get things done.

I do not know what I would have done if I were still living in my duplex. That bathroom was so narrow I could not have gotten my wheelchair into it. That would have become interesting! Given the very cold weather we have had - well, I would have frozen in that poorly heated unit. And it had lots of stairs - up to my office, down to the laundry in the basement, outside to get to my car. Although my precious family says they would have figured it all out - it would have been at a price of great stress to all. Here I have been able to do almost everything myself. Way to go, Donna!

3. My gratitude for drugs.  My knee hurts and, when it starts to act up, I know I can pop a pill and it will soon be manageable - thank you, thank you, thank you. I am aware of addiction issues and won't let that happen -  but in the meantime, thank you!

4. Now here is the big one - given that I made the right choice to move to this retirement community, there is no longer any reason to keep my very precious, sweet little cottage in Pacific Grove. At Christmas I decided to sell it and planned to go down and spend the month of February getting it ready for the market. Instead, the night before my flight, I was rushed to that emergency surgery. So what to do? My tenants had moved out, painters and floor refinishers were lined up, I was ready to go - just unable to get there.

If you had told me that I would allow my sweet house to go on the market without one more visit,  I would have laughed. Utterly impossible. Actually, quite possible. Pain and fatigue have focused me on what is truly important. But I also have a secret weapon - I have the very best friend in the world who lives next door to me in Pacific Grove and happens to also be a top-rated realtor. Wonderful Robin has stepped in and handled everything for me. Via email and phone calls we are choosing paint colors, floor stains, and landscaping details. When the bug report and house inspection came back we analyzed what needed to be done. And given the cost of all the decisions we are making, I am really glad that one of us is not on drugs! Thank you, Robin. I still hope that I will get to visit before it sells but, if not, it will all be okay.

So I am on the mend; I firmly believe that I will walk again; and, am okay about letting go of my sweet little house. Truly onwards and upwards.

Tis the Season!

What a wonderful Christmas with many highlights in no particular order:

1. The Super Boy capes - Stephanie and I spent several hours on Christmas Eve sewing Super Boy capes for Wesley and Finn. Well, Finn was with us so we were not able to give 100% attention to the capes - not when a smiling almost 11-month old demands your attention. I, for one, was most happy to put sewing aside to help him empty plastic things from my kitchen cupboards. They make such nice noises when banged together. And they scatter so well.

Finn getting ready for lunch in his great great grandmother's high chair.
Notice my scarf tying him in.

The capes have been worn continuously since Christmas morning.
On the reverse sides, Wesley's has a big W and Finn's a big F

2. I passed the cookie-making baton to Stephanie. I think this is the first year since the early 1970s that I have not created a floury mess in my kitchen as I rolled out dozens and dozens of cookies. It was a fun ride but also exhausting and I really can't do it anymore in my small kitchen. After 10 seconds of internal assessment about how I felt about passing the baton I realized it felt GREAT! And now I know it is much more fun to make a Christmasy mess in someone else's kitchen.

It was the more than willing 4-year old hands that made the process a bit more challenging. Wesley wanted to help at every step. When he jiggled the table for the tenth time while Stephanie was, oh so patiently, trying to outline shortbread cookies with thin royal icing I giggled as I heard her mutter under her breath through slightly gritted teeth, "Remember, I am creating memories." So funny.  And, actually, we all had a wonderful time. Memories WERE created.

Finished bags of cookies for Wesley's
 preschool staff.

3. The tree - My most unusual tree (some have had the nerve to compare it to Charlie Brown's) that I bought 6 years ago at the Day-After-Chrismas-Sale at Brinton's in Carmel has served me well in the small places in which I have tucked it. It's 6 feet tall but only about 2 feet wide - it's more of a redwood tree than a fir or pine. But it is perfect here at the OFH (Old Folks Home). It fits right into my wee space. 

Welsey added an ornament of his own creation. He gathered some of the felt from the stocking I made for Finn and voila, with a little glue and some pins, he felt it was a perfect representation of a reindeer's antlers. Who am I to object? It held the place of glory on the tree.

You will note that I followed the "If 3 ornaments can fit in a space certainly 20 can" philosophy.
The tree may be small but it was jammed full of memories.

Do you see the small Santa ornament to the immediate left of Wesley's "antlers" (mid antler)? It is the triangular-shaped Santa's face with a red plaid cap - eyes barely peeking above a white beard? This ornament has special memories. Years ago the family had an intervention with me about the decrepit shape of the flannel nightgown I chose to wear - season after season after season. Although I cherished that nightgown - its pulled-out-of-shapeness made it especially comfortable - they pointed out that it also illustrated my complete lack of personal pride. Couldn't I see how simply awful it was? Okay, it was wretched and threadbare but they didn't have to get personal about it. But I got back. On Christmas morning they each received identical santa ornaments made from the remains of that nightgown. I still laugh when I pull mine out each year (and secretly stroke its softness - such a great nightgown!).

4. Wesley's use of my Noah's Ark Advent calendar (an ark with 12 pairs of animals and Noah). Last Christmas 3-year old Wesley used the ark to illustrate how animals can pee overboard  by hanging off the side (like the way his Uncle Lee pees on his and Titi's boat). This year he had a more scientific bent. When he discovered that the wire tail of one of the little pigs had come off, he brought it to me to fix. I told him that the pig would have to have surgery. Wesley was intrigued. He decided that ALL the animals needed surgery. He would pile a group of them into my small African mokoro model boat then sail them to a nearby "hospital" - another basket - where I performed MANY surgeries (both the few that were needed and those that were completely superfluous) over the past weeks.

The mokoro is at the bottom of the ark ramp ready to pick up the animals.
"Surgery" is the basket to the left.
Busy busy hospital this Christmas season.

5. The Butt Biting Squid
The very best family gift was the HUGE Butt Biting Squid made by Michelle (Titi) for Wesley and Finn. After all the to-do over the imaginary butt biting squid that could supposedly leap up and bite Wesley's butt if he tried to pee overboard on Lee and Titi's new boat - well, one actually arrived via UPS. Michelle is incredible. It is 5 feet long, designed and executed by her. It even has a zippered mouth that can open up and attack the butts of unwary overboard pee-ers.

We have used it in all of our play. It has been slept on, hugged, dragged, and used to lunge at stuffed animals (and Grandma). Wesley is utterly enchanted. Thank you, Michelle. It is brilliant.

It was a wonderful season filled with blessings and I hope that all of you have had equally joyous times with family and friends.

Happy New Year!

It's an Old Lady with Books!

My first full-time teaching assignment was 6th grade social studies (Ancient History) at Ponus Ridge Middle School in Norwalk, Connecticut. I really enjoyed my 3 years with 6th graders. I don't think there is a better age for teaching ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome. They respond so well. What's not to love about pyramids and mummies and Greek gods? In September they are still kids but the pull of adolescence is just around the corner. By June the girls' curves are in evidence; the boys, however, are another story. Many are still short with higher pitched voices; their changes are a year or more away. Thankfully, most of my students still wanted to please and would raise their hands frantically when I asked questions -  even when they didn't know the answers. Call on me! Please! Please! Please!

Things haven't changed. I have a new volunteer job with the Portland library system. I used to work in the gift shop at the main branch in downtown Portland but now I visit two 6th grade classrooms in a low-acheiving school in NE Portland. I visit every other month and bring 2 copies of 9 books with me. I leave the 18 books so they can exchange them among themselves until my next visit. I spend about 30 minutes with each class, reviewing books I brought last time and enticing them into reading the new books I have with me.

The goal of the program is to get kids to read therefore all books are of high interest. As the head of the program told me, it is not the greatest literature but they are fun, exciting, adventurous, creative, filled with imagination - all designed to get them into their hands. My 9 books always include 2 graphic novels and 2 "chapter books."  The remaining 5 are a mixture of poetry, drawing, adventure, horror, biography, sports, history, etc - I have hundreds of titles to choose among. Thus my bookshelves are filling up with 6th grade-level books (well, with reading levels of probably grades 4 - 10 which represent the students I reach).

Last week was my second visit and I was on my own this time. I found myself nervous. "Come on," I said, "34 years of teaching under your belt - you can do this" and once I pulled out the first of the 9 books, nervousness fled and I loved drawing them in.

How about a book where 14-year old Peak (ah, new age parents!) is caught by NYPD finest at the top of a skyscraper he has just scaled and is only saved from significant time in Juvenile Hall by the appearance of his father, the most famous mountain climber in the world, who agrees to take Peak out of the country and supervise him himself? Nice for Dad to offer, but Peak hasn't seen him in 7 years. Dad has been too busy climbing mountains. And what will happen when his father  announces how he plans to have Peak spend his time - scaling Mt Everest?

Or, the novel about Isabel who has just moved from a house she loved, next door to her best friend, to a dumpy apartment above a laundromat - a space that her parents are going to convert into a cupcake business named, appropriately for its Oregon location, It's Raining Cupcakes? Will the move be worth it? Can Isabel establish a new life?

Or Finding Big Foot (by the folks at Animal Planet) - with facts galore about how to convince your parents to make their next vacation a Big Foot expedition, what gear to bring, what to look for, what to expect? Who knew that Oregon is number 5 in the nation for Big Foot sightings (and, just across the Columbia River, from Washington which is #1)?

Or Ghost Fever, a story in both English and Spanish about a haunted house in Dustin Arizona way back in the 1950s. The ghost is female and she goes after the 14-year old daughter of the man foolish enough to rent the house. The locals warned him but he just laughed. Who's laughing now?

And so on.

By the end of the session with the first 6th grade class I was feeling confident. When I asked if they were interested in reading any of the books, one girl in the back sighed contentedly, "All of them!" I gave myself a mental pat on the back.

Ah, pride goeth before a fall. I left the classroom and knocked on the door of the neighboring 6th grade room. The glass panel in the door was covered with paper and, I soon learned, the teacher was out of the room (everything I learned from my law class in the administrative master's degree program came flooding back - "Teacher, you better pray nothing happens while you are out of the room!"). A student came to the door, pushed back the paper covering the glass, looked me over, opened the door, turned back to the class and announced "Ah, it's an old lady with books." The rest of the class sucked in their breath and out came the collective "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh". They recognized his rudeness. I, in a manner totally not conducive to teaching him a lesson, burst out laughing and said to him: A) I am old, B) I do have books, and C) Your mother probably wouldn't want you to say that." He looked sheepish. I made the point.

With just the evidence of my first visit in October I already knew that this class performed below the level of the students I had just left and, sure enough, their responses to my questions about the books from my previous visit were less critical, less thoughtful. But, like the other class, they were enthusiastic about the books I described. I am no fool, I saved Big Foot for last and it worked its charm. They were all ready to go hunting - even Mr. Big Mouth who had opened the door.

As I bagged up the books they had returned from my October visit and walked out to my car I decided  it is very good to have a toe back in the classroom. Like my 3 months of teaching 5th and 6th graders in India, it's fun to be back part-time, to not have much responsibility, to just get to enjoy them. But I will watch out for Mr Big Mouth. I'm ready. He won't get me twice. 

Asleep in a Sail Boat

My grandson Wesley thinks California is pretty special. Granted my own children thought the same of their annual summer trips from Connecticut to visit their 4 grandparents in the San Francisco area - they were spoiled and feted by them and so understandably believed that California was the Land of Milk and Honey. The same happens when Wesley visits our extended family in the Bay Area but, on this trip, he was especially excited about our plan for Sunday, our last night in California. We were going to sleep in a most unusual place - on Dulcinea, Michelle and Lee's new 38-foot sail boat (well, used but new for them). How could all 7 of us fit? Their last boat was 15 feet shorter and could only sleep 2. Not Dulcinea. 15 feet makes a big difference.

The excitement began when all 7 of us met at Michelle and Lee's loft in Oakland in the late afternoon. Before we could think about moving over to the boat we had to answer another question - where would we eat dinner? We could sail in their smaller sailboat (Rigel) up to Jack London Square and find a restaurant there, then sail back to Dulcinea (Dulcinea is in the shop getting its mast shipshape but we could board it at the shop's slip). Or we could eat in one of Oakland's other restaurants. Or we could order food, pick it up and take it to Dulcinea. We opted for this last suggestion - we couldn't wait to get on board. Given that we didn't fit in one car Lee, Dan and Wesley sailed Rigel over to Dulcinea while the rest of us drove into Alameda to pick up the food and then on to the dock.

Rigel got there before us so Wesley welcomed us on board. He demonstrated how to get down the ladder to below deck and showed us the amazing sight - an interior big enough for all 9 of us (the 7 of us plus Michelle's two Moms). We laughed and chattered. We oohed and ahhed. We commented on every feature. A bathroom with a toilet! Such an improvement over the bucket in Rigel. Running water! All the storage! Clever shelves and cabinets tucked into every nook and cranny. A stove top, oven, and refrigerator! We have loved our trips on Rigel but this was luxury indeed.

We soon moved to the table where we sat and shared food while we talked and laughed. 6 of us sat on 3 sides of the table; the others sat across on a padded bench. After what seemed like only minutes but was probably close to 2 hours, Marlena and Leanne went back to their place in Oakland and we, who had slept in different beds each of our 3 other nights in California, who were catching an early flight back to Portland, were more than ready to turn in. Wesley could barely keep his eyes open but watched the miracle happen - the table disappear and a large bed appear in its place; the padded bench pulled out to become a twin bed. Adding these to the large spaces under the two ends of the boat - well we all had a place to sleep. Stephanie and wee Finn were tucked under the rear deck, Lee and Michelle under the front deck, I had the twin and Wesley and Dan shared the large bed. Although it was quite cold by the time we went to bed and Dulcinea has no heat, we were soon toasty warm under fleece sheets and blankets.

As I drifted off to sleep I wondered how different it would be if we were at sea instead of in a slip - I expect there would be a lot more rocking. Instead we fell asleep in gentle peace. My only memory during the night was hearing the occasional sound of Baloot's toe nails as she moved up and down the path between the beds. What a good dog, making sure all was well. No 5-foot butt-biting squid would board the ship under her command.

I look forward to more excursions on Dulcinea and what a lovely ending to our time in California. Thank you, Lee and Michelle. It was such a treat.

Onwards to Christmas.

20 Years Later

I really enjoyed teaching high school seniors. 18 is such a great age. Yes, they still do the eye-rolling they all mastered when they were 12 but it is now done with more humor. At 18 they have "been there-done that" as far as the high-school scene is concerned and can focus on those areas that interest them most - they are less scattered than the freshmen I also taught. Although, on the surface, they appear to know what they want to do in their near future, you only have to scratch a bit to find that many feel vulnerable as they worry about where they might fit best. There are a lot of decisions they have to make - both exciting and a bit scary. It is this mixture of attitude and angst that interested me. There is just so much to talk about with seniors.

Then add the course I taught - a one semester macro/micro economic overview. I loved teaching Econ. It is so easy to make it relevant to 18 years olds. When things got a bit slow all I had to do was pull out articles that described interesting jobs (leech farmer, fire jumper, person who cleans up scenes-of-crimes, etc) and you had them. Would they do it? Why or why not? The same with analyzing the potential future of new products. I remember bringing in a sample - it was little disks of pressed baking-soda that you toss into a toilet for boy toddlers to aim at when potty-training - and the ensuing discussion that ended with one senior grabbing the sample and marching off to the boys' bathroom to give it a try. He reported back that it was great fun. How could you not enjoy teaching classes like that?

And then there was the Corporation Project where each class formed a company, elected directors, made products (food) and sold them on campus over two days. It was creative (oh the clever ads and T-shirts they produced), analytic (as they figured out supply and demand and dealt with the realities of  their classmates as labor force), completely exhausting (for both me and them) and what a mess it made of my classroom. However, there was no question that it brought home key economic concepts, united them as no other project that I taught did and, what most surprised me, is how very very hard they worked for such low profita. Each $5 they invested usually only returned about $9 but that didn't matter when it came to bragging rights over who won.

The state of California requires one semester of Economics for graduation and, for many years, I was the only one who taught it. That meant I taught them all - every kid in the school crossed through my doors at one point or another in their time at Carmel High School. That included my own two children.

My daughter Stephanie graduated in 1993 and I was one of her class's Advisors. That meant that, 20 years later, I was also invited to her class reunion. It was held last week (the day after Thanksgiving) at Bernardus Lodge in Carmel Valley and what fun I had. One of my favorite moments was buying drinks for my daughter (hmmm, she didn't bring her money - do some things never change?). I mean buying liquor for a student at a high school event? Really? Okay, it wasn't school sponsored, it wasn't at Carmel High and she is over 21 but I still smiled when I went over to buy our drinks.

About half of her classmates attended which is darn good when they are scattered all over the country and globe. Some flew in and some were already here celebrating Thanksgiving with families. And they all looked so wonderful. Some were immediately recognizable - it seemed like they didn't change at all. Others I could figure out if I had a chance to look at them a bit before I went over to chat and then there were the handful where I really had to search to find the 18-year olds hidden in their 38-year old faces - but a glimmer was always there.

They were doctors and scientists and professors and artists and teachers and social workers and politicians and PR/HR/IT folks - and I have forgotten how many more. They were single and married, gay and straight, parents or not. Many had photos and I loved seeing them all. They seemed so very adult one minute and then I would spot a giggling group and it was as if they were right back in my class, trying to pass notes across the room. Certainly 20 years could not have passed.

What surprised me is how many were still in their first marriage. I know they are members of Generation X and I greatly admire this generation - the generation that brought balance back into the workplace. The generation that is not willing to put up with all the demands we Baby Boomers accepted as we fought for recognition among our HUGE class of workplace peers. This generation insists that time with family and friends is just as important (if not more so) as time at work. At this point their divorce rate is lower than that of their Boomer parents and this class seems to represent it well.

Bernardus Lodge was lovely. The dinner was delicious. I was in the exact same room maybe 15 years ago for the wedding of one of Stephanie's classmates. Both her classmate and her husband were at the reunion - and both seemed as happy as they were on their wedding day.

And so 20 years have passed. I loved watching them interact, hearing their stories, catching-up. I wish I had talked with all of them but there just wasn't time. And I really hope that I (and Jeff Wright, my co-Advisor) get invited to their future reunions!

Congratulations Kimbley (future mayor of Salinas, I am sure) and Tessa and all the others who worked so hard. It was a great party.

My Dirty Little Secret

Yes, I suspect we all have dirty little secrets; mine is about what I watch on TV. I'd love to say that I only watch PBS - all their wonderful series and their thoughtful news programs but, alas, it is not true. Although I do watch them occasionally, the shows I never miss NO MATTER WHAT are (here goes) Survivor, Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance. The last is the newest on my list. My cousin Pattie got me interested. I had told her I watched Dancing With The Stars. She suggested I try SYTYCD. One viewing and I was hooked. I recognize that in many areas of modern culture I am completely out of it and this is certainly the case when it comes to modern dance - but no more. I am now completely in it, right there, on top of what is happening and am thrilled when these amazing young people throw themselves all over the dance floor in the most incredible moves.

This past season, here at the OFH (Old Folks Home), I was having lunch with a new friend, Jackie, when she asked about my favorite TV fare. When I sheepishly admitted to my trilogy, she sighed with contentment, "Isn't So You Think You Can Dance wonderful?" And thus a friendship was solidified. We now watch it together.

Each week I happily agreed with or vehemently denounced the voting public who had decided which dancer was eliminated and I quickly chose favorites. Last season it was Melanie, this time Jasmine. I groaned when Jasmine didn't win but at least she came in second. As the season drew to a close, each episode would include ads for the upcoming tour of the 10 finalists (the tour commenced right after the season ended and the winners had been announced). I am not sure which one of us first said, "Why don't we go?" I went home and did the research - the closest show was in Seattle, a mere 3 hours away. Within hours we had tickets, a hotel (thank you, Groupon) and train tickets.

The show was last Tuesday and what stunned me is that, right before God and the public, I turned into a groupie. No one was more surprised than I was. Me? At age 65? But when Jasmine and Aaron and Amy and Fikshun and the others ran down the aisles I was up on my feet waving and, yes, I admit, screaming a bit. Thankfully our seats were not next to each other (we went online way too late) so I couldn't embarrass Jackie with my antics. Strangers surrounded me at the Paramount Theater so I let my enthusiasm rip. I whooped and hollered when they preformed favorite dances from the past season, groaned when intermission arrived, shot up to applaud at the end hoping for an encore (no, drat!). I was in heaven the entire show. It could not have been more fun or more satisfying.

The whole trip was lovely - I do like train rides, especially through scenic areas. Our hotel was in a great location, central to where we wanted to go (we could walk to the theater, just around the corner) and we enjoyed the sights of Seattle. We wandered for 90 minutes in my favorite map store, Metzker's, strolled through Pike Place Market, had a wonderful fish lunch and found some Christmas gifts for friends and my grandsons. What more could one ask?

It was a quick trip - up Monday morning, home Wednesday afternoon, but so much fun. Now we are wondering if we should escalate our groupie-ness and try for the actual show next season? LA isn't that far - we could do it. But, ssshhhh, I am trying to keep this addiction on the QT. I have a reputation to maintain. Yeah, right.

Exploring Oregon FINALLY

I have not done well touring my new home state. Although I now know Portland fairly well I can't say the same for the rest of the state. In fact it is rather pathetic how little I have seen. Well, to give me some credit, I visited bits and pieces prior to moving here but not so much since my permanent arrival.

One of my earliest visits was in 1988, I think. We took an overnight train from Salinas. I know it was St Patrick's Day because I dyed the mayonnaise green for the sandwiches I packed for the overnight train trip. What I remember most of that one-week trip is not the beautiful Oregon coast we toured once we arrived but that train ride north. Let's see, Gary was using a walker for his MS, Steph had a brace on her leg from slipping in the kitchen, Lee had a cast on his arm from a skateboard incident - so I was the only one without some medical device attached to my body and predicted that anyone watching us awkwardly board the train thought, "Probably a car accident. I bet she was driving. She was probably drunk - they are always the ones who don't get hurt."

At one point Lee fell and thought he re-broke his arm inside the cast. I called the conductor who got to make the classic call over the P.A. , "Is there a doctor on the train?" About 10 minutes later a scruffy, taciturn man appeared and mumbled, "Has anyone shown up?" When I asked if he was a doctor, he didn't answer, just looked unblinkingly at me. I decided not to push it, grateful that anyone stopped by. He examined Lee's arm, cut back the cast a bit around his wrist, told him to quit running on the train (clever man to figure out the probable cause of the incident) and then quietly melted away. I still have no idea who or what he was.

On later trips I saw the Columbia River Gorge, the area surrounding Hood River, Crater Lake and Mt Hood.  I have also been up and down Highway 5 between California and Seattle countless times so know the rest stops and Mc Donald's restrooms on that corridor. And in September my sister-in-law Lynne and her husband took me to see Mt. St Helens, 33 years after its volcanic eruption. It filled me with awe to see the extent of the damage still visible and the areas of regrowth - but that is in Washington, not Oregon. My knowledge of Oregon is so bad that I have not even made it 6 miles south of where I currently live to visit the museum in Oregon City that marks the end of the Oregon Trail. Really? A former U.S. history teacher? All of 6 miles?

I made my first actual planned foray when my friend Emily visited last September. We drove out to Astoria and visited the area where Lewis and Clark spent their first winter on the coast - but that is it. Well, that is until my friend Mary Lou and I spent a weekend in mid-October exploring a portion of central Oregon new to me - and I could not have had a better guide. Mary Lou's father owned and operated the store on the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, maybe 100 miles east of Portland, over the Cascades. She lived and went to school there until she was in third grade. We spent the weekend leisurely exploring her past with no fixed plans, no agenda and credit cards to cover any costs that arose - the perfect way to travel.

Our first stop was Camp Namanu, the Camp Fire Girls camp where Mary Lou was director in her twenties. On this day most buildings were closed for the winter.

I love this view of a cabin over the bridge at the end of the lane.

Canoes put away for the winter

Another classic camp structure

Next we stopped to look at the steepest crossing on the Oregon Trail. I took a photo but, remember, it was me with my phone camera and even I have some pride and won't include it because you cannot tell that this portion of trail went straight up the side of a mountain. To look up at the drop from below and imagine those brave/crazy pioneers lashing conestoga wagons then lowering them, one by one, down this incredibly steep grade - well it makes me wonder how many wives were still speaking to their husbands once they got through the Great Plains, over the Rockies and then down this last drop into Oregon Territory? I could still hear them muttering "What were you THINKING taking us on this God-forsaken-trip?"

Then over the mountain and down into the Warm Spring Indian Reservation and I was shocked by the geography. I expected dry, desolate high desert but no, we plunged into a verdant northwest forest. We spied a dirt road going off to the right and decided to take it. Mary Lou thought it might end at the area where she grew up.

Maybe not our smartest idea. As we drove deeper into the forest, the path grew more rugged. After several miles we came to a stop before a hand-lettered sign "Bridge Down" and a gate that blocked further access. There was no choice other than to ease the car around - not a 3-point but maybe a 7-point turn -  and then try to find our way back out. We had not thought to made notes of "first a right, then a left, then another left" as we drove into the forest. At some point I thought, "Hmmmm, we don't have extra water or food, our cell phones don't work and there is no traffic on these dirt roads. What if the car breaks down?" We eventually made it out, a paved highway never looked so good, and then I saw the notice on my map, "Entry prohibited to non residents of the Reservation." Oops. Would it count that Mary Lou, white as can be, grew up on the reservation many moons ago? She was a former resident, yes?

But then, once again, the geography suddenly changed and I found it hard to believe I was still in Oregon. Gone was the rain-drenched Willamette Valley that I know. Here was the dry side of the mountain and it was gorgeous. So gorgeous that even my photography skills couldn't screw up.

Look at the colors - amazing. This is in Oregon. Who knew???

An abandoned church

An abandoned house near the abandoned church.

The Oregon equivalent of sage brush - Rabbit Weed

By this time we were hungry and stopped, where else on a reservation, but at the casino. It was the original casino that has been replaced by a newer one down the road a bit. This building is now a conference center and hotel - with a restaurant.  I had never had a bison burger or fried Indian bread - both delicious.

Then we drove to the area of the reservation where Mary Lou had grown up. Her house is no longer there but the Indian school and her father's store were still standing although the school was boarded up and it looks like her father's store is soon to be torn down.

The old Indian school.

Her father's store.  She remembers Indians riding up on horseback
 then tossing their reins over a post in front.

We toured the local small Indian museum (excellent) then drove to the neighborhood where she moved in the third grade, not that many miles but a world away from the reservation, right on the Deschutes River.

By this time we were tired and found a motel in Madras to spend the night. The next morning I was to learn more about the diversity of Oregon. We drove about 40 miles south of Madras (to those who know Oregon we were a bit north of Bend) to Smith Rock. I was speechless - and it takes a lot to do that to me.

Yes, I took these photos with my phone.  Even I was amazed at how they turned out.
Nothing can mess up the glory of this land,  filled with rock climbers and hikers. 

We shopped in Bend, drove up the mountain to have lunch in Sisters (and yes, friend Barbara deep in Kazakhstan, I thought of you), meandered through the mountains taking interesting roads and lanes as we found them and then, finally, it was time to head home. But even then Oregon surprised me.

Yes it snowed!

What a two-day trip - lush Willamette Valley, verdant forest, dry high desert, snow in the mountains  - all in Oregon. I have so much more to see. Now I am committed!